Long Day, huh? Stay awhile 𓅮

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.

Crocodile was no stranger to soirées, and though he didn’t look like the social type, he never passed up the chance to network, especially if the booze was on the house. He was, after all, a businessman before he was a pirate. While most pirates would’ve been opposed to ballrooms, champagne, shop talk, and schmoozing, Crocodile had few qualms about buttoning up one of his finer suits to indulge in a few measured glasses of whiskey. 

Or at least he would’ve, if his presence hadn’t been mandated by the government and the event hadn’t been a marine soirée.

The ballroom glimmered as if it’d been built from gold and old money. Warm sconces cast an amber glow along the perimeter of the room. Ornate centerpieces filled with candles sat on every table, and the smoke from the flames mixed with that of cigarettes. A live band played upbeat music, drawing most of the drunken marines to the dance floor. They laughed too loudly as they mingled. 

Crocodile wasn’t entirely sure why he was there in the first place. He’d hardly wanted to sail out of his way to spend his night with the top brass of the Marines, and he was certain that no one present wanted a pirate at their night of boozing. And this didn’t even mention that he’d noticed some of his fellow warlords had wormed their way out of the obligation by some clever trick. It must’ve been a trick. He’d tried to persuade himself out of this predicament to no avail.

So Crocodile found himself at the most tucked-away bar he could find. It was one of many, but nowhere near as crowded as the ones closer to the entrance. The lighting suited him well—light enough to read the backlit bottles on the barback, but dark enough to shroud himself. But for all its ambiance, the bar was—perhaps predictably—unattended. 

Of course. 

He stared at the back bar, considering for a moment that he might pour his own drink, but quickly decided against it. In a setting like this, he could imagine pouring his own glass would be somewhat poetic. A pirate having to serve himself, despite the Marines having dressed the place like a roaring decade of the past. The very thought was far too much for his pride. 

So he dug his hook into the mahogany bartop instead, stewing over his circumstances. 

Then a figure passed by. You ducked into the bar, making a beeline for a set of glasses. You definitely didn’t look like you belonged there, but you moved like you did. Your beaded cocktail dress glimmered as you moved, your jewelry catching the light as you tipped a few liquors into a three-piece shaker. You whipped the bottles around, not making a show so much as flowing through a practiced routine. You eyeballed your shots from under long lashes, and when you shook your drink, your hair hardly budged. You poured the contents—you made far too much for the glass—and then added what Crocodile considered an obscene amount of cherries. 

Crocodile’s eyes narrowed a fraction, trying to identify the out-of-place detail that had just slipped behind the bar. 

You weren’t a child—that much was obvious. You didn’t have that skittish, half-apologetic air that the truly young carried in places they weren’t meant to be. Rather, you moved as if you owned the damn place, and yet there was a softness about you that Crocodile wouldn’t find in most anyone in the room. You were unweathered—not innocent, but lacking wear. Lacking a bit of life’s cruelty, with a sharper glimmer in your eye than the veteran marines had. They looked twice as old compared to you. He looked twice as old as you. Maybe more. 

“Either you're lost or bold,” Crocodile mused. “In any case, you have great timing.”

He tapped his hook on the bar, sharp enough to carry over the music. 

“And since the Marines seem to have forgotten how hospitality works,” he grumbled, “I’ll have a whiskey. Neat.”

You finally met his eye, as if you hadn’t noticed he’d been sitting right in front of you until that very moment. The rim of your drink sat halfway to your glossy lips. Then you cracked a grin. You didn’t even have smile lines.

“Ha!” you laughed. “Yeah, right!”

Your laugh was by no means polite, nor was it anything resembling refined. Rather, Crocodile found the sound somewhat obnoxious. His posture straightened slightly as you cackled. 

“Why would I make you a drink when you can get your own?” You shook your head, finally bringing your glass to your lips. You hummed at the taste on your tongue. 

“You’re the one behind the bar,” Crocodile scowled. He’d look at your cocktail with envy, but the very color looked far too frilly for him to use his imagination.

You snorted with a small, careless shrug. “And you’re brooding at it.”

Crocodile tapped his hook again on the bar, this time a bit harder. A dull thud cut through the music. His eyes narrowed as a scowl tugged at his lips. “Watch your mouth.”

