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It is, ultimately, the heat below her skin that pushes Mihawk towards her decision, in the end, the choice to test the water and see what comes of that rather than taking care of it herself or turning to Perona. In combination with how Roronoa responds to being hurt, and the lazy threats of violence that Mihawk frequently doles out, there’s something of an interest there; and it’s with Yoru’s point just having been moved away from the young woman’s throat that she crouches, works a hand through green strands and pulls up.
Roronoa allows her this, her throat bared as she arches her back and leans into the pull in an instinctive response to try and dull the pain, her eyes widening slightly before they narrow once again. One hand comes up, closes around her wrist, and the look she gets is a challenge.
“Hey,” Roronoa says, low, “if you’re not about to fuck me, get your hand the hell out of my hair.”
She keeps her hair quite long, much as Mihawk herself does, usually kept at the back of her head and out of her way. She’s nothing if not conscious of her personal safety when it comes to fighting, which Mihawk can respect, even if much of the hair has come loose and is now trailing down and sticking to her back. It isn’t as though that bothers her - sweat is hardly something that earns her disgust.
Mihawk considers Roronoa briefly. The slight flush in her cheeks; the way that she seems, occasionally, to be more flustered than simply losing a fight warrants, especially when a few good hits have landed. It’s led her to develop something of a theory, one she tests now as she ever-so-slightly tightens the hold she has in her hair.
“Did I say I wasn’t going to?” she asks, dry and almost drawling, eyes fixed on Roronoa’s face. She makes no effort to hide how her eyes widen again at that, nor how something seems to settle in place as her features fall back into neutrality.
“Well,” she says. “Yeah, okay. Good. Keep your hand in my hair, then.”
Mihawk has eyes, of course, and has been able to see just fine that Roronoa is attractive. Her tan seems to never really fade, even after having to wait for her various injuries to heal, however it was she got them, and with the simple fact of her getting less sunlight here than she would have on her ship. Still, that’s only slightly part of it, the rest coming down to the fact that she’s gods-damned nice to look at, and her muscles are indicative of exactly how much strength lies below them.
Pulling her up further from her position nearly-prone on the ground by the hand in her hair is easy enough, Roronoa’s lips parting slightly in a gasp at the sharp tug. Mihawk studies her again, the flush in her cheeks that goes down to the top of her chest, and she leans in.
“I am going to hurt you,” she says simply. “It’s what I enjoy, and I suspect you do too. Is there anything that you don’t want me to do?”
She can grant her that courtesy, however small, at least. Roronoa exhales sharply, shifting her weight on her knees so that her balance is more centred. Mihawk considers the long strands of green hair tangled through her fingers, pulled taut in her fist, how the other woman tilts her head up to take some of the sting out of it.
“My back,” she says. “Don’t do anything to my back. Everything else is fine, but not that.”
Yes - the notion of scars on the back being something shameful is a long-held belief among most who use swords, one that Mihawk is just as aware of as Roronoa. She has seen her back, bare, unmarked and well-defined with muscle and the occasional freckle. It’s a reasonable request. What excites her, more than anything, is that Roronoa asks her for nothing else.
“Is that all?” Mihawk asks. Her voice is lower than she intends it to be, caught up as she is beginning to be in fantasy; oh, the things she could do to this woman.
“That’s it.” Spoken as if it’s a challenge, her jaw set, eyes alight. Something deep in them has caught, flint against steel, the sparks a brightness in the stormy depths of her irises. It helps that she’s beautiful, truthfully, but appearances have never been the extent of Mihawk’s interest in someone.
“If there’s something else I don’t want,” Roronoa continues, “then we’ll find it together. You know as much as I do.”
Mihawk wants to make her cry, because she knows that there will be no heaving sobs or shaking in the way Perona does so beautifully. If Roronoa cries she will do it stony-faced and with a challenge still in her gaze. It’s a goal, something to aim for. Make her cry, make her bleed; Mihawk intends to push her endurance to the limits and see where those exist.
She considers the woman in front of her, sweating and with her hands rough from the grips of her swords, her lips flushed red and slightly swollen from holding her third between them - she stares, and Roronoa Zoro meets her eyes as defiant as ever, cocksure and arrogant.
