Coffee's still warm. It's fine, he can make coffee again later. Right now, what he needs to wake up isn't a dose of caffeine, but a healthy, rosy, still slightly swollen pair of lips wrapped around his cock. The thought of Mihawk going down on him has the muscles of his thighs twitch, even more so than the explorative fingers of the swordsman, as he says he'll bite somewhere the world can see.
Fine by him. Crocodile's not possessive in the least, and he doesn't particularly care if his lovers want to leave their mark on him. As long as he gets what he wants, he's more than willing to entertain.
It seems Mihawk is of the same mind. His little ramble about getting work done is nothing more than pleasantries, as his hands move from Croc's thighs to his sex, nimble fingers barely able to wrap around the sandman's girth.
The left corner of Crocodile's lips raises, a slight grin forming as a pleasured groan rolls off his tongue. It ends in a hushed whisper, and his lustful gaze locks with Mihawk's as the man presses himself flush against him.
He is. SO small. Yet so resilient. Crocodile is used to having smaller partners, and all of them needed so much prep time, but not Mihawk. Crocodile is impressed with how little he had to work to get the smaller man ready. Not that Mihawk is a size queen, but Crocodile guesses that his partner may be a bit of a masochist.
Crocodile's hand soon finds its way to Mihawk's backside, his thick, ringed fingers sliding beneath the pants line. Carefully, he moves them between Mihawk's cheeks, spreading them slightly so he could reach his prize.
One digit rubs soft circular motions around the still swollen entrance. It feels so warm that for a moment, Crocodile almost thinks it would be best to let the man rest and heal...but when he senses his own cock twitch and come to life, all careful thoughts are thrown to the wind.
But that doesn't mean he can't be gentle. His blowjob can wait, someone needs the deep tonguing treatment to get his ass up for sport again. It's a good thing Crocodile is always hungry in the morning.
Crocodile grabs Mihawk bridal style, one of the swordsman's knees carefully locked in place by his hook. His hand rests on the man's ass, fingers kneading into the plump, soft flesh. The distance between his desk and his bed is short, but long enough for Crocodile to stare down ravenously at the length of the man's body.
"You're overdressed, Mihawk." Crocodile growls low before depositing him on the bed, half tempted to just rip those clothes off him with his hook. "You have 4 seconds before I really ruin something."
His cock stands thick and hard in his hand, now that he's laid Mihawk down. Crocodile gives it a squeeze and a pump, fingers soon finding his ballsack. He stands there, staring at Mihawk, waiting patiently for him to take off his clothes.
But, as Croc said, he had only four seconds. Past that, Crocodile would take action, and Mihawk would be left with no other choice but to borrow the taller man's clothes on his way out.
Crocodile's tongue passes on his lips, a single strand of hair dangling from his forehead as his reptilian gaze urges Mihawk to undress. He is going to EAT that man like breakfast, dinner and lunch.
Usually Mihawk prefers to play more coy, tease his partners with a peek of skin, or a slow tedious undressing but Crocodile is clearly impatient. Every inch of the towering man commands attention, attention Dracule gives freely with a greed only seen in the Bible. “Am I?” Legs fall open with more grace than the rigid outline pulsing against his thigh should allow, his voice low and curling at the edge with a tease, like a cat's tail finding its owner's jaw.
Thumbs hook into his trousers, fingers quickly undoing only enough buttons to free the fabric from his waist with a hurried push. Heels press at one then the other to kick off polished dress shoes, time running out with only one leg pulled free and blouse untouched. It's enough and that's all that matters as long legs are brought up to his chest, one arm bent behind his knees to hold them out of the way. The back of his thighs and buttocks are bruised, tan flesh marbled with nasty hickeys and welts from what could only be scratch marks. If it hurts the narrowed eye contact and plush lips parted to pant and chew at his bottom lip doesn't betray it. Following the seam of his hairy legs, at the apex of his hips sits the soft pout of his hole, still tender and loose from the sandman's rough snapping hips.
