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Crocodile,” says Mihawk, nudging the man with his foot. The reply he gets is a pitiable sound; half-grunt of pain, half-moan of defeat.
“Hancock. Doflamingo,” he tries, but the latter is writhing weakly against his chains, panting with the effort; and the former is nearly unconscious.
Mihawk is not one who panics, but waking in a cell without knowledge of how he got there does tend to put one on-edge. A small, gilded cell encircled by seawater. At first, he thinks he’s in a dungeon, but the walls are gilded sea-stone, not metal, and the running water glistens with the refuse of bubbles. He’s somewhere beneath the Sabaody Archipelago, but why he’s been imprisoned here with his former colleagues, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that someone has brought him here unawares. Someone has disarmed him and undressed him and left him in nothing but a shapeless silk garment that hangs off of his defenceless body. Someone has not given him food or water for a week. Someone has stolen from him. Someone has put a collar on him. Someone with a penchant for Warlords is playing with him.
Someone is going to die when Dracule Mihawk gets free. Because he will get free. And then the World’s Greatest Swordsman is going to slice that someone to pieces.
When they first awake to find themselves imprisoned, the other three are hopeful that someone will come to liberate them.
“There are people who need me,” says Crocodile.
“There are people who want me,” says Doflamingo.
“There are people who love me,” says Boa Hancock, but Mihawk is silent.
For three days and nights, he doesn’t speak and doesn’t sleep. The others eventually succumb to exhaustion by sea-stone and deflate into the silk-wrapped eiderdown on the marble floor. There, they shiver together, missing the heat of Alabasta, Dressrosa, and Amazon Lily: Hancock curled-up against Crocodile, who is lying atop Doflamingo.
“Hawk-Eyes,” Crocodile says wearily, “don’t be proud. It’s cold, come and sleep. Preserve your strength.” But Mihawk is not cold or tired or weak. For three days and nights he paces the gilded cage, searching and watching and waiting while the others grow weaker and weaker.
On the fourth day, Hancock approaches him. “Hawk-Eyes,” she says, betraying doubt and fear. “Can’t you do something? Can’t you save us?”
She asks him, because he is the strongest. She grabs his arm in desperation, but Mihawk pries off her fingers and turns his back, making Doflamingo laugh: a cruel, bitter sound.
“Don’t waste your breath, Boa. Our master swordsman can’t even save himself.”
Mihawk doesn’t deign to reply and Doflamingo gets angry, vein pulsing in his forehead.
“Someone will come,” says Crocodile, bone-weary with patience. He, alone, tries to preserve the peace in the cell. “We are not worthless to the world and we are not without allies. Someone will come for us.”
“Someone will come for us maybe, because we have families, friends, subjects, crews…” says Doflamingo. He pierces Mihawk with a cold, mismatched stare: one eye ice-blue, the other seafoam-green. “But you have nothing and no one, Hawk-Eyes. You are entirely alone.”
“Doflamingo—” says Crocodile, but his words are lost in Doflamingo’s manic laughter.
Hancock cries in fear and frustration, Crocodile sighs and slumps in the cushions, but Mihawk isn’t listening.
He’s thinking. He’s planning. As soon as they open the cell… As soon as someone lays a hand on him…
Someone does come to the cell eventually and Mihawk narrows his theories of where they might be. The man wears a mask as he examines each of them, using long tools that stretch through the bars, poking and probing to test their reflexes and temperaments; using a scanner to evaluate their figures, their skin, their musculature, and making note of any scars or disfigurements. Mihawk takes pity upon Hancock and pulls her behind him, because he and not she can defend against the grabbing intrusions, but it’s Crocodile whom the masked man takes the most interest in. His face goes red in rage and embarrassment as his legs are pried apart and his genitals examined, until Doflamingo finally breaks free of his bonds and rips the probing tool apart. With a vicious yank, he uses it to slam the masked man up against the bars where he can wrap his hands around the fleshy neck and choke the life from his wriggling body.
“Are you okay?” says Doflamingo to Crocodile in a rare show of concern.
