#silkendandelion

[silkendandelion]

Say My Name (This Time I Will Answer)

A One Piece fanfiction (completed, one-shot), Gift Fic for Mirage In The Desert reaching 2,500 hits on ao3!!

ao3 link

Sir Crocodile x OC (male) Words: 7.6k Genre: Smut, fluff, romance, angst, bottom Crocodile

Rated: Explicit for sexual content, no external warnings apply

In Mirage In The Desert, Crocodile fantasized about a world where he and River met under different circumstances, one conducive to a love they could nurture. So I wrote it. In a world where he never lost his hand, and remained both a swordsman and a pirate captain, he hires a man off a random dock on some unknown island, one who proclaims he’s on pilgrimage from a Paradise island, and is looking for work. Can be read as x reader because River is not described nearly as in depth as the original fic. It can also be read alone from MITD, but might not be appreciated the same way.

Thank you for all of your continued support, and please enjoy 💙 it was so fun to work with Croc and River again, and this one is a personal favorite. Sweet, romantic, soft Crocodile, moonlit swimming, and lots of sauce 💝 have fun you guys

~*~

For all of Crocodile’s love of gold, and the flash of truth in the eyes of his opponents as the arc of his blade reaches it’s apogee, the sea was his first. His greatest paramour, a punishing lover that shouts and thrashes as much as she laves his skin with warm foam, cleansed of lesser men’s blood and graced by a crown of coral while she whispers:

My king.

So he procured a ship. To be close to her, to see a better, wider world than the one he knew, one overflowing with gold and power. He fled his home country on a stolen carrack worthy of his ambition, and filled her with a crew that was appropriately dangerous, loyal enough, who called her La Forza Dorato.

Today, years later and under such a bright sun, he wanted to be nowhere else.

“Captain!” A young crew member called to him, where he stood on the pier. He had already forgotten this one’s name. “Your list is exhausted, Sir. We sail on your command.”

“Immediately.” With only his word, they bustled to begin loosing the sails, and he remained on the dock long enough to light his cigar. His left thumb flicked open the solid gold lighter with a bright ping, while his right shielded it from the passing wind.

Thwip, thwip. But it only sparked. He clicked his teeth, about to bark out an order for one of the crew to hop down and buy lighter oil before they departed, until a man spoke up beside him.

“Need a light?”

An elegant hand with a calloused forefinger offered him a flame, attached to a man younger than himself but certainly not a boy by the creases along his eyes. Strikingly violet eyes among tan skin and dark, expressive brows that matched the mane of thick, black hair draped down his back, pulled neatly into a leather hair cord. Crocodile’s gaze flickered from the silver lighter to the twin swords on his hip, both the same shade of moonlight.

“Thank you,” he replied, polite but curt, and head bowed to accept.

“Is this your ship?” The stranger turned to his boat, wandering nearly onto the ramp until the crew gathered to block him, ready to defend.

“Oh—have I overstepped?” He chuckled nervously—handsomely, Crocodile hesitated to admit—and he nodded to his pirates to relax.

“Only fools wander onto a pirate ship of their own free will. Or stupidity.”

“I assure you, it’s foolishness, really,” the stranger explained. “I’m on pilgrimage from a Paradise island. If you have work for me, I promise to work hard.”

The crew grumbled in a ripple of protests, unimpressed by his fine-tailored clothes and sturdy boots, worthy of an adventure, sure, but only barely broken in. On that, Crocodile agreed, hesitant to entertain any self-proclaimed mercenary who, despite the hand-me-down rucksack slung over his shoulder, smelled of expensive perfume when the wind picked up his long hair.

“Are those swords just for show? Or do you claim to be a professional?” He pulled back his cape with his left hand to show the rapier on his own hip, a golden blade with a spiral hilt, too heavy to be a dress sword and proportionate to his tall, wide body.

“Why don’t you find out? Or are you just the captain?”

Crocodile had killed mouthier fools for less lip, but the mirth in those eyes, dancing among purple firelight and hinting of mischief, made him want to find out. He took a long drag off his cigar to keep from smiling, though it nearly turned into a scowl when the stranger spotted his decision—and had the audacity to grin at him.

Careful, beautiful stranger. Looking at men like that tends to make promises I doubt you could keep.

“You will refer to me as such.”

“Yes, captain,” replied the stranger with a deep, flourishing bow. “River Joel Faustina, at your service.”

“Shall I call you River?”

“Please,” he replied, beaming like his new captain had committed some incredible deed by merely offering him employment. Conditional upon his performance, of which pretty smiles held exactly zero weight. Crocodile rolled his eyes as he gestured for them to board, at the same time his crew were already scattering to enact his anticipated command.

“Let’s go!”

~*~

Crocodile ruled his ship the way he governed his heart: loyalty must be earned, obedience is non-negotiable, and failure often proved to be a fatal mistake. As to why the fool was still alive, even he didn’t know.

Perhaps he found his perseverance endearing, determined to haul sails and throw freight with the brawniest of his crew no matter how it reddened his fingers, his fine clothes beginning to fray with the strain of manual labor. Perhaps it was because Crocodile often forgot himself, unabashedly studying his newest sailor piling all of his hair to the top of his head between orders, and clicking his teeth that he was never wise enough to begin with his hair up. Surely, the ditsy stranger had to know how the loose pieces stuck to his neck in sweat-soaked petals, how the pieces curling around his chin in the humidity were capable to cause insanity.

He suspected a long plot, one where the stranger knew exactly the picture he painted when he stood by the railing to wring his shirt dry, the long line of his back tempting Crocodile to press fingerprints into his skin, until he was love drunk and bewitched, too warm and drowsy to prevent the robbery of more than just his jewels. That in mind, he respected the stranger’s dedication to his scheme, putting in long hours day after day, from his calculated “good morning, captain” at first light, to sending him dark eyes across the fire of the evening, and further flaunting himself across his captain’s restless dreams.

“I don’t like him,” Crocodile declared to no one.

For as long as he’s sailed, Crocodile always ate last, preferring to eat alone, and only after he deemed the day well and truly finished, the sun long gone. Despite his singular statement, containing it’s own beginning and end, the crewmate who poured his ale felt the need to reply. For tonight, on this subject, he would allow it.

“No one does. But, he does as he’s told. So how much can any of us complain?” They shrugged.

“He can’t be trusted.”

“I wonder where he goes every night, when he sneaks out of his bunk like none of us have ears.”

The clatter of Crocodile’s fork to his plate caused the startled crewmate to flinch. A coat of sweat began to dot their pallid skin, as they watched him slowly replace his fork to the napkin. “When would I have learned of these nightly occurrences, if I had not spoken?”

“I-immediately, captain, as—” They swallowed around their tight throat. “The moment I knew what it was the brat was uh—up to.”

”We’ll never know then.”

Crocodile’s rings caught the candlelight in a deadly flash, the promise of a permanent end to their business as he wrenched the crewmate up by his shirt.

“WAIT! You can’t—DON’T—”

A door opening elsewhere startled them both to silence, the cabin perfectly still while they both listened to it close, and the joining patter of feet on the deck. He tossed the man away, suddenly uncaring to enforce his own rules, to the grateful pounding of the frightened crewman’s heart.

“Get out,” he said simply, eyes and ears still trained to the almost imperceptible noise of footsteps.

The man scrambled to leave him alone, dashing off to go through the door they had heard open, while Crocodile ventured the opposite way to the deck. Empty, he believed at first, awash with moonlight and the white noise of the endless sea, enough to rock the ship but not to wake the crew in their beds. Against the railing, he spotted him, the sneak, his face turned to the damp wind, and… standing there?

He waited long breaths for him to reveal a snail phone, communicate to his handler he was getting close to his target, or mark notes in a pocket journal about his plot to fell the rising pirate before he became too powerful—but he only stood there. Basking in the moon, catching spray on his cheeks and gazing out at the sea like he was in love with her too.

Perhaps there was no plot after all, and his newest sailor was simply a fool. Nothing more. For now, there in the dark, damp and awed, he knew only one truth: that he found him beautiful.

~*~

Did he know his captain watched him walk the deck every night? Wondering what he scribbled about in his journal, a salt-stained book with it’s leather worn soft? Does he know he captivates me?

“It’s poetry,” he answered when questioned one morning at breakfast. The pirates at his elbows leaned to see the pages better, and the stranger had little mind to cover up or pretend to be embarrassed.

“What’s a man like you doing out on these seas?” Another one asked.

“I’ve come to see the world,” was his simple reply. “Find a new home, maybe find love.”

From the doorway of the galley, Crocodile blew smoke from his mouth, an olfactory announcement of his presence. The stranger was the only one to raise his head and meet his guarded, golden stare. “You’re a fool for that too.”

He rumbled some warning to the crew about other ship’s in the area, determined to appear indifferent to the stranger’s show of vulnerability, like he hadn’t fled to the sea for the same.

~*~

That night, as Crocodile sat beside the window in his quarters, smoking and thumbing a book without absorbing the pages, he wondered why the fool was late. 18 minutes, according to the golden watch in his pocket.

Tch, he clicked around his cigar, and was about to pour himself a drink when he heard the crew quarter’s door opening.

“A night for star gazing, eh?” He said quietly to no one, seeing the stranger come to the deck without a book or his pen. The night was perfect for such, their ship drifting aimlessly on a glass sea, the air warm and sky clear. His thoughts drifted back to the dark liquor on his desk. Would tonight be the time he went to him with two glasses and a hope fluttering around his insides? He seized the crystal glasses before he lost his nerve, grabbed the neck of the bottle, but—

The sight of endless skin outside the window froze him where he stood.

Once-fine linen pooled around bare feet, and the stranger stepped from their puddle to approach the railing, the night bathing the entirety of his skin a dark, deep blue.

“What is he—wait! Fool!” Crocodile ran from his quarters too late to catch him, just in time to watch him dive over the railing and down into the warm water. Bubbles preceded his resurfacing, among a gasp of delight and a handsome, shamelessly giddy smile.

“What are you doing?” Crocodile scolded down at him, quietly lest the crew wake and his voyeurism be revealed completely. “Are you insane?”

“Oh! Hello, captain,” the stranger replied, wading happily like he wasn’t being glared at by his highest superior. “Would you like to join me?”

“Get back up here—that’s an order. Storms can roll in at a moment’s notice.”

“Sky’s clear, captain. It’s only you and me,” he said, paddling onto his back to show him the planes of his body, chest barely breaking the surface and modesty only partially maintained by the black, shadowed water.

“Do you have any idea the kinds of animals that live in these deep waters?”

Dark eyes find his, and the mesmerized sway of his mind suddenly feels too much like falling over the railing. “I’ll protect you, captain.”

Absurd. Impudent. Brat. Crocodile cursed him repeatedly as he yanked at his clothes. But, with every article he tossed to the deck, his annoyance dimmed, soothed by the promise of warm seawater and a welcoming soul. He dove over the railing, the water parting for his large body in a burst of bubbles that tickled along his skin with the melodious laughter above him. Coming up for air promised the sight of the tempter up close, dotted on every inch of his skin with droplets of diamond—but he found he was gone.

“… Where—,” he gasped, startled at the brush of skin against his legs, and a dark shape darting beneath the rippled surface. What could easily be an expert swimmer or fish revealed itself as a man some meters away when the stranger reappeared. Beneath his wet lashes, he found his own yearning reflected back at him, alongside the same glimmer he saw at the docks all those weeks ago. The one that promised to either transform or drown him.

“If you catch me, you can kiss me,” promised the stranger.

They dove beneath the waves, and Crocodile soon realized he chased a native of the sea, as fast as any animal, breaking the moon beams that shone down through the water with the strong arc of his body to remain just out of his reach. He tumbled over the net of his hands with ease, exciting bubbles around them with his need to tease, to tighten his nimble limbs around the struggling thump of Crocodile’s vulnerable heart.

But Crocodile was also born to the sea, a predator of his own environment, and asking him to give chase was a simple request, as effortless as the yield of the stranger—this siren’s body when he folds into the hands that ensnare him. First, by the gentle grasp around his ankle, then sliding up the length of his legs to hold him in the wrap of his arms. With his delicate organs separated from the predator’s wide palms by only smooth skin dotted with moles, he offered Crocodile the air in his lungs, the warmth of his blood rising to his face as they finally catch their breath.

“Caught you.”

Under the compounding heat of his gaze, the water felt suddenly cool. Their limbs remained intertwined as he realized the only reason he held this creature of the sea—a man with a name, he reminded himself—in his hands, able to feel the thump of his pulse and the puff of his breath across both their lips was because he swam into his net of his own free will. Were he to deem his captain unworthy to touch him, he would have swam to the bottom and drowned him.

Yet here he floated, soft and beguiling, like he might dissolve into foam if Crocodile didn’t kiss him right this moment.

The slam of a door on deck flinched them apart, and Crocodile covered him with his body, despite them both bare, able to be seen completely if only the ripples calmed. Incoherent, sleepy grumbling floated down, among the sound of a zipper.

“How rude. Hey—” River called when a big hand clamped over his mouth, barely heard over the sound of liquid over another part of the railing they couldn’t see. Crocodile kicked them towards the netting along the side of the ship, quiet enough the sailor must have believed them to be fish, and left them alone to wander back to the cabin.

Among the silence, Crocodile realized with devastating clarity, lips still tingling where they had nearly touched, that he could not bring himself to continue.

Nevermind the moment being shattered by a weak bladder, their focus had been elsewhere long enough for Crocodile’s doubt to creep back into his edges. Cold, sour doubt, the worry about his worthiness of love, and wondering if River could smell his weakness. Wondering if he would still want him if he knew the fragility of his heart. Unbecoming, he believed, of a dangerous, cruel, and ruthlessly resourceful pirate. To remain apart was to protect his most vital asset: himself.

“… You should be in bed,” he said quietly.

“But—”

“That’s an order. River.” He couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, not when he might see the breaking of his own heart reflected back at him.

“Yes, captain.”

River climbed the net first, crestfallen, and Crocodile could not even bring himself to admire the back of him as he shed water and fumbled back into his clothes. He took no delight in going back to his quarters, clothes in hand, to lie down alone. Damp hands scrubbed down his face, reaching for a cigar to soothe the sting of his self-inflicted isolation. A punishment? For what, the imagined sins inflicted upon him by people he had already killed?

No, he thought as he flicked open the lighter. For my own weakness. That I replaced the chains of the dead with my own shackles. He does not deserve their weight, and neither do I.

Smoke wafted to the ceiling in lazy plumes, filling his lungs with the blanket of a hard decision.

The next time I hold him, he will have to decide: be mine, or find a new captain.

~*~

“No breakfast today, captain?” A crewmate asked when they were called to fetch his neglected tray and an empty carafe.

“How long until we reach the next island?” Crocodile asked instead.

“Day after tomorrow, captain. Our supplies will hold, despite how much that flimsy swordsman eats.”

He spun his cigar over the ash tray, tired, unseeing eyes scanning the correspondence and notes sprawled across his desk. “Perhaps… he will not be with us much longer.”

“Anything else, captain?”

“That will be all.”

Once his door clicked closed, the silence all but clawed at his nerves. He placed a record on his gramophone, finding comfort in the little band inside the tin speaker, and the weight of his rapier in his left hand. A few practice strokes, precise, gentlemanly, sharp in every way he was also. Were he to lose his hand, his ability to fight, he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t kill him, or worse perhaps, leave him alive.

He wondered if River could love a version of him without his sword, a man who would surely crawl from bloody ashes refusing to die, one who no longer cared to smother his rage. After all, even whole he was still that man. To love someone, to be theirs and keep them, was to love both who they are and who they could become.

A knock at his cabin door tells him the sun had set while he was in his head, the entire day lost to his sword strokes and spinning thoughts. The turning of the knob without his permission tells him exactly who stands on the other side, and River slips between the door and the frame to encroach on his habitat with little care for how he might be received. It clicks shut behind him, at the same time Crocodile’s scolding dies on his tongue.

He stands in night clothes Crocodile had never seen on him, a long linen shirt fluttering around his calves, his body bared as if he were nude by the glowing orange of the lamp light behind him, while his hair and limbs drip seawater onto the floor in gentle patters. The cloth soaks through where it touches his skin, framing goosebumps and tight nipples that perked up on the walk from warm water to the cool, dry cabin.

“Are you going to send me away? Captain?” His quiet voice startled Crocodile from his ogling.

“Why?” He manages with a dry mouth after a moment, and River opens his mouth to reply but he was not finished. “Why do you torment me? What do you want?”

“How do you not know? Can’t you see me?”

The slam of Crocodile’s palms on the short bureau behind River startles them both, caging him between corded arms that strain his dress shirt. He dips, poised to rumble the penultimate question against the warm skin of his neck where his pulse flutters against his lips. Between his legs, Crocodile’s knee keeps him spread, vulnerable, at the mercy of his crazed musings, and squirming as the furniture digs into the give where his rear meets his thighs.

But his question goes unasked. So he decides, as he stands close enough to see his own burning want reflected back in blown pupils, feel the impatient quiver of him against his body, that whatever his answer might be, he needed this night first. One night to begin a lifetime of bliss, or a special, singular night to carry him through.

“River.”

“Yes, captain?” His pink tongue flicks out to wet his dry, bitten lips.

“No. None of that,” he growls in the space between them before surging forward to lock their mouths together, tongues sliding as he grips the back of his thighs to hoist him onto the bureau. Both of them grab and yank at the bottom of River’s shift, hoisting it up to pool in the bend of his thighs so he can cage Crocodile’s waist between his thighs the way he himself is trapped between the hard planes of his body and the wall.

“Captain, we—”

A jeweled hand grabs his jaw, thumb digging into the joint, and keeps them impossibly close to let every letter of his order vibrate in his blushing throat. “Say my name.”

The blushes rises to flood his cheeks, a challenge if Crocodile had ever seen one, to turn his entire body pink to match. “But you said when we first met—I mean, someone will hear us.”

“They would not come through that door even if they believed you were being murdered. Don’t tell me you are shy?” River’s answer comes as an unabashed moan, Crocodile’s reward for sucking hot kisses into the junction of his neck and shoulder while wide, greedy hands knead and pull at the flesh of his hips to drag their erections together through their clothes.

“The man who came to my quarters in nothing but a shift has no right to be shy.”

He hauls him into his arms but does not move to the bed, instead setting him down on the table where his dinner had lain only hours before. The sigh of anticipation that stutters from River’s chest urges him to continue talking, to keep working his body with his voice. All burgeoning promise and smoke, the one that has him leaking into the crumpled mess of his shift with thoughts of Crocodile using those big hands to yank him back into his stroke on every single piece of furniture in the room.

“With the ease you stripped yourself bare to jump into the sea, I do not believe the moon can see any more of you than it already has.” Crocodile’s words were punctuated by shoving his shift up to his chest with one hand, bearing all of him to his hungry gaze as his other hand pulled open the buttons on his shirt. He yanked his belt open to give himself some modicum of relief, sighing hot when thinner hands slipped themselves into his trousers to stroke the clothed outline of his cock. Relief indeed—but tonight, he had no patience for mischief.

”What if someone had seen you?” He reached passed him for the oil (the same bottle he had used to maintain his rapier earlier in the night), and the scent of cloves drifted up from where he hastily slicked his hand. Long, thick fingers briefly massaged the skin behind River’s sack, down over nearly the entire cleft of him until he pressed one inside.

“Or did you want to be seen?”

To the pounding of his heart in his ears, and the rhythmic flex of River’s hands on his shift as he obediently keeps it lifted out of the way, he bullies in a second finger. For all his intent to stay still and let his lover adjust, be tended to, River’s hips squirmed in restless circles, tempting Crocodile to be mean to him with the little moans that puff from his kiss-bitten lips. But, for them to collide in a wave that swallows them both, he needed to hear from those lips he was wanted, even if the answer came ripped from River’s throat in the wail of his ecstasy.

“Answer me.” His fingers continued to drag over sensitive walls, pulling out just to shove back in again, again, pressing to his spot on every entry with an insistent curl. “Did you want to be seen? Eh? Would just anyone do?”

“N-no, I never—they wouldn’t,” he stammered out, his breath stolen by the lightning bolts of pleasure beneath his navel that lit up his entire body. A plea laid across his tongue, ready to be sprung but Crocodile’s fingertips refused to let him breathe enough to confess, like they were intent to keep him drunk and babbling until he could no longer recall excuses.

“O-only you. Only you, Captain, wanted y-you to see me. See me, fuck me—” A loud moan chopped off his words, loud enough to wake someone if not for Crocodile smothering his lips with a wet kiss, sucking on his tongue as he swallowed the cry caused by a third, thick finger. He consumed his sounds with a greed he hadn’t realized he could have for anything but gold, possessed to wring River’s body of every heaving breath and take them selfishly into his own lungs—

Until he had everything he could give.

River’s body rattled, toes curled hard enough to hurt as he wrenched his lips back on a ragged gasp, hips bucking into Crocodile’s soaked palm until he broke on the choked, shameless cry of his captain’s name. He moaned his crest to the ceiling, legs beginning to shake when those fingers refused to stop pistoning inside him. Crocodile almost regretted being so aggressive, but seeing those violet eyes shine with tears, lips equally glossy with drool as he called his name for the entire sea to hear—he wanted to reward him with blinding, wracking pleasure until he could recall no other words.

In the sudden quiet, he reached to soothe him, brushing his palms down his sides and hauling him into his arms to bring him down slow. For a long moment, there was only the sound of slowing breaths, their matched heartbeats pounding against the other’s ribs, until River’s eyes finally peeled open at the beckon of his voice.

“Did I break you?”

His answer came as a surge of energy in a desperate kiss, arms flung around his neck and a mournful sound pressed between his lips. Even through the tears, his eyes shone wetter than before, prompting Crocodile to wonder if he had made a terrible mistake.

“You made me come. Didn’t you—don’t you want me? To be inside me?”

The tight squeeze of his hands on River’s quivering waist dries those tears awfully quick.

“What kind of men have you allowed to touch you, that you would think one is enough?”

He isn’t prepared to watch storm clouds roll into his eyes at his question, elegant hands suddenly gripping into his shirt to shove him back from between his legs. For a shorter man, he carried a strength Crocodile had yet to witness in action, now aimed at himself as he wrestled them down onto the bed to perch above his hips in a tall line that spoke of some kind of pride.

In his miles of moonlit skin he saw it: the threat to be drowned by a man he didn’t fully understand. Yet, it only made Crocodile want more, grabbing for a life preserver in the strong thighs draped over him, and watching River toss his shift somewhere into the dark.

“I’m tired of your questions. Your assumptions to know me, what I’ve done with my body.” Above him, his gaze, the weight of his brow sat open and startingly sober. Among the storm, he found another emotion, the precursor to love, so close to honesty, and yet Crocodile could not identify it as devotion because he had never seen it before aimed at him.

“From the day I came aboard this ship, I never pretended to want anyone else, never hid my intentions. I only ever screamed them if you would bother to look.” He swallowed around his resolve. “You don’t believe me, that I want you? I will show you.”

For all of Crocodile’s hard-nosed affection, his growled demands and confident fingers, the immovable line of him lies willingly supine under the smaller man, long legs parting for him to crawl off his hips and down between his knees.

He looks perfect this way, they think about the other, meaning the way River pulls his endless, black hair to the top of his head with the leather from his wrist, and Crocodile’s wide chest beginning to rise and fall faster, the muscles in his strong jaw clenching and releasing with anticipation River can see plain in the heavy, tight line of his cock against his hip.

The shock of a hot mouth against his tip makes him hiss, soothed by wet kisses along every inch of him that is revealed by River’s hands slowly peeling down his trousers. Momentarily, River ponders undressing him completely so they match, but finds he enjoys too much the sight of Crocodile half undone, shirt bearing his solid torso and lower-half exposed only down to the tops of his thighs. Perfectly disheveled, begging to be consumed, bared perfectly for the moon to see all of him too. Hard evidence it was River’s hands that destroyed him, who cared to reform him.

A telling bead of precum, worked up by River’s ardent staring, tempts him to taste, swipe the tang of him away and lead him between his soft, inviting lips. Crocodile’s answer is a long moan squeezed up from his chest by the squeeze of the throat around him, and betrays exactly how much he’s enjoying himself. His stoic face is unused to being scrunched in bliss by a feverish mouth taking him down to the root with just a few, determined swallows. River takes a moment to hold him there, nose pressed against the dark, neat hair on his pubic bone, for what Crocodile believes to be a breath-stealing, head-spinning eternity—until it’s gone too soon.

He thinks he might lose his temper when that mouth pulls off completely to speak to him.

“You are so much more than I imagined. Oh,” River panted into his skin. Red, slick lips mouth up to his flushed tip to suckle and demand for more precum until it rips a haggard groan from his chest, and Crocodile gives a flushed, pissy scowl, one that demands he stop fucking around.

It hardly frightens the man between his legs, not when Crocodile’s hair has fallen from his meticulous style in damp strands over his cheeks to match the shine of sweat on his forehead. Between his knees, the heat of him nearly steams where River breathes over his sack to roll them around on his tongue too.

Crocodile wants to complain about the crawl they’ve fallen into, demand he pick up the pace, but before he can arrange thoughts on his tongue he’s rewarded by those lips slipping back over him. They fall into an easy rhythm, one that slides hot and tormentingly slow over the entire length of him with every complete bob of River’s head.

A soft, yielding “fuck” flutters out above him, anxious thighs brushing his ears, and River takes the moment to admire the crimson flush creeping into the valleys of Crocodile’s chest, the bob of his swallow around an unguarded groan. Big, sword-calloused hands cradling the curve of his skull are their own reward, as are the little, muffled moans he lets vibrate along the cock in his throat, tempting those hands to squeeze into the roots of his hair.

Crocodile puffs out a quiet chuckle, needing it to be mean but the lack of air in his lungs is a powerful enemy. “Look at you. So haughty and spitting a moment ago. How quickly you’ve become docile for me,” he says, deep in his chest as his jeweled thumb smears a drop of drool away from River’s lip, across his cheek.

Is that how it appears, captain?

River’s eyes flick open, dark as the depths of the ocean that housed creatures more dangerous than either of them, and promising to ruin him on his own pride. They steal the rest of his breath, trading air for lightning in his veins, all while never ceasing the steady rhythm of his head. One of River’s hands, the one that had contented itself to rub over the firm planes of Crocodile’s abs while he pleasured him—suddenly slipped away.

But, Crocodile hardly had the mind to count limbs, not when a tongue prods the hole in his tip, massaging his foreskin and coaxing his eyes to close, assuring him he was the one in control. A pretty thought, pretty as the man who knows the truth, the one collecting his own precum to nudge behind his balls, lower, lower still, and massage over Crocodile’s hole.

His eyes fly open, face suddenly as red as his chest, shooting up to his elbows like River can’t feel him getting even harder against his tongue. “You little—brat—”

“Push me away, then.” That mouth, that smirking mouth lay open to let his cock slap on his glossy tongue. “I’m a swordsman too, certainly no waif, but you and I both know I didn’t lay you down on this bed against your will. If I’ve overstepped—stop me. Tell me to stop, Crocodile, if those rippling muscles have suddenly failed you.”

The pleased chuckle he breathes over the tip of his cock coincides with Crocodile’s surrendering sigh, and the impossibly long line of him falls back to the pillows with the dizzying slide of River’s finger inside him.

“Add another, hurry up—”

“Ah,” he tuts at him. “I will treat you with the care you showed me. Even if you didn’t wait very long at all,” River chuckled again, and Crocodile’s teeth clicking in annoyance turns a huff of pleasure when he gets his request.

He wants to be infuriated at the impudent swordsman for pushing him down and taking liberties with his body, but he can’t feel anything beyond the eager, searing heat that keeps swallowing his semblance of thoughts through his cock, and the expert, clever fingers massaging his inner walls so thoroughly.

River holds back a teasing comment about “who’s docile now” as he opens his eyes to admire him through the tears pooling on his lashes. For all River’s calm voice spoke of control, he knows neither of them can deny their body’s reaction, from his wet cheeks at his throat being filled dutifully over and over, to his hard cock between his legs that throbs as Crocodile writhes on his fingers, long legs restless against the sheets as his sturdy body shakes and cock swells in his throat. Such the cycle continues.

Below him, Crocodile melts on the simmering heat filling his body, threatening to burst from his cock and yet it doesn’t, can’t, as it’s held back by the distracting hand leaving fingerprints on his insides, all over his swelling prostate. He’s in a loop of pleasure, riding higher to a place he hasn’t seen in so long, so out of his reach from atop his throne. And yet here he was, moaning, gasping for air on the sticky, devoted affection of the man who came to his quarters and presented himself first.

The barrage on his senses retreats suddenly, and Crocodile nearly begs for the high, wounded sound he made to remain their secret. Luckily, River looks to have no intention to tease him as he wipes his lips clean with his arm, using his slippery hand to stroke over his own cock. By the glow of the oil lamp, Crocodile can see all four of his fingers shining, but recalls no pain when they had entered him. And they must have, if the openness of his hole is to be believed, felt by a quick touch of his own fingers.

“Why did you stop?” He rasps into the humid air between them.

River answers by leaning over him, hair mostly fallen from it’s quick style, pupils blown as they keep him pinned to the pillows, all while his greedy hands knead at Crocodile’s strong thighs. “Do you believe I want you now?”

Crocodile means to fire back some quick-witted, biting retort, until his thighs are hoisted up, baring his hole and held aloft by deceptively strong arms.

“I’m sorry you haven’t come yet… Would you believe that I want you if I had let you come in my mouth, showed your seed to you on my tongue before I swallowed it?”

“You are…” Crocodile growled out, golden eyes equally blown as his hands grabbed at the sheets. “A cruel, impudent little thing.”

The calloused hands on his thighs flex. “Cruelty recognizes itself, Crocodile, and I think you need better proof of my intentions.”

“I believe you.”

His ragged gasp as he breathed in, so unlike the Crocodile that strangled control from every aspect of his life down to his pleasure, desperate and—if River was anymore bold—vulnerable, had them both snapping to each other's gaze. For a moment, only the sound of the ocean outside filled the warm room.

“I believe that you want me, and I want you. Beautiful River, handsome poet, I want you, so—” Any more words were swallowed by the moan in his chest as River surged forward, bracing his hands beside his ribs and pressing his cock inside in one firm thrust.

River’s hips meeting his stretched rim comes with Crocodile’s big hands on his body, one in his hopelessly lost hair bun, the other on his lower back to feel his muscles clench and twist. “Come on, you wanted to show me proof. Or is this pretty face the extent of you? Your pretty cock—”

He’s interrupted by the throw of his hips, an honest moan worked up from both of them when River grabs at the mattress for leverage to work Crocodile’s body harder than his fingers could ever hope.

“I am more than this pretty face,” he pants over him, one hand leaving the bed to grip his thigh and spread him wide to bury himself even deeper. “More than the swords at your disposal. I will ruin your body, your soul.”

Crocodile’s head, also hopelessly mused from it’s style, presses to the pillow with the force of his hard, steady strokes. Quiet, panting moans leave his lips in rising succession. He touches River’s bicep where one of his arms keeps him braced, fingertips scratching him gently in a way that might have been reserved for admiration if not for the drop of drool that escaped his clenched teeth. Breathing is so hard suddenly, when he can easily look down to see the poet’s pretty cock disappear inside him, his own lying neglected and useless in a puddle of it’s own pre against his stomach.

He can’t help but be impatient, especially after being denied his orgasm down River’s throat, and reaches down to stroke himself off. His breath rises again, shorter, more labored as River shifts his knees to match his attention to Crocodile’s prostate with his wrist’s efficient, choppy rolls.

“That’s it, come on. Come for me,” River coaxes him, voice rising, whining and urgent like he was the one approaching orgasm and it flings Crocodile over the edge with a punch to his diaphragm that comes out as a deep, cracked groan. His vision blurs for long moments, white and crackling at the edges, until he comes back to himself to realize the rhythmic thumping against his flank has not ceased. River’s still at it, dragging him out of the dredges of over-sensitivity and back on the road to another, stronger orgasm.

Perhaps he will drown him anyway.

“I’m sorry it look so long for you to come, but I—,” River swallows around his dry mouth, “I will make you come again, I promise.”

“You stupid poet, you beautiful—” His words hold no bite as they wheeze from his wet lips, choking on air when River threads his elbows behind his knees to spread him wider, impossibly so as he leans over him to capture his lips.

He feels himself blush to be pressed completely open, River’s soft thighs rubbing against the skin of his hips to fuck him slower, deeper than he had before, the length of his cock dragging against Crocodile’s most sensitive places for the entirety of his stroke. It made kissing nearly impossible, not when the overworked neurons in his brain are firing off at a rapid pace and his body has begun to melt into the sheets.

