A Vintage Bouquet: 10
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Chapter Title: (Extra 1) Zoro & Persona Length: 10.5 K+
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Mihawk had been gone exactly three days when chaos arrived.
Not in the form of pirates. Not in the form of a mandrill rebellion. Not even in the form of Shanks, who you assumed was somewhere narrowly dodging Mihawk’s wrath and possibly hiding behind a wine barrel.
No. This chaos wore platform shoes, smeared eyeliner, and screamed like a banshee falling out of hell.
Perona arrived.
You were checking fermentation barrels in the lower cellar, carefully ladling wine to test for acidity, when the sky cracked like an omen. A sound like thunder rolled across the vineyard. There was a sudden flash of light, followed by a deafening shriek:
“WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”
You dropped the ladle. Rude Bastard launched himself onto the roof with his sword in his mouth like he expected war. You rushed out to the courtyard, wiping your hands on your apron, just in time to see it.
Through the mist and vines, you spotted a figure tumbling through the air. She was draped in tulle, lace, and gothic rage. And she had been flung like a decorative cannonball.
She landed in the center courtyard with a glittery thud, parasols splayed like petals around her, one boot kicking the air in slow protest.
You approached carefully, mandrills flanking you like a security detail you hadn’t actually asked for.
Perona sat up groggily, blinked twice, and screeched, “THIS IS NOT THRILLER BARK!”
You stared at her.
“You’re on Kuraigana,” you said. “I don’t know how. And I’m not sure I want to.”
Perona squinted at you. “Kuraigana? Like… Dracule Mihawk’s Kuraigana?”
You nodded.
She blinked. “Wait. You’re not Mihawk.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Neither are you. And you don’t seem entirely conscious.”
She flopped onto her back, wailing again. “I was in the middle of a mood swing and then—KUMA!” She kicked her heels and sobbed for a full three seconds before abruptly sitting up, adjusting her crown, and announcing, “Fine. I’ll just live here until he returns.”
You opened your mouth to object.
Stopped.
Shut it again.
Looked up at the sky as if it might provide context.
It did not.
By nightfall, she had claimed the East tower, declared the décor “tragically hopeless,” borrowed one of your shawls without asking, and demanded an explanation about Mihawk’s “mysterious farmer-tenant situation.”
You poured yourself a tall glass of wine and sat down at the table.
“I’m his wife,” you said simply.
Perona choked on thin air. “He is married?”
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily?”
You took a long sip. “I’m told it was a trap. With excellent wine pairings.”
Despite the melodramatic entrance and exhausting volume, Perona settled in better than expected. She painted little ghost faces on the fermentation barrels. She terrorized the mandrills until they decided they liked her. She rifled through your ribbon stash and left a trail of glitter in every room she visited.
And at night, when she thought no one noticed, she sat out on the ramparts. Quiet. Still. Watching the moon with a look so sad and faraway that it made something in your chest ache.
So you made her tea.
And she drank it without complaint. And you decided, okay, she can stay.
Mihawk would return to exactly what he left. Almost.
Order. Wine. A wife who did not tolerate disarray in her vineyard.
With the added addition of a small gothic squatter nesting in the east tower, crying over smudged nail polish and teaching mandrills how to waltz.
You sipped your wine one evening from the porch, watching Perona’s ghost lights drift lazily in the upper window like confused fireflies.
“I should warn him,” you muttered.
You didn’t. Let him be surprised. You could use the entertainment.
He arrived at dusk a day later.
The sky was thick and purple, the color of spilled ink soaking into the horizon. The wind slipped through the vineyard in slow waves, making the vines rustle like something half asleep. The mandrills spotted him first and responded as trained thespians might; running full tilt to the ridge, hooting like opera singers in the third act of a tragic love story.
Rude Bastard launched into a somersault. Two other mandrills, seemingly from nowhere, produced horns and blew them with questionable talent and excessive enthusiasm.
Boots crunching the gravel path. Cloak dusted in sea salt and dignified exhaustion. Yoru slung over his back like a warning.
You didn’t run to him. You stayed where you were, arms folded, trying not to smile.
“You left me for five days,” you called out.
“Four and a half,” he said without missing a step.
“Five. And I had the added pleasure of having to explain to a goth ghost princess that yes, I’m your wife, and no, it wasn’t part of a cursed sword pact.”
He paused. A brow lifted.
“Pardon?”
“Her name is Perona. She lives in the tower now. Says she’s waiting for someone named Gecko Moria. I told her we don’t have any geckos. She cried.”
A long silence.
“I like her.” You added.
Then a resigned nod.
“Fine.”
Before he could ask anything else, a shriek echoed across the courtyard.
“YOU!”
Perona stormed out like a furious cake topper, hair enormous, dress glittering, eyes wild. She clutched a wine glass she had very much not asked permission for. Her heels clacked across the stones with the intensity of someone about to lay down a curse.
She marched right up to Mihawk, stopped short, then began to circle. Once around him. Once around you. Then again.
“You are Dracule Mihawk,” she said slowly, pointing like a very dramatic prosecuting attorney. “Fellow Warlord of the Sea of Gecko Moria. The world’s strongest swordsman. You sliced a mountain because someone annoyed you.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“And you’re married to a woman who wears aprons. Who talks to mandrills. About compost.”
You opened your mouth to reply.
Mihawk didn’t even blink. “She’s mine,” he said calmly. “The mandrills answer to her. So do I.”
You blinked.
Perona looked offended by the tenderness. “You’re in love.”
“Yes.”
“Like, actually in love.”
Mihawk tilted his head, as if he hadn’t really stopped to define it before now.
Perona turned to you, eyes wide and full of chaos.
“Are you magic?”
You took a long sip of wine.
“No. I just let him pretend he’s still intimidating while making sure he doesn’t poison the tomato plants.”
Perona blinked like she’d been seismically cursed and floated off in a swirl of ghostly indignation, trailing glitter and muttered complaints about domestic delusions and soil pH. You watched her disappear around the corner of the east tower with a fond shake of your head.
Later, as the sky slipped from rose to ink and the ghosts stopped glowing in the windows, Mihawk joined you on the porch.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just lowered himself onto the bench beside you, movements quiet and fluid, like a man who no longer needed to announce his presence to be known.
“You didn’t kill Shanks,” you said after a moment. “He called me to brag.”
“He’s difficult to kill.” Mihawk leaned back, resting an arm on the railing, to encircle you. “And I lost interest.”
You hummed, swirling your wine in its glass, watching the way the deep red clung to the crystal before falling in slow, lazy ribbons. “So I assume you came back because last year’s vintage is almost ready.”
Mihawk sat still beside you, his posture carved from stillness, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the candlelit terrace and the dark sprawl of the vineyard below. His silence stretched, not tense but deliberate, as if he were weighing the shape of his thoughts before allowing them to leave his mouth.
Then, at last, he spoke. “The World Government has taken a keen interest in a pirate crew called the Straw Hats.”
That surprised you. He rarely brought up politics unless it directly interfered with his peace. The nonsense the World Government sent his way was typically met with nothing more than disinterest and a long sigh.
