the stars have all gone

contents

one

Damn it. Your early retirement from sailing was supposed to be quiet. This New World island was large enough for you to build a client base and make rent with odd jobs in between, but word of a brusque young astrologer spread too fast, fast enough to reach a Navy lieutenant from your hometown who knew you by that scant description.

"Please!" He all but got on his knees at the farmer's market the other day. "We need navigators like you."

"If you want to arrest me, go for it. But I don't know where Hawkins is."

"No! Seriously! There's other reformed pirates in the Navy, and you don't even have a bounty. They'll overlook a lot for skill. Especially yours."

"Why? Don't your warships have technology for this?"

"They're still prototypes. One of them was faulty and it took some of the oldest marines to get it back to Vegapunk for repairs," he explained too easily, what should be trade secrets, surely.

"So you're saying I'm from Buddha Sengoku's generation."

Now the lieutenant had just entered the dining room at an upscale restaurant where a widow whose chart you read insisted on treating you to a meal. You suspected her husbands' deaths were far from accidental, not for her prominent eighth house but how freely and happily she spent on a hack like you.

"Shit," you said to yourself.

Your companion followed your gaze. "My, my. Men in uniform?" Then, seeing your face, she laughed into her wine.

There's no way he's here as a customer. A couple other marines trailed in after him, and they seemed to argue with the host about something, who was clearly turning them away. Then the lieutenant caught sight of you, but continued speaking, looking official and tense.

"Um," you said awkwardly. "Do you mind if I...?"

She shook her head. "Go on, dear. I'll call on you again."

With that, you stole into a dimly-lit hallway, your heels only barely sinking into the lush rug running down its length. Must be private rooms, you thought, and one at the end had its door cracked. You hoped it meant it was unoccupied, probably being prepared for the next diners, and so you briskly made your way over and grabbed the door handle with all the nerve you had.

"You don't work here."

Fuck.

There was no way for you not to recognize him. Sir Crocodile, former Warlord of the Sea and known Impel Down escapee. You'd heard he did business in the area and saw Daz Bones out and about once, but seeing the man in the flesh was different. He was utterly relaxed, a testament to either his confidence in his strength or how insignificant you were. The skin of the scar circling his face like an odd, fallen halo was almost shiny, almost pretty, you thought wildly, and his pale eyes peered down at you like you were a worm. Down because even seated, even a few yards away, he towered above you at an impressive height.

"I don't. I'm—"

His golden hook glinted in the candlelight, and you knew it wasn't the only deadly thing about him.

"Can I stay for a few minutes? Just until this person leaves."

Crocodile didn't look impressed, and worlds away from amused. "No."

"He's a Marine."

"No."

"Please? You're probably here because of the this place's discretion." It was owned by a noble a notch below a Celestial Dragon who wielded that proximity to make it a de facto underworld sanctuary. "Someone must have seen you arrive and tipped off the Navy, who should know by now they can't get past front of house even with a warrant." You were rambling, you knew, and looking more at the deep violet cravat at his throat than at him. "In a way it's your fault he's here at all," you added sullenly, more to yourself, and your gaze slid to the floor.

Crocodile let you stand there uncomfortably on purpose, and you didn't need visual confirmation that he was looking you up and down, waiting for you to squirm. It was a game you were wearily used to, a treatment your all-male crew didn't get, of wondering what a potential enemy's intent was—more often than not, twofold. Eventually, he took a deep lungful of his cigar, which smelled not unpleasant to you, and exhaled a low chuckle. "Alright."

"Seriously?"

"You're not armed." He said it so easily, and you realized you forget your thigh holster and knife on your vanity. "Unless that necklace of yours is something."

It was tucked between your dress and jacket so all that anyone could see was a dark, stainless steel chain. You set your purse on the table across from him and helped yourself to a chair. "It's not. It's a sextant."

"I beg your pardon?"

Men. He either didn't know—most likely—or reacted strangely to a woman saying "sex." Unlike Blackbeard, his reputation didn't carry so much as a suggestion of being a lech, so you fought back a smile at your private theory that he could be flustered.

"This." The sextant landed between your ribs, so you fished the chain from between your breasts to hold it up like a fish. It was hardly jewelry and really about the size of binoculars, but you were too used to the weight around your neck to part with with it. "It's a navigational tool."

"I've never heard of it."

"Few have."

"Your invention?"

You snorted, and the look he gave you might have been true disgust. "I'm sorry," you said hastily. "Sir." He wasn't a damn knight, but it was on some of his wanted posters, and it felt right because of his bearing, and felt right on your tongue for some subliminal reason, too. In your blood.

"Explain."

Terse, you thought. And open-minded. "It actually originated in the Grand Line, I believe, as something called an astrolabe." You set it on the table between the two of you and gestured that he was welcome to it. "There must have been some tribe someplace who realized that while the Grand Line in unpredictable, the night sky stays the same. They used it to leave and settle in four seas, mostly the East and North Blue. I think."

Crocodile leaned back and poured himself a glass of wine. To your surprise, he filled a second one and tipped it toward you.

"Oh, I cannot afford that."

"'Thank you, sir'," he corrected.

"I—"

"I don't care you're a pirate. Mind your manners if you plan to impose."

Your mouth clamped shut. What tipped him off? Not many women were experienced sailors outside the Marines, you supposed.

"Thank you, sir."

You accepted the glass, reaching above his thick fingers along the stem, brushing his knuckles briefly. Crocodile dipped his head in a short nod, and you studied, briefly, how he sipped so you wouldn't embarrass yourself.

"Continue."

"I'm sure this is really boring."

"Did I say that?"

"...No."

Even Hawkins' eyes glazed over when you went on about history, and he was one of the most tedious people you'd ever known.

"Um, so." You sipped. The wine was surprisingly sweet, or you expected the former Desert King to prefer drys too. "I mostly think this because when I started traveling in the North Blue, the only other people who recognized it were only a few generations deep. Came from the New World, many of them, and a lot looked like—"

Me.

"I'm surprised you're from the Blues," Crocodile said. "You have that look, like Boa Hancock."

Other men said so as a taunt or a come-on, but when you finally saw her photographed in the Paramount War, you thought you could be cousins, if her family got all the good genes. The Kuja Tribe was mysterious to outsiders, though you thought you heard, once, that they weren't homogeneous. But for the first time, the comment had weight, from a former Warlord who knew the Pirate Empress personally, and you felt your neck heat. He meant it neutrally, an observation.

"So it works by,"—was the wine going to your head?— "You pick an object like the Sun or a planet like Venus or a star like Sirius, and as long as you have a good idea of your latitude, you can use the angle it forms to the horizon to find longitude. Most navigators know to use the sunrise and sunset to determine direction, but—" You noticed lukewarm appetizers. "Oh, fuck, I already ate, I can leave if you're waiting for your—"

"Language."

Fuck. "Sorry. Sir."

"There seems to be some delay because of your little boyfriend."

Hawkins...? Oh! "Oh, no. I wouldn't touch a Marine with a stick."

Crocodile laughed that little huff again, and it was deep and rich and dry. "Good. And you're sure they're not after you?"

"No. I never had a bounty."

"'Had'?"

"I'm retired."

"Surely they'd arrest a pirate who can navigate the Grand Line without a Log Pose."

"Oh. I used that, too. All these tools are best in conjunction." You giggled at your own astronomy joke, and you were sure that'd annoy him, but he didn't react outwardly. "But I left it with my captain."

"Your captain," he said. "And that is?"

You frowned. Why was he so curious? "He's part of the Worst Generation. 'The Magician.'"

It took him some thought. "Basil Hawkins," he realized. "This doesn't sound like magic to me, though," he said, gesturing at the sextant. "There's a bright star I notice lately in the evening."

"That's probably Spica," you said. "It's springtime in the North Blue, so Virgo sets along with the sun. Sorry, uh, it's the 'spike' of the wheat that the maiden holds in the constellation."

"I was born under Virgo, if I understand correctly."

"Oh, you don't, actually."

His pale eyes widened a bit, you suspected more at your breezy tone than any investment in his horoscope. "Oh?" It was dry, and more like a grunt.

"When?"

"September 5."

Four days before—"The latter part of Leo, then. Ruled by the Sun, Desert King. There's no physical relationship between the 12 signs and their constellations."

Crocodile sat back and looked you up and down again, but there was something different in it. "Show me."

"Virgo?" You looked around. You could draw out the constellation on a napkin, you supposed.

"No." He nodded toward your sextant. "The astrolabe."

"The sextant."