“Kiss me, please, I need you,” River whimpered against his tongue, like he didn’t have him folded in half, moaning on his cock and golden eyes dripping tears down his temples and into his hair. Crocodile seized him to bring them chest to chest, one hand tangled in his hair, the other gripped on his rear to press the shape of his rings into his heated skin. Dizziness crept into his vision, he knew he was flying too high, only able to wrestle a few words from his vocabulary beyond the fluttering in his chest and the boiling just beneath his skin.

“Mine, all mine. Always,” he panted, his glassy eyes causing River to wonder if he meant him or his cock. The lightning in his belly begged it was the former.

“Yes, yours. No one else’s. Only you, captain, it’s always been you,” He moaned out, nearly a sob as Crocodile’s head flopped uselessly to the pillow. In the fog of his cooked consciousness, he still felt River’s forehead press to his temple, mouth hot near his ear, begging his words to be heard clear and coherent among the humid air between them.

“I’m yours, Crocodile, only yours for as long as I live.” The rhythm of his thrusts wavered as Crocodile’s mouth dropped open, dumbfounded to feel him swell even harder inside him, right against his sweet spot. “Command me, fuck me, use me as you wish.”

The storm rising beneath his ribs burst suddenly, flooding his body to the tips of his fingers and toes, his internal muscles squeezing unbidden, and they both call each other’s name over the ocean rushing in their ears. To Crocodile, it felt so different from the orgasm he had impatiently wrung from himself earlier, hand stripping his cock while he allowed River to sweeten the deal with his dutiful stroke. But this, this, River was in control of his pleasure, fucking it deep from within the most molten parts of his core and pushing him impossibly higher with every hungry, obedient thrust.

The sweet, keening moan above him is a treat, along with the last pleas of stuttering hips pumping him deep with a liquid heat that sweeps his insides to the corners of his soul. An apology, he thinks, for the ache in his hips as River finally lets his legs fall to the side.

He contemplates scolding him, picking the pieces of his pride off the floor to remind the other man he did not have permission to come inside him, until a muted thump to the mattress captures his attention first. Beside him, River lies bathed in moonlight, wearing his sated flush like a silk chemise, and decidedly too endearing to shout at. He sighed at length, supposing he earned it, after coaxing him to come twice on his cock and hard enough the second time to hit his own face with his seed.

But who would he be if he didn’t complain a little?

“Ugh. You come into my room, make a mess of me and my bed. I don’t suppose you intend to clean up after yourself, do you?”

“Shall I use my tongue? It will only take a moment.” River jumped up to lean over him, beginning to suckle the semen off his abdomen with a happy hum, to Crocodile’s flustered outrage.

“Outrageous, mischievous—hrn.” A strangled sound fell from his tired lips when the tongue moved to lap at his hole, interrupted by Crocodile’s firm hand in the roots of his hair. He dragged him back up for a kiss, tasting himself in their shared sigh, and a fond calm settled over them as they parted with a wet sound, not unlike the waves after a storm.

Crocodile anchored his stare by the firm grip on the back of his neck. “Did you mean what you said?”

“Every word.” River answered without hesitation, and let their foreheads gently thump together. “Do with me as you wish. Forever.”

“Promises like that, to a man like me, are liable to breed hatred eventually. You will come to resent me.”

“No, I won’t. Not this time.”

He wants to ask him what he means, why his gaze is so calm, as if he’s come home from a long journey. Maybe he’ll ask him one day. But not now, when their skin is so warm where their sides brush, and the ocean outside is quiet.

#one piece #sir crocodile #sir crocodile smut #sir crocodile x oc #sir crocodile x reader #sir crocodile x male reader #x reader #x oc #bottom sir crocodile #oc x canon #oc x reader #male reader #original character #male original character #ao3 fanfic #oc fanfiction #mirage in the desert #if you read my story mirage #silkendandelion #silkenspeaks #latino oc

[quinloki]

What are your headcanons for OP blorbos country of origins?

Cuz I know Oda did a little bit of this, saying Luffy is meant to be Brazilian, I think Nami is Swedish, but the cast is huge! My OC River’s from Panama, and I headcanon Ace as American (cuz of the cowboy thing)

But like, where would Marco be from? And there’s so many others

Also, sending healing waves to your shoulder 🌊🌊📡👋🏼 get well soon!

Marco has a kind of Latin/Islander vibe to me. Not necessarily native to either locale, but kind of (sadly) abandoned there and grew up on the fringes of a culture he didn’t fit 100%, but that brings him comfort. His terms of endearment are often in other tongues, and his swears are a mixed bag of vernacular from various places. Not having any foundation that felt like his he’s just kind of adapted what suited him. (He’d make a great spy, honestly)

I like Ace as American, I can see that working. Second generation kid whose maybe more into American pop culture westerns because his parents died when he was super young and he didn’t get to learn about their/— Okay that was a depressing line of thought.

Moving on.

XD

Ah, thank you for sharing your head canon and your Oc \o/

#quin answers #silkendandelion #ask me anything

[ask-dream-world]

We both have OCs named River and I think that’s cool as hell 👍🏼

OH HELL YEAH!!!! OCS NAMED RIVER GANG :D

#answered #silkendandelion #mun speaks #river #( op you should show me your blorbo named river :eyes:

[silkendandelion]

Mirage In The Desert (completed), A One Piece fanfiction

Sir Crocodile x OC (male) Words: 70.4k Genre: Drama, angst, smut, fluff

Summary: Keep your friends close and enemies closer. But how close do you keep a liability? In the time leading up to Operation Utopia, Crocodile employs an Alabastan local in Baroque Works.

Rated Explicit for sexual content (Chapters 1, 2, 6), moments of graphic violence and death, mentions of suicidal thoughts (8) and toxic relationship dynamics. Rating changes published per chapter.

Cross-posted to ao3, same username, here. Thank you for reading, and as always, please enjoy.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Snippets

#one piece #sir crocodile #sir crocodile x oc #oc fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #mirage in the desert #silkendandelion #original character #long fic #male reader #sir crocodile smut #bottom male reader #x oc #one piece x oc #latino oc #bisexual oc #sir crocodile x male reader #sir crocodile x reader

[silkendandelion]

Don't Waste My Time (Please)

A One Piece fanfiction (completed one-shot), prequel to All This For A Coin, ao3 link

Trafalgar Law x OC (male) Words: 2.5k Genre: Angst, drama, AU world-building

Rated Teen and Up Audiences for brief descriptions of violence, blood, and discussion of slavery in the context of the Saboady Archipelago Arc

Over the timeskip, Law spent 2 years sending letters back and forth with a new revolutionary, someone he hesitated to call a friend for a long time. He wonders how close they would have become, had he thrown away that first letter, like he planned.

Or: Law and River had a rocky start to their relationship, years in the making, not for either of their faults, but possibly for lack of trying.

AN: The plan is for this to be the start of a new series for the timeskip, fleshing out the OC's places in the world, including Aurelio's backstory, River's relationship with Law, and the possible events of the Rocky Port Incident 👀

~*~

He almost threw the letter away.

“Captain? What’s it say? Who’s it from?” Bepo asked, his furry brow wrinkled in worry.

The paper was flawed, containing a repeating mark from a poorly maintained (or damaged) press, and even at arm’s length Law could smell the expensive, bergamot-heavy perfume that had soaked into it’s curled edges on the long journey from sender to ship. It fell open in a long ribbon, folded in on itself at least twice to fit in the envelope, and he clicked his teeth at such a lengthy correspondence from a stranger.

Quick skimming revealed the rambling affection of a member of the Revolutionary Army, he believed, one he had treated after the Battle of the Best. A thank you note, he realized with a start. Thinking back, he hardly struggled to recall that long, chaotic day, the difficult surgeries that followed, and his unexpected patients. Guests, he hated to admit.

“Get on! Quickly!” He had shouted over the deafening roar of the battle, swords clashing and cannon fire. For Law, his target, Monkey D. Luffy, lay limp and bloody in Jinbei’s arms, exhausted beyond defeat and all but broken. The fish-man was rightfully skeptical of neither submarine nor captain he recognized, even as he hung half-useless in Buggy’s arms, who was currently the only reason they hadn’t plummeted to the freezing ocean below. But with Akainu recovering behind them, sure to be back in the fight the moment he dealt with the revolutionaries that volunteered to hold him off—he had less than seconds to decide.

From the deck, Law and the Heart Pirates watched the surrounding Marine ships preparing their guns.

“Do you want both of you to die?!” He tried again. “I’m a doctor.”

Buggy shook his head. “This doesn’t feel right, Jinbei, maybe we should—”

“Put us on the submarine.”

“THINK about it longer, maybe?!” Buggy gave a tired huff, and pitched him towards the vague direction of the submarine’s deck.

Meanwhile on the ice shelf, Aurelio’s lungs burned, all but seared and stuck to his ribs from closing the distance between himself and Akainu. One after another, he and his friends had been defeated, half-charred and perforated as they used the last of their strength to push the Admiral back. With the Whitebeard pirates scattered and the marines pushing forward, the fact Aurelio was concious was the only reason anyone stopped to collect what was left of the little band of revolutionaries.

He knelt to feel for Iva and Inazuma’s pulse, smearing blood where he touched but finding them alive. Behind him, River lay all but gone, having passed out when Aurelio cauterized his wounds. In both their defense, Aurelio had warned him it might be too much.

Materializing in a whirl of sand, Crocodile appeared to kneel by River’s side, locating the weak pulse in his gentle grasp on his wrist. He meant to speak, some sigh of relief he lived, but was instead forced to dodge Aurelio’s rokushiki, his shave to get close and a bullet of light from his finger, close enough to nick his face.

“Get AWAY from him!”

Still reeling from his own wounds, Crocodile found he had no strength to smother his rage at being chased away like some common criminal. Though, for all his screaming bruises and sore muscles, the part of his brain that relived his mistakes was all too ready to remind him why. Why Aurelio looked at him with bloodshot eyes and bared teeth, promising of nothing but an impending death if he took so much as a step towards River.

He lowered his hook. “He needs a doctor, or he’s going to die!”

“I’m working on it. When he’s awake, he can choose to talk to you all he wants, but when he’s vulnerable—you deal with me.”

Aurelio had expected a biting retort from the former warlord, appropriately venomous, perhaps coated in his own promise to settle their differences at later date in hate and sand—but all he received was calm. Crocodile stood at his full height a few feet away with arms lowered, his golden gaze empty of all but compliance.

“Do not let him die.”

“You don’t get to ask me that.”

To Aurelio, the unwavering stone of Crocodile’s mask was just more proof the ill will he harbored was deserved in all it’s unfiltered fury, but to it’s owner said that of all the hateful truths he could possibly spit at Crocodile—the man had already laid them upon himself.

They parted in silence, and Aurelio carefully stacked all three revolutionaries in his arms to carry them with his sky walk off the forsaken battlefield, towards the submarine in the harbor. On the deck, Law was shouting for them to submerge, his crew having already carted Luffy down to surgery.

“Captain! Look!” Bepo called to him, pointing at the sky towards the battered Aurelio and his armful of unconscious friends.

Crowded by the smell of salt and gunpowder, and as pressed for time as they were, Law had no reason yet to hear him. “We’re leaving, I don’t know who that is—”

“That is the strangest way to beg for your life.”

The crew and captain whipped around to face him, take in his desperate stare and arms beginning to shake, legs nearly to failure where he held their combined weight in the air. Blood dripped over his knuckles where one of their wounds wasn’t holding. “You remember us from Saboady, yet you would turn us away? Doctor Trafalgar Law?”

“This isn’t a lifeboat, and I don’t answer threats—”

“So take them!” He shouted, voice hoarse from calling his friend’s names, each one louder than the last as he watched them fall to Akainu. “I’ll be fine, I always am, but they deserve to live!”

Law recalled Aurelio and River from the auction house, how River had stood up in a crowded room and offered every berry he had (which was millions at the time), to buy the freedom of the Oasin who knelt on the stage.

“Only 800 in the entire world, the Oasin is a beautiful addition to any collection, best displayed how they live in the wild, studded with gold and dressed in blue,” the auctioneer had said.

He remembered the fight that followed, of Jean Bart saying goodbye to the Oasin as River gave her the money, what looked like all of it, and a kiss on the forehead that must have tasted like his tears.

They spoke for the first time after he watched Aurelio rest his friend against a tree in the heat of the battle, alone where he believed he would be safe, suddenly off to fight again with just a few comforting words Law couldn’t hear.

“Hey.” Law shook him, gently. “Wake up. Are you all right?”

River’s eyes had peeled open, surprised to see a stranger above him. “You’re the doctor from the posters. The rookie pirate Rayleigh spoke about.”

“I guess. Are you hurt?”

“Oh no, I’m okay,” he smiled, drowsy and sore. “I got caught up in some trouble recently, and haven’t healed yet. Aurelio’s definitely going to scold me when he gets back. He cares so much.”

Law combined both his memories with the man before him, the distress rolling off him in waves, the pile of broken revolutionaries he carried with what looked to be the last of his emergency reserves.

“Come on,” he jerked his head to signal Aurelio was clear to board. “Hurry!”

“Do you know them?” Jinbei asked Law as they all rushed inside, washed by the rotating red lights that signaled the submarine was beginning it’s descent.

“I’m not going to let them die,” was his answer, one Jinbei readily accepted.

After a deceptively short pursuit and hours upon hours of touch-and-go surgery, Law finally allowed himself some rest. In their rooms, all the wounded were cared for, sleeping, including the revolutionaries, Jinbei, Luffy, even Ikkaku who had sprained her wrist during the chase.

He sat down heavy into his desk chair and tossed his hat aside, right onto the stuffed owl who sat on his pillow.

His hat flew up, suddenly thrown by the startled owl who was decidedly not stuffed—also yelling now—and his frightened shout rang off the metal walls almost loud enough to wake the entire submarine. Loud enough Bepo came running to check on him, not just because he knew exactly what had scared his captain to crack his voice.

“Captain! This is Rinai. She was complaining—” The owl squawked in offense. “Sorry! She informed me the others were snoring too loudly, and she needed a quiet place to rest. After all, your quarters are the quietest place on the ship. I meant to tell you but I forgot, captain, we’ve all been awake for so long.”

Law curled all his limbs away from the perturbed owl who sat on top of his books now, smoothing her feathers where his hat had ruffled her. “… Not in my bed,” he insisted.

“I’ll bring you a pillow, miss.” Bepo bowed his head politely to the owl and went off to find her a suitable replacement.

After a few moments, footsteps wandered back into the open doorway, and Law expected it to be Bepo except for the soft, tired voice that spoke up was easily not the polar bear. “Oh? I’m lost again, this isn’t the bathroom.”

He looked up from where he had nearly fallen asleep sitting up, to find River staring at him expectantly. Law had never seen him so haggard, his dirty hair pushed away from his face, albeit brushed somehow, and a dark, achingly purple bruise around one of his striking violet eyes.

His hands briefly scrubbed down his face. “It’s fine. I’ll show you.”

Law paused as he stood from his chair to gape at him. “Is that MY robe?”

“Hm?” River touched his bandaged chest with equally dressed hands, bared by the loosely tied, plaid robe (royal blue) that threatened to fall off his shoulder where he touched the door frame.

“Shachi gave this to me when I asked for something to wear. Rinai keeps most of my clothes in her pocket, but she’s asked to not be disturbed.”

He knew his face must betray how little River’s statement cleared up any of his multitude of questions—but he was handedly too tired to seek answers. How far away was the nearest island, anyway? Maybe they had a dinghy big enough for them all? So he might get some peace.

“I—fine.” He rubbed his eyes. “Let me show you the way to the bathroom.”

When they reached the end of the metal hallway, River spoke up. “Uh, doctor?”

“Hm.” Law grunted his vague attention, and he turned to notice the formerly extroverted, bright revolutionary stood a few paces behind him, downright wilted. Perhaps he was just exhausted or… maybe shy? That certainly didn’t fit with Law’s current perception of him, the showy mercenary and resolute pillar of his people.

With River’s bare feet shifting on the cold, metal floor, they no longer stood eye to eye, and Law waited patiently for him to speak, looking down the couple of inches difference between them.

“I want to thank you, you know? You saved all of our lives, Aurelio told me how many hours it was to treat all of us. My words are all I have, unfortunately.”

“Yeah, you bankrupted yourself on Saboady.”

River perked to attention, visibly fluffed in his realization. “You saw that?”

“Everyone did. I don’t want your money anyway.” His boots shifted in a mirror of River’s previous fidgeting, bordering on uncomfortable at both the ardent praise and River blocking his path of retreat to his room.

River beamed at him suddenly, his smiling cheeks flinching where they pulled on his bruise. The answering twinge of Law’s heart worried him, it felt too much like a murmur, bordering on full panic.

“You’re incredible, doctor. I used to think pirates only cared about money. I thought ‘How can there be a doctor among them, aren’t they bound by an oath of selflessness’? But you and Luffy continue to surprise me. I’m finding I quite like pirates, actually.”

Law’s neck and face flooded with a blush, his uncomfortable frown twisting back and forth. “Don’t get the wrong idea, I just know you’re broke. And I should have charged you double for the way Aurelio spoke to me.”

“He just cares so much, but I understand. I’ll apologize on his behalf then,” he bent in a poor imitation of his usual flourish, only able to bow until his bandages pulled tight, “I am so sorry, Dr. Trafalgar Law. And thank you again. From all of us.”

“Get—out of here,” he grumbled, shouldering him out of the way to get back to his room where he wouldn’t be bothered by earnest mercenaries with soft hearts. “You shouldn’t be out of bed with your injuries, anyway.”

“Yes, doctor.” River smiled at his back.

‘And call me Law!’ There came a vague shout among the slam of a door, after he had already turned out of sight down the hall.

In spite of how his heart had raced back then, now Law frowned down at the letter with only bruised, embarrassed disappointment. He flipped it back and forth, recalling his new perception of River, the man that wanted his chest to tighten because it was all part of the plan.

It wasn’t hard for him to find what the underworld had to say about River Faustina, called “Kingfisher” where bounty hunters were concerned. Named for a hunting bird, Law found no one willing to refute the idea that the mercenary was equally a hunter: beautiful and sharp, unafraid to manipulate powerful people until his wants and desires fell out. Whatever he wanted from the Revolutionary Army, Law decided that wasn’t his problem, but the gentle, soft smile he cast up at him while wearing his clothes, was.

He took a moment to examine the innocently plain envelope, signed with the same flourishing hand as the letter. “It’s a letter from those revolutionaries we treated after Marineford. Nothing I have to answer,” he replied to Bepo, and folded the letter to put in his pocket.

But when he went to crumple the envelope, it didn’t give completely. Inside, turned out to his open palm, was a poker chip, carved with a red heart on the opposite face and belonging to some bar he didn’t recognize by name.

He recalled the last lines of the letter. “I’m working on getting my finances back, so watch your mail. Do you like hearts? Or is it a coincidence?”

“What’s wrong, captain?” Bepo inquired again, as Law slipped the chip into his pocket beside the letter.

“It’s nothing to worry about, Bepo. Let’s not waste our time.”

#don't know if i should tag mirage readers #since the couple has changed #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar law #trafalgar law x oc #x oc #oc fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #writing #one piece #one piece fanfiction #fanfiction #original character #male original character #silkendandelion #silkenspeaks

[silkendandelion]

Mirage In The Desert - Chapter 1

A One Piece fanfiction, Table Of Contents

Sir Crocodile x OC (male)

Words: 70.4k

Genre: Drama, angst, smut, fluff

Summary: Keep your friends close and enemies closer. But how close do you keep a liability? In the time leading up to Operation Utopia, Crocodile employs an Alabastan local in Baroque Works.

Rated Explicit for sexual content (Chapters 1, 2, 6), moments of graphic violence and death, mentions of suicidal thoughts (8) and toxic relationship dynamics. Rating changes published per chapter.

Cross-posted to ao3, same username, here. Thank you for reading, and as always, please enjoy.

~*~

“Sir, dinner is ready. Shall I prepare the dining hall?” Crocodile looked up from his paperwork to see the servant in his doorway. He blew smoke between them, already calculating how much work he had left, and the unusually calm air of the evening.

“…It’s quiet.”

“Yes, Sir, it is.” Crocodile raised an eyebrow, and the servant scrambled to catch up to the conversation.

“Pardon me—no one has seen Mr. Faustina since breakfast. Perhaps he has gone to Oasis?”

“Doubtful, King tide is tomorrow. Serve dinner in my study. Chill the wine.”

“Yes, Sir,” They said as Crocodile arranged his papers and went for his coat.

Raindinners might have been the face of nightlife in Rainbase, but on a quiet weekday night the secluded waterways behind the property felt akin to a private island. Winding paths of water gave enrichment to the Bananawani, and a few were just narrow enough they were relatively safe for swimming. Stone overhangs and imported trees kept it shaded from the relentless sun and automatic lights were triggered by sunset to illuminate crystalline mosaic floors.

It only barely reminded him of his home island, but the saltwater swims were the most comfort River had found since coming to the city almost a year prior.

Crocodile approached the shore to see him hoist himself out of the water with toned arms, waves stuck to his dripping skin as he let the water run off him in sheets. Droplets ran down the muscles of his abdomen, clinging to his jewelry and holding his swimsuit flush to his hips. The warlord wanted to mention how much his hair has grown in only nine months but feared to break the facade they built for when others could see them; a false image River shattered whenever he did things like removing his bottoms in broad daylight while any one of the staff could come outside and see Crocodile there too, incriminating, trying to look nonchalant like a pervert would.

“I scrubbed the Bananawani. Could really use a bath,” River said as he pulled fresh bottoms up his legs. He redressed while Crocodile lit a fresh cigar, failing to look nonchalant.

“Dinner first. You’ve been out here all day, and I doubt you’ve nibbled off the Bananawani’s plates.”

“It’s funny, Coco keeps trying to share with me. I’m not sure how long I can keep pretending to accept until I hurt his feelings.”

“Just don’t be in the water when he figures it out.”

River’s laugh alerted the servants to their return, and most took great care to not be noticed watching the pair as they walked together. There were already plenty of rumors about the handsome man from Alabasta’s territory island of Oasis who came to Raindinners nine months ago. They speculated his involvement in Crocodile’s business, how it related to Oasis’ position in the tumultuous political climate, but they all knew for sure the two were involved. Crocodile’s rules of touch were absolute, yet curious eyes could sometimes catch him pushing a curl behind the other man’s ear, rest a hand on his back, or nudge his chin for a kiss—what the servants assumed would be a kiss were the pair not so quick to catch wandering eyes.

But no one scolded them this time, and anyone who walked by could see the pair waiting for the elevator, arm in arm.

In Crocodile’s suite, his guest immediately spotted the papers in piles on his desk. “I’m not the only one who spent the entire day working.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt as he popped open the wine. “Your fascination with the Bananawani can hardly be called a job when I don’t pay you. And if I was your boss, we’d have to talk about the amount of time you spend sunbathing on the clock.”

“You are my boss.”

“You’re not on the clock.”

He cleared his throat when he saw River lean over his desk, mindful to keep his wet hair away from the documents that were sorted into categories but otherwise on display.

“What? Is it a secret? I saw Mr. 2’s name, I have some right to snoop when it involves my partner. Are we being deployed soon?”

“You’ll get your briefing when they do. We’re having dinner.”

River sauntered back to the table to see him trying to look unbothered, spinning a ring on his finger and wearing what he might have called a pout if his patience wasn’t already thin. Dinner was an important ritual for them, especially when they had neither seen nor heard from each other all day long. And Crocodile didn’t care to wait at all, let alone while he watched his insouciant lover meander around his apartment like he didn’t visit every day.

“...Crocodile.”

“Hm.”

River went passed his empty chair to get into the warlord’s space, placing a knee on the chair between his legs and reaching out to begin folding back the sleeves on his dress shirt. First his good hand, then his left, and Crocodile flinched when the cold metal of his hook brushed River’s thigh like he was the one spooked by it’s chill. When River finally began undoing the cravat at his neck, he spoke.

“What are you doing?” He said quietly, a fond rumble in his chest at the way his lover dressed him down. Were they a normal couple in a less complicated life, Crocodile could easily imagine those hands taking off his shoes after work, offering a variety of comfort after hours away.

His cigar rested in the ash tray while the Oasin leaned over him with intent, eyes lidded and the soft sweeps of his neck and chest close enough to see his heartbeat. Crocodile felt his pants tighten, it would only take one hand to pull River onto his lap and hold him still while he tasted the hollows of his collarbones, he knew from experience they tasted like almonds—

“Dinner is supposed to be a relaxing activity. You look a bit high strung.” A single, playful finger gave his belt a tug.

River’s ribbing was cold water on his lust, and he pinched his smirking cheek as he finally stepped away. He finished dressing down in his room, meanwhile his lover waited patiently for the click of him removing his hook, the muted sound of it placed on it’s cabinet.

Distracted by the wine, he didn’t hear him come back, making a startled hiccup when cool lips stole a kiss from the side of his neck, jeweled hand holding his jaw.

“Eat your food,” Crocodile said in his ear, a quiet thunder that commanded obedience and sent a shiver down River’s spine. His eyes followed the hand that released his neck, and he watched Crocodile lower himself into his seat, fatigued by an invisible burden.

He looks exhausted. River thought as he sipped, finally finding his fork and pushing down questions he knew would go unanswered.

They ate in a comfortable silence despite the way River inhaled all three courses before Crocodile even finished his palette cleanser between one and two. At the risk of their manners, he poured him another glass of wine.

“I saw Goillard’s poems in your bag. Have you finished it?”

River swallowed and nearly sloshed his cup in his burst of excitement. “I finished it this morning, I couldn’t put it down. Coco got frustrated because I read too long and his brushing came late.”

“He’s needy because you spoil him.”

They talked until the sun was long gone, lounging on the parlor sofa until they ran out of wine and wandered back to the study for dessert. Dessert became, “Let me take care of you tonight”, and Crocodile pulled away from cardamom-flavored kisses to remember he was supposed to have gone back to his papers after dinner.

“Am I that bad a kisser you remembered now? Maybe I should skip a few steps.” River went to slip off his lap and onto the floor between his knees when he felt him grab his arm.

“You’re distracting. Take off your clothes.”

“I don’t think that will make me less distracting.”

Crocodile allowed the shorter man to pull at his clothes but he only got him half dressed, distracted by his lover’s broad chest. A bold tongue lapped at his nipples, leaving Crocodile painfully hard in his slacks by the time he pulled his mischief maker away by a firm hand in the roots of his hair.

“Sensitive.” River licked his lips, a satisfied grin almost muting the huff of pleasure he made when Crocodile jostled the hand that restrained him. He thought about scolding him but couldn’t find the ire, pleasantly warm and treated to the sight of River as wound up as he was, tenting his robes and squirming to be set free.

“Don’t make me wait, Crocodile, I haven’t seen you all day,” River pleaded quietly, pressing their bare chests together where they were still half dressed and growing disheveled. The warlord obliged at a cost, releasing him only when their lips met. Crocodile’s slow, thorough tasting of his tongue kept him distracted, tame enough to carry, and he tossed him onto the unmade sheets from that morning.

“I’m sorry I never made it to the bath.” River moaned when he felt teeth and a tongue sucking a mark into his neck, crowded into the pillows by his larger lover.

In rumpled sheets and docile violet eyes, Crocodile found himself helpless to a heady cloud of bergamot, starfruit, and salt. He kissed him until their tastes melded, breathing deep and holding him in his lungs until his chest ached. His wide palm swept over damp skin in greedy pulls, pressing them together until lavender marks bloomed in pairs. Teeth followed his tongue down River’s neck and into the collarbones that distracted him, leaving soothing licks to reward the whimpers that followed his teeth marks, and the whispering of their clothes finally slipping to the floor.

River never complained about any of the love bites, hopelessly soft for the way Crocodile never marked him hard enough to last more than a day, just enough he could feel his blood rise to the surface and throb against his teeth with the heartbeat in his throat and in his dick. But he was as vocal in his pleasure as he was in everything else, making demands of the warlord in that impudent, saccharine voice and being so eager to please in return.

“I want you to suck me off. Please, Crocodile, won’t you?” He squirmed and Crocodile wondered if the Oasin would even last for it, nerves already tingling, dick leaking and smearing all over his belly from his restless wiggling.

“How could I refuse such a sweet request?” He inched his thumb into River’s panting mouth just to hear his mewl, circling his tongue and already planning to ask for the favor returned.

The heat over River’s body retreated first before it came back as a tongue sliding up the underside of his cock. He gasped to the ceiling, head pressing back into the nest of pillows while the tongue meandered across his skin. He reflexively grabbed at the pillow with one hand, the other combing Crocodile’s hair out of its style while his thighs shook around his ears. The perturbed crinkle in his brow attempts to deter River’s petting but he can’t manage to look terrifying with his mouth full, and his own cock is starting to ache at the sounds they make together.

Sweet whimpering, the wet slip of Crocodile’s rhythm, and his own moans that rumble in his chest, keeping River restless under such thorough attention to every inch of him. Crocodile enjoyed his over-stimulation far too much to hold him down, more than confident in his ability to handle one man’s wiggling while he pleasured him. Neither of them ever lasted long for oral anyway, always too occupied with the pretty picture the other made, of either the islander with a sun-kissed face that only ever ended up wet and messy between his thighs, or the warlord that was never satisfied until he had every drop his lover could give.

“You always feel so good, Crocodile. Please, I—I’m gonna cum—don’t—please, I’m—Ah!” River gasped and yelped to the ceiling, the arch in his back supported by Crocodile’s palm when he came down his throat, sure that he was holding his lover’s hair too tight but unable to let go. Crocodile merely hummed and let him come down slowly, cleaning him in the silence with his tongue.

The impossibly soft swipes of his palm over River’s belly and chest were calming, soothing, hardly indicative he was already planning his rebuttal. His lower back was beginning to complain, and his left shoulder certainly wished he would right himself, but his cock still hung heavy, a deep, throbbing red from watching him come apart, and he would sooner jump in the lake than let the beauty against his pillows leave without being thoroughly enjoyed.

“We can stop here if you want. You look tired,” He rumbled, hoarse and teasing as he pressed a nip of a kiss to his hip. It might kill him, his dick would certainly perish, but he would jump in the lake or worse if only his beauty wished it.

“I’m just catching my breath, I don’t want to stop,” River said and bodily beckoned him to come closer.

“Not until you fuck me—,” Crocodile swallowed his plea by pressing their mouths flush, licking remnants of cum between them and holding him close enough to feel the aborted sounds in his own chest.

“Lay down, I can do it,” River said, eyes flittering between Crocodile’s eyes and lips.

The whispering of Crocodile’s hand removing his rings is his answer, and that strong grip returns as a fingertips depressing the meat of his thigh, pricking barely before they’re warm again.

“I will give you everything you desire... But you’ve been awfully bossy tonight. I think I’ll just enjoy you at my own pace.” Nips and kisses to River’s shoulders turn his complaints into pleasured murmurs.

“No, no, I wanted to treat you.”

Crocodile just hummed, pleased as he continued his distracted kissing. “You need only to exist and it is a treat.”

River sighed, eyelids fluttering at the sweet words spoken against his cheek. “I suppose it can’t be helped. A man with your pride would surely ignore his own aches and keep his lover distracted with poetry. I, the dutiful lover, will relent and eventually find myself hoisted onto strong thighs, our position flipped when the proud man believes I have forgotten… and I will take everything he has to give.”

He gasped when Crocodile’s hand gripped his thigh hard enough to mark and pushed his knee back to his chest.

“You’re especially mouthy tonight.”

“And you’re stubborn as always.”

A simple look commanded he grab his other knee to spread himself in offering to dark eyes. A little logistics, a little inventory, and Crocodile managed to find the new bottle of lubricant as River dutifully held back his own legs, fingers flexing in anticipation.

“I’m shaking—maybe I should roll over.” River smiled awkwardly, chewing on his lip and staring at the man between his feet.

“Do as you please for now. But I want to see your face when I’m inside you.” Crocodile watched him roll onto his stomach, smoothing his palm up his spine, careful only to touch him with clean fingers.

“Breathe in… breathe out.”

The breach of his entire middle finger was a welcome surprise if the arch of River’s spine and pleased hiccup was any indication. Too pent up to go slow but still worried for his comfort, Crocodile busied himself with crooking the tip of his finger from every angle except the one he needed, massaging him and working him open in the most cruel way. In and out, he only allowed him the faintest tease of attention to his prostate, content to bully him with self-indulgent prodding.

Beneath him, River was losing himself, panting in only minutes from just a single thick finger, hands kneading the comforter and eyes unfocused as he tried to wet his lips.

“Please, Croc, it’s so—please, anything,” He mumbled.

“Anything?” Crocodile hummed deep in his chest, unable to stop himself from leaning down and kissing the sensitive spot on his oblique.

“More of this? Shh, shh, I’m sorry. Breathe in… breathe out.” He added his ring finger, simultaneously biting the oblique under his lips to drive his keen higher.