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Straw Hats? Did you not mention them several months ago, after you went to the East Blue?”
He gave a brief nod. “They are the reason Perona was swept here. That crew crossed Moria in Thriller Bark and bested him. Bartholomew Kuma was sent to clean up the mess, and used his devil fruit to send them skywards. Hence, our newest tenant.”
You blinked, the name catching on your tongue.
“Well that does explain a few things.”
Mihawk paused. And you turned towards him, knowing he was going to say something he wouldn’t enjoy.
His eyes were unreadable, but there was a faint tension in the lines around his mouth. “It means I may need to leave again soon.”
Then, softly, you asked the only thing that really mattered. You leaned into him, burying your face in his throat.
“Will you come back as soon as you can?”
His breath shifted, barely audible, and his eyes finally turned toward you. For a moment, the storm in him calmed.
“I always will.”
And that was it.
He sat beside you, close enough that your arm brushed his every time you raised your cup. Close enough to hear the small, relieved breath you let out without realizing.
Neither of you said anything more.
The moon climbed above the hills, casting silver light across the vineyard. The breeze pulled gently at the vines. Somewhere above, a ghost sighed theatrically and slammed a tower window shut.
You sat like that until the stars scattered overhead.
The second unexpected visitor arrived during bottling week; a time so sacred that even chaos had to wear an apron, carry a ladle, and contribute at least one barrel of sweat equity to be allowed within a hundred feet of the cellar.
As expected, Mihawk was absent. The World Government had dragged him out to sea again over what he casually described as “a hissy fit.”
You were elbow-deep in grape pulp when it happened. Hair pinned up. Sleeves rolled. Hands stained purple to the wrist. The sun was hot, the air thick with crushed fruit and discipline.
The mandrills shrieked.
Not the usual “Rude Bastard stole the good rock” sort of squabble. No, this was the kind of shrieking that meant someone had crossed the islands less friendly denizens. And they were about to regret it.
You barely had time to wipe your hands when the front gate crashed open.
A very roughed-up young man stumbled through like the opening act of a cautionary tale. Green-haired. Tall. Broad across the shoulders. Bleeding from three very specific places and growling like a wild animal forced to attend a poetry recital.
You stared at him for a long moment.
“…You’re not Perona.”
He squinted at you, eyes sharp beneath the furrow of his brow.
“Where am I?”
“Kuraigana. Apparently the newest stop on the Bartholomew Kuma time-out tour.”
He looked at you like you’d just pulled a rabbit out of your sleeve.
Your gaze dropped to the three swords at his waist, then back up to the scowl carved into his face. The man radiated the kind of confusion that came with waking up in a place you definitely hadn’t meant to be.
“Pirate?” you asked, already knowing the answer.
“Straw Hat,” he grunted. Nothing more.
Of course he was.
A rock whistled past his head, narrowly missing his temple.
Then came the real mandrills.
Not the semi-domesticated ones who lounged in the courtyard sipping tea and occasionally critiqued table manners. No, these were the forest dwellers. The untamed. The ancient. They wore moss like armor and ruled themselves with snarls and a social structure based entirely on who had the biggest stick. Even Mihawk watched them with a wary eye (for your sake), and occasionally sparred with them to assert dominance.
They took one look at Zoro and hated him on sight.
“What the hell?!”
“They think you’re a threat,” you said, arms crossed.
“I’m not here for them. I’ve got to get back to Sabaody.”
“Mmm,” you hummed, watching as one of the mandrills began dragging an enormous bone club toward him. “Didn’t bring tribute. Didn’t announce yourself. Didn’t take your boots off. Mihawk will be displeased.”
“This is his place?” Zoro scowled. “You his housekeeper or something?”
The entire courtyard froze.
The tea-drinking mandrills gasped in unison. One dropped a biscotti. Another slowly tilted his porcelain cup until the tea spilled out in protest.
You smiled. Slowly. Patiently. Like a cat deciding whether to pounce or go back to sleep.
“No,” you said. “I’m his wife.”
Zoro went still. “…Wait. What.”
The mandrills on the garden wall stood at attention. Judgment was swift. And dramatic.
One held up a chalkboard that had not existed ten seconds earlier: Guest did not even bow.
Another flashed a hand-painted scorecard. Etiquette: 0/10. Fashion: Bandana? Really? Service to Mistress: Offensive.
Zoro’s hand went to his sword. “I’m not afraid of overgrown baboons.”
From the rooftop came a sharp clack.
Rude Bastard sat perched like a god of refined vengeance, paws slapping together in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The countdown had begun.
You gestured lazily. “You could fight them. But the cultured ones? They won’t lift a finger. They’ll just shame you into the dirt.”
Zoro hesitated. The mandrills inched closer.
One held up a vintage wine corkscrew like a judge about to deliver a sentence. Another sniffed the air, gagged dramatically, and scribbled on a second chalkboard. No scent of rosewood or remorse.
“This place is cursed,” Zoro muttered.
“No,” you said, already turning toward the cellar. “It’s curated.”
Eventually, with your intervention (and the offer of three dried apricots, one smoked sausage, and half a baguette), the forest mandrills retreated. The cultured ones gave him a single begrudging nod of tolerance, mostly out of respect for you.
Zoro, now bruised, insulted, and visibly unsure if he had wandered into a dojo or a vineyard-themed fever dream, sat on the porch beside you.
He nursed a scraped knuckle and muttered, “So… he really married someone.”
“He did,” you said, sipping your wine. “And you owe her an explanation, a bow, and a fruit basket for the Mandrills.”
He made a noise of protest.
Then glanced at the mandrills, who were watching him with the air of disappointed librarians.
“…Do they like swordplay?”
“They prefer aged cheeses and classical music,” you said without missing a beat, “but it’s a start.”
Zoro groaned and slouched against the wall.
Mihawk returned to his castle a couple of days later.
The wind was at his back, the scent of salt and storm still clinging to his cloak. His boots whispered through the gravel path, past the sleeping vines and the wine-heavy air of late season. The torches had been doused hours ago, but the windows flickered gold.
That was the first sign that something was wrong.
The second was the laughter.
He stopped mid-step.
Laughter. Inside his house.
His eye narrowed.
Not your laugh alone. No, this was multiple voices. Loud. Happy. Comfortable.
Far too comfortable.
He stepped into the castle foyer without a sound, passing the familiar stone walls and polished tile with the silent grace of a man who had once decapitated a vice-admiral mid-sentence. He paused only once, when the noise grew clearer.
Someone was telling a story. Someone else was laughing like they belonged there.
In the sitting room, firelight spilled out across the floor.
You, seated cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by mandrills and guests like some benevolent queen of absurdity. The fire crackled warmly. A half-demolished tray of figs, cheese, and bread lay on the table. Tea steamed in mismatched porcelain.
His heart warmed without recall, flooding him with heat and longing. Unfortunately, you were not alone.
Roronoa Zoro lounged beside you like a stray beast who’d mistaken Mihawk’s home for a dojo. He had a bandage over one ear, a teacup in one hand, and an expression that hovered somewhere between drunk and offended.
