Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dawn crept slow and golden over the Flower Capital, bleeding light between the jagged teeth of rooftops crammed shoulder to shoulder. The city hadn’t yet stirred to its full din—no vendors yelling, no drunkards stumbling, no rickshaw wheels screeching—but the air already smelled of soy glaze, hot stone, and cherry blossoms rotting sweetly on the road, still damp from the night’s rain.

At the far edge of the pleasure district, just before the city gave way to wilds, a narrow road curved up a gentle hill. Cherry trees lined both sides, their petals drifting down like pale pink snow.

At the top stood a tall red gate, its paint fresh and lacquered, guarded by two quiet men in matching navy haori. Behind it, tucked into its own private estate, stood a house grander than anything below.

From the outside, it looked like an old noble’s home—though it wasn’t. This was Mama’s Teahouse. Quiet, dignified, with a curved tile roof and high eaves. A garden spread wide around the manor, with a winding path of flat stones weaving through koi ponds, stone lanterns, and trees heavy with blossoms. By day, it was peaceful. By night, the air shimmered with lanternlight and low music.

Somewhere, a shamisen played—soft and slow—as the morning sun rose, banishing the blue shadows of night. Golden beams kissed the land, making the dew atop crisp foliage glint like glass.

The teahouse itself stood tall and wide, made of smooth dark wood and pale sliding doors. The scent of incense curled through the air. On the surface, everything appeared proper, like any respectable teahouse… but deeper inside, private rooms with silk curtains and golden folding screens lined the walls. Some were small and elegant, meant for conversation, music, or games. Others were lavish and intimate, filled with cushions, lacquered furniture, and perfumes that clung to the air. And deeper still, in the basement, was a world of wicked wonders—accessible only to those rich enough to afford its pleasures.

This is Big Mom’s domain. And only the wealthiest men in Wano were ever invited inside to spend time with her prestigious girls.

…

Behind the main house, past a private bathhouse that steamed gently in the cool air, stretched a sprawling garden. Sand raked in wide, peaceful waves. Flat stones formed winding paths. Flowering trees swayed over trimmed bushes and a koi pond that rippled with gold and orange fish. A bamboo fountain filled slowly from a waterwheel and tipped forward every few seconds with a soft clack, then reset to begin again.

Further out, near the far edge of the property, lay a packed-dirt courtyard used for training. Two figures moved quickly across it—one in full uniform, one barefoot and breathless, still in sleeping clothes.

“You’re cheating, Ace!!” Luffy shouted, stumbling backward as the bamboo sword cracked hard against his arm by his elder brother.

“It’s not cheating if you’re wide open,” Ace said calmly, making no effort to hide his smirk. His hair was tied neatly back, he’s dressed in a crisp black kosode and black and white stripped hakama. Clean, sharp, and professional.

Luffy scowled, damp dirt sticking to his bare feet, dressed only in a thin and dirtied white hadajuban that clung to his skin with sweat. “You hit too hard!”

“You swing too slow.” Ace counters—followed by another strike.

Luffy yelped, hopping back, shaking out his wrist.

Their training had started before dawn, and by now Luffy was red from the ankles up with bruises and bamboo welts. His hair was coming undone from the haphazard bun now lopsided on his head, strands of hair clung across his face unflatteringly. He looked every bit the struggling younger brother—and yet he refused to back down, mouth twisted into a grimace.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Luffy muttered, glaring.

Ace smiled. “Little bit.”

Luffy lunged again, face set with fire, teeth bared in frustration. His swing came fast, but not fast enough—Ace pivoted just slightly, stepping past the blow with ease. In the same fluid motion, he brought his own sword down hard, striking the center of Luffy’s back with a whack that echoed across the quiet garden.

Luffy went down with a grunt, landing face-first in the cold muck at the edge of the training yard. His arms sprawled out, legs tangled beneath him.

“Alright,” Ace said breezily, resting the tip of his bamboo sword against the ground, “That’s enough for today.”

Luffy groaned into the mud. “That hurt.”

“Good. Means you’ll remember it next time.” Ace bent down and offered a hand, but Luffy just flopped over onto his back with a scowl.

“Mama’s gonna be up soon,” Ace added, already turning toward the shed. “You know she doesn’t like it when you train. Says it’s unladylike.”

“She’s unladylike,” Luffy muttered, sitting up to wipe the sludge from his face with the sleeve of his soaked hadajuban. He spat out a cherry petal.

Ace rolled his eyes. “Come on. I’ll hose you off.”

…

Behind the green shed, the hose water came out ice-cold. Luffy yelped loud enough to startle birds from the trees as the spray hit his back.

“Hold still,” Ace ordered, moving the stream up his brother’s legs, rinsing off mud and dead leaves. Luffy twitched violently and cursed under his breath, hugging himself with both arms as the cold ran down his spine.

“It’s freezing!” Luffy complained, hopping from foot to foot. “You’re trying to kill me!”

“Better than Mama doing it when she sees mud on her tatami.”

Ace was thorough, but quick. He turned off the hose and tossed Luffy a faded towel from the hook inside the shed. “Bathhouse. Now. you need a proper bathing.”

Luffy shivers, through chattering teeth he mutters, “Bossy, niichan…”

…

The air inside the bathhouse was blessedly warm. Steam clung to the walls and windows, rising from the great stone tub that filled the center of the tiled room. Water sloshed gently with the flow of the bamboo fountain nearby.

Luffy stood at one of the small washing stations, completely bare, scrubbing mud from his legs with a worn cloth. His body was lean, delicate in a way that had been trained into him. His waist was unnaturally cinched, red marks still faintly indenting his skin from the corset he wore every day. Fresh welts crisscrossed his back and arms, a few already darkening purple.

His hair, unbound, hung wet down his back. Dark strands curled softly at the ends, clinging to his shoulder blades as he worked soap into his skin. The scent of almond and vanilla wafted through the steam.

From the open doorway, Ace leaned casually against the wood frame, keeping watch like always. His voice carried through the haze.

“You remember the customs, right? When dealing with a Shogun?”

Luffy huffed. “Duh, I know.”

“I’m serious, Luffy.”

“So am I!” He shot back, scrubbing his arms more aggressively. “I know how to act! Don’t treat me like I’m dumb! You’re the dumb one, Ace-niichan.”

“Hmph.” Ace didn’t sound convinced. “This isn’t like Oden. This one’s from the north. They say the Shogun of Flevance has ice in his blood. He’s not some happy-go-lucky drunk with a love for dance parties.”

“I know,” Luffy groaned, rolling his eyes. “I’m not stupid.”

“You’re something,” Ace muttered. Then, after a pause, “Just remember what you are here. You’re one of Mama’s prized little dolls. You smile, you bow, you charm. If he speaks to you, you use the proper words and be on your BEST behavior. Better than you ever have been in your life. And do NOT touch the Shogun.”

Luffy chucked a bar of soap at his brother. It missed by a mile and clattered harmlessly against the wall, “I KNOW! Shut up!”

Ace sighed and didn’t move from the doorway. “Really? Tell me the proper procedure. What would you do if you walked into a room with the Shogun of Flevance?”

Luffy stopped scrubbing and gave an exaggerated sigh, clearly annoyed—but still thoughtful, “I bow. Knees, not just waist. Don’t look him in the eye unless he speaks to me. Keep my hands folded. Speak softly. Call him Shogun-Sama, or Kakka if its real serious. Compliment his clothes, or whatever. Let him talk first.”

Ace raised a brow. “What if he touches you?”

“Depends how,” Luffy muttered, frowning, “Either way, don’t flinch or look at him unless he asks me to… but if he does touch me, later I’d pour tea down his pants and say it was an accident.”

Ace is struck with a terrible foreboding at his little brother’s words, “Luffy.”

“I’m kidding Ace-niichan, lighten up!” Luffy said, scrubbing behind his ears with exaggerated innocence. “I’ll be good. Promise. Shishishi~!”

Ace didn’t believe him for a second.

Still, he exhaled, eyes drifting toward the mist curling across the warm tiles. “He gets here around noon, so all of us will be outside to greet the carriage. Stay back unless you’re called.”

