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There were two types of human in the world. Cattle and companions.

Cattle lived healthy, fulfilling lives under vampire supervision. They were nourished and pampered, centuries of learning culminating into broad arrays of food, entertainment and support. Of course, they were always factions of humans who hated being controlled, hated their lack of purpose beyond being eaten and fucked, hated the way vampires could just approach them in the street for a feed, hated the limitations placed on them for their safety and well-being. They weren’t held hostage anymore, but severe dips in their health or even a minor accident had them cooped up in their registered hospital until their health returned. In recent centuries, the vampires had conceded to let the hospitals be partially staffed by humans, and many even now had human staff in managerial or even political roles. Every year, human health and welfare reached a new peak, all major sectors presided over by a vampire with centuries of experience with a committee of humans with new ideas and perspectives.

Companions were ordinary humans who agreed to bond with a vampire for a time and fell into two categories. One was temporary, cattle who merely travelled with a vampire as a food source, friend and lover. The position was well salaried with an excellent retirement package should the position remain temporary. ‘Temporary’ could work out as several decades or even a century, the care and love of the vampire slowing the companion’s age to a crawl.

The bond could be made permanent only if the companion’s heart was scarred, but complete. The most popular theory was that growing from heartbreak gave the companion the maturity to face eternal life symbiotically bonded to another. Some humans protested this – vampires hadn’t needed to pass a test to achieve eternal life. Once bonded, the only way to break the bond was for the vampire to drain their companion fully and let them pass away. Some humans also protested this – the vampire would always be able to kill their companion if they chose to, but the only known way to kill a vampire was to lure them into the sunlight.

Permanent or temporary, the changed cattle was a slave to their vampire’s commands, a simple touch in the voice overriding the companion’s will. A vampire could take on multiple companions but multiple bites were treacherous to the health of the cattle and so companions could only take one vampire.

As far as anyone knew, there was no way to turn a human, whether cattle or companion, into a vampire. The vampires had come to be millennia before, the last vampire to be discovered being James Barton, known as Sir Crocodile, just over a thousand years ago. Any humans who remembered his companionship were dead, and the vampires who had met Dracule Mihawk’s tall companion hadn’t cared enough to remember him.

Except, of course, Dracule Mihawk.

Shanks was stretched out on the sunny windowsill, dozing lightly. His bandage hugged his shoulder, his stomach had a small pot belly from the heaving bowl of ramen he’d had earlier, his skin glowed in the light. A cloth bag sat on a string around his neck and his hands rested around it, shrouding it.

Dracule Mihawk was sat deep in the room where the sun wouldn’t reach him. Hotels and rental properties would measure where the sun would touch, carpeting those areas in one colour – usually yellow or green – and the rest in another – usually black, grey or red. Curtains and blinds would black the light out completely and could be operated from the shade. Most furniture would be far away from the window, only a single chair in the light. Smoothies, broths and emergency supplements would sit in the complimentary fridge alongside bottles of blood, and boxes of bandages and anti-septic cream would sit in the drawer, and all soft furnishings would be anti-stain. Cleaners were so inherently stain-removing it wasn’t worth advertising on the bottle.

Mihawk flicked idly through a series of letters. He’d been staying in the hotel for a few weeks now, after Shanks had made himself sick drinking far too much sake in one evening. While Mihawk knew he was fine, it had become taboo to rush a human’s recovery, even from their own stupidity, and so they’d stayed.

And Mihawk found the letter he’d been dreading. Spiky but clear font. Heavy, high-quality paper. A wax seal impressed with a crocodile’s head. No return address.

For just over a thousand years, Mihawk had stayed on the run. He attended the yearly meeting of the Vampire Council, keeping himself firmly buried among his peers and had successfully kept his distance from Sir Crocodile one thousand and eighty three times now. Anyplace Mihawk stayed, Crocodile would appear eventually. At first it would be within days, or even hours. Mihawk would sense his approach, the bond to his companion still tugging at the edges of his consciousness, and he would flee. Then Crocodile slowed, an endurance predator. For a few decades, starting not long after Mihawk took Shanks on as a companion, he didn’t see Crocodile at all. And now he was finally wriggling out of hiding again.

And summoning Shanks. The address read “Figarland ‘Red-Hair’ Shanks, previously of the Holy Knights Laboratories, Companion to Dracule Mihawk”.

Shanks had been human chemist working on blood regulation, attempting to find a way to help cattle to recover faster from their bites. He, his brother Shamrock, and his best friend Buggy had made huge leaps in knowledge, and Mihawk would visit them often, enamoured by both their knowledge and Shanks’ easy charisma. Mihawk made himself Shanks’ escort to show the Figarland findings to other vampires, particularly ones with the funds to back their research. And, inevitably, Shanks had become Mihawk’s temporary companion, his heart too full to be permanently bonded.

Since, Shanks had gone from looking like Shamrock’s twin to looking like his son or even grandson, the brothers often calling to discuss Shamrock’s continued work. Shanks had drawn back from research after a terrible accident – Shanks and Buggy had been bickering and play-fighting, like they had as boys. Shanks had shoved, Buggy had stumbled, and crashed straight into a table. As he’d fallen, a glass jug of concentrated chemicals – something with a name so long none of the chemists could bring himself to pronounce it and so just called it ‘chop-chop juice’ – had tipped and landed on Buggy’s face. The glass has smashed, and Buggy swallowed large amounts of the chop-chop juice.

The chop-chop juice had a unique property that accelerated cell reproduction; stem cells such as all-important blood cells would reproduce by swelling larger, splitting in half, then sealing themselves closed again. At least, that was the basic explanation given in schools. The chop-chop juice made the cells split into quarters or even eights, accelerating cell reproduction by double or quadruple respectively, with no apparent diminishment of cell quality. The chop-chop juice that had fallen on Buggy had been one concentrated to a daring split into sixteenths.

Shanks, Shamrock and Mihawk had dove to Buggy’s aid as he spluttered and choked. He has staggered to his feet, Mihawk guiding him to sit down. The broken glass had sliced Buggy’s face in several places, and his blood was mixing with the chop-chop juice. In a panic, Shanks had thrown a bucket of water in Buggy’s face.

Buggy’s nose had fallen straight off his face as the water hit him. Shamrock had screamed as Buggy had tried to grab it, his fingers dropping off at the lightest touch. In a flurry of curses and tears, Buggy had gotten up and fled, his limbs detaching and re-attaching with every movement, and as his form disappeared Mihawk felt Shanks’ heart break.

Buggy never reappeared. Only his nose remained on the floor and now sat in the cloth bag around Shanks’ neck. Shanks would take it out and examine it sometimes – it had a ruddy red hue but hadn’t rotted or dried out in the decades since. Its base, where it had connected to the face, was layer of dark red cartilage. If Shanks tickled it or blew pepper at it, the nose would twitch and even blow air out of the nostrils. This was enough to convince Shanks that Buggy was alive. Mihawk wasn’t so sure – Shamrock was approaching retirement age, and it was rare for cattle to survive for so long without having to report to a hospital where his information would be forwarded to Mihawk per his request. Missing a nose and literally falling apart, Buggy would be hard to hide.

They hadn’t discussed it, but Mihawk knew Shank’s heart wouldn’t heal until he found out what had happened to Buggy. Everyplace they went, Shanks would search anywhere that Buggy could have haunted; pubs, theatres, circuses, galleries, anywhere bright and flashy and loud. He had never found a trace of him.

Mihawk turned the letter over in his hands. No return address. Only the damned wax seal.

He could just throw it in the fire. Gather up his trunk and his companion and scarper. But something in the pit of his stomach questioned what had taken Sir Crocodile so long.

