Let me preface this by saying that my fics are written with Black women in mind, but anyone is welcome to read and enjoy! I try to avoid using physical descriptors so it's easier for the reader to insert themselves.
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AO3 | ASK or Request
Requests are CLOSED
Before sending a request, please read below:
I won’t write: non-con, incest/pseudocest, dad's best friend, gore, or underaged characters (nor will I age up canon minor characters)
SIR CROCODILE:
Sandcastle series (3/4):
Sandcastle
The House Always Wins
Hard Came the Rain
TRAFALGAR LAW:
Sweat for Me
Tender
Birthday Boy
Law wakes up w/ his face buried in reader's chest
Baby
DONQUIXOTE “CORAZÓN” ROSINANTE:
Tomorrow
Greedy
DRACULE MIHAWK:
Sanctuary series (2/2):
Between Your Name and A Prayer
With Broken Ribs and One Last Kiss
Sanctuary (alt. ending)
CHOSO KAMO:
The Shadow and the Soul
SYLUS (QIN CHE):
The Good Part Comes Between Wanting and Needing
Tags:
sunny.txt = rambling, fic sneak peeks, early morning thirsting
sunny.fic = all fics
sunny.reqs = requests
sunny.asks = ask answers
fic rec = fics I have read and enjoyed (and you might too!)
When it’s less about eating and more about feeding
Pairing: Sylus (Qin Che) x Fem! MC Reader
Summary: You return to Linkon City after two months away on a secret mission in the Arctic. A certain leader of the N109 Zone makes it a point to welcome you back.
Rating: EXPLICIT (18+)
Warnings: Semi-Established Relationship, Teasing, Mutual Masturbation, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms
A/N: Inspired by Sylus’s interaction with the player if they haven’t logged in for a month. Here’s a video for anyone who doesn’t know what I’m referencing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqD0uKYKFqo
Linkon City feels foreign.
It’s a strange sensation, the thought coming to you as you pass by boutiques and restaurants that you used to frequent. Memories of late-night grocery runs and hang outs flash in your mind’s eye, but they too feel distant, like fragments of a past life. Even the arcade responsible for your ever-growing plushie collection seems brand new, unfamiliar.
You glance up at the lofty skyscrapers, eyes fixed on the images dancing between buildings, as if the city is one massive projector. The spectacle would never have caught your attention before.
Reluctant snowflakes sweep across the starry sky, not quite sticking when they hit the ground, but soon Linkon City will look no different from the Arctic, even with its endless dazzling displays.
It’s not the sudden chill, but the thought that makes you shudder. For two months you had been stuck in that region, seen nothing but snowcapped mountains and towns hidden beneath sheets of ice. The infinite hordes of Wanderers had been the cherry on top of your catastrophically shitty mission.
You could still feel the frost numbing your feet—the talons of a Polar Wyrm tearing at your back.
“Please watch your step. Accidents are more likely to occur during inclement weather.”
The OTTO guide robot hovering over the crosswalk drags you from your thoughts. A part of you is thankful for the distraction. It brings you back to the square, now decorated with a light film of snow. Your feet carry you through everyday motions, straight to the lobby of your apartment and into the elevator.
With your back pressed against the railing, you let everything you’ve been too busy to consider wash over you all at once; Did you remember to tell OTTO to water your plants while you were gone? What day should you reschedule your appointment with Zayne? Was your order for a phone replacement still being processed?
A dull ache in your temple draws a sigh from you. Handle it tomorrow.
You don’t bother to turn on the lights in your apartment when you step through the door. Instead, you shrug off your coat, tossing it haphazardly onto the back of the nearest chair.
Handle it tomorrow.
Your mantra is starting to take on a life of its own, slowly luring you towards the bed you haven’t spelt in in two months. Once you get this damn shirt off you can—
Creak.
You feel the familiar weight of your gun before you can even process it—ripped from your holster with blinding speed, as if your fingers have a mind of their own, but no, this is instinct. Hunter training.
You aren’t exactly sure of what you’re aiming at, your eyes still working to adjust to the darkness of your room. Moonlight filters through the small opening in your curtains, but it isn’t enough to chase away the lingering shadows.
It would be simple to tell OTTO to turn the lights on, but then who would be at a disadvantage: you, or the stranger in your house?
A deep, dark chuckle pierces the silence; pleasant and intimate.
“I was waiting for you to notice. Have your senses regressed so quickly, kitten?”
“Sylus…”
You blink, trying to make out his silhouette in the endless dark, but it’s impossible with how easily Sylus blends with the shadows.
“So we are on speaking terms.” Something creaks to your right, and then you hear those familiar, heavy footfalls. “And here I thought you were distancing yourself from me.”
He steps into the sliver of light in front of you, his silver hair almost frost-white in the glow. Crimson eyes sweep across your face, as if recommitting your features to memory. Despite his perpetual smirk, you can see a hint of unease in Sylus’s expression, a quick flash of something you can’t quite place.
“At least tell me you had fun wherever you ran off to. It could explain your lack of communication…”
You don’t realize you still have your gun pointed at him until the barrel is pressed against his chest, directly above his heart.
It takes you back to your earlier days with Sylus, when he had been nothing more than the mysterious leader of Onychinus and your family’s potential murderer. Now? It was complicated.
He existed in too many places at once—none of which he truly belonged. Every day you imagine your team at the Hunters Association wising up to the fact that ‘Skye’isactually an infamous criminal; one many of them have been blindly hunting for years.
“The Arctic was a dream. I can’t wait to go back.”
The sarcasm in your voice almost sounds scathing, as if you’re offended. You note the way Sylus’s lip twitches before lifting.
“How unfortunate that you were miserable.”
Sylus steps forward, placing his hand over yours to slowly lower your gun. You let him, despite the part of you that wants to rebel—for the sake of it, or to wipe that smug smile from his handsome face—you aren’t sure.
“If I had known, I’m certain I could have found a way to make it more…eventful.”
The suggestive nature of his words isn’t lost on you. Even so, you school your features, give nothing to the man who has trained himself to decipher every micro-expression, especially yours.
“I’m sure the Arctic team would have loved to claim responsibility for capturing Onychinus’s boss,” you counter with an admonishing look.
“You’d let them take credit for your work?” Sylus cocks his head to the side, his crimson eyes sparkling like rubies in the light. “I thought I taught you to be greedier.”
With you.
You catch yourself, though you swear you see that knowing look in his eyes—the kind that makes you bristle at the thought of being so…transparent. Predictable.
It speaks more to Sylus’s familiarity than any flaw of yours, and yet you can’t prevent your nerves from rising.
You reach for the collar of Sylus’s shirt, pulling him down until he’s eye level with you. Despite the sound that he makes in the back of his throat—a warning growl—he doesn’t move to stand back at his full height. He holds your gaze, meeting your challenge head-on.
“You must have missed me a lot if you’re acting so shameless,” you note.
Sylus gives another low, breathless chuckle.
His eyes lower to your lips and linger. “You haven’t been paying attention if you think this is a shift in behavior…or did getting lost in the snow make you forgetful?”
Somehow you two always manage to get here, caught in an intricate web spun by the other. It always shocks you how easily you fall into his trap; allow Sylus to usher you in a direction of his liking…but then, doesn’t he let you do the same?
He plays along with your games; lets you lead with your bravado until you realize it’s a farce. He’s always had you in the palm of his hands.
“Of course not,” you sharply retort, leaning forward until you can feel his breath mingling with yours. “I remember perfectly.”
As if to emphasize your point, you press your lips to his. Soft. Cautious, just like the first time. Sylus allows you to guide, tilting his head when you move in the opposite direction to deepen the kiss. Your tongue skims across his bottom lip, teasing, and you swear he shudders.
Sylus leans into you, the tension you hadn’t noticed before fading away into an embrace that turns breathless and messy—you gasp for air, shared saliva wetting your lips, and even still he persists, kissing at the corner of your mouth, your chin—anywhere he can reach.
“Sylus…”
You aren’t sure if you’re calling out or warning him to slow down.
Whatever your intent, it doesn’t stop him from effortlessly lifting you in his strong arms. His lips never leave yours as he maneuvers through your bedroom, far too acquainted with the layout for your liking.
“How often did you break into my apartment?” you ask the second he pulls away to breathe.
“Mmm, I’ve lost count,” Sylus admits, his voice rough. “Maybe Mephisto knows.”
The thought of him coming to your apartment in search of you makes that treacherously warm feeling in your chest spread like wildfire. Had he waited like today, hopeful for your return, or did he leave Mephisto to watch and report back?
Sylus had proven on several occasions that it was no real task to find you if he wished to, but this time was different. One moment you were lounging in his armory, taking your pick of his impressive collection; the next you were on a last-minute flight to the coldest place on earth—the shift had been just as shocking to you as it must have been to him.
The Arctic team needed reinforcements for a quick expedition, no longer than three days. That’s how Captain Jenna had pitched it to you over the phone. She couldn’t possibly have imagined just how wrong it would all go.
“Your mind is wandering. I can feel it.” Sylus fixes you with a look, his silver brow raised in silent rebuke.
“You must have been worried…”
Softness envelopes you as your back meets the mattress. You almost sigh at how right it all feels, but the way Sylus holds your gaze prevents you. There’s a contemplative look in his eyes, a flash of uncertainty that surprises you both.
“I’ll admit a few…unsavory thoughts crossed my mind,” Sylus concedes, his words careful and measured, “but then I reminded myself that you’re capable, kitten. At least more than most.”
His hand slips from your waist, reaching for the hem of your shirt. It doesn’t take him long to peel it off your body.
“Was it comforting? Knowing I didn’t need you?”
He scoffs, “guess.”
An exasperated huff leaves your parted lips, but you don’t linger on Sylus’s non-answer. It takes a lot for him to bear his soul—to shed that mask of indifference and be seen. This is progress, even if you wish he would let the riddles rest for a day.
Your eyes lower to the shirt that clings to his figure, the knowledge of what lies beneath so tantalizing you catch his wrist, stopping him from sliding your pants down your legs.
“Take it off.”
He grins, flashing a row of perfect white teeth, and canines that leave the prettiest marks on your skin.
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” he challenges.
He thrills in coaxing the flame within you—that ravenous desire that burns somewhere deep, hidden under layers of discipline and shame. A part of you is afraid to learn just how insatiable you truly are; how much your hunger mirrors that of the man looming over you.
You hesitate, drawing a soft sigh from Sylus.
“You always hold back…” He presses his lips to your jaw, so delicate you barely feel the sensation. “What’s so terrifying about taking what you want?”
There’s a mocking hint to the inquiry, you think. It certainly calls to question your infinite bravery in the face of true danger—that willingness to rush into battle, heedless of the cost, but reluctant to indulge in pleasure.
To be greedy.
Your fingers move of their own volition, carefully pushing at buttons. Slowly, you undo Sylus’s dark dress shirt until the expanse of his wide chest is revealed. You nearly startle at how warm he is, almost feverish, and yet his smirk tells you that he’s anything but ill.
Warmth caresses your fingertips as you map the length of his throat, his collarbone. It’s akin to reverence, the way you passively explore him; take your fill until there’s no part of him that isn’t familiar.
“It must have been difficult taking care of this without me.”
Sylus groans when your touch lowers to brush against the bulge in his pants.
Your mind can’t help but conjure images of Sylus locked away in his dark room, his hand wrapped around his dick, desperate for release—and something far out of reach.
A quick nip at your neck betrays his growing impatience. “And if I say it was?”
Your heartbeat quickens. Frantic, you fumble with the fly of his pants in an attempt to undo them, but the position you're in makes the task nearly impossible.
With another self-satisfied laugh, Sylus blesses you with a rare show of benevolence. He lifts from the bed, just enough to discard his pants. You have half a mind to tell him to at least fold them, but he’s back on you in an instant, slanting his mouth over yours and stealing the air from your lungs.
“I’m sure it was the same for you…” he utters between kisses, “all alone during those cold nights, poor thing. I’m curious to see how you took care of yourself.”
There’s an edge to his voice that makes you whimper. It isn’t exactly demanding, but desperate to the point of being uncharacteristic—needy.
Sylus works like a man possessed, sliding your pants down your legs with a fluidity that would be impressive if your thoughts weren’t fixed on the anticipation bubbling inside you.
He expects a show.
Your hand slides down your naked body, passing your heaving breasts and below your belly, steadily approaching its destination between your parted legs.
With a shaky exhale you press your fingers to your clit, gently rubbing soft circles that have your legs shaking in a matter of minutes.
Sylus watches intently, as if caught in a spell. His scarlet eyes follow the flow of your fingers, drinking in how perfect your pussy looks spread open and dripping for him.
The breathy call of your name brings you back to him. Your gaze dips, following the slow rise and fall of the strong hand wrapped around his weeping cock.
You would never tell Sylus how pretty his dick is. His ego is already a beast of a thing all on its own. Your praise would be destructive—but goodness, it's so lovely, pale like the rest of him, but flushed at the head.
The display has you pressing harder against your pulsing bud, swiping faster as if this is a race you must win. It feels good…so damn good, and yet…
“It’s not enough,” you moan with the shake of your head, “S-Sylus…”
It’s all you can say to verbalize the growing urge for more. Your clit throbs painfully and even still you can’t reach the peak. What you need eludes you, but Sylus has always been a natural problem solver in matters like this.
“I know,” he chuckles, shifting his position on the bed to rest his free hand above your head.
Silver strands sweep over his forehead, nearly tickling your cheek. The heat of his body virtually engulfs yours, making your thoughts more muddled by the second.
The slick sound of his fingers picking up speed makes your core ache. Questions and commands try to crawl up your throat, but not a single one falls from your lips. Perhaps because a part of you knows that Sylus won’t help you—won’t fuck you the way you need him to. Not yet.
You abandon your sensitive clit, descending lower until your fingers are pushing inside your sloppy hole. There’s no pretense, you’re already so wet, so desperate to find that sweet spot that turns you into a babbling mess.
If it were Sylus, he would have found it by now. This you know for certain.
His hands are so big, his fingers slender and talented, that it takes no time at all for him to reach the deepest parts of you. He doesn’t even have to go knuckle deep…but you can’t say the same. You curl your fingers, pressing down on soft nerves and pushing higher—higher—
“Fuck…sweetie.”
Sylus slumps a little, leaning his head on your shoulder while he watches you make a mess of your pussy. Another sound rips from his throat; a guttural curse that makes you tremble—and then you feel something wet and warm dripping down your hand.
Sylus’s release smears your already sopping cunt; makes the wet noises that come from your incessant fingerfucking obscene. Filthy.
The realization shatters you.
Your back curves, your legs tremble violently, nearly knocking into Sylus. A jumbled mess of words rush from your parted lips —his name, or maybe a curse—it’s impossible to know with the mind-numbing wave of white-hot pleasure that hits you all at once.
“You enjoyed that.”
Satisfaction bleeds in every syllable as Sylus speaks. It’s a miracle he has the ability while words fail you completely. All you can do is lay there, struggling to breathe air. Slight tremors of ecstasy linger, but with each exhale even that sweet sensation fades.
Your respite, however, is short lived.
The feel of something hot against your hard clit has the air rushing from your lungs. Your fingers scramble for something to anchor you—the sheets, his shoulder—anything.
The feverish roll of Sylus’s hips draws your attention, forcing your eyes down to where his cock lays nestled between your lower lips.
“I just c-came—Sy—!” you whine pathetically.
“And you’ll come again.”
The slick head of his cock continues to rub against your tortured nub, earning another pitiful whimper from you.
“It was beautiful…oh, so beautiful, sweetie.” His hooded-eyes flit to your face, catching the pinch of your brows, the way your bottom lip pokes out and shakes with each agonized moan. “I need to see it again.”
