🦇 She/Her 🦇 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ♓️ 25♓️ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ⛔️ this blog is 18+ MDNI! ⛔️ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 🌹I Write for several fandoms, current fixation: MGS/Resident Evil 🌹 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 🕸Requests are: OPEN🕸 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 🦇see pinned post for requesting information🦇 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 🦇
This blog is 18+ only! MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT
I tried to tag every story with what is in it, every fic I post has a little warning of what to expect so please read those!!! also, this is an 18+ blog so read at your own risk!
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Synopsis: The duality of a dominating gentleman. Spoiling and endearing, encumbering and brutal.
Themes: Nsfw, mdni, nothing too crass but a content warning all the same. Sir Crocodile x gn!reader.
Notes: needed to get these thoughts out of my head. Might turn it into a full fic one day. Less than 100 words, just thoughts.
Tag list: @sordidmusings @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @writingmysanity @carrotsunshine @i-am-vita @gingernut1314 @mfreedomstuff
Sir Crocodile, both romantic and intentional. Serviceful and obedient out of blind devotion for you. Shopping trips, spoiling you with his ever expanding wealth and refusing for you to lift a single finger to help carry the smallest of trinkets home with him.
Sir Crocodile, both worshipful and feral. Unbridled and unrestrained out of blind devotion for you. Rough treatment, overstimulating you with his vicious pace and refusing to let up for even a moment as he brings you to the blissful ignition of another orgasm with him.
Synopsis: Sir Crocodile is out for a walk in Arabasta with his pug, and he is stopped by a curious child who desires to pet them. As you, their guardian, approaches, Sir Crocodile is intrigued by your candor.
Themes: Sir Crocodile x gn!reader, mildly suggestive themes, spice hinted but not explicit, you have a child under your care named 'Yarin', Crocodile is a secret softie, the pug has been fan-named 'Esmeralda'.
Notes: I just wanted to write for Crocodile and see where it took me today.
Wandering the streets of Arabasta, leash in hand and peering down at the small creature attached to the end, Sir Crocodile sauntered throughout the dunes. A small, gem encrusted collar circled the neck of the timid pup, its whole body jiggling and shaking with every soft patter and touch.
As the pug puppy sniffed at a round, leafy shrubbery, a small giggle followed a high-pitched shriek of delight. Bounding happily over to both Sir Crocodile and slowly sinking to their knees, a small child sat at the base of his shiney, leather boots.
“Oh my goodness, mister! Your dog is so beautiful!” the little one spoke, Sir Crocodile taken aback by the immediate approach from the child, “May I pet them? What’s their name?”
Clearing his throat, and slowly tucking his golden hook behind his back to not frighten the child, he gently nodded down in affirmation. Immediately, the young child gestured out the backs of their knuckle for the tiny pug puppy to snortle at, waiting until the beast was ready to receive a greeting touch. At the small flicker of a pink tongue catching the child’s hand, they giggle and immediately go to scratching and enthusiastically massaging the tan and brown puppy.
“Her name is Esmeralda,” Sir Crocodile spoke out slowly, his brow arched up as he marveled at the interaction, “Or ‘Ezzy’ when she is behaving herself.” The child repeated the name back to the dog, cooing and preening at them while truly enjoying the soft bristles and snuffy nose.
“Aww, Ezzy is so cute!” they cheer up at him, “My house won't let me have any dogs there. I have always wanted one, but I haven't been able to get one-.”
“-Yarin, just what do you think you're doing?”
The child stiffened, their eyes widened in shock before a smile splits up their lips.
“I'm petting Ezzy!” Yarin calls over their shoulder while smoothing their jowls and squishing their cheeks affectionately.
Sir Crocodile peers up, his dark eyes peering at the approach of a figure rapidly sauntering towards him. He took you in, noticing your fluster and exasperation on your face. Your worn clothes were disheveled, your feet dusted with the sands of Arabasta, and your eyes were swollen with fatigue as if you had not slept for days.
“Is that what you're doing, sweetheart?” you coo down at the small child, “Yarin, I need you to help me with the shopping, okay my love? Say goodbye to your new friend and little Ezzy, and I'll be right over.”
