Expect silly posting and reblogs on One Piece stuff and works. Also, some quotes and general miscellanea. I'm looking forward to making friends here, so please don't hesitate on reaching out via DM or asks!
I'm currently trying out writing for the first time. English is not my first language (i'm from Spain) so I apologize in advance for typos and weird phrasing.
I'm working on a (still dont know how many chapters long) Dracule Mihawk (One Piece) x female!reader fanfic. My idea for it is a slow burn with gothic atmosphere, where the reader is a naturalist that somehow ends up in Kuraigana during her travels.
I love making playlists too and I have some other little projects in mind, so stay tuned :)
i'm @/haemoglxbin on twitter!
MASTERLIST
Fanfics
The Garnet Vesper - Mihawk x F! Reader (3/?)
Masterlist // Moodboard
Playlists
- Sometimes a drink feels like family - Shanks Playlist
In practical bullet points because I can't find a way to make it an organically connected post.
Notable things first:
Him displaying masochistic tendencies. I already mentioned this a bunch of times, but it's a key trait for me in his characterisation. Whether he got to the point of being desensitised to the taste of curses, or his ultimate goal made the suffering attached to ingesting curses more bearable, we don't have a definitive answer. What's sure is that this guy went trough a EFFEING LOT of distress for well over a decade.
Him going all out with little chances of success betting on ONE single card to change the sorts of the battle that were clearly against him.
Him really caring about what he percieved as his group of people, and despising just as much people that didn't belong in it, judging people based on genetics rather than actions/character.
Mentioning at every turn his disdain for monkeys. Gege said that his personality changed a lot between his school days and vol. 0 because he only focused on how much he hated non-sorcerers (it shows).
One of the few instances of him being honest and true and dropping the upbeat act being when expressing disdain towards non-sorcerers and being generally gracious towards Yuta during their battle. And with Satoru at the end.
All those fake ass smiles aside, he is shown "blushing", aka being VERY happy, only in two instances, when he talks about his family being all together after a long time and when meeting Satoru.
Make of that what you want.
Proving to be good at reading people as displayed in these three instances:
1 - Knowing that Satoru would never risk his students safety (if he could avoid it, since he later accuses him of being mean for sending two of them to get beaten to awake Yuta's full potential, and we get told by Satoru that did it because he trusted him not to kill them);
2 - Guessing the exact words his former professor said relating to him;
3 - Anticipating that Satoru would notice immediately a lookalike thanks to his Six Eyes and acting in the next best way (by not being present there).
On this note, Miguel knew about the Infinity technique and how Satoru's eyes worked, meaning he and probably all of the group members got briefed by Suguru, that had an intimate and first hand knowledge of them.
But at the same time not being good at predicting exactly how his actions might be recieved by people he doesn't know, and this, coupled with being unable to conceal his hate for monkey even when trying to manipulate a key player in his plan, didn't make him realise that such a comment would clearly and predictably be recieved negatively by almost anyone.
Then, the one where there's not actual proof but just a bunch of circumstantial evidences that can be interpreted in many ways: him being either suicidal or just understimating his opponents and/or putting too much faith in his superior abilities when deciding to put that elaborate plan we see to get Rika in motion.
Personally, I think one doesn't exclude the other, meaning we have evidence that he was running on fumes and we already established his goal is ultimely unachievable (even with Rika, heck, even with Satoru's powers), so it's a given he was fighting for nothing since the start... Might as well go all out like this and try his luck, rather than keeping running in circles forever. (He was doomed no matter the outcome btw, this has to be clear and it's what makes him so compelling imo).
He is still a somewhat arrogant guy, like he was in his youth.
Him getting to the point of crying tears of joy/being deeply moved because he saw sorcerers fighting and putting their life on the line to protect a fellow student.
Him thinking that his friendship with Gojo ceased to exsist after all than happened and the time that they passed apart (I'll discuss that in a separate post, but it's still worth mentioning here). This goes alongside with his not imposing to his family his rescritive worldviews when interacting with non-sorcerers. Like he said to Shoko in 2007, he's not a baby and doesn't need everyone to agree with him to be at peace with his choices. (Your aquarius is showing so hard here babe)
Scattered final (?) thoughts:
Geto looked so much like a basic villain in 0 and then he recieved an amazing showstopping fantastic arc, endless kudos to Gege.
He didn't seem to be such a dramatic person in his youth, so the fact that he did such a teatrical announcement was really ooc to those who knew him well (namely, Satoru).
I do wonder if the actual cause of the massacre he did back in 2007 was ever found out by the school staff... I guess not, but at the same time it's so dissatisfying to imagine all of the people that knew him and trusted him not ever get at least an explanation as to why he reacted like that.
I also wonder what he thought about Satoru "No More Babysitting" Gojo becoming a teacher. I wonder if he had a snide remark or two to say about it. I wonder if he wondered what it would have been like if he hadstayed and became a teacher with him. I wonder. 😔
In the fanbook Gege stated that he went to look for curses like in an old japanese tv show, hence why I mentioned this in passing during 0: to gain really powerful curses like that special grade we see near the end of the fight with Yuta, he had to actively go look for them outside his temple, in particularly haunted places that, I guess, were already under the school radar either because of windows witnessing a curse presence or because I imagine the staff had a list of all the places that were more likely to house dangerous curses that they used to partol them regularly, like Megumi mentioned when talking about the bridge in chapter 55. All this to reiterate that it seems so unlikely to me that no one at the school knew what Geto was doing all this time. He also apparently killed people on a whim when they were no longer useful for him, but they only seem to refer to the people he killed back in 2007 and not to his new victims...
There is a HUGE disconnect between how he truly feels and the act he has going on, and I'm not talking exclusively about his monk-buddah-benefactor one, he himself confesses that he could not be truly happy, but do you think, say, Nanako and Mimiko ever imagined that that's how he truly felt? He probably kept it tucked away from everyone, like he did in 2006-2007, the idiot. He hasn't learned the lesson there. 💔💔💔
The baseline is, he cares deeply about his people: he accompanies the girls to a monkey store despite not liking the idea at all, sprays himself with antibacterial deodorant for the sake of others (even if nobody ever made a comment about "monkey-stench", I'm sure), the first thing he asks to Gojo is the status of his family, in his final moments he even makes sure to tell Satoru that despite everything that happened he didin't hate the sorcerers working at the school, he just hated non-sorcerers, who he deems the ultimate active agent of all the injustices sorcerers have to endure, and lastly, is motivation for doing what he is doing is to save and protect his people. Good intentions, bad, awful, absolutely terrible execution.
He had this clear distinction in his head of there being "The Weak" and "The Strong", and the events that transpierd in 2006 and 2007 made this already questionable compartmentalised vision of the world collapse and distort.
0!Geto is the result of being stuck in a loop like a broken record for a decade, by himself because he didn't open up in earnest with anyone, absorbing rotten curse after rotten curse chasing an impossible dream.
warnings: female reader; near death experience; PTSD; slow burn; use of Y/N; forced proximity; gothic atmosphere; english is NOT my first language; no nsfw (at least for the time being.
CHAPTER FOUR
The damp, salt-bitter morning air seeped through the cracks of that old picture window. You lingered there for a long moment, letting the chill bite at your skin before you finally raised a hand to wipe away the fog that clung stubbornly to the glass. Your sleeve absorbed the cold moisture with a soft friction.
You squinted. There he was, his dark cape billowing behind him. It was logical to assume he was close to the main door, you told yourself.
You still found it really hard to make out the layout of the castle, since you were having trouble walking around… Your own weakness distracted you constantly.
He carried your letter in his hands as he walked on the gravel, his steps uncharacteristically loud.
You wondered if he had read it before writing down the return address. You didn't care much for the content of it, since half of it was an invention derived from his own wishes…
But you did wonder if he trusted you enough to believe you had indeed lied in your letter.
You wanted to know how far he would take his carefully curated prevention.
At last the News Coo arrived, gliding easily and landing near Mihawk’s feet. You stared at the back of his head as the seagull approached him and he crouched down to grab today’s newspaper. He then proceeded to place your letter in its little red pouch.
A gush of wind made the bird stumble a bit, the cypresses rustling in accord. A bad omen for airway travel, as it is. Rain would come back soon.
Mihawk’s hair went slightly tousled. His shoulders tighter. You kept watching as he spoke something you couldn't make out and brushed back some stray black locks with his hand.
Your own breath was fogging the window now. But as you brushed it off, again with your sleeve, you were able to catch how Mihawk paid the messenger a ridiculous amount of berries only for a single letter and the newspaper delivery…
You swallowed.
Oh, he was desperate to send you away as soon as possible.
Mihawk made sure the pouch was well fastened, and only then did the bird finally take off, its flight encouraged after the generous tip. The sky was overcast, stricken with stubborn grey brushtrokes.
After some proud flutter, the uproar of distant thunder made the News Coo heave in fright, surrendering some feathers to the cold gusts.
You frowned at the sight. Only God knew if your letter would ever make it to Twin Snakes.
When you stared back at Mihawk, you found out he was already staring at you. He hadn’t even turned completely. He simply looked back over his shoulder, with that asphyxiating precision he always displayed.
You could handle his stare only for a few seconds before retreating back into the darkness of the corridor. It was impossible to dissect that look. He wasn’t giving a single emotion away.
A sigh left your lips as your back gently hit the wall… Now, you could only pray for your father’s answer, and your recovery. And for his patience. And yours, to be fair.
The chamberstick kept cackling, the quiet echo against the walls a simple comfort. It rested dignified against the damp cobblestone until you secured it again in your hands. The worn brass had become your companion in your little walks around the castle.
Mihawk was perfectly aware you were slowly beginning to widen your presence in his home, and he had surprisingly decided to let you wander.
Where you had been expecting an early warning, you had only gotten silence.
Nevertheless, the swordsman always knew the range of your detours. He’d be listening from downstairs, the muted sound of your steps. Observing if anything was out of place too, meaning you had found your way up to that very point, meaning you had set your flag on it like a proud conqueror.
Sometimes he’d catch a glimpse of the hem of your white gown as he walked towards your room, carrying a tray with your lunch, or maybe dinner. You’d be peering inside of those huge, dark-wood wardrobes that seemed like they could swallow you whole, or checking some old archives in the study.
But if there was anything you loved, it was looking through the windows. Climbing up the windowsills and just perching there like a little, tired swallow.
You wanted out, he told himself. Every time you looked out there, you were planning on your eventual parting, on resuming your research far away from here. Your life.