Perona had claimed the fainting couch, curled like a gothic cat draped in lace. She flipped through an issue of Maul Couture she had definitely stolen, sipping your wine and sighing at articles as if they personally failed her.
The cultured mandrills had set up folding screens. Napkin placements. They were sipping tea and holding up tiny handmade scorecards.
Rude Bastard raised a sign that read: 1.5/10 — Husband’s replacement?
Mihawk stared.
You looked up, cheeks pink with firelight, eyes bright. You smiled at the sight of him like he was not a warlord returning from a government summit, but someone who always had a seat waiting beside you.
“You’re home.”
He didn’t answer at first.
Just stepped forward, gaze sweeping across Zoro. Then Perona. Then the mandrills, who, in their defense, all looked like they had very strong opinions on etiquette.
Finally, his eyes found you again. Still smiling. Still radiant. Still entirely unbothered by the circus in your parlor.
He exhaled through his nose. Set Yoru beside the door with a loud click.
“…Apparently.”
And as he pressed his forehead to yours, skin to skin, he thought, not for the first time ‘Maybe I don’t mind’.
He didn’t. Until he did.
Not until Zoro dropped to his knees in the middle of the sitting room, bloodied but upright, swords planted before him like a knight making a vow.
“I want you to train me.”
Mihawk didn’t move.
Didn’t reach for Yoru.
Didn’t even uncross his arms.
He sat beside you on the low couch, the firelight gilding his profile, one hand resting lightly on your knee like he was prepared to defend your laughter from all interruptions, especially the loud, sword-wielding kind.
Zoro was breathing hard. Not from the climb or the bruises, but from sheer force of will holding his ribs together.
You sat still, one hand braced on the chair’s arm. You didn’t smile.
Not this time.
Because for the first time in a long while, you remembered—really remembered—what Mihawk was beneath the quiet. Beneath the warm hands and wine pours and longsuffering sighs when he found mandrills in your shared bed again.
He was a warlord. A pirate. A legend. A blade with a heartbeat.
This wasn’t your domain, and you weren’t about to insult your husband by interfering, as he did not yours.
And the boy kneeling on the ground below was asking to be forged.
Mihawk’s gaze shifted. Cool. Calculating. Winter sharp.
“You’d ask that of your enemy?” he asked, voice low.
Zoro didn’t hesitate. “You’re not my enemy right now. You’re the man I need to surpass.”
There was silence.
Then, without looking at you, Mihawk said dryly, “You’ve let in a stray.”
You blinked. “He’s not a—”
“He is. You have a soft spot for them.” he muttered, perhaps referring to himself as well.
The night continued, but Mihawk didn’t give Zoro the pleasure of a quick response. No, instead he indicated for dinner, and you were quick to divert attention, so your husband could mull things over.
Across the table, a mandrill was methodically peeling an orange while glaring at him. Beside it, another sat straight-backed with a tea napkin folded perfectly across its lap. Neither had warmed to Zoro. Not yet. Not while he kept bleeding on things and throwing off the dinner rotation.
Perona lounged nearby in a velvet chair, curled like a ghostly cat with attitude and accessories. She was painting a mandrill’s nails bright pink, humming under her breath like an aristocrat waiting for her wine. No one had invited her to dinner; she had simply arrived, announced her imminent death by starvation, and demanded food like the haunting of an abandoned ballroom.
And Mihawk?
Mihawk sat at the head of the table like a king of silence. One leg crossed. Wine in hand. Expression unreadable. His cloak was folded neatly over the back of his chair, Yoru resting within arm’s reach. He drank the wine you had harvested, bottled and spiced yourself.
He did not enjoy the taste tonight.
“This is absurd,” he murmured, not really to anyone.
The mandrill seated beside him (a particularly wise one, wearing a scarf tied like a sash) reached over and gently patted his arm in solemn agreement. The motion was graceful. Grave. Supportive.
Mihawk gave it a glare that could fell armies.
The mandrill patted again, unbothered.
You placed a fresh loaf of bread on the table, then passed Mihawk on your way back to the hearth. Your hand brushed his shoulder without thinking. A small, instinctive touch.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
The way you moved. The way you hummed old tunes from your childhood. The kerchief tied neatly over your hair. The firelight in your eyes when you told someone (anyone, even him) to take their boots off or be exiled to the cellar.
He remembered when you wouldn’t even look at him.
Now you scolded him about tracked-in mud and uneven wine pours.
“Do you plan on feeding everyone who trespasses?” he asked, voice low, as you sat beside him and wiped your hands on a cloth.
“Only the ones who don’t bleed on my garden,” you said, calm as a priestess.
“I didn’t bleed on the—” Zoro started.
You didn’t even look at him. “I checked. You’re lucky the cabbages survived.”
Zoro slumped. The mandrill beside him offered a sympathy raisin and was rebuffed.
Mihawk stared into the fire, swirling the wine again.
“This castle used to be quiet.”
“This castle used to be empty,” you replied softly.
That shut him up.
He took a sip. Still too sweet. Probably from the apricots you’d insisted on trying this year. Not bad. Just… unfamiliar. Maybe he just needed time to acclimate. It seems most of the better things in his life did.
The mandrill sniffed the cup, unimpressed.
“Children,” Mihawk muttered into the rim, “...are a curse.”
The mandrill gave another slow, understanding nod, but dinner continued.
The air buzzed, not with tension, but with life.
Zoro passed out at the dinner table with a stew roll still clenched in his hand. Perona dusted glitter into the mandrills’ fur and taught them to braid ribbons like a deranged governess. You laughed too hard over wine, sleeves rolled up, fingers smudged with flour and purpose.
Mihawk sat at the head of the table, wine untouched, watching it unfold.
The swordsman, the ghost, the animals, the kitchen-turned-orphanage and most importantly, you.
You glowed with the attention.
Later, you brushed past him on your way to clear the plates, humming a song he didn’t recognize, something from the South Blue, something old and soft, and he stared into his cup like it had betrayed him.
“This is dangerous territory,” he muttered under his breath again.
Zoro groaned, staggered, and kept his eyes on you with something disturbingly close to admiration, after getting a taste of your wine.
Mihawk grunted, much like a territorial mandrill.
Then louder, with the slow, exasperated clarity of a man too old to be collecting dramatic teenagers: “Mandrills. Escort the newest guest to the training wing before he bleeds on my grapevines.”
Two mandrills emerged from the shadows like polite bodyguards, hauling Zoro to his feet with the tenderness of someone moving sacks of potatoes during a thunderstorm.
He groaned, staggered, and kept his eyes on Mihawk with something disturbingly close to admiration.
You rushed after him, already reaching for bandages, muttering, “I swear, if he stains the good floor I will soak his bandana in vinegar—”
Mihawk watched it all with arms folded, the picture of regal inconvenience.
Later, after dinner was cleared and the kitchen scrubbed, Zoro was dragged off by two mandrills to the old garden shed-turned-guest room. He screamed faintly into the night about being banished to a cabbage dungeon. Perona drifted away with her wine, glittering faintly under the hallway sconces. The mandrills had retired to their separate wings, snuggled under blankets they definitely stole from the linen closet.
Mihawk remained at the table.
