Op Mihawk - Blog Posts

WIP

I love this autistic man uwu

Wait guys, lowkey, whoever made up Mihawk x Humanform!Yoru is actually cooking.

Remember, a sword chooses it’s swordsman👏

Okay but it would actually be cool if yoru was humanified, just like how Zoro’s swords were also made into human by Oda in an sbs

If Zoro ever defeats Mihawk…

Ps - Mihawk is depicted as Zoro’s father figure in this text

(Not proofread)

Non-canon but…

I think when Zoro kills Mihawk in their final duel, it would be a state where he finally achieves his dream that he worked on so hard for him to be happy, yet to feel a little empty at the same time. I’d have to agree that if Zoro does kill Mihawk, he’d achieve his dream, fulfill his promise to Kuina, and put Mihawk at rest, which gives a happy ending for him, honor for his late best friend, and rest for Mihawk since he’s grown tired of life.

Though, in the lens of how I view Zoro and Mihawk’s relationship, I truly believe, from my heart of hearts, that Mihawk was somehow a parental figure to Zoro. Other viewers of One Piece might not see the vision or see the vision. In some people’s eyes, Mihawk was only Zoro’s mentor and rival, which is of course true, I am not against it, but how I view them might be a different story.

Zoro was already orphaned, he had no parental figures since both of his biological parents died when he was still very young, meaning he probably does not have much memory of them and wasn’t guided in life as much because of that. He had no parental guidance in life.

Now, during the timeskip, Mihawk played a crucial role in developing Zoro’s swordsmanship. He has provided and taken Zoro under his care to train him to defeat him all because he saw that Zoro’s actions were no longer for himself, but for his captain, that “he found a greater cause rather than his own ambition”. Surely, he isn’t the type of father figure that would coddle up Zoro and be soft around him since he plays mentor, he is supposed to make him reach a better version of himself. Though, I see the potential and why some may think he is a father figure to Zoro.

A parental figure is someone who gives guidance, care, support, etc. that resembles an absent parent’s role. Mihawk gives these to Zoro for the two years in the timeskip, he is a role model to Zoro and he teaches and guides Zoro to defeat him. Zoro, an orphan, being taken care of and taught by the world’s greatest swordsman himself. Living in his castle. Eating his food. Under his care. For two years. For once, other than the strawhats, Zoro has been taken care of, under none other than Mihawk. The castle is a training ground yet a house to him. Where he eats, showers(? Considering Mihawk’s toilet…), and sleeps, he is doing it in the same grounds where Mihawk is.

Do you think that maybe, if Zoro had killed his mentor, the one who saved his own seat of the worlds greatest swordsman for Zoro to sit on next, the one who cooked, gave him a house to live on for the next two years when he was separated from his crew, that he wouldn’t be a little sad and empty? Mihawk wouldn’t exactly be the best father figure unlike some others, but he would definitely be a memorable one to Zoro, all because the worlds greatest decided to be his mentor and care for him slightly like a father would.

So when Zoro finally sees Mihawk’s head roll before him, I would like to think that he would feel free and happy he achieved his goal, and a little empty, where he finally acknowledges that in a way, he did see him as a mentor-father type of person in his life.

This is overall subjective and what if statements which isn’t well supported, but I just wanted to share what I thought:,,)

Credits to its only blood by MissingN000 on ao3 (heartbreaking fic), it helped me write this.

My faves

Also fun fact despite these three being my favorites from their respective shows, the only one I've drawn before is Mihawk, Shikamaru and Toji I've never attempted and ngl- I love how they turned out

Decided to add the other two, it's messy, but ngl I love it

I really drew this with my whole p*ssy huh

a single father working two jobs

So much for bein down bad for luffy, heres sum more doodles that my brain farted out today...

Part 2!!

Sanji Playlist: (Easily one of my personal favourites. We love a good french lover boy in this household! There's a lot in here. Happy love, missing love, sad love, love, love, love. L'amour, c'est fou! I think this might be my biggest playlist. It's this or one of my Donquibros / Law.)

Usopp Playlist:

Robin Playlist: (partially very on the nose!)

Mihawk Playlist: (So hard to make playlists for enigmatic characters!)

Perona Playlist: (I have some creepy songs for her but not nearly enough to constitute a full playlist... sorry!)

Eneru Playlist: (Very small, sorry! I'll try to find more!)

Eustass Kidd Playlist: (I thought I'd shared this one on the first post already, whoopsie! I've added a few since posting this on Tumblr ^-^ But you can find all the in-depth explanations on the other post.)

Smoker Playlist: (I'm so sorry that I have barely anything yet, I'll try and find more!)

Bartolomeo Playlist: (Mostly just the creepy side to him so far. I haven't found much positive hero worship yet but I'll keep looking! I love Barto dearly, he's indescribably cute to me. I really need to write fanfiction about him too soon!! :D)

That's all I have for now! If I don't care much for a character there's little to no chance I'll be making a playlist for them so it's unlikely I'll be doing more than these playlists, but I will keep adding to them once I find fitting music! Currently scouring through a lot of musicians like Family Crest, Flying Pickets and many more!

Please enjoy listening!

Now making One Piece playlists on Spotify!

Youtube has become more and more painful with copyright in recent years and frankly while it wasn't so bad for my Eustass Kidd and Ace playlists it got a lot worse when I uploaded Killer's. I don't like listening to slowed / reverb sort of playlists myself so I won't be going that route. Maybe it's just that I used particularly problematic music for Killer?

Either way, I'll be making playlists in the form of actual playlists strung together on spotify from here on out. If I make more playlists as mp3 and mp4 I'll upload them to the drive folder above, you can find the Ace, Kidd and Killer playlists there in both versions!

And now for some good news! I do currently have a lot of playlists in the works, coming soon :D

I can only add 10 links per post, so I'll have to make 2 posts total!

Doflamingo playlist: (A LOT of these are copied over from other Doflamingo playlists!! They're such perfect fits that I could not possibly exclude them, not since I personally listen to my Doflamingo playlist a lot myself and I've become genuinely addicted to some of those :D)

Killer playlist: (Some of these feel a bit redundant but I hope you'll enjoy the playlist regardless!)

Brook playlist: (It's small but I've never seen one for him before!)

Ace playlist: (TLDL: sadness and grief)

Corazon / Rosinante playlist:

(I still haven't seen him in the anime so I hope these fit at all! I based it purely off of fan art on twitter, I'm very obsessed with him for having seen nothing of him yet ^-^ )

Crocodile Playlist: (Another small one but I feel like I hardly know this man beyond his political goals, and even those are very shrouded!)

Hancock Playlist: (she's one of the most fun to make playlists for!! such a specific style of music :D )

Zoro Playlist: (Very short as of yet too but I might add to it in the future!)

Luffy Playlist: (The one piece character I do the least content for, for sure! but at least he gets a playlist :P )

Trafalgar Law Playlist: (I have so many songs for him! This one I haven't moderated much, I just keep adding and adding more ^-^)

I hope you've enjoyed any of these, thank you for listening! Looking through what I have right now I don't have enough songs in the remaining ones to make more than one more post with these.

Characters I am working on right now:

Bartolomeo

Smoker

Apoo

Eneru

Perona

Mihawk

Robin

Usopp

Sanji (I have a ridiculous amount of love songs for him!)

Lots of things come up so I haven't got much time but here's an old grayscale (not much) experiment drawing I made once upon a time

Dark brooding men sometimes thinking of their green and pink younglings

@missmungoe you were so right to write fics about Makino joining the Red-Hair crew cause she really has that pirate trait of stealing.

Stealing Shanks' friends and crews that's it.

Bonus Boa Hancock and Makino, in that one shot where Mihawk and Buggy fetch Makino from her bar and she manages to 'stand in' as Red Hair Pirate representative of sorts to make alliance with Hancock.

Love love Makino and Hancock interaction in that fic where Shanks is about to get executed.

Makino unintentionally getting on the good sides of some dangerous pirates is so funny.

Maybe I should start One Piece for this single dad

When Love Grows Quiet

Four different loves — each unraveling in its own way, where silence cuts deeper than swords and love isn't always enough to stay.

shanks x reader | zoro x reader | law x reader | mihawk x reader | ONE SHOT tags: angst, sfw, heartbreak, emotional neglect, falling out of love, hurt/no comfort, isolation, miscommunication a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff a bit cringe, akward, and confusing word count: 2.5k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

SHANKS

The bar was loud, filled with the buzz of half-drunken laughter, tankards slamming against tables, and music that you once loved but now loathed. You sat in the farthest corner, away from the warmth of the crowd, clutching a half-empty glass of something you didn’t order. The ice was melting fast — like the slow disintegration of what used to be your heart.