“I know,” Luffy repeated, slower this time, like he was trying not to snap.

Ace finally stepped back from the door. “Finish up. There’s a lot to do before noon.”

Luffy waited until he was gone before huffing out another breath and scrubbing the last of the soap from his collarbones. “Stupid niichan,” Luffy muttered. “Like I’d mess this up…”

He scrubbed harder, as if he could wash away the doubt clinging to his skin.

---

The afternoon sun spilled lazily over Mogura Port, casting a golden sheen across the water that shimmered like coins tossed into a wishing well. Pale grey clouds drifted high above, thin and stretched out, veiling the sky without fully concealing it. The air was warm, thick with the scent of salt and distant fish markets. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries echoing faintly over the clatter of chains and shifting wood.

From the center of the harbor, the sea entrance groaned to life—a great mechanical platform rising slow and smooth from beneath the surface, lifting several ships through the hidden canal that fed into the city. Steam hissed from vents along the stone walls as seawater streamed off the rising vessels in rivulets. Once the platform met the dock, the water leveled out, granting the ships passage to port.

Shogun Oden stood at the edge of the dock, flanked by his retainers. He was easy to spot—even without his title, the man practically radiated color and charisma. His kimono was a vivid splash of orange and crimson, patterned with golden waves and floral crests. A thick shimenawa—woven rope, white and purple—was tied around his torso, the bow large and loose at his back. His obi sat low on his hips, exposing his broad chest and muscular legs more from comfort than pride. A pair of swords hung at his hip, gleaming faintly in the sun, but not one wrinkle creased his smile. He looked less like a shogun and more like a festival banner come to life, grinning with easy delight, his topknot bouncing as he shifted with anticipation.

“Here they come!” he said, voice carrying easily above the din of the port.

“Please, Oden-sama,” Kin’emon murmured behind him, clearly strained. “You must mind your manners with Trafalgar-dono. These talks are… delicate.”

“I am minding them,” Oden said cheerfully, still waving to the approaching ships. “See? I’m smiling!”

The largest vessel docked with a deep creak and hiss—sleek and yellow, its hull painted with a sharp black underbelly and a subtle jolly roger motif. Unlike the others, it had no sail or mast, its structure more submarine than ship. A mechanical ramp unfolded with a soft clunk against the dock, and the crew moved swiftly on deck.

The Shogun of Flevance was the first to descend.

He walked in calm, deliberate strides, his sword Kikoku resting along his shoulder. His presence was quiet but commanding, and he was flanked by his personal guard—Shachi, Penguin, and Bepo—each clad in lacquered black armor with distinct animal-themed masks: a polar bear, a penguin, and a killer whale. Their armor was sharp-edged and ceremonial, a contrast to the loose, colorful garb of the Wano samurai. Behind them followed a column of masked servants, each carrying intricately made chests and bundles with precise, silent efficiency.

Law himself was dressed for both formality and wariness. His kimono was black, crisp and minimal, with his clan’s crest embroidered in white at the chest, shoulders, and center of the back. Over it, he wore a maroon haori trimmed in gold, with a repeating floral pattern stitched delicately across the hem. The crest was emblazoned large in gold on the back. And on his head, in place of a traditional shogunal eboshi, he wore a soft white cap with a fluffy bill and irregular black spots.

It looked warm. And ridiculous. But no one dared laugh.

Oden strode forward with a booming laugh, arms open wide like he intended to embrace the younger shogun on sight. “Welcome! Welcome to Wano!” he called. “You must be Trafalgar-dono! I’m honored! I’ve heard good things—very good things! And you made excellent time! I like that in a man!”

Law halted at the base of the ramp, golden eyes passing over the informal state of the Shogun of Wano with a flicker of distain showed by a twitch of his lip, “Kozuki-sama-ya,” he said flatly. “I appreciate your hospitality.”

He gestured with a tilt of his head to the line of servants behind him. “I’ve brought gifts. A tea cultivated only in Flevance—one of my personal favorites. And, considering your recent trade difficulties… medical supplies. Our finest.”

His tone was perfectly measured—polite, but with no warmth behind it. His eyes, cool and sharp, remained fixed on Oden without yielding. Behind him, his samurai were motionless, Bepo’s paw near the hilt of his blade. Every movement of Oden’s was met with restrained suspicion.

But Oden didn’t flinch. Instead, he burst into another hearty laugh and clapped a firm hand on Law’s shoulder like they were old friends.

The weight of Oden’s hand landed solid on Law’s shoulder—far too familiar, far too casual for their first meeting.

Law’s jaw tensed. A low “Tch,” slipped from his lips as his shoulder shifted beneath the contact, just enough to shrug the man off without outright offense. He didn’t meet Oden’s gaze, but the look he aimed sideways at the offending hand was sharp enough to slice tendon. His scowl deepened a fraction.

Oden, utterly unfazed, only grinned wider.

“Ahahaha! You’re stiff, Trafalgar-dono,” he boomed, already turning and waving an arm toward the far end of the port. “Come, come! Let’s get you out of the cold—a bit nippy out today! There’s a carriage waiting, and a damn good lunch at the end of it. You’re going to love this place!”

The Wano guards parted as their shogun passed through, Kin’emon sighing quietly behind him like he’d aged ten years. Law hesitated, glancing back at his samurai. They didn’t move until he did, and even then, their steps were cautious, alert, as if they still half-expected an ambush in this disarmingly cheerful welcome.

Oden strode ahead without worry, calling over his shoulder, “You’ll be staying in the Eastern Teahouse Estate! Beautiful gardens, STUNNING staff, and more than a few hidden luxuries—heh, you seem like someone who appreciates privacy!”

Law’s eyes narrowed, gaze trailing after the broad-shouldered shogun bounding up the port steps like a dog off leash. He resisted the urge to sigh.

Law said nothing as he followed the larger man up the stone path, his geta clicking softly beneath the chatter and bustle of port activity. The crisp chill in the air bit against his exposed skin, his cheeks and neck, but he barely noticed. His eyes stayed fixed on Oden’s back, watching the exaggerated swing of his arms, the way he greeted passing dockhands by name, his laugh always just beneath the surface.

He’s careless, Law thought. Or wants to seem that way.

He’d done his research. What kind of fool would he be if he hadn’t before coming into enemy territory in the name of so called peace talks. Kozuki Oden was widely adored in Wano—beloved, even. Charismatic to a fault. The kind of leader who led from the front with a smile, whose indulgences were legendary. Law knew of the man’s vices. The pleasure district was said to be his second home. Lavish spending. Late nights. Flamboyant displays. No shame.

And now he was offering Law his own private estate in that very district as a guest.

A calculated move, Law decided. Hospitality as distraction. Generosity to breed complacency. Or perhaps flattery, to put me off-balance. He either wants me charmed… or compromised.

Still, Law couldn’t dismiss the possibility that this was simply who Oden was. A larger-than-life man who didn’t separate diplomacy from pleasure. If this was his way of honoring a guest, then rejecting it outright could come off as disrespectful. And Law couldn’t afford to alienate him—not yet.

He glanced up at the estate carriage now visible at the top of the hill. Ornate, wide enough to carry them all, and drawn by two impressively groomed oxen, their horns polished to a sheen.

A warm welcome. Lavish setting. Loose formality.

If this is all a ruse, Law thought, it’s a well-practiced one. And that’s more dangerous than incompetence… ruse or not, I have to risk it, put on a smile in the face of his idiocy. My country needs an alliance. We won’t survive on our own against Alabasta’s forces, and they’re getting closer to Flevance.

He said nothing. Just kept walking, his haori swaying with each careful step. His samurai flanked him silently, tense and watchful.

Oden turned again with another wide grin, gesturing toward the open carriage door. “After you, Trafalgar-dono! We’ll ride up through the ridge—best view in all of Wano! And tonight, I’ll make you my specialty. Boiled oden! No one makes it like me, I swear on my swords!”

Law didn’t answer. He gave a small, unreadable nod and stepped into the carriage.

Let the fool believe he’d made a good impression. The real game hadn’t even begun yet.

---

The teahouse estate sat nestled against the inner curve of the ridge, a grand, multi-tiered compound wrapped in painted latticework and rich, sloping eaves. Ornamental cherry trees lined the outer path, blooming pale against the crisp afternoon air despite the season.