You reentered the room with your apron tied back and sleeves rolled up, blinking when you saw him still seated.
“You’re still here?”
“I live here,” he replied flatly.
You smiled as you began gathering the empty cups. “I thought you’d walk in, see them, and vanish.”
His frown deepened, just slightly.
“Not even a pack of teenagers could part me from you,” he said evenly.
You blushed. That did something strange to your stomach.
“Well,” you muttered, suddenly aware of how warm your neck and chest felt, “you used to be scarier.”
He raised a brow. “I’m still the world’s greatest swordsman.”
You didn’t flinch. “And I’m the woman who taught a troop of mandrills to sort grapes by sugar content. Don’t test me.”
He didn’t smile. Not quite. But something in his gaze softened. He studied you longer than necessary. The fall of your hair. The curl of steam from your teacup. The faint blush from heat and laughter still on your cheeks.
In the distance, Zoro howled.
“WHERE THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO SLEEP—THIS ISN’T EVEN A BED—”
Mihawk closed his eyes. “I should’ve killed him.”
You chuckled, brushing past him again. Your shoulder grazed his in passing, just enough to ground him in that moment.
Just enough to remind him that the woman now haunting his castle had quietly become the center of it.
Later, after helping you cleanup dinner, Mihawk sat on the edge of your bed, cloak half-fallen from his shoulders, shirt unbuttoned just enough to be dangerous. The moonlight cut across his profile as he stared forward, equal parts brooding and baffled.
You moved beside him, towel in hand, drying your hair from the bath.
“I know they’re a handful.”
“They’re squatters,” he muttered.
“They’re friends.”
“Uninvited.”
“Fun.”
You placed a kiss on his bare neck.
He looked at you then.
Your hair still damp, the towel slipping from one shoulder. Your skin warm from the bath. Calm. Content. Unshaken.
You looked like trouble.
Like home.
He leaned back against the headboard, arms folded. Voice low and dry.
“You’re making me soft.”
You smirked. Kissed the underside of his jaw with a slow, unhurried affection.
“No,” you whispered, “I’m reminding you you’ve married a human wife.”
He didn’t respond with words. Just exhaled, slow and deep, and pulled you into his lap, hands resting on your hips like they belonged there.
And that’s, more or less, how you took in two teenagers.
This was not what Zoro signed up for.
He just wanted to become the world’s greatest swordsman. Get back to Saboady.
Mihawk just wanted his damn house back.
It was an unfortunate conflict of interest.
The training itself? Brutal. As expected. Mihawk didn’t pull punches, didn’t tolerate excuses, and didn’t believe in words like “rest” or “hydration.” Zoro had bled on four types of stone flooring before the first week was out.
He could handle that.
What he couldn’t handle was you.
You, the wife Mihawk apparently kidnapped. You, who somehow lived in a haunted, crumbling castle filled with mandrills and still managed to keep the books balanced and the wine flowing. You, who had once stormed out during an argument about barrel placement, thrown a grape cluster at a ghost, and become the unintentional heart of the castle.
Zoro began to notice the signs within a week.
Mihawk didn’t follow you exactly. It was subtler than that. But wherever you went, he was somehow already there. Lurking near a tool rack you hadn’t touched. Offering you water before you asked. Handing you a pair of gloves like a gothic butler possessed by romance.
Zoro thought it was coincidence.
Until one day, you rubbed your lower back with a tired sigh, and Mihawk appeared out of thin air holding a cushion.
“Sit,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You must take care of your core.”
Your core.
Zoro froze, sword mid-air, a slow sense of dread spreading through his body like mold.
Mihawk wasn’t just lurking.
He was a hopeless romantic.
Not obviously, of course. There were no announcements. No kisses in front of guests. Not even accidental hand-holding.
But Zoro had eyes.
Mihawk had entered the Territorial Arc.
It was like watching a murder of crows attempt courtship through tool assistance and stern glances.
Perona, ever the voice of chaotic reason, floated into the kitchen one morning with a ghost plush in her arms and said, “He’s nesting. Like a vampire chicken with boundary issues.”
You nearly dropped the flour sack. Zoro dropped a spoon. Mihawk didn’t even flinch.
But you didn’t grumble much about your new children. They were mostly self-sufficient and you were positive that one upset word from you would lead both of them being punted to the nearest sea. And you were busy.
You had mandrills to discipline. Bottles to cork. Mice in the flour bin. Guests in the wine cellar. And a husband who kept appearing behind you to say things like, “Careful. The stones are uneven. You could fall.”
Once, Zoro passed you in the vineyard and overheard you mutter, “He was less intense when we tried to kill each other.”
Zoro’s irritation with Mihawk didn’t end with the whole romance situation.
“You’re not even training me!” Zoro shouted from the courtyard, sweat clinging to his arms as he dodged a spear swing. One of the elder mandrills snarled and mirrored his footwork with infuriating precision.
“If they can’t kill you, you’re improving.” Mihawk said, from the shaded veranda, reclined with a chilled glass of wine and the dead-eyed stare of a man who had once sailed through a hurricane just to avoid a dinner party.
Zoro stumbled as a second mandrill tackled him. He kicked it off with a growl. “You’re lazy!”
“I’m busy,” Mihawk said smoothly, though his attention had long drifted.
You stood barefoot in the garden. Hair pinned up. Neck exposed. Humming as you tied up blooming vines with careful fingers. There was dirt on your knees. A smudge on your cheek. You were glowing like some ancient fertility goddess and looking, in Mihawk’s very objective opinion, like the exact opposite of self-restraint.
Zoro followed his gaze.
Then made the fatal mistake of opening his mouth.
“Oh. Ew.”
Mihawk’s head snapped toward him like a weapon cocked.
Zoro raised his hands, already backpedaling. “I didn’t mean—! I mean, she’s pretty, but you’re, like... old. It’s weird.”
“You’re still bleeding from the last time you spoke out of turn,” Mihawk said calmly. “Shall I aim more precisely?”
“I should’ve known!” Zoro paced, gesturing wildly. “You only get this mad when someone spills your wine or touches your sword—and she’s both! Metaphorically. Or maybe not. Honestly, I don’t want to know.”
“I will murder you.”
“Yeah, yeah. After you finish composting the basil and pining like a Victorian widow.”
Mihawk stood, deadly calm. “Mandrills. Kill him.”
From the nearby tree four mandrills, each wearing a different sash and far too invested in the drama, nodded solemnly and began chucking lemons.
“Wait—*OW—*these aren’t fresh! I’m telling—” Zoro yelped, dodging citrus.
From the vineyard, you peeked in, eyes wide, apron still tied, a basket of grapes in your arms.
“…What’s happening?”
Zoro, ducking under a flying leek, shouted, “Your husband’s gone mad—!”
You blinked. Mihawk looked like he might combust.
“Zoro,” Mihawk said tightly, brushing a leaf off his shoulder, “I swear on every grape in this godforsaken garden—”
“You’re not mad because I’m wrong,” Zoro cackled, “you’re mad because I’m right!”
A mandrill nailed him in the ribs with a turnip.
You stared at Mihawk, cheeks warm. “Are you… actually mad?”