Rough digits swipe across your clit, working in tandem with Sylus’s quick thrusts to make your mind go blank. It’s all too much; the dual pressure, the sound of his release mixing with yours.
The world blurs around you. It’s startling, the blotched-out images you can’t make sense of, and the way your senses feel like they’re colliding—touch, smell, sound, all but taste and sight are raised to a heightened state that makes you delirious.
Lost in your blissed-out haze, you don’t realize that there are tears welling your eyes until they’re slipping down the side of your face, leaving wet tracks in their path.
“I’m close…Sy—”
Sylus nods, bending down to kiss away your seemingly endless stream of tears.
The drag of his heavy cock hastens; his deft fingers pinch your clit hard. You’re there again, teetering on the edge, seconds from plunging over.
Sylus gives one last hearty thrust, gasping your name as if it’s a prayer—an avowal.
You aren’t sure what you do next. The mix of the sweetest pain and pleasure has your mind barreling in every direction. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, all-consuming and inescapable.
True to his word, Sylus watches you through it all, transfixed. You feel the heat of his gaze even as your eyes flutter shut. He must notice the way your body convulses, how your nails dig painfully into his arm in an attempt to keep you grounded in this reality. Your body is so boneless, so weak, you swear you could float away into deepspace.
Strong arms enclose your trembling body, pulling you flush against sweltering skin. A delicate touch travels the path of your spine, soothing, loving. It’s enough to make your heart settle and your limbs heavy.
“You were right, kitten,” Sylus murmurs softly, his voice so low you think he doesn’t mean for you to hear, “I missed you. More than you’ll ever know.”
When it’s less about eating and more about feeding
Pairing: Sylus (Qin Che) x Fem! MC Reader
Summary: You return to Linkon City after two months away on a secret mission in the Arctic. A certain leader of the N109 Zone makes it a point to welcome you back.
Rating: EXPLICIT (18+)
Warnings: Semi-Established Relationship, Teasing, Mutual Masturbation, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms
A/N: Inspired by Sylus’s interaction with the player if they haven’t logged in for a month. Here’s a video for anyone who doesn’t know what I’m referencing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqD0uKYKFqo
Linkon City feels foreign.
It’s a strange sensation, the thought coming to you as you pass by boutiques and restaurants that you used to frequent. Memories of late-night grocery runs and hang outs flash in your mind’s eye, but they too feel distant, like fragments of a past life. Even the arcade responsible for your ever-growing plushie collection seems brand new, unfamiliar.
You glance up at the lofty skyscrapers, eyes fixed on the images dancing between buildings, as if the city is one massive projector. The spectacle would never have caught your attention before.
Reluctant snowflakes sweep across the starry sky, not quite sticking when they hit the ground, but soon Linkon City will look no different from the Arctic, even with its endless dazzling displays.
It’s not the sudden chill, but the thought that makes you shudder. For two months you had been stuck in that region, seen nothing but snowcapped mountains and towns hidden beneath sheets of ice. The infinite hordes of Wanderers had been the cherry on top of your catastrophically shitty mission.
You could still feel the frost numbing your feet—the talons of a Polar Wyrm tearing at your back.
“Please watch your step. Accidents are more likely to occur during inclement weather.”
The OTTO guide robot hovering over the crosswalk drags you from your thoughts. A part of you is thankful for the distraction. It brings you back to the square, now decorated with a light film of snow. Your feet carry you through everyday motions, straight to the lobby of your apartment and into the elevator.
With your back pressed against the railing, you let everything you’ve been too busy to consider wash over you all at once; Did you remember to tell OTTO to water your plants while you were gone? What day should you reschedule your appointment with Zayne? Was your order for a phone replacement still being processed?
A dull ache in your temple draws a sigh from you. Handle it tomorrow.
You don’t bother to turn on the lights in your apartment when you step through the door. Instead, you shrug off your coat, tossing it haphazardly onto the back of the nearest chair.
Handle it tomorrow.
Your mantra is starting to take on a life of its own, slowly luring you towards the bed you haven’t spelt in in two months. Once you get this damn shirt off you can—
Creak.
You feel the familiar weight of your gun before you can even process it—ripped from your holster with blinding speed, as if your fingers have a mind of their own, but no, this is instinct. Hunter training.
You aren’t exactly sure of what you’re aiming at, your eyes still working to adjust to the darkness of your room. Moonlight filters through the small opening in your curtains, but it isn’t enough to chase away the lingering shadows.
It would be simple to tell OTTO to turn the lights on, but then who would be at a disadvantage: you, or the stranger in your house?
A deep, dark chuckle pierces the silence; pleasant and intimate.
“I was waiting for you to notice. Have your senses regressed so quickly, kitten?”
“Sylus…”
You blink, trying to make out his silhouette in the endless dark, but it’s impossible with how easily Sylus blends with the shadows.
“So we are on speaking terms.” Something creaks to your right, and then you hear those familiar, heavy footfalls. “And here I thought you were distancing yourself from me.”
He steps into the sliver of light in front of you, his silver hair almost frost-white in the glow. Crimson eyes sweep across your face, as if recommitting your features to memory. Despite his perpetual smirk, you can see a hint of unease in Sylus’s expression, a quick flash of something you can’t quite place.
“At least tell me you had fun wherever you ran off to. It could explain your lack of communication…”
You don’t realize you still have your gun pointed at him until the barrel is pressed against his chest, directly above his heart.
It takes you back to your earlier days with Sylus, when he had been nothing more than the mysterious leader of Onychinus and your family’s potential murderer. Now? It was complicated.
He existed in too many places at once—none of which he truly belonged. Every day you imagine your team at the Hunters Association wising up to the fact that ‘Skye’isactually an infamous criminal; one many of them have been blindly hunting for years.
“The Arctic was a dream. I can’t wait to go back.”
The sarcasm in your voice almost sounds scathing, as if you’re offended. You note the way Sylus’s lip twitches before lifting.
“How unfortunate that you were miserable.”
Sylus steps forward, placing his hand over yours to slowly lower your gun. You let him, despite the part of you that wants to rebel—for the sake of it, or to wipe that smug smile from his handsome face—you aren’t sure.
“If I had known, I’m certain I could have found a way to make it more…eventful.”
The suggestive nature of his words isn’t lost on you. Even so, you school your features, give nothing to the man who has trained himself to decipher every micro-expression, especially yours.
“I’m sure the Arctic team would have loved to claim responsibility for capturing Onychinus’s boss,” you counter with an admonishing look.
“You’d let them take credit for your work?” Sylus cocks his head to the side, his crimson eyes sparkling like rubies in the light. “I thought I taught you to be greedier.”
With you.
You catch yourself, though you swear you see that knowing look in his eyes—the kind that makes you bristle at the thought of being so…transparent. Predictable.
It speaks more to Sylus’s familiarity than any flaw of yours, and yet you can’t prevent your nerves from rising.
You reach for the collar of Sylus’s shirt, pulling him down until he’s eye level with you. Despite the sound that he makes in the back of his throat—a warning growl—he doesn’t move to stand back at his full height. He holds your gaze, meeting your challenge head-on.
“You must have missed me a lot if you’re acting so shameless,” you note.
Sylus gives another low, breathless chuckle.
His eyes lower to your lips and linger. “You haven’t been paying attention if you think this is a shift in behavior…or did getting lost in the snow make you forgetful?”
Somehow you two always manage to get here, caught in an intricate web spun by the other. It always shocks you how easily you fall into his trap; allow Sylus to usher you in a direction of his liking…but then, doesn’t he let you do the same?
He plays along with your games; lets you lead with your bravado until you realize it’s a farce. He’s always had you in the palm of his hands.
“Of course not,” you sharply retort, leaning forward until you can feel his breath mingling with yours. “I remember perfectly.”
As if to emphasize your point, you press your lips to his. Soft. Cautious, just like the first time. Sylus allows you to guide, tilting his head when you move in the opposite direction to deepen the kiss. Your tongue skims across his bottom lip, teasing, and you swear he shudders.
Sylus leans into you, the tension you hadn’t noticed before fading away into an embrace that turns breathless and messy—you gasp for air, shared saliva wetting your lips, and even still he persists, kissing at the corner of your mouth, your chin—anywhere he can reach.
“Sylus…”
You aren’t sure if you’re calling out or warning him to slow down.
Whatever your intent, it doesn’t stop him from effortlessly lifting you in his strong arms. His lips never leave yours as he maneuvers through your bedroom, far too acquainted with the layout for your liking.
“How often did you break into my apartment?” you ask the second he pulls away to breathe.
“Mmm, I’ve lost count,” Sylus admits, his voice rough. “Maybe Mephisto knows.”
The thought of him coming to your apartment in search of you makes that treacherously warm feeling in your chest spread like wildfire. Had he waited like today, hopeful for your return, or did he leave Mephisto to watch and report back?
Sylus had proven on several occasions that it was no real task to find you if he wished to, but this time was different. One moment you were lounging in his armory, taking your pick of his impressive collection; the next you were on a last-minute flight to the coldest place on earth—the shift had been just as shocking to you as it must have been to him.
The Arctic team needed reinforcements for a quick expedition, no longer than three days. That’s how Captain Jenna had pitched it to you over the phone. She couldn’t possibly have imagined just how wrong it would all go.
“Your mind is wandering. I can feel it.” Sylus fixes you with a look, his silver brow raised in silent rebuke.
“You must have been worried…”
Softness envelopes you as your back meets the mattress. You almost sigh at how right it all feels, but the way Sylus holds your gaze prevents you. There’s a contemplative look in his eyes, a flash of uncertainty that surprises you both.
“I’ll admit a few…unsavory thoughts crossed my mind,” Sylus concedes, his words careful and measured, “but then I reminded myself that you’re capable, kitten. At least more than most.”
His hand slips from your waist, reaching for the hem of your shirt. It doesn’t take him long to peel it off your body.
“Was it comforting? Knowing I didn’t need you?”
He scoffs, “guess.”
An exasperated huff leaves your parted lips, but you don’t linger on Sylus’s non-answer. It takes a lot for him to bear his soul—to shed that mask of indifference and be seen. This is progress, even if you wish he would let the riddles rest for a day.
Your eyes lower to the shirt that clings to his figure, the knowledge of what lies beneath so tantalizing you catch his wrist, stopping him from sliding your pants down your legs.
“Take it off.”
He grins, flashing a row of perfect white teeth, and canines that leave the prettiest marks on your skin.
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” he challenges.
He thrills in coaxing the flame within you—that ravenous desire that burns somewhere deep, hidden under layers of discipline and shame. A part of you is afraid to learn just how insatiable you truly are; how much your hunger mirrors that of the man looming over you.
You hesitate, drawing a soft sigh from Sylus.
“You always hold back…” He presses his lips to your jaw, so delicate you barely feel the sensation. “What’s so terrifying about taking what you want?”
There’s a mocking hint to the inquiry, you think. It certainly calls to question your infinite bravery in the face of true danger—that willingness to rush into battle, heedless of the cost, but reluctant to indulge in pleasure.
To be greedy.
Your fingers move of their own volition, carefully pushing at buttons. Slowly, you undo Sylus’s dark dress shirt until the expanse of his wide chest is revealed. You nearly startle at how warm he is, almost feverish, and yet his smirk tells you that he’s anything but ill.
Warmth caresses your fingertips as you map the length of his throat, his collarbone. It’s akin to reverence, the way you passively explore him; take your fill until there’s no part of him that isn’t familiar.
“It must have been difficult taking care of this without me.”
Sylus groans when your touch lowers to brush against the bulge in his pants.
Your mind can’t help but conjure images of Sylus locked away in his dark room, his hand wrapped around his dick, desperate for release—and something far out of reach.
A quick nip at your neck betrays his growing impatience. “And if I say it was?”
Your heartbeat quickens. Frantic, you fumble with the fly of his pants in an attempt to undo them, but the position you're in makes the task nearly impossible.
With another self-satisfied laugh, Sylus blesses you with a rare show of benevolence. He lifts from the bed, just enough to discard his pants. You have half a mind to tell him to at least fold them, but he’s back on you in an instant, slanting his mouth over yours and stealing the air from your lungs.
“I’m sure it was the same for you…” he utters between kisses, “all alone during those cold nights, poor thing. I’m curious to see how you took care of yourself.”
There’s an edge to his voice that makes you whimper. It isn’t exactly demanding, but desperate to the point of being uncharacteristic—needy.
Sylus works like a man possessed, sliding your pants down your legs with a fluidity that would be impressive if your thoughts weren’t fixed on the anticipation bubbling inside you.
He expects a show.
Your hand slides down your naked body, passing your heaving breasts and below your belly, steadily approaching its destination between your parted legs.
With a shaky exhale you press your fingers to your clit, gently rubbing soft circles that have your legs shaking in a matter of minutes.
Sylus watches intently, as if caught in a spell. His scarlet eyes follow the flow of your fingers, drinking in how perfect your pussy looks spread open and dripping for him.
The breathy call of your name brings you back to him. Your gaze dips, following the slow rise and fall of the strong hand wrapped around his weeping cock.
You would never tell Sylus how pretty his dick is. His ego is already a beast of a thing all on its own. Your praise would be destructive—but goodness, it's so lovely, pale like the rest of him, but flushed at the head.
The display has you pressing harder against your pulsing bud, swiping faster as if this is a race you must win. It feels good…so damn good, and yet…
“It’s not enough,” you moan with the shake of your head, “S-Sylus…”
It’s all you can say to verbalize the growing urge for more. Your clit throbs painfully and even still you can’t reach the peak. What you need eludes you, but Sylus has always been a natural problem solver in matters like this.
“I know,” he chuckles, shifting his position on the bed to rest his free hand above your head.
Silver strands sweep over his forehead, nearly tickling your cheek. The heat of his body virtually engulfs yours, making your thoughts more muddled by the second.
The slick sound of his fingers picking up speed makes your core ache. Questions and commands try to crawl up your throat, but not a single one falls from your lips. Perhaps because a part of you knows that Sylus won’t help you—won’t fuck you the way you need him to. Not yet.
You abandon your sensitive clit, descending lower until your fingers are pushing inside your sloppy hole. There’s no pretense, you’re already so wet, so desperate to find that sweet spot that turns you into a babbling mess.
If it were Sylus, he would have found it by now. This you know for certain.
His hands are so big, his fingers slender and talented, that it takes no time at all for him to reach the deepest parts of you. He doesn’t even have to go knuckle deep…but you can’t say the same. You curl your fingers, pressing down on soft nerves and pushing higher—higher—
“Fuck…sweetie.”
Sylus slumps a little, leaning his head on your shoulder while he watches you make a mess of your pussy. Another sound rips from his throat; a guttural curse that makes you tremble—and then you feel something wet and warm dripping down your hand.
Sylus’s release smears your already sopping cunt; makes the wet noises that come from your incessant fingerfucking obscene. Filthy.
The realization shatters you.
Your back curves, your legs tremble violently, nearly knocking into Sylus. A jumbled mess of words rush from your parted lips —his name, or maybe a curse—it’s impossible to know with the mind-numbing wave of white-hot pleasure that hits you all at once.
“You enjoyed that.”
Satisfaction bleeds in every syllable as Sylus speaks. It’s a miracle he has the ability while words fail you completely. All you can do is lay there, struggling to breathe air. Slight tremors of ecstasy linger, but with each exhale even that sweet sensation fades.
Your respite, however, is short lived.
The feel of something hot against your hard clit has the air rushing from your lungs. Your fingers scramble for something to anchor you—the sheets, his shoulder—anything.
The feverish roll of Sylus’s hips draws your attention, forcing your eyes down to where his cock lays nestled between your lower lips.
