You stir slowly from sleep with a soft inhale, shifting amongst the warm, cotton covers that never fails to get tangled between your legs. The morning chill that settles over the castle hits your shoulder as it peeks out from the sheets, and you shiver, trying to tuck the fabric back up protectively. With a bleary crack of your eyelids, now roused beyond the point of falling back into slumber, they train onto the first thing in your line of sight. And, oh, what a sight it is. A smile lifts the corners of your mouth, gazing softly at your lover beside you.
His face is serene, the brow normally furrowed in thought and concentration now smooth and relaxed. A dangerous man, so beautiful in slumber. Seeing Mihawk like this, asleep and at peace beside you, his hand unconsciously pressing against the skin of your hip for contact, was something you’d never forget. No dreams disturb him, his breathing even and deep. Sleep holds him tightly.
Good, you thought, he certainly needed it.
Waking before the legendary swordsman is a rarity. He keeps strange hours, training and finding other ways to occupy his time around the castle when he isn’t out sailing the seas, and often rises early to tend to the garden. And so, you don’t squander this moment to gaze upon him with reverence.
Eventually, as if he can feel your stare, his eyes blink open, regarding you with a tenderness that has your heart beating hard. A low hum emanates from his mouth, and one hand reaches up to slowly caress your cheek.
“I’ll never get enough of this…” His mutter is breathy as he stirs. “Waking up and seeing such a lovely sight before me.”
You scoff, gently pushing his arm, but can’t help but agree to the statement. “Getting sappy in your old age, love?”
There’s something in the way he looks at you, thoughtful and quiet. “No. Just more honest.”
“Imagine that…” you hum, amused, before leaning forward to place a soft kiss to his lips. “I managed to make an honest man out of you after all. This anniversary is something special.”
You feel the smirk on his mouth as you lean in for a second, then a third kiss. He lingers, savoring the feeling just a moment more, before rising with a groan from the bed. There’s much to do today, but you look forward to every second of it.
Anniversary or not, with a castle so large, there was always something that needed doing. Sweeping, dusting, and all manner of other menial chores…and that was just to keep it clean. Even on a special day, such as today, these important things couldn’t be skipped. Laundry, dishes, the list went on. But you and your love went about it with a practiced patience. After so long, so many years together, the routine and domesticity of chores felt…comfortable. Almost fun.
Then on to the garden where the weeds needed trimming, and the many fruits and vegetables planted needed meticulous care and attention. Kuraigana’s harsh environment meant consistent tending to ensure they didn’t wither away and die. That was largely Mihawk’s responsibility—a pastime you knew he’d never openly admit to anyone outside of you or that red-haired rascal of a pirate, of course.
By the island’s standards, the morning was downright lovely; only the barest hint of a chill in the wind of an inky, oily, green-purple sky. Watching your husband tend to the plants with such gentleness never failed to make you smile. If only the rest of the world saw him as you could…
With a keen eye, the two of you inspected each crop. What was ripe ended up in the wicker basket hung from your arm, placed there with care by Mihawk as he perused the many vegetables you’d both grown there over the years. Each time you caught one another’s eye, warmth grew in your chest, little knowing smiles lifting your mouths. The serenity, the peace…you could think of no better setting for your anniversary.
Comfortable admiration and years of cultivated love eventually slid to coy intrigue, when the brush of his fingers against yours as he placed a bright red tomato into the basket lingered a bit longer than necessary. A touch so gentle. Chaste. Trailing down the length of your pinky with lazy intent, a tiny spark hits your chest. Mihawk’s eyes held a question behind them, watching with deep interest at what you might say or do to his touch.
Several times, his hands found your skin in some way or another through the morning. Never further than a ghostly, barely-there sensation. Fleeting. Testing. More akin to a promise than anything.
Oh, this was a familiar game. A favorite of yours.
Beyond a knowing, smoky stare, you refrained from visibly acknowledging his subtle advances. Instead, you ‘innocently’ returned the favor in kind, finding every excuse to touch him on the wrist or hand, even the back of his neck if you were to pass behind him. Naturally, Mihawk barely showed any reaction to the treatment, only the tiniest flutter of his eyelids to indicate he felt your fingers against his skin at all.
Each new touch built upon the last. Slowly, the earlier affection began to simmer, to bubble just under the surface. All morning this continued, even into the kitchen where you are now preparing dinner.
You chop and mince at your cutting board while he prepares the pots with water. Together, you’re an efficient team in the kitchen as you navigate the steps of the recipe, reaching around one another for the next ingredient or kitchen tool.
More touching. More not-so-subtle lingering stares. The man somehow even manages to find an excuse to show you how to ‘properly’ chop an onion, larger hands covering yours to demonstrate as his chest rests at your back, firm and warm. If he feels the shiver down your spine, he says nothing. Oh, he is good…
But two can play at this game. When you insist on him lifting you up to reach a particularly high-placed utensil—one that you really don’t require, given the recipe, but he doesn’t need to know that—the position places your ample chest flush with his face as you reach above him, giving quite a view if you did say so yourself. It’s tough to hide the pleased grin on your face, not having to look to know he’s staring. That penetrative gaze of his is practically palpable.