“Is this what you're after Sir?” Smirk sharp and toothy pulls at one side of his face. “I have mind not to let you back in.” An obvious lie with the way two fingers curl against the sucking little mouth, rim spreading and soft pink insides winking at the man in its blind swallows to be filled. Only then do his eyes flick down and shamelessly take in the delicious girth of his cock, his own swollen sex leaking against his belly. “Too much of a good thing.”
Golden eyes devoid of emotion meet the piercing gaze of Dracule Mihawk. Trafalgar Law does not flinch, his features cold and empty. Just as empty as the first day he met Doflamingo. Much has changed since that day, but this hasn’t. The boy still believes in nothing and cares for nothing. There is no change as Mihawk gives that warning. All Law does is raise an eyebrow as if to wordless say, So what? He’s the last person to care if some no-named stranger dies at this man’s hands.
Then the man continues, and Law’s jaw tightens.
Marines? Here? Just his fucking luck. Just the thought of them makes his skin crawl. In his minds eye he sees men in gasmasks, looming and burning and killing. Most wore the insignia of neighbouring countries, but some sported the seagull’s wings. If the locals will become a mad, murderous mob upon seeing him, the Marines will simply shoot him dead. They’d want to wipe out any trace of Flevance, anything and anyone that could speak the truth of what happened in that country. He’d be dead before he even tries to run.
And then there is Cora-san. Law feels his stomach flip, a fear he didn’t think he had taking shape. What if Corazon saw this as an escape? What if he chose to go back to his masters instead of continuing in his stupid quest to save him? Yes, Law knows the man is a Marine. He isn’t stupid and Cora-san doesn’t lie as well as he thinks he does. At least not to this observant boy. If Cora decided now would be the best time to hand over his intel Law would be free, but he’d be alone again. Alone and vulnerable. He can’t have that.
Mihawk crouches down before Law, drawing him from his thoughts. The boy takes a step back, eyes wary and grip tightening on his knife. He glares, loathing the way this man eyes him up. He almost tugs out the knife, Trafalgar Law prepared to slash at any hand that reaches for him. Instead, what he gets is a wad of cash shoved towards him. He straightens, rage taking over his features. He pulls a hand from his pocket, the one not holding the knife, and flips Dracule Mihawk off.
“Take your charity and shove it up your ass, Hawk-ya,” he hisses.
The too big sleeve of his hoodie slips down his arm, revealing more of his white blotched skin. A few common folks still rush through the town square, and one looks at Law at the wrong time. There is an audible gasp and a pair of wide eyes. Law’s gaze darts to the woman as he hears her whisper, “White monster,” and “Unclean.”
“Shit,” Law murmurs, releasing the knife in his hoodie pocket to tug the sleeve down over his arm. He hunches deeper into the shadow of his hood.
Proud. He can respect it. However, “it is not pity.” Wrist relaxes but makes no move to put away the money, being cursed out by a child low on his list of things that would happen today. Attention moves to the boy's exposed arm, frown creasing the edges of his features. The illness must have reached all of his extremities as well, baggy clothes his only solution. And there he notices the weight in the pocket of his jacket. A gun or dagger perhaps? It could explain his added boldness given that he knows who he is and what he's easily capable of doing.
“Look at that. I'm sure she'll tell the town guard, who will tell the marines.” Tongue clucks against his soft palate, eyes never leaving the small boy, a familiar will burns inside him in spite of all that the world has thrown at his feet.
Fascinating.
“The real shame here is that you will die soon. You may have had promise as a swordsman.” Imperceptibly quick Mihawk’s empty hand slips into the hoodie's large pocket and fishes out what Law had gripped so tightly; a decently taken care of blade, nicks and blemishes from hitting bone. “If you believe my money is charity then kill a single pirate and accept it as payment.” At worst the boy would die standing, at best he would exercise some of his blood lust. Fingers twirl around the short cross guard, hilt pointing towards Law. “Or take the money for wasting your precious time and I keep this.” Fingers twist again, simple pommel tucked into his palm now. “To remember a dying boy when no one else will.”