Crocodile wipes the sweat and snot and saliva from his face and gives a grim, red-faced nod.
Hancock is huddling behind Mihawk, clutching him in a death-grip. “What do they want with us?” she asks.
“Fighting or sex,” says Doflamingo, coming to the same conclusion as Mihawk. They share a look, but neither can tell if they’re being held in a Colosseum or a Pleasure House. A physical examination would be required for both.
“Let it be fighting…” she says, more to herself. She squeezes her eyes shut, still not letting go of her human-shield. “Please… let it be fighting. I can’t be used for… not again…”
“Why us?” says Crocodile, curling in on himself. “Why is it only the four of us?”
Because Moria and Kuma are dead and Jinbei is a Straw Hat, now.
“Because they think they can control us,” says Mihawk. “They think we still belong to them.”
“Who’s them?”
The Marines? The World Government? Who else has laid claim to the World’s Greatest Swordsman? In all of his years, who else has he ever let leash him?
No one, he tells himself, but knows it’s a lie.
For years, he accepted their summons and obeyed their commands as a Warlord of the Sea: the vanguard of the world’s power. Too marine to be a pirate, too pirate to be a civilian, and hated by everyone. No crew. No friends. No family. Nowhere to belong.
I belong only to myself.
“Someone will come,” Doflamingo repeats with resolve. He looks at Crocodile and Hancock, but not Mihawk. “We are not alone. Someone will come for us.”
On the seventh day, a door opens, letting in light that hurts Mihawk’s sensitive eyes after so long in the dark. He shies away from it like a nocturnal creature, which provokes a comment and a chorus of chuckles. He’s the only one standing; the only one who can do so amidst the debilitating pressure of so much sea-stone, now, so it’s he alone who comes face-to-face with the Admiral of the Marines, the High Nobility of Marijoa, and the Celestial Dragons. The wealthiest, most influential and dangerous people in the world leer at Mihawk with selfish, mercantile greed, like he’s something they can buy. Like he’s something they can own.
That’s when Mihawk knows he’s at The Auction. A very elite, very private auction for the rulers of the world.
Dracule Mihawk really isn’t someone who panics, but the someones who have abducted him are not people he can fight. Not without his sword. Not without his freedom.
Mihawk has been trussed in so many chains, he can barely shuffle never-mind walk. They rest heavy on his shoulders, pull down on his wrists, and constrict his chest, making it hard to breathe. They limit his stride, so he can’t attack with his legs, and they twist back his arms, so he can’t grab for a weapon. Unlike his colleagues, who are carried into the auction house, Mihawk is dragged there like a mad, muzzled dog attached by a golden collar to a golden leash.
“Do you want him sedated?”
“No,” says the Auctioneer. “I want them to see him for what he is.”
“Do you want the other thing?”
“Soon. But not yet.”
They jerk the leash and Mihawk is dragged by the neck to the end of a queue, on a stage but hidden behind a curtain. Crocodile, Doflamingo, Boa Hancock, and then him. It’s not until he hears the Auctioneer’s amplified voice introduce the night’s merchandise that he realizes they’ve been ordered by worth.
“My sisters… my Amazons will come,” Hancock whispers frantically to herself. “Dowager Queen Shakuyaku and Dark King Rayleigh… they’ll come for me…”
“The Underworld… Emperor Kaidou needs me…” Doflamingo tells himself, looking crazed.
“Buggy…” Crocodile mutters softly. “His business is nothing without me…”
He casts Mihawk a desperate look as he’s pulled into the light, but there is nothing Mihawk can do but listen to the polite applause as the Auctioneer begins the bidding:
“Desert King, Sir Crocodile of Alabasta. Forty-six-year-old male. Former Warlord of the Sea, leader of the disbanded shadow organization, Baroque Works, escapee of Impel Down, co-leader of Cross Guild, and possessor of the Suna Suna no Mi. No need to be frightened, though, ladies and gentlemen. As you can see, a little sea-stone and water—” Mihawk hears a splash, “—is all you need to render this one completely helpless.”
