im 18+ don't worry

You can’t fully focus on the scene you’re trying to think up when you can hear Luffy and Usopp roughhousing one another right outside your door, footsteps reverberating through the wooden walls. Nami’s voice trails after them, yelling something incoherent but is surely a string of insults begging them to quiet down. Not to mention the buzz of drills and clanking of metal scraps flying out of Franky’s workshop completely derailing the script you’d just prepared.

Where were you just now? Right. In your chair, at your desk of course, but definitely somewhere else. A blank notebook lays flat on the wooden spread, your hand poised over the starting page with a freshly inked pen, but it stays still in your tense grip, a coverup for what was really keeping you busy.

When you couldn’t get privacy, you settled for daydreaming. Busy imagining a strong pair of hands groping and feeling around your waist almost possessively, a head ducking down to whisper praise into your ear, earrings clinking with the movement, a half-laugh smothered into your hair when you imagine yourself shying away at the compliment, your thighs clenching around sword worn fingers snaking down to touch- wait, what?

Before you can even process the fact that your usual daydreaming about the usual faceless body started taking the form of one of your nakama, the door slams open, and Nami appears through the doorway, clearly annoyed.

You immediately scramble to compose yourself, opening your mouth to retort something about privacy, but she only glances at you for a moment, either not noticing or choosing to ignore your flushed face, before whipping her head back angrily to look at Luffy and Usopp, who you’ve just now noticed to be trailing behind her, looking almost embarrassed. Nami clears her throat, glaring at them.

“Now, both of you apologize for disrupting her peace and quiet.” Nami continues, closing her eyes and crossing her arms expectantly. Of all the things you thought this would be about, an apology was probably the last on your list.

The two look at each other and exhale, opening their mouths before Nami cuts in to say, “And remember to say it at the same time!”. Usopp and Luffy sigh belatedly, and you hide a chuckle as you hear Usopp count him and Luffy down under his breath.

“3, 2, 1… We’re sorry for interrupting your study time, it won’t happen again!”, paired with a simultaneous 90 degree bow from both of them.

Nami takes this time as they’re bowing to look up at you and mouth an apologetic ‘Sorry’, her hands clasped together in a prayer sign, before clearing her throat and taking on a militant tone again as the two straighten back up.

“Now shoo!” She motions dismissively, and as the two leave you have to stifle another laugh as clear signs of Nami’s punishment make themselves apparent as soon as Usopp and Luffy turn around and patter out.

Nami looks at you and sighs, crossing the threshold of the room slowly while pushing the wooden door closed behind her. You hear the door creak shut as she leans against it, before pushing herself off of it to walk towards you, shaking her head.

You almost forget about the completely blank notebook and haphazardly hide it behind your back before she notices it.

“You know how they are. Sorry about that.” She says, and you wave it off quickly. “Oh please, it’s a welcome distraction to the amount of research I have to do.” That pulls a laugh from Nami as she, unfortunately, rounds the table and leans her arms against the table’s front while you inadvertently tense and thin your lips into a line as you wait for the inevitable realization.

“I guess, you must have been busy, frankly you look flushed from all that thinking-” She continues, absentmindedly looking down, only to realize the stark blankness of the entire notebook before you. Nami tilts her head. “Huh.” She says, before looking up at you and squinting.

“Nami.”

“Uhuh. Right. Red in the face from all that ‘research’, I’m sure.” You bury your head in your hands as she purses her lips almost comedically before continuing.

She reaches out a finger to jokingly poke at your temple.

“I don’t think it’s the research that’s got you worked up.” You immediately sigh deeply.

Nami laughs, pushing herself off of the table and sauntering back to the door. “Well, the apology still stands for the interruption,”

You choke.

“I’ll leave now so you can get back to whatever it was you were doing!”

“Nami, I swear.”

She turns back as she reaches for the door and winks exaggeratedly. “Don’t worry, I’ll lock the door and tell the rest you’re indisposed for the rest of today until dinner.”

“Nami!” A laugh accompanies the door locking shut, enveloping the room in silence.

Well now this just won’t do, you think to yourself in the silence, and reluctantly get to work on the research you were supposedly working oh so hard on before the interruption, all while fading images of a certain marimo danced around your mind.

The knowing look that Nami has slyly been throwing you all week has, frankly, thrown you off your game. At this point the frustration has reached an all time high and the daydreaming is simply not cutting it. It hasn’t cut anything for days now. In fact, it’s making it worse.

The more frustrated you felt, the more you had to resort to touching yourself. But the images that accompanied it were becoming a problem. They stopped being faceless, unknown and vague bodies, disposable after every night, and instead slowly morphed into the familiar body of one green-haired swordsman. And you were around him so much that every scene started to feel agonizingly real.

Close proximity really was a curse. Familiar hands sliding down your jaw to pull you in for a kiss, strong thighs supporting your weight in his lap, groans replicated from listening to him work out in the mornings- and so, though you didn’t intend for it to happen, the distance between the you and the rest of the crew started to make itself known.

You started being the first in and first out for all of breakfast, lunch and dinner, surprising Sanji who usually knew you to arrive with Nami, with both of you lingering in the kitchen until it was time for clean up and dishwashing.

He used to take his time letting the both of you taste test each iteration of his dishes, letting you savor the meal, and in turn listening attentively at the end of it for your feedback. But it stopped coming.

Now, you’d come in alone, take your bowl quietly with a nod, sit down to eat, and leave as soon as the last dregs of the dish were scraped up by your spoon before the rest of the crew could even enjoy their meals. Safe to say he wasn’t the only one who noticed this change.

The first time it happened, you left midway through Samji asking what you thought of the seafood pasta he’d made that day. He called out after you but had to stop after Luffy started stealing Chopper’s cherry tomatoes while he wasn’t looking. After that, he noticed you’d only ever leave if you heard the others closing in on the kitchen, attracted by the smell of food. He thought it was a problem of feeling overwhelmed.

Maybe a smaller group would be better.

He tried lunch with just him and Nami, the way the three of you used to do it on test kitchen days. You didn’t get up, and lingered at the table long enough for a round of dessert. Okay, he thought, pleased with himself.

He tried just getting Chopper and Usopp to come in for lunch, timing breakfast specifically when the others were racing around the beach on the new island they were docked at, bribing the two of them, and you, with the promise of serving the first batch of meat before the others. You didn’t get up, stifling laughter even at Usopp’s long winded stories. Sanji thought he’d solved the problem, and relaxed.

Then one day, on a late night on the Sunny, with the remnants of the sun settling across the sky and framing the picture perfect horizon, it was just you, him and Zoro on the ship. With the rest of the crew out on the island doing god knows what, he decided to close out the night with a round of drinks for the three of you, one night only.

It was just you and him in the kitchen as he made a set of sunset colored drinks with matching parasol toothpicks, and you giggled at the bartending party tricks he’d pull despite his mere audience of one.

He sighed as he set the mixers down on the table, smiling at you softly.

“You know, I was afraid you’d started to hate us.”

The directness of the statement wiped the smile off of your face.

“What do you mean?”

Sanji began to wipe down the table with a spare rag, and as you tracked his movements you realized there was no spill, and that he just needed to keep his hands occupied to soften the blow.

He cleared his throat.

“I’m just saying what I see.”

You opened your mouth to reply, before another voice cut in.

“You don’t join us for family meals anymore.”

You froze, and turned around slowly to see Zoro standing in the doorway.

The ice in each of your cocktail glasses was beginning to melt.

“That’s not because I hate any of you-“

“Then what is it? If you have a problem with the crew, tell me,” Zoro says gruffly, “but you have to stop moping around and ignoring everyone like it’s gonna solve anything.”

Sanji cut in before it could get any more tense. He reached a hand out as if to tell him to stand down.

“Zoro, I think I’ve figured it out, it’s okay.”

At this, you turn to Sanji, equally confused and, if he had looked closer at your face, almost scared. You could feel your stomach drop into the abyss.

“..What do you mean you’ve figured it out.”

There was no way this was how you were going to go down. Oh god, now you’re the pervert for fantasizing about one of your own crew. Not at all in the simpering way that Sanji does but instead in a deep, dark, carnal, disgusting way- which makes it even worse.

“I mean, you just don’t like the noise and the mess of all of us eating together, don’t you? When it was just Nami and I, you were fine-”

What?

Sanji continues, rushing as if to get the thought out before it escapes him “..and when it was just Chopper and Usopp, you were fine too, so-”

Sanji slows down as he sees you shake your head profusely.

“No-, no, I love the noise and I love being around you all-” You say it deliberately, gaze flicking between them to emphasize your point, but Zoro tilts his head right as you glance at him and you immediately rip your gaze off of him as if you’ve been burned, stuttering over your next thought.

And Sanji, ever observant and trying to track whether this argument was going to explode or not, is watching closely when this interaction in particular piques his interest, and stalls all intentions of mediating any of this.

Your gaze stops landing on Zoro at all as you continue your defense. The sunset colors of the drink in each of your glasses begin to mix as the conversation grows longer.

“and I’m sorry if it ever came off that I hated you, I’m just going through something and I-”

Sanji furrows his brow and decides to nip this spiel in the bud.

“Did you two fuck or something?” He points between you and Zoro inquisitively, leaning forward on the kitchen island as if to zero in on your reactions.

In the silence that follows, the ice in your neglected drinks choose to clink as if to say, we’re still here, you know!