And, of course, he wanted you gone as well. He thought about it constantly. You had to leave, first for his own sake, and then for your own: you wouldn’t suffer anymore, and he wouldn't have to see it.
He wanted you to stay being what you appeared to be lately, a simple ghost haunting those walls. Only faint steps. A passing presence. He wanted the image of your hands on your lap as you stared through the window to remain on thin paper, until the edges yellowed, until the memory of your silhouette was nothing but a blurred, unreachable phantom destined to fade completely with time.
In those moments you were surely thinking of your father, too. No letter had arrived yet, that he knew of. It had been four days already since he had watched the News Coo disappear between the mist.
But the truth was he also didn’t want to leave you alone and sail to Gilda to check the mail himself. Not when you couldn’t even handle the stairs yet… how many times had he found you sitting down on the fourth, the fifth step? Catching your breath, massaging your legs…
You’d always look away when you realized he had been staring at you from the foot of the stairs. His eyes too inquiring. You’d think he was irritated at you again, at your weakness. You’d think yourself ridiculous for not being able to walk, and retreat out of shyness, trying to portray a bodily autonomy and strength you just didn’t have yet.
Mihawk would choose to believe your act. It was safer for him. His chosen word for it was pettiness, even when he was plainly aware of your true turmoil. He would also call it stubbornness, so it wouldn't become another of those pangs that pierced him near his ribs.
And so a smirk would threaten to settle on his lips. Yes, he had first wanted to be irritated at your obstinate antics. Now, he would have preferred to be simply amused.
But instead, the only thing he could do in those moments was to quietly watch your ascension, the twist of your shoulders, the tension of your arm, your white knuckles as you held on to the railing.
His body, meanwhile, would stay coiled like a spring, the birth of movement imminent in his limbs, lest you stumbled, or slipped, or trembled too much.
Mihawk loathed the way his lungs remained tight, only finding release once you had vanished into the shadows of the main corridor. Safe at last, leaving behind only the heavy, echoing quiet of stone and the ghosts of your lingering steps.
There was a limited set of activities to do while trying not to lose your mind in that sinister castle.
You had tried looking at each of those bone-chilling, faded portraits of the passageway to the stairs. See what you could make of them. You had already memorized the right eye of an alleged lady Vivian Hawthorne, an old woman with completely white, cloud-like hair. The left eye was almost consumed under the blackened varnish, giving her a horrific, poignant look.
That portrait-watching activity got immediately cancelled once that left eye started appearing on your nightmares as a part of what you had called your traumatic memories nighttime remix. Now you strictly looked away every time you needed to walk by the portrait of sweet mama Vivian.
You could also focus on getting better, more independent. One morning Mihawk had walked in on you applying the ointment to your forehead yourself, using a jagged shard of glass as a makeshift mirror, and standing close to a wall sconce to catch the meager light.
He had frozen in the doorway. He should have felt relieved. Happy, even. But seeing you risking a jagged edge just to keep him at bay felt like a quiet, preemptive rejection. One he couldn’t cherish fully.
Had his callous remark about Gilda stung deeper than intended? Was this deliberate distance his punishment, or simply your desperate attempt to stop being a burden?
You only glanced up to offer him a quiet, tight-lipped “Good morning”. For a few agonizing seconds, he just stood there, his eyes tracing the vulnerability of your hands before he turned on his heel and left in total silence.
You had conquered that for yourself, you thought. And surely, he must be relieved not to have to tend you anymore, not to be burdened by your weakness. You hadn't caught his expression as he walked away; not that it would have mattered. Lately you were starting to fully realize how terrifyingly skilled he was at giving nothing away.
But your newfound favourite activity was looking through the window that overlooked the west side of the castle, almost embedded in the forest.
There you could watch the humandrills as they went about their days.You even started taking notes in some forgotten parchment you had found in the old study. How come you could have been so afraid of them? They now seemed even cute to you, with their little habits and wandering about, their frequent silly quarrels. Sometimes they’d catch you looking, and offer you a little wave. The first time it had frightened you, but now you always waved back, a little smile on your lips.
It was a funny thing too, how that big one, that seemed to be the boss, was emulating Mihawk, both by demeanor and by wearing that frilly outfit. And the sword, too. Oh, they were such menaces!
You smiled to yourself and started writing down some notes on their behaviour. It was fun, and distracting, and you were trying to figure out ethological patterns, their possible meanings, trying to discern how many human moves had they picked up—
“Y/N.” Mihawk’s voice pierced the very air.
You were so startled the parchment almost slipped from your fingers. He was standing there, just some steps behind you…
You had been so focused on the humandrills you hadn’t registered a single sound, not a ruffle, not a step. You doubted someone had ever called your name with the same reluctance he had displayed.
Your chest heaved as you turned to him. You put away your parchment neatly, with the same self awareness of a kid that had just been caught redhanded. Your name in his lips was completely disarming, a command on itself.
“...Yes? ”
Mihawk walked to another window and stared through it as well, as if checking what you had been watching. Then, his amber eyes returned to your face, his back now against the glass. A brief tinge of amusement crossed his expression at the thought of you now finding the humandrills interesting.
But his gaze hardened quickly, just as he crossed his arms.
“I have to leave.”
Your eyebrows raised instantly. Had you heard well? Leave?
“...What do you mean you have to leave? ” A painful meekness set on your lips. You started feeling very small at the thought of being left alone in that castle. In that forlorn island.
“A mission.” A heavy silence followed.
“Ah…” You finally managed to nod a bit, then your gaze travelled back to the humandrills, unable to face the way his eyes were analyzing every inch of your expression.
“And you’ll be back… When? ” There wasn’t enough nonchalance in you for the type of tone you wanted to give him. Your efforts to not sound slightly afraid were completely fruitless.
“Five days. I’ll stop by Gilda as well to check the mail.” His hat shadowed his eyes as he tilted his chin downwards. He wasn't completely at ease either, his jaw set. He refused to watch your eyes widen further.
“Mm…” It wasn't that long, you told yourself. You could handle it on your own.
He pushed off the window, your eyes scanning the grace of his movements. His constant elegance became so irritating when you were feeling utterly, painfully vulnerable.
“I’ll walk you downstairs.” He stated, his voice like a blade drawing on ice. It was clear he was not to be argued with at that moment.
“I have already arranged for you to settle there for the time being.”
Your eyebrow shot up completely as you looked back at him. But he was already walking towards the arched threshold, so the only thing left to do for you was to simply follow him.
“...I can walk.” You muttered, the sight of Yoru on his back never ceasing to diminish you.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t put me through that alleged walking of yours again.” He didn’t even turn to address you. Even the bile on his lips was painstakingly measured.
The comeback felt sharper over the baseline anxiety you had been harboring in your gut ever since he mentioned his departure.
You went dead silent.
How pathetic did you feel as he offered his arm to you? It wasn’t a measurable thing, that shame that choked you. You refused to look at him as your hand rested against the inside of his elbow, your fingers clutched at the fabric of his sleeve while your other hand gripped the railing.
The burgundy cloth felt sturdy yet soft, your fingertips grazing against its intricate embroidery. He adjusted his pace to yours, his posture straightening the second he felt you beginning to wobble.
Only mild irritation sat on his eyes. Your own were downturned, so you weren't able to catch how often his gaze drifted to your features during the descent, trying to assess you, trying to figure out the exact source of the storm that was taking over you.
He had thought it would be a relief for you, for him to be away. How come you weren’t happy?
Once downstairs, you muttered a breathy “Thank you.” and removed your hand from the swell of his bicep, as if the contact burned.
He then led you into the main living room, adjacent to the dining area. It was strangely cozy, anchored with a grand chimney, heavy tapestries and patterned rugs. He showed you the kitchen as well, which had power, surprisingly. Mihawk explained some operational details about the generator, trusting your scientific background would make short work for it.
Yet, with every passing minute, the moment of his departure loomed closer, pumping a cold, steady dread through your veins. You found yourself unable to sustain his gaze, your eyes constantly flickering down to his hands, or to whatever button or latch he was pointing out… Clinging desperately to every detail of him, hoarding images to press against your ribs once the halls fell empty.
“Only answer the Den Den Mushi if it’s me calling.”
You nodded, staring at the device with tired, hollow eyes.
When he was finished showing you the essentials, he shrugged on a thicker coat and lingered on the threshold of the main door. The heavy oak swung open, letting in a sharp silver of the distant coast, the gravel path, and the swaying dark shapes of the cedar trees.
It was the glimmer of the waves that finally did it for you.
You hadn’t laid eyes on the ocean in over a week. Not since the tide had violently spat you across the sand onto this godforsaken island. With him.
Out there, his ship awaited, moored.
Just looking at the endless, rhythmic push and pull of the waves made your stomach lurch with phantom sickness. You couldn’t help dragging a hand over your face, taking shallow, ragged breaths as you tried (and failed miserably) to mask the absolute turmoil eating you alive.
Mihawk wouldn't have it. Or, rather, he couldn't entirely ignore it. He had spent enough days watching your every move to recognize the tight, stubborn set of your brows when anxiety clawed at you, or the way you desperately avoided his eyes in that moment, something you had been learning to master.
He stepped right into your camp of vision, blocking the horizon.
“Look at me.”
You almost shivered at his tone. His eyebrows were furrowed, a heavy frown taking the expanse of his face. Was he truly angry…?
Mihawk pierced you with his gaze. His eyes look colder in that sickly light.
“You will tell me what’s troubling you.”
There was no way out, not when he had you in his clutch.
You swallowed, trying to look away again, but the looming sight of the open sea remained a nightmare just past his shoulder, fueling your rising panic.
He noticed your distraction instantly, and instead of stepping back, he stepped even closer, his imposing frame deliberately shifting to completely cut off your view of the ocean.
“I…” You did your best to keep on looking at him. “It’s… you are coming back, right? ”
His eyes narrowed. “This is my home. I earned this peace.”
You nodded slowly, looking down for a second. Of course. It didn’t make sense for him to just… leave.
A sigh left your lips. This was the only reassurance you were getting.
“And is it safe for you to sail? With… the typhoons and all…” You hated how your voice thinned… all the defiance was gone, now that the sea threatened to take away even the unstable beginning of the second chance it had given you.
“I don’t partake in negligence." He seemed almost offended at your doubt. He was also very eager to latch onto anything technical rather than keep addressing the underlying dread in your eyes.