At the estate’s threshold, an entire line of geisha stood poised in perfect silence—faces powdered, mouths painted, hands folded demurely before them. Their kimonos created a shifting pattern of color down the front steps, blues and silvers and rose-pink layers almost indistinguishable from one another at a distance. A haze of incense drifted lazily from the veranda.

But even among the elegant uniformity, one figure stood out.

Not for being tall, or boisterous, or badly dressed—in fact, the opposite. Her kimono was a subdued gradient of warm earth tones, her posture obedient, her face lowered as expected. But the straw hat slung around her neck by a thin red cord broke the illusion of seamless formality. Its presence was jarring. Informal. Brazen.

Luffy.

And of course, Linlin noticed.

From behind the line of girls, Big Mom’s presence loomed like a shrine pillar. She was not dressed to seduce—she was dressed to rule. Her robes were thick with embroidery, storm-colored and sleeved in midnight plum, the collar trimmed with white fox fur. Hair piled high in glistening coils, decorated with lacquered pins and golden combs. Her face bore the weight of power, matriarchal and ageless, more queen than courtesan.

She swept her gaze down the line, appraising each girl with the scrutiny of a chef examining knives. But her eyes narrowed when they reached the straw hat.

“Oi, brat,” Linlin muttered, stepping down from the porch with a heavy click of her geta. She came to stand in front of Luffy, thick fingers reaching without gentleness to adjust the kanzashi pin in the dark, tucked-up katsura. Her palm lingered a moment, tugging Luffy’s chin up just enough to look into those stubborn, grey-ringed eyes.

“Fix your face. And behave yourself,” she said, voice low. “Do you understand me? Embarrass me and it’ll be the last thing you do.”

Luffy blinked once, slow. His mouth quirked like he might talk back. But he didn’t. “Yes, Mama,” he said, dragging the word with a sleepy lilt. “I’ll behave.”

Linlin scowled. But she straightened, satisfied enough, and turned her attention elsewhere.

Above them, a conch horn blew—deep, ceremonial, resonating through the trees like a warning.

The carriage was approaching.

From the front of the estate, Shanks stepped calmly into view, arms tucked inside his haori. His crimson hair was tied back, and his attire was simple: dark, well-fitted robes with a subtle thread pattern, clean lines, and not a single piece of armor to be seen. Gryphon rested sheathed at his hip, but he carried no outward tension.

Ace was beside him—less composed, but imitating his teacher’s stance with a kind of deliberate effort.

Shanks leaned slightly to murmur something into Ace’s ear about relaxing as the ox-drawn carriage rounded the final bend.

The vehicle came to a slow stop in front of the teahouse gate. Ornate, polished, and unmistakably high-born. The oxen huffed clouds into the chilly air. One of the servants leapt down first to set the step, and then—

The door opened.

Eyes down. Heads bowed. The line of geisha bent in practiced unison.

And Luffy, the straw hat still slung around his neck, bowed too—deep and silent. But his eyes… they flicked up. Just for a second. Just to see.

Just to know.

The carriage creaked to a gentle halt at the stone courtyard outside the teahouse estate. It was a broad space, framed by manicured trees and lanterns hung from thick red cords, and the air was tinged with the faint scent of incense—sweet, smoky, unmistakably expensive.

As the oxen snorted and stilled, the estate’s doors had already been thrown open.

The girls stood at perfect attention beneath the eaves, heads bowed low in deep saikeirei. At the front of the formation stood Shanks, with Ace to his side, and Linlin next to them.

Shanks gave a formal bow—deep, but brief—before stepping forward in welcome as the carriage doors opened.

From within, Oden leapt down first with a booming laugh. “Hah! I knew it! Nothing’s changed—still the most stunning place in Wano!” he crowed, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the estate itself. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Shanks-dono!”

Shanks smiled with practiced ease and bowed again, one step lower. “It’s only been a couple of weeks,” There is a hint of teasing in Shanks’ tone, quickly masked with formality, “but we’re honored by your return, Kozuki-sama,” he said smoothly. “And doubly honored by the guest you bring.”

Oden grinned back and turned with theatrical flair to gesture toward the open door of the carriage, the retainers of both Shogun have already exited, “Come on out, Trafalgar-dono! Don’t be shy!”

Law was a little stunned in place, staring from his seat through the side window at the massive woman that runs the place. His composure is broken for a moment, mouth agape. There were no such giant women in his homeland—and he thought ODEN was tall!

Upon hearing Oden call for him, Law snaps out of his shocked trance and reigns in his composure. He rises from his seat and grabs Kikoku, steps down next, deliberate and composed, his haori fluttering behind him in the breeze. His gaze swept over the courtyard, calculating and cool.

Shanks waited until both men stood outside the carriage before pivoting to gesture toward the host, “And may I present your hostess: Lady Charlotte Linlin.”

Linlin lifted her chin, mouth pulled in the slightest of smiles, “Shogun Kozuki. Shogun Trafalgar. Welcome,” she said simply, “Your retainers will be staying in our west quarters, our finest. I do hope the accommodations will be to your liking.”

Law bowed with precisely the depth expected of someone in his rank, which is merely a nod of his head—no more, no less, “Your hospitality is noted, Charlotte-sama,” he said smoothly.

“Of course,” she said with a gracious tilt of her head. “Shanks will show you to your quarters—”

Linlin is interrupted by Oden’s jovial exclamation, “—Lunch first! The servants can bring your things to your quarters and you can reunite with them after we eat! You must be starved!”

Linlin and Shanks both look a bit surprised and tense from Oden’s stray from formality, worrying with baited breath that the other shogun may not respond well.

Law’s brows draw inward tighter, he’s intentionally breaking protocol. Is this power play? Or disrespect? Or just his eccentricity? Despite his wariness, Law doesn’t make a fuss about the order of things, and looks over his shoulder at his retainers gives them a nod to proceed.

Shanks lets out his breath, visibly, the tension leaves him. He smiles at the three, “Right this way, gentlemen.” He leads them into the estate.

Meanwhile, the staff around and girls remained bowed as the entourage passed. No one lifted their head. The shogun have not passed or acknowlaged them yet.

Almost no one. Luffy’s curious eyes are sneaking glances, staring at the newcomers with curiosity.

Linlin takes the lead with Shanks’ departure, “The o-zashiki is prepared for lunch, allow me to show the way,” And she turns and heads up the steps of the estate toward the large open doors.

And it was then that Law’s eyes flicked briefly across the assembly—sweeping over the painted faces, the immaculately tied obi, the gleam of combs and colorful fabric.

A few stood out almost immediately. Tall women, not as tall as Linlin, but TALL, then the girl with bright orange hair. The two tallest girls and the red-head all have their hair pulled into an elegant updo far bolder than their peers. Oirans, clearly.

And another…

A figure at the far end, less radiant, but stranger still. Not the most beautiful, not the best-dressed—but with a straw hat hanging casually from her neck—Luffy’s eyes had hastily darted to the ground just before Law’s landed on him.

Weird… I’ve never seen a geisha with a straw hat before.  His gaze lingered there, just a moment too long while they passed by.

Oden slapped him on the back, and the moment broke.

Oden strode beside Law with his usual boisterous energy, waving at the teahouse girls like old friends. “This place is one of my favorites, y’know! The company here—oof, second to none! Smart, strong, beautiful—dangerous, too!” he added with a wink over his shoulder at Law. “You’ll see what I mean! I so hope you enjoy their company as much as I do! Hahaha!”

Law gave the faintest of hums in response. He didn’t rise to the bait.

They reached the entrance of the estate, where the geisha and staff finally rose in perfect unison—smooth as a tide pulling back to sea. The coordinated motion was graceful, flawless, like a ritual rehearsed a hundred times—though there is one weak link in the lineup, a bow that concluded and lifted their head just a heartbeat too soon before returning to posture—but it went unnoticed.

