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Mihawk didn't get the moniker "Hawkeyes" because of his strange eyes.
He hunted with the likeness of a bird of prey. Swiftly, lethally. One swoop, and his enemies lay cut in two. But, certainly, the eyes were a big factor for many people. He was aware that others found them, intense. Unnatural, some have said to his face. It made no difference to him, of course. They were his. He did not choose to be born with them.
Being 'hawk-eyed' had always granted him advantage. A hawk saw clearer than a human, and farther, eight times as good. It could see a rabbit from a mile away. His own precision has never met a match. Beyond the physical limits of his eyes, his Haki had been honed to observe anyone and anything, and track it even in the chaos of a city. For better or for worse, his attentiveness caught every little thing that mattered.
This building of Karai Bari's headquarters was solid masonry, unlike the tents and the big top that riddled the rest of the island. Down the way, in the other room, they held their Guild board meetings. One of these halls connected to Crocodile's correspondence office. Another, to the private kitchen and pantry.
Mihawk didn't often wander these halls unless going for the kitchen, which he had been on his way to, before his keen gaze locked onto the open sliver of a doorway opening.
He froze from what he spotted inside.
The door must've been two centimeters from closing, and him, a good five feet away. He had never been to Crocodile's base office. The room beyond must be it since the man himself was inside it, hand in the front of his pants.
Mihawk froze, not because he had been startled by the act. He froze from the clarity of his own sight on it.
Warm-hue sconces lit up the interior. At the far wall sat a large walnut desk stacked with papers, inkpots and a working hourglass. That wall had been decorated with some exotic plants, the kind that required little sunlight and even less water, and glowed a luminescent blue in low lightning. At the center of the room, a knee-high coffee table meant for face-to-face conversation, flanked by couches and a floor-seat divan.
It was the low height of the table and the divan what allowed Mihawk the angle to see the unbuckled parting of pants. And the cock grasped in ringed knuckles.
Mihawk could smell the special brand tobacco from here. The heavy smoke drifting from cigar and parted lips did nothing to hide how comfortable Crocodile looked. His eyes were shut, and his brow, unfurrowed.
All of that, he saw from the narrow two-centimeter passage.
He was watching Crocodile masturbate.
I should leave, came to his mind like an empty command. Because his silent shadow-steps did not, in fact, take him away down his original path, but closer to the gap in the door. The world inside widened — to chairs, a second smaller desk to the side, and a whisky decanter half-way drained on it. He narrowed his focus to the circle at the coffee table, still. Didn't leave.
Crocodile's hand worked leisurely at its target. It smoothed its way up, squeezed the darkened tip, then dragged down to the base more firmly. A bead of moisture, rare to see on the man even on a hot baking day, dripped from the crown. On an upsweep the palm gathered it and glossed down faster. The only points of friction seemed to be at the metal of rings — certainly warmed by now, Mihawk wondered. Then, caught himself wondering and stopped it.
No, this is inappropriate. He was spying on his ally, his partner-in-guild, during an intimate moment. Nothing good or helpful came from doing this.
His hand hovered on the doorknob. He could close it quietly, leave, and never bring this up. Never think on it a second time.
"Mmh," his eyes snapped from their brief rest on the door's frame to the sound. The shadows cast on Crocodile's frame shifted, as he scooted himself more to the edge, and widened his thighs apart—
The pump of his hand was drawing out more precum. It practically glistened with the room's sconce lighting. Shiny lines, along that hard length. Making it stand out even more in Mihawk's sight.
Gold hook scratched at the top of the couchback. Crocodile's chin lowered. His pale eyes drooped open. They stared only at the work he was wringing of himself, the fist losing its rhythm. They knew nothing of Mihawk's uninvited presence, who stood on the other side of that door, taking in the fast rise and fall of a chest, the tensing jaw, the rock of hips to fuck into that tight fist.
Once, two more pumps, and Mihawk's gut recoiled at the release shooting suddenly into the hand and clothed abdomen.
Heat climbed up his face — his lips parting in an inhale — inhaling the wisps of smoke that escaped through the door gap. Quickly, he covered his mouth to kill off a cough.
Inside, Crocodile sagged onto his seat. The hook pried off its spot, surprisingly careful, to instead cup under a left thigh. Tugged it a bit further, as that ringed hand of his milked the very last drop. A couple times, he stiffened up, his cock spilling another bit more. The head of the cigar had been crushed slightly flatter between his teeth.
With one final sigh, the man let go of his flagging cock. Smoke billowed out of his lungs. Cum stained, the hand hung suspended in the air. A single, opaque thread dripped from palm to couch.