You blushed. “Mm. Of course, it’s just…”
It was a lot, the memories of the shipwreck coming back to you like a freight train. The idea of being alone in that big castle, in Kuraigana. You were struggling to put it all into words, and his demanding presence was as asphyxiating as the idea of his departure.
Mihawk looked down at you, your turmoil a sharp edge he found himself not being able to let go of. His fists threatened to clench, but he reigned himself.
He had to deflect, soon. It was foolish to bleed for this.
“You’re no longer afraid of the humandrills, are you?”.
Some heat began to return to your cheeks at the very reminder of your most humbling moments. You weren’t expecting such a comment. He raised an eyebrow, waiting for your answer.
“...No.”
Mihawk registered your honesty and offered you a single nod, his eyes leaving you for a second. Then, he offered the most pragmatic reassurance he could muster.
“They will protect you. They’ve grown fond of you.”
Your lips parted, your eyebrows shooting up in disbelief.
“...What? ”
A flicker of a dry, exasperated breath crossed his features, his tone swiftly recovering its edge. Yet, as his amber gaze settled once more on that scar near your hairline, revealed now by the breeze, he bit down his frustration and offered a softer, grounding voice to finally end the matter.
“You’ll be safe. That’s all you need to know.”
The swordsman pushed the gate further open with an easy gesture. Now he was the one avoiding your gaze.
“And quit moping.” He added, harsher. His hand rose to adjust the brim of his hat.
“You're smarter than that.”
Mihawk gave you a last sideways glance before strolling away. It was both a warning and a final assessment, his gaze lingering on your face just long enough to ensure you were breathing properly again.
He didn't offer a farewell. That would have been a concession he wasn't prepared to make. Instead, with a sharp, decisive turn, he abandoned the threshold, his cape snapping behind.
“Five days.” He signaled with his hand, his long strides already taking him away from you.
Your eyes left his back to focus on the vessel once more, bobbing quietly by the small pier.
How the hell was he supposed to embark on any journey with that… raft?
You shook your head.
Then, a pointless mutter managed to escape your lips.
“...Bye.”
You didn't stop looking when the mist began to blur his retreating figure.
Only when the swell of the hill finally swallowed him up, the hilt of that huge sword disappearing from view, did you dare to retreat into the castle, pulling the gate closed with a strenuous effort.
The gritty, solemn boom of the door reverberated across the main hall. It sent the candles swaying, the hearth surrendering tiny, shooting-star embers to the gloom.
You stared at nothing and everything at the same time, still gripping that heavy set of keys too tightly, their tangy metallic smell grazing your nose like a curse.
Were they still warm from his hand? Or was it all yours now?
A sigh slipped past your lips. Your eyes focused and unfocused on every surface, on every shadowed corner.
This was it.
You felt your chest starting to tighten again. He was gone… maybe you could afford crying a little. You didn't have to muffle yourself now, scared to give away the dimensions of the disquiet that sometimes took hold of you.
But his words hung heavy on your heart. He was right, as always.
You were much smarter than this.
So you wouldn't let yourself wallow into that sweet, paralyzing self-pity.
You left the keys hanging in the ancient tree hall, right next to his gardening straw hat, one you gently caressed with your fingertips, the fiber surprisingly soft.
It was only five days, after all.
Wandering over to a side window, you peeked outside. Down in the distance, Mihawk had already boarded his ship, and chased the gray horizon.
The first hours alone proved to be the worst, of course.
Now that he was gone, the castle seemed to come alive in the worst way possible. Unidentified creaks, distant rustling. Every dark corner a living thing ready to pounce.
You’d walk around as long as your legs would hold you, inspecting the limits of the fortress, keys dangling from an old belt you had found. Their tingling echo was usually your only company, only paired with the howling of the wind against the windows and the usual rain.
Pointed arches loomed behind you in your exploration. Forgotten, abandoned belongings appeared everywhere, as if never again to be touched, or thought of. A pair of leather gloves, a golden necklace, a forgotten scarf.
The castle was a place of stasis, and as you stared at the horizon, the mist appeared to you as the ineffable force that kept Kuraigana frozen in time, kept away both from relentless decay and blooming growth.
After hours of your first exploration you ended up exhausted. All the stepping around rubble, peeking behind heavy, dust swollen curtains, your heart a frantic little bird falling helplessly in your chest.
Your temples throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, forcing you to sit heavily on the nearest wooden chair, your fingers gripping the edge of the table until the strange dizziness that had gotten over you finally receded. The exhaustion was getting to you, clearly.
Eventually, you gathered your remaining strength to walk to the fridge, such an anachronism, anaestheticism in that castle, and you almost gasped at it. Mihawk had left food for you, diligently organized in glass containers.
You let out a sigh of relief, a little smile setting on your lips.
It wasn't until late afternoon of the second day that the relentless gray sky finally offered a brief truce. The rain ceased, leaving behind a heavy, humid silence that coaxed you out of the heavy atmosphere of the halls. Wrapped in one of the thickest cloaks you could find in the wardrobes, you pushed open a side door that led to the overgrown castle grounds.
The air outside tasted sharp, smelling of wet earth, cedar, and distant salt.
Wandering past the rugged stone walls, your steps guided you toward a structure you had only managed to glimpse from your second-floor window: an old, grand greenhouse. Its glass panes were weathered and streaked with moss, but as you approached, you noticed rows of vibrant vegetables growing over forged tables.
You wrapped the coat better around you and started going through the keys, the sudden curiosity of checking Mihawk’s pots instilling your will.
Yet the sudden feeling of being watched made you pause. Your senses heightened the moment the shuffling of the keys stopped, and you started looking in every direction.
A few yards away, huddled near the glass walls, a couple of humandrills let out a surprised squeak as you drew near. You froze, your heart giving a nervous flutter, but they didn't bare their teeth or make a threatening sound. Instead, the smaller one tilted its head sharply to the side, mirroring the exact gesture you had made a moment earlier when examining a damp fern leaf.
A startled, breathy laugh slipped past your lips.
You resolved to say hi, and offered a tentative wave of your hand. The humandrills blinked, exchanged a glance filled with exaggerated gravity, and clumsily raised their paws in response, mimicking you with a seriousness that was almost endearing.
Encouraged by the fact that the awkwardness was shared by both sides, you stepped closer and decided to test the waters of this bizarre diplomacy.
“Hello? Don’t really know if you can understand me.” You murmured, your voice sounding foreign and small against the vast quiet of the island.
After some seconds you noticed more movement behind the bushes, you assumed you were surrounded. You took a deep breath, not letting anxiety get a hold over you.
You looked around, hoping to addressing all of them. “Is it true? Are you really watching over me?”
That was when the boss humandrill, the one sporting that ridiculous imitation of Mihawk's outfit, made his way between the foliage and let out a low, inquisitive grunt, patting its chest with an air of profound self-importance.
When you got over your initial startle, you couldn't help the small, genuine smile that touched your lips. The humandrill looked down at you, and a familiar, carefully curated coldness greeted you.
Your smile widened.
“Alright… Thank you, I guess. I appreciate it a lot.” You offered a little thumbs up, not knowing if they’d get the cue.
In some seconds all of them were doing it back to you, sporting a somewhat haunting smile too, the only one they could possible manage with their simian features.
After a rather awkward silence, you assumed they were waiting for your next words, or move. The long keys resumed clicking in your hands.
“So… I’ll check on Mihawk’s vegetables now.”
A couple of chitters followed, you took that as a “go on”. Once you found the key, you stepped inside. The smell of damp earth greeted you, such an easing scent. You walked around a little, both observing the aromatic seedlings and checking on the thickness of those kale leaves. Mihawk seemed to have a green thumb, as well. You wondered if there was anything he didn’t excel at.
You were inspecting some carrots when the boss humandrill entered the greenhouse. Its massive frame contorted slightly to make it through the door, its fur now parted where it had touched the frame.
You raised an eyebrow, turning to him.
“Mm… Are you even allowed here?”
The humandrill remained still, a ridiculous seriousness on his features. Its eyes were almost empty when they looked at you, displaying a childlike guilt.
You chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
If it had been possible, you’d swear that monkey friend had blushed. Maybe it was a line of research you’d go over some other time.
You smiled gently. “Just don’t go touching everything.”
You were now hovering by some garlic, tracing their long leaves. No signs of nutrient depletion, or root suffocation.
When you straightened to keep checking on the rest of the pots, again that dizziness ran through you uninvited, the edges of your vision blurring fast. Your legs suddenly forgot half of their steadiness, and you had to hold on to one of the wrought iron tables, a greenish patina covering it.
The humandrill was quick to help you, its strong furry arm steadying you by grabbing yours. You looked up at its face, the furrowed brow and the curve on its mouth. The way he held you just like Mihawk had done back when he helped you go down the stairs.
“Thank you.” You muttered, offering a little tap on its fur. A little proud chirp was the only answer you were getting.
Once the greenhouse stopped spinning, you resumed walking, but the humandrill’s big hand remained resting on your arm, the gentlest touch, just enough to sense it and be ready to catch you again.
You smiled softly at how diligently they were willing to take care of you, and without noticing you ended up talking to them about all the plants you were seeing, getting amazed chirps and eager nods in exchange. You doubted they could grasp everything you were telling them, but you said it anyway, a certain happiness taking over you the moment you could speak freely about your passions, even if the audience was absolutely uncanny.
You locked the door again once you were finished. The humandrill remained by your side, attentive as ever. And around you, almost a dozen lay resting around, or messing with some tool or trinket, but always keeping attention at your moves.
The humandrill was walking you back to the door. You kept rambling. “But you know, I’d really appreciate it if you guys didn't sneak up on me the next time. You almost gave me a heart attack back there…”
Again the half blush. You really had to research that. Once you were about to cross the threshold, your eyes met its gaze, then it wandered to the red of the plume that sprung from its helmet against the pale sky.
You smiled softly, a tentative thing. “Do you want some tea?”
The humandrill remained silent, its head tilting again to the side. You did a quick enactment of sipping a cup and asked again, getting now a shy nod in return.
You smiled wider.
“I'll bring out a tray.”
The day passed in a pretty bizarre and yet comforting way, a quiet warmth setting on your chest. You were sitting with the humandrills, talking mostly to yourself, as you did realize they didn't get everything you told them, always resorting to accompanying your words with gestures.
The lightheartedness of the day bled into the damp night, and as you warmed up some stew, a sweet tiredness clung to your limbs, and no worries could reach you.