They were the closest to Alabasta Mihawk had dared to go in centuries. Alabasta was the island Sir Crocodile had settled on and had poured money into its people. Under him, the island had grown from a barren wasteland to a thriving paradise, a bucket list visit for cattle the world over. They seemed to have forgotten it was Crocodile who had left it a wasteland in the first place.

Sir Crocodile appeared in almost every piece of media on the place, from advertisements to documentaries to news stories. Vampires joked he was the biggest celebrity among them, regularly accepting interview from small presses and even students, building himself a reputation as an excellent host to vampires and cattle alike. He was distinctive, the scar across his face Mihawk had given him unhealed, his so-called companion at his side shrouded in a blue cape, mask over their face. Mihawk assumed the companion’s get-up was to hide how fast Sir Crocodile cycled through them.

“My love,” Mihawk called, “There’s a letter for you.”

“For little old me?” Shanks rose with a stretch that made him moan.

“It’s from Sir Crocodile.”

Shanks froze. Mihawk hadn’t told Shanks the whole story, just that Sir Crocodile’s appetite was dangerously insatiable. Most vampires only needed a few pints a day, a couple of small bites. Sir Crocodile could drain an adult and within three hours his fangs would extend past his chin with desperation to feed. At Council meetings he would be poked fun at for his need to constantly have a cigar in his mouth, tobacco being the only thing found to suppress vampiric hunger. Shanks had taken the hint to give Sir Crocodile a wide berth and stayed ready to run at the first mention of him.

“My health check’s fine,” Shanks said, “We can just go.”

“I know you’re fine, I could taste it. I only stayed as I know the circus is coming to the island this afternoon.”

Shanks smiled. “The same circus’ll come to the next island. Let’s just go.”

“I want to know why he’s writing to you. I want to know why he’s writing at all.”

Shanks only gestured to the letter. Mihawk took up his dagger and sliced the envelope open.

The papers inside were thick and pale yellow. Mihawk skim-read the first couple of pages, summarizing aloud.

“He’s inviting us both to the palace on Alabasta. He provides a den-den number for the human workers on the pier, who will escort us. We will meet on a sun-stripe courtyard…”

“On a what?” Shanks interrupted.

“A courtyard shaded at both ends, with sunlight reaching the middle. They fell out of fashion several centuries ago. We only used them so humans would feel safe; we couldn’t cross the courtyard to reach them, so they could speak freely and escape the courtyard before sundown.”

Shanks nodded. “I think I’ve read about them.”

“We will be free to leave at any point,” Mihawk continued reading, “He has some information he wishes to share regarding himself, his companion and…” Mihawk frowned at the paper, “I can’t read this word. It looks like one of your compounds.”

Shanks crossed the room and took the paper. He frowned at the words, bringing it close to his face and away again. He muttered to himself, flicked through the rest of the papers, and brought a couple to the front.

One was a drawing of a complex chemical structure, letters connected by dashes. The other was a different paper entirely, with someone else’s writing on it.

“No fucking way,” Shanks said.

“What is it?” Mihawk said.

“It’s a variation of the chop-chop juice,” Shanks said, “This is the chemical structure, but this is using refined sand as a stabilizer instead of salt. And this,” Shanks ran a finger over the foreign paper as he speed-read it, “Is from Shamrock. He’s given his blessing to this compound. His simulations suggest it would work.”

“What does this mean?”

“That your Croccy bastard’s got a real good chemist on the payroll,” Shanks flipped through the papers, “He says the chemist wants to meet with me.”

“If a letter from Shamrock was good enough, why wouldn’t a letter from you suffice?”

“He doesn’t say. Just – get this – ‘The dear chemist has changed my unlife in ways impossible to explain without physical demonstration.’ What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” Shank’s impression of Sir Crocodile hadn’t been bad.

“I don’t know.”

Shanks turned the drawing of the structure over in his hands. A small frown pulled on his brow.

“What is it?” Mihawk said.

“I don’t know. There’s something familiar about this structure.”

“Perhaps because you’ve been studying it for a full lifetime?”

“Yeah, probably. I just…” Shanks sighed.

“You want to meet this chemist.”

“Yeah. Yeah I do.”

Mihawk sucked his teeth.

“This is my life work, Hawky. If this guy’s cracked it, I’ve gotta meet him. I’ve gotta know.”

“I know my love.”

“And look – I’ll be perfectly safe with you there too. You’re the only vampire ever to leave a mark on him. He’s the only vampire ever to have a mark left on him. And even if he does try to hurt us, the whole Council would be on his ass for it.”

“I know my love.”

“And he’s left you alone for decades now. Just focused on himself and Alabasta. Maybe whatever his deal is, he’s gotten over it. Maybe he wants to make peace with you.”

Mihawk’s face tightened. “He is not one for peace, my love.”

Shanks toyed with the cloth bag, a nervous habit of his. “He has been all my lifetime.”

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

“I know. That’s why I don’t insinuate it. But when you live a long-ass time, you gotta change a whole lot. Whatever he did to you, maybe it’s time to… not move on, but at least talk about it.”

Mihawk stood. Shanks’ grip on the cloth bag tightened, not enough to crush but enough to comfort Shanks. Mihawk was cautious not to wave his superiority in Shanks’ face, but reality was that Mihawk was stronger, faster, wiser, sharper, greater in every way. If Mihawk forbade Shanks from leaving the hotel room, Shanks was powerless to defy him. If Mihawk threw the papers into the fire, Shanks was powerless to stop him. If Mihawk did anything at all, Shanks was powerless to leave him.

“Call the den-den, arrange our visit for tomorrow,” Mihawk said, “But I will make you obey me if I have to.”

Shanks threw his arms around Mihawk and squeezed him.

Alabasta loomed gold, even in the early morning dark. The boat they were on was a small one, and Mihawk had bought it outright ready to flee if necessary.

Shanks had tried once again to pester out of Mihawk what the issue with Sir Crocodile was. Mihawk had once again refused to answer.

The staff on the dock were dressed in bright colours. Their faces were rosy, their bodies were toned with gentle softness to their bellies, their hair and skin glowed with health. They bowed deep as Mihawk stepped from his boat.

A young woman led them from the pier. Her name was Nefertiti Vivi, the human princess of the island. Her father worked alongside Sir Crocodile for the welfare of the people of Alabasta and the small satellite islands around it, and she gushed about the frequent talks she had with Sir Crocodile. He taught her budgeting skills, empowered her to speak to leaders of neighbouring islands herself, regaled her with stories from throughout the centuries. Her clothes were simple yet stately, her stance confident yet comfortable, her hair was a waterfall and her eyes were still wide with youthful wonder.

Mihawk looked her over. Her wrists bore wounds of being bitten, a common place to feed from cattle, but she was in good, thriving health. She spoke of Sir Crocodile with a distinct fondness, as though describing a dear friend.

“How often does he feed?” Mihawk asked outright, cutting off Vivi’s review of a biography of the ancestor of hers Sir Crocodile had re-founded the island with.

“A few times a day,” Vivi said, blinking off the interruption with grace, “A few times from his companion, and we have a thriving blood donation system. Many restaurants and businesses accept a pint of blood in place of payment.”

“Seriously?” Shanks said before Mihawk could.

Vivi nodded. “It’s an easily replenished amount, and Sir Crocodile is hoping to convince neighbouring island to adopt the initiative.”

“How much blood does one vampire need?!”

“It’s not just for him. Families who are struggling can fill their pantry for a pint of blood. Or pay off chunks of debt. Or people fleeing abuse can gather supplies and pay deposits with blood donations. Costs have dropped dramatically to compensate, and more people can afford more luxuries. Our economy is unmatched. The island’s general human health is closely monitored and we can take steps to support any broad needs – Vitamin D in the winter, Vitamin M in the summer. Our vampires are well fed to the point they can spend days with human peers without needing to bite.”

