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an-adequate-existence · 17 hours ago

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Holy crap what a roller coaster of emotions! Yeah, Shanks should've had this conversation earlier, and not right before Mihawk comes for their "date."

I can't wait for the next part, this is so well written 🩷

Accro ✨️

➽───❥ ꒰୨ Shanks x Reader x Dracule Mihawk ୧꒱

Accro is a French word that can be translated to hooked, fan, or addict. In English, accro can be used to describe someone who is addicted to something —

꒰୨ word count: 14, 605 ୧꒱

~ `✨️— tags: fem!reader + angst + reader has feelings of inadequacy + reader has an anxiety attack + established relationships + inappropriate use of Haki + huge jealousy issues + heavily anxious thoughts/behaviour + Shanks x Mihawk history + smut in the future. aftercare for reader only + never had a beta, we die like fools —

~ `✨️— an: this was going to be a multi-chapter story with Mihawk also deciding to travel with them to the next island, but I didn't trust my attention span so cut it very short. part three will be on ao3 and smut tags will be added later because I also don't trust Tumblr not to magically make my posts disappear in the tags ( I was going to post all together but its already so long and only god knows when I'll finish part three) enjoy :3

ao3 - mypandakun ;) one piece masterlist :3 support my writing <3

➽───❥ Chapter one - The Proposition

“So, what do you think?” he asks eagerly, his expression bright with anticipation.

His words are both near and distant. His presence both comforting and suffocating. The silence is all parts unnerving.

You attempt to steady yourself. Inhale. Exhale.

Then, you scan the room. Taking note of how sweetly cozy it all seems. The bed and breakfast you chose was quaint, a picturesque retreat nestled in a quiet village.

The walls are adorned with delicate floral wallpaper, and a soft, inviting bed lays pressed up against the largest wall, draped in a handmade quilt you had already run your hands across with aged wooden beams overhead and a window that overlooks a charming garden. The ambiance is serene, the inn homey, intimate.

Yet, in the moment, it does little to ease the tension.

It’s like your mind is unfocused, each thought slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. You can’t grip it hard enough, make it compact and concise to form a figure. A response. There’s a sinking weight in your stomach that becomes heavier with every attempt he makes to draw you closer to him.

But you can only stare. Wide and unblinking.

His shoulders drop as he searches your face for an answer. He looks disappointed, while your heart aches at the bottom of your stomach.

“Sweethea—”

“No, Sh-shanks, I—”

He chuckles lightly. The one that he uses to clear the friction suchlike an idle wave of his hand. A charming one to disarm the bubbling acid that rises to your throat whenever he pushes your patience a little too far. And to his credit, it usually works. He chuckles, peers down at you with those molten red eyes, and you melt right into his chest. He coos and laughs softly into the top of your head, his lips just as gentle and tempting as the words he coaxes you into believing.

At this moment, tangled in the web of uncertainty he has spun around your soul, your pulse races as you struggle to grasp the enormity of the situation.

Your eyes begin to water, and it genuinely stuns him when you push past his embrace.

“You want to offer me up to another man?”

Shanks visibly cringes. “Darling, you make it sound like I’m prostituting you.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course not,” he says sweetly in an attempt to balm your rising temper. To quell those tears he swore made him guilt laden. But doubt takes root instead, and it festers like a rot damaging every memory of his affection, it makes you wonder whether he truly felt any sentiment for it, or they were simply sweet nothings whispered to make you blush.

“But you—” you inhale sharply, “you want to watch another man fuck me?”

He shuffles awkwardly, his chuckle disingenuous. A sound he makes in place of an actual explanation.

“You still make it sound so... so sinful.” He snickers airily. “It’s just a bit of fun— for the both of us.”

“That’s not what it feels like.” You huff, the bile thickening in its acidity. “It’s like-like I’m just a toy you want to share, that I don’t mean anything to you and—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching with a barely contained laugh, “don’t be so dramatic. You’re my girl. Mine, you hear me?”

“How can I believe that when you ask me something like this? You’re-you’re passing me off—”

“Babe,” he guffaws, genuine amusement shining in his wide grin now. “Passing you off? That’s—” he waves his hand, the cloak still resting on his shoulders, it swishes gently, exposing the sword still strapped to his hip.

“You think this is funny, Shanks?” you snap, your voice tinged with incredulity.

“This isn’t what I meant,” he says, trying to soften his tone.

“Then what did you mean?” you challenge, your eyes narrowing.

His ruggedly handsome features— sun-kissed skin, his strong jawline covered in a hint of stubble, and piercing eyes that held a world of mischief and charm— seem to falter for a moment. He runs a hand through his fiery red hair, a gesture you’ve come to recognize as a sign of his own turmoil.

“I thought it might be exciting for us,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Exciting?” you echo, the word sounding foreign in your mouth. “For who? You or me?”

“For both of us,” he insists, but you can see the twinge of doubt in his eyes when your frown deepens.

“This isn’t funny to me, Shanks,” you say firmly.

“Oh, you always loved my laugh,” he tries to lighten the mood, his smile faltering when he sees the seriousness you shoot back.

“Not about this,” you reply, shaking your head. “This is different.”

His hair, a cascade of fiery red tendrils, framed his face in a way that made him look both fierce and inviting. The way he carried himself, with an aura of untamed confidence and a playful glint in his eye, was magnetic. His smile, often crooked and endearing, could light up the darkest corners of your heart, making you feel inexplicably drawn to him.

But now, his usual charm feels like a cruel joke.

How can someone who has always been your anchor now feel like the storm? The sinking feeling in your stomach grows, making it hard to trust your instincts. You had believed in his affection; in the bond you thought was unbreakable.

Yet here you are, questioning every word, every touch, every moment that you had treasured. And he sees it all within the depths of your eyes as if it were a shallow shore. Every thought and insecurity there for him to witness. You feel exposed. Laid bare. While fires burn in his. You used to bathe in that warmth, now it sears every inch of your skin the longer he watches you.

You try to blink back the tears. “You mean everything to me.” His words, which once made butterflies burst in your core, now feel hollow.

“I want to watch him fuck you.”

You thought he was happy in a committed relationship, content with the quiet moments you shared amidst the chaos of your lives at sea for these last two years. You could never have imagined that his request would lead to this moment, where every ounce of trust you’ve built unravels with a seemingly innocent tug by the hem. Was it truly that fragile to begin with? You didn’t think so until now.

He was your Captain; you respected him as such, and he protected you just like any other member of his crew. As the ship’s nurse, you took care of him, meticulously bandaging every superficial wound he brought to you over the years. His visits to the infirmary always seemed to coincide with your shifts. This long-standing routine blossomed into a wonderfully intricate relationship, becoming a beautiful distraction from the chaos of the seas.

“The prettiest girl on the ship.” He would say.

Even now, standing before him, your mind drifts back to those tender moments, each one a fragile thread in the intricate tapestry of your bond. You remember the way he would smile at you, the gentle touch of his hand, the way his eyes would soften when they met yours. But those moments now feel like distant echoes, and your insecurities begin to surface.

Questions you had buried deep within start to rise. Was his affection genuine, or was it just part of his charm? Did he see you as more than just a warm body to wake up to?

Every lingering doubt, every small hesitation you had pushed aside, now stands before you, demanding answers.

Your heart aches with the weight of these uncertainties, and your hands shake despite your best efforts to clench them tight. The warmth you once felt from his presence now feels like a cruel reminder of everything you fear losing. How could you ever have thought you were secure in this relationship, when now it seems to be crumbling before your very eyes?

In real time, with him standing before you, his intentions unclear and your emotions in disarray, everything feels uncertain.

You should not be so surprised. He is free-spirited by nature. Spontaneous. Unfettered. Shanks’ desire for freedom and adventure— it was a part of him that you cherished and feared in equal measure, never knowing if his heart would wander like the wind or if he would stay by your side as he promised.

Although, how could you ask the relentless wind not to fly?

“C’mon, love’,” he groans playfully, a poor attempt to lighten the mood, “say something.”

Shanks reaches for you, and you recoil. A large step separates you now, it might as well be an ocean with the way his hand drops back to his side, the warmth of his touch now a distant memory replaced by a cold void. You feel adrift without it, lost and cast aside for another person to find. Another man.

“Look,” he begins with a heavy sigh, threading his large hand with red strands away from his face, “—we were drinking earlier, just talking about nothing, really, and then Mihawk made a comment about you—”

“What did he say?”

Could he tell your blood rushed through to your head just then? His lip tilted up and his hand stilled. His enthusiasm was unnerving, it made you even madder.

“He said, ‘you have a lovely girl, Red-hair’. Which for Mihawk means he thinks you’re stunning and he’s envious.”

Any other night that would have made your cheeks flush, but the thought of the greatest swordsmen in the world showing interest in you made the hair at the back of your neck stand on end. Especially when the man you adored seemed more thrilled by the idea of sharing you than keeping you for himself.