“I just c-came—Sy—!” you whine pathetically.
“And you’ll come again.”
The slick head of his cock continues to rub against your tortured nub, earning another pitiful whimper from you.
“It was beautiful…oh, so beautiful, sweetie.” His hooded-eyes flit to your face, catching the pinch of your brows, the way your bottom lip pokes out and shakes with each agonized moan. “I need to see it again.”
Rough digits swipe across your clit, working in tandem with Sylus’s quick thrusts to make your mind go blank. It’s all too much; the dual pressure, the sound of his release mixing with yours.
The world blurs around you. It’s startling, the blotched-out images you can’t make sense of, and the way your senses feel like they’re colliding—touch, smell, sound, all but taste and sight are raised to a heightened state that makes you delirious.
Lost in your blissed-out haze, you don’t realize that there are tears welling your eyes until they’re slipping down the side of your face, leaving wet tracks in their path.
“I’m close…Sy—”
Sylus nods, bending down to kiss away your seemingly endless stream of tears.
The drag of his heavy cock hastens; his deft fingers pinch your clit hard. You’re there again, teetering on the edge, seconds from plunging over.
Sylus gives one last hearty thrust, gasping your name as if it’s a prayer—an avowal.
You aren’t sure what you do next. The mix of the sweetest pain and pleasure has your mind barreling in every direction. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, all-consuming and inescapable.
True to his word, Sylus watches you through it all, transfixed. You feel the heat of his gaze even as your eyes flutter shut. He must notice the way your body convulses, how your nails dig painfully into his arm in an attempt to keep you grounded in this reality. Your body is so boneless, so weak, you swear you could float away into deepspace.
Strong arms enclose your trembling body, pulling you flush against sweltering skin. A delicate touch travels the path of your spine, soothing, loving. It’s enough to make your heart settle and your limbs heavy.
“You were right, kitten,” Sylus murmurs softly, his voice so low you think he doesn’t mean for you to hear, “I missed you. More than you’ll ever know.”
Warnings: semi-public sex (attempted), Minor Violence (not towards reader), Hurt, Angst, slight canon divergence
There’s something different about Crocodile.
The realization is sudden for you—startling, like the first flash of lightning before a storm.
That cool demeanor and nonchalance made it difficult to truly understand Crocodile. His words were always measured, calculated. He never let anyone see more than he was willing to show—not even you, but the passing months had bred familiarity.
You could tell from his gaze alone when he was irritated. You began to note the way he would suck his sweet cigar a moment too long when he was in deep contemplation. If he tapped his fingers to a particular rhythm against his desk or leg, that meant he was feeling impatient. Two glasses of dark rum before bed meant that the day had been exceedingly good.
Keen observation had never been a strength of yours, but it was impossible not to notice Crocodile; to hone in on every detail. You had the privilege of peering closer than most, after all.
And even still, there are things you can’t comprehend. Like why Crocodile has been returning to your shared suite late each night. At first you had been too tired to notice, caught in pleasant dreams that made for sweet mornings, but your body began to miss the additional warmth it had become accustomed to—the feel of a heavy hand pulling you impossibly close and trailing beneath your chemise.
Sleep grew more evasive than ever, and relief only came when you would hear the click of the door, followed by heavy footsteps. The stillness of the city suggests that Crocodile retires around midnight, perhaps even later, you can’t be sure. All you know for certain is that he smells of the desert when he returns—plume flowers and creosote.
And he’s tired, damn near exhausted every time. He doesn’t waste away the hours with your body. No raspy whispers against your ear to pull you from your sleep so he can stuff you full of his fat cock.
You had stayed up one night garmented in lingerie Crocodile loves to rip to tatters, but he had pressed a kiss to your lips and muttered a swift denial.
Not tonight.
You would have protested if you thought Crocodile would listen. He was a kind lover, generous, but firm. Everything he said he meant with undeniable finality.
The memory makes you bristle, even now as you lounge in the casino theater.
You barely register the musician gliding across the stage, belting the lyrics to a song you’ve heard hummed by gamblers in the halls more often than you can count.
Any other day you would have been enthralled by such a performance, but your mind can’t help but wander. If you aren’t forcing yourself to focus on what is in front of you, your mind returns to thoughts of Crocodile and the strangeness of his recent behavior.
A soft huff leaves your parted lips as you lift to your feet. You step out of the theater, squinting at the dazzling lights that greet you. The casino floor is a startling display. The blinking lights, the loud chimes of slot machines and exasperated cries of players—it’s too much, especially at this hour.
“Late night, miss?”
You glance over your shoulder, ready to dismiss what you take as an attempt at flirtation. The words die on your tongue when you glimpse the tall woman by the bar. Her cowboy hat shields her eyes, making her look every part the mystery that she is.
Miss All Sunday.
Crocodile had never properly introduced you two, but your paths crossed so often that it was impossible not to become acquainted—or as acquainted as one could get with Crocodile’s right hand.
It was a rare thing to see her anywhere but at his side.
“For the both of us, it seems,” you reply, gracing her with a soft smile.
Miss All Sunday chuckles at your swift response. She lifts her fingers, flagging down a waiter and snatching two cocktails from his tray.
“It’s a busy week.” She flicks her wrist, conjuring a flurry of hands that pass you your drink. “You’ve noticed, surely.”
You try not to stare in awe of the power of her devil fruit. It had taken some time for you not to startle at the sight of limbs growing from her back, or the way she could subdue an entire band of pirates with the wave of her hands.
It was no wonder Crocodile kept Miss All Sunday close. She was powerful, just like him.
“What’s got you guys so swamped?”
Your inquiry lacks all subtly, practically screams your intentions to glimpse past the veil that Crocodile hides behind. The rise of Miss All Sunday’s sharp brow tells you as much.
You take a sip of your drink to stop from giving yourself away—or even worse, rambling.
“You haven’t asked him?”
There’s a playful hint to Miss All Sunday’s voice that tells you she isn’t going to shut you down. At least not immediately.
You shake your head, taking another hearty sip of your cocktail. Honey and hints of lemon dance across your tongue—a blend of sweet and sour that isn’t necessarily appealing, but you can feel your nerves easing with each taste.
“I can’t say much, but big things are happening. Everything is going to change soon.”
There’s a glint in her eyes that you can’t quite make out—a hint of intrigue and something deeper.
A part of you wishes you could read between the lines, but you’ve got nothing to go off of. Miss All Sunday speaks in riddles and Crocodile doesn’t speak at all.
As if sensing your confusion, she steps closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“He has a big meeting tonight. One he’s been waiting a long time for.”
You slowly piece together the snippets of information Miss All Sunday graces you with.
It’s a busy week. Everything is going to change soon. He has a big meeting tonight.
Was that why Crocodile had been so distant? Why he returned in the late hours, too worn to do little more than sleep?
Of course. How else could he manage to run the Rainbase strip and serve as Alabasta’s savior? Crocodile had to see to it all, and there was a price to giving everything.
You wish you could lift his burden—that he would share his troubles, instead of facing them on his own.
If nothing else, you wanted to be his relief. The one thing that could bring him comfort.
“I should get going.” You place your empty glass on the nearest table, well aware that a waiter will snatch it as soon as you walk away.
Miss All Sunday tips her hat in a silent farewell, though her eyes never leave you.
You feel them burning into your back as you walk towards the private elevator that leads to the basement.
Crocodile had brought you down there once, partially to show off the banana gator he treated like a pet, instead of the sea king that it truly was. The other reason was to take you on the sprawling table where he conducted all his meetings.
Your back had ached for hours afterwards, but god had it been worth it to see that hungry look in his eyes; to brush back the loose strands of hair that fell over his face, making him look debauched and undone—an image he reserved for you alone.
You planned to return that feeling of bliss in equal measure. Maybe that could bring a quick respite, a moment of peace to Crocodile’s taxing day.
A quick rendezvous, fast enough for him to experience pleasure and ease into his meeting with a content mind.
Yes. That’ll do.
The second the elevator doors slide open, you step into the spacious meeting room, glancing at the massive tank that lines the wall. It looked empty, though you were certain Crocodile’s gator was either lazying away or swimming between the outer and inner tank.
You glance about the room, looking for any signs of the elusive man who has plagued your thoughts for the past twenty four hours.
Disappointment settles in your heart after a moment of searching. You lean against the table, your head cocked to the side as you consider your next course of action.
You could stay, praying that Crocodile arrived before his big meeting…or you could return to your suite and endeavor to fix your fucked up sleep schedule.
Or you could surprise him.
Oh.
That sultry voice in the back of your mind drowned out all rationale. It graced you with images of you beneath the table, hands pressed to Crocodile’s thick thighs while you took his dick in your mouth.
He had murmured his wish for you to do so, months ago while his fingers were knuckle deep inside of you.
You had hardly caught the words, too lost in your own pleasure, but now they came back as clear as day.
You feel cold tiles pressing against your exposed legs before you even realize you’re on the floor. Shame all but leaves you as you inch under the table, shrouded in shadows.
Crocodile has made a mess of you. It’s the only explanation for your constant hunger; the reason you would willingly debase yourself for the sake of shared pleasure.
The sudden sound of footsteps draws your attention.
Your eyes catch on the different pair of shoes that step towards the table. A snide remark sounds at your right, a sharp laugh to your left. You keep still as a mouse, listening to the unfamiliar voices and their growing impatience.
Then comes the call of Miss All Sunday’s voice. It carries, forcing the strangers to settle down.
As she speaks, heavy footfalls echo, drawing closer with each step. The silence that falls over the room tells you exactly who they are all looking at—the man who commands respect with his presence alone.
Crocodile.
He eases into his seat at the head of the table, taking up more space than could ever be necessary with the way he stretches his long legs. Desperate, ravenous, your eyes lift to the fly of his pants, considering what lies beneath.
This is a slight deviation from what you had planned…but a daring part of you revels in the thrill.
You slowly inch closer, biting your lip to suppress the giddy laughter that bubbles in your throat. You wonder how Crocodile will react—if he’ll be able to maintain that cool air of superiority with your mouth wrapped around his cock.
You’re just past his feet, carefully drawing closer when Crocodile words reach your ears.
“At last the time has come for the Alabasta Kingdom to disappear.”
You freeze, as if struck.
Your brows knit together, your eyes lowering to the floor as you attempt to make sense of that statement—try to find where you must be misunderstanding.
Crocodile continues, wicked glee evident in his voice as admissions pour from his lips; the promise of the ruin of Alabasta. War, bloodshed, and at the end of it all: a utopia for pirates.
A wave of nausea hits you so fiercely you nearly heave your dinner onto the polished floor beneath you. The only thing that stops you is the surprised sounds of those seated at the table as the meeting room door slams open.
You can’t make out the new voice that enters the disturbing discussion, or the scuffle that sounds around you. You’re lost, mind reeling and desperately trying to grasp at a single plausible excuse.
You conjure thousands of explanations in a matter of minutes, but not a single one holds. Not against Crocodile’s own words.
The sound of gasps lifts the fog from your mind, drawing your attention to where Crocodiles stands near the tank. Beside his legs are a pair of feet that hover off the ground, furiously kicking.
You’ve never heard a man wheeze as if the life is being siphoned from him, but that’s exactly what it sounds like…the unsettling sound of skin tightening around bone, lungs choking for air. You close your eyes, force your head to the side as if it can prevent you from hearing the man’s breathless pleas for water.
A snide remark from Crocodile is the only thing that follows, and then a terrible scream that grows distant.
Your vision blurs, your throat feels as if it’s closing up and it takes everything for you not to double over and cry. You press your palm to your mouth, smothering a sob that tries to climb up your throat.
Wait. Just a little longer…
More demands spill from Crocodile’s mouth; the murder of a princess, the continuation of the division that has all but shattered Alabasta.
His grand design.
You flinch as chairs scrape against the floor. His agents lift to their feet, ready to depart at his command and relief washes over you, drawing a shaky sigh from your lips.
You aren’t sure what happens next—it’s all too quick, too sudden—light finds you, the table lifts, slamming against the tank with so much speed blinking would cause you to miss it. Next comes the sound of steel slicing through the air, drawing close—and the sharp resound of metal clashing.
Rattled nerves make you slow to react. You aren’t sure how long it takes, minutes, maybe longer, but your eyes slowly lift, falling on Crocodile’s towering figure.
At first you think maybe he has his hook pointed to you, but…no, that’s not right. His back is turned, shielding you from an imposing figure that presses a sword to the bend of his hook.
Your gaze shifts to the group at your side—the agents who had spoken so brazenly about destroying an entire kingdom.
“Go.”
Crocodile’s voice is low, dangerous in a way you’ve never heard before.
The man in front of him swallows thickly. His dark eyes lower to you, cautious and deadly. They linger before returning to Crocodile.
“This woman—”
“I said go! You have work to do!”
The man steps back. You watch, equal parts horrified and transfixed as the sword meant to cut you down shifts into an arm—his arm.
The group retreats, muttering amongst themselves with Miss All Sunday in tow. You don’t know how, but you notice the knowing smirk that plays at her lips.
You watch after her, caught between bitter betrayal and desperation to be spared of your fate. She doesn’t give you so much as a sideways glance, not even as she guides the agents into the elevator to the casino floor.
The second the door closes with a soft jingle, you hear the call of your name, low and measured.
Your gaze shifts, your vision still blurry, but you can make out the unreadable expression on Crocodile’s face—creased brows, lips pulled into a tight line.
He repeats your name and you notice his outstretched hand.
Once you would have taken it without a second thought, but now…you stare at his decorated hand as if he were handing you a butchering knife.
Crocodile doesn’t say anything. He just waits, unmoving, almost unblinking.
This is your only option.
He doesn’t need to say it for you to understand. The cold chill of his gaze is warning enough.
Slowly, you lift your trembling hand to his, allowing yourself to be lifted onto quivering legs.
Crocodile leads you to the elevator without a word, allowing you to fall fully into your hectic thoughts. You don’t even remember the trek through the casino floor; having to weave through a sea of patrons who want to kiss Crocodile’s hand, bless him for all he’s done for Alabasta. You don’t remember stepping into your shared suite, or stopping by the door.
Your voice alone is what draws you back to the moment—the realization that has completely shattered you.
“All this suffering?” you question, your voice laced with disgust.
The drought. The animosity targeted at King Cobra. The impending war. All of it was his doing. A meticulous plan he had crafted for years, and not a single soul had wised up to it.
“I never claimed to be a savior,” Crocodile grumbles, a hint of irritation in his tone.
No, he had not claimed to be a liberator of any kind, but he had certainly played into the role with the grace of a seasoned performer.
And all of Alabasta had fallen for the act.
“I was going to tell you.” Crocodile settles on the bed, raking his thick fingers through his dark tresses. “When I brought you to the palace.”
You were going to trap me.
A perfect plan indeed, pulling you to the capitol with honeyed words and impossible promises. Worst of all, you would have fallen for it, starry-eyed and incapable of seeing the monster before you.
He was bleeding an entire nation dry—uprooting it from the ground up, careless of the innocent blood shed for his paradise.
“Don’t do this,” you attempt at reasoning, though it sounds closer to a plea than anything else, “let’s leave. You’re a pirate, right? Let’s go…out to sea. We can do that. We can go far from here.”
Your words are rushed and laced with worry. It’s a reflection of your racing mind and the questions that haunt you.
How many lives would be lost for the sake of his dream? Would Alabasta ever recover?
Would you?
“Please.”
Eyes the color of storm clouds find yours, searching. For the briefest of seconds you think you’ve reached the human in him.
“It’s already done.”
