Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Acquiring a slave — least of all a half-dead, green-haired kemonomimi — was never part of Mihawk’s plans

He had trained many. Sold more. Even kept notes on how his ideal slave might one day be prepared. But owning one? That had never been the plan.

When Mihawk first announced his retirement from working as a behavioral trainer and conditioning facility for pets and slaves, Doflamingo invited him over to his personal Slave Action house. Having done business -and strictly business- for decades long, Doflamingo was trying to gain back his partner in business, or else his sales would surely plummet. Which led him, inevitably, to the cage at the back of the basement—where a slave lay tightly curled, far too large for the space it had been crammed into.

“Ah, I’m surprised he’s still breathing,” Doflamingo said, voice light with amusement, like he was watching a comedy. “Heh… what a mess” Mihawk stepped closer, taking in the labored breaths, the pallid skin, the dried blood caked beneath the cage. It’s tail was limp, curled near his hip in defeat, a stark contrast to the tension in his jaw. “Not a single scar on his back?” Mihawk murmured, eyes narrowing as one of the slave’s ears twitched. “Mm. I figured I’d let him keep that little shred of pride,” Doflamingo said with a grin. “Tore everything else down to the bones, though. Still haven’t learned to submit. Shame, really. Would’ve gone for a fortune.”

zoro wished he were dead, but not like this. Not caged. Not broken. Not on the ground with his back to the world. A clear back meant you never ran. It meant you faced what came head-on, blade drawn, eyes open. He hadn’t earned that kind of death. What brought him back to the land of the living, was a strange deep admittingly attractive voice. Asking such a question about his back meant he had no idea about the value, the pride and honor that went with a clear back. Pride and honor that he had none of.
Lost in his thoughts, Zoro did not notice his “master” grabbing him till it was too late. A low groan escaped him—cut short by a feral scream as pain tore through his torso; as his master threw him onto the ground, and stepped on his opened wound, causing blood and puss to start pouring out faster.

“All this time and you still haven't learned you stupid pet.” Doffy said while putting more weight on his wound, causing Zoro to try and fail to hold back a groan. His tail swishing agressivelyunder him “Such a waste of good looks, not that you're looking too good right now.” Doflamingo chuckled, voice silk over broken glass.

His body wanted to give. Muscles trembling, breath shallow, ears twitching with instinct he’d spent years beating down. But submission only kept you alive if there was something left to live for. He wasn’t bred to kneel. Wasn’t born to bow. He’d rather rot in that cage than show his throat

Mihawk observed the slave beneath Doffy's feet. Unlike his back, his torso was ripped open, the gash clearly infected and worsening. Despite his buff build, it was clear he was malnourished, and can barely stay alert. Mihawk watched as the slave glared up at Doffy, with more fire in his eyes than anyone he’s ever seen before.

Mihawk said nothing at first. The kemonomimi was barely alive — limbs shaking, breath ragged, the wound on his torso festering. He was already halfway to the grave.

And yet, he glared. Not in fear, but defiance. Eyes sharp with fire, even now.

Interesting.

“I’ll take him.”

Zoro’s body went limp, all fight draining away. His tail slowly tucked under his thigh, as if trying to disappear. Mihawk’s cold interest was no promise of mercy — only a different kind of cage. If death was coming, it wouldn’t be by Doflamingo’s cruel hands, but something colder, more relentless. He didn’t know Mihawk yet — but he already knew one thing. No breaks. No mercy.

Zoro’s limbs finally gave out beneath him. His vision blurred, breath shallow and ragged, and then—darkness claimed him, cold and absolute. He was out. Completely. Mihawk’s decision was made easier by the slave’s unconscious body—no fight left to drain.

Chapter Text

The first time Zoro regained consciousness, he was wet. Cold water trickled down his skin as hands moved over him. Gentle fingers massaged his scalp and scratched behind his ears, presumably washing his hair. He could feel a damp cloth on his body scrubbing the layers and layers of grime before he lulled back to the darkness.

The next time, His ears flattened, and his tail lashed once against the sheets — a warning before the thrashing started. Zoro jolted awake, screaming before his eyes even opened. Strong hands seized his arms, pinning him firmly. “Stay still, pet. It’ll be easier for both of us.”

Zoro immediately stilled, temporarily forgetting about the blossoming pain, and snapped his eyes wide open. This was not his “master’s” voice. He wasn’t cramped up in the cage, in fact something soft and sturdy was under him instead.

The blinding lights caused Zoro to wince and squint. Memories came flooding back. He was bought. The bitter taste of defeat flooded his mind. Freedom had been so close—almost within reach—only to be ripped away again. His new master couldn’t be just anyone. No one else would want a slave like him: broad-shouldered, wounded, fierce, and utterly uncooperative. If Doflamingo was cruelty itself, then this man must be something worse—someone who saw defiance not as a challenge, but a problem to be broken.

Zoro forced every muscle in his body completely still, now was not the time to show his defiance.
“There we go. Drink this, it’ll help with the pain.”
Zoro, instinctively looking down away from his new owner’s face, saw his master’s face for the face time.

He was even more doomed. He was the most handsome man Zoro has ever laid eyes upon. Zoro, stunned, could not peel his eyes away. It hasn’t been a minute since he gained consciousness and he’s already messing up. Punishment no.

His master raised an eyebrow at him, golden- hawklike eyes stared him down. Snapping out of his daze, Zoro slowly flexed his fingers, arms still pinned at his sides; signaling his compliance.

The pressure on his arms eased, and Zoro’s hand trembled, but he took the cup. His tail twitched once, confused — caught between instinctive obedience and pride.

He quickly gulped the glass down, not remembering the last time he had a drink of clean filtered water. He will not be passing this opportunity by, especially not knowing when his next chance would be.

Only after the glass was emptied, did he realize he forgot to ask for permission. Eyes snapped back up in panic, looking for any indication of anger on his master’s face. His chest tightened. Every breath felt too loud. He dared not meet his master’s eyes—not again. Second mistake. Third, maybe. The weight of each failure pressed down like chains. He opened up his mouth to offer apologies, plead to be forgiven, but snapped his mouth close. You do not speak unless spoken to.

Zoro’s breaths quickened, shallow and uneven. Mihawk remained still, eyes sharp and unreadable. No reaction betrayed what he thought as the slave trembled before him.
The moment they arrived at his home, he carried him straight to the bathroom. His pets will be nothing but clean and well groomed and taken care of. He started of by double shampooing his hair, combing it through and cleaning his foxlike ears. The slave seemed to gain awareness of his surroundings temporarily, never long enough to fully wake up.

Once he was satisfied with the cleanliness of the hair he began scrubbing the grime and dirt of his body, making note of all the injuries that needed tending.
He had scratches and scars littering his body, other than the open wound from his shoulder all the way across to his hip. His injuries were extensive—especially below. Mihawk noted the raw skin with a small exhale through his nose. Disgraceful treatment. Useless in this state, but not irreparable.

Meanwhile, Perona began setting up the slave’s room. Unlike the more common approaches, Mihawk preferred to provide some privileges to his pets. A private room is one of those privileges. They would be taken away as a consequence to abusing said privilege, however slaves often go the extra mile to maintain the few rights they gain under his care. However, do not mistka ehis kindness to naivety; until the pet has gained his trust, the room is bugged to give constant feedback of what the slave is up to, making sure no suspicious activity occurs.

Mihawk carried him out of the tub and wrapped him in a towel and began drying him off. For a malnutritioned pet he retained quite the muscles and weight. As he carried him into the bedroom, Mihawk briefly thought about what type of physical exertion his slave participated in regularly to maintain such a physique. He set him down on the bed, and began cleaning the gaping wound.

Right now, he was face to face with him near hyperventilating and trembling. He had a pretty good guess as to why that is, but a panic attack right now would not help either of them right now.
“Pet, breathe. You’re not in trouble, you're not going to get punished.” Visibly relaxing, Mihawk took that as a sign to step away from him, giving him space to relax further. Mihawk took a seat on the arm chair across from the bed. Later, as Zoro struggled to sit upright, Mihawk allowed a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—a smirk restrained but unmistakable. Those golden eyes flickered with quiet amusement, not at the pet’s fear, but at the obedience buried beneath it. Better than starting from scratch. He again briefly wondered why doflamingo decided that this pet was a lost cause.

Zoro jumped in surprise to being addressed again. He now is sitting up, which seemed to be fine with his new master, since he didn't protest as he slowly moved himself into this position.

“What's your name pet?” So he’s starting with a trick question. Easy, he knew the answer to this one.
“My name is what you’d like it to be, sir.”
“Alright, I suppose I shall start with the rules while your painkillers start to work.
.
First, I am straightforward. I don’t play games or punish without cause. You earn both punishments and rewards by your actions. Second, never lie to me—not to please me, not to hide something, not because you think it’s what I want to hear. Third, you will address me as ‘Master’ or ‘My Lord.’ ‘Sir’ is acceptable only in longer conversations, but ‘Master’ is preferred. Fourth, your mental and physical health are my responsibility. You will maintain your hygiene and keep a daily journal. My slaves are never neglected. Food and water are not punishments and will not be withheld, though your diet will be monitored for irresponsibility. Fifth, you may speak first to get my attention—say ‘Master,’ tap my knee, whatever fits the situation. Sixth, do not make eye contact without my permission, though accidental glances are tolerated. Seventh, you are not to leave the house without permission or my company. I am strict but not cruel. You will not be punished for learning these limits, but repeat offenses will have consequences. Is that clear?”

“Yes master.” Zoro nodded.
“Good. Ill ask again, what’s your name pet?”
Zoro gulped, the time to see if his master is truthful or not came way quicker than he thought. “Z-Zoro my lord.”
“Lovely name for a lovely pet.” He said as he approached Zoro again, noting the way Zoro’s eyes widened slightly in panic, his breaths picking up in speed. In order for Zoro, as a kemonomin, to submit, he needs to begin trusting Mihawk, and build up the sense of safety.

“I’m going to clean your wounds now. It’ll sting as im sure you know, but the painkillers should have set by now”. Mihawk grabbed the bandages, iodine, and the prepared needle with the thread woven through to stitch him up.
Usually, slaves try to run, hit, stab, and act out in every possible way, racking up punishments and training sessions. However, they're usually not critically injured, nor as mentally drained as Zoro seems to be. Mihawk needs a more gentle approach when it comes to him.