He cleared his throat. "That."

You allowed yourself a grin. He was embarrassed.

"Hmm." You scanned the room. "That lamp." A slightly ugly lampshade with tassels and a boudoir-esque damask, a few feet behind him and to the left of his head from your point of view. "Let's say that's Jupiter. We call it a evening star because you can see it right after sunset. And..." You tapped the table. "This is the horizon. I'm facing the bow. You're my captain, asking where north is, because the next island is somewhere east." You picked up your sextant and shot the lampshade. "45'5.02" degrees," you said. You caught him in the sight, too, as you went to set it down, and god, his stare was intense. "I would need my ephemeris and some paper, but based on that I could calculate how far east we are of Mary Geoise."

"Mary Geoise?"

"The ephemeris isn't a nautical reference," you said. "The only people with the resources to put into mapping out Saturn's movements for 50 years at a time are the government and the Celestial Dragons, and the Navy relies on compasses and sea charts anyway. It's a book for divination."

He tilted his head, like he'd come to some conclusion. "You don't believe in fortunetelling."

"I think we make our own fortune."

You don't know when it happened, but you'd given up your skittish distance from the table to scoot closer, narrowly missing his long legs with your knees.

"I agree." He seemed closer, too, and his posture drooped slightly, like he was trying to close the substantial difference in your heights. You swallowed.

"It's romantic to say the heavens reflect it, but it's coincidence, not causation."

"And you?"

"My sign? You don't seem like the type."

Crocodile shrugged. "It takes up newsprint."

"So does garbage." He smirked at that. "Pisces, tropically, Aquarius, sidereally," you answered. "We're opposites."

"And what would a fortuneteller say about that?"

You smiled. "Depends on what you pay."

two

"There's a man asking for you."

These days you did readings in the back of a the cafe near the bakery where you worked now. Your client base grew by word of mouth, and interested parties called your Den Den Mushi with their birth information, so the only people who showed up at the cafe asking for you by name were usually pissed at you—rarely a client themself, but more often than not someone in their life affected by whatever advice they heard in your commentary.

You checked your notebook of charts for the week. All women. Definitely not a client.

"What's he look like?" you asked the cafe owner.

His eyes shifted. "I like you, I do, I like that your business brings me business. I knew your past was something suspect. But—"

"I'm sorry, what?"

The owner stepped closer and stage whispered: "It's Sir Crocodile."

You didn't make a habit of hooking up with strange men, but you supposed infamous men were a trend in your single-digit body count considering you gave your virginity to a captain of the Worst Generation. That night, months ago, Crocodile easily tucked you into his side away from the from view of other diners as you left the restaurant, and you let yourself ebb along. You weren't even sure what you kept talking about, but his rich, low laughter sounded surprised at itself and thrummed in your veins the next morning when you woke alone in a suite at a fine hotel you'd only passed since settling here. On his side of the bed was a folded note, unsigned: "I'll see you."

You assumed they were empty words, or careful ones. Crocodile seemed to move around a lot, having no base of operations since he was stripped of his Warlord title, so you shrugged it off at the time. But now...

Surely they weren't sweet nothings. He was too sensible for that. So maybe you offended him and it was actually an oblique threat, in which case you'd better climb out the window.

"I'll talk to him. Is it okay for him to come in?"

The cafe owner blanched, then hardened. "If this means trouble, we're done."

He left to retrieve Crocodile like the notorious pirate was there for a chart reading (was he?), or like he was... calling on you, like a suitor (...was he?).

You shook yourself and tried to remember anything after the restaurant. What he tasted like under the wine, or what his pale skin looked like in low light. But you came up empty except for the smell of the cool spices of his aftershave in the sheets.

Damn.

His footsteps were heavy and leisurely before he stopped in the doorway, and you felt the breath leave your lungs. How was he so handsome? Other people would find his scars off putting, and there were several; you weren't researching him or anything, but you saw wanted posters from throughout the years, and they seemed to only accumulate along his face. His hair was dark as yours, but your skin was pinkish and cool while his was a warm, light olive.

"You keep odd hours," Crocodile more grunted than said.

"I do," you agreed. It was mid-afternoon, and only the start of your day. You had a little solitary time in your room at a women's boardinghouse before you did consultations, then spent the night studying for future clients until your pre-opening bakery shift well before nautical twilight, earlier than you'd wake up on the Grudge Dolph. Then you slept most of the time the sun was up, ironic for you and your diurnal chart, but you didn't believe in this stuff anymore.

"Long time no see," you said pointedly, and nodded at the chair across from you.

Crocodile looked too big for the cafe, like everything was doll furniture to his stature. You knew their were humans larger than him but wondered how the hell you two fit together that night since you woke up with minimal but tell-tale soreness. He angled his chair away from the table so he could cross his ankle over the opposite knee, and you swallowed, unable to pretend you weren't looking at the strong thighs crinkling his dress pants, before meting his gaze.

"I almost gave up," he said simply. "My associate would wonder why we bothered docking here with nothing to show for it."

Okay.

You were lost.

"Excuse me?"

He inhaled a good drag of his cigar. "'You're my captain,' you said. It was a thought exercise, to do with that instrument of yours, but I've warmed to the idea."

No.

"What do you say?"

He looked at you like he wouldn't be bothered either way you answered.

But.

"I'm sorry," you said against your better judgment. "I'm a little lost here. I don't... totally know what we discussed last time."

He wasn't expecting that.

"Hah." That bark-laugh-grunt he did that somehow also held a question, but not as undignified as a "huh?"

"It was a lot of wine for me," you said awkwardly. What were you, a kid? You're twenty eight. It's not that you were teetotal, but that was your first night of drinking in a good few months.

Crocodile seemed well and truly taken aback, and a bit of ash ungracefully plopped off the end of his cigar, which he caught with... a cloud of sand, and neatly floated off into an ash tray. Wow. Logia powers really were different.

His voice was tight. "What do you remember."

"Uhm..." You bit your lip, and his eyes flicked down there for millisecond. "We left the restaurant for your hotel. And then, uh. It was morning."

Slowly, with his cigar curled in his pinkie and ring fingers, Crocodile went to pinch the bridge of his nose. "That unremarkable, huh?"

Oh god.

This was that little bit of sensitivity to him you found so endearing. He'd never call it that, though; pride was a euphemism.

"If I was drunk enough not to remember shit for shit," you started, "Surely I must have... I don't know, puked on you, or something."

"No." His moment was over in the blink of an eye. "It's better this way. Just know we mostly talked."

Mostly. "About?"

"Your travels." You winced. Surely you didn't cry over your ex-captain to Sir Crocodile of all people. You had a pitiful lack of girl friends despite living with women for the first time in a decade, but even the widow who brought you to that restaurant in the first place would be a better choice. "What you want, and who's in the way of it."

That also sounded vulnerable, but the way he studied your face for your reaction made you think it struck him, somehow.

"What I want."

"You can map the stars along the Grand Line if you stick with a Warlord," Crocodile said simply. "Not one of your greenhorns."

Your breath caught.

That was the reason you joined Hawkins when he came back to your hometown after forming his crew of sycophants who'd never seen cartomancy before. You didn't want to be a navigator. You wanted to survey the Grand Line celestially because the sea crossed the equator. In reality, you wanted to move to the South Blue and study the southern hemisphere's sky, only after familiarizing yourself with the one you were born under. The Navy wouldn't let you move that freely, and the astronomers of Mary Geoise weren't practiced in geography, nor would they give you the time of day. The only course was to do it all yourself.

"It will be dangerous." Hawkins hadn't lied to you, yet. "You need to hold your own to be a pirate, but I'll protect you when I can."

You were the only woman on the ship and the only one who knew him before, the neighbor boy who complained he had to babysit you but cried when the two of you got lost in a fishing boat as night fell, and you used Polaris to get back to your home port.

"Former Warlord," you corrected. Crocodile's lip curled in annoyance. "You're from the Grand Line, aren't you?"

He humored you. "Paradise. But I've been in the New World for almost two years now."

So had you. Your ancestors were from this sea, too.

"I saw it," Hawkins said easily, and three of his cards arranged themselves midair: the High Priestess, the Eight of Cups, the Chariot. "You, leaving here."

You hated it most when you had the same interpretation, because it let him think he was right. He'd long since assigned the High Priestess to you and the Magician to himself since by pure chance you shared birth cards, and in one of your now-rare lighter moods, you'd sniffed, "The Chariot navigates. You be the Tower." But besides that, the Chariot was ruled by Cancer, a water sign, beside a pip from Cups, and here you were, underwater. Leaving him.