The silence is broken by a simultaneous “What? No!” from both offended parties at once.

You wince as you realize how the response worsened the situation instead of helping it. Sanji raises an eyebrow. Zoro rolls his eyes and you can’t do much else except stand there and receive your judgement for a crime you didn’t commit.

“Forgive me for saying what I see, but come on. One day out of nowhere, you,”

He emphasizes by jabbing a finger in your direction.

“Start acting weird and moping around, missing out on family meals and only eating with a select few people-”

You open your mouth to try and defend yourself but are completely steamrolled over.

“Let me finish!” Sanji huffs.

“Eating with a select few people that does not include Zoro- You can’t even look him in the eyes right now, and on top of everything you say you’re ‘going through something’?” Sanji pauses to let the words sink in, and Zoro looks entirely unamused.

“Wow, cook. Knew you were a pervert, but not to the extent of lying just to create some entertainment for your nonexistent sex life.” He spits out, before turning on his heel and walking out of the kitchen.

The 5 seconds that follow feel suspiciously like several hours.

“Oh god.” You say finally, feeling like collapsing to the floor, but instead dragging yourself to the kitchen island and seating yourself at the bar, your hands closing around your face anxiously.

“I need a fucking drink.” You mumble as you feel for the now-condensated set of drinks, and Sanji wordlessly moves the one with a blue parasol into your hands. You splay your hand just enough to see through the gaps between your fingers and whisper a thank you under your breath, before raising your head just enough to sip at the cocktail.

Sanji, in turn, takes his, the one with a pink parasol, and nearly downs the entire thing in one go.

“So clearly I was wrong.”

You glare at him, and he sighs as if to agree that he deserved it, before rounding the bar and plopping himself down next to you.

Sanji takes a moment, crossing his arms and leaning into the table.

“So what was it then?”

You sigh.

“You’re fine with me, with Nami no less, and-”

“It’s not. About the others.” You weigh whether this is worth telling him now or tomorrow when it’s less tense, and decide otherwise.

You pause to stare at your cocktail glass before taking it, ‘cheers’ing in Sanji’s direction, and downing it nearly as fast as he did.

He looks thoroughly alarmed as you do it and opens his mouth, probably to retort something stupid, and you wave it off and motion for him to wait.

“You were almost there.” At this, Sanji’s eyes almost boggle out of his head, and he decides to sit up to fully take it in.

“No, what, that marimo idiot was just faking?”

“No, that’s not-. Okay I just….”

Sanji squints. “You just what.”

You just decide to get it over with. You try to close your eyes, but the world spins behind them as you do so, cursed drink, so instead of fighting it you take it as a sign to just face Sanji head on.

“I want Zoro.”

“Uhuh.” Sanji says inquisitively.

“In a way that is not appropriate for me to think about my nakama- any nakama.” You continue, still facing Sanji but unable to take the steady weight of his eye all at once. He stays silent and lets you continue regardless.

“And I know it’s selfish and greedy of me to want him that way.” At this you have to turn to stare into your empty glass instead, tracing senseless patterns into the condensation with your index to try and inch away from the embarrassment and shame curling through your gut at this admission.

You’re done, but Sanji still waits as if he was expecting something worse, so you decide to tack on, “And saying it probably won’t change anything, so I’ll always be grateful for what I can get.” Just because.

The silence in the kitchen is deafening, and for a moment all you can hear and feel is the steady rock of the ship against the waves.

You cut through the tension the only way you know how.

“Don’t say something stupid or sappy or I’ll kick you out of this kitchen myself.”

Sanji scoffs, caught off guard by the sudden bluntness of your statement.

For a second you could swear he was about to say, ‘I wasn’t going to,’ but evidently he was, and he swallows his statement completely.

“Sanji- I don’t need your pity, you can relax.” He starts to shake his head, but you continue.

“I’m sorry it had to get to this point where the both of you- god knows who else- was convinced that I hated all of you.”

He waves you off.

“It’s not- pity. I was just going to say. You’re as important to all of us as we are to you. I care about you, we care about you, you care about us-” This time you start shaking your head, but Sanji cuts in.

“No, listen. Something as simple as asking for a sexual favor isn’t going to cause a rupture in time and space for us. Please.” He almost laughs. “Give us some credit.”

You’d laugh if you didn’t feel so uprooted.

“And it wouldn’t be the first time. Relax.”

You nearly get whiplash trying to process this statement, so simple and yet so telling of the kind of relationship this crew has with one another. One of absolute trust and understanding.

You meet Sanji’s eyes and he gives you a small nod of encouragement, pushing himself off of the seat and slinking off into the background to clean up the remaining glasses, before his eye catches on the one with the green parasol meant for Zoro.

He hums just out of your view, but you can sense what he’s looking at.

“You wanna take this up to him in the crow’s nest or down it for some extra liquid courage?”

“..I think I’ll take it up.”

Sanji remakes the last sunset cocktail as a silent apology and you know it, but refuse to further embarrass him by pointing it out. You try to distract yourself on the way up to the crow’s nest to suppress the sickly feeling of not knowing where this next conversation could take you. Your insides were twisting uncomfortably as you climbed up, the only thing grounding you to this world being the ice cold feel of the cocktail in your hands, and the certainty of Sanji’s words that guided you here in the first place. A question won’t hurt.

You’re not sure whether to knock or not but from your spot outside you see Zoro leaning back against the wall, clearly annoyed. You decided not to knock, pushing into the room silently and standing at the door, drink in hand.

“If the cook sent you to apologize for him you can tell him to fuck right off.” He says gruffly, guard still up after Sanji’s outburst.

“I wanted to say sorry.”

Zoro levels you a look before he sits down on the floor, carefully extricating his swords before setting them aside. At first you think he’s going to ignore you, but then he motions for you to sit in front of him, and you settle in your place for a moment before placing the cocktail before him.

Zoro looks to the side and cracks a smile, having clearly noticed the care that Sanji had put to remake the whole thing. “I’m holding this over him for the next week if you aren’t going to already.” You give a slight smile in response, the tension easing but not going away entirely, before glancing upwards to see him already looking into your eyes, a silent prompt that he hasn’t forgotten what this conversation was supposed to be about.

“First of all I am sorry for how I’ve been coming off lately. It’s not anyone else's fault but my own. I want to make that clear.” Zoro keeps his level gaze.

Unlike Sanji, he wants you to get it all out and refuses to react until the very end, which makes things worse, because in this moment all you can see is how beautiful he is when he’s focused like this, earrings twinkling in the moonlight up in the crow’s nest.

“But I just can’t- It’s hard to say.”

Zoro clicks his tongue, and it forces your attention upwards.

“They’re just words. No matter what it is, we’ll help you, we’ll fix it, but you have to tell us- first and foremost, tell me, what’s wrong.”

He looks into your eyes intently, trying to read between what you’re saying and what you’re hiding.

You want to tell him, but it’s precisely because it is him that makes it so difficult.

But at the end of the day, they are just words.

And once you acknowledge them as just words, they start tumbling out.

“Sometimes I want you more than just in a friends way.”

A pause, and you can tell Zoro wasn’t really expecting this to be the subject matter of the night. He shifts in his seat.

“I don’t mean that I’m in love with you, just to make that clear. I just mean that sometimes-” You’re not sure if Zoro’s amused at your balking or what, but it makes you want to wipe that stupid face off of his face. Whatever that means.

“Sometimes you want the benefits.” He picks up right where you leave off, surprisingly calm, and you nod slowly.

Now Zoro looks entirely amused, and soon begins to stifle what seems to be laughter?

“You were moping around and not joining us for meals because you had thoughts about fucking me?”

Oh my god.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“Don’t get a big head now, you idiot.” You say, embarrassed, as if you had any control over the ridiculous situation you just found yourself in.

Once Zoro came down from his giggling, which was a stark difference to his usual demeanor, his face settled into a more relaxed, but still, intentional gaze.

“Of course not.” He says, and something in your posture relaxes.

“You think I’d joke about this around the others? It’s just between us.”

He pauses, shifting in his seat.

“But just tell me what you need, when you do.”

The implication of it sends sparks up your spine, but in a way that still feels safe.

This is safe. It’s okay. You aren’t a monster for wanting more. So you take it as an invitation and let his statement sit for a moment.

“What if,” You swallow.

“I need something right now?”

Zoro raises an eyebrow, and opens his mouth to say something smug before you interrupt him.

“I don’t mean all the way- right now, of course not. I just need..“

You’re trying to choose the words that are about to come out of your mouth very carefully, but Zoro beats you to it.

“You need to feel something?”

You purse your lips. “More or less.” Zoro nods.

The next thing that comes out of his mouth almost knocks you over from the force.

“How do you want me?”

And it’s such a simple question.

He’s managed to turn this entire situation into something so simple, a need you have that he perfectly understands. It’s not selfish at all. He has what you need, and for tonight a warm body is enough.

“I want to- fuck, I can’t. I can’t even say it.” You almost crumple in on yourself as you try to make things less awkward. Zoro laughs.

“Again, they’re just words. Relax.” He pauses, before continuing.

“You have me.”

Your stomach lurches. You press the heels of your palms to your eyes as you prepare yourself to say it out loud.

“I can’t stop thinking about being in your lap.”

You know you shouldn’t be able to sense it, but you can feel the smile on Zoro’s face even when you can’t see it. You refuse to acknowledge it. Opening your eyes would make everything real.