Crocodile’s missing hand—missing hook—and the scar on his face devalue him, so says the Auctioneer, and yet the bidding still starts with a staggering sum that quickly doubles, then triples. By the time Crocodile is: “Sold!” Mihawk’s heart is pounding.
Doflamingo is next:
“The Heavenly Yaksha, Donquixote Doflamingo. Forty-one-year-old male. Former Warlord of the Sea, Captain of the Donquixote Pirates, the underworld crime lord known as Joker, former World Noble and resident of Marijoa—” scornful laughter and a hoot of mockery, “—and possessor of the Ito Ito no Mi. A rare breed, indeed, this one. It’s not every day that the Blood of a Dragon is up for sale. In fact, Doflamingo is the only surviving World Noble to ever fall from the Holy City. The only World Noble to ever grace this stage.”
Doflamingo spits something, but it’s too strangled for Mihawk to understand. The Auctioneer does, however, as does the front-row of guests, who gasp.
“Not to worry,” the Auctioneer laughs. “As is the case with all Devil Fruit users, Doflamingo is subject to the effects of sea-stone, no exceptions. His body—if not his tongue” (a murmur of amusement)—“is perfectly harmless.”
Doflamingo sells for half again as much as Crocodile and the Auctioneer moves on:
“Pirate Empress, Boa Hancock. Thirty-one-year-old female. Former Warlord of the Sea, Captain of the Kuja Pirates, Empress of Amazon Lily, possessor of the Mero Mero no Mi and—! the most beautiful woman in the world.”
The auction house erupts with eager applause and excited whistles, despite the fact that Hancock has to be carried onto the stage, she’s so weak. The display of her takes longer, but she sells much quicker for twice the price of Doflamingo. As they carry her past Mihawk to meet her buyer, he sees a tear roll down her cheek, but has no time to act.
A squadron of guards surrounds the stage, requesting that the guests vacate the first couple of rows for their own safety.
“Walk,” they order, but Mihawk doesn’t move. He digs his bare heels into the polished floor and pushes back with all his might. A fist swings at him, but he dodges it, rattling the chains and forcing his assailant off-balance. One of them tries to pull him, so he lets himself be pulled, too fast and too forceful so that when he slams his forehead into the other man, he drops like a cinderblock. Finally, someone slams a gauntleted fist into the back of Mihawk’s head, stunning him for a moment. His ears ring and his vision blurs and he hears someone angrily scolding: “Not his face!” before he regains his senses. By then, the gauntlet is wrapped around his neck from behind and a deep, metallic voice says: “Walk.”
“Now, for the pièce de résistance of tonight’s auction,” says the Auctioneer, and immediately the crowd goes quiet with anticipation. “This one was not easy to find or obtain, but the greater the danger, the greater the prize, and I can assure you, ladies and gentlemen, there is no greater prize here tonight, nor anywhere in all five seas, than this man of unparalleled reputation for talent, for beauty, and pure pedigree and prestige. Ladies and gentleman, for your pleasure:
“Hawk-Eyes, Dracule Mihawk. Forty-three-year-old male. Former Warlord of the Sea, the dreaded Marine-Hunter, co-leader of Cross Guild, and the single Greatest Swordsman in the World.”
If someone had asked Dracule Mihawk prior to this moment how he’d react to abduction, imprisonment, and enslavement, he wouldn’t have replied in words but in a stare of cold, calm, collectedness. A true swordsman does not lose his temper, does not betray fear, does not succumb to helplessness and panic. And yet, the moment the stage lights hit him, panic is precisely what the World’s Greatest Swordsman does.
In the blink of an eye, Mihawk has thrown off his gauntleted enforcer and races for the stairs. The whole hall fills with gasps and a shriek as guests retreat, but Mihawk is stopped by several spears before he can reach them. He’s grabbed by the leash and dragged back to centre-stage, fighting frantically the entire way. Failing this, he throws himself at the spear tips—he would rather die than endure degradation—but the guards hastily pull them back. Two men grab him again; one around the shoulders, the other around the waist, and, this time, he can’t throw off their weight. This time, they force him to his knees at the Auctioneer’s feet, seething with fury and white with fear.