---

The o-zashiki sat nestled at the rear of the estate, a private, elevated room reserved for honored guests. Its shoji walls opened onto a manicured garden path, where white pebbles curled like rivers between mossy stones and lanterns glowed faintly under the shade of slender maples. Inside, tatami mats stretched wall to wall, perfectly swept and smelling of fresh food and sandalwood incense. The room was softly lit with afternoon light and floor lanterns shaded in rice paper, casting everything in a warm amber hue.

At the center, a low lacquered dining table had been laid for four. Each guest’s place was marked with meticulous care: seasonal flowers arranged in a small ceramic vase, hand-painted porcelain bowls, and a set of lacquered chopsticks resting on carved jade holders. The air smelled faintly of grilled fish, fresh rice, and simmering broth. A golden folding screen depicting cranes in flight stood near the far wall—behind which the silhouette of a single geisha now sat, poised and quiet with a shamisen resting against her shoulder.

Oden lounged comfortably on his cushion at one end of the table, already well into his meal. His laugh echoed off the paper walls as he slapped Kin’emon on the back—his retainer sat stiffly beside him, clearly trying not to sigh.

Across from them sat Law, posture straight and dignified, legs folded beneath him with practiced formality. Bepo knelt just slightly behind to his right, quiet and attentive, eyes scanning the room with polite curiosity.

It was Oden who’d asked for music. And Linlin, always eager to impress, had sent her best: Nico Robin, a geisha of quiet beauty and grace, her katsura beautifully decorated in blue and white hair accessories. She was adorned in a midnight-blue kimono embroidered in silver waves. Her fingers moved with delicate precision across the strings of her shamisen, drawing out a clear, mellow melody that filled the space like water.

“Mmmh! Now that’s music,” Oden said, lifting his bowl with both hands to drink the last of his soup. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and nodded toward the performer. “Don’t you think so, Trafalgar-dono? What a treat, eh?”

Law, mid-bite, glanced up. The music was… calming. Refined. Each note layered with intention. He set his chopsticks down briefly and nodded once. “Quite nice,” he said. Understated, but genuine.

Robin didn’t respond with words. She simply bowed her head slightly and played on, the quiet rhythm threading gently through the room.

Just then, the sliding door opened with a soft shhhh, and one of the servers entered bearing a ceramic pot, steam rising delicately from its spout. The scent reached Oden immediately, and his eyes widened.

“Ah!” he grinned, straightening. “That’s the one, isn’t it? Your gift to me! And what was it called?”

The server knelt and poured, the aroma now unmistakable—herbs, pine, something sweetly floral.

Law nodded. “Kräutertee,” he said. “A custom blend. I’ve added pine tips and elder flower.”

Oden inhaled the scent greedily. “How odd! Never have I had such a tea blend, I’m excited to try it!” He gave Law an approving look.

Law didn’t react. He raised his own cup, sipping the herbal brew in silence as the shamisen sang on behind them.

The room, for the moment, held a rare balance: raucous warmth on one side of the table, controlled elegance on the other—bridged by music, tea, and the kind of peace that never lasted long in places like this.

Oden took a long, slow sip of the tea.

His brows lifted first. Then his whole face changed—like the warmth had spread through him in an instant. “Ohhh,” he groaned, pleased. “That’s good. That’s really good.”

Kin’emon raised a brow, curious, but didn’t reach for his own cup yet.

Oden cradled the ceramic vessel between his broad hands, eyes still wide as he looked at Law across the table. “That’s… refreshing, and—wait—comforting? There’s a sweetness, but not cloying… What is all this?”

Law tilted his cup thoughtfully, the steam curling toward his face. “Chamomile, nettle, lemon balm, fennel, thyme. Sage. Mint.”

Oden blinked. “That’s not tea. That’s an apothecary’s list.”

“It is,” Law agreed, cool and even. “A medicinal blend. Good for digestion, and circulation. Settles the stomach. Strengthens the lungs. Especially beneficial this time of year.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Oden threw his head back and laughed, loud and full of something like awe. “Hah! You really are a doctor, huh? Shogun, swordsman, doctor, what else is there?”

Law humorlessly added, “You missed tactician.”

Oden thumped the table with his palm, making the dishes rattle as he filled the room with deep laughter. “Hahahah!! A man of many talents indeed!” He sipped again, sighing aloud. “Gods, I thought this was just a fancy drink—but you’re out here curing my whole damn constitution.”

Kin’emon looked mildly alarmed. Bepo made a faint, pleased chuff behind Law.

“I don’t prescribe it as a cure-all,” Law said. “But it helps.” His gaze flicked briefly toward Oden’s teacup. “It’s also quite palatable.”

Oden lifted his cup again, slower this time. More reverent. “Hah… So you brought me a gift that was tasty, thoughtful, and medicinal.” He grinned sideways at Kin’emon. “Tell me that doesn’t say something about this guy’s character.”

Kin’emon gave a noncommittal grunt. “It says he’s more polite than you.”

Oden laughed again, unfazed. “No, no—think about it. They say this man’s cold. Sharp as a blade. Doesn’t smile. But he brings a tea that soothes the belly and clears the lungs?” He turned back to Law with a crooked grin. “You’ve got a soft heart under all that black, Trafalgar-dono. Admit it.”

Law’s expression didn’t flicker. But he set his cup down with quiet precision.

“I’m a physician,” he said simply. “I treat what I can. When I can.”

Oden made a pleased hum deep in his chest. “You’re a hard man to read. I like that. You remind me of a cat. Always watching. Always thinking.” He exhaled like the tea had physically loosened something in his bones. “But I’ll remember this. You didn’t have to go to the trouble. And yet…”

His smile faded just a little—still fond, but weighted.

“It’s a rare thing,” he added more quietly, “to receive something made for your health instead of your pleasure.”

Across the table, Law didn’t respond. But his gaze lingered a moment longer on the steam curling from Oden’s cup before he picked his own up again.

Behind the screen, Robin’s fingers moved across the shamisen strings, drawing out a haunting variation in tone—like rain falling on garden stones.

For a while, none of them spoke. And in that silence, the tea did its work.

Oden slurped down a final sip before setting the cup aside with a satisfied breath. “That’s the stuff. Clears the head.”

He turned to Law. “You made this blend yourself?”

Law gave a small nod. “Yes. I crafted it specifically for my soldiers during winter. It’s worked wonders all these years.” His voice was even, almost clinical, but not unkind.

Oden blinked. Then grinned again. “You made medicinal tea for your men?” He let out a hearty laugh, nudging Kin’emon beside him. “And here I thought they called you the Surgeon of Death for the battlefield. Turns out you’re halfway to a monk.”

Law’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, though he seemed more irritated than amused.

“It’s a good thing,” Oden added, more serious now. “A Shogun who thinks of his men like that—it’s rare. Most of us just throw bodies at the fire and hope the wind’s on our side.” He glanced into his cup again, swirling the brew thoughtfully. “This kind of thinking—it says something about the man behind the sword.”

Oden leaned back on his hands, legs casually sprawled, as if the formality of the moment were slipping away little by little. “Tell me something, Trafalgar-dono,” he said after a beat, eyes still fixed on the golden folding screen. “How do you feel about war?”

Law was quiet for a long time. Not out of discomfort—out of calculation. Finally, he said, “I prefer not to fight. But if it’s necessary, I end it quickly.”

Oden gave a knowing nod. “Efficient. I like that.”

He leaned forward again, folding his arms on the table, grin tugging at his mouth like a child about to cause trouble. “You’ve heard what Alabasta’s been doing, haven’t you?”

Law didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both knew it’s why they were here.

Oden exhaled, glancing toward Robin still playing softly in the corner. “They’ve already sunk two of my trading vessels. And the rumors about what they’re doing in Kano Country—don’t sit right with me.” He looked back to Law. “I bet they’ve sent spies into your land, too. Am I wrong?”

Law met his eyes steadily. “No.”

“Thought so.” Oden tilted his head. “They think because we’re far apart, they can pick us off one by one. But Wano’s not so easy to breach. And Flevance… well, you’re not exactly letting them stroll through your front door, either.”

There was a long pause between them—weighty, but not hostile.

Then Oden’s voice dropped a little lower, not quite secretive but measured. “If we were allies, that’d be a different story. My weapons, your stealth. My numbers, your brains.” He tilted his cup toward Law as if in toast. “That’s a combination that could break Alabasta’s little dream before it gets any bigger.”