Mihawk scowled, straightened his coat, and muttered, “Only that I have to share your attention, my love.”
You blinked. The basket nearly slipped from your fingers.
Zoro, face down in the dirt beneath a dogpile of enthusiastic mandrills, gave a weak thumbs-up.
Later, in the parlor-turned-cursed-Bed Bath & Beyond, Perona floated midair with a lace swatch in her teeth.
“She’s going to be pregnant by spring,” she muttered around it, pinning up new curtains. Again.
Zoro, dragging a limping mandrill back from battle, groaned. “Not if we don’t leave.”
Perona gaped like a ghostly sack of realization. Her eyes were wide, her expression blank with horror.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “That’s why he wants us gone.”
She flopped onto a rug with the grace of a falling curtain. “He wants to impregnate his wife.”
Zoro wrinkled his nose. “They’re married and still haven’t done it?”
“Of course they do,” she huffed, flicking a ghost at him without looking. “Just… not as much since he got back. The ghost told me. That’s his only fear. That he’ll never get more alone time with her.”
A long, uncomfortable silence settled between them.
“Are all adults this broken?” Perona finally asked.
“Yes,” Zoro groaned, rubbing his face. “Especially swordsmen.”
That night, Mihawk poured wine into two glasses with slow, deliberate calm. The kind of calm a man achieves only by suppressing the desire to set someone’s sword on fire.
Behind them, the mandrills were quietly constructing a bassinet in the hallway using a barrel and stolen scarves.
“They’re making bets,” you said, sipping your wine. “On when I’ll be fat with your heir.”
“I’ll kill them,” Mihawk muttered. Then paused as you gave him a grin. “...After the harvest.”
Zoro had been here all of two months and had already eaten three years worth of smoked meat, claimed a corner of the training grounds, and, worst of all, started calling you ‘Lady Mihawk’ in a vaguely deferential, wildly irritating tone.
Perona had moved on and conquered the south wing. She was making lace doilies now.
From the window, Mihawk watched as you laughed at something Zoro said out in the vineyard. Your sleeves were rolled to the elbows, your hands stained purple from crushed grapes, your kerchief swinging as you turned to flick water at him. Zoro ducked, too slow. It hit him square in the face. He laughed. You grinned.
Something in Mihawk’s chest shifted. No. Snapped.
It was absurd. Unreasonable. Infuriating.
He was the one who had kidnapped you. Married you. Watched you bleed into his soil and talk to vines like they could hear you. He had brought you steel and seed and silence. You were the one who made it into something else, something living.
You made his food edible. You made his home bearable. You tucked yourself into his bed like you had always belonged there.
And now some green-haired brat was in his vineyard?
Training with his mandrills?
Laughing with his wife?
Later that day, he stood at the edge of the garden, arms crossed, glowering like a storm with legs. You emerged from the shed, humming, a basket resting on your hip. You didn’t even notice the tension radiating off him.
“Why are you standing there like a gargoyle?” you asked, brushing past him.
His voice was quiet, lethal. “You’re spending a great deal of time with the boy.”
You blinked. “Zoro? He’s hardly a boy—”
“He’s half-feral and doesn’t wash his hands.”
You paused. “…True.”
You went back to picking herbs.
“He bleeds on everything.”
“Also true.”
“And he speaks to you too much.”
You stopped again. Slower this time.
“…Are you jealous?”
Mihawk’s eyes sharpened, like the question itself was a blade being drawn in the wrong room.
“I do not share what is mine.”
Your head tilted, brow lifting as you turned to him fully. “Am I… an object?”
“No.” He stepped closer. Deliberate. Measured. “You are my wife.”
“Oh,” you said, voice dry. “Didn’t realize it meant I couldn’t talk to children.”
His gaze dropped to your hands, then to your mouth. You weren’t smiling. Not quite. But your eyes sparkled with challenge, and your fingers trembled just enough to betray you.
You knew exactly what you were doing.
And he liked it.
Far too much.
He reached out, took the basket gently from your hands, and set it aside. Then he stepped in close, far closer than he ever did when company was around. His voice dropped, warm and dangerous.
“I do not share my wine. I do not share my swords. And I do not share my wife.”
Your breath caught.
“You don't," you whispered. “I am yours alone. So stop acting like you want to throw swords every time I am kind to others.”
He stared at you. Then he kissed you. Not soft. Not sweet. A claim. A reminder. A surrender.
That night, Zoro returned to the castle limping, sporting a black eye and followed by three mandrills who looked equally wrecked.
Perona met him at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, expression gleaming.
“What the hell happened to you?”
Zoro groaned. “Training.”
Perona snorted and gestured toward the hallway. “You’re being too friendly with his wife, you idiot.”
Zoro paused. “The wine woman?”
She gave him a long look.
And high above, in the glow of an open window, Mihawk sat beside you; your legs tucked beneath you, a blanket over both your shoulders, a glass of wine warming in your hand.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.
He reached for your hand. Twined your fingers with his.
“Take him seriously, and he’ll leave sooner.” You suggested, with a kiss.
“Humph.” He snorted. “You wish me to train my own replacement?”
You chuckled.
“No man or swordsman could ever replace you, my love.” As if to punctuate this point, you leaned in and kissed his chin, long and slow.
The next morning, Zoro discovered what actual training looked like. Mihawk was standing over him, correcting his grip instead of lounging with a glass of wine while a mandrill tried to pick his pocket.
He was also banned from the garden, the cellar, and the west wing—under strict threat of death.
He opened his mouth to protest.
Mihawk unsheathed his sword by a fraction.
Zoro immediately closed his mouth.
“You may be here to become a competent swordsman,” Mihawk said coolly, “but I am here solely to be rid of you and to protect my wife from her own gentle nature. And to eliminate the nuisances plaguing my bedroom.”
Zoro blinked. “That is… too much information.”
From the vineyard, your voice rang out sweetly. “Zoro! Want to help me trellis the grapes?”
Mihawk’s eye twitched. Barely.
Zoro hesitated. Looked at Mihawk. Looked at you.
“…No, I’m good.”
Smart boy.
Every morning began with Zoro training at a brutal pace while Mihawk observed like a statue carved from menace and judgment. Occasionally, he offered corrections. Mostly, he just stood there, arms crossed, wondering how long it had been since you had smiled at him instead of the sweaty green-haired nuisance who kept complimenting your miso stew like it was divine revelation.
It didn’t help that you laughed. Not the polite kind either; the real, unguarded kind. The kind Mihawk privately hoarded like treasure.
Perona, never helpful, leaned toward you one afternoon during tea and whispered with grim sincerity, “Your dragon-husband grumpier than usual.”
You, covered in flour and chasing a mandrill away from the butter, blinked. “Is he? I thought this was... standard behavior.”
“He’s nice to you. But to Zoro—,” she said solemnly. “This is— ‘I’m spending time with a sweaty swordsman instead of my hot wine-making wife’—Mihawk.”
Your spoon clattered to the floor. “Perona!”
“Which is why—” Perona smirked. “I’ve brought suggestions.”
Zoro, half-asleep by the hearth, cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it.
“I—what?” you sputtered.