You want to bolt for the door. You’d try it if you thought for even a second that Crocodile would let you go. He had threatened to kill anyone who took you from him, declared that you were made for him. In the haze of pleasure and his perfect acting you had dismissed the warning—walked willingly into the jaws of a wolf, not expecting the bite.
If you tried to fight, he could only clamp down harder until you were too bloody to struggle.
Play along. Run later.
“You will be happy,” Crocodile reasons. He lifts from the bed, drawing close to trace the curve of your jaw. “Content.”
Another pretty lie.
It almost frightens you how easily they spill from his lips—as simple as breathing, you think. Everything about him is a beautiful illusion, lovely fabrications and falsehoods meant to keep wide-eyed fools like you under his spell.
“How?”
The intentional hint of curiosity makes the tension in his shoulders ease. His eyes sweep across your face, lovingly, as if to show that this much you can trust.
The tip of his thumb presses against your bottom lip, mapping the shape of your plush flesh.
You press your nails into your palm—hard—to stop yourself from flinching away.
Play along.
“This kingdom will be yours as well. All of Alabasta will love you. Revere you…” Crocodile leans close, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. “You will want for nothing.”
The image must look beautiful in his mind—the glory of years spent lying, masquerading, killing, and reaping every benefit.
“What greater gift could I give you?”
This is the closest you’ll get to an apology, you think. You feel a bitter laugh crawling up your throat, but you force it down until it sinks somewhere you can’t reach. You’ll have time for that when you’re gone—space for anger and hysterics.
Crocodile moves to close the distance between your lips, but you turn your head at the last second. You ignore the press of his lips against your cheek and the surprise that settles in his gaze.
A forced yawn leaves you, feigning fatigue instead of the contempt you feel, boiling—desperate to rise to the surface. A lie about being tired falls from your lips, and although you’re certain Crocodile doesn’t believe it, he also doesn’t argue. He allows you to pull away—grants you this semblance of space he thinks you need.
Play along now.
You step towards your dresser, tossing on the first nightgown you see. You settle into bed a moment later, drawing the covers close enough to strangle.
Run later.
The world shakes when you wake.
You think it’s part of your dream following you to the waking world, a figment of a tortuous nightmare—but the hanging light overhead sways, as if pushed by a gust of wind.
A stir of commotion pours through the open window; the curious cries of people in the square. You lift from the bed, inching closer to make out the crowd forming outside the entrance of Rain Dinners.
Strawhat…making trouble…Boss will deal with them.
You make out parts of a conversation between a group of heavily armed men—more agents of Crocodile, no doubt. How many of them had you unknowingly passed along the Rainbase strip? Smiled to while purchasing fruits and tapestries?
The men exchange more hurried words before rushing in opposite directions. You push away from the window, hastily discarding your nightgown and slipping into loose clothing.
If Crocodile was busy as those men claimed, then this might be your only chance to escape.
You rush through the room, tossing essentials into a sling bag—your berries, a few of Crocodile’s gifts, to be exchanged for the berries you’ll need to get as far from Alabasta as possible, and a change of clothes.
You don’t waste time on anything else.
Carefully pushing the door to your room open, you popped your head out to check if any armed soldiers may be stationed outside it. A precaution to keep his pretty prize confined.
Much to your surprise, the hall was empty. Either the threat was too great, or your performance had been satisfactory. It didn’t matter which was true.
You rush to the elevator, slap your fingers against the buttons as if this will make it move faster. The seconds stretched, tortuously slow. The distraction claiming Crocodile’s attention was clearly grave if the chaos on the casino floor was anything to go off of.
You made your way through the fray, pushing into the markets of Rainbase and further from Rain Dinners.
Uncertainty made a home in your heart, coaxing you to turn back. What are you doing? Where will you go?
You silenced the warring voices in the back of your mind, willing your legs to carry you to the docks.
There was nothing left for you in Alabasta.
Not anymore.
You rush onto the first ship you see, full to the teeth with passengers and ready for departure. The curious gaze of crew members fall on you, their intentions to toss you back on the docks clear. The quick flash of berries is all you need to become invisible—another gracious voyager.
Stepping further onto the top deck, you look out towards the horizon. The endlessness stuns you, glittering waves of sapphire that go on for as far as the eye can see. It had been so long since you had been on a ship. Salty sea air fills your lungs, drawing a soft sigh from you. For a moment a gentle calmness claims you.
The sound of your name pierces through the delicate peace.
It’s not called in the low timber you know all too well—this voice is softer, oddly familiar.
You turn, surprised at the sight of the man standing at your side. His brows lift, his gaze warm and welcoming.
“Gage.”
“I thought that was you,” he smiles, a hint of surprise in his voice. “You’re leaving Alabasta?”
“Yes.”
He nods, glancing around the deck as if in search of something. He must not find what he’s looking for, because his eyes return to you just as quick, curious and uncertain.
“...Alone?”
Your heart squeezes, hurts in a way you had been too distracted to address. The fury is still there—it has to be, but so is affection—the mutinous desire to be at Crocodile’s side, despite the horror of his actions.
You open your mouth to respond, but then you feel something wet against your cheek.
Startled, you blink, thinking it’s a tear. You press your fingers to your eyes, but there’s nothing to wipe away. The evidence of your heartbreak hasn’t come flooding to the surface just yet.
You feel that wet feeling again, this time on your nose. Then another, this one on the back of your hand—another and another—and the unexpected crack of thunder that makes the deck fall silent.
Raindrops fall in quick succession, shifting to a raging downpour that soaks you all to the bone. It’s the beginning of a tempest, one that Alabasta has not seen in several years.
Unthinking, you rush to the opposite side of the ship, your eyes falling to the palace in the distance. Smoke billows, slowly rising to become one with the dark storm clouds overhead. An eruption of joyous cries echoes throughout the land, forcing goosebumps to lift on your skin.
This is cause for celebration, a blessing that this ancient land has been deprived of for far too long. You wish you could feel it too—the relief, the delight of waterdrops against your skin, but only dread greets you.
A sob catches in your throat, tears mix with the droplets that cascade down your face. Only two things could be true: Crocodile had given up on his treacherous dream, or he had been defeated; killed, even.
Either prospect should be a comfort, and yet all you feel is unbearable pain—your heart splitting so violently that you’re certain it will never be whole again.
Warnings: SMUT! Reader is STILL petty/bratty, (mild) Angry/Mean!Mihawk, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Edging, Orgasm Denial, Vaginal Fingering, Gentle Sex
A/N: This is my first time rewriting part of a fic. While I don’t hate Sanctuary, I do think it was too easy of a resolution. Mihawk’s relationship with the reader is messy. It’s complicated. It’s not something they can fix as easily as I tried to portray previously. If you enjoyed Sanctuary, great! It can be your “true ending” (and you can reread it on here). As for me, With Broken Ribs and One Last Kiss is the proper conclusion I couldn’t give you all before, but wanted to give you now.
You aren’t there when Mihawk wakes.
The realization comes slowly.
Like a man robbed of all sense, Mihawk imagines you still caught in sleep’s warm embrace; your lips slightly parted as you let out one of those soft, sleepy sighs that should not be so endearing to him. He knows what will come next.
Mihawk will reach out to caress your cheek, admire you in the only way he has ever known how, muttering his affections in his mother tongue—my love, my heart, my one and only.
He dreams that when you finally wake, he will kiss you again, make up for wasted time and petty arguments. You will not have to beg or cry. He will give this to you freely.
In a perfect world it is so, but Mihawk stirs, groaning softly as sleep relinquishes its hold. His eyes adjust, hands reach out to find nothing but the soft cloth of the cushion beneath him.
The first hints of morning light pour into the dingy tavern, chasing away the darkness that must have concealed you in your careful escape. It would be impressive, a testament to your elusive nature—why every Admiral who has hunted you has failed—but frustration simmers within Mihawk, rising within him as he lifts to his feet.
You have played him for a fool. Again.
Mihawk had believed something had changed between you two last night. The moment you desperately begged him to kiss you, the tears brimming in your eyes, the hidden confession of your continued love—you had knowingly thrown caution to wind, asked for everything, and he had complied. With your encouragement he had crossed the line you both silently swore to never pass.
Mihawk could feel a familiar ache blooming in his chest as he slipped into his trousers; the caustic sting of betrayal. It throbbed to the rhythm of your name—calling, begging, seething.
Was it your indifference that frustrated him, or his inability to let go? It felt maddening that he could never answer that particular question, no matter how many times you left him to mend his lovelorn heart.
The thought lingers, even as Mihawk’s gaze shifts to Yoru still propped against the counter, just as he had left it before crowding into your space. He could still taste the salt of your skin, the feel of it beneath his fingers, soft and impossibly warm to the touch.
Mihawk chases the thought away as fast as it comes, wrapping his deft fingers around the hilt of his sword.
There is no time to lick at his wounds like some poor, beaten creature. Mihawk had never allowed himself the luxury, and today would be no different.
Certainly not with you rushing to hide away.
You would wait before encouraging him to chase you again. Three months, perhaps more knowing what you had done—the slight that would not be easily forgiven.
No.
Mihawk would not allow you to summon him. Not again.
He would find you on his own. Traverse every inch of the Grand Line. The New World. It didn’t matter where you were running to, or how clever you intended to be.
This time, he would decide how things ended.
You have such a talent for vanishing.
Mihawk would never speak it aloud, for fear of stroking the ego you don’t think you have, but elusion is your craft.
For three weeks he had spent every morning shuffling through the newspaper, listening to the droning voices of Admirals, seeking the faintest hint of a clue, or what he hoped for most: a mistake. Clever as you were, you were still human.
And your mistake came in the unexpected tale of a drunk pirate—a young startup with too much to prove, and a mouth that ran away with him.
“Saw her slippin’ through Tide Town,” the boy swore as he nursed his fifth drink of the night, “dunno why. Ain’t shit to do there…”
It was a clever move, taking refuge in a small market town few could point out on a map. You would not have to fear squabbling with other pirates, nor Marines of any considerable skill. No one would think to look for you there.
That was, until you let yourself be seen by the most garrulous pirate in the New World.
There was already much to accost you for, but your sudden carelessness would have to be added to Mihawk’s ever-growing list.
“Ackee! Fresh ackee! Only 130 berries!”
The cries of hawkers rips Mihawk from his reflections. His sharp gaze lifts from under his long brimmed-hat, taking in the sight of Tide Town’s bustling square. Merchants weave through the flock, displaying freshly caught fish the size of a seaboar. Others flash their handicrafts—hand woven rugs detailing forgotten folklore, porcelain cups and dishes, stalls filled to the brim with multicolored fruits—despite the years, Tide Town had hardly changed.
Mihawk could still remember rushing through the crowd, snatching persimmons from unsuspecting vendors. He would scarf them down like a starving child, making his fingers sticky and smearing the sweet juice against his freshly washed shirt. Mihawk could still hear the sisters’ scolding words upon seeing the evidence of his mischief.
Are you to be a Marine, or a fruit thief?
His path had been different back then. The world had not made him bitter. He had never tasted betrayal.
And then all at once his world shifted; cracked open and unleashed every punishment of hell, and the sisters had never taught him how to contend with losing everything. To tame a rage so consuming all he saw was red.
Once he had wanted to be a Marine. Instead he became the Marine Hunter.
A scoff escapes Mihawk’s lips at the memory. His reality was uniquely cruel at times, but reminiscing changed nothing. That was the truth of it. He could change nothing at all. Not even you.
But he could prevent himself from suffering.
Mihawk glimpses every face that passes him, notes the nervous twitch of a stranger, teeth pressing into a thin lower lip. It all becomes a blur around him. This is the fun and infuriating part: finding something that doesn’t want to be found. His senses are keen, so fiercely attuned that others turn him into something mythological.
Your existence proves otherwise.
A sudden scuffle breaks through the peace. Heads turn as a burly trader shouts at a nearby vendor, accusing the woman of stealing his earnings. His fury is a spectacle that demands to be seen, even as the woman vehemently claims she is no thief.
The two argue, motioning for their neighbors to back their claim. The stir draws the attention of every single person in the square.
Clever. Sometimes it astonishes Mihawk how well you can make others play to your tune without them ever noticing. The belief would border on paranoia if he didn’t know you so well—if you had not tricked him as easily as you trick others.
Mihawk turns away from the commotion, his eyes catching on a familiar frame vanishing into a tight alleyway.
You.
He moves leisurely, as if you are not running for your life. There is no doubt in his mind that you saw him. Mihawk never conceals himself, not like you. If he appears in a crowd it’s because he wants to be seen. He wants his prey to know that they have no hope of escaping him.
You are in his territory, a town he called home for so long he knows exactly where your path leads.
Mihawk imagines your panic, the unexpectedness of being thrown off course. You thought you could run as you always have, biding your time and paying no price. Perhaps he was partially responsible. You initiated, he followed. That was the rule of your little game, and Mihawk had played his role beautifully, never overstepping. Now he had discarded the rules. How could you account for that?
Mihawk turns the corner, stepping along the path that you will inevitably cross. He tips his head to the side, listening for your quick footsteps, the clack of bootheels against stone. The sounds draws closer—closer—
His hand shoots out, catching your cloak by the hood. You pull, try to loosen the clasp that holds it in place to free yourself, but Mihawk is quicker. He drags you back, twisting as if you both are caught in a dance until your back is against a stone wall.
It takes a second too long for your mind to comprehend the lightning quick series of events. You blink, startled, and slowly, you lift your eyes to meet his sharp, gold-eyed gaze.
Mihawk notes the way your breath catches, the nervous lick of your lips as you work to reorient yourself. To your credit, you recover faster than anticipated.
“This is an interesting change of pace,” you whisper breathlessly.
It’s all you can say to hide your surprise—mask the complicated feelings that swiftly resurface. The guilt, the frustration, the desire.
Mihawk frowns, fixing you with a look that is nothing like the one he gifted you with weeks ago. There is no hint of the tenderness that had left you hopeless and wanting. None of that fierce adoration.
He watches as your eyes wander, despite your best efforts. You look as if you are trying to recommit every detail of his face. He feels that familiar fog start to settle in his brain, the one that makes him want to turn the other cheek and kneel at your feet—the feeling that turns him into a stupid man, compelled by his fondness.
“You got sloppy,” Mihawk says, chasing the feeling away.
A part of him is fishing for an argument, ready to bruise. The other wants to set the fire in you ablaze. You give him neither…at least, not quick enough. You stall, and realization hits Mihawk like a wave. His brows lift in understanding.
“Distracted,” he corrects.
You come to life at that.
“Or maybe I wanted to see you.”
The lie spills from your lips instinctually and it almost sounds convincing. It would be better for Mihawk to think you had expected him—secretly orchestrated this grand surprise. That would certainly tend to your wounded pride, to the uncertainty that has you forgetting to speak. The truth would reveal too much.
“Possibly,” Mihawk concedes, leaning in slightly, “you must have an apology prepared then.”
There it is. The venom, the controlled anger that is far scarier than overt rage. He needs you to do the impossible thing. To voice your wrongdoing; tend to the pain you knowingly inflicted.
He needs you to be sorry. To tell him you love him—you are afraid and vindictive and prideful, but you love him.
You lift your chin, flashing your teasing smile.
“Is that what you want Hawk Eye? What you came all this way for?”
His dark brows knit together, his lip twitches and he sees the way your eyes dance with delight. The first time he had found you, you had whispered how handsome he is when he’s mad. Something about his calm anger, the quick flash of irritation in his yellow eyes; and the other ways it manifests.
Is that why you look like you could ride him in this alley? Or sink to your knees and show him just how much you haven’t missed him?
“What I want is for you to stop playing games.”
Mihawk lifts his hands from your waist, accidentally brushing against your rib and you nearly jump out of your skin. You try to stifle a whimper, covering it with a cough, but it’s too late.
