The Red Light (Crocodile x Slave!Reader x Mihawk) Chapter I
Synopsis: In which Crocodile and Mihawk are taken with the same high-end brothel slave. Their attention only drives your debt higher.
Word Count: 5.3k
Tags/Warnings: MDNI, Dark Content/Themes, SexSlave!Reader, No Current Reader Pronouns, High End Brothel, Debts, Possession, Non-Con/Rape Elements, Corset, Lingerie, No Smut
Song: El Tango de Roxanne - José Feliciano, Ewan McGregor & Jacek Koman
Notes: I’m refraining from calling MC a sex worker because they're a slave and not working by choice. Read at your own risk.
Every so often, when Crocodile couldn’t stand the noise and incompetence any longer, he slipped away from Karai Bari Island. Because the resources at his disposal were tied to Buggy, those excursions were becoming more frequent. So Mihawk quickly learned that if Crocodile wasn’t in his study, surrounded by an endless stream of paperwork or retired for the night, he was visiting the adjacent island.
Despite being one of the closest surrounding islands, Kanami Island was far enough away to require travel by boat—which was how Mihawk found Crocodile’s location in the first place. By the standards of other pirates, Mihawk had practically retired during his time as a Warlord, but his years of peace hadn’t dulled his tracking skills.
He pushed open the heavy, decorated door to reveal an elegant entrance. Polished marble tile reflected the lamplight just below an expanse of off-white luxury. A marble staircase curled toward a balcony at the back of the room. Black curtains covered tall, elaborate frosted windows, and the light felt intentional, curated. The entrance smelled faintly of perfume, enough to complement the space without overpowering it.
A slight resistance stopped him before he could open the door all the way. A man in a perfectly tailored suit stepped into the gap in the door as if he’d been standing there the whole time. He clasped one hand over his wrist. His watch glinted slightly, even in the low light.
A tight chain crossed over his face, keeping the door locked.
“Good evening. Welcome to the Red Light,” he said, his eyes flicking from Mihawk’s sword to his coat before settling on his face. “Appointments only.”
The door began to close by just a millimeter. Mihawk’s hand shot out, slamming into the thick wood with a heavy thud.
His golden eyes locked onto the guard’s, narrowing.
“I’m here for Crocodile.”
The guard didn’t budge. “We are not in the business of disclosing clients, whether they are here or not.” He frowned. “I hope you can find whoever you’re looking for.”
Mihawk’s hand didn’t budge. “Tell him I’m here,” he stressed, his other hand already reaching for the hilt of his sword.
“Put that away, bad boy.” A voice echoed from the top of the balcony.
Mihawk’s eyes scanned up the stairs, one hip braced against the banister as if it bowed in service to you. The whole house surrounded you as if it had been built around your very figure. You were made of lace and sheer fabric, forming an intricate undergarment that took longer to put on than to take off.
But your attire didn’t take away from the fact that you looked like you just about owned the damn place, slowly descending the staircase as if each step owed you money.
“We’re all civilized here, aren't we?” Your elegant touch traced the banister’s outer edge. “Let him in, Bazzie.”
The guard—Baz, apparently—hesitated only a moment before sliding the lock open. More beats than necessary passed as the door slowly opened, and Mihawk stepped tentatively into the room. The guard placed a hand on Mihawk’s chest, his gaze flicking up to the giant sword’s hilt.
“It’s alright, Bazzie. He’s with us,” you reassured the guard, and only then was Mihawk allowed to fully enter the brothel. “This bird won’t bite… hard.” You let out a measured laugh.
The black tiles in the center of the floor formed a large black lotus. You stepped onto the top petal to meet him, looking expectantly, almost as if you were waiting for something. Mihawk’s boots stilled beneath the chandelier as he glanced around.
“Croccy told me you might come by one of these days,” you hummed, drawing Mihawk’s attention back to you.