Shanks was at the center of it all.

Again.

He always was.

“Another round!” he bellowed, raising his cup high in the air as the Red-Haired Pirates cheered. The crew adored him. They should — he was charismatic, fierce, warm, and generous with his attention.

Just not with you. Not anymore.

Your gaze lingered on him. His hair, a fiery halo in the dim light, his grin — that same one that once made you feel like the most important person in the world — now belonged to everyone else.

He didn’t even notice you when you walked in.

“Y/N, there you are!” Lucky Roux called from across the bar, waving at you with his usual cheer. “C’mon, join us!”

Shanks looked over his shoulder, eyes falling on you for a split second. There was recognition — maybe even guilt — but it was gone too fast. He raised his cup in your direction. No words. No movement. Just a lazy toast.

You forced a smile, then looked away.

You’d been with him for two years. It had started with stolen moments under stars, whispered promises between waves. “When this is all over, I’ll settle down. With you,” he’d say, voice dipped in warmth, hand on your cheek. You believed him.

But it never ended. And you stopped asking.

There were always more islands to visit, more allies to meet, more enemies to fight, and more nights he stumbled back to the ship reeking of rum and adrenaline, too tired to remember your name.

You stayed because you loved him.

Or maybe you stayed because you were afraid of what your life would look like without him in it.

But tonight felt different.

You pushed your glass aside and stood, your legs numb from sitting too long. You crossed the room, weaving through sailors and crewmates until you reached him.

“Shanks.”

He looked at you, surprised. Like he hadn’t expected you to speak first.

“Can we talk?”

His smile faltered. “Now? Can it wait? We’re just—”

“No,” you said, quieter, firmer. “It really can’t.”

He followed you outside without protest. The night air was cool, the moonlight bathing the ship in pale light.

You turned to him. “Do you remember what you promised me?”

He blinked. “Which one?”

You almost laughed. “That says everything, doesn’t it?”

“Y/N…”

“You told me we’d settle. That you’d come back for me. That I wasn’t just another stop along your journey. Do you even realize how long I’ve been waiting?”

“I know,” he muttered. “But it’s complicated.”

“No. It’s not. Not really. You just never made space for me.” Your voice trembled. “I don’t need riches or islands. I don’t even need peace. I just needed to know I mattered.”

He took a step forward. “You do matter.”

“Do I?” You looked up at him. “When was the last time you asked how I felt? When was the last time you chose me over adventure? Over your crew? Over another drink?”

He opened his mouth, but no answer came.

You continued, softer now, each word heavy. “I used to believe I was lucky to be loved by you. But now I realize… maybe I was just convenient. Someone to come back to when the world wasn’t enough.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, jaw clenched.

“Neither is loving someone who only loves you when it suits them.”

A silence settled. Heavy. Final.

He looked away. “What are you saying?”

You took a shaky breath. “I’m leaving.”

His eyes snapped to yours. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I have to. Because if I don’t now, I never will.” You paused. “I loved you so much, Shanks. But I’m tired of waiting for you to love me back in the way I deserve.”

You turned before he could say more, before the tears spilled.

The crew watched you go. No one stopped you. Maybe they knew too.

Shanks didn’t follow.

Maybe he couldn’t.

Maybe deep down, he knew you were already gone.

And this time, no promise would bring you back.

ZORO

The clatter of blades in the training room echoed through the ship like thunder.

Again.

You stood outside the door, hand hovering just above the wood, listening. Zoro had been in there since sunrise. The sun was beginning to set.

You pressed your palm flat against the door. It was warm.

He didn’t hear you. He never did when he was training.

You opened the door anyway.

He stood in the center, shirtless, sweat clinging to his skin, his chest rising and falling with exertion. His swords were laid neatly on the rack nearby, save for the one still in his hand — his favorite. Wado Ichimonji. His first love.

You didn’t speak right away.

He noticed you after a few seconds, green hair clinging to his face. “Oh. Hey.”

“That all you’ve got for me?” you asked, arms crossed.

He shrugged. “Been training.”

“You were supposed to meet me. Two hours ago.”

Zoro blinked. “Shit. Was that today?”

A beat passed. You tried not to let the disappointment crack through your voice. “Yeah. It was today.”

It wasn’t the first time.

Zoro wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t dismissive in the way that most would notice. He was just… focused. Sharpened, like his blades, honed only for one goal: to become the strongest swordsman in the world.

And you had once admired that. Loved it, even.

But lately, it felt like you were always chasing his shadow, always making room for his dreams, even if it meant shrinking your own.

You walked into the room, picking up the cloth he used to wipe his sweat, tossing it to him. “You forgot again.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, running it over his forehead.

“I know,” you whispered.

And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

The days blurred.

Dinner conversations turned into one-sided stories from you. Nights became silent, save for the occasional grunt as Zoro collapsed into bed, already half asleep. You missed the way he used to fall asleep beside you — not just near you — like you were a harbor in his storm. Now, he drifted in and out like a ghost, always just beyond reach.

You finally snapped one quiet night.

“Zoro, do you even love me?”

He looked up from cleaning his blade, brow furrowed. “What kind of question is that?”

You sat on the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. “One I keep asking myself.”

He stood up, face unreadable. “Of course I love you.”

“Then why don’t I feel it?”

The silence that followed was thick. Not awkward — just empty. Like a room without furniture.

“I’m doing this for us,” he finally said. “Everything. My training. My dream.”

“No, you’re doing it for you. And that’s okay, Zoro.” Your voice broke. “But stop pretending I’m part of that dream when I’m just an afterthought.”

“That’s not fair,” he said.

“I used to think that too,” you whispered. “But you keep showing me otherwise.”

The next morning, you packed.

Not everything — just what you needed. You didn’t want to make a scene.

When you turned to leave, he was there. Leaning against the doorframe, arms folded.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, voice rough with sleep and disbelief.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He stared for a long time. “Why now?”

“Because if I stay, I’ll start hating you. And I don’t want to hate you.”

Zoro opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know.”

He took a step forward. “Don’t I get a chance to fix it?”

“You’ve had a hundred chances,” you said, gently. “I gave you all of them.”

He looked down, the tension in his body visible.

You moved past him. He didn’t stop you.

Not physically.

But god, you wished he would.

You heard the sound of blades again as you walked down the corridor, echoing from the training room.

Zoro was already back at it.

Maybe it was easier for him to fight with steel than with words.

And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stay — because you needed someone who could choose you the way you kept choosing him.

Even if it broke your heart.

LAW

The Polar Tang was quiet at night.

Most of the crew had gone to sleep, their laughter faded into distant echoes through the metal halls. You sat alone in the infirmary, the light above flickering in tired pulses, casting shadows across the empty bed beside you.

It used to be your place. Your shared space.

Now it was just another cold room.

The door slid open with a mechanical hiss. Law stepped inside, coat trailing, his presence commanding — but not unkind. His face was the same as always. Calm. Collected. Impenetrable.

You didn’t turn to greet him.

“You’re still awake,” he said, voice low.

“So are you.”

He paused. “Long day.”

“Every day is a long day with you.”

That made him pause longer than usual. You saw it — the subtle twitch of his hand, the way his gaze lingered on you before shifting to the medical charts on the wall, as if reading them gave him a reason not to face you.

You finally stood, arms crossed. “You didn’t even ask how I’m doing.”

“You’re not injured,” he replied, like that explained everything.

You laughed bitterly. “You think that’s all that matters?”

He looked at you now. Really looked.

“You’re not bleeding,” he said, “so I assumed you were fine.”

“And that’s the problem, Law,” you snapped, “you only know how to fix things you can see. But what about everything else?”

He was always distant. He didn’t mean to be — it was just how he survived. You knew that going in. Law was brilliant, brave, and wounded in ways most couldn’t see. He didn’t wear his pain on his sleeve; he buried it deep, under layers of strategy and silence.

You once thought love could bring him peace.

Instead, it made you feel invisible.

He sat on the edge of the bed, removing his gloves with surgical precision. “If you’re upset, just say it.”

“I’m always saying it,” you said. “I say it in every look you don’t return, every time you walk out without a word. I’m screaming it, Law, and you don’t hear me.”

His brow furrowed. “I’m trying.”

“No, you’re managing. There’s a difference.”

You took a step forward, throat tight. “Do you even want me here?”