That was until a sudden noise startled you.
The Den Den Mushi was ringing. A rush of trepidation took over you. Who would call at this hour? Could It be him? Already?
You dried your hands with a dish towel and gave a last check to the stew before walking fast towards the living room. Mihawk had left the Den Den Mushi over a tea table, and you sat beside it, on an antique ottoman, waiting for the transponder snail’s features to shift.
It was taking its time. You were already picturing the sharp eyebrows, his amber eyes, the carefully trimmed moustache. Your heart beat faster at the very thought.
Or maybe it was the Marines calling…? Who else could it be?
The shift finally started to take place. The first thing you noticed was the stubble, then the tan. You leaned closer, inspecting the snail, holding a candle to try to see better…
Did it have three scars across one eye…? Your fingertip lay as soft as a feather upon it, the Den Den Mushi gave you a very nasty side eye.
You sat back, eyes widening by the second. It was more than obvious, now that a tuft of messy red hair adorned the snail.
You were flabbergasted. What did Red Haired Shanks want with Mihawk?
The Den Den Mushi kept ringing until it emitted a sad beep, unanswered. Could it be that the pirate was leaving a message?
You watched the snail collapse slightly. Your breath caught, expectant. You were too invested in this.
Suddenly the situation got serious enough for you to scramble back to the kitchen, overrunning your weakness, to turn off the stove and come back as fast as possible so you could listen if the message played out loud.
Suddenly the Den Den Mushi’s eyes opened again, and it straightened up.
“Hey, ‘Hawk. It’s been a while, hasn't it? Haha.”
Your hand shot to your mouth, as if you were hearing classified information. He was indeed leaving a message…
And, for better or worse, the pirate sounded absolutely drunk, the face of the Den Den Mushi a wasted, poor thing. He had a deep, but very warm voice, his little shifts in tone denoting easiness. But there was also a bittersweet hint on the little smile the snail was displaying. Its eyes were heavy lidded, maybe tired. Or a bit sad.
“Just calling to wish you a happy birthday.”
Your eyebrows raised immediately. His birthday…? How familiar were they?
“Beck says hi.”
There was a lot of noise around Shanks, as if a party was going on. Other drunk voices, loud music. Many laughs, glasses clicking. You weren’t sure if you could also hear the sea’s roar in the background.
“Well, he also told me not to call you. Since you rarely answer and all.”
A tinge of rawness took over his voice. The Den Den Mushi looked away, its expression lost, maybe to the horizon.
“But you know very well I can’t really shut up sometimes.”
Shanks laughed a bit to himself, trying to shoo the bitterness away.
“Just… I hope you’re doing fine, you grumpy swordsman.”
The smile now was evident. Wider, easier. You couldn’t help smiling too.
Shanks seemed so fond of Mihawk. Just the very gesture of calling him on his birthday was absolutely heartwarming. It was the tone of his voice, too, how the redhead was trying to kindle some embers you supposed Mihawk didn’t take care of. How he was aware but tried anyway. Cared. A strange warmth started seeping under your ribs, unannounced.
Another comment interrupted your train of thought. “No, Lucky, I won’t tell him that. It’s a surprise!”
Some fun hollers followed. You chuckled at the couple of teasing remarks you managed to hear on the red head’s behalf.
Shanks finally chuckled, a fake annoyed eyeroll taking over his expression. “Alright, alright. You win, Roo.” You smiled again, eyes set on the transponder.
“ ‘Hawk, I sent you a couple of Nero d’Avola bottles. As a birthday gift.” Oh, that was some fancy gift. Shanks must know him very well… You were now even more invested.
But after a long silence, Shanks’ tone soured slightly.
“So… yeah. Take care, Mihawk.”
It seemed like there was nothing left to say. You were still breathing softly, as if you could be busted in some way.
Yet Shanks cheered himself one last time, dragging back his easy tone for a finishing remark.
“See ya soon? ”
A door left wide open.
Then a final beep. The message was received. Saved.
A sigh left you, the lingering warmth of Shanks' voice still echoing quietly in the dim living room. You sat there for a long moment, staring at the now dormant Den Den Mushi, turning over the secret of Mihawk’s apparent friendship in your mind like a hidden treasure.
The idea that someone could speak to the world's greatest swordsman with such tipsy familiarity clashed violently with the carefully curated coldness and desire for solitude you had experienced. You couldn't help wondering what kind of invisible tug-of-war kept them tethered across the seas.
And, by extension, what that meant for your own situation.
You had been letting it fester in the back of your mind, that underlying distress at his hypocrisies. The contrast between his cold desire to be rid of you and the meticulous care he displayed was a shapeless creature knocking at your ribs.
But you knew better, of course. He said it, didn’t he? That you were smarter than that. You wondered at the extent of his words, at how deep he had planned them to pierce.
You wondered if one could ever expect a mistake from such a worshipper of the blade.
A heavy sourness creeped from the bottom of your spine.
Yes, you made the promise to erase him back. There was no use in dwelling on such matters.
The next morning was a quiet, gentle thing. The rain was back, but only as a soft drizzle against the dark earth, the mist blurrying the horizon in pearly shades.
You let out a little chuckle, shifting your weight against the cold stone. “You have to stay still. Turn a bit to the left, please.”
A young humandrill was awkwardly posing for you, its brow furrowed in intense concentration. It straightened up abruptly and turned to the right instead, looking entirely clueless.
“Your other left.” A gentle smile touched your lips, you found the humandrill absolutely endearing.
“Like that. Perfect.”
You had been sitting on one of the wide windowsills of the main floor, nursing a mug of morning coffee while sketching the gloomy landscape with an old charcoal pencil salvaged from the study.
You were taking a slow sip when you noticed the humandrill approaching soundlessly, holding out a delicate flower. A soft, blushing pink kissed the centre of its petals, stark against its rough, calloused paw.
“Good morning. Is that for me?”
The monkey nodded eagerly, insisting with stubborn, clumsy gestures until your smile widened.
“Thank you. You’re very sweet… ” You gently took the flower from its big hand, feeling the fragile stem.
“Ah, it’s Helleborus! I loved sketching them back when I was travelling.” Your smile soured softly. “But it’s not a species I recognize. It would’ve been a great addition to my collection.”
You looked up at the humandrill. It was alternating its gaze between the parchment, the dark smudge of the pencil, and back to your hand.
“I was sketching.” You demonstrated with a few quick strokes, its eyes widening as the black pigment clung to the yellowed paper. The monkey looked down at your drawing, then turned its head towards the horizon itself, as if checking the resemblance.
“See? It’s like taking a picture… but poorly, in my case. Well, I don't know if you know what a picture is, anyway…”
The humandrill looked utterly entranced by the whole concept, its breath fogging slightly in the cool air.
After a few seconds, an idea sparked in your mind. “I could sketch you, actually.” You stared back into the castle’s dim gloom, pointing a charcoal-stained finger toward the corridor. “Like that portrait, you see?”
The humandrill went quiet, squinting hard to appreciate one of the faded, ancient portraits half-swallowed by the shadows. But it eventually produced a sudden, excited holler, looking back at you and jumping a little on the spot. You laughed softly, the sound light and foreign in the old fortress.
“Alright, hold the flower for me, hm? It will look very nice.”
And so you had ended up sketching that humandrill’s portrait, watching it clutch the fragile stem of hellebore close to its broad chest with a reverence that felt almost comical.
“Don’t crush it, okay? That is the third one already.”
As the poor animal struggled heroically to maintain the pose, you kept talking, your voice a soothing hum as you traced out its shape; the harsh angles of its brow, the tufts of fur, its surprisingly slender fingers.
“You should never eat that plant, actually. It’s very poisonous. Do you understand? Like, it could kill you.” To make your point, you made a swift, sharp ‘cut-your-throat’ gesture with your free hand.
“See? Dead.” The humandrill startled visibly at the demonstration, then nodded with wide, solemn eyes. They were very intelligent, indeed.
The charcoal pencil froze in your hand when the familiar, shrill tone of the Den Den Mushi suddenly rang out from the depths of the castle, shattering the quiet.
“Hm? Wait a minute.”
You hopped down from the windowsill, brushing the black dust from your fingers, and walked toward the transponder snail. This time, Mihawk’s distinctive features were unmistakable across its face. You let it ring for a beat, your heart doing a strange little flip as you wondered how the call would unfold…
But you eventually picked it up.
“...Hello? ”
“Morning.” His deep voice rumbled through the receiver. A heavy silence followed immediately.
A rare, uncharacteristic hesitation clinging to the line as he seemed to search for the right footing, struggling slightly to pull together his next words.
A soft breath slipped past your lips, breaking the tension.
“Is everything going well? ” He finally asked, his tone carefully guarded.
“...Yes.” You answered, fingers instinctively tightening around the coiled cord of the snail.
“You’ve been eating?”
“Yes… The stew was delicious.”
He hummed, a low sound of quiet approval that vibrated straight through the earpiece.
“Any problem with the humandrills?”
“No, they’ve been really nice.” You said, a faint, involuntary smile ghosting over your features as you glanced back toward the window where your charcoal sketch still rested.
A deeper silence stretched between you then, thick with the unspoken miles and the strange, fragile rhythm you two had somehow fallen into.
He shifted on the other end, the faint, low friction of fabric and sea-breeze against the receiver reminding you just how far removed he was. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped an extra fraction, stripped of all command, reduced to a raw, clinical inventory.
“Fever? Dizziness?”
“Only dizziness, when I’m exhausted.”
Silence again. But this time it wasn't empty; a tangible, tightening coil of disquiet seemed to bleed directly into his breathing, subtle and heavy in the static.
“And the nightmares? ”
The word dropped into the space between you like a stone in deep water. A silent breath caught in your throat. The quiet realization settled over you, soft and sobering: he knew. He had heard you through the dark hours, watching over the fragile boundaries of your sleep without a word.
Your fingers traced the shell's spiral curve, a gentle, involuntary tremor in your hand.
“Yeah… I think they’re receding, anyway.”
“...I see.”
The two words were a low, flat murmur, stripped of ease. A subtle, quiet disapproval hung in the space between you, as if he found the lingering reality of those nights entirely unacceptable. Not just the shadows themselves, but the fact that they still reached you.
Another heavy pause swallowed the line.
“And you’re alright? ” You finally muttered, a bit on edge. You could only hope to deflect.