"I'm sorry."

"You're not."

The Pacifistas were terrifying. You followed your instincts to run and hide, and no one resented you for it, but the crew barely acknowledged you as it was. You were either a know-it-all of a navigator or the captain's tagalong. Both of you knew they assumed you were fucking, still, but nor did you do anything to disabuse them of the idea, and this is where it led.

"No," you said out loud. "Thank you. But I'd hold you back. I'm not strong."

"You think I don't know?"

Ouch. "You could flatter me a little."

"Can you even use that thing?" Crocodile inclined his head downward. How did he...? You were better about keeping your dagger strapped to your thigh these days, but today you were wearing a longer skirt that should've hidden it well, and you briefly had the thought was he checking out your legs? You wore stockings today. Maybe he liked that sort of thing.

"It was a gift."

Hawkins called it an athame. You'd killed only one person in your life, dragging it down a man's femoral artery when Hawkins wasn't there, didn't see you get separated from the crew.

"I can teach you," Crocodile said. "But you should trust the person you follow. I've survived this long."

I'll protect you when I can.

You blinked.

"You also went to prison."

"And left."

You exhaled. "You know what I wanted when I was young and stupid. But what are you doing now?"

"There's nothing stupid about knowledge," he said sternly. "It's a weapon more strictly controlled by the World Government than any blade or bullet."

"How political."

"Everything is."

You grinned, more to yourself. Even when he was pressing you one way, he was so easy to talk to. But you schooled your face to neutrality. "What did you want with Alabasta?"

"That was a long time ago."

"I don't care about a monarchy going down," you said impatiently. "If I join you, what am I participating in? And do you even have a ship? A crew?"

"You know, I believe I told you all this last time. But apparently..."

"Oh, don't you hold that over my head." The look he gave you was unimpressed. "What?"

"You insist you're not a pirate, but you're vulgar as any sailor."

"Vulgar? I haven't said anything." Besides 'shit for shit,' but he seemed distracted in that moment.

"I don't mean your vocabulary."

"Oh!" you said sarcastically. "Okay, sir."

Crocodile's brow hardened. "Watch it."

"Or what, sir? Did I call you that in bed, sir?"

He stood up, suddenly, and closed the few feet of distance between you. His golden hook came through one of the wide stitches of your sweater harmlessly as he butted it up under your jaw, tilting your head up. "What are you playing at, hmm? I decided I'd forget it to be fair to you."

You breathed deeply and the cardamom and tobacco of him filled your head like a fog. "Or you could remind me."

His gaze didn't leave your face. "It's poor form to sleep with a subordinate."

"I'm not under you."

He closed his eyes and exhaled, like you were really testing him. "What will it take?"

Feeling brave, you gently coaxed your sweater from his hook—stretched the damn stockinette, you'd have to tug the fabric to get it smooth again—and held onto it, like it was his other hand, petting it with your thumb. "Your pitch needs work. You just showed back up in this town hoping I'd be amenable? Based on a one-night stand?"

"I thought it was more like a date."

He sounded a little sullen as he nudged his chair closer to you with his foot.

"One of us has to ask out the other, you know."

"You're exhausting."

"Yes. Are you still sure you want me?"

"Yes."

You didn't know if he meant for his crew or otherwise.

three

You left the cafe through the front at your insistence, to assure the owner and few afternoon customers that the former Warlord was leaving the premises. Daz Bones leaned against the wall, and Crocodile only had to nod for the man to leave, waving a nonchalant hand.

"Your associate?" you asked.

"One of them," he said, which was more information than he strictly had to share, considering the secrecy you knew shrouded Baroque Works. Somehow you didn't think his old subordinate was who he meant, though you came up blank on who he might consider more of an equal. As if hearing your thoughts, Crocodile added, "We're meeting later. After I finish here."

You felt a pang of disappointment that he was leaving again, but quickly realized his idea of unfinished business was you, collecting you, and you bit your lip and focused on matching his strides that he already shortened to accommodate you. "I can't exactly host you or anything. I know a good sandwich stand, though."

"I'm a pirate," he reminded you.

"And how many pirates dine and dress like you?" You batted at the lapel of his fur coat.

"You could, too," he said.

"I'm not a pirate."

He ignored that. "Anything is better than Impel Down."

You stopped. "Okay, first: you were there for a few months, at most. Second: this stand gets their rolls from us at bakery. It's more than a notch above prison food."

Crocodile looked down at you, glancing, oddly, at your boot-clad feet, and offered his left arm. "You walk slow."

"I'm not eight feet tall," you grumbled as you reached up to clutch his forearm. It wouldn't be at a height that made sense for you without him squatting.

"Even six feet would make a difference," he groused, looking at your hand by his hook.

"Is that your normal height limit?"

"My partner was six two."

Partner. The upper ranks of Baroque Works operated in pairs, you learned when their mugshots were published two years ago. But what did he just say? It's poor form to sleep with subordinates. Did a partner count? His counterpart was the only one at large, now a bona fide pirate. Did he—?

You made yourself relax your hold on him. You had no business being possessive over someone you meant to turn down.

You led him downtown, sometimes pointing out landmarks, and noticed people who'd normally give you a wave or a polite smile didn't meet your gaze because of your company. Damn. He'd done awful things, but so had you. So did anyone whose business wasn't splashed across the World Economic Journal. Crocodile and Daz were known quantities around here, so you wondered at the chillier reception until you passed a newsstand, all Reverie coverage. His gaze also drifted that way.

"The dissolution doesn't affect you, does it?"

"Not directly."

Vague.

The pair of you had something of a walking dinner through public parks on the way to your flat, the silhouette of the hotel where you apparently slept together receding in the skyline. It felt a little ridiculous to explain to a pirate that your boardinghouse was quite conservative, strictly for unmarried women who had to be employed or enrolled in training of some sort, so you hoped he'd be out of there by midnight once you gently but firmly declined his offer and sent him on his way after a nightcap of bottom-shelf whiskey. You only had a small dining table and a writing desk, and he elected to sit at the latter while you hunted down your tumblers.

"You drink brown liquor but can't handle wine?"

"Wine's like juice," you defended. Especially port. You didn't forget his sweet tooth.

But he wasn't looking your way anymore, instead peering at the topmost page on your desk. "May I?"

"Go ahead."

He held it to the lamplight, and you recognized it as your own progressed chart, done more for practice than predicting your future.

"You write prettily," he said. "Prettier than you speak."

"Thank you," you said with an eyeroll. You sat at the edge of your bed behind him and moved to set his tumbler on the coaster by your ephemerides, and Crocodile grabbed the glass from your hand before you could land, his broad fingertips dwarfing yours. He took a sip and made a face at the taste, and you giggled, earning a warning glare.

He scratched at the back of his head with the side of his hook, the ice cubes in his glass clinking as he gestured. "These almost look like Poneglyphs."

"You've seen one?"

"In Alabasta."

You tilted your head. "They predate the Void Century, so they're probably simpler than Poneglyphs, or components of their characters."

"Have you seen one?"

"In the paper, so not any detail. The Big Mom Pirates found it." You chewed your lip, debating whether to continue. "We know the astronomers who named the seven visible planets, but not the outer ones. Symbols for Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto just appeared 800 years ago."

"Dangerous talk," he said.

With a dangerous man. Your last captain wasn't even interested in the history of his own tools. The first deck he used was yours, discarded once you realized tarot lacked the structure that kept astrology interesting even in your skepticism, and you'd never seen him use the second, less showy deck you gave him.

"Well, I imagine you won't sell me out. I think pointing out a gaping epistemological hole doesn't make treason."

"And you're not a pirate?"

"Every scientist and scholar should be one, by that logic."

Crocodile picked up the page again. "Pluto..."

"Uh, it's—" You scooted to the edge of your bed and grabbed a pen to point out the ♇. "It looks like that—kind of stupid, just a P and an L—but you also see—" You stood and snatched it from his hand, bending over the desk to draw a ⯔ and a ⯓ next to it. "Depends on where you are."

To your further surprise, he laughed. "Oh, Nico Robin. You liar."

You froze. "What?"

"I'm not stupid," Crocodile said, not really to you, it seemed. "I looked at that stone the whole time she 'translated' it. That was the very first character." He pointed at the third symbol.

"That one's really not widely used," you said, though you were quite lost. "It's regional to some parts of the Grand Line, maybe."

"Or it was suppressed," he challenged, weirdly animated. "Because it's the name of an ancient weapon."

