#crocodile reader insert

Every so often, when Crocodile couldn’t stand the noise and incompetence any longer, he slipped away from Karai Bari Island. Because the resources at his disposal were tied to Buggy, those excursions were becoming more frequent. So Mihawk quickly learned that if Crocodile wasn’t in his study, surrounded by an endless stream of paperwork or retired for the night, he was visiting the adjacent island. 

Despite being one of the closest surrounding islands, Kanami Island was far enough away to require travel by boat—which was how Mihawk found Crocodile’s location in the first place. By the standards of other pirates, Mihawk had practically retired during his time as a Warlord, but his years of peace hadn’t dulled his tracking skills. 

He pushed open the heavy, decorated door to reveal an elegant entrance. Polished marble tile reflected the lamplight just below an expanse of off-white luxury. A marble staircase curled toward a balcony at the back of the room. Black curtains covered tall, elaborate frosted windows, and the light felt intentional, curated. The entrance smelled faintly of perfume, enough to complement the space without overpowering it. 

A slight resistance stopped him before he could open the door all the way. A man in a perfectly tailored suit stepped into the gap in the door as if he’d been standing there the whole time. He clasped one hand over his wrist. His watch glinted slightly, even in the low light. 

A tight chain crossed over his face, keeping the door locked. 

“Good evening. Welcome to the Red Light,” he said, his eyes flicking from Mihawk’s sword to his coat before settling on his face. “Appointments only.” 

The door began to close by just a millimeter. Mihawk’s hand shot out, slamming into the thick wood with a heavy thud. 

His golden eyes locked onto the guard’s, narrowing. 

“I’m here for Crocodile.”

The guard didn’t budge. “We are not in the business of disclosing clients, whether they are here or not.” He frowned. “I hope you can find whoever you’re looking for.”

Mihawk’s hand didn’t budge. “Tell him I’m here,” he stressed, his other hand already reaching for the hilt of his sword. 

“Put that away, bad boy.” A voice echoed from the top of the balcony. 

Mihawk’s eyes scanned up the stairs, one hip braced against the banister as if it bowed in service to you. The whole house surrounded you as if it had been built around your very figure. You were made of lace and sheer fabric, forming an intricate undergarment that took longer to put on than to take off.

But your attire didn’t take away from the fact that you looked like you just about owned the damn place, slowly descending the staircase as if each step owed you money.

“We’re all civilized here, aren't we?” Your elegant touch traced the banister’s outer edge. “Let him in, Bazzie.”

The guard—Baz, apparently—hesitated only a moment before sliding the lock open. More beats than necessary passed as the door slowly opened, and Mihawk stepped tentatively into the room. The guard placed a hand on Mihawk’s chest, his gaze flicking up to the giant sword’s hilt. 

“It’s alright, Bazzie. He’s with us,” you reassured the guard, and only then was Mihawk allowed to fully enter the brothel. “This bird won’t bite… hard.” You let out a measured laugh. 

The black tiles in the center of the floor formed a large black lotus. You stepped onto the top petal to meet him, looking expectantly, almost as if you were waiting for something. Mihawk’s boots stilled beneath the chandelier as he glanced around.

“Croccy told me you might come by one of these days,” you hummed, drawing Mihawk’s attention back to you. 

You were all eyes, a practiced silhouette, hair styled with intention. You were dressed for a performance, one you had given a thousand times before. Mihawk took in the air around you—smoky and expensive—and understood, with irritating immediacy, why Crocodile might’ve taken a liking to you. 

It wasn’t only the body, though you certainly had one. 

He detected a rigid precision beneath all that lace, just by the way your eyes raked over his tall figure. It was almost as though you were calculating how many berries you could squeeze out of him in real time. You were a negotiator, that much was clear as he watched the bills flicker across your dark pupils. The expression wasn’t predatory or obvious, hidden behind an attractive face and a charming smile. Mihawk doubted that many sets of eyes could pierce through your appeal and charm. 

But his could.

“You can follow me, but I’ll tell you the same thing I told him—” You sauntered toward the staircase, and Mihawk quietly followed. “I don’t like playing secretary, so don’t get used to this.”

“So why do it?” he muttered, eyes fixed on the back of your head.

You didn’t turn, humming in response.

Mihawk didn’t blink. “Why play secretary?”

You stopped at a white door just down the hall, pausing with your fingers on the knob. Mihawk watched you ponder for a moment, noting the way your lips turned upward before you even spoke. 

“Well,” you started, meeting his golden irises with a mischievous glint. “Croccy likes it when I play secretary.” 

You spared Mihawk a wink. He didn’t flatter you with a reaction before you twisted the doorknob. 

Gold coated the room, etching tiny weeping willow branches across the walls. A thick golden-brown border ran along the perimeter like a frame, trapping the branches in place, beautiful and contained. 

A chandelier hung from a cutout in the ceiling, its light deliberately softened. Behind the bed, mirror panels climbed toward the ceiling. A geometric wooden pattern sat in front of the glass panels, turning the headboard wall into an elegant grid.

A round couch sat a few feet from the foot of the bed, Crocodile’s heavy coat draped over it like a casual claim. A litter of clothes marked his passage across the floor. 

A polished wooden vanity sat just adjacent, boasting a large mirror dusted with specks of makeup. A dish sat at the end for cuff links and rings that weren’t yours. 

On the opposite side sat a room ajar that Mihawk suspected was a bathroom. 

The bed was the focal point of the room. The expensive linen sheets were tousled and imperfect, your work not bothering to pretend to be anything else. A nightstand kept all your essentials within reach: a pitcher of water, clean glasses, matches, and an ashtray. Carefully stocked in the drawers, you’d organized your condoms, lubricant, dental dams, and other necessities for the evening’s encounters. Yet, if the price was right, exceptions could be made. 

Crocodile lounged on the bed, shirtless and with his belt partially undone. His back pressed against the plush headboard, one leg in front of him and the other bent. An arm draped over the raised knee as a cigar burned steadily between his fingers.