His eyes sweep across your face, catching the sudden shift of your brow, the way you bite your lip. Then, they lower to his hand.
Slowly, with gentleness you don’t expect, Mihawk pulls back your cloak and rolls up your shirt.
You should catch his wrist, tell him you’re fine, it’s nothing, don’t look—but you don’t. You watch as his piercing gaze falls to the bruise that marks your ribs.
Silence settles between you two, the kind that magnifies every sound and movement. You swallow, feeling the pulse of your heartbeat racing in your throat.
“It’s just a scratch,” you joke, “besides, the Marine who gave it to me will be bedridden for a while. At least I can walk.”
His eyes lift and you’re almost startled by what you see—murderous rage, a conflagration ready to engulf the entire world—the ghost of the feared Marine Hunter.
“Why do you do this? Why won’t you—” his words cut off, but you understand what goes unspoken.
Why won’t you stay?
You don’t answer his question. You can’t. Not without hurting him and yourself. Mihawk had understood that once, until you begged him to kiss you in that shitty tavern, as if being denied would be the death of you.
It meant more than just shameless desire. It meant everything.
“Surely you didn’t come all this way to scold me,” you quip.
The timing is terrible, but this is what you do. You hide, in every way you know how.
Mihawk fixes you with a pointed look, the kind that tells you smart remarks are the last thing he wants to hear.
He lets your shirt fall back in place before grabbing your arm. The silence lingers once more as he drags you along with him.
His grip is surprisingly light; you could break away if you wanted to. It would take no effort at all. And yet…
“Where are we going?”
You huff as if you have to go with Mihawk, and you think you hear him scoff—at your act or your nerve, you aren’t sure.
“To deal with your ‘scratch’,” Mihawk mocks as he effortlessly weaves through the town. He doesn’t glance back at you, doesn’t speak another word beyond an answer to your inquiry. “And to settle things.”
Time away from Mihawk almost makes you forget that he can tend just as well as he can maim.
No one would ever think it. Dracule Mihawk, the world’s greatest swordsmen, kneeling before a bed of moss rose. His movements would always be so unhurried, careful. Your shared garden was made up of a host of delicate flowers, some that would wilt at the slightest miscare.
You felt like one of those flowers, sprawled out on a bed that was not yours, attempting to make out the patterns on an unfamiliar ceiling. It was the best you could do to draw your attention away from the cold fingers that pressed a bag of ice to your bruised ribs.
Mihawk hadn’t spoken a word since he dragged you to this little cottage on the outskirts of town. It had the faintest traces of life, as if someone had lived in it long ago. A part of you suspects that someone is him. It would explain how easily Mihawk wandered through town—how he caught you so effortlessly.
Curious as you are, you hate the idea of asking. Hate that there is still so much about Mihawk that you don’t know.
“When did it happen?”
The sudden sound of Mihawk’s voice startles you out of your thoughts. You glance at him, raising an inquisitive brow.
“What?”
“When did it happen?” he repeats, gesturing to your ribs.
The anger is still there. It’s evident in his voice, the bite in each word that he isn’t even trying to hide. It’s frustrating that you can’t tell exactly who that anger is directed at; you for being careless enough to get hurt, or the arrogant Marine whose only intent was to harm.
You sigh, casting your gaze elsewhere.
“I don’t remember,” you lift your finger towards the ray of sunlight pouring through the window, delighting in the warmth. “No need to be so upset. I’m fine.”
A sharp chuckle draws your attention back to him.
“Something funny Hawk Eye?”
Gold eyes lift to catch yours. There’s the lightning quick flash of irritation and something deeper—something you struggle to place.
“You assume,” Mihawk replies flatly, “and not a single word out of you is an honest one.”
It’s your turn to give a mirthless laugh. You sit up despite the aching pain at your side, and the warning in Mihawk’s sharp gaze.
“And you’re so honest? You can’t even admit you’re worried about me.”
You lean close, ignoring the voice in the back of your mind that admonishes your sharp tongue—your inability to ignore provocation.
“You act like you’re heartless, but we both know better” your lips lift into a knowing smirk. “But I guess that’s a requirement for Warlords, huh?”
The disdain in your voice would wound anyone. The dangerous heat in your gaze would be enough to make them falter, but Mihawk is used to this. You both are too proud, too fucking tortured to admit your faults. The floodgate would never close if one of you did, and you both would be confessing things you swore to leave buried.
Cold fingers press against your jaw, tipping your head to the side so Mihawk can press his lips to your ear.
“Your act is just as unconvincing as mine. Maybe more.”
You let out a shuddery breath, ready to tell him to fuck all the way off. You don’t even get the first word out before you feel teeth gently tugging at your earlobe. A deep, heavy sigh from Mihawk follows, rendering you speechless.
His hand lowers from your jaw, slipping down your body until it reaches its destination.
“What? No response?” Mihawk teases, “you always have something to say.”
He presses a kiss to your neck, torturously slow as if he has all the time in the world to waste here. His warm tongue swipes across the sensitive spot that makes you bite your bottom lip. Better the pain of torn skin than him hearing how much his foreplay is working.
And god, you must be pent up. Three weeks isn’t exactly long, but somehow it feels like a lifetime when Mihawk’s long fingers slip into your pants.
It’s embarrassing how wet you are. You can hear it when he pushes your underwear aside and delves between your folds—back home, back where you always need him.
Your lashes flutter, your lip quivers as you try to hold on. You swallow your moans, clinging to the sheets to prevent yourself from reaching for his shoulder, his chest, anything to anchor you and bring him closer.
His movements are slow, damn near lethargic, but you refuse to beg for more. You can already see the look on his face—that smug fucking grin that he always gets when he wins. It’s a rare sight, reserved for you in moments like this, and whenever he faces an impotent swordsman.
Callous fingers brush against your aching clit, featherlight, but it’s enough to make you gasp. You blink up at Mihawk, meeting his steady gaze. His eyes practically bore into yours, drinking in every detail; the way light catches in it, the hints of colors he never noticed before. If he looks long enough, he might be able to see straight through you.
You try to turn away, but Mihawk uses his free hand to keep your head tipped back.
“Look at me,” he commands, “don’t look away.”
You consider biting his hand—a warning and punishment for him making demands he expects you to follow. It would certainly dispel the dazed, lovestruck look in his eyes.
Maybe he knows exactly what you’re planning, because he suddenly pinches your clit. You nearly double over, pain and pleasure wracking through your body. It feels so good, so damn delicious that you forget the pain in your ribs.
“Are you close already?”
Mihawk makes a satisfied sound, something akin to a sigh and a purr. It does little to mask the self-satisfaction you feel in his touch, the way his gaze flits between your trembling bottom lip and your eyes. He loves seeing you like this—uncomposed, needy. You don’t have the control you always wield; that suave smile and silver tongue.
“Fuck…Mihawk…” you whimper softly.
He’s right. You’re nearly there, tip-toeing on the edge, ready to plunge. Ready to—
The pressure on your clit lifts. It’s so sudden you almost whine. The question is clear in your expression, but Mihawk gives you nothing. His gaze is impassive, his dark brow lifts as if he doesn’t know why you’re so flustered.
“Why—?”
“Oh, you wanted to come?”
You frown, uncertain of the game being played. There’s no structure, nothing familiar about any of this besides the hunger between you two.
You call his name, but Mihawk ignores you. His focus shifts to your pants and the arduous work of pushing them down your legs. You try to ease his burden, in hopes that this is what he needs. You, half-naked and spread out for him.
His thumb skims the inside of thigh, slowly slipping back to your soaked pussy.
A curse spills from your lips the second you feel his fingers rub tortuous circles against your pulsing clit and shit, this is better. Your legs twitch, your breathing comes out rushed and labored.
You’re there again, about to burst—but the sensation fades just as quick.
You would whirl around if Mihawk didn’t have you trapped against him, his firm chest pressed to your back, his heat mingling with yours, making you lightheaded and fucking agitated.
“You asshole,” you groan, “you said you’d let me come…”
Mihawk tilts his head, feigning confusion.
“When did I say that?”
You blink, trying to recall his exact words. It takes you longer than you care to admit…but you come up empty. He never said he would, he asked if you wanted to.
Mihawk chuckles the second he sees the realization settle in. It takes a staggering amount of self-control for you not to snatch Yoru from the wall and turn him into a skewer.
He presses another kiss to your neck, in an attempt to abate your growing rage, or conceal his twisted amusement, you can’t tell.
“What’s wrong? Do you feel cheated?” he inquires, “played with?”
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Pettiness was never Mihawk’s forte. A direct approach was always far more effective, it lessened the possibility of complications or confusion, but he couldn’t be that way with you. Not when everything became a joke, something you could laugh off and brush away.
This, however, was an approach you understood well.
“Fuck…a-are we really doing this? Now?”
“We don’t have to,” Mihawk replied softly. “All you have to say is sorry.”
Another swipe at your tortured clit, another pained whimper. Each denial of your release made more tears well in your eyes—turned you to a poor, shaking mess.
Was this how he felt? Waking up in that tavern alone, robbed of the warmth and hope you had given him the night before?
“Say it.”
“Mi-Mihawk—”
“I’ll stop,” he warns, his voice low and tinged with frustration, “I’ll leave you here like this.”
Once you would have called his bluff, you wouldn’t dare, but there is none of the posturing you had come to expect from him. Mihawk was being as transparent as you were capable of handling. This was the turning point.
You hurt him. You had reached into his chest, bloodied your hands and tore out his heart for the spectacle of it—to see if you could. He wanted to know you didn’t mean it.
He needed to know.
You freeze, as if ice-cold water has been thrown over your head. This was more than retaliation—he wasn’t just angry, he was heartbroken. You felt it, in the way he holds you. Close enough to keep, but not enough to shackle. You could hear it in his voice, the frustration almost concealing the plea.
That’s what he really meant when he almost asked 'why won't you stay?': why don’t you love me?
Why would you rather be hurt than be with me?
“...I’m sorry…”
It’s a soft spoken apology, almost a whisper, but the hint of shame and guilt are undeniable.
True to his word, Mihawk gives you what you crave. He pushes his long fingers into your wet cunt, finger fucking you while his thumb works at your throbbing bud.
“I’m sorry—” you gasp, “fuck, ‘m sorry Mihawk…so sorry—”
“For?”
He sounds breathless, tortured.
“Leaving y-you,” you force your eyes open despite the tears, searching for him. “I didn’t want…I never want to leave y—”
Your confession turns into a cry, a mess of nonsensical sounds and maybe his name, maybe a curse or two, it’s impossible to tell. You tremble and twitch, even as Mihawk practically molds your bodies together.
Praise tickles your ear, words dripping with honey and far too sweet for a man who had been edging you for what feels like hours.
“Oh fuck…goodness, look at you,” Mihawk breathes.
He lays you back on the bed, his half-lidded eyes sweeping across your flushed face, fixing on the rise and fall of your chest, the sweat trickling down your shaky legs.
You are divine. Mihawk could spend the rest of his life here, worshipping you, drawing out the pretty noises you make only for him. A part of him yearns for it, despite the risk—despite the kind of fool he becomes between your legs.
He loves you too much to be anything else.
Slowly, you come back to the land of living. Your breathing settles, your vision clears and there’s Mihawk, glancing down at you with a look that shakes you.
Fondness is hardly the word. It doesn’t begin to explain the level of affection, the unbridled love.
He gives it all away, maybe because he knows you can’t.
And despite your imperfections—your sharp tongue, your affinity for fleeing, he can’t be free of you. Neither of you can untangle yourself from the other. A blessing and a curse.
You lift a trembling finger to his face, weaving it through his trimmed beard. Surprisingly soft, just like him.
“I won’t leave,” you promise suddenly, “not until this…scratch goes away.”
Mihawk hears the doubt in your voice, the question of if he even wants you to stay.
He eyes your bruise, calculating the timeframe in his head while undoing his dark trousers.
“Are you even capable of not running?”
If you didn’t know him better, you might think Mihawk was trying to pick a fight, but there’s genuine curiosity, mistrust a single apology can’t fix.
“Only when I’m bedridden.”
You flash that playful smile that always makes Mihawk dizzy, and he’s moving before he even registers what he’s doing. His lips find yours, warm and unbelievably soft. The hunger he harbors returns, making him a man starved for your touch, your air—everything you possibly have to give.
Mihawk presses his thumb to your chin, urging your mouth open and slipping his tongue inside. He tastes yours, presses his tongue against your teeth with shocking enthusiasm, desperate to know every part of your mouth better than you do.
You pull back slightly, gasping for air. You only get one good inhale before Mihawk slants his lips over yours again.
A low, airy whine escapes you when you feel the head of his cock pressed against your folds. You need it so bad you think you might cry again, as pathetic as that may be, but something about this time feels different from all the rest. Maybe because it is.
You won’t have to rush out at the crack of dawn, stumbling into your rags while Mihawk sleeps, blissfully unaware. For the first time in forever, you can lay in his arms without the fear of hurting him.
It may not be the forever you both want, but for now it’s enough.
Warnings: SMUT! Reader is STILL petty/bratty, (mild) Angry/Mean!Mihawk, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Edging, Orgasm Denial, Vaginal Fingering, Gentle Sex
A/N: This is my first time rewriting part of a fic. While I don’t hate Sanctuary, I do think it was too easy of a resolution. Mihawk’s relationship with the reader is messy. It’s complicated. It’s not something they can fix as easily as I tried to portray previously. If you enjoyed Sanctuary, great! It can be your “true ending” (and you can reread it on here). As for me, With Broken Ribs and One Last Kiss is the proper conclusion I couldn’t give you all before, but wanted to give you now.
You aren’t there when Mihawk wakes.
The realization comes slowly.
Like a man robbed of all sense, Mihawk imagines you still caught in sleep’s warm embrace; your lips slightly parted as you let out one of those soft, sleepy sighs that should not be so endearing to him. He knows what will come next.
Mihawk will reach out to caress your cheek, admire you in the only way he has ever known how, muttering his affections in his mother tongue—my love, my heart, my one and only.
He dreams that when you finally wake, he will kiss you again, make up for wasted time and petty arguments. You will not have to beg or cry. He will give this to you freely.
In a perfect world it is so, but Mihawk stirs, groaning softly as sleep relinquishes its hold. His eyes adjust, hands reach out to find nothing but the soft cloth of the cushion beneath him.
The first hints of morning light pour into the dingy tavern, chasing away the darkness that must have concealed you in your careful escape. It would be impressive, a testament to your elusive nature—why every Admiral who has hunted you has failed—but frustration simmers within Mihawk, rising within him as he lifts to his feet.
You have played him for a fool. Again.
Mihawk had believed something had changed between you two last night. The moment you desperately begged him to kiss you, the tears brimming in your eyes, the hidden confession of your continued love—you had knowingly thrown caution to wind, asked for everything, and he had complied. With your encouragement he had crossed the line you both silently swore to never pass.
Mihawk could feel a familiar ache blooming in his chest as he slipped into his trousers; the caustic sting of betrayal. It throbbed to the rhythm of your name—calling, begging, seething.
Was it your indifference that frustrated him, or his inability to let go? It felt maddening that he could never answer that particular question, no matter how many times you left him to mend his lovelorn heart.
The thought lingers, even as Mihawk’s gaze shifts to Yoru still propped against the counter, just as he had left it before crowding into your space. He could still taste the salt of your skin, the feel of it beneath his fingers, soft and impossibly warm to the touch.
Mihawk chases the thought away as fast as it comes, wrapping his deft fingers around the hilt of his sword.
There is no time to lick at his wounds like some poor, beaten creature. Mihawk had never allowed himself the luxury, and today would be no different.