“It’s so weird how we’re in the same village, we haven’t seen each other in like, two or three years? How long ago was that?” he shakes his head, shaggy hair tickling his cheekbones. Instinctively, you almost reach for it. “Ah, never mind! Point is, he couldn’t keep his eyes off you! When you were laughing with the guys, drinking, dancing, he followed every move you made. I’ve seen Mihawk interested, but never so… so fixated. His usually composed demeanour faltered, just a little, but it was enough for me to notice. He’s never been that captivated by any woman.”

Shanks looks ravenous. His eyes sparkle with fervent desire, and his lips curl into a grin that speaks volumes while a chill crawl up your spine.

“He’s usually so picky.” He continues to say blithely. “Always wanting to pick the girl, and he always picks the same type, but he also said you’re ‘enticing’.”

His excitement over Mihawk’s comment electrifies the air around him. It is clear that he thrives on the challenge, the competition, the sheer thrill of it all – and yet, he doesn’t seem to grasp the depth of your hurt. His glee cuts through you like a dagger, a painful reminder that perhaps his… fondness for you isn’t as profound as you had believed.

The way it is for you.

And then, it hits you with the force of a tidal wave: he has never said, “I love you.”

Not once. Not in the heat of passion, nor in the quiet moments in between. Not for two years.

The realization stabs at your heart, twisting the knife of doubt deeper into the wound. His excitement about Mihawk’s interest, his desire for shared admiration— it’s all a game to him, a thrilling challenge to be conquered. To win. While your feelings seem to be nothing more than pieces on his board, tools to heighten his own pleasure.

Is it your insecurity rearing its ugly head or are you waking to a stark reality that you’ve been too blind to see?

Either way, the distance between you and Shanks seems more unbridgeable than ever.

“Babe, he wants to meet you.” He says, another disarming smile softening his masculine features. “Officially. He’s old fashioned so he’ll probably invite you out on a date first, and then the three of us can talk. How’s that sound?”

Like a pawn.

You try to muster up your courage, your voice trembling slightly as you ask, “How long have you— have you wanted this?”

He shrugs, his gaze drifting over your head as he mulls it over.

“Kinda always been a fantasy of mine. My favourite girl with my biggest rival.” Shanks says bluntly. “Never been in a committed relationship like ours before, so there was never an, erm… need for it?” He chuckles again, his teeth flashing prettily in his wide grin. “Like there’s never been an emotional aspect before— it makes it more exciting, y’know?”

You start picking at your nails. “Like how?”

He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes, hand on his hip the way he does when he’s thinking extra hard.

“Like… he’s my biggest rival, and you’re the one thing he can’t have, but I want to watch him try to get you.”

Your throat tightens.

“Like a challenge?” you say, the words tasting like ash.

“Yes!” he beams. “We’ve competed so many times, and yeah we’ve shared girls when we were together, but it didn’t really mean anything. With you, it’s different!”

“How so?”

Good. You sounded steady then. Shanks takes that as a sign to keep talking, his honesty and eagerness tearing through your resolve.

“Cause you’re mine, and he can’t have you emotionally. But he can try to use you—”

Bile. You can taste it now. Its sharp acidity slices painfully in your throat. You almost choke on it.

“—to get a rise out of me. It’s this game we used to play, but with the other girls it was more like a competition.” He chuckles fondly. “But babe, you would look so sweet! You’d be at the centre, and I promise it’ll be electric! You have this… innocence to you. It’s adorable, especially when you get all flushed and desperate, drives me insane.” There’s an edge to his voice now. Ragged in its desires. “Mihawk is so rigid, but he has a secret spot for playing with delicate things. But I told him my girl isn’t so easily broken.”

He finishes off with a cheeky wink.

His smile, a disarming blend of boyish charm and devilish intent, makes your blood hum despite the unsettling words spilling from his lips. You can’t help but notice the way he lights up when he talks about this twisted game, as if he’s inviting you into a secret world only he and Mihawk truly understand.

His presence fills the space, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. The intensity of his gaze, the way he speaks with such conviction, almost makes you forget the gravity of his proposition. For a moment, you’re lost in the allure of his charisma, the magnetic pull that has always been so difficult to resist.

Even then, the reality of his words crashes down on you, bringing back the bitter taste of bile and the overwhelming pressure surrounding you. His charm, once so intoxicating, now feels like a trap, a web of deceit and manipulation.

The proposition hangs between you like a noose, swinging back and forth in a loop, not so much as an offering but a finality of your relationship. You feel the weight of its presence, a dark shadow casting a pall over the room. If you were to step forward, let it drape over your neck, you would topple and break.

Eventually, your last effort to stave off the surging tide of panic surfaces as you manage to muster up the courage to speak.

“Shanks,” you murmur, your voice trembling, “did… was it your idea, or his?”

He chews on his bottom lip, that disarming smile wavers.

“Mine.”

The room tilts.

“Like I said, it’s always been a fantasy.” He quickly speaks.

The scent of oatmeal cookies becomes stale, the crackles of wood in the tiny fireplace snap simultaneously with every thread of trust you once held dear.

“I always thought to bring it up if we ever run into Mihawk again. And here we are, don’t you think that’s a funny coincidence?”

The humilation settles in your chest like a stone, heavy and immovable. You feel disposable, a throwaway to be used and discarded. Like an object whose value is dictated by someone else’s whims and fantasies. Reduced to nothing but a toy.

“It’ll just be us, darling. I’ll be in the room too—”

The air is thick with tension, each breath you take feels laboured, as if the room itself is closing in on you. Encasing you. Choking you. The walls that once felt comforting now seem oppressive, pushing you further into the corner of doubt and fear.

He reaches for you again.

“Have you always- have you always—”

Your chest tightens painfully, breaths coming in shallow, rapid gasps as if you can’t draw in enough air. You don’t realize it, but you’re having a panic attack. The room keeps closing in, the walls pressing closer and closer until your vision tunnels.

“Always what?” shock breaks his expression. “Breathe, darlin’! Please, calm down, I—”

His voice seems distant, like it’s coming through a thick fog. It’s hard to focus on the words, hard to make sense of anything he says. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, drowning out rational thought. You’re trapped within the cyclone of your own distress, unable to claw your way out.

“You’ve been-been waiting for him. To-to play with me. Recruiting me for—”

He reaches out, his touch meant to soothe but it feels like fire against your skin. You flinch away instinctively, every nerve in your body screaming for escape, for relief.

“Darling, please—”

You feel the sting of tears in your eyes, a hot, prickling sensation that blurs your vision. Your fingers tremble uncontrollably as you clutch your own arms, trying to ground yourself, to find something solid in the chaos. But the ground feels like it’s slipping away beneath you, leaving you suspended in an endless free fall.

“You’ve been waiting- waiting for him—”

“I haven’t been waiting around for Mihawk.” He declares fiercely. “What’s between him and I is different. I want you.”

“But you’ve been waiting for the-the opportunity to watch another man fuck me—”

“It’s not like that!”

You laugh bitterly. “You just said you want to watch him fuck me!”

His cheeks burn. Frustration bleeding. “Yes, but he isn’t a stranger— or some lowly pirate like—”

“No! He’s your best fuck and I’m the newest edition!”

Shanks blanks for a moment and you crack down at his hesitation.

“See?!” you explode, your fists shaking with wild rage twisted in unease. “You’ve been dying to introduce us! Just waiting for Mihawk to show the slightest bit of interest so you can see him use me in all the ways you have done!”

“No! Well, yea, but in like a, if it happens it happens sort of way! But it’s not— you don’t get it—” Shanks attempts another laugh. Another smile and a strong arm for you to fall back into. It doesn’t work on you anymore.

“Do you hear yourself?! The moment Mihawk comes into the picture, everything turns into some sort of twisted game! Sure, go swing your swords around, but don’t treat me— the girl you claim to care for and want to protect— as just another conquest!”

“You’re twisting my words! This isn’t about making you a conquest, it’s about—”

“Why the hell would you ask me something like that, then? Do you think so little of me?” you spit, the anxiety now a fiery anguish surging through your veins. His proposition swings back and forth. Hanging lower, drawing closer. “Am I just a toy to you?!”

“No! You’re taking this the wrong way!” he shouts desperately. The step he takes makes you stagger back.

“What other way is there to take it?! I should open my mouth for any cock you bring in front of me, huh?!”

He shouts your name, the sound piercing through the haze for just a second. You blink, trying to focus on him, on the desperate concern etched into his features. But it’s like looking through frosted glass, and nothing makes sense.

“You don’t understand!” he blurts out, desperation making his voice crack. “I just thought you might enjoy—”

Your eyes widen in shock, and you stumble back further. “Enjoy?!” you echo, hurt dripping from your voice. “You thought I might enjoy being treated like a plaything, like some kind of shared trophy?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant!” He steps forward, hand reaching out in a futile attempt to bridge the growing chasm between you. “I just meant—”

“What?” you cut him off, your voice slicing through his like a blade. “That I’m supposed to be grateful for your generosity? That I should be thankful you’re so willing to share me with your friends?”