Mihawk stepped into the room, just a few feet in front of the round couch.

“Whatever you have to say must be pretty damn important if you couldn’t wait,” Crocodile grumbled, his eyes slowly following you as you reached for the door. He frowned, his cigar partway to his lips. “And where do you think you’re going?”

You stopped, though not with the hesitancy of someone who’d just been reprimanded. You turned, glancing between Mihawk and Crocodile with a calculated pause. 

“I know when a conversation isn’t any of my business.”

Crocodile puffed what could’ve been mistaken as a half-chuckle. “Clever.” He made a curt gesture toward you with his cigar before taking another drag. “Stay. Keep me company. We won’t be long.” 

You scoffed, shaking your head. “No, I don’t want to know a thing about your guild. I’m fond of not being kidnapped.” Your gaze flickered back to Mihawk’s unyielding gaze, gesturing at Crocodile as you walked past him. “He wouldn’t even pay my ransom.”

Crocodile chuckled lowly, tapping the tip of his cigar over the ashtray. “No,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t.”

You scoffed, offering Mihawk a playful pout. “See how mean he is to me?”

The harsh confirmation didn’t deter you from approaching Crocodile’s side of the bed. You traced the side of his face with delicate fingers, over the back of his ear and down to his jaw, before settling across his lap. You kept your touch on the underside of his jaw, running your finger along the stubble there. 

Mihawk cleared his throat, the single, vexed, impatient noise crinkling his nose. He couldn’t decide what offended him more: the cloud of smoke, your showy display, or being dragged out to this island as a whole. 

“You picked a hell of a time to walk out,” Mihawk began, his face cold and unmoving. “You should’ve been there to receive your shipment.”

Crocodile exhaled smoke, unhurried, before placing his cigar between his teeth. He clasped a hand over your leg with the same quiet certainty as everything else he did. The pads of his fingers pressed against your inner thigh, steady, never roaming or groping. Familiar. 

You nestled the side of your head against Crocodile’s chest. You tucked a stray strand of hair behind the ear pointed toward Mihawk, listening. 

“The hell are you talking about?” he gruffed. 

“We were three crates short, for one. Two of what we received were replaced with ballast.” Mihawk frowned. “Your numbers don’t match theirs.” 

Crocodile paused. Mihawk could’ve sworn he’d seen that same calculating expression just minutes ago downstairs. 

“Whose numbers?” he asked, his voice laced with a brewing grudge. 

“A broker,” Mihawk answered simply. “One I can presume has been pulling one over on the Clown for quite some time. Among others.” 

Crocodile finally leaned forward, tapping his cigar over the ashtray. “You came all the way here to tell me I’ve been robbed.” A curtain of smoke poured from his mouth. 

“I came,” Mihawk said, “because the dock count and the manifest can’t agree on which numbers to forge, and half the shipment has been opened and resealed. Either way, the ship clears on the next tide.” 

Mihawk’s gaze flickered to you for a moment, watching as you drew lazy patterns over the base of Crocodile’s hook. His eyes didn’t linger on you. 

“That, and you’re harder to reach when you don’t want to be found.”

“So it’s already leaving.” Crocodile rolled his cigar between his fingers. “How much?”

Mihawk glanced at the nightstand—the pitcher, the partially empty glasses, the matches, and the ashtray—taking inventory out of habit. “Enough.”

“Where?”

You placed a kiss on the underside of Crocodile’s jaw before slipping from his lap. By the time Crocodile laid his cigar in the ashtray, you’d already laid out his clothes.

“Pier Twelve,” Mihawk answered. 

“Get my coat,” Crocodile ordered, already tugging his undershirt on. 

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t for Mihawk. 

Crocodile dressed quickly, taking his coat from you in one motion and, in the next, stuffing a wad of bills into the top of your corset. He didn’t have to take as many steps as you did to cross the room, swinging the door open so light spashed across the gold-washed walls. 

Mihawk followed quietly, and he almost didn’t look back. His gaze caught one of the mirror panels, and in a blink, your reflection met his. That slimmer in your eye was back, counting beneath the smoke, place, and seductive glimmer. You didn’t look sorrowful to see Crocodile leave, nor did any part of you signal for him to stay. If Mihawk had been a far more sentimental man, he might’ve considered your professionalism cold. 

Then the door shut with a soft click. 

You went straight to the vanity and pulled open the center drawer. Your ledger sat buried under makeup and perfume, and next to it was your temporary lockbox. You sat on the vanity stool and set both items on the wooden surface. 

You plucked the wad of bills from your top and counted once, then twice. You recorded the amount in the right-hand margin and subtracted it from a larger recurring number. Varying amounts chipped away at it down the left page, then the right, and after this payment, it became a tiny bit smaller. 

You were almost there. 

Almost. 

A sharp knock sounded at the door—a reminder that your day didn’t stop just because Crocodile left. 

***

Mihawk didn’t even think about you until he had to, just a handful of weeks later, when Crocodile had disappeared again. He sailed to Kanami Island at an odd hour, early morning, and perched himself on your balcony just a few hours after sunrise. There he waited until you drew back the heavy curtains on the other side of the glass. 

That day, you wore something much more casual than he’d seen you in before, though your face was made up flawlessly. Mihawk suspected you’d be changing into something more revealing later. 

You didn’t even blink as you stared at him. Rather, you looked almost annoyed as you unlatched the doors and pushed them open onto the balcony. The curtains from inside flowed outward like newly freed doves. 

“We’re by appointment only, Birdie,” you hummed, crossing your arms over your chest. 

You leaned against the doorframe. One of the curtains wrapped across your back, rippling like the specter of an expensive piece of formalwear. 

“I’m not here for you,” Mihawk muttered before trying to shoulder past you.

You didn’t move, not by much. You laid a light but firm hand on his chest, giving him just enough resistance to stop. He glanced down at the hand on his bare chest, then back at you. You didn’t break eye contact for a second.