The extra stretch had them both forgetting the pace they originally set, and a few more minutes had River on his elbows, swinging his hips back to meet Crocodile’s knuckles on every stroke. He knelt enraptured as he watched him lose his usual composure, moans hiccuping from his kiss swollen lips with every impact, eyes glassy and focused only on chasing the sparks that zipped up his spine with every brush of his prostate.

Crocodile’s dick ached, throbbing all the way to his own hole to be inside the man who struggled not to howl into his own fist. He couldn’t help but begin sucking kisses into the flushed muscles of his back, arms tensing around him as he panted into his damp shoulder blade.

“Easy, River—” I’m going to cum too soon.

“—Mm, mm, I don’t want easy, I want you. You’ve gotten quite comfortable back there.”

The yelp River gave when he pulled out his fingers, maybe too fast, sorry baby, and flipped him onto his back satisfied the part of him that was still bothered by River’s lack of fear. From the first day he came to Rainbase, the Oasin never hid he was a sarcastic, indulgent layabout that couldn’t have a single serving of wine without sleeping wherever he fell. He obeyed orders barely when he obeyed at all, telling Mr. 0 off and hanging up the snail phone to the horror of onlookers. Even at Raindinners, River’s socialite hobby was supposed to annoy him, the gambling, drinking (after his tolerance adjusted), the way he convinced the bartenders to put everything on the house tab.

But the way he lights up when Crocodile comes through the front door, abandoning his chips and dashing over has him stuck. Onlookers have gossiped for months, they know to keep their distance while River goes to his side to welcome him home.

It’s the closest Crocodile has ever come to something that resembled domesticity. He can’t give it up, and it terrifies him how much leash one man has made for himself, inch by decadent inch.

A hand toying with his dick yanks him back to the present, and he sees River waiting not-so-patiently against the pillows.

“Lost you for a minute,” He said while taking back his mischievous fingers.

“I have a lot on my mind.”

“It’s not too late to let me ride you.”

Crocodile yanked him further down the bed until they were lined up finally. River managed to secure a single pillow, knees spread wide and staring up at the predator above him with a surrender to be eaten. They butted heads most days and argued most nights but River would do anything for him, and he knew he was cherished in return. He reached out to hold Crocodile by his larger, corded shoulders, hands skittering across his strong, firm chest, and they slipped together with a harmonious sigh.

Crocodile sat up to adjust the angle, removing those wandering hands to press him flat. “Stay still, you’re awfully—oh—tight.”

He grabbed the foot tickling his rib and squeezed. “I mean it.”

Uncharacteristically, River relented, kneading the duvet he could reach, eyes shut and trying to control his breathing. But as hard as he tried to be obedient, he couldn’t stop his insides from rippling, searching for friction from the dick keeping him open.

Crocodile could only bear it for what was probably seconds, pulling back his hips until only the ruddy tip was inside before pitching forward and startling a moan out of them both. Sitting up was easier on his back and he began a faster pace than they were used to, chasing his pleasure while River moaned his praise, bound to be spoiled by Crocodile’s relentless rhythm. The latter lifted his chin to close his eyes, already anticipating watching his noisy bottom would end him too soon.

A pinch to his nipple had him fixing River with an embarrassed scowl—and that was a mistake. He watched him lick his thumb, resuming his fixation on Crocodile’s right nipple while he struggled to keep up, glassy eyes letting tears fall into his hair, and kiss-bitten mouth hanging open while he mewled his pleasure.

“Are you trying to finish this early?” Crocodile exhaled hot, hips beginning to falter in their rhythm as he moaned through gritted teeth.

“I’m not, ha... I can’t hold on, I’m trying, shit, I’m trying.”

He watched River’s jaw stutter, and his almost-purple cock was so hard and wet he leaked over his hip and onto the sheets with every throb. His whimper rose into a frustrated yell when Crocodile went to the root and stayed still, pressing them together and resting on his elbows beside River’s shoulders. Iron-hot hips slowed to a simmer as he drove them higher at half the speed, barely leaving the slippery heat before pressing even deeper.

But the danger in Crocodile’s new plan of slow and steady was that now he was in range of that mouth.

He couldn’t think with the molten tongue on his neck, and a kiss only offered a silver of reprieve. But with his brain already threatening to melt from his ears from the scalding pressure around his cock, he needed all the mercy he could get in the relentless wash that River was to his senses.

“You—oh, fuck,” He panted against the younger man’s mouth. He couldn’t finish his thought, head too foggy and hot, wanting explicitly to say ‘You’re mine’ and unable to catch his breath. Somewhere under the heat, he wondered if the words left unsaid were a blessing, unable to be proven wrong by refusing to exist. Later, when he wasn’t already rung out by a man who hadn’t left his pillows once, he’d try again to think.

“So good, feels so good, my Crocodile,” River moaned so clearly he couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear him. He declared it with a possessive swirl of his hips, pressing his legs against the arms that held him wide, and as confident as every word that came from his mouth. The suddenness of Crocodile’s release slammed into him white-hot, leaving his world soundless and too-bright long enough he wondered if he had fallen unconscious.

He forced himself back to the world of the living, if only to confirm he hadn’t crushed River under his dead weight. Beside him, the man was almost asleep, spread akimbo like the bed was his own with a shiny splatter of cum on his own chest and neck. (Crocodile made a mental note to berate himself later with the embarrassment of how that situation could have gone, perhaps with River unsatisfied and smushed beneath an out-of-practice, unbelievably rude man).

River tore him from his self-depreciation with a hand on his face, moving his hair from his eyes like his own bangs weren’t sticking to his cheeks in damp curls. He held a hot towel (When did he prepare that?) and gently coaxed them both clean. Crocodile tried to look disapproving that River cleaned him first but was distracted watching him drag a clean corner up his flushed chest, passed the beauty mark on his sternum. He touched his chin finally, and the realization he made him come hard enough to get his own face had his dick give a single, exhausted throb.

He interrupted the housekeeping to offer his chest for River’s lounging pleasure, taking the rag and tossing it to somewhere with a wet slap. Damp curls pressed under his chin as they settled together, the scent of shampoo and salt tempting him to close his eyes.

He tried to remember if he’d left any lamps on, but knew his muscles wouldn’t move unless he smelled smoke.

“Crocodile.”

“Hm.” He’s sure he turned off the one in the study but the one in the hall was unaccountable—

“Are you sure you want me to stay?”

Crocodile’s eyes flicked open to the ceiling. “Who said you’re staying?”

“You did when you brought me in for a cuddle and looked like you were halfway to sleep just now.”

“There’s your answer. Go to sleep, River.” His warlord voice had no bite in the afterglow, warm and sounding more like an annoyed lover who was yanked from their almost-sleep.

No, he definitely turned off the lamp in the hall.

River’s nails drew soft shapes on his chest in the silence. “… I’m going to the bookstore tomorrow. Do you want me to bring you something?”

His answer was a quiet shift in the warlord’s breathing that meant he would receive no answer until morning.

#one piece #crocodile one piece #sir crocodile #sir crocodile smut #sir crocodile x oc #sir crocodile x reader #crocodile x reader #crocodile x male reader #male reader #bottom male reader #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #silkendandelion #mirage in the desert #x reader #x oc

[quinloki]

For the ask game: 7 - Write about one member of your ship asking the other to dance with them

- for OC River and Law (a little Sir Crocodile if you squint >.o )

Dancing is so important to River, partly bc his home island has always been lively, filled with people who love to cook too much food and dance the night away on full stomachs.

Then when he was in a relationship with Crocodile, dancing was a part of their courtship. Crocodile’s an excellent dancer, a lover of an intimate waltz or sometimes saucier steps, and though they only danced in private, it’s how River remembers them when he looks back: dancing to the gramophone in a candlelit parlor, warm on wine and warmer arms around each other.

Years later, when he’s in a new relationship with Law, he asks to dance but is usually met with a furiously embarrassed blush and some excuse. To Law, it’s too much, to be seen that way, even by someone he cares about. And… it reminds him of Cora-san, who was so unapologetically himself that he danced whenever he felt like it—something dorky and clumsy, usually ending in flames—and how Law didn’t think too much at the time how quickly he would no longer be able to see it anymore…

“River?” He asks one night, breaking the quiet of his office and startling awake the man who had begun to doze in the chair beside the lamp. His book nearly falls from his lap, half-forgotten and place surely lost.

“Hm?” River scrubs at the sleep in his eyes, eager to be attentive to his usually independent lover. “Mi amor? Do you need something?”

For a long moment, Law just stares at him, tongue unwilling to speak despite how he scolds himself for thinking River would ever laugh at him.

“Will you… teach me to dance?”

(And then the author dies bc they’re too sweet and embarrassing)

Oh man that was all just so sweet! I love the background and into how it changes in the newer relationship.

The intimacy of asking him to teach him to dance and \lol/ MY HEART. I love it T-T quiet intimacy, I love it. Gets me every time.

Self-Ship style with Marco Marco's style of dancing is intuitive, steps from different islands, movements fluid, a combination of years of different island festivals and traditions. I, on the other hand, have two left feet and a fear of dancing in front of others.

But at the end of things, with new crew, no big plans to travel, that there'll be quiet moments and softer songs, and Marco's hands will find mine, and he'll move me easily through our house, humming a song from some island. Without anyone else around my feet will simply follow his, letting myself be led easily through whatever steps it is that he takes.

One misstep will hardly be noticed, and he'll just spin me through it, switching songs as our feet follow a new beat.

Eventually, there'll be a day when I ask him to dance with me, and the joy will light his eyes in that way that only true happiness does.

ask game post

#Let's Give Them Something to Talk About #quin answers #ask game #oc x canon #self ship #x reader #silkendandelion

[silkendandelion]

Mirage In The Desert - Chapter 10

Summary: After weeks of searching, River believes he’s found the answer to his question: a boy with a straw hat and his friends.

Rated Teen and Up Audiences for language, implied violence. Cross-posted to Ao3, same username. Send me a DM: yell at me, send flowers. Cheers.

~*~

They believed the hardest adjustment would be the heat.

For Oasins, community and family were foremost, and for the mighty 35 that traveled to join the rebels, now separated by hundreds of miles for the first time in centuries, the heat was injury to insult.

Upon arriving to Yuba, they were instructed to abandon their clothes. The long, blue linen wraps called shen were worn by all Oasins to protect their legs from the sun, and yet could be tied to the waist by the bottom hem to stay dry while wading in the ocean. Their gold, while thankfully wasn’t confiscated, was ordered to be shipped back to the island.

They chose to package their shen as well, piling a single crate full with earrings, piercings, necklaces, gold from their hair, from their mothers, some of which had never been removed since parents years ago covered their babies in sun beams and stars.

So they stood naked in front of the love of their ancestors, covered in the rags of the rebellion, and nailed the crate shut.

Mercy, is that they would be in Yuba when the island receives their burden, never to see the tears of the mothers and brothers that open the crate, believing this would be the only box they receive if their loved ones do not come home.

“I promise it’s for your safety,” Koza said, unable to meet Esai’s eyes for more than a glance.

“I would never—,” he took a deep breath. “I understand how difficult this must be.”

“You can’t.” Esai’s conviction burned his face, unflinching and unafraid. “But I can. So promise me one thing, leader.”

“Of course.”

“That 35 Oasins will return to our island when this war ends.”

Koza met his eyes finally, torn between an earnest but naive speech of devotion, and an apology that would mean too little as he watched his men begin handing out guns.

“I promise.” ____ ___ __ _

Avoiding each other should have been harder, in the casino.

The tourist city went on, festivities uninterrupted, an unstoppable wheel of commerce incapable of slowing for the pain of a battered victim like love. And so they went on too, comforted by the memories of stolen whispers behind the hands that sheltered the flame of a cigarette, of uttered promises to meet when only the candlelight is left.

River couldn’t recall the last time they more than spoke, and Crocodile knew it was the morning he was too selfish to tell him goodbye.

“Sir, someone is here to see you,” Mila said, gesturing to a young man at her side that carried a loosely wrapped parcel under one arm, his hand already extended for a handshake.

“Pleasure to meet you, Crocodile, sir. My father’s tells me you’ve been his customer for ages.”

He dismissed Robin beside him with a wave of his hand, idly pocketing the papers she delivered before he acknowledged him, though without shaking his hand.

“Your father’s a talented craftsman.”

Another small gesture offered the man a seat at the bar next to him, and he realized Crocodile must live most of his life with his ambitions fulfilled by only a turn of his hand or the words he spoke.

“You’re too kind, sir. I have your order here. You know, I believe our best work is custom made—pieces of our customer’s vision, a shared creation.”

“Do you always prattle on about romantic things without introducing yourself? Or do I make you nervous?” His cigar cutter, thik, broke the silence.

The apprentice’s sentiment skidded to a halt, face suddenly hot, and he fidgeted with his shirt to dispel the embarrassment under his collar. “I—of course not. I mean, I’m not used to meeting the customers. I usually sew most of the day—”

Crocodile was content to smoke while he studied him, his chin on his hand while he waited as patiently as he was capable. He stammers like the fool.

“Crocodile,” came the voice of said fool, and River appeared at his side to offer an envelope in his first two fingers.

“Hm?”

“For you.”

A report, now tucked into his breast pocket beside Robin’s papers, but he couldn’t take time to admire the deliverer when River vanished, off to blackjack or some other, probably to avoid either of them saying too much in front of company.

He opened the tailor’s parcel to distract his restless mind and unfolded a silk scarf, Oasin blue, warm from the walk over as it slipped between his cool fingers.

Will he even accept gifts when we are so far apart?

“I made that coat.” The young man’s voice broke him from his thoughts, and he turned to see him watching River coddle the tourists at a card table.

“It took me a week and all the faux sable we had. I told my dad ‘I want to meet the person who could order such a beautiful coat’.”

Crocodile didn’t care for the fondness in his eyes while he studied him adjusting his hair pin, hands no longer fidgeting with his shirt and now ringing themselves for courage.

“Lulusian crystal buttons, cashmere and silk. He’s an associate of yours, isn’t he, Crocodile? Will you introduce me?”

The young man turned back to him but found Crocodile’s previously bored gaze overwhelming, a warning to flee before he loses his temper in front of the customers. How the warlord managed to keep his voice level baffled them both, though he knew the man’s instincts must be ringing alarm bells.

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, I was hoping—”

“Hoping for what? Dinner? What can a tailor’s apprentice offer eminence?”

The shrewdness of his words, his irritated rumble, lit a glimmer of realization across the man’s face, his shoulders wilting and eyes in his lap, obedient. “… I have overstepped. I’m sorry, sir, I hadn’t realized you two were…”

“Leave. Take that with you.”

He gasped, “Please, sir, I truly meant no offense! Take it, free of charge!” And offered the box above his bowed head.

Tourists lifted their heads to notice the commotion at the bar, their eyes scratching across Crocodile’s already thin patience.

“Keep your money and your product. It no longer suits me.”

His disapproving finger silenced the man’s protest, the box again tucked under his arm as he fled.

From where he had witnessed the altercation across the casino floor, River’s hard stare burned a hole in his temple. He endured, regardless, unwilling to let his mask slip on a weakness as coarse as jealousy.

Would he make you happy? He’s just a boy, liable to break your heart when he proves he is as selfish as the rest of the world.

Could you love him if he never broke your heart the way I did? ____ ___ __ _

Days to Operation Utopia: 3

Aboard the swan ship business continues the same, the errand runs and treasure hunting of Mr. 2 and Mr. i, both finding peace in routine even as the latter is hyper-aware of the clock, ticking down hours in the back of the mind.

“Newspaper, Mr. Faustina.” A crew-mate found him smoking by the open window, and went over to the hand he offered.

“Thank you,” he said while blowing the smoke away. “Has Mr. 2 decided on what he wants for dinner?”

“You know how the captain is—”

“I’M IN THE MOOD,” came a sing-song voice from outside the door.

“Speak of the dancer, and they appear.” River laughed quietly. “Isn’t that how the saying goes?”

“Well, not exactly—”

“FOR A SEAFOOD SURPRISE, YES SURPRISE!” Mr. 2 sang as they fluttered into the room, spinning wide before they got into River’s space to put a boop on his smiling chin, a playful ‘bleh’ on their tongue when they spotted his cigarette.

“A meal fit for a king. OH, by the sea, I see, with a beauty to rival the ocean. Yes, the one sitting here by the window, whom I wishwouldquitsmoking forever and ever moreeeee.”

“Hey, I think I’m in this song somewhere,” River said around his cigarette, though he gently pressed it into the ashtray anyway.

“Mr. 2, I’m starving. So how about this: anything you catch, I’ll cook. Yes? I’ll make—” His offering was cut off by the okama’s delighted screech, and the door slamming shut while they raced to begin fishing, no doubt.

No reason to be alarmed, Mr. 2 was known for flouncing about as they pleased, and River leaned back in his chair, wondering whether to relight his cigarette when a muffled splash came from the window.

“Mr. 2?!”

The crew all scrambled to lean over the railing, everyone except the helmsman and River, who ran to the bow to track the bubbles of a foolish devil fruit eater, bound to sink. He braced on the railing, ready to dive in after them, before a mighty wave of water burst upwards to nearly soak them all.

“Yahoo!”, came Mr. 2’s excited yell, their manicured hands holding tight to the back of a species River didn’t recognize, a slippery, porpoise-looking animal that wasn’t large enough to be a sea king—but still probably shouldn’t be ridden.

“I’ll be back with a feast for us! Wait for me, baby!” The beast rocketed off with a pink blur attached to their back.

“You can’t swim!!” River called after the racing split in the water that approached the horizon.

“Full speed after the captain!”, shouted the crew as they clamored to their posts, and River gave an exhausted but not unhappy groan.

“What a mess. Well, he’s sure to make a friend wherever he ends up.”

No doubt about that, and the Strawhat pirates that fish them out of the ocean, half-starved but in good spirits, are no match for the ballerina’s cheery candor. Well, at least the less suspicious ones are.

“You all are too trusting,” Nami sighed, though she couldn’t hope to compete with the one man show and their lively audience.

“That’s an incredible ability!” Chopper cried, delighted, when the ballerina mimicked them with a carbon copy of their furry face, down to the broken antler and blue nose.

“I have a memory function too. With my other hand, I can—” They touched their face with a pop, flipping through a variety of faces, though it seems their signature twang required actual effort to suppress.

Even the King.

From where she watched, the princess Vivi froze, a pang of fear shooting through her stomach when she recognized her father among the catalog of faces. The novelty of the ballerina’s show ripped away, she knew immediately the identity of the intruder they had fished up and brought aboard without a second thought.

“Impossible—”

“Oi, pay attention! There’s another ship coming up on us!” Sanji said to their captain and commander.

The swan-like ship, matching her owner, approached the Merry at a leisurely pace, crowded along the railing with a worried crew hoping to spot their missing captain.

“And that’s—” Vivi nearly bit her tongue, pushing down her instinct to say the name of the man on the bow, his dark hair waving behind him and wearing a regal suit that separated him at sight from the plain pirates beside him. What could have been a prince from one of her storybooks was just another proof of danger, and she knew they might have to fight before they even reached Alabasta.

“Time to say goodbye already…?” The ballerina suddenly mounted the railing, trailed by the affectionate little crowd of young pirates.

“But not forever, I’m sure. We’ll meet again, friends, and don’t forget—Friendship has nothing to do with how long we’ve known each other.”

The glittering tear they brushed away had the kids cheering, even their captain, also in tears. Outrageous, if you asked the others.

“Don’t cry for me!”, was the stranger’s last hurrah, muffled by the distance traveled from bow to bow, and intermingled with the prince shouting something about “Mr. 2, you idiot”, and “what do you mean you didn’t catch any fish?”

“MR. 2?!” The Strawhats cried, but could only stare helplessly at the swan ship as it sailed away.

“Like, Baroque Works, Mr. 2?” Usopp croaked.

“Yes,” Vivi said. “I’ve never been allowed to meet Mr. 2, but I’ve heard the rumors. Of a tall, broad ballerina with a pink coat that reads ‘Bon Clay’ on the back—”

“You really should have noticed sooner,” Zoro and Luffy groaned.

“—And their partner, Mr. i, who was brought on as an officer a little over a year ago, and carries twin swords of chased silver. While the prevailing rumor is Mr. i used his feminine beauty to secure his rank, I don’t believe Crocodile would take such a risk.”

Lighting his cigarette, Sanji stood unimpressed by the railing. “We shouldn’t underestimate either of them.”

“Mr. 2, he—” Vivi paused to avoid tears. “He has my father’s face in his memory. The king, Nefertari Cobra.”

The silence that followed only confirmed Vivi’s fear was shared by the young crew, as well as that they were firmly within enemy territory now, much sooner than they had hoped.

“You could wreak a lot of havoc with a power like that,” Zoro said.

“It’ll be problematic if we run into them again, since Mr. 2 now has several of our faces.”

A handful of guilty Strawhats wilted under Nami’s pointed stare.

“And Mr. i will be protecting them,” Vivi said.

“Then it’s a good thing we ran into them now, so we can make a plan.” Zoro touched Luffy’s shoulder to reassure him, and hopefully everyone else.

“We’ll be ready next time.”

The outline of the desert island had been visible for hours, but never felt closer than when they stepped over the puddles left behind by the fantastic Mr. 2, an enemy who minutes ago had been close enough to touch. For such a young crew, a hopeful collection of friends, they never struggled to believe they were ready to face a Warlord of the Sea and the people under his command who had killed before and were prepared to do so again upon order.

They didn’t know how it would open their world, from villains who pillage to usurpers who the world is the goal. ____ ___ __ _

Back on the swan ship, River hung up Mr. 2’s sopping wet coat to dry by the window, offering them a dry one, identical, of course, while the latter corrected their makeup with a damp rag.

“You’re awfully excitable for a devil fruit eater that was just fished from the ocean,” he said and brushed some invisible dirt off their sleeves while they turned to embrace his hands with theirs.

“I made new friends.”

“No wonder you’re so lively. Their sail seemed familiar, actually,” he wondered aloud, only half-listening to Mr. 2 rattle on about the pirates, something about a tenuki, cute girls, and a boy in a strawhat.

Until he gasped.

“Mr. 2, that’s it. You—you’re a genius!”

“Of course I am, wait wha—” They spluttered when River placed a firm smooch to their cheek, head spinning wild like a runaway roulette wheel.

“I’M A GENIUS!”

River dashed away to his room, ignoring the shouts from the deck about the feast, and snatched the newspaper from the table. The papers were no match for his impatient flipping, now rumpled, torn at the corners, but the bounty pages remained intact, and he held up the printed smile of a cheery boy in a strawhat.

“Monkey D. Luffy: 30 million. A devil fruit eater.”

I’ve never hired a pirate… Can I ask this of him? How much money will it take?

His wallet thudded on the table, spilling coins that were only a fraction of his stash at the casino. Between his jewelry and extensive wardrobe, he would make the Strawhat a very wealthy kid if only he agreed to help them. And if it’s not enough, well, they can have his labor too. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Pirates won’t refuse money. That much I know.

Nearby in Nanohana, a collection of Billions were surprised to see their snail phone light up with violet eyes and a shiny, lapis blue shell wrapped in gold station chains dotted with gems the color of a sunset sky.

“Who?” The highest ranked among them wondered before picking up.

“Hello? It’s Mr. i.”

Some gasped, others groaned, but the one holding the receiver gave a sinister smirk. They had come to the city to hopefully remove Mr. 11 from their roster, and to them it appeared a second leader spot was about to open.

“Ah, long time no speak, Mr. i. What can we do for you?”

“A ship with a ram’s head mast is coming to land. I want to know when it makes port.

“Is that all? Should we greet them—”

“NO, no. Do not approach. That’s an order. He steeled his voice to seem commanding, enough to deter all but a few.

“Expect a call then.”

“Don’t keep me waiting.” Click, went the receiver as the snail fell sleep.

“Tch, how spoiled,” The Billion griped. “You heard him. Find the ram’s head ship, and the rest of you: the marines are on their way. Let’s greet Mr. 11 appropriately.”

River hurried to tuck away his snail and throw on his coat, carefully pulling his hair out of the way of the furred collar. The time until Operation Utopia was down to hours, and he wouldn’t get a do-over if their plan failed.

Perhaps I should change clothes. I can’t be recognized in the port by any of the Billions if I’m going to try to meet the Strawhats.

“River baby! Come eat, the fish is almost—” The ballerina stopped, suddenly struggling to swallow the bubble of wine in their throat when they saw him emerge in Alabastan linens, limbs decorated with gold, and face veiled by Oasin blue.

“I’ve never seen you look like such a local.” They placed noisy, lipstick smooches on the back of his hand.

“Easy, Mr. 2,” he deflected, though his cheeks were already pink. “I’m afraid I won’t be joining you for dinner.”

“Be still, my heart—WHAT?!”

“Something’s come up, an emergency. I have to get to port immediately.”

“But we aren’t docking until the other side of the island.”

They and the crew followed the flutter of his linens to the bow, watched him brace a sandal foot on the railing to hoist himself up.

“You’re not going to JUMP, are you? Let’s talk about this, baby, let me take you—”

“It’s okay, Mr. 2.” He crouched to return their gentle boop to his nose. “You keep going to Rainbase, and I’ll meet you there. Yes?”

His easy smile, tacked with a wink, disarmed any hope to convince him to reconsider.

“Be safe! Oh, please, be safe!” Mr. 2 watched him go down into the water with barely a splash from the experienced swimmer.

They turned back to their crew, many of whom leaned over the railing, curious to witness the strength of his stroke, as fast as any fish even against the drag of his clothes.

“We’ll rejoin him in Rainbase. What are we waiting for? Full speed!”

‘Yes, Mr. 2!’ ____ ___ __ _

His snail phone began to ring as he rung the seawater from his clothes on the shore, and he waved awkwardly to the people standing at the port that witnessed him emerge from the ocean like a merman who’s been gifted legs in exchange for a wish.

“They’ve arrived in Nanohana. They must be planning to travel along the shore after they resupply,” said the snail from beneath the little feathered cap of the Billion on the line.

“I’ve arrived myself. Thank you, sirs.” He clicked off the receiver, though he couldn’t spot the ram’s head ship among the other boats at port.

They must have dropped anchor inside one of the alcoves, attempting to stay hidden.

Shouting from the shore startled him to hide his face, securing his veil while he watched marines bark orders at each other from the blue warship that took up most of the length of the harbor.

Best for me to stay hidden too then.

Marines were likely the last place Baroque Works would attempt to infiltrate in their schemes, but he supposed he can’t be too careful. After 15 months, he struggled to understand the extent of Crocodile’s influence, as well as imagine what would become of the island if their operation went unhindered.

The sun began to bear down as the afternoon went on, and after hours of winding up street after street, chasing glimpses of the crew’s path through the city, he rested in the shade between buildings to stretch out his sore feet.

“I haven’t worn sandals in forever... Where did they go?” He sighed.

From his hiding place, he leaned out to see a boisterous merchant walking the market in front of his stall, waving around a poorly painted piece of fruit.

“A relic of ancient power! One bite offers one thousand years of life, and you, yes YOU, can take home the entire apple for only 1000 berries!”

“Not this bit”, River groaned as he peeked around the corner to attempt to spot the Strawhats among bargain hunters and pushy merchants. There they stood, the long nose and tenuki, the most willing customers he’s ever seen, in shambles over the apple merchant’s impassioned spiel.

”Nami! Nami, can we have 1000 berries? This man is selling magic apples!”

“Absolutely not!”

River blanched, suddenly woozy, and not from the sun. “I… may have overestimated them.”

Shik. A sharp blade pressed against his throat from behind.

“You’ve been following us since port,” a male voice said, his short green hair and dark eyes visible in the blades reflection.

“I really haven’t,” River’s chuckle hitched when the blade pressed tighter, “I mean, you’re right. I have been looking for you all… You must be the Pirate Hunter, Roronoa Zoro. Though I’m not a pirate.”

“That won’t save you.”

“I have a question to ask your captain.”

“Captain’s not here.”

“Are you kidding me?” He felt Zoro tense against his back, but River just groaned a loud, dramatic sigh. “It won’t mean anything unless I ask the captain. Where is he?”

“He got held up. And I never said you could.”

“I want to ask for his help. He’s strong, isn’t he? As you must be.”

“Zoro, don’t wander too—oh!” Nami gasped in alarm when she saw him at River’s throat. He let him push the sword away with a finger, only after he had a moment to process his request.

“He says he wants our help.”

“The newspapers say your captain is the strongest pirate in the East Blue. I want to hire him to defeat the strongest man on our island.”

“You mean—”

Vivi’s appearance from behind Nami took the word’s from all of their mouths. She and River stared for a moment before she averted her eyes, fear overridden by shame to face the man she helped to kidnap from his island.

“So it’s true you’re a traitor, Miss Wednesday,” River said, and relief fell from his lungs. “Thank goodness.”

Sanji appeared at her side, too close. “You know the princess—?”

Nami’s fist came down hard on his head. “SANJI!”

“Princess?” River looked back to the young girl.

“I’m sorry… Mr. Faustina.”

He smiled after a long moment, a bittersweet thing. “Strong girl. Abandoning your throne to slum it with us, and searching for a cure for our sick island... If you’re here then I’m too late. You’ve already secured their help.”

“Why are you here, Mr. Faustina? You’re Crocodile’s left hand.” She said, her distrust of him coming back to furrow her brows.

The darkness that washed over his face laid heavy over his eyes, sorrowful and bleeding vengeance at the corners. “Crocodile must be stopped, and I will play my part to the end. I can help you, but only a little. Get to Rainbase on your own and maybe we can win before the war begins.”

“There’s no way we can trust you,” Zoro said.

”It’s not your decision, is it—” River was interrupted by a resonating crash from the street over, the sound of Captain Smoker being hurled through rows of houses with the force of a rubber boy’s feral hunger, and taking a Whitebeard commander with him through every wall.

”Luffy!” Nami cried, correct in her assumption that explosions and commotion usually pointed towards their captain.

“It’s his,” River said, his smirk doing nothing to comfort their distrust of him. ____ ___ __ _

Gone before the Strawhats could further protest his involvement, the streets pushed against him as River rushed into the gaping hole that was the newly made front door of the restaurant.

“I’ve found you, Strawhat Lu—where’d you go?”

He looked around the destroyed diner and finally at the flabbergasted server. “Where did he go? The strawhat boy.”

“That way, I think. He and his friends all ran off without paying.”

“You’re joking… Okay.” River scratched his hair where the sun wore on his nerves. “A minor setback. How much do they owe?”

The server choked on his own spit when he pulled out his heavy wallet, the sun glittering off the coins as it drifted in the camel-sized hole. “They… also broke my wall.”

“Ah, of course. This should cover your expenses.” He grabbed more, and held out a handful of coins that tried to escape from between his fingers.

“And… and my friend’s wall. Next door.”

River raised an eyebrow.

And the server stared back.

Pleading eyes, and a vein in River’s forehead.

“Just—Take the whole thing, I don’t have time for this!”

“Oh—” They caught the wallet where it was shoved into their hands, cradling the handfuls of gold that spilled out of the pouch. “Come back anytime, stranger! You eat for free!”

But River didn’t hear him, tearing down the busy market street to attempt to catch Strawhat and whoever chased him. Friends? Unlikely, unless their version of hello was property damage.

Passed stalls, over stoops, under clotheslines, he finally came across a man his age that browsed a fruit stand with a brindled owl on his shoulder.

“Excuse me? Please tell me, did a boy with a strawhat run by here?” He stopped to question him, not a local if his baggy, foreign clothes were telling, along with the sharp, angled face of both the exotic bird and their owner.

If River had been educated elsewhere, or possessed more experience with the outside world, he would have paled to realize the bands on his arms were made of seastone.

“Strawhat boy? You don’t need to know where he went,” the man said plainly, deciding himself the conversation was over and both bird and owner went back to examining the fruit in the cart.

“But you did see him. Tell me which way he went, I’ll p—I can’t pay you. But I asked you a question and you admitted to knowing the answer.”

“Go home.” The man’s plain, almost bored voice turning hard to command obedience.

His answer startled River to silence, both men staring at each other for what must have been uncomfortable if not frightening moments for the fruit vendor.

A burst of flames to the sky broke their standoff, as well as answering River’s question without anything more to do with the strange man. He refrained from curling his lip, if only to not find out what his anger looked like, and chased the fire as he filed away the man’s appearance the way mice remember the smell of an owl.

Dispiriting eyes, the color of old, spilled blood, that burn from behind the lenses of his sunglasses. Dark hair slicked back over the crown of his head. And an owl.

River ran after the source of the fire but the flames and smoke easily outran him, unnatural, like they were people and not phenomenon.

“Shit! Where did they go?” He stopped at a cross street.

“There he is! Mr. i!” A crowd of Billions appeared to point at him.