Law didn’t move. But the faintest crease appeared between his brows, and his hand went still around his cup.

“I’m not asking for anything now,” Oden said quickly, raising his palms. “Not while the rice is still warm and the music’s still playing. This is just a thought between two men who don’t want their people buried for someone else’s ambition.” He smiled. “We can talk later. In private. When the time’s right.” He downed the rest of his tea and let out another contented breath.

“I’d prefer we finish this in private,” Law said, annoyance threaded beneath his composure.

“Yes, I agree,” Oden added, undeterred. “But you should know—I’ve never offered this kind of thing to anyone before. I don’t like dancing around problems. I like solving them. And I like men who do the same.” He set his empty cup down. “I think you might be one of them.”

Robin’s shamisen filled the silence again, gentle and uninterrupted, like the conversation had never happened at all.

---

The corridor that led to the private wing was hushed, the tatami muffling each step. Paper lanterns glowed faintly against the lacquered wood, casting delicate shadows across the hall. This wing was far removed from where both Shoguns are now having lunch—reserved for powerful clients who still had appointments today, one of which is Roronoa Zoro.

Inside the chamber, the light was lower than usual. His preference. Zoro has a lot of preferences. Like extra sake, extra pillows, the windows covered… and so on.

A brazier burned slow in the corner. The floor table was already set: a black-lacquer tray with a porcelain sake set and a medium-sized gift box wrapped in red with a black silk bow. Several bottles of fine sake waited in an ice bucket to the side.

Zoro sat alone on the far cushion, one leg bent, the other stretched out indifferently, his swords stacked within arm’s reach. His coat had been tossed aside, leaving his torso bare beneath a thin, loosely tied yukata. The fabric was simple but high quality—deep green, subtly patterned—worn open enough to show the strength of his chest and the fresh bruising on one shoulder. His hair was still damp from an earlier bath. Casual, in his own rough way, but unmistakably yakuza: sharp, intimidating, and too at ease.

He was already pouring his first cup.

A faint rustle came from behind the shoji.

Then, silence.

And then: a soft knock—twice, followed by one more. The door slid open just enough for a slender silhouette to appear.

Luffy stepped into the room on his knees, back straight, head bowed low.  His hands rested flat against the tatami as he prostrated himself in a graceful bow that had his straw hat falling awkwardly from his back over his shoulder, his arms moving with fluid, practiced control. He held the position for a heartbeat too long—either out of respect or because he’d momentarily lost count of how many seconds he was supposed to hold it.

Then he lifted his head, eyes bright but downcast. “Forgive the wait, Roronoa-sama. Thank you for allowing me the honor of your company again tonight.” His voice was soft—still disguised into something smooth and musical. Not high, but delicately pitched.

Zoro grunted,“I don’t like when you call me that, told you already…”

“Mama asked that I still formally greet you that way… one of the girls overheard me not greet you right the other day, and I was reprimanded.” Luffy explains, then offers an apologetic smile, “It’s just for the introduction part, I promise.”

Zoro gives a placated, “Hmph…” Followed by a shift in conversation, “And you’re late.”

“I was told you’d asked me not to wear the white stuff on my face, shishi,” Luffy said playfully, “First my wig, now my makeup. You’re slowly undressing me, aren’t you, Zoro-chan?”

Zoro’s mouth twitched, barely, but he can’t fight the heat rising up his neck and flooding his cheeks, “Hmmh.”

Luffy crawled across the floor with practiced elegance, each movement slow and measured, his kimono brushing the tatami like water. He’s changed since earlier, something more bold than the subdued kimono he wore greeting the shogun. This kimono doesn’t quite fit him right and slides off his shoulder. Its crimson and gold, embroidered with tigers and chrysanthemums. His real hair had been swept up in a loose bun, with only two silver pins—modest, and could be considered unkempt  compared to the other geisha… but this is what his client prefers.

His makeup is toned down to red lipstick and matching red wings above the eyelids, simple and bold all at once.

Luffy reached the table, poured the sake, and offered Zoro the cup with both hands, head slightly bowed.

Zoro took it. Drank in one long pull. Luffy adjusts his kimono while he drinks, letting the fabric slide down both shoulders and show his pushed up chest. The corset beneath helping to give him a convincingly feminine bosom, small but respectable, and now on display.

Luffy waited until Zoro set the cup down. He doesn’t need to look to know where Zoro’s good eye is locked. Luffy smiles to himself, arrogant as he refilled it, hands steady. This time he stands with the cup and moves around the table, kneeling beside Zoro, and nestles the little cup in his cleavage.

Zoro stared. The air shifted.

Luffy didn’t say a word. He only tilted his head, eyes low, lips tugged into the faintest smile—the kind that never showed teeth but always promised danger. His chest rose ever so slightly with each breath, making the little porcelain cup wobble just enough to tempt gravity.

The sake inside shimmered.

Zoro exhaled through his nose, quiet. His good eye lingered—not on Luffy’s face, not on the teasing curl of his mouth, but on the warm skin exposed between the folds of silk and the structured lift of the corset. His fingers twitched once, then stilled.

He considered.

Slowly, Zoro reached out, not for the cup.

For Luffy.

One calloused hand cupped his shoulder—bare where the kimono had fallen, then slid up under his chin, tilting his face. His touch was rough but careful, like he knew his own strength and didn’t trust it.

Luffy blinked up at him with doe eyes that weren’t as innocent as they looked. Zoro has fallen for them more than enough times to realize that by now.

“I’m not taking that with my mouth,” Zoro muttered. “I’d hate to spill it on that kimono I got you. It was expensive, ya know…”

Luffy giggled, making the liquid in the cup slosh dangerously, “Shishishi! How do you like it on me, Zoro-san? If you hate it, maybe you can take it off.”

Zoro gave him a look. The kind that said don’t test me. His hand slipped from Luffy’s chin to the crook of his corset, curling around the rim of the sake cup.

Luffy didn’t flinch. Not at all, this is his game.

Zoro took the cup slowly, he didn’t break eye contact. He raised the cup to his lips and drank—never once looking away.

When the cup was empty, he set it down beside him on the tatami. Then his hand came back, it didn’t touch the cup again. It rested on Luffy’s thigh, fingers splayed beneath the fold of the kimono.

Luffy regards the touch with a sort of emptiness, and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The contact wasn’t new—Zoro wasn’t shy, especially not with sake warming his blood. It’s that liquid courage that made the man affectionate, grabby.

Its those same grabby hands that incidentally found out about Luffy’s closely guarded secret just a couple of months ago. A slip of the hand that went too far up his thigh.

Luffy expected outrage, for his client to storm out of the room and yell his secrets to the entire teahouse, the secret that would ruin his life… but Zoro gave a quick squeeze before his eyes had flashed with recognition and he pulled back—not with disgust, but with a deep blooming embarrassment across his face and a hasty apology with his forehead to the tatami mat. He left promptly after.

Still, Zoro kept coming. Kept putting his hands on his thighs, and Luffy didn’t mind that.

Luffy eyes the red box on the table with the black silk bow with a coy smile curling the corners of his lips. He didn’t mind at all. He leaned in, letting the silk slip farther down his arms, baring more of his back than was polite, “Is that for me?” he asks sweetly, knowing perfectly well that it was.

Zoro’s thumb brushed absentmindedly along the inside of his thigh.

“You know it is,” Zoro murmured, voice low, the color of his cheeks become rosier, “The kimono looks good on you by the way.” He adds, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully with his free hand.

Luffy tilted his head and smiled, slow and lazy. “Have you thought about what I said, Zoro-san?” He scooted closer, enough that their legs touched. “I really would make a good yakuza wife.”

Zoro went quiet.

The brazier crackled softly in the background, casting long shadows across the tatami. He didn’t move his hand from Luffy’s thigh, didn’t shy away from the proximity—but his eye drifted, unfocused, somewhere past Luffy’s shoulder. Like he was trying to line up the words in his head before letting them go.

“…I have,” he said, voice low, rough. “Thought about it.”