Yarin let out a soft whine before hanging their shoulders and rising to their feet.
“Thank you for letting me pet your dog, mister,” the child expressed up at Sir Crocodile, “I really like Ezzy. I hope you have a nice day.”
“That's a beautiful thing to say, Yarin. Off you go now,” you encouraged, gesturing for them to go back towards town. Waiting until they were out of sight, you turned to the eight-foot tall, hulking mass of a gentleman clad in embellishment and wealth. Your eyes met with his, your own smile mirroring the child he allowed to pet Esmeralda with an easy elevation.
“I appreciate you humoring Yarin, sir,” you indicate with a polite bow, “There is not much joy found in a child’s life these days, and animals are truly a delight.”
“That they are,” he responded in kind. Esmeralda resumed snorting at the leaves by his feet before sitting on the yellowed sand. “Are you the child’s guardian?”
“That I am,” you again nod to him. His interest was piqued now, watching how you easily expressed your formalities with a learned politeness.
“Your landlord will not allow pets where you're staying?” he asked curiously, stilling his golden hook behind his back to shield it away from you. You narrow your eyes and quirk your head in response, attempting to read his intentions behind his question.
“No, sir. My landlord is quite controlling of his properties, to which I partially agree with.” You respond in kind, “I cannot hang a single picture frame of my family without the approval of the lord of Arabasta.” Your smile remains on your face as you now again to him, “If you'll excuse me, I must return to Yarin and ensure the groceries are handled appropriately. May you and your darling puppy, Esmeralda, have a pleasant day, sir.”
Finally turning to return to the small child, Sir Crocodile calls out softly after you. “May you and your child have the day of warmth you have blessed mine with.”
This stops your haste, turning briefly to gift him with another soft smile in gratitude to the well wishes he expressed. In lieu of the bored grimace he constantly held on his features, he reflected that warmth back onto you with a smile of his own.
This is where the unlikely friendship began between yourself and Sir Crocodile, the lord of Arabasta, landlord of your small cottage, and your current employer. Whatever you or your child needed, Sir Crocodile was the benefactor to your desires. That small kindness from a child that was not fearful of him, who saw Esmeralda before they noticed the scar splitting his face, or the hook embedded in his sleeve, became a treasured memory in his growing infatuation with you.
Lavish gifts of scholarships and school uniforms for Yarin, a new uniform for your employment beneath him, and sporadic gifts that depicted his adoration for you became a regular occurrence. Where you saw a man who cared for his employees and their families, he saw a lengthy courtship where he had an opportunity to express his kinder side. Sir Crocodile loved you, and he was happy for his romance to remain unrequited while you raised your child alone.
You never reciprocated or demonstrated your own infatuation for him, fearing you were reading into his luxurious gifts where only friendship was found. Instead, you were gracious and accepting of the comradery and rapport you found with one another. Organizing his life, ensuring he was cared for in health, and providing him with an ear to vent his frustrations was all you could offer him. This was enough for both of you, Yarin visiting your office after school to complete their homework with Miss All-Sunday, and you sitting at your desk and scheduling Sir Crocodile’s appointments.
Whatever life you fled from was smoke and forgotten memory, the new family found in an unlikely place solidified your loyalty to the lord you served.
This was enough for the both of you.
Until it wasn't.
It didn't take much prompting to land yourself on the knee of Sir Crocodile, lips colliding in a messy oscillation of need and lust. The passionate exchange continued from his office towards his bed chambers, both of you silently thanking the care Miss All-Sunday took to watch over your child while you found yourself entangled in Crocodile’s bedsheets. Flesh to flesh, heart to heart: you were his, and he was yours in each slow movement and passionate touch throughout the evening.
Morning flooded the room at the shift of curtains, the dunes of Alabaster contrasting over the horizon as breakfast was brought to the both of you.
Neither of you discussed the shift in your relationship, although his subtle lean into you and brush of his head against yours spoke volumes more than you could admit. Love, true and rich, was in the movement of his embrace with you. Breaking the silence, you turned to him and peered up at his warm gaze.
