1. (oenology) a hue of deep red observed in aged wines
2. (botany) reminiscent of the Vespera rubra's final bloom hue
Synopsis A shipwreck, an island of secrets, and a reluctant host. When you, a passionate naturalist, wash ashore on Kuraigana, you enter the domain of the world’s strongest swordsman. He views you as a nuisance; you view him as an hermetic enigma. But under the moonlit garnet vesper, some discoveries—and some desires—are far too dangerous to classify.
warnings: female reader; near death experience; some PTSD; (very) slow burn; forced proximity; gothic atmosphere (wouldn't call it horror); english is NOT my first language; no nsfw (at least for the time being)
warnings: female reader; near death experience; PTSD; slow burn; use of Y/N; forced proximity; gothic atmosphere; english is NOT my first language; no nsfw (at least for the time being)
Chapter Two
Your eyes slowly fluttered open. Still highly disoriented, you did exhale a sigh of relief at the realization you were safe. Mostly, at least.
In your feverish dreaming, you had been revisiting the pungent horror of the gloomy depths under your weary limbs. Of eyes not entirely human. Of impossibly curled ridges and years of lost research.
You could feel your eyeballs still burning up as your gaze focused on the dark wood coffer of the room. The detailed ornaments danced under the flickery candlelight. It was weirdly comforting, so you welcomed it and kept staring for a while, your mind both blank and overflowing at the same time.
Eventually, you noticed the light source on the bedside table. The movement of the flame lured you at first, but after some seconds it became way too bright, and you had to look away. That was followed by a few more seconds of mindlessly staring again at the ceiling.
In your state, subconsciously procrastinating the process of making sense of your situation felt incredibly right. At last some moments of peace.
That was until the sudden recollection of those apish features hit you, and made you instantly raise your head and look around the room, frantic.
After some seconds, a sigh of relief. No monkeys! Good. At least this wasn't the monkey fortress.
You took that as a fair enough start.
The truth was you weren’t conscious enough to realize the true vulnerability of your position when it wasn't in relation to those monkeys. You were fixed on them, and as long as there were no over-intelligent monkeys around, you felt quite safe. Cozy, even, in that room with the chimney and the soft bedding.
You spotted a water carafe on the bedside table and the worst kind of thirst possessed you. It provoked such anguish you actually managed to move a bit just out of sheer need, despite the pain it caused you.
As you leaned over the massive bed and extended your arm in a very pathetic way, the door to the room opened. You were startled, then frozen. Busted.
The warm shroud of the candlelight fell over his frame as he crossed the threshold. The gloom waited behind him.
When he stopped there and you locked eyes, the room grew significantly smaller. He was tall and imposing, yet he had barely made a sound as he had entered the room.
His brows furrowed slightly. He didn't seem surprised to find you there, but he certainly wasn't expecting you to be awake by the time he came back. Surprisingly tame irritation crossed his sharp features as he took in how ridiculous you looked all sprawled over that big bed trying to reach the carafe.
“Don’t.” He uttered. He didn't raise his voice to scold you, his formidable presence was enough. The “you’re still too weak” was only implied, not dignified enough for him to say it out loud.
You were still too blissfully drowsy from fever and exhaustion to feel truly disturbed by that dark haired man that now crossed the room like it had personally offended him. You also couldn't catch the way he doubted before walking closer to the bed.
He was awkward in a demure, asphyxiatingly controlled way. To him, it felt as though your mere existence, not his own internal turmoil, was the root of the problem. You were the one torturing him with your inconvenient presence, a burden he was forced to endure.
It was a convenient deception, for sure. As long as he could cast you as the source of his agitation, he didn't have to face the fact that the turmoil was entirely his own.
“Lay back” His sharp eyes once again studied your poor disposition. It felt like he was judging you down to the very marrow.
You actually just complied, failing to discern the warning in his tone. The menace a man like him represented. In your oblivious state, you rather favoured clinging to the fact of his presence on itself. You weren’t alone after that terrible shipwreck. A biting remark from that man would always be better than roaring waves, or absolute nothingness.
However, as you attempted to rest back against the pillows, a bolt of pain shook your body, and you couldn’t help letting out a feeble yelp. He only withstood your struggle for a few seconds.
Mihawk wouldn’t have it. He would rather help you efficiently for one second than having your weakness disarming him for way longer. So he simply hushed an exasperated, sharp:
“Let me.” His hands set under your arms as he positioned you. Once you were well set, he withdrew them with quick composure.
You reclined back against the bedframe and watched him handle the carafe. His hands were well groomed, somewhat pale, as he placed a glass on yours.
The water looked absolutely inviting, and when you managed to raise it, your first instinct was to down it in gulps, a little feral due to the horrible thirst you were feeling.
“Not like that.” He scolded, again, as soon as he saw you raising the glass too quickly. “Drinking in such a manner could worsen your condition.”
You couldn't catch his irritation. You were too focused on the way the flames lit his amber eyes. He didn't know how much kinder he looked in that gentle candlelight.
“... Alright.” you managed to utter, incapable of losing sight of his eyes. You slowly lifted the glass and took little sips, your arms were a bit shaky.
Mihawk was deeply unsettled by the way you kept looking at him. He told himself you just weren’t in your right mind. No one ever looked at him as if he could ever offer any kind of comfort. You were just weak. Fawning like those rabbits he sometimes hunted in the prairies to the West of the castle.
He did catch on to every detail like a conniving beast of prey. His attention could never be foreign to your soreness, your shaking. His own perceptiveness didn't protect him or aid him through the tasks. It poked at his side, demanding. A knife he turned against himself.
Your eyes, they were still very much glassy from the fever. He wanted to check your temperature again, but now that you were awake, even the mere thought of doing it felt entirely too intimate for his own peace of mind.
“You were lost at sea, if you can recall.” His voice ran deep, but never a rumble. Despite his discomfort, a certain confidence never left his tone.
The early birds were beginning to sing from their perches. The rain was now a rather quiet murmur. The sun hadn't risen yet.
You were still looking at him with that unwavering gaze, the glass now resting on your lap.
“You washed ashore.” He continued, stern. Again, you were still enough out of it not to catch on how hard it was for him to say the next words. He actually turned away as he kept talking, adjusting the curtains. “I’ve been taking care of you.”