Certainly not with you rushing to hide away.
You would wait before encouraging him to chase you again. Three months, perhaps more knowing what you had done—the slight that would not be easily forgiven.
No.
Mihawk would not allow you to summon him. Not again.
He would find you on his own. Traverse every inch of the Grand Line. The New World. It didn’t matter where you were running to, or how clever you intended to be.
This time, he would decide how things ended.
You have such a talent for vanishing.
Mihawk would never speak it aloud, for fear of stroking the ego you don’t think you have, but elusion is your craft.
For three weeks he had spent every morning shuffling through the newspaper, listening to the droning voices of Admirals, seeking the faintest hint of a clue, or what he hoped for most: a mistake. Clever as you were, you were still human.
And your mistake came in the unexpected tale of a drunk pirate—a young startup with too much to prove, and a mouth that ran away with him.
“Saw her slippin’ through Tide Town,” the boy swore as he nursed his fifth drink of the night, “dunno why. Ain’t shit to do there…”
It was a clever move, taking refuge in a small market town few could point out on a map. You would not have to fear squabbling with other pirates, nor Marines of any considerable skill. No one would think to look for you there.
That was, until you let yourself be seen by the most garrulous pirate in the New World.
There was already much to accost you for, but your sudden carelessness would have to be added to Mihawk’s ever-growing list.
“Ackee! Fresh ackee! Only 130 berries!”
The cries of hawkers rips Mihawk from his reflections. His sharp gaze lifts from under his long brimmed-hat, taking in the sight of Tide Town’s bustling square. Merchants weave through the flock, displaying freshly caught fish the size of a seaboar. Others flash their handicrafts—hand woven rugs detailing forgotten folklore, porcelain cups and dishes, stalls filled to the brim with multicolored fruits—despite the years, Tide Town had hardly changed.
Mihawk could still remember rushing through the crowd, snatching persimmons from unsuspecting vendors. He would scarf them down like a starving child, making his fingers sticky and smearing the sweet juice against his freshly washed shirt. Mihawk could still hear the sisters’ scolding words upon seeing the evidence of his mischief.
Are you to be a Marine, or a fruit thief?
His path had been different back then. The world had not made him bitter. He had never tasted betrayal.
And then all at once his world shifted; cracked open and unleashed every punishment of hell, and the sisters had never taught him how to contend with losing everything. To tame a rage so consuming all he saw was red.
Once he had wanted to be a Marine. Instead he became the Marine Hunter.
A scoff escapes Mihawk’s lips at the memory. His reality was uniquely cruel at times, but reminiscing changed nothing. That was the truth of it. He could change nothing at all. Not even you.
But he could prevent himself from suffering.
Mihawk glimpses every face that passes him, notes the nervous twitch of a stranger, teeth pressing into a thin lower lip. It all becomes a blur around him. This is the fun and infuriating part: finding something that doesn’t want to be found. His senses are keen, so fiercely attuned that others turn him into something mythological.
Your existence proves otherwise.
A sudden scuffle breaks through the peace. Heads turn as a burly trader shouts at a nearby vendor, accusing the woman of stealing his earnings. His fury is a spectacle that demands to be seen, even as the woman vehemently claims she is no thief.
The two argue, motioning for their neighbors to back their claim. The stir draws the attention of every single person in the square.
Clever. Sometimes it astonishes Mihawk how well you can make others play to your tune without them ever noticing. The belief would border on paranoia if he didn’t know you so well—if you had not tricked him as easily as you trick others.
Mihawk turns away from the commotion, his eyes catching on a familiar frame vanishing into a tight alleyway.
You.
He moves leisurely, as if you are not running for your life. There is no doubt in his mind that you saw him. Mihawk never conceals himself, not like you. If he appears in a crowd it’s because he wants to be seen. He wants his prey to know that they have no hope of escaping him.
You are in his territory, a town he called home for so long he knows exactly where your path leads.
Mihawk imagines your panic, the unexpectedness of being thrown off course. You thought you could run as you always have, biding your time and paying no price. Perhaps he was partially responsible. You initiated, he followed. That was the rule of your little game, and Mihawk had played his role beautifully, never overstepping. Now he had discarded the rules. How could you account for that?
Mihawk turns the corner, stepping along the path that you will inevitably cross. He tips his head to the side, listening for your quick footsteps, the clack of bootheels against stone. The sounds draws closer—closer—
His hand shoots out, catching your cloak by the hood. You pull, try to loosen the clasp that holds it in place to free yourself, but Mihawk is quicker. He drags you back, twisting as if you both are caught in a dance until your back is against a stone wall.
It takes a second too long for your mind to comprehend the lightning quick series of events. You blink, startled, and slowly, you lift your eyes to meet his sharp, gold-eyed gaze.
Mihawk notes the way your breath catches, the nervous lick of your lips as you work to reorient yourself. To your credit, you recover faster than anticipated.
“This is an interesting change of pace,” you whisper breathlessly.
It’s all you can say to hide your surprise—mask the complicated feelings that swiftly resurface. The guilt, the frustration, the desire.
Mihawk frowns, fixing you with a look that is nothing like the one he gifted you with weeks ago. There is no hint of the tenderness that had left you hopeless and wanting. None of that fierce adoration.
He watches as your eyes wander, despite your best efforts. You look as if you are trying to recommit every detail of his face. He feels that familiar fog start to settle in his brain, the one that makes him want to turn the other cheek and kneel at your feet—the feeling that turns him into a stupid man, compelled by his fondness.
“You got sloppy,” Mihawk says, chasing the feeling away.
A part of him is fishing for an argument, ready to bruise. The other wants to set the fire in you ablaze. You give him neither…at least, not quick enough. You stall, and realization hits Mihawk like a wave. His brows lift in understanding.
“Distracted,” he corrects.
You come to life at that.
“Or maybe I wanted to see you.”
The lie spills from your lips instinctually and it almost sounds convincing. It would be better for Mihawk to think you had expected him—secretly orchestrated this grand surprise. That would certainly tend to your wounded pride, to the uncertainty that has you forgetting to speak. The truth would reveal too much.
“Possibly,” Mihawk concedes, leaning in slightly, “you must have an apology prepared then.”
There it is. The venom, the controlled anger that is far scarier than overt rage. He needs you to do the impossible thing. To voice your wrongdoing; tend to the pain you knowingly inflicted.
He needs you to be sorry. To tell him you love him—you are afraid and vindictive and prideful, but you love him.
You lift your chin, flashing your teasing smile.
“Is that what you want Hawk Eye? What you came all this way for?”
His dark brows knit together, his lip twitches and he sees the way your eyes dance with delight. The first time he had found you, you had whispered how handsome he is when he’s mad. Something about his calm anger, the quick flash of irritation in his yellow eyes; and the other ways it manifests.
Is that why you look like you could ride him in this alley? Or sink to your knees and show him just how much you haven’t missed him?
“What I want is for you to stop playing games.”
Mihawk lifts his hands from your waist, accidentally brushing against your rib and you nearly jump out of your skin. You try to stifle a whimper, covering it with a cough, but it’s too late.
His eyes sweep across your face, catching the sudden shift of your brow, the way you bite your lip. Then, they lower to his hand.
Slowly, with gentleness you don’t expect, Mihawk pulls back your cloak and rolls up your shirt.
You should catch his wrist, tell him you’re fine, it’s nothing, don’t look—but you don’t. You watch as his piercing gaze falls to the bruise that marks your ribs.
Silence settles between you two, the kind that magnifies every sound and movement. You swallow, feeling the pulse of your heartbeat racing in your throat.
“It’s just a scratch,” you joke, “besides, the Marine who gave it to me will be bedridden for a while. At least I can walk.”
His eyes lift and you’re almost startled by what you see—murderous rage, a conflagration ready to engulf the entire world—the ghost of the feared Marine Hunter.
“Why do you do this? Why won’t you—” his words cut off, but you understand what goes unspoken.
Why won’t you stay?
You don’t answer his question. You can’t. Not without hurting him and yourself. Mihawk had understood that once, until you begged him to kiss you in that shitty tavern, as if being denied would be the death of you.
It meant more than just shameless desire. It meant everything.
“Surely you didn’t come all this way to scold me,” you quip.
The timing is terrible, but this is what you do. You hide, in every way you know how.
Mihawk fixes you with a pointed look, the kind that tells you smart remarks are the last thing he wants to hear.
He lets your shirt fall back in place before grabbing your arm. The silence lingers once more as he drags you along with him.
His grip is surprisingly light; you could break away if you wanted to. It would take no effort at all. And yet…
“Where are we going?”
You huff as if you have to go with Mihawk, and you think you hear him scoff—at your act or your nerve, you aren’t sure.
“To deal with your ‘scratch’,” Mihawk mocks as he effortlessly weaves through the town. He doesn’t glance back at you, doesn’t speak another word beyond an answer to your inquiry. “And to settle things.”
Time away from Mihawk almost makes you forget that he can tend just as well as he can maim.
No one would ever think it. Dracule Mihawk, the world’s greatest swordsmen, kneeling before a bed of moss rose. His movements would always be so unhurried, careful. Your shared garden was made up of a host of delicate flowers, some that would wilt at the slightest miscare.
You felt like one of those flowers, sprawled out on a bed that was not yours, attempting to make out the patterns on an unfamiliar ceiling. It was the best you could do to draw your attention away from the cold fingers that pressed a bag of ice to your bruised ribs.
Mihawk hadn’t spoken a word since he dragged you to this little cottage on the outskirts of town. It had the faintest traces of life, as if someone had lived in it long ago. A part of you suspects that someone is him. It would explain how easily Mihawk wandered through town—how he caught you so effortlessly.
Curious as you are, you hate the idea of asking. Hate that there is still so much about Mihawk that you don’t know.
“When did it happen?”
The sudden sound of Mihawk’s voice startles you out of your thoughts. You glance at him, raising an inquisitive brow.
“What?”
“When did it happen?” he repeats, gesturing to your ribs.
The anger is still there. It’s evident in his voice, the bite in each word that he isn’t even trying to hide. It’s frustrating that you can’t tell exactly who that anger is directed at; you for being careless enough to get hurt, or the arrogant Marine whose only intent was to harm.
You sigh, casting your gaze elsewhere.
“I don’t remember,” you lift your finger towards the ray of sunlight pouring through the window, delighting in the warmth. “No need to be so upset. I’m fine.”
A sharp chuckle draws your attention back to him.
“Something funny Hawk Eye?”
Gold eyes lift to catch yours. There’s the lightning quick flash of irritation and something deeper—something you struggle to place.
“You assume,” Mihawk replies flatly, “and not a single word out of you is an honest one.”
It’s your turn to give a mirthless laugh. You sit up despite the aching pain at your side, and the warning in Mihawk’s sharp gaze.
“And you’re so honest? You can’t even admit you’re worried about me.”
You lean close, ignoring the voice in the back of your mind that admonishes your sharp tongue—your inability to ignore provocation.
“You act like you’re heartless, but we both know better” your lips lift into a knowing smirk. “But I guess that’s a requirement for Warlords, huh?”
The disdain in your voice would wound anyone. The dangerous heat in your gaze would be enough to make them falter, but Mihawk is used to this. You both are too proud, too fucking tortured to admit your faults. The floodgate would never close if one of you did, and you both would be confessing things you swore to leave buried.
Cold fingers press against your jaw, tipping your head to the side so Mihawk can press his lips to your ear.
“Your act is just as unconvincing as mine. Maybe more.”
You let out a shuddery breath, ready to tell him to fuck all the way off. You don’t even get the first word out before you feel teeth gently tugging at your earlobe. A deep, heavy sigh from Mihawk follows, rendering you speechless.
His hand lowers from your jaw, slipping down your body until it reaches its destination.
“What? No response?” Mihawk teases, “you always have something to say.”
He presses a kiss to your neck, torturously slow as if he has all the time in the world to waste here. His warm tongue swipes across the sensitive spot that makes you bite your bottom lip. Better the pain of torn skin than him hearing how much his foreplay is working.
And god, you must be pent up. Three weeks isn’t exactly long, but somehow it feels like a lifetime when Mihawk’s long fingers slip into your pants.
It’s embarrassing how wet you are. You can hear it when he pushes your underwear aside and delves between your folds—back home, back where you always need him.
Your lashes flutter, your lip quivers as you try to hold on. You swallow your moans, clinging to the sheets to prevent yourself from reaching for his shoulder, his chest, anything to anchor you and bring him closer.
His movements are slow, damn near lethargic, but you refuse to beg for more. You can already see the look on his face—that smug fucking grin that he always gets when he wins. It’s a rare sight, reserved for you in moments like this, and whenever he faces an impotent swordsman.
Coarse fingers brush against your aching clit, featherlight, but it’s enough to make you gasp. You blink up at Mihawk, meeting his steady gaze. His eyes practically bore into yours, drinking in every detail; the way light catches in it, the hints of colors he never noticed before. If he looks long enough, he might be able to see straight through you.
You try to turn away, but Mihawk uses his free hand to keep your head tipped back.
“Look at me,” he commands, “don’t look away.”
You consider biting his hand—a warning and punishment for him making demands he expects you to follow. It would certainly dispel the dazed, lovestruck look in his eyes.
Maybe he knows exactly what you’re planning, because he suddenly pinches your clit. You nearly double over, pain and pleasure wracking through your body. It feels so good, so damn delicious that you forget the pain in your ribs.
“Are you close already?”
Mihawk makes a satisfied sound, something akin to a sigh and a purr. It does little to mask the self-satisfaction you feel in his touch, the way his gaze flits between your trembling bottom lip and your eyes. He loves seeing you like this—uncomposed, needy. You don’t have the control you always wield; that suave smile and silver tongue.
“Fuck…Mihawk…” you whimper softly.
He’s right. You’re nearly there, tip-toeing on the edge, ready to plunge. Ready to—
The pressure on your clit lifts. It’s so sudden you almost whine. The question is clear in your expression, but Mihawk gives you nothing. His gaze is impassive, his dark brow lifts as if he doesn’t know why you’re so flustered.
“Why—?”
“Oh, you wanted to come?”
You frown, uncertain of the game being played. There’s no structure, nothing familiar about any of this besides the hunger between you two.
You call his name, but Mihawk ignores you. His focus shifts to your pants and the arduous work of pushing them down your legs. You try to ease his burden, in hopes that this is what he needs. You, half-naked and spread out for him.
His thumb skims the inside of thigh, slowly slipping back to your soaked pussy.
A curse spills from your lips the second you feel his fingers rub tortuous circles against your pulsing clit and shit, this is better. Your legs twitch, your breathing comes out rushed and labored.
You’re there again, about to burst—but the sensation fades just as quick.
You would whirl around if Mihawk didn’t have you trapped against him, his firm chest pressed to your back, his heat mingling with yours, making you lightheaded and fucking agitated.
“You asshole,” you groan, “you said you’d let me come…”
Mihawk tilts his head, feigning confusion.
“When did I say that?”
You blink, trying to recall his exact words. It takes you longer than you care to admit…but you come up empty. He never said he would, he asked if you wanted to.
Mihawk chuckles the second he sees the realization settle in. It takes a staggering amount of self-control for you not to snatch Yoru from the wall and turn him into a skewer.
He presses another kiss to your neck, in an attempt to abate your growing rage, or conceal his twisted amusement, you can’t tell.
“What’s wrong? Do you feel cheated?” he inquires, “played with?”
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Pettiness was never Mihawk’s forte. A direct approach was always far more effective, it lessened the possibility of complications or confusion, but he couldn’t be that way with you. Not when everything became a joke, something you could laugh off and brush away.
This, however, was an approach you understood well.
“Fuck…a-are we really doing this? Now?”