The words slipped out before you could trap them behind your teeth, and instant, sharp regret pooled in your chest. You closed your eyes, mentally cursing your own slip. Why should you care…? It was none of your business. You were only a guest, after all.
He stayed quiet for a long, agonizing while. You were afraid he would even end the call over that mishap.
But after a beat, his voice returned, stripped of its usual edge.
“Yes.” The snail’s eyes narrowed further.
“Not a scratch.” It was a rare, staggering concession from a man who loathed offering unnecessary explanations. A quiet, reluctant comfort meant entirely for you.
“Mm. That’s —” The sentence trailed off your tongue, dying a quiet death in the space between you before you could give it away entirely.
“I’ll be back in two days.”
A brief pause hung on his end, heavy with unspoken weight, before his deep voice murmured through the receiver once more.
“Goodbye.”
Your voice lowered, suddenly drained.
“...Bye.”
The connection went dead before you could say another word, leaving only a soft, rhythmic hiss in your ear. You stared down at the transponder snail for a long moment, watching its features melt back into the ordinary shell, unsettled by how the heavy, quiet gravity of his attention had managed to dismantle your defenses from miles away.
author's note: this one ended up so long, 7k+ words... I hope it doesn't get too tedious, again thanks to all of you for taking the time to read this 🙂↕️♥️
pd. The next chapter will start with Mihawk's pov 👀
“I am terribly sorry,” the innkeeper said, wringing his hands. “A merchant party took the last adjoining rooms—”
“This will suffice. Thank you,” Mihawk said.
The innkeeper bowed and quickly left.
Mihawk stood beside you, hat in hand, his dark coat damp at the shoulders from the rain.
You looked at the bed again, as if staring might cause another one to appear.
It did not.
One bed.
One.
You became acutely aware of Mihawk standing beside you.
“You are blocking the doorway,” he said.
Your spine straightened. “I’m aware.”
“You are still doing it.”
You stepped into the room at once, then hated yourself for obeying so quickly.
Mihawk followed and closed the door.
The latch clicked softly.
You busied yourself with setting down your bag because looking at him was becoming a danger. “I can take the chair.”
“No.”
You looked over your shoulder. “No?”
“The chair is not suitable for sleep.”
“It’s one night.”
“Precisely.”
“You say that as if it explains anything.”
“It does.”
You turned fully. “Mihawk.”
His eyes came to yours.
Golden. Calm. Terrible.
“You may take the bed,” he said.
“And you?”
“I did not say I would not be in it.”
Your mouth opened. Nothing useful came out.
Mihawk sat his hat down on the desk. “There is no reason for either of us to sleep poorly.”
“There is one bed.”
“I can see that.”
Your face warmed. You looked away before he could notice.
Unfortunately, it was Mihawk.
He noticed everything—your exhaustion, the moments you stopped reading and only stared at the page, the way you looked at him and turned away too quickly.
He gave away almost nothing in return.
That was why the bed was a problem.
He unfastened his coat and drew it from his shoulders.
You turned toward your bag too quickly.
Behind you, fabric shifted. His sword was set within reach, of course. You heard the soft placement of Yoru against the wall.
“Your bag is already open,” Mihawk said.
You looked down.
It was.
You had been staring into it without taking anything out.
“Right,” you said.
A pause.
Then, dryly, “A difficult task.”
You closed your eyes for one brief second. “Do you enjoy making me uncomfortable?”
“No.”
He stood near the desk in a white shirt and dark pants. His expression was as calm as ever.
But his eyes were on you.
“I do not enjoy your discomfort,” he said. The sincerity of it landed harder than teasing would have.
You drew your pajamas from your bag. “I’ll change.”
Mihawk’s eyes moved briefly to the closed bathroom door.
“Of course.”
No comment. No lingering glance.
You shut yourself in the bathroom and changed quickly. Through the door, you could hear Mihawk moving.
When you stepped out, Mihawk stood by the small table with a glass in his hand. His eyes moved over you once from your face to the pajamas and back again.
Nothing about his expression changed.
Your skin warmed anyway.
He took a drink of wine, unhurried, then lowered the glass. “You dislike being seen.”
Your breath caught.
He said it calmly, as if he had noted the weather. You looked away. “I dislike being studied.”
“Then I will be clear.”
You looked back before you could stop yourself.
Mihawk set his glass down. “If sharing the bed troubles you, tell me. I will take the chair.”
“You just said the chair was unsuitable.”
“It is preferable to making you uncomfortable.”
The room went very quiet.
You were not sure what to do with that. With the bluntness. The respect.
You swallowed. “I didn’t say no.”
“No,” Mihawk said. “You did not.”
Something about the way he said it made heat gather low in your stomach.
You turned away first and moved toward the fire because your face could not be trusted.
You stared into the flames and reminded yourself that you were sharing a room because of the weather.
The problem was that you wanted it to mean something.
With Mihawk, you could never tell whether his attention was personal or merely thorough.
“You are staring at the flames as if they have become fascinating,” he said.
“They might have.”
“They have not.”
You heard him pour another glass of wine.
Then he came closer.
You felt him before you saw him.
The quiet presence. The way your own body seemed to become more aware of itself when he stood within arm’s reach.
He held out a glass.
Your fingers brushed his.
A small contact. Barely anything.
Your hand tightened around the stem. You drank because you needed something to do. The wine was dry, dark, and warmer than expected. It spread through your chest slowly.
Mihawk remained beside you. “You are not afraid of me,” he said.
It was not a question.
You glanced at him. “No.”
“Then your concern is something else.”
You almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was intolerable.
“You always do that,” you said.
“What?”
“Notice the part I’m trying to hide.”
“Should I pretend not to?”
“Yes.”
“Would you believe me?”
“…No.”
Silence.
The fire cracked softly beside you.
Mihawk looked at you and his eyes dropped to your mouth. Then he stepped away before either of you could move closer.
“You should sleep,” he said.
Your breath returned unevenly. “That’s it?”
“For now.”
“And later?”
“Later depends on whether you continue pretending not to know what you want.”
The words went through you cleanly.
You looked down into your wine.
Mihawk retrieved his glass, took one drink, and moved toward the bed as if he had not just shifted the entire room beneath your feet.
There was nothing left to do after that.
You set your glass down, got into bed, and took the side nearest the wall.
Mihawk turned down the lamp. Then he settled on the other side of the bed with an ease that seemed almost cruel.
For several minutes, neither of you spoke.
The bed was large enough that you did not have to touch. It was not large enough to make the absence of touching harmless.
You were aware of every inch between you. The warmth of him beneath the covers. The sound of his breathing. The faint movement when he shifted one hand to rest over his stomach.
You stared at the wall and tried not to breathe like someone in distress.
“You are holding your breath,” Mihawk said.
You closed your eyes. “No, I’m not.”
“You have done it three times.”
“Stop counting.”
“Stop doing it.”
You turned your head enough to glare at him. He looked entirely unbothered.
The room grew quiet again.
You turned back toward the wall.
After a while, Mihawk said, “You may come closer.”
Your heart stopped. “What?”
“You are cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“No,” he said. “You are shivering.”
You pulled the blanket higher around your shoulders and hated him a little. You lasted another minute. Maybe two.
Then a draft moved through the room despite the fire. You shivered before you could stop yourself.
Mihawk’s eyes shifted to you.
You pulled in a breath, then turned onto your back.
“I don’t know how you feel,” you said. The words surprised you by existing.
Mihawk did not move.
“I know how I feel,” you continued, quieter now, because stopping seemed worse. “That’s the problem.”
Mihawk turned his head toward you.
You did not look at him.
You could not.
“I know how I look at you,” you said. “I know I make an idiot of myself every time you stand too close. I know you notice. I just don’t know whether you notice because you notice everything, or because…”
Your voice gave out.
Mihawk said your name.
Quietly.
You shut your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “Forget I said that.”
“No.”
Your eyes opened.
He was watching you now.
Fully.
“No?” you repeated.
“No,” Mihawk said. “I will not forget it.”
Your throat tightened.
“That’s cruel.”
“It would be crueler to allow you to believe it meant nothing.”
You turned your face toward him. The room seemed too still around you.
“I notice many things,” Mihawk said. “I do not invite all of them closer.”
Your breath caught.
The sentence was so restrained it took a moment to land.
“Oh,” you said.
His mouth curved faintly. “Yes.”
You looked away, face hot.
“You could have said something,” you whispered.
“I will not speak your desire for you,” he said.
Your chest tightened.
His voice remained calm. “You look at me and then look away as if your own wanting has offended you. It has not offended me.”
Your breath left you slowly.
Mihawk turned onto his side then, facing you. “If you want distance,” he said, “take it.”
You did not move.
His eyes lowered briefly to the space between you, then returned to your face.
“If you want something else, you will have to say so.”
You swallowed.
“What if I don’t know how?”
“You do.”
His certainty was unbearable.
Mihawk’s hand rested near yours, open against the sheet.
“You make it sound simple,” you said.
“It is simple.”
“It is not easy.”
“No,” he agreed. “Worthwhile things rarely are.”
The rain softened against the window.
You looked at his hand. You moved before courage could leave you. Only enough to set your fingertips against his.
Mihawk’s eyes did not leave your face. His fingers closed slowly around yours, his thumb moved once over your knuckles.
“Come here,” he said.
Mihawk shifted only enough to make room for you, his arm coming around your back. His hand settled between your shoulder blades.
You lay stiffly at first, unsure where to put your hands, your knees, your breath.
Mihawk seemed content to let you figure it out. After a moment, you rested your forehead near his shoulder.
His hand moved once over your back.
A single, slow stroke.
Your eyes closed.
“There,” he said quietly.
You fell asleep like that, tucked carefully near him, not fully against him but close enough that the warmth finally reached you.
His hand remained at your back until sleep took you.
When you woke, you were much closer.
Then you noticed that Mihawk was awake and reading.
Your eyes opened to the soft light of morning and the quiet turn of a page above you. For one confused second, your mind could not arrange the facts into anything useful.
Your cheek was resting against Mihawk’s chest.
Your hand lay over his ribs. One of your legs had drifted close to his beneath the blankets. His arm rested around your back, not tightly, but with clear intention.
And in his other hand, held above you at an elegant angle, was a book.
You went completely still.
Mihawk turned a page.
Your face caught fire.
“Good morning,” he said.
You lifted your head so quickly you nearly hit his jaw.
He lowered the book just enough to look at you.
“How long have you been awake?” you asked.
“Some time.”
You stared at him.
“You’re reading.”