“Did you know then that this was where I would be?” Your hands found his chest, gently raking the tufts of hair donning his broad torso. Crocodile drew down his right hand to eclipse yours. Raising your knuckles to his lips, he kept eye contact while he kissed your skin.
“No,” he confessed with a twitch in his smile, “But I did know how I felt for you in that moment.”
“How did you feel for me?” you asked carefully, your smile beginning to tug up your features and elevated the swell of infatuation in your chest.
“That your warmth would ignite my blood with your presence, filling my cold heart with hope and joy as my dog gave to your child,” he whispered, releasing your hand and cupping your cheek, “And that I needed you cared for, in any capacity. Whether we were to be friends, or lovers, I craved that for you.” He drew you up to him, gently placing his lips to your forehead and stilling his breath with your own.
You arched away from his lips to your head, motioning up to press your lips slowly against his. Whatever lust there was prior, love consumed it. Lips moving softly and soothingly against one another, you found your peace in the arms and bed of the crocodile. The only thing that broke you out of your mesmiration with one another was the sound of a puppy’s bark and a high-pitched giggle of Yarin outside the door.
“We should get up,” Crocodile whispered against your lips, traveling his deep kiss down to your neck, “And see to Yarin and Esmeralda.” You nodded in response, hastily turning your head and claiming a more intentional kiss from Sir Crocodile before you allowed yourself permission to withdraw from his side.
As you tugged your attire over your body, he admired the litter of his lust that clothed your flesh. Each kiss marring your skin in a heart-shaped bruise showcased how deeply he loved you. As you spoke with Yarin outside the door, he honed in on your voice and your inflections.
He truly didn't know what to expect back then, walking his dog himself in the square. Whatever he had desired to achieve, he acquired something far sweeter than he hoped for.
I have been plagued with thoughtsof the reptile while attempting to write.
The way Crocodile stares into your eyes, peering right into your soul while his cock stretches you out. He knows he's big, he knows that first stretch is likely to sting and he feels for you take him in. He can see that spark of determination in your eyes, and he falls more in love the more you try.
Your ring of muscle stretches and stings as you attempt to take him all in, but he's just too big. No amount of foreplay of lubricant could prepare you for just how thick he was in comparison to your much smaller body.
Taking that golden hook beneath your chin, he tilts your head up and continues to hold eye contact while your body stutters and staggers on the decent towards his pelvis. He loves it when his partners ride him, but he knows it's a lot to ask of you the first time. His larger frame is just so big, and he appreciates that slow crawl towards taking in his entirety into your guts.
His eyes never leave yours all the while you scream at your body to take more of him, and he adores how cute your face contorts while you whine for him. He stills his hips, remaining completely still while you sink further down. He is statuesque, his body taut and protruding his muscles in determination to not buck up into you.
Once you bottom out, your pelvis aligned with his own, there's this moment where your breaths become one. You are he, and he is you. He adores this moment, and will dwell in this radiance for as long as his mind is able to withstand how you contort and contract around him.
As you grow used to him, his lips find your temple and kiss away your woes. You lean into his touch and whimper while your legs shake at the stretch. While it does ache, the pleasure you know is to come is a a banner in the marathon of his cock. He is nothing but a doting partner, ensuring your comfort while you take him.
He is yours entirely...
…Until you give him that soft nod that you've adjusted to his length and girth. Then, all bets are off as he raises you and slams you into himself. He loves watching you squeeze your eyes shut while your lips curve into that perfect 'O' shape, rutting up into you with reckless abandon.
thinking very much about pawing at crocodile, teasing, vying for his attention after weeks of watching him play pretend with the clueless citizens of alabasta.
and he does.
eventually.
but he’s in a mood— which is how you wind up in his office, your back pinned to his front, skirt strewn across your lap, hiding the debaucherous view of your silken walls, plump and swollen with want, soaking through the crotch of his slacks and into the fine leather below as they grip his shaft, dragging him deeper, prying you apart with its girth alone.
hungry eyes look on in twisted rapture as you struggle in his lap, thick knuckles loosely cradling his pen. the stack of papers all but forgotten as he raps the golden clip against the expensive mahogany; a steady, mocking rhythm that serves to unsettle you even more.
deep, mirthful chuckles wear at the rusty hinges of your restraint as you squirm. tip wedged so snuggly against what feels like your very core, the pressure almost unbearable as you try and muffle your cries into his shirt, clutching desperately at his sleeve, wrinkling the fine fabric. the astringent scent of tobacco and lavish cologne swathes your senses like an old blanket, weathered yet familiar. your pitiful pleas for completion falling into the backdrop of his cruelty.