“…not for the faint of heart,” the Auctioneer is joking, but a bead of sweat rolls down his temple. “Honoured guests, who among you is brave enough, strong enough, rich enough—” nervous laughter, “—and, most importantly, adventurous enough to bid on such an invaluable prize?”
Mihawk is glaring at the crowd, daring them to bid, but the entire auction hall is silent. No one moves and no one speaks. He almost smiles at the look of shock and worry on the Auctioneer’s face.
Perhaps he has made a mistake in valuing Mihawk so high? Perhaps the danger is too great? Perhaps he overestimated the greed of his buyers?
A few people vacate their seats and leave the auction house. A man swallows in apprehension, and a woman fans herself, looking faint. People lick their lips nervously and nobody can make eye-contact with the prize upon the stage. Cowards, the lot of them. Two high-ranked marines press their heads together in hushed discussion, and nobles signal to their servants for departure.
Mihawk might be all alone in the world. He might not have anyone to come rescue him, but he doesn’t need it, because, even captured, the mere sight of him is enough to sow terror. His lips curl into a small, sinister smile as he memorizes their faces. The second he gets his hands on a blade, every single one of these people are dead and they know it. They feel it. Not one of these privileged world powers is foolish, nor reckless enough to try to own Dracule Mihawk. He may be the most valuable slave that Sabaody will ever see, but he is completely worthless to them if they can’t control him with leverage, or threats, or sea-stone—
A needle pierces his neck.
Mihawk flinches and pulls away and the guardsmen let him. This time, they drop the leash and don’t chase him or shout. He glares hatefully at them, but—this time—he doesn’t have time to attack before the drug takes effect.
Ba-bump! goes his heart, and his head empties of all thought except: No…
No… as his skin flushes.
No… as his blood goes hot.
No… Kill me… Just… kill me—!
He looks at the spears, but sees only blades of light. His sight sharpens to dizziness, his pupils dilate: black swallowing gold. He tries to protest, tries to growl at the Auctioneer, but a gasping, groaning “Nn—!” is all that comes out.
Not this—! Anything but this—!
Suddenly, everyone in the process of leaving stops, stares, reconsiders the beautiful man on the stage. How much danger are they willing to risk?
On his knees in nothing but a silk shirt, Mihawk curls in on himself, his strength a distant memory. Now, his whole body trembles, slick with sweat, and he can’t even lift his head. The heat coursing through his veins pools in his groin and grows more uncomfortable, more unbearable, more shameful by the second. The Auctioneer is talking, but Mihawk can’t focus on anything but the pounding in his ears, the twist in his stomach, and the urgent need for carnal release. When someone grabs his hair and jerks his head up, it sends a jolt of pain-induced-pleasure down his spine and he moans.
At that, the Auctioneer abandons all pretense and simply says with a victorious grin: “Who wouldn’t want to fuck a Warlord?”
No one, it seems, because suddenly everyone is bidding too fast and too loud and too much. Mihawk can’t stand it. The sound, the lights, the dizzy spell and oppressive heat. He’s overstimulated, overwhelmed and can’t think straight, can’t see, can’t hear. His bones ache, his back arches, and his fingers curl, clawing at nothing but wanting for everything. The men touch him and he hates the noises he makes; hates the way his body reacts to the exhibitionism, but he can’t stop. Can’t fight. He feels like he really is going to die unless someone—
“Five billion beli—!” shouts a voice above all the rest.
It’s a voice Mihawk knows, but… It’s impossible.
He must be hallucinating. His lust-fogged mind must have gone to the person it always does in moments of private intimacy and he whimpers, because he doesn’t want it. Not now, not here.
No, please… don’t do this to me…
Slowly, he opens his eyes—winces at the light—and searches the crowd, gaze lifting up, up, up until it reaches the very top of the auction house. He sees shadows in the sunlight. Men. Pirates. A black cloak. And blood-red hair.