When a man of Crocodile’s infamy made a threat, people tended to listen. He expected your lips to snap closed before you made a swift exit. Perhaps you’d tense and glance away, muttering out a soft apology. 

But instead, you scoffed, rolling your eyes. You leaned against the barback. “If I had a berry for every time I heard that…” You took another sip of your drink, as if intending to taunt him. “Or you could get your own instead of glaring at the glasses. Sorry to say, they won’t fill that way.”

“Tell me,” Crocodile said, leaning forward, “Are you always this mouthy with strangers?” His hook scraped against the bar’s surface, tarnishing the finish. 

The question teased the corners of your mouth, your eyes narrowing in amusement as if the words arranged themselves into a compliment the moment they hit your ears. You hissed out a snicker. Giddy. 

“Am I always this mouthy with strangers?” you repeated, taking another sip of your drink. As you lowered the rim, you winked at him. “Only with the ones who look like they could use it.” 

You set your glass down on the nearest surface. You reached for an empty one before searching for a bottle. To Crocodile’s surprise, you selected a fine bottle of whiskey, and he watched intently as you twisted the cap and poured an even shot and a half. 

Despite having eyeballed the amount like an experienced bartender, you didn’t serve him like one. You didn’t slide him the glass with a flair of your wrist or worry yourself with the cocktail napkins in front of you. Rather, you leaned over the bar slightly, not shrinking away from his stare as you placed the drink directly in front of him.

“There,” you hummed. “Now you can stop sulking.” 

You turned your back away from him as if you’d never learned what it meant to be intimidated, especially not by an infamous pirate like Sir Crocodile. When you picked up your drink again, the golden liquid inside caught the low light and cast a glimmer across the curve of your mouth, turning the simple motion into something unfairly eye-catching. 

Crocodile accepted the glass, lifting it off the bar top. “You’re either very confident or very stupid.” He finally brought the drink to his lips, not breaking eye contact. The whiskey burned as it should. 

“I get that a lot,” you mused, flashing another charmed grin. 

“Hm.” Crocodile’s gaze traced the glass in his hand, and the level pour inside. He took another sip. “And who taught you to pour like that?”

You returned to leaning against the bar, another mischievous smile already on your lips. Your eyes flickered down, then slyly back to Crocodile. “Old men,” you answered pointedly.  

Crocodile’s mouth twitched. He set his glass down, still holding it. “Is that what you think I am?” He leaned forward on the bar top with his elbows. 

You lifted your drink to the lower half of your face, a half-hearted attempt to hide the truth already spelled out in your eyes. “You’re the one who ordered a whiskey neat,” you said, almost accusingly. “That’s usually an old-man choice.”

“And what’s that?” Crocodile gestured to your horde of cherries. “You need to drown the alcohol in fruit to get it down like a kid.” 

“This—” You barked out another laugh, plucking a cherry from your drink by the stem. The fruit passed through your lips. “is a good time with three types of vodka.”

Crocodile barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Vodka,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That’s a dessert made with whatever’s cheapest back there.” 

“Doesn’t need to be expensive to taste good,” you pouted. “Besides, there’s fruit in there. It’s healthy.”

“Those cherries are soaked in so much syrup they’re hardly fruit anymore.” Crocodile tipped his glass back, letting his whiskey burn on the way down. “And they’re supposed to be a garnish.” 

“They are,” you said. 

You pushed the stem of the cherry you’d been sucking on past your lips. For a second, your cheeks hollowed. You glanced up as if concentrating, your tongue shifting in your mouth with small, precise movements. When you drew the stem back out, a neat little knot sat in the middle. You smirked with self-satisfaction, leaning over the bar to place it directly in front of Crocodile. 

“They’re also fun,” you hummed. “Something I wouldn’t expect you to know about.”

Crocodile stared down at the knotted stem like it had crawled there on its own, and for a long moment, he didn’t speak. The corners of his eyes tightened slightly, and the faint tug at his mouth suggested he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed.

“Disgusting,” he grumbled. Then he returned his gaze to you. “And embarrassingly practiced.”

You lit up with cheeky pride, once again taking compliments where there were none.

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to play with your food?”