“Ah! What is WRONG with this city?!” His robes flapped in the wind of his—yet another—hasty retreat. He couldn’t have known the Billions were chasing Strawhat too, though Ace and Luffy made quick work of the first wave, and luck pushed all of the separate parties towards the common ground of the harbor.

“Luffy, most pirate captains know where they parked their ship,” Ace scolded him gently while they walked.

“My navigator, she knows where I left it.”

“You’re a mess,” he laughed as they left the city streets to a series of stairs that led down to the pier.

“Get him!” The humiliated Billions yelled from atop the hill.

“Man, those guys don’t know when to quit, do they?” Ace looked back over his shoulder.

“WAIT! Wait, Luffy! Strawhat Luffy!”

The brothers turned to see River waving his arms as he sprinted at them from a side street, the Billions almost overtaking his voice when they yelled ‘Get Mr. i too! The Number seats are ours!’

“Mr. i? Like Mr. 2?” Luffy bristled, suddenly so unlike the cheery boy in the poster, and River skidded to a stop. He showed his empty hands to prove he was unarmed, well, at least he wasn’t holding his weapon.

“I come in peace! Peace, please. I want to ask you a question.”

Rubbery arms fell docile at his sides, the fire gone faster than it came. “Oh. Go ahead.”

So strange, River thought while he caught his breath.

Meanwhile, on the deck of the Merry, Nami pointed towards the sidewalk. “Look, there’s that guy! And Luffy, he’s with his brother!”

“I’ll get him—hey!” Zoro nearly snapped at the cook that put a hand on his shoulder.

“Not yet, stupid, those two can handle themselves. You’ll just be in the way.”

River paused to acknowledge the yelling coming from the ship in the harbor.

“… Anyway—My name is River Faustina.”

“Vivi told us who you are.” There it was again, that indifferent voice from the bright Strawhat boy that had sweat beading on his temple.

“Of course. I’m sorry… Crocodile has betrayed me. I will help you defeat him, if you’ll let me. Please, I would like to help you, and I can offer you—”

“Oh, sure! Why not?” Luffy cut him off, grinning wide as his arm was already reaching out into the harbor to grab hold of his ship, gone in a rubbery snap and a wild cackle.

“Wha—just like that?!” He called after the rubber boy, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment on his cheeks when Luffy waved goodbye like River was the one being outrageous and strange. Beside him, Ace just laughed, so pleased to be back among the absurdity of family.

“After all the running I’ve done today,” River sighs, too tired to notice Ace studying the side of his face.

“Would you like me to take you to the boat? Sounds like those guys don’t like you too much,” he jerked his thumb at the Billions racing down the hill, and River found himself smiling at the show of chivalry in Ace’s offered palm.

“They’re nothing I can’t handle,” he said, pleased his smirk was returned. “I’m going a different way.”

“Catch you later, River.”

Ace disappears with a mock salute on the back of a flame, his back, River realized, somehow more spectacular than Luffy’s cartoony stretching, and the sight of an ally, a real ally sailing down the coast beckons him to wonder if the spark behind his ribs is hope.

For months, laden by despair, he had been willing to accept comfort in traces of optimism moonlighting as joy, but that wasn’t good enough anymore. Not when they were so close. And though he knows the journey back to Raindinners will be hell on his feet, hot on his scalp, he welcomes the little fire beginning in his belly.

#one piece #sir crocodile #sir crocodile x oc #sir crocodile x reader #mirage in the desert #ao3 fanfic #oc fanfiction #male reader #silkendandelion #x reader #x oc

[quinloki]

👋🏼 hello, Silk here~

Not meaning to infodump here, but my friend helped me make up ALOT of new lore for my OC River last night, and the most hilarious part was when we were done he looked at me like:

“You know, I hope Oda doesn’t come out with anything that contradicts everything we just came up with bc we’ll be screwed xD”

And I just look up from where I’ve been furiously writing it down like “Oh. OH you’re right >.<“

Does that ever happen to you, when you’re writing for fandoms that are unfinished?

Anyway, hope you feel better soon 🙌🏼

I actually never made an OC before Quill - At least not one for a show. I've had plenty of D&D PCs, but that's not - to me - the same thing. I usually don't build anything for those characters so much as letting the campaign they're in shape them.

But! Keep heart about AUs and such possibilities, if you really like something you've come up with, there's no reason to abandon it if the canon world changes in such a way that it doesn't fit anymore. You can try to think up ways to help make it fit, or just keep it in regardless.

Sometimes it's the exception that proves the rule - like how I made a devil fruit that's smooth and tastes sweet xD I have no reason for doing so, I just wanted to. Fic and Art and OCs are fun like that.

And thank you, I'm looking to turn in early tonight and sleep in late and that should help put Saturday back on track for me.

#quin answers #silkendandelion

[silkendandelion]

Something to consider for your One Piece OC’s and fanfics:

How does the newspaper portray them? How does this affect key events in their story? Does the public’s opinion of them agree/disagree with this image?

Tell me in the notes about your characters!

~*~

After the events of Mirage, River continues to be unlucky.

No one believed him when he said he didn’t get the officer’s position by sleeping with Crocodile and no one believes he got away from Smoker on his own. Among pirates, they’re happy to believe he exchanged the evidence for immunity, which makes it hard for River to make new allies.

His bounty finally gets a photo in Water 7, another incriminating blemish on his record because in the corner of the frame is a shocked Paulie who didn’t know his dinner date was wanted by the marines.

River’s marine intel file ends up looking something like:

Seduced a warlord for a position of power

Attempted to seduce a marine captain for immunity of above crimes

Coerced (sexually?) leader within Galley-La to secure aid for his allies (see: Strawhat Pirates) at Ennis Lobby

Remains at large within Revolutionary Army (relationship with handler? Plans to rise in rank?)

Dislikes having picture taken (see: related aggravated assault)

If he could read his own file he’d go through the five stages of grief, especially at them speculating about his relationship with Aurelio bc that man is his best friend

When rumors pop up of his closeness to Law, it looks like the Man-Eater is at it again 🙄 two warlords down—which is something nasty that Doflamingo throws out to try to get a rise out of him at Dressrosa (it works)

“I had heard you were easy. Cute as you are, though, perhaps I dodged a bullet by keeping my distance. After all, both the warlords you’ve slept with have lost their titles.”

Doflamingo thinks he’s funny (he is)

River likes sex, but he doesn’t believe in using it as a tool. For all the people he’s charmed out of various things, he only ever slept with people he wanted to. And he hates that something he enjoys would be twisted in the public’s perception of him into this user who seduces for greed

When Law responds to his flirting with a glare and skepticism, River knows what it looks like. He knows what the newspapers say, what the underworld says.

He never really cared about what they said until he met someone who he wanted to know the truth.

If River ever catches a break, just know I’ve been replaced

#ao3 fanfic #oc fanfiction #writing #fanfiction #one piece #oc prompts #one piece prompt #silkendandelion #silkenspeaks #if you read my story mirage #mirage in the desert #x oc

[silkendandelion]

Mirage In The Desert - Chapter 8

No summary today, angst is your only hint.

Rated Mature for non-graphic violence and blood. Female pregnancy warning as well, meaning a flashback has a brief description of a hard labor. Ongoing, will cover the Alabasta Arc. Cross-posted to Ao3, same username. Send me a DM: yell at me, send flowers. Cheers.

~*~

“Welcome back, Sir.” Mila said as Crocodile returned at the casino. She chose not to comment on the bags under his eyes, and he said nothing as he walked passed her to the elevator.

“Has the Oasin returned?” He asks Miss All Sunday, meaning Mr. i’s absence for his last assignment. His subsequent leave for Oasis remains unsaid, along with the hope that he had come back to give Crocodile a piece of his mind like he tried to assert.

The numbers above the elevator blink on and off as they descend obediently. Has it always been so slow?

“No, Sir. I didn’t think he would; isn’t he returning to Oasis?”

He only hums to answer her, worrying the cigar between his lips and listening to Mila bid her manager goodnight.

The casino wasn’t immune to slow days, especially following a holiday, but Crocodile found the lobby empty tonight not because it lacked tourists in gaudy bobbles and wide-brimmed sunhats, but because his spot at the end of the bar was empty.

No scribbling thoughts on napkins while he nursed a single drink for hours.

“Welcome home, Crocodile!”, he would say, cheery and bright, yet the ghost of him was easily shooed away by the bartender wiping the already clean counter.

It wasn’t enough.

He should have gone upstairs and straight to bed.

Instead, he finds himself getting off several floors before his own, among the suites, and down the hall that one year ago he had instructed Miss All Sunday to keep vacant whenever possible. No sense disturbing the other guests if their new asset had to be “removed”.

But the betrayal Crocodile anticipated never came, and he continued to leave the floor vacant to not be seen coming and going, led along by his nose on a plume of perfume and following footsteps in the sand to the last door on the left.

Now he’s come to say goodbye, cursing himself for being too cruel to not come when he was there.

A year wasn’t nearly enough.

He takes the key from his breast pocket and feels every pin of the lock sliding open before stepping inside. The suite is only illuminated by the light from the window, and as he flicks on a lamp he wonders if the smell of bergamot and almonds will ever wash out. An empty pack of cigarettes sits among the undone sheets, beneath the window he closes on an unseasonably cool breeze.

The closet is open, messy as ever, a missing jewelry box and some empty hangers telling him he doesn’t have to look under the bed to know his suitcase is gone too.

Will Oasin linens feel foreign on your body now after a year in suits and furs? Or will they feel like returning home?

The desk is strewn with papers; he had expected more to be taken than what few were missing. Or did you simply let your collection get away from you, filled your suitcase to the brim and not made a dent?

His memory has always been too much, and the image of River folded into his chair, hair bundled to his crown and itching the beginnings of his stubble while he writes draft after draft with his golden pen is too vibrant to touch.

“What is ‘for Pete’s sake’? Who’s Pete?” The memory asks him.

And I said, “What are you going on about now?”

You just laughed, deciding you would take a break from your poetry to research who “Pete” is, before giving up and asking if I would explain to you all the idioms I could think of that made no sense to Oasins.

The memory is clear but fragile, all of his memories of River are, and stepping closer to the desk startles the writer away. Most of the papers splayed out are abandoned drafts, notes, and his finger scratches gently over a blue scribble that reads “When is Croco’s birthday?”, beside another, smushed scribble, “silver polish”.

A year wasn’t enough time for me to learn to love you the way you need. Could I have done it in ten years? Twenty?

He wished they hadn’t met here, so hard his teeth hurt when he thought of how much he would give to be back on his first ship, before his rise, before his failures, and see River standing at port with a rucksack slung over his shoulder.

Are you the captain of this boat? I’m River. I’m on pilgrimage from a Paradise island, but I’m handy with a sword if you have work for me.

He had thought he was out of tears until a single, furious drop was lost in his lashes before it even fell.

You will never know how much you mean to me. But I betrayed you the moment we met, and forced you into my employment for reasons I admit were selfish. Finally, you will return to your little island and realize you should hate me. Oasis will be sparred, as per our agreement. And it will be the last good thing I ever do.

One of the papers runs from him when he means to sit, fluttering to the ground and drawing his eyes to unfamiliar literature. Books stacked beneath the desk and, with further snooping, beneath the bed, titles he didn’t assume River to read, he never showed much interest in history, and no names Crocodile could recall from his invoices.

Island Geography of the Grand Line, Volume 1, A-E. Civil War of Recent Memory. Artificial Rain Production: Peace and Devastation. The Great Warlords of Alabasta. His good hand skims the spines and covers, finding them dusty but legible. Quick thumbing reveals a note, a hastily torn scrap to mark his place, written in his scrawl.

“Dance powder.”

What’s this? What do you know?

His hand grips the book so tight his fingers come away from the aging leather in sunken indents.

Who made you curious?

Plenty of traitors come to mind, especially Miss Wednesday (her investigation ongoing), all made to disappear over months and years to keep his plan moving forward. None of them had been allowed to meet River if he could help it, he had been so careful to keep him safe.

Isolated.

No, safe.

Safe from who? ____ ___ __ _

“After we’re finished here, we’ll come back to the ship, and I’ll have you to port by lunch tomorrow,” Mr. 2 assured him, taking his suitcase with gentle hands.

“Thank you. It means a lot to have you take me,” River said.

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. The schedule didn’t line up, and he would have to wait in the port town until the land bridge appeared.

Will I ever come back?

The research had felt fruitless, bombarded by most of Alabasta’s history, and unable to draw parallels to their unprecedented times. The country had always been lush, yet suddenly forsaken by their Gods, doomed to die of thirst and hunger with no written record to draw wisdom or anyone to blame.

Until the dance powder.

A king with no evidence of tyranny, his only lay to opulence the palace he was born in, risking his power—his people—for rain? By a temporary solution proven to cause destruction?

River knew hunger and thirst but, even with his inherited disdain for the king, he struggled to justify the king’s rumored actions by anything other than evil.

But isn’t evil meant to be obvious? How can you hide it?

Stacks of books neglected to give answers to his questions, and no one in town had been willing to talk about such awful circumstances with the local layabout who’s meant to smile and play blackjack—not ask questions. How can they enjoy their holidays if he’s bringing up the suffering of a country they will only see for a few weeks?

Maybe it’s that simple. Kings are evil by design and no one can save Alabasta now. He looked to the sky where Oasis would be if he could see beyond the horizon.

“Those clouds don’t look too good.” He said, pointing to the storm system that skirted the sea off the edge of the island, melting almost unseen into the indigo of a stale sunset.

“They’re headed south... Maybe my island will get some rain.”

“Un, deux—huh? What did you say?”

“Nothing, Mr. 2. We need to go further inland.” He gestured to the map they were given, as bare as their instructions.

‘Enclosed is the location of a house on the western shore of the island. Retrieve any suspicious literature. If not possible to retrieve, destroy all evidence. Do not be seen.’

“What does Mr. 0 want with this?” River said.

The ballerina stopped, more grounded than River could ever recall, having assumed they meant to cheer him up with a joke as they always did. “Don’t look so worried, baby. As long as we work together.”

Regardless, River flicked open the strap on his sword holster, his instincts unwilling to let him ignore the prickling static in the air, the sweat on his spine. “Of course, Mr. 2. I’ve just been anxious lately.”

They squeezed his shoulder. “You’ve been a lot of things lately.”

The night grew darker, their clothes wetter, the longer they walked, joined only by the new moon and the silence left behind by the wildlife asleep in their holes.

“Is that it?” River motioned to a house, more of a shack, beside a pit that might have been a watering hole before the drought, now looking like it might swallow the leaning dwelling with the first stiff wind—consume it the way the drought has eaten everything except agony and rage.

“Look’s like it, Mr. i.”

“You take the front of the house, I’ll go around the back,” River said quietly.

Mr. 2 entered the house with their usual commotion, a threat to all inside that retreat was the better option, but a swift kick to the lock of the back door revealed no danger. No one at all, actually.

“OH—How awful, who even lives this way?” Mr. 2 covered their nose at the stench, the acridity of perpetual neglect. An open window lended the ammonia to unwanted animal activity, mixed with gunpowder and sweat, keeping both agents fighting to not vomit onto the rickety floorboards.

“I’m gonna be sick—” Mr. 2 ran from the house, presumably far away while River wrapped his ascot around his mouth and rooted through sandy belongings with the tip of his boot.

Literature? Evidence of what? There’s nothing here but trash and—

He spotted a clean floorboard among the dry-rotted floor. “You removed the sand when you moved it last,” he said to himself, finding the board ripped easily off it’s trick latch with a firm yank.

He gasped.

That’s a lot of guns.

In varying degrees of disrepair, the haphazard collection of weapons covered a glimpse of something else. Documents? “How many guns does one person need—”

A quiet click rang out in the dark shack, and the press of warm iron against the back of his head made him freeze.

“You Baroque Works?” Came a man’s voice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He showed his gloved hands to be empty, but the stranger doubted he was unarmed under his coat and kept the gun pressed to his hair.

A second click, probably a knife, and River was already sizing up the stranger by the amount of sound the floorboards made under his anxious feet. “If I cut that coat off, am I going to find a tattoo that says you’re lying to me?”

“How do you know about our organization?” He listened to the attacker side step, reaching for something? He recalled rope among the trash.

“Miss Saturday made sure word traveled. Though most of us are dead now.”

“She’s dead too,” River reminded him.

“Everyone who follows Crocodile too close ends up that way. It’s just that most of them are pirates and mercenaries so no one thinks anything of it when he goes to work.”

“What is it you want? Information? I only have cash,” he jokes, and the way the gun shakes when the man yells at him makes him wonder if he can haki his skull; he’s never tried.

“SHUT UP—”

From where Mr. 2 had gone to will their stomach to stop swimming, they hear yelling coming from over the dune. “River?”

“—You’re just one of his dogs, I don’t have to keep you alive to bring him down.”

River ducks so hard his brain rattles, and the gun goes off in the wall across from his face. The stranger is armed but ultimately an amateur, he decides, performing no great feat to tackle him to the ground. His weight comes down hard on the other man’s legs and dust flies up in their faces where the floorboards protest.

”Stop moving. You’re going to hurt yourself,” River says as his swords press in an ‘X’ over the man’s throat, tight but not bloody, so long as he doesn’t move too much, a threat he hopes will stick.

”I’ll kill you,” the man grunts as he claws at River’s coat with grimy, bandaged hands.

“You said that—stop moving. Let’s talk.”

“I don’t talk to mercenary dogs like you.”

He hesitates for only a second but long enough the man sees him falter, and uses his bigger bulk to buck him off.

River huffs when he lands on his chest. “All right, no talking then—”

WACK. Metal strikes the back of his skull.

River wants to touch his head where he’s sure he’s bleeding but the blows keep coming, the stranger now pressed to his back as he grabs handfuls of his coat for leverage to beat him over and over, harder still.

”Wait, stop—” The pipe hits him again and he feels something in his cheek give, but his patience is what’s beaten to hell as he rears up to grip the stranger by his wrist, feeling the bones creak before he lets go of the pipe with a shout.

Their positions reverse with River holding him down, fingers digging into the back of his neck while he shoves his face into the sandy floor and spits the blood off his teeth.

“I don’t want to hurt you… but you don’t want to talk, you just want to beat me blind.”

“I told you, I’m going to kill you—”

“WHY?!” He presses him harder into the floor, feeling his nails bite even through the gloves.

“Because it’s you or him! Crocodile has done enough to this country, all of his dogs deserve to die!”

He can feel the stranger shaking where he grips him. Or is that me?

“What does that mean? His methods, this company is… criminal, sure, but he’s still a Warlord; he has no motive to harm this country. It’s his business, his power.”

“Every day he lives, this country is one day closer to death.”

”Don’t… don’t give me riddles. Not now.” He lets his hands fall away, but neither man moves.

“What does he have you do for him, huh?” The stranger wheezes quietly where River held him too tight.

“Make collections? Run shipments?” He coughs. “Keep guests spending money at his casino?”

River squints but the stranger doesn’t see him, his eyes are somewhere else, reliving a war River can’t say he understands. “Everything you’ve ever done in his name has contributed to my people’s suffering.”

Your people? “See, now I know you’re fooling; no one controls the weather, certainly not Crocodile.” He pushes off his knees to stand, wishing Mr. 2 would come through the door and help him onto his feet.

“The Sand-Sand man is threatened by water. His men brought the Dance Powder.”

River’s voice feels small even to his own ears. “Shut up.”

“You can’t believe the ‘Hero of Alabasta’ crap, can you? Not when you’re so close—” The fold of his brow makes River want to vomit; he’s tired of people looking at him like that.

Like he’s so naive.

“He’s framed the King—”

“Shut up—”

“He’s using you—”

“Shut up—”

“He keeps us hungry, weak. He’s evil. And you’re his dog—”

“SHUT UP!” His swords fall to the floor but his hands are hard, throwing the man away with a crash that he’s surprised doesn’t obliterate the rickety shack.

His sob hitches in his chest when he manages to breathe.

“I’M NOT A DOG!” His throat burns when he screams. “Does a dog cry when you say it’s useless?! Does a dog care if you were lying when you said you loved them—”

He stops when he receives no interruption.

The man is still where he landed among the debris, eyes almost-closed and drowsy except for the blood that runs from behind his ears and down his neck.

“No,” River chokes out, at his side in an instant to cradle his head, feeling give where there should be none. “No no no, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Please, don’t—I—Seth, help him. Seth!” His teeth creak where they grit, tasting salt when he struggles to suck in air.

“River!” Mr. 2 steps over the mess in the doorway. They freeze, meeting frantic eyes as River leans posed over the man, blood on his cheeks where he wiped his eyes to see how horrible his world has become.

“What happened?! I heard shouting, and I ran over.” They stoop to press fingers to his neck. “River… River, let go, he’s gone.”

They peel his hand’s away one finger at a time, a large palm on his quivering jaw to force him to meet their eyes.

It wasn’t Bon Clay he saw staring back but someone harder, the person they painted over every morning in their vanity mirror. The one who years ago accepted a job for Baroque Works with delight and said “whatever it is, it’s better than here”.

“You have to breathe, River, or you’re going to hyperventilate. Please, baby, breathe. In… out. Again.”

Air stutters from his lips, eyelids screwed shut squeezing more tears down his cheeks.

“A little better? There you go, you’re going to be okay.” They smiled, and it was the cheery okama who brought him in for a hug, pressing his head tight to their shoulder.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

He opens his mouth but can’t will his aching throat to speak. How do you even say that your world has come crashing down? And you’re helpless to stop it?

“… I know you did what you could. Write up the report tomorrow: we found nothing. And I’ll see you for our next assignment, yeah? The next one will be better.”

More tears fell onto their shoulder, another flinch of a sob in his chest.

Mr. 2 disappears to bury the man properly, mournful they have no name to mark the grave (for whoever came looking for him), and River can hear them speaking over the grave as he rummages to the bottom of the compartment under the floor.

The guns had been laid across rumpled papers, some financial statements, some transcribed conversations that River had no time to study.

Is this what we’ve been sent to destroy?

Are those my letters?

He held back another wave of tears, not this, not again.

‘River! Let’s get to the boat!’ He heard Mr. 2 call from outside.

There’s no time to consider the words of a stranger (no way to ask him anything else). No time to hesitate.

“We were instructed to destroy any documents we found.” Mr. 2’s voice comes from the doorway, and River freezes where he’s dragging stacks of documents from the hole to shove in handfuls into a stained, makeshift sack.

Everything you’ve ever done in his name has contributed to my people’s suffering.

If the dead man spoke the truth, did any else know? Was River the last one to know? He decided the only way this day could get any worse would be to discover Mr. 2 was actually his enemy.

“… I can’t do that.”

Mr. 2 sighs, rubbing one eye like they also wanted to go home. “How many more secrets do you need, River? Aren’t you tired?”

“I’m exhausted. I don’t—I don’t know what any of this means, if that man was telling the truth.”

“What did he say? You must have feared for your life or you wouldn’t have…”

River feels his eyes getting hot again. “I can’t tell you—”

“But—”

“Because I’m trying to protect you. Don’t friends protect each other?”

They kneel beside him to cradle his hands in their own. “Who’s going to protect you?”

“I don’t know, but I—we can’t destroy these documents. Please trust me, we can’t—Mr. 2!” River pleads when they step away. He scrambles to gather them in his arms, maybe he could save a few, and halts when another sack landed beside him.

“It’s a trick question: I’m going to protect you.” They flash a winning, toothy grin. “Hurry hurry, baby, pack faster, we have to get back to the boat before the sun comes up.” ____ ___ __ _

On Oasis, the days weren’t usually this quiet.

800 people, even peppered across a small island in pockets of families, made enough noise to compete with the birds and the tide. Someone always needed laundry hung, or help bringing in a mouthy fish, and they relied on community more than food, more than the sky.

But not today.

Parents decided the laundry could wait, hunters held off filling their zeer pots, and children took turns looking out the window to see if the leaders had emerged.

For Claudia, she stood waiting at the edge of the land bridge (there was no market today), while Ines and her leadership decided if they were going to war.

Her aching hands rung the necklace in her fingers while she watched the horizon, the same blue pearls in River’s earrings, now cutting into her fingertips where she couldn’t let go.

20 years ago, she had yelled at him for going off to gather clams for the necklace without telling her, unmoved by the way his lip trembled. She looked down her nose at the young River while he feebly explained he just wanted to find pearls.

Her sister’s words came back to her, the ones she demanded Claudia agree to even as she fought to speak with the contractions crashing over her. After hours in the water, the other mothers were beginning to worry, and she brought Claudia close.

“Listen to me, Claudia... Be kind to him. My River.”

“You sure it’s a boy? You haven’t even met him—”

“Be kind to him. Be kind to Joel.”

Claudia nodded, barely, and the two sisters ate around the fire that night with a veil of embarrassment when Sofia laughed at how close she came to death. Joel didn’t find it as funny as she did, soothed only by the sleeping baby in his arms.

“You sure we can’t name him Joel the second?”

‘No.’ Both sister’s barked at him.

Be kind to River.

Claudia looked down at the little boy struggling not to cry, quiet hiccups in his chest, and a guilt began to constrict around her heart.

“Let’s go swimming. Would you like that? And we can look for clams tomorrow, together.”

Esai and Ines were already at the shore, and River wasted no time leaping into the waves after his friend, leaving a trail of linens that Claudia huffed as she picked up and shook one by one.

“You’re hard on him,” Ines said from beside her.

For a young woman playing mother, who had hoped never to have children of her own and, still grieving the loss of her sister and brother-in-law, she was at least self-aware to flush at being seen through. “Of course, I am. He’s wild; he needs a firm hand to raise him right.”

“He’s not wild,” Ines laughed, soft and kind. “He’s a little boy. A boy who needs love more than anything, so he can look back on this as ‘Claudia always told me to stay in the shallows because she loves me’, and not ‘Claudia never let me do anything fun’.”

She blushed even darker under the older woman’s confident grin. “Then how do you suggest I go about being more loving?”

“I never said I knew how to do it, just that you should. Every child’s different, you have to figure it out.” Ines settled down into the sand to close her eyes, her hard work finished, it seemed.

Claudia turned back to the sea with a scoff. Their two boys bobbed in the shallow water with smiles, Esai using his greater bulk to lift River from the waves and toss him, the latter landing on his belly with a cutoff shriek.

He flinched, sensing he was being watched, and turned to Claudia with slumped shoulders.

“Sorry, Claudia! I’ll be more careful!”

Be kind to River. “No, Esai, it’s fine! Actually, how far can you throw him?” She smiled, mischievous, and River pawed his soaked bangs from his eyes.

“What?!”

“Yeah, how much do you weigh anyway?!” Esai shouted back. He dove under the water to attack from below, snatching River up with a war cry to meet his warble of terror.

Ines and Claudia laughed from the shore. “That’s a start,” the former said.

“I suppose if it’s Esai, its fine,” Claudia said.

“Like I said, it’s a start.”

Easy to smile. Kind eyes. That ink-dark hair, and a smudge of birthmark on your left shoulder that I never told you matches your mother’s.

You laugh like him, he always laughed too loud and squeezed his eyes shut like his belly hurt. I can see that Sofia’s eyes are yours now, and when you’re older you might think they’re too soft on a man’s face. But it’s Joel’s face, his voice, and your mother’s stars in your eyes when you tell me about a book I don’t really understand.

It’s just the two of us now. I know I’m not the mother you wanted, but I will give everything I have, everything I am to be the mother you need. For Sofia. For Joel.

For you, River.

“The sun’s going down.”

Esai’s voice startled her from her reminiscing, her grip finally softening on the necklace that left lines on her hands. “He said today.”

“I know, Claudia. I know.” His hand hovered in the space between them, wondering if she would let him comfort her.

“Nothing on the den… den mushi? No letters?”

He wanted to tell her River was fine, but it felt wrong to tell her what might be a lie when she was already hurting. “You know how River is, he’s dumb.” That’s worse, that’s worse.

“Esai—!”

“I know, I’m sorry! Sorry, sorry. I really don’t know how to…” He scratched his neck, willing to admit to himself he was as rubbish at making people feel better as Claudia.

“The leaders have made their decision,” he said finally. “I’m taking 35 of us to Yuba to fight in the rebellion. We’ve written a letter to the resistance leader that will hopefully precede us.”

“That’s so many—Ines agreed to this?”

“If I’m going to lead us one day, I need to be willing to make any sacrifice… And I want to know what happened to River too. Maybe from the mainland I can finally give you answers.”

She let him hug her, embracing him in turn as she reached to rub the nape of his short hair.

“Ramon is going with me.”

Her back tensed against his palms. “No way Ines agreed to that. Are you sure? He’s a leader, there must be some rule against it.”

“He’s our strongest Temple user, and he volunteered. Said how can he face his children anymore if he doesn’t fight for them?”

“They’ll be the ones to suffer if he doesn’t come home.”

“He’s made up his mind, and I’ll make sure he comes home. Make sure River comes home.” ____ ___ __ _

“I’m closing up for the night,” a street food vendor called out to River as he passed. “Have you had supper? Last chance, traveler.”

He considered the time, adjusting his grip on his suitcase. “Well, you talked me into it. What do you have, sir?”

“You’ll love it.” The man piled his plate high with the last of the night’s stock, and River wondered how many Alabastans would go hungry tonight because they didn’t live in the tourist’s city.

“You coming or going?” The man nodded to River’s suitcase as he wiped his hands.

“I had planned to go, but plan’s change,” he blew on his food, still wincing when hot sauce splattered on his lip.

“I hear that. Welcome back to Rainbase.”

He paused the food on it’s way to his mouth, the hair on his neck standing up when he thought of the casino down the street, the suitcase beside his feet.

“For now.” ____ ___ __ _

“River. Shouldn’t you be across the country by now?” Miss All Sunday asked as he entered the lobby, a genuine gape of surprise on both of their faces.

Can she see my guilt on my face? That I’m more of a liability now more than ever?

“Are you all right? River?”

He backed away from the hand she extended towards him, only heightening her worry. “I’m filthy—exhausted.”

Not a lie, at least. “I need to lie down… Goodnight, Ro—Miss Manager.”

She turned to watch him go to the elevator, his head swiveling around and gripping his suitcase until she could see his knuckles through his gloves.

He never got her name wrong in front of the guests; it was always something she liked about him, his attention to her wishes.

Upstairs, he dropped his key twice before getting into the lock, and his hands froze when the hammer didn’t slide free.

Already unlocked.

I’m sure I locked it. Of all days, I locked it today, I know it.

He swallowed against the sting of his throat, his instincts hammering in his chest to run, out of Alabasta, passed Oasis, somewhere where there were no kings and the water was cool.

Someone was in his apartment.

And yet he found himself turning the knob, his heart willing his body to move when his head only wanted to go home.

A familiar tobacco cloud drifted out into the hall, and the headiness of the smell told River the intruder had also closed his window.

“Crocodile?”

He sits at the desk, ankle propped on one knee as he reads one of the books from River’s shelf. He doesn’t acknowledge the door but it’s not strange, and River feels his shoulders relax to see him acting like the past couple days were all one long, horrible dream.

But he can’t see the notes on the desk, the papers now organized after Crocodile read every single one to determine how much of his plans were running around in the fool’s brain. Turns out very little existed in the suspicious notes, nothing but his aching soul in the memos of a man he mistrusted again when there was none.

You weren’t meant to come back here. I don’t know if I can take it.

But he can’t restrain himself from seeing him. “Are you hungry? I can ring the kitchen for—”

Crocodile doesn’t finish his statement, and River doesn’t fight his stare. He lets himself be caught by the intrusive thought of black eyes in blue water, the moment you know you’ve wandered too close to a predator, and you know it sees you too.

For all the untruths River tells by saying nothing or insisting he’s fine, Crocodile couldn’t manage to make a liar out of him, and he can’t make any kind of excuse for the tears in his eyes, or the pattering drips of his heart leaking onto the floor.

Those golden eyes, warm only moments ago, are suddenly boiling—threatened—seeing the proof on his face that a fundamental truth has shifted between them.

“What happened out there, in the desert?”

River’s tongue lay immobile in his mouth, the quivering of his diaphragm keeping him breathless, lest he try to breathe and be unable to exhale.

Crocodile stands waiting for his answer, watching the dumb flap of his lips when he can’t bring himself to speak, deception by omission.

Did you ever think the light would burn, my love?

His aching soul stands before him, all his love, his pain smeared across his cheeks in hot tears, and Crocodile steels himself to remember that killing him, widening the hole in his chest with the bloody hook he tried to spare him, had always been an option.

“What will you do?”

#one piece #sir crocodile #sir crocodile one piece #sir crocodile x reader #male reader #sir crocodile x oc #oc fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #mirage in the desert #silkendandelion #x reader #x oc

[silkendandelion]

Mirage In The Desert - Chapter 7

Summary: Back in the present, River becomes increasingly worried about Alabasta’s drought and suffering citizens, believing there is a larger force at work than a corrupt king. Meanwhile, the timer on his year with Baroque Works has run out.