@exaltededge asked: "Hey there little one." after burning
Message me with “Hey there little one” to interact with my muse as a child
The boy trudges through near deserted streets. He hunches deep into his too big hoodie, the hood pulled up to help hide his features. His fluffy hat still sits on his head, covered by that same hood. Hands are shoved into the pocket of the hoodie, Trafalgar Law doing his best to hide any and all bits of skin. The white patches that show off his condition are growing and with them the pain coursing through his body. He finds himself more exhausted than usual, but he must push on. Has to keep moving. Otherwise, he gives up. Sure, he will accept the day he dies but for now he’ll live a bit longer, for those who never got that chance.
Somewhere in this town Cora is speaking to a doctor. Trying to get Law a consultation and perhaps a cure. He has no hope for it, not here. The place looks like a dump. Besides, Law expects the same fear and bigotry he gets everywhere. These people will get one look at him and freak out. It’s inevitable.
He turns around a corner, entering a town square with almost no people in and those he does see appear to be moving away really fast. The boy stops, frowning as he surveys the place. He feels a palpable sense of fear in the air, a tension that reminds him of the day before the soldiers attacked Flevance. He tenses, frantic gaze darting about as he looks for the threat. In the cloth of his hoodie Law’s fingers grip the hilt of a dagger, a weapon he’d stolen from someone in the dive bar Law and Cora are staying in. Cora doesn’t like him having a weapon but Law hates being defenseless. Well, even more defenseless than he already feels most of the time.
A voice speaks right near him, smooth and calm. It addresses him and Law turns his gaze towards the man looming over him. A man with a massive black sword on his back. Golden eyes dart to that blade and then to the man’s piercing eyes. Yep, Law knows who this is. Doflamingo wanted to make sure Law knew every potential threat, including other pirates like Dracule Mihawk.
“ … The fuck you want?” Law growls, golden eyes peering out from under the shadow of his hat. Perhaps he should be more respectful to a man Doflamingo showed some concern about but when you’re already going to die it becomes hard to care all that much.
Mihawk doesn't refrain from speaking to children but the opportunity gratefully doesn't present itself often; worried parents often pull them away from his path, the fearful ones even shying away on their own. Dracule has already scanned the boy when he turns, eyes narrowing in the shadow of his hat when mismatched skin flashes and gaunt cheeks move to speak.
Kinoko Island isn't exactly a destination for most but its residents were healthy if the walk from the harbor to the town's center told him anything. Kinoko named after its mushroom biodiversity and resulting natural remedies that locals boasted. While the fungus may hold remarkable properties for extending the life of residents it’s not a medical hub either. In his dossier, Vega Punk recently showed the barest passing interest in the island, Dracule correctly assuming the government wanted local pirates dealt with before the area was developed.
Concentric eyes blink, the weight of his attention palpable like a content apex predator barely troubled to step around a puffed up mouse. "To deliver a simple warning, boy. I am here to kill a man." Goatee’d chin gestures towards distant hills that bleed into the town's edge not far from where they stand; the residents' efforts to expand the border halted and reason for the swordsman's presence. "This place will swarm with marines at the top of the hour–" A generous thirty-five minutes. "Make yourself scarce unless you have plans to die today." Dracule watches the boy, expression flat, void of pity for the child's unmistakable aliment, dying children nothing strange when he was the boy’s age. However the man finds himself crouching, curiosity winning to have a closer look at the child, suspicions correct even if his expression remains the same.
“Death is not far off it seems. It surrounds you.” Calloused hand moves to his pocket and slide in to produce his wallet, fingers strumming down crisp bills, counting 500,000 beri, and he offers the folded cash between two fingers. "Most children do not get to die in comfort. Use this wisely, or don't."
If a picture is worth a thousand words, that single stare felt like a thousand derogatory remarks that were sensed deeply into the artist's bones. When was the last time he felt such disappointment towards himself? It’s even depressing—if he could just lay on the floor and become a worm..
He nodded twice with the question, confirming his inquiry and frowning with the touch of their hand. Was he going to break his wrist????
Thankfully the swordsman had a kinder plan in mind.
Tips of fingers push the blue frames in, as partially closed eyes scan the drawing meticulously. He has always been a visual learner of sorts—but Mihawk’s early explanation wasn’t a waste of time. White wax sips from one arm, creating the shape of his mind's desire. Recreating the shape wasn’t the only thing to be taken into account. Height was crucial if it was meant to be used as a weapon, when it’s complete.. There’s not a single thing missing ( only the ones that weren’t explained in the drawing.) As anything that is molded by his power, for now which means he may handle it.