He tries to correct himself, but the damage is done. The words hang in suspense, heavy and suffocating, a testament to the chasm widening between your understanding and his intentions.

“I didn’t mean that, I swear!” he says sullenly.

“Then what is it?” you hiss harshly, flaying your arms as you speak. You’re tetherless. You’re falling.

“Your friend wants a go, and you say, ‘sure, why not? What’s mine is yours! She can take it a lil’ rough!’ Like I’m-I’m just pretty tits and a mouth for you to throw around!”

“Babe, no. You’re—”

“I’m not so easily broken, yea!? Did you tell him about how you whipped me with your belt—”

“Sweetheart, breathe! Please! I—”

You can’t. You talk too fast and trembles rock through your spine.

“— I screamed so loud for you that night! Wanna hear how I’ll scream for thee Dracule Mihawk!? But why stop with him?! Benn is your first mate! Why don’t I just fuck Benn, then?!”

He chokes on a curse.

“—Strip me and present me during dinner, LET THE WHOLE CREW HAVE THEIR FUN!”

Shanks shouts your name again, but his voice barely registers over the roar of panic in your mind. The room spins and the air feels too thick to breathe.

“Baby, listen to me!”

“—I’m nothing, huh?!”

“I never said that—”

Each word he tries to speak drowns out by the pounding of your heart and the chaotic whirlwind of thoughts consuming you.

“You shared girls and whatever with him, what’s one more?! Another silly girl for the big pirates to fuck with!”

Shanks pales. He tries to follow your pacing, but you twist around him up and down the room in your rage.

“Just breathe for me, I beg you!”

He grabs your arm, trying to pull you into an embrace, to soothe the storm inside. But you wrench yourself free, your chest heaving with every breath, your vision blurred by hot, angry tears.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

“I need you to calm down!” he pleads over the storm. “You’re not thinking clearly! I don’t want to—”

“I’m not thinking?!” your laughter cracks. Your throat burns. “You’re the one who went on about all the times you shared girls between you! How about you bring Buggy—”

“No!”

“— or-or Hongo or Rayleigh and we’ll set a record!”

“NO!”

“—Let’s keep a tally! Make bets! Let every man who drank from your cup share in your little whor—”

“Enough!”

His haki cracks like a lightning strike, a sudden and overwhelming pressure that shakes the very foundation of the room. It ripples through the atmosphere, causing the walls to tremble and the very ground beneath your feet to quake. The intensity of his power leaves you momentarily stunned, your heart pounding in your chest like a war drum.

Shanks’ eyes, usually filled with a playful glint, now bear into you with a fervour that matches the tempest within. His presence dominates every corner, every surface. Your anger is met with a force so profound that it feels as though the world itself is holding its breath.

You try to speak, to shout, but the words are caught in your throat, silenced by the sheer magnitude of his will. The weight of it compresses, demanding submission, but you fight against it, your spirit refusing to be crushed. The energy crackling as if a storm is about to break.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the pressure recedes. Leaving you gasping and disorientated.

Shanks’ expression softens, the hardness in his eyes melting into something akin to sorrow. He reaches out, his hand steady, yet hesitant as he gently brushes a tear from your cheek, his touch both tender and apologetic as you inhale gulps of stifled oxygen.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, love.” He whispers gently, emotions hoarse in his tone. “I should’ve considered how you feel. I just… I just got carried away by the excitement. I was being stupid.”

His chuckle sounds flat. It doesn’t dance around him the way it did earlier.

You struggle to steady your nerves, the weight of his power still lingering in the air, pressing down on your chest. The tears begin to dry on your cheeks, leaving streaks of salt and anger. You push yourself up, leaning against the bed for support, your body trembling with the aftershocks of your rage. There still there. Twisting all sorts of emotions you’re too exhausted to comprehend.

One thing was for certain… Shanks’ touch, once comforting, now feels like a chain.

You pull away, crossing your arms over your chest as if to shield yourself from him. His gaze is heavy with regret, but it does little to soothe the turmoil.

“Just leave, Shanks,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of a command. “I need to be alone.”

His eyes widen in hurt, but he doesn’t move. “Please, love, let me—”

“No,” the firmness in your voice surprises even yourself. but you hold on to it. “Just go. I can’t... I can’t do this right now. I need to think.”

He hesitates, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Without another word, he rises to his feet, the silence between you stretching taut like a bowstring ready to snap.

He lingers for a moment, as if hoping you’ll change your mind, but you remain resolute, your heart hardened by the pain of his suggestion.

With a resigned sigh, he turns and leaves, the door closing behind him with a finality that echoes in the empty room. You’re left alone with your thoughts, the silence pressing in from all sides, offering no comfort, only the reminder of the rift that has formed between you.

➽───❥ Chapter two - La même chose

The moonlight pours through the windows, casting a silvery glow that dances across the empty room. The pale light spills over the furniture, highlighting the dust particles that float lazily in the air, glinting like tiny stars caught in the moon’s beam, while shadows shift and flicker on the walls, creating an eerie yet captivating scene.

Outside, the night is alive with the distant sounds of laughter and music, the rest of the crew undoubtedly and enthusiastically enjoying their beach party.

You can almost picture it— the lively bonfire crackling, the flickering light on faces flushed with joy and drink. The scent of roasted meat and the rhythmic strumming of a guitar permeating the air, mingling with the sound of hearty laughter and the clinking of glasses. The night is still young, that’s what your fellow crewmates would shout, but it stretches out like an eternity for you, every tick of the clock only enhances the isolation, and you find yourself envying the carefree spirit of your crewmates, their ability to lose themselves in the joviality of the night while you grapple with the heavy burden of your thoughts.

You can only stand there for a moment, running your fingers absentmindedly along the arm of the chair, feeling the aged fabric beneath your fingertips before finally allowing yourself to settle into the chair with the soft, knitted quilt tucked beneath your chin.

It’s comforting. The weight of it sinks you into the cushions. Its scent fills you in its warmth like it was washed by the gentility of a summer day. Sunshine and fresh hope seem to cling to it, offering a fragile semblance of tenderness in the midst of your grief. You allow it to embrace you while the world outside continues to move, indifferent to your heartache, the stars shining brightly in cruel contrast to the darkness that envelops you.

You trace the contours of the glass window with your fingertips, feeling the cold surface against your skin. The memory of Shanks’ departure replays in your mind, each step he took echoing like a hammer against your resolve. The room feels suffocating. The silence is almost deafening, punctuated only by the rhythmic pounding of your heart, a relentless reminder of the pain that lingers.

”I want to watch him fuck you.”

Over and over, you hear the hyperexcitement in his voice in agonising clarity.

Your throat closes as you envision how his eyes danced in hopes you would share in his elation. Your bottom lip quivers from his cluelessness. Your hands tremble, fingers tightening into fists, your nails dig into your palms. A shiver runs down your spine, goosebumps prickling your skin as your body betrays the storm of emotions still churning.

You do your best to ground yourself. Slow, deep inhales… and low exhales.

A tear slips down your cheek, and you hastily wipe it away, feeling a pang of frustration at your oversensitivity. Despite your efforts to find grounding, you can’t help but feel that you’ve failed him, failed yourself.

You feel stupid for your reaction earlier, the way your emotions betrayed you, spilling out in a moment of weakness. You chide yourself for letting the tears fall, for allowing the ache in your chest to dictate your actions. It seems senseless now, as you sit there wrapped in the quilt, the fabric a fragile barrier against the rawness of your anger. How could you have let it get to this point? You, who had always prided yourself on your resilience— you were a nurse after all, but this, this heartbreak, has shattered those illusions, leaving you feeling exposed and raw in a whole new way.

It isn’t just the jealousy, the anger, or the sense of betrayal that cuts deep— it’s the gnawing question that haunts you in the silence of his absence:

If he could so easily suggest another man for you, has he been secretly hoping to be with other women?

The thought twists like a dagger in your chest, each turn a fresh wound to your already bruised heart.

Sadly, it’s familiar, this haunting sorrow. You had thought yourself immune to heartbreak after so many years of disappointments, but the ache of Shanks’ proposition proves otherwise.

Most of all— you feel alone. Now more than ever.

You think back to how you used to wander from island to island, port to port, never quite fitting in while sleeping in borrowed bed and under foreign roofs. You were a drifter. Always a guest, a passing stranger, never feeling the serenity of a place you could claim as your own.

For you, people came and went, their faces blurred together as they passed through your mind. Friends were fleeting, their footprint on your life as ephemeral as the tides that shaped your existence. Lovers, too, were like the rain— falling with passion and leaving behind only the damp remnants of their presence.