“And what do you think about doing when you’re in my lap?”

You squirm, almost turning away entirely. He’s so near but he’s so far away. You just want to get rid of this burning heat. So you open your eyes and slowly take your hands off of your face, knuckling against the hard floorboards of the crow’s nest instead as you think of what to say next.

“Aw. Are we embarrassed? So eager to sit in my lap but can’t handle a little dirty talk?”

“Fuck off.” You spit.

Zoro laughs. “Don’t fight it. I won’t tease anymore. But you’ll have to show me what you want.” He leans back and taps his thigh expectantly, and you feel your heart drop off into the abyss.

You get up tentatively, your face entirely flushed despite the cool summer night, and crawl across the space between you before settling down carefully into Zoro’s waiting lap. The feel of corded muscles flexing underneath you made your breath hitch. His hands come to settle at your waist before noticing your own uncertain hands unsure of where to land.

“Come on, even in those fantasies of yours you haven’t thought this part through? Sit how you would in those dreams. Don’t be shy.”

Your throat was dry as you swallowed, before you slowly moved your arms around his neck, settling you further against him until you could feel his entire warmth enveloping your body. You tried to readjust, accidentally brushing the hard outline of his cock through his pants, and Zoro let out an appreciative groan.

“And now?”

You were too embarrassed to reply, avoiding his eyes.

He hummed as if deep in thought, fingers tapping against your side as if he had all the time in the world, ignoring the tremble of your body.

“I’m not so certain we stayed like this in your dreams, unless we did.” He tilted his head. “But I severely doubt it..”

You knew he was just coaxing it out of you, you could feel the smirk in his voice, and just as he wanted, you snapped.

You hissed. “Fucking fine.” Your hips began to move in slow circles, breath catching as you ground against his erection.

“I grind just like this and you-.”

“And I do what, sweetheart?”

You looked him in the eye, swallowing dryly.

“You force my hips to move faster and we both cum just from this.” You refused to let any other emotion show, but you were certain you were going to die in the crow’s nest after tonight, flushing red all over in your own nakama’s lap.

Zoro smiled, obeying and grabbing at your waist to grind down harder, causing you to yelp in surprise.

He huffed. “Like this? Am I doing it right?”

You moaned, thighs locking around his waist to feel the friction more intensely, not even bothering to reply.

“I am, aren’t I?” Zoro laughed. After days of waiting and even longer nights fantasizing about this exact situation, nothing could compare to the real thing. Was the crow’s nest always this hot?

Zoro continued teasing. “Look at you writhing like this just for me.”

You panted, ducking down to stare obscenely at where your bodies connected, until Zoro grabbed your jaw, forcing you to face him directly, the harshness making you whimper, combined with the delicious grind of his hips against yours.

“Say yes for me, please.” He pouted, uncharacteristic, before gripping your face harder.

“Or else I won’t let you cum.” The taunt sent a shiver up your spine.

You kept shaking your head, refusing to answer out loud despite the debauched picture the both of you painted, fully clothed but panting loudly against the quiet of the room.

Zoro continued. “That’s okay, you overwhelmed? Feels too good?” You couldn’t do anything else but nod in reply, constrained in his hold, back arching slightly to meet his clothed dick, slick from pre cum and your wetness.

Zoro chuckled as he felt you adjust, releasing your jaw to grip both hands on your waist. “Aw, you want me to go faster?” You moaned low in your throat, throwing your head back and exposing the line of your throat to him.

“I bet you do, you want it messy-“ His words broke on a groan as you dragged against his cock just right. “You hear yourself moaning like that in my lap? I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Tears were welling up in your eyes from the embarrassment and the pleasure all at once, making you bury your head into his neck, overwhelmed.

The grip on your waist tightened as he laughed.

“This won’t do. Can’t see your face.” You raised your head, momentarily confused, before you were flipped onto your back, making you yelp as you met the harsh bite of the cold floor.

Zoro held your legs open, settling between your thighs again to grind down on your clothed pussy, the angle choking off your yelp into a long moan before your hands flew to your mouth, covering the sound.

In the next second he ripped your hands free, grinding particularly hard to get his point across. “Stop fighting it, c’mon. For me.” He panted into your ear. “You asked me for this, right? Stop thinking. Give it to me.”

You whine, embarrassed, hearing the squelch of your clothed bodies against each other as Zoro fucks into you in earnest, your hands scrabbling for purchase against his back as he keeps talking. You feel your high coming and fast.

“You’ve dreamt of this, you’ve been telling me about how much you want me- right?” Your eyes roll back into your head, nodding helplessly as the coil inside you grows tighter and tighter. You can feel Zoro’s pace beginning to grow erratic above you.

“Give it to me.” He groans, and you can’t do anything else but obey. Your vision whites out as your lips part on a wordless moan, hips spasming against Zoro’s body.

He moans through your release, feeling it soak through your pants as he moves his hips slowly through wet heat, making you hiss in response. The sight of Zoro panting above you is immaculate, rivulets of sweat dripping down his face and throat.

He stares transfixed between your bodies, and after a few shallow thrusts into you, Zoro follows your release, dampening your clothes even further before he readjusts to meet your eyes.

His expression settles.

“Happy now?” He asks, and you can’t even nod properly before he pushes off of you, the movement making you groan in overstimulation, leaving you vulnerable and exposed on the floor of the crow’s nest as he reaches for the neglected drink to take a sip.

“Next time, just ask.”

Click each individual Chapter to take you where you want to go.

CH 1) Swords and Sweethearts

CH 2) Unsheathed

CH 3) Mettle of a Man

CH 4) Ronin's Shadow

CH 5) Hunter's Inn

CH 6) In the Bamboo

CH 7) Nothing Like the Night

CH 8) Night Like Nothing

CH 9) Down the River

“…well, you know how he is- always getting up to something.” Hushed and low, Zoro could hear your voice pull him out of deep slumber. Before he even opens his eye, he lets your presence settle over his aching body. “I don’t have to tell you how stubborn he is.” Not feeling the presence of anyone else, he frowns- cracking his eye to see who you're talking to.

Zoro’s heart skips more than a single beat. “I just worry about him,” you speak gently down to your lap, Wado Ichimonj in your hands as you gently wipe it clean. Eyes squinting as you lift the blade tenderly to check your work. “So I need you to keep taking good care of him, okay?” Satisfied, you cautiously slide it home in the sheath, fingers soothing over it. “There, feel better?”

Staying quiet, unwilling to interrupt the moment, Zoro simply watches. “And you,” you sigh, pulling Kitetsu into your lap, “your turn, troublemaker.” Your finger taps pointedly against the sheath, “behave now, please.” Zoro swears he can hear a hum just beneath the ring as you pull the blade.

That was the first time you ever cleaned his swords for him. Though, it wasn’t the first time he’d entrusted them to your care. He had explained it to you before and you watched him do it so many times, you were confident you could. At least well enough until Zoro woke up. He’d overexerted himself in that last fight and had been in unconscious recovery, but it snagged your heart to leave his blades waiting and filthy. So you took matters into your own hands, hoping Zoro wouldn’t be too bothered by it- given the circumstances.

But, Zoro was bothered. Watching you tend his swords- tend to the extensions of himself that exist beyond his own body. More than that, you spoke to them and the words reached out and settled in his own soul. His heart felt so full he thought it might burst through the cage of his ribs.

Zoro was beautifully, painfully, wonderfully- bothered.

Time passed and he recovered and the days were easy on the Sunny. When it came time to tend his blades again, he wanted you to do it- wanted to watch the way you interact with them. But, he wasn’t sure how to ask that of you or how to explain the way it makes him feel. While he’d thanked you for taking care of them that day, he hadn’t let you know he’d been awake and silently observing.

Zoro sat down next to you on the deck where you leaned against the rail, sipping a drink Sanji had made for you while serving as the official judge to Luffy and Usopp’s fishing competition. Turning, you give him a bright smile- the way you always do, “Zoro!”

“Hey,” he answers, a slight blush to the tips of his ears he blames on the sun. “Will you hold this?”

Sitting down your drink, you smooth your hands down the thin linen of your flowing dress. “Oh, sure!” Zoro watches you take Wado into your arms, resting it gently across your body and just the sight of it nearly steals his breath. Absentmindedly, your fingers pet over the sheath as you turn to give the fishermen this round’s ruling.

Zoro places the cleaning kit on the ground between you- his grip on Kitetsu far more firm than yours had been. Enma patiently waits on his other side, always last in line and quite fine with that arrangement.

When Zoro goes to unsheathe Kitetsu, his expression immediately turns, eye glaring down at the sword. The blade gives him some resistance, not so easily allowing itself to be drawn. It’s not terribly unusual for his cursed blade to test him, but that typically manifested in its bloodlust. This felt different- more stubborn, more petty.

Zoro tugged pointedly at the sheath again, willing it to loosen. With his strength he could force it, but that would ultimately get him nowhere- a lesson he’s learned well over the years. Letting a bit of his own power seep through his palms, he issues a silent warning to the cursed sword, willing it to submit.

As if you could sense the struggle, you turn your attention to Zoro, noting his stern expression. “Uh oh,” you sigh, leaning over his lap and joining in attention. Zoro’s brow twitches when he feels a shift in the sword as you look down at it. “Someone’s being a troublemaker,” it thrums in his hand at the sound of your voice. “Like always, hm?” You tap the hilt, “what’s the matter?”