You were all eyes, a practiced silhouette, hair styled with intention. You were dressed for a performance, one you had given a thousand times before. Mihawk took in the air around you—smoky and expensive—and understood, with irritating immediacy, why Crocodile might’ve taken a liking to you.
It wasn’t only the body, though you certainly had one.
He detected a rigid precision beneath all that lace, just by the way your eyes raked over his tall figure. It was almost as though you were calculating how many berries you could squeeze out of him in real time. You were a negotiator, that much was clear as he watched the bills flicker across your dark pupils. The expression wasn’t predatory or obvious, hidden behind an attractive face and a charming smile. Mihawk doubted that many sets of eyes could pierce through your appeal and charm.
But his could.
“You can follow me, but I’ll tell you the same thing I told him—” You sauntered toward the staircase, and Mihawk quietly followed. “I don’t like playing secretary, so don’t get used to this.”
“So why do it?” he muttered, eyes fixed on the back of your head.
You didn’t turn, humming in response.
Mihawk didn’t blink. “Why play secretary?”
You stopped at a white door just down the hall, pausing with your fingers on the knob. Mihawk watched you ponder for a moment, noting the way your lips turned upward before you even spoke.
“Well,” you started, meeting his golden irises with a mischievous glint. “Croccy likes it when I play secretary.”
You spared Mihawk a wink. He didn’t flatter you with a reaction before you twisted the doorknob.
Gold coated the room, etching tiny weeping willow branches across the walls. A thick golden-brown border ran along the perimeter like a frame, trapping the branches in place, beautiful and contained.
A chandelier hung from a cutout in the ceiling, its light deliberately softened. Behind the bed, mirror panels climbed toward the ceiling. A geometric wooden pattern sat in front of the glass panels, turning the headboard wall into an elegant grid.
A round couch sat a few feet from the foot of the bed, Crocodile’s heavy coat draped over it like a casual claim. A litter of clothes marked his passage across the floor.
A polished wooden vanity sat just adjacent, boasting a large mirror dusted with specks of makeup. A dish sat at the end for cuff links and rings that weren’t yours.
On the opposite side sat a room ajar that Mihawk suspected was a bathroom.
The bed was the focal point of the room. The expensive linen sheets were tousled and imperfect, your work not bothering to pretend to be anything else. A nightstand kept all your essentials within reach: a pitcher of water, clean glasses, matches, and an ashtray. Carefully stocked in the drawers, you’d organized your condoms, lubricant, dental dams, and other necessities for the evening’s encounters. Yet, if the price was right, exceptions could be made.
Crocodile lounged on the bed, shirtless and with his belt partially undone. His back pressed against the plush headboard, one leg in front of him and the other bent. An arm draped over the raised knee as a cigar burned steadily between his fingers.
Mihawk stepped into the room, just a few feet in front of the round couch.
“Whatever you have to say must be pretty damn important if you couldn’t wait,” Crocodile grumbled, his eyes slowly following you as you reached for the door. He frowned, his cigar partway to his lips. “And where do you think you’re going?”
You stopped, though not with the hesitancy of someone who’d just been reprimanded. You turned, glancing between Mihawk and Crocodile with a calculated pause.
“I know when a conversation isn’t any of my business.”
Crocodile puffed what could’ve been mistaken as a half-chuckle. “Clever.” He made a curt gesture toward you with his cigar before taking another drag. “Stay. Keep me company. We won’t be long.”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “No, I don’t want to know a thing about your guild. I’m fond of not being kidnapped.” Your gaze flickered back to Mihawk’s unyielding gaze, gesturing at Crocodile as you walked past him. “He wouldn’t even pay my ransom.”
Crocodile chuckled lowly, tapping the tip of his cigar over the ashtray. “No,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t.”
You scoffed, offering Mihawk a playful pout. “See how mean he is to me?”
The harsh confirmation didn’t deter you from approaching Crocodile’s side of the bed. You traced the side of his face with delicate fingers, over the back of his ear and down to his jaw, before settling across his lap. You kept your touch on the underside of his jaw, running your finger along the stubble there.