“You’re making this blood economy sound successful,” Mihawk said. The sun was beginning to rise as they’d walked, and Mihawk had donned a parasol to protect himself.

“Because it is. Humans are rapidly outnumbering vampires, and many islands have begun a caste system to pick who can be bitten. We don’t want that here. We want small contributions that add up to a lot.”

The palace was a great pyramid. Vivi led them through the gates into a cool courtyard. The sun was creeping across its middle.

“Sir Crocodile won’t step out until the sun reaches the line,” Vivi gestured to a line carved ten feet up the still-shady wall, “It will only take a few minutes, but he sent out refreshments.”

A bottle of sake sat on a table, with a cup and a large bowl of spiced popcorn. A cooler box sat open, a bottle of blood within.

“I assume this is from your…” Mihawk picked up the bottle, “Initiative.”

“It is.”

“And tell me, Princess, how often do you donate to the initiative?”

“Weekly.”

Mihawk’s stare snapped to her. He hadn’t expected that answer.

“I can’t exactly promote an initiative I wouldn’t participate in.”

“You have bite marks.”

“Sir Crocodile feeds from me sometimes. He’s very strict about, he won’t take from me more than once a month and at least three days after my most recent donation. He also has… his companion present to intervene if necessary. It’s never been necessary.”

“You paused.”

“Hm?”

“You paused when you mentioned the companion.”

“I did. I was told not to mention the companion to you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Sir Crocodile’s very protective of him.”

“Him?”

Vivi’s face fell and she muttered, “Shit.”

“One more question, I promise,” Mihawk said, “This companion, how often does he change?”

“Change? Like, his underwear?”

“No, the companion himself. How often does he take on a new companion?”

“I don’t understand.”

“How often does he drain his companion and get a new one?!” Mihawk looked over Vivi, his words hissing through his teeth.

“He doesn’t, he’s had the same companion all my life.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen his face?”

“Yes!”

“And you’re one hundred per cent sure he’s been the same man your whole life?”

“Yes! What are you suggesting?”

Mihawk drew back. Shanks nudged Vivi with a mumbled apology, and she left with her head held high and her back straight.

“I’ll tell you one thing, she’s one hell of a princess,” Shanks said, pouring himself a glass, “Alabasta’s humans are lucky to have such a brave young lady leading them.”

Mihawk only hummed.

“You’re not gonna try the blood?”

“No. I don’t trust him not to have messed with it.”

Shanks spat out the sake he’d already sipped.

Several minutes later, the sun touched the line, then crossed it. Shanks realized he recognized it from the background of various interviews he’d seen Sir Crocodile do. He could even spot the most popular place; a couple of benches faced each other, one in the shade and the other in the sun with a tomato plant behind it.

The doors at the opposite side of the courtyard opened. Sir Crocodile was a tower of a man, wrapped in a cape of fur, cigar hanging from his mouth. His hair was slicked back, his clothes were pressed, his shoes shone. Even with the deep scar across his face and the hook in place of his hand, he was still the beautiful Barry Mihawk had loved a millennium before.

“Mihawk,” he spoke, “My sweet.”

“I am not here for pleasantries,” Mihawk said, “I am here so Shanks can see this laboratory and meet this chemist. Nothing more.”

Sir Crocodile’s smile dimmed. “There’s a small problem to discuss first.”

“Spit it out.”

“The laboratory is fully shaded. Meaning you may enter, but so can I. I understand you don’t want me near your companion.”

“Correct.”

Sir Crocodile licked his teeth. “We have two options. One is that you stay with him. The other is that we flood the laboratory with light, which means I cannot enter, but neither can you.”

“I will stay with him, and should you get any closer to him than you are now I will cut your heart out.”

Sir Crocodile’s smile returned. “A reasonable threat.”

Shanks snorted a laugh.

“I will…” Sir Crocodile started, then trailed off as he stepped back.

Shanks had stepped into the strip of light between them. With each step forward he took, Sir Crocodile took a step back, maintaining his firm distance.

“Look at that, Hawky,” Shanks said, “He’s on good behaviour. Give him a chance.”

“Get back here,” Mihawk hissed.

“I’m in the safest place in the whole palace.”

“Obey me,” Mihawk’s demand was laced with the force of their bond, “Come here.”

Shanks’ legs moved without his permission, and Shanks scowled with each clumsy step.

Sir Crocodile screamed. He had stepped into the sunlight, his motions mimicking Shanks’. His skin was steaming and peeling from his face, sizzling.

“What the fuck?” Shanks said.

Sir Crocodile kept moving as Shanks reached Mihawk.

“Stop!” Mihawk said. And again, this time with the same force as before; “Stop!”

Sir Crocodile stopped, rooted to the spot. He seized his cape and lifted it over his head. His skin had split and curled in large chunks, black blood oozing out.

“Please,” he whimpered, “Please let me move.”

“Get back in the shade!” Mihawk ordered, “And stay there!”

Sir Crocodile retreated back into the shade with a sigh of relief. Shanks ran back to the table and grabbed the bottle of blood.

“What are you doing?” Mihawk snapped.

“I’m giving him this, if you won’t drink it.”

“He’ll bite you!”

“He won’t!”

Mihawk blinked at him. He turned to Sir Crocodile, who had curled up on the floor, still huddled under his cape.

“Do not attempt to bite Shanks,” Mihawk ordered.

Sir Crocodile whined in response.

Shanks ran across the patch of sunlight. He opened the bottle, reached into the cape, and tipped the bottle to Sir Crocodile.

Sir Crocodile seized the bottle, chugging from it with desperation. His skin softened, new skin swelling into the burns.

“How did you do that?” Shanks said, “I thought you could only do that to your companions, not other vampires.”

Mihawk stared at him for several seconds before he could form a response. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not true, my sweet,” Sir Crocodile said. The bottle was still clenched in his fist.

“I didn’t know you’d still obey,” Mihawk said, “I thought that had broken.”

“Clearly not.”

“What are you talking about?” Shanks cut in.

Sir Crocodile looked from Mihawk to Shanks and back again. “You haven’t told him?”

“No,” Mihawk said.

“You’re that ashamed of me?”

“Yes.”

Sir Crocodile took another long glug of the bottle. He looked at Shanks and took another drink, draining the bottle.

Shanks held his hand out to take the bottle back. Sir Crocodile gave it over. Shanks squatted deep and smashed the bottle on the ground.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sir Crocodile said.

Shanks picked up one of the shards and pressed it to the vein in his wrist. He sliced with a casual ease, not even flinching.

Sir Crocodile backed away from him. Shanks followed, holding his wrist out, letting the blood drip down his arm.

“What are you doing?” Sir Crocodile said. His fangs had thinned to a point but hadn’t lengthened.

“Mihawk said you’re a monster you drains multiple humans a day,” Shanks said, “So that bottle won’t touch anything, will it?”

Sir Crocodile shook his head.

“But you can’t bite me, can you?”

Sir Crocodile shook his head again.

“Do you want to?”

“So much.”

“Why not? Why step into the sun? What is this?”

Sir Crocodile looked across to Mihawk, his brow furrowed and his eyes wide to please with him.

“He isn’t a normal vampire,” Mihawk called.

“I know, I know, he’s a monster,” Shanks said.

“No. Come back over here.”

He hadn’t ordered it, only said it. Shanks took his other hand, wiped the blood from his arm and smeared it across Sir Crocodile’s face. Sir Crocodile stood frozen, his fangs extended.