“Yes.”
“I’m on you.”
“You were asleep.”
You looked down immediately, because looking at his face had become impossible.
His arm remained around your back.
You pushed yourself up slightly, intending to retreat to your side of the bed with what little dignity could be gathered from the wreckage.
Mihawk’s arm loosened at once.
You shifted back only a few inches before his voice stopped you.
“Is that what you want?”
You froze.
Your hand was still on his chest.
His book rested lightly against the blanket now, forgotten or set aside by degrees.
You did not look at him.
“What?”
“To move away.”
Your fingers tightened in his shirt.
“I should,” you said.
“That was not my question.”
Mihawk set the book aside on the table.
You looked at him then. There was no trace of embarrassment in his expression, but there was something else.
Attention. Patience.
Want, controlled so thoroughly it almost looked like stillness.
Your breath caught.
Mihawk’s eyes moved over your face.
“I will not speak for you.”
You looked down.
Mihawk’s hand lifted. His fingers brushed a strand of hair back from your cheek.
You stopped breathing.
“You need only say the word,” he said.
Your pulse pounded.
Mihawk’s eyes lowered to your mouth. You were close now. Closer than you had realized.
At some point, you had leaned toward him. Your hand was still against his chest. His fingers rested beside your shoulder.
Your mouth parted.
“Mihawk,” you said.
His eyes darkened.
His hand returned to your face, more certain this time. Fingers at your cheek. Thumb near the corner of your mouth.
“Again,” he said.
The word was quiet.
Your whole body warmed.
“Mihawk.”
You leaned closer.
The distance narrowed to almost nothing.
Your breath touched his.
For one suspended second, neither of you moved. Then you whispered, “Kiss me.”
Mihawk held your gaze for another second. Then his hand slid behind your neck and drew you to him.
His mouth met yours slowly, but there was nothing uncertain about it. The first kiss was brief. One firm press of his lips before he drew back far enough for you to breathe.
Your eyes opened.
Mihawk was watching you from inches away.
You leaned in before he could ask.
He kissed you again.
This time, you were ready for him. You moved closer until your body rested against his side. Mihawk’s arm tightened around your waist and pulled you fully against his chest.
Your fingers curled over his shoulder.
He angled his head, his lips parting against yours. You followed clumsily at first, then caught the rhythm of it—the slow movement of his mouth, the pause when you needed air, the way he returned before you could lose your nerve.
A sound slipped from you.
Mihawk rolled you partly beneath him, bracing one arm beside your head as his body settled closer.
You kissed him before he could kiss you again.
That finally disturbed his control.
He kissed you harder. His hand slid to the small of your back, drawing you up against him as you grabbed his shirt with both hands.
Your lips parted beneath his.
Mihawk drew a sharp breath through his nose. His fingers flexed against your back, and for several seconds, there was nothing careful about the way he kissed you.
Then he slowed.
He pressed one final kiss to your mouth before lifting his head.
You were still holding his shirt.
His hair had fallen forward slightly. His breathing was deeper now, his chest rising beneath your hands.
Your fingers tightened in the fabric again.
Mihawk lowered himself onto his side but did not release you. His hand remained at your waist, keeping you close.
“There,” he said.
Your lips felt warm and slightly swollen. “There?”
oh dear I'm thinking again about Shanks being told he has a destiny but it's NOT the One Piece by the man he looks up to above all others, and saw as his second family after finding out his birth family are evil slave-keeping monsters who basically rule the world.
I'm thinking about Buggy being told by the world and his own terrible self-esteem that he is just inherently lesser than Shanks, inferior, and crafting his entire bombastic, self-aggrandising personality in response because fuck that and fuck Shanks.
I'm thinking about Buggy at Loguetown, grieving and vulnerable, finally letting himself believe what he thinks is the truth - that Shanks was always meant to be his captain. Offering to sail under him to find the One Piece.
I'm thinking about Shanks, equally wracked with grief and horror, on top of knowing everything he knows about his family, being fucking horrified that his feisty little friend who NEVER lets anyone put him down would bow his head to Shanks.
warnings: female reader; near death experience; PTSD; slow burn; use of Y/N; forced proximity; gothic atmosphere; english is NOT my first language; no nsfw (at least for the time being)
CHAPTER THREE
A couple days went on in what seemed a mutually agreed quietness.
Your body was still very weak, but you were quickly regaining your mental agility. Picking yourself up. Trying to piece together all those messed up snippets you barely remembered. Tasting on your tongue the names of the sailors that had disappeared with the Terroir. Making a mental inventory of all you had lost; your research, your personal belongings. Your health. Your independence.
Of course, it was all a tragedy. There was no other way to call it. You had dug deep inside you, you had tried to walk away and stare at it with another perspective, but there wasn’t another way to frame it. Calling it a joke or some fit of destiny was even more underwhelming. You couldn’t do it, not while those gruesome nightmares kept plaguing your mind whenever exhaustion took you. You’d always wake up startled, feeling the aftermath of the sea all over your body like a latent curse. Drenched in sweat, shaking. Miserable.
But after hours of rumination, of analysis, of painful identifications and categorization, you packed your personal tragedy and placed it on the big shelf of your mind. Labeled. Trapped it like an old friend’s memory that lingers for a long time. One you’d visit and kneel before, one you would light candles for and stare at blankly, your feelings on it mostly inaccessible.
That was it. You’d do what had always saved you before.
To turn to the environment. You’d focus on all you could see, or touch, and ponder about.
You would walk around the room, examining every detail, from the tapestries to the wooden floor itself. Scratching, tracing patterns.
You would sit on the windowsill and stare at that impressive lake. Would it freeze in winter? Did this island have harsh winters or was it just the storms all year long?
Then you’d stretch, you’d massage your legs, your arms. You wanted to regain your strength again and maybe walk through that cedarwood forest. Yes, and see the lake up close, and check those white flowers you could only peek at from the windows. Those seemed like lillies, but you couldn't tell for sure from that distance.
Of course, you also wanted to see the rest of the castle as well. You had speculated a lot from the objects you could see around the room, the candelabrum, the drappings, the gowns you were wearing. The castle was old but not too old, it must have been abandoned about twenty years ago, not more. It was ancient, but not centuries-old. You were pretty sure of that.
Then there was the matter of that man. Dracule Mihawk, the dweller of the castle. The only one, or so it seemed.
As soon as he saw you were conscious and strong enough to take care of yourself, he started retreating. So now you were alone most of the time. The warlord would only enter your room to bring you food or new bandages, and to apply a fresh herbal ointment to that wound in your forehead.
Mihawk didn't praise you for your little advances. He’d only pay attention to them and gradually, indirectly pushed you to do more by yourself, and do it better. He avoided getting closer than necessary and, if he truly had to touch you or handle you in any way, as soon as the need was over, he’d withdraw and grant himself with solitude once more.
The longer he was away, the more confidence he displayed. His tone would go completely monotone. His gestures firm. Curated. His dignity thicker. He was erecting again that sophisticated wall that kept him away from the world.
He was getting over the first destabilization provided by your intrusion, and coming back stronger. Your own silence and the extended solitude had given him time to regroup. To reconsider and poke at his tender spots until he didn't feel a thing.
Yes, it may have been mostly quiet, but there was no true peace between you. You were still strangers. Cold war settled during those incursions in the no man’s land of that unwilling proximity.
Each nonchalant look was an inquiry. Every gesture, calculated. Words were rare and extremely efficient.
No more openings.
This wasn’t time for a fray. You were still licking your wounds, he was adjusting his armor.
Tightly.
A truce had been settled, but you kept silently circling each other. Never baring fangs but casually flaring claws. A truce had been settled.
Mihawk was glad you were being mostly easy. Keeping your distance, barely talking. You didn’t ask, didn’t beg. And you didn’t pry.
Maybe it was due to respect for him. Or gratitude. Maybe you needed the silence too. He didn't bother discovering what was the case. He usually just took the silence, gladly, and retreated to himself.
But in his lone hours it creeped up his back, settled between his shoulderblades. Then the wine would taste funny. He’d twirl it once, then again. Garnet reflecting against his sharp features. No answers.
He couldn’t ignore the way you looked at him. He could see the spark in your eyes, the rumination, the silent attention you’d put in every movement of his, the same expression one carries while watching over boiling water.
It could be that you feared it would foam and pour all over.
But no, it wasn’t fear. It was clear you were no longer terrified of him. It had just been that first time, after your fever had finally broken. Your eyes hadn’t done that again. For some reason, he couldn't forget how you had looked at him at that moment. He would never admit how his stomach had turned at the sight of such a distress because of his presence.
So, no longer afraid. And you were no coward. You respected him but never tiptoed around him. You didn’t let go of your dignity even in your weakness.
You were gathering yourself fast, and poking at him as you grew more confident. The very thought of it made Mihawk wary. It was time to step back and focus on consolidating his own strength, his detachment.
Yet wariness was a rare, layered feeling for a man like him. It was surely alarming. It was also alarming the fact that it kindled a spark of interest he hadn’t felt in years. Not in battle or any aspect of his life.
So he had tried to antagonize you. Pose your mind as a weapon you’d dare wield against him. Try to take it to a familiar arena.
But then he’d see you wince, or groan while you were stepping around your room, and he’d back off. You’d look at him and mutter a single word of gratitude and all his schemes would tremble. He hated how he didn't even have it in himself to scold you, to tell you to stop. He was disarmed enough to just take it, a blow he considered he could afford in the long run.
On the third morning Mihawk appeared with a newspaper.
You laid on the bed, half awake. His eyes had studied you whole by the time you managed to focus on his face. The room was gloomy. Somewhat damp. The rain went on…
It had been a rough night. Your hair now a bit messy, darkish circles under your eyes. A hint of swelling he chose not to read further into.
He walked to your bedside, produced a matchbox and lit the chamberstick. Meanwhile, you sat with your back to the bedframe, waiting for his next move. Observing like you always did. Mihawk then actually sat beside your bed, and placed the newspaper on your lap. He hadn’t been this close since your fever.
“Thought you would like to see this.”
You could obviously half figure what you were about to read as you took the chamberstick in your hands. He looked away when your eyes began to squint to make up the headlines. You were a little short-sighted. He had noticed, of course.
The main headline detailed the most recent movements of Big Mom’s crew in the North Blue. You skimmed it quickly, not entirely disinterested. It was followed by some big shifts in the stock market. Then, finally, what you had been dreading.