Dropping to her knees is a subconscious decision, but one she doesn’t regret as she pulls her into a kiss. Mihawk bites down on Roronoa’s bottom lip quickly, has her open her mouth so that she can taste more of her. Her hand is still in her hair as if it were a makeshift leash, guiding her slightly, or at least coaxing her to lean slightly more to one side as they keep kissing. The ground is damp, but Mihawk doesn’t care. There are more important things than mud.
“Some people say you have fangs,” Roronoa murmurs as they break apart to breathe. Mihawk is aware there will be a slight flush high in her cheeks by now, and that her lips are undoubtedly reddened and slightly swollen already.
“Fangs?”
“So they say,” Roronoa shrugs. “You know they call you a vampire, surely.”
Mihawk thinks of licking blood from splits in Roronoa’s skin, of whipping her thighs until they bleed. She exhales sharply through her nose. They aren’t wrong, she supposes.
“I have ears,” she settles for saying, standing again and brushing dust from her shoulders. “Come with me.”
“Are you going to fuck me?”
She thinks she appreciates the bluntness. It’s a refreshing change from Perona’s embarrassment and insistence of talking around things until she’s forced to speak directly. Roronoa says it offhandedly, as though it hardly matters to her either way.
Mihawk does intend to, though. Half of her pushing can hardly start until some basics are established properly. Today is for seeing Roronoa in her bed and how she reacts to the lowest kinds of pain, the easiest commands.
“Yes,” she says simply, and guides Roronoa to her own room. The bed is neatly made, as it always is, and Mihawk settles Yoru into the stand specifically for her, the contrasting metals of the hilt and the blade catching the eye as well as they catch the light.
“Cozy,” Roronoa says. She means the books, the wine, the clothing. She means the bed, the blankets, the pillows.
“Take off your clothes” she says instead of answering, and Roronoa meets it with only a laugh, letting loose fabric fall from her body and reveal the tighter layer beneath. Most days, Mihawk would make a comment about them being crumpled in a pile on the floor, but they are stained already with dust, dirt, and blood, and need to be washed. She folds her own. Her shirt sits neatly on the chair by the fullest bookshelf, her bra following suit, until Mihawk stands in her trousers and with her boots still on, debating whether to take them off or not. The weight of Roronoa’s gaze - hot, piercing - lands on her soon after, and she turns, letting her hair fall looser around her face than it would otherwise.
Every inch of Roronoa is muscle. Undeniably, she is gorgeous, Mihawk thinks, as she takes in the various scars in their different stages of healing, the hair leading from her navel to between her legs, where it spreads onto her inner thighs. And she seems unbothered by the inspection, the close study of her that Mihawk can’t deny she’s intent on carrying out, which is perhaps a testament to shamelessness more than anything else. She leans against the bed as she steps out of even her underclothes, letting the entirety of herself be bare under Mihawk’s gaze.
The first thing her eyes are drawn to is the scar down the whole length of her chest, splitting it neatly in two. It’s healed well, Mihawk thinks idly, studying it, how it curves over one breast and down almost to her hip. If she had cut deeper, she could have killed her easily.
“Your handiwork,” Roronoa says. “Your signature, I guess.”
Something in her is so different to what it was in their first meeting. It isn’t that she’s subdued, exactly - perhaps the word Mihawk wants is settled - but there’s no audible anger when she refers to the scar. It seems an invitation, even, one that Mihawk takes readily; trailing a finger up Roronoa’s chest to the side of her throat, where she can rest her hand to pull her into another rough and bruising kiss. Kissing is far easier than talking, and a good precursor to all the other, countless ways that Mihawk would like to break this young woman, so she allows herself to lose part of her control.
She takes over; she bites Roronoa’s lip hard, hard enough she can taste blood where one of her canines or incisors must have properly dug into the flesh, enough that it earns her an embarrassed and high-pitched noise as she pulls away. Red beads around Roronoa’s mouth. Mihawk leans in, and wipes it away with the tip of her tongue.
There will be time to enjoy the sight of her bleeding again, she thinks. She knows. She will be the cause of it.
“Oh,” Roronoa says, her voice only slightly strained as her eyes fix on what Mihawk imagines is the flash of bright crimson on the flesh of her tongue. “Fuck.”