Eventually, you found that the sea was your only true companion, its endless horizon mirroring the vast emptiness in your heart. It taught you to build walls around yourself, to shield it from the transience that defined your relationships. It wasn’t that you didn’t care; it’s that you cared too deeply, and that vulnerability was a luxury you couldn’t afford as a wonderer. The fleeting nature of your encounters taught you to keep your emotions at bay, to smile and say goodbye without shedding a tear.

Instead, you offered a listening ear, a helping hand, but always kept a part of yourself hidden away, safe from the inevitable pain of separation. Somehow convincing your heart that helping others on every island you visited was enough to fill that hole.

It was a lonely existence, but it was the only one you knew.. learning to embrace the quiet moments of introspection that came with each setting sun.

And then came Shanks.

Like a tempestuous wind he burst through, sweeping away any lingering remnants of melancholy.

His arrival was a gift, an unexpected treasure.

His presence was a force of nature.

You remember how it felt the first time— as though the very walls expanded to accommodate him. Your pulse races as you recall how the air seemed to hum with his vitality, charged with an infectious enthusiasm that drew everyone in with an irresistible gravitational tug. His laughter rang out like a clarion call, bright and unrestrained, reverberating off the timbers of the bar. His movements were fluid yet commanding, each step he took imbued with a confidence that spoke of countless battles fought and won. Shanks’ presence was not just seen but felt, a palpable force that wrapped around you like the strong, steady embrace of the waves.

He spoke fervently, his cloak swaying with every grand expression. In his company, the world seemed to shrink to a singular focus on the here and now, on the experiences shared and the pleasures savoured.

He had a way of making you feel like the most important person in the room, his attention as unwavering as the North Star. And in an instant, his keen eyes pierced through your years of layered façades, recognising the loneliness that you had hidden so well behind those walls, then in a moment of unexpected kindness, he extended his hand, offering the sight of a new horizon.

”Come with me,” he had said. Bathing you with genuine warmth in those molten red eyes. ”Join my crew. Be one of us.”

He was a beacon of light in your life, all consuming, gravitative— it pulled you in with such ardency it left no part of your mind or heart untouched. It was intoxicating. For the first time you felt truly seen, understood, cherished. In his eyes, you found a reflection of the person you aspired to be. The pride you felt was unparalleled, a fierce and tenacious force that surged through your veins.

Each day was a testament to the loyalty and vibrancy shared among the crew. Sailing with the infamous Red-Hair Pirates was an exhilarating experience, a rush of adrenaline that kept your senses sharp and your heart racing. You came alive. You laughed louder; you fought harder. The crew relied on you. You were no longer just a wandering soul— you were part of something greater, something that gave your life meaning.

Their acceptance and earnest support filled the void within you, knitting together the fragments of your broken heart.

Above all it was Shanks’ belief in you that gave you the courage to face the unknown, to embrace the life of a pirate with all its dangers and uncertainties.

And then… whether it was all at once or a maddening descent, you became addicted to the flame of his spirit.

You fell in love.

Though, you only ever called it admiration. Even if it was only to yourself, you never let it echo past devotion. Pride. Because to be a Red-Hair Pirate, to be considered his family was more than you could have ever hoped for, but his attention... It was like standing in the heart of a fire.

Its heat both exhilarating and agonising it would burst your cheeks and shoot straight to your core where it would pool and ache.

It burned through your defences, leaving trails of heated passion and a need that consumed you wholly. You felt special— elevated above the ordinary, his chosen one. The thrill of his regard was a sweet agony that you welcomed eagerly in spite of the inevitable singe it left on your soul.

His attention began subtly at first. A lingering look, a soft word of praise, his hand resting on your shoulder a moment longer than necessary. These small gestures accumulated over time, each one kindling a spark within you. Slowly, Shanks began to carve out a space for you in his world. Just for you.

The crew noticed it too; the way Shanks singled you out during meetings to hear your ideas, his laughter always more pronounced with you beside him, how his eyes would search for you across the deck. The sensation was both overwhelming and addicting, a kaleidoscope of emotions unfurling with every breath.

There were moments that stood out starkly, like the time he didn’t hesitate to unsheathe his sword against another captain, his voice thundering, his stance rigid, defending your honour with such conviction that it left no room for doubt about his feelings. Or the night he found you on the quiet, moonlit deck, offering a bottle of rum and his company, sharing stories of his past and listening intently to yours.

He spoke to you differently. Sweetly, your name carried an extra warmth when he said it. When the ship docked, he would drag you under his arm, cheerfully inviting you to join him on private explorations, sharing the wonders of newfound lands and the thrill of adventure.

Always making sure you were safe during battles, blazing red flashing towards you amidst the chaos to ensure your well-being.

He would call you to his quarters late at night, pouring over maps and plans, his proximity a comfort amidst the uncertainties of pirate life.

His touch warming you from the chill of evening air.

Or the stolen glances and heated kisses that spoke volumes, conveying what words left unsaid.

His extra attention became a constant, guiding you through the tumultuous seas, anchoring your heart to his.

Shanks gave you a home, Shanks gave you a family and a sense of belonging that you had never known.

And yet, here you are, alone in a room grappling with the shadows he left behind.

You take another deep breath, trying to steady the anxiety, but it festers. The memory of Shanks and his vibrant smile whenever he would come in for a superficial check-up, his insistence to keep you comfortable in his bed even when you were ill, fills your mind, and you can’t help but smile through the tears.

He has always been open and daring, but you thought you were important to him, the only one he wanted to be with. ”His woman.”

”Shanks’ old lady.”

“Mrs Red-hair.” – that one made him laugh the hardest, his cheeks twinged pink just beneath the tips of his hair. Yasopp would shout that the most, and it always made them slam their cups in applause. As if they were verbalising their approval for you to hold that title. Though, it was a secret wish that you would only ever make with an airy laugh.

It filled you with pride to have his ear, lay in his bed, hold his trust.

The one who could capture his wandering heart, the one who could make him stay.

You scoff, and somehow it makes you smile too.

How could you ever think to tame a man like him?

No, you never intended to tame him.

“I just wanted to be with him.” you whisper to the shadows.

The clouds shift and block the moonlight enough for the room to swallow you in black, making you clutch on the blanket tighter. “I wanted to be his favourite person, the way he is mine.”

You only wanted to be by his side, to share in his adventures and bask in the warmth of his light.

But perhaps that was your mistake.

In wanting only to be by his side, you overlooked the restless vitality that defined him, the very thing that drew you in the first place. The insatiable need and spontaneity that no single person could ever confine or satiate.

You think back to the nights when you lay beside him, tracing the lines of his face, memorising the way the candlelight kissed his skin. He always glowed brighter in the light of burning amber. Those were the times you felt closest to him, when his guard was down, and his dreams were laid bare for you to see. His ambitions, his fears, his deepest desires— he shared them all with you, and you cherished every word, every whisper.

But even as you held him close, you knew that his heart was always somewhere else. You saw it in the way his eyes would glaze over, lost in thoughts of distant lands and uncharted adventures. You felt it in the restless way he would toss and turn in his sleep, as if even his dreams couldn’t keep him still.

“It’s always been a fantasy of mine.”

You force yourself to stand, to move, to do anything that might distract from the ache as you come to the sullen realisation that you are simply a chapter in his story. A fleeting moment in his endless quest for excitement— you have become a drifter once again. It was silly of you to believe that your love was enough, that someone like you could soothe the wanderlust in his soul.

Because though he is kind and considerate, he peppers kisses to your blushing skin, and he lays his claim with a hardened stare, Shanks simply does not love you.

At least… not with the same depth and grounding intensity in which you love him.

“Fuck,” you hiss, rubbing your eyes.

The tears sting as you fall back on the bed, your insecurities growing heavier with each passing thought.

You only ever wanted to belong and be loved. Sincerely. Completely. To feel the warmth of mutual understanding and the comfort of knowing that, for once, someone saw you for who you truly were and cherished every part of you. Especially the parts you tried to hide behind a smile. You longed for a love that embraced your flaws, that found beauty in your imperfections, and that celebrated your quirks. A love that could weather the storms of life, providing a safe haven where insecurity was met with compassion, and where your heart could rest easy, knowing it was cherished and protected.

More than anything, you wanted to be all that they needed. Their favourite. The one.

Yet, no relationship has ever truly filled the emptiness within you. Every connection felt fleeting, superficial, lacking the profound depth and sincerity you yearned for. Each attempt at forging a deep bond ended in heartbreak, only solidifying the harsh belief that you might be inherently unworthy of genuine love. Just a little too broken.

“Dammit, Shanks..”

You rub your tears even harsher against your sleeve.

“Am I really that hard to love?” The question lingers in the air, heavy with the burden of your perceived inadequacies and past disappointments.

Maybe… you were never meant to be his everything, and perhaps even deep down, you knew that. Yet, it didn’t stop you from hoping, from dreaming that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. But it never is, and you are never enough.

You let out a bitter laugh, realising the irony in all of it. Here you are, mourning a love that was never truly yours, like trying to hold onto the wind. Each attempt was futile and left you empty handed clutching at nothing but the remnants of shattered dreams.