"Cargo Vessel 'Terroir' Vanishes Without Trace in the Florian Triangle”
You swallowed. So there it was...
No crew left. No passengers. No cargo either, of course. The Florian Triangle had engulfed it all, as if it had never existed.
Your mind drifted to all those faces you had seen just days ago. The moody captain. That funny, flirty helmsman. The quartermaster. And that deckhand, the one that had tried to swim to you during the shipwreck, without success. All gone…?
You sighed, closing the paper. Silence took over the room. His face was unreadable, his gaze lingering on the window, where raindrops traced chaotic paths down the glass.
“So, no survivors…” You whispered, your voice surprisingly steady.
Mihawk shook his head, a rather sharp movement. “Negligence.” He said, his tone lacking any softness.
“The navigator, most likely.” The twinge of irritation of his words betrayed him slightly. He abhorred incompetence. “The entire chain of command should have monitored the trajectory. They should have recognized the danger before the ship was compromised.”
“Mm. Indeed.” You said, thoughtful. Dissecting his logic. “Pitiful…”
He watched you, his gaze heavy and unhurried as you pored over the article. He hadn't brought the paper to be cruel. He had brought it because it was a truth you were owed. Yet, as he remained there, his eyes traced the set of your jaw and the way your fingers tightened against the page, searching for something. Perhaps to see if the weight of reality would finally break the composure you had so stubbornly maintained. But you remained still, and in that stillness, he found his own disquiet growing.
The news felt heavy in your chest. It was a dull pressure that begged for an outlet, but the tears just wouldn't come. You still had a weird disposition towards your own tragedy, you looked at it from a safe distance.
But the article had brought the memory of your father to your mind. He must be mourning a ghost, back at home.
Still, you were in no shape to leave and go back to him. Right then, you could hardly walk around the room, leaving only to use the bathroom, which was like, four steps from your chamber. Little else could you do before feeling completely exhausted.
Twin Snakes island, your home, was East to the Red Line. South to the Calm Belt. And you had no vessel. No money, either. The storms were relentless… And you wouldn't ask Mihawk to take you anywhere. You felt enough like a liability to now request such madness.
You gathered your thoughts, forcing that silence to break. “Well… thank you for showing me.”
He answered with a single nod and stood. You held the newspaper out, your fingers a little shaky as you offered it back to him. His gaze dropped to your hand and lingered on the tremor for a second before climbing back to meet your eyes, a predatory search for a crack in your composure. He found your eyes staring back at him with no trace of intimidation.
“Keep it.” His voice was a low, velvet anchor in the room. For a fleeting moment, he lingered there, as if hoping to get something else out of you. Maybe a sob. Or a plea. When, again, you simply folded the paper back onto your lap, he pivoted and walked out with that lethal grace of his, leaving the door to latch shut with a hollow, final sound.
That was Mihawk for the day. He retreated into the vast silence of the castle, leaving you to your own devices. You would only see him again when he brought you food. The meals, if simple, were surprisingly exquisite, each portion deliberate to nurse you back to health.
Then, at a certain hour each afternoon, you had discovered that in the closest bathroom a fresh set of clothes would be waiting for you, and the bath would be filled with steaming hot water. He never announced it, and he certainly didn't wait for any acknowledgment. He simply ensured the necessities were met, and then he would retreat again, leaving you to manage the rest of your recovery in the quiet of your room.
And so you’d venture out of those chambers. You wore a pair of shoes you assumed he had found somewhere in the castle, their soles quiet against the stone.
You always paused at the entrance of the hallway. To your left, a large, weathered stained-glass window framed the vast, half-moon. To the right, a gloomy corridor you had yet to explore. Darkened portraits peered back at you through faded varnish, and the ornamented drapings looked neglected, swaying in the cold draft.
In some strange way, you always half-hoped to find Mihawk there. You had come to rely on the strange, grounding comfort of his presence. As your hand traced the cold stone of the walls, you couldn't help but wonder where he was…
Mihawk always remained stubbornly out of reach. You found yourself wondering about the shape of his life in these halls… what he did with his time, how he moved through the shadows, and what thoughts occupied the mind of a man who chose such profound solitude. He was a mystery you couldn't help but circle, a man who drew your attention in a way that felt both inevitable and entirely unwise.
Conversation was a resource Mihawk rationed, one you were learning to manage with surgical precision.
You were now sitting on the edge of the bed. The World Economic Journal was still neatly folded over the bedside table.
That day, the rain had stopped. Some faint light made its way across the room as you carded through your bedhead with your fingers, trying to brush it back.
It was Mihawk’s usual visit to treat the wound on your forehead. Your gaze drifted, to his hands, to the curve of his pale forearms as he rolled up his sleeves.
You took care of all your wounds, except for that one. He had insisted on treating it himself, since it had been infected when you arrived, and he also didn't want it to seal improperly. It was true you couldn't stare at it with a hand mirror and take care of it simultaneously, so you had surrendered to his logic.
You couldn't help wondering if his apparent aversion to weakness implied also a disdain of scars. He didn't have any on his body, or so it seemed.
You adjusted the covers over your shoulders, it was a very cold morning.
Mihawk fetched all he needed, then he stepped closer. With one hand he supported your chin, only using his fingertips. Sometimes his thumb pressed harder, to tilt your face. With the other, he applied the ointment. It had proved useful in aiding to keep infection at bay, so he had kept using it. He was gentle and methodical, silent.
You never looked at him when he was tending to you, preferring to either close your eyes, or look away.
At that hour, he smelled of coffee. Standing that close, you could also register the deeper layers of his own scent. Woods, maybe sandalwood. Cedar; did it linger on him after chopping trees out there in the forest? You’d also recognize some metallic undertones lingering on his hands.
That day you had something in score, so you began to test the waters. Since the first time he had started using the ointment, you had been trying to focus to identify the specific herbal notes.
Your nose scrunched a bit. His fingertips pressed against your chin so you would stop moving.
“Achillea?” You asked, your tone crafty nonchalant. He then hummed a bit, his eyes never drifting from your forehead, and added, his tone unwavering “And Calendula.”
You just nodded approvingly. His expression didn't change. He didn't need your approval, of course. You knew that too.
Your eyes fluttered closed again. A polite pause for him to prepare. He did notice something else was coming from your behalf, since that question had been ridiculous for a naturalist. Those were the most obvious components of the ointment.
So your question had been a polite feit. Would you engage further?
Only after a minute or two, you finally spoke again.
You did engage.
Salute.
“Mihawk”
You had called him by his name for the first time. Your voice was stern. No longer wavering. Weakness forgotten.
His eyes narrowed. So it had come, the time where you’d actually ask something of him. Yet there was no true pleading in your tone, you wore no signs of submission.
But hearing his name from your lips had been the worst part of it. As soon as it registered, it curled up and nested behind his ribs, invading him in such an uncomfortable way. He took a small breath, trying with all his might to only appear irritated at your inquiry.
His name, your voice. That was something he’d start covering in layers of carefully crafted detachment. He needed to keep that impurity away from the sanctuary of his flesh. It would turn into those wrong, shimmery, baroque pearls. Maybe he’d place it later in his hand, where it couldn't hatch. He’d made it run wobbly all over his palm, examining its aberrant shine under the candlelight.
He had involuntarily tilted your chin more, his thumb digging softly. As soon as he noticed the way your skin has tensed under his grasp, he released gently. You were still looking up at him, waiting for an answer. He could see himself reflected in those big eyes of yours.
Mihawk just resumed tending to your wound, as he hummed softly. …“Hm?”
You had seen it all. The pause. The pressure of his fingers. You kept going…
That was your opening.
“I’d like to ask for a favor...” You muttered, the intimacy growing by the second. It was a matter of time before he would retreat.
His eyes finally set on yours. You were very serious, studying every inch of his face to analyze his disposition. Mihawk didn’t like it, not a bit.
“... Ask away.” He resolved. He had gathered himself. His tone was relaxed and sure… you needed to be wary.
You began: “My father still lives,” His eyebrow started raising. “with the recent news, he must be assuming I died in the shipwreck.”
He was almost done. Didn't look impressed by your request so far.
“I’m from the West Blue…” you continued. His hands left your face as he reached for a new gauze. Your eyes followed his movements.
“I just want to write to him, since I can't leave yet. A quill and some paper will do, and I'd just need you to handle the News Coo... If that’s possible.”
He finished. Took a step back, started wiping his hands in some vintage handkerchief. As usual, his face remained unreadable.
You didn’t want to get nervous. You couldn't make the mistake of looking down, or away.
You tried a last resource. Raw sincerity. “I wish I could just handle it myself. I do not like bothering you.”
Mihawk remained silent. He didn't look away, but the muscle in his jaw tightened, as if he was calculating the cost of the ground you had just claimed.
The swordsman was measuring the depth of your resolve, finally finding it unexpectedly… formidable.
So he simply nodded.
You had landed a good strike. A simple request, dutiful. Coherent. You had seen through him. He was very fond of logic, of righteousness. To him, reason was a relief in itself.
Then you had lowered your guard entirely. Were you weaponizing your vulnerability against him? Or was it a good natured, involuntary blow?
He was afraid you had offered him your neck, not in surrender, not as a decoy, but in an act of absolute, disarming trust.
You wanted a common ground, and you’d expose yourself to reach it.
That felt way more dangerous than any duel he had faced before.
“I’ll see to it”, he said, his tone carrying a faint, lingering note of reluctance.
You raised your eyebrows, genuinely surprised. Despite his whole demeanor, he didn't seem fully irritated. You muttered a heartfelt “Thank you.”
Mihawk didn't acknowledge you further. He returned the clean gauzes and ointment with precise, but fast movements. He wanted this conversation to be over. He wasn’t used to witnessing his own defeat.
Yet he was already at the threshold when he stopped, his hand resting against the wooden frame.
“I have a Den Den Mushi at my disposal. It would surely prove more reliable than a letter, given the current state of the weather.”
“Ah…” You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden willingness to accommodate you. “But we do not have one at home. My family is… quite modest, we have never been able to afford one.”
You couldn't help blushing a little. Bringing up your humble upbringing was something that always brought a sting of self-consciousness. It was worse now, since you were surrounded by that weathered, quiet opulence, that reminded you of luxuries you had never even dreamt of.
You wondered about Mihawk’s own background. He seemed to move through the castle as if these luxuries were barely an afterthought.
He caught the flush on your face and studied you for a second. There was no true judgment in his eyes, only a methodical sort of understanding. He actually even reassured you with a little nod.