“Yes,” Mihawk says, allowing her voice to lower into something more akin to a lazy drawl, “that was the plan.”
She loses herself in touching, briefly, her mind gone outside of the feeling of skin hot beneath her fingers, lips on hers and a vaguely metallic taste in her mouth. At some point Roronoa works off her trousers, something murmured against the side of her throat about fairness, entirely lost to Mihawk once she focuses a little more on pushing the woman down and straddling her. Roronoa is broader, yes, but she has the advantage of height and experience, which means that it is simple to lay her down with her back against the bed.
Mihawk comes fully back to her senses as she holds Roronoa down on her bed, her hair a black curtain around her face while the green spreads like a starburst below her. This woman is beautiful. This woman will take all that is hers, someday, and make it her own.
“I think,” Mihawk says, breathes, voice ragged with it, “that I will be kind, this time.”
“You said you would hurt me.”
“Yes,” Mihawk says, “and I will, but I don’t particularly want you to stain these sheets just yet.”
“How will you hurt me, then, when you do?”
“Any way. Every way. I want you to bleed, to bruise, to ache.”
Mihawk thinks of the crop, given to her by a wealthy heiress who’d begged to be treated like one of the horses she was so fond of riding, hit for every slight misstep she made. The reddening, the bruising. She thinks of the insides of Roronoa’s thighs, her cunt, imagines them red-raw and in agony, and has to close her eyes for a second to stop herself shuddering. She imagines taking her kogatana, pressing it against her clit, seeing if it made her squirm away or betrayed more of her arousal.
She doubts very much that Roronoa will be anything less than wet at the threat of violence in such an intimate setting.
“So do it.”
A challenge, certainly, and Mihawk burns with it, with how desperately she wants to rise to it. How long has it been since there was something that she was so desperate to respond to, she wonders - how long since someone challenged her and she saw a spark in them that made her believe it?
“No,” she says softly. “Not yet.”
And she moves, as gracefully as she always does, until she is straddling Roronoa’s head, weight keeping her from sitting down directly on her face as she considers the woman. There are no audible complaints, just hot breath against her own clit, the wetness on the dark hair between her legs. She wants Roronoa to run out of air and desperately keep licking and sucking at her clit in a half-desperate plea to breathe. She wonders whether Roronoa would stop in protest or if she would simply keep going.
She lowers her weight, with two hands immediately coming to grip her thighs and hold her in place as Roronoa approaches her task with single-minded focus. Her tongue traces the shape of her at first, teasing, never meeting the point she wants it to - Mihawk supposes this is her own fault for not giving her an order, but it isn’t unenjoyable - and there is a subtle pressure at her entrance before the young woman takes her clit into her mouth and sucks.
It earns her a shudder, a tremor in Mihawk’s thigh that she didn’t bother to train herself out of, too willing to indulge in a woman with fire-red hair singing the praises of the little tells of her body to be ashamed of how obvious it could be. Roronoa tightens her hands on Mihawk’s thighs, her blunt nails beginning to dig into the skin before she loosens her grip and begins eating her out in earnest. She’s better than Mihawk dared hope, speaking of experience that she hadn’t found the correct way to ask about, and she feels her back arching slightly as she grinds her hips down against her face.
Who has she been doing this with? Mihawk thinks on it as she grips Roronoa’s hair again and pulls it, getting her a groan in return that goes right through her. Perhaps… she does seem the type to have given her captain everything that she is, that she was, that she could someday be. It wouldn’t come as much of a surprise. That, or she’s grown familiar by doing this with someone that Mihawk would never recognise the name of, faceless and irrelevant now, save for how intently Roronoa has applied herself to her task.
Mihawk has never been particularly loud during sex, a combination of what was embarrassment when she was much younger and her natural inclination to be quiet. The loudest partners she’s ever had - and she has had a few partners at this point - are Shanks and Perona, one because of her insistence on talking, the other because she’s so damn sensitive that even the lightest touch has her whining. That doesn’t mean that she’s silent, though, and the bitten-off, sharp exhale that could almost be a groan has Roronoa’s hands tightening in their grip on her thighs, nails noticeably biting into the skin, now.