…until kempt nails scrape the delicate underside of your stomach.
immediately, you clench— any semblance of self-control utterly thrown out the window. your heart rate spiking when an unknown hand casually slips between your legs.
lithe fingers glaringly absent of jewelry wordlessly trace the shape of your puffy folds, bracing their palm against the fur of your mound, carding through the frothy mess now pooling at the base of his cock and you jerk- letting out a strangled sob when those moistened fingertips circle back to your clit-
[ v5.30.26 ] here's a post dedicated to organizing my bulk of writings across all fandoms — reminder: minors dni with fics marked 18+.
( as always, you can find me pilotisms on ao3 )
featuring: my hero academia, demon slayer, jujutsu kaisen, kaiju no. 8, modern warfare, halo: tv series, love and deepspace, one piece...
BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA:
— ALL MIGHT ; toshinori yagi
( 18+ ) bruised ego | part one ; f!reader / all might
young!might. you & toshinori have a great working relationship. all might is like a mentor. a great guy. a real, stand-up dude. a hero who inevitably has to help you deal with the side-effects of being hit with a love quirk.
( 18+ ) bruised ego | part two ; f!reader / all might
young!might. he should have waited for you. but no, toshinori felt like he had something to prove. now, roles are reversed and he needs your help.
#bruised ego | the tag ;
includes headcanons, drabbles, and asks pertaining to the bruised ego series
( 18+ ) all smite + tears ; f!reader / all smite
part of the #birbs smut blurbs
( 18+ ) toshinori + voice ; f!reader / toshinori
part of the #birbs smut blurbs
( 18+ ) toshinori + breeding kink ; f!reader / toshinori
part of the #birbs smut blurbs
sex ed ; nurse!reader / vice principal yagi
"please tell me they paid you well for these thinly veiled metaphors about finding the clitoris."
( 18+ ) guilty jerk off ; reader / toshinori
part of the #birbs smut blurbs
( 18+ ) post-mission office sex ; f!reader / all might
part of the #birbs smut blurbs
— HAWKS ; keigo takami
meet & greet | part one ; f!reader / hawks
you manage to snag two VIP meet & greet tickets for your nephew's birthday. he insists you join him. part one of two.
( WIP ) meet & greet | part two ; f!reader / hawks
coming soon.
( 18+ ) keigo + begging ; f!reader / hawks
part of the #birbs smut blurbs
#meet & greet | the tag ;
includes headcanons, drabbles, and asks pertaining to the meet & greet series
— DABI ; touya todoroki
burner cell | part one ; f!reader / dabi
you end up at the league's bar, unbeknownst to you or your drunk friends. you just want to go home. set in the early days of bnha.
burner cell | part two ; f!reader / dabi
after a week of silence, you finally text dabi.
burner cell | part three ; f!reader / dabi
a night out with dabi.
#burner cell | the tag ;
includes headcanons, drabbles, and asks pertaining to the burner cell series
— SHOTO ; shoto todoroki
can't we be seventeen? ; f!reader / shoto
he's loved you since he was seveteen.
— RED RIOT ; eijiro kirishima
noise complaint ; f!reader / red riot
red riot feels really bad about absolutely wrecking the shit out of your treasured plants, or eijiro kirishima falls in love at first sight.