How delusional you had been, believing that you could be the anchor for a man who was never meant to be tied down.

”God, I must sound so pathetic crying over a man,” you murmur to yourself, a sad smile tugging at your lips. But the tears keep coming, unbidden and relentless, as if they have a mind of their own. “Fuck, this is stupid.” You mummer, wiping your tears for the fifth time that night.

You know deep down that you will have to face Shanks eventually. The very thought sends a jolt of anxiety through you, knotting your stomach and pulling your heart taut with dread. However, you need to find the strength to confront him, to talk about everything that has been left unsaid, but for now, you need time.

Just a moment to collect yourself, to steady your racing thoughts and twisting emotions. To fortify your heart against the raw vulnerability that such a confrontation with those molten eyes would inevitably bring.

With a deep breath, you rise from the bed, feeling the weight of the quilt fall away, and you move towards the door. The room’s oppressive air becomes unbearable. You need space, a moment to breathe and clear your mind.

Slowly, you walk out of the inn, each step feeling heavier than the last. The inn’s wooden floorboards creak under your weight, a stark contrast to the muffled sound of sand as you step into the night. As you close the door behind you, the cool night air hits your face like a splash of reality. You pause for a second, taking a deep breath and letting the crisp air fill you, bringing a momentary sense of calm.

The stars above twinkle brightly, their beauty indifferent to your sorrow. But somehow, that indifference feels almost comforting, a reminder that the world is vast and full of possibilities beyond your current pain.

You close your eyes and take another deep breath, feeling the tightness in your chest begin to ease. You know that the journey to healing will be long, but for now, the simple act of stepping outside is enough. It’s a start.

You begin to walk, your steps slow and deliberate, as if each movement is a conscious effort to leave behind the shards of your heartbreak. The inn is nestled close to the beach, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore calls to you like a gentle lullaby. In the distance, you can hear the faint sounds of the crew’s bonfire party— laughter, the banging of drums, and the occasional cheer all blend into the night air, a reminder of the connections and joy that still exist in the world.

You know that if you approached them, they would welcome you with open arms, inviting you to join their laughter and celebration. Lucky would offer you some food, Hongo would cast a knowing look and share a gentle smile and Yasopp would envelop you in a brotherly hug, offering a momentary escape from your heartache. The familiar faces, the shared stories, and the joyous atmosphere would remind you that you are not alone, that you have a place where you belong, even in the midst of a fight with the Captain.

However, despite the allure of companionship and the warmth of their affections, you find yourself hesitating. Right now, the thought of joining a party feels overwhelming. The idea of pretending to be alright, of plastering on a smile while you are still troubled, seems exhausting. Right now, you would rather be alone with your thoughts.

With a resolute sigh, you turn away from the distant bonfire, deciding to give yourself the time and space to heal. You need to find your own way through this, to rebuild the pieces of yourself that feel fractured. The solitude isn’t just a refuge; it’s a necessary sanctuary.

You continue on in the other direction. The path is lined with soft, windblown sand, and you can feel the grains shift beneath your feet with each step. The salty sea breeze ruffles your shirt, carrying with it the scent of the ocean, a mix of brine and seaweed that feels oddly purifying.

As you approach the water, you feel a sense of calm wash over you. The rhythmic motion of the waves, the endless expanse of the sea, and the silver glow shimmering on the surface all combine to create a sanctuary where your troubled thoughts can dissolve into the vastness. You find yourself walking closer to the shoreline, the cool water lapping at your toes, sending tingles through your nerves. The ocean’s embrace feels like a balm easing the tightness in your chest and soothing the ache in your heart.

Here, by the water, you feel a little lighter, a little more at peace. The waves continue their eternal dance, and you know that, in time, you too will find your rhythm again.

As you stand by the water’s edge, lost in the hypnotic dance of the waves, a presence disrupts your solitude.

You feel it before you see it— a shift in the atmosphere, an invisible tension that prickles at the nape of your neck. Slowly, you turn your focus from the ocean to the path leading back to the inn.

There, emerging from the shadows, is a figure, tall and imposing, moving with a grace that belies his formidable reputation.

Even in the dimness, you recognise the distinctive silhouette of Dracule Mihawk, the greatest swordsman in the world.

His black coat billows slightly in the sea breeze, and his eyes, sharp and yellow, seem to pierce through the night, locking onto you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat.

You swallow hard, feeling a knot of wariness tighten in your stomach. Mihawk’s sudden appearance is both awe-inspiring and intimidating, and you realise that despite all the tales you’ve heard, you have never formally met him. The stories of his unmatched skill and fearsome duels echo in your mind, a reminder of the gap between your capabilities and his. The unease is sensitised by the knowledge that this is the man Shanks spoke of so highly, the one he wanted to share you with.

The thought sends sparks across your cheeks, making you question why Shanks would want you to meet someone so dazzling, so beyond your reach.

He steps closer, his boots soundless on the sand, and you resist the urge to retreat. Instead, you stand your ground, your breath catching in your throat as the distance between you diminishes.

Mihawk stops a few paces away, his gaze unwavering, and for a moment, the world seems to hold its breath. Or maybe that’s just you.

”Good evening,” he says, his voice low and smooth, carrying a weight of authority.

He does not smile, but there is an inquisitive glint in his eyes.

”I believe we’ve never been formally introduced.”

You manage a nod, your mind racing to find words that won’t betray your nervousness.

He offers an elegant hand.

“Dracule Mihawk, and yo—”

”I think introductions are unnecessary at this point.” you reply, sounding steadier than you feel.

For a moment, Mihawk’s eyes narrow slightly, and his lips twitch, as if he is suppressing a smile. He almost looks amused, though it’s an expression so fleeting that you wonder if you imagined it.

“You might be right.”

His hand falls back to his side, and for the first time, you notice the bare expanse of his chest.

The moonlight casts faint shadows across his chiselled muscles, each curve and line of his physique emphasised by the soft, silvery glow. You can’t help but note how each sinew and contour look meticulously sculpted while his shoulders, broad and proud, taper down to a lean, defined torso. As he shifts slightly, the lunar light accentuates the rippling effect across his abdomen, as if he were a being carved from the very essence of the night.

You quickly divert your attention back to the ocean, refusing to linger on the physicality that adds to his stature.

You can’t deny the tension gripping you, the way your muscles seem to coil in anticipation, ready to spring at the slightest provocation. There’s a bitter tang to your thoughts too, an edge that cuts deeper than you’d like to admit. But as you turn back up into Mihawk’s eyes, you recognise that this bitterness is misplaced. He isn’t the cause of your turmoil; he’s just a product of it.

Despite the tension, Mihawk’s voice cuts through the silence with an unexpected smoothness.

”Do you often find comfort by the ocean?” The question is simple, almost mundane, yet it carries an undertone that suggests he’s probing for something deeper.

You take a moment to compose yourself, staying fixed on the rolling waves. “It’s peaceful here,” you respond, quieter than before. “The sea has a way of making everything else seem... insignificant.”

He nods, his sharp eyes never leaving your face. “I can see that. Sometimes, the vastness of the ocean can put our troubles into perspective.”

You glance at him briefly, caught off guard by the hint of understanding in his words.

”I suppose it does,” you admit softly.

Still, the unease and resentment bubbling within you are hard to shake off. You harden your resolve, staring at him with a coldness that surprises even you, as if trying to shield yourself from the fragility his appearance has unearthed. It’s easier to mask your apprehension with an icy exterior than to confront the emotional tempest it triggers.

Mihawk’s expression remains unreadable, a neutral mask that gives nothing away, yet you can feel the weight of his scrutiny, as if he’s peeling back the layers you’ve so carefully constructed.

You stiffen your shoulders, drawing an inhale that steadies you, though your heart continues its erratic dance in your chest.

His gaze flickers to the ocean, then back to you.

“Why are you hiding?”

You blink owlishly, a childish habit you never outgrew when you’re caught off guard. The surrealness of the situation almost overwhelms you, knowing that the person who has loomed so large in your thoughts now stands so close, tangible, and real.

”I’m not hiding,” you finally say, the words brittle and sharp. “I’m just... thinking.”

It’s a feeble defence, but it’s all you can muster. You hope the chill in your voice conveys the distance you seek to maintain.

He stays perfectly still.

The wind ruffles his coat and carries his scent to you, a heady mix of salt, steel, and something distinctly Dracule Mihawk. It’s disconcerting, how even his aura seems to occupy every sense, making it difficult to maintain the emotional barricade you’ve so carefully erected.

“Your crewmates are having a party, why aren’t you with them?” He asks tactfully.

”To think.” You reply snidely. “It’s easier to do that without banging drums and drunk men.”

“Ah,” he muses lightly, “you’re hiding from men.”

”The crew is predominantly men.”

Mihawk’s lips part as if to say something, but you already sense the shift in his demeanour.

