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The bridge of his nose is dusted with suntan freckles, speckled ceramics in the unrelenting onslaught of the midday sun, bar only the shadow formed by the brim of his hat.
Salt, mist, skin, teeth, straw.
Straw , such an inelegant material, and yet he wears it with the pride of a princeling
Is he princely? Perhaps not.
“Had I not known better I would think you to have serendipitously stumbled upon your recent achievements, the way you laze about all inebriated and uncouth ”
Mihawk knows his presence is noted, not the minute he speaks but the minute he had graced the pearlescent whiteness of the sand with the sole of his leather boot, perhaps even long before that.
“Mm, but you do know better” Shanks dares to mumble, attempting to sit upright.
Uncouth becomes him, as Mihawk is loath to admit. The haphazard shirt unbuttoned so far beyond appropriate it hardly even serves its intended role.
The stubble. Oh the stubble.
Why did it have to be him, this barbaric overindulging manchild?
“You here to kill me?” Red-Hair asks him, a grin so stupidly goading it sends a bolt of irritation through the course of Mihawk's spine. Irritation. Indeed.
“The answer is no, sadly”
The bob of that throat, golden, caramel, cinnamon, cardamom, hypnotic in nature even to a man of his epithet. Mihawk feels foolish, feels like skirting lines, unsheathing, ripping open the last three remaining buttons on that atrociously filthy shirt and staking his claim.
Dracule Mihawk does not belong here, not on chalk white sand, not on this irrelevant island in Paradise.
Certainly not lounging .
Nevertheless, this is where he ends up, he refrains from further introspection because it is redundant. Because he dislikes the predictability of the answer that comes to him time and time again.
Red.
There’s no need to verbalize the reason for his appearance. He is glad to be rid of the rum that’s been clunking tirelessly in the inner pocket of his thickly lined coat. Bothersome.
Briefly, he entertains the idea of tossing it in the sand, letting the contents darken a spot on the ivory beach. A gauntlet. Nothing good would come of it, nothing that he wants today, at the very least.
Mihawk is not immune to the way the other man positively lights up — but he actively chooses to ignore it.
”Oh, Hawksy you shouldn’t have!” The teasing lilt that borders on theatrics has him undoubtedly agreeing to that particular statement.
He remains quiet, not because he has nothing to say
”Drink with me?” Not a question, but a talon piercing tender pale skin.
And so he does.
⚜
Pulsating.
It isn’t enough. There’s no glide, not counting the steady stream of precum that glazes the tip of his flushed head. There’s a warmth that has him eyeing that filthy, threadbare excuse for a shirt that still clings to Red-Hair’s broad shoulders.
Mihawk still has his hat on.
Shanks, with hands that harness the ability to tear flesh from bone, pushes his pectorals together in a facsimile of cleavage dusted with hair. To the naked eye it appears black, as do his eyebrows, his lashes, his perfectly barbaric stubble, but Mihawk knows they lean red once backlit with the last sliver of sunlight.
Shanks, because he is barbaric, because he is uncaring for novelties like refinement and self restraint, lets out a whimper paired with a candid profanity topped with a twitch of his hips that betray their desperation in a beautiful triptych. It is the crack of a whip to his psyche, an inner need that claws its way past his carefully mortared walls and up into his innards, snakelike in nature and equally as fatal.
He doesn’t need Red.
Indeed, his hat is still on, perhaps to shield him from a gaze so piercing it could rival his title.
Mihawk is a fool, a fool with clothes on and his dick out, fucking up against the valley of muscle that the other man is presenting candidly, a casual pretense shrouding unwavering desire. Shanks has a tendency to make demands of him that he is incapable of declining, ones so bold, so brazen it burns a rosen flush atop his otherwise perfectly paperlike skin.
It’s not the most pleasurable friction he has ever felt, but the heartbeat in his cock thrumming rapidly atop Shanks’ breast betrays any further denial of his inclinations.
Selfishly, he wishes to paint stripes of white atop the provocative grimace he sees beneath him, to reclaim even an ounce of control. Mark him. Fuck him. Claim him. They are equal in this regard, always so infuriatingly equal.
“Is this why you summoned me, Red? So you could succumb to desperation?” The pulse, the ocean, the bright white display of teeth, they are an anchor.
“Kiss me, Hawksy” His lips are dark pink and shimmering with drool, so delectable it may as well be a suckerpunch. It’s foul play to deflect in this manner.
