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fanaticsnail · 4 months

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Sapsorrow - Chapter 2

Masterlist here, Moodboard here.

Word count: 6,229

A massive "thank you" to @since-im-already-here for beta-reading for me (considering we're in the same bloody house). Couldn't have done it without you or your tunes.

Song accompaniment: Leta's Theme

Themes: enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, forced proximity, lord and subordinate, one bed trope, apprehension, mutual pining, obligation, slow burn, eventual love, protective, "where is my wife" trope.

Slow-slow-slow burn.

“Is this necessary?” the moss-haired sword trainee growled through clenched teeth at you. Clicking your tongue in your reprimand, you tapped the top of his left knuckles with a corrective stroke; your small conducting baton meeting with a gentle rap to kiss the back of his knuckles.

“Not only is it completely necessary, trainee,” you chastised him, dragging the baton over the back of his wrist and down his forearm as you circled behind him, “it is essential to your mastery of the art of gentlemanly correspondences.” Perona giggled, continuing to have her left hand firmly affixed to Zoro’s right shoulder, her right clasped within Zoro’s now correctively postured left hand.

“I’m no gentleman,” Zoro grunted in a harsh tone, his shoulders slouching away from the posture you just placed him in.

“A statement to which I agree with to its complete absolution,” you quipped, your tongue finding residence on the roof of your mouth. Pursing your lips, you tapped the baton in a sensitive spot beneath his armpits, prompting him again to rise to a perfect waltz position. Your pink-haired debutant was a natural when it came to attuning to your instruction, relishing in the fact she had another woman in Castle Kuraigana to converse with. However, her teasing of the green-haired trainee was becoming quite the issue to befall to you.

After the events that transpired within the ornate halls of the treasury, not a word was spoken by the three of you regarding the happenstances of your unwilling betrothal to the World’s Greatest Swordsman; nor was any utterance mentioned by the members of staff within the household. It had been two weeks from the day you entered the gloomy castle, finding awe within each of the rooms you ventured to. Perona had finished your tour of the many array of fine rooms, concluding your tour with a wing lord Dracule Mihawk had kindly provided to you.

Your wing of Castle Kuraigana was, for lack of a better word, beautiful. There was no other word you could find to describe such lavish and decorative elements throughout the room. From the curtains handing from the tall archways leading outwards to the pillars of an open balcony, the perimeter decorated with vines of green thorns and clusters of blooming white roses; to the variety of sitting areas and lounging spaces for you to move furniture to better suit your liking.

The one element you had appreciated the most was the change of the fresh floral centrepiece atop your personal dining table. In the fourteen days you had been under the lordship of Dracule Mihawk, each day had a rotation of bouquets so magnificent in ornamentation and fragrant you were rendered speechless under each presentation.

At first, you deduced the rotation of flowers was customary in each of the rooms with guests occupying their space. As you continued to meet with Perona in her wing to adjust fabrics atop her bodice or train her in language and music, you noticed the absence of magnificent bouquets showcased atop her table. In their stead, you found smaller clusters of pink roses rotating to maintain their freshness.

“Perona,” you sharply broke through the room with your reprimand, prompting her to stifle another giggle within her throat as Zoro again let out an agitated breath through his teeth, “Refrain from taunting Zoro further.” Perona nodded furiously, prompting you to roll your eyes and rotate your shoulders back to relieve yourself from a small amount of frustration.

“What did we talk about?” you drew out in a low and sharp tone, Perona rising in her posture as she continued to remain held in Zoro’s rigid arms.

“Yes, my lady,” she squeaked from behind her lips, her back arching up to bring her shoulders square with Zoro’s.

“Well done, debutant. And trainee?” you turned to Zoro, halting your stalking around their clutched perimeter. He rolled his head to lull at his side, glaring at you through his lowered eyelashes.

“Yes, my lady?” he spat in a sarcastic tone at you. Rather than to chastise him for his lack of manner, you instead reached your right hand up and offered him a gentle squeeze of his left shoulder.

“Your stance is perfect. Well done,” you complimented him with a wide smile, relinquishing your hold on his shoulder and turning towards the gramophone. Zoro’s face held a moment of perplexed silence, his eyes widening as he snapped his head back up from it’s lulled position and following your trail with his eyes.

“Th-Thank you, my lady,” he stuttered, Perona halting another giggle from exiting her lips and instead choosing to beam in pride up at her fellow pupil. Allowing your fingertips to graze along the small spindle to place the needle atop a record, you wound the box and the gramophone sprung to life; painting the room with music.

“Now, the counts,” you spoke, turning to face your two pupils once more, “hear the music. Feel the rhythm. One-two-three, one-two-three.” You waved the baton within the air, gesturing along to the beat of the music. Perona immediately began stepping in time to the melody, dragging Zoro within her arms. He stumbled in his stance, brows lowered in confusion and a gasp relinquishing in a hiss through his lips.

“No, no, Perona,” you shut your eyes, folding your arms back over your chest and clicked your tongue at her, “you let him lead you.”

“But he doesn’t know how-,” she began, halting as her eyes met with your stern gaze.

“-That’s precisely why we’re practicing, Perona,” you slowly spoke your command to her, chastising her as if she were one of your younger debutants; your tone almost singing with its melodical augmentation.

She huffed a frustrated sigh, again reaching her arms up and gesturing to Zoro to, again, reclaim her body with his waltzing stance. He lets out a small huff of his own, drawing up his arms to assume the positions he held her in prior. You smiled at him, noticing he managed to replicate his stance perfectly. Stepping closer to him, you placed your left hand over the back of his left knuckles as he clutched Perona’s right hand within his broad palm. Placing your right hand against his waist, you felt the young swordsman tense beneath your hands.

“Okay, Zoro,” you uttered into his pierced ear, shooting another tingle up his spine with your proximity to him. Opting to ignore his tense, you uttered further instruction onto him, “step forward with your right foot.”

As he stepped forward, you stepped your own foot to where his right foot was formerly placed; his action prompting Perona to step backwards onto her left foot.