Shanks walked straight through the sunlight, holding his hand over his wrist. “What do you mean?”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Mihawk said.

“Just tell me what you’d meant.”

“Sir Crocodile was born human. He was my companion for a couple of centuries.”

Shanks stared at him. Mihawk calmly pulled a bandage from his coat and began to wrap it around Shanks’ wrist.

“His heartbreak was the murder of his husband. He appeared to have been ripped apart by animals, and he buried him and healed his heart. Until Don Quixote Doflamingo.”

“Who?” Shanks said.

“A vampire. He came to visit me. I wasn’t a friend of his – he was an excellent leader but prone to hedonism and violence. He had an interest in my companion, and one night revealed that he had wanted my companion as his own. And he had been more proactive than I.”

Sir Crocodile sobbed openly. He still hadn’t moved.

“He had murdered the husband. He intended to swoop in, help to bury and to grieve, and take the young human Barton as a companion. He was jealous I’d stepped in first, entirely unintentionally. I had been with Barton when he received the news.”

“And so his heart broke again,” Shanks said.

“Indeed. And so, he took up the fire poker and attacked Doflamingo with it. Doflamingo simply found it funny, goaded him on. He believed he couldn’t die.”

“Because vampires can’t die. Only by sunlight.”

“Or by ripping their heart from their chest and eating it.”

Shanks balked. “What?!”

“Sir Crocodile ripped Doflamingo’s heart from his chest and ate it. Poetic justice, I suppose.”

“And… this flamingo died?”

“Indeed. And Sir Crocodile changed. He was something akin to vampire: tortured by sunlight, growing fangs, needing blood. And he needed so much blood.”

Sir Crocodile sank to his knees. Tears rolled down his face.

“And he rampaged. And rampaged. I tried to stop him. But…” Mihawk sighed. His head was hung, and he gazed down into the knot of the bandage, “I couldn’t. Just as I can’t bring myself hurt you. You are my companion. My bond. It hurts me to hurt you.”

“And all this time you could have just ordered him to stop.”

“I tried. I would order him but eventually his hunger would overpower him. Overpower me. He couldn’t cope. I couldn’t cope. I’d hoped abandoning him would break him.”

“It’s working now,” Shanks said.

“I’m not as hungry now,” Sir Crocodile said. His voice was hoarse with desperation, “Let me go.”

Mihawk stared at him.

“Please, my sweet. I have to go and feed before I lose control.”

“And how many are you going to drain to get your fill?” Mihawk snapped.

“Just one. And he’ll survive. Let me go.”

“How is he surviving?”

“Let me show you, my sweet. Let me go.”

Sir Crocodile’s face turned. Blood was streaked across his cheek to his lips, his eyes were wide and wild with familiar hunger.

“Please,” it was a mere mouthing of the word.

Mihawk only nodded, and the tension dropped from Sir Crocodile’s body. He rose and ran, his cape flapping about him, his hair rising to stand on end.

The courtyard was growing warm in the morning sun. Shanks took up the glass of sake and downed it.

“How come you never told me any of this?” he said.

“Shame. Fear. Anger. I don’t know.”

“How come you never told anyone any of this? Didn’t the other vampires notice Doflamingo was gone? That Crocodile had appeared out of nowhere?”

“He was very much unliked. Many were happy to assume he’d exposed himself to the sun – he insisted on living on a summer island with very little shade. And all of us joined the Council at some point. Some vampires still call him the baby of the brood.”

“And you’ve been running away from him ever since?”

“Yes.”

“’Cause what? You think he’s gonna kill you too?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps.”

Shanks opened his mouth for another angry question. The doors behind him opened, Vivi storming through.

“What have you done?” she demanded, “Why is he hurt?”

“He got caught in the sunlight,” Mihawk said.

“He’s been coming out to this courtyard for years! He’s never been caught in the sun!”

“Then today was a first.”

“What did you do?!”

“You just saw him?”

“Obviously.”

“How close did you get to him.”

Vivi stepped up to Mihawk, toe to toe with him. Her face was set with fury. “This close.”

“And he didn’t bite you?”

“No. He didn’t.”

Shanks put a hand on Vivi’s arm. “Please, can we just go to the lab?”

Vivi looked Mihawk up and down, squaring him up like she stood a fraction of a chance in a fight against him. She turned on her heel and led the way.

The inside of the palace was lush, thick carpets and heavy curtains and ornate statues. Servants bowed as they passed, all in the same bright colours and rosy cheeks and glowing health as the staff on the pier.

 Vivi turned to a doorway and let herself through. The carpet thinned with wear, then cut off to a brightly coloured lino.

The laboratory was the least clinical laboratory Mihawk had ever visited – and he had been visiting them for millennia. The floor and walls were brightly coloured, the shelves were from floor to ceiling, the workbenches were stained with ink and spills. The various beakers and containers were mismatched jars, the fridge in the corner was covered in stickers, papers and notebooks were stacked on every surface.

A man greeted them with wide arms and an even wider smile. Even before Vivi reached him and turned around, it was clear he was her father. Nefertiti Cobra didn’t need a crown to display his royalty; it radiated from him in waves.

Shanks bounded up to him and took his hand for a firm shake. Cobra’s wrists were bandaged, but the bandage was a fabric cuff rather than a recent sticking pad, so the bite was around a day old.

“I am so excited to meet you!” Shanks was chatting, and Mihawk was reminded of the golden dogs humans sometimes befriended, “All this time – all this time – I’ve been turning chop-chop juice over, and talking about it, and running the simulations, and it was sand! Sand!!

Cobra chuckled, “It’s an amazing breakthrough, but I must be clear; I’m not the chemist. I’m just a humble king. The chemist will be along soon, I’m not sure where he is.”

“He’s with Croc,” Vivi cut in, “He got caught in the sun,” she shot daggers at Mihawk, “Somehow.”

“The sun?” Cobra’s face turned up in shock, “But he’s so careful.”

“Cobra, you’ve known Sir Crocodile all your life?” Mihawk said.

“I have.”

“And his companion? How long have you known him?”

“He arrived on the island when I was a child. Almost forty years now.”

“And it’s been the same man the whole time?”

All three humans bristled at the ‘it’. Mihawk felt Shanks’ stomach churn with disgust at him.

“He has remained the same man,” Vivi said firmly, “Do you think we wouldn’t recognise our dear friend?”

“Hawky, chill,” Shanks said softly.

Mihawk took a step back. His teeth had sharpened to fangs and he was struggling to contain them. The stress of letting Shanks near Crocodile, the anger of apparently being wrong about the companion, the anxiety of not knowing what Crocodile was – it was piling on him. The tension in his jaw was growing thick and uncomfortable.

“Can you show me anything?” Shanks asked Cobra.

“Of course, we’ve set up an example for you,” Cobra gestured to the worktop.

It was an experiment Shanks was more than familiar with. Two test tubes side-by-side in a frame, each with a cork next to it. Both held a liquid, one red and the other gold. The red, Mihawk recognised as chop-chop juice.

Shanks took up a lance and speared his finger. He held his finger over the gold liquid and let it drop in. The red dripped into the gold. Shanks grabbed the cork and shoved it into place.

The drop of blood seemed to fizz. The drop swelled, growing larger until it overtook the gold and kept going, climbing up the inside of the tube.

Shanks looked around. Cobra was holding a tall glass dome with a gentle smile on his face.

“It’s fine,” he said, “Watch.”

The blood and chemical mix climbed to the cork. Shanks cringed back on instinct but the blood stopped at the cork.

Shanks and Mihawk both stared at it for almost a full minute. It just sat there, uninterested in their increasing bafflement.

Vivi took up a second lance and spiked her finger. She dripped blood into the red test tube, slammed the cork on, and took the dome from her father to slam it over the test tubes.