You lifted your chin, still smug. “Didn’t anyone teach you that there’s more to life than boring old-man drinks?”

Crocodile lingered on your words for a moment before holding his glass up, his elbow propped on the bar top. The amber liquid swished as he spoke. “Have you even tried this old-man drink?”

“God, no,” you scoffed, taking refuge in your cherries at the thought.

Crocodile set his glass down, pushing it toward you. “Then take the opportunity to educate yourself.”

You stared at the drink as if it might jump off the bar top at any moment, like it were the largest, transparent, liquid-filled bug you’d ever seen. “Absolutely not.”

Crocodile’s brow rose slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little whiskey,” he drawled, carrying a hint of uncharacteristic playfulness he couldn’t attribute to the alcohol. He was barely buzzed, not from less than one glass at his stature and tolerance.

His little taunt landed exactly as he expected. You frowned, placing your drink back on the bar. You stepped up to him with overblown confidence, took the glass in your hand, and took a measured swallow.

You set it back down almost immediately, your opposite hand flying to your mouth as you struggled to swallow. Your eyes shut as your brow knitted in repulsion. The sound that tore from your throat landed somewhere between a cough and a betrayed wheeze as the burn forced its way down.

“There’s no way you like that,” you choked. “That’s rat poison.”

Crocodile smirked. A low grumble reverberated from his chest, and if he’d been a kinder man, you might’ve mistaken it for a laugh. He reached for the whiskey, quickly downing the rest without issue before setting it back on the mahogany surface.

“Neat isn’t for everyone,” he mused.

“That stuff shouldn’t be for anyone.”

“How about this,” he continued, ignoring you, “pour another shot. I’ll let you have your cherry. Then half an ounce of syrup and lemon juice each.”

“As tempting as that sounds, I’m not subjecting myself to that again.” You frowned, already retreating back to your frilly drink.

Crocodile gestured toward the set of clean glasses next to you with his hook. “Put two cherries, then.” 

Your shoulders drooped as you tilted your head back. A childish groan slipped past your lips. 

“What is this?” you muttered, already reaching for the shaker. You poured the last of its contents into your half-empty glass, then rinsed it. “You think one cocktail will fix your whole… old-man vibe?” 

You made short work of the ice before eyeballing the three liquid ingredients Crocodile specified. As you began to shake, your gaze met Crocodile’s. He watched you unyieldingly. He leaned back slightly, and the dimness of the room partially obscured his face, but his dark eyes held yours—catching what little light there was like a predator’s at night. 

You paused, lowering the shaker a hair, frowning. “Stop looking at me like that.” 

You removed the cap to reveal the strainer. You pressed a finger across the top, just beside the spout, as you drained the contents into the empty glass in front of him. 

“Careful,” Crocodile hummed. “You’ll spill if you get shy.”

You scoffed, shaking the remainder of the drink into the glass. You set the shaker down, letting the bottom slam against the wood. 

“You really are like every other man here,” you muttered. 

Crocodile’s head cocked the slightest fraction. “Pray tell.” 

“You all think you’re irresistible.” You plucked up three cherries with your fingers and dumped them unceremoniously into the whiskey sour. “And you think I’m here to be charmed. Sorry to report that my uncle couldn’t care less about my opinion of anyone.”

Crocodile’s brows lifted in interest. 

“Your uncle,” he repeated. 

You crossed your arms over your chest, your pout still glossy. “I thought you told me not to play dumb.”

Crocodile reached for the cocktail, glancing at the golden liquid. “Humor me.” The corner of his mouth dipped as he feigned indifference. “Pretend I don’t know.”

You turned around, eying yourself in the mirror behind the bar. You toyed with your hair before reaching into the top of your dress to produce a tube of lip gloss. 

“Sakazuki,” you stressed, as if the information were obvious. You pulled the doe tip from the tube, brushing the excess on the inner sides before bringing it to your bottom lip. “Admiral Akainu.” You rolled your eyes as you continued to touch up your gloss. 

Crocodile paused with the drink halfway to his mouth. His eyes flickered up toward your reflection. 

“You’re Akainu’s niece?” he asked, though the question sounded more like a statement. 

