mihawk x reader | “venus & mars” {ch.9}
summary: you're a member of the cross guild. one night, in search of a quiet place to fall apart, you slip into the garden—only to end up in the arms of a certain swordsman... however, despite the way your heart aches for him, you refuse to fall in love with dracule mihawk. you know it could never work. you're venus, and he's mars. you were never meant to be what the other needs.
...right? tag list: mihawk/you, slow burn, mutual pining, soft angst, made from mihawk brainrot, cosmic metaphors, enemies to lovers (kinda) chapter list:
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine (end)
Chapter 9: Venus and Mars
Mihawk turns the moment he hears you.
His coat catching the torchlight, his eyes already locked to yours like they never stopped watching the door.
The hallway holds its breath.
And so does he.
He sees the tears instantly. Sees the way your shoulders tense, the way your throat works around words you can’t say. The grief in your silence is louder than any outburst, and it cuts through him like no blade, no opponent, no duel he’s ever known.
But he doesn’t move.
He just lets you speak.
Lets you give him that single, broken word:
“Goodnight.”
And when you turn—shoulders curling inward, fingers trembling as you reach to close the door—
He catches it.
His hand, warm and steady, presses gently to the wood. Not to force it open.
But to hold it still.
“I won’t come in,” he says softly, voice barely more than breath above your ear. “Not unless you ask.”
A pause.
Then—
“But if you need me…”
His voice falters, just for a second.
“If you want me—say it.”
A breath.
“Let me in, Y/N.”
The smallest sound slips from you in reply. Not a word. Barely a plea. Just a sob.
And it guts him.
He watches you. Shoulders hunched, back trembling, hands shielding your face from his view.
And for a moment masquerading as an eternity, Mihawk doesn’t move.
Because this—you—is sacred. And he’s never been one to trespass where he isn’t wanted.
Gently, wordlessly, he steps forward. Not past the door. Not past your defenses.
Just close enough.
You feel the warmth of him at your back. Pressing, ever so slightly, against you.
And when his voice finally comes, it’s the softest it’s ever been.
“…I never wanted to hurt you.”
A beat.
“You don’t have to let me in. Not all the way. Not tonight.”
Another pause.
“But let me hold the door.”
“—Y-You didn’t come after me!”
Your trembling voice ripples through the late silence.
You can’t see it, not with your back turned, not through your tears. But Mihawk winces.
His hand falls to his side from where it was right behind your nape.
Fingers curling tight, knuckles white. He doesn't speak right away.
Because there’s no defense. Not for that.
Not for you.
When he does, his voice is low—hoarse, like something is finally managing to wound the world’s greatest swordsman.
“I wanted to. I thought about it.”
A breath.
“But I thought giving you space was what you needed. That staying back meant respecting you.”
Another breath—sharper this time.
“I didn’t realize that by not chasing you…”
He swallows hard.
“I was leaving you alone.”
You turn your face just slightly, eyes still hidden, lips parted as if searching for something to say—but the only thing left is the hurt.
The absence.
God, you knew it’d end up like this. You called it from the start.
Why can’t you be wrong for once—
“I was afraid,” he murmurs. “That if I reached for you… I’d lose you anyway.”
“But I see now—I lost you the moment I didn’t.”
Then, lower:
“Forgive me.”
Your reply comes in the form of another soft sob as you quickly wipe the tears from your eyes with your wrists.
You turn towards him, and fresh tears replace the ones you just wiped.
“S-See? We’re already hurting each other. I told you. Venus and Mars.”
A shaky inhale.
“All that we'll leave each other with is ghosts and scars. We just don’t belong together, Mihawk.”
A shaky exhale.
“Even if we want to be,” you whisper as you turn away from him again.
And for the first time in all his calculated, collected life…
Dracule Mihawk looks shattered.
Defeated, even.
He steps closer after a few silent moments.
Enough for you to feel the warmth of him— the trembling restraint behind every inch of distance he doesn’t cross.
He doesn’t argue. He can’t.
Because you’re right.
The ache in your voice is already proof. The way your sob breaks in the middle, how your hands hide your face, like admitting the want was more painful than denying it.
But then—
His voice.
Low. Rough. Barely holding steady.
“…You’re right. We don’t belong in the stars.”
You blink through your fingers.
He steps forward again.
“We don’t align in the sky. Don’t spin in harmony. Don’t dance like constellations are supposed to.”
He’s in front of you now, no longer behind you.
And gently, so gently, his hand reaches up—
Not to pull you in.
But to lift your hand away from your face.
So he can see you.
So you can see him.
Golden eyes full of ruin and restraint.
“But I’d rather collide with you until there’s nothing left of me,” he breathes, “than admit I’d be better off without you.”
And just like that—
Mars reaches for Venus.
Your breath hitches.
His fingers brush your cheek—barely—just enough to wipe a tear that hadn’t yet fallen. The touch is reverent, hesitant, like you might shatter in his hands if he’s not careful.
But you already have shattered.
And he’s here now—not as a swordsman, or as a pirate, or even as a planet, but as a man who stayed too far from you when you needed him the closest.
And now?
He’s close.
Your eyes meet his—wet and vulnerable and full of all the pain you tried to hide.
And his?
They're devastated.
He clears his throat softly, like anything louder might break the fragile thread of courage holding you both together in this moment.
“I’ll be frank with you, I don’t know how to do this.”