“Because,” she went on, as if discussing the weather, “I offered you herbs. Good ones. Ancient, time-tested, vaguely cursed. And you said they smelled like dead lilacs.”
“They did!” you hissed. “They smelled like a funeral inside a grandmother’s drawer!”
Zoro made a low noise like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
Perona only sipped her tea. “Suit yourself. Just don’t start crying when your period ghosts come for revenge.”
“My what—”
Zoro coughed. “She’s joking.”
“I’m not.”
You stared at both of them. Perona floated. Zoro closed his eyes like this wasn’t his problem. Somewhere in the rafters, a mandrill dropped a bone with perfect comedic timing.
You pressed your hands to your face. You had survived fire, fury, exile, and Mihawk. Just not well-meaning teenagers.
Things escalated.
Suddenly there were rules.
Unspoken rules.
A designated “quiet hour” enforced by one of the mandrills wearing a little bell. No interruptions after dinner unless the house was on fire or a sword impaled someone important.
Perona started hosting support groups for ghosts in the herb garden. Zoro joined twice.
Mihawk had also started calling you ‘my wife’. Not sweetly. Not casually.
With purpose.
With intensity.
Dinner had ended late, long after the candles had burned down to little wax stumps and the wine had gone from celebratory to sleepy. The great hall was quiet now, dimly lit and heavy with the scent of garlic, smoke, and salted air drifting in through the open windows. Crickets chirped from somewhere beyond the grape vines, and the fireplace crackled like it was politely trying to stay awake.
Mihawk, seated across from you, moved with the energy of a man who had plans.
Not vague intentions. Not wishful thinking. Plans.
You, in contrast, only used the words “my husband” when he carried something heavy, dispatched a rat in the pantry, or did something absurdly hot while pretending it was a chore. You said it like a curse. He received it like a benediction.
And occasionally, in moments like this, he declared such plans aloud. Boldly. Calmly. While a half-dead Zoro sat nearby, trying to become one with the chair and will his ears to stop existing.
“When they are gone, I’m going to make love to you hourly,” Mihawk said, pouring himself more wine. “And without interruption.”
You blinked at him. “You’re serious?”
He looked at you over the rim of his glass, as calm and composed as ever. His gaze was sharp. Cool. Focused.
“I find I’m tired of patience.”
Your breath caught. Just slightly. You stared at him. Then at your half-full glass. Then back at him again.
“Oh.”
He set his cup down and reached for your hand across the table. He held it carefully. Like it was something sacred. Like you might break if he pressed too hard.
“And your idiot guests,” he added, voice dropping lower, “are in my way.”
“They’re my only friends.”
“They’re delays.”
“They’re kids, and I like them,” you laughed, trying to wave the heat off your cheeks. “So what—you want them gone? Just like that? I’ll be sad.”
Mihawk smiled.
Not a smirk. Not a dry quirk of the lips. A real smile.
Across behind the door, Zoro moved like a ghost. He stood silently, face unreadable, then turned and walked out of the hall without a word.
He found Perona slumped in the corridor with a plate of sugared plums and dropped beside her like he had aged fifty years in five minutes.
“I hate it here,” he muttered.
Perona chewed slowly. “What happened?”
He stared ahead, unblinking. “I saw him smile.”
She nearly dropped her plum.
“Oh god. You heard them flirt, didn’t you?”
“I heard everything.”
Perona slowly pushed the plate toward him in solidarity. He accepted it with the look of a man who had survived war.
You tried to explain later, bless you, as if any amount of words could soften the situation.
“He’s… intense,” you said carefully, adjusting the grape baskets for the third time. “The warlord part doesn’t shut off. I think he’s trying to build a legacy.”
Zoro stared at you, utterly deadpan. “He wants a baby.”
“He wants peace,” you muttered, brushing off a leaf. “Maybe a vineyard army.”
From across the hall, Mihawk’s voice echoed, smooth and certain. “Seven children would be ideal.”
You froze. Zoro blinked twice.
Perona floated past holding a dead flower crown. Without missing a beat, she pointed at Mihawk and said, “I will hex your loins,” then disappeared into the pantry like that counted as a formal curse.
And somehow, impossibly, it all functioned.
Zoro trained. The mandrills judged. The ghosts held weekly tea parties with invisible guests and no chairs. You survived. Mihawk schemed.
Sometimes he would vanish for hours, only to return covered in dirt with gardening tools or blueprints he claimed were for “better vine symmetry.”
No one believed him.
Not even the ghosts.
And so the strange little kingdom of Castle Dracule rolled on; chaotic, haunted, wildly inappropriate, and somehow home.
Zoro never said it aloud.
But as he blocked another swing from Mihawk’s blade and caught the glint in the man’s eye as you walked past in your vineyard apron, Zoro understood one thing deep in his bones.
Dracule Mihawk was not just the world’s greatest swordsman.
He was a very determined husband.
Half a very frustrating month later, Mihawk and Zoro were still sparring.
Mihawk sneezed mid-parry. Zoro lunged immediately, misreading the moment as an opportunity. He was rewarded with a swift, contemptuous disarm that sent him flat to the ground.
“I don’t recall saying attack,” Mihawk said coldly.
Zoro sat up, spitting grass. “What the hell’s wrong with you today? You’re distracted.”
“I’m training you,” Mihawk replied, blade already sheathed, “not babysitting your delusions.”
Zoro squinted at him—too perceptive for Mihawk’s liking. “...You want us to leave, don’t you?”
Mihawk didn’t blink. “You’ve overstayed the concept of welcome.”
Zoro raised a brow. “Is this about your wife?”
The pause was long. Dangerous.
“It’s about peace,” Mihawk said at last, voice perfectly even. “And not tripping over ghosts and ambition every time I go to the cellar.”
“You’re jealous.”
“I’m married,” Mihawk snapped. “And I’d like to stay that way.”
Perona floated by like a death omen wrapped in pink and lace. “Just say you want alone time.”
Mihawk said nothing.
But the next morning, Zoro’s training ended abruptly.
One moment, he was mid-swing, drenched in sweat, focused on the distant target tree. The next, Mihawk appeared behind him in absolute silence and handed him a parcel wrapped in oilcloth.
He pointed toward the forest path without a word, the morning mist curling around his boots like smoke around a blade. His voice, when it came, was calm and final.
“Your next challenge is survival. If you reach the coast alive, you may return.”
Zoro stared at him. “What?”
Mihawk met his gaze with all the mercy of a marble statue.
“You have ten seconds before I release the mandrills.”
Zoro opened the parcel. Inside was dried meat, a flask, and what looked like a very judgmental compass.
“Is this because of last night?”
“I require privacy,” Mihawk replied. “And time.”
Zoro’s eye twitched. “What if I get lost?”
“Then the mandrills will raise you.”
“This is unfair—“
Mihawk did not answer. He turned away and began adjusting his gloves with the air of a man preparing for a duel, not a domestic morning.
Zoro glanced toward the tree line. Something moved. It was large. It was fast.
He sprinted.
Behind him, faintly, the mandrills gave chase.
Perona followed, waving a ghost plush in farewell. “Good luck with your sulking husband!”