“Yes,” You gritted, popping your lips as you turned back to face him. You tucked the lip gloss back into your top. “I just said that.”

Crocodile stared into his drink for a moment. “That explains the invitation.”

“Is this the part where you start treating me differently?” You scraped a stray bit of gloss from the bottom edge of your lip before glancing at your nails. 

Crocodile set his cocktail down with a soft click. “No,” he said, his stare boring into the three cherries in his drink. “There are, however, too many cherries.” 

You blinked, almost offended, as you joined him in staring down the little fruits. “Too many?”

“I said one.” 

“You actually said I could add two.” 

“That doesn’t change the fact that there are three cherries in this drink.” He pushed it back toward you with his hook, and you snatched it up, angrily taking custody of the three cherries and, most definitely, forgetting that you’d made a whiskey drink. “That’s three too many if you’re asking me.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not,” you snipped, tipping the rim back to catch one of the cherries. 

You immediately recoiled, eyes squeezing shut again, the cherry stem poking from your lips like a tiny flag of surrender. You blindly set the cocktail back on the bar top, choking back the concoction before biting the cherry as if it held an antidote. 

Crocodile’s mouth twitched. He hooked the glass toward himself to take it in his hand. He held it up to the dim light. “See, you drowned it in syrup. That’s the issue here.”

“You’re saying that is too sweet,” you gaped, finally gathering your bearings. You were too shaken to play with the cherry stem. “You said half an ounce.”

“I did,” Crocodile confirmed, unimpressed. “And for someone who’s been pouring decently accurate shots all night, you sure lost count when it came to the sugar.” 

You bristled. “Maybe I was, considering you’ve been administering liquid punishment on me all night.” 

That earned you another one of those near-laughs—quiet, rough, begrudgingly pleased. The corner of his mouth pulled tight before easing into something like reluctant approval. 

“Fine,” he said, the very word a concession he didn’t make often. He tapped the rim of the drink. “I’ll fix it. Add ice.” 

You frowned. “You’re getting awfully comfortable being demanding,” you complained, despite obeying. 

“I’ll need you to find Angostura Bitters—“

“Anga-what-now?” 

Crocodile’s gaze narrowed. “Bitters. Small bottle. Says Angostura Bitters on the label. If you can’t read, look for something that smells like a medicine cabinet.”

You scowled, huffing as you rummaged around. “I’m not reassured that you’re ‘fixing it.’”

“A stirrer,” he added.

Your hand shot up from where you’d crouched. “Will a toothpick work?”

“No,” Crocodile said. “Get a proper stirrer.”

You groaned, still searching for the bitters. Crocodile didn’t wait for you to catch up.

“And absinthe,” he tacked on.

You popped up, standing at your full height again with a small bottle in your hands. “I wish I were absent from this event.”

Something in his expression almost gave—an off-guard glimmer in his dead eyes that could’ve been amusement. He hid it behind his usual heavy scowl.

“Cute. Now hand those over.” He stuck his hand out impatiently.

You pressed the bottle to his palm. “Hmp, medicine cabinet.” Triumph lit your face.

Crocodile took it from you without acknowledgment, tipping in one, two, three dashes into the glass. The scent of spice and herbs rose. Your nose wrinkled at the bitter aroma.

“That doesn’t just smell like a medicine cabinet,” you criticized, handing over a long-handled stirrer. “It smells like a whole hospital.”

“It smells like a proper drink.” He stirred the cocktail with precise movements until the glass fogged.

“Did you forget the absinthe I asked for?” he asked without looking up.

“No,” you said, diving back into the stores.

“And grab a new glass and a strainer while you’re at it.”

By a stroke of luck, you found it faster than you’d tracked down the bitters. You handed Crocodile the last ingredient, the new rocks glass, and a strainer.

He tipped the bottle of absinthe over the clean glass, then slowly rotated it, letting the green liquid coat the inside. He placed the strainer over the old glass with the ice and strained it into the cup with the absinthe.

You watched, somewhat captivated by the science project Crocodile decided to turn your drink into. You leaned over the bar, watching as the new cocktail swirled.

“You’re dramatic,” you muttered, frowning. 