“Zoro.” He waited till zoro gave a quick glance his way, bowing his head down slightly.
“ To be clear about your role, you are my personal slave. You'll be waking up everyday waiting for me to fetch you and start your day. You'll be following me everywhere. Your behavior is an extension of me and my capabilities as an owner and a trainer. I’ll be giving you a week or slightly longer based on your healing pace, before you're expected to act on any physical submission forms. That includes sexually. If you do not present yourself to me when you're ready during this timeframe, you will be forced to submit after the grace period is over. Is that clear Zoro.”
By the time Mihawk is done, he has also stitched up the wound and bandaged it. Zoro does not remember ever having this much grace, nor care given to his physical well being. He felt genuinely grateful. “Yes my lord, I understand. Thank you my lord”, bowing as much as the stitches allowed him.

Mihawk smiled at the sight, “Get some rest, ill come by in the morning.” He reached out to scratch behind his pet’s ears, before walking away and out the room, leaving the door unlocked.

Chapter Text

It was too quiet. Zoro tried to sleep, craving uninterrupted rest. But his eyes refused to close. He stared at the ceiling. The bed swallowed him in softness, the silence pressing in. The air smelled too clean, like a sterile cage
Aches stabbed across his torso, refusing to let him rest. He drew a slow breath, then released it. A single tear slipped down his cheek. Pain jabs like knives beneath his skin. Struggling to breathe, Zoro turned onto his side, seeking relief.
He immediately regretted the movement. Dizziness hit him like a wave, and he tumbled off the bed.
Zoro broke out in a cold sweat. Cold, hard. His body slammed against the floor — cold and familiar beneath him. His ears twitched; stitches pulled tight. Silent tears slipped down his face. He fought to stay still, but stillness brought no relief.

He clenched his jaw and tried to stand, but his shoulders trembled, and tears spilled freely as his body betrayed him. Defeated, he forced himself to crawl forward, eyes locked on the door. Pain gnawed at him, but desperation pushed him onward. He knew it was a trap, but pride was a distant memory, desperation taking its place.

He stretched trembling arms forward, fingers curling around the door handle. With a painful pull, he forced the door open, the door creaking as it swung open
A guttural sob escaped him until he couldn’t breathe. He curled into himself, trembling like a wounded animal, leaning heavily against the open doorframe. The pain shattered his control; and with it, so did everything else.

Mihawk swirled his wine glass, eyes locked on Zoro’s still form staring at the ceiling. Surprise flickered briefly across his face before settling into something colder. This was when the trouble began—escape attempts, self-harm, defiance.
Fascinating.

Mihawk set his wine glass on the dark oak desk, leaning closer to the monitors showing Zoro’s room. His brow furrowed as distress and pain flickered across his pet’s features. The painkillers should still hold. This wasn’t infection—it was neurological. Classic signs of forced suppression. Too dangerous to leave him alone, Mihawk rose and left the office.

Mihawk found him trembling by the door, tail tucked between his legs, muffling sobs under his breath. Zoro tried to push himself up to kneel but failed. Mihawk hadn’t expected him to stay kneeling; hadn’t even thought he’d open the door. Was this submission? Or did he disobey him? Punishing him now would only reinforce obedience born of fear, and that wasn’t what Mihawk wanted.

Zoro’s ears flattened at the sound of his master’s footsteps. A flicker of hope surged inside him — hope for help — and that scared him. Their rules had always been clear: once service ended, pets were discarded. He probably broke a rule by not staying put, by opening the door, but he couldn’t summon the energy to care. At least the pain had purpose

Mihawk watched as his pet’s body shivered, then slowly leaned toward him, seeking comfort without realizing it. When Mihawk’s hand settled atop Zoro’s head, the trembling eased, and a low, animalistic whine slipped from his lips.

Master, I—I’m sorry. Please, please—I—hurts, ple—please, I’m so—sorry,’ his pet begged through sobs.
Mihawk carded his fingers through Zoro’s hair, guiding him to lean against his leg. He soothed him without a word.
“Shh, I saw something was wrong. I’m here. You did well.’ Zoro hated how his body responded instantly to the praise, calming him despite himself. He didn’t have the strength to consider how his master knew something was wrong, but he wasn’t complaining. Maybe he felt a little violated—but he couldn’t bear the thought of enduring this pain any longer.

He knew why this was happening, he saw it happen to others before. A terrified young kemonomin , who knew he was in danger, but forced himself to obey his captors, that one didn't last a week.
Zoro’s breathing slowed as he rested against Mihawk’s leg, his tail gradually uncurling from between his thighs. The steady, grounding weight of his master’s hand pressed on his head dulled the sharpest edge of the pain. For a moment — just a moment — he let himself sink into it. It was easier than fighting. Easier than remembering.
Mihawk’s fingers scratched lightly behind his ear, drawing a low, humiliating whimper from his throat. His body leaned in, betraying him.
“You did well,” Mihawk murmured again, voice steady.
Zoro’s chest tightened at the praise. The words curled warm in his stomach like a brand, burning in a way that scared him more than the pain. And that fear lit the fuse — the reminder that this was him, leaning into an owner’s hand.
He pulled his head back, jaw clenched. “D-don’t fucking pretend this is safety. My b-body lies.”Zoro seethed quietly, lifting his head off Mihawk’s leg.

Mihawk said nothing. He knelt until he was eye to eye with his slave, lifting Zoro’s chin to force his gaze.

“Youre not the first to cry in this room. But you might be the last to do it alone.” That sparked a fire in Zoro’s eyes.

‘If you’re looking for gratitude, it’s not coming.’
‘Gratitude isn’t obedience.’
‘You don’t need me to be obedient. You need me broken.’
‘You want me to hand over the leash to my own collar and be happy about it.’ Zoro snapped back, daring Mihawk to prove him right — to punish him, or at least try.
Instead, Mihawk’s eyes turned hard and cold, calculating. Zoro wanted to tear his gaze away, whine, bare his neck in submission — but he held his ground.
‘You think I’m like Doflamingo. That’s expected. But I won’t tolerate the insinuation that I don’t care for my property.’
‘You won’t submit out of fear. I’ve already seen your resistance — that’s exactly why I chose you. You’ll learn that I’m a master worthy of your submission, just as I’m sure you’re a slave worthy of my mercy.’”
Zoro tensed as Mihawk’s hands gripped him firmly but gently beneath his arms. Expecting a whipping or a beating, he was surprised when his master instead laid him down on the bed and began scratching behind his ears, the tension draining from his body.
“Stay in bed, Zoro. The pain will ease by morning.”

Mihawk’s footsteps faded, leaving behind a silence heavier than any punishment. The ache in Zoro’s chest tightened, sharper and colder than before. It was a pain he didn’t know how to fight — so instead, he found himself leaning into the small moments of calm, the quiet obedience that promised relief, even if he couldn’t admit it yet.

Chapter Text

Zoro was found kneeling on the bed by the time morning light crept through the heavy curtains. The cold air in the room contrasted sharply with the ache deep in his muscles and the lingering sting beneath the bandages. He knew he had fucked up yesterday. He didn’t remember ever lasting this long without some form of sadistic play or punishment — the constant reminder of control and pain.
His trust in Mihawk was fragile, fragile enough that his body was no longer sure it could handle the fear. So he decided to behave. To show Mihawk he could obey.
His gaze remained cast downward as the door creaked open and footsteps approached, slow and deliberate. His tail flickered nervously behind him, releasing anxious energy in tiny bursts.
“Good morning, Pet.” Mihawk’s voice was low, controlled.
“Good morning, Master,” Zoro replied, voice quiet and clipped.
Mihawk studied him carefully as Zoro bowed his head further. He hadn’t expected the “no punishment” tactic to work so well. Had Zoro already built some fragile bond with him? Or was this all just fear of consequences for his previous defiance?
“Off the bed. Hands raised above you, if it pulls on your stitches, stop immediately.”
Zoro tried his best to follow the order without looking clumsy or helpless. He managed to raise his elbows to shoulder height before the stitches tugged cruelly across his torso.
He sucked in a breath and forced himself to relax as a small, damp cloth brushed gently over his skin. Then the touch was gone, replaced by the feel of a coarse shirt sliding over his wounds.
“You can put your hands down. Try to stand. Sit on the bed if you must.” Mihawk’s voice came from behind him as he picked up a pair of plain black boxers to dress his pet.
Zoro struggled, legs trembling, but he managed to stand. His ears perked in surprise when Mihawk knelt down, making it easier for him to slip his legs through the garment. He held his breath, muscles shaking, as Mihawk rose and covered him with the boxers.
There was no attempt to touch him sexually; relief washed over him.
Standing so close to his master, his head hovered near Mihawk’s shoulder, the perfect length to lean in, yet he remained frozen, waiting for permission that never came.
Mihawk gestured for him to follow, walking slowly to accommodate Zoro’s injured form. He glanced back every few steps, gauging how far Zoro would push himself to please, waiting to see if he would ask for help when his body finally gave out.
Zoro’s thighs quivered beneath him, but he forced each step forward. He was strong; he should be able to manage.
“This is the east wing,” Mihawk said, voice steady. “Mostly empty, used for storage and winter guests.” They walked a long corridor, Zoro drinking in the dark, elegant decor and the towering windows that spilled pale light onto polished floors.
At the midpoint, a staircase led downwards. Mihawk stopped and continued, “The west wing houses my room, my private study, and the library. You will frequent the Red Room a lot once you heal. You are not to enter the west wing without my permission or company. Understood?”
Mihawk turned to face Zoro, not expecting to find the pet’s expression tightening with frustration at the distance between them.
“I’ve never had a slave worthy of my proximity. However, be obedient, and you will be allowed in.”
Leading him down the stairs, Mihawk approached a wide room lined with weapons — the dojo.
“This is where I train.”
Zoro’s eyes widened with a mixture of awe and sorrow. His tail swished sharply against the floor, betraying his turmoil.
“Do you know how to wield a sword, Pet?”
Zoro winced. “Yes, Master.”
Mihawk hummed softly and guided him out of the dojo, noticing Zoro’s pace slowing and breaths growing labored.
He was about to admonish his pet for potentially breaking rules when Zoro spoke up quietly.
““Master?” Zoro’s voice came out barely above a whisper, fragile and shaky. His eyes stayed locked on the floor, dread knotting tight in his chest. Every heartbeat thudded like a warning—would this be the moment punishment came again?
Mihawk raised an eyebrow, waiting, his gaze cold and unreadable.
“I… I don’t think I can walk much further,” Zoro admitted, swallowing hard, the words feeling like a betrayal. “I’m sorry.”
Blood pulsed beneath his skin, adrenaline mixing with exhaustion and fear. He had obeyed, had stayed silent when it hurt before. But now, speaking up felt like stepping on a blade—risky, necessary, terrifying.
For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.
Then Mihawk’s gaze softened, just enough to unsettle Zoro’s nerves. “The seating area is close. You’ll rest once we get there. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Master.”
The faintest flicker of relief touched Zoro’s chest, a fragile hope amid the weight of expectation and pain. But the tension lingered, like a tight wire ready to snap, as Mihawk led him forward
Mihawk’s eyes flicked to Zoro’s trembling form, noting the way his pet’s body tensed and softened with every step. The subtle shifts — the quick swallow, the flick of the tail — betrayed an unspoken hunger for something softer, something more human amid the harshness.
He didn’t offer comfort outright. That would be weakness.
Instead, Mihawk’s hand hovered briefly near Zoro’s shoulder, a calculated pause that said: I see you. I control what you get.
Then, just as abruptly, he pulled his hand away, keeping his distance. The message was clear — affection would be granted on Mihawk’s terms, not as a gift freely given, but as a tool, a reward.
Zoro’s breath hitched, torn between craving and restraint, caught in the silent push and pull of dominance
Zoro’s breath still came in sharp pants, thighs trembling as he knelt on the cushion Mihawk had indicated. His palms rested on his knees, open and exposed, a perfect picture of submission.
“Look up Zoro”
He forced his gaze upward, meeting Mihawk’s steady, unreadable eyes.
“Over there,” Mihawk said, voice low, “is the kitchen. Those stairs in the corner lead to the slave quarters and dungeons. The window overlooks the backyard, but you already know you are forbidden to leave the house.”
Mihawk stepped closer, lowering his voice even further. “Until I trust you, every move you make is watched.”
He reached to the coffee table and opened a small box, revealing a sleek black collar with green stitching — matching Zoro’s hair. “This is your collar. You cannot remove it without my biometrics and passkey. It has a tracking device and electric shocks. Don’t make me use them, Zoro. Am I clear? Expose your neck.”
Zoro’s hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling as if unsure of their own purpose. The rules were clear — obey when told — but every inch of him remembered the punishments that came when he’d shown weakness, when he’d let anyone near his throat.
He forced his hands upward. They moved too slowly, too deliberately, and by the time his fingertips reached the base of his neck, they were trembling. His pulse thudded beneath the pads of his fingers, loud enough in his ears to drown out the quiet room.
For a heartbeat, he froze. His jaw locked. His gaze flicked away from Mihawk’s, searching the empty corners of the room as if there might be some escape there. But the weight of Mihawk’s presence was like a wall at his back — not pressing him forward, not quite threatening, but leaving no room to retreat.
With a sharp inhale, Zoro hooked his thumbs beneath his collar and tugged it sideways. The movement was stiff, unwilling, but it did the job: exposing the slope of his neck and the hollow just above his collarbone, skin flushed from heat and strain.
His hands lingered there longer than they needed to, not lowering them until Mihawk’s gaze slid away — and only then did he realize his shoulders had slumped with the smallest, unsteady breath of relief.
Zoro’s fingers twitched, nails grazing the base of his ears before he even realized he was doing it. The skin there still felt too exposed, too sensitive, the memory of hands gripping them hard enough to bruise flashing like a phantom ache.
Mihawk’s gaze followed the motion with a hawk’s stillness — not missing the flinch that came when Zoro caught himself and forced his hand down. It wasn’t the idle, thoughtless gesture of comfort he’d seen from others — there was a sharpness to it, a flicker of tension in the movement. The ear twitched under his touch, the muscles in his neck pulling taut, as if the simple act had exposed something Zoro would rather keep hidden.

