Chapter Text
Dracule Mihawk does not rush.
That is the first thing you understand.
The second is that you are not leaving.
Your wrists are secured above you. The knots are precise. You tested them once. They did not move. He noticed and didn’t comment.
The bed is cool beneath you…candlelight keeps the room dim. The windows are open to moonlight and silence…Kuraigana Island offers no interruption.
Mihawk stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, completely at ease.
“You will not struggle.”
It isn’t a threat. It’s an expectation.
You still.
Good.
He approaches slowly. When he reaches you, he does not touch you right away.
That’s worse.
He studies you like a blade laid out for inspection—measured, assessing, already aware of every reaction you’re trying and failing to hide.
“Look at you,” he says. Not praise. Not mockery. Observation.
His gloved fingers trace the length of your arm. Light contact. Controlled. Your arm tenses.
Mihawk’s gaze sharpens.
“Control that,” he says softly.
You do. Barely.
His hand moves again, this time lower, tracing the line of your side. He pauses at your waist and leaves his hand there.
“You mistake my restraint for distance. You are already well within my reach.”
His thumb massages into your hip bone. Not enough to make you gasp. Enough to make the point.
He withdraws.
You let out a breath you were holding.
Mihawk straightens, circles the bed slowly, fingers occasionally brushing your skin—never where you want them, always where you feel it most. He is methodical in his denial, exacting in his timing.
Every touch is deliberate.
Every pause is intentional.
“You will learn,” he says quietly, “that what you feel is not discomfort. It is awareness of where you belong.”
He stops beside you again. One hand settles into the mattress near your shoulder…not to touch you, but to remind you how easily he could. He leans in just enough that you feel the brush of his breath at your mouth. Not a kiss. Not even an invitation.
Your pulse betrays you.
He pulls back.
Mihawk’s mouth curves—not a smile. Something colder. Satisfied.
“You are already mine,” he says evenly. “Do not forget where you are.”
His fingers move to your throat. Not pressure. Placement. A reminder.
Then he grips your chin and lifts your face.
“Watch.”
You do.
He removes his glove slowly, deliberately. When his bare hand reaches you, it goes to your thigh—high, controlled, unmistakable.
His fingers curve around the muscle. His thumb traces once along the edge of your underwear. Not enough to move the fabric but enough to make the intention clear.
“Still.”
You obey.
He leaves his hand there, unmoving, long enough for the tension to settle fully into you.
You whisper it before you can stop yourself.
“Please.”
Mihawk does not react immediately.
Then his grip tightens—just enough to register.
“No,” he says calmly. “Do not beg.”
Then he steps back.
Fully back.
The loss of contact is sharp enough to make your fingers curl against the silk ropes.
Mihawk notices.
He turns away, retrieving a chair and setting it near the bed—not close, not far. He sits, folding his hands loosely, gaze never leaving you.
“You will remain exactly as you are,” he says. “Until I decide otherwise.”
Your breath is shallow now. Controlled. Frayed.
Mihawk watches patiently.
After all—
He is in no hurry.
And you?
You are exactly where he wants you.