“Wonderful, trainee,” you praised him, an action that almost rose a blush to his cheeks. You shook your head, mentally noting to yourself that praise and words of affirmation seem to have a hold over the green-haired swordsman. You squeezed his wrist, urging him to move with another verbal command.

“Small step to the side with your left foot,” he followed your command immediately, you placing your own left foot behind his. Perona managed to follow the small step completely. Although you were dancing a lot slower than the music was directing you, you took the small victory as you gave a final command to the tall trainee.

“Now meet your left foot by drawing your right beside it,” you squeezed the side of his waist, Zoro’s breath hitching in his throat at the small corrective gesture. He followed your command, prompting both you and Perona to glide with him.

“Perfect, Zoro. You’re doing splendidly,” you praised him again, this time Zoro unable to halt the steady red-tint from littering his cheeks with its hue. Perona looked up at Zoro’s cheeks and immediately smirked at his expression, Zoro clenching his teeth shut with a tight, clamped position.

“Now,” you addressed your pupils with a low, firm command, “let’s do it again, this time a little faster.” Zoro immediately began gliding the room with his steps, counting out to the music in his head while bowing his head. Focussing on his feet, stepping large strides with his right foot and joining his left to meet it while tapping the right foot against it on the third beat; he began slowly learning how to balance leading Perona throughout the wide room.

The three of you remained ignorant to the pair of yellow-hued eyes following your interaction as he lay hidden within the cascading shadow against the wall. As much as you were all unaware of his form’s current location, you were even more so ignorant of a small smile threatening to break through onto his cheeks as he watched you all dance together.

You smiled, still holding yourself firmly clasped against Zoro’s waist and wrist, gliding with him as he lead both you and Perona in a waltz.

“Look up,” you corrected him, relinquishing your hold on Zoro’s waist and finding Perona’s left hand. You corrected her hold on his shoulder, moving her position from a clawed shape to relax against his shoulder instead, “keep your hand like this. You’re not clinging onto him for dear life, you are dancing with him.”

“Yes, my lady,” they both affirmed your instruction. Relinquishing your hold all together on them, you stepped away and watched Zoro lead Perona throughout the beautiful, yet gloomy, room. The melody began to swell, the young swordsman continuing to swirl Perona throughout the room with his three-counted rhythm.

“As much as I would desire to instruct you to twirl,” you spoke up, your voice elevating over the music as their bodied moved further from you, “I only get to have the both of you for a short amount of time together per week.” They continued stepping throughout the perimeter, Zoro becoming more confident by the second while Perona relaxed into his guidance.

“We may make a gentleman out of you yet, Zoro,” you smiled in your tone, the music slowly crescendoing downwards in its tempo, indicating the piece was drawing to a close. Zoro grunted in response, both falling stagnant in their movements as the piece ended while still remaining held within the arms of one another.

As the wheel of the record began to scratch against the needle of the gramophone, the tap of calculated footsteps echoed throughout the room to indicate the stalking approach of the former warlord of the seas. You fell your own steps away from the approaching footsteps to remove the spindle from its scratching contact with the record, clicking the small button to halt the rotation in the process.

“Perona,” the smooth voice you assumed the footsteps would carry addressed his ward, followed by another call, “Zoro.”

“Yes, lord Mihawk?” Perona’s small voice squeaked up, prompting you to slightly look over your shoulder at them while holding firm to your back turned to the instructions they were receiving from their lord.

“Both attend to your personal tasks for the day. You’re excused,” he ordered, a sigh of relief falling from Zoro’s lips as he relinquished his rigid hold against Perona’s body.

“They are not done with their joint instruction,” you sharply called over your shoulder at the lord you served under. Continuing to pack up the disc of melody within its container, you heard the halted steps of the two young wards as they attempted to flee from your command.

“They have done enough for today,” Mihawk firmly stood his ground, his voice unwavering in his intimidation. Breathing a low and steady breath through your nose, you nodded your head in response before turning around to view the three high members of Castle Kuraigana.

“Apologies, my lord,” you bowed in a low curtsey at Mihawk, nodding your head down in submission to him, “you know what is best for your wards.” You rose from your deep curtsey, watching Perona shoot you a winced expression with her teeth clamped in a straight smile before turning and skipping out of the ballroom with haste. Zoro halted his dismissal from the ornate ballroom, turning to face both you and Mihawk again while folding his arms across his chest.

“Off you pop, Eyas,” Mihawk commanded the tall, green-haired swordsman beside him. He grunted at the nickname bestowed onto him, lips curling in a small snarl.

“And leave the two betrothed unchaperoned?” Zoro taunted in return, stepping closer to Mihawk with his unchallenging posture, “that would not be very gentlemanly, would it, Governess?” Sensing a small rise of tension between the two men beginning to become tangibly thick within the air, you turned to Zoro first and held out your palm to halt his challenge further.

“Thank you for taking your traineeship so seriously, young gentleman Zoro,” you complimented him, prompting him again to find himself off-guard by your compliments, “but this is not a courtship visit. This is simply a subordinate meeting with their lord for an exchange of relatively boring information.” You turned to lord Mihawk and removed your palm from its halting position and gestured over to him with a small, dance-like flourish.

“Unfortunately, governess,” Mihawk clicked his neck under the tension, relieving a small amount of pressure with its rotation, “this is a courtship call.”

“O-Oh,” you stuttered out a little, prompting a cocky smirk to raise against the lips of the moss-haired trainee beside him. Before Zoro could get a word out in challenging the lord of Kuraigana, you immediately swept your way towards the former warlord.

“If we are to discuss courtship,” you uttered through your clenched teeth with a small air of annoyance, “perhaps we could promenade the grounds. I am yet to explore the garden, and I am sure your staff are tending to the flowers at this time of day.”

Zoro again parted his lips and began to attempt a hasty remark, halting as Mihawk spoke up to your challenge.

“I have had tea drawn and prepared on the east-wing balcony,” Mihawk quipped, turning to the young green-haired trainee, “and if you should desire to escort your governess to the balcony, do so in silence, Nestling.”