“Hold still,” Mihawk said, stepping forward.
The click of metal rang louder than it should have in the quiet. The collar settled around Zoro’s neck — snug, unyielding. It wasn’t choking him, but its weight was undeniable.
Before Zoro could pull his thoughts together, a sudden voice pierced the tense air.
“Aww, is this the one you told me about? He’s cute!”
Zoro’s head snapped toward the sound. Already looking up at Mihawk, he caught sight of a girl dressed in pink, hovering lightly as if flying. Her bright eyes sparkled with mischief, a stark contrast to the heavy quiet around him.
His tail flicked sharply, ears twitching as his body stiffened. His mind raced — who was this girl? Was she friend or foe? The strange sensation of being scrutinized by someone new twisted his stomach.
She floated closer, a teasing grin playing on her lips. “You’re so stiff, don’t you know how to relax? Or is that all you’ve been taught?”
Zoro’s jaw clenched. He wanted to glare, but the weight of his collar and Mihawk’s gaze held him in place.
“Perona,” Mihawk said evenly, “remember the rules. Zoro is to be treated with respect and kept within boundaries.”
Perona giggled softly, landing lightly beside him. “Of course, Master. But a little teasing never hurt anyone.” She winked at Zoro, who couldn’t decide if he wanted to snap back or shrink further into himself.
Inside, a storm of irritation, fear, and reluctant curiosity churned. He hated the attention, yet a small, forbidden part of him longed for connection, even if it came wrapped in mockery.
Zoro’s body tensed the moment Perona’s fingers hovered near his ear, the lightest touch sending a jolt through his nerves. His tail flicked sharply, muscles tightening as a surge of panic threatened to overwhelm him. He clenched his jaw, the silence swallowing the words he couldn’t bring himself to say.
His breaths came quick and shallow, fingers trembling at his sides — torn between the instinct to snap back and the hard-earned lesson not to show weakness.
Mihawk’s voice cut through the air, calm but resolute. “That’s enough, Perona.”
The hand that settled on Zoro’s shoulder was firm yet steady, grounding him like a lifeline thrown in turbulent waters. The tension coiled inside him loosened just enough to let a shaky breath escape.
Perona’s teasing grin didn’t fade entirely, but she stepped back, giving Zoro a wink that sparked both irritation and something he wasn’t ready to name.
Mihawk’s gaze lingered on Zoro’s face — sharp, calculating — silently marking the moment without offering comfort.
Before Mihawk could say more, a sharp ringtone sliced through the charged silence. Mihawk’s eyes narrowed slightly as he turned toward the source — a sleek, snail phone resting on the desk.
“Excuse me,” Mihawk said, voice steady, as he reached for the device.
Zoro’s heart hammered, the sudden interruption pulling him from the edge but leaving the storm inside unsettled, unresolved.
Speak,” he said curtly.
The voice on the other end was familiar and warm, with a teasing edge.
“Mihawk, my friend! Just the man I wanted to hear from.”
Mihawk’s lips twitched almost imperceptibly. “Shanks.”
“There’s a public event coming up,” Shanks said, voice light but carrying an unmistakable weight beneath the banter. “I expect you and your pet to attend — and I’ll be bringing Luffy along. It should be fun.”
Zoro’s heart skipped. The idea of a public event, with all the eyes and judgments, tightened the knot in his stomach.
Mihawk’s gaze flicked to Zoro briefly, unreadable. “As always, rules and expectations will be clear. Prepare yourselves.”
Shanks chuckled softly. “Don’t worry, I’m not turning this into a circus — well, not entirely.”
The line went dead. Mihawk replaced the receiver with a quiet snap.his gaze briefly flicking to Zoro.

“This gathering isn’t a simple show,” Mihawk said, voice low and serious. “Masters present their slaves — skills, endurance, obedience. It’s brutal.”
Zoro’s stomach twisted, memories crashing in — cold chains biting into his wrists, lashes stinging his front, the crushing weight of countless eyes watching him broken and exposed. Hands travelling across his body, violating him in every way possible. He had been whipped, tortured, displayed like property before. Left limping and injured for weeks after. The thought of facing that again tightened a vise around his chest.
But Mihawk’s presence was different. His calm, measured voice carried neither cruelty nor impatience. It was a tone Zoro wasn’t used to—uncertain, yet demanding. What did Mihawk truly expect from him? What rules had Zoro not yet learned? Was mihawk even interested in sharing him? Would he leave him and see how much cruelty he could indure?
Mihawk’s eyes lingered on him, noting the tremble in his limbs and the flush rising beneath his nose. There were no warnings spoken, no harsh commands. Only a steady, watchful silence that felt like both protection and pressure.
Zoro swallowed hard, the storm inside him growing restless. He didn’t know if he could trust this new master, or if the promises were just another kind of cage.
Without another word, Mihawk turned away, voice colder now. “We’ll go over the rules soon. Your obedience is the first step. Show me you’re ready.”
Zoro’s tail flicked nervously, the uncertainty pulling at him. He wanted to understand, to find solid footing in this strange new dynamic—but for now, all he had was the fragile thread of a promise and the overwhelming weight of what was to come.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered softly through the heavy curtains, casting pale stripes across the polished floors of the living room. The fire in the hearth crackled quietly, its warmth a faint contrast to the coolness lingering in the air.
Zoro remained kneeling on the floor, his tail flicking restlessly as he kept his posture rigid. Though the heavy steps and trembling legs were behind him for now, the weight of the morning’s events still pressed on his chest.
Perona floated closer, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips. “You’re awfully tense for someone who’s supposed to be a ‘pet’. Don’t you know it’s easier if you stop trying so hard to be perfect?”
Zoro’s ears twitched, but he kept his eyes on the floor. “I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m trying not to get punished.”
Perona chuckled softly, lowering her voice. “He’s strict but not cruel. You’ll see.”
Zoro’s gaze snapped up, cold and hard. “You’ve never been gagged until your jaw dislocated. You don’t get to talk to me.”
Perona’s grin didn’t falter. “Seemingly not.”
Mihawk’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, watching Zoro’s tension spike. He noticed the brief hitch in Zoro’s breath, the flicker of anger quickly masked but unmistakable. Mihawk stepped silently closer, positioning himself so his presence was a quiet but unmistakable anchor.
He observed the tight clenching of Zoro’s jaw, the subtle stiffening of his shoulders. Mihawk’s mind cataloged every microreaction — the way Zoro fought to maintain control, even as the old wounds throbbed beneath his carefully maintained facade.
Perona’s tone softened, losing some of its edge. “Look, I’m not trying to rile you up. We’re in this together, whether you like it or not.”
Zoro’s eyes flicked away, reluctant but faintly relieved. “I’m not used to… company.”
Mihawk’s gaze lingered on Zoro, measuring the quiet admission. He saw the tiny crack in the armor — a spark of vulnerability quickly buried but present nonetheless.
Perona smiled gently. “Well, you’ll get used to me. Maybe even like me.”
Mihawk allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible nod. The game was subtle, the players cautious, but the pieces were moving.
“Soon, we will move to the kitchen. Eat well. You’ll need your strength.”
Zoro exhaled slowly, the knot in his chest tightening anew. Mihawk’s eyes lingered on him a moment longer, silent promise and warning woven into that look.
Entering the kitchen, Mihawk moved to the table where breakfast was laid out — simple but nourishing. He gestured for Zoro to kneel beside him, which the slave did without hesitation.