Luffy perked up immediately, lips parting with the start of a grin—until Zoro's hand gently squeezed his thigh again, “But I can’t give you that,” Zoro added, awkwardly. “You—can’t bear children... its expected of me.”

Luffy blinked. For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his face. Then, “I could pretend,” he said brightly, too brightly, throwing both arms dramatically around Zoro’s shoulders. “We run away to the mountains for a few months—somewhere quiet—and I wear all the big clothes, and stuff my clothes so my belly sticks out! Then boom—one day I sneak out, steal a baby, and ta-da! You’re a father!”

Zoro stared at him like he’d lost his damn mind.

Luffy pouted. “Or—or we hire a girl to get pregnant, and while she’s carrying your dumb baby, I pretend I’m the one pregnant, and we lie about it forever, and no one will ever know because we’ll be far, far away.” He gave Zoro the biggest, most ridiculous puppy eyes he could summon. “Pleaseeee?”

Zoro choked on his breath—half chuckle, half groan—and buried his face in his hand. “You’re insane.”

“It’ll work, come onnnn,” Luffy argued, nuzzling his cheek to Zoro’s like a needy cat.

Zoro laughed softly, the tension bleeding from his shoulders. He let himself relax into the moment—just for a second—and wrapped one arm loosely around Luffy’s waist, letting his other hand settle against the bare skin of his upper back.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “But…”

Luffy blinked, sensing the shift in tone.

Zoro’s voice dropped quieter. Not cold—just… honest. “You don’t love me, Mugiwara... you won’t even tell me your real name.”

Luffy pulled back slightly, eyes wide in a practiced show of innocence like he had no clue what Zoro could mean by that.

Zoro didn’t buy it. He searched Luffy’s face—soft under the warm light, natural without the white paint. The color in his cheeks was real. His skin sun-kissed. And those red-painted lips were parted, caught in a pout.

Zoro ran a rough palm up Luffy’s back, slow, almost tender. “You want my money. You want out from under Big Mom, and I’m just the dumb drunk you think you can charm into handing you the key.”

Luffy said nothing. He didn’t deny it.

Zoro smiled, small and aching. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, almost to himself. “Especially like this. Without all that paint. I like it.”

Luffy swallowed thickly. Then leaned in again, lazily. His breath tickled Zoro’s cheek. Zoro didn’t stop him. Not when Luffy pressed a light kiss to his skin, right above the curve of his jaw. A perfect red print bloomed there, warm and faintly sticky from the paint.

“I won’t run away,” Luffy whispered, pulling back just enough to watch the lipstick mark set like a brand. “Promise.”

Zoro looked at him. and he saw it. That same flicker behind Luffy’s lashes. That same tell when he lied.

Zoro’s hand moved from Luffy’s back to his waist, resting there gently. His fingers drummed once, twice, against silk.

“I’d rather you stay right where I can find you,” he said, voice low, almost tired. “Until I’m sure you really do love me. I’d hate to have a runaway bride.”

Luffy scoffed and pulled back completely, sitting on his heels with a dramatic “Hmph!” His arms crossed, pout deepening, “You’re mean,” he said, nose wrinkling. “Acting like you know everything about how I feel. It’s hurtful, Zoro-san.”

Zoro didn’t rise to the bait. He’s not here to argue with or upset Luffy. He feels a pang of sympathy for his rejection. He knew it had to come, but it was still bitter tasting on his tongue and made the air stale.

Zoro grunted as he leaned forward, intending to remedy this. He reached toward the table and grabbed the red box with the black silk ribbon, then dropped it into Luffy’s lap without ceremony.

“Open it.”

Luffy’s pout didn’t last.

He perked up immediately, all wide eyes and curious fingers. He untied the black ribbon, slow at first—then faster when the scent reached him. He threw the lid aside and peeled back the tissue wrapping.

Inside were neatly arranged rows of gourmet dried meats—strips of boar, marbled beef, spiced lamb, something smoky and red he didn’t recognize but could already smell how good it was.

“Ohhh—MEAT!?!” Luffy cries in excitment, eyes lighting up like it was gold. “Zoro, you shouldn’t have!” His hands were already digging in, stuffing a piece into his mouth with little fanfare. “S’good,” he mumbled through a full mouth. “It’s like… fancy jerky! Oh my god, this one’s sweet, is it marinated—?”

Zoro rolled his eyes fondly and grabbed the open sake bottle. He tilted it back for a long drink, letting Luffy ramble through a series of excited noises and half-swallowed praise about the gift.

Then, with the sake warming his blood and his limbs beginning to ache from sitting upright too long, he shifted back into the nest of pillows arranged behind him. He leaned against the wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent loosely at the knee, and patted the empty space beside him.

“Come lay with me a while, Mugiwara,” he said. “Tell me about your day.”

Luffy didn’t need more than that. He crawled over, still chewing, a handful of meat clasped in one hand. He dropped onto the cushions beside Zoro, shoulder pressed to his, kimono bunched up around his hips, corset making him sit just a little too upright until he slouched into the softness.

And he started to talk.

About tea deliveries that arrived late, about one of the other girls getting caught sneaking a smoke on the back steps and getting chewed out by Big Mom herself. About Shanks tripping and nearly knocking over three whole platters of lacquerware. About Ace—always Ace—and his antics in the gambling parlor next door.

Zoro listened. He drank and listened and let himself relax against the warmth of the boy beside him.

This was how their appointments always went, because Zoro isn’t much of a talker, and he likes Luffy’s voice, his energy, his everything.

Luffy teased him, flirted with him, draped himself over Zoro’s lap or shoulders, fed him bits of food or the treats Zoro brought with his fingers, whispered things that sounded like promises but never were. Sometimes, Zoro touched. A hand on the thigh, on his waist, up his back. But it never went further than that. Not really.

Because Luffy had told him, back when they first started seeing each other, “I’m a virgin,” he’d said, casual and sweet as sugar. “I’m saving myself for someone special. Someone who’ll take good care of me. Could that be you?”

Zoro knew what that meant.

It meant he’d have to pay Luffy’s debt. Pull him out of this place. Free him from Big Mom. But he also knew the truth. Saw it in Luffy’s eyes, just like he had earlier. That wild, restless light. That refusal to be owned, even if he wore a corset and lipstick and pretended to belong to whoever had the coin to say so.

Once that debt was paid, Luffy was gone.

He and his brother Ace would vanish. Slip through cracks and across borders and never be seen again. And they’d laugh while doing it. They’d be free.

Zoro knew that.

He knew it good and well, because he was curious enough to ask Big Mom awhile ago while scheduling his next appointment, just how much Luffy costed.

She told him ฿511,500 was the price of his freedom.

Luffy told him ฿641,700.

Zoro was smart enough to figure it out from there. In a teahouse, when a slave’s debt is paid in full, the difference is given to them with their freedom. But the difference here was just too specific, and with the way Luffy goes on about his brother and his gambling, and the meager amount of money he makes, and how the two of them were sold to Big Mom as children—it wasn’t hard to figure out what Luffy was doing.

Luffy is trying to find someone to pay off both their debts and hope whoever he suckers into it doesn’t notice.

But even knowing this, that he’s just another sucker being played—especially knowing it—he still parted his lips for the piece of meat that’s already been gnawed on by Luffy and took a bite. tugged it gently from his fingers with his teeth, and let himself believe in the moment.

Because Luffy, for now, was one of the best parts of his week.

Even if it was all make-believe.

---

The day slides by in painted layers.

After Zoro’s appointment, he has an hour to get dressed properly. His other clients don’t like him in such an unkempt state. They like how he wears his kimono a little loose, he knows they do. He spots the way their eyes linger on his shoulder and collarbone when he lets it slide down. They always swallow, and he can almost feel their pulse pounding faster in the room.

It makes him feel alive to have that kind of affect on people. It’s the only power he has here. Sometimes he purposely shows a little leg too, just below the knee, a tease. Above the knee for his best paying clients.

That hour comes and goes by the time Luffy is in a white and pink lilies kimono his next client bought for him that he prefers to see him in when they meet.

Luffy kneels with perfect posture before a grey-bearded diplomat from the Flower Capital. His eyes are blank but his smile shines—teeth even, lashes downcast. The man complains about his wife for an hour and a half while Luffy pours his sake just right and tilts his head at a listening angle he’s practiced since he was thirteen.