Another grunt fell from Zoro’s lips at the challenge, prompting you to immediately draw yourself closer to the three-sword wielder and apprehensively lace your right arm within the crook of his left elbow. Both gentleman’s eyes snapped to you at this action, Zoro’s eyes widening in shock while Mihawk’s narrowed with an unreadable emotion.

“Thank you for volunteering your services, Zoro,” you uttered, tugging in a firm but discrete manner against his toned forearm to prompt him to escort you from the ballroom, “I will meet with you in the east-wing, my lord.” You curtseyed low to him, tugging Zoro down to bow at his master in tow.

“Governess,” he nodded in acknowledgement at you before turning to the man laced within your arm, “hatchling.”

“My lord,” you again spoke in your rise, turning Zoro away from the intimidating form of your apprehensively procured fiancé. Zoro immediately fell in time to your hasted pace in exiting the ballroom.

“We need to work on your tact, trainee,” you hissed at him in reprimand, prompting his frown to plaster itself against his brow, “and here I thought you were making some progress in our fortnight together.”

“Me? Progress?” Zoro quirked back, stooping down to bring his smirking face closer to you, “never.”

You hummed in response, allowing a small laugh to fall from your lips at his words. Internally, you were absolutely praising Zoro’s ability to shepherd you away from the intimidating aura of your betrothed. This was the first time he had called on you in that manner, never breaking away from professionalism in addressing you. He had barely spoken a word to you in the fourteen days you had been under his instruction.

Zoro continued to silently lead you throughout the halls, the section of the castle remaining partially foreign to you. You had chosen not to venture too far into the mysterious rooms within the beautifully crafted building, learning from your prior mistake with placing the golden circlet of moss-agate ring against your wedding finger.

At the thought, you looked to your hand at its position atop your laced right arm within Zoro’s left. You allowed a small sigh to depart from your parted lips, your brows pinching triangularly above your eyes.

“Something the matter, my lady?” Zoro’s voice apprehensively addressed you, a foreign softness indicated in his tone. Breathing out a small withheld breath you didn’t know you were carrying, you allowed a dance of vulnerability to eclipse your face.

“I never wanted this for myself, Zoro,” you uttered softly. You took the corners of your bottom lip between your teeth to halt any further emotion from pouring from your lips as you spoke to him, “Marriage, courtship: it was never a desire I held. Especially not so to someone as elevated in social status as a former warlord with the current title of world’s greatest swordsman.”

He hummed softly as he listened to you speak. Both of your footsteps halted in front of the east-wing balcony, a few members of staff continued to prepare several plates of afternoon high-tea in towered platters atop the external tables with floral centrepieces littering the room with their majestic arrangements. You breathed slowly in through your nose and held the breath tightly within your chest as you made visual contact with the staff.

Zoro unlaced his left arm from your right and chose to elevate both of his hands to grasp yours within his palms, prompting you to turn your gaze to look into his hazelnut-coloured eyes.

“And what did you want, my lady?” he whispered, keeping his eyes fixed to yours as he searched for your answer before you spoke it. Withdrawing your breath from your chest slowly, you danced your gaze between his and allowed for one more moment of vulnerability to display itself upon your face.

“I wanted a life that was mine,” you uttered slowly, watching puzzlement to draw upwards against the brow of the young swordsman. You squeezed his hands gently, rephrasing your sentence to him, “I wanted freedom to come and go as I desired. Nothing binding me to one place nor another, besides a timeline of a contract to train the next generation. I wanted-…,” you halted your words as you watched the shadowy silhouette of your betrothed grace the room with his aura of superiority and intimidation.

“You wanted…?” Zoro asked you, still holding your hands clutched firmly in his own. Breathing out a final sigh and firming up your posture to its former professional stance, you gently pulled your hands away from Zoro’s and dragged your right foot behind your left and bent lowly in a short bow.

“Thank you for your chaperone, young swordsman,” you spoke, rising from your stoop to once again meet his eyes with your expressionless face, “I have exposed enough vulnerability to you for today. Off you go.” The smile you offered him was forced onto your mouth, shielding your nerves from presenting them plainly on your face.

“You don’t have to hide vulnerability from me, my lady,” he whispered, leaning in towards you, “I find your honesty heroic, in some ways. I would never exploit them.” You shook your head at him, leaning yourself away from his descent and raising your palm to halt him.

“Such fine words you’ve crafted, Zoro,” you praised him, “perhaps you are making more progress as a gentleman than both of us had anticipated.” He smiled in response, nodding his head in a small bow. His golden piercings jangled at his bobbed movement, the light reflecting off all three of the droplets of gold as he rose back upwards. Straightening his shoulders, he offered a half-smile and brushed his shoulders past you as he made his exit from the balcony entrance; leaving you partially alone with your reluctant betrothed in his stead.

“My lord,” you began to lower again in a curtsey, halting your movement as Mihawk shook his head to you with his right palm raised to stop you stooping low to him.

“No,” he uttered in a low voice, his registry both firm and apprehensive to command you, “not while we’re here.” You quirked your head to the side, confused at his words but rotated your shoulders to fix your posture.

“How may I address you then, sir?” you cautiously spoke, stepping slowly towards the table. You felt the eyes of several members of staff holding their gaze upon your form as you approached the former warlord. Mihawk danced his body around and behind yours slowly, as if cautiously stalking a prey. He reached one of the chairs and slowly raked its frame away from the ornate table, gesturing for you to approach it.

“You may call me,” he took a moment to pause, watching your approach to the chair and effortlessly rotating your body to sit atop it, “my name, preferably. Unless you have another title you would bestow onto me, given the circumstances.” You nodded, allowing him to shepherd your body against the table with a gentle shove of the back of your chair.

“Very well,” you sighed out a frustrated breath you attempted to mask with your teeth. Rolling over several titles silently over your tongue, you settled on a term for you to give to him.

“’Mihawk’ seems awfully personal, don’t you think?” you asked him, turning your head with a smile to greet one of the members of staff as they poured the scorching marmalade-coloured liquid into the porcelain teacup in front of you.