He tapped on the blade before awkwardly holding it over his head. The blade descended—slicing that same wall just by the height of it.
“ It’s not perfect! Far from it, ga ne… I hope it's useful at least.”
“........................” He tried to tugged it out.. But. “ .....AAAAAll yours! ” Mr 3 took steps away, motioning to the stuck sword.
Ah. So he's an idiot. Perfect, Dracule’ tolerance for them has grown with his stay in this miserable prison. However, true to his word the artist's skill is sound enough to recreate Yoru with surprising accuracy.
Concentric eyes watch the blade cleave through stone, disappointed she didn't meet the floor but the copy will have to do. Stepping past the strange man, hand grabs for the hilt. “You have my thanks.” A single tug frees the wax weapon and wrist twirls, one, twice. “Impressive, the weight is nearly identical.” The real test however is whether the wax can withstand his haki. While skill alone could free him without its aid, getting past any devil fruit users will be tricky. Black coils out from his wrist, familiar sheen creeping up the entire length of the blade and … it holds its shape.
Dracule takes a step back, raises the blade overhead then drops the full weight against stone brick and it splits in a flash of white to untrained eyes. The corners of his president frown twitches and haki slithers back into his arm. Laying the blade flat in his palm, sharp eyes spot the hairline crack where the wall had met edge. “Disappointing.” He huffs through his nose and glances to the artist. “You will accompany my escape, I will need multiple copies of this blade until I find Yoru.” He speaks in facts, and tone gives zero room for arguments or objections. “Gather any supplies you require and I will meet you at the exit.” Golden eyes click down to the blade again, dismissive hand gesturing.
Grim features darken, confusion easily mistaken for indignation. Dracule knows Red-Hair likes to talk, does enough of it for both of them and assumes it's some tactic, a faulty ploy to distract or worse gather information.
“So be it.” Hand holding Yoru spins in a flourish to adjust one hand grip to two. Dracule would never admit this had been fun, a swordsman of Shanks’ caliber is rare but if he wishes to throw his life away on bravado then so be it. Weight shifts to his far leg, the movement imperceptible to most and the distance between them is closed in half a blink. Steel flashes low from left to right. Later that night he'd dwell on the decision by all accounts if he wanted the man dead; attacking his dominant side was a weird way of going about it.
It's a lie but Dracule isn't sure the man knows it. Shanks who grew angsty on land, who doesn't stay in one place for long, who flirts with easily swayed attention. These are the exact reasons Dracule won't allow himself to give in, would rather preserve what he knows, what they have. Sure, maybe if he did join Shanks the first year, maybe two would be fun, perfect in every way either of them dreamed but would that same angst begin to settle in? Would Shanks miss the distance when all mysteries of Mihawk were solved? Would they both discover things they couldn't live with?
“I believe you believe that.” He finally speaks after a long pause, eyes watching the glitter of light through his wine. “You're my oldest friend.” A sigh. “Most consistent consort and I don't think you can say the same on either account. You'd be bored of me, be it someone younger or more interesting. I won't ask you to change your nature.” Gloomy expression darkens, mood soured where some part of him hoped voicing the concerns would make him feel better. “I'd never be so selfish.”
Send me “Good boy/girl” for my muse’s reaction to your muse saying that to them!
Shanks let out a pleased hum at the other swordsman's words, leaning a little closer to him. His lips curled into a sly smile as he purred out his next words. "And do I get a treat, for being such a good boy?"
Insufferable. Dracule knows he did it to himself and levels Shanks with a flat look. He sighs but makes no move to correct the distance the other has closed. “My praise should be more than enough.” A soft snort. “You do little to earn it these days.” Sparse visits, little news of his movements in the paper, it's a wonder the mysterious yonko even found the time. But ... The soft spot he has for the ginger is still here, small and annoyingly persistent after all these years. Dracule lifts his arm, rough fingers cupping the man's jaw like one would do a faithful dog. "You are tolerable, in no small part because I am fond of you." A very high compliment from a recluse, Shanks' real reward the gentle slide of a very rare smile.
