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[Any pronouns | 20's | Minors DNI. Artwork and writings. TW and Master List Below]

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.”

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