"Hmm." There was more to Alabasta than he claimed. "If you think I can read at an archaeologist's level, I'll have to disappoint you," you said primly, trying not to feel hurt.

You moved to sit back down on your bed, and almost yelped when he pulled you into his lap instead, his left arm going around your waist and his hand gripping your hip. "Witch," he muttered near your temple, "I'm content with your skills."

"Well, I can't do witchcraft..." you said faintly. "And we haven't sailed together." What alarmed you more than his forwardness was that you wanted to melt backwards, to feel his body caging yours. "Crocodile..." you started.

"Sir."

"Is this really a good idea?"

"Hmm?" he grunted, faux-innocent. "I wanted to hear more about these glyphs."

"From here?"

He studied your profile slyly, his right elbow resting on your desk. "It's an absurdly small room. How else am I supposed to see?"

"This is hardly navigation, sir."

"But you use them for navigation."

"Yes, but my notes are my business."

"Would you sail with an observatory?" He nodded at your telescope by the window. You knew he didn't make empty promises; it was a very real offer.

"The crow's nest is fine."

"But this is quite an office you have here."

You had a library of ephemerides, all difficult to source since they came from small presses if not from Mary Geoise. Besides a bulky globe useful only for coordinates, you had various instruments: an abacus, a drafting compass, sextants and telescopes of different size, your old single-dial log pose, and a conventional magnetic compass, both useless in the New World. On the Grudge Dolph, you had some privacy as the only woman, but that meant Hawkins had to come to your bedroom with navigation questions, which was always treacherous. Not unlike Crocodile, one foot from your bed now.

"Beggars can't be choosers," you sniffed.

"And where is this ship of yours now?"

"Not mine," you said too quickly. "And I don't know. We don't keep in touch. Last I heard they formed an alliance." Which you hardly agreed with. "When did you dock here? What's your ship like?"

"It's a loan. Once I repossess some funds, I'm hiring a shipwright." You winced. Poor bastard, whoever it was owed him. "What day is it... Been here two weeks."

"Seems a little long, for you." He only lingered in one place for days at time.

His arm around your waist grew heavier. "You're quite elusive."

No. You were the only reason he was here? You assumed you were just a detour from tasks at hand.

"Seriously?" you said softly.

"I asked." It felt like he spoke to the crown of your head. "At the restaurant, the hotel. You could've left a number with the front desk. The damn host wouldn't tell me who was there that night..." The same confidentiality that benefited him, both of you. "...and I only had your first name. If Daz hadn't overheard one of your clients, I would have hunted your Magician."

Hunted. Crocodiles never did so without reason, your grandmother said when she spun tales of the old country. And it was forbidden to hunt them first.

"I can't serve someone I'm attracted to," you said finally. "And you don't sleep with subordinates."

"It's poor form." His breath whistled across your hair. "So why should I care?" With that, he brushed your hair aside and kissed the back of your neck, pulling a gasp from your lips. "Aren't we pirates?" You shivered, and he kissed the shell of your ear. "Make sure you remember this time," he muttered lowly.

You leaned into his warmth, the solid wall of his chest making you feel strangely safe even with a sharp hook holding you to him. He exhaled through his nose as your ass settled against the growing bulge in his trousers. You turned your head so you could only see his jaw in your periphery, how tall he was. "Make it memorable, then."

"Minx."

You smiled as you reached up to pull his face down to yours by his nape. He tasted like whiskey and tobacco and heat, and you surprised yourself how fearlessly you butted your tongue into his mouth all while grinding backwards in his lap. His right hand found the inside of your knee and spread your legs open, his warm palm bunching your silk skirt up.

You whined as cold air hit your damp panties, which he quickly amended by rubbing at you over the thin fabric. "Ah—!"

"This wet, bird?" he breathed by the side of your head. "Just from a little conversation..."

"You too, old man," you challenged with a wiggle, to which he swatted at the inside of your thigh. "Ow!"

He promptly soothed it with a flat palm. "That's not what you call me."

"Sir," you drew out, singsong and annoying, and his eyes narrowed. The next thing you knew, he tossed you onto your bed, and the sheer size of him knocked the breath from your lungs as he rolled your panties and holster down your legs, the knife your last captain gave you clattering to the floor as Crocodile yanked you to the edge of the mattress.

"Quiet," he ordered lowly, sinking to his knees.

He laid his hook flat on the inside of your right thigh, and you shivered at the cold metal and how carefully and heavily it rested with the sharp tip closer to your anterior, away from the soft skin he massaged and kissed on your opposite leg at as he groped his way up, up, finally pressing his face to your slick folds and breathing deep.

"Sir—!"

"...hide from me." You caught the end of his murmur into the juncture of your thigh, and one of his thick fingers dipped into your entrance just as he licked at your clit, earning a throaty moan from you you hardly recognized. You only grew more slippery with his attentions, and the sound of not just your arousal but his spit mixing with it, licking and kissing around his own finger, was lewd and humiliating as your body adjusted, welcomed him back. Because it was familiar, the breadth of him between your legs, the spices and tobacco on his skin, the weight of his hook splaying your leg open to the side. One limb free, you traced your left sole down his back, feeling his shoulder blade move under the skin there, and it stimulated nerves you forgot you had. "Oh, sir—" Your voice came out breathy, and you futilely covered your mouth with your hand to suppress your noises, your other hand tangling in his hair.

He hissed at the sting, but didn't warn you off, instead lapping more insistently. Curious, you tugged with more intention, and he groaned before lifting his head. "Do that again."

You obliged, grinning up at the ceiling at the quiet whimper he made against you. Yes, sir.

But after that, he scissored a second finger into you, and the stretch burned sweetly, not painfully. You petted at his scalp to let him know you were okay, and he rolled your clit with his tongue with a satisfied hum. Smug bastard, you would've said out loud if you didn't feel the beginnings of an orgasm at how patiently and ruthlessly he prepared you. Your grip on his roots tightened along with your walls around his digits, and he kissed at your lips, pulling away some to watch his fingers moving, the stones of his rings glinting in the candlelight.

"Sir, can I please—?"

"So polite," he said dryly, like his face didn't glisten with your shared mess. "Yes, bird, come."

Like it was an order (it was), your body tumbled over the edge before you realized. Your would have flailed wildly if it weren't for his holding you down, his sticky fingers landing on the knee thrown over his shoulder. He watched you fall apart almost like he couldn't do anything else, and you moved to cover your face with your hands at his scrutiny when he snarled, "Don't hide from me again."

"Wasn't hiding..." you protested, and you didn't know if you meant now or the weeks he spent looking for you.

You managed to choke your surprised squeal to a whisper when he kept going. He coaxed his middle and ring fingers back in gently with a would-be chaste kiss to your puffy, throbbing clit. "Didn't get to see," he grumbled against your skin, and took up that slow, torturous pace again.

He's insane, you thought. Not for how he held you down and devoured you like prey, but how methodical this was, like he both knew you and just how much loosening you needed to take him. You only felt him through his clothes when he pulled you into his lap earlier, and you swallowed, unable to fathom him bare. You came a second time with the addition of his index finger and, to your embarrassment, your asshole fluttering against his tongue, and you felt him smirk at how your hips jerked with enough force to jostle him.

"Please, no more, sir, I want—"

"Not yet."

"It's too—" Tears were trickling out your yes. "S'too much, I don't need—"

"Yes you do." He pressed his hook into your leg, and somehow you knew it was more of a caress, how occupied his hand was now with massaging you open.

"Aren't you—don't you—?" There was no way he was doing this unbothered.

"This is for both of us," he said simply, kissing your knee. "Be patient."

Shakily, you nodded, and didn't know if you pushed his head down or simply followed him. You grabbed around for a pillow to muffle yourself, making sure to pull it away when you were close so he could see, whatever he meant by that. You weren't sure how many orgasms he'd pulled from you when he joined you on the bed at last, finally loosening his cravat and losing some layers. You watched him undress, hazy in your current state, and would have whistled at the sight. Noticing your look, he raised one cocky eyebrow.

"Not fair," you mumbled.

"What isn't, bird?" That pet name again as he crawled beside you, testing the limits of the double bed.

"You can't look like that and be one of the strongest men alive."

Crocodile laughed, truly laughed at that, and it was a lovely, rich resonance against your chest that surely traveled down the hall if your animal whining didn't. "Flattery?"