“It is my name,” he confirmed with you, holding his hawk-like gaze fixed to your form. He watched intently as you whispered a gentle expression of gratitude to his staff as they completed their presentation of tea and accompaniments towards you. He almost allowed a small click of his tongue to exit his mouth in disgust at the way your perfect smile pulled at the corners of your lips, but refrained from doing so regardless.

From his rough presentation, all those present could view his intensity as a perpetual state of complete loathing. From his frown littering his brow, to his lips almost curling in its straightened position beneath his meticulously maintained moustache; he hated you. Hatred could be the only thoughts that littered his highly educated mind, loathing and malice pulling at every fibre of his being at being swindled against his will to marry someone of lesser status than him.

That is exactly what you pinned his intensity to, as you continued to balance both your examination and aloofness effortlessly in your orchestrated air of ‘blissful ignorance’ under his unwavering gaze.

But to Mihawk, it was quite the opposite. No, to Lord Dracule Mihawk: he was baring his piercing gaze against your form to draw out a small fault to your character. His laced fingers in front of his face, his elbows pressed firmly against the tablecloth and his back began to hunch over to bare a further intense examination of you. Although he was still seething in rage at the happenstances of his engagement, he could not have hoped for a more perfect match to be made for him.

He had been watching, waiting, studying. He had been accumulating information from his staff regarding your routine. He had even found himself discretely asking after you when he met with his ward for their usual instruction. He had even begun bringing you up in conversation after a sparring match with his young eyas – a chick in comparison to his mighty hawk. He had even found his thoughts floating to you while he worked hard and laborious within his vineyard; often finding himself plucking and arranging his vineyard guarding flowers to don the table on your wing daily.

Initially, he wanted you to find your welcome within his castle as an underling; a staff of hire of the highest regard; hence the first arrangement. The second arrangement came out of duty, him wanting to present a small arrangement of flowers to demonstrate his ability to grow. The third, he found himself thinking hard about your character: what he knew, what he wanted to express in gratitude at your abilities to balance Perona’s intensity in her mannerisms and needs, while managing Zoro’s abrasiveness and – for lack of a better word – “shit” and unrefined attitude.

As the four of you took the afternoon meal together, he would often catch you showering praises to the groundskeeper regarding the demonstration of the florals: informing him of your affection for the pairing of the Tokaji vine leaves amongst the pale guardian roses. The groundskeeper was silenced as he glanced over at his lord, opting to take the compliment for himself rather than to inform her it was not he that was arranging her daily gifts.

“If not my name,” he uttered, breaking himself away from his thoughts as he unlaced his fingertips and reclined slightly in his own chair, “what would you call me?” You parted your lips and breathed slowly to halt the tempo arising of your heartbeat within your chest, again opting to roll another title over your tongue.

“Would you be opposed to the title of simply: ‘betrothed’?” you recalled Zoro calling the two of you that title within the ballroom moments prior, “I would not be offended should you bestow the same title onto me, my lor-.”

“-Betrothed,” he interrupted your train of thought with his own utterance. He hissed out an angered breath, but after taking a moment to collect himself, offered a simple, “will suffice.”

Both allowing an uncomfortable pause to befall you, you both silently reached for the porcelain teacups set in front of you. You curled your right fingertips beneath the handle and drew up the liquid to your lips. Testing the temperature of the brew with your bottom lip collected at the rim, you deemed the liquid at an appropriate measure to sip at it. You closed your eyes, savouring the lemon-scented and aromatically imbued floral tea over your palate.

Although the habit was drilled out of you in your youth, if a beverage or liquid had harboured a particular fondness within your heart, you could not halt yourself from flicking your tongue in a small darted movement to collect any liquid you had spilt over the brim at your collection. Even if there was no spill to be found, this small quirk was carried with you regardless.

Mihawk’s eyes widened at this small exposure of your pink tongue exiting from your lips and darting to dampen the porcelain rim of the teacup with your eyes closed. He was transfixed by this small maneuver of your tongue; something so simple and innocent holding him hostage to the pounding of his heart.

“Well then, betrothed,” you sighed, feeling the sting of apprehension attached to your tongue as you uttered his new title to him, “why would you call on me for a courtship dalliance this day? You interrupted my lessons with your wards.” You placed the teacup back into its holding place within the saucer, lacing your fingertips within one another and placing the edge of your pinkie fingers against the tabletop.

“That I did, belove-,” he halted the title within his parted lips, wincing at his mistake before uttering his correction, “-betrothed.” You took a moment to hold your aloof and surly attitude upon your face, your gaze hyper-focussed on his face with an emotionless expression. Internally, however, you were caught completely off-guard by how easily his bestow of affectionate title fell from his lips; but chose not to tease nor address it at this moment.

“By all means, continue,” you quirked up the corner of your right lips to usher him to produce such an explanation to his interruption of your instruction of your mutual wards. You hooked your right knee over your left and fixed your shoulders upright to affirm your secured and confident posture.

“I have called you here for,” he hissed out a sigh through his nose, his shoulders almost slouching in his defeated posture, “measurements.”

“Measurements?” you quirked your brows upwards in question, watching as three women and a highly stung gentleman entered the east-wing foyer: their intensity and professionalism following them with their entrance. Mihawk nodded, raising his porcelain teacup to his lips and taking a small sip from the object.

Immediately without addressing you, two of the women bullied you into a standing position and began wrapping you with silks and satin ribbons to tighten around your waist and forearms; the other dropping to her knees to take the circumference of your knees, calves and thighs.

“Excuse me,” you hissed out in response, frowning as they continued to shove your body to suit their relative needs. You felt overwhelmed, overburdened by their instruction and having your body stumble against its will under their ministrations. As the gentleman began to hold his thumb and four-fingers perpendicular to your hips and most intimate areas, you slapped the top of his wrists with your hands in defence of your body.

“That’s quite enough, sir,” you uttered through clenched teeth at the man you just hit, watching as his eyes met yours. You had not met with such a widened intensity of the globes of two irises before, noticing the other three members circling your form had a similar air of urgency littering their faces. Your scowl deepened against your brow, watching as the women continued to tie your arms, ankles and shoulders with their bands. Your heartrate quickened, your apprehension growing in your uncertainty.

“That’s enough,” the lord of Kuraigana addressed the staff circling your body.