Mihawk cleared his throat, the single, vexed, impatient noise crinkling his nose. He couldn’t decide what offended him more: the cloud of smoke, your showy display, or being dragged out to this island as a whole.
“You picked a hell of a time to walk out,” Mihawk began, his face cold and unmoving. “You should’ve been there to receive your shipment.”
Crocodile exhaled smoke, unhurried, before placing his cigar between his teeth. He clasped a hand over your leg with the same quiet certainty as everything else he did. The pads of his fingers pressed against your inner thigh, steady, never roaming or groping. Familiar.
You nestled the side of your head against Crocodile’s chest. You tucked a stray strand of hair behind the ear pointed toward Mihawk, listening.
“The hell are you talking about?” he gruffed.
“We were three crates short, for one. Two of what we received were replaced with ballast.” Mihawk frowned. “Your numbers don’t match theirs.”
Crocodile paused. Mihawk could’ve sworn he’d seen that same calculating expression just minutes ago downstairs.
“Whose numbers?” he asked, his voice laced with a brewing grudge.
“A broker,” Mihawk answered simply. “One I can presume has been pulling one over on the Clown for quite some time. Among others.”
Crocodile finally leaned forward, tapping his cigar over the ashtray. “You came all the way here to tell me I’ve been robbed.” A curtain of smoke poured from his mouth.
“I came,” Mihawk said, “because the dock count and the manifest can’t agree on which numbers to forge, and half the shipment has been opened and resealed. Either way, the ship clears on the next tide.”
Mihawk’s gaze flickered to you for a moment, watching as you drew lazy patterns over the base of Crocodile’s hook. His eyes didn’t linger on you.
“That, and you’re harder to reach when you don’t want to be found.”
“So it’s already leaving.” Crocodile rolled his cigar between his fingers. “How much?”
Mihawk glanced at the nightstand—the pitcher, the partially empty glasses, the matches, and the ashtray—taking inventory out of habit. “Enough.”
“Where?”
You placed a kiss on the underside of Crocodile’s jaw before slipping from his lap. By the time Crocodile laid his cigar in the ashtray, you’d already laid out his clothes.
“Pier Twelve,” Mihawk answered.
“Get my coat,” Crocodile ordered, already tugging his undershirt on.
It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t for Mihawk.
Crocodile dressed quickly, taking his coat from you in one motion and, in the next, stuffing a wad of bills into the top of your corset. He didn’t have to take as many steps as you did to cross the room, swinging the door open so light spashed across the gold-washed walls.
Mihawk followed quietly, and he almost didn’t look back. His gaze caught one of the mirror panels, and in a blink, your reflection met his. That slimmer in your eye was back, counting beneath the smoke, place, and seductive glimmer. You didn’t look sorrowful to see Crocodile leave, nor did any part of you signal for him to stay. If Mihawk had been a far more sentimental man, he might’ve considered your professionalism cold.
Then the door shut with a soft click.
You went straight to the vanity and pulled open the center drawer. Your ledger sat buried under makeup and perfume, and next to it was your temporary lockbox. You sat on the vanity stool and set both items on the wooden surface.
You plucked the wad of bills from your top and counted once, then twice. You recorded the amount in the right-hand margin and subtracted it from a larger recurring number. Varying amounts chipped away at it down the left page, then the right, and after this payment, it became a tiny bit smaller.
You were almost there.
Almost.
A sharp knock sounded at the door—a reminder that your day didn’t stop just because Crocodile left.
***
Mihawk didn’t even think about you until he had to, just a handful of weeks later, when Crocodile had disappeared again. He sailed to Kanami Island at an odd hour, early morning, and perched himself on your balcony just a few hours after sunrise. There he waited until you drew back the heavy curtains on the other side of the glass.
That day, you wore something much more casual than he’d seen you in before, though your face was made up flawlessly. Mihawk suspected you’d be changing into something more revealing later.