"You asked." And you meant it. He wasn't as trim as pirates your age who walked around with their shirts open—if anything he was softer than in his wanted posters, all the fine food and wine evident—but still so clearly strong, how he manipulated your body with both ease and care. And there was the thick, long cock that only made sense for his stature, proud and hard, that you couldn't believe ever fit inside you.

"Well," he said lowly, pulling you over him. "Who said you can be intelligent and charming all at once?" He looked ready to take it back at your snort of laughter. "You know I don't go out of way like this for anyone."

You had nothing to say to that, so you cast off your rumpled dress off and pretended not to notice his heated perusal. "Um," you started. "How did we—?"

He easily wrapped his left arm around you and propped himself up in your pillows, leaving you straddling his abdomen. His large hand skimmed down to your hip, his hook resting above your ass as he smirked up at you.

"Oh."

With a man of more average height, his face would be much closer, but you were simultaneously far from his lips and his lap. Feeling lost, you elected to scoot up his torso and plant a kiss to his jaw, resting your hands on his broad shoulders. His brow quirked in amusement, but you could tell he was surprised at the gesture.

"Help me?" you asked shyly.

"Demanding thing." But he obligingly held your hips, guiding you down his body. "Slow." An order, like he was telling a pet to chew their food. Now sat splayed across his thighs, you reached for him, and lord. He was heavy in your hand, more thick than long, and you swore you felt him twitch as your fingertips traced the velvet of his skin.

"Pretty," you said unthinkingly.

You gave his cock a few experimental pumps, and he grunted. "I thought you couldn't wait anymore." His voice was tight.

"You don't get to be the only tease."

"Fuck."

"Language. Sir." Despite your threat, you lifted yourself slightly, and guided him where you were desperate for contact. You only meant to gather some lubrication by rubbing your pussy along his length, but his weighty tip knocking against your clit had you falling over his body. "Oh shit," you panted, your cheek planted on his sternum. He grunted at the friction. This position made you less self-conscious, somehow, your breasts squishing against his hard chest, your hands planted on either side of him, and you rolled, spreading your lips around his girth.

"Witch," he hissed.

"Not a—witch—" you corrected, like you weren't rocking against him, feeling his precum trickle between the two of you. "I'm a sci—scientist, it's just—observation—"

"Shut up," he growled, and you only picked up the pace. His hook pushed you more firmly against him, and you moaned at the increased pressure. "This really enough, bird? Just humping like—"

"Shut up," you whined, chasing something you couldn't see. At that, he moved his hand from your hip to your front, reaching for his cock like he could somehow take back control, but you sat yourself more upright and batted him away, widening your stance and finally, finally sinking onto him.

He grunted out a slow exhale watching you, and you bit your lip, the discomfort present even with his diligence. "Take your time," he murmured, the base of his hook rubbing at your back. You just sat there for a moment, still keeping some weight to your knees because if you took any more of his considerable length you'd surely hurt yourself. Your breath was coming short and shallow, and to your surprise, his large, jeweled hand came up to hold your chin and jaw. "That's it, bird." His thumb collected tears you didn't realize were falling. "Do you need—?"

"Nnnhmm." Whatever the hell you whined was in the negative, not even knowing what he was going to say. To stop? Never. A break? No. Help? Maybe. All you knew was you were probably ruined for other men for a long, long time after this, how perfectly overwhelming he was in every way. The smell of his sweat, the infernal pitch of his laugh, the taste of his skin, and the cruel size of him all threatened to make you fall like you never had, and oh no. You intended to send him off, didn't you? But how could you now that you'd found your bearings, with the perfect drag of his cock through you, just how much you spread for him?

His eyes were somehow darker as he looked up at you, wandering from what you were sure was an ugly, pinched expression on your face to the bounce of your tits, and his hand moved from your hip to thumb your clit lazily, not particularly helping but teasing. Frustrated, you pitched forward slightly to chase that pressure, and the dark chuckle at your desperation died in his throat when you purposely squeezed around him. "God, woman," he said through gritted teeth.

"Yes, sir?" You sounded delirious in your own ears, your hands finding some purchase on his broad chest, and you teased lightly across one of his nipples.

"You weren't so..." He grunted at another evil little squeeze you were quite proud of. "...maddening last time."

"How was I?" You slowed to a grind.

"Not quite pliant. Didn't seem drunk to me. Still—you—" How was he so sure who that was? "—but you didn't go out of your way to torture me."

"Torture? Hah—" He started fucking up into you shallowly, and you stuttered. "F-from an ex-con?"

"I don't exaggerate," he said lowly as he sat up, pulling you with him with his hook on your back and his hand in your hair, his movements becoming sharper, deeper at this angle. Your eyes widened when he prodded at your lips with his fingers, which you happily slurped into your mouth. Just two of them were thick, stretching your lips obscenely, and you wondered if you'd ever suck his cock like this. No, this is it. No more. You needed this gag, him pressing down by your soft palate as he took over, bouncing your tired body in his lap like a doll while your moans blended into sobs. You were aware your spit must be pooling in his palm, trickling past his wrist, so you latched onto his forearm with both your hands as if to spare him, but more to feel even closer, closer than this.

"Look at me."

You were so full of him that the thought of seeing him was almost too much, but you complied as he slowed to a halt. Blinking back tears, you saw some strands of his hair escaped its styling to fall across his brow, which was crinkled with exertion and restraint, and you could have fallen in love with the concern and hunger in his eyes. You pulled his fingers from your mouth and kissed at the tips, meeting his gaze all the while.

"Beautiful," he murmured.

"Wan' more." You sounded like and idiot, but he smiled down at you indulgently.

"Do you?"

You nodded.

"Are you close?"

"Uh-huh."

"Come with me."

He started moving again, cradling your head in his hand and pulling you tight to his front with his arm, but in your state of bliss, you answered a different question, a few beats too late. "Yes, sir."

"Hmm?"

"I'll—shit—I’ll c-come to sea with you." You splayed your hands on his back and met his strokes, riding in earnest.

He didn't so much as pause. "I knew you would."

"How?" Wildly, you thought your progression had a 9^th house midheaven, maybe he could read it, maybe—

"Because who else is there to fuck you like this, hmm?"

Oh.

"Shut up!" Your voice had a wobbly whine to it the closer you got. "'M not becoming a pirate again for sex."

"Really? Tell—" He grunted, and your ego had never been bigger, hearing how you affected him in turn. "Tell yourself that—in my cabin—every—night—" He punctuated it lewdly, a sharper thrust at each word, but you squealed into his pectoral at how deep he reached.

"Fuck, sir, shit. There—"

"Here, bird?" Repeating the motion, strain in his voice.

"Yes, yes—ooh, thank you—sir—I'm—"

You saw white behind your eyes as you went limp in the crook of his arm, and you dimly registered his hand gripping your jaw, him murmuring somewhere close to your forehead, and god, if only he could kiss you.

"So pretty like this," he was saying, and you nipped at his fingers, sucking his thumb into your mouth, and he chuckled at that. "Let me—"

"Mhmhm!" You released him. "Yes, sir, you too."

He really gripped you, pressing the cuff of his hook to your right hip, his fingers digging into your ass, as he chased his own pleasure, threatening to reignite yours, too. You were just along for the ride, falling over him, your arms looped under his and your hands on his shoulder blades as he moved in and out of you, slow and deep. You were almost sleepy, silly enough to try to tease him. "Do I feel good, sir?" you cooed, your cheek on his chest.

"Yes, witch," he bit out.

"You said 'every night'? I'm not sure you can keep that up." You knew he was glaring down at you without looking. "You're a busy man, is all, sir."

You felt his dick twitch inside you, and you wondered if it was the teasing or the title that got to him, but his breathing became shallower, and a low whine sounded in the back of his throat, only legible to you with your ear on his ribcage. His movements became a little more frantic, his hand creeping between the two of you to pull out with a 'pop', and you felt warm liquid land on your back as he pumped his heavy cock of its last drops.

"Woman..." he said lowly as you rolled off of him, taking care not to get his cum on your bedding. "I think you're evil."

"And what does that mean, really?" You padded off to your pitiful ensuite to clean yourself up, only for him to follow moment later.

"This is tiny," Crocodile said in distaste, looking from the top of your shower curtain to the sink.

"Even by my standards," you conceded.

Considering where his mouth had been, it wasn't wild to use a bathroom concurrently, and really about the intimacy that shipmates would share. Still, Crocodile wiped your back and your inner thighs carefully with a damp washcloth, his large fingers ghosting over where he'd gripped you, with you sat on the counter so he wouldn't have to crouch. "Sorry," he grunted.