You remained silent for a moment, as if processing what he had just said. He didn't know what to make of an unknown, fever-struck woman’s silence, so he could only wait. He doubted she had recognized him yet. That wasn’t the cause of her lack of response. She didn't seem stunned or fearful, which was what he usually got from everybody. This was different.
Your eyes set on the broad of his back as he walked now towards the chimney. He proceeded to crouch down to check on the embers and shift the logs.
Then, you said something he hadn't been expecting at all: “... Where are the monkeys?” Your voice was a thin thread of sound. It seemed so confused, even scared. “Were they real monkeys?”
Mihawk raised an eyebrow. Oh, he actually was almost amused. Had you been spooked by them?
“They found you before I did.” He was still kindling the flames, his voice monotone. “The humandrills.”
Your brows furrowed. After a beat, you replied, drowsy and weirdly offended. “Are you fucking with me?” You could sometimes be very much skeptical. “Hu-man-drill?” And you also were coming across as absolutely rude right now.
Bratty, even.
Mihawk bit back the warning that had almost gotten a hold of his tongue at your insolence.
After a long silence, he just stood up and turned towards you again.
Your gaze was still off, pupils dilated with the fever. He looked at you and told himself you weren’t behaving like a spoiled kid on purpose. The humandrills really had spooked you, and you just wanted to feel safe in your weakened state.
Meanwhile, you kept staring at him as if he had all the answers in the world.
After a while, again something unexpected. “Which species?” You uttered, very demanding for someone bedridden and still very much feverish.
Oh, his irritation grew a tad. Had he been trying to reframe your brattiness for nothing?
And you? You were still so insufferably invested in knowing that stupid fact. You were still waiting for an answer with those big eyes of yours.
“... Humandrill, just that.” He said, the outer composure never leaving him.
“But which species? They have to be one species…” You were starting to speak more weakly. He noticed you beginning to drift, and took the glass from your hands.
“Are they not described yet?” You looked up again, very confused. He was setting the carafe back up. At the ausence of an answer, you muttered again, so softly and foolishly, “Which species?”
Mihawk glared at you once more. You were very persistent. He noticed your closed fists over the covers. Were you really suffering over not knowing a taxonomic fact?
Again that vertigo in his stomach. He felt like a fool himself.
After a while, he just made it up, reluctantly choosing to entertain your drowsy wants.
“…Mandrillus gladiensis”
The truth was, he had not been able to withstand your demanding silence. Now, he was desperately hoping you would shut up soon, and go back to sleep. And it did look that way, from the way your blinking was getting slower by the second and you seemed more dense now.
You took a long minute to process it. “Ahh… right” Your face now was that of a perfectly convinced scientist. You were even nodding a little. A little smile on your lips. Completely ridiculous.
He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, half intrigued, half absolutely exasperated.
You kept muttering, unfortunately. “Because, the swords and all…” Your head had sunk completely against the pillows, your eyes closed now. “Mm….” Such a silly satisfaction crossed your expression.
Then, after a couple minutes or so, sleep had claimed you once again.
He remained silent, looking at you as you rested. Your eyelashes fanned peacefully over your reddened cheeks, your breathing now untroubled, gentle.
Mihawk felt a corrosive sense of shame at how much this situation had been draining him. The unnaturalness of maintaining that impenetrable wall of indifference while playing nurse to a stranger. It was sickening. It was hypocrisy. Ridiculous.
Was he really acting as mindlessly as he constantly proclaimed? Or had he been merely yielding to a vestigial sense of duty, some honorable sentiment he still hadn’t carved out of his chest?.
He wouldn’t confess it, not even to himself.
Now, he was once again trying hard to be fully annoyed at your feverish antics. He just sighed when he finally admitted to himself he couldn’t. Not fully, at least.
A hint of interest had started welling up in him, and he hadn't been able to stop it. He was still so weak, wasn't he? All his work, had it not been enough?
Had it all been in vain? The isolation, the detachment… yet once again his hand moved on faster than his thoughts. Now you were asleep, now it was safe to gently rest his hand on your forehead. That was the true thought he had then, the only one that could bring him to action. The one he couldn't verbalize to himself.
Self-allegedly mindless, once more, he reached for a clean cloth and the fresh water basin he had fetched earlier, and produced another cold compress for you.
You were still too warm for comfort.
For his own.
A breeze whistled across the room, inviting in the bittersweet stench of petrichor. The candles went out with a breathless whisper.
Ivory curtains fluttered in a gentle, untroubled dance, taking over the room like another living presence.
The rain had stopped.
Only big, heavy raindrops resonated against the damp soil and the rugged stone as the water methodically collected itself and ran back to its earthly mattress.
You opened your eyes slowly when the chill afternoon breeze finally reached you. The ceiling welcomed you again, now dim and still.
The fever had finally broken.
Faint sunlight made its way between the gloom. The sun still waited eager behind those dark clouds.
Your body felt absolutely sore. Still, you tried to move a bit, letting a slightly damp cloth fall off your head. You looked at it, not awake enough yet to process its implications.
You didn't remember much of your feverish wakings, it had felt like those easy dreams that kindle the spirit but one never remembers in the morning.
Now, the room was cold. The bedding, too heavy. Your fingertips brushed over some animal fur that had been resting near your feet. The wild softness sent shivers down your spine.
A heady, melted wax scent took over in waves, mixing with the petrichor and with the sharp ozone of the aftermath of the storm. You tried to ignore the unsettling sight of the gliding curtains.
Yet, as they swayed, you did notice one of those spiral ridges through the window. Gods. That unsightly anomaly you had witnessed when you were lost at sea.
All started coming back to you in such an asphyxiating rush. The ridges overlapped with the curled fiddleheads of your precious ferns. Flashes. The Terroir sinking, the roar of the bellows. Rich garnet meeting the silvery waves.
A firm bolt of grounding touch in the gloom, your notebooks sinking. Pools of warmest amber. Hiking in Banaro’s swamps. Hopping on the ship. Furrowed, dark brows. Driftwood. Lost research. Misshapen faces. A deep, commanding voice.
The room grew significantly colder. Your breathing, labored.
You looked down. You weren’t wearing the sleeping gown your mother had tailored with gentle hands so many years ago now.
Once again, you suddenly recalled those mandrills and performed a frantic monkey check-up across the room. One never knows.
Thankfully, still no monkeys, as in that distant dream. Alright.
Your chest heaved as you tried to reign yourself in. It wasn't just the physical pain. Not the soreness, or the stinging ulcers. The worst of it was the way you were helplessly aware you hardly had a hold over yourself.
