You're with Shanks' crew nursing a hangover on the beach when you see him. Dracule Mihawk, sauntering across the sand toward where you all made home for the evening. He says something to Shanks and passes him a wanted poster. You don't pay much attention to just what the swordsman says, too lost admiring his beauty mere feet away from the rock you're resting on. You heart thumps wildly in your chest when those golden eyes flicker around at the many pirates and meet yours for a split second.
You flush and look away, setting you attention back on your captain in hopes Mihawk won't catch your embarrassment. You had spoken with Mihawk very few times and his presence always seemed to make your heart race and your mind swim. The rest of your crew often teased you for the apparent "crush" you had.
Within seconds of looking at the poster, the crew is cheering. It's held high and you can see Luffy's big, cheerful grin adorning the page. You cheer along with the rest. Someone shouts about celebrating and cracks open a case of beer.
Mihawk turns to leave when Shanks stops him.
"Stay. Celebrate." Is all he says before tossing his head back and chugging from a glass bottle.
Mihawk hums to himself in thought and your heart leaps wondering if he'll agree. Shanks calls your name and your eyes drift from Mihawk.
"Pass him a drink, won't you?" Shanks asks.
You can hear the array of chuckles from the rest of the crew as your face burns. You leap to your feet and snatch a bottle up to offer. But you can't move. You feel rooted to the ground and your hands tremble as you fiddle with the cap to snap it off for Mihawk.
"Stupid. Lid. Won't-" you grumble under your breath.
Mihawk is watching you, he has to be, and you're failing at doing something so very simple. You're making a fool of yourself. He's going to think you're pathetic. Your heart climbs into your throat and nestles itself there painfully.
Hands come into view and wrap around your own and you freeze. They're so rough, calloused from years of weilding a blade, and warm. You can see his pants and his coat that hangs low and tell just who it is. Mihawk's thumb presses under the edge of the cap and it pops off with a loud clink before falling into the sand.
There's silence between you two for a moment. You suck in a shaky breath and slowly, almost painfully so, let your eyes trail up his arms and to his torso. It's exposed, with toned muscles and scars from his younger days before becoming a master as his art. His coat frames his form beautifully all the way up to the collar. You take in every bit of him like he's a god who you'll never see again.
When you reach his face, having to tilt your head up with his height, you're fully convinced you've died and gone to heaven. He's so pretty. With a sharp jawline and well groomed facial hair that anyone could memorize from anywhere. Gold eyes watch you like a predator. He's reading you in ways you can't even see yourself.
Mihawk haunts your dreams. No matter how many times you may deny it to the face of your crew you know the truth. You're in love with the warlord.
Mihawk doesn't respond, just stares, monitors. You swallow the lump in your throat and you lip trembles as you try to speak again. You find that your head is so fuzzy that no words come out. It's like all you can see is him. Everything else has gone blurry.
He's standing so close that you're practically in his chest. Awkwardly, you try to lift the bottle up as an offering. Mihawk holds you in place. He remembers you well, the little bunny always watching him from the sidelines when he's around. You're shy, dangerously so for a pirate, but he finds it cute. He's seen you trip over yourself simply because he's watching and heard you stumble over your words for the same reason.
There's no harm in teasing you a bit. Not when you're looking at him with the same wide, innocent eyes of the sweetest game. The chase was always the fun part, so why not make you shiver in such delicious anticipation.
Mihawk tilts his head down and raises your hands and the bottle up the smallest bit. His torso bends until he's hunching over you enough that he can bring his lips to the edge of the bottle. His eyes never once leave yours, nor does he even blink.
Your breath is stolen from your lungs. It's almost sensual, the way he holds your gaze. Intimate in a way you've only had him in your dreams and fantasies. It makes your stomach churn.
You tilt the bottle just enough that some of the alcohol and rush passed his lips into his mouth. A small sliver of it escapes and dribbles down into his beard and you reach up before thinking twice about just what you're doing. Frighteningly quick, he reacts to your movement. He catches your wrist in a tight grip.
Both of you stare into each other's eyes, one gaze nervous, the other hardened and as tricky as always to read. Your heart beats wildly, he can feel the thundering of your pulse point against his fingertips. It's exhilarating to feel you so intimately.
Mihawks mumbles around the lip of the bottle, "Making a mess of me, how polite."
He relishes in the way your face burns. You stutter out an apology. He smirks against the glass. The gold in his eyes shimmers with such a startling array of amusement. His fingers, long, slender, surprisingly cold, run across your wrist and down your forearms with a trail of goosebumps chasing it.
Awkwardly, you begin to pull the drink away from him but he swipes his hand out and snatches it up before tipping his head back and downing it. Your eyes can't help but focus on the way his throat tightens each time he swallows. You can't ignore the way the sunlight surrounds his body. You can't pretend you don't see those hawk like eyes peering down at you from the side.
He never quite lets them leave you. Not when he takes perch on the rock you'd been calling home. Not when he reaches over you, scarily close and warm, for another drink. Not when you toss back a finger of the stronger stuff to help with your nerves. Which, doesn't work one bit.
By the end of the night, when the rest of the crew has tired themselves out and lay strewn across the sand in heaps of drunken pleasure, Mihawk still doesn't take them off of you. Even while tipsy you can register that fact.
The sun is setting and he needs to be on his way. But how can he when he's got you, sweet, adorably soft and kind you, incredibly wasted you, clinging to him and looking at him like he's the whole universe pressed into one man? When you succumb to your alcoholic intake and slump against him, your words nothing but babbles about how pretty he is, Mihawk brushes his knuckles along your jaw.
It only takes a few moments for you to fall fast asleep against his chest. You're warm, snoring softly into him, drooling a bit on his chest, and he enjoys it a moment longer. Only for himself. His hand moves from your jaw to your cheek where his thumb smoothes over it. The flushed apples, shiny and heated from your intoxication.
He places a soft kiss atop your head. Then a second on your closed eyelids. A third lands on your nose. And a fourth, on one cheek.
Mihawks contemplates a fifth.
You look so calm, so serene as the ocean before you glistens and the sun sets on the horizon. Mihawk shifts in his spot, preparing to move you into a more comfortable position for sleeping before he vanishes into the night. Your head falls back into his elbow and exposes your neck. Like the predator he embodies, Mihawk admires the sight.
A fifth kiss is placed on the very edge of your lips.
Mihawk lays you down in the sand and brushes hair from your face. You tremble against the cold ground. He shrugs off his coat.
Your trembling ceases the moment he lays it over you.
Mihawk leaves without his coat.