Mihawk picked up a small spoon, scooping a bit of the warm food and bringing it gently to Zoro’s lips. His touch was careful, deliberate, lacking the harshness Zoro’s body expected.
Zoro’s muscles twitched involuntarily, every gentle touch setting off a war inside his nerves. His hands clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to pull away even as his stomach growled with hunger. Part of him craved the softness, but another part recoiled, remembering every sharp pain disguised as ‘care.’
His eyes darted to Mihawk’s face, searching for any hint of cruelty behind the calm. He swallowed hard, his mind shouting warnings even as his body obeyed. For a breathless moment, the tenderness soothed him, but the shadow of past punishments loomed too close.
A shiver ran down his spine — part cold, part anticipation — as he tried to reconcile this quiet with the chaos inside. His tail flicked nervously, a barometer of his restless mind, while his jaw tightened, battling the flood of emotions rising beneath the surface.
Mihawk’s gaze never wavered, watching carefully for any sign of discomfort or resistance, noting the subtle tremors and flickers of tension Zoro tried to mask. He’s afraid, Mihawk thought, but more than that, he’s torn between instinct and necessity. That hesitation—that conflict—that’s the thread I need to hold onto.
I’ll give him patience now. Push too hard, and he breaks. Not the obedience I want.
“Eat,” Mihawk said quietly, voice steady and patient. “You need strength.”
With each bite, Mihawk’s fingers brushed lightly against Zoro’s jaw or the back of his neck, small gestures of care that felt foreign but not unwelcome.
He’s fragile. Not just in body, but in spirit. Mihawk considered. If I am to claim him fully, I must be the steadiness beneath his storm, not the gale that tears him apart.
Zoro’s tail flicked tentatively, and for a moment, the weight of past torment loosened just enough for a fragile thread of trust to weave through the pain.
Mihawk’s gaze never wavered, watching carefully for any sign of discomfort or resistance.
“After this, we will train,” Mihawk reminded him softly. “But for now, rest.”
Just as Zoro’s trembling began to slow and the weight of the morning settled, light footsteps echoed in the doorway. Perona appeared with a mischievous grin, leaning casually against the frame.
“Well, look at you. Eating without flinching or trying to bolt. Progress, huh?” she teased, eyes sparkling with amusement.
Zoro’s jaw clenched, exhaustion and irritation flickering across his face. He shot a cold glance her way but didn’t speak. The last thing he needed was more attention.
Mihawk’s gaze sharpened instantly, voice low but firm. “Perona, remember your place. Respect his space.”
Perona chuckled, stepping back with a playful shrug, but the edge of her teasing lingered in the air. Zoro’s tail flicked sharply, ears twitching nervously as he fought to steady himself beneath the weight of both their gazes.
For a long moment, the room fell quiet except for the soft scrape of Zoro’s breath. He lowered his eyes, hands tightening into loose fists on his knees, the chaos inside him still far from settled. Every gentle touch, every soft word from Mihawk pulled at a tangled web of fear, mistrust, and a desperate craving for something more.
Mihawk watched him carefully, noting the flicker of tension beneath Zoro’s stillness, the subtle tremors he tried to hide. He’s not ready to submit. Not yet. But he’s beginning to see that I am not the storm that breaks him.
Patience, Mihawk reminded himself. Push too hard now, and he shatters. That is not obedience.

~The quiet between them stretched as Mihawk finished serving breakfast, the soft clink of dishes the only sound filling the kitchen. Zoro knelt beside him, muscles still trembling from the morning’s exertion, a mix of physical fatigue and emotional turmoil weighing heavily on his shoulders.
Mihawk’s gaze was steady, observant. He’s fragile—more than he lets on. But fragility can be shaped. “You’re doing well so far. But this is only the beginning.”
He stood and gestured toward the hallway. “Come. It’s time for your training.”
Zoro rose cautiously, every movement measured and slow, the soreness from the earlier walk still sharp beneath his skin. Mihawk matched his pace, eyes flicking to the slight tremble in Zoro’s legs, silently noting each falter. Push too hard and he breaks. Too soft, and he won’t learn. Balance. Always balance.
They passed through the kitchen’s warm light into the cooler shadows of the corridor, the house’s grandeur folding around them in quiet contrast to the rawness of Zoro’s current state.
At the end of the hall, Mihawk stopped before a large doorway. This room will be his proving ground. “This is where you will learn what I expect from my slave,” he said quietly, opening the door to reveal a minimalist training room bathed in morning light.
Zoro stepped inside, swallowing hard at the weight of the room — empty save for a few cushions and low platforms.

Mihawk motioned toward the center of the room. “Kneel.”
Mihawk’s sharp eyes tracked every twitch and tremble as Zoro knelt on the cushion. His posture was near perfect—straight back, legs spread just enough—but the tension coiled beneath the surface was impossible to miss.
“Your back is stiff,” Mihawk said quietly, voice steady but not unkind. “Relax your shoulders. If you’re too rigid, it looks like you’re resisting.”
Zoro swallowed hard, forcing his muscles to loosen just a fraction, his palms pressing flatter against his knees. His ears flicked back nervously, but he dared not break eye contact.
“You hold too much weight on your heels,” Mihawk continued, stepping closer. “Shift forward slightly. Your weight should be balanced, grounded, but ready.”
Zoro adjusted, his thighs trembling as he settled into the new balance. A knot of frustration twisted in his chest. Why is something so simple so difficult? he thought. Why do I feel like I’m failing even when I try?
Mihawk’s gaze softened, catching the flicker of doubt. He knelt down beside Zoro, close enough that the warmth of his presence seeped into the cold tension. “Posture isn’t just about appearance. It’s control—over your body, your emotions.”
Zoro’s breath hitched. Control. The word felt heavy, like a weight pressing into his ribs.
“Here,” Mihawk said, gently placing a hand on Zoro’s shoulder. The touch was light but firm, grounding. “You’re allowed to feel uncertain. You’re allowed to struggle. But that struggle is part of your training.”
Zoro’s eyes flicked up, meeting Mihawk’s steady stare. A long silence stretched, filled with everything Zoro dared not say aloud.
Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, Zoro said, “I’ll try master.”
Mihawk nodded once. “Good. That’s all I ask.”
Mihawk stepped back, his gaze lingering on Zoro’s now steady posture.
“Crawling is next,” Mihawk said. “It’s more than just movement — it’s about control, elegance, and endurance. You’ll learn to use every muscle with purpose. But first, your posture must be flawless.”
Zoro’s legs trembled slightly, but his eyes held a flicker of determination beneath the exhaustion.
“Start on your hands and knees,” Mihawk instructed, voice low and even. “Move slowly. Gracefully. Like you’re carrying the weight of more than just your body.”
Mihawk gestured toward the floor. “Not like a beast. Gracefully. Every movement deliberate, every step a sign of obedience.”
Zoro lowered himself forward, hands touching the cushions. The movement was unfamiliar and awkward—each shift aching beneath his skin. Yet beneath the discomfort, a quiet resolve simmered; he wouldn’t let this break him.
“Start slow. Balance, control, elegance. The way you move must communicate your place.”
His jaw clenched tightly. Crawling felt like a humiliation, a sharp reminder of past punishments and exhibitions. But he forced his eyes forward, swallowing the urge to lash out, refusing to give Mihawk the satisfaction.
“This is training. Mistakes will be made. You are allowed to falter here, but the rules I gave you still stand.”
Each deliberate crawl brought a flicker of rebellion, a silent question burning in his mind—Why should I submit like this? Yet, beneath that fire, a colder thought lingered: obedience might be his only shield against further cruelty.
Mihawk’s watchful gaze remained fixed, quiet and unreadable. Zoro couldn’t tell if his master’s silence was approval or a test, and that uncertainty gnawed at him, tightening a knot deep in his stomach.
Beneath it all, buried memories clawed to the surface—flashes of chains, whips, and cold, judging eyes. But Zoro pushed the ghosts down with every careful, painful step.
Mihawk’s eyes lingered on Zoro’s trembling form as he crawled, the faintest flicker of tension crossing his usually unreadable expression. He recalled one of the earliest rules he’d set—Zoro was to communicate not just his physical limits, but his mental state as well.
It was a precaution born from hard lessons: the body could endure much, but the mind was far more fragile. Silent suffering led only to cracks too deep to mend.
Watching Zoro wrestle with each movement, Mihawk considered how much of that turmoil went unspoken, buried beneath layers of pride and pain. He would need to be patient. Firm. But patient.
The balance between control and care was delicate, and Mihawk intended to maintain it.
Zoro’s movements grew steadier, the awkwardness easing as he focused on each deliberate crawl. His muscles ached, but he forced himself to maintain the posture Mihawk demanded—graceful, controlled, submissive. After a few slow, measured steps, Mihawk nodded approvingly.
“Enough for now,” Mihawk said, voice calm but firm. “You’re learning.”
Zoro lowered himself back onto his knees, chest rising and falling with quick breaths. Despite the physical exhaustion, his mind churned with a storm of emotions—pride, frustration, confusion.
Mihawk stepped closer, eyes sharp and unreadable as always, but with a rare softness beneath.
“There’s something I need to remind you,” Mihawk said, voice low. “This training isn’t just about your body. Your mind matters, too. You must tell me when you’re struggling—not just physically, but mentally.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “Silent suffering will only make things worse. You’re allowed to express what you’re feeling. That is part of your obedience.”
Zoro looked up, meeting Mihawk’s gaze. The unspoken challenge was clear—trust him enough to share, or risk breaking alone.
Zoro’s eyes flickered, uncertainty warring with the cautious respect he held for Mihawk. Speaking up—truly opening up—was foreign and dangerous. Past masters had punished honesty as weakness. Yet, Mihawk’s tone wasn’t cruel. It was deliberate, almost… patient.
He swallowed hard, throat tight, words caught in his chest. Quiet at first, he said, “…I’ll try…”
A long pause hung heavy in the air before he finally added, “Master.”
His tail twitched slightly, betraying the tension coiled beneath his composed exterior. Mihawk’s eyes softened imperceptibly, recognizing the weight behind the hesitant address.
“You see me as someone who controls your pain,” Mihawk said quietly, stepping closer. “But know this—your emotions, your mental well-being, will not be used against you. Not here.”
He paused, letting the assurance settle in the space between them. “That trust must grow between us, but it begins with you.”
Zoro swallowed again, the fragile hope mingling with his guarded wariness. For now, he would keep the promise. Keep watching. Keep waiting.