"It's okay," you said, looking over your shoulder at the pair of you in the mirror. You'd always wondered how couples your sizes worked, and now you had an answer. Couples. You shook your head. "I like it." He hadn't held you that tightly the first night, since you didn't wake with any marks, and none developed the following days. "Did I really ride you already?"

"No," he said simply.

"What?"

He shrugged, dragging the comb he borrowed from you through his hair. "Just wanted to see you like that."

You hopped down and glared at him. "So you babied me back then." And it can't have been as satisfying as tonight.

"I didn't know what you could handle," he defended.

You scoffed and turned on your heel, back to the studio's bedroom area. It was a damn mess, your silk dress strewn over your desk and chair and possibly torn, yet his clothes were folded neatly in a pile. How he managed that bewildered you. You whipped the sheets up to straighten them and replaced a quilt, and became slightly wistful at the thought of leaving this place.

Crocodile emerged from the bathroom to your woolgathering. "What is it, bird?"

"I'm probably getting kicked out tomorrow."

"I told you to quiet down."

"Not just that. Men aren't allowed in here after sundown."

He looked around himself, blinking. "Is this a convent?"

"No, Crocodile. This is what it's like being a woman who isn't a noble. You've worked with some before, clearly."

"Sleeping with them is new."

Your heart fluttered, and you internally slapped that part of you that wanted him all to yourself. "Seriously? Nico Robin's new wanted poster is—"

"She was practically a teenager when we met," he said.

"Oh." You were going to say gorgeous. "We're about the same age."

"You're younger."

"Have a type?"

You could tell he didn't enjoy this line of questioning, but he played along. "Dark haired, scholarly... you could wear more heels, I suppose."

"You've only seen me in heels."

"Taller ones."

You plopped onto your bed, not quite freshly made but innocent-looking. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. "'Bird'."

Then you heard his footsteps, and his sitting on the edge of the bed. "It's a, uh, legend in my homeland." Oh. He was embarrassed. "There's supposedly a bird species that lives with crocodiles. Helps clean their teeth."

"You called me a toothpick."

He laid back beside you, and it was utterly boyish how he covered his eyes with his hook in embarrassment. "Can we not?"

Smiling, you laid on your side to enjoy the sight of him, and you luckily had some reprieve. "You know, there's crocodiles where I'm from. Here in the New World."

"How do you know if you've never been?"

"My grandparents call politicians buwaya and marines baboy."

"Sounds like wani."

"Crocodiles and pigs," you translated.

"This is awful pillow talk." He mirrored your position, making you eye-to-eye for the first time, and his irises were so pale you could almost see your own reflection in them.

"Aren't you a politician, Desert King?"

He brushed a lock of hair behind your ear. "No one's been quite so... opinionated about it."

"About?"

"Utopia."

"I've hardly said anything."

"Today. Let's see if you still feel the same way as before."

You had no idea what you said then, but you knew where your beliefs aligned, so, "Well, it sounds impossible, for one. If my understanding of Baroque Works is correct, they all thought of themselves as early investors, no?" He grunted affirmatively. "So show me a document or something. What your utopia is. Is it a monarchy? Are you really trying to be king? What's the future look like without you? Does that matter to you? Is the military purely defensive, or do you plan to conquer?"

"God, woman. Does your brain never stop?"

"Only during really, really good sex."

"During? So I need to keep you happy to have any peace."

"Sounds like marriage." He glanced over your way, and whatever you read in his expression terrified you a little. What does he think of— "I mean it. If you really want me involved, let me know what it is, buwaya."

"And if you fucked a Marine, would you call them a pig in bed, too?"

"They might like it too much."

Crocodile laughed at that, and drew you into his chest, and you thought you were in real danger of feeling at home there.

four

There weren't many men or women willing or stupid enough to contend with Crocodile's size, so when your eyes darkened with interest as they followed the gulp of wine down his throat, he only wanted to see how far you'd go. Maybe you'd recoil the closer he got, his scarred face more grotesque in the candlelight. Maybe the two of you would even touch before you realized just how easily he could break you, and you'd look for an out, however graceless. You might even make it all the way to his bed, and for that bravery he was almost content to entertain himself with what could have been.

What he didn't expect was ease. You took your seat in his lap like you belonged there, still trying to hold a conversation with smoke from his cigar floating over your head as he coaxed you to ride his thigh. "Not enough," you grumbled into his chest, and despite not feeling like much of a monster that night, he gave in to your pleas with a stack of pillows shoved under your hips at the edge of the tall bed and his gruff warning that it would hurt, the cursory stretch of his fingers too impatient for someone as small and tight as you. He'd heard it all before, from bluffers and masochists alike, but you smiled as you cried and thanked him, and he thought it was utterly dangerous to him and his business interests how he relished turning you from the sharp-minded woman who crashed his dinner to this. He watched you sleep beside a known killer like some trusting fool, a naiveté that didn't suit someone who'd sailed half the Grand Line.

Crocodile didn't pay any of that generation much mind beside Straw Hat, so he was singularly unimpressed at how this blond hack—your words, three glasses in—squandered such a valuable crew member, and if he read between the lines, a delicious little bedmate. He'd sailed long and stared at the horizon often enough to know what you described made sense, and even picked up the sextant you'd ripped off your neck in frustration to try and see what you see. Hell, you navigated them all the way from the North Blue. What sort of idiot would let you go?

Not him.

⁂

Crocodile removed his hook in front of you for the first time at sea.

Your departure was a whirlwind and really a sandstorm, how you cajoled him to take a trunk of your navigational equipment and books to his ship while you tied loose ends on land. If killing you didn't cross his mind before, it did then, but he gave you a withering look and flew out the boardinghouse window in a cloud of sand.

The ship was on loan from one of Crocodile's mostly-legitimate businesses, a xebec designed to carry more cargo than crew where he and Daz switched watch shifts to supplement the merchants' defenses. When you hobbled below deck with your luggage, the swordsman jerked his chin at a hammock bunched up on a hook in the corner of a lounge to the side of the galley, a fair distance from the dormitory full of men. It looked cramped for Daz, so you couldn't imagine Crocodile enjoyed it down there, either. You passed that first day observing how the mercantile crew worked and tried to be friendly with the navigator, who seemed curious about your methods but leery of your association with the two pirates. It didn't help that Crocodile really watched you take your sights and calculations from his odd perch on one of the many cannons on the lower deck.

You'd already turned in for the night when you heard Crocodile enter the lounge and sit heavily on the sofa, and a unique click that could only be his golden hook releasing from the plug at the end of his arm. You didn't know if it was ruder to stare or to pretend to be asleep, so you settled for openly admiring the muscles and veins under skin you hadn't seen before. He'd held you to him with his shirtsleeves still buttoned, and now you were part of a slim minority to see him this vulnerable.

"Careful, witch," he said without looking up.

You swallowed. "Doing what?"

"Looking at me like that. Or do you want all these sailors to hear you?"

You felt your neck heat, and still you burrowed under the wool blanket you packed, peeking at his broad, undershirt-clad back. It wasn't until he arranged himself on the couch that you noticed the smell of his cigars permeating the lounge, the ash tray on a side table, the valise in the opposite corner. "This is your room?" you croaked. "Did I take your bed?" The hammock was certainly longer than the sofa, and a second one was stowed away above you, but you didn't see a ladder for you to make it up there.

"Of course it is."

Right. Why would a man as paranoid and proud as him ever share? That meant he deprived the merchants of their common area. But equally, why would he let you in?

"There's nowhere else for you, unless you want to freeze to death on deck."

"How do you know what I'm thinking?" you blurted.

"You're painfully expressive."

Privately, you disagreed. Sure, you weren't stony-faced as Hawkins, which you thought made your readings more honest, but frankly you didn't know the last time someone observed you this closely.

"You're too tall to sleep there." You managed to land on your feet as you tumbled out of the hammock, throwing your pillow and blanket on the couch.

He grumbled, but stood anyway, and you tried not to thrill at commanding a former warlord of the sea.

You soon smelled why he was so amenable.

"Ugh!" You dry heaved, sticking your face in your pillow that still smelled like your flat, for now. What did you expect from a fabric sofa on a commercial vessel where personal hygiene seemed optional? Your frown deepened into a petulant pout as you rolled onto your front to look at him with your chin on the armrest.

You didn't want to ask, and you didn't have to as Crocodile blinked one eye open. "I'm relieving Daz in two hours."

"I don't mind waking up. I need to sleep like a seaman again."

"All you do is impose," he groused, but opened his right arm in invitation.