“Then a letter will be.”
His gaze then drifted downward, lingering on your shoes for a fleeting moment, before straightening up and heading towards the dark corridor.
“Walk with me.”
The command was abrupt. You nearly bolted, your fingers fumbling with the laces of your shoes as you hurried to keep pace.
But he hadn’t left you behind. He stood poised against the wall, holding an oil lamp, waiting for you. His eyes studied you whole as you walked to him, leaning on the wall from time to time. You were still a little wobbly, forced to stop and catch your breath sometimes, but he didn't rush you.
All the way, your eyes remained fixed on his back.. He was wearing that enormous sword again. It looked so heavy, even with his usual good bearing. Then there was the case of the blade. The light of the oil lamp flickered against it, yet it died eerily fast, as if devoured by its own darkness.
Mihawk led you into an old study, not too far from your room. It was gloomy, the intense scent of aged paper and wood made the air itself thicker.
He signaled you to take the chair before a massive desk of dark, polished wood and fetched a quill and some paper for you.
Mihawk then placed the oil lamp close, the golden flame casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to dance across the shelves. You peeked, those weren’t books per se, it looked more like some kind of archive.
“Tell your father you’re safe.”
You nodded, setting the paper down and already planning your letter. As he retreated, his voice crept towards you with a stern, absolute finality.
“The return address will be Gilda island. I’ll write down the specifics when the letter is ready.”
That name hung in the air. Gilda? If you remembered right, that island was some miles from there, to the southwest of the Florian Triangle.
You quickly made out his strategy. By anchoring your whereabouts to Gilda, he was ensuring that when you finally left, you would leave as a complete stranger to his world. You were being untethered from his name and Kuraigana itself. As if you had never been there. A complete excision.
A sharp, unexpected pang settled on your chest. Why did that bother you so much? It was, by all accounts, the most rational way to handle this mess. Was it his total, cold willingness to erase you after he had single-handedly saved your life? Or something else?
Your eyes narrowed, the blank paper staring back at you, taunting. That anger didn't make sense, but it burned. You felt a sudden, dangerous urge to snap, to dissect out loud exactly how much of this "prevention" was for your actual safety and how much was merely a selfish desire to protect his own peace of mind.
But you held your tongue. You couldn't afford that behaviour with a man like him. You were in no position for that.
“I’ll state that I was saved by a passing merchant ship.” You murmured, dipping the quill into the inkwell, the dark liquid clinging to the nib like a secret.
You’d write nothing of the castle, or his hands. The monkeys. Or those ridges.
You’d erase him from your narrative with the same coldness as he had displayed while demanding your own eventual vanishment from his life.
“Good. Leave it there when you’re done.”
You stared at his back once more as he left the room, his shadow stretching long and thin behind him. Gone again.
A sigh left your lips. You turned slowly, back to your letter. It was time to gather your thoughts, then paint over them. The weight of the nib against the paper was heavy, the ink spreading in dark, frantic veins. You wrote with a stiff hand, the lie coming easily, yet the silence of the room felt like a physical pressure against your skin.
You were crafting a ghost of yourself to send home, just as he was crafting a ghost of you to cast out into the world.
Plot: You want reassurance from Mihawk, but asking for it feels too much like losing.
The first week, you were fine.
That was what you told yourself.
Mihawk had been gone longer than expected before. He was a Warlord of the Sea. His life was not tidy, not predictable, and certainly not considerate of your nerves. Sometimes you went with him. Sometimes you stayed behind at Kuraigana.
This time, you had stayed.
This time, he had not called.
By the ninth day past when you had expected him, you had stopped pretending you were fine.
By the twelfth, you were angry.
It was easier than being afraid.
You reorganized shelves Mihawk would notice immediately. You moved one of his chairs three inches to the left because you were furious and petty and because imagining his slight pause when he returned was the only thing keeping you from pacing holes into the floor.
If he returned.
That thought hit, sharp and ugly.
You shoved it away.
Then it came back worse.
Dead. Captured. Betrayed. Bored.
Gone.
Your mind liked to return to that one best.
Gone because he finally tired of coming home to someone who could not simply trust him. Gone because you were too much work.
That evening, you were in the sitting room, not reading the book open in your lap, when the front doors opened.
You froze.
No knock. No announcement. No hurried footstep.
Only the sound of boots crossing the entry hall.
Mihawk appeared in the doorway. He removed his gloves one finger at a time, golden eyes moving over you.
Alive.
Whole.
Unbothered.
Something inside you cracked sideways.
“You’re back,” you said.
“I am.”
You closed the book with too much force. “How generous of you to inform me.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the book, then returned to your face. “I have just arrived.”
“Yes, I noticed. The dramatic entrance helped.”
He set his gloves on the side table. “You are angry.”
You laughed once, cold and humorless. “Am I? How perceptive.”
Mihawk did not take the bait. That only made it worse.
He looked composed in the doorway, his expression unreadable. No urgency. No guilt thrown at your feet.
You stood.
“Do you have any idea how long you’ve been gone?”
“Yes.”
“No call. No message. Nothing.”
He studied you. “Say what you mean.”
“I mean,” you said, voice sharpening, “that I had no idea whether you were dead.”
“I am not.”
Your eyes burned. “Clearly.”
“Nor was I arrested.”
“Oh, wonderful. That crosses two possibilities off the list.”
His mouth barely moved, not quite a frown. “And the third?”
You looked away.
Mihawk’s voice lowered. “Look at me.”
You did not.
He waited, because he knew you well enough to know force would turn you cruel, and gentleness too soon would make you run.
Finally, you looked at him.
“The third,” he said.
You folded your arms over your chest. “Maybe you decided not to come back.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Not in anger.
In recognition.
You hated that more.
“So you thought,” he said slowly, “that I had abandoned my home, and you, without a word.”
“You’ve left places before.”
“I have left places. Not you.”
“You say that like it’s simple.”
“It is.”
“It is not simple for me.”
“I know.”
The answer was so calm that your anger stumbled.
You wanted him unsettled. Not cruel. Not frightened. Just affected enough that you were not the only one standing there with your heart in your throat.
So you reached for the sharpest thing you could find.
“Maybe I should stop waiting, then.”
Mihawk went very still.
There. Finally.
It lasted only a second, but you saw it. The slight hardening around his eyes.
He crossed the room, unhurried.
You held your ground until he stopped in front of you.
His voice remained even. “If you want reassurance, ask for it. Do not attempt to provoke it out of me.”
Your throat worked.
“I don’t know how,” you said before you could stop yourself.
Mihawk did not answer immediately.
“You do,” he said. “Pride is not the same as inability.”
Your laugh broke before it became anything useful. “You think I’m proud?”
“I think you are afraid to ask.”
Your eyes stung again, worse this time.
You turned away, but he did not let the distance widen. His hand came to your waist.
“I waited,” you said, the words rough. “Every day. I kept thinking you would call. Then I thought maybe you couldn’t. Then I thought maybe you didn’t want to. And then I hated myself for caring either way.”
His thumb moved once against your side.
“I should have called.”
You blinked.
It was not dramatic. It was not dressed up. It was not even especially tender.
But from him, it landed heavy.
“I was delayed by Marines near the Calm Belt,” he continued. “It was tedious, not dangerous. I handled it. I assumed you would understand.”
“I did understand,” you said. “That was the problem. I understood all the reasonable explanations first.”
“And then?”
“Then I ran out of reasonable.”
His gaze softened by a fraction. “Yes.”
You swallowed hard. “I hate when you’re gone too long.”
“I know.”
Mihawk’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back. “I have been with you long enough to know when your anger is only armor.”
Your chest hurt.
Mihawk’s eyes stayed on yours.
“I was not here,” he said, “but that did not change where you belonged.”
You stared at him.
The words were not sweet. Not soft in any ordinary way. They were too certain for that. Too absolute.
You hated how badly you needed them.
You loved him for knowing.
Mihawk’s hand rose to your face. His fingers touched your jaw. He did not kiss you yet. He only held you there, making you wait under the weight of his attention.
Your pulse changed.
He noticed that too.
“You are still angry,” he said.
“Yes.”
His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. “Then do not pretend otherwise.”
Your breathing went shallow.
Mihawk stepped closer until the edge of the table met your hips. He still had not kissed you. He only watched you with that devastating patience, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him and not enough to take it.
His hand slid to the back of your neck.
“You owe me,” you said, but your voice had changed.
“I do.”
Your stomach dipped.
He leaned in just enough that his breath touched your mouth. You lifted your chin, chasing him.
He did not let you have it.
“Mihawk.”
“There,” he murmured.
He watched you with quiet satisfaction. The bastard.
None of your anger disappeared. It only changed shape, burning lower now, tangled with relief and want.
“Ask,” he said.
Asking still felt too much like losing.
Mihawk waited.
He would wait all night. You knew that. He would stand there with his mouth an inch from yours, composed and merciless.
He would let you choose.
That was the worst part.
That was the best part.
“Kiss me,” you said.
He did.
It was not gentle.
His mouth took yours with controlled pressure, one hand firm at your neck, the other at your waist, pulling you closer to him.
You made a small sound against him.
He swallowed it.
The kiss deepened. When your lips parted, his tongue slid against yours, unhurried and deliberate.
Your hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him in.
He allowed it for a moment.
Then he caught both your wrists and held them against his chest.
You broke from the kiss just enough to breathe. “What are you doing?”
“Making it up to you.”
“This feels like punishment.”
“No.” His mouth brushed your jaw. “Punishment would be leaving you untouched after you asked.”
Heat rushed through you.
“Mihawk.”
He kissed the side of your neck, slow enough to make your knees weaken. “You have had twelve days to imagine the worst.”
His hand moved to your hip.
“You can spend one evening learning patience.”
Your fingers flexed where he held them. “And if I don’t?”
His teeth grazed lightly beneath your ear.
“Then you will ask for mercy.”
Your breath left you.
Mihawk lifted his head. His eyes were dark now, all that cold gold warmed by firelight and want.
He released your wrists only to take your hand.
“Come,” he said.
You let him lead you from the sitting room, the rain still striking the windows, the book abandoned, the chair still crooked by three inches.
He noticed.
As you reached the doorway, he paused and looked back at it.
“You will put that back tomorrow,” he said.
You gave him a look over your shoulder. “Will I?”
His hand tightened around yours.
“Yes,” he said. “After I am finished making you forget why you moved it.”