He didn’t answer.

Not for a long time.

When he did, it was quiet. “I don’t know what I’d be without you.”

“That’s not the same as wanting me.”

You turned away, swallowing the burn behind your eyes. “I need more than this. I need to be seen. Heard. Held.”

“I’m not good at that.”

“I know,” you whispered. “And I’ve been patient. God, I’ve been so patient.”

He stood. “Then what do you want from me?”

You turned back to him, tears finally slipping down your cheek.

“I want to stop being the person waiting for you to feel something.”

There were so many things he could have said. So many things he didn’t.

No promises. No pleas. Just silence.

You left the room, footsteps echoing down the corridor. He didn’t follow. You didn’t expect him to.

Law wasn’t cruel. He was just… unreachable.

And you couldn’t keep drowning in his silence.

Later that night, he stood in the infirmary, alone, looking at the chair where you always sat.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t break.

But he whispered your name once — as if it would echo back.

It didn’t.

MIHAWK

Perched on the windowsill of Kuraigana Island's cold, stone castle, you watched the sun slip beneath the horizon. Even the sunset here felt distant — as if the colors were afraid to bloom fully, like the love you once thought lived within these walls.

Behind you, the quiet hum of Mihawk’s sword being cleaned was the only sound.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

You’d once thought the silence between you was peaceful — now it felt suffocating.

When you first arrived, you mistook his quiet for serenity. Mihawk was a man of discipline, of stillness, and you found comfort in his control. He didn’t make empty promises, didn’t raise his voice, didn’t falter. It made you feel safe.

Until the days stretched long and the silence became unbearable.

You would speak to him at dinner, only to be met with the clink of cutlery. You would try to initiate conversation, only to find him more engrossed in wine than words.

You once thought you were an oasis for his loneliness.

Now you realized you were just another presence he tolerated.

“You haven’t looked at me once today,” you said finally, staring out at the orange light dying over the sea.

Mihawk paused, the cloth in his hand stilling on Yoru’s blade. “I saw you this morning.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

No response.

You stood slowly, turning to face him. He was sitting in that grand, throne-like chair by the fireplace. His posture was perfect. Controlled. Remote.

“Do you even care that I’m unhappy?”

“I care,” he replied after a beat. “But unhappiness is inevitable.”

You blinked. “That’s your answer?”

“I do not pretend to be something I’m not,” he said, voice even. “You knew who I was when you came here.”

“I knew who you seemed to be,” you said sharply. “But I thought — I hoped — that underneath all of this control, you might want to be known. That you might let me in.”

“I have let you in.”

“To your house. Not your heart.”

The air crackled.

Mihawk stood, moving with quiet authority. “I do not offer affection like others. I offer stability. Loyalty.”

“I never wanted gifts. Or flattery. I just wanted to feel chosen.” You laughed, bitter. “But all I’ve felt is... tolerated. Like I’m just another item in your collection of things that don’t rust or change.”

He said nothing.

You stepped closer. “You haven’t said you love me. Not once.”

“I do not speak lightly,” he said, almost offended.

“I’m not asking for flowery words. I’m asking for anything that tells me you feel something when you look at me.”

He stared at you — intense, golden eyes sharp as any blade.

“I would not have allowed you to stay if I did not value you.”

A pause. And then your voice, quiet, almost broken:

“That’s not love, Mihawk. That’s possession.”

The silence that followed was vast.

And it said everything.

You turned away, heading for the door.

“You’re leaving.”

“Yes.”

“You may find no comfort in the world beyond this place.”

“Maybe not,” you whispered. “But at least I’ll feel something.”

He did not follow. He did not stop you.

And that hurt worse than any goodbye.

Later, long after you’d gone, Mihawk stood alone in the great hall, Yoru resting silently on the stone altar. A storm gathered beyond the window, wind rushing over the sea like a howl.

He did not weep.

But he looked at the spot where your chair had been pulled out, slightly askew — and he didn’t move it back.

CLINGY MUCH? | ONE SHOT

Shanks x GN!Reader

Zoro x GN!Reader

Mihawk x GN!Reader

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ff cringe and oc

tags: sfw, fluff, soft, ooc(?)

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

SHANKS

You were many things aboard the Red Force—calm, sharp-tongued, and painfully unbothered by Shanks’ endless antics.

You were also completely unaware of the fact that the most feared (and flirted-with) captain in the New World couldn’t seem to stop touching you.

Not in a creepy way. Not even in a romantic way… at least, not that you noticed.

He’d toss an arm around your shoulders like it was a habit. Rest his hand on your waist when laughing. Tug you into his side when something “dangerous” happened, like a slightly aggressive breeze or a seagull flying too low.

You just chalked it up to him being Shanks.

Until, one bright morning, the crew decided enough was enough.

It started with Benn Beckman sighing dramatically as he walked onto the deck.

“Do you two need a room or something?”

You blinked from where you stood, arms crossed. “We’re not even doing anything.”

Benn pointed. “His hand has been on your lower back for ten minutes.”

Shanks blinked down at his own hand like it betrayed him. “Huh. Didn’t even notice.”

You raised a brow. “Are you okay? Do you have tactile issues?”

Lucky Roux snorted as he passed by with a turkey leg. “Yeah, it’s called ‘falling for someone and not knowing what to do with your hands.’”

Shanks turned red. You remained… utterly unaffected.

“Touch-starved pirate disease,” Lime Juice muttered, jotting fake notes like a doctor. “Tragic. Symptoms include: prolonged physical contact, excessive grinning, and spontaneous cuddling in public.”

Hongo popped his head out of the crow’s nest. “I saw him brush your hair behind your ear during the storm last week.”

“That was because it got in their face,” Shanks defended.

You nodded. “He didn’t want me to get stabbed by my own bangs. Very heroic.”

“You’re wearing a braid,” Yasopp called from the helm.

A long pause.

“…Okay, I’m not good with excuses,” Shanks muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His hand bumped yours in the process.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing. “Captain.”

“Yes?”

“You’re touching me again.”

“...I genuinely didn’t notice DAHAHAHA.”

The crew erupted into laughter.

You blinked slowly and glanced down at your joined hands, then back up at him. “You’ve been holding my hand for a minute now. You good?”

“Maybe.”

You stared.

He stared.

“…You’re kinda warm,” he added, grinning.

“I’m wearing gloves.”

“Exactly. Impressive.”

You didn’t smile, but your voice was flat with dry humor. “You wanna marry me, too? Get it over with?”

Shanks choked. “Whoa—what?”

“You’re already touching me like I’m your lover. Might as well commit.”

The crew howled.

“I’m starting to like them more than you, Cap,” Benn said, lighting a cigar.

“They’ve got more bite,” Lime Juice grinned.

Lucky Roux offered you a celebratory turkey leg like a sword. “You just proposed better than he ever could.”

You calmly took it, giving a single nod. “Thanks. I accept my own proposal.”

Shanks was still frozen. “Wait, are we actually engaged now?”

You took a slow bite of the turkey leg, deadpan. “Keep touching me like that, and you’ll owe me alimony.”

ZORO

You were minding your own business—arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, back leaned slightly against the Sunny’s railing—when a familiar weight thunked into your side.

Again.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t glance, didn’t even blink. Just spoke.

“Zoro.”

“What.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what.”

“Treating me like a living chair.”

He grunted. “You’re stable. And not annoying.”

“That’s a compliment?” you asked, still deadpan.

“Take it or leave it.”

The crew had noticed. Of course they had. This was the sixth day in a row Zoro had casually latched onto you like a sleepy barnacle.

“Oi, mosshead!” Sanji snapped, appearing from the galley with smoke swirling and a righteous fury in his eyes. “Get off them, you clingy cucumber!”

Zoro cracked open an eye. “Make me.”

“Oh, I will!” Sanji stomped over dramatically. “Y/N-chwaann shouldn’t have to carry your freeloading swordsman body weight! If anyone deserves to be close to them, it’s me!”

You raised an eyebrow. “You literally tripped into my lap yesterday trying to ‘tie your shoe.’ You were barefoot.”

“It was a metaphor!” Sanji cried. “For falling head over heels!”

Zoro scoffed. “That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Says the mossy limpet glued to their side like a touchy fungus!”

Zoro didn’t move. “Jealousy’s not a good look, curly.”

“You—!!”

“Guys,” Nami sighed, “can’t we go one day without turning affection into a shouting match?”

Brook leaned on his cane, chuckling. “Yohohoho! Young love… or something!”