“Five billion beli…” says Shanks into the silence, “…and I don’t burn this place to the ground.”
The next thing Mihawk knows is Shanks walking toward him, black cloak billowing, red hair gleaming in the artificial light. The Marine Admiral starts to move, but the Red-Hair Pirates stop him; dissuade him; convince him it’s not worth the risk. Some people run, but most fall at Shanks’ feet as he descends, overcome by the conquering force of him. Mihawk feels it, too, and shudders as it hits him, numbing him to all else. Shanks’ eyes are ablaze with intensity as he advances on the stage. He has Gryphon on his hip and Yoru on his back and Mihawk has never loved him more. Shanks uses Kogetana to cut through the chains and Mihawk coughs and trembles like a drowning man re-emerged. Vaguely, he knows that he looks pathetic, defeated, humiliated, but he can regret all of that later. The only thing that matters right now is that it’s not a fever-dream. It’s real. Someone has come for him, and that someone is Shanks.
Shanks, with his electric gaze and incredible, undeniable strength.
Shanks, whose mere presence strikes fear into the very heart of the world’s power.
Shanks, who reaches out for Mihawk and simply says: “Come.”
Mihawk’s heart stutters and tears fill his eyes unbidden. Don’t tell me what to do, he thinks in gratitude and relief.
He forces himself to his feet, stumbles one step, then two, then faints against the pirate’s chest
Shanks catches Mihawk and for a second does nothing but hold him. Feels the weight and heat and siphoned strength of him. He takes a deep breath and rebukes himself for tardiness, because he was almost too late. A few minutes later and his future-sight showed him a different picture of a different Mihawk beyond rescue.
Never again, he promises, lifting the swordsman effortlessly over his shoulder. Then he turns on his heel.
“Wait, the—the m-m-money?” says the Auctioneer. He’s paralyzed, petrified. A cowering lump on the floor. Shanks’ glare pierces him with tangible force and he collapses as if struck.
By the time he’s climbed to the exit, a few of the marines have retrieved their confidence enough to call-out.
“Wait—Red-Hair, stop! You can’t—”
“Can’t?”
The marines recoil. Shanks wonders if he’s ever been so angry in his entire life. In Mihawk, he saw evidence of abuse. Saw someone he loves hurt and humiliated for the pleasure of sadists. Saw fear in the person who’s always been his anchor. Saw a collar of ownership clasped around his neck.
Sadder, sorrier, more scared perhaps, but no. Red-Hair Shanks has never been angrier than he is right now.
He reaches the exit and rejoins his crew, who point pistols at the few people still conscious.
“Wait—! You said you wouldn’t—!”
“Oops,” says Shanks coldly in anger. “Guess I lied.”
Benn Beckman drops a lit cigarette into a trail of oil and, seconds later, the whole auction house explodes.
The moment Mihawk wakes, he knows that he’s in the captain’s cabin aboard Red Force. He’s in Shanks’ bed and he’s safe, if not content, nor entirely lucid. His head is fogged and his body is hot. He feels restless, impatient, aroused. A hand touches his forehead to test his temperature and he leans into it, murmuring a denial when it starts to pull away. Even with his eyes closed, he knows it’s Shanks; knows the feel of him in body and spirit. Shanks’ gentle hand touches his face, then cards through his hair, making Mihawk whimper. His eyelashes flutter and when he does finally open his eyes, Shanks is sitting on the bedside, watching over him. The sight and scent and sound of him is all it takes for Mihawk’s oversensitive body to flood with desire. The drug still coursing through his veins makes his heart drum and his cock throb. He tries to hide it, tries to fight it, but his breathing is laboured and his snow-white skin is aflame. The golden glow of his eyes betrays him as they glare forcefully into tender blue-grey.
When Shanks says: “Tell me what you need,” Mihawk’s only reply is: “You.”
Weak and clumsy, he grabs for Shanks and pulls himself close. Breathing hard, he presses his face into the pirate’s neck, not wanting to see; not wanting to think about what he’s doing. He feels helpless as he wraps his arms around Shanks, fingers finding the cleft of strong shoulder-blades and hooking in like talons. Again, he whimpers in distress.