— SUNEATER ; tamaki amajiki
( 18+ ) tamaki + tentacle ; f!reader / suneater
part of #birbs smut blurbs
— ENDEAVOR | enji todoroki
( 18+ ) endeavor + whipped ; f!reader / enji
part of #birbs smut blurbs
— ERASURE HEAD ; shouta aizawa
( 18+ ) aizawa + eating ; f!reader / shouta
part of #birbs smut blurbs
( 18+ ) shota in love ; imagine
what he is like in love
( 18+ ) aizawa + doggy ; f!reader / shouta
part of #birbs smut blurbs
— MINDJACK ; hitoshi shinso
( 18+ ) mindjack + quirk ; f!reader / hitoshi
part of #birbs smut blurbs
KIMETSU NO YAIBA:
— KYOJURO RENGOKU
the fool ; f!hashira reader / rengoku
all you wanted was to pass out in your room, but no. here you are, dragging yourself (quite literally) up the mountainside to the ubuyashiki mansion's onsen.
— SANEMI SHINAZUGAWA
moonbeam ; f!hashira reader / sanemi
you & shinazugawa have a score to settle, but you never did agree on the stakes, did you?
— TENGEN UZUI
( 18 + ) fingering and sound ; f!reader / tengen
part of #birbs smut blurbs
— YORIICHI TSUGIKUNI
( 18 + ) ginger and miso ; f!reader / yoriichi
part of #birbs smut blurbs
JUJUSTSU KAISEN:
— SUGURU GETO
the fall ; f!reader / geto
it's loud. geto can silence it. set post-hidden inventory.
— SATORU GOJO
be okay ; f!reader / gojo
you've been promised to one another since the very beginning.
be okay | part two ; f!reader / gojo
the engagement is on. you move to tokyo.
( 18+ ) gojo + lineage ; f!reader / gojo
part of #birbs smut blurbs
— NANAMI KENTO
( 18+ ) nanami + tie ; f!reader / nanami
part of #birbs smut blurbs
( 18+ ) picture your face / whisper your name ; f!reader / nanami
Nanami Kento has had feelings for you since your joined the sales team as his junior. You've felt the same. He's resigning. The feelings aren't.
KAIJU NO. 8:
— KAFKA HIBINO
"you look ridiculous in that outfit." ; f!reader / kafka
prompt request; angsty
—SOSHIRO HOSHINA
( 18 + ) agreed ; f!reader / hoshina
part of #birbs smut blurbs
MODERN WARFARE:
— SIMON RILEY ; ghost
handler's manual | part one ; f!reader / ghost
moth is the 141's intel specialist. ghost is the 141's resident freak.
handler's manual | part two ; f!reader / ghost
moth & johnny spar. ghost is in a bad mood. moth's theories grow.
handler's manual | part three ; f!reader / ghost
a new year's eve honeypot brings a realization.
handler's manual | part four ; f!reader / ghost
you can't sleep. simon can't either.
handler's manual | part five ; f!reader / ghost
kortac makes an appearance. you owe a certain colonel an apology. ghost ain't about it.
handler's manual | part six ; f!reader / ghost
no graves + mess hall bolognese + laundry day ≠ good ghost mood?
blood & body ; f!reader / ghost
set during mission: alone. you won’t die today.
— JOHNNY MACTAVISH ; soap
liar's den ; f!reader / soap
drinks and pining shared.
HALO: TV SERIES:
— JOHN-117; master chief
pedestal, altar, cross ; f!reader / john-117
drabble series set post-season 1, slight canon-divergence, game & book references. john severs that hormonal pellet between his vertebrae and things change between him and you, his brokkr technician.
LOVE AND DEEPSPACE:
— CALEB ;
( 18+ ) insubordinate ; f!reader / colonel caleb
court martial? more like squirt martial. (i'm sorry.) (i'm not)
ONE PIECE:
— RORONOA ZORO ;
swan dive ; f!reader / zoro
port d'beau proves to be anything but an easy job. you almost drown, zoro saves you. [set post-arlong, pre-alabasta]
drunk with zoro ; f!reader / zoro
headcanons with being drunk with zoro
( 18+ ) double penetration + sanji ; f!reader / zosan
part of #birbs smut blurbs
— PORTGAS D. ACE ;
1. best of friends ; f!reader / ace
headcanons about being bffs (in love)
2. best of friends ; f!reader / ace
blurb about being bffs (and kissing)
( 18+ ) spitfire ; f!reader / ace
part of #birbs smut blurbs
— VINSMOKE SANJI ;
( 18+ ) mutual masturbation ; f!reader / sanji
part of #birbs smut blurbs
( 18+ ) double penetration + zoro ; f!reader / zosan
part of #birbs smut blurbs
— DRACULE MIHAWK ;
( 18+ ) hand necklace ; f!reader / mihawk
part of #birbs smut blurbs
omg birbs..... portgas d ace and his spit kink..... walk with me?? 👀
PORTGAS D. ACE drags himself halfway out of you — achingly slow. His dark eyes flick between your face and the mess between you, his jaw hanging half open and his voice husky.