Usopp squinted. “Wait. Has Zoro always been this clingy with Y/N?”

Robin smiled mysteriously. “Since thriller bark, at least.”

Franky nodded solemnly. “Saw him fall asleep on their shoulder mid-battle once. SUPER unconscious.”

“I thought he was dead,” Chopper added, horrified. “Turns out he was just really comfy.”

Zoro’s grip on your shoulder tightened very slightly, and you finally glanced sideways at him.

“Do you know you’re this touchy?” you asked.

He looked like he wanted to evaporate into the deck. “I… just don’t mind you being close.”

You blinked slowly. “Is that samurai code for ‘I like you’?”

Sanji audibly gagged. “Oi! Don’t flirt in front of me!”

“We’re not flirting,” you said.

Zoro mumbled, “Might be.”

Sanji died inside.

“Y/N-chwann” he said gravely, dropping to one knee. “I beg of you—pick me instead! I would never lean on you like a sweaty tree log!”

Zoro growled. “Because you’d faint from being close.”

“AT LEAST I’D DIE HANDSOME!”

You looked between the two of them and sighed.

“I just want to drink my tea without being fought over,” you muttered, walking off—Zoro immediately following, like a shadow with swords.

“You’re still touching me,” you noted.

“Didn’t say I’d stop,” he replied casually.

You stopped walking, turned, and looked him square in the eye.

“You’re aware this is very couple-coded, right?”

He blinked, then grunted. “Guess we should make it official then.”

You blinked right back. “That was fast.”

“Why waste time.”

You smirked just a little. “Romantic.”

He shrugged. “You’re warm. And you don’t talk too much.”

“That’s your idea of a proposal?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

From behind you, Sanji dramatically screamed into the ocean.

MIHAWK

Kuraigana Island was a wasteland of stone, wind, and uncomfortable silences. You didn’t mind. You were the type to thrive in eerie places — quiet, observant, and allergic to nonsense.

Which is probably why Mihawk didn’t bother with small talk.

Or... so you thought.

Lately, the world’s greatest swordsman had developed a habit of materializing wherever you were. You’d be cleaning a blade — and there he was, pouring tea. You’d sit on the crumbling stone wall for some air — and there he’d be, suddenly trimming the overgrown vines right next to you.

At first, you thought it was coincidence.

Until today.

“...You know you don’t have to sharpen every one of my knives,” you said flatly, watching him work silently at the bench beside you.

“I didn’t,” Mihawk replied, still honing the blade. “Only the dull ones.”

You blinked. “That was my butter knife.”

“Then it was very dull.”

From the far side of the ruins, Zoro grunted as he finished a set of squats. “He refilled their canteen twice this morning.”

“Once,” Mihawk corrected, still not looking up.

“Twice,” Zoro insisted. “Once after breakfast. Then again after they just looked at the sink.”

Perona floated down with a snort. “He also folded their coat. While they were still wearing it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Wait. Is that why my sleeves were shorter for a second?”

“You had a wrinkle.”

“I always have a wrinkle.”

Mihawk looked up with that unreadable expression. “And now you don’t.”

Zoro huffed. “What even is this? He acts like a butler. But like, a scary one.”

Mihawk narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m not a butler.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Perona muttered, arms crossed. “You fixed the strap on their satchel too.”

Mihawk didn’t respond to that.

Perona raised a brow. “You gonna deny it?”

“No,” Mihawk said coolly, “because it was crooked.”

Zoro leaned against a stone pillar, towel around his neck. “He also moved your seat at the dining table.”

“That was my seat,” you said.

Mihawk finally gave you a long, side glance. “You’ve sat on the left for the past four mornings. I simply ensured it remained consistent.”

You deadpanned. “You rearranged the furniture.”

“Briefly.”

Zoro stared. “And when they tripped over that vine—”

“I cut the vine before they fell,” Mihawk snapped with a tone just shy of defensive.

“Bro. You lunged across the courtyard.”

Mihawk sipped his wine calmly. “It was in the way.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And when you pulled me by the hood into the shade the other day?”

“You were overheating.”

“I wasn’t sweating.”

“You were blinking slowly.”

You stared. “That’s just how I blink.”

There was a long pause.

Then Perona gasped. “Wait, wait — you also fixed the strap on their scabbard!”

“I adjusted it. The weight distribution was uneven.”

Zoro clapped once, grinning. “So you are clingy.”

Mihawk’s eyes narrowed, the glint in them sharp and dangerous. “I am not.”

You leaned your chin on your hand, amused. “Then what would you call this?”

He paused. “Awareness.”

Perona lost it. “You mean hyper-awareness. Of one (1) person.”

Mihawk ignored her. “It’s strategic. I simply ensure you're at your most efficient.”

“That’s not efficiency,” Zoro said, wiping his forehead. “That’s doting.”

Mihawk arched a brow. “You think a swordsman cannot be observant?”

“You folded their laundry in order of fabric weight.”

“They prefer it that way.”

You blinked. “I never said that.”

He side-eyed you, expression cool. “You didn’t need to.”

You blinked again.

Zoro grunted. “You see? He’s acting like we’re all weird for noticing.”

Perona jabbed a finger toward him. “He's totally doing the ‘if I act calm, no one will notice I'm obsessed’ thing.”

Mihawk finally gave a soft, tired sigh — the kind that said you people are exhausting.

Then, turning to you, he asked, “Would you like tea?”

“I haven’t said I was thirsty.”

He didn’t blink. “You will be.”

You stared. “Are you psychic?”

“No,” he said simply. “You’re predictable.”

You squinted. “...That sounds like flirting.”

Mihawk blinked slowly. “I don’t flirt.”

Perona groaned. “OH MY GOD—”

Mihawk stood up, cloak sweeping behind him, expression unreadable as always. He held out the canteen like he’d already won this conversation.

You took it with narrowed eyes, muttering, “Thanks... I guess.”

He nodded, calm as ever. “You’re welcome.”

Zoro crossed his arms. “Still denying it?”

Mihawk looked at all of them — then at you — and with perfect poise said,

“I’m just efficient.”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

You stared after him, took a sip from the canteen, and sighed.

“…Efficiently annoying.”

Perfect pair

Y/n lands on the forsaken island of Kuraigana, crossing paths with the world’s greatest swordsman, Dracule Mihawk.

PART 1 OF READER WHO CAN USE THE INFINITY STONES

dracule mihawk x reader ౨ৎ💗 ONE SHOT

main characters: mihawk

tags: fluff, sfw, soft, lots of v!ol3nce

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ff cringe and oc

words count: 968

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

Kuraigana Island was a corpse of a land.

Fog hung like a wet cloth. Gnarled trees clawed at a grey sky. Castles lay in ruin. Crows perched on broken battlements, staring like tiny, judgmental gods. The humandrills lurked in the shadows, half-watching, half-measuring you with the unsettling intelligence of creatures that knew too much and bowed to nothing.

You arrived with no fanfare — a split in space, a ripple in air, and there you stood.

The swordsman was already waiting.

Golden eyes sharp as his blade, Dracule Mihawk took you in without surprise. Just a flick of his gaze, the briefest narrowing of lids.

“You’re not from here.”

“...”

A beat. Then a faint smirk.

“State your business.”

You glanced around. The entire island radiated don’t bother, but you liked the silence.

“Needed a place to land.”

Mihawk regarded you a moment longer, then turned away.

“Don’t get in my way.”

You didn’t answer. You never did.

There he stood, placing the wine aside. Up close, he was taller than you expected, broad-shouldered and impossibly composed, moving like liquid death. The sort of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room.

“I don’t know where you came from,” he said, approaching with unhurried grace, “but I can tell you this island is no place for a traveler. It devours the weak.”

“I’m not weak.”

Something in his eyes sharpened. “Prove it.”

A sword materialized in his hand—a black-bladed cross almost as tall as you were.

You didn’t blink.

He smirked, and in a blur of movement, brought the blade down.

You raised a hand.

The world stuttered. Time hiccupped.

His strike slowed to a crawl, the blade inches from your face.

“Cute,” you murmured, tilting your head. You could feel the hum of cosmic power rising within you.

With a flick of your wrist, you stepped out of sync with the moment. Time resumed, his blade cleaving harmlessly through empty air.

You were leaning against a column now.

“Done?” you asked, voice flat.

Mihawk turned, eye narrowing. A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth.

“Well, Aren’t you interesting.”

Days bled together.

Mihawk didn’t ask you to leave, and you didn’t offer. He trained in the ruins. You wandered. A routine of unspoken tolerance.