You bit your lip to keep from grinning as you dragged your blanket over. Climbing in was a bit of a maneuver, but you settled into his side, pulling your blanket over just yourself until he grunted, "Share."

You knit it to be over seven feet long thinking to accommodate a tall partner, albeit not this tall. Your feet landed somewhere near his knees, and he insinuated one between yours as he used his stump to draw the blanket up to his shoulder, covering your head. You wriggled up his body for air, slightly grinding into his thigh as you went, and you sighed at the feeling.

"Stop moving."

"Sorry, sir."

You knew he didn't trust you, but he at least found you harmless enough to sleep beside, even if it was clear he was waiting for you to doze off first. You were practically nude in your thin slip, with nowhere to hide a weapon, and if you moved to get one the hammock would sway incessantly. You shouldn't trust him, either, but you threw in your lot with this man, and for what? Your ego? You were caught in his orbit, but you found it hard to mind. Maybe you were more bored with your life ashore than you thought. But enough to risk your life? At the side of a man whose bounty was six times that of Hawkins?

"Why aren't you sleeping?"

"I'm... thinking."

"I can tell."

You hesitated. "You said something about teaching me."

"Mm. Tomorrow. Daz first."

"Daz?"

"Did you want to spar with me right away?" You rubbed your thighs around his knee. "Nevermind."

"Does Daz's power ever... slice all his clothes off?"

"Ask him."

"I don't think he likes me."

"You just met."

"I just met you. More or less."

"You're crewmates. Try and get along, hmm?"

"Yes, sir." To your surprise, he patted your head with his right hand, and your lids drooped.

If the former Mr. 1 distrusted you, he hid it well, or his deference to Crocodile trumped all. He was about Hawkins' height, if completely different in build, but that meant you weren't totally cowed by him. When two sessions passed without him so much as scratching you with his powers, Daz simply said, "The boss said not to." Of course, you weren't any less sore from his obviously pulled strikes you failed to evade. When you told him you had a dagger you were familiar with, Daz all but snorted before dismissing you for his watch.

Crocodile didn't ask about your lessons and you didn't complain, but at night his large hand rested lightly over your darkest bruises. You didn't do much in these quiet hours beyond grind in his lap, sometimes waking up still warming his cock when duty summoned either of you above deck. The way he followed you even if he had nowhere to be, you thought he must like seeing you jump out of your skin and hurriedly wipe evidence of your activities on your pajamas on your way to catch twilight. He threw your blanket or his coat over your shoulders then, which you would take as a tender gesture from anyone else, but his eyes narrowed when you thanked him.

"This is a sailing ship."

"I know that."

He scanned the deck as he lit his cigar, and you tightened your blanket around you as the flame drew your eye to the crescent of your teeth marking the fleshy heel of his palm from when he muffled your cries only hours ago. Was he embarrassed by you, or by sex in general? He was awfully concerned with manners. Or was it courtesy to the crew? He didn't show any sort of caution when your lease was on the line.

"And did you flounce around your Magician's ship in negligee, too?"

Negligee? "This is cotton."

Crocodile exhaled through his nose. If you were any taller, the smoke would get in your eyes. "Don't act obtuse. It doesn't suit you."

You figured out just what he meant back in your room with your nightgown bunched up around your waist, his hand landing mean slaps to your ass and thighs. As if the stains marring your others weren't enough, he used his hook to push the skirt out of the way, piercing and ripping the fabric as he went. "I'll buy you more," he muttered before fingering you open, and you pillowed your head in your arms to avoid the couch cushions he draped you over. It was the roughest and sweetest he'd been with you so far, how you fell asleep sprawled over him as he soothed your heated skin, even with the cool alloy capping his left wrist. That's also how you discovered a slightly disturbing consideration possible only with his Devil Fruit: you woke to your legs and hips pressing directly into the hammock netting as his body dissolved into sand under you, his chest rumbling a "Sleep, bird," before disappearing, too.

If he wasn't on watch or otherwise stretching his absurdly long legs above deck, Crocodile spent his time doing business via Den Den Mushi in your room. You preferred fresh air yourself, but he didn't shoo you away or have a problem with your direct questions about what you heard. On the contrary, he seemed to welcome your presence, whether you just popped in to grab something or you needed a break from the other men. You sometimes sat on the floor by the couch, resting your head against his knee as you read or added to your navigational log. Other times he pulled you into his lap, and you lit his cigar for him, fully knowing the smell would embed itself in your clothes and your knitwear. It unsettled you how easy you found it all.

⁂

He didn't know why he indulged such behavior, but Crocodile went to such lengths to find you and could just as easily get rid of you if you posed more risk than reward. You were too smart not to realize this journey to Karai Bari was your trial run, and you had yet to disappoint. You naturally woke before sunrise despite being months out of practice. You were disciplined about your morning and evening sights; you could be greedy and insatiable any other hour of the day, but come twilight you weren't afraid to leave him hard and aching in the name of geolocation. He'd taken log compasses for granted, that he'd always island hop with little awareness of his surroundings, but your precision had him looking at the globe you packed with interest. It was quite a boring route otherwise with an Eternal Pose, but you showed him the Grand Line anew.

Then there was how... sweet you were, something alien to the life he led. Of course you often wanted something in return, usually sex, but those times you were so frank he almost felt bad suspecting you like he did everyone, which made you a true threat. You liked his fingers on or inside you and kissed them in thanks, you greeted him good morning in the pitch black below deck, you sat by his feet like a pet and eyed his lap hungrily. You claimed you were avoiding that foul sofa, but you sighed happily with just his fingertips rubbing at your scalp and could fall asleep with your cheek on his calf—that trust you didn't show in your waking life.

What should bother him more was how you read his mood. You had a smart mouth he enjoyed taming and you teased him more than any person he'd left alive, but you kept to yourself if you weren't flirting with him or discussing astronomy. Crocodile could fall into a foul temper depending on news he received or the mere thought of the clown who had his money or even if his back hurt from that damn hammock, yet he never found it in himself to take it out on you, even if you had something to do with the last point. You were an ideal companion to match his reticence, which only made those pretty sounds of yours more addicting.

According to Daz, you had good survival instincts and were unafraid to play dirty, so Crocodile was gratified to know you wouldn't be too much of a burden. The way you said you were weak while you fisted your skirt over that paltry blade told him you'd been scarred somehow, if not as literally as him. Titillating though your little thigh holster was, he wanted you to have something quicker, and Daz wasn't the one to train you to wield a weapon. Weeks ago, when Crocodile made up his mind to come back for you, he saw an elegant folding knife with pearlescent handles at a market and bought it without a second thought, only later realizing it was from your home country. Would you know? Would it make him look thoughtful? It made him sick.

Maybe Crocodile was softening in his old age, or defeat affected him more than he cared to admit, but if he didn't hold his tongue he'd promise you even more than he already had. Your previous captain's head, for one. It struck him as a damn shame a woman like you wasn't covered in jewels, though as he looked at his ringed hand on your skin he thought silver suited you more. White gold, like the moon you could find at high noon.

five

You watched the gap of moonlight in the entryway for the first sign of your lover's return, sprawled comfortably on the four-poster bed miraculously sourced at Crocodile's command. Two weeks ago, he flew out of your arms when the watchman of the shipping vessel you were guests on shouted out that a Navy fleet had your destination surrounded, and now the two of you lived together, on land. It'd be almost domestic if you had more than flaps of fabric and a few yards of open air separating you from your nearest neighbors.

Your neighbors weren't home either. Daz's tent being nearby was a comfort, Dracule Mihawk's… could be, but you knew they were with Crocodile in the big top to address Buggy's print job, the fliers that spread across the world before anyone realized. You excused yourself at the same time as Alvida, who looked quite bored with her poor co-captain's fate. You really thought it was all resolved with Mihawk's solution, but neither of the two executives budged, and your main thought was how strong the emperor's hair must be to take such abuse.

Crocodile's hook pulled the tent flap back before the rest of him followed, carried by a billow of sand. You didn't say anything, but watched him enter with his cufflinks already undone and cravat in hand. He seemed lost in thought and you loathed to startle him until he was in bed, but to your surprise, he laid on his side, showing you his absurdly broad back. For several minutes, his silhouette expanded and contracted with steady, deep breaths, like he was trying to induce sleep with little success. You bit your lip.

"Sir?"

After a beat, he grunted in response.

"Do you feel better?" Not are you alright, because you knew he was too proud to be.

A different grunt. You were getting better at telling them apart; this one was something like "a little," or "maybe."