Zoro’s breath was still uneven, the ache in his muscles a dull throb beneath the sharper sting of uncertainty in his chest. He lowered his eyes, fingers twitching nervously at the edge of the cushion.
“Master…” The word escaped like a whisper, hesitant and fragile.
Mihawk’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes?”
A long pause stretched between them. Zoro’s throat tightened, the words caught somewhere deep inside. Finally, a faint voice broke through, barely audible.
“I… I’m afraid.”
Mihawk’s sharp eyes softened imperceptibly, but his tone remained steady. “Afraid of what?”
“Failing. Of… losing control.” Zoro’s voice cracked slightly, his ears dipping back in shame. “Of being… broken beyond repair.”
Mihawk nodded slowly. “Good. That is exactly the fear you need to face. And tell me—when you feel that way during training or otherwise, what do you do?”
Zoro swallowed, then whispered, “I try to hide it. To not show it.”
“And why?” Mihawk pressed gently.
“Because… because showing it only made things worse before.” His gaze flicked up, searching Mihawk’s expression for any hint of judgement. Finding none, a flicker of something like relief softened his features.
“Not here.” Mihawk’s voice was low, controlled. “Your mind is as much a part of your training as your body. You will be expected to speak, to communicate your limits and your struggles. That is part of your obedience. Not weakness.”
Zoro’s lips parted, then closed again. The weight of trust was unfamiliar and heavy.
“Now,” Mihawk continued, standing. “We will do a simple exercise. You will crawl forward as before, but if you feel overwhelmed—physically or mentally—you will stop, and you will tell me. No hiding. No silence.”
Zoro nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Zoro lowered himself onto the cold floor, hands and knees finding uneasy purchase on the smooth surface. Every movement sent a sharp jolt through his still-healing body, but he forced himself forward, the rhythm slow and deliberate. His breathing was shallow, his mind racing with every flicker of doubt and fear.
Mihawk watched silently, arms crossed, eyes calculating. He noticed the slight tremble in Zoro’s fingers as they gripped the floor, the subtle tightening of his jaw when the pain flared too sharp. Yet the pet continued, pressing onward despite the discomfort.
He’s trying, Mihawk thought. But the real test isn’t the crawl. It’s how long he can keep going before the shadows overwhelm him.
Zoro’s ears flicked back, tail twitching nervously behind him. The weight of every past punishment pressed down like chains, whispering that any sign of weakness would bring suffering. But Mihawk’s earlier words echoed faintly in his mind — a lifeline he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Halfway through, a tremor ran through Zoro’s body. His limbs faltered, breath hitching sharply. For a moment, his entire form froze, muscles rigid with panic. The old instinct screamed to shut down, to hide the falter, to bear the pain alone.
But this time, he forced himself to speak.
“Master… I—”
Mihawk’s sharp gaze locked on him immediately, no surprise in his voice. “Stop if you need to. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Zoro’s voice came out raw, “It’s… too much. I’m scared I’ll lose control.”
Mihawk nodded once, approving the honesty. “Good. That is the strength I expect.”
Slowly, Zoro lowered himself back onto the cushion Mihawk had shown him earlier, hands resting lightly on his knees, breathing uneven but steadying. Mihawk stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Zoro’s back — not punishing, but grounding.
“You will learn to master this fear,” Mihawk said quietly, “but you will never be forced to face it alone.”
Zoro’s eyes flickered up, catching the barest hint of something softer in his master’s gaze — a promise unspoken, but felt deep in his core.
For the first time in a long while, the edges of his panic eased, if only just enough to keep moving forward.

Mihawk withdrew his hand, stepping back with a measured nod. “Enough for now. You’ve done well.”
Zoro remained kneeling, sweat beading at his temples, muscles trembling from the effort and the lingering emotional storm. The quiet in the room felt heavier now — a mix of relief and uncertainty tightening his chest.
“Come,” Mihawk commanded softly, turning toward the kitchen. “It’s time to eat. You’ll need your strength for what comes next.”
Zoro followed, still cautious, each step slow as if the weight of his own body might betray him. The scent of cooking greeted him before they reached the kitchen, warm and oddly comforting.
Perona was already there, perched casually on a stool, twirling a strand of her pink hair with a smirk.
“Well, well,” she said, eyes flicking to Zoro. “You look like you survived the crawl. Barely.”
Zoro’s tail twitched, ears flattening slightly. He stayed silent, unsure if he was allowed to respond.
Mihawk glanced at him, then back at Perona. “He’s permitted to speak.”
Zoro’s voice came low, edged with cold. “I’m not as fragile as you think.”
Perona laughed softly, leaning forward with a teasing glint. “Don’t worry, I’m just getting started.”
Mihawk’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes remained watchful, aware of the delicate balance unfolding. He moved to the stove, plating the food with a practiced hand.
As he set a bowl in front of Zoro, he said quietly, “Eat. We train again after.”
Zoro knelt, lowering his head slightly but meeting Mihawk’s gaze with a flicker of determination beneath the exhaustion.

Mihawk scooped a small portion of food onto a spoon and held it gently near Zoro’s lips. For once, Zoro did not pull away or tense — instead, his eyes flickered upward, seeking permission. Mihawk’s gaze was sharp, but silent consent was clear.
Slowly, Zoro parted his lips and accepted the bite. The warmth of the food felt like a quiet balm against the raw edges of his nerves.
As Mihawk fed him another bite, Zoro’s body relaxed slightly, and without fully realizing it, Zoro’s breath came uneven, the sharp edges of his turmoil softening as his head found the steady warmth of Mihawk’s thigh. The motion was small but loaded — a silent surrender to a moment of peace. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion that went beyond the physical. For once, he didn’t pull away, only dared a quick glance upward, searching Mihawk’s face for permission.
Perona’s teasing grin faltered as Mihawk’s dark eyes swept toward her, sharp and warning. She straightened, biting back whatever words hovered on her tongue, though her gaze softened as it lingered on Zoro.
Mihawk’s hand moved with deliberate calm, brushing a gentle scratch behind Zoro’s ear — a small touch meant to anchor him, steady him. The contrast between that quiet tenderness and the tense atmosphere was stark.
Zoro glanced up again, searching Mihawk’s face. The warning glare at Perona was unmistakable, but Mihawk’s eyes held something else — a promise of patience, of control.
Trust flickered in the small space between them — fragile, tentative, but real.
Mihawk’s hand came down on Zoro’s head, steady but soft. “Rest for now,” he murmured, his voice a quiet thread meant only for Zoro. “Just a short break. One more training session remains today. After that, you’ll have a longer respite.”
The weight of those words, that balance of command and care, settled like a balm over Zoro’s ragged nerves. His body loosened, the tension seeping out as a slow exhale escaped him.
Zoro closed his eyes, allowing himself the briefest reprieve, safe under the watchful presence of a master unlike any he had known.

Chapter Text

The room remained quiet as Zoro settled onto the floor, still aching but alert. Mihawk’s steady gaze met his voice calm but firm.
“Now, we move beyond posture. Your voice is as vital as your body.”
Zoro’s throat tightened. Speaking has always been a risk. Yet, Mihawk’s tone offered something unfamiliar; an invitation rather than a command.
“You will learn when and how to speak, expressing limits, obedience, and honesty without fear.”
A flicker of doubt crossed Zoro’s mind. His fingers twitched nervously at the edge of the cushion, mind already heavy with exhaustion.
He parted his lips, voice barely a whisper. “Confused… and afraid.”
Mihawk’s nod was slow, approving. “Good. Naming your feelings is the first step. Accept them. Control them.”
“Now, kneel.”
Zoro lowered himself again, body trembling but obedient. Mihawk’s voice sharpened, “Communication is more than words, Pet. It is a language: subtle, precise, controlled.”
He paced slowly, outlining the rules. “When addressing me in private, you may look into my eyes briefly and use my name with respect. ‘Master Mihawk’ or simply ‘Master’ suffices. But in public, your eyes must stay lowered, never meeting mine unless I explicitly grant permission.”
Zoro swallowed hard. Keep your eyes down in public… Don’t draw attention. He nodded but felt the weight press heavier on his chest.
He hated this, the submission his body desperately wanted to give in to, the forced distance, the silence he must keep. He fought masters who demanded obedience without mercy, going against every rule they have ordered. Yet… Mihawk’s voice was cold but steady, offering a sliver of order instead of chaos.
“Others,” Mihawk continued, “you will address as ‘Sir’, ‘Madam’, or ‘Master’ depending on rank. Your tone must always be deferential: soft but clear. Interruptions are forbidden. If you must respond, keep it brief and formal.”
Mihawk demonstrated a subtle bow, the kind Zoro was expected to perform whenever encountering a superior outside Mihawk. “Posture must remain impeccable, straight back, shoulders down, hands folded or at your sides. No sudden movements, no unnecessary gestures.”
He stopped and studied Zoro’s face carefully. “Now. Practice.”
Zoro’s voice came low and rough, unsteady as he tried to commit the rules to memory. “Master Mihawk, may I speak?”
The words felt foreign on his tongue, each syllable weighed down by doubt. Will I remember this? Will I slip up and be punished? His eyes flicked nervously toward Mihawk, searching for any sign of disapproval.
Mihawk’s lips twitched in faint approval. Good. His voice was raw but willing.
“ Now, imagine we are in public.”
Mihawk gestured sharply, and Zoro lowered his gaze, eyes fixed on the floor, barely lifting his chin. “Master Mihawk,” he whispered, voice cracking slightly, “permission to speak.”
The phrase tasted bitter and heavy, but he repeated it again, trying to steady his breath.
“Permission to speak. Permission to speak…” Zoro’s mind was spinning out of control.
Mihawk nodded once more. “Perfect. Remember this always. Your obedience is shown not just in silence, but in the way you carry yourself.”
Zoro felt the muscles in his body protest the strain of holding the correct posture, but he forced himself to stay rigid, mind spinning with the rules still swirling inside him.
Mihawk added, voice sharper now, “There are times when words are too loud. You will learn subtle signals — a tap on the collar, a blink, a finger curl — to alert me when something is wrong without breaking your posture or submission in public.”
His eyes narrowed. “Facial expressions must be mastered. Hide your pain, your fear, your doubt behind a calm mask. It is not denial — it is survival.”
Zoro’s jaw clenched painfully. Hide everything. Always be perfect. But how long can I keep this up? The questions churned inside, unspoken.
“Your voice will be trained, too. Soft, steady, respectful, never wavering in a way that draws unnecessary attention. You must control every tone, every inflection.”
Mihawk’s gaze locked onto Zoro’s, measuring. “If I command you, respond immediately, quietly. ‘Yes, Master’ or a silent bow. Hesitation is a privilege you do not yet earn.”
The silence between them stretched, heavy but charged.