Zoro scoffs, “just being stubborn,” he answers for it. “Cabin fever, probably,” he mutters. It’s been a while since the ship has stopped anywhere and Kitetsu could get antsy when it hasn’t cut anything in a while.

“Not for much longer,” you promise. “Nami says we’ll hit an island in the next couple days.” Pointedly, you tap the hilt again, “you want to be ready for it, don’t you?”

Kitetsu hums a little in his hands and releases only a little bit of its length. Zoro’s brow furrows, his head tilting as he notes the feeling- something unusual from his most troublesome sword. It feels… playful. But, not for him. And not violently in the way it sometimes would.

Zoro’s not sure if you can feel it, but your fingers wrap around the hilt, “Kitetsu~” you coo, stroking over its ridges. “Won’t you please be good?” even Zoro blushes at the way your hand drags all the way to the tsuba, thumb tracing the golden metal. “Just for a little bit- for me?”

The sheath shoots off in one quick motion and your smile delights at Zoro, a little laugh on your lips. “I think he’s learning manners, try asking him nicely next time.”

Your eyes flit back down, voice lilting, “thank you, Kitetsu~” you give a grateful squeeze around the hilt and it jolts through Zoro as if your hand had wrapped around his own body. Kitetsu downright purrs, the vibration of it, curling up Zoro’s arms.

Only when you pull away and settle back into your spot does it stop. A sharper, more dissatisfied buzzing spreading through his fingers. Zoro’s eye flits between you and Kitetsu.

Oh, he realizes, this is going to be a problem.

He tightens a more unforgiving grip around the sword, quietly cleaning it himself. When he finishes and takes Wado from your hands, he doesn't give you Kitetsu- instead, laying it on the ground to his other side, separated from you.

Menacingly, it’s aura lashes out at him. Zoro glares down in reprimand, suffocating Kitetsu with his own haki- driving precisely into the blade until it quiets.

Yeah, he sighs, eye sliding over to your shining figure next him- laughing in the sunshine, so oblivious of the war waging for dominance right beside you.

This is going to be a real problem.

You put the book aside and stood. He watched you like he expected you to ask him what happened, and you didn’t. You just took his hat off, placed it on the desk, and reached up to push your fingers through his hair.

For a second, he stayed perfectly still, then his eyes shut.

“You’re eating,” you said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re eating.”

“I’m your captain.”

“And I’m very impressed. Sit down.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue, but he was too tired to make it worth the effort. He sat on the edge of the bed while you brought him the bowl from the little warmer you had stolen from the galley. Rice, broth, fish. Nothing fancy. Nothing heavy.

Law stared at it. “You poisoned this?”

“I considered it, but Bepo looked sad.”

“Mm. Weak.”

You sat beside him and held the bowl until he took it. He ate slowly at first, like he was doing it only to shut you up. You kept your fingers in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp between pauses, and the longer you did it, the more his posture sank.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough for you.

There were entire confessions in the way Law accepted being touched without making a miserable comment about it.

When the bowl was empty, you took it from him and placed it aside. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face hidden in his hands. You kept stroking his hair.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

The Polar Tang hummed around you, deep and steady under the sea. The sound filled the room, safer than silence, gentler than the things neither of you wanted to name.

Eventually he turned his head just enough that his cheek rested against your thigh.

You looked down at him. “That’s new.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re cuddling my leg.”

“I’m resting.”

“On me.”

“Mm.”

You smiled, but you didn’t tease him further. Your fingers slid through his hair again, slower now, nails barely touching his scalp. He exhaled through his nose, quiet and rough.

It should not have felt intimate, but it did.

He turned his face slightly, and his lips brushed the inside of your wrist.

You stopped breathing for half a second.

His eyes opened, sharp even half-dead with exhaustion. For a moment, he looked at your wrist like he hadn’t meant to do that. Like his body had moved before his control returned.

Then, because he was impossible, he did it again.

A warmer kiss.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Law.”

“Problem?”

His voice was low, tired, almost bored. You hated him a little. “No.”

“Then stop looking offended.”

“I’m not offended.”

“You look like you’re trying to decide whether to hit me or climb me.”

You stared at him. He looked back, deadpan, mouth barely curved.

“You’re the worst man alive.”

“Probably.”

Then he kissed your palm. Not quickly. Not as a joke. His mouth pressed there like he was testing your pulse, your patience, both.

Heat crawled up your arm.

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. His eyes were dark, shadowed from lack of sleep, but clearer now. More present. More dangerous in the quiet way.

“You’re still thinking too loudly,” he murmured.

“I’m thinking you should sleep.”

“I was.”

“You were kissing my hand.”

“Multitasking.”

You laughed under your breath, and something in his face changed. He reached for you then, one hand closing around your hip, and pulled you down with him under the blanket. It was clumsy only because he was exhausted. Law being clumsy felt illegal.

You ended up half beside him, half on him, your knee between his legs, his arm around your waist. The blanket slipped over both of you, trapping heat fast.

“This is a terrible sleeping position,” you said.

“Then leave.”

His hand spread over your back and held you there.

You looked down at him. “You are very bad at bluffing.”

“I’m excellent at bluffing.”

“You’re literally holding me hostage.”

“You’re not resisting.”

Fair.

His mouth found your wrist again, then your forearm, slow little kisses that did not match the sharpness of his face at all. You watched him do it, feeling each one settle lower in your stomach.

Comfort turned strange that way. One moment you were keeping him together. The next, his lips were on your skin and the air was too warm and his hand had slipped beneath the back of your shirt.

His fingers were ice cold.

Law’s mouth twitched against your arm. “Sensitive?”

“Your hands are freezing.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“That explains nothing.”

“It explains enough.”

His hand flattened against your lower back, then slid up, warmer now from your skin. He touched you like he was still trying not to ask for anything. Like he could make this practical if he moved carefully enough.

You leaned down and kissed him.

That broke the last useful thought in the room.

He kissed back slowly at first, his mouth firm and tired, one hand cupping the back of your neck. Then your fingers tugged lightly in his hair and he made a sound so low you almost missed it.

You didn‘t miss the way his grip tightened.

“Do that again,” he said against your mouth.

You smiled. “Ask nicer.”

His eyes opened. Exhausted, half-wrecked, still somehow arrogant enough to ruin your life. “You’re warm, fed, and in my bed,” he said. “Don’t get ambitious.”

“You dragged me here.”

“I made a medical decision.”

“Was kissing my palm also medical?”

“Your circulation looked poor.”

You laughed, and he kissed you harder to shut you up.

His hand slid under your shirt again, and this time he didn’t stop at your back. His palm moved over your waist, your ribs, then higher, dragging heat after it. He gave you just enough time to pull away. His thumb brushed under your breast, light enough to be cruel.

Your breath caught.

Law’s mouth paused against yours. “Still fine?” he asked, quiet now.

You nodded once.

His eyes narrowed. “Words.”

“Yes,” you said. “Still fine.”

Then his hand covered you properly, and the sound that left you was embarrassingly soft.

He kissed your jaw, your throat, the spot below your ear, while his thumb moved slowly over your nipple through the thin fabric. Not rushed. Not sloppy. Precise enough to make your hips shift without permission.

His thigh slid between yours under the blanket, pressing up just enough to make you tense.

You broke the kiss with a shaky breath. “Law.”

“I know.”

That was the problem. He always knew.

His hand left your chest and slid down over your stomach. Slow. Warm now. His fingers traced the waistband of your shorts like he was considering the most annoying possible way to take you apart.

You grabbed his wrist. He stopped immediately. For half a second, his face went still. Careful. Too careful. Then you guided his hand lower.

“Brat,” he murmured.

“You were taking too long.”

“I was being considerate.”

“You were being evil.”

“That too.”

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric.

Your whole body went hot.

Law watched your face as he touched you over your panties first, slow pressure between your thighs, finding the wet warmth there. His mouth parted slightly, the smallest crack in his composure.

“You’re soaked,” he said, low.

Your face burned. “Don’t sound surprised.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound proud.”

“I am.”

You should have had a comeback. You did not. Because his fingers moved, and the blanket made everything worse. The heat. The closeness. The tiny space where every breath hit his mouth and every movement rubbed your body against his. His hand stayed steady between your thighs, stroking you through the damp fabric, watching you try not to fall apart too quickly.

“You’re quiet now,” he said.

“I hate you.”

“Mm. Of course.”

His fingers pushed your panties aside and your nails dug into his shoulder.

He exhaled once, controlled but rough, when he felt you bare. His fingers slid through you slowly, gathering slick heat before circling your clit with the kind of patience that made you want to bite him.

You buried your face against his neck.

He let you for exactly three seconds, then his free hand caught your jaw and tilted your face back. “Don’t hide.”

“You are annoying.”

“You knew that already.” His fingers circled again, a little firmer, and your hips rocked into his hand.

That made his eyes drop. There was something devastatingly hot about him like this. Still tired. Still half-dressed. Still acting like he had control while his breathing slowly betrayed him. His hair was messy from your fingers. His shirt was wrinkled. His gaze kept moving between your face and the shape of your body shifting under the blanket.

He touched you like he had all the time in the world. Like the world outside his cabin had finally shut up.

When one finger slipped inside you, your breath snapped.

Law kissed the corner of your mouth. “There?”

You nodded.

“Words.”

“Yes.”

His mouth brushed yours. “Good.”