"Now continue to be a good boy after I leave, understood?"
Ache burns under his skin, lower back still complaining but the heat that clings to him is surprisingly pleasant. Dracule has never kept track of time between partners so perhaps he was rusty; Crocodile being four feet taller than him certainly didn't help matters. He is no size queen.
News Coo rustles in his hand, attention pausing to read when something catches his interest. Smaller articles lean towards fluff, celebrations, history, and rookie feats. It's not boring but he's quick to move along to bounty reports and obituaries. Reading doesn't pause when bed springs squeak, gentle snoring finally giving away to consciousness again. “Half past eleven.” Very late for the swordsman but he's already taken care of his garden chores for the morning. “Coffee’s still warm.” Hand clutching his cup gestures to the pot at the end of Crocodile's desk before taking a sip.
Floorboards groan quietly under the sandman's weight before he's on him, still smelling of sex. Visage tips up with the hook, sharp eyes darting to the bed and back to his sutor. “Didn't get your fill last night?” He smirks. “If you ruin me again, who will get any work done?” It's tempting, he hasn't spent a day rolling around in bed since his youth. Shanks had always tried to convince him to while away the hours but that relationship required distance. Crocodile is easier company, it's just sex after all.
Hand leaves the paper's edge to slide between muscled thighs, fingers spreading to trace a ring mark of teeth as they go. “Maybe I should bite you where someone might see?” Tongue slides over his teeth, overdeveloped canines glinting. Dracule stands, stepping past golden hook and tossing the paper aside, forgotten to press himself flush against the other. Neck strains uncomfortably to keep eye contact while other hand joins its mate to begin coaxing life back to Crocodile's cock. Standing like this he's impressed he was able to take the man at all, let alone allow him to grunt fuck him into the mattress. Thighs squeeze together at the thought, excitement threatening to break his cool veneer. Dracule was an absolute mess when he awoke, belly swollen, hole still leaking and tender, angry he was so greedy the night before.
Another round would be easier, not as much prep, maybe something slow and easy to thoroughly melt all coherent thought between his ears. Fingers flick at the buttons of his pants and pull at his blouse, mind made up that he deserves this, to be ravaged once more.
Mihawk was right; the clown was likely more Crocodile's than he would ever be Mihawk's, simply because, well. Buggy owed him a shit ton of money. That tied them together more than the clown's flimsy relationship with Shanks and Mihawk by proxy. He wasn't even sure how he would describe this trio, and honestly, he cared not to figure out what Mihawk enjoyed in the one-armed swordsman.
That said, it seemed that they were in agreement yet again. Neither of them was fond of the circus, the noise, and the constant partying of their roommate. Crocodile also wasn't a big fan of being on a ship, having spent the greater part of the last decade or so on land. But he was still a pirate at heart and probably handled all of this better than Mihawk.
"Let's say he's both our problem." They can share, just like Crocodile's about to share his precious bottles of wine, which he keeps under locks. He's sure the clown could break in, but if Buggy's half as smart as he pretends to be, he won't increase his debt with the sandman.
He quirks a brow when Mihawk finally replies both. He must really want this drink if he's willing to have a Shiraz. Not that they're cheap or anything, but Crocodile prefers to use them for cooking. They're your average bottle of wine that fits any meal because they are bland enough not to be overpowering. Crocodile was almost half-joking when he offered the Shiraz, and he's definitely not gonna let his guest drink cooking wine.
"Cabernet it is, then." He fetches two of his most expensive bottles, golden eyes roaming over the swordsman sitting on his throne. It's fine, though; he's a guest in here.
Crocodile deposits the bottles on his desk and gets two glasses of wine from the cabinet. He then starts unscrewing his hook, but only the tip. Underneath the hook, there's a poisoned knife, which he also takes time to unscrew quietly. Once he's done, he reaches into the first drawer and gets the corkscrew...which he screws on his hook. It looks ridiculous, but hey, what's a guy with one hand and one big gaudy hook supposed to do to open his bottles? It's not like he's got a Mr.1 by his side anymore. He could be, but he's probably somewhere else on the ship, also trying to enjoy a little quiet.