Mihawk idly wonders, in the deep recesses of her mind, if Roronoa would willingly get off in some humiliating way or another; whether or not she would be willing to try to reach orgasm by riding her boot, grinding her clit against the leather. It would be a beautiful sight to see, after all, Roronoa Zoro flushed and whining as she chases it after asking for permission.
If she were less ambitious, Mihawk would more actively consider locking a thick leather collar around her throat and keeping her as a pet. If only she were less ambitious, if only she were less…
If only Mihawk wasn’t longing for the day she would best her, she would do it. Hell, she still might do it with Perona, if she can find some way to make it cute.
Roronoa seems to sense her mind wandering, and sucks on her clit with a little more aggression than she had been a few moments before; she lets her teeth scrape the sensitive skin there, and the sudden press of the enamel against her skin has Mihawk groaning outright, far more obviously than she had moments before, all too aware of how wet and slick she must feel against the lower half of Roronoa’s face. It’s a sensation she’s familiar with herself, after all, willing to admit to herself that she does genuinely enjoy the experience of burying her face between another woman’s thighs and having them come apart beneath her touch.
“Good,” she says. She does sound a little distant to her own ears, with an underlying thread of satisfaction through it. “Good, Roronoa. Keep going.”
She doesn’t seem concerned with not making a mess.
As she sucks, she opens her mouth wider, alternating her tongue between Mihawk’s clit and licking at the length of her, pressing into her as though seeking to fuck her with it. She’s a fast learner, which is one of the things about her that Mihawk does truly appreciate, and she’s shockingly agreeable to direction when there’s a hand tight in her hair.
That, Mihawk isn’t entirely sure when she’d done, when she’d moved her hand to take hold of the long green strands, but it’s far gentler than she would ordinarily be during sex. Several times, Mihawk has fucked someone while holding a blade to their throat, careful to dig it in just enough to draw beads of blood to the surface of the skin and leave a thin red cut behind, enjoying the fear in their eyes as she’d twisted and curled her fingers enough to have them sobbing through their orgasm.
It would be a beautiful thing to see from Roronoa, she thinks, even if the woman might take it as something of a challenge, even though she might outright dare Mihawk to do the job properly and slit her throat, if she’s going to threaten it. Maybe that would get her off, even - maybe the sight of blood is something the young woman might find erotic. She’d flushed when seeing it earlier, after all, and Mihawk’s curious as to whether that was simply out of shock at the sight or if it had played into any of the arousal clearly singing through her veins.
Roronoa might even be willing to indulge Mihawk in her cruellest desires, the few that she holds closest to her chest and avoids voicing. Not out of fear of judgement, merely the knowledge and understanding of the fact that few would understand the appeal of it.
“Good girl,” she says, and delight courses through her at the small noise that Roronoa lets out into her cunt. She doesn’t know if it’s from the words themselves, or just the praise, or the fact that Mihawk’s actually giving her a reaction at all. She doesn’t care all that much, instead she just hisses out another sharp breath as she grinds down onto Roronoa’s face a little. It gives her some more friction, a drag of skin against skin that has pleasure coiling in her stomach, and, oh - it’s good.
Roronoa’s hands are still on her thighs, her nails digging into her skin, licking into her like it’s the only thing that she cares about at that moment. It’s fascinating, how entirely she dedicates herself to this and how she eats pussy - as Shanks would say with a laugh, much to Mihawk’s chagrin - like it’s her last meal.
“Don’t stop,” Mihawk says. Her voice is still steady, is still even, which does come as something of a surprise to herself. Roronoa makes a soft noise of acknowledgement, muffled by Mihawk’s body, but the vibrations run through her in a way that’s distinctly pleasurable. “Keep going like that.”
Redundant, maybe, given Roronoa had already agreed not to stop, but Mihawk finds the words coming to her unbidden. She isn’t loud, ordinarily, but she finds herself speaking, has an urge to see exactly how well she responds to orders, being told what to do. How disciplined is she? How well does she respond to someone being in charge of her?
Mihawk feels her orgasm burning in her stomach, the kind that has her toes curling slightly, and she tightens his grip in Roronoa’s hair - and, God, when had she got her hand tangled up there - and exhales sharply as she does come, her hips rocking slightly as she chases Roronoa’s mouth some more, some more of the tension bleeding out of her as she relaxes slightly.