He worked you open slowly, one finger at first, then two, his palm pressed against your clit with every shallow thrust. Not rough. Not gentle either. Intentional. The kind of touch that made your thighs tighten around his wrist.

“You’re making this difficult,” he muttered.

You laughed breathlessly. “For you?”

“For my self-control.”

Your eyes opened, and for once you caught him before he could hide it. The hunger in his face. The strain in his jaw. The way his hips had shifted closer without him seeming to notice.

“Oh,” you whispered.

“Don’t.”

“You’re turned on.”

His stare went flat. “Excellent medical deduction.”

“You’re really turned on.”

“You want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Then stop talking.”

But you felt him against your thigh now, hard and hot through his clothes, and the knowledge made your body clench around his fingers.

Law inhaled. His eyes sharpened. “You did that on purpose.”

“I didn’t.”

“Liar.”

His fingers curled inside you.

You gasped, hand flying to his shoulder, and his mouth found your throat again. He kissed you there messily now, less controlled, teeth grazing skin as his fingers kept their slow, ruthless pace.

Under the blanket, your hips moved against his hand. His palm rubbed your clit every time his fingers pushed deeper. You were hot everywhere, trapped between his body and the blanket and his voice near your ear.

“You’re close,” he said.

You hated how calm he sounded.

You hated more that he was right. “Shut up.”

“Very close.”

“Law.”

“Mm.”

A laugh broke out of you, shaky and breathless, and he kissed it straight from your mouth. His fingers moved faster then. Just enough. The angle changed, his thumb pressing directly against your clit, and your body went tight.

You grabbed his hair and he groaned, not a neat little sound. Not controlled. Low, rough, dragged out of him before he could stop it.

That was what pushed you over.

You came against his hand with your face pressed into his neck, trying to keep quiet and failing in small, broken sounds. Law held you through it, fingers slowing but not stopping too fast, his mouth at your temple, his voice low and close.

“There,” he murmured. “That’s it.”

Your whole body shuddered.

“You’re evil,” you whispered again, weaker this time.

His lips brushed your hair. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

He was quiet for a moment. His fingers slipped out of you slowly, and you felt the loss of them in a way that made your stomach twist. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.

The exhaustion was still there, but underneath it was something rawer. Needier. Law, caught between wanting to pretend he was unaffected and being very obviously affected.

You looked down. His belt was still fastened. His shirt still buttoned. He looked unfairly composed for someone who had just ruined you with his hand. “That seems unbalanced,” you said.

His mouth twitched. “You’re recovering fast.”

“I’m talented.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re hard.”

The silence after that was deeply satisfying. Law stared at you.

You smiled.

For once, he did not have an immediate answer. Then his hand caught your waist and pulled you closer until your thigh pressed between his legs. He shut his eyes for one second, jaw flexing.

You moved against him lightly.

He sucked in a breath.

“Oh,” you said softly. “Sensitive?”

His eyes opened. “Careful.”

“No.”

“No?”

You reached down between you and worked his belt open under the blanket. Your fingers were less elegant than his, mostly because your hands were still shaking. Law watched you struggle for three seconds before looking personally offended.

“You’re going to break it.”

“I am not.”

“You’re attacking it.”

“It’s dark under here.”

“It’s a belt, not an enemy.”

“Help or shut up.”

He huffed a tired laugh and helped, undoing it with one hand like an irritating show-off. You pushed his pants open just enough to slip your hand inside.

The moment your fingers wrapped around him, his entire body went still.

He was hot in your hand, hard and heavy, and the sound he made when you stroked him once was almost silent. Almost.

You kissed his jaw. “There?”

His eyes cut to yours. “Don’t start.”

You stroked him again, slower, and his forehead dropped briefly against yours.

That shut both of you up.

The room got quiet except for breathing. Yours uneven. His controlled until it wasn’t. Your hand moved beneath the blanket, fingers sliding over him, learning what made his mouth tighten, what made his hips shift, what made his grip on your waist go almost too firm before he forced himself to ease up.

He was beautiful like this in the worst way. Still trying to hold himself together while letting you touch him. Still trying to be Law about it, even with his breath breaking against your mouth.

You kissed him softly.

He kissed back harder. His hand returned between your thighs, slick fingers finding you again, and you jolted. “You’re sensitive,” he murmured.

“I just came.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You’re welcome.”

You squeezed him in warning.

His smugness died immediately.

Worth it.

He groaned against your mouth, hips pushing into your hand before he could stop himself. His fingers pressed against your clit again, slower now, less calculated, more distracted. That made it hotter. Law losing precision because your hand was around his cock felt like something you should put in a museum.

A terrible museum.

For horrible people.

You moved together under the blanket, messy in a quiet way. Your hand stroking him. His fingers rubbing you. His mouth dragging over yours, then your cheek, then your throat. Neither of you fully undressed. Neither of you needed to. It felt almost more intimate like this, half-hidden and overheated, clinging to each other in the small private dark.

His voice dropped near your ear. “Can you come again?”

Your stomach clenched. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“You’re very demanding for a man I fed rice to.”

His laugh was barely there, rough and low. “Answer.”

“Yes.”

His hand changed pace.

He kissed your cheek like he was pleased with himself and too tired to pretend otherwise.

The second time built slower, deeper, your body still oversensitive from the first. He kept touching you like he knew exactly how much you could take, while your hand grew slick around him from his own precum. His breathing got worse. His jaw pressed against your temple. His hips started moving into your fist in short, restrained thrusts.

“Law,” you whispered.

His fingers stilled for half a second. Not stopped. Checked.

You nodded quickly against him. “Keep going.”

He did. Your legs tightened around his hand again. The blanket had slipped down to your hips, but neither of you cared. Your shirt was pushed up. His pants were open. Everything was too warm, too close, too much.

And still, somehow, soft.

Because his other hand was in your hair. Because his mouth kept brushing your forehead between kisses.

Because even while he was touching you like he wanted to ruin you, he held you like something precious he would rather die than name.

You came again with a broken little sound against his mouth.

This time Law followed almost immediately. His body went tense, his hand closing hard around your hip as he came into your fist with a rough, muffled groan. His face pressed into your neck, breath hot against your skin. For a few seconds, he did not move at all.

You held him through it, fingers gentle now.

His breathing slowly evened out. “Messy.”

You laughed, exhausted and warm. “That’s your first comment?”

“It’s accurate.”

“You’re romantic.”

“I’m tired.”

“You came on my hand.”

“You were involved.”

“You’re stupid.”

His mouth brushed your shoulder. “You’ve said that too.”

“And I’ll keep saying it.”

He shifted carefully, cleaned you both up with a towel from beside the bed. He was efficient about it, but his touch had gone softer. Almost shy, if Law could ever be accused of such a thing without committing murder.

When he settled back down, he pulled the blanket over you both again. You ended up against his chest, your leg tangled with his, your hand resting over his ribs. His heartbeat was slower now. Heavy. Human. He held your wrist for a while, thumb moving over the inside of it.

You thought he was asleep.

Then he murmured, “You’re still not allowed to tell anyone I cuddled you.”

“You didn’t cuddle me.”

“Good.”

“You medically restrained me under a blanket and then got me off twice.”

His chest moved with a quiet laugh. “Accurate.”

You smiled against him, boneless and warm. After a long silence, his hand slid up to the back of your head. He held you there, not tightly. Just enough.

“Thank you,” he said.

It was so quiet you almost pretended not to hear it.

You kissed the side of his throat. “Anytime, Captain.”

“Don’t call me that in bed.”

“Oh, you like it.”

“I don‘t like it.”

“You’re lying.”

He sighed, but his arm tightened around you.

Later, he woke you up with his mouth already against your neck and his hand flat on your stomach.

Not soft. Not sweet. Possessive and warm, his fingers spread under your shirt like he had been holding you there for a while and had only just decided to make it your problem.

You opened your eyes into the dark cabin.

Everything hummed low around you. The walls were thin. Too thin. Somewhere outside, metal creaked, pipes clicked, and the ship sounded alive in the worst possible way.

Law’s mouth moved against your skin. “You awake?” he murmured.

You swallowed. “No.”

His teeth grazed the side of your neck. “Liar.”

You shifted back against him just enough to feel him hard behind you.

His hand stopped moving. For one long second, neither of you breathed right, then his fingers tightened at your waist. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“You’re bad at it.”

“You woke me up.”

“You moved first.”

“You were touching me first.”

His mouth brushed your ear. “I was checking your pulse.”

“At my waist?”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

You almost laughed, but then his hand slid lower, over your hip, dragging you back against him with enough pressure to make your breath catch.

Law heard it. His voice dropped, mean and quiet. “Careful.”

You turned your face halfway toward him. “Or what?”

That was the mistake. His hand came up and covered your mouth before you could say anything else. Firm. Just enough to remind you exactly where you were, exactly who slept outside that door, exactly how much trouble you were in.

“Or you’ll wake someone,” he murmured. “And I’ll make you explain why you can’t behave.”

Your stomach tightened hard. His eyes caught yours in the dark. “Yeah,” he said, too calm. “That’s what I thought.”

You made a muffled sound against his palm.

Law’s mouth twitched. “Still mouthy. Impressive.”

Then he moved. The blanket shifted over both of you as he slid down your body, disappearing beneath it. Heat flooded your face before his hands even reached your thighs.

“Law,” you whispered.