“My lord, we are yet to get a-,” the gentleman’s words lay stifled within his breath as Mihawk hastily strode over to collect the measuring ribbon from within his firm grasp.

Mihawk sought out your gaze with an iron-like intensity, darting his eyes between focus on each of yours to wordlessly seek your permission. Your breath again found itself caught in your throat as the read on his face was almost revealed to you. He was a man desperate, you thought to yourself. Finding yourself to have any reason or air of apprehension, you slowly elevated your arms out to the side, welcoming the former-warlord to circle the material over your waist to collect itself atop your pelvis.

“You required intricate garments, yes?” Mihawk uttered in a low tone, collecting the ribbon within a pinch of his index finger and thumb on his left hand while notating the read with his right hand collecting a quill from the gentleman below you. You were rendered speechless, not at all anticipating this be the first courtship call you experienced with the former warlord of the seas.

Opting to remain silent and holding a scowl permanently attached to your face, you almost had your air escape you as he slipped his hands upwards to your chest, relinquishing the pool of material to gather the appropriate measurement of your breasts.

“And lingerie,” he confirmed, a small smirk arising to his lips; hidden beneath his bearded chin and moustached upper lip. You relinquished your hitched breath, quirking your chin to the side and slowly clamping your eyelids shut.

“That I did, betrothed,” you spat at him, watching carefully as his amber-hued eyes once again met with your own. If your breath had not already held stifled within your chest moments prior, you felt at risk of choking entirely under the intensity of his gaze. His irises bore the intensity of a dehydrated man searching for the quench of iced water; the intensity of a man desperate for his first hot meal amongst weeks of miliary rations.

“What is wrong-,” you began your probing question towards the man tied by destiny to you.

“You have cursed my soul,” he growled in a snarled frown, “and I am now slave to your request.”

You sucked in a breath, unwilling to bare the brunt of his rage; you reached forward and claimed his wrists within your circled grasp.

“Oh, please,” you spat at him, challenging him with the angle of your chin; “I beg your pardon, my lor-.”

“Don’t,” he spat, his rage holding firm to his brow. Your eyes widened under his intense crystalline graze. Unaccustomed to receiving this form of formal reprimand, you refused to succumb beneath its foreignness.

“I meant no-,” you began again, your words this time halting as you felt the firm press of a forehead against your own. Mihawk’s eyes were closed in a harsh snap, the wrinkles of his crow’s feet laying prominent against the apples of his cheeks as he rose his right hand up to collect your jaw. All manner of professionalism left your body, your arms relinquishing their presence laying outstretched beside you and instinctively falling to the nape of the neck laid before you.

You felt his darkened locks graze against your fingertips, your eyes closing in response to this unrestrained caress. As you allowed a moment of silence to fall beneath you, the only aspect of the embrace falling between you were the elongated, shared inhale and exhale of air between your breath.

“I am trying my best, my lady,” you heard his voice utter in a tone only meant for your ears, a whimper caught within his mouth at the title, “but your demands are-,” he paused pressing further into your embrace, his body almost becoming flush with your own, “seemingly impossible.”

This was not at all what you were expecting on a Wednesday afternoon, your timetable mostly occupied with training Perona in the art of conversation and musicality scheduled for the remainder of the day. As you felt Mihawk almost give into the touch, you raked your right palm over his chest and held him away from falling further into your body. As you began to speak, you were once again hushed by his voice.

“The moon,” he winced, “the starlit sky,” his body almost seemed to cave in its stoop against your own, “the-,” you felt your own breath hitch again alongside his own, “-the sun.” His body, although holding you close and flush with his own, felt an arms-length away.

“You’re withholding something from me,” you whispered against him, noses brushing as you felt your lips unconsciously drawing towards his own.

“My business is my own, my lady-,” you chose this moment to interrupt his speech.

“-your betrothed,” you corrected him, your right arm holding firm its place against his chest. Allowing another moment of vulnerability to break through the surface of your iron-clad armament; you elaborated further.

“As your wife,” you almost winced through your expression, “I am to become privy to all that ails you.” Mihawk sucked in a shaken breath, grasping at your jaw with his firm grip, his fingertips raking at the skin of your neck.

“That may be true,” he chose to utilise one more moment joining his forehead against your own before completely pulling away from your embrace, “but you are not. Not yet, anyway.” He turned his body away from yours, leaving you almost gasping for breath at the intensity of your absence. He effortlessly relayed your measurements to the tailors and waved them off to excuse them from their servitude.

“You could take as long as you desired,” you uttered quietly, in a voice above a whisper, ”why would you desire to pursue such an undertaking with haste? I gave-,” you halted your next words, prompting a pause to rise from the former warlord. You sucked in a small breath, “-I gave you an out. Why would you pursue it, my lo-,” you shook your head, “-my betrothed?”

“Because you challenged me,” he offered, his body turning to face you once more with a small smirk rising to his cheeks, “and I am not once to shy away from a challenge.” You stepped your body further toward him, your own aura of professionalism again rising to your body in reaction to his own.

“Is that all I be to you, Mihawk?” you hushed your tone, screaming at him with your intense gaze, “an object to simply be conquered?” Mihawk backed his step behind himself, his posture almost seeming to stumble; but recover quickly under its retreat.

After taking a moment to collect himself, he allowed a small smile to rise to his face as he recited a small poetic and melodic saying to you.

“The ten rings of the Sapsorrow queen, all riddled with charm,” he breathed out to you, his voice humming to the air, “none can break from its challenger’s gleam, or cause the commissioner harm.”

You furrowed your brows, shaking your head slightly at the poetry he uttered.

“I don’t understand,” you spoke in a completely clear utterance.

“You will,” Mihawk informed you with a similar lilt in his vocals.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-BONUS -.-.-.-.-.-.-

“Perona,” the green-haired swordsman addressed in passing to the pink-haired ward.

“Zoro,” she nodded her greeting back to him as they began their ascension and descension towards one another. As if in complete synchrony, their footsteps halted mere metres away from one another. Zoro sucked in a breath through his nose, while Perona hissed an inhale against her pearled teeth.