And then the hand closed. The air charged denser. All the moisture of the room dried up, including the evidence of his orgasm.
Mihawk watched the lazy effort Crocodile expended to reset his pants, buckle the belt. Hook unwound from leg and carelessly slid through his hair. And there he remained sat and pleased, king of his office, finishing his smoke in peace.
No one else would learn of this. Only Mihawk, who stepped soundlessly down the hall, to be, anywhere else. Anywhere he wouldn't still smell the sweet tobacco in his throat, and taste the phantom arousal on his tongue. He stuck to the shadows of the architecture, just in case anyone ran in his path and decided to sign their death questioning him on the erection straining in his loose pants.
He would have no answer ready anyway. He was too busy emptying his mind of the last few minutes' spell, which had lit his blood on fire. Words, and any complex ideas, escaped him.
Surely he could find something to do to distract him and cool him down to a normal degree again.
Surely.
He didn't plan to come back around the same time, down the same hall.
In the back of his mind, a repeat of the encounter became plausible as the hour approached. As all humans were creatures of habit, and he doubted that whatever he had witnessed of Crocodile one evening, the man had coincidentally begun it right then and there.
Anticipating something similar today was foolish.
Mostly, it made a pervert out of him.
Do I really hope to catch him in the act again? Nothing more exciting would happen. You've seen it once, you've seen it all. He had no interest in that mindless need for pleasure, or watching others succumb to its baser instinct. He didn't.
The thin gap in the office door leaked orange light. He stepped closer to it. His blood beat hotter. It shouldn't be pounding in his chest to find Crocodile inside that room again.
"Nn…"
His gut tightened with a reflex he couldn't resist.
The contents of the room were much the same as before. As were the positions at the couch and table. Only this time, Crocodile's long pants had been pushed halfway down his thighs. He was seating himself more at the edge, resting back on the cushions at a lower angle. And hard beneath his hand, stood his cock again.
He must've been stroking himself for some minutes now. Mihawk honed in on the translucent line trailing down its length, smeared across all fingers.
It hadn't really crossed his mind so clearly before, how large Crocodile was. Of course his stature and presence filled any space he entered in, and that was even among other ridiculous giants. He had a way of making himself the most important man at the table. The one everyone should be paying attention to.
Mihawk clenched and unclenched his fist, unable to blink as Crocodile swept his hand lower. Past the base of that monster of a cock. That fullness, which would make anyone hesitate to take. He chased lower still, to the pair of testicles, palmed them tight. There, his breath hissed. The exposed sliver of his stomach jumped, pant-trapped legs inched a bit further apart—
And then he slipped two fingers down somewhere unseen.
Mihawk nearly startled at the moan. He, blinked, eyes finally burning from dryness. But the sight before him hadn't changed, only in the slight angle of Crocodile's wrist, the shifting push of his hand. No longer dragging up his bobbing cock, despite the beads of arousal drooling down its underside.
"Mm…" Pale eyes fluttered up to the ceiling. His hips were fucking air, as he stuffed himself to the last knuckle — to the seam of the rings—
Mihawk's footstep pulled him quickly out of the gap in the door and to the dark wall. Crocodile had tilted his chin towards it.
His heart thrummed against his ribs, as heavy as the blood pooling in his groin. He hadn't been seen yet. The tension in the air hadn't changed—
"Ah! Hah… mm…"
He shut his eyes hard. Swallowed the sound trembling in his throat. Breathe, damnit. Crocodile must have found his orgasm. The air charged again, with that feeling of relief. Relief he couldn't mirror. Every muscle in his body pulled taut.
Hot. He was hot under his skin. When his own hand palmed the front of his trousers for some reprieve, any kind of help, the tension snapped. He snapped. Rocked into the pressure, crushed his mouth into his other hand to quiet the volume of his panting.
Two more stiff shoves, and he was spilling. Inside his clothes.
This time, he didn't even bother with the lie of going to the kitchen. He left through the same hallway he had entered, shaken, gritting his teeth, drenched in guilty sweat.
No one crossed his path, which was for the better. He would rather throw himself into a pit of vipers than have the damp spot at the front if his pants scrutinized by human eyes. At least the vipers would spare him the humiliation of succumbing to need.
The third time, it felt like a routine freshly established. A sick, perverted routine. Of spying on his co-partner and sworn ally, and getting off on his unawareness.
He knew it was sick because he sported a half-erection walking up to the door.
Worse, he had extended his Haki while entering the building, to sense for Crocodile's presence. The outline of the private office room had taken shape in his mind, like a picture in development. And inside of that room — heat, excitement, a ripple of humor — all beckoned him forward.