The red liquid bubbled viciously. The blood shot up and hit the cork. The bubbles grew thicker, faster, smaller, until…

The test tube exploded, coating the inside of the dome in bright red. Vivi and Shanks laughed, Vivi clapping her hands lightly. Shanks automatically turned to her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“I’d rate that a nine,” Shanks said.

“No way! It doesn’t even cover half the dome – it’s no more than a five!”

Shanks laughed again, and Mihawk’s heart sang as the scar on Shanks’ healed a mere millimetre.

The door opened. Croc stepped through, a human cradled in his arm. Blue hair poured from the human, his limbs were hanging from Crocodile’s grip, his clothes were loose. But it was the sound of him that rooted Mihawk to the spot, a sound so quiet he was sure the humans around him wouldn’t sense it, yet to Mihawk it felt like the roar of an oncoming tsunami. It was a cross between a fizz and whistle, the sound of something being filled without the glug of being poured.

The human stirred and peered out at them. He looked young but tired – a distinctive look for long-term companions. He had a jolly roger tattooed on his forehead from a drunken night in his youth, his eyes were a bizarrely warm teal that evoked dreamy memories of the open sea, his nose was a maw of red cartilage. He was wearing coloured make up, triangles down his cheeks and a smile up his lips, and the red of the smile was now smeared up Crocodile’s face.

Shanks stumbled towards them. Mihawk could sense the feeling welling in Shanks’ chest – not hope or surprise, but a fear of those feelings. A fear that should those feelings sink their teeth into him, the shock of pain will wake him for from this that must be a dream.

“Buggy?” Shanks gasped out.

“’Sup, bitch?” Buggy croaked.

Shanks dove to him. He slammed into Crocodile and yanked Buggy from his arms, spinning Buggy around. He babbled incoherently, words tripping over each other into a series of random vowels.

Buggy clung to him, burying his face in Shanks’ shoulder. His voice was a little slurred, his body loose like a rag doll.

“What the hell have you done to him?” Mihawk hissed, squaring up to Crocodile.

Crocodile was much taller than him, yet shrank back. “Fed from him.”

“Was this your plan? To make Shanks’ heart break a second time?”

“My sweet, please…”

“To make me watch Shanks turn into a monster like you?!”

“Listen to me!”

“I should have killed you. I should have dragged you into the sunlight and held you down as we both burned. I should have known your wicked machinations would lead to something like this.”

“My sweet, just listen.”

“Hey, Hawky!” Buggy hollered, “Chill your ass already!”

Mihawk looked back at him. Buggy was standing, face still tired but rosy. His stomach and thighs were plump, his hair was shiny, his clothes were clean. He was stood strong, his stance so unwavering Mihawk wondered for a second if he really had had to be carried in.

Vivi covered her mouth to giggle. Shanks’ arm was still around Buggy, and tears of joy were glistening on his cheeks.

“I’m fine, look!” Buggy struck a pose, and Shanks laughed.

“I don’t understand,” Mihawk said.

“I still got that juice in me.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m still juiced up.”

“What does that mean?”

“I got that juice,” Buggy pinched both hands together to emphasise his point.

Shanks giggled. He pulled Buggy to face him, and looked him up and down, “Blue,” he said, his voice pulsing with shock and hope and joy, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Buggy laughed. He brushed his hair back with his hands, pulling it into one bunch. Then, as the whole room watched, he pulled his head clean off his shoulders.

Shanks screamed in shock. Vivi burst out laughing again, holding her sides. Buggy's arm lowered, head still dangling from his hand.

“Now Shanks,” Buggy said, voice a serious monotone, unwavering despite the detachment, “There’s no need to lose your head.”

“How the fuck did you do that?!” Shanks shrieked.

“Because I’m sexy and amazing and the Creator’s special-est boy.”

“Blue, please be serious.”

Mihawk approached them both. He walked around Buggy a couple of times and waved a hand in the space his head should be. The gap in his neck was the same red cartilage as the back of his nose. He held a hand over Buggy's face to feel his breath, and Buggy licked him.

“My star,” Crocodile said, “You’re frightening them.” His voice was too affectionate to be telling him off, and his smile was soft.

Buggy returned his head to his neck and gave his head a roll about. He wrapped his arms around Mihawk and dragged him into a hug.

“Good to see ya, Hawky,” he said.

Mihawk gave him a hug back. He smelt of a fresh bite, bloody but not metallic.

“Anyway,” Buggy said, “It’s the chop-chop juice. It keeps self-replicating in my blood, and it does weird shit to me. Makes me able to fall apart and pull back together and,” he looked up at Crocodile with a small smile, “Makes my blood regenerate real fast”

“You’re the companion,” Mihawk said.

“Croc’s companion? Sure am.”

“And the chemist who finished the compound.”

“Stabilised the compound. Sure am.”

“And you’ve been with Barry the whole time you’ve been missing.”

“Sure have.”

“I’ve been so worried about you!” Shanks threw his arms around Buggy, nuzzling their foreheads together.

“Yeah, well,” Buggy stood strong, arms folded like he wasn’t blushing violently, “I’ve been busy working on the chop-chop juice.”

“I knew I recognised the diagram – it’s your handwriting!”

“Obviously it’s my handwriting!”

“Why didn’t you send a letter? Or any sort of sign – I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“I was busy! I didn’t have time for soppy letters!”

“I thought you were dead!”

Buggy's jaw dropped wide. “Dead? Why would I be dead, idiot?!”

“It’s been forty years, and you were never reported to a hospital,” Mihawk said, “I put an alert out on you.”

“Why would you do that?”

“You disappeared!” Shanks shook him, “You were injured, contaminated, and missing! We had no idea what the chop-chop juice was gonna do to you! Your fucking nose fell off!”

“The fuck you say about my nose?!”

“My star,” Crocodile said, “Don’t get upset.”

Buggy's rage, that had ballooned up his shoulders, dissipated in an instant. His gaze flicked to Crocodile.

“Did you just order him?” Shanks said.

“Yeah, he does that,” Buggy said.

“But he’s not…”

“My love,” Mihawk cut him off. He looked pointedly to Cobra and Vivi.

“I have so many questions,” Shanks sighed. He rested his forehead against Buggy's again and nuzzled him. He gasped and pulled back, hands fling to the cloth bag. “Hey, Blue,” he started.

“Ow!” Buggy cried, hands flying to his face, “Ow, my nose!”

“Yeah, right here!” Shanks ripped the bag open.

The nose flew out and landed on Buggy's face with a hard smack. Buggy's head reeled back with a yelp.

“You!” Buggy's head straightened back up. The nose was still redder than the rest of his face, and Mihawk realised the nose had been rubbing against the inside of the bag.

“I knew you were alive! I used to take your nose and just look at it!”

“You were constantly making me sneeze!”

“I was?”

“Do you know how fucking weird it is to sneeze without a fucking nose?!”

“It is?”

“And you’d fucking crush my nose at random times and it fucking hurt! Or I’d just be minding my own business and get strong fucking whiff of some shit and…” Buggy cut himself off.

He dove out of Shanks’ hold and ran for Crocodile. He wrapped both arms around Crocodile and buried his face in Crocodile’s chest. He took a deep breath in and squeezed Crocodile tighter.

“My star?” Crocodile said.

“You smell amazing,” Buggy said, and he took another deep breath.

Shanks stepped towards them. Crocodile stepped back, Buggy dragging with him.

“Stop that,” Mihawk ordered.

Shanks stepped again, and Crocodile held still. Shanks ran up to them and hugged Buggy from behind, burying his face in Buggy's hair.