“Do you think he-,” Perona began, halting her words as Zoro spoke atop her.

“-He’s fucking infatuated,” Zoro completed their mutual thought.

Chapter 3

Tag List:

@writingmysanity @gingernut131414 @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @be-good-please @little-bunnybabe @sukilovesyou @buggyenjoyer @thesnailus @under-kitty @acehyacinth @andriannag

#one piece #opla #opla fic #x reader #one piece live action #mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #mihawk #hawkeye mihawk #one piece mihawk

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brain-rot-central · 3 months

Text

Hey Jealousy

Rating: M/borderline E? (for now) Pairing: Spawn!A/Fem!Tav Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: NON-CANON, 18+, degrading speech, somewhat dubcon for certain parts but not totally?, adult themes, mentions of past sexual relationship, alcohol mention, alcohol use, blood mention, possessiveness, jealously, stalking, dry humping, ANGST, some fluff, bitter petty nonsense overall tbh

Summary: Astarion and Tav split at the end of the game due to a huge miscommunication. She tries desperately to move on, Astarion not so much. He finally gets ahold of her, aaaaand some messy feelings come out.

A/N - 1/28/24: Reuploading this! Not much has changed; mostly pulled it for grammatical editing purposes. Hopefully the story flows a bit better now!

The tavern is bustling with the usual weekend crowd. Upbeat music fills the air of the small establishment as this evening’s band continues their set. Drinks cascade like waterfalls into the hands and mouths of the tavern's parched patrons, each desperate for a distraction to drive out the unsettling reality of their lives, albeit for a few hours.

Astarion is perched in a corner of the tavern, circling the tip of his finger around the edge of his wine goblet. The unpleasant flavor of piss and vinegar lingers on his tongue from the spirit, mouth salivating. He sucks his teeth instinctively, trying to rid himself of the taste.

Reaching into the pocket of his favored violet and gold doublet, he retrieves a small vial of crimson liquid. He pops off the stopper and deposits the contents into his cup, bringing the cylindrical glass to his mouth to lap up the small droplet that rolls down its side.

He hums in satisfaction as the sweet flavor spreads across his tongue, floral and lively, before returning the stopper back atop the vial. Using a single finger, he swirls the additive into his wine, bringing the goblet back to his lips for another sip.

Ah, much better.

Surveying the bar, Astarion catches the attention of a young elven woman. She's aesthetically pleasing on the eyes - blonde hair with tan skin. Were he here for another reason, he may have tried his luck with her.

Astarion nods politely. The woman then rises from her seat, walking toward him. “Shit,” he mutters to himself, adjusting his positioning. He hurriedly repockets the blood vial within his doublet and hangs his head low just as she takes the seat at his booth, opposite him.

“Well, you’re certainly different from the usual fare,” she says, confidently. “Not often we get you teu-tel-quessir folk in here.”

Astarion absently swirls his wine. She believes I'm a moon elf?

Assuming that she's a regular of this tavern, this woman may be somewhat oblivious. Were she not, she’d have realized this is his third visit this month alone.

Astarion decides to play into her little game - he’s compelled to see how long he can keep the charade going. “I’m but a weary traveler, just passing through,” he lies. It rolls off his tongue like the caress of an old friend. Creating a fictitious life for himself is something he’s had quite a bit of practice doing.

“Is that so? I, too, happen to be passing through here.” The woman places her elbows on the table and leans forward, giving Astarion better access to the cleavage threatening to spill over the top of her bodice. His eyes fall briefly to the woman’s chest, but he doesn’t look at her face. Not yet. “Got the room rented out upstairs for a couple more days,” she adds, tone hushed.

Sliding her hand toward his, she gently rubs her fingers over the ones he has encased around the neck of the wine goblet. Astarion shudders, not expecting such an intimate touch, and finally lifts his gaze to meet her own. “Care to make a few mistakes with me?” she asks.

Astarion snickers. He can tell part of her story is a facade, though he doesn’t care enough to discern which.

“My apologies, love, but I’ve made enough mistakes to last a lifetime,” he replies. Pulling his hand from her, he grabs his wine by the cup, bringing it again to his lips. “I’ll have to decline.”

The elven woman softly hums in disappointment, standing up from her seat at the booth. “Such a shame,” she says, “you really are something beautiful.” She raises a hand to her lips, kissing the pads of her fingertips before extending them out toward him. Gently blowing on her fingers, she says, “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Astarion raises his cup to her and she walks off, returning to her group of friends on the far side of the tavern. He groans a sigh of relief.

Wasting little time resuming his attention on the crowd surrounding him, another is quick to catch his eye. He's seen her before - long auburn hair flowing down her back with streaks of blonde scattered throughout. She wasn't dressed in her evening best, but even so, the blouse and slacks she wore left little to his imagination.

She's sitting at the bar in the middle of the tavern, a young tiefling gentleman holding her attention at present. He’s not her usual type, Astarion notes to himself, though he remains transfixed on their interaction.This is the second man he's seen this evening trying their hand at impressing the young human woman.

A smile forms on her lips as she converses with her current suitor. Astarion once again swirls his goblet of wine before bringing it back to his mouth for another taste.

He knows this woman, rather intimately, at that. He’s held her hair within his hands, traced the outline of her jaw with his fingertips. The smell of her skin is ever present in his mind. The saltiness of her sweat on his tongue as he lavishes her throat, the intoxicating roll of her hips against his as he bites down into the tender flesh of her neck… the rush of blood cascading down his throat.

He swallows thickly around the memory.

They've been together a handful of times throughout their travels to save the Realm from the threat of the Absolute, but that was neither here nor there, at this point.

The tiefling begins skirting his fingers along her forearm, and she leans into his touch. Astarion seethes from his place in the booth, a rush of warmth flooding his core and quickly spreading outward to each of his limbs. It’s been months since they decided on this new agreement, though his reaction is just as strong whenever another encroaches on her.

Astarion looks on as the red-head gently pats her companion’s arm before standing from her seat. His eyes follow her toward the back of the tavern. After downing the rest of his drink in one quick swing, he’s following her, careful to keep just enough distance not to rouse suspicion.