Occasionally, the hum of his blade slicing the mist would pause as you flexed space to pluck fruit from high branches, reversed time to catch a falling stone before it shattered, or made entire sections of the crumbling wall rebuild themselves just for fun.

Once, a particularly bold baboon lunged at you. Mihawk turned just in time to see it dissolve into stardust.

You held its still-beating heart in your palm for a moment, then let it fall.

The humandrills kept their distance after that.

He said nothing, but his eyes followed you longer after that.

He asked about your powers one evening, rare curiosity threading his tone.

You sat by a fire you didn’t need, lazily manipulating the flame into twisting shapes.

“Are you a god?”

You considered it. “Complicated.”

He hummed. “Good. I hate gods.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “Noted.”

Tension hung between you like fine wire. Neither speaking it. Neither breaking it.

When pirates landed, drunk on courage and legends of Mihawk’s title, you watched from a stone wall.

Twenty men.

They charged.

Mihawk moved like death made flesh, blade a dark glimmer. He cut through them like wind through leaves.

One survivor crawled toward you, gasping, reaching.

You tilted your head.

The man froze. His body peeled apart into strings of light, unraveling like an old tapestry.

Mihawk watched, bloodied and silent.

You met his gaze. “Messy work.”

He smirked. “Efficient.”

Weeks later, a storm hit.

Lightning split the sky. Waves devoured the shore.

A galleon, unfamiliar flag, shattered against the cliffs.

Mihawk and you stood at the shore. Bodies in the water. Survivors clinging to wreckage.

“Yours?” you asked.

He shook his head.

A captain, foolish and loud, cursed and called Mihawk out by name.

Mihawk’s blade lifted — but you stepped past him.

A simple gesture. A ripple in reality.

The ocean bent, swallowing the survivors. The ship’s remains vanished, leaving only empty, perfect water.

Silence.

“You stole my kill,” Mihawk said.

You shrugged. “They bored me.”

He stared at you a long moment, then laughed. Low, rare.

“Stay,” he said.

You did.

Because for once, you weren’t bored.

One dusky evening, Mihawk invited you on a hunt.

“A nuisance on a nearby island,” he said. “A former Warlord pretending to hold dominion.”

You quirked a brow. “And you need me?”

“I don’t need anyone,” he replied smoothly. “But you might amuse me.”

You smirked and stepped through a portal, Mihawk following.

The island was a lush jungle, overrun with hostile fauna and even more hostile men.

They expected Mihawk. They didn’t expect you.

One tried to cleave your head from behind.

You stopped time.

Walked around the frozen scene, plucking the man’s weapon away, rewinding his attempted strike into a trip and face-first fall into mud.

When time resumed, Mihawk didn’t flinch, but you caught the slight twitch of his lip.

“You enjoy showing off.”

“I enjoy being alive.”

You flicked a finger. Space warped around a group of enemies, their bodies crushed into a single, compacted orb of air before disappearing.

Mihawk cut down the rest, his precise strikes a sharp contrast to your cosmic chaos.

Afterward, the island was silent save for the wind and the cawing of carrion birds.

Mihawk sheathed his sword.

“You might be dangerous company.”

“You might be boring,” you countered.

Another smirk. “Then we’ll keep testing that.”

You stepped back into Kuraigana’s misty air together.

The humandrills stared harder than usual.

And you, for the first time in centuries, considered the notion of staying.

cross guild hours except only one of them is vaguely doing work~

I really drew this with my whole p*ssy huh

happy new year from drunken mishanks🌟

We woke up in the kitchen saying

"How the hell did this shit happen?" Oh baby

---

did a quick concept on how they gonna be waking up and made quite a mess of their kitchen (referencing that beyonce drunk in love song ykyk) also crashed/freezed my prehistoric laptop too frequent while trying out the paint tool sai custom brushes

opla mihawk old drawing recolored, trying out again the beloved paint tool sai after years neglecting it

miho doodle on friend's ipad

friki mihawk sketch 👹 (i forgot when did i draw this thang)

crochawk quick draw on ibispaintx

mihawk live action quick messy sketchg

oops, entered the wrong room

(work archive from last month)

i love rendering his yoru here (just to be covered by shanks)

miho dumps from sketchbook

Dreaming of You

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,100+, 1,700+, 1,700+, 1,400+

Synopsis: They couldn't help it. You looked so heavenly in their dreams. The way they had you wrapped around their body as a marionette in their minds, dancing for them as they awoke to sticky blankets when they jolted upright. Their thoughts got the better of them, and they are wracked with guilt. Sir Crocodile, Buggy, Dracule Mihawk

Warnings: wet dreams, afab!reader, swearing, masturbation, dub con (Using your image to masturbate to), suggestive content, feelings, all individual 'x reader' drabbles, same reader!insert different outcome, chop-chop fruit shenanigans, angst, romance, smut, kissing, NSFW, 18+, MDNI.

Notes: Dreaming of You Masterlist Here, Please read the warnings. I am having a lot of fun with this series, but this one got away with me. They're only meant to be silly little drabbles between larger fics. Sorry for the lengthy read! Enjoy playing the part of a marine spy for Cross-Guild!

Tag list: @sordidmusings @nerium-lil @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @writingmysanity @indydonuts @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @carrotsunshine @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @lostfirefly

Hips pressed against one another, huffing pants and gasps were collected in one another's lips and skin as he pinned your back against the wooden wall behind the burgundy curtains of the tent door. Legs collected over his hips, he held your left thigh in his right hand, his forearm caging you by slotting up between your right shoulder and the cool surface. 

Lusting and passionate, he drew intentional thrusts that were slow and deliberate enough to brush at your g-spot and mold your pussy to the contours of his thick cock. He slacked his jaw, his eyes swimming with emotion as he ground his pelvis against your clit with every heavy thrust. 

Your voice whimpered for him, stifling your mewls of pleasure by biting down into his shoulder and crying as he bullied his cock into your needy pussy. He groaned with you, rocking his cock in slow, languid thrusts up into your body. 

“Please,” you begged him, desperately clawing at his back and peppering his shoulders, neck and jaw with enthusiastic kisses, “We don't have long until the others come back.” He growled at your words, offering you a particularly mean thrust forward and a cruel bite against your neck. 

“A-Aah!” you gasped in shock, biting your lip and digging your nails into his shoulders harder. He sheathed his entire length greedily into you, his shaft twitching in bliss the moment he felt his blunt tip brush your cervix. His hips stapled yours against the wall he was bullying you against. 

“I don't care if they hear,” he barked against your neck, tracing his tongue over the bruise forming from his bite, “I don't care if they see.” He pulled back his hips only slightly before immediately propelling himself forward and forging his body against yours like soldering iron to a hot blade. 

“Let them hear,” he admitted, huffing against your neck as he rocked his hips into yours, removing his hand from hooking around your thigh to grip your neck and bring your gaze to meet his. “Let them see.” He plastered your parted lips with his own, desperate with tongue and teeth as he released your neck to hold your thigh once more. 

“I want them to hear,” he groaned into your mouth, rolling your cheek with his chin and kissing down your jaw, “I want them to see.” He trailed his needy kisses down your neck as he doubled his effort and sped up his rhythmic thrusting. 

As your core sucked him in each time he retracted, his mind was lost to him and was filled with primal desire. He needed them to hear your sweet moans and whimpers. He needed them to see who was making you feel this good. He needed you to know who you belonged to. 

“Say you're mine,” he growled, his lips mouthing up your neck, over your jaw and to your cheeks, “Say it.” He sped up faster, his cock hammering into you with every cruel, frenzied thrust. His hair was sticking to the dewy sheen of sweat against his forehead and neck, his brows furrowed as he glared into your eyes with an intensity he had never felt in life prior. 

“Say you're mine,” he barked at you, commanding you to fulfill his desires as his cock twitched within you. Your walls beckoned him closer, the thump of your ecstasy wringing his cock as he pistoned it within you had him desperately whimper and whine your name. 

“P-Please say you're mine,” he implored you in desperation, his fingers clutching your thigh in a heaping fistful as he continued to chase your mutual highs, “Tell me. Tell me your mine, and I'll be your slave.” He begged, kissing your lips and panting through his thrusts, “I'll be yours. Is that what you want?”

He chased your mutual high faster, rocking and pummeling into you with his heels digging into the floor. His belt buckle jingled atop his pants pooling at his ankles, your own pants discarded beneath you long ago. Leaning down, he took your peaked nipple into his mouth and rolled it over with his tongue.