You didn’t even blink as you stared at him. Rather, you looked almost annoyed as you unlatched the doors and pushed them open onto the balcony. The curtains from inside flowed outward like newly freed doves.
“We’re by appointment only, Birdie,” you hummed, crossing your arms over your chest.
You leaned against the doorframe. One of the curtains wrapped across your back, rippling like the specter of an expensive piece of formalwear.
“I’m not here for you,” Mihawk muttered before trying to shoulder past you.
You didn’t move, not by much. You laid a light but firm hand on his chest, giving him just enough resistance to stop. He glanced down at the hand on his bare chest, then back at you. You didn’t break eye contact for a second.
He looked over your shoulder at the pristine room behind you, but Crocodile was nowhere to be found. Rather, the only thing he found out of place was a black duffel bag slouched on the circular couch like it’d been dropped in a hurry.
“He’s not here,” you said, the hum gone. A small frown tugged at the corner of your perfect lips. “And you’re not invited.”
Your voice had changed in pitch—in intonation, a noticeable difference to your working voice. It lacked the breathy stress of that same hum you started with.
Mihawk stepped back, quiet. He didn’t say a word, looking at you expectantly. You raised a brow. When he didn’t speak, you scoffed under your breath and shook your head. Then you turned around to step back into the suite.
Mihawk stepped quietly behind you, stopping just inside the doors.
“How long have you been standing out there anyway?” You tugged open your duffel bag, reaching in to heave a pile of clothes onto the couch.
“I thought you’d be awake by nine,” he muttered.
You immediately paused at his words. You straightened, slowly turning. A sly little smile twitched at the corners of your lips.
“Wait,” you purred, your grin widening by the second. You stood in your lounge shorts, hip somewhat popped, and a hand on your waist. Your oversized shirt didn’t hug an ounce of your figure. “Do you think I live here? And that Croccy—what?—would spend the night here?”
Mihawk didn’t say a word, nor did he let an expression contort his face. No, he stood as stone-cold as ever, unblinking.
You let out a noise that sounded more like a giggle than the breathy huffs he’d heard you take before. “That’s cute.”
You reached for the hem of your shirt and slid it over your head. Mihawk’s eyes followed the cloth for a heartbeat, tracing the bare curve of you to the line of your throat and then back down. His golden stare stopped where the light from the balcony caught the warmth of your skin. Just once.
Mihawk’s gaze flickered a single tick to the side. It was hardly a motion, if any, like returning a blade to its sheath. Controlled.
“Well, if he’s not here, do you know where he might be?”
Your shirt bunched around your forearms before you took it in your hands to fold with care. Then you stripped off your shorts and cotton underwear, adding them to the neat little stack next to your duffel.
Only then did you notice his barely averted gaze.
You didn’t smirk, nor did you frown. You pulled on your intricate lingerie bottoms, placing a foot on the circular couch as you fastened the buckles on the garters with quick, practiced fingers. The lace kissed your skin perfectly.
“I’ve got no idea,” you said, pulling a dark crimson and black corset from your duffel next. You tugged on the back, loosening the ties with expert dexterity. “Besides, we don’t give out information about members.” The words came out like some dry policy guideline.
“I need to know urgently.” Mihawk blinked.
You shook your head. “Doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know.” You spoke with such indifference that Mihawk couldn’t tell easily if you were lying. “I can’t imagine that you need him that seriously, given you were stalking my balcony for god knows how long,” you muttered, only growing quieter as you spoke.
You stepped into the corset, drawing it up your torso. You moved it delicately, careful not to snag on your buckles. The stiff material caught once on your hips before settling where it belonged. Your fingers danced over the front clasps, one by one. You glanced at yourself in the mirror before reaching behind you for the laces.
You pulled, feeling some of the laces tighten, but not where you wanted. You reached as far back as your shoulders let you, fumbling with the lattice that lined your spine. Your finger hooked where you thought the resistance might be, then you pulled again.