A breath. Words you never expected to hear Dracule Mihawk admit.
“I know how to fight. To wait. To watch. But I don’t know how to love, how to chase after something as delicate as a heart, like this.”
Like yours.
Another breath.
“But I want to learn. With you.”
Your lips part—trembling, uncertain. You don’t even realize you’re already shaking your head.
“Mihawk…”
He takes your hands.
Gently. Firmly. In his.
“If we’re both going to get hurt,” he murmurs, “then let me be there to stop the bleeding.”
And that’s it. That’s all you can take.
He catches you instantly.
No hesitation. No breath missed.
His arms wrap around you with a gentleness that betrays the strength behind them—tight enough to hold you together, but soft enough to let you break in his arms.
The duality wielded only by a man, like Dracule Mihawk.
Your face buries into his chest, warm and steady, the scent of him wrapping around you like something familiar, like something you didn’t realize you missed so, so badly until it was gone.
And Mihawk—the man who never yields, never falters—lowers his head, rests his cheek against your hair, and just holds you.
No words. No time limits this time, either.
Your fingers clutch at his shirt.
You shake against him.
And still—he stays.
One hand gently rubs your back. The other cradles the back of your head. His breath is slow, steady, controlled—but only just. Because he’s feeling it too. That trembling swell in his chest. That quiet terror of getting it wrong. That aching relief that you let him back in.
Minutes pass.
Maybe hours, all the same.
But in his arms, the noise fades. The ache dulls. The distance disappears.
And when your sobs soften into breaths, when your grip loosens but doesn’t let go—
Mihawk finally speaks again, lips pressed to your temple.
“I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”
Sniffle. “Out here in this hallway?”
You murmur it softly against his chest, your voice still fragile, but touched with that worn spark he knows too well.
Mihawk stills for half a second.
Then—
The faintest huff of a breath against your hair. Not quite a laugh.
But close.
“As poetic as it would be,” he murmurs, “I imagine you’d complain about the draft within minutes.”
You feel him shift, just slightly—one hand sliding from your back to brush your cheek, coaxing you to lift your face.
His golden eyes meet yours—quiet, open, and unbelievably close.
“Let me in,” he says softly. “This time… properly.”
The door closes behind you both with a gentle click.
Like a breath finally released after being held too long.
You stand there for a moment, hand still on the handle, your back to him, the quiet wrapping around you both like silk.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move toward you.
He waits for you.
Not because he's unsure—
But because he wants you to set the tone this time.
So when you finally turn around—eyes still pink, lips pressed together like you're afraid more truth might spill out—Mihawk simply straightens his posture.
Calm. Present. Open.
“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper.
Your fingers twist in the hem of your nightclothes. “I still feel like running. And staying. All at once.”
He nods once. A slow, deliberate movement. Then steps forward.
Not to grab you. Not to hold you again.
But to kneel.
Right in front of you. Silent. Grounded.
Golden eyes lift to yours from below.
His hand grabs yours, his lips brush your knuckles. Like a man kneeling at the altar of something he worships and treasures, both at once.
“Then stand still,” he murmurs. “And I’ll stand with you. Until you don’t want to run anymore.”
He catches you immediately—again—as you fall to your knees and embrace him.
But this time, you don’t collapse. You choose him.
Your arms wrap around his neck, desperate and full, and he folds into you like a man who’s been holding himself back for far too long.
He exhales shakily into your shoulder, one hand rising to cradle the back of your head, the other curling protectively around your waist.
Not fierce. Not forceful. Violently gentle.
Like he’s afraid if he lets go now, you’ll vanish again.
You cling tighter. You both do.
Kneeling on the floor of your room, holding each other like you’ve survived something—and maybe you have.
Mihawk’s voice is low. Threadbare.
“Don’t run from me again.”
You shake your head against him. A silent promise.
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
Hair tousled. Eyes rimmed red. And still—the most devastating thing he’s ever seen.
“Beautiful,” he whispers.
And this time?
When he leans in—slowly, reverently—
You don’t pull away.
It’s soft. Softer than you expected.
Not timid— but aching.
A kiss born not of heat, but of gravity.
The kind of kiss that says I’ve waited I’ve ached I’ve come undone in silence for you.
Your lips meet his like a whispered truth—trembling, slow, desperate in the gentlest way. And Mihawk… he breathes in like you’re the air he’s been denied for too long. His hand rises to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t know was falling.
He deepens the kiss—not to consume, but to stay.
To tell you, without words: I’m here. I’m not leaving. Not even if you ask me to. Not even if you beg.
Your hands frame his face, fingers sliding into his hair, and when your lips crash into his this time, it’s no longer trembling or tentative— it’s need.
It’s everything unspoken spilling into action.
And Mihawk?
He melts into it.
His hands grip your waist—firm, reverent, grounding—like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he holds too tight, but terrified you’ll slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold you at all.
He kisses you back like he’s making up for every minute lost. Every step you took away. Every door you locked.
And now, here—on the floor, in your room, in a moment that shouldn’t exist but does—
He lets go.
Not of you.
Of the restraint. The distance. The silence.
And when he pulls back—breathless, golden eyes wide with something that looks far too close to love—he whispers, forehead to yours:
“I don’t care what planet you are.”
A pause. A flicker of a smile.
“You’re mine.”
The End. ⋆。°✩ 彡