Mihawk took a long breath, swallowing fear and anger. He turned to Cobra. “I assume you will be able to draw up a guest room for myself and my companion.”

“Of course,” Cobra said, “There’s one prepared already.”

Mihawk felt a vein twitch in his jaw. “Excellent.”

Buggy gave a laugh. Mihawk’s heart lurched as the scar in Shanks’ heart healed, the feeling a glow in Mihawk’s chest.

“We should reconvene,” Mihawk said, “It’s been a long trip to get here.”

“But Hawky,” Shanks started.

“By which I mean we are staying longer than expected.”

Shanks grinned. Buggy turned from Crocodile’s front and kissed Shanks directly on the mouth. Shanks threw his arms around him and kissed him with desperate fervour, their bodies and faces pressed together.

Mihawk sighed. He picked Buggy up with one effortless swoop and stalked out of the laboratory, Buggy perched on his shoulder and Shanks following behind. “Give me directions, Blue,” Mihawk said.

“Take a left,” Buggy said.

Crocodile followed a couple of steps behind Shanks, chewing on his thumb not to laugh. Shanks was making an exaggerated running motion, reaching after Buggy like Mihawk was getting away.

“Right, then left,” Buggy said.

“My stars,” Crocodile started.

Buggy put a finger over his lips with a cheeky smile. “Left again, and up the stairs.”

Mihawk took the stairs without issue, Buggy bouncing on his shoulder. Buggy detached his hands to fly down and pull on Shanks’ cheeks.

“Last door, it’s got a crocodile on it,” Buggy said.

Mihawk stopped abruptly, and Shanks was only stopped from colliding face-first into Buggy by Buggy's hands. Mihawk turned and looked up at Crocodile.

“Are we headed to your bedroom?” he said.

“This is the direction of my bedroom, yes,” Crocodile said, “You didn’t clarify where you wanted to reconvene.”

“You’ve painted a crocodile on your bedroom door.”

“No, it’s engraved.”

“With shaped handles,” Buggy added.

Mihawk put Buggy down. He smoothed his shirt down and stepped up to Crocodile. He reached up, seized Crocodile by the cravat, and dragged him down into a kiss. Crocodile stiffened and relaxed in his embrace.

Buggy took Shanks by the hand and slunk into the bedroom. They were barely through the door before Shanks was on him again, pressing his tongue into Buggy's mouth.

Mihawk broke the kiss. Crocodile remained stooped over him.

“I missed you,” Mihawk said.

“I’ve missed you,” Crocodile said.

“You terrify me.”

“I terrify myself.”

“I should have killed you.”

“I’m grateful you didn’t.”

Mihawk dragged him into another hurried kiss. “I missed you.”

Crocodile wrapped his arms around Mihawk and stood, lifting Mihawk with him. Mihawk’s grip on his cravat tightened in surprise, but he remained calm and comfortable in Crocodile’s hold.

The bedroom was smaller than Mihawk expected, with a large bed and a couple of dressers. There were two doors leading off into other rooms, and the carpet had three colours instead of the usual two; a stripe of blue started under the curtained window and cut off a green corner, the rest a deep purple. The bed was neatly made, with a couple of plushies perched on top of the pillows.

Buggy and Shanks were laid on the bed, boots off, mouths pressed to each other. Their tongues wrapped over each other, their legs tangled, their hips grinding. Shanks’ bandage had been eased off, tossed in the vague direction of the bin.

Crocodile and Mihawk were over them in less than a blink, diving on their prey and tearing them apart. Shanks gasped and giggled. Buggy reached for him and wrapped their hands together.

Empty black eyes loomed over them both, fangs extended, breaths hot and sour. Buggy tipped his chin to kiss Crocodile on the tip of the nose, and Shanks wrapped his other arm around Mihawk.

Crocodile and Mihawk dropped. Shanks gasped, then Buggy. Their grips on each other tightened.

Warmth flowed through Shanks, so different to the usual ache of being fed upon. It started in his chest, his heart beating a rapid new rhythm, and spread. His stomach flipped, his cock stirred, his arms and legs tensed and relaxed of their own accord. It was a similar sensation to succumbing to Mihawk’s companionship in the first place. He’d laid in surrender, wondering how sealing the companionship would be any different to Mihawk’s usual feed. Then as the fang had sank in and he’d flooded with warmth he’d wondered how it managed to be different – was Mihawk injecting him with something? Was it something in his soul? Was it nothing at all, a placebo effect caused by the anticipation? There was no research, only theories.

This was much more intense. The warmth warped through joy, love, hope, pride, comfort, achievement, arousal, safety, and so many more emotions Shanks didn’t have words for. It swelled in his lungs until he couldn’t suck in air for fear of breathing the warmth out. It swelled in his head until it blinded him from behind his eyes. His ears hummed, his limbs relaxed, his mouth filled with a sweet taste.

Mihawk pulled back. He licked at the wound, his tongue rough like a cat’s.

“Hawky,” he sighed.

“Hm?” Mihawk’s face rose to be nose-to-nose with his.

“That feels fucking amazing.”

Mihawk smiled and kissed him.

Shanks gave Buggy's hand a squeeze. Buggy's hand slackened. Shanks’ hand snapped to face him.

Crocodile was still at Buggy's throat. Buggy's body was completely relaxed, the veins up his chest and neck dark and puckering out of his skin.

“Barry, stop,” Mihawk said.

Crocodile wrapped his arms tighter around Buggy. Buggy sighed, and the noise had a slight gurgle to it.

“You’re gonna kill him!” Shanks sat upright, pulling on Crocodile.

Crocodile straightened. A chunk of skin hung from his teeth, and Shanks screamed. He dove over Buggy, Buggy choking and writhing under him.

The chunk sat, no blood dripping from it. The underside was a red cartilage rather than soft flesh, holding the rounded shape of Buggy's throat.

Buggy's chokes grew in volume, becoming short, sharp laughs. He shoved Shanks off, a gap in his throat filled with the same red cartilage.

Crocodile’s mouth opened and the chunk of skin flew into place, sealing without a mark. Shanks looked between them both, expression torn between horror and amazement. Buggy was making the fizzing noise again, loud and obnoxious.

“Ta-dah!” Buggy waved his hands, “Behold, the remarkable, the regenerative, the irreplaceable; Reassembling Renegade!”

“He can’t kill you,” Mihawk realised out loud.

“Damn right he can’t,” Buggy said, and he took Crocodile by the front of his shirt to pull into a kiss, “And lucky him; I’m also smart, sexy and super into his kinky bullshit.”

“And lucky you; I’m patient, creative with punishments, and rich enough to support your habit of blowing shit up,” Crocodile retorted.

“Lucky me is right,” and Buggy kissed him again.

“But how?” Shanks said, “I thought he was about to drain you!”

“He can’t drain me completely. Y’know when you pour water or blood or something out of a cup, there’s a few drops left on the sides? That tiny bit left in my veins and arteries are enough for the chop-chop juice to regenerate. And so, I come right back. Usually a little weak at first, but Croccy takes care of me. Carries me about, feeds me, snuggles me – he runs really warm, it’s great.”

Crocodile smiled at the words. He was staring down at Buggy with a fondness that made Shanks’ heart melt.

“And this is how you’ve survived,” Mihawk said, “Feeding a lot from one man, and a little from everyone else.”

“And now he’s mine forever,” Crocodile lay at Buggy's side, his arm over him protectively.

“Have you taken a bonded companion before?”

“No, but the temporary bond worked the same as ours did. I don’t see how making it permanent would be any different.”

“We have no idea how your vampirism works.”

“And we won’t know until we find out,” Buggy and Shanks cut in, in unison. They grinned and spat their tongue out at each other.