Cautiously, you shuffled closer to him, trying to be loud and obvious as possible. Now that you shared a proper bed—one too tall for you, really—you knew he preferred to sleep on his back and didn't dissuade you from touching him, especially if you were just intimate, but you thought that had to do with his being able to see his surroundings. You exhaled onto his skin before nudging between his shoulder blades with your forehead.

"You don't seem like it."

Sure, he wasn't spitting mad or chomping on a cigar, but he hadn't been so distant from you since the night you met. Which was recent, of course. But you were foolishly confident you knew how your relationship was supposed to be, and this wasn't it. He didn't react to your little headbutt, so you dragged yourself closer and snaked your arm under his elbow. He caught your hand in his and seemed to inspect it in the dark.

"Don't patronize me," he said finally, tightly, but free of malice.

"It's not like you to show your back to an enemy."

He huffed. "Enemy, huh?" He pulled your hand to his sternum so you hugged him.

"Yup."

"I knew it." But he stroked his thumb over your knuckles, and you could practically hear him think, like he said about you. That was his excuse initiating most things: to quiet that brain of yours, before fucking you dumb and tired and boneless, and it really did work like a charm.

"The word humiliation," he'd said, "doesn't even begin to describe this feeling."

You kissed his shoulder. You couldn't think of words that felt right, so you kicked the sheets and the quilt from your flat down the bed and used your hand on his chest to direct him onto his back.

"What are you—"

"Let me."

Crocodile leaned back in the pillows with a disgruntled sigh. You pecked a chaste kiss onto his frown, which didn't budge, so you kissed him again again and again, peppering a few along his jaw and then chest as you moved down his large body. You weren't terribly surprised to see a slight tent in his boxers, and grinned to yourself. You kissed him over the fabric and took a deep breath before you said, "Buwaya?"

"What?" His voice sounded tight.

"Can I say something you might not appreciate?"

He grunted, which you took as assent.

"I think you like playing with Buggy." You pushed the waistband down and wet your lips as he sprang free. "I think you're nicer to me than you want to be." You kissed the base of his cock as you took it into your hand, looking up at him through your lashes.

Crocodile glared at the ceiling like he was embarrassed, and he grit his teeth when he caught your eye. "Nice?" His large hand rested on your head before he seized your hair near the roots, sharper than he usually did, and you whimpered against him, elated. "You're the first to accuse me of that."

You smiled and licked up his length, tracing your tongue along one delicious vein you knew well. He was hardening rapidly, and you suspected he stayed away willing himself to calm down, maybe walked the perimeter of the campgrounds a few times before coming to bed.

"You don't need to hide from me, either." You kissed his balls, laving them wetly before sucking one into your mouth, and he hissed.

"That's—different—"

You released him with a pop. "How?" You were glad he caught your word choice, the same thing he said to you before you ran away with him. "It's hardly fair, hmm? And you do care about fairness. Debts and all." With that, you kissed his cock one last time before taking the tip into your mouth.

You'd only tried this once en route to Karai Bari, and it'd been so frenzied and desperate at the end of a day spent mostly apart that he grew impatient and pulled you up to ride him instead, though now you wondered how much of that was disguised concern. Seeing him let loose today, you now knew he handled you with far more care than anyone would suspect. You really couldn't take much, the stretch of your lips around him strenuous enough, but breathed deep through your nose to try. Crocodile grunted above you, realizing what you were up to. "If you're doing this because—shit—because you're jealous of a damn clown—"

You rolled your eyes theatrically so he couldn't miss it, slurping around his tip with your lips as you backed off. "I happen to like Buggy. I think he's funny."

His fingers against your scalp firmed up again. "You talk too much," he muttered, and pushed your head back down.

Somehow, the act let you relax even more, and you gagged as he hit the back of your throat for the first time. Your eyes welled at the pain, but the weight of his hand discouraged you from pulling off for air, so you focused on breathing, savoring the smell and taste of his skin. You reflexively swallowed the little bit of precum sliding downward, earning an unrestrained groan and a pet to your head.

"Easy, bird," he murmured, and you hummed around him, more warming him there than anything. He was more than okay with sleeping while inside you, so you savored it, not knowing if or when this would happen next as you grew accustomed to breathing like this. Then you started moving again, letting your uncomfortably tight throat work on his tip while you squeezed and stroked the substantial length you couldn't fit with your dominant hand. His grip on your hair wasn't tight at all; he let you control the pace entirely, and you loved him for it, or your standards were wretchedly low.

You pulled off for air and blinked tears out of your eyes you looked up at him, rubbing your face against him like a housecat. "Am I doing well, sir?"

He chuckled, dark and rich. "You've been holding out on me."

You frowned. "You wouldn't let me!"

"Details." He combed his fingers through your hair. "You don't have to keep going."

"You're baiting me," you muttered before moving to lick him into your mouth again.

"Woman, is it so strange to think I actually don't want to break you?"

Oh.

You frowned and sat up. "Yes, it is."

Crocodile huffed and pulled you toward him by your elbow so you laid solidly against his chest and torso, nowhere near his dick unless you wanted to try a footjob at this angle. You laid your ear on his sternum and waited for him to elaborate.

"I don't know if your Magician hurt you, or neglected you, or you're afraid of me, or all of those combined," he said tightly, "but you'd be sensible to be afraid of me. So I—" He inhaled, and grimaced. "I promise I will do my best to keep you safe from me."

"I'm afraid of any pirate of your caliber, yeah," you hedged, uncomfortable with his seriousness as you drummed your fingers along one pectoral. "But you've never scared me in bed."

"Because you have delusions of grandeur worthy of a toy dog."

"Excuse me? I thought I was a bird."

"You're tiny," Crocodile bit out, clearly frustrated. "You should be with someone like Hawk-Eye."

"He's still tall."

"See, Mihawk and tall are incomprehensible to me."

You smacked his chest lightly. "This is the stupidest reason you could possibly be blueballing yourself right now."

"I'm fine." Your eyes narrowed, and you searched around with your foot to find him softer than before, though you felt that vein twitch with interest. Maybe later, you thought.

"And how's that supposed to make me feel?"

"I can't help having self-control."

You grumbled and stretched your arm across his broad chest, moving your head to his shoulder, and he held you in turn. "Buggy's shorter than Mihawk, you know. If it's about matching size." You'd mentioned only once that Daz was the same height as Hawkins, and Crocodile's gaze flicked between the two of you at dinner that night with an unreadable weight.

"You're mine," he said simply, like it was nothing. "So I'm particular about who I want to share you with."

Your heartbeat quickened, and your hold around him tightened. "Share?"

He swallowed. "If you want."

"Do you want me to share you, too?"

"If you want," he said again. "If I have time."

"Hmm. You're a busy man," you conceded. "And there's a lot of you…" You traced his cock with the ball of your foot, and he winced.

"Crass woman."

"Pirate," you reminded him. "I didn't realize sex was such a chore."

"Until recently."

Fuck. He needed to stop saying such vulnerable things, or they'd start pouring out of you, too. "Would you want to watch, or participate, or…?"

"Watch. Both. Either."

You bit your lip. "Well, I wouldn't feel right without you involved, and since you're so opinionated…" You hoped you wouldn't regret asking. "Who do you have in mind?"

"Hawk-Eye," he answered quickly, as you suspected. Honestly, you'd caught Crocodile studying his fellow Warlord's profile a bit too long sometimes, and your theory about Buggy held more water than ever now. If this was your lover's way of exploring his own attractions, you were happy to play along.

"You already have me sparring with Daz," you said. "And I like Alvida."

"Really." He tried to pretend Buggy's Delivery didn't exist.

"And Buggy."

He groaned. "Why?"

"I like his hair. It's so healthy, and you yank on it. Meanie."

"I've been called worse."

"So how come you're the only one who gets to play with him?"

Crocodile tugged the roots of your hair gently so you'd look at him. "Does my little bird have a sadist streak, too?"

You hummed, almost like a purr. You had a smart retort ready when—

"You're made for me." You stilled. "Like you're a spy. A trick." This was where his suspicious nature won or lost, and you died or lived, and the grip he had on your hair aroused something other than fear in you. "But I believe you entirely."

"I have nothing to hide," you said quietly.

"And that makes you dangerous."

With that, he slanted a dry kiss onto your lips, so rarely initiated by him and only possible in bed like this, before he cradled your head against his chest. You sighed. "I like you, you know."

"I suspected."

"Let me think about it some more," you said. "Let's be like this a little longer. And then…"

"And then?"

"We'll see."