“I will do no such thing” Huffs and puffs and pretends not to care, as though he himself is not teetering over the precipice of completion merely by a fraction of friction and far too much talk.
“C’mon, don’t keep me wanting on account of inexperience” The defiant, immature tongue sticking out in challenge sends vibrations with a jolt through his groin.
Infuriating – this man, absolutely, unrelentingly, detestably, infuriating. To pry himself from this vice is to starve himself of satiation.
The untidy stubble grazing the pads of his fingers sends shivers cascading over pale skin, he revels in the masculinity of it, then he pries open rosy lips with his thumb and spits. He will not let this warrior masquerading as a harlot get the better of him.
Once again he relinquishes his grip on his hard-earned title to the simple act of a swallow. The subsequent whimper will echo in his head for the better part of a decade.
This give and take, this push and pull that nobody but Red can keep up with, this delicacy that exceeds that of Dressrosan vineyards covered with the mist of an early dawn – it is fuel to the makings of legends.
He does not yelp when his pristine coat hits the sand with a thud. He does not yelp when his elegant hat is discarded, he does not yelp when Red pushes them off of the furniture and onto the beach in a display of further defiance.
The noise he does make borders more on that of a moan than he is willing to admit, straddled with however many pounds of reckless pirate unashamedly baring his teeth, tits smeared with precum on display and undeniable tenting beneath paisley patterned fabric.
Then he grinds against Mihawk's naked dick that can do nothing but relish in the give.
“ Fuck ”
He despises the vainglorious chuckle that renders him harder, leaving his body positively yearning for more. Skin begs, mouth does not.
“Oh darling, I’d be delighted to” The sun paints a halo of crimson above him, a beautiful contrast to the absolute gaggle he spews that Mihawk knows is an impression of himself because he has had to endure it on countless occasions.
“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear with your actions” Even he is not sure if it is meant to be deflection or flirtation, but he can reap the benefits of both with Red’s retaliation.
“Oh? And here I thought I was keeping you guessing” Says Shanks, a rough hand tugging on the jut of his own cock still in its clothed confines in crude punctuation.
In so many ways, they are parallels, an ongoing rivalry impossible to predict, effervescent streams overlapping and intermingling, fading deep into the sea. But as Shanks tugs down the hem of his trousers, primitive and beaming with hauteur, it threatens to tip the scale, for only a millisecond. Thick, sizable, once more golden, cardamom, caramel, dusted with rouge evidence of arousal, with a perfect vein tracing the impressive length as though it were a signature.
They do not engage in the monotony of roles – the predictability of a winner, it doesn’t matter that Shanks sports a thicker dick because pettily, Mihawk knows that his own is longer if only by a bit, prettier, more elegant. Not to mention their differing preferences in grooming, or lack thereof.
“You are incorrigible, and a tramp ” The lilt of affection far outweighs the asperity of the words, as does his hand reaching over to indulge.
The pace of Red-Hair’s pulse is evident beneath the vice grip, atop soft skin almost velveteen, tan and glorious, perfectly befitting of the man it belongs to.
Shanks hisses through his teeth in a quivering inhale that has his chest puff up impossibly further.
“Careful with that” Red pretends, all theatrics as if his body doesn’t yearn for torment.
Truthfully he could grip harder, but it would come back to bite him thus he refrains, settles with lining the undersides of their shafts together, a temporary gesture of peace.
“I always knew you were a romantic” The words are cocky and boisterous even as Shanks gets a gentler grip, fucks into Mihawks fist that encloses them both, languidly, but not for a lack of want.
Hot saliva shimmers like a glittering daydream as his rival takes it upon himself to supply lubrication. Slick, warm, generous.
“I absolutely am not”
This is the best he has felt in months.The pace threatens to quicken, both too pent up to ignore the insistence of such a palpable hunger.
“Feels so fucking good ”A sigh so deep and dreamy, nearly submarine.
It astounds him, the way the other man can express himself so freely, without a shred of hesitance, an ounce of shame, a fascination that is entirely unrelated to his undeniable attraction, mind you.
“Got me on the ropes here, Hawkeyes” A moment of weakness that otherwise might spell his demise.
The matter of their equality remains steadfast, for despite the blatant confession, their difference in expression, they remain as naked as the other in the eyes of joint pleasure.
“Go on then” Mihawk breathes heavy, as he too skirts the brink of release “Make a mess, Red”
That, he does.