Zoro’s throat tightened. The weight of these rules threatened to ignite the small flame of defiance still flickering inside him. But beneath Mihawk’s cold steadiness, there was a strange sense of order — a brutal kindness he had never known before.
Zoro sat rigid, the tension coiling in his limbs. The weight of Mihawk’s expectations pressed down on him like the collar around his neck—tight, unyielding. Yet beneath the pressure, there was a flicker of something new: a chance to be heard, on his terms.
He cleared his throat softly, voice low and controlled. “Master Mihawk… permission to speak.”
Mihawk’s sharp eyes didn’t waver, but there was a faint nod—an unspoken permission granted.
Zoro’s heart hammered, his mind racing to find the right words. Careful. Precise. No hesitation. He inhaled slowly, voice steady but quiet.
“I… I am struggling to remember all the rules. The postures, the phrases… I fear I will fail.”
He kept his eyes lowered, hands folded neatly on his lap, every movement deliberate.
Mihawk’s gaze sharpened, studying him with the cool appraisal of a hunter. “Good. Speak your doubts clearly, as you have.”
Zoro swallowed, encouraged but still wary. “And… I am afraid of losing control. Of faltering in public and bringing punishment.”
Mihawk’s expression did not soften, but the quiet weight behind his next words was unmistakable. “Fear is natural. Control it, and it will serve you. Fail, and it will consume you.”
Zoro nodded slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, Master.” How does one control fear?
Mihawk’s eyes flicked with quiet approval. “Good. Now, stand and come here.”
Zoro rose carefully, every muscle tense, every step measured, an effort to control the chaos inside.
When he knelt before Mihawk, voice low but steady, he spoke the words Mihawk had drilled into him.
“Master Mihawk, permission to shift position.”
Mihawk’s sharp eyes caught the subtle tremor in Zoro’s muscles and the tightness in his jaw. The strain was clear, but Zoro wasn’t done yet.
“Relax your posture,” Mihawk commanded, voice steady. “You’re allowed to release the perfect kneel for now—but stay alert. Control is not just about form, but how you manage what’s inside.”
Zoro exhaled slowly, easing the tension in his limbs, though the ache remained beneath the surface. His gaze lowered obediently, muscles loosening just enough.
Mihawk stepped closer, voice lowering to a firm yet instructive tone. “Emotions will try to unravel you. Fear, doubt, frustration—these must be acknowledged, controlled, not hidden.”
He paused, watching Zoro’s conflicted expression. “Questions will come. When you need clarity or support, you will learn to ask—not out of weakness, but with respect and precision.”
Zoro swallowed hard, mind racing with uncertainty but also a flicker of trust.
Mihawk continued, “You will practice responding calmly, no matter the situation. Your voice, your body—they are tools to maintain your place, even when turmoil threatens.”
The room held its quiet weight, Zoro’s breathing steadying as he absorbed the lesson
Mihawk’s communicator buzzed sharply in the quiet dojo. He glanced at it briefly, then answered curtly, “Speak.”
Zoro’s heart clenched at the low, familiar voice on the other end — confident, casual. Shanks.
“Ready for the event, Hawk? You still have a week to change your mind and have some fun with your pet. Luffy and I are bringing some fire of our own.”
Mihawk’s reply was calm, unyielding. “We’ll be there. You know the terms.”
A pause, then Shanks’s lighter tone: “Don’t worry, Mihawk. I know you and Zoro will only be part of the audience, not participating on stage. As agreed, our terms remain clear — respect ownership. No slave shall be displayed or used without the master’s explicit permission.”
The call ended quickly, but the air hung heavy.
Zoro swallowed hard, the familiar knot tightening in his chest. The event… the one he dreaded most. The stage. The chains. The eyes. The pain.
He’d learned posture, obedience, the rules — all to survive that merciless spotlight.
But Mihawk’s calm didn’t match the cold terror clawing inside him.
Will he really keep his promise? Zoro’s fingers twitched at his sides. Or am I just fooling myself?
He kept his gaze lowered, voice barely a breath. If I fail tomorrow… if I break…
A sharp, involuntary intake of breath betrayed his fear.
Mihawk’s eyes flicked toward him briefly — perceptive, unreadable.
But he said nothing.

Right then, Perona entered the dojo,drifted closer, her eyes gleaming with playful mischief.
“You know, Zoro, you’re awfully obedient for someone who looks like he’s still bristling inside. It’s almost cute how you try so hard not to show it.”
Zoro’s gaze darkened, voice low and sharp.
“You don’t understand. You never will.”
He paused, then added firmly, “I’m following orders. It's the Master's place to decide how far I push.”
“Don’t worry, stiff one. Maybe after some rest, you’ll have enough energy to stop looking like you’re about to break.” Perona teased.
He stared at her, muscles tense, struggling to breathe past the tightness in his chest. Just as he opened his mouth to say more—
“Enough.” Mihawk’s voice sliced through the room like a blade.
Zoro froze, heart pounding as panic gripped him—he had almost forgotten his Master was there. The weight of Mihawk’s gaze held him still, throat tightening with the familiar fear of speaking out of line.
Mihawk’s eyes shifted between the two—sharp, unyielding. His disappointment was clear, but so was his frustration.
His voice came low but firm. “Defiance is misplaced, Zoro.”
Zoro flinched at the tone, subtle but cutting, and immediately dropped his gaze, chest tightening with regret.
Mihawk studied him silently, seeing through the bravado to the fear beneath. He’s scared, but there’s potential buried under that fire.
To Mihawk’s quiet surprise, Zoro’s next words came soft, sincere.
“I’m sorry, Master.”
The apology was barely a whisper, yet it carried weight—a sign of respect, and a crack in the wall Zoro had built around himself.
Mihawk’s lips twitched, the faintest trace of approval crossing his features.
Good. That is the first step.
He turned back to Perona. “I’ll take him to his room. You're dismissed, Perona.”
Perona gave one last teasing smile.

The training session finally ended, Mihawk’s sharp commands lingering in the air as Zoro pushed himself to rise. His legs trembled beneath him, every muscle screaming in protest.
Mihawk’s gaze was steady but unyielding. “Upstairs, now. Your room awaits.”
Zoro took a tentative step toward the staircase, each movement heavy, his breath shallow and uneven. Halfway up, his knees buckled—his body refusing to carry him further.
A sharp stab of panic flared in his chest as he gripped the railing, fingers digging into the cold wood. His vision blurred, edges darkening and swirling. Suddenly, a suffocating pressure pressed around his neck—like the collar tightening, choking him, squeezing away the last reserves of his strength.
Panic flickered, jagged and raw. I can’t fail. Not now. Not ever.
His mind scrambled, every instinct screaming to push forward even as his body rebelled. The weight of countless past punishments loomed in every trembling fiber, threatening to drown him in memories he was desperate to keep buried.
The coldness of Mihawk’s steadying hand on his arm was an anchor, pulling him back from the edge of collapse. The steady, unyielding grip grounded him—not just physically, but somehow emotionally.
This isn’t like before. Mihawk isn’t them. He’s different. But doubt gnawed at him, stubborn and relentless. Am I just fooling myself? Is this calm just another cage?
His throat tightened as he fought to steady his breath, swallowing down the panic clawing its way up. His pulse thundered in his ears, loud enough to drown out the quiet around him.
“Breathe. Control it,” Mihawk’s voice cut through the haze—low, firm, a command and a promise all at once.
Zoro closed his eyes briefly, the pressure around his neck easing just a fraction, as if Mihawk’s presence alone could loosen the invisible noose. He forced himself upright again, muscles trembling but determined.
“Master…” Zoro’s voice cracked, barely audible. “I… I can’t.”
Mihawk’s expression softened ever so slightly, though his tone remained authoritative. “Then you will rest here for a moment. This is not weakness—it’s part of knowing your limits.”
Zoro nodded, relief and frustration mixing as he leaned heavily against Mihawk’s side. His heart hammered, mind clouded with exhaustion—but beneath it all, a stubborn will to endure.
After a few long breaths, he forced himself upright once more, testing his legs. Mihawk’s hand remained firm and reassuring at his back
Slowly, with every step measured and deliberate, Zoro continued up the stairs, Mihawk’s steady hand supporting him like a silent promise.
At the top, Mihawk opened the door to Zoro’s room—spartan and quiet, a refuge carefully set apart from the rest of the house. The faint scent of herbs lingered in the air, mingling with the cool evening breeze slipping through the cracked window.

Chapter Text

The night was heavy and silent, broken only by the soft rustle of blankets and the faint drip of a water basin. Zoro lay on his bed, sweat glistening along his skin, his tail twitching lightly against the mattress. His ears flicked at every creak of the floorboards, every muted sound from the quiet halls. The fever had settled into his bones, and with it, a restless, burning ache that even sleep couldn’t soothe.
Mihawk appeared without announcement, as he always did, quiet and precise. He carried nothing but a damp cloth and a small vial of cooling oil. His gaze swept over Zoro’s tense form, noting the way his ears twitched with unease, the faint coils of his tail against the sheet.
“Your temperature’s higher than I anticipated,” Mihawk murmured, kneeling beside the bed. His hand hovered for a moment before brushing lightly along Zoro’s shoulder, the touch gentle but authoritative. Zoro flinched slightly, a sharp pang of panic flickering in his chest.
“It’s… nothing,” Zoro croaked, voice hoarse, trying to push down the fever and the fear that came with any closeness.
“You are not nothing,” Mihawk replied flatly, ignoring the protest. He pressed the cool cloth to Zoro’s forehead, his fingers brushing along the nape of Zoro’s neck. The contact made Zoro stiffen, tail coiling instinctively around his own thigh, but he didn’t pull away. Not entirely.
As the minutes stretched, Mihawk adjusted the blankets, offering sips of water. Each movement was deliberate, measured, reinforcing the balance of care and authority. Zoro’s panic ebbed and surged with every touch, every look, every faintly commanding whisper. Why do I feel safe? Why does he touch me like this and not hurt me? The question tangled in his mind, unspoken.
Mihawk’s eyes never left him. He panics at the slightest shift, but he trusts me enough to let me tend him. Not because he is strong yet, but because he’s beginning to understand control isn’t always punishment. The thought pleased him more than he expected.
Zoro’s body relaxed fractionally under the ministrations, heat radiating off him, limbs loose despite the fever. His mind, however, swirled—memories of past punishments and violations clashing with the rare comfort he felt now. I shouldn’t feel this… safe. Not with anyone. And yet, he did.
By morning, the fever had begun to break, leaving a residual weariness in its wake.