A pause.
“Birdie.”
Mihawk’s sharp eyes flicked back to you in another singular motion, expressionless but guarded.
“Come here and pull,” you said, your hands holding the laces behind you. “This can be your fine for peeping.”
Mihawk hesitated for half a second, the very act of helping you now taking on the form of self-implication. But if he debated the idea, he didn’t do so for long. You could hear every step of Mihawk’s heavy boots against the polished tile until he stood directly behind you.
You met his piercing golden eyes in the vanity mirror. Mihawk’s hands brushed yours as his calloused fingers took the laces from you.
“How tight?” he asked, absentmindedly tugging the strings apart where they’d tightened too early.
“Tight enough to look expensive,” you hummed, glancing yourself over in the mirror. “But not tight enough to make me look stupid.”
Your last words were stolen by a strong, measured pull that just about stole your breath. You instinctively braced your hands on the back of the vanity chair.
Mihawk remained as quiet as ever. He didn’t even ask about the fit before he began working the laces into what you could only imagine was a tight knot. (You’d certainly find out later when the corset would have to be cut off you.) After he finished, he stepped back and to the side.
You made short work of the rest of your clothes, hiding your intricate web of lace and delicate material under a deep-toned silk wrap and a set of high-waisted trousers. The boots you tugged on had a slight heel.
A bell rang from outside, prompting you to pick up your pace. You took two items from your duffel and placed them on the vanity before stashing your clothes and duffel in the bathroom closet.
“Are you sure you aren’t here for me?” The sound of your laugh bounced off the tile. You plucked a fallen eyelash from your cheek. “Because you’ve been here an awfully long time to—”
By the time you came back out into the suite, Mihawk was gone. However, the ledger you’d just placed on your desk had been opened and flipped to the most recent page. The currently empty lockbox you’d carted from your place to the brothel was untouched.
***
Madam summoned you the same way she usually did, hovering like a fretting hen before planting a sticky kiss on your hair.
“See me later,” she cooed in your ear. Her touch slid over your shoulders, and if you’d been in a different place, under different circumstances, she might’ve actually looked somewhat motherly.
So, once you’d bid your last client goodbye at some ungodly hour of the night, you made your way to her office. You knocked, already letting yourself in.
“Mama,” you greeted, a hand on the doorknob and your shoulder set into the doorframe as you belonged there as much as anyone was allowed to.
“Baby, get your ass in here,” Madam cooed, like she was calling you in for a hug. “I’ve been hearing some things about you.”
“All good things, I hope.” You hummed a laugh, closing the door behind you before you crossed the room to her desk.“About how happy I’ve been keeping everyone.”
“Oh, yes,” Madam said slowly, her eyes flickering across your face. “I’ve heard you’ve been having… great success…”
You reached into your top to produce an even stack of berries, setting them down in front of her and fanning them out on the mahogany surface.
“That’s three hundred thousand berries, Mama. That covers my last hundred thousand, plus extra.” You stood back, hands clasped behind your back. A barely restrained smile creased your cheeks. Self-satisfaction glimmered in your eyes. “For taking care of me all these years, Mama.”
Madam didn’t take even a second to count the bills before she swiped them off the table into the large sleeve of her robe.
“Did I hear correctly that Hawkeyes paid you a visit today, Baby?”
Your grin faltered. Your brow creased by an undetectable hair.
“He was looking for Sir Crocodile again,” you said, your mouth flicking down a tick. “He left shortly after he realized I didn’t have any information for him.”
“Oh.” Her eyes flicked down. The bills slipped through her fingers. The denominations flashed across her eyes. “That’s not what I heard.” When she finished the pile, she started counting again. “I heard he was on your balcony for the better part of the morning before one of the girls saw you let him in.”
Madam folded the stack of bills with a dull slap, pawing them against your stomach as she leaned back.
“I would be interested to know where his appointment was on the bookings, given this has been his second visit.”
You paused, your heart starting to beat a bit faster.