“Good girl,” she says again, focusing on slowing her breath from where it had slightly picked up, realising a little belatedly that she’s still got most of her weight resting on Roronoa’s face. The other woman doesn’t seem to mind, of course, given that she’s still using her mouth on her, albeit far gentler, careful that she doesn’t push Mihawk into the realm of overstimulation. She takes great care that she isn’t too much.
Slowly, she lifts her weight back onto her knees, adjusting it and pushing herself up, a slight tremor in her thighs as she does, as she hears Roronoa suck in a breath and turn her head to bury it slightly more into the pillow. As she moves backwards, so she’s able to sit atop her hips instead of on her face, she gets to take in how debauched she looks - she’s flushed, her lips dark with blood and her face damp in the wake of Mihawk’s orgasm, her eyes dark, pupils dilated as wide as they’re likely able to go.
Her blush goes down to her chest, too, out to her ears, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat over her forehead, but she looks viciously satisfied, and immensely pleased with herself.
“Good, right?” Roronoa says, something smug in her voice as she offers Mihawk a lazy grin.
“Mm.”
Mihawk shifts again, slightly further back, one hand fitting nicely between Roronoa’s slightly-parted legs. The hair there is wet, sticky with it, and that spreads down onto her thighs too. Roronoa tries to spread her legs a little more, clearly as an invitation, silently asking for Mihawk to touch her.
She isn’t cruel. Or, she isn’t that cruel, because Roronoa did bring her to orgasm - and it would be mean to deny her like this, when she’s so wet that Mihawk wonders if she might not be managing to soak the sheets beneath her. Her clit is swollen with arousal, hotter even than the rest of her cunt, and she…
Well, for lack of a better word, she’s dripping.
Mihawk touches her lightly at first, teasing and gentle, and Roronoa does make a soft noise just from that. She must be so aroused that it hurts, if she reacts this easily, her hips canting upwards and seeking a firmer, more deliberate touch. It would be easy to keep teasing her until she breaks and begs her for something more.
Breaking her would take longer than they have, Mihawk thinks - shelves it for another day. Oh, but it would be a wonderful thing, to have Roronoa Zoro be her perfectly trained pet, willing to follow every order. What a waste it would be, given how ambitious she is, and how beautiful that ambition makes her as she strives, every day, for more.
“I thought,” Roronoa says, her voice strained, “that you said you were going to fuck me.”
“I say a lot of things, Roronoa,” Mihawk points out. To her own ears, she sounds unbearably gentle, almost placating, but at least she can still catch her unawares by sliding two fingers into her when she opens her mouth to speak again. Two fingers, because one would be undeniable as teasing, and Mihawk has a part of her that desperately wants to hear how Roronoa sounds as she fucks her through an orgasm.
Nobody can fault her for her little indulgences. It is, after all, a beautiful sound that escapes Roronoa as the heel of Mihawk’s palm presses against her clit. At this angle it’s easy to grind that part of her hand against that spot as she keeps moving her fingers, long, calloused, with nails carefully trimmed so as not to break them when wielding Yoru; but they prove themselves equally useful for sex, avoiding the unfortunate possibility of scratching anybody inside.
That, Mihawk knows, is a pain that brings nobody any pleasure, and one that even she avoids when she can.
She wonders, briefly, if Roronoa would be able to take three - a few moments later she discovers that she can, and that she makes a beautiful noise with it. She’s tight around Mihawk’s fingers, and hot, and wet, and she wonders how much experience she has with this. She’s used her mouth before, that’s been made clear with how well she got Mihawk off only minutes ago, but she doesn’t seem the sort of person who would have let someone do this with her.
Well. Her captain, perhaps, but her captain seems a loose cannon at best and utterly insane at worst, unlikely to pay attention enough not to hurt her. If anything, Mihawk suspects that the sex would have been the other way around, Roronoa dedicating herself to giving her captain as much pleasure as humanly possible. Yes. That seems like something that Roronoa would do.
As Mihawk curls her fingers inside her, angling them forwards, Roronoa chokes out a gasp and a high-pitched noise that she hasn’t heard from her before at all. A whine, or a whimper, but whatever it is - her muscles clench a little, tight around Mihawk’s fingers.