His answer came from under the blanket, low and dry. “Lower.”

Your fingers twisted in the sheets. “Law.”

“Better.”

His hands pushed your thighs apart, not gently, not cruelly. Just with that controlled strength that made your body obey before your pride could complain. His mouth pressed to the inside of your thigh first, slow and hot, then higher.

You grabbed the blanket. He kissed you once over the thin fabric of your panties. You jolted.

He huffed against you. “Sensitive.”

“You’re annoying.”

His fingers hooked into the waistband and dragged it down just enough. “Still talking.” Then his mouth was on you.

Your head fell back into the pillow, breath breaking immediately.

He did not ease into it. He ate you out like he had woken up starving and decided manners were a disease. His hands gripped your thighs under the blanket, holding you open while his tongue dragged through you slow, then deep, then mean. He was quiet about it except for the low sound in his throat when he tasted how wet you were.

The sound alone almost ruined you, so you bit your knuckle.

One hand left your thigh and pushed your wrist away. His fingers laced with yours instead, pinning your hand beside your hip under the blanket.

“No hiding,” he murmured against you.

“Then let me be loud.”

His mouth paused. The silence under the blanket felt dangerous. Then he gave a low, humorless laugh.

“You really want to embarrass yourself that badly?”

Your whole body burned.

He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth returned to you, hotter, wetter, filthier. His tongue circled your clit with awful patience before he sucked lightly, just enough to make your hips jerk into his face.

His grip turned bruising. “Don’t move.”

“You’re under the blanket eating me out,” you whispered, breathless. “And you’re giving orders?”

His eyes flicked up from between your thighs. Even in the dark, you felt that stare.

“Yes.”

Then he lowered his mouth again and made you regret being funny.

You were close too fast. Embarrassingly fast. It climbed sharp and hot through your stomach, your legs shaking around his shoulders, your fingers gripping his hair beneath the blanket. He groaned when you pulled, and the vibration went straight through you.

“Law—”

Voices passed outside.

Both of you froze. You stopped breathing. Law went still between your legs, mouth still close enough that you could feel every exhale against your soaked skin.

Two crew members walked past the door, speaking quietly. Too close. Too awake.

You stared at the ceiling, one hand clamped over your own mouth.

Under the blanket, Law’s fingers dug into your thighs.

The voices slowed. For one horrible second, you thought they would stop. Then the footsteps continued down the corridor. Their voices faded. The ship hummed again. Silence settled.

Law did not move for another few seconds, then his mouth pressed one slow kiss to the inside of your thigh.

You whispered, shaky and furious, “You didn’t let me finish.”

He emerged from under the blanket just enough for you to see his face. His mouth was wet. His hair was a mess. His eyes were dark in that flat, devastating way that made him look meaner than he actually was.

“I wasn’t trying to make you finish.”

Your brain stalled. “Huh?”

His hand slid up your thigh. “I wanted to taste you.”

You stared at him. He looked completely serious.

“Do you ever hear yourself?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You’re disgusting.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You’re wet.”

You had no response ready for that. He kissed your stomach once, over your shirt, then climbed over you with an efficiency that should not have been attractive. His hand caught your hip.

“Turn over.”

Your pulse jumped. “Ask nicely.”

Law’s eyes narrowed. Then he leaned in, mouth beside your ear. “Turn over before I decide you don’t get to come at all.”

You huffed and turned. Fast enough that you heard him exhale a quiet laugh behind you.

“Asshole.”

“I’m about to fuck you into the mattress and you’re still insulting me.”

“You started it.”

“I’m going to finish it.”

He pushed you flat onto your stomach, hand between your shoulder blades, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. Your legs were pressed together beneath him, thighs tight, body stretched out under the blanket. He straddled them from behind, knees bracketing your legs, trapping you in place with his weight.

The position made you feel pinned before he even touched you.

It made you quiet.

Law noticed that too. His palm slid down your spine, slow, possessive. “There,” he murmured. “Finally learned something.”

You turned your face into the pillow. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” His hand slid beneath you, finding you between your pressed thighs. He felt how wet you still were from his mouth and went still for a second.

Then his voice dropped. “Still dripping.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Stop talking.”

“No.”

He leaned over you, chest against your back, and his arm slid around your throat, forearm firm across your upper chest and collarbone, hand gripping your shoulder, holding you exactly where he wanted you. Your breath hitched anyway.

Law’s mouth brushed your ear. “Tap twice if it’s too much.”

Your hand found his wrist. You tapped once just to be annoying.

He went still, then you dragged his arm tighter around you. “Bad idea,” he whispered.

“Then stop.”

He did not. His other hand disappeared between you, belt shifting, fabric dragged down just enough. You felt him press against you from behind, hard and hot, sliding between your thighs first, coating himself in how wet you were.

Your fingers curled into the sheet. “Law.”

His hand came over your mouth again. “Quiet.”

Then he pushed in.

The angle stole your breath.

Because your legs were together, because he had you pinned flat, because he was above you and around you and everywhere, he felt deeper than before. Tighter. Hotter. You made a broken sound into his palm and his arm locked more firmly across your chest.

He stopped halfway in, forehead dropping against the back of your head. “Fuck,” he breathed, so low it barely had sound.

You clenched around him. His hand tightened over your mouth.

“Don’t.”

So you did it again.

Law went silent, then laughed once, dark and breathless.

“You really are asking for it.”

He drove in the rest of the way. Your body jolted under him, trapped between his chest and the mattress. His hand swallowed the sound you made. The blanket hid the movement, held in the heat, made every thrust feel secret and filthy and too close.

He didn’t fuck you fast at first.

He fucked you hard.

Slow, deep, punishing thrusts that made your thighs tremble together under his weight. His arm stayed around your throat, holding you up just enough that your back arched beneath him. His mouth hovered near your ear, breath rougher than he probably wanted it to be.

“There,” he murmured. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

You nodded against his hand.

His hips snapped forward again. “Of course it was.”

Your eyes rolled shut.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low and mean. “Couldn’t stay quiet from my mouth, and now you’re trying to take this without waking half the ship.”

You whimpered into his palm.

He slowed just to make it worse. “That was not quiet.”

You bit lightly at his hand.

His rhythm faltered. Barely.

But you felt it.

Law’s mouth pressed to your temple. “Careful,” he whispered. “I’m already being nice.”

You almost laughed. It came out as a muffled sob when he started moving again, rougher now, hips grinding deep every time he buried himself inside you. The pressure of your legs together made everything tighter, every stroke dragging against your clit through the way he had you pinned.

It was unbearable.

He knew. He had to know. His hand slipped from your mouth only long enough to catch your jaw and turn your face slightly.

“Breathe.”

You dragged in air.

“Good.” Then his palm covered your mouth again. It should not have been sweet. It wasn’t, not really. But there was something in the way he kept checking, kept holding you together while taking you apart, that made your chest ache under all the heat.

Law’s voice roughened near your ear. “You can take it.”

Your nails dug into his wrist.

“You can,” he repeated. “You’re doing it.” A hard thrust made your whole body jolt. “Quietly.” You made a desperate noise into his palm. His breath shook. “Mostly.”

That almost ruined you. The dry little correction. His voice half-wrecked, still somehow sarcastic while fucking you into the mattress under a blanket with people sleeping down the corridor.

You pushed back against him as much as you could.

Law’s grip turned rough. “Greedy.”

You nodded.

“Yeah?” His mouth brushed your ear. “That all you wanted? Me pinning you down so you’d finally stop pretending you don’t like being handled?”

Your body clenched hard around him.

He cursed under his breath. “Thought so.”

His thrusts got rougher then. Less patient. His chest stayed pressed to your back, his arm around your throat, his hand over your mouth. You were completely trapped under him, legs together, body pinned flat, taking every deep stroke while the bed barely creaked beneath the blanket.

He was trying to keep it quiet.

That made it hotter, because you felt how much effort it took him. The strain in his arm. The way his breathing kept catching. The way his hips wanted to move faster but he forced them into deep, controlled thrusts instead.

“You’re close,” he said.

You nodded quickly. His hand slid from your mouth to your throat for half a second, just to hold your jaw, to keep your face turned enough that he could see you.

“Not loud.”

You swallowed. “Then don’t make me come.”

His eyes darkened. Wrong answer. His hand returned to your mouth, and his other arm tightened across your chest.

“I told you,” he murmured. “Brat.”

Then his hips changed angle.

Your whole body went rigid.

He had found exactly the spot he wanted, and because he was Law, because he was cruel when he was right, he kept hitting it. Again. And again. Deep and rough and controlled, his mouth at your ear, talking you through every second like he could feel your mind slipping apart under him.

“There. That’s it.”

You shook beneath him.

“Don’t fight it.”

Your fingers clawed at the sheet.

“Just stay quiet.”

You came with his hand clamped over your mouth and his arm locked around you, the orgasm tearing through you hard enough that your body tried to curl under his. He held you down through it. Kept you flat. Kept fucking you while you pulsed around him, every sound trapped against his palm.

Law groaned into your shoulder. Not quiet enough. Not nearly as composed as he wanted to be.

You heard it and clenched again, that made hips stutter.

“Don’t,” he rasped.

You did. His control snapped in a way you felt more than saw. His thrusts turned shorter, harder, less even. His face buried against your neck, teeth grazing your skin, breath hot and broken. “You’re unbearable,” he muttered.

You made a muffled sound that might have been a laugh.