He looked over your shoulder at the pristine room behind you, but Crocodile was nowhere to be found. Rather, the only thing he found out of place was a black duffel bag slouched on the circular couch like it’d been dropped in a hurry.

“He’s not here,” you said, the hum gone. A small frown tugged at the corner of your perfect lips. “And you’re not invited.” 

Your voice had changed in pitch—in intonation, a noticeable difference to your working voice. It lacked the breathy stress of that same hum you started with. 

Mihawk stepped back, quiet. He didn’t say a word, looking at you expectantly. You raised a brow. When he didn’t speak, you scoffed under your breath and shook your head. Then you turned around to step back into the suite. 

Mihawk stepped quietly behind you, stopping just inside the doors. 

“How long have you been standing out there anyway?” You tugged open your duffel bag, reaching in to heave a pile of clothes onto the couch. 

“I thought you’d be awake by nine,” he muttered.

You immediately paused at his words. You straightened, slowly turning. A sly little smile twitched at the corners of your lips.

“Wait,” you purred, your grin widening by the second. You stood in your lounge shorts, hip somewhat popped, and a hand on your waist. Your oversized shirt didn’t hug an ounce of your figure. “Do you think I live here? And that Croccy—what?—would spend the night here?” 

Mihawk didn’t say a word, nor did he let an expression contort his face. No, he stood as stone-cold as ever, unblinking. 

You let out a noise that sounded more like a giggle than the breathy huffs he’d heard you take before. “That’s cute.”

You reached for the hem of your shirt and slid it over your head. Mihawk’s eyes followed the cloth for a heartbeat, tracing the bare curve of you to the line of your throat and then back down. His golden stare stopped where the light from the balcony caught the warmth of your skin. Just once. 

Mihawk’s gaze flickered a single tick to the side. It was hardly a motion, if any, like returning a blade to its sheath. Controlled. 

“Well, if he’s not here, do you know where he might be?” 

Your shirt bunched around your forearms before you took it in your hands to fold with care. Then you stripped off your shorts and cotton underwear, adding them to the neat little stack next to your duffel. 

Only then did you notice his barely averted gaze.

You didn’t smirk, nor did you frown. You pulled on your intricate lingerie bottoms, placing a foot on the circular couch as you fastened the buckles on the garters with quick, practiced fingers. The lace kissed your skin perfectly. 

“I’ve got no idea,” you said, pulling a dark crimson and black corset from your duffel next. You tugged on the back, loosening the ties with expert dexterity. “Besides, we don’t give out information about members.” The words came out like some dry policy guideline. 

“I need to know urgently.” Mihawk blinked. 

You shook your head. “Doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know.” You spoke with such indifference that Mihawk couldn’t tell easily if you were lying. “I can’t imagine that you need him that seriously, given you were stalking my balcony for god knows how long,” you muttered, only growing quieter as you spoke. 

You stepped into the corset, drawing it up your torso. You moved it delicately, careful not to snag on your buckles. The stiff material caught once on your hips before settling where it belonged. Your fingers danced over the front clasps, one by one. You glanced at yourself in the mirror before reaching behind you for the laces. 

You pulled, feeling some of the laces tighten, but not where you wanted. You reached as far back as your shoulders let you, fumbling with the lattice that lined your spine. Your finger hooked where you thought the resistance might be, then you pulled again.

A pause. 

“Birdie.”

Mihawk’s sharp eyes flicked back to you in another singular motion, expressionless but guarded. 

“Come here and pull,” you said, your hands holding the laces behind you. “This can be your fine for peeping.”

Mihawk hesitated for half a second, the very act of helping you now taking on the form of self-implication. But if he debated the idea, he didn’t do so for long. You could hear every step of Mihawk’s heavy boots against the polished tile until he stood directly behind you. 

You met his piercing golden eyes in the vanity mirror. Mihawk’s hands brushed yours as his calloused fingers took the laces from you. 

“How tight?” he asked, absentmindedly tugging the strings apart where they’d tightened too early. 

“Tight enough to look expensive,” you hummed, glancing yourself over in the mirror. “But not tight enough to make me look stupid.” 

Your last words were stolen by a strong, measured pull that just about stole your breath. You instinctively braced your hands on the back of the vanity chair. 

Mihawk remained as quiet as ever. He didn’t even ask about the fit before he began working the laces into what you could only imagine was a tight knot. (You’d certainly find out later when the corset would have to be cut off you.) After he finished, he stepped back and to the side. 

You made short work of the rest of your clothes, hiding your intricate web of lace and delicate material under a deep-toned silk wrap and a set of high-waisted trousers. The boots you tugged on had a slight heel. 

A bell rang from outside, prompting you to pick up your pace. You took two items from your duffel and placed them on the vanity before stashing your clothes and duffel in the bathroom closet. 

“Are you sure you aren’t here for me?” The sound of your laugh bounced off the tile. You plucked a fallen eyelash from your cheek. “Because you’ve been here an awfully long time to—”

By the time you came back out into the suite, Mihawk was gone. However, the ledger you’d just placed on your desk had been opened and flipped to the most recent page. The currently empty lockbox you’d carted from your place to the brothel was untouched. 

***

Madam summoned you the same way she usually did, hovering like a fretting hen before planting a sticky kiss on your hair.

“See me later,” she cooed in your ear. Her touch slid over your shoulders, and if you’d been in a different place, under different circumstances, she might’ve actually looked somewhat motherly. 

So, once you’d bid your last client goodbye at some ungodly hour of the night, you made your way to her office. You knocked, already letting yourself in.

“Mama,” you greeted, a hand on the doorknob and your shoulder set into the doorframe as you belonged there as much as anyone was allowed to. 

“Baby, get your ass in here,” Madam cooed, like she was calling you in for a hug. “I’ve been hearing some things about you.”

“All good things, I hope.” You hummed a laugh, closing the door behind you before you crossed the room to her desk.“About how happy I’ve been keeping everyone.” 