”I spoke with Red-hair—”

”Don’t.”

The hiss is sharp and venomous, a knee-jerk reaction born from the billowing emotions still roiling within.

His involvement unsettles you deeply, especially after considering how Shanks had wanted the night to go. More than that, there’s an added layer of irritation that gnaws at you – the aggravation of being perceived, evaluated, and judged by another man. It feels invasive, a violation of your emotional sanctity.

Admittedly, you hold on to that bitterness, letting it fuel your resolve. It’s an abrasive shield, but a necessary one.

You hold yourself upright, facing the ocean, the waves whispering a soothing melody at your feet.

He stands neutral, facing you, a silent challenge.

”I simply wish to speak to you.”

“I came here to think. Not talk.”

Mihawk raises an eyebrow, the barest hint of surprise flickering in his eyes, but he remains pensive, watching you with a fervidness that makes your skin prickle. Your palms sweat.

His towering height looms over you, a silent reminder of the power he holds, both physically and in the impact he’s had on your life just in the last hour. The shadow he casts feels almost oppressive, a dark silhouette that only accentuates your own sense of smallness beside him.

”Excuse me, but your staring is making it difficult to relax.”

He still does not move, his scrutiny pinning you in place. The silence suspends, heavy and charged. The wind picks up, tugging at your hair and clothes, and you wrap your arms around yourself in a gesture of self-preservation.

“Thinking,” Mihawk finally says, his voice a low rumble that resonates deep within your chest. “What is it that troubles you so? Is it Red-hair? Or perhaps... me?”

The directness of his question startles you, but you refuse to let it show. Instead, you meet his gaze head-on, drawing strength from the defiant spark that flares beneath his stare.

“It’s not that simple,” you reply, sounding measured and careful. “There are things you wouldn’t understand.”

A challenge glints when he speaks. “Try me.”

The moonlight casts an ethereal glow on him, highlighting the stark contrast between the legend you’ve feared and the man who is now mere inches away. You try to focus on anything but him— the distant crashing of the waves, the chill of the night air— anything that might keep your mind occupied. Yet, despite your best efforts, he commands your attention, making it impossible to ignore the magnetic pull he exerts.

His sharp cheekbones cast delicate shadows, while his striking eyes, like refined gold, seem to hold the secrets of countless lifetimes. The finely sculpted lines of his jaw, strong and resolute, add to the aura of unwavering strength that surrounds him. The faintest touch of a smirk plays on his lips, a contrast to the sternness he often portrays, giving a glimpse of the enigmatic man beneath the legend. Each detail, from the arch of his brows to the trim of his beard, seems meticulously crafted, a testament to the allure he exudes effortlessly.

Flutters dance across your chest as you take in his beauty, a mesmerising blend of danger and elegance, a paradox that only adds to his mysterious charm, a beauty that is as captivating as it is jarring — Waiting for you to answer him.

You shrug instead and turn back to watch the waves.

In truth, you don’t know what to say. This man has thrown a wrench in your relationship, one you held dear for almost three years, and now, unconsciously, you find yourself putting up walls again, fortifying your heart against the sensations that he elicits.

The silence stretches between you, a taut thread that threatens to snap with the next breath.

Mihawk takes a step closer, his proximity like a tangible weight, pressing down on you. You swallow hard, the words you want to say tangling in your throat.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you with those perceptive eyes.

”You’re beautiful,” he says softly, the words so unexpected that they hit you like a physical blow.

Your breath catches, and you stare at him, wide-eyed.

Did he really just say that?

For a moment, the world seems to tilt on its axis, and you struggle to regain your balance. Your breaths come unsteady, shallow, the air around you thick with the gravity he shifts as your pulse trembles unrelentingly. Mihawk’s proximity only heightens the heated blood as your skin tingles with awareness, each nerve ending seemingly attuned to his presence.

The scent of the sea mingles with the faint, intoxicating aroma of his cologne, making your head swim and rush warmth down your spine. Twisting in an all too familiar way that has you cinching your thighs, and you must force yourself to look away, lest you lose yourself entirely in his eyes.

The vulnerability he invokes from you feels like a raw, open wound— every instinct screams at you to protect yourself, to hide behind the walls you’ve carefully constructed.

Seeing your reaction, Mihawk raises a hand, as if to ward off the storm he has unwittingly unleashed. “I didn’t mean to upset you or Red-hair,” he continues, calm and measured. “My comment was simply an observation, not intended to cause trouble.”

You blink, trying to process the sudden shift in the conversation.

His words, though surprising, hold no malice, only a quiet sincerity that leaves you momentarily disarmed.

The tension in your shoulders eases slightly, and you manage a small, shaky sigh.

”It’s just... unexpected,” you admit, the whisper carried by the wind.

”Does it trouble you?”

You turn away from him again, unsure of how to respond. The waves continue to lap at your toes, grounding you in the moment. The full moon reflects off the water, creating a shimmering pathway that seems to stretch into infinity. You take a deep breath, the salty sea air filling your lungs, and try to gather your thoughts.

The weight of his question lingers, and you feel the need to choose your next words carefully.

”It’s not your comment,” you finally confess. “It’s the way Shanks’ reacted to it that troubles me.”

“How so?” he asks in a low hum.

You hesitate, the truth catching in your throat. “I hate the way women look at him,” you admit, a touch of frustration creeping into your voice. “Shanks knows that. Though, he finds it hilarious, he has always assured me they don’t mean anything to him. But now… with you.. your comment. I just…” Your voice trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished but heavy with unspoken implications.

Mihawk’s brows soften ever so slightly, understanding dawning in.

”You fear that my comment might have stirred something in him, something buried beneath his usual assurances.”

You nod, a tremor of fragility threading through your throat. “Yes,” you murmur. “It’s as if your words have revealed a doubt I didn’t even realise was there.”

He steps closer. “Perhaps,” he suggests gently, “this is an opportunity for you and Red-hair to confront these unspoken fears. To reaffirm your bond.”

You scoff. The bile resurfacing. “By sleeping with you?”

”If you’d like.”

You laugh sharply, but the sound is acidic, laced with disbelief.

”My offer is sincere.” He says, his voice a velvet murmur.

“And the idea of it sent me into an anxiety attack less than an hour ago,” you snap, turning to him with a hot flash of anger.

Mihawk’s lips twitch into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “You’re visibly agitated,” he observes, his tone a dark caress through the breeze, “while I find myself somewhat amused.”

You glare at him, the heat of your frustration bubbling over. “This isn’t a joke, sir. This is my life, my relationship.”

“Precisely why I believe it’s worth examining from all angles,” his words touch you again in a whisper, “even the ones that make you uncomfortable.”

”I’m uncomfortable by your proximity right now, sir.”

Mihawk’s ringed eyes darken with an unreadable emotion.

”Your proximity doesn’t unsettle me,” he husks, stepping even closer, his breath ghosting over your cheek when he leans his head down to yours. “In fact, I find it rather compelling.”

”You may find it compelling, but I find it unsettling,” you retort, shaking with barely restrained anger, jerking your face away. “Your presence here only complicates things between Shanks and me.”

“So you admit you’re hiding.”

For a brief second, your mind goes blank as the weight of his insinuation sinks in. You barely manage to mask your astonishment, but the flicker of shock betrays you. Mihawk’s smile widens, sensing the crack in your steely façade.

”Complications often lead to clarity,” he remarks softly, his chest irresistibly warm against your chilled skin. “Sometimes, it is only through discomfort that we find our true desires.”

You scoff again, the sound bitter. “And what would you know about my desires?”

His smirk tilts with a knowing light. “More than you might think.”

You take a step back, trying to create some distance, but the magnetism between you pulls tight as a string.

”This conversation is pointless. You’re just playing games with me.”

”Perhaps,” he concedes, his voice a seductive whisper as he stands back to his full, towering height. “But are you not a willing participant? Despite your protests, you remain here, engaged and curious.”

Your frustration mounts, mingling with an undeniable curiosity. There’s a truth to his words that you can’t ignore, a spark that refuses to be extinguished. But you don’t have the strength to dwell on it, not now. “I am here because I need answers, not because I enjoy this.”

“About my intentions?” he hums inquisitively, a wicked gleam piercing you. “About Shanks’?”

You huff, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, the tension radiating from your posture. “I suppose you’d know all about Shanks’ desires too.”

“As do you.”

You click your teeth.

Mihawk’s gaze lingers on you, a subtle spark of interest shimmering in his expression. He leans forward slightly, both commanding and unnervingly calm. “Your passion is... refreshing,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a tone that pools deep in your core.

You narrow your eyes at him, wary of the rousing shift in his demeanour. “And what exactly do you find so refreshing about it?”

He pauses, as if choosing his words with care.