His hand pressed more firmly over your mouth. “Still not funny.”

It was absolutely funny.

Then he drove into you deep and stayed there, his whole body tensing over yours as he came with a rough, smothered sound against your shoulder. His arm around your throat held you close while he shook twice, breathing harshly into your skin.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The cabin was silent except for both of you trying to remember how to breathe like normal people.

Then another set of footsteps passed outside.

He froze instantly. So did you. His hand was still over your mouth. He was still inside you. The footsteps paused.

Your eyes went wide. Law slowly turned his head toward the door, expression murderous in the dark.

Someone outside yawned, then kept walking. The footsteps faded.

You started shaking beneath him. Not from fear. From trying not to laugh.

Law’s hand tightened over your mouth, but his own breath hitched once near your ear. “Do not,” he whispered.

You shook harder.

He pulled out slowly, and you both winced. He cleaned you up with infuriating efficiency, still under the blanket, still half-dressed, still trying to look like he had not just lost several pieces of his sanity. Then he dragged you back against him, your back to his chest, his arm around your waist this time.

Much safer. Much less threatening. Still possessive.

You whispered, “You didn’t make me explain.”

His mouth brushed the back of your neck. “Next time.”

Your stomach flipped. “You covered my mouth.”

“And you still almost got us caught.”

You smiled into the pillow. Law exhaled slowly behind you, then pressed one quiet kiss to your shoulder. Soft enough to make the whole thing worse. After a moment, he muttered, “You okay?”

You reached back and touched his wrist. “Yeah.”

His fingers laced with yours. “Good.”

Morning on the ship was usually quiet in a way that felt medical. Dim lights. Low engine hum. People speaking in tired voices because being loud before coffee was how accidents happened.

Law walked into the galley looking like death had filed a complaint against him and lost. Hat on. Shirt buttoned. Face blank.

Completely normal.

You were already at the table with your cup in both hands, trying to look like a person who had slept. You had not. Not properly. Your legs still felt suspicious. Your throat had one spot that made you want to slap him and kiss him every time you swallowed.

Law did not look at you first. That was how you knew he was looking at you.

Bepo was making breakfast with too much cheer for the hour. Shachi and Penguin were half-dead over their plates. Ikkaku was reading something and pretending she was not watching the room with deeply feminine intuition.

Law sat across from you. Calmly. Like he had not had his hand over your mouth a few hours ago because you were both idiots in a submarine full of people with ears.

“Morning, Captain,” Penguin mumbled.

“Morning,” Law said. His voice was normal.

Terrible man.

You lifted your cup to hide your mouth.

Law reached for the coffee pot, then stopped. Just for half a second. Barely anything. His fingers flexed around the handle.

You noticed because you were a bad person. A ruined person. A person with evidence.

His hand was close to his face, and he had smelled it. Not strongly. Not obviously. Just enough.

His eyes went flat.

Oh.

Oh no.

You looked down into your cup so fast your neck nearly cracked.

Law poured his coffee with terrifying precision.

You were going to die.

Not from shame. From trying not to laugh.

He set the pot down. His thumb brushed once over his index finger, like he was trying to decide whether his own hand was guilty of a crime.

It was.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Across the table, Law’s gaze flicked to you. Sharp. Warning.

You widened your eyes innocently.

His jaw tightened. That was when it got worse. He took a sip of coffee. Then his chin dipped slightly, and the faint shadow of his beard brushed the rim of the mug.

His whole face changed by exactly nothing.

But you saw it.

He smelled you there too. On his own skin. From last night. From under the blanket. From the way he had buried his face between your thighs and then still had the nerve to act like breakfast was a normal social event.

His eyelids lowered for one second.

He stared into his coffee like it had personally betrayed him.

Your shoulders started shaking.

Law looked up slowly. “Something funny?”

“No.”

Your voice was too high.

Shachi looked at you. “You okay?”

You nodded quickly. “Coffee went down wrong.”

“You didn’t drink any.”

“Emotionally.”

Ikkaku’s eyes lifted from her page.

Law’s stare could have amputated you.

Bepo turned around with a plate. “Captain, do you want eggs?”

Law did not answer immediately. Because he had moved his hand again. Because his fingers were near his mouth. Because, apparently, his own body had decided to spend the morning reminding him exactly what you tasted like. His nostrils flared once. Very slightly.

You pressed your lips together so hard it hurt.

Law shut his eyes for half a second. He looked like a man trying to survive war.

“Captain?” Bepo asked, worried.

Law opened his eyes. “No eggs.”

Bepo’s ears drooped. “Oh. Sorry.”

Law’s face softened by a millimeter. “It’s fine. Rice.”

“Okay!”

You watched him pick up his mug again. His hand was steady. His face was blank. His control was flawless. Except his ears were faintly red.

You placed your cup down very carefully.

He looked at you. You looked back. Neither of you said anything. Then you smiled.

His expression turned dangerous.

Under the table, his boot nudged your ankle.

A warning.

You nudged him back.

A mistake.

His eyes sharpened. You looked away first because you were not suicidal before noon.

Penguin squinted between you both. “Why is it weird in here?”

“It’s always weird in here,” Shachi said into his plate.

“No, this is different.”

“It’s your face.”

“My face isn’t weird.”

“It’s morning. Everyone’s face is weird.”

You made the mistake of glancing at Law again. He was staring at his rice like the entire concept of appetite had become complicated.

You knew exactly why.

You imagined him trying to eat breakfast while still smelling you on his chin, still catching it on his fingers every time he moved, still pretending that it was not making him think about throwing the whole tray across the room and dragging you back to his cabin.

He would rather be executed than admit it.

That made it so much better.

You took pity on him. Mostly. You leaned forward slightly and said, very casually, “Captain?”

His eyes lifted. “What?”

“You have something on your face.”

Law’s stare went black. Ikkaku slowly lowered her page. Bepo turned around. “Where?” Bepo asked, deeply concerned.

Law did not move. You reached across the table before he could stop you, thumb brushing lightly over the edge of his chin.

His skin was warm. His eyes did not leave yours. The whole room narrowed around that tiny touch.

You pulled your hand back and looked at your thumb. Nothing there. “Nevermind.”

Law’s expression stayed perfectly blank. Too blank.

He was going to kill you.

Penguin blinked. “What was it?”

“Nothing,” Law said. His voice was calm enough to be a medical threat.

You took another sip of coffee. This time you could not stop the smile.

Law leaned back in his chair, one hand around his mug, the other resting on the table. His fingers flexed once.

Still guilty. Still remembering. Still pretending. Then he said, without looking away from you, “You’re assigned to inventory after breakfast.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“Medical inventory.”

“That’s not my job.”

“It is today.”

“That sounds personal.”

“It’s organizational.”

Shachi pointed his spoon at you. “You should never question medical inventory. That’s how he gets mean.”

You looked at Law. Law looked back.

There was no expression on his face.

None.

Except his eyes said very clearly: Keep laughing and I’ll give you something to be quiet about later.

Your stomach flipped. Unfortunately, your mouth was still alive. “Do I need gloves?”

Law’s hand stopped around his mug. Ikkaku made a tiny sound and hid behind her page. Penguin frowned. “For inventory?”

You looked at Law with the innocence of a war criminal. “Just asking.”

Law stood. Very calmly. Pushed his chair in. Very calmly. Picked up his tray. Very calmly. Then he leaned down as he passed behind you, close enough that only you heard him.

“You are going to be quiet when I deal with you.”

Your smile vanished so fast it was humiliating.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ full already? didn’t think so. my masterlist’s right here.

© ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ

𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦—𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘧𝘵, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘪 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵.

Solvent. Serious. A remarkable partnership opportunity. Your wealth and his combining into something neither of you could build alone... or so your advisors had assured you. Badly, as it turned out. Because now here you both are, at your sixth meeting over the same investment dispute, losing millions of berries every day the two of you refuse to budge.

"No," he says, watching you from across the boardroom table, hands folded as though being right is worth more to him than every berry he's losing with the word.

You massage your temples just for a moment, because you quickly meet his gaze again, the only way to face a man like him as an equal.

"It's the only way," you press.

He taps the excess ash from his cigar and launches for the umpteenth time into his arguments, every single one of which you have already dismantled on multiple occasions. As he talks, you abandon your seat and begin to move around the room, pausing at the enormous window that looks out onto a world that could be yours -both of yours, in fact- if your inability to agree weren't standing in the way.

Sir Crocodile's voice carries on behind you. Low. Rough. You can almost feel that insufferable, ever-present smirk on his slicked-back face, that maddening air of superiority radiating off him like heat.

You are going to kill him.

If another week goes by with him costing you money, you will hire someone to slit his throat... that thick neck of his that, against every ounce of your better judgment, has a habit of catching your eye. Because for all that he is odious and greedy and petty, the man is attractive as hell. And he finds you attractive too. You'd stake everything on it. You can tell by the way he chuckles every time you walk into the office and sway your hips on the way to your seat. By the way his pupils blow wide every time you lean across the table to tell him - because you can do it too, out of pure spite if nothing else - no.

The tension is unbearable. Growing worse by the day. So thick in the air between you that it's getting harder to think straight. You sigh, and finally decide to propose the only thing your analytical mind can identify as a potential solution to the deadlock you've both driven yourselves into.

"We should fuck," you say, cutting him off, both hands planted on the table directly in front of him. And Sir Crocodile, for the first time since you've known him, leaves a sentence unfinished.