He ignored you, finishing the drink with one last stir. “I’d usually garnish with orange peel, but—” Crocodile took the strainer off the old glass. The remaining cherries sat atop the ice. “You can put one in,” he said, as if giving you permission physically hurt. 

“Now this is an ingredient I can get behind,” you said, too pleased with yourself. “Compromise.” 

You took a single cherry by the stem and dropped it in with a soft plop. Crocodile leaned his elbows on the bar top again, bringing the glass closer to you, but not yielding it. Rather, he held it in front of your mouth. You eyed him over the rim, a question of his intentions swirling in your pupils. 

“Try it,” he said. 

You let out a nervous laugh, glancing at the cocktail, then back to him. “Are you sure you didn’t poison it while I was looking for the ingredients for your witch’s brew?” 

You brought the glass to your lips and took a sip. Crocodile tilted the glass. Your fingers rose automatically to steady it, only to hesitate as you brushed against his hand, where he gripped the cut crystal. Your touch lingered as a ghost of taking the cup rather than holding it. 

You gingerly pushed it away. Crocodile slowly tilted the glass back, watching your expression crinkle. 

You tried to keep your expression steady for exactly half a second. You were determined to put on a brave face, but you should have known you were doomed the moment whiskey was involved. Your eye twitched. 

“Well?” Crocodile held the glass suspended between you. 

“It’s—” you breathed. “It’s worse.”

Crocodile lifted a brow. “It’s… worse. You could’ve spit it out.” 

“Uh-uh.” You retreated to your cherry vodka. “Good girls always swallow.”

Crocodile paused, and by the stiff, deliberate posture you assumed as you took refuge in something far sweeter, he suspected you intended that comment to land exactly as it did. He blinked, giving away nothing. 

“You shouldn’t say things like that.” He brought the cocktail up to taste it, savoring his sip. The drink was perfect, but he didn’t dwell on the taste for long. Crocodile lowered it, sitting back farther. “This room is full of men who might take that the wrong way.”

You stared at him for a beat, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. “What? That?” You plucked a cherry from your glass, passing it through your lips. “It’s just something people say.”

Crocodile’s eyes narrowed. “People.”

“Young people,” you corrected with an acute shrug. “You know, like—‘hoes don’t get cold.’”

“I’ve never heard that.” Crocodile scowled.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, because, like I said, young people say it.”

“It’s stupid.”

You shook your head. “Wow, shocker,” you deadpanned. “A man your age thinks slang is stupid.”

“A man my age,” Crocodile repeated with a deep frown. “Watch it.”

You glanced up at him over your drink. “Or what? You’ll turn to dust?” You snickered to yourself, barely bothering to hide it. 

Crocodile tapped his hook against the bar top. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll start charging you.”

You barked another sharp laugh. “Please,” you huffed. “You couldn’t afford me.”

The smallest hint of a grin tugged at Crocodile’s cheeks. 

A woman after his own goddamn heart. 

He set his drink down. “Good,” he breathed, that smile nearly breaking the surface. “Stay expensive.” 

He lifted his glass, almost like a toast. You raised yours, clinking them together. 

“And we’ve thoroughly proven that you have a child’s palate,” he determined, taking a sip. 

“I do not,” you defended, which didn’t exactly help your case. “You’re just mad that I don’t like your old-man drink.” 

Crocodile shook his head, content to nurse his drink. “No,” he admitted. “Rather, I’d say I’m almost charmed.”

“With my bartending skills and stunningly good looks,” you jested. 

“With your honesty.” Crocodile ignored your comment. “I don’t think you could tell a lie even if you wanted to.” 

“Not all of us can be criminals.” That was the first time your Marine bloodline showed through. Crocodile studied you for a moment, trying to imagine you in the uniform. The image didn’t come easily. 

His gaze sharpened. “And what does that make you?” he asked pointedly. “Entertaining a criminal all night?”

“You’re a warlord,” you shot back with a nonchalant shrug. “And you’re the one at a Marine gala. Me talking to you doesn’t reflect on my character as badly as you think it does.”

Crocodile stared at you a beat too long. His expression was unreadable. 

“Didn’t I tell you to stop looking at me like that?”

“Drink your vodka dessert,” Crocodile huffed, still nursing his perfect concoction. “Leave the real stuff to the adults.”

