Two sword-callused hands were held,

Two sword-callused hands were held, pinned, above a head of black hair by one likewise sword-callused palm. There was no other hand, so Shanks could only attack the man beneath him with his mouth. Not that it bothered him any. Mihawk tasted like chocolate and fine wine, not things Shanks often admitted to liking, largely because no one ever asked him if he did, but he sure as hell liked the taste of them when he got the hint of them through Mihawk's skin.

He liked the sounds Mihawk made when he grazed his teeth over the other man's exposed pectoral too. It was a sort of shuddering gasp with a hint of bit-off moan at the end. Every sound Shanks managed to get from his lover was always bit off. Mihawk was a quiet lover. He gasped and panted and sometimes held his breath, he bit his lip and his tongue and hardly ever let a true sound properly escape him.

Instructions – things like 'faster', 'harder' and 'there, right there!' – were always communicated in a harsh, hoarse whisper. At least, they were when it was Shanks' turn on top. Instructions given when Mihawk was the one in charge – things like 'hold still', 'behave yourself' and 'come for me' – were generally purred out in a low, tempting, sinful and velvet tone that was completely reserved for those times. It was a full octave lower than Mihawk usually spoke, and Shanks was the only one who ever got to hear it.

Shanks didn't release Mihawk's hands as he slowly worshipped his way down the golden-eyed man's body. He kissed obliques, he scraped his teeth over abdominals, and licked at the edge of Mihawk's navel. Not a sound escaped either of them.

Then Shanks undid Mihawk's trousers with his teeth. First the button, then the zipper, then he nudged them down just a bit with his chin before sliding back up Mihawk's body.

"If I let you go," Shanks said quietly, lowly, a whisper of a murmur that he breathed over Mihawk's ear even as he kissed the shell of it and squeezed his only hand a little tighter around Mihawk's captive wrists, "will you promise to only pull your trousers off? Or am I going to have to do this the slow, hard way?"

Mihawk's hips bucked, quite probably without his consent or even conscious thought, and the man took a deep, rattling breath that brought his bare chest into contact with Shanks' half-covered one, as the red-head and been hovering over his lover with just enough space between them for them to not be touching, but for it to be possible that they could.

Shanks lifted his head from pressing his lips against Mihawk's ear so that he could look into those golden eyes and see the rest of the answer for himself. Mihawk was very quiet when he wasn't in charge. Shanks smirked to see that the look on his Hawk-Eye's face was telling him in no uncertain terms that, given his freedom, Mihawk would rip off Shanks clothes first, and then pull himself out just enough to impale the red-head.

"The hard way it is," Shanks declared softly, ghosting his lips over Mihawk's, but not quite kissing the other man.

Mihawk's coat was already off, spread out beneath them and acting the part of a sheet over the dry grass beneath them, and Shanks' cloak was rolled up and filling the role of pillow. Shanks, however, was still fully dressed by comparison. Mihawk, after all, didn't wear a shirt under his coat. Lying a little way away from them were Mihawk's boots, Shanks' sandles, both of their weapons, and Mihawk's hat.

Shanks would be getting himself undressed, as well as Mihawk's trousers off, without the use of his only remaining hand.

There was a reason it was called the hard way.

There was also a reason it was not called impossible.

Shanks shifted back down Mihawk's body, kissing and nipping and scraping his scratchy little beard as he went, until he was once again face-to-crotch with his lover, and then he went down a little lower and closed his teeth over the seam at the crux of Mihawk's trousers. Then he pulled, wrenching the garment down to Mihawk's thighs and exposing his proud erection to the cool evening air. Shanks picked himself up just enough to go over it before squatting down over Mihawk's midriff, and enjoyed the expression of silent, agonizing pleasure that was displayed on the swordsman's face. Then Shanks put his ten clever toes to work, wiggling Mihawk's trousers further down, down, down, and taking Shanks' body with them until the red-head was scraping over the older man's erection and then had his face so close he could kiss it.

Not that he did. That would be giving in too soon. Mihawk had decided they'd be doing things the hard way tonight, so the hard way it would be done.

Shanks nudged for Mihawk to raise one of his legs, bending it at the knee and planting the foot back into the ground, thus freeing one leg from the trousers complete, and allowing the other leg to kick of the last with a flick of his ankle – something Mihawk did without any nudging or instruction from the man above him.

