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“Do you still like it when I do this?” Shanks husks into Mihawk’s ear before nipping the sensitive lobe. His hips snap without mercy, fucking his lover hard and staging the sinful display. The captain has the ravenette pinned painfully against the port window of his cabin, deliberately shoving Mihawk’s face into the glass, grabbed by the hair, naked as the man drilling into him from behind—save for the damp, open white shirt that shakes as rapidly as their bodies. The fabric clings to his back, gone sheer with sweat, riding higher with every brutal snap of Shanks’ hips. Mihawk doesn’t answer, choosing instead to stifle his moans.
“Hawk-Eyes, I’m talking to you,” Shanks growls. He releases his aggressive grip on Mihawk’s sculpted waist and instead clamps a smooth, pale thigh, burying his cock deeper into the swordsman. His other hand still yanks Mihawk’s hair, hauling him back against his chest. For a moment, his fist catches in the front of that soaked shirt, bunching the fabric uselessly before it slips free again.
“Un-unhand m-me,” Mihawk huffs. His words clash with his body as he bends over more with every few thrusts, deepening his arch to let Shanks slam in harder, egging on the display.
“You love it when I have you like this. Fucked out on my cock, the world’s strongest swordsman, taking it like a whore.” The captain growls, itching to swap hands and slap Mihawk’s perfectly built ass while keeping that gorgeous thigh pinned. “For all my crew to see.”
At first, nobody else was on the Red Force save Shanks and his beloved, the man who had hurt him terribly earlier. Neither had expected to cross paths on this godforsaken island, yet fate, as it often did, shoved them together in the most inconvenient, infuriating, delicious way possible. Shanks had come hunting for alcohol, something decent, something that didn’t cost five ship tons of berries. Mihawk had sought a bar that didn’t reek of sweat, stale beer, and the stench of brutish, half-crazed pirates.
Shanks’ eyes had barely scanned the dim, cramped interior of that pansy-poor excuse for a pirate inn before they locked on him. Mihawk. His gorgeous thorny rose, his strong orchid, his gothic tulip. Even from across the room, even when the swordsman’s expression was hard, even when he endured some dumbass oaf blathering on about his bounty and the size of his blade, Shanks felt it, the pull that always drew him to his birdey. No matter how far worlds stretched between them, no matter the distance in time or temper, he would always hunt Mihawk down. Always.
And there he was. Barreling clumsily, swaying just enough to suggest tipsiness, Shanks froze mid-step. Mihawk calm, poised, and impossibly infuriating. Posed like a statue on a chaise lounge enduring some loud, undeniably handsome, brash fool, the man’s blade far too tall and far too shiny for Shanks’ liking. Compensating, clearly. Mihawk didn't welcome the company, but he also didn't reject the asshole, either. Not exactly. He tolerated it. That quiet acquiescence was all Shanks needed for his drunk self to be thrown overboard.
The redhead stalked forward, each step measured, predatory, his shadow stretching over Mihawk’s in the flickering tavern light. One hand shot out, seizing Mihawk’s chin with a force that was firm but intimate, tilting the swordsman’s head up so those lovely golden eyes met his. There it was, hello. The flicker of recognition, the electricity that always danced between them, the silent command that Mihawk, for all his pride and distance, belonged to him.
“Cabin,” Shanks growled, low and dangerous, the syllables sharp as cutlasses. “Now.”
Mihawk didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t, bastard never did. His composure remained, his gaze steady and unyielding, the faintest trace of curiosity flickering in the corner of his eye. He didn’t push back, didn’t snarl, didn’t dare challenge the redhead’s claim. That, of course, only stoked Shanks’ fire further. Unbothered? Calm? Bold? Who did he think he was?
He belongs to fucking Shanks.
“Fuck, don’t you dare let somebody else touch you again,” he growls, angling upward. He chuckles at a microscopic whine he hears in response—there it is. Shanks hammers that angle relentlessly, chasing more pretty noises from the marine hunter, staging a humiliating spectacle for the swordsman who’d gut anyone for less.
“Don’t even let anyone look at you. From now on, I want you here.” Shanks presses open-mouthed kisses along Mihawk’s jaw, apologetic amid the punishing thrusts. “In my cabin, sat on my bed waiting for me every day like the good slut you are for me. And I don’t want you out of here. You’re mine.”
Shanks aches to see Mihawk’s face. Probably managing an eye-roll, or maybe too fucked-out to react, secretly craving this side of the captain despite the feigned disgust.
“Mm. Can't help but tear you up. Who gave you the right to be so sexy? What pisses me off is you know you are. You love the attention, the male attention. It’s why you hunt marines specifically,” Shanks rambles into Mihawk’s ear, drilling his hole without mercy. He practically drools on the older man’s shoulder, need thick on his tongue. Mihawk stays quiet, but his breaths stagger harder with every filthy word.
“Yeah, it’s the uniform, ain’t it? You like how it feels under you, don’t you? Sitting on top of them, drinking in their fear, soaking up the desire they can’t hide.” Shanks shoves Mihawk closer to the door now, hair still yanked back, face framed in the porthole, purposefully as the crew stirs outside, footsteps approaching the ship on the docks, voices faint but audible. They could hear, could see Shanks defiling Hawk-Eyes—but they don’t.