“Oh, yes,” Madam said slowly, her eyes flickering across your face. “I’ve heard you’ve been having… great success…”

You reached into your top to produce an even stack of berries, setting them down in front of her and fanning them out on the mahogany surface.

“That’s three hundred thousand berries, Mama. That covers my last hundred thousand, plus extra.” You stood back, hands clasped behind your back. A barely restrained smile creased your cheeks. Self-satisfaction glimmered in your eyes. “For taking care of me all these years, Mama.”

Madam didn’t take even a second to count the bills before she swiped them off the table into the large sleeve of her robe. 

“Did I hear correctly that Hawkeyes paid you a visit today, Baby?” 

Your grin faltered. Your brow creased by an undetectable hair. 

“He was looking for Sir Crocodile again,” you said, your mouth flicking down a tick. “He left shortly after he realized I didn’t have any information for him.”

“Oh.” Her eyes flicked down. The bills slipped through her fingers. The denominations flashed across her eyes. “That’s not what I heard.” When she finished the pile, she started counting again. “I heard he was on your balcony for the better part of the morning before one of the girls saw you let him in.”

Madam folded the stack of bills with a dull slap, pawing them against your stomach as she leaned back. 

“I would be interested to know where his appointment was on the bookings, given this has been his second visit.”

You paused, your heart starting to beat a bit faster. 

“It’s exactly what I told you, Mama,” you said quickly. “I wouldn’t lie to you.” 

You watched carefully as Madame stood. Her robe slid off the velvet chair, flowing as she walked around the desk. You turned to face her, and her soft touch caressed the sides of your face.

But when you looked into her eyes, you didn’t find the disapproval you were expecting. 

“I know you wouldn’t.” She wrapped you up in a tight hug. Madam always smelled like patchouli. “Did you finally make fifty million, Baby?”

You couldn’t help the grin that broke through when she pulled back and clasped her hands around your shoulders. You nodded, and if you’d been made for sentiment, you might’ve cried.

“The whole amount,” you nodded. “Everything I owe.”

Then Madam’s proud smile slipped.

“Speaking of,” she said, and her hands left you as if your skin had turned hot, “that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She turned away and sat back in her velvet chair, the affection folding up neatly and put away.

You stumbled to the edge of the desk.

“Is there something wrong?”

Madam sat straight, shoulders squared, hands clasped on her desk. She’d already stashed the money away somewhere, swallowed up by a drawer and a habit.

“I got word from the Master,” she sighed. Madam leaned back as far as her chair would allow. “Your total’s gone up.”

Four words, and any joy you held went cleanly blank. 

“What?” you balked. Your chest went numb, your head began to spin. “Wait, what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Madam started harshly. “your total’s gone up to a hundred twenty million berries.” 

“That’s a hundred forty percent increase.” You didn’t even blink. The number rolled off you in a snap. 

Madam’s brow twitched. “Do you want it to be a thousand percent?” she asked lowly. 

“I don’t understand.” You sucked in a deep breath. Your fingers curled against the edge of her desk. “We agreed on fifty million. I paid you more than that.”

“You caught some expensive eyes,” Madam said, spitting the explanation like an accusation. “Crocodile’s been a well-established regular of yours. Now, Hawkeyes is circling your balcony. Two warlords—sorry, ex-warlords—in the same month, and you think your price stays the same?” 

Madame breathed like she was offended. “Now, how is that fair?” she huffed. 

Your hands spilled farther onto Madam’s desk, your eyes widening. The specter of what should have been your final payment flickered before your eyes. 

“Mihawk wasn’t even my client.” The words came out too fast. “I can prove it. He can tell you himself.” 

Madam laughed once, the noise sharp. The skin around her nose wrinkled the slightest bit in disgust. “Baby… do you know how much you cost?”

“One million berries,” you instantly recited. 

“One million berries,” she repeated, almost as if reminiscing about the number alone. “And the Master isn’t even asking you to pay off a hundred times what he paid for you. Some of the others will never be able to repay their debts. Do you know how lucky you are that you can buy yourself out at all?” 

Her smile returned to the shape you recognized, soft and somewhat patronizing. 

“Congratulations, Baby,” she hummed. “You’re a luxury good now. Now, get out.”

***

Crocodile arrived at his appointment at the exact time he always did—down to the minute. You greeted him the same way and poured his drink the exact way he liked it, as usual. Yet Crocodile suspected something was off. 

He only got confirmation after the second pour, when you’d slipped out of your outer layers with a quick, somewhat irritated efficiency. You tossed your top carelessly onto his coat. An intricate web wrapped around your body, with overlapping buckles, laces, straps, and ties that looked like they required more than two hands to take off. 

At least one more hand than Crocodile had. 

“You changed your set.”

Crocodile sat on the edge of the bed, his feet planted on the floor. He set his glass on the nightstand before you climbed into his lap, straddling his thighs. You pressed your hand against his chest to push him back onto the plush sheets, but he didn’t move. 

Crocodile cupped the sides of your face, not pinching, not a punishment so much as a firm, possessive hold that focused your attention where he wanted it. 

“Now what did I ever do,” he asked, voice low, “to make you so upset with me?”

“You know what you did,” you muttered, trying to turn your nose away. His grip tightened by a fraction, just enough to stop you. 

He frowned with flat eyes. Crocodile hardly tolerated disobedience as it was, but now the matter had leaked out of your room into the real world. Familiarity only bought you so much grace. 

Your fist was hooked in his shirt, where you’d undone his last button. 

“Your friend visited me not too long ago,” you gritted, snapping the last few buttons. “Raised my debt by a hundred forty percent.”

Crocodile’s hand loosened, his fingers trailing down your throat and down the center of your chest before he shrugged his shirt off.

Crocodile whistled softly. “A hundred forty percent, huh?” he repeated as if turning the number over on his tongue. 

Only then did he let you push him down against the bed.

You caught his lips before he could say more, only breaking apart to drag his undershirt roughly over his head. His hand squeezed your hip as he bucked up against you. Impatient as usual. 