From the porch, you sipped your tea and winced. “You didn’t have to actually exile him.”
Mihawk nodded, satisfied. “He will return stronger. And quieter.”
You looked up from your tea, smiling faintly. “Good. I can finally start cleaning the guest wing.”
He stared at you.
You stared back, confused but holding your ground.
Then, very slowly, he raised one brow.
You didn’t even make it to the door.
You turned to fetch the mop, your mind already shifting to chores, but a hand caught your wrist with gentle precision.
“Mihawk?” you asked, startled. “I just need to clean the—”
“No,” he said.
There was no force behind it. No irritation. Just a quiet, final word from a man who had waited long enough and had no intention of waiting another moment.
“But the sheets,” you tried, flustered. “And the hallway. And—”
“You’ve scrubbed for weeks,” he said softly. “You’ve cooked. You’ve hosted. You’ve smiled for a swordsman who wasn’t me.”
Your lips parted, breath caught somewhere in your throat, but before you could answer, the world shifted.
He pulled you gently toward the steps, one hand at your back, the other still wrapped around your wrist. The stone floor faded beneath your feet, the open windows and the scent of crushed grapes and salt air slipping into the background. Sunlight flickered through the vines as you moved, half-stumbling, half-guided.
“Dracule—wait. Let me change—”
“You look resplendent.”
“I’m covered in juice.”
“I’ve missed the smell.”
Your heart thundered, stumbling along with your feet as you tried to process the shift. One moment you were thinking about hallway dust, the next you were being led into something far more dangerous than spilled wine.
He opened the bedroom door with one hand. Closed it behind you with the other. Before you could even finish a sentence, your back hit the wood and he met you there, eyes locked, breath steady, intent unmistakable.
“You’re not cleaning,” he said, voice low and smooth, like velvet pulled tight over a blade. “You’re not hiding behind chores. You’re mine. And we have wasted enough time.”
Your breath caught, words stalling in your throat. “W-what about—”
“Zoro’s gone on a training exercise."
“Perona?”
“Banished with him.”
You stared at him, wide-eyed. He stared back, utterly unshaken.
“And the ghosts?”
“They know better.”
Then he kissed you.
No hesitation. No slow build. No interruptions. No distractions. Just the taste of wine, the smell of crushed grapes, and the quiet certainty that the world’s most dangerous man had waited long enough.
When Zoro and Perona returned, dripping with sea spray and locked in a heated debate over whether crab traps needed to face north or west during high tide, Mihawk was already in the garden.
Whistling.
Zoro stopped mid-step, one foot squishing into the mud.
"Is he making happy sounds?" he asked, frowning like he’d just spotted a cursed sword in a toy shop.
Perona lowered her parasol slowly, eyes narrowing. "Oh no. He’s in a good mood. Something’s wrong."
The mandrills didn’t even blink at their arrival. One elder, perched like judgment itself on a fencepost, lobbed a rotting mango at Zoro’s foot in protest. It wasn’t aimed to hit. Just close enough to send a message.
Zoro stepped around it with care, watching Mihawk from the corner of his eye. The swordsman stood at the far edge of the vineyard, clipping grapevines with methodical precision. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow, his hat pushed back just enough to let the sun warm his brow. He nodded at Zoro.
Zoro stared. "...Hi?"
"Welcome back," Mihawk said, still focused on his work. "Don’t touch my wine."
Zoro blinked. "Okay…"
Then he looked toward the house and spotted a familiar figure at the window. You appeared, humming quietly, cheeks flushed and hair tousled like you had been busy with something far from respectable. You waved. Mihawk glanced back at you for the briefest second, and you immediately vanished behind the curtains.
Zoro’s eyes returned to Mihawk. Then to the vines. Then back again.
"You two… finally—"
"Stay out of my business," Mihawk said without missing a beat.
Zoro took that as confirmation and retreated.
Perona, however, floated straight into the house, rummaged through a drawer, and returned with a clipboard.
"Alright," she said, ticking a box that did not exist. "Every Friday afternoon from now on, we disappear. No chores. No swords. No screaming ghosts. It's official."
Mihawk lifted a brow. "And you’re doing this because?"
"Because watching you orbit each other like confused sea kings during mating season was exhausting. And because she makes cinnamon bread when she’s happy."
Zoro nodded. "Objectivly fair."
Mihawk did not object. He returned to tending his vines like a man who had successfully conquered both war and wedlock and now only feared surprise visitors.
Every weekend afterward, you disappeared from the cleaning schedule, and the mandrills turned into a defensive perimeter around the east wing. They took their new job seriously. One ghost attempted to float through the bedroom wall and emerged dazed, with half of its ectoplasm flattened.
The castle schedule was updated that evening with grim finality, carved in dark ink and perfect calligraphy, then nailed to the main hall’s stone wall with a dagger that had once belonged to a pirate emperor.
CASTLE MIHAWK – NOTICE OF PRIVATE HOURS
Fridays: From Sunset Until Sunrise
The West Wing is closed to all residents, guests, animals, spirits, and idiots. Anyone found loitering will be reassigned to vinegar duty in the vineyard.
Do not ask what is happening. Do not make jokes about what is happening. Assume death awaits you beyond the threshold.
By Order of: Dracule Mihawk, Head of House and Swordmaster
Endorsed (begrudgingly): Lady Mihawk, Vintner and Wine Tyrant, Beloved and Heart of the Home.
Zoro, reading it aloud with one brow raised, muttered, "You really made a law so you could get laid."
"I am preserving the structure and sanctity of my household," Mihawk replied, calm and dignified as he poured himself tea with the focus of a man who had survived decades of war only to be undone by noise, ghosts, and dinner interruptions.
You entered with a stack of clean linens, paused at the doorway, and caught just enough to turn pink.
Perona tilted her head, ghost plush under one arm. "He’s getting testy. We should mess with him."
"Do not," Mihawk said without even glancing up.
And that was that.
Mihawk was obeyed with unsettling discipline. The ghosts retreated. The mandrills assembled in shifts, forming a rotating guard that posted up outside the west wing like small, furry sentinels. One particularly overzealous mandrill rolled out a faded red carpet from an unknown source. Another set out dried fruit as offerings. No one had the courage to question it.
You, mortified but secretly flattered, spent the week pretending the whole ordeal was strictly about wine cask testing. You evaluated barrels. You inventoried herbs. You made very strong tea and avoided eye contact.
But when Friday came, and the castle walls glowed with warm candlelight behind a firmly closed door, no one dared speak.
Mihawk had made himself very clear. This was his time with his wife. And for once, nothing—not swordsmen, not ghosts, not pirate captains with bad timing—would interrupt it.
Den Den Mushi Call Log: “Redhead Hour”, Featuring: One very flustered wife and one nosy Yonko with too much free time.
The Den Den Mushi on the counter blinked awake with theatrical flair, tiny snail lashes fluttering like it had just applied rouge. A moment later, Shanks’ voice came through loud and shameless.
“Darling! You're late for our scheduled slander session!”
You didn’t even look up. Ledger tucked under one arm, quill in your teeth, and a parchment full of vineyard supply estimates in your hand, you muttered around your pen, “I have a harvest to manage, your majesty of commitment issues and bad saloons. This is a supply run, not happy hour.”