“It’s exactly what I told you, Mama,” you said quickly. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”
You watched carefully as Madame stood. Her robe slid off the velvet chair, flowing as she walked around the desk. You turned to face her, and her soft touch caressed the sides of your face.
But when you looked into her eyes, you didn’t find the disapproval you were expecting.
“I know you wouldn’t.” She wrapped you up in a tight hug. Madam always smelled like patchouli. “Did you finally make fifty million, Baby?”
You couldn’t help the grin that broke through when she pulled back and clasped her hands around your shoulders. You nodded, and if you’d been made for sentiment, you might’ve cried.
“The whole amount,” you nodded. “Everything I owe.”
Then Madam’s proud smile slipped.
“Speaking of,” she said, and her hands left you as if your skin had turned hot, “that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She turned away and sat back in her velvet chair, the affection folding up neatly and put away.
You stumbled to the edge of the desk.
“Is there something wrong?”
Madam sat straight, shoulders squared, hands clasped on her desk. She’d already stashed the money away somewhere, swallowed up by a drawer and a habit.
“I got word from the Master,” she sighed. Madam leaned back as far as her chair would allow. “Your total’s gone up.”
Four words, and any joy you held went cleanly blank.
“What?” you balked. Your chest went numb, your head began to spin. “Wait, what do you mean?”
“I mean,” Madam started harshly. “your total’s gone up to a hundred twenty million berries.”
“That’s a hundred forty percent increase.” You didn’t even blink. The number rolled off you in a snap.
Madam’s brow twitched. “Do you want it to be a thousand percent?” she asked lowly.
“I don’t understand.” You sucked in a deep breath. Your fingers curled against the edge of her desk. “We agreed on fifty million. I paid you more than that.”
“You caught some expensive eyes,” Madam said, spitting the explanation like an accusation. “Crocodile’s been a well-established regular of yours. Now, Hawkeyes is circling your balcony. Two warlords—sorry, ex-warlords—in the same month, and you think your price stays the same?”
Madame breathed like she was offended. “Now, how is that fair?” she huffed.
Your hands spilled farther onto Madam’s desk, your eyes widening. The specter of what should have been your final payment flickered before your eyes.
“Mihawk wasn’t even my client.” The words came out too fast. “I can prove it. He can tell you himself.”
Madam laughed once, the noise sharp. The skin around her nose wrinkled the slightest bit in disgust. “Baby… do you know how much you cost?”
“One million berries,” you instantly recited.
“One million berries,” she repeated, almost as if reminiscing about the number alone. “And the Master isn’t even asking you to pay off a hundred times what he paid for you. Some of the others will never be able to repay their debts. Do you know how lucky you are that you can buy yourself out at all?”
Her smile returned to the shape you recognized, soft and somewhat patronizing.
“Congratulations, Baby,” she hummed. “You’re a luxury good now. Now, get out.”
***
Crocodile arrived at his appointment at the exact time he always did—down to the minute. You greeted him the same way and poured his drink the exact way he liked it, as usual. Yet Crocodile suspected something was off.
He only got confirmation after the second pour, when you’d slipped out of your outer layers with a quick, somewhat irritated efficiency. You tossed your top carelessly onto his coat. An intricate web wrapped around your body, with overlapping buckles, laces, straps, and ties that looked like they required more than two hands to take off.
At least one more hand than Crocodile had.
“You changed your set.”
Crocodile sat on the edge of the bed, his feet planted on the floor. He set his glass on the nightstand before you climbed into his lap, straddling his thighs. You pressed your hand against his chest to push him back onto the plush sheets, but he didn’t move.
Crocodile cupped the sides of your face, not pinching, not a punishment so much as a firm, possessive hold that focused your attention where he wanted it.
“Now what did I ever do,” he asked, voice low, “to make you so upset with me?”
“You know what you did,” you muttered, trying to turn your nose away. His grip tightened by a fraction, just enough to stop you.