“All he wanted was to know where you were,” you murmured against his lips, raking your fingers through his hair.

Crocodile’s mouth curled, faint and mean. “So that’s why you’ve decided to spite me today.” 

His fist curled around the knot that kept your corset tied. “Naughty.” 

You pulled back.

“Didn’t even pay me for my time.”

“It’s not like you not to charge,” he said, eyes half-lidded and amused. He wrapped an arm around your waist, keeping you on his lap as he pivoted fully onto the bed. 

“Like I said,” you breathed, your hands braced on Crocodile’s broad shoulders. “All he wanted was information on you. Do us all a favor and stop disappearing on him.”

Crocodile’s fingers caught the knot at the back of your corset once more. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, testing how easily it would give. At the very least, you double-knot it. 

“So he didn’t touch you,” he muttered, mulling it over. His hook wove behind you, slotting tenderly between the laces. “I find that hard to believe.” 

Your fingers dipped under the buckle of his leather belt. “Jealous, Croccy?”

Crocodile’s eyes flickered down to the hand at his belt, then back up, watching you carefully. His hook stayed threaded in your laces. 

“Not jealous.” He nearly scowled. “Territorial about what I pay for.”

“He—” 

Your words were stolen as Crocodile’s hook swiftly sliced through your corset’s laces. The cold curve of the metal froze the skin of your lower back as your heart skipped for a fraction of a beat. 

—“actually had some manners,” you finished, your voice tight.  

Crocodile ignored you, peeling your corset off and throwing it somewhere across the floor. 

The corners of your lips twitched downward. “I’ll be putting that on your tab.” 

His eyes finally lifted to yours, still flat. “Add it,” he said, his hand traveling up your chest. He tugged you forward by the back of your neck. “But take off the time it took me to listen to you talk about another man.”

“You’re impossible.” You scoffed as Crocodile’s lips found the column of your neck. You finally pulled the tip of his belt from the buckle. You popped the button on his trousers, then slowly dragged the zipper down. “I should bill you the seventy million,” you muttered. 

His low chuckle felt warm against your skin. “Alright,” he said easily, working down to your collarbone. “Bill me the seventy million. One payment. Done.”

He effortlessly flipped you onto your back, his hook already peeling through the ribbons that adorned your thigh. He sliced through them one by one, each pop signaling another berry he didn’t care about. 

“I might want it even more than you do,” he muttered. His voice almost sounded soft. 

“My freedom,” you corrected breathlessly.

Crocodile’s hand raked up your side, collecting the sliced lace and leather in his palm. 

“For you to not be on sale anymore.” Crocodile’s gaze drifted over your bare skin as his hand traced up the back of your leg, stopping under your knee to lift and angle it where he wanted you. “To anyone.”

“I think we have different definitions of freedom,” you sighed, your breath catching as he settled between your parted thighs.

“You’ll be free,” Crocodile said, his voice low and even. “If you’re mine.”

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

I was very inspired by the same playlist I’ve been listening to since I wrote Cherries. Plus “When You’re Good To Mama” from the Chicago Soundtrack.

The officer had to squint at the picture in his hand. He flipped through a few pages to find you, and when he did, he could have sworn he’d never seen your wanted poster before. In fact, yours didn’t look much like a typical wanted poster at all, especially in terms of your appearance.

Nothing about you seemed notable from what he could see, almost as if the photographer had accidentally submitted a portrait of his neighbor instead of a criminal. Sandwiched between ferocious, bloodthirsty killers, the officer considered it a small miracle he’d recognized you at all. But as he glanced between the poster and the figure at the stall in front of him, he only became more convinced that, yes, it was you. 

The market was busy, with traffic peaking midday. You meandered from stall to stall, collecting supplies in the woven basket that hung by your elbow. You certainly didn’t look like someone on the run, taking your time talking to merchants about the weather, the quality of this season’s harvest, and how the family has been. 

The officer slowly stalked his way through the crowd. You’d been repeatedly spotted with the ex-Warlord Crocodile ever since he became a pirate, and yet, little was known about you. The Navy caught glimpses of you every now and then, although those instances were rare. The few times you were seen, you were with Crocodile. And not too long after, an attempt at photography was intercepted. 

The only way the Navy even knew your name was to grant you a pardon during Crocodile’s time as a Warlord, but his reign soon diminished after his defeat in Alabasta. 

But here you were. Alone. On a seemingly random island. 

Crocodile’s closest accomplice was out in the open, guard down. 

The officer approached you, trying to piece together the mystery from your appearance alone. You didn’t seem like a combat type, and while enhanced individuals might appear unsuspecting on the Grand Line, he still didn’t get that impression even as he got closer. Instead, you didn’t seem to notice his approach. By all means, you carried on just like any civilian. 

Your very presence made the hairs stand on the officer’s neck faster than any other criminal he’d approached. Maybe he would have felt more at ease if you were a confirmed power user. At least then, he’d know what protocol to follow. But instead, as he finally reached you, he could only wonder if he had the right person. 

“Excuse me,” he said, and you turned to face him. 

You blinked in surprise, not with the fear he expected, but with the same look he’d expect from someone caught off guard by being addressed. 

“Good afternoon, officer,” you greeted him politely. You turned toward him fully without coaxing, almost as if you were ready to engage him in your next round of small talk. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” 

For a moment, the officer didn’t say a thing. The question of whether he had the wrong person blipped back into his mind. But then again, if you were who he thought you were, he’d expect nothing less than artful deception. 

“May I carry your basket? It looks heavy,” He asked, and your face lit up at the offer. 

“Oh, would you mind?” You hummed, not hesitating for a second to give your basket to him. 

The woven handle was thick and sturdy, and the basket's walls were rather high. Vegetables poked over the top from where you’d neatly arranged them, and other wares were nestled among them. The officer glanced over the supplies, looking for weapons or medical supplies, but he found neither. The closest he could spot were knife-polishing items. 