A string of saliva attached from his lips to the puckered bud when he pulled away, huffing and panting at the lustful display of your breathing hitching. Body bouncing in sultry ripples with each thrust, he groaned as he felt his abdomen tighten with a familiar call of his imminent release. 

“Yes,” you whispered his name suddenly, clutching his neck and carding your hands through his hair, “Yes, I want that. I want you-...” You whined his name as he pistoned his length deep within you, “Please, I'm yours. Only yours.” 

He growled his pleasure at hearing your words into your lips, tongue lapping with yours and his hair brushing against your forehead. You hastily tugged him away from your lips by gripping the scruff of his neck and pulling hard. 

“W-What? Why are you-?” He began, his words halted by the intensity of your gaze. Your lips were parted, face flushed from a higher rise of hazy temperature, and skin forming lustful bruises and mapping his treasure with his marking kisses. 

“Make me yours,” you gasped at him, panting as your lust eclipsed your eyes, “Cum in me. I want it. Need it.” His eyes widened, and his jaw fell slack as his hips staggered their vicious thrusting deep inside you. 

“Fuck, I-I’m gonna-...” His abdomen tightened further, his eyes glowing black with luminescent lust as his seed spilled inside you with hot spurts, “I'm cumming-... hhah-... I-I’m cumming…f-f-fuck-...” Rope after rope of translucent cum released within your walls, the rhythm of your own ecstasy milking him with squeezing grasps on his throbbing cock. 

You called his name, throwing your head back as he trailed his eyes over your skin with adoration within his bliss. He couldn't get enough, reaching forward to collect your lips beneath his in a scorching mess of lips, tongue and teeth. With a desperate kiss to mold him against you completely, he forged an unspoken covenant to ensure you knew you were his and he was yours. 

Opening his eyes, the image of your blissed out afterglow faded from his vision. All that he was met with was the ornate ceiling in his bedroom, his cock twitching through the final waves of untouched pleasure. 

“No,” he growled, removing his duvet with his right hand and glancing at the lustful dance his swollen cock twitched with. A last spurt of cum spilled from the glossy slit and he immediately thrust the ruined blanket on top of his stomach to shield it from his sight. 

“Fuck.”

Sir Crocodile 

He balled his right fist, slamming it into the mattress beside his hip with a rumbling growl in his chest. Inhaling deeply, holding it for a few seconds, and exhaling slowly had him assess all that occurred to him with his night vision moments ago.

“Please say you’re mine. Say you’re mine and I’ll be your slave,” his own voice echoed in his mind, “I’ll fall to my knees and worship you in all ways. I’ll treat you like the deity I know you to be, showering you in praise and praying at your altar. Please.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered with half-hooded lessons, “I’ll only ever be yours, Sir Crocodile. Only yours.” He snapped his eyes awake, clenching his jaw impossibly tight and drawing his brows down in fury.

“I begged?” he snarled, reaching for a cigar and his flint-lock lighter, “I begged to claim you as mine?” He clicked his tongue before biting down on his cigar, lighting the end with a small flame and sucking in a sour lungful of smoke, “Utterly ridiculous.” 

Pulling the duvet away from his lap, he growled at the sticky ooze pooling at his abdomen before squaring his shoulders and walking to the adjoining ensuite in his master bedroom. The Cross-Guild tent did not have many luxuries, but he refused to go without simple pleasures while working with the disgusting clown. 

A bath was one such pleasure Sir Crocodile would not live without.

Running the water, he dropped each foot into the tub and sighed out at the contact of the freshwater rising to his thighs. The heat and steam eradicated his shame from his abdomen without much effort, melting it down and washing it away beneath the water. Groaning, he looked to his absent left hand and gazed down at the scarred stump. 

“We don’t have long until the others come back,” he heard your voice echo within his mind, drawing himself back to the dream and causing him to grimace in annoyance. He circled his palm and fingertips over his left forearm and molded the flesh within a firm grip. 

The pains on his phantom limb had returned, his mind racing and attempting to draw up distractions by any means necessary. Your midnight illusion was simply the latest commodity to preoccupy his attention with lustful desires, is how he rationalized such a shameful intrusion. 

He was a fourty-six year old man, not some prepubescent teenager so consumed with the need to fuck that their minds dreamed it into an untouched and sticky reality. The pain intensified, his teeth clamping in a rough hiss as the illusionary throb of his hand caused him to shake his arm from his grip. 

This was going to be a long and tiring day.

At the meeting, he was being short and harsh with anyone and everyone to cause him displeasure. His teeth snapped barks, his chest rumbling his fury and his hair was beginning to become disheveled. The clown was aggravating, and the swordsman’s silence was not as refreshing as it was under usual circumstances.  

His right hand only ever left his left forearm for the chance to draw up a cigar, yet the sour smoke did very little to soothe his pain, and his hand only seemed to make the intensity of the throbbing worse. As Mihawk and Buggy stood to leave the room, he remained behind and he finally hissed out a lengthy growl behind his clenched teeth at the pain. 

There was not a sound in the room, a slight ringing in his ears as the pain reached his head and dizzied his mind. Eyes scrunched tightly shut, he had no context for a gentle touch on his hand over his forearm until he snapped his purple eyes up to meet with yours. 

“Allow me, Sir Crocodile,” your smile illuminated your face, gently suggesting with your touch to remove his right hand from his left forearm. He attempted to fight the urge to bark at you, snap at you and give in to his desire to have you touch him. 

“And just what do you think you’re doing, Marine?” he growled, eyes narrowing and lips curling up into a deep snarl, “Who gave you the right to touch me-?”

“Oh, shut up. You've been horrendous today and I refuse to have this continue to be cause for your disgusting attitude,” you bit back, your own lips pulling back to reveal your snarl, “Let go of your arm and let me help you, damn it.” He immediately dropped his arm in favor of gripping your neck in a tight choke, bringing your face closer to his. 

“You dare to give me orders, Marine?” he roared at you, your teeth gritting back the pain and glaring into his eyes. “I was a former warlord, little spy. Now I hunt and kill your kind for a living.” As Sir Crocodile monologued, he remained ignorant of your hands working to find the clamps of his prosthetic hook and releasing the golden cover from his arm. 

“And now you touch me, spy? Offering me what, exactly?” he continued monologuing as you removed his hook and rolled up his embroidered sleeve. The pain in his forearm was so intense he could barely feel any relief of tension come from releasing his limb from the confines of his hook. “How are you going to help-... A-ah!” He gasped, his brows tugging up in the center of his forehead as he glared at you. 

Immediately releasing your neck, he looked down at his bare forearm within both of your hands and bit back a whimper. In his own grip, his scarred forearm felt hot and throbbing beneath his cooler temperature. In your warmer hands, his arm felt encased in an encumbering embrace like hot stones sizzling on a damp surface. 

Your thumbs traced the contours of his muscles, dipping between his bones and rolling his muscle between your fingers. The heel of your palm added a tight pressure to his ache, his breath coming out in rough pants the longer you held him in a tight grip. His eyes softened, his scowl loosening from anger to pain. 

Hissing and panting, an uncharacteristic whimper fell from his lips as you silently focussed on working the flesh within your skilled grip. Circling your thumbs and contracting your hands, you instructed him with calming and soothing words. 

“Deep breaths now,” you whispered in a slow and intentional hum, “In when I squeeze, and out when I release.” He nodded his head, feeling the soft roll of your hands over his skin. As you tightened his grip, his chest expanded with a lengthy inhale and exhaled as you withdrew. 

Repeating that motion, he felt the tension in his mind begin to release him from his illusions. Focussing on your movements as your voice soothed him with each direction, he didn’t expect his emotions to overcome him at such kindness. Your hard contractions over his arm eased up, your fingertips tracing the scars on the vacant nub and causing his flesh to tingle beneath it. 

“Better, sir?” halting your soft motions, you gently placed your hand on his forearm and held faint pressure over his skin. Reopening his eyes, he felt tangible relief wash its way over his face. Gazing into your eyes, you held nothing but empathy and gentleness in your twin orbs. He leaned down over your face, bringing contact between your two foreheads and offering you the slightest of smiles. 

“Why would you do that?” he whispered in an uncharacteristic soft voice, “Touch me like that? Offer me such kindness after all that’s occurred between us?” He raised his right hand and cupped the back of your head in a firm grip to hold you against him. 