You didn't have a solid grip on anything. All seemed to escape you. Yes, you had apparently escaped death itself, but now this unsettling unknown laid before you.
Those ridges. Those eyes.
The thirst again. Your temples pulsated. You sat on the edge of the bed and helped yourself to a couple of glasses, handling now the carafe on your own.
Afterwards, your naked feet softly brushed against the carpet as you tried to get off the bed, holding onto the dark wood headboard, the mattress itself, and anything you could get a hold of. Your knees waddled a bit as you tried to straighten yourself. You resolved on standing there for a while, hoping the pain would recede soon.
You looked down at your feet, your trembling legs, the shiver in your hands. Realizing your own weakness was slowly wrecking you, but here was no use in panicking completely. You needed to suppress that cold, coiling fear in your guts. It was true, you were in no state to fight whatever might come for you. You were trapped in that terrifying island you had seen on the horizon. Not even fleeing was an option in your current state.
But you couldn't help it. You were never good at admitting defeat, so you shook your head and simply attempted to take a few steps. However, that stubborn effort betrayed you immediately. You lost balance and had to lunge for support against a heavy bureau, sending a golden, rusty candelabrum straight to the floor.
Thankfully, only a muted thud echoed against the carpet. You spooked yourself, your breath catching in your throat as your gaze flew swiftly to the closed door, waiting for the worst.
You remained silent for several agonizing seconds, heart hammering against your ribs.
No steps could be heard. Good.
Mihawk had been resting in the adjacent meeting hall when the faint, discordant sound registered in his senses.
His eyes sharpened as he isolated the noise—clumsy, uncoordinated steps. Your stubbornness was as predictable as it was foolish. You were already attempting to walk. After a few minutes of calculated silence, he rose, deciding it was time to intervene and inspect the state of his “guest”.
He slowly opened the door.
Mihawk found you near the window, pale, looking at him with wide, fearful eyes. A thin veil of sickly light surrounded your weakened frame. You were holding on to the windowsill, poorly, your knees almost shaking. The sleeping gown was too big on you, it almost got to the floor and swallowed you up a little, the faint outline of your body visible under the old linen as the light pierced it.
You were completely silent, frozen. Not a trace of that unabashed warm gaze you had given him while feverish, asking stubbornly about the humandrills. That had vanished.
Your lucidity had finally erected the wall he had been missing. The one he had been expecting, and wishing it’d appear as soon as possible. Now, you were no longer poking at him with that raw, directed vulnerability. You were something he could manage, now that you had recoiled into yourself, pushing him out. The blur that had threatened to compromise his own boundaries was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp distance.
He caught himself wondering how much of the previous night you remembered, now that you were so attuned to your wakeful dignity.
A flicker of something… an unfamiliar, dissonant disappointment, set on his gaze only for a heartbeat before the coldness returned. He refused to name the feeling, let alone examine its roots. It was illogical to expect anything else from your return to consciousness.
You studied him from across the room, desperate to keep your trepidation contained. Trying not to give him an unnecessary idea of the extent of your fear.
Then, your gaze drifted and set on that cross behind his back. A sword? That hadn't been there before. Back then, it had all just been… warmth. It hadn't been a dream, after all. You quickly understood you just hadn't been able to assess him properly in your weakness. His eyes were now too sharp to you, his hands a potential menace. He was miles away now.
He watched your eyes set on Yoru. It was an inevitable reaction. At last a familiar foundation he could safely work from.
His deep voice quickly interrupted your train of thought. He hadn't moved from the threshold, gloom creeping behind him. His eyes were now unforgiving against the pale light.
“I assume you do not need an introduction on my behalf.” He took in your appearance again, his commanding gaze almost unbearable. Mihawk seemed irritated, or maybe absolutely exasperated. You couldn't read him properly.
You exhaled softly. Swallowed. Your eyes couldn't leave his as you answered, voice faint and wavering.
“...I do not.”
You had heard about him, of course. Who hadn't? He was the world’s best swordsman. A warlord working for the Marines. But you weren't thinking about those bleak, worldwide known facts right then.
Your mind had quickly drifted back to that first night in the Terroir’s galley. The gentle swaying of the oil lamp. Cookware clicking, soft munching. The comforting murmur of the rolling waves against the hull.
It had been quiet, not peaceful. That was clear as day. You were enjoying your rations in silence, taking in the mood of the room. The gazes were downturned. A heavy gloom set over the men. You hadn't seen them so wary and tired til that very moment.
The deckhands wouldn't dare utter the name of the first stop of the voyage. Not the island, less the customer.
That old seaman Steward’s face had crumpled with all his wrinkly years just at the thought of it. The weight of a long life at the sea’s unyielding mercy had slowly begun to fragment his lucidity.
His voice became twangy as he started swaying back and forth, murmuring mostly to himself. “His hubris goes on, unpunished. That man reached highs no living soul should’ve.”
The other sailors had looked away. This seemed like a recurring scene for them, Steward’s loomings. Some of them gulped hastily the reminding grog in their tin mugs. Others even left their tables.
“He turned his back to the cross.” Steward continued, his eyes wide and glassy. His hands shaking. “No, no, worse, he wears it now! Aye, stole it, stole it from He that watches over us.”
Another man coughed. “ ‘Tis better not to talk about him, lest our own angels flee.”
“Aye,” muttered the third mate, crossing himself. “may God keep us.”
Steward shook his head wildly, disapproving. “Nay, God himself forfeits us as we approach his lair!”
You were never one for superstition, nor faith. Yet, you had witnessed the visceral terror the mere mention of this swordsman’s reputation elicited in grown men. Could a man ever not be a man? What else could he be?
You were a woman of science, and science demanded evidence. He had touched you with hands of living, warm flesh. You did remember some of it. He had shown you mercy. Reluctant, perhaps, but mercy nonetheless.
He was no wraith, no devil, no vile, unnatural aberration. You refused to believe it.
No, no supernatural entity could ever be that conflicted. No unnatural phenomena showed itself unwilling.
A flash of light illuminated the room. Then, distant thunder. The prelude of another relentless downpour.
Mihawk was still looking at you. You seemed far away after your first exchange.
What was it, were you that scared of him?
Mihawk exhaled. He was a patient man, but he wasn't immune to the growing discomfort between you.
“Well, that being sorted.” He took a single step, just enough to claim the room fully. That brought you back entirely to the present.