“I’ve never been happier to see a harvest,” you sighed, walking closely next to him toward the row of stalls. “Everything looks so good, I couldn’t decide what to get.”

The officer glanced back down at your near-overflowing basket. 

“Seems like you managed to decide just fine,” he said, eyeing the amalgamation of ingredients you’d amassed. He paused for a moment, words creeping to his lips. “So… It looks like you’re cooking quite the feast.” 

You hummed, stopping to glance over a seafood stall. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a proper dinner.” You nodded a few times, not entirely paying attention. “I thought I’d cook, but I didn’t really have a solid plan in place…” You trailed off, inspecting a piece of tuna. “So, I’ve just been buying up everything that looks good.”

You motioned to the merchant to wrap you up a few fillets. The officer noted how many pieces. 

“Special occasion?” He asked. 

You shook your head. “No, I think we’re just enjoying a restful period,” you hummed, glancing toward the officer without a care in the world. “Life can sure get chaotic.”

“A restful period? Must be nice,” the officer hummed, glancing up at the sky. “How long has it been since things calmed down for you two?”

That should have tipped you off, but if you’d noticed his prying, you didn’t show it on your face. 

You sighed, “A while. We were separated for a bit, but we’re together now. That’s what counts.” 

“Why the distance?” The officer asked, subtly eyeing you from his peripheral. He thought back, trying to crunch the numbers of how long it’d been since Crocodile escaped from Impel Down. 

“His work keeps him busy,” you explained, finally leading him to the last row of stalls. “But we’re used to traveling.”

“You sound like you travel a lot. What sorts of islands do you usually find yourself at?”

Before you could respond, your eyes flickered toward a tall shadow that loomed behind the unsuspecting officer. The officer pivoted, only able to turn his head just slightly enough to see Daz Bones behind him before a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. What felt like the edge of a knife bore into the side of his neck. 

“Everything alright here?” Daz Bones asked, his voice low and calm, yet laced with an underlying menace. He addressed you with an almost familial tone, like you were a child who’d run off. 

The officer’s breath hitched as you nodded with a smile, seeming to completely ignore the tension around you. 

“We’re good! Officer…” you trailed off, tilting your head as you read off his identification badge. —“Mills asked if he could hold my basket.” You grinned, your gaze flickering back up to regard Das Bones. “Isn’t that nice?”

“Yes,” Das Bones replied, digging the pressure of his blade deeper into the officer’s skin as he glanced down at the basket. “That was very nice of him. It looks like you found what you needed, so why don’t you go ahead and check out some more stalls?” 

You blinked a few times. “You aren’t coming?” 

“Your safety is my priority,” he replied, his tone low and steady. “I’ll be just a few steps away. You know how chaotic things can get in crowded places like this, and Officer Mills here seems to have a lot of questions.”

Das Bones patted the officer’s shoulder again. 

You seemed to consider his words for a moment, glancing between the two men. “Alright then,” you said slowly, clearly trusting Das Bones. “I won’t be long.” You flashed a grin and skipped off. 

***

As Das Bones was cleaning the blood off his hands, he returned to a thought he’d had several times in the past. 

He wasn’t sure if you knew Crocodile was a pirate. 

On its head, the thought was preposterous. Between the wanted posters, being pursued by Navy, and the sheer amount of pirates you consistently found yourself surrounded by, it seemed like an impossible concept. But it was moments like today that made him wonder.

Daz Bones held a deep respect for Crocodile, and even before their time in Alabasta, Daz Bones’ loyalty had belonged solely to the former Warlord. Daz Bones acknowledged his strength, his cunning, and held great respect for Crocodile’s ruthlessness. Crocodile was, by all means, a kingpin and someone Daz Bones could see as the king. He’d do everything in his power to ensure it.

And then there was you. A tiny, out-of-place speck on what was otherwise a sensible operation. You’d never been involved in Crocodile’s affairs, at least not directly. In all his years working with Crocodile, Daz Bones had never once seen you in combat, let alone balancing a single book or operating a transponder snail. You were hardly a companion working in the shadows as much as a spectre that appeared wherever Crocodile did.

Daz Bones never saw Crocodile show you any sort of physical affection, let alone address you in a way a lover would. And so, as you slaved away in the kitchen, working on a meal for the three of you, Daz Bones pondered over why it was you were here.

He stood with you, using his powers to chop vegetables in a way he’d never anticipated just a few years prior. His ability was to kill, that was, until Sir Crocodile’s mystery companion asked him politely to help with prep work. Daz Bones didn’t know if he catered to you because Crocodile had asked for him to watch over you, or if, in all the time he’d accompanied you, you’d somewhat grown on him. 

He watched you as you carried on, darting around the kitchen to toss together something that was no doubt thoughtful, as if you weren’t currently on a stolen ship. You looked out of place here, a drop of normalcy where there shouldn't be any. 

It was hard not to be fond of you, not when you were as thoughtful as you were. 

Not that Daz Bones would dare to admit such a thing. 

He ate at a small table adjacent to the kitchen as you brought dinner into the captain’s quarters on a tray. The knife-polishing tools were set neatly and quietly beside his drink, a small token of your appreciation. He never acknowledged your gestures, and you never spoke about them. 

When you opened the door to the captain’s quarters, Crocodile was already invested in an amalgam of papers on the desk he’d commandeered. He didn’t look up as you entered or acknowledge you as you spoke. You babbled about your day, setting his meal on the side of his desk as you chattered, taking the tray with your meal on it to the nearest flat surface. 

“—And he offered to carry my basket and everything, which was a relief because everything looked so good today. You wouldn’t believe it—” You sauntered over to the drink tray, plucking a rocks glass off the top before reaching for the decanter. “I also found a merchant who had really high-quality polish, so I got a little something for you and Mr. 1.” 

“You don’t have to call him that anymore,” Crocodile grunted. He didn’t even look at you as you handed him the glass. 

“I know,” you hummed, “But it seems a bit more respectful. More… formal.” You took the polish from your pocket and placed it on Crocodile’s desk. 