-

The order came at breakfast.
“You’ll be examined today.” Mihawk’s voice was flat, unyielding.
Zoro’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. His ears twitched hard, flattening tight against his skull. His ribs still ached, his scars pulled when he stretched, but examined meant hands, knives, white rooms that smelled of blood and iron. It meant being looked at like a specimen. It meant being raped, being experimented on, being tortured.
The tail coiled anxiously around the leg of his chair before he could stop it.
“Eat.” Mihawk’s gaze flicked down to his plate. “You’ll need strength.” Zoro couldn't stop the shiver that ran through his body.

The carriage ride was silent, but Zoro’s chest was a drum. By the time they reached the clinic, sweat already slicked his palms. The sharp antiseptic scent hit him the moment the door cracked open, and instinct roared.
He bolted.
“NO—!”
His body moved before his mind could. He lunged for the door, teeth bared.
The collar hissed and sparked, a surge of lightning cracking through his throat. He staggered, but rage and fear carried him forward again — until Mihawk’s grip slammed around his wrist, twisting it behind his back. Zoro let out a feral scream. Training be damned- he’d rather die than let another doctor ‘examine’ him.
His other arm followed, pinned into cold restraints before he could snarl another curse.
“Calm,” Mihawk ordered.
But calm didn’t come. Zoro kicked, writhed, his tail whipping like a lash. The fight only stopped when a sharp stab tore across his side. He gasped — too late realizing the stitches had ripped open.
The world spun. Mihawk’s arms engulfed him as he was lifted of the floor, the fight draining out of him as a hand held the back of his neck.
-

The examination had started clinical. Cold. Safe enough if Zoro didn’t think too hard about the hands on him.
Law worked methodically: ears first, his gloved fingers turning them gently, tracing the ragged tears through the fur. Zoro stiffened, but Law’s voice was steady, professional. “Scar tissue. I’ll trim what’s loose. No infection.”
Zoro’s chest heaved once, then stilled. This wasn’t cruel. Not yet.
Mihawk stood nearby, silent sentinel. His presence pressed like a weight at Zoro’s back. The collar buzzed faintly whenever his thrashing threatened to grow violent, but Mihawk’s hand steadied him each time, warm and unyielding.
The exam moved downward: ribs, chest, the needle tugging stitches tight. Zoro flinched, teeth bared at the tug of flesh. He remembered rope, knives, laughter, pain.
His ears flattened, but he endured.
“Almost done,” Law said flatly, as if reading him. “Don’t fight me. I’ll be quick.”
For a moment, Zoro almost believed it.

Then Law’s hands pushed lower.
A brush over his inner thigh. Fingers pressing with the same detached firmness. “Check for scar tissue. Internal damage. Healed incorrectly before.”
It did not matter who his master was. He was just a toy- their play thing, to use and discard as they wish.
Something cracked in Zoro’s chest.
The room vanished.
He wasn’t here, on a table with Mihawk looming. He was back there—cold stone floors, shadows crawling, voices jeering. Hold him down. Break him in. Useless if he fights too much. The pain, the choking, the helpless burn of being torn open.
His body convulsed. He thrashed against the restraints, violent enough to tear his wrists raw. His tail lashed wildly, ears ringing.
“DON’T! Don’t touch me there! I’ll do anything—plea—I’m sorry—I’m sorry—!” His words were a broken chant, spilling fast, desperate, unfiltered.
Law’s eyes flicked up, the faintest crease in his brow.
He adjusted his touch, gentler now, pausing instead of pressing. “I’m not here to harm you.” His voice was even, clipped, but softer than before. “Focus on your breathing.”
But Zoro couldn’t.
He gasped like he was drowning, fighting invisible hands. His whole body was shaking, begging not at the doctor but at Mihawk—always at Mihawk. “Master—ple-ase, don’t leave me! Don’t let him—don’t—”
Mihawk moved then, swift and absolute.
One hand clamped over Zoro’s chest, pinning him down not in cruelty but in possession. The other cupped the back of his head, fingers threading into damp green hair. “Enough,” Mihawk said, low, sharp, commanding. “Look at me.”
Zoro’s wild eyes snapped toward him, pupils blown wide.
“You are mine,” Mihawk said, slow and deliberate, golden gaze holding him there. “No one touches you without my leave. Not even a doctor. Do you understand?”
Zoro’s chest heaved, breath shuddering. “…Y-Yes…” His voice cracked, tail curling miserably against the table leg.
Mihawk’s thumb stroked once over his temple, grounding, before he looked at Law. “Be quick.”
Law gave the faintest nod, hands returning—steady, detached, gentler this time. He examined what he needed, noting scars, healed damage, but avoided lingering.
The whole time, Mihawk’s hand never left Zoro’s chest.

By the end, Zoro was trembling, soaked in sweat, but no longer thrashing. His cheek pressed against Mihawk’s shirt, seeking the weight, the steadiness, anything to anchor him in the now.
Law peeled off his gloves. “He’s stable enough. Healing, though not cleanly. You’ll need to monitor the scarring.” His gaze flicked to Zoro, unreadable. “He panics when touched in certain areas. You’ll have to account for that.”
“I will.” Mihawk’s tone was final.
Zoro didn’t hear the rest. His ears buzzed, his body limp, but one thing remained fixed in his mind: Mihawk’s voice, sharp and absolute—You are mine. No one touches you without my leave.
For the first time, the words didn’t chain him.
They steadied him.
Law stripped off his gloves with a snap, tossing them into the bin. His eyes lingered on Zoro, still trembling under Mihawk’s hold, stitches leaking where the struggle had torn them.
“…Complications,” he muttered, voice even but edged. “Not just the physical trauma. Prolonged abuse—of his kind in particular—rewires the body’s responses. Makes restraint, even examination, register as threat. You saw it.”
Mihawk’s gaze sharpened. “I did.”
Law’s gaze flicked to the movement, then back to Mihawk. “You’ll need to decide whether that’s manageable. He won’t trust easily. Might never. But forcing compliance will undo whatever progress you think you’ve made.”
A heavy silence settled.
Then Mihawk inclined his head once, curt. “I’ll manage.”
Law’s eyes darkened as he traced Zoro’s trembling form. “ It's crucial he never submits out of fear alone. A body under duress like his… it fights itself. Heart races, lungs constrict, muscles lock. The nervous system floods with adrenaline and cortisol until—” He paused, letting the weight of the implication hang. “it can literally shut down. Organs fail. Collapse. It sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen it happen.”
Zoro flinched at the words, ears twitching. Mihawk’s hand shifted, steadying him, a silent reminder of grounding.
Law continued, calm but sharp. “Submission must be chosen, even when it’s reluctant. Otherwise, every command, every touch, becomes a trigger. Not just pain—actual physical danger. Fear alone can kill him. Your training, your care, it’s not just discipline. It’s life support.”
He scribbled a note, the tip of his pen pressing firmly. “Diet, rest, and careful monitoring. High-protein meals for tissue repair. Electrolytes and fluids to counter stress-induced depletion. Gentle stretching to maintain circulation. Controlled exposure to training stimuli. Every day, measure vitals. Heart, respiration, temperature—do not let him mask panic behind obedience. It will betray him.”
Mihawk’s jaw tightened slightly at the list, reading it aloud mentally. Each instruction wasn’t punishment—it was a map to survival..”
Mihawk’s gaze softened fractionally at that, though his tone remained firm when he finally spoke. “I understand. No shortcuts. No fear-based submission.”
Law nodded once, crisp. “Good. Because if you break that rule, if anyone breaks that rule… it won’t be punishment that stops him. It’ll be the system shutting itself down. And neither of you wants that.”
Zoro’s eyes widened slightly, still pressed against Mihawk’s chest, hearing words he had never understood fully before. His ears twitched; for the first time, fear and safety were tangled so closely he couldn’t separate them.
Mihawk’s hand rubbed along Zoro’s back, steadying, grounding. Even as Law detailed the dangers, Mihawk’s presence reminded him: trust, not fear, was the only path forward.

Law’s voice still echoed like steel in Mihawk’s skull as the door closed behind them: If you leave him alone to spiral, he’ll break in ways even I can’t put back together.
The carriage wheels rumbled over the cobbled path, steady, unhurried.
Zoro sat pressed against Mihawk’s side, body slack with exhaustion. His wrists bore red welts from the restraints, his stitches were tugged fresh and sore, but the real ache was deeper—buried under his skin, knotted in places no doctor could stitch closed.
He should’ve pulled away. Should’ve sat rigid, defiant, snarling about his pride.
Instead, his fingers clutched at the dark fabric of Mihawk’s coat, weak but unyielding. His ears twitched nervously at every bump of the carriage, tail curled tight around his leg like a shield.
Mihawk allowed it.
One arm was draped casually over the back of the seat, but his other hand rested firm on Zoro’s shoulder, weight intentional. Not gentle, not tender—possessive. A claim written into the lines of his body.
The silence stretched. Zoro’s breaths came shallow, shivering when the memory of Law’s gloved hands flickered in his mind. He pressed his forehead harder into Mihawk’s chest as though trying to bury it, muffling a sound that was half-whimper, half-growl.
Mihawk’s golden gaze lowered, unreadable. He felt the minute tremors, the way Zoro clung without thinking.
The boy’s trembling gradually dulled, His voice cracked once more, a hoarse whisper: “I’m sorry… I’ll be good… don’t hurt me.”
The words burned hotter in Mihawk’s chest than he cared to admit. He shifted his hold, drawing Zoro tighter against him until the boy’s cheek was pressed directly over his heart. The steady rhythm of Mihawk’s pulse worked slowly, inevitably, against the chaos of Zoro’s breathing.
Minutes stretched. The kemonomimi’s fists unclenched, his shuddering stilled, and at last he sagged, the weight of his body gone heavy with sleep. Mihawk sat in silence, unmoving, one hand resting firm on Zoro’s spine as though to keep the demons at bay.
Only when the carriage rocked into the castle gates did Mihawk allow himself a breath.
The boy would wake still broken. Still afraid. But tonight proved something undeniable: in the depth of his panic, he had not fled. He had clung.
And that was the first step in binding him, utterly, to his master.
The carriage ride had left Zoro half-asleep, leaning limply against Mihawk. His ears flicked, tail coiling lazily, as the kemonomimi rested, body warm and pliant in Mihawk’s steady hold. Step by step, Mihawk carried him through the castle, each footfall deliberate, grounding.
Zoro stirred when Mihawk reached the west wing, blinking sleep from his eyes.
Zoro’s eyes snapped open as Mihawk approached the west wing, the sight of the master’s room igniting a flash of anger and fear.
“No! I’m not going in there!” he barked, pushing against Mihawk’s chest with surprising strength, claws scraping against the fabric. His ears flattened, tail whipping violently as he tried to shove past, his voice sharp.
“Zoro, stop,” Mihawk said calmly, though his hands were already reaching to guide the boy back. But Zoro surged forward, heart hammering, muscles coiling like springs—he wanted out, to flee before the weight of expectation and past trauma crushed him.
For a moment, it seemed he might reach the door. But Mihawk’s hands closed gently yet firmly around his waist, lifting him with practiced precision. Zoro kicked and struggled, growls escaping his throat. “I—Let me go!”
He should’ve known this would happen. He broke all the rules at the doctor’s visit, all the training from yesterday. He deserves to be punished, that did not stop him from trying to break free.
Mihawk ignored the protests, carrying him back toward the bed. “You will not be harmed unnecessarily,” he murmured, his voice a steady anchor against Zoro’s storm. He set Zoro down carefully, the kemonomimi sprawling against the mattress, trembling with rage and fear.
Zoro’s breath hitched, and then it broke into sobs. He curled inward, ears pressed flat, tail coiling protectively, hands clutching at the blanket. “Please! Please don’t… don’t touch me! I—I’m sorry! I’ll be good! I’ll behave! I’m sorry, please!” His voice cracked, desperation echoing in every word.
Mihawk knelt beside him for a moment, brushing a hand through his damp hair, fingers gentle along tense muscles. He did not enter the bed; he did not crowd him. Instead, he let Zoro’s sobs settle into shaky breaths, holding the space for him to release fear safely. The blanket was tucked snugly around the trembling body, the kemonomimi finally beginning to ebb from the peak of panic, though tremors still ran through him.