If your proposal has caught him off guard, his mask of indifference gives nothing away. Not even the small satisfaction of letting his eyes flicker, the way they have before, toward the neckline you are currently presenting to him.

"Oh?" A sly half-smile crosses his scarred face as his ring-heavy hand reaches again for the ashtray. You want to slap him. "I'll say that I find myself quite open to the idea. But pray tell, what brought on this change of dynamic? Since when do you consider me worthy of being rewarded with such a generous proposal? Or are you simply willing to swallow your pride and submit to me in bed if it means I'll agree to your terms? Because if that's the case-"

"That is not, " you say through your teeth, cursing the day you ever listened to your advisors, "even remotely the case. But you'll agree we're getting nowhere like this. I'll venture to say there is an attraction between us. Purely physical," you don't let the way his eyes pierce yours unsettle you, "and sexual. And since words alone aren't getting us to an agreement, perhaps there's another way to reach an understanding. I'm not suggesting either of us gets what we want outright. I know better than that. But perhaps the experience might make us... creative. Help us see things differently. Find some sort of middle ground."

"When?" he accepts, eyes on you like a predator sizing up his next meal, broad shoulders filling out that enormous fur coat.

"Tonight," you straighten up.

He takes a long drag from his cigar and exhales to the side.

"Very well."

"But one thing, Crocodile," you add, and his sharp eyes settle on you once more. "Since this will simply be a..." you pause, "recreational activity between two equals" you put particular weight on equals, because there is absolutely no version of this where you see yourself submitting to him, which now that you think about it might present a certain logistical challenge you'll figure out when you get there, " I have two completely non-negotiable conditions. Accept them, or the arrangement is off."

He frowns, but turns the cigar between his fingers to check how much is left as though that deserves more of his attention than you do.

"Go on."

"You will not hurt me under any circumstances. And if I say stop, we stop."

Sir Crocodile leans back in his chair and does what you might generously describe as a crooked smile. You think again about hiring a contract killer.

"For that," he says, "should the occasion arise, you'll need to be very clear."

"I will be."

"Good." He exhales another curl of smoke. "And the other condition?"

"You will not kiss me on the mouth."

At this, Crocodile does react. And in a way you hadn't expected at all. His expression shifts from high displeasure to cold so fast that if you were anyone other than who you are, you might fear for your life.

"That's ridiculous," he leans forward now.

"I disagree. And it's a non-negotiable condition. You can kiss me wherever you like, just never on the mouth."

Crocodile brings the cigar to his lips and bites down on it rather than holds it, eyes fixed on you. He appears to be, quite frankly, struggling. It's a peculiar thing to witness a man of his power, fighting a very visible internal battle over something as simple as not being allowed to kiss you on the lips.

"Fine," he mutters finally, and you smile, triumphant, although it doesn't last long. "If you have the right to set your own conditions, then I must be entitled to two of my own."

Your lips press together, but honestly it seems fair.

"Go ahead."

"You'll wear the red heels you had on at our third meeting."

You remember that meeting. The argument had been particularly heated. What you don't remember is wearing your red heels.

"Agreed. And the other?"

"You will address me as sir."

_*_

His last condition was deeply humiliating. With it, Crocodile thought he'd manage to break down the proud, haughty woman you were until you were reduced to a whimpering mess between the sheets. And you were, in fact, exactly that, your first "sirs" spat with contempt, slowly replaced by something softer and sweeter that intoxicated the aggressive businessman to the point where his winning move nearly backfired.

But who really won when he was the one left most frustrated? Teasing every inch of your body with his mouth at the expense of kissing yours. Growling like a beast when in moments of abandon you offered him your lips freely, your ragged breathing openly begging him to take them only for him to be forced to refuse, furious, and sink his teeth only where he had been permitted.

"So?" you pant, suppressing a giddy laugh as you pull the sheet up to cover your naked breasts. "Do we have an agreement?"

Both caught in the middle of the mess, fighting for your lives. You didn’t know what point in the day you ran into each other, but he saved your life that day. If you’d been on your own for another hour you probably would’ve died from paranoia alone. But then Leon showed up.

Young, blonde, round faced and still full of his innocent rookie charm. Between his arsenal of police-issue weapons, and the sawn-off shotgun you’d found under the counter of the store below your apartment, you both survived the day.

You’d been picked up by the government early on. You learnt they snooped into the records of all the survivors of Raccoon City and they picked you out as an office worker who had much potential to be trained up as an agent. With Leon they weren’t so lucky, they had to wait to get him to join. When he did, founding the DSO upon his arrival, he was like a seeker missile with how fast he found you on his first day of work.

And if he wasn’t out getting his hands dirty, he was sitting in whatever free cubicle was nearest to yours.

“Another coffee Kennedy?” You asked, leaning over the divider above his computer screen. His head perked up, eyes softening. He was obviously very focused today, usually he’d already be looking your way by the time you started walking in his direction.

“If you’re going that way, thanks.” he said, handing his empty mug into your outstretched palm.

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.” you replied, sliding around his cubicle until you nearly stood at his side. You watched his eyes flick, down then up again, you could tell his eyes wanted to linger, but he was trying to be decent in not ogling you when he knew you could see him doing it.

“You don’t have to go out of your way for me.” He said. You stepped closer, crossing your arms and tapping his mug on your hip.

“Again, I wouldn’t offer if I was.” your voice softened, “You’ve taken bullets for me and refuse to let me return the favour, the least I can do is get you a fresh coffee.”

“You could always buy me a drink instead.” he suggested, offering you one of his smirks. One of his eyes nearly shut at how he was nearly smiling, creases around his eyes crinkling. Even with the light catching the grey in his whiskers, he could still remind you of that rookie from all those years ago.

“One of those fruity ones with a little umbrella and slice of lime?” You said, starting to turn on your heel.

“Those are my favourites, now you’re talking dirty to me.” he said, throwing your cheek back at you.

“I’ll make sure to add that to my usual order of scotch.”

You drove Leon insane. It wasn’t always like that though.

Sure when you first met all those years ago he would’ve given you a second glance, you were pretty and any guy like him would want to give you the time of day if you asked - but then he got to know you. He was a goner.

He was a little older than you, only by a few years, but a lot of time passed between you and no doubt he grew as a person too - but to see you grow from a pretty young lady to a woman who demanded attention without ever asking for it was, as Grace would say, ‘a whole thing’.

Leon rarely saw you outside of work, and then it was more often in the office than in the field, but he didn’t mind. Getting distracted by you was a lot safer when the only thing at risk was turning in a report late.

And you were a distraction.

No one else in the building made a white blouse and pencil skirt look as good as you did. Black heels and a long expanse of your stocking covered legs on display.

He remembered clearly the first time you’d caught him eyeing you - he was too busy following your figure as you walked away, thinking about those heels… well it didn’t matter really. What mattered was how far back he leant in his chair, and how it gave way under his weight. He crashed to the floor, chair falling over beside him. He landed hard, and if anyone wasn’t looking at him gawking at you, they would be looking at him sprawled out on the floor like a fool.

It was years ago now, back when he first joined the DSO offices, but he still copped flack about it.

“Another coffee Kennedy?” Speaking of the devil, there you were. Perched over his cubical divider, looking down at him with a half smile. It took him a second to register what you were saying, he was too distracted at the way your glasses were half-down your nose.

“If you’re going that way, thanks.” he said, handing his empty mug into your outstretched palm. You fingers brushed, and he watched as your perfect manicured fingers curled around his mug.

Fuck, he was in trouble.

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.” You walked around until you nearly stood at his side. He loved when you wore slacks, it showed off your thighs so nice, but he was weak for your skirts. How could something so basic look so good? But he couldn’t linger on the way your hips smoothed down to your thighs, or how that soft bump of your stomach looked above the apex of your legs. You deserved better than to be openly gawked at, he knew it.

“You don’t have to go out of your way for me.” He said, trying to remember what you were here for, what you were talking about, but then you stepped closer. Your arms crossed, pressing your chest together and up, a button of your blouse strained, but he refused to look. He decided to just look at your eyes.

As if that was any less distracting.

“Again, I wouldn’t offer if I was.” your voice softened to something smooth, “You’ve taken bullets for me and refuse to let me return the favour, the least I can do is get you a fresh coffee.”

He’d take more than bullets for you, he’d catch a grenade with his teeth if you asked him to and never ask for anything in return. He doubted he was the only one - surely he wasn’t the only one, not with how intense you made him feel.

“You could always buy me a drink instead.” he suggested, offering you a smirk. You looked at him and he couldn’t help how that look faded and was replaced by a real smile. You could strip away whatever womanising part of him was still left and render him a virgin cop-in-training any day of the week with nothing more than a whiff of the perfume you’d been using since you were nineteen.

“One of those fruity ones with a little umbrella and slice of lime?” You started to turn on your heel, thank god, and better yet replied to his quip with familiar and comfortable territory. He can do jokes in his sleep.

“Those are my favourites, now you’re talking dirty to me.” he said, attempting to make himself sound less like a pining fool as you walked away.

“I’ll make sure to add that to my usual order of scotch.” You threw back at him. He could feel his jaw grind behind his smile as you left him with the clack-clack of your heels and a perfect view of your swaying hips.

Yeah, Raccoon City was the worst day of his life, leaving him with day after day of trouble. But at least you were the good kind of trouble.