“You didn’t kill me the moment I stepped into the red tent,” you smiled warmly at him, “Nor did you kill me any day thereafter.” Giving his arm another gentle squeeze, you glanced down at his missing limb and offered him a melancholy smile. He growled at your confession, searching your eyes for a further explanation. You huffed out a sigh, smiling further with a soft twitch up your cheeks. 

“I used to do this for my friend back at the marine base,” you offered him a glimpse at your history with your explanation, “Did it all the way up until the day she died. Said something about my hands feeling warm against her skin, different to her own temperature. Soothing.”

He chuckled at that, nodding against your head and closing his eyes shut in momentary bliss. That was why you felt so good on his skin, your skilled motions causing him aid and relief. You have done this before, and were offering it freely to him. 

“Oh?” he asked, his smile tugging at his cheeks and elevating the scar over his face, “And did she manage to say what she did without you by her side to aid her?” You laughed at him, breaking away your contact from his forehead and scrunching up your nose playfully. 

“I was always by her side, sir,” you confessed to him, nodding as you spoke, “She and I were inseparable, even in cabin quarters.” He nodded in understanding, looking down to his limb and back up to your eyes. 

“Well, if that’s the only solution for the pain I’m encountering,” he uttered, his lips curling into a wide smirk, “I would see you gather your personal effects and move into my cabin beside the tent, immediately.” You laughed at him, rising from his side and beginning to leave the meeting room. 

“I hardly think that would be appropriate. Don’t you agree, sir?” you question him, collecting your bag from the circular table in the center of the room. As you moved to leave the tent, a strong forearm snaked around your chest and grasped your shoulder, tugging you firmly into a broad chest. 

“Wasn’t a suggestion, Marine,” he whispered into your ear, the smooth rumble of his voice shooting tingles up your spine and causing you to gasp. “You’re mine now. Hear me?” He grazed his lips over your cheek and down your jaw in a slow motion. 

“Mine.”

Buggy

“Oh, what the fuck?” his nasally voice huffed, his makeup free face flushing with a hefty sprinkle of dark blush, “You’re fucking kidding me.” He reached down to his cock and fisted it in a pistoning motion. 

“Had to be you, didn't it?” he cursed your name in a pouty snarl, “The fucking spy.” He swirled his cock in his palm, growling at it before he simply detached it with his balls and brought it up to his face. He frowned in a deep scowl, drawing up his heckles as he began chastising his cock. 

“C’mon, man! How could you do this to me?” He growled at his cherry-red knob, choking it in his fist, “You think this is fucking funny? You think I want to see ‘em like this?” He drew up his other hand and slapped his knob, his pelvis wincing in response. 

“Out of bounds,” he berated his cock, “The spy is out of bounds. You know the spy is out of bounds.” He pinched his knob, choking it and only making his pleasure heighten. “N-Nnngh-... Not for thinking about, not for trying to fuck.” 

He whimpered, his priorly ruined orgasm still gluing his duvet to his stomach. He growled, hocking a wad of spit behind his lips. He spat on his cock in an attempt to degrade himself further, only leading to lubricating his ministrations and causing him to throw his cerulean colored hair back into his plush pillows in bliss. 

“Hhah-... The spy is not for you, you fucking idiot,” he gulped his confirmation, his cock thrusting itself in his fist beside his head as he frowned at it, “Think about something else,” he closed his eyes, meeting the thrusts of his cock with his hand as he tried to think about anyone else he could sheathe himself in. 

“Buggy, I-I’m gonna c-cum-,” he heard your voice whimper at him, his cock twitching in his hand beside his face, “Buggy, please can I cum?” He shook his head, attempting to picture anything else. Faceless breasts bouncing, ripples of an ass jiggling, parted lips panting and huffing with eyes scrunched shut-... Your voice calling his name with adoration pouring from your lips like honey. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, shaking his head and attempting to go back to the earlier images. He only pictured your hair, your skin, your perfume, and your lips behind his eyes. Those lips used to spell secrets, split in a perfect ‘O’ as he pictured you slicking his cock up in your needy cunt with your erupting ecstacy milking him of his heaping load. 

“Fuck! No, no, no, no, n-oooh!” He threw his cock away from his face to not shoot himself in the eye with his release. It spattered the wall in a secondary wave of sticky cum like a grenade exploding on impact. “Nnnngh-... F-Fuck. Fu-uck-... C-cumming-.” His abdomen contracted as he rode the remaining waves of his orgasm untouched and unstimulated. 

Ropes of guilt shot out of his small slit and coated the wall and floor in a sticky pile of pearlescent cum. He groaned your name, huffing and panting as his hips bucked up in an attempt to stimulate his detached cock. 

“N-... No…” he whimpered, bringing his palm up to his face and clapping it over his lips. “Not the spy. I can't-... I can't have the damn spy. They're a bloody marine, you fucking idiot,” he degraded himself further, rising from his bed and wiping his abdomen of the solidifying globs of sticky cum with his duvet. 

He reached his cock, staring at it as it looked like a pathetic, slobbering drunk as it lay in a pool of its own drool. He clicked his tongue at it, picking it up and dusting it off before reattaching it to his pelvis. Readjusting his balls, he found his red jumpsuit and messily thrust it over his body in one swell motion. Instead of throwing his arms through the sleeves, he tied the material around his waist and offered to remain shirtless. 

“Not the spy,” he whispered to himself as he exited his ornate living quarters at the Cross-Guild base. Making his way to the kitchen, he was halted by a soft hum reverberating around the room. 

A familiar somber tune painted the air with its melody, his eyes shutting and the corner of his mouth ticking up as he listened to the lyrics. Stepping into the room, he attempted to mask his nerves with his signature mischief written on his face. 

As he drew his eyes over your features, your back facing away and staring out the window by the sink, he couldn't help but have the mask of protection slip away. Your lips whispered the lyrics, your heart carried the tune. You were not in your marine uniform, nor were you adorning the attire Sir Crocodile purchased for your protection. 

You were dressed in simple, gray-coloured slacks that hung loosely around your hips. The top you were wearing was a cropped t-shirt with his Jolly Roger printed on the back. His lips parted in shock as he drank you in, listening to your soft singing and closing his eyes to experience it fully. 

Before he could manage to say a word to reveal his presence, your hums ceased and your voice lowly uttered your apologies. 

“Sorry, Captain Buggy,” you bow your head to him in greeting, “I was not assuming the three of you to be awake so early. If I bothered you with my noise, I apologize.”

“N-No bother,” he huffed your name and hastily gave his reply to you with a soft blush, “I-... I haven't heard that song since the old days. Way back when-... When Roger…” He trailed off, looking at a point just beyond your hips and against the sink beside you. 

“I love the old shanties,” you chased his gaze with your own, angling your chin down and attempting to pry his eyes up to meet yours, “They're either about drinking, fucking, or grieving.” Buggy met your gaze, grinning up at you with his teal eyes beaming. 

“Ah, two of my favorite pastimes,” he added his commentary, leaning in closer and a cheeky smile pulling at his cheeks, “I’m not one for fucking.” He shot you a wink, prompting you to laugh at his joke. Your laugh was music, each soft teeter was as radiant as a lilt from heavenly minstrels. After teetering off your laugh, he offered you a soft smile with his eyes wide and curious. 

“Would you mind…?” Buggy trailed off again, nervously clutching the back of his neck and cringing through his smile, “...Could you perhaps tell me why you decided to join us, again?” He released his hand from his neck and darted his eyes between yours. 

After taking a moment to collect your breath and mull over what it was he asked of you, shrugged and offered him a simple answer. 

“The Berry is good, and it’s mutually beneficial,” you nod at him, smiling with your answer, “You were the one who offered me a choice, remember?” Crossing your arms, you leaned your hips back on the sink and glared at him, “It was either: spy for the marines as a triple agent for your Cross-Guild with a livable wage, or have Crocodile or Mihawk take my head. I chose you, Captain.” 

As Buggy was reminded of his prior actions and offered you a sheepish smile in response. Stepping forward, he reached for your forearms and waited for you to flinch away or chastise him for such a soft gesture. In the wake of such a softness, he was pleasantly surprised when he felt your fingers interlace with his own and hold them beside him.

“You know, ‘m sorry ‘bout that,” he mumbled, looking to his toes and pouting his unpainted lips, “Didn’t mean t’ have it sound so bad.” You smiled in response, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze and angling your chin down to look at his uncovered fingers. 

“You know, you’re actually quite handsome,” you confessed in a breathy whisper, “The infamous Captain Buggy D Clown, genius jester, king of fools, and calamity of chaos.” You named his titles with a soft smile, looking up into his rainforest-colored eyes with such gentleness. 