AN: To clarify the timeline, Chapter 7 takes place approximately one month after the events of Chapter 2.

Rated Teen and Up Audiences for violence, mild sexual content, strong language. Ongoing, will cover the Alabasta Arc. Cross-posted to Ao3, same username. Send me a DM: yell at me, send flowers. Cheers.

~*~

A warlord and his mercenary. Almost a king, but not yet, and his left hand, sharper than steel.

Though they couldn’t be seen fighting together—even being recognized as an employee of a warlord was more complicated than Crocodile liked—here, in the desert dunes and between the cities they could let loose. Whether foolhardy wildlife or unlucky pirates, neither fare well against an admittedly sadistic ex-pirate and the man who needs to be praised by him.

River’s smaller stature and short swords require him to get close to his opponent, leaving him no choice but to be quick, deadly, and end fights fast to avoid being overpowered. Crocodile often times waits to be tagged in, smoking patiently even as he feeds him prey.

“Seems Mr. 2’s kenpo lessons are paying off,” Crocodile said with a smirk. The fight was beginning to feel too long, but it wasn’t often they got a pirate of bounty of over 100 million in Alabasta’s wilderness. “You look tired, Kingfisher.”

“Kingfisher?” River yelled over the sound of steel on steel.

“I was trying to remember the name of the bird you remind me of.”

The pirate was becoming frustrated with River’s haphazard attention. “Am I even here to you?!”

“It’s not an ugly bird is it?” He kicked his chest to embed him into a nearby rock face with a thunderous crack.

“That’s what you’re worried about? It’s a hunter.” Crocodile called back, and pointed to remind River to not take his eyes off his opponent.

Arms coated in haki came up to block the pirate’s sword, flinging it away easily and pinpointing the gap to fly forward and grab him around the throat. “You still didn’t answer me—” A fist to his face interrupted him.

“Focus,” Crocodile tried not to laugh as he re-lit his cigar.

The pirate forced him to the ground, grinding River’s back into the sand. “I came here to fight the warlord, not his air-headed dog—”

“And you might have if you were smarter. Why would I fight you on a dune where there’s no one to see it?” Crocodile said, and the blood drained from the pirate’s face. “River. Let’s head back now.”

With the bored tone of his voice their game was over, satisfied with River’s demonstration and irritated that their toy didn’t care to respect his opponent.

“Yes, Sir.” A haki-coated fist shot into the pirate’s diaphragm—crack—his body sent flying clean through the rock to an unseen place. Dust settled to leave the desert quiet, all wildlife within a mile unsure yet if they could emerge from their holes. He wondered if the man would survive, but recalled what Crocodile had said about him, and decided it wasn’t anybodies loss.

Crocodile watched him stand and dust himself off, the ficklest of remorse on his bruised lip when he smiled.

“I’m getting better,” he panted.

“You’re getting good.” Crocodile reached out to kiss him, mindful of the blood. “I would never allow someone so close who wasn’t at least exceptional.”

Could you kill me, I wonder? He pondered a situation where River knew the rest of his secrets, and decided to take revenge instead of bowing out. Have I failed you if it turns out you can’t?

And on a bright, sunny morning, they are out of time. ____ ___ __ _

“Send Miss Wednesday and Mr. 9, that will be their detail until further notice,” Crocodile said into his snail phone, his grinding molars the only tell that he was close to losing his temper.

Miss All Sunday hummed on the other line, careful to appear surprised by this decision to entrust Whiskey Peak’s threat of starvation to the gaudy pair. “Oh? Even if they’re currently being investigated?”

“Are you questioning my decision?”

“No, Sir. Consider it done.” She closed the line, and Crocodile gently replaced his own receiver.

How long had it been? 8, 9 months? And he was still dealing with the ghost of Miss Saturday, her vow to destroy him slowly, molecule by molecule, it seemed, either by his own paranoia or else. Miss Wednesday will be the end, I’m sure.

A slamming thunk woke River from a sound sleep, eyes bleary and hand seeking the other side of the bed to find it cold.

“Hm? Croc—dile?” He tried to say, voice too weak to call. It was definitely Crocodile’s voice down the hall, at least, and he gave a long stretch before searching for his house shoes. The ones by his side of the bed (his side whenever he borrowed it) were too large for his feet, but they would do.

Robe, robe, ah—robe. He found a dressing gown, again too large, and was looking for his cigarettes when Crocodile appeared in the doorway.

“Good mor… ning,” River stopped, seeing his lover’s jaw tight, sans cigar, and hair looking like his hands had been running through it. “Are you all right? You look almost sick.”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

He rounded the bed to make a show of checking him for injuries, smug when Crocodile leaned away from the palm that tried to take his temperature. “Well enough to be difficult.”

Crocodile picked the robe off one of his shoulders with two fingers. “You look ridiculous.”

“That’s no way to speak about your fashion choices.”

He huffed, as close to a chuckle as he could bear. “It’s not a morning for your quips.”

Nevertheless, he scooped him up, allowing River to move his hair out of the way before he laid him back on the duvet and kissed him, long and deep.

Mm. He hasn’t smoked yet, River smiled into the embrace, lapping the almost licorice taste of fennel toothpaste from soft lips. He yielded easily to Crocodile’s tasting of his own mouth, so tight he could barely breathe.

“You only kiss me like this when you’re going away.”

“Like how?” Crocodile said against his ear, savoring the smell of day-old perfume on unwashed, sleep-warm skin.

“Like if you let me go, I’ll turn into sea foam.”

A gull cries in the distance. “I thought you hated that book.” There he goes, deflecting again.

“So you admit something’s wrong,” River says and hushes Crocodile’s smart reply with his finger, the thumb that has a jewel on it the same color as his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me. Take from me what you need, all I have is yours.”

He’s quiet again, his hand dragging up River’s chest to part the robe, memorizing the pattern of his skin and the twitch in his diaphragm when he makes an inviting sound. But it can’t chase away the replaying of the phone call in his mind, the lingering investigation of his officers, and the new situation at Whiskey Peak. This pushed Operation Utopia back a whole 2—maybe 3 months. Not part of the plan, but he decided it didn’t matter. For this, he would be patient.

He would miss this, though. The Oasin’s contract was up, and he knew he would spend this unforeseen extension in solitude again. He supposed it must be a fitting dress rehearsal for the loneliness he would have found anyway; his poet was too kind to stand beside him at the top of the world.

Crocodile had his wings clipped even before he was the age River is now, and scavenged his flight back in molten metal, creating a deadly weapon that ensured he was never, ever vulnerable again. But he wanted more for River, and kept him safe while he grew his wings back as nature intended, as soft and vibrant as any bird of the Grand Line paradise. A fitting atonement, he believed, for his own self mutilation.

“There’s no time,” he said as he took back his hand and made to get up. “I need to be going.”

“I’ll see you when you get back.”

“You won’t, actually,” he says too casually.

River racks his brain to remember the calendar date when Crocodile kisses his cheek, dressed and ready.

“Don’t look so sad. It doesn’t have to be a loud, dramatic thing,” Crocodile says quietly beside his cheek. “Tomorrow is your last mission, and then you’ll see your mother again... It was fun, wasn’t it?”

You won’t even want to remember me, anyway, a few months from now.

“Don’t—don’t say things like that!” River shouted, startling the warlord to step away. He scrambled off the bed, the too-large dressing gown tangled around him—he really did look ridiculous if it wasn’t for the fire in his eyes, a conviction that made Crocodile’s chest tighten. He could imagine him as a prince or even a king at his side when he looked at him like that.

“Don’t say that, implying I might never see you again. Did you even think about asking me if I wanted to stay or go? Or… both, I can always visit and come back! I—” Suddenly overwhelmed, his emotions pricking behind his eyes, he catches his breath and steels his shoulders.

“If you want nothing more to do with me, tell me now. Otherwise... I’ll be giving you my answer when you get back, Sir Crocodile. Is that understood?”

The scowl as he lights his first cigar of the day makes the hair on River’s neck stand up. Smoke curls from his lips and up above their heads, the first brick in the wall between them. “Safe travels, River.”

“You stubborn—” A single finger silences him, and River hates how he relents without question, his instincts hammering at him to protest, be loud, be heard, and yet obey so maybe the warlord will want him to stay. Is that so wrong?

“Goodbye, River.”

Please don’t leave like this.

“… I love you!” River calls at his back.

His hand hovers over the doorknob for a fraction of a second, no tell in the smoke curling over his shoulder that he even heard him. He leaves before River can sniff out the crack in his mask, or worse, repeat himself.

Go home, River. I’m sorry. ____ ___ __ _

Downstairs and sometime later, River greeted Mila with a bottle of water and a treat.

“Oh! River, how thoughtful of you. But I couldn’t, I’m working—”

“Of course you can. I’ll even stand here while you sit down.” River posted himself beside the door, perfectly perky and ignoring the strange looks he got from tourists coming into the casino. “Good morning! Morning to all. Around the corner there, sir, yes you’ll have to talk to the man with the mustache.”

Mila stared up at him from where she sat with her snack. He looked silly directing guests back and forth in his tailored suit and flashy bobbles, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop him when he smiled down at her so happily. You think I can’t tell when you’re hurting, she thought.

She leaned against his leg, water gripped in her little paws, and he reached down to touch the top of her head. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?” She spoke into her drink.

“What? Who told you that?” He bent down to sit next to her on the ledge, letting the guests go by as they pleased.

“Sir said I should say goodbye to you as he left this morning. Is your business here finished?”

He chewed on his lip before replying. “My contract is ending, yes. It’s been so long since I’ve been home—”

“Oasis?”

“Yes,” a tired grin washed over his face. “My island, it’s been a whole year. I need to at least visit, but I’m trying to decide what I will do next… If I will be welcomed back here.”

Mila placed her empty bottle on the ground beside them, her hands coming up to hold River’s larger ones. She had freckles on the back of her hands, he noticed, and her bitten nails avoided his polished jewelry like she was still thinking of them as separated by class, even now.

“I think Sir is very fond of you. He won’t turn you away.”

Even as she held his hand and he squeezed back, needing her to say she would miss him, he knew she was thinking of him as an extension of her boss, just a wealthy socialite (a fraud) with whirlwind emotions, homesick and too friendly for his own good.

Even in her arms (he thought them friends), he managed to be put into a box on a shelf, labeled by someone else and meant to smile as he’s cajoled. Not that he felt he could complain when he helped to build his prison, and neither did he sense anything but sincerity in the kind brown eyes of his almost friend.

“Thank you, Mila,” he said anyway, kissing the back of her hand.

“Well…” She blushed. “I should get back to work—” A pair of men arguing across the street interrupted their goodbyes.

“I told you, no exceptions.” The smaller one shouted, holding a broom to defend himself.

“You’re gonna fault us for what we can’t pay? Say it in front of everyone here that you’ll deny us food and water in this heat.” The second man gestured with his arms open to the people that stopped to stare. More people filed out of the restaurant, this time a woman with her little ones.

“Let’s go, Shin, please don’t make a scene.” She said, her children against her skirt. “We’re sorry to bother you, we’re just exhausted from traveling—”

“No, I’m not backing down! We offered what we have, and people need to know what’s happening in the rest of this country.”

Mila sighed, turning to River beside her, “It’s getting worse now, refugees are coming into Rainbase too—,” but he was gone.

“Huh? River? Wait!” She reached for him but he was already halfway across the street.

“Is this about money?” River asked, and the crowd turned to look at him. The angrier, larger man looked him up and down; did he even recognize him as Oasin in these clothes? Either way, he seemed unimpressed by River’s curiosity in his expensive silk and gemstones.

“This doesn’t concern you, prince. Or are you mad the downtrodden are spoiling your view?” His family looked away, and River thought the children were too young to be ashamed by what they couldn’t control.

“I can pay for your meal, if you like. We can spend the day buying what you need.” He met eyes with the children staring at him. “Yes? What about a pretty dress for you too?”

Their widening eyes, hopeful, were blocked by the father getting so tight into River’s space that he could see the dirt in his pores. “Don’t you speak to them. They’re my responsibility, and we won’t take charity from some foreign aristocrat like you. All safe in your alabaster temple on top of a lake until it suits you to come down and pity us—”

“Darling, stop!” The wife shouted, suddenly clutching her daughters close. They both looked down to see that River’s coat had moved and his swords were visible behind the small of his back.

No, don’t. Don’t look at me that way, he wanted to plead, snapping his coat closed to hide his shame.

“I’m sorry… So charity won’t help, what would help? I—I'll cook for you. I can build you a home, if I remember how. Let me get you a room for as long as you like—”

“Who are you?” The father said, with little more than pity.

I… I don’t know, he almost said out loud.

“Let’s go. We’ll figure something out.” The father said as he ushered his family away, leaving River to stand alone in the street. A camel nibbled on his shirt sleeve from where it stood tied to a post outside the restaurant.

“Stop that, you.” Mila scolded the animal, freeing River’s arm and trying to tug him back towards the resort. “The drought is hard on everyone, River. You did what you could.”

He took his arm back from her, noticing the button was gone, probably swallowed by the camel. “It hasn’t rained since I came here a year ago. Rob—Miss Manager said it hadn’t rained for years even then… I travel so much, I never paid much attention. When I’m not off the island, I’m here.”

Mila looked him up and down from the corner of her eye. “Well, this city is the last lush place in the country. We avoid a lot of the backlash from the drought, I mean, since the people here have enough money to demand comfort. And the tourists don’t care, I think. They only deal with the heat for the few days they’re here.”

River looked to see the family in rags wandering out of his sight down the road, surrounded by jewelry stores and restaurants with concierge. “What can be done?”

He had never seen her look at him that way, the way Crocodile did, calling him naive without words. “If you knew that, they’d make you king.” ____ ___ __ _

The nearest library was almost halfway to Yuba, the only place of interest in the outskirts of Rainbase, now neglected ever since the tourist industry blossomed. River almost never traveled by camel but he also hardly traveled alone. Funny how the appreciation of something with a mind of it’s own between your legs changes wildly upon context, with him awkwardly yanking the reigns this way and that to try to coax the animal into doing something even close to what he wanted.

What should have been a short and easy trip by hearty animal turned into a slog twice as long, a thorough inspection of each and every bush, shrub, and burrow.

“You’re not making this easy for me, and after I went to all the trouble to—leave my boots alone!” He snapped. His best efforts to throw a fit were moot, the camel content to stop whenever River moved too much, and the latter stopping his wiggling just to get moving again. At least he could see the town by now.

After about the thirteenth time, River flicked their ear with his finger.

“Oi. Are you training me to be still? I hate you… NO!” He yelled when they grabbed the ankle of his pant and tried to yank him off by force.

“Hold!” Someone barked at him to stop, the abrupt stop slamming his face into the back of the camels neck with a grunt.

“What’s your problem?!” He yelled at the blonde man, a soldier judging by the weapons all over him, though River didn’t recognize anything about his clothes, hardly a uniform. Not unusual, it had been years since he saw troops of the king’s army.

“Hold your camel. We’re passing through,” he said, stern and unwavering while River nursed his smarting nose.

“Are the king’s men always so rude?” River said, almost sticking his tongue out at him.

“We’re not the king’s men.”

He blinked, looking back at the men going by with a second eye. Sure, they had guns, but they didn’t look like soldiers anymore. Their clothes were plain, civilian, and what armor they wore was dirty and incomplete. Some of them even had identifying tattoos on full display, a stark ‘BW’ catching River’s eye.

These are the rebels. What are Baroque Works millions doing with them? He wondered if Crocodile had some monetary incentive to loan his foot soldiers to the militia, but his instincts screamed at him: “unlikely”.

“You’re free to go. Be careful.” The man released the camel’s reigns and adjusted his sunglasses as he finally noticed River’s eccentric appearance, and the fact his saddle was laced incorrectly. Out here, in a mostly abandoned city, alone, he must look insane. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea.”

“Bandits and pirates like to rest in deserted places like this. Don’t stop until you get to Yuba. Okay?”

“Thank you. Good luck to you, I guess,” River says while the man gets on a horse. Is my saddle on wrong? His look’s different.

“Keep your luck. I’m going to make my own.” The blonde said as he waved goodbye.

“Well, he was nice... Not really, actually,” River spoke to his camel while he looked for the library. “You’re being obedient.”

His victory of riding comfortably was short-lived, and the camel sat down hard on the ground to take his break when he pleased.

River struggled out of the saddle to stomp away, helpless to use his only clue to the library's location: a poorly drawn reference that the Raindinner’s bartender gave him on a discarded receipt. “It looks like there’s a, what word did he use? A life—”

“Library? I can think of one, but it’s been a few years. It’s the only one even close to us, but I don’t even know if it’s still open. It’s got a fountain out front, and there’s some likeness’ lined up beside the door.” The bartender had said, drawing River a crude map and sketch of the building with the pen from his pocket.

“Look, being fluent in the common language doesn’t mean you can just say whatever you want,” he says, squinting at the human-like sketches on the paper.

“Did he mean lifeless? Are these bodies? Not bodies, what’s the word—eeh?!” River yelped when he heard a crash beside him. Just some rotting wood, knocked over by an annoyed lizard.

He figured Crocodile would laugh if he could see him, jumping at strange sounds and talking to himself to fill the quiet. Would Robin? Definitely, but you wouldn’t hate it. Mr. 2 would threaten the ghosts back to whatever realm they came from, saying “Stay behind me, baby! I’ll give ‘em an ‘Un, deux, ORA!’” and they would be back in time for tea.

How can I leave them? They’re my friends, they—

They don’t know you. The voice inside his head reminded him. Their relationships were carefully constructed, meticulously monitored, and had only ever existed under a certain layer of anonymity, as long as Baroque Works tied them together. He wondered if their friendship would fail without the organization as their glue.

But how can I leave the only life I’ve known outside of my island? How can I stay? And live inside a box on a shelf, on display and existing as little more than art in a museum?

His cheeks flushed at the memory of that morning, of fennel toothpaste on his tongue and a fond kiss to his cheek.

But then the sounds of the desert left all at once, startled away and pricking at the edges of River’s hearing.

He waited a moment. Quiet? No, the world isn’t silent, it has clumsy lizards and the sound of horses in the distance. He stood still, pretending to look at the map when he heard a ‘click’ that could only be wood on wood.

The arrow that shot by face seemed to move slower than it actually traveled, but even as he leaned to dodge, the ramshackle fletching whizzed against him and left a scrape on his cheek.

He could track the arrow’s trajectory with a glance, seeing a nearby rooftop on the verge of collapse but probably strong enough to hold a single archer. Deciding to give chase instead of surveying for other assailants was definitely a mistake Crocodile wouldn’t tolerate, but he was lucky enough that the fleeing archer, hooded and cloaked even in the Alabastan sun, was actually alone.

“Wait! Stop!” River called out.

“Why would I stop—?”

They grunted when their path was caught off, crashing into River’s chest and bound to slam to the ground if they weren’t suddenly restrained. Pinning the smaller person was easy work with haki coated hands, after deciding their skinny body to be unsuited for a hand-to-hand fight.

“Get off me, you’re an animal!”

“I’M an animal? You nearly shot me in the face.” River tightened his grip until they stopped squirming. “Why did you try to kill me? Who are you?”

“Too many questions. And why should I tell you anything?!” They almost bit their tongue when River shook them to bring attention back to his demands. “Ow! Help me!”

“Stop your shouting.”

He released them, careful to snatch their bow as they staggered away. With the adrenaline coming down, his heart rate falling, he watched them pull back their cloak to adjust their clothes and try to dust themselves off. A boy, no more than 15, he guessed, with hair that would be dark if it wasn’t so dirty with sand, and a pale complexion that was sunburning around his cheeks and ears. His cloak clearly took the brunt of the weather, torn and sun-bleached, the same color as his hand-me-down boots with repaired soles.

“… You’re just a child.”

“Fuck you! Whoever you are, and give me back my bow!”

He held it out of their reach when they tried to run at him, a single forearm without haki able to keep the child away. “Why did you shoot me?”

“Because you’re a pirate! Or a spy for the King, who else walks around these ruins alone in broad daylight, looking for something, looking like that?”

“I’m a mercenary—and what does that mean?!”

River screamed when the kid pulled a knife from under their cloak and stuck him in the leg. Obviously the word “mercenary” didn’t clear anything up, and worse, he’d underestimated the scrawny sand cat. He yanked the puny knife out with a grunt, stomping it out of shape under his boot and giving chase to the child as he fled between the sagging buildings.

One well-aimed short sword, thrown like a knife, was enough to pin him by his clothes to a wall he failed to skirt around fast enough.

The child panted, squirming, trying and failing to rip his clothes free, yet he paused to study the shiny silver sword that trapped him. “… where’d you get this knife?”

“Huh? Bought her in Rainbase. Her name’s—”

“Amigo! I know!” Their shout stunned him to silence. “Do you have—”

“Amante? I do.” River showed him the sword’s twin. It looked like the child had stopped struggling, trapped but docile for the moment.

“… My dad made these swords.”

“What a small world,” River marveled, beginning to undo the holster that he wore threaded through his belt.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t you want them back? You can have them.”

“I don’t want them…” The child refused to meet his eyes, brow scrunched and bangs in his eyes. “Not after someone like you has used them... For who knows what.”

That doesn’t look like a face of disgust. But I’ll accept your answer. His belt clinked quietly as he fixed it back around his waist. “All right then. If I take Amigo back, are you going to talk to me?”

“I don’t talk to mercenary dogs like you.”

“We’ve been talking a little bit already. I just want to ask if you know where the library is. Was, I guess.”

“The hell do you want to know that for?”

“Is this you not talking to me? Ah—kidding, kidding.” River held up his hands when the child looked like they might chew through their own arm just to get free and take their revenge.

“Let me go and I’ll show you.”

“I’m ditsy, not dumb.”

He didn’t like that at all. “All this for the stupid fucking library?!”

“You tried to kill me,” River said calmly while they thrashed.

“Fine. Go down the road that way to where the old butcher used to be, make two lefts. And when you circle back around the inn, the one with the blue canopy, the library is on your right. Not the building with the sidewalk in front of it, the library faces the west so it always gets too much sand and you can’t see the path anymore. Got that, ditsy?”

They stared at each other with contempt, and River finally broke the silence. “I’m going to let you go. And you’ll show me where the library is.”

“Like I already suggested?”

“Keep being difficult and I’ll leave you here for the animals.”

“Takes one to know one—” River smacked the back of their head before pulling his sword from the wall.

Following him between the buildings, and along a notably less complicated route than what he had described, sat a building in front of a dried fountain. Statues of previous kings and queens lined the front wall, their regal detail out of place among the deprecate city they occupied.

Inside, broken windows had allowed frequent sandstorms to tear through the aisles, and whole piles of sand left some areas of the library inaccessible with anything less than an excavator. River and the child meandered along the path that was walk-able between the shelves, both of them covering their mouths to the gritty air.

“What are you even looking for, ditsy?” The kid coughed.

“… I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Are you kidding—?!”

“Hush,” River put his finger to his lips and swiped clean some sort of directory with his gloves. The sections on politics and psychology were all but buried, but a few shelves between “geography” and “law” were mostly clean.

“These books, they’re…” He searched for the word.

“Useless? A waste of time?”

“History books.” He climbed the shelf to grab one that intrigued him, his hand making a smear in the dust across the words ‘The Great Warlords of Alabasta’.

Not warlords in the definition created by the world government, these people were conquerors, some tyrants, a few liberators, all willing to raze and overthrow entire states for the sake of their ambitions. One name jumped off the page, dubbed “the Last Warlord of Alabasta” by modern historians, his moniker “Hunter of the Ennead” the only remaining piece of his identity.

“You showed me to the library. Aren’t you going to leave?” His voice startled the kid, having spoken without looking up from the book.

“Not a chance.” They visibly stiffened as River looked over. “You’re a mercenary and this is my turf. Grab what books you want and I’m going to make sure you leave in the direction I want you to.”

“Oh? How scary. Young boys always puff up too much when they have something to protect. I’ll only be a moment, and then I’m going home.”

A sketch of the warrior, who knew how accurate it was, colored the opposite page, depicted talking over piles of maps with his most trusted general. In contrast to his commander, the general was covered head to toe, the only feature allowed to show being his dark eyes, in frightening detail compared to the rest of the sketch.

The general wasn’t named by the book, but River knew. The Oasins called him Seth.

Inside his blouse, warmed by the sun and carrying a golden diamond, sat his worship talisman. The Oasins have always struggled to find faith in the gods of the Alabastans, choosing instead to worship their ancestors, the people whose life and love created them, their legacy preserved through centuries of gratitude.

“How long are you going to read?”

“Longer if you keep interrupting me,” River said.

Seth’s fight with the Hunter was legendary, changing the geography of the island and severing a lifelong relationship between them with lightning on the horizon, blood in the sea foam, and spires of shattered bedrock.

All so his people could live.

Consumed by the grief of killing his best friend and most trusted soldier, the Hunter could no longer draw his power, and would be beheaded by the Alabastans with no protest. Decades of power and a lifetime of attempting to unite the island’s warring states undone in a single day, meanwhile his promise to Seth lay shattered worse than the families they fragmented in their relentless campaign. Their history hadn’t been preserved by the mainland, but Seth’s descendants on Oasis carried his legacy of sacrifice.

“Thank you.”

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” The kid said around a mouthful of rations from his pocket.

River thought back to the rebel army that had marched through the ruins, presumably on their way to Yuba. How could he go home now? Another civil war crept onto their island, this time on a dust storm rather than a typhoon. He struggled to think of anything he could actually do from his little pedestal in the sky but, equally, he couldn’t go home to pretend war wasn’t coming.

“Kid.”

“What? Find anything interesting? You looked like you were gonna throw up.”

“I have a question. And answer me honestly; we’ve been doing well, you and I. Is your father still alive?”

“Yes.”

“And do you both live in Yuba?”

The boy’s cheeks colored when he realized he had been figured out. “Why do you want to know that?”

Not a lie. Good enough. “Do you want to take Amante and Amigo back to Yuba? I promise they aren’t sullied, unless you count being wielded by a ditsy fool.”

He stared at him for what felt like hours, the gears visibly turning across his honest face. River thought perhaps this is what Esai saw when he asked him a hard question.

“… No. He sold those swords to feed us. It would be too embarrassing for him if some dandy just gave them back.”

“Oh?”

“When this war is over, we’ll have our own workshop again.” He looked to where the sun was passing over fragmented windows. “And we’ll make a thousand more swords.”

River tried to keep his smile subdued, hoping to not anger the child when he was being so forthcoming. “Well, it’s settled then. My, what a manly answer.”

“Eat shit, ditsy!”

River just laughed, loud and bright. He figured the sand cat would have no trouble getting home even with the sun setting, and the two parted ways, the former with his fussy camel walking beside him, arms loaded with the books he needed to read.

He still had no idea how he was going to attempt to help their situation, but at least he had managed to begin understanding. Regardless of their individual inclinations, a country’s heart was it’s people.

He was one of them, after all. Even separated by miles of ocean, this was still his country, and would always be his home. ____ ___ __ _

On a nearby island, Crocodile pondered his watch beside the fireplace. “Any moment now,” he said, referring to River’s eventual departure with their partner, Mr. 2.

It was a fetch mission, simple and safe, a fitting end for his tenure. “And then he’ll be gone.”

For all River’s protests, he couldn’t accept coming home to anything other than an empty house. A sentimentality crept into his chest, warm, familiar and unwelcome as it seeped into to his face.

A piano for his first house, a watch for his first ship (first love), and a ring for River.

His thumb spun the ring on his first finger, an amethyst on a gold band. River had been given the same one, never told that Crocodile had it’s twin. He would keep it safe, too hesitant to move it to his third finger, but treasured nonetheless. Another prize, another piece of himself, polished and placed on a shelf just like everything important to him that he couldn’t manage to keep.

But not this time. Alabasta would be the difference, the time everything went right. Shame he wasn’t the kind of man anymore to make it a more noble venture. River too—his love, his shame.

You deserve better than what I’ve done to you.

Crocodile wanted to save him one last time, and send him away before the blood stained him too.

Goodbye, River. And fair weather. ____ ___ __ _

“Ah!” Esai cradled his thumb, the digit beginning to bleed from a shallow cut. No matter, it was a normal hazard from all the tinkering he did on his days off. Those precious days he didn’t go to market, or help the fishing party, or help the foragers, or find some problem to fix—

“Well.” He sighed, sucking the blood off briefly to go right back to the sawed-off bolt that betrayed his grip and cut him in the first place.

“Esai—”

“AH!” He shouted at the tiny woman in the doorway to his workshop. Ines dared to snicker at him, though she knew if she pointed out his embarrassed pout he wouldn’t speak to her for the rest of the day.

“Sorry… need something, Ima-ma?” He said, using the tongue-tied nickname a small Esai gave to her when he became frustrated at all the people who called his mama by ‘Mama Ines’.

She wiped dirt off his cheek with her clean sleeve, a gesture he shooed away to try to save her bright tangerine shirt from his messy hobby. “I made lunch. Fetch Claudia, will you?”

“Claudia? Sure,” he said while wiping off his hands. “You two doing something later?”

“You know how she is. Wouldn’t remember to eat if somebody didn’t pound on her door with a plate. She’s spent the entire week getting things ready for River to come home.”

Esai paused as he unplugged his power tools to look at her. “You really think River is coming back?”

“Claudia does. We won’t be the ones to ruin that for her,” she said, an edge to her voice that brokered no argument.

Esai nodded his agreement, telling his mother he needed to switch off the generator before he left to get her, and Ines scuttled back to their home.

“Claudia?” Esai called as he walked down her road, met with silence from the trees. “Claudia!”

Not foraging (she hates fishing, always made River do it), not in her garden, not at home.

“Where could you be?” He wandered away from her house, passed all the homes towards the center of the island and along a path beaten smooth by feet, the ground spotted by a rainbow of sea glass.

At the end, sheltered beneath wide palm leaves, were their ancestors. Or, what was left of them. Most of the statues were fragmented, harmed by storms and such, or weathered by the wind. These original creations, carved thousands of years ago, dwindled along with their memory, transformed by story into what their people hoped resembled the truth. Not many of them came down the path anymore, except the leaders (tasked with culture preservation), and a few that needed prayer.

Esai didn’t want to disturb her where she sat bowed, stepping quietly over fallen leaves to wait for her acknowledgment.

A large, sliced Ki-ki fruit sat beneath the feet of the youngest statue, it’s cerulean fruit bleeding purple over the lip of a plate and onto the sand. The stone man above Claudia stands with his strange eyes fixed to the horizon, one hand outstretched to his people, and the other beside his back, broken at the wrist, his weapon missing.

Seth is said to have been able to eat the Ki-ki fruit, and his people take pride they can at least drape themselves in linen dyed from it’s flesh.

“Lunch is ready,” he said when Claudia finally lifted her head.

She sighed, weight dropping from her shoulders. “Tomorrow, Esai. Tomorrow this will be all over.”

He stared at the ground. “I don’t—”

“I know. No one believes me that he’s coming home, but I feel it. A shift in the weather,” she breathed deep even as the sky darkened at the edge of their southern horizon.

“It’s not that we don’t believe you, Claudia… But a lot can happen in a year. And we haven’t even heard from him in months.”

“Don’t ruin this for me,” she said and, remembering his mother’s voice, Esai shut his mouth on his reply.

“Do you know who stopped to talk to me at the market yesterday?” She went on, barely heard, and Esai shook his head. “One of the rebels, a recruiter.”

“You never told me this,” he said, louder than he meant to.

“They want to know where we stand, with the people or with the king.”

Esai gestured to their island. “We have never stood with any king.”

“Yes, but we’ve existed so far apart from them—everyone, for so long. They don’t understand that while we are fortunate to not suffer the drought neither do we have anything to give that might help. This is going to turn to war, Esai, and our way of life might end.”

His hand came out to try to rub her back where it shook. “Let the leadership and I worry about that. You have to prepare for River coming home, right?”

“What if he doesn’t come back?!” She finally yelled, her voice cracking around tears. “I can’t leave him on that island; how can I just stand here and wait, and, and pray that he comes back? What if something’s happened to him, what if he’s being made to fight in this war? If he’s not home tomorrow, I’m going to get him.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re not going to stop me, that’s my son—”

“Claudia, STOP!” He shouted, causing birds to evacuate the canopy as Claudia was finally silent.

“Stop, please… Let’s see how tomorrow goes. Okay? Let’s talk to Ines and Ramon. Like we should have done a year ago.”

She nodded after a moment, relenting as reached down to help her up. Clouds were already rolling in, a sudden wind disturbing the offering that Claudia had left in the leaves at the statue’s feet.

#one piece #sir crocodile #sir crocodile x reader #sir crocodile x oc #crocodile one piece #male reader #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #oc fanfiction #mirage in the desert #silkendandelion #x reader #x oc

[silkendandelion]

Mirage In The Desert - Chapter 6

Summary: Crocodile investigates a rogue agent in Baroque Works while pondering both his past and what his new relationship with River will mean for the future.