You poised yourself to retort, but a figure slid over to the bar before you could.

“Well, if it isn’t the Admiral’s little darling,” an older man drawled. His dress uniform was pressed and neat. He flashed a smile perfect for tabloids. If Crocodile had to guess, this man was about the same age as Akainu. “I’ve been looking for you. I thought you might be making trouble.”

You bristled, tensing as you gripped your vodka. 

“Might I say, you fill that dress out nicely. I can’t believe you used to be yay high.” He gestured with a flat palm around chest level, nearly stumbling over his feet. He clutched the bar for balance. “I’d let you sit on my lap again for old time’s sake.” Your nose wrinkled in disgust. “Go home.”

“Oh, come on,” the older Marine leaned over the bar top. “For old time’s sake!” he repeated. “Sakazuki used to bring you around all the time, and I’d always tell ‘em you were going to break a lot of hearts one day—”

Crocodile didn’t look at him right away. Rather, he kept his gaze averted as he set his glass down with a slow, deliberate thud, then let his hook rest on the bar’s edge, letting it catch the low light. It glinted, shining directly in the Marine’s line of sight.

The Marine glanced over once, then twice, as if finally registering who was sitting in front of you. Crocodile’s dark eyes pierced the Marine’s drunken stare and didn’t blink. 

“I can’t believe they’re letting the Government dogs into an event like this,” the Marine spat, forcing a laugh to reclaim the atmosphere that had just dropped a few degrees. “Sit. Heel.” He laughed again, turning his attention back to you. “Need saving, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer, and Crocodile didn’t react as he continued to hold the Marine’s stare. His expression was flat with disinterest, as if the insult was too lowly to warrant his acknowledgment. 

The Marine’s smile faltered. “This is a Marine function. I know you won’t do shit—” 

Crocodile hardly moved. He didn’t stand, nor did he make a show of his devil fruit. He just shifted his hook a fraction, letting it scrape the polished bar top with a sharp, grating noise. The Marine physically recoiled, his words freezing on his tongue. 

His eyes darted back to you, as if looking for an ally. You gave him nothing, your back already turned as you busied yourself with the rest of the cherries in your nearly empty glass. 

“Whatever,” he muttered, smoothing out his uniform as he stumbled back. “Stay here in the corner for all I care.”

The Marine stumbled off, and Crocodile watched as he disappeared back into the party. You were still standing with your back turned. 

“He’s gone,” Crocodile announced. 

You didn’t move right away, and Crocodile kept staring into the crowd beyond your abandoned bar area. His voice dropped, quiet but rough and firm. “Don’t let men like that breathe the same air as you.”

Only then did he turn back to face you, only to notice three more tied cherry stems arranged next to the first. He slowly dragged his gaze to them, then back to you. “Is there ever a time you’re serious?” 

“Oh, plenty,” you said, finally turning to reveal a shaker. You were just pouring the last vodka shot into it. “I’m just better at multitasking than you’d think.”

Crocodile reclined into the back of his chair, leaving his now-empty glass on the counter along with the rest of the accouterments he’d used earlier. He watched you with that same stare you’d been telling him not to give you all night. 

For the third time that night, he watched you work the shaker. 

“You’re wasted here.” 

You looked up curiously. “At this party?”

“In general,” he answered, his predatory gaze not leaving you for a second. “Here. In the Marines. Letting your uncle parade you around like…” he trailed off. 

You popped the lid off the shaker, planting your finger beside the spout as you poured. You eyed him from under your perfect lashes. “Like what?”

“Like you don’t have better places to be.” He reached into the pocket of his blazer and produced a cigar. He placed it between his teeth.

“You’re not seriously going to smoke that in here,” you gaped, glancing around. 

Crocodile raised a brow. “Why not?” he gruffed. “Got a light?”

You rolled the question over in your mind for half a second before shaking your head. You dug back into the top of your dress to produce a lighter before you leaned on your toes. Crocodile bent forward to meet you. The flame licked the tip of the cigar, taking a moment to catch. 

“So,” you flicked the lighter closed, “what better places do I have to be?”

Crocodile drew on his cigar. A stream of thick smoke blew from his nostrils, obscuring his dark gaze as he studied you, seeming to weigh something in his mind. Then his mouth curved, contorting into a slight, dangerous smirk. 