There could be no excuse for him, now. Mihawk came to the gap of that door knowing, clearly, and undeniably, what Crocodile was doing on the other side.
"Hah…"
The sigh raised goosebumps on his nape. He didn't have to look yet to know what he would find, unbuckled and slipped out, held in a tender grip. His mind's eye could almost trace it. Draw it from memory.
The long brim of his hat blocked part of his periphery. He could see, just as he anticipated, the easy rub of Crocodile's broad hand on himself. The trousers clung tight to thighs. They twitched apart on a firm downstroke. Mihawk had to lift his chin to bring the upper half of Crocodile's ecstatic body into view: his slack jaw, loose fall of hair, the undone cravat exposing the long line of his neck. Being so disheveled was a handsome look on him.
"Mm…" Sharp eyes narrowed on the gravel-deep groan. When it repeated, he closed his hands into fists, kept them at his sides from touching himself. It was a maddening sound. He wanted to learn how it happened. Which parts of Crocodile should be pleasured and stimulated to recreate it. Absolutely maddening. It was— "Mihawk…"
His heart nearly leapt up his throat. He blinked, took a sharp inhale — hands unclenched, the sound of his knuckles popping far too loud inside his own skull. Did, he give himself away? Did he imagine his name being spoken? He couldn't have. Which really meant—
Crocodile stared through the gap, directly at where he was standing in the hall's darkness. "Are you just gonna keep making me wait here?"
A beat passed. Then, the door creaked open. Enough to let him slip inside, and close it again. Actually shut, not the tiny gap that had been going on for days.
He stood with his chin raised. Now that he has been discovered and called for, he refused to show embarrassment.
"How long have you known I was there?"
"Since the first night."
He had? Crocodile's observational skills with Haki was not yet refined. Had he improved without Mihawk's notice?
"My sands cover a broad field area, you know," Crocodile added, as if sensing his doubt and curiosity, and — ah, his sands. Those microscopic particles which grated on his skin sometimes, in greeting. Though, by the time Crocodile would let him know he was spotted, Mihawk had already sensed his presence a mile away.
"I... did not mean to pry."
"Yeah, so what's your intention three times in a row?"
Mihawk went to answer. His mouth halted on the first word. He, didn't know what to say. Other than, I wanted to see everything you would do. But that sounded inappropriate even in his head.
"Come here."
Mihawk walked over. He took point at the available spot to his host's left. A quick glance down, Crocodile's cock appeared more intimidating up close. More real. Standing at full mast, beading precum and throbbing. It curved towards him, by the angle of Crocodile's seating, and now the dip in the couch from Mihawk's added weight on it.
"Wanna feel me up?"
An easier question. Direct and blunt, much like Crocodile's arguments. Mihawk could answer that. "If you would allow me."
"Knock yourself out."
Exasperation rolled in his eyes. "You make it sound like you don't want to get off."
The grin Crocodile gave him spoke of some depraved, unspoken fantasies.
"I've been wondering how you'd go about it…"
How would he? Slow, certainly. To get a feel for it first. He traced index down the flushed length just so, stopped at the heavy vein on the underside. It pulsed visibly, entirely too sensitive by the way it jumped. Then his fingers wrapped around the base, and stayed a moment while they warmed up. A bit of the oil used to smooth the friction spread onto his palm with the first stroke, and even more precum eased the way at the top.
How heady. He had to swallow the reflexive build of saliva under his tongue. He was doing this. Actually, touching, being allowed to watch this close, testing what he believed. His grip turned more rigid, tighter, to test how much pressure was good. From the door, he could only see the pace, not know the strength used.
He didn't speak. What would he even say? What could either of them say? The hand at work pulled skin downward, the purpled crown leaked even more. Is this good? Asking that felt silly. Because, it must be good. Crocodile's heavy thighs widened their stance and angled hips up. The salty-tang in the air thickened. There was no complaint, no comment on his developing technique.
Mihawk shifted closer, putting one leg bent under himself as the other encroached on Crocodile's lap. They were already sat a breath apart. And he was leaning forward, his shoulder on the man's chest, brushing against ribs whenever they both inhaled too deep. His hand, on the throbbing cock.
"Mm…" That raspy groan set off his impatience. Again, he wanted to hear it again, together with the slick sounds of his fist stroking faster. Heat rose to his face and ears. He swallowed spit a second time—
"Uhn… like that, yeah." The ache in his gut reacted to, that, to the hips starting to fuck into his hand, the louder sighs of pleasure. "Yeah…Mihawk, mm!"