Rated Explicit for sexual content, implied/referenced violence, and strong language. Ongoing, will cover the Alabasta Arc. Cross-posted to Ao3, same username. Send me a DM: yell at me, send flowers. Cheers.

~*~

An intimate date: dancing in silk suits, an unspoken (but not unknown) question between them, and a kiss that leapt off his lips in a spark when the circuit didn’t close.

It had swept them away, fondness filling their chests with “maybe’s”, “perhaps” and “so close”. But in the light of the morning, they remembered how fragile their new terms were, too breakable to play, and yet neither could stand to go back to being strangers.

“Still no mail today, Mila?” River asked when he got back to the casino.

The girl with the tiger’s eye gem gave him a sympathetic frown. “No, Mr. Faustina. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He tried to smile. “But thank you.”

Beside the bar, Crocodile received Miss All Sunday’s report in a plain envelope, nothing to be said in such a mundane transaction.

She followed his stare to River, surprised at the anger that bubbled up in her throat. No matter, she was used to remaining unreadable, as well as remembering the fact that River was not her problem. “Excuse me.”

He hummed, uninterested in her hasty departure as River came to greet him. “You look tired,” he said, affection unbidden when his hand came up to put some unruly pieces of hair behind the Oasin’s ear. One of his earrings was gone, lost. Pity.

There they are, he thought when River finally looked at him, regarding those eyes that made him long for the sea, devastatingly clear in their pain and tenderness alike. “My letters go unanswered.”

“All of them?”

“It’s been weeks.” That’s suspicious.

Crocodile took a long drag off his cigar, aware of River looking at him expectantly for an answer he didn’t have. Assuming the Oasins miss their River dearly, and would not neglect to reply were those letters received, we assume the letters never made it. Lost, intercepted? The perky girl who worked the door, Mila, had more than a little crush on him but she was a nice girl, too nice to ever consider destroying his property for affections unrequited. It’s someone outside the casino, Crocodile decided.

“I’m going to bed.” River declared suddenly, breaking his train of thought.

“Work on your poetry. Or go for a swim,” Crocodile said. “I’ll be back in the evening, and won’t tolerate finding you laid in bed all day.” It was a habit he hated, River’s tendency to let his emotions consume him, laying in a nest of feathered pillows for hours on days he chooses to sulk, or tending to the wani so long he forgets to eat. He always comes to find Crocodile afterwards, smelling of the sun and red on his shoulders, so hungry he shakes and yet he says it’s attention he can’t live without.

Crocodile leaves the casino per his schedule, the business of the mail tugging insistently at the back of his mind when he refused to give it more stage.

And you’ll be my Crocodile, not Mr. 0. He could recall the popping of the bulb, glass under his shoes, and how he had stepped in front of River to block him from the window.

The memory embarrassed him in hindsight. What, was he 20 again? Stepping in front of a bullet for a man of all things?

But it wasn’t a bullet. The exterior glass was intact, and he found neither bullet hole nor casing. There had been no sound, even a silenced pistol would make a sound he could identify at close range. He hated that he could remember how much bullet wounds hurt before he acquired his fruit. At some points on the wide ocean, his only first aid had been a hot knife.

“Oof!” Something hit his leg, and he looked to see a woman with a head of unruly gray curls beside his knees.

I know you, he thought. A little gloved hand rubbed the spot on her hip where she had landed, her blocked, colorful smock now dusted with sand, the colors of rusted, forgotten playground equipment after a storm.

“Aren’t you going to help up an old woman, you—!” Her shout dissolved like the color in her face.

That’s impossible. You can’t know me too, Miss Saturday. Unless you recognize me as a warlord, but I’ve never known you to be so intimidated.

“You run into me and expect me to pick you up?” He said.

“I mean—! I’m sorry, I never meant to offend, Mr—” She rose, slowly. “I’ll be going now.”

Gentle pats to dust herself off turned frantic, searching for something lost.

“Drop something?”

The guilty flinch in her shoulders didn’t escape his attention, and he followed her eyes to where she finally spotted her lost bobble, snatching it to keep him from recognizing it.

What are you doing with that? He restrained himself from shouting at her, from berating her as she nearly strangled a drop earring of sapphire and emerald. But before he could choose a method of torture she was gone, fled in a terrified scurry that only raised more unanswered questions.

There was no way the fool wasn’t safe, that much he knew, miles away at Raindinners. Right? Nothing a phone call couldn’t answer.

Putter, putter, putter… Putter, putter, putter. If he answered.

His blood chilled against his will. “He’s fine.” Click.

Probably sound asleep. He must have lost the earring this morning or even days ago. So why couldn’t Crocodile stand not knowing for sure? Foolishness is catching, it seems.

And why did you have it, Miss Saturday? You’re supposed to be on assignment today, far, far away from Alabasta. ____ ___ __ _

His work took him further than he meant to travel, not returning to Raindinners until the next afternoon. He only hoped his package had beat him home so his investigation didn’t delay.

“If you’re sick go home, Mila,” He said, not expecting an answer from the wilted flower by the door.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I… I’m worried about River.”

His sigh looked more like smoking, god, he hadn’t actually meant to appear interested in conversation—“What did you say?”

She spluttered, suddenly red as her uniform. “I mean, Mr. Faustina! I’m sorry, Sir, he just lets me call him River. I know that’s no excuse—”

“Hush. What’s wrong with River?”

“Well, a letter came for him yesterday, after he was home for the day. I asked Miss Manager to deliver it but she said she was busy, and let me upstairs to take it to him.” Damn Nico Robin. “He—” She blushed anew, this one a shy flush on the cheeks.

Crocodile almost barked at her to hurry up when she continued. “He invited me inside, said he wanted to give me a gift for bringing the letter to him… As soon as he read the letter he shoved me out, said he felt sick. He hasn’t been down since, Sir, you must know that’s not like him.”

Ash fell on his coat where he hadn’t breathed through her entire story. Is that all it was?

“Go home, Mila. You’re the one who isn’t well.” Calm and cruel, his smile didn’t convince her. “That’s just how River is.”

“You’re wrong, he—” The look he gave her clapped her mouth shut with a swallowed squeak.

“We will see you Monday, Mila.”

“… Yes, Sir.”

“And.” She stopped, one arm in her coat when his warning tone shot through her. “You’ll refer to him as Mr. Faustina from now on.”

“Yes, Sir… Sorry, Sir.”

Hopeless River, you give away too much. When you let people see you they start to care about you, asking questions and noticing patterns. There’s so much more at stake than the petty things you hold close.

You’ll have to get better at being lonely. I’m sorry.

He went straight upstairs to his own apartment, content to ignore the other man who seemed determined to sulk. Seems the problem with the mail was solved if River was getting letters again. Whatever the letter said, it was none of his business and he didn’t care to know. Too hungry, too tired, he propped himself into a chair in the sitting room where his package was sitting on the coffee table, and pouring himself a dark liquor he would be too sleepy to actually touch.

The overloaded bulb popped behind his eyelids when he found himself dozing. Right at the moment of confession, an interruption of an intimate moment. Had they been seen? He suspected the work of a devil fruit. Nico Robin’s fruit fit the possibility but she had no motive; she already knew Crocodile’s identity as Mr. 0 and probably (unfortunately) had her suspicions about him and the Oasin.

If someone was targeting River, it must be to get to him. As (he struggled for the word) useful as the other man was, he wasn’t of any status to warrant a kidnapping or assassination. A hate crime would not have a plan. Robbery would not be so creative.

The ice in his drink clinked as it melted.

Miss Saturday, age 59, possessed a devil fruit: the Peek-Peek fruit, allowing her to glimpse into any living person’s life for a few seconds at a time. Hired as a frontier agent to investigate internal affairs, she had refused to divulge the limitations of her power. “In case I need to investigate you one day, Mr. 0,” she said. Like he would ever allow that to happen.

That said, the memo he made to discover the fine details of her power went forgotten, only suddenly relevant. So now stacks (and stacks) of papers sat on the coffee table, waiting for him, all the reports her partner, Mr. 12, made during his extensive tenure. Fetched personally, and sent ahead with Miss All Sunday. The answer must be somewhere inside.

Tch. He despised grunt work, but this one couldn’t be delegated. Too risky, regarding he needed to find out who knew what, and keep them isolated from each other to deal with precisely.

If Miss Saturday was investigating River, why? And what had it yielded, if anything, about himself? More importantly, was his fool in danger? More importantly?

“It’s going to storm tonight,” came a voice behind him, honey sweet, and the lights of his apartment faded to golden oil lamps. He recognized the room, the captain’s quarters on his first ship. River closed the door behind himself, the sounds of the ocean still coming in the cracked window.

“Then let’s go to bed… I haven’t seen you in days.” Crocodile hardly recognized his voice, surprised when he lit his cigar with his left hand. That’s right, we were left handed before all this. And we only began to hate the rain after the damn fruit.

“I want to go for a swim. Come with me?” River asked, surely unaware that the lamplight made his linen robes sheer in the dark room.

“It’s dangerous with the clouds.”

But he found himself on the deck anyway (he wondered where the crew was, if it mattered), undressing and leaving his clothes in a pile to follow the tempter overboard.

The ocean should have been cold, it always was, yet the waves were warm on every inch of him as he chased the other man with ease. He wonders if playing the piano would feel the same in this place, like he never stopped. He was always a strong swimmer but River is faster, barely out of reach, tumbling over currents and breaking the beams of light that shine down from the surface while he leads the pirate by his nose.

If fate punishes me for nothing else, she will not forgive me for bringing a merman ashore.

How long have we been down here?, he wants to ask but he’s so close to catching him. My lungs are beginning to burn.

Two hands, strong from shucking oysters and tending gardens, wrap around his waist. He spins to see him smiling, soft and inviting when Crocodile drags him closer to steal air from his lungs in a kiss that should have hurt. Being with River never hurt as much as it should, and he hated that.

He sees himself, so much younger, reflected back at him in the glass of those kind eyes. What did River see when he looked at him this way, whole, not yet scarred? Did he see the naivety he saw in River, who was his elder now? Did he see a man who wasn’t yet cruel enough to rule the world?

The pain in his chest spreads to his lungs, suddenly lined with lead as a familiar, paralyzing sickness spread to his limbs. Yes, of course. The ocean abandoned him long ago, and he had shed the weight of that man. The foolish one he didn’t recognize until they stared back at him in the eyes of a man who wasn’t there.

He watched River make no move to reach him, terrified but perfectly still, watching him go down, down, down into the dark water.

Don’t look at me like that. Like you would mourn.

He opened his eyes to an empty house, dark as the ocean, quiet except for the thrum of blood in his ears. A taunting reminder that he was still human. And no sign of River, not a sound. The house was never this quiet.

His good hand massaged the sleep from his eyes. Unbelievable.

Upstairs, he didn’t bother to knock before entering the other man’s apartment. No lights here either, it seemed, but the moonlight in the window revealed enough. Disheveled sheets and clothes strewn about, cold food lay untouched on a nearby table.

“Eh? Crocodile?” The croak of River’s voice squeezed his heart, not unlike someone who’s cried for days (he assumed).

“What’s going on here?” Of course he couldn’t manage to sound worried, not when it mattered. But the single question broke the dam on River’s tears and he sobbed, dry, what sounded painful even from where Crocodile stood in the dark.

“Get a hold of yourself.” No change. “River—”

“I’m sorry. Sorry.” He hiccuped, squeezing himself tight enough to test the seams on his shirt, tears flowing down in rivulets to his chest. Under his legs, a vague crinkling sound implied the presence of the offending letter.

Crocodile snatched it, hard enough to tear the corner, while looted the bedding to find his cigarettes. It looked like an ordinary letter, supposedly written by the Oasins, filled with troubling phrases like “disappointed in your decisions”, and “too dangerous to be associated”. River’s apparent confirmed (confirmed how?) involvement with an unknown criminal organization was grounds for exile. He would not be welcomed back. They even had the nerve to wish him so-called luck.

“… River.”

Shaking hands tried his lighter over and over, thik, thik, failing to light his cigarette until Crocodile picked it from his lips and reached out to embrace him as awkwardly as he felt. Of course the fool took more than he was offered, but Crocodile didn’t protest when he climbed into his lap, crying into his vest.

How troublesome, he thought, tucking a piece of hair behind River’s ear.

“Why are you all that I have left?” River sobbed into his shoulder.

I don’t know. He stared at an imperfection in the wall beside the bed. Maybe fate intended to be as cruel to River as she had been to Crocodile, punishing him for sins he hadn’t committed yet. Crocodile hated that he was the reason River received that letter, hated that they hadn’t met a long time ago on a wide, blue sea and come to Alabasta together.

“I don’t hate you,” River said. The tears in his eyes reminded Crocodile of an amethyst geode that cradled the last drink of water in an endless desert.

“Because you’re a fool.” He brought him close to puzzle their lips together, tasting salt and something so human he almost yanked away to save his heart. River cupped the rough cut of Crocodile’s chin with his palms, feeling in his chest that ‘fool’ was beginning to sound like ‘my love’. The warlord needed a shave, but all River wanted to do was break the waves of his heart against the rocks of a long-suffering soul. Harsh but not impatient, stoic but not unwelcoming. Sharp tobacco and peppery cologne, he wanted to taste them from lips that insulted him and yet would choose ‘lovely’ to describe him above all else.

Crocodile groaned when the front of their slacks pressed flush at River’s insistence, his place on the warlord’s lap suddenly convenient for mischief. A firm hand stilled him where it gripped his back between his rucked shirt and belt.

“Please, I want you,” River sighed in the warm air between them.

“I know.” Crocodile thumbed the blush on the other man’s neck, red from attention. “But I have work to do. I only came to make sure you hadn’t melted into the mattress.”

“Stay, we can still make that happen.” God, he wanted, but the Oasin’s eyes were still red, and he would neither take advantage of him nor let himself be anyone’s coping mechanism. The rogue Miss Saturday was still investigating them both, and until he had more answers, this ended here.

“Goodnight, River.” He pinched his cheek to feign affection, hopefully to pretend they were all right.

But River knew the difference. “… Goodnight, Crocodile.”

Crocodile was quick to untangle them and leave the way he came, though he reminded River to lock the door. A quiet ‘thunk’ of the bolt confirmed he was feeling obedient, for once, though Crocodile doubted it would last.

“What am I going to do with you?” He wondered, reaching into his breast pocket to produce both the offensive letter and the second earring of the pair.

Inside the apartment, River touched the spot on his dresser where the lone earring had sat. “I’m not so naive, Crocodile.”

He recalled the small woman in the street, a few days ago now, who had run into him. They collided hard enough to almost knock them both down, his jewelry tumbling from his hands while he confirmed a missing stone. She ran from him before he could suggest he had been burgled, but thought nothing of it until the second one was gone now, no question that Crocodile swiped it when he was saying goodbye.

“What’s going on?”

In the elevator, Crocodile put the earring into his empty pocket. Empty? No. He searched his other pockets to confirm it was gone. His pocket-watch. A watch, an earring, and a woman. A keepsake, a pretty jewel, and a pickpocket.

Oh. You’ve made a mistake, Miss Saturday. ____ ___ __ _

Traveling with Mr. 2 was always a delight, even when their job managed to get routine. River pondered his briefing, half-read and wine-stained under the bottom of his glass while Mr. 2 went to get more bread and cheese. He wondered what troubled Crocodile; even if it was none of his business, he cared. Was that wrong? Had he misjudged what the warlord expected from him? Wanted from him?

Mr. 2 pushed open the door with their hip, arms full of food and more drink. “You need to eat something other than sugar, even wine has sugar in it!” A gasp. “So does bread—”

Did he want anything? River left his thoughts just long enough to disarm his friend’s worries. “I only need the company of a friend and the food becomes better for me.” I was too vulnerable.

“Oh, you. Sweet man.” Mr. 2 mumbled and began to divide the food. “Let’s toast to that.”

Their glasses clinked but River only barely sipped. “Do you remember when we first met?”

“And you’re being sentimental too! Are you feeling all right?” They reached across to feel his cheek.

“I’m emotional lately, I guess…” I crossed a line with someone I shouldn’t have. And I’m wondering if I’ve made a mistake. “Things I can’t talk about. You understand.”

A promise to keep their secret only barely didn’t escape the other officer. “Do you know I’ll help you in any way I can?”

“Yes, Mr. 2.” My life has gotten so lonely. “Ever since coming on with the organization, I find I have… so few friends. I left a lot behind—” He cleared his throat suddenly to stop himself, picking at his food.

Holding down the promise was harder this time. “If you ever have no friends left in this world, then I must be dead. We’re a team, River baby. Now and always.”

River’s lip quivered, he was tired of crying. “… Not again. Shit—”

He hid his tears in his arms as Bon Clay nearly knocked the table over to embrace him. “Don’t cry! Oh, don’t—okay. It’s okay. Let it out. Okama hugs fix everything, I promise.”

A crew member opened the cabin door, “Captain! Land in sight!”, like they believed no answer after knocking meant ‘come on in!’ somehow. What they hadn’t expected to see was the captain holding a bundled River in his lap while he sobbed.

“Get OUT! Idiot! This is a sacred tradition among men! He needs a safe space!” The pirate ran out faster than they entered.

Later and back on land, River blew into his handkerchief one last time while Mr. 2 offered him a pair of sunglasses. “Let’s get going, Mr. i. Aren’t you excited to meet the other officers?”

“Yes, I’m a new man.” He pocketed his handkerchief.

“That’s it, that’s the spirit! Oh, come our way! OH, COME our way!”

The woman behind the counter at the Spider’s Cafe greeted them politely enough, her hair tied back with a silk scarf that was easy on her navy blue curls. “Good evening.”

Mr. 2 slammed himself into a stool. “Paula! We’re starving, two salmon milkshakes!”

“Actually, just one. And a coffee, if it’s no trouble,” River said without taking a seat.

Miss Double-finger had heard the rumors of the spoiled pet that was Mr. 2’s new partner. She preferred not to indulge hearsay; it wasn’t becoming, highly irresponsible in her line of work, but impossible to avoid. She much preferred to make her own assessments.

“I’m afraid I only have one kind.” She gave him the name of a notoriously cheap brand, beloved by day laborers and tourists who know no better.

“That’s my favorite.” He smiled wide and bright, like any man she’s ever known that was happy to see her. If he was a liar, he was a good one.

“Cream or sugar, sweetheart?”

“However you like it,” was his easy answer. She smiled back and served him a white cup with coffee and a local milk. The coin he handed her was far too much money, but he refused to take it back.

“Thank you.” She warmed a pastry for him (on the house), steaming gently as the door swung open again.

“Whew! This place doesn’t see much business, does it?” A short woman and her lumbering partner wandered in.

“Never does, Miss Merry Christmas.” A woman in a yellow dress was followed close behind by a man that, judging by his helpfully monogrammed jacket, must be Mr. 5. The names and faces from the dossiers were a struggle to recall days later. Knowing your enemy isn’t a step you can skip,” Mr. 0 had warned him.

“Are they my enemy? They’re fellow officers.” Crocodile’s silence told him all he needed, including that his question was too obvious to acknowledge.

In the cafe, Paula spoke up to catch their attention. “The back room is ready for you all. Please let me know if you need anything.”

The short woman, Miss Merry Christmas he believed, preferred to push and shove when she was the only one in the room going fast enough. “Move, Princess!”

“Not a princess,” River said plainly, his hands in the pockets of his coat.

“Don’t talk back to your seniors, Mr. i,” Miss Valentine said as they rounded the table. “You’re the newest officer here. None of us have even heard of you.”

He blinked. “Was I supposed to have heard of you all, then?”

“Excuse me?” Her nose turned an embarrassed red. “You spoiled—”

“I prefer spoiled, actually.”

“I’m leaving if you two don’t stop.” Miss Golden-week appeared but stood by her chair, flanked by her Mr. 3.

“We were meant to start 3 minutes ago. But only Miss Merry Christmas and Mr. 4 have even found their seats. They heard the snail in the center of the table begin to speak, apparently connected before they even entered the room. Slowly, everyone looked for the source of Mr. 0’s eyes until they spotted a surveillance snail in a dusty corner of the ceiling.

“Is Mr. 1 coming?” River thought aloud, and Mr. 2 spoke quietly between them.

“His team never shows up to these things. Thinks he’s too important, I guess.” Seems even Mr. 2 wasn’t immune to assumptions about the other officers.

“Miss Saturday was meant to be here, too, wasn’t she?” Mr. 3 said. That hadn’t been in River’s brief.

“We will begin with who is present. The circumstances of Miss Saturday’s investigation have taken her elsewhere. Even River noticed the drop of several officer’s shoulders at this change of plans. Were they relieved for themselves? Or worried for what might happen next? What had Miss Saturday found?

Working our way down the list, Mr. 3 will begin. The sound from the snail faded from River’s mind when he became distracted by a loose thread on his expensive coat. The others around the table seemed equally bored, though they obviously took to different methods of coping. He watched Miss Golden-week scratch on her sketchbook, wondering how a child came to be a part of their troupe, and what it said about her patient chaperone, Mr. 3. The pencil he used broke at the tip, and she wordlessly swapped their pencils to hand him a new one, sharpener already in her hand.

“Thank you,” came his polite reply, almost drowned out by Miss Merry Christmas’ fidgeting.

That concludes the evening. I wouldn’t take your time leaving, the Unluckies will be on their way to collect the recording devices.

None of the officers wanted to test the validity of the threat, it seemed and filed out quickly, leaving Mr. 2 and River the last ones to leave the back room.

“Come, River, we have nowhere to be and only a good night waiting for us! Let’s go!” He grabbed the other man’s hand but he didn’t move from his spot.

“I have to say goodnight to you here, Mr. 2. I’m sorry, but someone’s coming to meet me.”

“What? You can’t stay here, you might get caught up by the Unluckies. They won’t care you’re just waiting.”

“I’ll be fine, Mr. 2. Someone… special is coming to get me,” River said, and the bashful blush on the okama’s cheeks meant they wouldn’t pry anymore.

“Be safe then. Please.” Mr. 2 offered a final hug before River was alone. Well, alone with Paula as she stacked chairs on tables.

She watched him go back to the meeting room only briefly, long enough to pack the snails in a leather case, as well as the recordings of their meeting.

“Is your friend far? I’ll need to lock up soon.” The case sat between them.

“You don’t have to worry about me.” The smile that didn’t reach his eyes was less convincing than his confident manner of speaking. Between his struggle to emote and the multiple lies he told over the course of the evening, when did that become who he was? “I’m just a bit hesitant to go home, is all.”

“Why’s that?” Not that she cared.

Not that he could answer. He grinned at something funny he hadn’t actually said. “I’m only thinking out-loud. Bye now.” ____ ___ __ _

Immediately after the officers meeting, Mr. 1 made his way to the rendezvous point stated in his instructions, a nearby cross street that was both close to the Spiders Cafe and not far from where the Oasins had been only yesterday. Tide was high now, lapping and spilling onto the streets of the harbor.

“Don’t move, Mr. 1,” came a familiar voice behind him, catching him before he could leave the shadows. Mr. 0 had never intended to meet his officer in person, and even now wouldn’t allow the swordsman to see his face. Policy dictated he trust no one, but he hesitated to trust even the phones or the mail right now.

“Observe the time, Mr. 1.”

“Sir.” He checked his watch without turning around. What a good soldier.

“In precisely 30 minutes, you will be waiting at the pier. Dock 04. Miss Saturday will be waiting for you.” The swordsman made to get to work, but the voice stopped him.

“Mr. 1. Do you have a light?”

The same hand that checked his watch produced a silver lighter, a cursive “1” under his thumb as he flicked it open with a resonating ring. Crocodile leaned down to notice the man’s eyes were closed as he offered the flame to his lips. Such a good soldier.

“And get my watch back.”

Crocodile left his officer to himself while he went to a different cross street, some forgotten alley behind a restaurant that read ‘closed due to drought’ on a handwritten sign in the window.

“I half expected you to run,” he said. There was that flinch in Miss Saturday’s shoulders whenever he startled her. He wondered when she started being so nervous, before or after she knew about him.

“Should I?” Her posture shook even as she held her head high. Poor thing must think I came to negotiate.

“For what it’s worth, it’s admirable. Though traitors are worth little more than their blood.”

She had seen him a handful of times in the context of an ordinary warlord where his reptilian eyes seemed to look through you. But this time he stared at her, so viscerally at nothing else but her that bile bubbled up in her throat. Maybe she should have run.

“I’m not going to kill you.” He ashed his fresh cigar in the street. “You’re going to tell me what you know.”

“And then you’re going to kill me?”

“Talk and find out.”

Hot tears suddenly ran down her face, unexpected by the curl in Crocodile’s lip. “Mr. 12 did nothing wrong! His only crime was that he lost a fight.”

Crocodile sighed, smoke filling the air, and resisting the urge to touch where he was getting a headache. “All this for love.”

“You can’t say that to me—”

“SHUT up.” He barked. The glow on his cigar waned when he pointed it at her, her face flinching with the intrusive thought of him putting it out on her skin. “You saw us that night. With your devil fruit.”

“When we’re alone, I’m just River. Not Mr. Faustina, not Mr. i. And you’ll be my Crocodile, not Mr. 0.” “Yes, I did.”

“Your powers require an object to focus your sight, in this case you’ve been spying on River by stealing his letters from the casino. You wondered about the rumors of his business dealings with myself, and were absurdly unprepared for what you would find.” So shocked you overloaded the bulb in the room.

Crocodile watched her little fists quiver, teeth ground so hard they creaked. “That man, Mr. i, he’s the one who hospitalized my partner. But did you punish Mr. Faustina for nearly killing one of your agents, no, you—”

She licked her lips, mouth suddenly dry as tears fell down her cheeks. “You ordered him dead! For one mistake! Meanwhile, that pathetic islander is brought on as both an officer and some pampered whore of yours, while I suffer without Mr. 12. TELL ME, Mr. 0, how any of that is fair!”

His voice, as deadly as his eyes, silenced her, along with the sudden looming of his shadow. “You’re the one who sent the letter. The one that devastated him.”

Her crying face twisted further into a sneer, red in her nose and sodden lips. “Did it hurt? Did it rip his heart from his chest the way he destroyed mine?”

Crocodile looked like he might pull her head from her shoulders with his good hand, and any courage Miss Saturday had left was leaking out of her shoes, resolved to shakes when faced with the full height of her opponent. “All this for that. For whom? My worst frontier agent? I could laugh if I wasn’t so disgusted by just the sight of you, determined to exact revenge the slow, pathetic way that an insect bites because they can do nothing else… You can’t even say his name.”

He managed to compose himself, carefully folding away his anger to return to his cigar. “Miss Saturday, you have broken the most important rule of our organization by seeking the identities of your fellow agents and meaning to expose them.”

One more thrash, Miss Saturday, if you please. “Kill me then, I’ve already won. I know the most important name of them all, and this entire island will too. Cling to your wounded whore, he’s all you’ll have left soon enough. You’ll never be able to kill everyone who knows who you are, Mr. 0.”

His hook rose to block out the streetlight but Miss Saturday braced for a pain that never came. A sealed sack landed with a ‘tink’ at her feet, the clinking of coins inside.

“… The fuck is that? Money?”

“It’s enough to repay your grievances. More than enough to remember who gave it to you,” Crocodile said, but the timber of his voice did nothing for Miss Saturday’s nerves. Her body went cold under the embarrassment of her emboldened speech.

“You—You’re letting me go. Even after I—”

“If I ever see you again, I won’t. There’s a boat at the docks that leaves in 15 minutes. I suggest you be on it.” His reptilian eyes seemed cold even for him as the little woman grabbed the bag and took off so fast she broke one of her sandals, skidding and sprinting barefoot out of his sight.

Run, Miss Saturday. If there wasn’t more at stake than my reputation among the people, I would have ended this personally. I suppose you still have some luck left.

Second chances were for alcoholics and the lucky, Miss Saturday figured, ignoring the rocks under her feet as she ran. Ran until her lungs burned, all the way to the pier.

Signs for fresh produce had been painted over since the drought worsened, more and more shops boarded up and abandoned, but it was still recognizable as the same market she last saw Mr. 12. He had been sick all morning and told her to go ahead to the rendezvous point, said he would catch up. A drunk and a friend was still a friend, gone now, unable to be forgiven. At Dock 04, people were loading a freight ship with standing room only on the deck for a few paying passengers. A starving island with rotten people, she was pleased to leave Alabasta behind.

The bag of severance pay weighed heavy in her hands. Thank you, Crocodile. “Seems the Oasin isn’t the only fool.”

She opened the bag to count out pay for the boat, and a fragile smile ran from her face when she saw a silver lighter sat atop the pile of gold coins. Mr. 1. Do you have a light?

No. Don’t touch it. Don’t read it. Just run to the boat, second chances are for alcoholics and the lucky—but her hand closed around the lighter anyway, possessed and unable to not know.

The engraved cap rung out in the quiet. She activated her peek—

And saw her own back. ____ ___ __ _

Raindinners wasn’t too far away as the sand-sand fruit flies, and Crocodile arrived back home to a mostly (thankfully) empty lobby, the bartender greeting him politely as they cleaned up for the shift change. He was exhausted, relieved, wondering if his poet was already at his writing desk for the evening, smelling of almonds and soap. It was late, too late for supper. Not too late to see him, he mused as he put his watch in his pocket.

He hadn’t seen the other man in days, not since the incident (that’s what he called the sudden shift in their relationship, regarding the reading of the letter and the horribly embarrassing events that followed). Upstairs, River’s front door was unlocked, disobedient, and he cursed himself for not knocking before letting himself inside, a tough habit to break when he was so unused to… whatever they called themselves now. He hated that the door was always open, whether because it was an unsafe habit from a sheltered life, or because it felt too much like an invitation to rest his head on the other man’s couch—he wouldn’t say.

“Crocodile.” There stood his poet, dressed and groomed, but no smile. “You should have called. I’m just getting home, I’d like a bath first.” He offered a kiss to Crocodile’s cheek, smelling of cigarettes and wine when the warlord stooped to accept. So he’s been out.

“Where have you been?”

“Nearby. Some cards, a little drink… Why?” River looked back over his shoulder as he hung his coat, no room in his tone for anything other than ‘I missed you’.

“You’re upset.”

Anything but that. They loved to talk for hours about music, literature, themselves. But not them, never them. It was too personal, intimate in a way they weren’t. Did they want to? River liked to think so, but the warlord was just so hard to read sometimes.

“I haven’t slept well,” was River’s carefully formed answer. He wouldn’t apologize for his terseness, and Crocodile didn’t expect it.

He put his cigar down in the ash tray, tongue on his lips and eyes on the width of the other man’s shoulders when he worked knots from his neck. “Any more letters?”

“Why would they write to me when they are done with me? I’m—how did they say—‘a liability’? And ‘bound to be happier where I already am’… apparently.”

Crocodile’s thumb popped when he curled it around his fingers. He hadn’t come to see him for anything more than a bit of company, maybe a nightcap with a friend. A part of their routine, yet now they were separated by a desert in the tiny apartment. That’s right, the letter.

Nothing had come of Miss Saturday’s investigation of the Oasin, and he hesitated to say he was surprised. But her deception ran deep, a cancer that had to be removed piece by piece, leaving survivors subject to thorough testing. He never intended River to know; after all, what’s one more secret? But the part of Crocodile that’s come to trust the other man can’t stand to see him suffer.

“The letter was a fake.” There’s my poet, finally, he thought when he saw a spark return to his downtrodden gaze, like Crocodile was already a king. Maybe to River, he was. Go on, tell him how you figured it out. That you remembered how he told you that Oasin’s use flawed, foreign composite paper because it’s cheap and easy to find at port.

“Someone targeted you.” Tell him you saved him.

“Why? What did I do? You mean—?”

And what about the dream? Say something already. “I can’t tell you anymore.”

Crocodile expected him to protest but the Oasin must have all the answers he wants, content to stare, mouth the tiniest bit agape while he realizes he’s not been forsaken after all. His breath stutters in a rush from his lungs. “… Thank you for telling me what you could.”

“I’ve told you, don’t thank me.” That cigar was looking pretty good again, but hands on his back stopped him from going to the ash tray. They wove around his middle in a hug, too soft, too nice.

“I missed you.”

Crocodile thought it sounded like ‘I know your secrets’, murmured with a nuzzle against his back. Which one? Which was worse? “I only came by to tell you about the letter. I’ll leave you to your evening.”

“Stay, please.”

“Don’t you want to get back to your letter writing? Your poetry, maybe.”

Why is the fool smiling? “If you really want to leave, I won’t keep you.” Hands leave him, and he hears River walk away. The air of the apartment manages to be cold against his back, even through his coat.