She’s beautiful. Stunning, really. Mihawk likes the sight of Roronoa in her bed far too much, to the point that she wants to keep her there longer.
“Ah, fuck,” Roronoa chokes out, arching her back up, and Mihawk feels every single one of her muscles tense. “Fuck, Dracule - fuck, come on…”
“You’re so demanding,” Mihawk says idly, focused on grinding her palm against Roronoa’s clit, because she does want to see her get off. “Not even a ‘please’, Roronoa? For shame.”
That gets her a growl, something low in Roronoa’s throat as she arches her back again before pushing herself up onto her elbows. She’s shaking a little, muscles straining in her arms, and there’s a spark deep in her eyes again - irritation, anger, or something like it. It’s a charming look on her, really.
“You’re an asshole,” Roronoa says, and her voice is straining a little too, by now. “Please. Please.”
“Good girl,” Mihawk says again. She pulls her fingers out and moves, kneeling on the floor beside the bed and pulling Roronoa closer as she grips her ankles, adjusts her so her legs are spread wider, wide enough that it must strain her slightly. “And what do you want me to do?”
“Make me come.”
That, Mihawk suspects, is the extent of how far she can push Roronoa into degrading herself in the moment; now that she’s adjusted both of their positions, she leans in and takes the woman’s clit into her mouth, knowing that she must already be close, she keeps licking and sucking as best she can.
“Oh, shit, Mihawk,” Roronoa gasps out, her hands flying straight to Mihawk’s hair and pulling hard, pushing her face more into her cunt as she comes, her breath hitching and catching. And it’s something of a filthy admission, maybe, but Mihawk genuinely enjoys the taste, the thighs that close tight around her head, Roronoa groaning and whining.
“Good girl,” Mihawk says, She licks her lips, sits back onto her heels, and brushes a strand of hair out of her face, where it’s fallen back down onto her forehead.
“Hah,” Roronoa agrees. “That - you - god.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” Mihawk says. She doubts that Roronoa is religious - she’s likely just repeating a curse she’s heard from others around her, and doesn’t even register it as blasphemy - but the point still stands. It bothers her.
“Yeah,” Roronoa says. “Sorry.”
Mihawk thinks she might have dragged the aggression out of her through her orgasm, that she’s left Roronoa tired enough to be docile. In some twisted way she’s proud of that, and presses her lips against the inside of her thigh, curious for the reaction. It earns her a twitch of the leg and a sigh, which confirms her suspicion; Roronoa is exhausted.
“Go to the bathroom and sort yourself out,” Mihawk says, stretching as she lifts herself back to her feet. Some of her muscles protest slightly, but the ache in them is good and dull, a consequence of the sparring earlier in the day than the sex. “I’ll even clean up your clothes for you.”
“Oh,” Roronoa says. She’s sitting upright again now, and scrubs a hand over her face, letting her hair fall sweat-damp into her face as she avoids eye contact. “I’ll see you in the morning, then, right?”
“I thought that you might stay here,” Mihawk says. She feels she might be looming over the bed slightly, and sits on the edge of it, peers at Roronoa from the corner of her eye. “The bed is plenty big enough for two, and Perona isn’t likely to disturb you.”
“Sold,” Roronoa says. “I’ll be back in a moment?”
Mihawk hums. On a whim, she reaches out and pulls her into another kiss. The skin of Roronoa’s bottom lip is raw where she’d bitten into it to try and keep herself quiet, as well as where Mihawk had been the one to draw blood earlier. It’s only there in her memory now, but it’s easy to imagine it across her tongue, especially as she brings one hand up to cup the side of her throat, trace a line there with a fingertip.
Carotid, jugular, windpipe, oesophagus - far too many things in the neck, all of them fragile. Roronoa kisses her deep even as she maps out all of these places atop the unmarked line of her throat.
“What,” she says, almost challenging, when they break the kids, “are you planning to choke me next, is that it?”
Mihawk presses her face into Roronoa’s hair. “If you ask nicely,” she says, and does her the kindness of pretending she doesn’t feel the violent shudder that runs through her at the idea of it.