The music from the band thumps loudly in his chest as he draws closer to the crowd of people gathered before the stage. Lucky for him, they’re so entranced by the show that they hardly notice his mindless weaving, trying not to lose sight of his target. Astarion stops for a moment to refocus, looking around. It doesn’t take him long at all to zero in a glimpse of those fiery locks disappearing down a hallway off to the side.

His feet bring him to the start of the long corridor and he peers cautiously around the corner. The woman is not to be found, likely in the powder room. Astarion sighs, some of the built up tension beginning to wane from his shoulders, and comes to stand with his back against the window across from the facilities.

The residual tension within him is beginning to bleed into anxiety and doubt the longer he waits. His mind is rapidly exchanging scenarios, all of which cause his stomach to become unsettled. Gooseflesh spreads over his arms and the fine hairs covering them stand on end. Why is he doing this? They'd agreed to be friends and nothing more. It’s his fault for not being able to honor his end of the deal, he knew, but by the Gods, he simply does not care.

Since the first drops of her blood spread across his tongue, Astarion knew something within him changed. He wasn't sure if it was due to her being his proverbial “first,” but he felt… compelled by her from that moment forward. Bonded almost, in a strange way.

In a sea of crimson, her blood would always sing loudest to him. It horrified him in the beginning, recalling memories of Cazador's puppeteering ways. The fear ebbed into compassion, after a time. As their physical relationship grew more intimate, compassion melted into an overwhelming desire to guard her. A want to protect what was his, finally his, after so many godsdamned years of pure, absolute shit.

Their… whatever it was they shared, was his. And he would gladly throw his life on the line any chance he could to insure its sustainability.

He catches a glint of red in his peripheral vision again. The human, oblivious to his presence, begins her trek back to her seat at the bar. The thought barely has time to process in Astarion’s head before his body reacts, reaching out to grab the side of her arm, pulling her back toward the wall with him.

“What the-!” the woman exclaims in shock. Her other hand comes up to begin swatting at the offending appendage. She stops midway as her eyes meet his face, recognition washing over her. “Oh, Astarion,” she says, voice flat, “what… what are you doing here?”

A practiced smile graces his lips as he releases the grip on her arm. “Am I not free to seek my own pleasure, darling?” An uneasiness begins to take root again, mind scolding him once the words leave his lips. What in the hells kind of question is that?

Astarion clears his throat. “I was simply out for a drink before returning home when I saw what appeared to be a fire in the middle of the bar.” Unsure of what response he's hoping for, he's praying she doesn't catch onto his desperate attempt at recovery.

A quick blush spreads across her cheeks and she bows her head, giving a genuine smile. Astarion huffs out a breath in relief.

During their time together, Astarion would often tease that her hair reminded him of a raging fire. Eventually, he adorned her with the pet name of “spitfire;” she thoroughly enjoyed solving the majority of her problems through brute force. She favored it, evidenced by a deep blush that would spread across her features.

Not unlike the one rising to her face at this very moment.

Were he honest with her, he’d tell her that this isn’t the first time he’s followed her since they parted - watched helplessly from afar as she rotated through potential nightly suitors. He chooses not to, however. Chooses to not tell her that he’s noticed every man she’s taken home has platinum hair. How they’re always of elven lineage.

She seems to buy his excuse as she visibly relaxes before him. “Oh, no, of course, Astarion,” she sighs. “It's uh, it's been a few weeks, hasn't it?” Her eyes are soft as she shifts her weight onto one hip. “How have you been?”

She's nervous, he can tell. She's doing that thing with her lip, chewing the inside of it. The rush of blood in her veins crashes and bellows in his ears as her blush settles deeper across the top of her chest.

“As well as one would imagine,” Astarion replies, “after having their heart broken.” There’s an air of nonchalance decorating his tone. A well-worn smirk tugs at his lips. He's fuming inside at the thought of another touching her, but he doesn't want to play his cards outright yet.

No, he wants to see her squirm, wants to inflict just a touch of the torment he's experienced since their parting.

What a spiteful creature.

Her expression falls flat, jaw tensing. “I'm not sure what you mean by that,” she retorts in a meek tone. She pulls her shoulders back. "I-I thought we agreed to be friends, no?”

Astarion glances over his shoulder to see the young tiefling gentleman from before passing behind them. Their eyes meet, Astarion furrowing his brow. His jaw tightens, lips curling upward, and the peaks of his fangs are visible. He watches for the tiefling’s reaction, elated to find that the boy is clearly shaken by his display. The Tiefling turns to speak but decides against it, turning his back to the scene before him.

Astarion sneers.

Yet another unworthy fool.

Though… a fool who has touched her. Something he and only he should be privy to.

An inferno erupts within him.

Astarion grabs the young woman by the arm again and leads her toward the supply closet at the end of the hall, making quick work of the lock. Astarion scans their surroundings before opening the door and shoving her in, a small squeak pushed past her lips from the impact of his hand on her back. Quickly closing the door behind him, he yells, “Ignis!” a fireball lighting the lone torch in the room.

“Astarion, what-” she shouts in protest. Before the opportunity arises he’s back on her, pinning her in place to the wall with his hips. His hands fly up to cup either side of her jaw.

"Do you truly believe I meant that?" he growls low in his throat, their eyes meeting in a whirlwind. “That I only wanted to be friends?” he adds, mockingly.

He's desperately searching her face for something, anything to show him he's not alone in this. Her tense expression stokes the fire raging within him.

Suddenly, he's spiraling.

The small voice in his head, his conscience, is yelling at him to stop - to pull back. She’s made it quite clear how she feels, you love-sick idiot.

Logic fails him - he cannot form a single cohesive thought. Not when she's looking at him like that.

A doe caught unawares in the middle of a forest. Eyes blown wide, mouth slightly agape. Not unlike those he's hunted multiple times in the past. His chest heaves as he drinks in her expression, a wave of heat rising up within him.

The compulsion is overwhelming, rapidly losing the battle with the rational part of his brain. Bitterness bites at the back of his throat like acid.

He absolutely must continue.