“Harvest, she says.” He sounded deeply offended in that fake way only Shanks could pull off. “Mihawk didn’t tell me you were thriving—how irresponsible. How’s my favorite warlord-wife combo doing? Still pretending not to be married?”
You sighed and flipped the page. “He still hasn’t mentioned it aloud. It’s like he thinks the marriage certificate will bite him if he acknowledges it.”
“You poor, emotionally neglected thing.” Shanks’ tone shifted to the kind of mock sympathy reserved for soap operas and terminally dramatic pirates. “Would you like me to send another pretty dress and a bottle of champagne? This time I’ll include a Mihawk-shaped piñata.”
You scribbled a note about barrel wax. “Only if it growls when you hit it.”
“I’ll commission it personally. Now, more importantly—any steamy details you’d like to share? Secret rendezvous in the tool shed? A love confession disguised as a fencing critique? Did he finally kiss you like a husband and not a bounty hunter evaluating your threat level?”
You froze, very aware of the faint warmth crawling up your neck. Then you held the Den Den Mushi at arm’s length like it was contagious.
“Shanks,” you said slowly, voice dangerously calm, “I swear on every vine in the South Blue—”
“That you love talking to me?” he interrupted cheerfully. “I know. I’m the only one willing to discuss your tragic romance arc.”
A grape sailed across the room and hit the far wall with a dull splut.
“I’m ordering irrigation pipes. Not seducing Mihawk in the rose garden.”
“But have you tried seducing him in the rose garden?”
You paused. Your eyes flicked toward the margin of your parchment. With deliberate care, you scribbled: clear rose beds.
“No comment,” you muttered.
“That’s my girl.”
A faint voice echoed from his end. Benn Beckman, clearly done with this nonsense.
“Shanks, don’t encourage her. Mihawk will kill you. And then shred the Red Force. We just repainted.”
“Let him try. It’s made of joy and secrets,” Shanks replied smugly.
You sighed, leaning into the table, cheeks warm. “You’re a menace.”
“And you, Madam Mihawk, are glowing. Even your voice sounds smug. Love looks good on you.”
You tried not to smile. You really did. But your mouth had other plans.
“Shut up and send me steel trellis wire, new socks, and if you ever send me lingerie again, I’m mailing you a crate of fermented mandrill droppings.”
“Only if it comes with a handwritten love letter.”
The line clicked off before you could answer. Probably for the best.
You returned to your inventory list with your face still burning and a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. The mandrills scurried by with baskets. Somewhere upstairs, Mihawk was sharpening something. Probably a sword. Possibly a mental list of people to murder if you ever repeated that piñata idea.
But your heart was light.
And Shanks, infuriatingly, was right.
You were glowing.
The day Zoro left, the island sighed.
The mandrills ceased their theatrical death matches. No more leaping from treetops with sticks for swords, no more posturing like tiny, furious samurai. Instead, they resumed their true calling; judging things silently and stealing grapes.
The vineyard glistened in the morning dew. The ghosts were eerily quiet. The castle, long tense with the rhythm of clashing steel and half-suppressed chaos, finally… breathed.
You tied your apron with a sigh of your own, one that nearly matched the wind in the trees. There was no shouting. No sword polishing at midnight. No haunted lullabies in the herb garden. For the first time in months, the silence wasn’t punctuated by a training grunt or the dull thud of someone being hit with a mandrill-carved staff.
Peace.
And Mihawk, Dracule Mihawk; Warlord of the Sea, bane of navies, scourge of weaker men, was smiling.
Not the sharp smirk he wore when slicing someone’s pride apart. Not the wry curl of amusement he reserved for Shanks’ stupidity. No, this one was different.
This one was dangerous.
Because this one was contentment.
And worse—anticipation.
Perona had lasted another day beyond Zoro’s departure, mostly out of sheer commitment to stirring the pot. She floated through the halls offering unsolicited interior design opinions, daring Mihawk to twitch when you laughed at her, and muttering about “the spiritual audacity of this chandelier.”
Eventually, even she drifted off with a swish of her parasol and a final ominous promise to “track down Zoro before he accidentally landed in the North Pole.”
Mihawk watched her go, face unreadable.
Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and moved through the garden like something coiled finally unspooling.
He found you under the arbor, sleeves rolled, coaxing fresh grape cuttings into place. Your fingers were stained purple, hair tied up, entirely unaware of the shift in the wind.
“You’re alone now,” he said.
You didn’t look up. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a fact,” he replied.
You brushed your palms against your apron. “So you’ve successfully scared off the teenagers. Congratulations. Would you like a medal or just an awkward silence to commemorate the occasion?”
Mihawk said nothing. Instead, he crouched beside you, picked a single leaf from a young vine, and inspected it like it had insulted him.
Then he murmured, with all the gravity of a man delivering a military declaration, “Tonight, I will cook.”
You blinked. “Should I be frightened?”
He looked up. “You should be hungry.”
That evening was unnervingly calm.
There were no hauntings. No duels. No snarky pirate captains peeking in through a Den Den Mushi.
Just you, barefoot in the kitchen, watching as Mihawk rolled up his sleeves with surgical precision and prepared a dish so alarmingly competent it made you question if he was seducing you with his homemade mushroom risotto.
He cooked without a word. Only the occasional sip of wine, the click of cutlery, the rhythm of something quiet and precise. And when you finally sat to eat, he didn’t touch his food at first.
He watched you.
Devoured you with his eyes, in the most unholy, starved, unapologetic way a man could while casually sipping soup.
It was the kind of attention that made your skin warm and your fork falter.
You cleared your throat, trying to break the spell.
“So. Now that we’re back to… us. Does the Friday curfew still apply?”
Mihawk reached across the table, his movements unhurried, deliberate. He took your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if it had always belonged in his. His grip was warm, confident, with just enough pressure to make your breath catch.
Then he spoke.
His voice was low, velvet over steel, richer than wine and twice as dangerous.
“You’re my wife.”
His thumb brushed across your knuckles, slow and reverent. His eyes held yours without a flicker, dark and unwavering, like he was reading not just your face, but your soul. There was something ancient in the way he looked at you. Certain. As if the entire world had already been decided the moment you said yes to him.
“The house is ours again,” he continued, his tone softer now, almost thoughtful. “The island is quiet. The guests are gone.”
He paused, just long enough for the air to shift.
“I need to beget and train at least two children to properly protect you,” he said, like it was a perfectly logical declaration. “So they will ensure you never welcome strays in again.”
You blinked. “Two?”
“Perhaps three. I see no reason to waste a single moment.”
The statement wasn’t a suggestion. It was a vow.
You didn’t finish dinner.
He didn’t let you.
The rest of the evening blurred. Your apron was gone, your hair undone. Somewhere behind you, the cellar door creaked gently in the sea breeze, but the world had narrowed to his voice, his hands, and the hard edge of his resolve.
The curfew was enforced.
Strictly.
Because someday soon, gods help them all, Dracule Mihawk was going to be the father of your children.
And he intended to start immediately.