“Oh, Hawk-Eyes…” says Shanks, soft and sad. “What have they done to you?”
Mihawk doesn’t know, but he knows what will fix it. His vision swims and his head pounds, but instinctively he knows what his aching body needs.
He splays his legs and his hips grind down. “Shanks…” he says.
No one will ever see this. No one else will ever know. It’s just them as Shanks’ hand strokes down Mihawk’s shivering spine from neck to tailbone. He presses a kiss to Mihawk’s temple, then squeezes between his buttocks and presses a finger deep inside of him. The effect is immediate. Mihawk makes noises he wishes he weren’t, but he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t stop the need swelling within him. Another finger has him squirming and panting, his toes curling. Another makes him yell.
“Too much?”
“No—! Don’t—stop!”
His hips pump in tandem with Shanks’ ministrations: rubbing forward against his groin, pushing back into the force of his hand. His body is heaving and slick with sweat by the time the storm finally breaks and he bites down on Shanks’ shoulder as he comes in a flood of blinding relief.
He doesn’t know how long he stays limp in Shank’s embrace after that. Doesn’t know how long his mouth is pressed to the other man’s skin.
“Mihawk?”
Shanks’ hand is rubbing up-and-down his back now, slow and soothing. He can feel the firm shaft of Shanks’ erection pushing against him, but doesn’t have the energy to accommodate its need. He wants Shanks, but his abused body is barely staying afloat. He hasn’t slept in days, hasn’t eaten or drank, and now that the drug’s effect has been sated, he feels himself slipping into darkness.
Dark, like being gagged and blindfolded.
Dark, like the underground cell…
He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Shanks’ arm tightens around him. He doesn’t realize he’s lying beside Shanks in the bed until the pirate pulls him close.
“Mihawk,” he says quietly. “I will never, ever let anyone else have you. You belong to me. Only me. Forever.”
It’s an order, inarguable and infused with greed, lust, and Conqueror’s Haki. It should be terrifying.
Instead, it makes Mihawk’s heart flutter. His breathing slows. He stops shaking and closes his eyes and falls asleep to the beat of Shanks’ heart.
When Mihawk is sleeping soundly, Shanks very carefully, very slowly slips out of the bed. For one so perceptive, the swordsman has always been a deep-sleeper. A man who’s sense and sanity relies upon sleep and he obviously hasn’t had enough of it. He’s obviously been tormented by the lack of it and the fear that’s kept him awake, but not anymore. Never again, if Shanks can help it.
Gently, he brushes a feather-soft lock of ink-black hair off of Mihawk’s snow-white face. With those gorgeous eyes closed, he looks like a monochrome sketch, not a line misplaced.
What price would you have sold for, I wonder?
Shanks shakes the repugnant thought from his head.
That anyone had dared try to sell the swordsman. That anyone else had dared try to own him.
Soft, yet simmering with ire, he runs his finger along the collar clasped around Mihawk’s throat.
As if the Greatest Swordsman doesn’t belong to someone already.
The sun is shining brightly when next Mihawk wakes. It shimmers beneath the water and dances across the surface, sparkling like diamonds.
God, he hates it.
He squints and rubs his eyes, swallows and feels parched. Shanks is nowhere, but he’s left a pitcher of water on the table, thoughtful bastard. Mihawk drinks half of it in one breath and then coughs. He feels filthy as he looks at his reflection in a small mirror. He looks weak and haggard, pale and tired, but no longer the subject of public erotica. Small blessings for that, however—
He frowns as he touches the golden collar still clasped around his neck, connected to the golden leash. It’s the only thing he’s wearing. And this, of course, is when Shanks returns.
“Why am I still wearing this? Don’t you have the key?”
“Yes, I do.”
Mihawk’s eyes narrow at him. He extends his hand. “Give it to me.”
Shanks smiles, but doesn’t move.
“Red-Hair.”
“Yes, Hawk-Eyes?”