“Is that why your home has become a revolving door?” Astarion says, watching her face shift.

“Excuse me?” the human asks, offense evident in her tone. A rhetorical question, though he pushes forward.

“Of men who look just enough like me?” he continues, driving the thorn deeper into the woman's side.

Suddenly, she’s stone, cold and unwelcoming. Her face twists into something sour, nose scrunching up in disgust.

“Astarion Anunín… Have you been stalking me?” she nearly yells.

Oh, he has her right where he wants her.

"The color of their hair does always match my own…” Astarion ponders aloud, head tilting to one side. “Have any of them fucked you as thoroughly as I have, darling?" he chides.

Pulling in a quick, ragged breath, the young woman shudders beneath him, her head falling forward. Her hips involuntarily twitch against the knee he’s suddenly wedged between her thighs and she whimpers, biting her lip to stifle the sound.

“Astarion…” she groans, eyes falling closed.

She’s upset, he knows. Yet, he’s privy to how she can barely resist the call of his body against her. Why not use that knowledge to his advantage?

A heavy flush settles across her face and she reopens her eyes, looking up at him through hooded lids. Astarion sees it then - the unabashed desire emanating from her.

How ironic, he thinks to himself, that her eyes have a hunter green hue. At this moment she feels like prey, wrapped up in a delicate satin bow, all for him.

The remnants of his eternally damned soul sing in delight at her unraveling before him. Saliva pools thick on his tongue as he lavishes the thought of pushing forward, closing in on her.

Astarion leans toward her, cocking his head again to one side. “Hells, Tav… Did it really never occur to you that we made love the last time we were together?" he asks quietly, mouth hovering just above her lips.

Tav shivers beneath him, body writhing against the wall she's leaning against. Her hands come up to press against his chest, gripping fistfuls of his shirt as she grinds herself again on the knee between her legs. The flush on her face is so deep, practically matching the color of her hair.

“Y-you’re hardly playing fair,” she huffs out. She moans again, genuine and clear, making little attempt to subdue the noise. Astarion groans in response before closing the distance, finally capturing her lips in a kiss.

He’s timid at first, wanting to gauge her reaction. Tav doesn't resist nor push him away, giving him the encouragement to continue. Her jaw grows pliant under him and invites him deeper into her mouth, tongues entangling for a quick moment. The kiss is brief - just enough until she settles beneath him. Both of their chests heave as they part.

Astarion’s eyes rest upon her lips before he draws his head back. His hands fall from her face and he lays his palms flat against the wall on either side of her head.

"My biggest regret is that I lacked the courage to tell you with words..." he admits, voice trailing off. The ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he adds, "so, instead, I used the one tool I'm most versed with.”

Tav's pupils blow wide at the implication of his words.

Of course, Astarion used his body - used himself as an instrument. Again. To him, this is familiar territory. This is safe.

This is all I’m good for.

"It appears I must have gotten my translation wrong," he quips.

Tav shakes her head in disagreement. “It wasn’t wrong…”

She adjusts herself against the wall as Astarion’s leg falls back into a normal position, no longer wedged between her.

“I was so sure… and then the morning after, I- '' She cuts herself off and swallows. “I didn’t know what to think, Astarion.”

Astarion pushes himself off the wall, taking a few steps back from Tav to give her space.

“I don’t understand,” he begins, folding his arms over his chest. “I thought I made my position rather clear that morning. About…” He shrugs his shoulders. “Us. This.”

Huffing out a quick laugh, Tav shakes her head again, her discomfort in their current conversation mounting. “You started talking about being free, and-”

She stops herself again, choking back a sigh. “It just seemed so selfish to ask you to be with me. You were just getting yourself back, after so long.”

Tears begin to gather at the corners of Tav’s eyes. Gently with the pads of his thumbs, Astarion wipes them clean.

“Oh, my silly little love,” he says, lowering his face to place a chaste kiss upon her forehead. “How I wish you would have spoken to me first.”

Tav’s hands come up to cover his, removing them from her face. “I think… I think I need to go,” she tells him, urgently.

Nodding in silent agreement, Astarion lets her dip out from under him, seeing her inch closer toward the door.

Before she grips the door’s handle, she turns to look at him. “...Can we talk more about this?” She quickly gestures to their surroundings before adding, “In a better situation, maybe?”

Astarion can only sigh, chest rising and falling heavily. “Of course, my dear. Do you have a particular place in mind?”

Her eyes fall to the floor. Tav knits her fingers together nervously, rubbing her thumbs over the other. “Well… where are you staying?”

A quick laugh escapes his throat and he averts his gaze. His voice is soft and tender as he focuses on a broom leaning against the corner of the wall behind her, “...I went home.”

Tav furrows her brow before asking, “What do you mean by home?”

“Home, to Cazador’s,” he states, devoid of emotion. Astarion’s eyes fall back onto her, watching as she adjusts her posture.

“It’s not as though I know much else,” he continues. “I lack the gold or the ability to work. I have only what I’m able to pilfer off the unassuming, and I’ve grown tired of playing such a role.”

Astarion sighs heavily again before adding, “There are a number of… resources available to me, now that Cazador is gone. It would be foolish of me to squander them.”

Tav only nods in his direction, her expression falling flat. “Alright,” she says, “I’ll meet you… there, I guess.” She unlaces her hands and turns around, heading back toward the door.

“Tavaria,” Astarion calls to her as she wraps a hand around the door handle again, freezing in place at the use of her full name. “If you do decide to visit me, you’re going to need the passcode for the tower door.”

Looking over her shoulder, Tav waits for him to continue. Moments pass between them, the air growing thick and stale within the small closet. When she doesn’t speak, he pushes forward.

“It’s spitfire,” Astarion tells her.

He hears more than sees the small inhalation of breath she takes as his words register. Turning her head forward again, Astarion watches her finally twist the knob to the door, pushing it open. Tav steps out of the closet, looking at him briefly before disappearing down the corridor of the tavern.

Astarion slumps against the cool stone of the supply closet wall, light now pouring through the open doorway. His head is throbbing, an uneasy ache beginning to take root deep within his chest.

What a day.

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