“You-... You think I’m handsome?” He asked you, your soft laughter prompted his own to slip freely into the air. You unplaced your right hand from his left and cupped his cheek within your palm, running your fingers through his hair. 

“You’re usually dressed in makeup, with your long hair tucked under your hat,” you collected a strand between your fingers and rolled your thumb over the lengthy blue locks, “And, you usually don’t have this much skin revealed.” Looking down at his chest: his messy blue hair trailed down his chest, tapered off at his stomach, and picked up again like a cerulean trail leading to the assumed treasure beneath his red jumpsuit. 

“I’m not used to seeing this much of you, Captain,” you muffled, drawing your gaze back up to his with a rapidly broadening smile, “And I’m not mad about it.” Your eyes creased at the corners as you offered him a toothy grin in response to his vibrant blush.

The hue of his cheeks rivaled that of his nose and jumpsuit, his eyes almost weeping from the rapidly rising blood pooling in his face. His Adams apple bobbed at the compliment, gulping back a dry pit in his throat and swallowing it. 

“Y-You know,” he stuttered, chuckling to cover his nerves and squeezing your remaining hand in his in two short motions, “I… I take back my earlier sentiment, uh-... If you’re interested?” He continued stuttering and choking on his words as he clumsily cartwheeled around his intentions.

“Oh?” you smirked at him, raking your fingers through his hair and darting your eyes between his, “And what was your earlier sentiment again, Captain?” You trailed your fingers down to the end of his lengthy locks. 

He gulped his terror and humbled himself by offering you a short, huffed laugh. After taking a moment, his eyes twinkled in mischievous hope as he rejoined your eyes in a smiling gaze. 

“I am one for fucking…”

Mihawk

Amber eyes stared in horror at the ceiling, wide and unblinking as he replayed the final moments over and over again in his mind. He drew his right hand down to grasp around the steel girth of his deflating cock and wield it in his firm grip. 

“I want that. I want you, lord Mihawk,” You whined his name as he pistoned his length deep within you in his mind's eye, “Please, I'm yours. Only yours.” His breath hitched in his throat, his eyes twitching but remaining staring vacantly at the ceiling. Thumbing over the prior release, he hissed in agitation the moment his fingers collected his viscous eruption. 

“How fatuous,” he snarled, raising his duvet once more from his waist, “So puerile.” His face remained vacant, his eyes holding only a touch more agitation than his usual persona as he walked to his ensuite shower. Turning the taps, he didn’t wait to feel the rise in water temperature. 

Stepping into the freezing water, he made no reaction as the icy liquid pelted at his skin; not even blinking to dampen his rapidly drying eyes. The water began to elevate in temperature as he released his cock from the grip. Gathering his sandalwood soap bar in his hands, he began lathering himself in foamy suds and washing over his body with his shock and shame still evident on his features.

The only time he closed his amber eyes was when he washed over his face, scrubbing at his whiskered chin and massaging his cheekbones. As soon as his eyes closed, he only saw your face contorted in pleasure, your ethereal moans freely haunting him in his ears. Shaking his head beneath the water, he only saw your face and imagined your hands clawing at his back beneath the water. 

Horror and shock eclipsed his eyes upon reopening, his eyes remaining that way as he concluded his shower, dried himself off, applied his cologne and skin care products, and dressed himself in his pants and greatcoat. His fingers stuttered over the lacing on his outer greatcoat, his lengthy necklace almost choking him as he placed it over his neck.

Almost stumbling into the dining space, he searched in his mind for a reason something so juvenile could occur for someone of his age, standing, and stature. He had gone for so long without taking a lover, he barely felt any lusting urges overcome him anymore. It didn’t suit his routine, his monotony, or his lifestyle as a former warlord. 

His apathetic and bored stature coming from a place of loneliness in his sovereignty as World's Greatest Swordsman. His achievements were already so vast, and he had nobody to share them with - nor a desire to begin a courtship with someone akin to his title. He had no time to take a lover, no time to indulge in whoring as it took away from his duties tending his garden in Kuraigana, and his bounty collecting as Marine-Hunter for Cross-Guild. 

So, why did his mind replay your pleasure over and over again in a loop of falsified memory? The marine spy, the confidant to cross-guild, the whispering oathbreaker; all the titles he sought to bestow you with. His hands reached for the bottle in front of him, clasping the green glass in his hands and uncorking the waxy tip. Pouring the rouge liquid into a crystalline glass, he felt a presence to the side of him.

“Could you spare a glass for me, my lord?” your soft susurration drew his attention back to the present, prompting his eyes to flicker to you. He witnessed your soft smile, your gaze assessing his face and shoulders.

Wordlessly, he reached for another glass and began readying it for you. The dry liquid coated the glass, a soft drop spilling from the rim and down the stem which caused you to knit your brows in concern. 

“Everything okay, my lord?” you asked, reaching for a napkin and beginning to clean up the mess, “You seem out of sorts this morning. Berry for your thoughts?” You dabbed at the table with the wafer-thin paper and tidied up his spill without a second thought. His eyes followed your motions, almost viewing the dabs in slow motion the longer your hands lingered near him. 

His silence seemed to perplex you further, turning your shoulders and leaning your hips back against the marble counter and staring up into his unblinking eyes in response. His shaking hands reached for his wineglass and drew it up to his lips. His mustache dipped into the liquid, messily staining his upper lip with the tart tannins. 

Gazing at his shoulders, you noticed a loop of his shoulder straps seeming to bubble within the corseted lacings, your hands absentmindedly straightening the bonds without much thought. Mihawk choked on his liquid the moment your hands brushed against his shoulders. 

Feeling the warmth float from your fingertips to the exposed skin beneath the weighty jacket, his eyes widened briefly and his pupils narrowed in an accusatory glare. Huffing a nervous laugh as his soft choke and shaking your head, you reached behind you to the pile of napkins and began to raise it to his face and lightly pat at his stained skin. 

Reactionary, he immediately placed his glass down behind you with his right hand, his left clapped around your invasive wrist in a circled vice-grip. Your breath caught in your throat, darting your eyes around his face with your eyes wide and panicked. He immediately drew his face forward and captured your lips beneath his without restraint. He hummed into your lips, raising his right hand and carding his fingers through your hair to deepen the passion.

Lips, tongue, and teeth pulled and tugged at your mouth from the swordsman, his gentle moans and sharp breaths depicting his wanton need to join himself with you immediately. He was pent up for so long, restrained for so long, and his body betrayed him in a shameful display in his dreams as proxy to such desire. If his overnight visit from you as his midnight muse spoke for anything, it was that his needs were now becoming more insistent, prominent, and desperate to be satiated. 

And you were who he wanted to aid him in such a task. 

Your hands raised defensively beside you, your eyes were wide and staring at his furrowed brow and tightly clamped eyes. He continued pressing heated and passionate kisses against your lips with gusto. Not giving you time to adjust or react, he anchored himself between your legs and pinned you against the marble dining station. Lips trailing to your cheek and down your neck, he bit, nipped and sucked at your revealed skin. 

His hands looped around your neck and shoulders, drawing you against him with an incessant need to depict to you his desires with his unyielding grip. You gasped as his lips traced up your skin and returned to your lips, your hands dropping to brace yourself beside you on the marble surface. 

Pulling his lips away, he held your face stationary by palming at the scruff of your neck and holding your attention with his honey-colored eyes. His predatory gaze narrowed in on you as his bruise-kissed lips ticked up in his signature smirk. 

“There,” he snarled at you in soft agitation, before releasing your neck. He collected his wineglass and green bottle from behind you, keeping his face in close proximity. His smirk drew up further as he turned to walk away from you. 

Calling over his shoulder, he snickered his taunting remark at you before leaving through the door, “Now I can occupy your thoughts the same way you've been tormenting me in mine.” 

You stood there stunned, frozen in place as your lips still tingled with the feeling of his against yours. The silky scrape of his neatly cropped beard tickling your cheeks, the way his tongue brushed with yours, and the animalistic desire to consume you with his lust had your soul ignited. 

Turning to the marble bench, you claimed your wineglass and raised it to your lips, immediately gulping back the tart liquid in a heaping swig. Placing the glass in the sink, you stared at the door Mihawk just left through, your thoughts spiraling and sifting through all the possible scenarios of what his words meant, and what the kiss means for you now. 

Only Mihawk knew what he intended with the kiss, and after the morning meeting, he was going to give into his desires further and offer you a place in his bed to have his dreams become reality.