“It’s a damn shame you can’t see yourself right now, angel,” he rasps, clearly enamored with the sight. His hands are braced against your waist. He kneads the soft flesh there and holds you steady as he continues to pull out. Too slow. He’s staring. Just like all things Ace does, it’s done with a fiery intensity.
The thick, swollen head of his cock stretches you, just enough to ache, before he pops out with a satisfied laugh. The Second Division commander whistles, and you’re too far gone to give a shit about the objectification.
…Is it hot in here? It feels hot in here.
He can’t get enough of this view — god damn. Ace knows that if he doesn’t slow down, if he doesn’t pace himself, he’s gonna come quick. Too quick. And that?
That would ruin the fun.
His abs tense as he leans back, his eyes drifting to the sight of your sex. His thumb swipes roughly across the slick gathered around your folds, and he toys with you. All the while, his eyes are trained on your face — he’s hunting for any and all reactions. He rubs your clit in a slow, slow, slow circle and stares as your entire body locks up, and a breathy version of his name rushes out.
“So fuckin’ pretty,” is his response.
It’s your turn to stare as he lines himself up, gathers a wad of spit in his mouth, and lets it drop lazily onto your clit. The string of saliva connects you for a moment, and you gasp. It’s warm and wet, and Ace wastes no time dragging the head of his cock through it before pushing in again. Wet. Sloppy. Messy.
“Oh, you tightened up—”
He’s buried to the hilt again, and your thighs tremble as he reaches up to secure a hold on your jaw. It’s rough enough to make your submission immediate. His hands are hot. His forehead knocks against yours as he rocks his hips and grins.
“Does my pretty angel like it when I make a mess of her? Yea? She does?” he’s nodding his head, his expression keen, and you’re nodding along — you’re half aware, somewhere in your mind, that Ace could convince you to agree to anything in this moment. Then:
“Open.”
His fingertips are warm, and they press into the muscles of your jaw. It feels good — and your mouth lolls open. Ace’s pace is hitching, getting a bit quick. Doesn’t help that you’re staring up at him, tongue laid flat, mouth open, with a blissed-out look in your eyes.
He gathers another wad of spit, and you actually moan when it falls onto your tongue. Saliva bridges the gap between your mouths and Ace actually huffs. You swear the hand on your waist gets hot — real hot — while Ace stares at the act.
sure, fine, he’s in his cups. sure, fine, so is the rest of the division. crammed shoulder to shoulder in this port’s small tavern — the crow’s nest — he’s fighting for his damn life. you and the other shipwrights have parked yourselves at a table in the back. old man weller is reliving a tall tale about a whale and a boy, but ace knows you’re not listenin’.
he knows, ‘cause you’re lookin’ at him.
and he’s lookin’ at you.
portgas d. ace smiles like he’s in love. your smile breaks over the crest of your cup, and ace’s world spins a little, and he almost topples off his barstool.
he disappears into the crowd of the crew, only to appear at your side. he slides into the booth, slick and smooth. his thigh presses to yours and his arm curls around your shoulder and his breath is soft against your cheek.