You took your meal a short distance away at a small table, continuing on about your day without a reply. And that was how Daz Bones found you later when he entered the room. You were still talking, a book in your lap as you lounged on a nearby chair. Crocodile continued to work silently, penning things down and nursing his drink. 

Crocodile glanced up toward Daz Bones, speaking your name. You perked up in attention.

“I need to speak with Mr. 1,” Crocodile said, his voice low but firm. “See yourself out.”

You closed your book, already moving to stand as you nodded. “Of course,” you said, your voice light as you did as you were told. 

You passed Daz Bones as he took a seat, his movement fluid. 

The door closed, and Crocodile paused a moment, letting silence fill the room before he spoke. 

“How’s everything settling?” Crocodile asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

“Better than expected,” Daz Bones replied, “I’ve secured an eternal pose, and everything is arranged for us to advance to the next stage.” 

“Good.” Crocodile lit a cigar, taking a drag. Thick smoke wafted into the air as he took another pause. “I heard we had a run-in with an officer at the market who was quite… persistent.” He exhaled, smoke curling from his cigar. 

“He won’t be asking questions anymore,” Daz Bones said sternly, a sense of finality in his tone. 

Crocodile inhaled deeply, letting the smoke linger in his mouth before exhaling. “Sounds like a coincidental encounter from what I was told. Would you agree?” He asked. 

“Yes,” Daz Bones agreed with a curt nod. 

He leaned back on the plush couch in front of the desk. An identical couch faced it, with an oval wooden coffee table between them. Above the empty couch, there was a tall cocktail-style table. Your empty dinner plate rested on it. The stool you had been using was slightly out of place from when you probably moved to the couch, where Daz Bones was now sitting.

He stared at the empty plate for a moment, then out the window. 

“Crocodile,” he spoke.

Crocodile’s eyes flickered up. 

“What?” Crocodile’s teeth were still clenched around his cigar. 

Daz Bones didn’t take his eyes off the plate. 

“I was thinking… with the officer at the market today… He was getting close to something.”

Crocodile scowled, taking his cigar in his fingers and removing it from his lips. “Spit it out. It’s not like you to stall.” He gestured with the burning tip. 

“I just wonder if it’s worth the risk… Having that one around,” Daz Bones gruffed, glancing toward Crocodile from the corner of his eye. “You know how I feel about liabilities. I know you feel the same.” He turned his attention back toward the plate. “I know you’ve made an exception.” 

Crocodile’s eyes narrowed, a hint of warning in them. “I make my own decisions about who’s useful and who’s not,” he said slowly, his voice low and deadly. 

Daz Bones barely nodded, tilting his chin down just slightly in understanding. “Of course,” he said, and that’s where his commentary ended. 

Night soon overtook the ship. The ebbing and flowing of the waves rocked the floorboards back and forth under your feet as you moved through dimly lit corridors. All that existed was what was touched by candlelight, and the very walls seemed to come alive by the glow of your lantern. With each step, the darkness receded, as if the very night responded to your presence and bowed. 

You stood barefoot on the deck, leaned against the railing as you stared out into the blackness. You’d always considered that the sea looked scariest in the dark, especially under the new moon. The void seemed to stretch on forever, and unlike during the day, light did not glimmer off the surface to provide at least some evidence that anything existed outside of the spot where you stood. Darkness seemed to swallow everything, leaving only the sound of the waves that lapped against the hull.

“You shouldn’t be out here.” 

Crocodile appeared next to you, stepping from out of the darkness. You instinctively looked toward him. Your lantern cast harsh shadows across his face, illuminating the creases where his forehead creased, and his lip pointed slightly downward. His narrow gaze flickered toward you.

“If you fall in—” He gestured in the vague direction of the sea with his hook. —“No one will save you.”

“Ah,” you cooed, somewhat disinterested. “I see.” 

You could feel his piercing gaze on your skin. Even his stare felt heavy and suffocating—worthy of his stature. 

“You’re still upset,” he noted, fishing out his umteenth cigar. Crocodile didn’t consider that he was savoring them anymore. No, if he was going to talk feelings, he needed a cigar. 

“I can’t say I was happy,” you admitted, only to be met with Crocodile’s scoff. 

“You weren’t meant to be happy,” he gruffed, more focused on lighting his cigar than you. “You were meant to be out of the way.”

You stared out into the blackness, almost hypnotized by the night. “You know how I feel about being confined.” 

“How do you think I felt?” Crocodile snapped, his voice somewhat muffled with the cigar between his teeth. He turned toward you sharply, but despite his movement and his stature, you didn’t even blink. “What about Daz? You think we liked being confined?” 

He shook his head, smoke puffing from his chest as he continued to scoff to himself. 

“I put you up somewhere a lot nicer than Impel Down, that’s for sure,” he trailed off, glancing around the thick night that blanketed you both.

You didn’t say a word back. By all means, Crocodile likely deserved a bit of sass, but you didn’t say anything in reply. You never did. Maybe your silence was worse than letting him have it. He had thick enough skin to withstand being called a few choice words, but that look in your eye wasn’t something he could ever get used to. 

Crocodile took a long drag, lingering on the feeling of smoke filling his lungs. He exhaled, letting out a white cloud that gradually wafted into the air. 

Things were quiet for a moment. The sea had long since melted into white noise. Crocodile usually enjoyed the silence.

Another puff in. Another exhale. 

“I didn’t want to lock you up,” he admitted. The ember of his cigar glowed brightly as he drew in a slow, measured breath. 

You didn’t answer for a long while, and by the time you did, the smoke from his last breath had already disappeared into the air. 

“I know,” you said. You were never convincing when you lied. 

You didn’t say anything else, turning to retreat back into the ship, leaving Crocodile on the deck.

***

For a pirate, Crocodile lacked genuine affection for sea life. Sailing grew boring—he much preferred settling in a territory of his own—and while he enjoyed battle, the act of pillaging seemed more like gruntwork at his stature. 

