Ma’am would you please write a hopelessly in love vampire Mihawk x fem reader?
Drink water and sleep plenty🩷
The Taste of Dawn
Warnings: fluff
Word Count: 870
Pairing: Vampire!Mihawk x Reader
crossposted on AO3
The sun had not yet risen. The world was hushed and silver-blue with moonlight, the hour so quiet it barely felt real — the kind of hour only creatures of the night and their most beloved ever truly knew. And Mihawk… Mihawk was in the kitchen.
A ridiculous thought, really. But there he was — half-draped in his black robe, shirt undone at the chest, hair mussed from where your fingers had wandered last night. He moved with his usual unnerving grace, slicing fruit with a paring knife like it was a blade meant for battle. He was humming something. You couldn't place it.
You leaned against the doorframe in his oversized shirt, watching him in sleepy silence. He didn’t glance up, but you knew he had sensed you the moment you entered the room — probably even before that.
“You’re awake early,” he murmured, voice smooth and low as ever. The faintest flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Couldn’t stay away from me even for a moment, hm?”
You scoffed, but your smile betrayed you. “Says the vampire who doesn’t sleep,” you muttered, padding closer until you could wrap your arms around him from behind. His bare skin was cool beneath your cheek, but it never once felt unwelcoming.
Mihawk tilted his head slightly to allow your embrace, one of his hands resting easily over yours. “I rest. I simply don’t dream.”
You hummed. “Then I’ll just dream for both of us.”
His chest vibrated with a low sound — not quite a laugh, but something close. That rare sound he gave only to you. “You already do.”
The plate of neatly arranged fruit was set aside — you saw he’d taken care to choose only the ripest pieces you liked — and he turned in your arms, looking down at you with those eyes that always felt centuries deep. Golden. Quiet. Unreadable. But when they were on you, they softened. Just barely — but enough. Enough that you knew.
You reached up and brushed a thumb just under his eye, where faint purple shadows clung to skin that never aged. “When’s the last time you ate?” you asked, voice featherlight.
Mihawk’s gaze didn’t waver. “Not since before you insisted I try your attempt at coffee two days ago.”
You gasped in mock offense. “It wasn’t that bad!”
“It tasted like punishment.”
You swatted at him, laughing, and he caught your wrist easily, bringing your hand up to his lips. He kissed your palm, the gesture slow and careful, as if he were tasting sunlight for the first time.
“I’ll make you something,” you offered.
“You are something.” There was no smirk. No teasing lilt. He said it plainly. As a fact. You are something I could live off of forever. It never stopped making your heart stutter.
You pulled away to start at the counter, reaching for bread and cheese, pretending not to notice the way Mihawk watched you — the way he always did. With reverence he would never admit aloud.
“…You’re doing it again,” you murmured, glancing at him.
“Doing what?”
You met his gaze. “Looking at me like I’ll disappear.”
His expression didn’t change. But after a pause, he said softly, “In my lifetime, many things have.”
You swallowed. There was no tragedy in his voice — only truth. But it still ached to hear. “…I won’t,” you whispered, walking back toward him. “Not unless you send me away.”
Mihawk reached for you again, cupping your face this time, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye. His touch was cool, but familiar. Trusted. “I would rather face the sun itself.”
You smiled, blinking back the sting behind your lashes. You tilted up and kissed him — not urgent or deep, just true. And when you pulled away, he chased your lips just a second longer before letting you go. You poured two cups of tea, placing one beside him — even though he wouldn’t drink it. Still, you made it every morning. Mihawk never complained. The two of you stood there in the soft light of early morning, quiet settling around you like a second skin.
Eventually, you broke the silence. “…Can I ask something weird?”
Mihawk raised a brow. “You usually do.”
You smiled and glanced toward the balcony. “What does the sunrise look like… to someone like you? Someone who’s lived so long?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he picked up a slice of pear from the plate, pressed it to your lips, and watched you take a bite. Then, softly: “It looks like you.”
Your breath hitched.
He leaned in, voice low and unwavering: “Warm. Distant. Terrifying in what it could take from me. And yet I crave it—every single day.”
Your lips parted, and Mihawk’s hand slipped behind your head, holding you still as he kissed you with something deeper than desire — something heavy and silent and eternal. When he finally pulled back, his gaze lingered on your mouth. “The taste of dawn… is much sweeter now.”
And you knew — For all the centuries he’d lived, and all the blood he’d spilled, and all the night he’d wandered… He had never been more hopelessly in love than he was right here, right now.
With you.