“is this th’ whale story?” he whispers into your ear, a touch slurred and a touch deep, “again?”
he doesn’t pull back when you turn your cheek, your nose to his as you nod and whisper back: “he’s embellishing.”
this close, you can count each and every one of portgas d. ace’s freckles. this close, you can see the faint reminder of a sunburn. this close, you can admire the deep, deep brown of his eyes. you don’t have to be this close to know he’s beautiful — but it doesn’t hurt.
sure, fine, you’re in your cups. sure, fine, so are the other shipwrights — and they are none the wiser to whatever tension is crawling between you and the second division command in your little corner. between the music and the laughter and the chatter and the tall tales, this moment is sacred and secret.
ace’s chuckle is delayed and a little rough. he’s first to pull away — only enough to sneak his ale to his lips and swig. you turn your cheek, look at weller, and listen cheek to cheek with ace.
“how would you know?” he asks in an incredulous whisper, nose dragging across your temple. he’s a beat from laughing, and you smack his thigh. it’s light. you keep your hand there. the arm around your shoulder twitches, and you let him rough-house. he shakes you gently. he pulls you into his chest and tucks you under his chin.
you don’t pull away.
“i’ve heard it a thousand times,” you whisper back, lifting your chin to look up at him with a rum-kissed smile, “same as you.”
something flickers across his face, then. something you see. something that stays, and you blink — your eyes dart from his gaze to his mouth. ace’s fingers still where they draw a lazy circle across the skin of your arm. he can’t look away from you, not when you’re curled up in his arms and smiling. you can’t look away, not when he looks at you like that — like you are more than just best friends.
portgas d. ace is your best friend. best friends don’t kiss.
there’s a line. a boundary. an invisible promise that the way you two touch each other is nothing more than friendship. he tries to remember the boundary, he tries to remember how things where before — before things changed, before he knew he was in love with his best friend. ace smiles, because he can’t remember it.
his other hand engages in its newest habit — he pushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear.
you’re lookin’ at him.
and he’s lookin’ at you.
“…what are we doing?” he murmurs. his voice is so low and gentle, it feels like he’s dragged his blunt nails up your spine with reverence.
“i dunno, what are we doing?” you breathe. you’re drunk enough that you stumble over your words; your face is close to his again. he’s craned his neck down, his hat hiding you both from the tavern. from his division, from your shipwrights.
“i know what i want to be doing,” he mumbles, so close his mouth brushes yours. his eyes stare, intensely devoted to the moment.
you don’t pull away. your fingers tense against his thigh, and ace wets his lips. you ask, already knowing the answer:
not that you’re complaining — how could you? especially since something has changed in recent months. something has become sticky, mushy, needy.
feelings. there are new feelings, but you both ignore the aforementioned sticky, mushy, needy feelings because you’re best friends, and best friends don’t have sticky, mushy, needy feelings for one another.
portgas d. ace is always hanging off you. his arm, freckled and strong, is always slung around your shoulders. he leans and slouches, pressing the full length of his body against your side whenever he can. he’s always there, in your orbit, tangling himself up in your space.
the crew knows that you, a vice-lieutenant shipwright, and the division commander are two peas in a pod; inseparable, indivisible, and integral. where his voice carries, your laughter is soon to follow. ace burns bright, like a star streaking across the sky, and you’re the moon he dances for. you call his name from high up on the mast, and he always calls yours back.
no one pities the fool portgas d. ace makes himself for the sake of your smile. no one pretends there isn’t something else there, either. marco thinks it’s gonna kill him — ace, with his longing looks, and you with your lingering smiles. always when the other isn’t looking, but for fuck’s sake, marco is looking. marco sees it. marco can’t unsee it.
feelings! sticky, mushy, needy feelings!
portgas d. ace, whose threshold for appropriate touching is quickly diminishing despite the whole best friend title. his newest, baddest habit is a sturdy kiss to your temple in passing — always paired with a murmured hey you. he’s recently started to tangle his fingers in yours during quiet moments up on deck. always during the setting sun, always when you’re off shift, and he’s avoiding whatever new responsibility pops throws him.
portgas d. ace, who starts sleeping in your bed — he blames the barracks. they’re too crowded. marco, his bunkmate, snores. you’re lucky, he says, you’ve got a tiny little cabin, with a tiny little bed, and a tiny little water room. a perk of being one of the few female crewmembers. the perk is stolen by ace, who starfishes out and runs hot. you start sleeping with less and less clothing, and ace chases the feeling of your skin against his in his sleep.
there’s a line. always. you’re best friends. best friends who touch and roughhouse and laugh. best friends who fall asleep in one another’s arms, best friends who knock foreheads together when they hug, best friends who daydream about kissing one another—
portgas d. ace is your best friend. best friends don’t kiss.
birbs if u wrote for sir crocodile and wearing his big coat when he goes to town on you, I will swear to you my allegiance and the first child he sires to me
SIR CROCODILE supposes he deserves this.