Minutes drag as you carefully dance around what you both know the other wants, the cooking of your dinner now little more than a stage to the building tension between you. The heat from the stove doesn’t help any either, fueling increasingly lewder thoughts, bolder touches, and even the occasional whispered promise of what the evening has in store for each other.
Finally, the food cooked and plated with care, you take your places across the table from one another. A small vase of flowers is between you; along with a single candle lit, the wax dripping down its side into the metal tray beneath; and mood decor that you barely even acknowledge amidst the heated stare you keep with your husband, taking in his handsome visage gluttonously.
You drink your wine, topping it off when the contents are gone. A good buzz would only make this all the better, you think.
Light conversation carries you through your meal, though the words hardly matter. Beneath it all is the palpable sexual tension that’s spent the past half dozen hours building between you. He eats delicately, expression denoting the indulgent eye-fucking no doubt happening in that head of his. A bite of your lip is the only sign that you’ve noticed.
Your plates sit empty after some time, and upon noticing, Mihawk stands from his chair, walking over to grab your plate alongside his and bringing them to the kitchen. When he returns, he’s still holding his wine, extending his hand to you as an invitation.
“Shall we end tonight in the parlor, love?” he asks, voice husky and eyes never straying from what—who—he wants most. That sexy little upward quirk of his lips is impossible to look away from.
Without a word, you return the smile with one of your own, placing your hand in his and following him further into the halls of the castle.
He doesn’t pounce immediately, but there’s no mistaking the intensity of his gaze on you as he sets the fireplace alight, flaming to life and matching the heat flowing through your veins. You stand on the fur rug as he moves around you, watching the flames lick upwards, heart beating hard in your chest. The feeling of his lips pressed to your shoulder makes you shudder, his free hand guiding down your arm delicately.
The moment is still, your breath loud in your ears, before hours of stewing in your own desire come to a head. The stuttered sigh against your skin is enough to indicate that Mihawk has reached his limit as well.
One by one, clothes are discarded to the floor, exposing skin for wandering lips and hands to touch and savor. The castle air is cold all around you, but the fireplace rages hot. Wine and lust cloud your mind, gasping when his teeth nip along your neck. Not to be outdone, your hands wander behind and between you, fingers stroking the silky skin of his cock. You smile at the sound of his pleased hum.
You turn in his arms, facing your husband, and thread your fingers through his dark hair, dragging his lips to yours in a hard kiss. He tastes of wine and spice, exotic and sinfully sweet. Impatience makes it all teeth and tongue, seeking and wanting. Mihawk is happy to return the enthusiasm in kind.
A surprised noise escapes your lips as he suddenly lifts you, pressing you close. With a bit of maneuvering, he’s lowered you to your back, the soft fur rug protecting it from the icy tiles of the castle floor. But your thoughts never stray from the Warlord as he settles himself over you, eyes raking in the sight of your nakedness. The wine makes his pupils large and shaky, but they still hold an abundance of admiration and heady desire. Reflections of the flames dance in his eyes, captivating you.
You’re well and truly drunk, you decide, body tingling as his lips suck and lick his way over your jaw and neck. Everything is too much, but in all the right ways. Soft, low moans are breathed into your ear, sending your mind haywire. Your legs wrap themselves around his waist, pulling him in, hoping he’ll understand what you were needing.
His hips shift, hands spreading your knees apart to open yourself to him. His tip presses to where you’re in most need of him, Your breath catches, the moment before he presses in feeling like a lifetime, before that blessed stretch tightens your lower half. He fits perfectly, your bodies so accustomed to one another that it feels like he’s home, deep inside of you. He’s still, gazing down at you with parted lips and a glazed, drunk stare.
His thrusts are slow, lackadaisical, as he savors you. Every penetration is a prayer, your unabashed moans their answer. With the wine heightening every sense, even this gentle pace is like fire burning through you, your sounds of pleasure matched by his own. Mihawk envelops you completely, body and soul, celebrating your lives together in the best way you knew how.
He’s all you can see when your eyes crack open. Golden eyes gaze back, missing not even a single moment as he fucks you deeply, passionately. His sweaty forehead presses to your own, sharing this moment of love and lust together. Higher and higher he takes you, his pace never quickening, his love never waning.
Your peak hits without warning, but it’s as soft as it is overwhelming, muscles shaking around his cock, triggering his own breathless release. His face creases with concentrated pleasure, hips pushing just a little deeper to ride out the waves as long as he can. You’re floating in a red haze with him, coming down from your passion bit by bit, the fireplace keeping you in a dopey state of bliss all the while.
You’re unsure how long you stay that way, him still seated inside you, sweat sticking your skin together. Words feel unnecessary, and so you both stay silent, basking in your post-sex glow. Soon enough, the logs would burn to ash, and the castle’s typical chill would cool you down.
But for now you lay beneath your husband, fingers stroking along his arms, eyes flitting across his face, burning this moment to memory so you’d never forget.
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