Mihawk closes the distance between them. “A dog leash, really?” he says in disdain.
Shanks shrugs, unashamed. “It looks good on you.”
“Get it the fuck off of me.”
“Sure…” Shanks coils the golden cord around his hand. “But you have to say please.”
The naked want in Shanks’ eyes makes Mihawk swallow, then stubbornly clench his jaw. He employs an ice-cold glare that only stretches Shanks’ smile. He wiggles his blood-red eyebrows, then gives the cord a playful tug.
“Get it off me… please,” says Mihawk through his teeth.
Shanks leans closer. “Please… Master,” he purrs in challenge.
If Mihawk thought he could overpower Shanks then and there, he would. But he doesn’t try, because he knows he can’t. Because this handsome, grinning idiot might as well be the strongest person in the world.
It sends a thrill down Mihawk’s spine as he, too, leans forward, gazes locked. He brushes Shanks’ ear with his lips, nips at the lobe, and says:
“Please…”
Soft and seductive and yearning…
“…mmm—moron.”
He steps back when Shanks laughs, but it’s a short-lived thing. He shakes his head in mock-disappointment, electric eyes still swimming with lust.
“Ah, Hawk-Eyes. What would I do without you?”
It makes Mihawk wonder. “How did you find me?”
Shanks answers by pulling a Vivre Card out of his shirt. A small slip of folded paper that Mihawk hasn’t seen in decades. It makes him feel tender, and guilty.
“I lost yours,” he admits. “They took everything from me. If someone follows it they’ll discover it’s yours and you’ll never be safe. The Marines—”
“I’m not afraid of the Marines,” says Shanks calmly.
“I know. But—” I’m sorry I put you in danger. I’m sorry I betrayed your trust. “—I’m sorry I lost it.”
“How sorry?”
When Mihawk doesn’t reply, Shanks gives a tug on the cord without breaking eye-contact, pulling gently but insistently down.
Mihawk fights it for a second, then surrenders to desire. He kneels in front of Shanks and hooks his fingers into the pirate’s waistband, slipping it down past his hips. He’s not wearing anything underneath it, because of course he’s not, thoughtful bastard. His cock springs up, glistening and at half-mast already. Mihawk’s gaze flicks up at that, but all he gets is another shameless shrug and insistent tug on the leash. He rolls his golden eyes, then refocuses on the task literally at hand. The thought of it makes him feel powerless and powerful simultaneously; terrible and beautiful as he bows his head and presses a soft kiss to the fleshy, rosebud tip.
A shudder goes through Shanks; Mihawk feels it shoot through his cock into his strong thighs. But the Pirate Emperor will not be teased.
Suddenly, the cabin is full of Shanks’ will. Strong, forceful, demanding, and sexy as hell. Mihawk feels it slam into him, envelope him, swallow him completely as he swallows Shanks whole. The slide of hard, velvet cock on his tongue and in his throat. The heat of hot lips on hot, wet skin. The swell of Shanks’ girth stretching him wide. Mihawk sucks the salty member until he needs to breathe and pulls off with a wet smack! Shanks’ hand is in his hair, petting in affection, pulling in desire as Mihawk licks up the red and swollen shaft, then parts his lips for it once more.
“God…” Shanks’ voice is strained. His eyes are closed. His fist is tight. “…you are such a temptation.”
Mihawk’s heart knots in yearning, filling all the empty, aching chambers inside of him. Filling himself with the sound and scent and taste of Shanks. He presses closer, wanting more of the pleasure, more of everything as the pirate comes undone above him and inside of him. Mihawk slides his hands up Shanks’ muscular thighs, which draw tight under his palms; all sun-coppered skin and a dusting of sweat-wet russet hair. He strokes and squeezes and is rewarded when a groan rips free of the pirate, as if he’d been keeping it trapped, holding back his hidden fire. Thicker, and harder, and hotter…
“Stop—”
Mihawk can taste him: salty, masculine, and clean. He feels the sensation and expectation of this powerful man melting inside of him—
“Stop!”