You lean back on your palms, manicured fingers mingling amongst the papers, reports, and correspondence scattered across the large, oak desk. That wedding ring on your finger glimmers in the low light of his office.
You cross your legs, drag a black, high-heeled toe close to the tension in his slacks, and bat your lashes. He’s leaned back in his desk chair, thighs spread.
“You’ve been busy,” you ask, all honeyed and soft as your eyes skate across his face, “...Too busy for your wife?”
Ah. So that’s what this is about.
He owes you an answer, but he’s distracted. He chews idly on the cigar perched between his teeth. You watch him roll his jaw when you lean forward enough to emphasize the swell of your chest. He may be a once-Warlord, fallen Desert King, but he is only a man. And you are his wife. His pretty, little, neglected wife.
Crocodile’s flat gaze drags across your soft curves. His attention hitches on the deep purple of the lingerie, the lace. The clasps holding your sheer stockings up are gold, and they dig into the swell of your thighs.
A big, rough, ringed hand reaches to trace the curve of your knee. Gentle. Coaxing.
“Is that it?” he rumbles, leaning forward as smoke curls around him; he’s smirking as his hands trail upwards and smooth over your thighs, “Is my little love feeling a bit ignored? Needy? So, she goes and spends my money on pretty lace—”
In a rare show of defiance, you slap his hand. Gentle, but still — a warning. His brows climb his face, and he looks up from your legs to find that you’re… oh. You’re pouting. A real, true pout — the sort that makes his heart twist. You read his words as condescending.
He realizes, almost a beat too late, that you’re… fuck, you’re upset. You’re upset with him.
He is Sir Crococile. There are a handful of titles attached to his name, sure, but right now, he doesn’t give a damn about any of them. The only one that matters is ‘husband’. There are, in his eyes, few titles more important than this one.
And, damn it, he is weak for very few things like that sad pout of yours.
You suppose, though, that you can’t be that upset with him — not when stubs out his cigar and whisks you away to that loveseat by the balcony to lay you upon his fur coat. Not when he slips to his knees (even if they creak and ache), not when he pays careful mind to unwrapping you like some pretty gift.
“Will you forgive me?” he asks against the soft flesh of your inner thigh as his long nose skims your skin. His eyes never leave yours.
You will, you concede. You'll forgive him.
Because, really, you’ve never been able to stay mad at him. You certainly can’t stay mad with his wicked mouth on your sex and two thick, ringed fingers working you open. You cannot stay mad when he murmurs out praise, when he drapes your leg over his wide shoulder. Your fingers twine into the soft fur beneath you and the ink-black hair on his head as you bow.
He wrings a gasp out of you, smirks against your clit, and you forget you were ever mad at him at all.
“I am,” he rasps as you come, “Never too busy for you.”
domestic things with crocodile on the mind... i think he takes pride in believing that there's very little he can't do on his own, but the truth of it is that some things are easier if you allow someone to help, and he needs to be reminded of that rather frequently.
you watch him get dressed once—after one of your meetings—and see that he's struggling with a button or his belt, so you ask if he wants you to try. he gruffly responds no, so you patiently wait a few more seconds, until finally he sighs in exasperation and allows you to step in. he watches you with an unreadable expression, but when you're done you give him a small smile and then move on, turning away from him to put your shoes on. a softness washes over him, a nearly indescribable feeling because he's never appreciated vulnerability in any sort of way, but somehow, just then, it was easier.
people rarely give him aid without strings attached, they've always wanted something from him in the past, but you never mention it afterwards, even when you're upset with him. he still doesn't like to ask for help, and rarely does, but he starts to accept more often when you offer, and relishes a little in the opportunity to be near you. not that he would ever say so.