You didn't flinch when he approached, you told yourself you weren't going to give it to him.
“I would like to learn more about my guest.” His tone wasn't mocking, but the hint of exasperation raised some alarms in your mind.
A long silence crept between you. You were searching inside yourself. Poking at your own guts. Looking for a tone that would be enough to keep his asphyxiating inquiry at bay.
“Name’s Y/N.” You finally uttered. A forced defiance.
Mihawk instinctively overlapped that new tone over the weak voice he had registered earlier. That voice that had begged her father for forgiveness. Or him, for taxonomic closure. He tucked it away, and wrote your name over it, like a keepsake. He couldn't tell if he was completely glad of this new development. That bugged him, again.
“I’m just a naturalist. I do not mean harm.” You kept talking. Everything you had been rehearsing in your mind was slowly leaving you. Not the defiance, but all the words.
Mihawk slowly raised an eyebrow. So, a naturalist. One of those idealists, maybe. Or a true woman of science. He could ask more about It. Later.
No, he wouldn't. Not at all.
He kept staring at you in silence.
“I was just travelling, I…” The words died as you got lost in thought. Your legs, still frail from your ordeal, finally gave out. Sliding against the stone wall, you ended up sitting on the floor, a dull ache running all over your body. The gown pooled around you. You were mortified. Ashamed of your weakness.
Mihawk followed your pitiful descent with his piercing gaze. You could only focus on your own misery.
Deep dread sat on your eyes before you wiped your face slowly with a shaking hand, refusing to meet his gaze for a minute. A big, unforgiving shroud of heavy sorrow rested over your body.
“The ship, the Florian t-triangle…” you sighed.
He didn't offer a hand. In fact, he did cherish the way you didn't look at him, neither asking for help. You still had some of your pride. To him, that was sort of a show of strength and an exercise of dignity, even when you couldn't meet his eyes.
So he simply loomed there. You almost whimpered, covering your face.
“I lost all my research—”
His eyes narrowed further with that statement. Was it that second hand embarrassment again? Or was he moved by your pain, by what you had been through? Anyway, his own weakness was again the source of his discomfort.
His voice carried through the room like sharp thunder, cutting you off.
“That’s enough.” He sounded almost on edge. Mihawk didn't want to hear another pitiful word. Or see the heartbreak in your eyes, your voice wavering. He had to first pick apart his own thoughts, trace the source of that unsettling feeling.
You couldn't help flinching at his tone, at the interruption. You couldn't avoid widening your eyes. Oh, you had just given yourself away completely. No pride could ever salvage your composure now. You were terrified he would now use your fear against you.
Yet your flinching had tasted sour on his tongue. Those weren’t the underlying notes he preferred. No, the truth was he had a taste for deeper, heavy-bodied. Not for blood-sour pain, or tangy guilt.
Mist was slowly taking over the room.The faint outline of a red crescent moon loomed over them.
His eyes darkened. He lowered his voice, but didn't fix his commanding tone.
“You must be hungry. Go back to bed.”
With that, he just left. His calm stride didn't let out a single hint of his own turmoil, nor did his face.
It was as if the room itself had been holding its breath in his presence. Now the walls stretched out, the furniture creaked. The candelabrum laid lifeless over the weathered rug.
You remained there, somewhat stunned. You didn't know what to make of him, not at all. You had never been this clueless.
The sailors had painted him a devil. They had whispered and crossed themselves over those old wives’ tales around him. Then, supernatural beliefs aside, he was reportedly ruthless. It was rumoured he could slice in half a six ton three-decker ship if he was in the right mood for it.
Yet he had taken you in his castle when he could have left you to die. He had treated your wounds. Sat with you through your fever.
All meanwhile looking at you with that reserved complaint. With the silent reproach of one that had been unfairly invaded. A curse the sea had washed up on his shores.
You went over his command. It hadn't been unkind. Could have been a little patronizing, yes. But it had felt like a challenge, too. He expected you to be able to do that. He seemed like the kind of man that wouldn't waste his breath on commanding something impossible. It was clear he had also caught on your stubbornness. Maybe he had honored it. You couldn't tell.
You did manage to stand up. Then, after a gush of wind that nearly froze you on the spot, you succeeded at closing the heavy window. With clumsy steps, you almost tripped over your sleeping gown as you made your way back to the bed, but you did get there, and plopped over the covers, already exhausted again.
The silence of the room returned, thicker than before. Outside, the ridges still loomed, a stark anomaly against the fading light. You covered your eyes with your arm, shielding yourself from the sight, yet you could not block out the thoughts racing through your mind. A long, slow recovery awaited you, and you realized, with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold, that you were just as terrified as you were desperately curious to know what exactly you had stumbled into.
author's note: hope you like it! and thanks again for all the love on the first chapter ♥️
The morning sun broke through the heavy Kuraigana fog, casting long, pale beams of light across the floor of Mihawk's private office. He sat behind his desk, the quiet memory of the previous night's midnight kiss still lingering in the back of his mind. But today, the pragmatic swordsman had returned to the puzzle at hand. Resting on the dark wood of his desk was the elegant, slim blade he had recovered from the shoreline reef. Mihawk picked up the weapon, his gloved fingers tracing the exquisite craftsmanship of the hilt and the fluid sweep of the guard. It was perfectly weighted—made for high-speed evasion and lethal, precise strikes. But as he turned the sword over, his sharp golden eyes caught a microscopic seam near the pommel that a casual observer would have missed entirely. With a practiced, careful twist, he unscrewed the base of the hilt. The pommel clicked open, revealing a hidden, hollow chamber built directly into the core of the handle, designed to feed liquid into a microscopic groove running along the flat of the blade. It was a classic assassin's mechanism, meant to poison a target with even the slightest scratch. Mihawk brought the open chamber closer, tilting it toward the morning light. The reservoir was mostly drained by the sea, but a tiny, crystallized residue remained at the very bottom. He lowered his head and took a cautious, shallow breath, catching the faint scent drifting from the hidden chamber. It didn't smell like metallic chemicals or the harsh, bitter sting of common swamp toxins. It smelled distinctly floral. Sweet, delicate, and hauntingly familiar. Mihawk’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as the pieces clicked together with absolute, chilling certainty. The scent was a perfect match for the sweet, bell-like fragrance of the Lily of the Valley—the very flower tattooed on her skin, and the very poison she had so effortlessly identified in his garden and his kitchen. She wasn't a doctor saving lives on a pirate ship. She was a ghost who carried her own signature venom inside a masterfully hidden blade. Mihawk’s golden eyes snapped toward the doorway as the heavy oak door creaked open.