“Wouldn’t even be mad if they fucked you. They never lived to remember it, after all?” Shanks chuckles, dark and off-kilter.
“That’s enough,” Mihawk commands, but it comes out pathetic, stripped of its usual steel. Shanks groans in victory, grinning wicked like the man ruining the love of his life with the roughest fuck yet.
“You don’t want my cock out of you,” Shanks murmurs low against his ear then bites down on the older's long neck. “It’s your throne. Every other man’s cock is just a stool.”
Mihawk arches into him, keening the way Shanks craves. The shirt has all but lost its shape now, sleeves slipping down his arms, fabric twisted and clinging like it’s trying to hold itself together. By the seas, he loves fucking Mihawk, he’s too gorgeous—too perfect. How could anyone compare?
Shanks finally releases Mihawk’s hair and lands an unforgiving slap on that ass, mark blooming fire-red instantly. He doesn’t stop, spanking repeatedly, a little feral. Mihawk doesn’t protest.
“Red—” Mihawk starts, palms flat on the door for dear life, deliberately facing away from the window to not face any potential prying eyes.
Shanks seizes his jaw, forcing his gaze up, cruelly, right as the crew steps onto the Red Force. Oblivious to the private display in the cabin, pointing at constellations, singing the same old shit.
“Red—” Mihawk tries again. Shanks hums, urging him on.
“Baby—let me come—” Mihawk pleads, voice frayed to wind and gasps. His hand snakes down his flawless body to wrap around his pretty cock, then he grunts in desperation as Shanks wrenches it away.
Both of Shanks’ hands slide to the small of Mihawk’s waist, fingers digging in as he holds him firm, possessive, like an object that’s always been his. “Beg some more,” he murmurs, rough with want. “I love the sound, my love. Beg Daddy Shanks to fill you—” The words break off into a low groan as his own orgasm almost crashes in, stealing the rest from his tongue.
The words shatter Mihawk. He mewls and comes untouched, spurting against the door in thick ropes, eyes slammed shut. It’s enough to drag Shanks over the edge with him. His rhythm falters, then breaks, hips driving deep one last time as he follows with a groan pressed hot against Mihawk’s bruised shoulder.
For a moment, neither of them move. The air hangs thick, heavy with heat and breath, the aftermath settling slow into their bones.
Shanks lifts his head first, gaze drifting toward the porthole. Outside, the last of his crew lingers on deck. Voices hushed, movements sluggish as they finally begin to turn in for the night. One by one, they disappear, laughter fading, boots thudding softer and softer until it’s quiet again.
Mihawk watches too, mute, breath still uneven as he steadies himself. Shanks can tell there’s a flicker of relief in it, subtle, but there as the final figure disappears below deck. Unseen. Unknowing.
Mihawk lets his head dip after that, eyes falling shut as he focuses on recollecting himself, but Shanks doesn’t look away from the window. Just before the deck empties completely, one figure pauses. His first mate, Beckmann, turns, slow and sighing, eyes cutting straight toward the cabin window and straight through it, right at the redhead. Not surprised. Not even particularly bothered. Just knowing, disapproving in that quiet, measured way of his.
Shanks bites his lip, a grin threatening despite himself, and lifts a hand in a lazy, smug wave
Beckmann exhales, shaking his head once before turning away and disappearing from view.
By the time Mihawk glances up again, he only catches the tail end of it, Shanks lowering his hand, mischief still lingering on his face. A perfectly sculpted brow lifts, and Shanks grins back, his facial scars crinkling goofily, faux-innocent.
Everything softens after that, the affection coming easier now. Shanks’ hands glide over the marks he left. Rubbing, pressing, tracing, before catching on the ruined white shirt. With a quiet huff, he drags it off Mihawk’s arms entirely, peeling the damp fabric away and tossing it aside like it’s served its purpose.
His touch returns to bare skin, warmer now, careful. Mihawk remains distant, aloof as ever, a sharp contrast to Shanks’ raw tenderness. Yet there’s a quiet satisfaction in it, post-fuck, the swordsman doesn’t leave. Shanks guides him back onto the bed with little resistance, and Mihawk settles there, a rare surrender in his posture. He’s staying. Just for tonight, maybe, but that’s enough.
The sight of Mihawk’s pale face looks peculiar against Shanks’ scarred abs, pressing there affectionately, unbothered by the red fuzz damp with sweat. Every bruise and bite Shanks left across the swordsman’s body stands out clearer now without the shirt—proof of ownership. A smirk tugs at the captain’s lips.
“Don’t think I’ll forget what you accused me of with the marines,” Mihawk murmurs, eyes shut, voice hoarse and low, nuzzled into Shanks’ chest. He looks peaceful like this. Softened, stripped of his lethal edge, beautiful in a way he rarely allows himself to be.
Shanks doesn’t answer. He snorts, amused and fond, brushing Mihawk’s black curls into place with rough, callused fingers before pressing a quieter, lingering kiss to his temple.