Something tapped on his hat — his pace stuttered, slowed — and tilted it away. The gleam of gold-metal flashed out of sight, over the backrest. Just as Mihawk glanced up, Crocodile lifted the brim's edge with a flesh-and-blood finger. "May I?"
For a very long second, his mind blanked. He was, hot, so hot out of his mind and clothes and hand, that he was melting between his ears. The question made no sense. Until the uptick of Crocodile's lips, and the uttered, "May I take the hat?"
Oh. The barrier. "Yes."
The constant shadow cast over his face disappeared. He blinked rapidly, at the big palm now slinking, scratching down his beard, his neck, the collarline, to rest over his breastbone with possessive pressure.
"Don't stop on my account, Hawkeyes."
"Yes." Words reduced to simple commands and affirmations. Yes, here, go, he lowered his gaze to the needy weight in his fist.
Strange, how without his hat, the room shrunk smaller. He could see out of the corner of his vision how Crocodile hunched closer, how his taller torso leaned down, to follow where he Mihawk's naked focus drew a map of favorite spots to touch — rubbing the skin just below the swollen crown, little finger knuckling tight testicles, kneading the cock's tip under his palm. There was so much he could do, that made Crocodile's groans grow more frequent, more breathless.
"Mm 'hawk," he was panting now. They both were. He nodded at the call of his name. "Close."
Close. He remembered his other hand, so far only twitching on his lap and, oh, palming himself, wait, he could match paces, get them both off.
"Fuck, Mihawk." The hand on his breast clutched, pinched the crease under his nipple, something that sent a spark down straight to his gut— "Fuck, fuck, yeah, don't stop," Fuck, a powerless moan peeled from Mihawk's throat, as he ground onto his own hand, pumped the prize in his sword-grip harder—
Quick bursts. Release spilled between his fingers, and each one landed like molten fire on his abs. He gasped — like it was his own orgasm, his own seed trickling hot down the valley of muscle to stain his pants, over the fabric already being smudged damp from the inside.
It was the nails clawing down from his chest directly down that soiled path that did him in.
Every part of him flinched taut. He could only breathe. Breathe and watch fingers melt into sand, and suck up every drop of their debauchery. Even his ruined pants. No evidence left, as if it had all been a fever dream.
He felt, drunk. Floating outside his body. He rested his forehead on the curve of Crocodile's closest shoulder.
Then, that devious ringed hand touched his cheek. It was smoothing the sharp shave of his mustache. Grounding him.
Slowly, Mihawk tilted his face up.
"Mm… And what are you looking at?"
He meant it in teasing, but Crocodile honestly gave him an equally provoking, "Like you don't know."
"Know, what?"
There was nothing new to appraise about himself. Well, he hasn't gotten a haircut in some time, so his hair spiked wildly behind his head. Surely an amusing sight to such a tidy man as Crocodile liked to dress.
Crocodile's thumb caressed under his eye. "For a man who can see a mile away, you're surprisingly oblivious up-close."
Oblivious? To what? He noticed the fine details of everything. The cracks in armor, the weak points of pressure. He was not oblivious.
But then Crocodile leaned down, hovered his smoke-kissed mouth on Mihawk's temples. "I like when you watch me, Hawkeyes. Why d'you think I got so into it whenever you peeked in on me?"
Oh, Crocodile had, enjoyed that? He knew he was being watched, and got off more on it? That could mean one of three things:
He wanted to be caught.
He didn't mind if Mihawk was the one who caught him.
Or, he minded if Mihawk had watched while feeling no urgency to come inside, and provoked him into entering.
Why any of that mattered, his guess would be moot. Crocodile was right that he came into this room with a narrow scope of observation, though he would still not call himself oblivious.
The hand on his face tipped him higher by the chin. "Mm, so. What d'you wanna do now?"
Mihawk rolled ideas around in his mind like candy pieces on his tongue. Yes, his tongue. He'd yet to do anything with it. And he itched to put something between his teeth and bite. He wanted to taste.
So he did. Rushed up to lick inside a surprised mouth. The first kiss crushed their noses together; the next one, he reigned in the desperation and tilted the opposite way. It routed a path even deeper than he imagined. So much better, when he raked his fingers into dark hair, clutched on tight. His blood sang hearing the answering groan. The gold-hand finally made a reappearance in a furl on the back of his skull. Pinning him in place, flush against Crocodile's body.
Almost as an afterthought, he asked, "I can watch you any time?"
The rumble of Crocodile's laugh, caught between his teeth, vibrated into his very bones.
"Any time."