“It’s not often I encounter someone who wears their emotions so freely, without pretense. There’s an honesty in your turmoil that’s... enticing. It’s what I said to Red-hair earlier that began our conversation. That made me want to meet you, personally.” A sly smile curves his lips. “You see, there’s something about your spirit that calls to me, a fierce independence that refuses to be tamed. It’s rare to encounter such raw, unfiltered strength. It’s not just refreshing; it’s intoxicating.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you force yourself to hold your stance despite the sudden, confusing thrill his confession ignites. His scent is titillating, a mix of intimidation and allure that leaves you both flustered and intrigued. Yet, beneath this turbulent mix of emotions, the sting of Shanks’ earlier confession still lingers in your mind, a sharp contrast to the strange heat Mihawk’s attention brings.

The conflict rages in your heart, pulling you in two different directions and making it hard to discern your true feelings. Despite this, you hold on, determined to maintain your composure.

”I’m not here for your amusement, Mihawk. If all you can do is patronise me with your cryptic wisdom, then maybe I’m wasting my time.” Your voice is edged with steel, a defence mechanism against the vulnerability he so easily uncovers.

He chuckles, a sound deep and rich like fine wine, and it blooms warmth you don’t want to acknowledge. His laughter is low, vibrating through the space between you like a caress. You feel it reverberate through your chest, stirring things you’ve tried to keep buried.

”You mistake my intentions,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours. “I do not seek to patronise, but to challenge. There is a strength in you that you have yet to fully understand.”

You clench your fists, feeling a surge of irritation. “So, what? You’re here to push me until I break? Play with me like some toy you two get to pass around?!” The fury rises, a force almost tangible, filling the space between you. It burns hotter than the sun-drenched sand beneath your feet, a mix of frustration and something warmer, something you dare not name.

”Hardly. You assume much.” he responds, remaining calm and unruffled, the mirth fading slightly from his features. His composure only amplifies the solemnity as he doesn’t rise to your rage, but rather meets it with a steady, unyielding stance.

”Then what is it?” you retort.

“I came to see the woman that Shanks spoke so highly of,” he steps closer, the space between you shrinking, “and perhaps help her see that neither of us intends on making her feel less than what she deserves.”

The sultry timbre of his voice wraps around your senses, each word caressing your resolve. Chipping it away.

”Red-hair has never once spoken of a woman the way he speaks of you, so forgive me if I seemed overeager, but what I want is to experience you. To witness everything my rival gets the pleasure of every single day, even if it’s only for one night.”

You stagger back, but his desires holds you captive, a magnet drawing you inexorably closer, a dance of flames and shadows that sends a rush of heat through your veins.

”And why should I believe you?” you challenge, though your voice wavers, betraying the flutter of anticipation. The heat of his bare chest, so near yet untouchable, radiates an alluring warmth that seeps into your core, melting the edges of your resistance.

A slow, predatory smile curves his lips, and he reaches out, fingertips brushing lightly against your cheek, a touch so delicate it feels like a whisper of a breeze.

”Because you already do,” he murmurs, his breath mingling with yours, a heated promise lingering in the mere inches of air between you. “You feel it, don’t you? The spark, the connection. The potential for something extraordinary.”

His proximity is intoxicating, a heady blend of danger and desire that makes your pulse race. The scent of leather and steel, mingled with something uniquely his, invades your senses, leaving you dizzy with the addicting mix. You swallow, trying to regain your composure, but his touch, his voice, weave a spell that binds you in silken threads of longing and curiosity.

”What is it you want from me, Mihawk?” you ask, sounding barely more than a breathless whisper, the words trembling on your lips. Your eyes search his, finding depths of emotion and intent that leave you lightheaded and yearning. “You don’t know me.”

”I know Red-hair, and he adores you,” he falters for just a second, falling to your parted lips before snapping back to your doe expression. “It’s indelicate but I admit it makes me… jealous.”

You blink owlishly.

”Of me?”

”Of both of you.” he replies in a low, seductive murmur that resonates deep between your thighs.

“I want what he has, I want to kiss these lips. I want to see him writhe. I want to hear you say my name and maybe I’ll get to feel a fraction of what he does when he’s with you.” His thumb grazes your lower lip, a touch so intimate it feels like a brand, marking you with his intent. “I want to experience you in every way you’ll allow me.”

Your heart pounds wildly in your chest, a rhythm that matches the emotions swirling as his words wash over you, each one deliberate and heady with meaning.

The way he speaks, with a calm authority and an undercurrent of something far more primal, stirs a response that you can’t quite control. Every word drawing you deeper into a web of confusion and intrigue. It feels almost surreal, this moment with Mihawk, a legendary figure whose very name inspires awe and fear, showing such profound interest in you. His attention, a blend of curiosity and challenge, is almost numbing and exhilarating, making the entire encounter feel like a dream — one that you might wake from at any moment.

The intensity of his gaze, the depth of his words, all create an arousing mix that leaves you questioning the reality of it all. How could someone as imposing and enigmatic as Dracule Mihawk find anything refreshing or enticing about someone like you?

Shanks had always made you feel seen, his easy expressions and infectious laughter providing a sense of belonging that you had never known before. His way of acknowledging your talents, of valuing your contributions, had been a balm to the wounds left by years of drifting in search of purpose. But Mihawk, with his hypnotic eyes and enigmatic presence, added another layer— one of intrigue and a depth you hadn’t anticipated.

The surrealness of this moment, having the attention of the greatest swordsmen in the world, is almost too much to process.

As he stands before you, ironclad and fierce, the realisation dawns on you. Mihawk’s interest is real, tangible, and it forces you to confront a part of yourself you’ve long kept hidden. The part that yearns for recognition, for validation, but also fears the defencelessness that comes with it.

It was as if Shanks had given you the foundation to stand on, and now Mihawk was forcing you to look within, to confront the parts of yourself that had remained hidden in the shadows. This duality, this blend of recognition and challenge, creates a complex tapestry of emotions that leaves you both exposed and empowered.

Is this what Shanks meant?

To be at the centre?

”I want to watch him fuck you.”

“Is that what he promised when he offered me up to you?” you ask, the bitterness striking you both through.

But it’s not just bitterness—it’s a profound sadness that envelops you, heavier than any anger you might feel. The hurt and disappointment of being seen as a mere object to be exchanged gnaws at you, making every word you speak laced with sorrow.

His smile falters for the third time that evening.

He withdraws his hand back to his side, and despite the agitation, you already miss the warmth of his touch. You shouldn’t— you know you shouldn’t— but the absence of his gentle fingers brings a pang of nervous longing that you can’t quite dissolve.

”Tell me why you hate this.” He demands, his tone carrying an edge of impatience. “I see every breath you take. I feel it against my skin. Why fight something you clearly want to explore?”

You inhale sharply, still frozen from his touch. And perhaps even the chill of its absence. “I told you why.”

Mihawk sighs, a sound that echoes with frustration and determination. “You have shouted at me, glared at me, and accused me of being heartless, but you have not told me why.”

Your resolve weakens slightly under his scrutiny. “I have.”

“You have not.” He retorts sternly, shaking you with a steely look. “I assume it’s the nature of my relationship with Red-hair, but you have not used words to express it.”

Your legs grow weak, the anxiety melting under his imposing stare. A part of you clings to the walls you’ve built, preserving fragments of pride and autonomy. You despise feeling like this— vulnerable, exposed, and dependent on others perceptions. The fear of being misunderstood, of having your feelings invalidated, gnaws at your core.

Yet, despite the pain, you know that holding onto this resentment will only hurt you further. You hate it, but you have to let it go.

”I hate this because it feels like a betrayal,” you finally admit, tumbling out with a mix of anger and sorrow. “He’s my anchor, my compass. And now, he’s handed me over to you, like I’m some piece to be traded.”

Mihawk’s shoulders lax slightly, but he remains firm. “You are not a piece to be traded. You are a person with your own will, your own desires. Red-hair sees that. He respects that. Perhaps more than you realise.”

“Then why do I feel so discarded?” you demand, the frustration boiling over. “Why does his-his approval of you make me feel so… insignificant?”

“Because you’re looking at this through the lens of insecurity,” Mihawk replies honestly. “You’re seeing shadows where there are none.”

A sudden, intense ache constricts your chest. The truth you have been avoiding, the realisation you’ve buried, finally surfaces.

”I… I’m jealous of his connection with you. How-how one comment from you was able to make him so happy. Excited enough to have us… meet.”

“Then perhaps it’s not my heart you should be examining, but your own.”

You bristle at his words, a mix of defensiveness and self-reflection fighting to surface. You want to retort, to deny his insinuations, but deep down, you know there is some truth to his statement.

“What he feels for me and the fire that stokes for you are two entirely different things.” He says.

”Love isn’t about possession,” Mihawk continues when you hide back to the waves, his voice steady and calm like spring rain. “It’s about understanding, about accepting the other person as they are. Red-hair loves you, and he also loves the possibilities, the adventure, the freedom. You can’t chain that kind of spirit, and you should not want to, not if you love him.”