“Anywhere I decide to take you,” he drawled. The end of his cigar flared, casting a hellish light over his eyes. “But—” He tapped the end of his smoke over his empty glass. —“I’m behaving tonight.” 

You huffed a laugh, stealing another cherry into your mouth. “How noble.”

Crocodile’s eyes raked over you, like he was appraising a newfound treasure. “Don’t tempt me.”

“I’m not,” you said. A full beat didn’t pass before you breathed in. “But if you ever do decide to steal me away, do it when you’re not a warlord.”

That earned you the slightest pause of consideration. 

“Are you sure you’re a Marine?” he mused. The cigar rolled once between his fingers before he drew it back to his lips. 

“I’m sure.” You frowned, muttering, “I’m a Marine, not a nun.”

Crocodile exhaled smoke. “So you want terms,” he hummed, taking his cigar from his mouth. “A Marine asking to be kidnapped by a pirate. That’s new.”

You scowled, your eyes narrowing. “Don’t say it like that. I didn’t ask anything.”

“A business transaction, then.” Crocodile waved his hand in the air, trailing the ember with the motion. “Think of it like that if your morals are getting to you. Blurred lines are what you said before. Now, let’s talk terms.”

You leaned on the bar again, hesitating over your answer. You knew no matter what you said, the devil in front of you would hold you to it.

“I want distance,” you finally said with a decisive nod. 

Crocodile took another drag of his cigar, listening. 

“I need to… not be Akainu’s niece,” you admitted, rolling the stem of a cherry between your fingers. “He doesn’t have any kids, you know. And I’m an only child, and… I can’t say I have the same passion for the family business—which is hard to admit, considering we’re in the business of saving lives.”

“Ah.” Crocodile nearly scoffed. (It was clear the two of you had different definitions of what the Marines actually did. But correcting you wasn’t at the forefront of his mind.) “So you’re the substitute heir. If you’re going to get whisked away from your responsibilities, a warlord can’t do that.” 

You sighed almost dreamily. “Being kidnapped has never looked so appealing, but you can’t get kidnapped by someone the Government could reasonably demand to bring you back.”

“So you’re looking for any old random pirate to take you away,” Crocodile pondered. 

“Not any pirate,” you corrected, as your mischievous grin crept back to your lips. “Old or not.”

“Watch your mouth,” Crocodile grumbled into his cigar. “Keep talking like that, and I might take it as an invitation.”

“You started it.” You took a sip of your cocktail. “You’re the one who brought it up. I’m just… exploring my options.”

“And I’m on the list for that,” Crocodile presumed, his tone biting with incredulity. “Why? So I can be responsible for a vulgar little brat like you?”

“Because you could probably get away with it,” you admitted. You held your glass just below your face, crossing your opposite arm over your chest so your hand rested on the elbow still on the bar top. You swirled the remaining contents with a flick of your wrist. “So if—hypothetically—you ever wanted to stop being a warlord, you could steal me away then.”

“And what do I get out of this agreement?” Crocodile watched you intently. 

Your mischievous gaze glinted, catching the same light as your gloss. “A break from Marine parties.” 

A low, rough sound left his chest, awfully close to a laugh. “Tempting.” His brows bobbed. He leaned forward, taking his cigar from his mouth and tapping it over the glass he’d been using as an ashtray. “I’ll bite,” he finally drawled, meeting your stare. “If I ever find myself… ungoverned, I’ll come see if you’re still running that mouth of yours.”

You couldn’t stop the sly smile that tugged at your lips. Your brows rose a hair. “And if I am?” You cocked your head. 

Crocodile’s gaze raked over you, committing the way the backlight formed a halo around your form to memory. He watched with nothing less than controlled heat as you stuck your tongue out, producing another knotted cherry stem. The knot sat directly in the middle, the ends neat and apart, not even touching your flat tongue as you held it there. 

“You’re obscene,” he muttered. Quietly, he placed his cigar between his teeth once more, slowly taking the end to place it with the others neatly arranged on the bar top. He didn’t take his eyes off you for a second. “And if you’re still mouthing off, I’ll have to decide if I’m still behaving.” 

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