“We don’t have to,” Mihawk replied softly. “All you have to say is sorry.”
Another swipe at your tortured clit, another pained whimper. Each denial of your release made more tears well in your eyes—turned you to a poor, shaking mess.
Was this how he felt? Waking up in that tavern alone, robbed of the warmth and hope you had given him the night before?
“Say it.”
“Mi-Mihawk—”
“I’ll stop,” he warns, his voice low and tinged with frustration, “I’ll leave you here like this.”
Once you would have called his bluff, you wouldn’t dare, but there is none of the posturing you had come to expect from him. Mihawk was being as transparent as you were capable of handling. This was the turning point.
You hurt him. You had reached into his chest, bloodied your hands and tore out his heart for the spectacle of it—to see if you could. He wanted to know you didn’t mean it.
He needed to know.
You freeze, as if ice-cold water has been thrown over your head. This was more than retaliation—he wasn’t just angry, he was heartbroken. You felt it, in the way he holds you. Close enough to keep, but not enough to shackle. You could hear it in his voice, the frustration almost concealing the plea.
That’s what he really meant when he almost asked 'why won't you stay?': why don’t you love me?
Why would you rather be hurt than be with me?
“...I’m sorry…”
It’s a soft spoken apology, almost a whisper, but the hint of shame and guilt are undeniable.
True to his word, Mihawk gives you what you crave. He pushes his long fingers into your wet cunt, finger fucking you while his thumb works at your throbbing bud.
“I’m sorry—” you gasp, “fuck, ‘m sorry Mihawk…so sorry—”
“For?”
He sounds breathless, tortured.
“Leaving y-you,” you force your eyes open despite the tears, searching for him. “I didn’t want…I never want to leave y—”
Your confession turns into a cry, a mess of nonsensical sounds and maybe his name, maybe a curse or two, it’s impossible to tell. You tremble and twitch, even as Mihawk practically molds your bodies together.
Praise tickles your ear, words dripping with honey and far too sweet for a man who had been edging you for what feels like hours.
“Oh fuck…goodness, look at you,” Mihawk breathes.
He lays you back on the bed, his half-lidded eyes sweeping across your flushed face, fixing on the rise and fall of your chest, the sweat trickling down your shaky legs.
You are divine. Mihawk could spend the rest of his life here, worshipping you, drawing out the pretty noises you make only for him. A part of him yearns for it, despite the risk—despite the kind of fool he becomes between your legs.
He loves you too much to be anything else.
Slowly, you come back to the land of living. Your breathing settles, your vision clears and there’s Mihawk, glancing down at you with a look that shakes you.
Fondness is hardly the word. It doesn’t begin to explain the level of affection, the unbridled love.
He gives it all away, maybe because he knows you can’t.
And despite your imperfections—your sharp tongue, your affinity for fleeing, he can’t be free of you. Neither of you can untangle yourself from the other. A blessing and a curse.
You lift a trembling finger to his face, weaving it through his trimmed beard. Surprisingly soft, just like him.
“I won’t leave,” you promise suddenly, “not until this…scratch goes away.”
Mihawk hears the doubt in your voice, the question of if he even wants you to stay.
He eyes your bruise, calculating the timeframe in his head while undoing his dark trousers.
“Are you even capable of not running?”
If you didn’t know him better, you might think Mihawk was trying to pick a fight, but there’s genuine curiosity, mistrust a single apology can’t fix.
“Only when I’m bedridden.”
You flash that playful smile that always makes Mihawk dizzy, and he’s moving before he even registers what he’s doing. His lips find yours, warm and unbelievably soft. The hunger he harbors returns, making him a man starved for your touch, your air—everything you possibly have to give.
Mihawk presses his thumb to your chin, urging your mouth open and slipping his tongue inside. He tastes yours, presses his tongue against your teeth with shocking enthusiasm, desperate to know every part of your mouth better than you do.
You pull back slightly, gasping for air. You only get one good inhale before Mihawk slants his lips over yours again.
A low, airy whine escapes you when you feel the head of his cock pressed against your folds. You need it so bad you think you might cry again, as pathetic as that may be, but something about this time feels different from all the rest. Maybe because it is.
You won’t have to rush out at the crack of dawn, stumbling into your rags while Mihawk sleeps, blissfully unaware. For the first time in forever, you can lay in his arms without the fear of hurting him.
It may not be the forever you both want, but for now it’s enough.
Warnings: SMUT! Reader is STILL petty/bratty, (mild) Angry/Mean!Mihawk, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Edging, Orgasm Denial, Vaginal Fingering, Gentle Sex
A/N: This is my first time rewriting part of a fic. While I don’t hate Sanctuary, I do think it was too easy of a resolution. Mihawk’s relationship with the reader is messy. It’s complicated. It’s not something they can fix as easily as I tried to portray previously. If you enjoyed Sanctuary, great! It can be your “true ending” (and you can reread it on here). As for me, With Broken Ribs and One Last Kiss is the proper conclusion I couldn’t give you all before, but wanted to give you now.
You aren’t there when Mihawk wakes.
The realization comes slowly.
Like a man robbed of all sense, Mihawk imagines you still caught in sleep’s warm embrace; your lips slightly parted as you let out one of those soft, sleepy sighs that should not be so endearing to him. He knows what will come next.
Mihawk will reach out to caress your cheek, admire you in the only way he has ever known how, muttering his affections in his mother tongue—my love, my heart, my one and only.
He dreams that when you finally wake, he will kiss you again, make up for wasted time and petty arguments. You will not have to beg or cry. He will give this to you freely.
In a perfect world it is so, but Mihawk stirs, groaning softly as sleep relinquishes its hold. His eyes adjust, hands reach out to find nothing but the soft cloth of the cushion beneath him.
The first hints of morning light pour into the dingy tavern, chasing away the darkness that must have concealed you in your careful escape. It would be impressive, a testament to your elusive nature—why every Admiral who has hunted you has failed—but frustration simmers within Mihawk, rising within him as he lifts to his feet.
You have played him for a fool. Again.
Mihawk had believed something had changed between you two last night. The moment you desperately begged him to kiss you, the tears brimming in your eyes, the hidden confession of your continued love—you had knowingly thrown caution to wind, asked for everything, and he had complied. With your encouragement he had crossed the line you both silently swore to never pass.
Mihawk could feel a familiar ache blooming in his chest as he slipped into his trousers; the caustic sting of betrayal. It throbbed to the rhythm of your name—calling, begging, seething.
Was it your indifference that frustrated him, or his inability to let go? It felt maddening that he could never answer that particular question, no matter how many times you left him to mend his lovelorn heart.
The thought lingers, even as Mihawk’s gaze shifts to Yoru still propped against the counter, just as he had left it before crowding into your space. He could still taste the salt of your skin, the feel of it beneath his fingers, soft and impossibly warm to the touch.
Mihawk chases the thought away as fast as it comes, wrapping his deft fingers around the hilt of his sword.
There is no time to lick at his wounds like some poor, beaten creature. Mihawk had never allowed himself the luxury, and today would be no different.
Certainly not with you rushing to hide away.
You would wait before encouraging him to chase you again. Three months, perhaps more knowing what you had done—the slight that would not be easily forgiven.
No.
Mihawk would not allow you to summon him. Not again.
He would find you on his own. Traverse every inch of the Grand Line. The New World. It didn’t matter where you were running to, or how clever you intended to be.
This time, he would decide how things ended.
You have such a talent for vanishing.
Mihawk would never speak it aloud, for fear of stroking the ego you don’t think you have, but elusion is your craft.
For three weeks he had spent every morning shuffling through the newspaper, listening to the droning voices of Admirals, seeking the faintest hint of a clue, or what he hoped for most: a mistake. Clever as you were, you were still human.
And your mistake came in the unexpected tale of a drunk pirate—a young startup with too much to prove, and a mouth that ran away with him.
“Saw her slippin’ through Tide Town,” the boy swore as he nursed his fifth drink of the night, “dunno why. Ain’t shit to do there…”
It was a clever move, taking refuge in a small market town few could point out on a map. You would not have to fear squabbling with other pirates, nor Marines of any considerable skill. No one would think to look for you there.
That was, until you let yourself be seen by the most garrulous pirate in the New World.
There was already much to accost you for, but your sudden carelessness would have to be added to Mihawk’s ever-growing list.
“Ackee! Fresh ackee! Only 130 berries!”
The cries of hawkers rips Mihawk from his reflections. His sharp gaze lifts from under his long brimmed-hat, taking in the sight of Tide Town’s bustling square. Merchants weave through the flock, displaying freshly caught fish the size of a seaboar. Others flash their handicrafts—hand woven rugs detailing forgotten folklore, porcelain cups and dishes, stalls filled to the brim with multicolored fruits—despite the years, Tide Town had hardly changed.
Mihawk could still remember rushing through the crowd, snatching persimmons from unsuspecting vendors. He would scarf them down like a starving child, making his fingers sticky and smearing the sweet juice against his freshly washed shirt. Mihawk could still hear the sisters’ scolding words upon seeing the evidence of his mischief.
Are you to be a Marine, or a fruit thief?
His path had been different back then. The world had not made him bitter. He had never tasted betrayal.
And then all at once his world shifted; cracked open and unleashed every punishment of hell, and the sisters had never taught him how to contend with losing everything. To tame a rage so consuming all he saw was red.
Once he had wanted to be a Marine. Instead he became the Marine Hunter.
A scoff escapes Mihawk’s lips at the memory. His reality was uniquely cruel at times, but reminiscing changed nothing. That was the truth of it. He could change nothing at all. Not even you.
But he could prevent himself from suffering.
Mihawk glimpses every face that passes him, notes the nervous twitch of a stranger, teeth pressing into a thin lower lip. It all becomes a blur around him. This is the fun and infuriating part: finding something that doesn’t want to be found. His senses are keen, so fiercely attuned that others turn him into something mythological.
Your existence proves otherwise.
A sudden scuffle breaks through the peace. Heads turn as a burly trader shouts at a nearby vendor, accusing the woman of stealing his earnings. His fury is a spectacle that demands to be seen, even as the woman vehemently claims she is no thief.
The two argue, motioning for their neighbors to back their claim. The stir draws the attention of every single person in the square.
Clever. Sometimes it astonishes Mihawk how well you can make others play to your tune without them ever noticing. The belief would border on paranoia if he didn’t know you so well—if you had not tricked him as easily as you trick others.
Mihawk turns away from the commotion, his eyes catching on a familiar frame vanishing into a tight alleyway.
You.
He moves leisurely, as if you are not running for your life. There is no doubt in his mind that you saw him. Mihawk never conceals himself, not like you. If he appears in a crowd it’s because he wants to be seen. He wants his prey to know that they have no hope of escaping him.
You are in his territory, a town he called home for so long he knows exactly where your path leads.
Mihawk imagines your panic, the unexpectedness of being thrown off course. You thought you could run as you always have, biding your time and paying no price. Perhaps he was partially responsible. You initiated, he followed. That was the rule of your little game, and Mihawk had played his role beautifully, never overstepping. Now he had discarded the rules. How could you account for that?
Mihawk turns the corner, stepping along the path that you will inevitably cross. He tips his head to the side, listening for your quick footsteps, the clack of bootheels against stone. The sounds draws closer—closer—
His hand shoots out, catching your cloak by the hood. You pull, try to loosen the clasp that holds it in place to free yourself, but Mihawk is quicker. He drags you back, twisting as if you both are caught in a dance until your back is against a stone wall.
It takes a second too long for your mind to comprehend the lightning quick series of events. You blink, startled, and slowly, you lift your eyes to meet his sharp, gold-eyed gaze.
Mihawk notes the way your breath catches, the nervous lick of your lips as you work to reorient yourself. To your credit, you recover faster than anticipated.
“This is an interesting change of pace,” you whisper breathlessly.
It’s all you can say to hide your surprise—mask the complicated feelings that swiftly resurface. The guilt, the frustration, the desire.
Mihawk frowns, fixing you with a look that is nothing like the one he gifted you with weeks ago. There is no hint of the tenderness that had left you hopeless and wanting. None of that fierce adoration.
He watches as your eyes wander, despite your best efforts. You look as if you are trying to recommit every detail of his face. He feels that familiar fog start to settle in his brain, the one that makes him want to turn the other cheek and kneel at your feet—the feeling that turns him into a stupid man, compelled by his fondness.
“You got sloppy,” Mihawk says, chasing the feeling away.
A part of him is fishing for an argument, ready to bruise. The other wants to set the fire in you ablaze. You give him neither…at least, not quick enough. You stall, and realization hits Mihawk like a wave. His brows lift in understanding.
“Distracted,” he corrects.
You come to life at that.
“Or maybe I wanted to see you.”
The lie spills from your lips instinctually and it almost sounds convincing. It would be better for Mihawk to think you had expected him—secretly orchestrated this grand surprise. That would certainly tend to your wounded pride, to the uncertainty that has you forgetting to speak. The truth would reveal too much.
“Possibly,” Mihawk concedes, leaning in slightly, “you must have an apology prepared then.”
There it is. The venom, the controlled anger that is far scarier than overt rage. He needs you to do the impossible thing. To voice your wrongdoing; tend to the pain you knowingly inflicted.
He needs you to be sorry. To tell him you love him—you are afraid and vindictive and prideful, but you love him.
You lift your chin, flashing your teasing smile.
“Is that what you want Hawk Eye? What you came all this way for?”
His dark brows knit together, his lip twitches and he sees the way your eyes dance with delight. The first time he had found you, you had whispered how handsome he is when he’s mad. Something about his calm anger, the quick flash of irritation in his yellow eyes; and the other ways it manifests.
Is that why you look like you could ride him in this alley? Or sink to your knees and show him just how much you haven’t missed him?
“What I want is for you to stop playing games.”
Mihawk lifts his hands from your waist, accidentally brushing against your rib and you nearly jump out of your skin. You try to stifle a whimper, covering it with a cough, but it’s too late.
His eyes sweep across your face, catching the sudden shift of your brow, the way you bite your lip. Then, they lower to his hand.
Slowly, with gentleness you don’t expect, Mihawk pulls back your cloak and rolls up your shirt.
You should catch his wrist, tell him you’re fine, it’s nothing, don’t look—but you don’t. You watch as his piercing gaze falls to the bruise that marks your ribs.
Silence settles between you two, the kind that magnifies every sound and movement. You swallow, feeling the pulse of your heartbeat racing in your throat.
“It’s just a scratch,” you joke, “besides, the Marine who gave it to me will be bedridden for a while. At least I can walk.”
His eyes lift and you’re almost startled by what you see—murderous rage, a conflagration ready to engulf the entire world—the ghost of the feared Marine Hunter.
“Why do you do this? Why won’t you—” his words cut off, but you understand what goes unspoken.
Why won’t you stay?
You don’t answer his question. You can’t. Not without hurting him and yourself. Mihawk had understood that once, until you begged him to kiss you in that shitty tavern, as if being denied would be the death of you.
It meant more than just shameless desire. It meant everything.
“Surely you didn’t come all this way to scold me,” you quip.
The timing is terrible, but this is what you do. You hide, in every way you know how.
Mihawk fixes you with a pointed look, the kind that tells you smart remarks are the last thing he wants to hear.
He lets your shirt fall back in place before grabbing your arm. The silence lingers once more as he drags you along with him.
His grip is surprisingly light; you could break away if you wanted to. It would take no effort at all. And yet…
“Where are we going?”
You huff as if you have to go with Mihawk, and you think you hear him scoff—at your act or your nerve, you aren’t sure.
“To deal with your ‘scratch’,” Mihawk mocks as he effortlessly weaves through the town. He doesn’t glance back at you, doesn’t speak another word beyond an answer to your inquiry. “And to settle things.”