This guy always gets too drunk, and is predictable. He will hold Luffy’s hand and kiss it while promising to leave his wife and come back for him tomorrow to run away together.

When he leaves, he always insists Luffy come with him to pay, so he can personally tell Big Mom what an amazing geisha he is and how pleased with his service he was. How he plans to pay Luffy’s debt, and so on. Empty, drunk promises. Linlin knows it too by now. But she smiles and plays along, just like Luffy.

He sobs and blows kisses at Luffy while paying Big Mom at the front of house, hiccuping and slurring, promising to meet him by the front gate tomorrow night. 

Luffy always says see you then. But the guy never shows up at the gate. But he does show back up for his weekly appointment to start the cycle anew.

Next.

A fat merchant with lips like an old dog’s teases Luffy about his makeup while stuffing rice balls into his mouth. He calls Luffy “my little canary” and asks him to sing while playing dice. Luffy does both. He rolls snake eyes twice, like the house wants. He hits every note.

Of course he does. Big Mom forced him to learn to sing. It was just another indignity, another talent to please the clients with.

They say his voice is angelic, but he hates the sound of it and the soft love songs he’s forced to sing.

Next.

He plays shamisen for a retired war general with empty eyes. The man closes them and sways to the sound like he’s somewhere else. Luffy plays every note perfectly wrong. A hair off, a beat slow. Just enough to twist the song. He hates the shamisen. He plays it beautifully even though its not quite perfect. It makes him feel like a doll someone else wound up. Like the music isn’t even coming from him, just through him.

An hour later, the session ends, and his fingers are stiff and aching, his stomach is growling.

No time to think. His next client is in mourning and wants him in all black and wearing a veil to share in his sadness—but he REALLY has to piss. He doesn’t have time to eat, piss AND change. He can only do two.

Bathroom. Hair re-pinned, black kimono on with some cursing and rushing. At least the veil means he doesn’t have to touch up his makeup.

He eats nothing. There’s no time.

He’s at the room, knocking, entering on his knees and bowing just like every time.

Pour the tea. The man across from him is middle aged and balding adorn in all back, he clutches a wedding band secured around his neck on a gold chain and lets his tears drop into his tea.

The sad man has Luffy sing his wife’s favorite love song on repeat for the next hour.

His knees hurt, his throat hurts. He’s squeezing his arms around his stomach to try and muffle some of its growling as to not be rude to his guest.

Luckily he doesn’t hear over his own wailing and Luffy’s awkward singing.

Its uncomfortable, but this man always tips him decently enough to make it worth it.

Next.

Wardrobe change to something pink with baby blue eyes flowers along the bottoms of the sleeves and bottom of the robes. He guzzle water—he DID have enough time to try and run to the kitchen for something to eat, but he forgot his katsura back in his room—he only noticed when Tama passed by and giggled at him and reminded him of it.

Going back ate up his time to get anything from the kitchen. Luckily he had his gift from Zoro. He stuffed as many in his mouth on the way to room sunshine. Which is what the room Luffy’s private guests are taken to is called. (Each of them has their own to keep it simple and organized)

He knocks, he prostrates himself, he pours ginseng tea.

He sits too close to a silk-robed man from overseas who smells like herbs and rotting fish. And while he does always come with a horrible smell that no incense can mask, this guy is easy to get an extra tip out of, and he always brings gifts. Always jewelry and a snack. Though it’s a bit annoying, the snack part, Luffy thinks. Because its always so small. This man is always so concerned about Luffy’s figure.

Luffy eats the single chocolate covered cherry because it’s something and he’s starving. He oversells his gratitude and forces himself to hug the man’s arm and go on about how he spoils him.

The man’s twitches and makes wheezing sounds every time Luffy touches him. He doesn’t speak much, just stares at Luffy like he’s something delicate and dying. Luffy holds that gaze for a full minute and smiles with his eyes.

His jewelry gift this time around is a jade pendant. He’ll pawn it later, after their next session when he wears it in front of the man once, just like the ruby bracelet he has on now, which he’s going to pawn this weekend.

Next.

A samurai with an ugly soul pretends to drop his teacup. It shatters. Luffy bends to pick up the pieces, and feels the slap across his ass before he hears the laugh. He doesn't flinch. He’s used to it. he has clients that grab him and smack his ass all the time. As long as they don’t go for his crotch it doesn’t matter, as long as they pay.

Luffy straightens up, giggles, and wipes a smudge from his client’s lip with a pink sleeve and apologizes about the broken cup, even though its not his fault. But turning on the water works and pretending like he feels like it is really tugs at his client’s heart strings. They love seeing his eyes watery, seeing him pout and look up at him through his lashes as he begs for forgiveness.

It's shameful, some part inside of Luffy is burning with resentment, but—its strange too because there is a power to it.

He gets tipped triple. There’s mochi wrapped in a sakura leaf in the gourmet box his client left their session for to go get as an apology and promise to not do it again. But he will. He always does. These men are so predictable.

He eats it alone in the hallway between appointments. One bite. Two. Gone.

Two more clients, two more gifts, two more sets of hands that grope his thighs and arms, that cup his face, tilt his chin and promise to leave their wives for him. He plays Shoji with one and loses on purpose, because he’s an important high-ranking member of Wano’s army whose whole job is strategy. And he would be humiliated to be beaten by a geisha.

The other one wanted a deep tissue back massage, which is always a difficult ask from Luffy’s clients, they usually want him to sit on their back or straddle their thigh when he does it, but this obviously poses a very big problem, they would notice its not a cunt against their ass or leg, but dick and balls. No amount of tucking or layers of panties was going to help that.

He can usually distr

act them with enticing words or rubbing out their tension and knots rough enough to make them forget their lecherous desires… and they usually leave happy anyway because the deep tissue massage was actually life changing.

He only has one client left. And he’s late. He really wanted to spend that time trying to get something to eat, but the kitchen was busy preparing a feast for both shogun and their retainers. He got kicked out when he tried to go in.

So instead, he spent his time waiting for his last client trying to bum a cigarette off of someone, but apparently everyone stopped smoking today because nobody had any.

It put him in a bad mood. He couldn’t get food, couldn’t get nicotine—WAIT—jerky in his room--! The front door to the teahouse opened, rain drums on the roof. It seeps into the wood and his last client walks through the door. Bartolomeo, yakuza boss of The Cannibals. Luffy calls him Tosaka.

Tosaka arrives loud and soaking wet, dressed in a trench coat button up and slacks, his umbrella dragging behind him as he flomps it around to dry it out. His teeth are too big and too sharp for his face, talking a mile a minute, “MUGIWARA-CHANNNNNN~!!!  I’m so sorry I’m late! Ya see, I got caught up with work! You know how it goes! Anywho! I’m sorry I kept you waiting! You won’t believe the swing music I brought tonight! It’s from THE WEST BLUE! This band, right? They’re—waitwaitwait, let me take my shoes off first, Mama ALWAYS get mad when I track mud, I’m sorry, sorry—ANYWAY so I practiced the footwork this time, I SWEAR I did, so let’s—”

Luffy was red in the face with irritation, but the white paint on his face hid it. This isn’t the way he would typically greet his guests, but Tosaka is not a typical client… he’s excentric.

Luffy takes him to the sunshine room, offers him a couple of towels and helps dry him. He pours gin while Tosaka goes on and on and on without taking a breath. Luffy tunes out and nods dumbly with a fake smile that the sharp-toothed yakuza boss eats up.

Luffy’s appointments with Tosaka are always long, always go over an hour, always exhaust Luffy. Especially since he’s been on this kick about teaching Luffy exotic dances.

Luffy puts the record the big oaf brought into the record player, then  takes his hand. They dance for nearly an hour. Bartolomeo steps on his foot seven times. Twice they almost fall over.

When Luffy makes a dirty joke—just a little one, a whisper in the ear—Bartolomeo screams into his sleeve and cries. It’s a game with this guy. Luffy has him figured out. The more he flirts, the more money and gifts he gets showered with.