Lily stepped into the morning light of his office, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her presence immediately softening the cold, analytical atmosphere of the room. Before he could slide the weapon beneath his desk, her gaze locked onto the slim, elegant blade resting on the dark wood. She walked over, tilting her head in curiosity. "How many swords do you keep hidden in this castle, Mihawk?" she asked softly, looking up at him. Mihawk watched her expression with a sharp, calculating intensity, looking for any flash of recognition, a twitch of her fingers, or a widening of her eyes. He slowly pushed the blade a few inches closer to her. "More than most," he replied smoothly, his voice dropping into a low test. "Does this one look familiar to you, Lily? Do you feel anything when you look at its frame?" Lily reached out, her fingers hovering just a centimeter above the hilt, but she ultimately shook her head, a familiar wave of frustration clouding her features. "No... It's beautiful, but it doesn't spark anything. Should it?" Seeing that her conscious mind still held absolutely no memory of her lethal past, Mihawk pulled his gaze away, quietly locking the weapon inside his desk drawer. "No. It is simply a curiosity." Brushing the dark mysteries aside for the time being, Mihawk chose to let the day belong to them. For the first time, the brooding Warlord put his logs away and spent the afternoon entirely in her company. They walked through the foggy grounds, read by the hearth, and spoke in quiet, easy rhythms, the lingering heat of their midnight kiss casting a comfortable warmth over every shared look.
As evening approached, the smell of savory herbs filled the castle kitchen. Lily stood by the hearth, stirring a fresh broth, a light smile on her face. Mihawk stepped up quietly behind her, his large hands settling gently onto her waist. "Mihawk, I'm trying to cook," she laughed softly, though she didn't push him away. "The dinner can wait," he murmured. Without a single word of music, he guided her into a slow, gentle sway right there between the stone counters and the roaring stove. It wasn't the sharp, testing tango of the courtyard, but a tender, intimate waltz. Lily leaned her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. When the dance slowed to a stop, Mihawk cupped her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his, and pressed his lips to hers in a deep, lingering kiss that left them both breathless. "Last night wasn't enough, was it?" Lily said as she held his hand, bringing it to her lips. "You can say that," MIhawk said, caressing her cheek. He leaned in, pressing against her. Lily leaned back against the counter, Mihawk picked her up, setting her on the flour without a care. Kissing her with much passion, Lily wrapped her arms around his neck. pressing her forehead against his, she was breathing heavily, "I-I am in l-" before she could tell him anything. The peace of the kitchen was abruptly shattered by the loud, rhythmic ringing of the purple Den Den Mushi echoing from his study down the hall. Mihawk’s brow furrowed in irritation. Giving Lily a quiet, reassuring nod, he stepped away to answer it. He strode into his office and slammed the receiver up, expecting another round of reckless teasing. "I told you not to call this frequency again, Shanks." "Mihawk, listen to me," Shanks’s voice cut through the transponder, entirely stripped of his usual boisterous laughter. The Den Den Mushi’s face was deadly serious, its eyes wide with an urgent gravity. "I did some digging after you hung up on me. I called a few old contacts who have eyes inside Mariejois and the Marine top brass." Mihawk stood perfectly still, his grip tightening on the receiver. "What did you find?" "The woman who washed up on your island... she isn't a pirate doctor, and she isn't an underworld broker," Shanks said, his voice dropping to a tense whisper. "A few months ago, the World Government scrubbed a high-level operative from their active rosters. Word is, she belongs to an elite, deep-cover intelligence unit working directly under the highest Marine commands. Her real codename is Viper."
Mihawk’s grip on the receiver tightened until his knuckles turned white. The revelation cut through his analytical mind like a razor. A deep-cover Marine operative, scrubbed from the records. "If she was an elite asset for the Marine top brass, what happened?" Mihawk demanded, his deep voice dropping into a dangerously low whisper. "Why did the Marines let her go? A weapon like that is rarely discarded willingly." On the other end of the line, the Den Den Mushi’s expression shifted, its brow furrowing deeply as Shanks's tone grew even heavier. "They didn't let her go, Mihawk. They hunted her. She betrayed them." "Betrayed them?" "She was leaking highly classified intelligence directly from the upper echelons of Marine command," Shanks explained, the background noise on his end entirely dead. "When the Cipher Pol units finally caught wind of the leak, they realized the call was coming from the base. Viper wasn't just working for the Marines—she was a plant. It turns out, she was placed deep within the World Government years ago by Monkey D. Dragon himself. She’s a spy for the Revolutionary Army." Mihawk’s golden eyes narrowed as the final pieces of the puzzle violently slammed into place. The exceptional martial footwork, the masterfully crafted assassin's blade, the flawless knowledge of lethal botany, and the total lack of standard pirate records. She wasn't a shadow of the underworld; she was a shadow of the revolution. And now, she was sleeping under the roof of a World Government Warlord. "They cornered her ship a few weeks ago," Shanks continued, pulling Mihawk back from his thoughts. "A fleet of Marine battleships opened fire. From what my contacts say, a massive battle broke out right before that rogue tsunami swept through the sector and swallowed the whole damn conflict. Get her out of there before both pinpoint the island."
Never expected the first chapter of The Garnet Vesper to get so much love, thank you so much to everyone that interacted with It! 🫂
I'll be updating with the second chapter soon, stay tuned for a very tormented Mihawk and reader's taxonomic antics.
I was able to take a little break from life itself and the terrible heat down here in southern Spain. Leaving here this dramatic ass sunset picture for your enjoyment, I hope you are all taking care of yourselves in these absolutely devilish heat waves taking over Europe.
Mihawk would be the type of lover to fuck you while Type O Negative plays in the background. Your legs cocked open as he pounds into you relentlessly. Nails digging into the plushness of your thighs as he maneuvers you how he wants. His golden eyes staring down at you, as if he’s seeing through you. Reading every micro expression that crosses over your face. Hips stuttering as he watches drool trickle down your chin as his cock head continues to hit that one gooey spot within your walls. Suddenly, Mihawk’s hands are resting against the back of your head, tilting your head forward..