Shanks' own trousers were much easier to remove though, being much looser than the kind Mihawk preferred, and held up with the red sash he wore about his waist. Shanks caught the bottom of one trouser-leg with the big toe of the other foot, then pulled down firmly. He repeated this with the other leg, then shimmied them the rest of the way off with the help of the leg he'd gotten Mihawk to bring up. Without the trousers, the red sash just fell away, caressing both of them as it slid off. This left only Shanks' shirt still as a barrier between them, however flimsy it was, and however few buttons the man bothered to actually do up.

A much-practised twist, and his shoulder and the stump of his left arm were freed, the bottom of his shirt now gathered under one armpit on one side and under his earlobe on the other. A shrug, and only his remaining arm was still clothed. Of course, all this wriggling was done while he was atop his lover, and the brushing of hot, sweating skin against hot, sweating skin had done absolutely nothing to relieve Mihawk's throbbing need. Or Shanks' for that matter. If anything, it made them all the more painful, and every time they brushed each other it was like sweet lighting had replaced the blood in their veins – but then it rushed through them all over again and as the white cloth of Shanks' shirt gathered around his own wrist where he was still holding tight to Mihawk, they were both gasping in silent, desperate, pained raptures.

Shanks planted his feet between Mihawk's thighs, spread his legs, and pinned his lover to the ground, lowering his weight onto the other man at last.

Mihawk bit down on his bottom lip to keep the wanton groan from escaping him as it had the red-head above him. The heat, the pressure, the almost friction of their lengths being pressed together and held tight between their bodies as Shanks rested all of his weight on Mihawk, pressing their chests together and keeping Mihawk on the ground no matter what. Then Shanks began to kiss and nip his way up Mihawk's neck, along his jaw, over his neatly kept beard, down his cheek and finally, finally claiming the swordsman's lips in a firm, passionate kiss that caused him to forget everything else except for his desire for this man as he kissed back. He didn't even notice when Shanks released his hold so that he could discard the shirt, and then grasped hold of his wrists again. Mihawk was much too preoccupied with this kiss. This kiss where all they wanted was to get as completely inside of the other as they could through that single avenue.

Shanks ground his hips down onto Mihawk's, and his lover threw his head back from their kiss as he arched his back and panted in ecstasy. Shanks grinned and did it again, and got to enjoy the sight of Mihawk's eyes rolling back in his head as his eyelids fluttered, his jaw hung open, and his throat seemed to lock completely.

He didn't need to hear cries and screams from his lover to know that Mihawk loved what was being done to him. He didn't even need pleasured moans, the kind he himself released and knew that Mihawk liked to draw from him when he was in charge, though it was always nice whenever one got past his guard and escaped. No, Mihawk was plenty expressive enough, and Shanks took delight in the fact that he was the only person in the whole world who ever got to see these expressions on Mihawk's face.

"Need... Now..." Mihawk panted out in a strained whisper at last, and the glint in his unique gaze told Shanks that there was no way the red-head would be able to stretch him, prepare him, and hold his hands captive at the same time, and they both knew it.

Shanks just smirked and pressed his lips to that special spot on Mihawk's neck that always drove him completely nuts – knew by the way the man's hips stuttered upwards and then stayed there while Mihawk stopped breathing and seemed to be held up exclusively by his heels and his shoulders. It was a soft spot, a little below and forward of where jawbone bet skull, right where the main artery in the neck was.

While Shanks laved attention that sweet spot that left Mihawk electrified and limp and completely, helplessly, unable to do anything for the amount of pleasure he was feeling, Shanks released his hold and dragged his hand down Mihawk's side in fluttering, tantalising, teasing touches that he knew made the older man burn. Shanks lovingly stroked Mihawk's hip bone, and then slipped his hand down, behind, and up again.

Mihawk managed half a gasp before his breath hitched as Shanks slipped the first finger inside, his blunt nail making his insides burn just as his skin had burned before, and the reason for Shanks taking his time dragging his hand down Mihawk's skin became clear. They'd be using their own sweat to make this a little bit easier this time. It wasn't like either of them carried around anything that they could use, so it was always whatever was at hand. Sometimes it was spit, sometimes it was alcohol, sometimes water, occasionally