“I don’t need your permission for anything,” Crocodile bites back, but the other man just smiles to himself (he’s off to get ready for bed), and part of Crocodile wants to join him in his routine, brush his hair before he knots it again in his fist. Miss Saturday found nothing on River because there IS nothing, he wants nothing from you.

Except what he can’t have.

Can’t he?

He thinks back to the man from all those years ago, his crew that abandoned him right after, even Miss All Sunday with her knife at the ready, how loneliness has been his shelter in this renewed rise to the top.

One more time. Just one more time.

River hears him approach first, before he feels a large hand spin him, suddenly pinned to the counter by a kiss that tries to taste his soul behind the backs of his teeth. His leather-soled shoes slip on the bathroom floor, barely caught by the hook and placed haphazardly on the marble like Crocodile couldn’t choose between pressing their mouths or their bodies tighter together.

Crocodile’s lungs burn when they finally pull part, a string of saliva snapping back to shine on River’s swollen lip. It reminded him of the dream, covered by the ocean, and oh he wanted to drown.

“Yes... Yes—” Whatever plea River wanted to say was swallowed by another greedy kiss, having recognized the question in Crocodile’s eyes and tried to answer without moaning. Anything was fine, he just wanted it to be him, the warlord he had sworn to hate, the one who continued to be good to him. And he was so willing but there were too many clothes, not enough time to be consumed the way he craved. Crocodile would try, he wanted to stoke the other man’s spirit and body until it singed his palms and left his lips raw.

“Yes, more? Or yes, please?” He rasped against his lips, already?, smothering River’s moan of an answer with a rake of his teeth to his bottom lip. His jeweled hand wrenched their shirts from too-tight pants, and let his belt be pulled free with a sharp thwip.

Don’t stop, don’t think.

I need you. Needed you all this time.

River was silk in his fingers, almost too slippery to hold when he wanted to drop to his knees, little frustrated murmurs slipping from kiss-swollen lips when Crocodile refused to let him off the counter. “Let me, please—” Their pants clinked open loud in the bathroom’s stone acoustics.

“Not enough time,” Crocodile lied. He needed to break the spell or he might change his mind about everything.

“We have all the time in the world.”

No, we don’t. He could point to their last day together on a calendar, pinpoint this urgency, the pressure behind his ribs to take, take, trust while River begged him threatened to boil over, desperate to reach fruition before… before—They pulled the rest of their clothes apart just enough to touch, bare nipples pricking the other’s chest, cocks sliding but not enough, never enough from spit alone. Perfect teeth bit into River’s jaw where he hissed from the cold of Crocodile’s rings on their hottest parts.

“I can—wait—” River was interrupted by a thumb on his tip, expertly tugging his foreskin while he groped the counter blindly for some oil, or maybe a life preserver. Combs and bottles fell to the ground, the distant sound of Crocodile’s rings coming off in five shrill patters, River managed to grab his prize (the oil that smelled of bergamot and almonds).

Yes, that’s perfect. They moaned together when their cocks slid easily, finally, Crocodile’s larger hand jerking them together while River kissed tiny whimpers into his mouth and tugged on his hair with oily hands.

Their lips smack apart, eyes dazed and seeking. “I never imagined you would be quiet.”

“You thought about me? Ah!” River cried out when Crocodile bit the side of his neck hard enough to punish, never to hurt.

“There it is. Speak to me, sing for me.”

River let an unguarded moan slip from his wet lips at the earnest demand spoken gently against the mark on his neck. Too soft in his ear, too close, they were so close and too foggy to even try to wonder what would happen when they could finally come down. But not yet.

“Don’t stop, please, like that,” River said as a hot mouth closed on his throat and Crocodile could feel the sweat dripping down his lower back, behind his ears.

“Mm, fu—fuck, yes—” River’s hips buck in his hand, the purple head of his cock peeking and disappearing while Crocodile leers at the crimson flush that’s flooding his chest and neck. He knows he must not look any better, his hair ruched from it’s style and golden eyes glassy.

The humid smell of them drifts up hot from where Crocodile’s forearm begins to burn, and he looks down to admire the constellation of beauty marks on River’s exposed chest. Each one begs him to close his teeth around it; he wants to leave proof that he was here, wanted so fervently. But he’s too distracted, the threat of his release prickling at the back of his thighs, to notice that River was staring equally at the warlord’s scarred chest, helplessly panting, whimpering at Crocodile to kiss him when he cums.

You’re mine. Mine to hold, mine to trust. I want no one else, River thinks.

You’re mine. Mine to hold, mine to trust. Maybe not forever, but as long as you’ll have me. Crocodile’s broken from his sentimental brain fog by hot droplets on his face.

“Oh, oh.” He groans when he sees River’s cumming between them, a long groan in his throat and the back of his head pressed hard into the mirror. He struggles to breath, too much, too much, when Crocodile follows him, the other man’s larger body bucking him further up on the counter to wring every last spark from the throbbing in his cock. The over-stimulation on Crocodile’s sore cock makes his mouth water, a drop of drool falling to the back of his cum-covered hand.

Shit, he hasn’t cum that hard in years. In front of the fool, no less. Because of the fool, he has to admit as he admires his starry eyes and ghost of a smile. The haze they left behind is sticky, too hot, and the moisture on the mirror behind them squeaks when River tries to move. Crocodile’s crippling self doubt is (thankfully) too tired to fuss even as the embarrassment settles in, slicking his bangs back and wondering if that was cum in his hair. God.

“We’re too old for this,” He says out loud, not meaning to be so candid.

River’s laugh is kind but doesn’t comfort him when he goes to move them to a place to rest. The bed sheets can be cleaned much easier than the couch, he decides, and lays them down.

“You’re not old.”

“That’s not what I said—”

“I think you’re lovely.” No, that’s how I describe you, Crocodile managed to not say out loud. His pressing need for a nap is interrupted by River climbing onto his stomach, still messy and unashamed, right where he can rock back against Crocodile’s soft cock (the soul is willing but the flesh is weak).

“Too lovely to have just once.”

“If you’re going to be this candid with me,” his thumb reaches up to press on River’s tongue, hopefully to distract him while he waits for his cock to respond, “I’m going to have to find work for your mouth.”

“You’re the one who didn’t let me show off earlier.” River huffs when the hand wraps around his throat, too gentle for such a violent gesture when Crocodile’s wet thumb brushes under his jaw. The grip offers leverage, regardless, to kiss him again, slower, still searing hot.

“It’s been a little while. I’m sorry I was quick.” River’s forehead nudges his sternum.

Crocodile stared at the ceiling, wondering what possessed him to open his mouth. “I—” Don’t tell him about your heart. “I don’t allow many men this close.”

Well, that’s not much better. Now he thinks he’s special. He can’t be.

But I may not have a choice.

“I don’t make a habit of this either. For men, I mean, I’ve never found a woman I had a connection with,” River said.

A cold chill ran up Crocodile’s back, a familiar dread he had slaved for decades to stamp down. That’s not who he was anymore. Did it matter? He hated that it did.

“I’m going to tell you something. You are to stay silent until I’m finished.”

And River did, he stayed silent the entire time, obedient, so receptive that Crocodile almost interrupted his story to tell him to blink. “I said you were lovely, didn’t I? That will never change.”

It was the first of many secrets shared in the dark, too many for a liability like River. Maybe he knew that, maybe he wanted to believe the opposite was true. That love mattered more than power, and was strong enough to heal wounds decades old, made by people long dead. It was, but River would learn too soon that people don’t have to be whole to love (or be loved), and they don’t have to be broken to hurt you.

#one piece #sir crocodile #sir crocodile x reader #sir crocodile x oc #male reader #sir crocodile smut #oc fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #mirage in the desert #silkendandelion #x reader #x oc

[silkendandelion]

Mirage In The Desert - Chapter 5

Summary: Crocodile and River are adjusting to their forced proximity, and make one more agreement off the books. Meanwhile, another enemy has noticed the changes at Raindinners.

Rated Mature for explicit violence, sexually suggestive content. Ongoing, will cover the Alabasta Arc. Cross-posted to Ao3, same username. Send me a DM: yell at me, send flowers. Cheers.

~*~

My dearest Claudia. I’m fine.

In between jobs, and at every moment he could find to himself, he worked on his letter. He had started over dozens of times now, determined to place every word just right even as he retrieved notes from smeared ink on his palms.

My dearest Claudia,

Please forgive how long it’s taken me to write. Although I can’t tell you where I am, or even tell you with whom I’m employed, I want you to know I’m fine. I live in a palace, surrounded by the powerful, and I want for nothing. My employer, he’s a frightening man who is wrong to find me unassuming. He calls me a prince, and perhaps—

He groaned, crumpling the paper and tossing it away to land somewhere forgotten. I can’t tell them that… To them, I must be in paradise while I count the days.

Struck with an idea, he grabbed a new sheet of paper, some stationary he had taken from Crocodile’s office. “That’s it.”

After several more hours at his desk, he painstakingly sealed the letter and flew out of the apartment, only barely remembering his coat on the way out. The young woman who was working the front door these days gasped when she saw him leave the elevator, her little hand adjusting and readjusting her pressed uniform.

“Miss—Mister Faustina! Good morning.” She blinked when he presented a crisp parcel with a suede-gloved hand. “Mail, sir?”

“Please be sure it goes out today.” The same hand offered her a lapel pin with a tiger’s eye gem, and placed it in her palm. “For you. Everyone should have something shiny that matches their eyes.”

“I can’t possibly accept this—sir!” She squeaked when he insisted, giving her a smile that made her too ready to relent even before he explained himself.

“It would make me very happy if you did.” And it wasn’t a lie, not when the happiness he gleamed from this glittering, lonely existence seemed to be either from receiving a new jewel or giving one away.

“...Thank you, sir.” She turned pink under his easy stare, little fingers fumbling to pin it to her collar. “It’s beautiful.”

Down the steps, River saw Crocodile coming back to the casino, unaware that he frowned at River’s behavior, and not his usual look of regal apathy.

“You’re going to give her the wrong impression if you keep spoiling her,” he said, uncaring the woman stood next to him.

“There is no wrong impression. I like when she smiles.”

His scolding retort fell off his tongue when the young lady extended her little paw, noticeably more sheepish than she had been with the Oasin. “Mail, Sir. I mean, good afternoon—er, welcome back. Sir. Sorry, Sir.” He took the envelope gently, if only to stop her stammering.

Both men disappeared to their own business, and she waved goodbye as another woman appeared behind her, this one older with an unruly head of gray hair. “Oh! You startled me. I’m sorry, how can I help you?”

“Forgive me for not announcing myself. I’m here for your mail.”

“Really? It’s a bit early, isn’t it? What happened to George?” She looked around.

“He’s out sick, I’m afraid... I can’t wait forever, you know, I’ve got other pickups to make.” She clicked her teeth, and the girl fumbled to produce the letter River had dropped off.

“Oh—Of course! Just this for today.”

Gone without a goodbye, the strange woman darted off the way she came, ducking behind a nearby store to open the letter.

It has to be him, the one with the violet eyes. She read for a few more moments before ripping the letter into minuscule pieces and mushing them beneath her boot.

Back at the casino, Crocodile decided to open his own mail while he waited for the elevator.

It was an invoice from his tailor, as expected after he had River fitted for a custom suit the week prior. The Oasin’s traditional attire had been flattering, cool for the weather, but Crocodile had relished how easily he surrendered to being put into a velvet jacket and silk slacks. Nothing but the best for his newest prize, he told himself. There was nothing unusual about wanting an asset properly polished to reflect positively on him as well. It was part of their agreement.

“Fifty—a hundred and fifty thousand berries?!” He barely restrained himself from shouting, all the eyes in the casino glancing at him before going back to their games. The invoice fell in a glorious ribbon to his feet, lined with charges like “Lounge wear set, Silk”, “Faux Sable, Floor Length”, all the shiny fixings for a decadent wardrobe he certainly hadn’t authorized. Tourists stepped aside as Crocodile marched back out the front door but the target of his ire was already gone, halfway to the tailor on the letterhead.

Several blocks over, an older man with a pencil behind his ear looked up at the sound of the bell above the door. “River! Good to see you again, though, I’m sorry your things aren’t ready yet. I thought I sent over the delivery invoice already.”

“No worries, my friend. I actually came to bother you about belts.”

“Ah, we forgot that last time, didn’t we? I’m actually short on leather, but I know a cobbler that Crocodile has worked with before. He should have an account on file for you.”

“You’re a good man.”

It’s not that River had a death wish, but he had never been accused of having too much common sense, and there was no Esai to tell him he couldn’t enjoy himself. Left horrifically unsupervised on days he wasn’t away with Mr. 2, River learned quickly that he preferred his fruit dipped in candy, and all those years he spent haggling with merchants was a transferable job skill in this new city.

His new boss chased him daily to demand answers about various bills, or complaints from the kitchen about missing desserts, but like a rogue peacock he was mindful of predators, quick to disappear in a flutter of a colorful coat.

Crocodile blamed himself. In the meeting to draw up their contract, River had declared “Oasin’s have no use for money”, and Crocodile agreed without much thought to an exchange system in the form of housing, meals, occasional enrichment. But he underestimated how needy the other man could be, and how much he knew about business management. The rumors were already starting, his hubris was running around town with an acumen smile, draped in silk.

Retaliation failed, and the thunder Crocodile brought down on those poor merchants fizzled out, useless when he got a statement for the casino that said his guest was as good at the games as he was at getting under his skin. Trying to keep him out of the casino was even worse, what Crocodile considered a proper dumpster fire of a negotiation.

“You are forbidden from leaving your apartment except for Baroque Works business.”

“We agreed on enrichment, didn’t we? Let’s expand on that.”

That was almost a week ago. Murderous pirates were easy, this loafer was impossible. He wished River would leap over the desk and try to strangle him, that he could deal with, anything to spare him this game of—well, he actually didn’t know what kind of game it was, but he knew he wasn’t winning. Various restrictions were amended to River’s contract to attempt to corral him, his intention to maximize the return on his investment wouldn’t work if the brat got loose and ended up jeopardizing his plans. But keeping his enemy close was significantly more difficult when he was more expensive to feed than the Bananawani, and too comfortable. A wariness of the warlord was healthy, he thought, determined to remind River of his place in their operation.

Inside his office, the shades drew to the ceiling, giving him a view of the saltwater tank that bordered this side of his apartment. Metaphors be damned, he was partial to a bit of the dramatics as a treat. It was the right time of day, after all, they should be fed and docile for his purposes. With only a tap of his heel to a specific floor tile, the adjacent wall began to whir and part for an enormous steel lift. Water flowed through the gaps in the floor, the scent of seawater floating up from the drain. Crocodile had always loved the wani; they were beasts of power, unmatched, the apex predator of their habitat and—

“A duck?” He stared at the wet bird that sat on the lift where a wani should have been, marching into his office with little plap-plap’s of flat feet. Their shake dampened the floor and Crocodile’s shoes.

“Where are your friends?” His shadow loomed over them, leaking venom and the unspoken promise that if River was in any way related to this avian incident, he would finally kill him.

‘Quack’.

Out on the lake, Crocodile shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked for any sign his precious reptiles were harmed, or otherwise occupied. The duck wasn’t much help but he carried them nonetheless, allowing them to rest on the elbow by his hook.

I hear him, he thought, his suspicions confirmed by the pile of clothes beside the water’s edge. It was too deep for swimming here, this far off the path yet he heard him still, and finally spotted him sitting out on a rock beside a basket of coconuts.

Was he singing? Crocodile strained to hear from the shore. A baritone, a melody he didn’t recognize, and a few wrong notes in an otherwise pleasant tune. Not a language he spoke, but some of the words were close enough to one he did know. Maybe the song wasn’t a sad one, but most songs sound blue when they are sung alone in the quiet of a warm afternoon. A splash beside the rock revealed a green banana and beady eyes.

“You want another one? What am I going to eat?” River smiled in that half-understood language as he fed them their treat.

He thought to call out to him but found he couldn’t, not when his chest tightened at only the sight of the man in the sun, a different man than the one that strutted around the casino in sable and silk. This man, the one with saltwater in his hair and gold in his veins, was his prisoner. He entertained an intrusive thought of the caged bird and why it sings, of his bloodied hands and clipped wings. Time was the only thing crueler than people, he believed, to have healed him from his own wounds and let him become the one holding the shears. Their time would be no exception, he thought as he set the duck down into the water. The splash startled the Oasin, and he saw Crocodile standing by the water’s edge, a slump in his usually proud shoulders.

“Crocodile. Have I done something wrong?”

“No, Mr. Faustina.” He ashed his cigar over the plants. “I came to tell you dinner’s ready.”

River let him lie unquestioned, making no move to follow as the warlord left him alone.

He would, unfortunately, and after exhaustive deliberation, attribute the Oasin’s gluttony to his genetic mutation called “foolishness”, and not a spitefulness Crocodile had believed he possessed. For all his actual faults, his folly and mirth, he had never tried to hide them, no more capable of a lie than to harm the wani. Crocodile wouldn’t allow himself to be surrounded by liars, but he might be growing soft on fools.

“Oasins have no use for money,” River had said at their first meeting, sending back a written offer that Crocodile slid across the table.

“Everyone has a use for money.”

“If I wanted money, I would go out and get it. The Pirate Hero of Alabasta can do more for me than write a number. Protect my island in the war.”

“… I expected more from you, Mr. Faustina,” He sighed. “But you’re as boring as all the other ants that bargain and beg in those few critical moments when they should have just fought harder.”

“I’m not begging, Crocodile. You said we could make a deal, well that’s what I want. For everything I am, and everything I’m capable of, I want them safe for the rest of your life.”

River didn’t know that Crocodile had a time table, didn’t even know what he wanted from him outside a vague insinuation of “work”. But any fate was fine if he could just be promised his sacrifice would not be in vain. The warlord’s heavy gaze kept him still while he considered the offer, and back then he hadn’t understood what possessed him to accept. Today, smelling fresh-cut coconuts on a salty wind, and caressed by the unspoken plea of a folk song, he knew.

“One year.”

“That’s a terrible counteroffer—”

“Everything you are for one year. And Oasis will be safe as long as I am able.”

River let the silence hang in the cloud of smoke above them. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not. We can finish the contract tomorrow, you still have to choose some kind of monetary compensation. Promises only exist between people.” ____ ___ __ _

“Don’t fall behind.”

River jogged to close the gap, a struggle to keep pace next to the man that had almost 70 centimeters on him in height. When Crocodile had found him leaving the casino and snagged him by his belt loop with a grim “Come with me”, he imagined all kinds of torturous afternoons the warlord could have planned. But they only walked in a comfortable silence, outside the city and to the edge of a nearby village soon enough.

“Where are we? Mm, I smell something delicious—ack!” He squawked when Crocodile yanked him back by the jacket this time, covering him against the alley wall and out of sight.

“Hush… You’re going to scare the fish.” Crocodile looked around the corner to survey the street where a group of pirates were causing more trouble than they were worth for the local businesses. They ransacked shops, throwing things into the street that they found worthless, or maybe out of retaliation for owners who refused to comply, from crates of food to pet store cages. “I have work to do. You stay here and grab anything you see that you want.”

He looked down to see River wasn’t paying any attention, his cheeks pink where he was covered in the warlord’s shadow. “Are you listening, you—” He pinched the Oasin’s cheek and shook him.

River nearly climbed him to get free, wriggling and complaining as loud as he dared. “Yes, yes! Ow, you vicious brute. Let me go—“

“—hey, everyone! Crocodile’s here!” The pair of men froze when locals found them trying not to look suspicious.

“… Of course I’m here. This island is under my protection.” River watched him switch it on for the locals, somehow even taller as he came into the sunlight to show himself to the pirates. Everything about him shone golden in the hot midday sun, from his deadly hook to the cold, reptilian eyes that River had seen before on ocean predators too big to fight—you can only flee. “Normally, I’d offer you one last chance to live. Not today.”

Tendrils of sand crawled out from around his feet, growing in spidery fingers until they tangled around the pirates, the chosen weapons of a dust storm that threatened to consume even the civilians if not for the mastery of their user. Onlookers shielded their eyes from the stinging flurry, and one by one the pirates were revealed to be dead quicker than they had been challenged, desiccated in gritty piles of rags.

“Incredible!” No. He wouldn’t. Crocodile looked to the familiar voice in the crowd to see River cheering with his hands over his head. The women beside him yelled even louder, feeling they were being out-competed. Thankful merchants were next to praise him, already offering him loot and treasures. Good, no need to delay his new plan of leaving River behind.

“Crocodile! Wait up!”

He was going to get jaw spasms at this rate, or an aneurysm. They fell into step, the same comfortable silence, and Crocodile reigned in his urges when the Oasin seemed content to not embarrass him further.

“Let’s stop and get lunch, Crocodile. I’m bushed,” He yawned.

“You didn’t do anything. Carry this.” Arm outstretched, he realized River wasn’t looking. They heard the cock of a gun, saw his eyes go to follow the sound but his instincts moved his arm faster than his sight. One shot fired, he jumped to block the bullet with the back of his palm, a shiny coating of Lapis blue haki from the shoulder down.

Always quicker to act than to think. Crocodile thought as River shook off the mangled jacket of the bullet, having stopped it from flying harmlessly through Crocodile’s back.

“Don’t turn your back to me, warlord! This isn’t over!” A lone pirate said, the last of the decimated gang. Neither Crocodile or River jumped to entertain him, and he struggled not to shrivel under their quiet stares. “Seems your lap dog bites.”

“Dog? That’s new.” River’s smile sparked reminiscence of his old friend, the same look Esai gave to a prejudiced customer that was all too easy to humiliate.

The pirate drew his sword but Crocodile wasn’t paying attention to him, focused instead on the agent beside him that he had never seen so dialed in.

“I suppose even warlords need pets. You went out, got yourself a rare one. Tell me, how much will an Oasin set me back—”

River was off like a second bullet, effortlessly quick but Crocodile was faster, and he grabbed him hard by the back of the neck. They spun in the momentum, an iron fist catching Crocodile’s side with a fury intended for the pirate’s skull. He cut down the man with a wide swipe of his hook, more brutal than the fate he gave his crew, sharpened gold on soft flesh. By now, the townspeople had dispersed, and no applause rose as the body slumped into the dirt.

“Why did you get in the way?!” River wheeled on Crocodile but was easily restrained, held almost too tight, frighteningly close.

“Stop. You always give too much away.” His timber cautioned him more than it scolded, juxtaposed to the hand on his nape that no longer detained him, a gentle anchor for his racing thoughts.

“And never interfere with my work again. You’ll confuse them about who to call ‘hero’, and about our relationship.”

River watched him walk off to pick up their loot, ready to go home as he showed the Oasin his back. Why did you look angry too? He thought, too confused to realize he was meant to follow this time.

“Coming?” Crocodile called over his shoulder.

He snapped back, breaking into a jog to catch his friend—almost friend, he supposed. “Yes! Coming!” ____ ___ __ _

“Your report coincides with Mr. 2’s account.” Crocodile said, the former’s letter almost too close to the light. Lately, for he and River, every meeting was an opportunity to see if River had learned to lie to him. Naturally, the sleepy drape of the Oasin in his chair across the desk, indifferent, lovely, tended to cut their meetings short.

“Are you HERE, Mr. Faustina?”

“Mm? A little.” He sighed, a vulnerable sound with a dozy fidget that had Crocodile contemplating a violent Pavlovian experiment if only to stop his heart reacting whenever the other man was endearing in his presence.

“I’m just starving, Crocodile. How long are you going to try to find something wrong with my report?”

He adjusted his shoulders, rubbing his temple at the astute observation tacked onto River’s usual complaint. But instead of dismissing him this time, he reached over and clicked open the dial on his den den mushi.

“Are you allergic to anything?”

“Eh?” River tilted his head while Crocodile placed what sounded like a dinner order. “Are we eating?”

He placed one ankle on his knee and lit his cigar. “You will answer all of my questions until the end of our meal. Understood?”

“You could kill me if you promised to feed me first.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The servants brought food to the apartment faster than River had ever been served, and the pair sat on opposite sides of a large banquet table. As seldom as he assumed the warlord entertained, the dining hall was wasted on loneliness, crafted with the same splendor as the rest of the luxury home.

“Do you have any family?” Crocodile’s question startled him from studying the foreign tapestries on the walls.

“I thought you’d ask me about my report.”

“Have you changed your mind?” River recognized the escape in his question, a chance to stop before either of them said too much. The part of Crocodile that didn’t allow himself to have anything he couldn’t buy took the silence for a devastating miscalculation.

“I live—lived—with my mother.”

“Is she a good woman?”

“She’s the best. And I love her more than I love anyone.”

Crocodile’s hand faulted in serving the bread. Curse this man’s weak heart, softened by a mother’s love. “You shouldn’t tell me that.”

“I said I would answer your questions. Why would you want to use it against me? I have nothing left to give you.”

His mind flashed to the next mission brief sitting on his desk, sealed but unsent, and the phantom memory of his younger self, abandoned, trying to stop the bleeding even as blood clouded his vision. A supernova of his own generation, newly a Warlord of the Sea, prepared to die because he believed he had nothing left to lose. “The very last thing you have to give is the thing you don’t believe you can lose.”

Crocodile managed to meet his eyes but he saw him already staring back with a sympathy he didn’t deserve. Too kind to be pity, a recognition of two men in the same pain. His policy of honesty continued to work against him, laid bare before violet eyes.

“Well, then I won’t worry about it too much.”

He chuffed at River’s hopelessly naive answer, deciding wine was the only way to get through this dinner. River blinked at his glass, and he wondered if he had made an assumption. Perhaps Oasins didn’t drink, but he took the offer anyway.

“Don’t force yourself if it’s not to your taste. We’ll have something different tomorrow.”

“I was just thinking I’d spare you the trouble of dealing with me.”

“Have you been sparing me all this time?” He said, his flat affect holding even when River gave him a pout.

“If you’re going to be like that—” River picked up the glass and Crocodile rested his chin on his hand like it might hide his simpering.

He took a sip off the top, pink tongue flicking out with a grimace when Crocodile spoke up. “I’ll confess something to you.”

“What?”

“I don’t actually like wine.” He let himself grin at the absolutely ruffled offense on River’s face.

“Well, I—I don’t like it either! I did that for you! To be a good guest—” A hiccup broke his sentence as a pink flush ran over his cheeks and down his neck. “Crap.”

“How cute.”

“This is your—hic—fault, so you should take responsibility,” He fixed the warlord with a precious scowl. “Carry me to my room.”

“You can walk.” Crocodile leaned back in his chair, viscerally smug as he grazed his food. For all his fondness for the other man, enjoying the sting of his wit and the flames of his spirit, he wondered if the Oasin’s friendly candor could be misinterpreted.

He had read they were nearly wiped out; the very last conqueror of Alabasta betrayed his general’s wish, too greedy to leave his unification of the island unfinished. The few who survived retreated to the sea, determined to rebuild in isolation, any sacrifice to survive.

Perhaps the Oasin is simply answering his nature. Anything to survive.

A tiny snore broke him from his musings.

“Mr. Faustina? River!” He complained at the man pillowed against the back of the ornamental chair, as sound asleep as God had ever seen him.

For all his stubbornness and pride, Crocodile chose to ignore the problem, smoking another cigar from cut to nub while he flipped through the newspaper and waited almost patiently. Anything to avoid dealing with the beauty that slept harmlessly in his home.

“If he’s still here when I get back, I can kill him.” He declared to no one except the clock, and pushed his chair out to go to the powder room in the hall. On his walk back, he thought to follow the trail of a colorful coat, blue, white and gold disappearing into his parlor. Did he think he was sneaky? But all he found was the man that had sung to the Bananawani sitting at his piano, looking like he couldn’t bear to touch the keys.

“Can you play?” He noticed him startle.

“Not even a little. My father did, but he died before I ever got serious about what he was trying to teach me… I thought I had all the time in the world to learn from him.”

His hand came up beside River’s own, looking like it might touch the keys but instead thumbed an engraving on the lid. “It’s a replica of one I had a long time ago. She’s never been played, to my knowledge.”

River waited to see if he would elaborate, met with silence. “I told you earlier that I lived with my mother.”

“Was that a lie?”

“She’s my aunt, my godmother. I regret that I can’t play for her, or for you.”

“Why for me?” He left unsaid that River should despise him, the pregnant thought hanging understood between them.

“Because for all our circumstances, you’ve never been cruel to me, even when it might have felt good. You’ve looked out for me, been kind to me. And I have no way to thank you beside my word.”

“A man’s word is the most valuable thing he owns. Don’t think you have to thank me, we have an agreement.”

“Is this part of the agreement?” Their eyes met, the light from the windows the only movement in the room as the day began to fade. Both of them knew it was happening again, they approached the invisible line between them and waited for some proof the spark was concocted, a kind of trick. That one of them would finally break, jump on the piano bench to say “Yes! You fell for it! What kind of fool looks for love in a desert?” And then they could relax.

A glimmering streak of orange flickered off the white piano to break the spell, with River the first to blink. He rubbed his palms dry on the knees of his trousers.

“Well. It’s getting late, and I never apologized for how dinner ended—”

“We actually haven’t had dessert… You can stay, if that’s what you want.” Crocodile turned from him, suddenly interested in the window. He listened to River’s boots fade out of the room, the far away click down the hall, and laid himself down on one of the couches to rest his suddenly heavy head.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now. I shouldn’t be left unsupervised.” River said as he set a tray of mille-feuille on the coffee table.

His reply went ignored, maybe he hadn’t actually spoken it out loud, when the shorter man walked to the gramophone to shuffle through his records. Without his coat, Crocodile could admire the slope of his waist, the width of his shoulders. He recalled the sight of him wet in the sun, the shape of his muscles, hidden away under expensive cotton. Wait, what did he say?

“Are you here, Sir Crocodile?”

He should have scolded him for the use of his full name, only subdued by River leaning against the shelf to make the length of his legs look even longer. “I don’t recall the question.”

“I asked if you can you speak this?” River started a record, flashing the cover that was printed with foreign text. Crocodile watched him approach the couch with a mischief he didn’t trust.

“Of course I can.”

A hand with no rings tried to tug him up from his seat. ‘Dance with me.’ There it was, the Oasin’s first language that he almost understood, familiar and yet completely different from the one in the song that Crocodile knew before he knew anything else.

‘I can’t.’ His own language was an adjustment on his tongue.

‘Yes, you can.’

‘I mean, I don’t know what will happen.’

‘If you dance, you can touch me.’

He rose out of his seat, his fur strewn across the couch as he took the smaller man’s hand and brought him close. River had expected to feel cold metal on the small of his back, but Crocodile cradled him in the crook of his elbow, strong and unwilling to let go now that he had permission to touch. He slowed their pace, intent to tangle their legs in tiny, intimate steps to the beat of the band.

Crocodile spoke in the air warm between them, and River didn’t have to know the words to recognize the tempered heat of a man restraining himself, the tangible coil in his arms where they touched. “Did you understand me?”

“I lost the bit in the middle,” River said.

Crocodile’s measured sigh chased a blush down his ears and neck, close enough that even a purse of his mouth would let him taste. “Is this part of the agreement?”

“No, never. I’m—” River licked his lips as he searched for words in the stitching of Crocodile’s shirt. “I want more than our contract, something for just the two of us... Do you—”

He shushed his earnest rambling with the pad of his thumb on his bottom lip, then his cheek, content to pretend that he hadn’t already decided.

“Okay.” Opening his heart back then was a mistake, not even he would stay when Whitebeard had proved that for all his allies and titles, Crocodile was still a rookie with more pride than strength. Was he willing to try again now because he had forgotten how much it hurt? Or because he was remembering how good it could feel?

“When we’re alone, I’m just River. Not Mr. Faustina, not Mr. i. And you’ll be my Crocodile, not Mr. 0.”

Their lips could almost touch when—pik!—they ducked down, thrust into darkness with the sharp sound of the bulb in the lamp popping.

“What—”

“Don’t move.” He put his body between River and the window, predatory eyes golden in the moonlight as he searched for any anomaly.

“It was a bulb, Crocodile. Nobody took a shot at us,” River said between his shoulder blades.

“I didn’t survive this long by being careless... You need to go to bed.” The pair agreed to end their evening there, and Crocodile didn’t leave his side until the elevator car departed, numbered floors flickering off. But even with the apartment calm, quiet again, he looked at the glass on the parlor floor with scrutiny.

#one piece #sir crocodile #sir crocodile x reader #sir crocodile x oc #male reader #oc fanfiction #silkendandelion #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #mirage in the desert #x reader #x oc

[silkendandelion]

Mirage In The Desert - Chapter 4 (One Year Ago, Pt. 2)

Summary: Having left the island what he believes to be permanently, River travels to Rainbase with Miss All Sunday. Mr. 0 reveals himself, and a contract is made.