Shanks’ fingers hook into the collar and yank Mihawk back, off, and Mihawk feels the loss of that long, deep pull on his lips as spit-slick flesh jerks out of his mouth.
“What—?” he gasps out, but Shanks' face is anguished. It’s fire. He yanks hard on the cord, choking Mihawk as he drags him up to his feet, then shoves him down onto the bed.
“You,” he says in a throaty growl. “All of you.”
Before Mihawk can respond, Shanks is pushing him into the mattress; pushing down with hot, fiery strength that Mihawk can’t fight and wouldn’t if he could. The feel of Shanks’ fingers curled in his hair sends a delicious shiver through his skull into the nape of his neck and shoots down his spine, making him shiver in anticipation. His muscles clench and his throat bobs as his cock valiantly rises to the occasion. It’s all rough, competitive rubbing and rutting against each other for a time after that, until:
“Do you trust me?”
Mihawk’s fingers curl in the bedsheets. His chest is heaving, his pulse is throbbing, his cock is weeping with wanton desire. His body craves Shanks with everything it has.
Shanks pulls his hair, forcing his head back. “Do you—?” he demands, lips hot on Mihawk’s jugular.
It’s such a stupid question. Does Mihawk trust Shanks? Shanks is the only person Mihawk trusts. The only one he will ever surrender to. There is no one else in the world who makes him feel so strong and powerful and beautiful and cherished above all others. Shanks was at his beginning, and Shanks is the only one he wants at his end.
“Yes,” he says into an open-mouthed kiss. Yes, yes, yes.
They both moan when Shanks’s cock shoves in with one hard, wet thrust, as if it’s meant to be there. There is nothing but two breathless names and heated climax between them, now, kissing and touching and moving together. Shanks hammers into Mihawk with delicious, punishing force. The hot, slick slapping of skin and guttural groans of effort fill the cabin; the scent of sweat and semen; the burn of two bodies locked together in a duel only they know the feel of.
“Ah—Red—!”
“Need you—Want you—Love you—!” shouts Shanks as he slams into a thunderous climax. The force of his release fills Mihawk completely and then he’s coming all over himself, touched and thoroughly taken.
He collapses into the soiled bedding, panting and trembling, and Shanks sinks down on top of him, covering Mihawk with his coarse, rigid body and pressing a sloppy kiss to his shoulder, but Mihawk can’t move, or speak, or manage cognitive thought until the last pulses of lingering pleasure have subsided. That’s when he hears the soft click of a lock and the collar is gently removed from his neck. In its place, Shanks plants his teeth, making Mihawk hiss in pain and unencumbered pleasure.
“Mine,” says the pirate, soft and sweet and surrendering. “Now and forever.”
“Mm,” Mihawk agrees, because there is no one else he will ever belong to.
The Auctioneer, the guards, the guests—they’re all fools if they think Dracule Mihawk will kneel for anyone less than the strongest man in the world.
Once, twice, thrice more they surrender to need and want and passionate love and take luxurious, lingering pleasure in and on and with each other, until the shining sun begins its descent into the sea. Only then does Mihawk shift beneath Shanks, who slides out of him, slapping the swordsman’s buttocks with his sodden, sagging cock.
“Okay?” Shanks asks when Mihawk winces. He’s grinning again, that stupid, handsome grin.
(God, Mihawk loves that grin.)
Forcing himself to his feet, Mihawk grabs the water pitcher and fills his mouth, then opens the window and spits it out. He dumps the remainder over his face and combs back his hair, letting the cold drops slide down his neck and chest. By this time, Shanks has joined him at the window, sweaty and messy and unabashedly smiling. He says:
“What is it, my love? What’s on your mind?”
Mihawk is staring at his reflection in the gleaming gold collar. “Did you kill them all?”
“No. I’m sorry,” says Shanks, but Mihawk is not.
He picks up the collar and hurls it into the sea. Then he turns to Shanks with a wicked, murderous gleam in his eyes. The eyes of a hunter once more. He kisses the pirate, and says:
“Good.”
THE END
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