The pirates he’d found himself engaged with were hardly a challenge—certainly no Whitebeard or Mihawk—and so while Crocodile formulated his latest plot with his eyes set on a sandy island, he found himself restless. Things weren’t moving at the pace he wanted, certainly not fast enough to get him where he wanted.

And so, Crocodile did something uncharacteristic and landed himself on the first ship he saw. He stood on the deck of the main ship of a fleet, hoping that perhaps the number of vessels would provide him enough stimulation to hold him over. 

He was sorely disappointed. 

Crocodile walked through the ship, parts of himself having already destroyed the neighboring vessels. He scowled, bullets passing through him like he was a shadow, his eyes narrowed. The world seemed to crumble around him as canons turned on each other and sand grated metal into dust. 

He ducked into the ship, passing through long corridors in search of something worth bringing back. The sound of guns and cannonfire melted into white noise in the background as Crocodile’s eyes adjusted to the dimness. 

He’d walked many ships before, boarded more vessels than most could count, and a ship’s anatomy has etched into his very bones. Even though this particular one was foreign to him, the narrow stairwell that led to the officer’s quarters felt familiar. Crocodile moved with the confidence of someone who captained the very ship under his feet as he made his way to the quarterdeck and then into the storage holds that lay behind the bulkheads. 

… The bulkheads. 

The bulkhead just past what appeared to be a kitchen jutted out at the wrong angle, into the corridor, obstructing the straight pathway. Crocodile paused, sparing a long thought for the ship’s anatomy. How the galley required more room than what this ship signified it had to the naked eye. He turned toward the wall, running his fingers along the panel.

The tips of his fingers glided smoothly across the cool metal, drawing his prints from one side to the other until he felt the hairline seam. 

And just as he was about to push the panel in.

“Crocodile!” 

It wasn’t an unfamiliar sound—the sound of his name with that inflection. Crocodile hadn’t even turned, a part of him dissintegrating into sand and ready to burst whatever grunt dared to attack him with a battle cry of all things. 

But what Crocodile wasn’t expecting was the breathless wheeze that gasped faintly behind him, and then the thud of a body hitting the floor. 

Crocodile peered over his shoulder in disinterest, not even fully turning. But in an instant, his eyes widened an undetectable millimeter. His pupils dilated in… interest. 

He turned fully around, his tall form illuminated by the kitchen's fluorescent bulbs. You stood in the doorway, shaking and small. You almost crouched in on yourself. Your locked knees were the only thing that seemed to keep you standing as you stared down at the body on the floor. 

Crocodile watched silently as your gaze flickered from the knife in the pirate's back to the blood on your hands. And then, you faced him with a smile. Tired, traumatized eyes. Unstable. 

“You don’t look like a Marine,” you finally said, your voice soft. 

Crocodile reached into the breast pocket of his coat to fish out a cigar. 

“Can’t say I am,” he gruffed, putting it to his mouth. His eyes were glued to the cuff that encircled your ankle. Crocodile followed the chain silently, noting where it connected at the base of the oven. “So if you’re waiting on some shiny badge to come rescue you,” he said, lighting the end of his cigar. “You’re out of luck. I’m about to sink this entire fleet.” 

“Ah,” you hummed, almost conversationally, letting your eyes flutter closed as you leaned against the doorframe. “I see.” 

Crocodile watched you for a moment as you let out the slightest sigh of relief. You were malnourished and small compared to him. Your complexion lacked life, but even upon hearing the news that you’d likely drown at sea, you hardly seemed bothered. Perhaps tacitly disappointed. 

He glanced you over.

“Kitchen slave?” He grumbled. 

You nodded, casting your eyes to the side. “They said I could be chained to the oven or the bed, so…” you trailed off, gesturing behind you. “Oven.”

Crocodile traced the links with his eyes, feeling neither sympathy nor general care in his chest. He grunted in acknowledgement. But just as he was about to turn away, something on the floor caught his eye. 

He gestured to it with his chin, smoke puffing from his lips as he spoke, “Kick that to me,” he commanded. 

You didn’t say a word, complying. The chain tethered to your ankle rattled as the dragger skidded across the hard floor. Crocodie stopped it with the sole of his shoe, frowning before swiftly recoiling. 

Seaprism stone. 

He glanced from the dagger back to you. 

“Ever kill someone before?” He drew on the cigar hard enough that the ember flared, casting a brief, hellish glow over his eyes.

You shook your head, still leaning against the door. He didn’t even have to ask; Crocodile knew as much from the way your hands shook.

He turned back toward the panel in the wall.

The cuff around your ankle rattled before falling to the ground. 

“Consider us even.”

But before he could turn to leave…

“I can show you the way.” 

You stood fully in the doorway, one hand still braced on the side. Daylight flickered across one of the portholes behind you, casting a slight, wavering shadow onto Crocodile’s back. He’d pushed the panel halfway open, revealing a dark passage. 

“Do what you want.” He descended the steps, the ember of his cigar lighting his path. “I’m not taking you with me when I leave this ship to sink.”

Still, he did. When he stepped out of the hidden passage, the treasure wasn’t the only thing he’d claimed—you were there too, wrapped in his coat so your chattering wouldn’t drive him mad. By the time he reached the deck, you had been quietly added to his haul, the only prize that actually held his attention.

“You can cook,” he confirmed, leading you up onto the deck.

“Of course,” you said. 

“Good.” Crocodile opened the door, letting the evening wind and the smell of salt and smoke rush in. Below, the wrecked fleet drifted in the waves, masts snapped, hulls gutted. Crocodile puffed on his cigar, the smoke from its tip a mere fog compared to the destruction around you. His eyes flickered toward you, watching your widened eyes as you took it in. “This isn’t charity,” he said. “You’re here to be useful. The moment you’re not, well…”

He sauntered off, his voice lost to the wind. 

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

For a fic that actually has a plot and planned character development i sure did struggle with this one

please give this fic some love before i get discouraged to write the next part