Time away from Mihawk almost makes you forget that he can tend just as well as he can maim.
No one would ever think it. Dracule Mihawk, the world’s greatest swordsmen, kneeling before a bed of moss rose. His movements would always be so unhurried, careful. Your shared garden was made up of a host of delicate flowers, some that would wilt at the slightest miscare.
You felt like one of those flowers, sprawled out on a bed that was not yours, attempting to make out the patterns on an unfamiliar ceiling. It was the best you could do to draw your attention away from the cold fingers that pressed a bag of ice to your bruised ribs.
Mihawk hadn’t spoken a word since he dragged you to this little cottage on the outskirts of town. It had the faintest traces of life, as if someone had lived in it long ago. A part of you suspects that someone is him. It would explain how easily Mihawk wandered through town—how he caught you so effortlessly.
Curious as you are, you hate the idea of asking. Hate that there is still so much about Mihawk that you don’t know.
“When did it happen?”
The sudden sound of Mihawk’s voice startles you out of your thoughts. You glance at him, raising an inquisitive brow.
“What?”
“When did it happen?” he repeats, gesturing to your ribs.
The anger is still there. It’s evident in his voice, the bite in each word that he isn’t even trying to hide. It’s frustrating that you can’t tell exactly who that anger is directed at; you for being careless enough to get hurt, or the arrogant Marine whose only intent was to harm.
You sigh, casting your gaze elsewhere.
“I don’t remember,” you lift your finger towards the ray of sunlight pouring through the window, delighting in the warmth. “No need to be so upset. I’m fine.”
A sharp chuckle draws your attention back to him.
“Something funny Hawk Eye?”
Gold eyes lift to catch yours. There’s the lightning quick flash of irritation and something deeper—something you struggle to place.
“You assume,” Mihawk replies flatly, “and not a single word out of you is an honest one.”
It’s your turn to give a mirthless laugh. You sit up despite the aching pain at your side, and the warning in Mihawk’s sharp gaze.
“And you’re so honest? You can’t even admit you’re worried about me.”
You lean close, ignoring the voice in the back of your mind that admonishes your sharp tongue—your inability to ignore provocation.
“You act like you’re heartless, but we both know better” your lips lift into a knowing smirk. “But I guess that’s a requirement for Warlords, huh?”
The disdain in your voice would wound anyone. The dangerous heat in your gaze would be enough to make them falter, but Mihawk is used to this. You both are too proud, too fucking tortured to admit your faults. The floodgate would never close if one of you did, and you both would be confessing things you swore to leave buried.
Cold fingers press against your jaw, tipping your head to the side so Mihawk can press his lips to your ear.
“Your act is just as unconvincing as mine. Maybe more.”
You let out a shuddery breath, ready to tell him to fuck all the way off. You don’t even get the first word out before you feel teeth gently tugging at your earlobe. A deep, heavy sigh from Mihawk follows, rendering you speechless.
His hand lowers from your jaw, slipping down your body until it reaches its destination.
“What? No response?” Mihawk teases, “you always have something to say.”
He presses a kiss to your neck, torturously slow as if he has all the time in the world to waste here. His warm tongue swipes across the sensitive spot that makes you bite your bottom lip. Better the pain of torn skin than him hearing how much his foreplay is working.
And god, you must be pent up. Three weeks isn’t exactly long, but somehow it feels like a lifetime when Mihawk’s long fingers slip into your pants.
It’s embarrassing how wet you are. You can hear it when he pushes your underwear aside and delves between your folds—back home, back where you always need him.
Your lashes flutter, your lip quivers as you try to hold on. You swallow your moans, clinging to the sheets to prevent yourself from reaching for his shoulder, his chest, anything to anchor you and bring him closer.
His movements are slow, damn near lethargic, but you refuse to beg for more. You can already see the look on his face—that smug fucking grin that he always gets when he wins. It’s a rare sight, reserved for you in moments like this, and whenever he faces an impotent swordsman.
Callous fingers brush against your aching clit, featherlight, but it’s enough to make you gasp. You blink up at Mihawk, meeting his steady gaze. His eyes practically bore into yours, drinking in every detail; the way light catches in it, the hints of colors he never noticed before. If he looks long enough, he might be able to see straight through you.
You try to turn away, but Mihawk uses his free hand to keep your head tipped back.
“Look at me,” he commands, “don’t look away.”
You consider biting his hand—a warning and punishment for him making demands he expects you to follow. It would certainly dispel the dazed, lovestruck look in his eyes.
Maybe he knows exactly what you’re planning, because he suddenly pinches your clit. You nearly double over, pain and pleasure wracking through your body. It feels so good, so damn delicious that you forget the pain in your ribs.
“Are you close already?”
Mihawk makes a satisfied sound, something akin to a sigh and a purr. It does little to mask the self-satisfaction you feel in his touch, the way his gaze flits between your trembling bottom lip and your eyes. He loves seeing you like this—uncomposed, needy. You don’t have the control you always wield; that suave smile and silver tongue.
“Fuck…Mihawk…” you whimper softly.
He’s right. You’re nearly there, tip-toeing on the edge, ready to plunge. Ready to—
The pressure on your clit lifts. It’s so sudden you almost whine. The question is clear in your expression, but Mihawk gives you nothing. His gaze is impassive, his dark brow lifts as if he doesn’t know why you’re so flustered.
“Why—?”
“Oh, you wanted to come?”
You frown, uncertain of the game being played. There’s no structure, nothing familiar about any of this besides the hunger between you two.
You call his name, but Mihawk ignores you. His focus shifts to your pants and the arduous work of pushing them down your legs. You try to ease his burden, in hopes that this is what he needs. You, half-naked and spread out for him.
His thumb skims the inside of thigh, slowly slipping back to your soaked pussy.
A curse spills from your lips the second you feel his fingers rub tortuous circles against your pulsing clit and shit, this is better. Your legs twitch, your breathing comes out rushed and labored.
You’re there again, about to burst—but the sensation fades just as quick.
You would whirl around if Mihawk didn’t have you trapped against him, his firm chest pressed to your back, his heat mingling with yours, making you lightheaded and fucking agitated.
“You asshole,” you groan, “you said you’d let me come…”
Mihawk tilts his head, feigning confusion.
“When did I say that?”
You blink, trying to recall his exact words. It takes you longer than you care to admit…but you come up empty. He never said he would, he asked if you wanted to.
Mihawk chuckles the second he sees the realization settle in. It takes a staggering amount of self-control for you not to snatch Yoru from the wall and turn him into a skewer.
He presses another kiss to your neck, in an attempt to abate your growing rage, or conceal his twisted amusement, you can’t tell.
“What’s wrong? Do you feel cheated?” he inquires, “played with?”
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Pettiness was never Mihawk’s forte. A direct approach was always far more effective, it lessened the possibility of complications or confusion, but he couldn’t be that way with you. Not when everything became a joke, something you could laugh off and brush away.
This, however, was an approach you understood well.
“Fuck…a-are we really doing this? Now?”
“We don’t have to,” Mihawk replied softly. “All you have to say is sorry.”
Another swipe at your tortured clit, another pained whimper. Each denial of your release made more tears well in your eyes—turned you to a poor, shaking mess.
Was this how he felt? Waking up in that tavern alone, robbed of the warmth and hope you had given him the night before?
“Say it.”
“Mi-Mihawk—”
“I’ll stop,” he warns, his voice low and tinged with frustration, “I’ll leave you here like this.”
Once you would have called his bluff, you wouldn’t dare, but there is none of the posturing you had come to expect from him. Mihawk was being as transparent as you were capable of handling. This was the turning point.
You hurt him. You had reached into his chest, bloodied your hands and tore out his heart for the spectacle of it—to see if you could. He wanted to know you didn’t mean it.
He needed to know.
You freeze, as if ice-cold water has been thrown over your head. This was more than retaliation—he wasn’t just angry, he was heartbroken. You felt it, in the way he holds you. Close enough to keep, but not enough to shackle. You could hear it in his voice, the frustration almost concealing the plea.
That’s what he really meant when he almost asked 'why won't you stay?': why don’t you love me?
Why would you rather be hurt than be with me?
“...I’m sorry…”
It’s a soft spoken apology, almost a whisper, but the hint of shame and guilt are undeniable.
True to his word, Mihawk gives you what you crave. He pushes his long fingers into your wet cunt, finger fucking you while his thumb works at your throbbing bud.
“I’m sorry—” you gasp, “fuck, ‘m sorry Mihawk…so sorry—”
“For?”
He sounds breathless, tortured.
“Leaving y-you,” you force your eyes open despite the tears, searching for him. “I didn’t want…I never want to leave y—”
Your confession turns into a cry, a mess of nonsensical sounds and maybe his name, maybe a curse or two, it’s impossible to tell. You tremble and twitch, even as Mihawk practically molds your bodies together.
Praise tickles your ear, words dripping with honey and far too sweet for a man who had been edging you for what feels like hours.
“Oh fuck…goodness, look at you,” Mihawk breathes.
He lays you back on the bed, his half-lidded eyes sweeping across your flushed face, fixing on the rise and fall of your chest, the sweat trickling down your shaky legs.
You are divine. Mihawk could spend the rest of his life here, worshipping you, drawing out the pretty noises you make only for him. A part of him yearns for it, despite the risk—despite the kind of fool he becomes between your legs.
He loves you too much to be anything else.
Slowly, you come back to the land of living. Your breathing settles, your vision clears and there’s Mihawk, glancing down at you with a look that shakes you.
Fondness is hardly the word. It doesn’t begin to explain the level of affection, the unbridled love.
He gives it all away, maybe because he knows you can’t.
And despite your imperfections—your sharp tongue, your affinity for fleeing, he can’t be free of you. Neither of you can untangle yourself from the other. A blessing and a curse.
You lift a trembling finger to his face, weaving it through his trimmed beard. Surprisingly soft, just like him.
“I won’t leave,” you promise suddenly, “not until this…scratch goes away.”
Mihawk hears the doubt in your voice, the question of if he even wants you to stay.
He eyes your bruise, calculating the timeframe in his head while undoing his dark trousers.
“Are you even capable of not running?”
If you didn’t know him better, you might think Mihawk was trying to pick a fight, but there’s genuine curiosity, mistrust a single apology can’t fix.
“Only when I’m bedridden.”
You flash that playful smile that always makes Mihawk dizzy, and he’s moving before he even registers what he’s doing. His lips find yours, warm and unbelievably soft. The hunger he harbors returns, making him a man starved for your touch, your air—everything you possibly have to give.
Mihawk presses his thumb to your chin, urging your mouth open and slipping his tongue inside. He tastes yours, presses his tongue against your teeth with shocking enthusiasm, desperate to know every part of your mouth better than you do.
You pull back slightly, gasping for air. You only get one good inhale before Mihawk slants his lips over yours again.
A low, airy whine escapes you when you feel the head of his cock pressed against your folds. You need it so bad you think you might cry again, as pathetic as that may be, but something about this time feels different from all the rest. Maybe because it is.
You won’t have to rush out at the crack of dawn, stumbling into your rags while Mihawk sleeps, blissfully unaware. For the first time in forever, you can lay in his arms without the fear of hurting him.
It may not be the forever you both want, but for now it’s enough.
IMPORTANT: Reblogged versions of the list may not be most recent; click here for the latest.
We're here: Support, enjoy, follow, comment, reblog- pin/save and spread!
Monthly upkeep: Active within last 3 mo., see also "Inactive with Content" section): 12/2/2024
List begins below housekeeping, then a few of my thoughts.
Using the list? If you find works you enjoy, let me know; I'd like to know whether this is helpful.
IMPORTANT NOTES ABOUT THE LIST | #-G
H-O | P-Z
Welcome & Celebrate! Darlings: This is a directory of Black individuals who create- different backgrounds, experiences, interests, etc-incl. a variety of preferences, writing styles, subgenres, fandoms, etc. Remember as you read: We don't all look alike, talk a like, live alike- and that's to be praised.
The focus is fan works creators: You’ll see some original fics/original art, and plenty of original characters in general.
Initial seeds for the list here: Thanks to @cardierreh15 who posted a request for black creators -> I organized, aggregated and continue to add.
Growing it:
The list ISN’T exclusive, no requirements for inclusion**.
DM me- incl. fandoms and tags (see below). Please spell correctly. I strongly encourage masterlist and/or featured tags for your blog!
Tag examples- smut, fluff, plot (plot plot) drama, mature, comfort, angst, series, 5k+ fics, humor, dark content, lgbtq+; illustration, comics; or your own.
Upkeep: I check the entire list monthly for removed blogs, name changes, etc. If you notice something, let me know. I will remove your entry if you ever prefer that.
Check out: @blkwriters ( @ramonathinks damn, the tags the organization of it wow)
content tags are not all inclusive.
abbrevs/definitions/listing of genres, styles, etc. here
no masterlist? search within the blog for fandom titles, characters, etc.
Find something you love? Reblog comment repeat!
Looking for something in particular? DM me.
#
A
a-lumos-in-the-nox (harry potter, mcu- character x oc, fluff,
smut, angst, dead dove don't eat, series, multi-chapter)
abinitioart
@ablackfangirl (mha, jjk, h!!, naruto, aot, seraph of
Some thoughts, with respect (roll your eyes if you’d like, it’s a lot of the same ole same old… if you do roll your eyes, send me a video of you doing it and I’ll try to care… jk I’m being cheeky, but there may be some newer folks here who might find this helpful!!):.
We’re very obviously diverse in artistic/creative style, speech, experience, philosophies, takes on the world, how frequently we post/ how prolific, our perspectives, personalities, all that… so find what you like, skip what you don't (Settings - Filtering for what you don’t want to fully see or just block). REBLOG (THEY’RE FAR MORE IMPORTANT THAN LIKES). GIVE PRAISE. THANK PEOPLE. particularly with specifics (I’m working on all this too, my lazy ass), we don’t need more of us to leave… ✔️
Creating and pinning a masterlist is SO HELPFUL! ppl can better find your original works OR use a unique tag for each of your works so that ppl can search within your blog. ✔️
Tagging is important for your works and what you reblog- character or fandom x black reader, x black!reader, x fluff, x smut, x smut with feelings, #blk fanfic writers, #blk writers, # blk fanfiction, see how others use tags, there are a shit ton more ✔️
Adding name and age to your blog is smart. Many, many folks have blogs that include explicit content and topics, and they choose to use age restrictions block those who follow or reach out to interact if a name/age aren’t listed on that person’s blog ✔️
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Besos, Hazel 💋
blk fanfic writer, triangularz
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**Nothing about this list is official or bound by any kind of external requirements/others' expectations- this is a project l've created. There are some content topics I'm uncomfortable with, so if I happen to skim, and note that a blog contains:
glorification of/detail recounting of themes like inc*st, harm to minors, r*pe/noncon, glorification of abuse or similar, I will not add.
As I spot check or if others notify me and I verify, I'll remove. I'll do so quietly, no call outs or big to do's
If I don't feel comfortable with other topics, etc. I have the right to exclude and again, that would be discretely. I'm talking primarily about content concerns, not blog exclusion because of petty foolishness or anything like that. I want as many of us as possible to be listed! ✔️
This is my little labor of love. I don't believe I've reblogged it since originally creating it; hope you check it out. All kinds of writing styles, fandoms and themes. Popular blogs and small ones. Updated monthly. Info about being added is also here
I saw one scruffy older Cora-san design and had to draw my take on it immediately, with a bonus Law to fill space.
You can say a lot of things about One Piece Odyssey, but it did give us a Law & Cora tag-team fight in which Law shambled to the location of Cora's bullets and that is just objectively cool.