He is fragile, but not broken. He will learn restraint, trust, and control—not through fear alone, but through careful guidance, Mihawk thought, eyes on the kemonomimi curled against the mattress. With a final, quiet adjustment of the blanket and a gentle stroke along his shoulders, Mihawk rose and stepped back, leaving Zoro to find the fragile edge of calm in the quiet.
The room was quiet, save for Zoro’s uneven breaths slowly evening out. Mihawk, moving with the same deliberate calm that had guided him through the storm of the kemonomimi’s panic, retrieved a leather-bound book from a nearby shelf. He lowered himself into the chair across from the bed, eyes flicking to Zoro as he opened the cover, letting the faint rustle of pages fill the space.
Zoro’s ears twitched once, then relaxed slightly, tail slowly uncurling from the tight coil around himself. The tension in his shoulders eased just enough that his fists unclenched, releasing the blanket. He didn’t speak, didn’t move—only let himself exist under Mihawk’s steady gaze, drawing what small comfort he could from the familiar presence.

Minutes passed. Mihawk observed quietly, noting the subtle changes in Zoro’s posture, the gradual softening of his breathing. Once he was certain the kemonomimi had stopped trembling, he closed the book with a soft thud and set it aside. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted to the edge of the bed and lowered himself to sit beside Zoro.
The movement was careful, non-threatening. Zoro’s eyes flicked up at him, ears twitching once in alertness, but he did not panic. Instead, he remained still, tail brushing gently against Mihawk’s leg in a tentative, almost testing gesture.
“You’re calm,” Mihawk said quietly, almost a statement to himself rather than a comment for Zoro.
The kemonomimi didn’t respond immediately, only letting his body sink slightly into the mattress, a small shiver running through him as the adrenaline of panic continued to fade. Minutes more passed in silence, punctuated only by the gentle ambient sounds of the house.
Eventually, Zoro’s eyelids drooped. Exhaustion set deep into his bones. He shifted closer, resting his head against Mihawk’s shoulder, tail coiling lightly around his master’s thigh. The warmth, the solidity of Mihawk’s presence, allowed him to relax completely for the first time since the panic had begun. Mihawk draped a blanket over both of them, one hand running along Zoro’s back and shoulders in a slow, soothing motion.
As Zoro’s breathing deepened and his body melted into the rhythm of sleep, Mihawk remained still, thinking quietly. He’s beginning to trust—not blindly, but intentionally. Every moment of panic met with patience, every trembling response met with steadiness. This is the foundation. From here, he will learn control, and the edge of fear will become a tool, not a weapon against him.

The kemonomimi slept soundly against him, and Mihawk allowed himself the smallest nod of approval before closing his eyes, maintaining his vigilant presence beside Zoro, ensuring that the fragile calm was protected.
Zoro’s fever spiked again in the night, his body trembling beneath the blankets. Even as sleep clung to him, muscles tight and twitching from residual panic, Mihawk shifted beside him, a quiet, grounding presence. The kemonomimi’s ears flicked restlessly, tail coiled uneasily around the bed, but he did not wake fully—Mihawk’s steady breathing and warmth offered a tether, a silent assurance that he wasn’t alone.
Mihawk’s hand absently brushed along Zoro’s back, adjusting the blanket and smoothing his hair, ensuring the pet remained settled. No words were spoken; no pressure, no reprimand. Only the firm, careful touch of a master monitoring his charge. Zoro’s fevered body responded slowly, the tremors easing under the constant, quiet attention, his breathing gradually evening out.
Hours passed in this unbroken stillness. When the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, Zoro stirred, blinking against the soft brightness. The reality of the morning and his own weakened state hit him, and he slipped silently from the bed. His knees hit the floor with a muffled scrape, and his tail twitched nervously as he lowered himself instinctively into a submissive kneel, unsure how to act after the night’s ordeal.

He glanced back at the bed—Mihawk, still half-asleep, hadn’t noticed his absence. Zoro’s chest tightened with a mix of relief and lingering panic. His paws fumbled over the floor, ears flat against his head as he sank lower, trying to make himself small, careful not to provoke any reaction.
When Mihawk’s eyes finally flickered open, the sharp awareness in them cut through his sleep. He sat up instantly, gaze sweeping the room. “Where are you?” he asked, voice calm but edged with authority.
Zoro’s tail twitched nervously, ears folding back. “I—I was… just… kneeling” His voice cracked, the uncertainty spilling out. He stayed on his knees, body tense, waiting for judgment, heart hammering in the residual haze of fever and fear.
Mihawk’s sharp gaze softened slightly, reading the tension, the trembling muscles, the subtle signs of panic. He stood, crossing the room, “Why are you kneeling on the floor?” he asked, voice gentler but edged with authority.
Zoro’s ears flattened against his head, tail twitching anxiously. “I… I don’t want to… break any more rules, Master,” he murmured, voice small, hesitant. “I—I thought… maybe… I shouldn’t be on the bed without permission.”
Mihawk’s gaze softened as he regarded him. “You are not being punished. You are sick, weak. There is no rule against resting where you are safe.” He shifted slightly, brushing a hand over Zoro’s shoulder. “Your body needs warmth. You need rest. That is not disobedience.”
Zoro’s chest heaved with a shaky breath, the tension slowly uncoiling under Mihawk’s steady hand. He allowed his ears to relax slightly, tail easing its coil. “I… I’m sorry, Master,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I… I just… I don’t want to… make things worse.”
Mihawk crouched slightly, eyes level with him. “You do not need to apologize for trusting me,” he said firmly.
“Rest,” Mihawk said simply, brushing a hand over Zoro’s shoulders and along his back. “You are not yet ready to face the day.”
Zoro blinked, swallowing the knot in his throat. Slowly, hesitantly, he allowed himself to be guided back to the bed. Mihawk tucked the blankets around him, his hand moving along Zoro’s back and shoulders, tracing gentle, grounding lines. The kemonomimi melted slightly into the warmth and steady pressure, tail coiling loosely against his legs, body finally beginning to relax.

Zoro exhaled shakily, letting the calm of Mihawk’s tone wash over him. For the first time, he reflected fully on the kindness threaded through the master’s discipline, the way submission here was tethered to safety and care. Even in the grip of panic, he had not been abandoned. Even in the flare of his own fear, his master had held him, grounding him, protecting him from himself.

The morning light grew stronger as Zoro lay under the blankets, tail still loosely coiled, ears flicking with the slightest movements. His body no longer shook as violently, though warmth and weakness lingered in every muscle. Mihawk remained seated on the edge of the bed, eyes sharp yet patient, watching Zoro’s subtle shifts.
“You feel better?” Mihawk asked quietly, voice calm but carrying that natural edge that always made Zoro focus entirely on him.
Zoro swallowed, hesitating. “…A little, Master. My head… still feels heavy.” His ears twitched, tail brushing against the blanket in nervous rhythm.
“Good,” Mihawk said, hand brushing over Zoro’s shoulder again. “Do not strain yourself. The body must heal before any training continues.”
Zoro’s gaze dropped to his hands folded in his lap. For a long moment, he said nothing, struggling with the memory of the doctor’s examination and the panic he had felt. “…I… I never knew anyone would…” His words faltered. “…look after me like this.”
Mihawk’s lips tightened briefly, a hint of acknowledgment passing through his normally unreadable expression. “I am not your enemy,” he said flatly. “You are not to fear my presence when there is no reason to. Obedience without trust is meaningless.”
Zoro’s tail flicked in thought, ears twitching. “…I thought… I’d always be alone… punished… broken… if I slipped. If I failed…” His voice dropped to a whisper, trembling.
“You will not be left to ruin yourself,” Mihawk said firmly. “You have survived far worse than fear itself. You will survive this as well—but only if you allow the body to rest and the mind to settle.”
The kemonomimi’s chest heaved, the tension of weeks of restraint and training still pressing on him. But for the first time, he didn’t try to hide his trembling. He leaned slightly against the blankets, letting himself feel the warmth and presence of Mihawk nearby. Slowly, cautiously, he extended a hand, resting it lightly on Mihawk’s forearm.
Mihawk’s eyes flickered down, sharp but unreadable, and he let the touch remain, not moving, not commenting. The gesture alone was enough to anchor Zoro’s racing thoughts.
Minutes passed in quiet stillness. Zoro’s breathing slowly evened, tail coiling more comfortably beneath him. He began to reflect on the contrast—the terror of the doctor’s examination and the panic afterward, versus the measured, protective attention of his master. “…He… doesn’t… want to hurt me,” he thought. “Not like them. Not like before.”
And for the first time in a long while, Zoro understood that trust could feel safer than fear.