“Keep those eyes open. Watch how good you take me…”
Dracule glanced down at her hand that held his shirt, turning his body to face her. "You do not know what you are asking," Mihawk murmured, his deep voice dropping into a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room. "I am not a comforting man. I am a swordsman. My world is filled with blood, cold steel, and shadows." "I don't care about the shadows," she whispered, her gaze locking onto his with a fierce, sudden clarity that defied her exhaustion. She didn't let go of his sleeve; instead, her grip tightened, using it to pull herself slightly up against the pillows, closing the distance between them. "The shadows are all I have. But when you are near, they don't feel like a threat. They just feel like... a quiet place to rest." Mihawk’s breath caught in his throat. The restraint he had for weeks was turning into compulsion. He lifted his free hand, his bare fingers brushing gently against her jawline. His touch was remarkably tender, his thumb tracing the soft curve of her cheekbone. She instinctively leaned into the warmth of his palm, her eyelashes fluttering as a soft breath escaped her lips. "You are an anomaly," Mihawk whispered, his face tilting down, his shadow completely enveloping her. "A ghost who refuses to leave my castle." "Then keep me," Lily breathed against the bare inches of air separating them. Mihawk didn't hesitate any longer. He closed the remaining distance, pressing his lips firmly against hers. The kiss was slow, heavy, and intensely deliberate. It wasn't a reckless burst of sudden passion, but the inevitable breaking of a dam that had been holding back weeks of unspoken longing. His lips were firm, parting hers with a quiet, dominant intensity that sent a sudden rush of heat straight through her veins. Lily’s hand finally released his sleeve, her fingers sliding up the fabric of his shirt to clasp tightly at his shoulder, anchoring herself to him. She melted completely into the embrace, her heart hammering a wild, erratic rhythm against her ribs as she drank in the taste of him—rich, bitter wine and the clean, sharp scent of the midnight air.
Mihawk’s hand shifted from her cheek, his large fingers tangling into the silk of her damp hair, tilting her head back slightly to deepen the kiss. He pulled her smaller frame closer to his chest, his presence completely overwhelming, yet providing the absolute safety she had been begging for. For the first time since washing ashore, the terrifying void of her missing past didn't matter. The amnesia couldn't touch her here. When he finally parted from her lips, he didn't retreat. He kept his hand buried in her hair, resting his forehead against hers as they both breathed in the quiet, shared space. His golden eyes burned with a dark, fiercely protective fire in the moonlight. "I am holding you to that," Mihawk murmured against her skin, his thumb caressing her temple. "You remain here. With me." Lily offered a breathless, contented smile, her eyes heavy as she lay back down, her hand still resting over his heart. "I'm not going anywhere," she whispered back. Kissing her deeply once more, her hand slipped down, pulling at his shirt, untucking it from his pants. Mihawk unbuttoned the bottom, letting the dress shirt slide from his shoulders to the ground. lily-y/n got closer, hooking her arms around his neck, and she brought him down to kiss her once more.
Mihawk grasped her hips, sliding his hands up. He took her nightgown off, the cold air perking her buds right up. She turned her head slightly, embarrassed. Mihawk grabbed her cheeks, moving her face to look at him. "Don't shy away from me, you have to trust me," he said. "To be honest, I am just discovering this body as well, with no memory. I don't even know if I have done this before," she said. Mihawk took a moment to think. "Then we shall explore it together," he whispered, putting his knee on the bed. He took the initiative, his hand grasping her left breast, his thumb gently stroking over peaked nipples. He leaned his head and groaned, lips tugging, and his tongue lapping at her flesh. Circling her nipple with his tongue and nipping with just enough pressure to make her hiss. His fingers slide down, short, blunt nails scatching along her skin until his hand slides down her panties, the tips of his fingers dipping past silky folds. He could feel how wet she was and how easy he could stick his fingers in. y/n let out a muffled moan as she covered her mouth with the back of her hand. Mihawk nudged two fingers forward, smirking at the way her cunt seemed all too happy to welcome him inside. Fingers drag over her velvet walls until he finds that spot that made her toss her head back and gasp. He grins and bullies that spot, bending his fingers and rubbing. Letting out mews Lily/y/n grabbed his arm, clenching around him. Cumming with a startled cry, Mihawk pressed his lips against hers, swallowing each breathy whimper that spilled past her lips. He kisses her through her orgasm, his tongue curling around her own and gently sucking the slick muscle into his own mouth.
Mihawk pulled back, sitting on his knees. He slowly undid his belt Lily/Y/n felt a tingle that shot through her belly and chest, excitement flowing through her to see what he was about to offer. Hawk's cock was already throbbing hard, spilling from his pants. She was surprised by the color, a faded coral, even peachy at best. His cock was long, curving just slightly. "Now it makes sense why you carry such a big sword, it's to balance the one in your pants," she said, reaching for his twitching manhood. She wrapped her fingers around his cock, jerking his warm skin back and forth, making his way towards her. It felt natural for her, grasping the fact that she was indeed not a virgin. Mihawk's breath hitched with each stroke of his cock, Lily/y/n moved her thumb over his tip, his precum sticking to her thumb. Mihawk reached out, grabbing the back of her head. He pulled her into a deep kiss while y/n wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning her back on the bed. Mihawk held himself up with one arm and with the other guided his cock to her entrance. His brows furrowed as he looked down at cock holding his shoulders as he shoved his cock into her, stretching her to mold around him. y/n gasped, her nails digging into his skin, hissing at the pain. He didn't move at first, glancing down at the way her lip quivered, he suddenly kissed her. Picking her up into his lap, his arms were wrapped around her, holding her as he slowly started to thrust up into her. Lily/y/n burried her face into his shoulder, rocking her hips with him. She wasn't uncomfortable, just stuffed; his tip was practically kissing her cervix. y/n held his shoulders, bouncing on his cock, throwing her head back. She leaned back on her hands, letting him have a better grip on her thighs as he pounded deep inside of her. The silent castle was filled with moans and skin-on-skin echoes. Mihawk leaned back a little, angling his cock inside her to hit it just right inside of her. Y/n let out a moan at the way his cock was thrusting inside of her, but above all, what really mattered was the way her clit was rubbing against his pelvis. "Mihawk, oh mihawk!" she cried out. Dracule was a quiet man, hissing at most with slight moans. Dracula suddenly grabbed her throat, squeezing the side as he fucked her harder. y/n held eyes locked on his, trusting him fully as she reached her high. Her pussy tightened around him, soaking his lap and balls in her juices. She was nearly too slippery to stay in. "I'm cumming, mihawk," she cried out, grunting, pounding harder, he rode out both their orgasms before crashing back onto the bed with her.