“You’re putting your body on the line, Buggy,” Mihawk said.

“Already have,” Buggy waved at him, his hand detaching from his wrist to do so.

“They match each other’s freak,” Shanks said.

“Speaking of,” Buggy said, and his head turned to look at Crocodile.

Crocodile chuckled. His hand lowered to Buggy's crotch, where Buggy stood hard.

“You get turned on from nearly dying?!” Shanks said.

“It’s the regenerating,” Buggy said, “The chop-chop juice doesn’t know to be chill about my dick. So yeah, getting bitten gets me horny. Add it to the fuckin’ list.”

Shanks giggled. He pulled in close to Buggy's other side, kissing him on the cheek. His neck was still swelling drops of blood but had slowed to a mere dribble.

Mihawk pulled in close behind Shanks, his arms around him, his eyes on Crocodile. Crocodile was still gazing at Buggy as if Shanks and his fresh blood weren’t even there.

Buggy sighed as Crocodile palmed him through his trousers. He rocked his hips up into Crocodile’s hand, smiling.

“You don’t have to be a prude, you know,” Shanks said, “We’ve fucked before.”

Crocodile’s brow dipped to frown but his mouth was smirking. “I’ve heard. And I’ve been assured I far surpass your skills.”

Shanks gasped in offence. He grabbed Buggy and dragged him in close, Buggy's flail of protest more of a sleepy slump. He rolled, forcing Buggy between himself and Mihawk.

Mihawk wrapped his arms around Buggy and made quick work of removing his shirt. His skin still smelled the same as he had decades before – a mad mix of char and fatty meats and booze. The char was a little stronger now, with a thick layer of Crocodile’s tobacco, but the familiarity of the scent gave Mihawk a rush of comfort.

Buggy sighed. The fizzing noise was fading from him, and he turned his head to kiss Mihawk. His tongue pressed into Mihawk’s mouth without coaxing. He tasted of candyfloss and his favourite vitamin drink.

The urge to bite seized Mihawk by the jaw. His fangs extended and punctured Buggy's tongue, the tip of the muscle snapping off and punching the roof of Mihawk’s mouth. Buggy yelped and withdrew.

“Careful!” he snapped in Mihawk’s face, “You gotta take it slow!”

Mihawk blinked at him.

Buggy lifted a hand to Mihawk’s face. He guided Mihawk to the side of his unmarked neck. “Bite slowly, or I’ll just split.”

Mihawk’s eyes flicked up. While it was true Buggy had been a casual feed and fuck to Mihawk, there was a taboo among vampires about biting another’s companion. It was possible to feed from a recently-bitten companion without damaging their health, but it was akin to spitting in someone else’s drink.

Crocodile only smiled. He was sat up and had pulled the hook from his arm. He put the hook down and opened a drawer to pull out a bottle of lube.

Mihawk sank his fangs in so slow it made his gums ache with desperation. The familiar taste of Buggy’s blood flooded Mihawk’s mouth – while Shanks had a rich quality with a hint of a boozy aftertaste, Buggy's had a punch of mustardy spice and a fattiness that coated Mihawk’s tongue. Mihawk had wanted to bond with them both, to take them both on his travels, to bite and to fuck them both, his clever cattle. But Buggy was deemed a travel risk, too prone to blowing himself up with his experiments, too prone to drinking himself a stupor. He had to report to the hospital frequently, and if he travelled he’d be transferred back to his registered hospital. He’d basically had his own bed there and had known several of the staff by name. Shanks was much more sensible, but Mihawk had always thrilled on returning him home to the wash of love between them, to Buggy's bad jokes and relentless talking and delicious blood. Mihawk would have, if he could have, spent all night biting one then the other, oscillating between their deep flavours until he was sick and dizzy.

Buggy sighed. Mihawk fed cautiously, afraid of a chunk popping up in his mouth, afraid to get carried away. Buggy's hand was still cupping his cheek.

Mihawk forced himself to pull back. Buggy's flesh sealed without a dribble.

“You could keep going,” Buggy said.

“I choose to maintain discipline,” Mihawk said.

“I choose to maintain discipline,” Buggy mimicked, “You fuckin’ dork.”

Shanks moaned. His trousers were kicked off, his legs were spread, and Crocodile had his hand curled under Shanks, his middle finger in Shanks’ eager hole. Shanks was tugging his shirt off eagerly, and Mihawk could feel Buggy's comment slide from his brain to his mouth;

“Whore.”

Shanks just laughed. He reached for Buggy and Buggy let himself be drawn in close. They kissed, Buggy taking Shanks’ cock in his hand to stroke him in slow motions.

Mihawk wrapped himself around Buggy again. His fingers pulled at the hem of Buggy's shirt and pulled it off, Buggy's wrist chopping to let him keep stroking Shanks. Crocodile worked a second finger into Shanks and Shanks gasped at the stretch.

Crocodile watched Shanks’ face, thrusting his fingers in and out. He pressed deeper and Shanks keened, waves of pleasure washing from him.

When Crocodile’s fangs descended, they were much thicker than Mihawk’s. Mihawk’s were thin and curved, almost cat-like, whereas Crocodile’s whole mouth seemed to grow heavy with small points, beastly and hungry.

Mihawk tensed. He’d known Crocodile’s fangs were strange – knew his whole vampirism was strange – but it didn’t stop his image being unsettling. He didn’t know if an order not to bite would still work, or if Crocodile’s hunger would once again win out. He didn’t know if his strength could out-match Crocodile’s, or if Crocodile’s immense size would win out as it had before. He didn’t know if shoving Buggy between them, letting Buggy take the bite he’d survive much better than Shanks, would break Shanks’ heart.

Shanks was panting, his hand curled in Crocodile’s shirt. Crocodile’s cravat was falling from his collar.

“Wanna cum,” Shanks whimpered, “Gonna cum.”

Crocodile chuckled. It was a low sound that reverberated a thrill from Mihawk, and he felt Buggy keen at it too.

“Cum with him, my star,” Crocodile hummed the order.

Buggy sighed. His hips rocked against Shanks’ side.

Shanks’ jaw dropped, his eyes closed. His legs tensed and relaxed, his stomach sucked in, a squeak escaped his throat. It wasn’t an intense orgasm, something quick and simple.

Buggy made a squeak of his own, and Mihawk could smell the orgasms glowing on the both of them. Buggy leant in close to Shanks and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Crocodile drew his hand back. He stood and washed his hand in a small basin in the corner, dried on a towel, and took up a cigar with the urgency of a starved man. Which, Mihawk supposed, he was.

“Do you have your drinks in here?” Mihawk said.

“Fridge over there,” Buggy gestured vaguely to the green-carpeted human corner.

“Go get some.”

Buggy stood. Shanks stood with him, kicking his trousers off completely.

“You don’t both have to go,” Mihawk said.

“Yes we do,” Shanks said. His hands closed around Buggy's.

Buggy tried to pull away, which only made Shanks cuddle up to Buggy's arm. Buggy groaned and stomped off, leaving his arm in Shanks’ embrace.

Shanks panicked, almost dropping the arm. He followed Buggy at a worried scurry, shoving the arm at Buggy's shoulder until he reattached it.

Crocodile chuckled again. He sat back on the bed, taking rapid puffs of his cigar.

“You have much better control, darling,” Mihawk said.

Crocodile smiled. It was a sad smile, wide yet tight. “It took a long time to learn.”

They were silent for several seconds. Crocodile glanced up to Buggy, and Mihawk turned to see Bugy and Shanks curled up on the large armchair together, each with a pouch of vitamin drink. Buggy raised an arm and flicked the curtain open, flooding the stripe of blue carpet with sunlight.