As the sound of the cork popping out of the bottle resonates in the room, Crocodile's smile stretches, and he turns around to lean on the desk. He gestures quietly with the tip of the bottle so Mihawk can get his glass so Crocodile can fill it. Once secured between the swordsman's hands, Crocodile gives the bottle a little shake to aerate the wine and drips the red liquid into Mihawk's glass. He then fills his glass and takes the corkscrew from his hook, but he doesn't bother replacing his other weapons.
Bold cigar box notes tickle his nose as wrist swirls the glass gently. The ache in his temple eases with familiarity and missed comfort. Lips part in time with the canters tipping tongue awash with complex peaks of peppery tartness. It's enough to push the days stress from the forefront of his mind, a reprieve from Buggy's simpering and Crocodile’s scheming. “Beautiful vintage. It's a pity you decided to share it with me under such circumstance.” Another sip, this one deeper.
Rude. Perfectly sculpted brow lowers to squint slightly then arch. “On my worst days we both know that’s not true.” Dracule is blessed with beauty from sculpted cheekbones, well kept beard goatee combo and thick inky hair streaked only twice with distinguished gray hair. Surely the headache hadn’t slipped into his features. “I've never had to keep my wine under lock and key.” Eyes dart to the exposed collection then Crocodile, a fond smile hidden behind his glass. “Even Roronoa wasn't so bold. Granted, honor like that is hard to come by.” Last he checked the young swordsman had found his crew and his bounty reflected the trouble he's wandered into.
“Your clown, excuse me, our clown and his men helped themselves to my things and gorged themselves on wine in my absence.” Lip twitches in a half sneer, the thought compelling him to finish his glass with a solid gulp “Need I kill a dozen men to keep my things intact?” Yes, it could have been an honest mistake and coupled with the days travel his patience could be unusually thin. Tongue slides along his teeth, sharp eyes watching the light dance in the well of his glass.
This place brings up ugly memories he'd rather stay buried. If Dracule hates one thing in this world it's his possessions being picked through by strangers. The life of a forgotten child in a sea of abandoned faces where scraps are a blessing and best drowned in drink. “May I have another?” Hand rolls towards his host, head nodding towards the open bottle. “And maybe after this bottle we can find our way to your bed?” He smirks. “Unless you need to pencil me in, busy as you are.”
As much as he’s thought about this exchange, how he’d assume Shanks would react to the news, what’d he’d say and when … Dracule didn’t expect the quiver in the den-den’s face to sour his stomach so much. “Yes.” When isn’t the man drinking? Comfort in the familiar even if it’s not his place to suggest it’s a problem. Shanks isn’t his responsibility.
“Ah,” he exhales through his nose, face turning away from the dial so the den-den can’t catch the faint smile that crosses his lips. “All these years and you’d still have me without a second thought.”
“It’s not.” Lips part to speak again but he thinks better of it. Now isn’t the best time for this conversation. It’s late, he’s tired, Shanks isn’t sober and he’s already hurt from the sound of it. The last thing either of them need is to untangle twenty years of … whatever their relationship is. Dracule has been content with them being ships passing in the night for a long time. Should he promise he’ll consider it if this guild business goes south? Dracule has learned not to look that far into the future, people, places, they all change.
“Are you—” jealous enough to change for me? Would you look at anyone else? Are you okay with me not wanting to share you? Are you aware my patience isn’t infinite, even for you? “—done?” Wince tenses his lips into a grimace before clarifying “I’ve worked with the government for years. That never stopped us from meeting.” He sighs and fingers push at his temples. Why is this man so hard to talk to? Why does he have to sound like a wet puppy pawing at his ankle? Why does Dracule find it so endearing? “Why do you want me so badly?” Quiet, usual distance he keeps between them momentarily drops. Shanks doesn’t need his skill, or companionship. Dracule is far from the life of the party and has no interest in continuing their duals. He has nothing to offer besides the melancholy and stoic strength that comes with being the strongest while Shanks is always welcoming, always quick to offer him a drink or joke. Mihawk never felt like something to conquer around Shanks and he’d almost forgotten what it feels like being human; soft, poked at, laughed at, wanted.
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