He frowned with flat eyes. Crocodile hardly tolerated disobedience as it was, but now the matter had leaked out of your room into the real world. Familiarity only bought you so much grace.
Your fist was hooked in his shirt, where you’d undone his last button.
“Your friend visited me not too long ago,” you gritted, snapping the last few buttons. “Raised my debt by a hundred forty percent.”
Crocodile’s hand loosened, his fingers trailing down your throat and down the center of your chest before he shrugged his shirt off.
Crocodile whistled softly. “A hundred forty percent, huh?” he repeated as if turning the number over on his tongue.
Only then did he let you push him down against the bed.
You caught his lips before he could say more, only breaking apart to drag his undershirt roughly over his head. His hand squeezed your hip as he bucked up against you. Impatient as usual.
“All he wanted was to know where you were,” you murmured against his lips, raking your fingers through his hair.
Crocodile’s mouth curled, faint and mean. “So that’s why you’ve decided to spite me today.”
His fist curled around the knot that kept your corset tied. “Naughty.”
You pulled back.
“Didn’t even pay me for my time.”
“It’s not like you not to charge,” he said, eyes half-lidded and amused. He wrapped an arm around your waist, keeping you on his lap as he pivoted fully onto the bed.
“Like I said,” you breathed, your hands braced on Crocodile’s broad shoulders. “All he wanted was information on you. Do us all a favor and stop disappearing on him.”
Crocodile’s fingers caught the knot at the back of your corset once more. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, testing how easily it would give. At the very least, you double-knot it.
“So he didn’t touch you,” he muttered, mulling it over. His hook wove behind you, slotting tenderly between the laces. “I find that hard to believe.”
Your fingers dipped under the buckle of his leather belt. “Jealous, Croccy?”
Crocodile’s eyes flickered down to the hand at his belt, then back up, watching you carefully. His hook stayed threaded in your laces.
“Not jealous.” He nearly scowled. “Territorial about what I pay for.”
“He—”
Your words were stolen as Crocodile’s hook swiftly sliced through your corset’s laces. The cold curve of the metal froze the skin of your lower back as your heart skipped for a fraction of a beat.
—“actually had some manners,” you finished, your voice tight.
Crocodile ignored you, peeling your corset off and throwing it somewhere across the floor.
The corners of your lips twitched downward. “I’ll be putting that on your tab.”
His eyes finally lifted to yours, still flat. “Add it,” he said, his hand traveling up your chest. He tugged you forward by the back of your neck. “But take off the time it took me to listen to you talk about another man.”
“You’re impossible.” You scoffed as Crocodile’s lips found the column of your neck. You finally pulled the tip of his belt from the buckle. You popped the button on his trousers, then slowly dragged the zipper down. “I should bill you the seventy million,” you muttered.
His low chuckle felt warm against your skin. “Alright,” he said easily, working down to your collarbone. “Bill me the seventy million. One payment. Done.”
He effortlessly flipped you onto your back, his hook already peeling through the ribbons that adorned your thigh. He sliced through them one by one, each pop signaling another berry he didn’t care about.
“I might want it even more than you do,” he muttered. His voice almost sounded soft.
“My freedom,” you corrected breathlessly.
Crocodile’s hand raked up your side, collecting the sliced lace and leather in his palm.
“For you to not be on sale anymore.” Crocodile’s gaze drifted over your bare skin as his hand traced up the back of your leg, stopping under your knee to lift and angle it where he wanted you. “To anyone.”
“I think we have different definitions of freedom,” you sighed, your breath catching as he settled between your parted thighs.
“You’ll be free,” Crocodile said, his voice low and even. “If you’re mine.”
Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.
I was very inspired by the same playlist I’ve been listening to since I wrote Cherries. Plus “When You’re Good To Mama” from the Chicago Soundtrack.
I have a feeling that this work will lack explicit smut if smut at all. I’m just not that into writing it I care a lot more about the characters and the story. Please no thirst in my inbox.