“I’d like to give you a tour of the island,” Crocodile said, “After nightfall.”

“And show me what, exactly?” Mihawk said.

“Everything. The tourist district. The medical district. The statues. The villages. The cattle.”

“I wish to see the graves of the cattle you massacred.”

“Then you shall see it.”

“’It’?”

“By the time I returned, Queen Lili had gathered up the remaining bones and buried them in a mass grave. We have since erected a monument in their honour, with each and every name etched into it by my own hand. All one thousand, one hundred and eighteen. I’d intended to do them all at once, but Queen Lili refused to let me get sloppy with a single name. She was an old woman by then, but she’d still have me carry her out to watch me etch each name then carry her back again.”

“She trusted you not to kill her?”

Crocodile snorted. “I didn’t understand it either. I’m not sure I do even now. I returned to Alabasta expecting the survivors to kill me. And instead they dared me to atone. To rebuild what I had destroyed. To return life to kingdom I killed, to cherish it as my own.”

Mihawk swallowed thickly. “And have you?”

Crocodile gestured vaguely. “Alabasta is the world leader in cattle health – both physical and mental. Over fifty percent of yearly medical breakthroughs were made on Alabasta soil. In the last hundred years, every single medical breakthrough used blood from the Alabasta donation drive – yes, every single one, I have checked. Our biggest exports are blood and human doctors. Our economy has grown consistently every year for a thousand years. Our population growth has surpassed every island on this sea, behind only the East Blue but we’re closing the gap.”

“You’re saying ‘we’ a lot.”

Crocodile gave a long puff of his cigar. “I don’t teach the human doctors. I don’t sail the blood out personally, or store it, or collect it. I didn’t do any of the research, collate any of the medical data, or publish any of the papers myself. That was the cattle. Under my care, yes, but their work was of their own accord.”

Mihawk raised an eyebrow at him.

“I will admit to occasional dishonesty. I may have eaten a few rebels. I may have challenged vampires to a duel for their money and mildly poisoned them to ensure I won. I may have used my money or my body to persuade a few changes in the Council. I may have eaten a few more rebels…”

“By changes in the Council,” Mihawk asked, “You mean changes that benefitted the cattle?”

“I may mean that.”

“I recall you would show frequent support for cattle liberation. I’d wondered if a chamber of your heart was still human.”

“I don’t understand the heart well enough to be sure.”

“Bizarre, given your taste for them.”

Crocodile snorted. He held the cigar out to Mihawk.

Mihawk reached out. He passed the cigar, took Crocodile by the cravat, and pulled it away.

Crocodile’s throat was as craterous as the moon, puckered with deep valleys. It had been common in his day for vampires to rip cattle’s throats clean out, draining and half-devouring them and dumping their bodies where they’d stood. There was no protection, no etiquette, and Mihawk had allowed that to continue in their companionship, attacking more than feeding from him.

“We live in a better world now,” Mihawk said, and he stroked a finger down the side of Crocodile’s neck.

“I am glad,” Crocodile said.

“You are partly to thank for that.”

“I can’t take full credit.”

“I did say partly.”

“You supported the human liberation earlier than most. I think some others only entertained the notion because you were.”

Mihawk hummed.

“Was that because of me?”

“You can’t take full credit.”

Crocodile laughed. He took another puff of his cigar.

Buggy whined. Mihawk turned to see him naked, sat slouched in the armchair with his legs over its arms, Shanks knelt on the floor. Shanks’ head bobbed, and Mihawk didn’t have to approach to know he had his lips wrapped around Buggy's cock.

“My sweet,” Crocodile said, his voice a murmur, “We could order them to keep playing together without coming. Keep each other desperate on the edge as we take our tour and return to two needy cattle begging for release.”

“Still a pervert, I see,” Mihawk said.

“That wasn’t a no.”

“It wasn’t. Close the curtains, darling.”

“I can’t.”

“Excuse you?”

“I had the mechanism taken out on this side. I wanted my companion to have a corner they could remain untouched in. Or else, somewhere I could fling them if I felt I couldn’t control myself.”

Buggy's hands were in Shanks’ hair. He was grinning wildly at Crocodile, his moans too loud.

“Of course, Buggy likes to take advantage of his being untouchable. He’ll stand in the blue stripe in the sunlight, just out of reach, and touch himself for me. Put on a show until I’m hissing at him.”

“You could just order him to approach,” Mihawk rolled his eyes.

“I could. But where’s the fun in that?”

Buggy gave another moan.

“He puts on such excellent shows for me.”

Shanks pulled back and dove up to kiss Buggy. Buggy sucked on Shanks’ tongue, wrapping his legs around Shanks.

“You were a fool not to make a companion of him,” Crocodile said softly.

“I was. But I’m glad.”

“You are?”

Mihawk turned to him. “He wouldn’t have brought me back to you if I had.”

Crocodile managed a weak smile. “And I would still be yearning for you. My master.”

 Mihawk’s fangs dropped, a Pavlovian instinct. The notions of companions and owned cattle referring to their vampire as their master had been dropped centuries before, becoming outdated and pompous. But the word was a delicacy on Crocodile’s lips, like he’d yearned to say it since the day Mihawk had ran from him.

“I am not your master,” Mihawk said, and the words were the bile of a lie in his mouth, “Not anymore.”

“You will always be my master. What is mine is yours. My body…”

“Stop.”

“My blood…”

“Stop.”

“My heart.”

The old oath Crocodile would murmur to him, the words moving from the prayer all young cattle were drilled on to genuine worship of Mihawk.

“Do not give yourself to me, darling.”

“Why? Will you take it?”

“Yes.”

“Then take it.”

And Mihawk closed the gap between them, sinking his teeth into the matted leather of Crocodile’s throat. Crocodile gasped, and his blood was as rich and smoky and velvet as the day Mihawk had taken him.

Hands pawed at clothes, limbs twisted against each other, bodies rutted. Mihawk sank into Crocodile’s cunt like they’d been fucking mere minutes before, and Crocodile sighed in his grip.

Mihawk drew his fangs back. The punctures sealed over, his skin knitting back into the knots of his throat. He fucked Crocodile with a rapid desperation, Crocodile’s grip on his cigar shaking as he took a stuttering drag.

Buggy slid into Crocodile’s side, his hand resting on Crocodile’s pubis to let his fingers work Crocodile’s clit. Shanks slid into Crocodile’s other side, looking Crocodile up and down with an intense hunger.

Crocodile came, his legs tight around Mihawk’s waist. Buggy caught the dropped cigar with casual finesse, stealing a small puff for himself.

Mihawk came buried deep inside Crocodile, Crocodile’s blood still ringing on his tongue. He hissed, his fangs still extended with lust.

Shanks took Mihawk by the face and kissed his cheek. Mihawk turned to him, to the cum splattered up his cheek, to the lips swollen by sucking and the drool down his chin.

“My love,” Mihawk sighed.

“Do I have you convinced, my sweet?” Crocodile cooed.

“Convinced of what?” Shanks asked.

“He’s taking me on a tour of the island,” Mihawk said, “After nightfall.”

“There’s a long time until nightfall.”

“There is.”

“Buggy can cum multiple times.”

“Hm?”

“Yeah, it’s another lil’ side effect,” Buggy said, “My jizz comes backs too.”

“Fascinating.”

Buggy grinned. He lay over Crocodile, arms tucked behind his head, his cock hard. “Wanna see what else I can do?”

Mihawk climbed over Buggy. Buggy giggled, Crocodile’s arms around him. his hand was wrapped in Shanks’, and Shanks leaned in to kiss the side of Buggy's face. Mihawk’s fangs extended, and he bowed his head, and he bit, and he gorged.