Deep within the castle’s private study, the only illumination came from a single green-shaded desk lamp. Mihawk sat surrounded by old bounty logs, maritime maps, and encrypted reports on underworld syndicates. Yet, after hours of searching, his logs yielded nothing substantial on a pirate leader named "Belle" or an operative using the Lily of the Valley as a signature. The lack of information was telling in itself. It meant whoever she was, her existence was scrubbed cleanly from standard pirate records—or she belonged to an organization that existed entirely outside the jurisdiction of the Marines. Deciding to pull on a different thread, Mihawk reached for the purple Den Den Mushi sitting on the corner of his desk. He dialed a highly classified, unlisted frequency. The snail blinked, mimicking a slow, rhythmic ringing sound before its eyes suddenly flew open, taking on a lazy, cheerful expression. The shell emitted a rowdy burst of laughter and background music before a familiar, boisterous voice cut through the line. "Mihawk! To what do I owe the pleasure? It’s not like you to call out of the blue unless you're looking for a duel, or if you finally ran out of that high-end wine of yours!" Shanks laughed, the clinking of sake cups echoing clearly over the transponder. "Shanks," Mihawk said, his tone deadpan and cutting straight through the noise. "I am not calling for pleasantries. I have a question regarding a faction on the Grand Line." "Oh? The Great Hawk Eye needs information from me? Now I'm intrigued," Shanks chuckled, the background noise dimming slightly as if he were stepping away from his crew's party. "Shoot. What's on your mind?" "Do you know of any pirate crews, underworld brokers, or shadow organizations associated with the Lily of the Valley flower? Or any faction operating under a leader or codename called 'Belle'?"
The line went quiet for a moment. The Den Den Mushi's expression turned uncharacteristically serious, its brow furrowing as Shanks pondered the request. "The Lily of the Valley... and 'Belle'?" Shanks muttered thoughtfully. "No, nothing immediately springs to mind. There are a few small-time crews in the West Blue with floral names, but nothing big enough to warrant your attention. Why the sudden interest, Mihawk? It’s completely unlike you to dig into minor underworld names." Mihawk closed a heavy leather logbook with a soft thud. "A woman washed ashore on Kuraigana Island a few weeks ago. Her ship was completely obliterated by a rogue tsunami. Her memory is entirely gone, but her body possesses the flawless muscle memory of a highly trained operative. The only clues she possesses are a tattoo of those specific flower bells on her forearm, and the name 'Belle' which she muttered in her sleep." There was a sudden, sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, followed by a stunned silence. Then, the Den Den Mushi’s face twisted into a massive, wicked grin, its eyes crinkling with pure amusement. "Wait, wait, wait..." Shanks’s voice returned, practically dripping with playful disbelief. "Did I hear you correctly? A woman? At your castle? Living with you?" "She is a castaway I am temporarily harboring until I determine her threat level," Mihawk replied, his voice dropping an octave into a cold warning. "Oh, come on! Harboring a threat level? Mihawk, don't tell me you finally snapped out there in that gloomy old castle and kidnapped a woman!" Shanks burst out laughing, completely ignoring the swordsman's icy demeanor. "Are you holding her hostage? Because let's be honest, buddy, that's the only way a woman would ever look in your direction, let alone stay under the same roof as you! What did you do, scare her into staying?" Mihawk’s golden eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. His forehead visibly twitched. Without uttering another syllable, he reached out and slammed the receiver back onto the cradle. Clack. The Den Den Mushi’s eyes instantly went droopy and asleep, cutting Shanks off mid-laugh. Mihawk leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose in sheer irritation. Calling the Red-Haired Yonko had been a mistake. But as he stared back at the blank pages of his notebook, his mind returned to the reality of the situation. Shanks didn't know the name. The Marines didn't know the name. Whoever "Belle" was, she was a ghost.
Leaving the study, Mihawk walked the quiet, vaulted corridors back toward the library. The irritation from Shanks's call dissolved back into his usual calm composure. He opened the heavy double doors silently. The fire in the hearth had burned down to a deep, crimson glow, casting a soft warmth over the room. There, on the thick rug before the fireplace, lay Lily. She had fallen asleep exactly how he had observed her these past few days—flat on her belly, her ankles crossed loosely in the air, though they had now relaxed onto the floor. The heavy copy of Dracula was still open beneath her forearms, her cheek resting against the edge of the parchment. Her hair had partially tumbled out of its quick, elegant bun, dark silk framing her peaceful face. Mihawk stood over her for a long moment, his golden eyes sweeping over her relaxed form. In sleep, the dangerous precision of the shadow operative vanished entirely, leaving only the vulnerable castaway who preferred bitter coffee and knew how to fix a broken stew. He knelt down, carefully closing the book so the pages wouldn't bend, and set it on the nearby table. Then, with a fluid, effortless movement, he slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her off the rug. She stirred slightly at the sudden shift in weight, a soft, sleepy murmur escaping her lips as she instinctively leaned into the warmth of his chest. Her small hands clutched faintly at the fabric of his dark shirt. Mihawk’s breath hitched for a fraction of a second at her proximity, but he maintained his steady, rhythmic stride as he carried her out of the library. He walked up the grand staircase and down the long residential wing, his boots making no sound against the stone. Reaching her bedchamber, he nudged the door open with his foot and stepped into the dark room. He lay her down gently onto the plush mattress. Lily stirred in her sleep. Dracula pulled back off the bed, turning on his heels to leave. Lily grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, "Don't go," she whispered, "please stay with me..." Dracula turned his head, glancing back at her, "What is it that you want of me?" He asked, "I-I don't know, I just want you to stay here with me," she said, "Please..."
Hello! Could I request some jealousy prompt for Mihawk, Shanks and Ace ? Them being jealous! Thank you
I. Jealousy
Mihawk, Shanks, Ace x gn!reader
Summary: He is NOT jealous (he totally is).
Notes: fluff!
A/N: thank you so much for your request anon!! if you 🫵 reading this would like to send in a request I welcome them with open arms!
this is mostly proofread, but mistakes may persist! thanks so much for reading!!