If Bartolomeo wasn’t already married and with a family, Luffy would be trying to tempt him the way he’s trying to tempt Zoro. A husband with a wife and no kids was fair game to try to tempt into leaving his spouse—but the idea of breaking up a family was too much for Luffy to swallow.

If his family hadn’t been so broken, he and Ace wouldn’t have ended up here.

Stupid Jiichan left me and Ace with those shitty, gambling mountain bandits, then the yakuza took us when they couldn’t pay and sold us to Big Mom to pay Dadan’s debts… all because my parents and Ace’s parents left each other, then left US to that dumb old man.

Luffy swallows down the lump in his throat and forces those thoughts and memories away, focuses on skirting that line with Bartolomeo despite the guilty pit in his stomach as invasive thoughts about the wife and kids that probably don’t know he comes here every week three times a week flood his mind.

A kiss on the cheek is always enough to get Tosaka to go away when Luffy has had enough. After the song ends, he does so and thanks him for the dance. It overwhelms the taller man. He runs away, holding his bloody nose and gushing for all the teahouse to hear about how adorable Luffy is.

He tips ten times the fee and runs away out in the rain, holding a bloodied tissue to his nose.

Big mom laughs and laughs as she counts all the berries in her hands, sniffing the bills greedily and praising Luffy, though it feels so meaningless from her, and in the face of his exhausting day.

He should want to eat but he’s so overheated from dancing in all his layers that food doesn’t sound appealing.

“Do you have a cigarette?” He asks Linlin.

She waves him off, “Yeah, yeah, in my purse, honey.”

…

What was in Linlin’s purse were many things, but none of which was a cigarette. All he found was a book of matches and a can of shredded tobacco, which was annoying, it meant he would have to smoke it from a kiseru. It never feels satisfying enough, barely a few puffs before it runs out and he has to refill the bowl. But he’s not in a situation to be picky, so he settles. He had to hike all the way back to his room to get his own kiseru, then all the way back down to get outside for some fresh air.

Luffy opens the door and breathes in the rain like its salvation. The night air hits his skin. Finally.

Luffy stands on the engawa, the porch facing the rear garden, watching the rain fall in thin needles onto the gravel path. The lanterns have gone out. His breath fogs in the cold and curls upward. He pants softly, chest rising and falling. Not even crying. Just breathing like it hurts.

Sometimes it does. Sometimes he wants to scream and cry and throw a tantrum.

Most of his makeup is melting now from sweat. The white paint drips from his chin to his throat in uneven rivers. The inner layers of his clothes sticks to his skin unpleasantly with sweat. He dumps his katsura off to the planks at his feet, the decorations in it clang and clatter like a fallen windchime. His real hair damp and pinned up in a tight bun.

The rain doesn’t ask anything of him. It just falls. He steps out into it and tilts his head up with his eyes closed and let it stream down over him, washing away the smears of sweat and stage-paint. It trickled through his lashes, over his cheekbones, down his neck, carrying black and red and white pigment with it.

His lipstick blurred into the corners of his mouth. His mascara and eyeshadow ran in streaks like dirty tears.

He no longer looked like a carefully-painted fantasy. He looked like something left behind after the dream had ended. A pleasure doll left in the rain, used up and cracked down the middle.

He sits back down under the shelter once he’s cooled down enough, and Luffy, for the first time all day has a moment to himself. The kiseru is warm where it sits in his sleeve with the tin of tobacco and matches. He pulls them out.

A single match hisses to life with a strike—sputters in the wind before he cups it with his palm. He brings it to the shallow bowl, inhales through the stem, and the shredded tobacco inside crackles faintly. The soft hiss of flame and smoldering leaf joins the symphony of rain.

The static of it all— on the rooftop, on the koi pond, the greenhouse tin roof, the palms and the waxy leaves of Big Mom’s rare ornamental flora. Rain slides down the stone lanterns. Soaks the moss. Sinks into gravel.

The whole world is hushed and gray.

Luffy exhales. Thin ribbons of smoke escape his lips. One arm hugs his stomach, the other holds the pipe. The bitter taste of tobacco anchors him to his body.
It’s not food—but it scratches that ache. For a moment. Dulls the gnawing hunger just enough.

He shifts where he sits, but everything sticks. His thighs are clammy. His chest tight. Even the back of his knees feel damp. Suddenly, he can’t stand the way the layers clings to him.

He’s been trapped in it all day, suffocating in layers, bindings, rules, schedule— how he can’t take a full deep breath in his corset and the warppings of his kimono don’t make it any better. It hits him all at once—get it off.

He drops the kiseru.

He yanks at the first layer in a frenzy. Fumbles with his obi. His hairpins come loose, one by one, falling around him in soft clinks. His hair comes undone in a tangle of jet-black strands, stuck to his cheeks and neck with sweat. He’s panting  through the claustrophobia.

The outer robe goes first. Then the pink kimono with the baby blue iris blooms.

He tears it down to his hadajuban, the thin under-robe beneath it all. Even that feels too much. Too suffocating.

With both hands, he drags it open, exposing the corset beneath—rigid and boned and laced in tightly. His fingers slip at the laces, trembling with frustration. He growls softly in his throat and pulls harder, jerking at the knots until the tension gives way. The synching loosens. His ribs expand. A greedy, shuddering breath fills his chest. For the first time all day, he breathes in to the bottom of his lungs.

The relief almost hurts.

His head tips back, jaw slack, the rain-scented air cooling the sweat at his collarbone.

One geta comes off without thinking, kicked lazily off his foot with his tabi too. He hears it plop into the koi pond.

“Of course,” he mutters, flatly. Then louder, angrier, “Of course.”

With a snarl of frustration, he lifts the other leg, grabs the remaining geta and tabi off his foot, and chucks it hard in some random direction across the dark garden.

A thump—

“OW—FUCK!”

Luffy freezes.

The voice came from the shadows. Just beyond the porch. He jerked upright like he'd been shocked. His head snapped toward the voice.

The rain hissed down in silver sheets, loud enough to drown the world.

It struck the koi pond like scattered coins as Luffy’s geta bobs on the surface, slapped the plastic greenhouse top like a frantic drum, whispered across the broad waxy leaves of the estate gardens, and drenched the umbrella of figure staggering near the edge of the veranda—clutching his head with one hand.

“Oh my God?!” Luffy cried, his voice going shrill. “Who’s out there?! Are you okay?!”

He didn’t bother closing his robe. Didn’t think. The loose hadajuban flared open as he stumbled off the porch, white panties clinging translucent to his thighs, corset half-unlaced, ribs rising and falling in frantic gasps. His straw hat bounced on the back of his neck with every step.

He darted through the rain barefoot, heart hammering, stomach dropping further the closer he got. The rain made everything slick, surreal. The guy is easily over a head taller than Luffy, wearing black robes—the rain and dark are obscuring details.

“Please be a servant, please be a servant,” Luffy begged under his breath, his teeth chattering with panic and cold.

He ran to him, grabbed his arm, and tried to peel the hand away from the man’s face, “Let me see! Are you hurt?!”

The man flinched away violently, “The hell is the matter with you!?” he snapped, voice like gravel and rage. “Throwing shoes?! Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Let me SEE!” Luffy shouted back—voice cracking—fingers tightening on the man’s wrist. He yanked the hand away from the man's face.

In the dim lantern-light spilling from the estate, Luffy saw the blood first. But then—his hand. Tattoos—one on every knuckle. Something elaborate on the back of his palm.

Luffy’s mouth opened. No sound came out. He looked up and saw more blood running down the side of the man’s head beneath a fluffy spotted hat, matting in his hair, already mixing with the rain- and he met the eyes of the man whose wrist he held captive.

No. No no no no no.

The blood. The tattoos. The sharp, furious, golden glare.

His knees nearly buckled—because the man he’d just beaned in the skull with his fucking geta— the man whose face he’d just clawed at like a lunatic, in his panties and undone robe—

A scream punched out of him, sharp and strangled. Because standing in front of him, bleeding from a head wound that Luffy himself caused, was none other than—

“S-Shogun-sama?!” Luffy gaped in alarm, grey eyes fully wide as his heart and stomach both sank to the bottom of the earth.