”I know that” you whisper, feeling the weight of your own insecurities pressing down on you.

”He exists in a realm where love is as vast and unconstrained as the oceans he sails, where commitment is not defined by chains but by a shared journey of discovery.”

He cups your face gently, his touch warm and reassuring, quietening the hiss of uncertainty. His fingers brush away a stray tear, and you hold your breath, the intimacy of the gesture leaving you momentarily weightless.

“You need to understand, love is not about being the centrepiece of someone’s world, it’s about being part of their journey. And let me tell you, my dear, no one can diminish your worth. To love someone is to see them in their entirety, and to love yourself is to recognise your intrinsic value, regardless of another’s journey.”

You listen, absorbing his words, feeling their profundity.

The truth of your situation begins to crystallize, a painful clarity that makes your throat tight. You’ve always known Shanks was different, that his spirit was too wild to be confined. Yet, you couldn’t help childishly dream for something more, for a love that would be all yours, to selfishly cling to amidst the chaos.

Mihawk’s hands remain on your face, grounding you as your thoughts spiral like the storm he describes. “To love someone like him,” he murmurs, “is to embrace the uncertainty, to find joy in the journey rather than the destination. It’s not easy, but it’s also profoundly beautiful.”

Tears blur your vision, the truth cutting deep. bleeding you open. You’re not sure if you’re ready for such a love, if you can reconcile the yearning for stability with the reality of Shank’s untamed heart. But, Mihawk’s perspective offer a glimmer of hope, a possibility of finding peace within the storm.

“He needs you, though,” Mihawk adds, his fingers gentle yet firm as they wipe your tears. “In his own way, he relies on your steadiness, your understanding. You provide a balance to his chaos, a grounding force in his life. Something a man like him needs.”

Mihawk’s touch is comforting, a silent reassurance. You glance up at him, your heart pounding, and confess once more, “I don’t want to chain him. I just...”

“Want to be enough?” He finishes your sentence, a softness you haven’t heard yet wrapped around them.

You nod, unable to articulate the depth of your longing. The need to be seen, to be valued, to be loved in a way that feels tangible and secure.

”You are enough,” Mihawk says gently, his tone devoid of judgment. “But love, true connection, doesn’t conform to our desires. It challenges us, shapes us, and sometimes, it hurts us. Shanks sees you, but he also sees the world in a way that is uniquely his. You must decide if you can accept that, if you can find peace within that kind of love. It’s entirely your decision to make.”

His words resonate deeply within you, stirring a cauldron of emotions that has been simmering for far too long.

And ever so slowly, like the first rays of morning light piercing through the darkness, understanding dawns on you.

It’s not that he doesn’t care, but rather that his way of caring is as expansive and untethered as his spirit.

He was the wind, wild and untamed, surging with a ferocity that drew everyone into its current. You were the earth, steady and nurturing, seeking roots to anchor you in place.

Neither one was wrong nor untrue. You were both drawn to each other’s worlds, fascinated by the contrast. You loved him with everything you had, and in doing so, you found a strength within yourself that you never knew existed. His love is wild and free, but it doesn't diminish your worth. It challenges you, shapes you, and ultimately, makes you stronger.

The weight of your insecurities begins to lift, replaced by a tentative understanding. Love isn't about being the centrepiece of someone's world but being part of their journey. And in Shank's journey, you play a vital role, a role that cannot be diminished by his wild spirit. One that is entirely yours.

His boundless love enhanced everything it touched, including you.

“I’ve always known he was different, its what drew me to him,” you finally sigh, tinged with melancholy. “But I never realised how much that difference would affect us, or how much I craved stability.”

You swallow hard. It also makes you acutely aware of the walls you’ve built around your heart. Walls that Shanks had gently tried to dismantle for these last few years, and now Mihawk challenges with a rousing intensity that leaves you airless.

”I don’t know if I can face Shanks after this,” you confess shyly, puncturing the silence while feeling overwhelmingly conflicted. You grasp his hand against your cheek, feathering your fingers over his long digits and feeling the strength they hold. “Your comment has changed everything. And now… now I admit I owe him an apology.”

His chest visibly rises with his next inhale.

”He owes you one too.”

You smile, though it doesn’t fully form on your lips.

”Change isn’t always a harbinger of doom.” He says, quiet yet firm. “It can be the catalyst for growth, for a deeper understanding.”

You take another deep breath, the weight of his wisdom settling into your mind. “I just want things to be clear, to be certain.”

“Certainty is a luxury,” he replies, “one that life rarely affords. But clarity? That is something you can seek, through honest conversation and confronting your fears.”

“Well, I’ve never been very good at that.” you answer sourly.

He seems to ponder something before speaking again, his eyes carefully and intimately tracing the contours of your face, as though he finds fascination in your every breath. His gaze lingers on the curve of your lips, the fullness of them, the delicate arch of your brow, and the softness of your skin, a not-so-subtle intensity you turn your head away from, breaking the contact.

”Red-hair says you’re resilient.”

You try not to roll your eyes. “Most pirates are.”

”He also says you get lost in your head,” his fingers trace a tender path along your jawline, lifting your chin gently back to his face, “that often times you need a steady hand to pull you back.”

You swallow hard. “I don’t like being vulnerable.”

”Vulnerability isn’t weakness,” he murmurs like a soothing balm, “it takes great strength to show your true self, to face the unknown.”

”By sleeping with you?”

That predatory smile curls once again.

”If you’d like.”

A complex kaleidoscope of emotions thrums within you, loud and intense. Your pulse stutters as his hypnotic voice and warm touch stir something deep, something both terrifying and compelling all at once. You want to still resist, to maintain your fortress of independence and strength, yet his presence beckons you to let go, to surrender to the moment.

Somehow, with this new understanding, you feel weightless now. The tension in your body begins to dissipate, replaced by an unfamiliar sense of calm. His touch, once daunting, becomes a reassuring anchor. You try to rationalise what is happening, but logic seems to falter as you are drawn deeper into the moment. The walls you’ve built so meticulously begin to crack, and you find yourself teetering on the edge of a precipice, torn between fear and desire. With desire sinking you further down.

“What do you want from me?” you whisper, his lips unfairly far and still intimately close.

His expression softens, revealing a hint of satisfaction beneath the hardened exterior. “Just you, as you are. No pretences, no masks.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a fleeting moment, you consider the possibility of letting someone in, of allowing yourself to be seen, to be known by another man.

Your core burns, searching for courage within. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

He leans closer, his lips warm against your skin. “You already are.”

You close your eyes, allowing the warmth of his presence to envelop you. The silence between you grows, charged with unspoken words and shared breaths. It feels like the world has paused, granting you this moment of clarity amidst the chaos.

As his hand gently cups your face, the tenderness in his touch ignites a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, you can lower your defences, if only for a little while. You let out a shaky laugh, the vulnerability within you echoing in the stillness.

“I’m… I’m nervous.”

His thumb pulls your bottom lip from between your teeth. “I know,” he replies softly. “But sometimes, the risk is what makes it all the more exciting.”

”And… and what about Shanks?”

“Don’t worry, dear. He’s watching.”

He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that is both gentle and wicked.

The contact sends a surge of heat through you, their softness contrasted with the firmness of his intent. His touch is electrifying, sending waves of warmth through your body. You can’t help but sink entirely into his palms, the way his fingers trace the contours of your face as if memorising every detail and coaxing your mouth open for him to taste the softness you offer.

His hand, strong yet graceful, moves to the nape of your neck, drawing you closer. Holding you tighter. The contact is intimate, grounding you in the moment and dissolving the barriers you’ve held onto for so long. As his lips begin to explore further, the intensity of his touch spreads like wildfire, igniting every nerve ending and filling you with a mix of longing and bliss you thought only Shanks could reach.

You lean into him, seeking the comfort and assurance his presence offers. Your hands on his chest, his tongue stroking yours. His scent filling your nose. Each touch, each caress, cinches your thighs to ease an ache his kiss hungrily blooms.

His other hand finds its way to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, you can feel the ridges of his abdomen squish against your supple chest, and the feeling of security envelops you further. It’s in these moments that you realise the true power of connection, the ability to transcend fear and embrace the unknown. Mihawk’s lips and touch become the anchor you’ve needed, a testament to the strength found in vulnerability and openness.

As the kiss deepens, you become acutely aware of a new presence, an invisible force that seems to pulse around you. It’s as if the very air is charged with a different kind of energy. A shuddering familiar one. Shanks’ Observation Haki, you realise, is not just watching but feeling every nuance of your shared moment.

His ability to sense the emotional currents shrouding you adds a layer of intimacy you never anticipated. The world around you fades, leaving only the three of you suspended in this exquisite dance. Mihawk’s kiss and the touch of Shanks’ presence.

And for the first time, you allow yourself to fully embrace the vulnerability, to let down your defences entirely and indulge in the pleasures they could offer.

➽───❥ Chapter three - Touché dans le coeur

To be continued...