Dracule Mihawk
Mihawk dreaded spending time at the Cross Guild, but he hated dragging you into it much, much, much more. On this occasion, however, it could not be helped. You and Mihawk had planned a small trip to an island that made the most delicious seasonal wine unlike any in the world. He had wanted to take you as a gift, planning a small getaway just for the two of you. Halfway there, though, Crocodile called.
“You need to get here, now.”
After a long conversation, or rather debate, on whether or not the matter was truly pressing, Mihawk turned to you and apologized.
“A quick detour, love. You won’t even need to leave the ship, I promise.”
But the meeting of the three heads of the organization was dragging on and you were getting bored. You had never had any issue wandering alone, especially not at the Cross Guild. You were more than capable of taking care of yourself after all, especially against the fools that worked under the 'leadership' of Buggy.
While wandering the halls, you stumbled into the cafeteria, quickly gaining the attention of many of the men.
You had barely made it three steps further into the room before a young man walked up to you with far too much confidence for a man in such a wrinkled shirt.
“Hello, beautiful, you must be lost. Heaven is the other direction.”
You had to physically stop yourself from laughing in the man’s face.
“But maybe you’d like some time on the wild side. What do you say?”
Oh, this man was truly pathetic, huh?
“You must be new here.” Mihawk seemed to appear from the shadows.
The young man instantly went pale as his knees visibly shook.
“I would answer if I were you,” you offered the man a playful smile.
“Y-yes sir.” He looked like he might cry.
Moving slowly forward towards the rookie, Mihawk continued. “Then I will forgive your indiscretion this time, but in the future you would do wise to avoid flirting with my spouse.” Mihawk seemed to tower over the boy. The room had stopped breathing.
“Y-y-yes-s s-sir.”
“Oh, Dracule, don’t be so mean,” you lightly tugged his sleeve to get his attention. “Can we get back to our trip now?”
“Of course, my love.” He sent one last look to the young recruit before meeting your gaze and heading to the door.
As you made it to his ship, you spoke up. “I didn’t know you were the jealous type, dear.”
“I was not jealous." He continued forward before stopping and speaking softly, turning his head to slightly look at you over his shoulder. "You simply do not deserve the flattering of a baffling idiot.”
“Oh, then pray tell. What do I deserve?”
He turned forward again before speaking, “To be worshipped.” With that he stepped onto the ship, ready to be far, far away from here.
Red Hair Shanks
“A rose for the beauty of the market?” A small boy had come up to you while you were meandering through a village market.
“Awwww, thank you so much!” You responded by taking the flower with a kind smile. The boy offered you a goofy wink before he moved on to offer another market goer a flower. You tucked the flower behind your ear and continued about your shopping, a lovely trip that Shanks was unknowingly generously covering.
Returning to the ship, you made your way to your room, ready to share your haul with Shanks (who especially loved to see you try on clothes just so he could take them off).
“Lovveeeeyyyy, I’m back.” Entering the cabin, you found Shanks sitting at his desk, looking over plans Benn had forced him to finally review.
“Just in time to save me from the hells of paperwork,” he replied with a smirk. As he stood up to meet you, his eyes caught on the flower in your hair. “Sweetheart, where’d you get that flower from?”
You reached up to where his eyes had landed. “Oh, I forgot about it. A sweet young man gave it to me!”
Shank’s face fell. “Yes, how sweet of him.”
“Hey,” you playfully smacked his shoulder, “don’t be like that. He was just being kind.”
Shanks came close and grabbed your hip, pulling you close to whisper, “Oh, I’m sure.” He nipped at your bottom lip, before taking the flower from your hair, spinning it in his fingers, and discarding is on the desk along with his work. “Well, in that case, I can be very kind too.” He pulled you to the bed to spend the night kissing nearly every part of you.
When you woke up you rolled over ready to cuddle into Shanks only to find his spot empty and cold. You rubbed your eyes as you sat up before completely freezing.
You were surrounded by flowers. Every inch of the room was covered in bouquets of various blossoms. You honestly weren’t even sure you could make it to the door. All you could do was shake your head at Shank's antics. Looking over, you saw a note sitting on your bedside table.
Love,
Now you’ll never need to accept a flower from another man again ;)
~ Shanks
Shanks might be a ridiculously jealous man, but he was your jealous man.
Portgas D. Ace
You and Ace were away on a mission, staying in a small town as you gathered information. You had convinced Ace that spending time in town would help the mission; having a lunch date was just a bonus.
As you and Ace sat down at the small restaurant, a waiter came up to take your drink orders.
“I'll have an Ale,” Ace answered quickly.
“And for the angel walking amongst men,” the waiter sent a flirty smirk your way.
“This human will just have water,” you easily joked back. The waiter offered you a soft smile and went on his way.
Ace was already fed up, but he kept it in as you started talking about how cute you found the town. All he could think about was how cute he found you.
As the waiter came back with your drinks he dropped Ace’s off with a clunk, spilling a bit, while placing your drink delicately in front of you. Ace immediately noticed the heart doodled onto the napkin you were drinking from, a frown filling his face.
“What can I get you to eat, dear?” The young man asked.
“We’ll start with some fries and follow up with a new waiter,” Ace said, face showing no sign of humor.
“Ace!” You chastened him with a soft smile before turning back to the waiter. “We’ll have fries for now, thank you.” You emphasized the last two words as you looked back at Ace.
With a “Sure angel,” the waiter walked away.
“What a loser,” Ace spoke under his breath.
“Babe, are you jealous?”
“What? No!”
“Ace,” you laughed, “I promise there is no reason for you to be jealous. I’m sure he’s just trying to get a nice tip.”
“Well, I’m not jealous, so there!" He crossed his arms like a child.
You couldn’t help but giggle, which instantly softened his features as he gazed at you with love.
By the end of the meal, however, the waiter had once again gotten on Ace’s nerves.
“You have a wonderful evening, doll, and I sure hope you come back soon,” the waiter said, sending you a wink as you and Ace stood to leave.
As you went to offer your thanks to the waiter, Ace quickly pulled you close, essentially slamming his lips into yours. The kiss was deep, passionate, and full of the jealousy Ace had sworn he had never had. When you pulled back seeking air, the waiter had turned completely red, coughed, and turned away, practically running away from the scene.
“Yep, Ace,” you patted his shoulder, “totally not jealous at all.”
All Ace could do was send you a goofy smile as you led him out of the restaurant, happy to have shown the waiter (and the whole restaurant) that you were his.