Rated Teen and Up Audiences for unsafe situations, extortion, gambling. Ongoing, will cover the Alabasta Arc. Cross-posted to Ao3, same username. Send me a DM: yell at me, send flowers. Cheers.

~*~

“Are you thirsty?” The woman, “Miss All Sunday”, handed him a canteen.

“Thank you, I hadn’t realized how dry this country is.”

“Does it rain on Oasis?” She seemed genuinely curious as she rested her chin on her palm.

“Oh yes, all the time. I guess I assumed you all saw the same rain. Maybe we’ll see some before we get to the capital.”

“It’s been two years since it rained. And you still think we’re going to Alubarna.”

Any protests he had went unaddressed. The most he knew about their journey and destination was this indirect, vague comment that only barely confirmed it was not the capital. More time together didn’t help as the mysterious woman managed to keep him talking endlessly about the tiny island he had left behind with nothing but her beck and call. His one valiant attempt to be standoffish yielded a single, perfect smile and the promise that she could be quiet as long as he could.

It would end up going on for days as the endless desert passed by the window.

“You were telling me about the Bananawani.”

His cheeks colored at her smile, this one somewhat warmer, like he was interesting. “It’s rude to only talk about myself. You could tell me where we’re going. Or just a hint? You had me buy nice clothes, that’s one, you—you said ‘days’ so we’re not leaving the island. Maybe it’s—”

Her laugh was melodious, reminding him just how little power he had, and how sweet his death would be if she killed him in this moment. They must look like friends on a weekend away, not a doomed man and his reaper.

“Talking will help you relax.”

“You’re a sadistic woman. You want me caught off guard when you kill me.”

“You think I’m going to kill you.”

“Stop being so ominous! Don’t laugh either!” He felt his shoulders fall anyway, doomed to find his reaper effortlessly charming.

“This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.”

That can’t be right. Beautiful woman, sharp as a tack. There’s no reason she couldn’t find better company than a terrified merchant who, for once, was poorly managing all the attention he attracted. Maybe she really was a killer.

“The, um...” He cleared his throat. “We’re not friends with the Bananawani, we just coexist. There’s a sort of sand bar just south of us, maybe it’s an island that never grew enough to break the surface. Females lay their eggs there in the beginning of summer and just before autumn they return to take the ones who’ve hatched. We take the eggs that don’t make it, but otherwise try to stay away from each other. Except Ramon, he is fascinated with them. He’s so obsessed that when he was younger he would swim out to the deep and try to ride them. We all think he’s a little crazy, but he’s still a good man. Very good—”

“We’re here.”

He froze, and his heart nearly slipped from his chest into the road. They had talked so long he had forgotten to look out the window, and obviously lost days to her easy conversation. There were trees in the distance, how long had it been since he saw anything but sand?

“This is what I expected the rest of the country to look like.” He tried to exit the carriage but a petite hand stopped him.

“I’ll tell the driver to wait. Change your clothes and I’ll be right here.”

“I’m not going to keep doing this. You give me orders but I’ve seen nothing for my compliance thus far.”

“One more time, Mr. Faustina. The man who will answer your questions doesn’t see anyone who isn’t dressed appropriately.”

He wanted to flee, slip out the second door and follow the sun back to the shore. But Miss All Sunday was in no hurry, no worry for his escape when she was sure that the desert would kill him even more efficiently than she could. Then again, they weren’t likely to retaliate if they thought him dead. A knock on the door startled him back into his body.

‘If you hurry, we can get lunch before our appointment.’

He squeezed the box containing his clothes, perhaps the last clothes he’ll ever wear. But the endless desert and his slow, painful demise could wait just a little longer.

One more time, Miss All Sunday. ____ ___ __ _

“Enjoy your day, ma’am. Sir.” The driver dismissed them as they were left in front of their destination.

River opened his mouth to speak but Miss All Sunday apparently moonlights as a mind-reader. “The city is Rainbase. And this is their casino: Raindinners.”

“A… casino?” He had never seen one, recognizing the word from a novel or two.

Certainly the biggest and tallest building in the city was the luxury resort and casino that sat perched atop the surface of it’s own lake. It looked to be made of gold, tossing back sunlight and brightening the sky. River looked to Miss All Sunday but she had her head on swivel, perhaps she wasn’t used to being in a crowd. And despite Claudia’s attempt to teach him manners, he stared openly at the expensive clientele that not only disappeared into the casino but walked by them, in and out of sparkling shops. He noticed they were staring back at him.

“Come, Mr. Faustina.” She beckoned.

“Welcome back, ma’am. And guest.” The staff greeted them, parting the doors open wide.

From gaudy socialites to the whispering wealth and tacky tourists that peppered the room, he felt eyes on him from every corner, drinking in his drapes of Oasin blue and gold. Face shielded by a veil, he felt more akin to a ritual sacrifice than any expected guest.

He heard Miss All Sunday’s voice beside him as they walked. “Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not.” His voice was firm but he counted his steps to quell his heartbeat, one foot in front of the other as the golden lights parted for the thrum of conversation on the casino floor. People laughed as they drank and games clattering added to the buzz of the chatter. River could hear their whispering even over the noise, the hissing of snakes and bureaucrats. Suddenly the attention he attracted easily was no longer a luxurious coat but a funeral gown, tight on his throat. If given the chance, these strangers would try to write his epithet without even knowing his name. And they didn’t care to know.

‘Is that the Oasin? I’ve never met one.’

‘How pretty.’

‘I’d heard Crocodile was getting a new business partner.’

“Crocodile? That name sounds familiar.” He murmured, more to himself than his handler.

“Does it?” She led him to an elevator, tapping a passcode to take them to the top floor. ____ ___ __ _

In his office, Crocodile looked up to the familiar clack of his partner’s shoes on a polished floor. “Welcome back.”

“Shall I send him in?”

“You’re late. I’ve been waiting.” Smoke fell from his lips and clouded the air between them.

“Oh? The appointment was for 4—“

“3:30—”

“Apologies.” She said as courteous as ever, but River saw her come back to the parlor where he waited with a satisfied, unrepentant smile. He was brought to stand in front of a large desk where an unapproachable man sat back in his chair, a fur over his shoulders and alarmingly golden weapon laid across his lap. He was taller than River remembered, suddenly recalling the face of Alabasta’s hero. Intelligent, dangerous, and apparently more deceitful than he advertised.

“You’re Crocodile.”

“Manners dictate you begin with your own name. And that you remove your face covering, it’s just the three of us.”

River yanked back his scarf, violet eyes much less than welcoming. “You know my name already, and I know you. I’ve seen you at the market, they called you a war, something—warlord. A pirate. I’m done being led around like some calf to slaughter, you’re going to tell me what’s happening—”

“For someone who’s never left his little island, you yap like a spoiled prince.”

“I won’t ask again—” River’s threat was cut short when the man dissolved in a swirl of sand to re-materialize in his space, hook pressed beneath his chin. River grabbed his forearm, the patch of flesh solid as he stood his ground, albeit shaking as he stared up into the face of yet another unknown threat.

“Threats beget violence, Mr. Faustina. This is your only allowance.”

He remembered Ramon’s voice when he first encountered an adult Bananawani in the sea. Don’t meet their eyes unless you’re prepared to fight and die. Unless you’re like me.

His hands gripped Crocodile’s arm hard enough to make the buttons creak and the warlord’s lip twitch, the only indication that River had managed to cause pain.

“I was tricked into coming here, traveling for days, taken from my home and my family with nothing but the clothes on my back. I think I’m owed much more than an explanation, Crocodile. Let’s talk business.”

Golden eyes gave way to mischief, practically lapping at the fire that radiated from this new variable. He had never expected to find a Haki user this close to the Red Line, let alone one that snapped and sparked in the face of overwhelming disadvantage. Too valuable to kill, too dangerous to leave free. And though Crocodile wasn’t one to waste time on self reflection or even idle pleasure, he was excruciatingly aware how long it had been since he felt electricity from just meeting eyes. Crystalline, expressive eyes that haven’t learned to lie, brave because they had never been defeated, too naive to know they needed a mask. What a treat.

He released the smaller man with a startling bark of a laugh, putting several steps between them. “Miss All Sunday.”

“Sir?”

“Leave us. We’re going to talk for awhile.”

“Sir.” The pleased smirk she wore as she left was all the reassurance River needed to know he might not die today after all. ____ ___ __ _

Their negotiations had lasted hours, through dinner, and solidified by a strong handshake among men. Crocodile’s skin prickled where he remembered River’s grip.

One year. You are to work for my organization for one year, as both penance for your assault and supervision for someone with your dangerous talents. We’re on the verge of civil war, you see, such power cannot be affiliated with either side. Either the war ends, or your time runs out. That is how long you will work for me.

His beautiful reaper had shown him to his room, a crisp little dwelling, draped in white and with his own bathroom. He went to his window, too high and too smooth to climb from, as he expected. There was water in a pitcher for washing, fresh linens in the cupboard. But little else. He opened all the drawers and cupboards for something to read, pencil and paper maybe. Nothing.

No one stopped him from wandering the halls, but there was little staff to do so until he entered the lower floors. The elevator was unguarded but several floors were inaccessible without a code, and a few staff-only floors immediately booted him back the moment he left the lift. No doorknob was left untouched in his search, though it seemed security was good at their job.

“Excuse me?” He asked but the passing housekeeper seemed to not hear him, engrossed in her journey.

He tried a suit that carried a briefcase, but no answer. “Excuse me, I just—”

A couple in matching furs smiled at him when he got to the ground floor. “Do you know how to get the private club rooms? You look like you know where you’re going.”

His face couldn’t hide his discomfort, but the pair looked undeterred. “… I’m afraid it’s my first time.”

“No worries, dear. You’ll have a great time.” They waved goodbye to him with their gloved hands, resuming their search down another hallway.

He finally came to the kitchen, spying a den-den mushi sleeping on top of a steel cabinet beside their prep line.

“HEY! What are you doing? Get out of here.” One of the chefs barked at him and snatched the snail from his hand.

“I need to make a call.”

“So find another phone. Go on, shoo.”

River refused to leave the door, feeling his eyes begin to prickle. “I need to use the phone. It’s an emergency… Please, I’ll pay you.”

“How much is a phone call worth to you?” He watched River take off his gold earrings, each fitted with a wild caught pearl.

“Pretty. Make it quick, the boss might call.”

“Thank you.” River took the snail and struggled to recall the code before hearing it putter at last, dialing across the country.

On his island, Esai was helping Claudia with the chores River had left behind, her household now down to one. His snail phone puttered, unanswered, until River couldn’t let it ring anymore.

“They didn’t answer, huh?” The chef said.

“...No. Suppose they wouldn’t.”

“Shame. I’ll take those earrings now.” He held out his wide palm.

“What? It didn’t even connect, no one was home.”

“You wanted to use the phone. No one HAD to answer.”

River felt a familiar itch in his chest, one that wanted to punch the chef as hard as he had hit the man at the market, right in his smirking face. Would Crocodile feed him in this place? Would this be the kitchen where his meals came from? How would the staff get even worse towards him if he abused the chef on his first day?

He reached up to take his other earring off, setting the pair in the man’s hand as he held them up to the painfully white kitchen lights.

“Really nice, I’ve never seen pearls this color. If you’ve got any others, Oasin, I’ll let you use the phone as much as you want.” He burst out laughing, pleased with himself as he pocketed the jewelry, and continued to stir whatever was in his pan. ____ ___ __ _

Crocodile isn’t a man to waste time and called for River first thing the next morning, immediately handing over legal documentation that River only held before signing as he was instructed. His tired eyes wandered the pages, half absorbing the half of the documents he bothered to touch while Crocodile smoked patiently, writing on his own work while the Oasin pretended to read.

Refreshments were brought to their meeting, and Crocodile took the break to take in the ignored cup of tea on River’s side of the table, the way his full, blue-black brow was furrowed and violet eyes were red with lack of sleep. He could smell him even over the coffee, like sea salt and perfume oils that were baked into his skin and hair by the sun, permeating any room he entered. His hair was streaked from long hours outside but he clearly cared for his dewy skin, and even when he didn’t speak Crocodile wanted to just look at him. But something was different.

“You forgot to put on your earrings this morning. Did you sleep poorly?”

River looked up from his papers after a long moment. “I didn’t forget. Phone calls are expensive around here.”

“Someone took your jewelry for a phone call?”

“I didn’t even get an answer.” He massaged his temples, his hand dragging down his face as he leaned back in the chair.

Crocodile stubbed out his cigar, breathing a long, fragrant cloud into the silence. Neither of them spoke before he leaned forward to write a note on his papers. “That’s enough for today. Rest up, your first mission brief is going out tomorrow.”

River got up without protest, intent on leaving in silence until Crocodile spoke to his back.

“Compile a list of things you need. Bring it to me before the end of the day and I’ll have Miss All Sunday bring them to you.”

He looked back at the warlord, his first smile of the day on his face. “Thank you, Crocodile. That’s kind of you.”

A jeweled hand waved him off, though River couldn’t bring himself to be offended as he began his list in his head, starting with pens and paper. Books would be third, though he assumed specific titles would be hard to come by on short notice, settling for “poetry”, “geography”, and “whatever Miss All Sunday likes”.

Sleep came easy with the promise of better things and he slept until the next day, awaking to the polite knock of his delivery.

“You look like you slept well.” Robin smiled and he reflexively touched his tousled hair. “I found everything on your list, you’ll have to forgive me for how much of it is books.”

“These are wonderful, Miss All Sunday, thank you.” He examined volumes of various size, some he had read, most he hadn’t. Her delicate hand suddenly offered a small velvet box, tied with a ribbon, and she relinquished it reluctantly as if accepting the gift was binding, and delivering it made her an accomplice.

“This wasn’t on your list but Crocodile sent it anyway.”

A single tug to the ribbon let it flutter to the floor, revealing his surrendered earrings, polished and pinned to a cushion. “I… Thank you. Thank you so much. And please give Crocodile my thanks.”

“All right. Have a good day, Mr. Faustina.” ____ ___ __ _

His mission brief promised the meeting of his new partner, Mr. 2, whose almost blank section of his instructions left them as mysterious as Miss All Sunday. They would leave in the morning for reconnaissance in a nearby sea, and were expected to meet resistance: deadly force approved. The anticipation of combat reminded him his swords were on Oasis, left behind with no time or method to retrieve them. No money either, having been suddenly thrust into a free market economy. But he was in a casino.

“The buy-in is 10,000 Berries.” The dealer informed him downstairs, deliberately not offering him a seat at the roulette table.

River took off one of his bangles and offered it to him. “I don’t have any money. This bracelet is inlaid with a rare sea glass, only formed once a year and deadly to harvest on beaches protected by Bananawani.” He hoped the dealer had both too little knowledge to challenge his fib and enough indifference to take gold for what it was.

“Cash only, sir.”

“Well—” River was interrupted by a man wearing a fur that matched the coat of the woman with him, and whether or not River recognized them, they remembered him.

“Oh come on. Oasins don’t use money, you have to expand your rules if you’re going to entertain a wider variety of customers. I’ll put up collateral to cover him. Go on, son, put your bracelet on the board.”

“Thank you… er, how do I play?” He looked at the pair and the woman smiled, all white teeth and bright lipstick, leaving colorful rings on the tip of her cigarette holder.

“It’s just chance, baby, you can’t be bad at it. If the ball picks the spot you chose on the board, you win.”

“Any more bets?” The dealer asked the table.

“We’ll double his bet, put us all on the same spot. What’s your name, son?”

“River.”

“Nice to meet you, River. I’m Don. My wife Patty.” He said as the wheel clicked, spinning and chasing the ball. The table all seemed to lean forward, crowded around the peppered grid that was weighted down by chips (and bangle) on 13 black.

“13 black.” The dealer called among their gasps, placing all the winnings into Don’s pile.

“That’s some beginners luck, son, here.” He puffed on his cigarette as he handed River a slice of his chips for the win. “Go again, let’s keep going.”

He moved his bracelet to another square, 1 to 12, and a single chip to red. Don matched the bet both times, and Patty offered River one of her cigarettes with a smile as she lit it with a kiss of her own.

“10 red.” The table erupted in hollers, drawing the attention of nearby tables as Don clapped his hands on River’s shoulders.

“How about that, he’s lucky!” His shaking almost toppled the cigarette free from River’s lips as they smiled and cheered. “How long are you gonna be here today? ‘Cause you’re spending the day with me, let’s drink to that. Crocodile’s gonna have to hand over the deed by the time we’re done here.” ____ ___ __ _

“Cash.” He told the lady at the payout counter that counted his money with polished red nails, quicker than even the shopkeepers he had served who handled cash all day long.

The shops were ready to close but River ran through the streets to find what he needed, hoping the cash in his pocket was enough. He came to a blacksmith with the closed sign already in his hand, and pressed his palms to the glass.

“We’re closed.”

“Can you just tell me if you sell swords?”

“That’s a strange question to ask—beg someone at the end of the day.” They met eyes, and the blacksmith appraised the pearls in his earrings, ones that matched the pearl in his own pendant.

“10 minutes.” He said as he opened the door to let River inside. The Oasin was scanning the shop with wild eyes, hunting for a specific prize as the blacksmith went to get stock from the back.

“What are you doing so far from home?” He watched the way River startled before holding up his necklace. “Your pearls. Thought maybe you’d bought ‘em, but you’ve got the worst poker face I’ve ever seen. You’ll have to get better at that. What’s got you scared enough to pound on my door at dusk for a weapon?”

“Would you believe me if I said I can’t tell you?”

“Yeah, I would.” He snorted. The trunk he produced was full of short swords, daggers, haphazardly collected to be sold under the table for frightened civilians looking to protect themselves in the coming war. They were dull enough he could dig his arm to the bottom and pull out a smaller box, dusty and scratched.

“You can have one of these. Their previous owner said they can only go to another Oasin. I think they’ve collected dust long enough.” The dilapidated condition of the outer shell gave no indication of the shiny satin inside, cradling two twin blades, too long to be daggers and too short to be swords. They were one solid piece of metal, carved on the hilt to the smallest detail in bright silver.

“Their names are Amante and Amigo. They haven’t done any great deeds but their previous owner insisted they have names. Said it makes the metal tougher.”

“I’ll take both. How much?”

The man assumed he had no money, and asked for the same bangle that River had almost gambled away hours earlier.

One year, come what may. Just one year and I can go home.

But River would remain a part of Baroque Works for 15 months and 3 days. And when he was finally unemployed, he wouldn’t be allowed to return to Oasis.

#one piece #sir crocodile #sir crocodile one piece #sir crocodile x reader #crocodile x reader #sir crocodile x oc #male reader #oc fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #silkendandelion #mirage in the desert #x reader #x oc

[silkendandelion]

Mirage In The Desert - Chapter 3 (One Year Ago)

Summary: With Operation Utopia drawing closer, let's back up. The events leading up to River's arrival at Rainbase are revealed, as well as meeting the people of Alabasta's territory island of Oasis.

Rated Teen and Up Audiences for mild violence, unsafe situations. Ongoing, will cover the Alabasta Arc. Cross-posted on Ao3, same username. Send me a DM: yell at me, send flowers. Cheers.

~*~

The mainland named it Oasis, it’s people: the Oasins. Called “islanders” with varying degrees of politeness, the people who live at port call them “the ones who wear blue”. The island sits exactly 3 and a half miles from Alabasta’s southwest shore, separated by a segmented reef and waters too shallow to sail. They are a patch of green on the horizon that relies on their mainland only as much as they need, and half as much as they want. Every 8 days the sea goes out further than it ever will, called “King Tide” as it bows before the sky, revealing a land bridge that connects the usually isolated island to shore.

And so the clock begins.

The Oasin trading party, aged from 6 to 79, as few as 10 but as many as 30, makes the journey to market. They bring their goods: textiles, fruits, anything they can carry that they do not need. And they must carry it, the bridge is too narrow for more than single-file foot travel and a precious few carts. They arrive in a line of blue linens, bodies decorated with gold and a song that can’t be heard in the hot, Alabastan sun. The shops are anticipating their benevolent neighbors, as eager to please as they are to be on time. Basket after basket is set up in their usual spot, all things ready to sell and everything must go.

Locals call people like River a “turnabout”. He’s agreeable, quick to make a sale, even quicker to make deliveries. And when they are ready, River is the cash drop. Oasins have no use for money, and River has a list. His bag is weighted down with medicine, but only after a long conversation with a nervous pharmacist who’s wondering if anyone will believe that a handsome islander talked him down on the price—twice. He stops for batteries for Claudia’s radio, fuel for Esai’s machines. Sunshine flickers off gold in a window display, and River doesn’t have to be persuaded to go inside the luxury shop. He’s only inside for a moment, but it’s as if Esai can smell the indulgence on him.

“You were supposed to get medicine! Did you get the oil I asked for?” Esai says, as loudly as he always speaks, but only a few people turn to acknowledge the Oasin almost-yelling in his own language.

“Of course I did! I even got the nails you forgot to put on the list.” River said with a wave of his hand, pleased at his friend’s immediate deflation. But tired hands spill his bag onto the street, a recognizably expensive box landing squarely on top.

“I knew it. How much did this cost? It’s been a slow day, you know?” He bent to grab the box but River was quicker.

“Do you even know what today is?”

“Don’t play with me, River, I’m not in the mood—“

“Who’s birthday is it today? Hm? Is it Ines: our fair leader, light of our lives, your MOTHER?”

Esai blinked at him. “...Her birthday’s in the winter!”

“Eh? No way!”

“I’m going to—Mm!” He tugged at his hair to curb his temper.

“Just give it to Ines, she deserves to have nice things. Take it or I’ll use it. I have that one, it lasts forever.”

He snatched the box from River’s hand, calloused thumb rubbing over the gold-embossed label that read ‘Imported fragrance’, and something else in a language he couldn’t read. “As long as that’s all you managed to piss away, I won’t leave you here.”

“You’d do that to me, after all the years we’ve known each other? I have no money, you know.”

“Sell your earrings. Or any of the other gold on you. That’s what it’s for, in case you get lost.”

“I wouldn’t be lost, I’d be abandoned!”

“I look forward to my 8 days of peace.”

“Esai!”

“Shh, I’m imagining it now.”

“Can you two go away? You’re scaring the customers.” A woman barked at the two young men, shooing them off as she handed River his next pad of money.

Esai was quick to take it from him with a wide grin. “Come on, I saw somebody selling meat skewers down the street.”

“Really? Let’s go—”

‘I told you, I want my money back!’ An outburst broke the buzz of the market and both men turned to see their seller shrinking back from a customer. He seemed local enough, if unnaturally red in the heat, with a suit jacket that had ‘BW’ embroidered on both arms.

“If I said it made me sick, you have to give my money back.” He spat, his finger almost against her cheek. Esai moved the man’s arm away, standing so he forced them apart with his tall frame.

“Let’s calm down. And we can talk.” Despite their being the same age, Esai was much stronger than River, his bronze skin draped over muscles made for lifting crates of merchandise across miles of unsteady sand. He had a steel readiness beyond his years in his eyes, juxtaposed to his soft face, but typically managed to dissolve trouble on sight. Maybe this man wasn’t local after all.

“You all peddle raw food and blankets, I know there’s no quality control for whatever you manage to pack up and bring here. I bought some fruit earlier for my lunch, I’ve been throwing up all afternoon. It must have had worms in it, or was contaminated by the sea. I should have listened to the rumors: they say Oasin fruit makes you sick.”

Esai blinked with vague recollection at the sweaty man. “Hm? You mean the Ki-Ki fruit?”

River smirked as he watched Esai laugh, cold and loud. As easily as Esai’s presence bred peace, he had a sweet tooth for comeuppance. If asked, he would lie and say he got it from River’s bad influence, when the opposite was true. “If you ate the Ki-Ki fruit, you’d be dead before you made it to the trash to throw up. That’s why we don’t sell it.”

“What?” The sweaty man said while Esai grabbed a packet from the basket next to them.

“We don’t sell it because it will kill you. But the fish go crazy for it, and we dry down the seeds to make a dye powder. You still shouldn’t eat it, but for no more reason than to not swallow the dye powders you get from your tailor.” His informing was interrupted by nearby people who had stopped to listen, and snickered at the man’s expense.

“So it wasn’t our food that made you sick. I can give you something for your pain, some herbs we have. I won’t even charge you as an apology for the misunderstanding—”

It all happened so fast.

Esai stepped away to look through the herb clippings in another basket, just long enough for the man to lose his composure, humiliated both by his ignorance and prejudice on full display for a busy market where he had believed he was right. He reached into his breast pocket, moist hand grabbing a gun to point at the back of the man attempting to help him. But he didn’t have time to aim before a fist like iron connected with his face, punching him out of his shoes and to the other end of the street. Wall after wall followed his trajectory, lined by the faces of horrified onlookers. Silence followed the crash, and everyone for blocks stopped to stare at the Oasin and his friends. They saw River with arm outstretched, watched his adrenaline dissolve into shakes. His own voice broke the spell, almost too weak to be heard.

“He—he had a gun. Esai—”

“Everybody pack up,” came his voice. “Can’t you hear me? Get moving! The sun is getting low, we have to leave,” he said as the others hurried to comply.

“...Esai—”

“Don’t.” He shushed him. “Don’t speak. We have to get everyone home safe first. You go ahead, don’t wait for us.”

River nodded, eyes hot as Esai sent him off with a blessing of his thumb against his forehead. He tried not to run, counting his steps until he reached the bridge. But the familiarity of sand made his legs itch, and he was gone.

His godmother greeted him at home, nearly dropping dinner when he slammed into her for a brutal hug. “There you are! Are you alone? Where is everybody?”

She brushed his bangs from his wet eyes and set her pot on the table. “What’s wrong, baby? What happened? You’re pale.”

“… It’s fine. I-I don’t feel so well. Esai sent me home.” He gave Claudia a quivering smile.

“Get in bed, then. Dinner’s ready. Oh! Did you buy batteries?”

His smile faltered as he felt for the bag that should have been on his back. “I left them with the others.”

She clicked her teeth. “Ay, River. Go to bed, don’t worry about it. Somebody will bring them by when they all get back.”

King tide ended at sundown, and the trading party was late, walking the last half mile in water around their legs while the youngest rode on the shoulders of the tallest. They had received no resistance to their departure but waited almost too late for a relentless Esai that had gone door to door all afternoon to soothe angry business owners with missing walls.

Claudia answered the door for him in her nightgown. “Esai! Did you bring my batteries?”

“Where’s River?”

“Eh? He’s in bed. Why are you both acting so strange?” She went to fetch him but he was already in the doorway of his room, still dressed to leave.

“Let’s go.” Esai jerked his head to lead them outside. The island seemed especially busy after market days, the scattered houses receiving loved ones late with armfuls and weary legs. River delighted in the sounds of the evening, of children who’d never tasted bread so sweet or seen jewels so clear. It made any scolding from Esai worthwhile as he smuggled indulgence into every traders burden. But tonight the lamps went dark when the sun was still in the sky, and their community was quiet. They passed closed houses, walking almost to shore again before either of them spoke.

“He had a gun?”

“He would have killed you. Over something so stupid—”

“You shouldn’t have interfered.”

“What?!” River stopped suddenly, the disbelief leaving his lungs in a rush.

“You showed your Temple to the Alabastans, I would have rather you let him shoot me.”

“Shut up! What’s wrong with you? You would die all because of some—“

“Don’t finish that sentence. Your Temple is a gift from God, so few of us have awakened it’s power. The Alabastans would exploit you, or try to wipe us out and succeed this time. The king leaves us alone but if we step out of line that peace is over… We are less than a thousand. We cannot win, even with Temple, 10 of you cannot protect us from the Royal Army. I’ve always known leadership might cost my life. It is an honorable death to protect my people.”

“That’s stupid. How can you protect us if you’re dead?”

“Listen to my words, River, you endangered all of us when you lost control.”

He flinched away from open palms, but they only ruffled his hair like they weren’t the same age.

“I’m hard on you, I get that. Things are simple here but when we’re out there—no matter how angry you get, no matter what you witness, you have to stay calm. Don’t give them anything they can use against us. At the cost of our lives, we have to protect our home.”

River swiped at his own face, finding he could barely breathe. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. Just… try not to be yourself.” Esai offered a smile.

“You’re an asshole,” he said but didn’t manage to sting through his tears.

“Everyone says that. I’m thinking they can’t all be right.” ____ ___ __ _

But the great invasion Esai feared never came. The market was content to have the Oasins repair their businesses, and the city had no record of any complaint. They returned to their schedule, though River was told to stay behind for a couple weeks just in case. He had begged Ines and Ramon to reconsider but their leadership supported Esai’s opinion, believing some time away was best. They grounded him, wrapped him in the warmth of familiar food, and song, the breeze that carried the salt from the same sea every day. It made him itch, worsened when he stood on the beach to stare at the horizon that he longed to touch.

He missed the feeling of cobblestones under his feet, bartering with quick-witted merchants for spices and gold alike. He agreed the Alabastans couldn’t be trusted but their country breathed to him, so alive in the way a pirate wonders how high the mountain goes, or what lurks beneath the surface of a glass sea. He spoke into the sky, wishing on a squall that carried nothing but pain. But how does anyone who stands on the shore know what lurks in the sea?

No one could have predicted who would come to collect on River’s forgotten transgression because no one was supposed to know their name.

Across Alabasta, Crocodile was surprised to hear from the agent on his snail phone. “You were three days late to turn into your report. We declared you dead.”

‘I’ve been hospitalized, I—three DAYS?”

“I’m not hearing an explanation.”

‘I was in Alabasta to meet our contact and this man attacked me. His fist felt like hot iron, it threw me down the street and he was yelling “Down with Baroque Works”! He’s a menace out to get us and he knows the identity of—’

“Say that again.”

‘He’s declared himself an enemy of our organization—‘

“That’s not what I asked. ‘His fist felt like iron’.”

“Yes, Mr. 0. He threw me… must have been a quarter mile away. I would like to take care of this personally—‘

“Clearly, that’s not possible. Who was it? Or did your mild coma wipe your memory of that as well as your manners?”

“My-my apologies, Mr. 0. It was an Oasin, they’re a flea of a territory island. It was a man, young man with violet eyes and—‘

“That will be all. I’m not reinstating you, and wish you luck with your future endeavors.” He clicked the snail off before the former agent could protest. Twisting the same dial summoned Miss All Sunday’s voice.

‘Yes, Sir?’

“I’m sending you the number and location of an agent that is leaving our company.”

‘Oh?’

“And dispatch Mr. 9 and Miss Wednesday to Alabasta. I’ll send their brief momentarily.”

‘Yes, Sir.’ ____ ___ __ _

“How long do we have, Miss Wednesday?” Mr. 9 asked as he toed the sand leading away from shore, face pulled down in a grimace. The rational fear of drowning and all.

“The tide comes back in at sundown but we’ll be gone long before then, Mr. 9.”

“I don’t understand why he wasn’t at the market, Miss Wednesday, didn’t the brief say we’d find him there?”

“It said maybe. Or do you want to explain to Mr. 0 that we couldn’t find him, Mr. 9?”

“You’re a cruel woman.” He said as he began to walk.

Outside his home, River was harvesting vegetables from their raised garden beds, collecting them in his apron and minding the baby strapped to his back.

Claudia came up to his side to check his progress and offer him the basket to empty his burden. “How’s your little helper doing?”

“No help at all—”

“I was talking to the baby.” She stared and he struggled to reply over his laugh.

“He’s slept the entire day. And I think he’s eating my hair,” he said as Claudia reached up to pull down the hood, revealing a tiny Bananawani the size of a small child. His banana was just a young nub on his forehead, and the skin around his mouth and feet were sickly pale, almost white.

He chirped, reaching out to nip at her finger. “Those antibiotics haven’t done anything for his color. But he seems to have more energy. At least he’s hungry.”

“Why am I still holding him then, if he’s hungry?” River said and let Claudia pull the baby into her arms to offer him some coconut from her apron, the preferred, moisture-rich and fibrous treat for growing Wani.

She let him eat, careful to not touch sharp teeth that could easily amputate if he had more strength. “Eat up, little one. You have to be big enough to go back into the sea when the females return for your siblings. Why did you hatch early anyway? When you’re so sick.”

“If I hadn’t been swimming and seen him all alone, he would have been eaten.” River said.

“He still might get eaten if the females reject him… I won’t let that happen. I’ll just be your mother then.” She blew him a kiss, and the reptile squeaked for more food.

“For someone who never wanted children, you keep finding things to raise.”

“If I hadn’t taken you, no one would have. You were such a fussy little boy. Still are.”

“Little?” He grinned, though the tall woman looked into his eyes.

“This is exactly what I mean. You get your rudeness from your father, and your weakness to the sun. My sister was like me, we never burned. You have your father’s intolerance to drink—”

River’s laugh cut her off, and she linked their arm’s together to rest on his shoulder. “The man’s dead, Claudia, let him rest in peace.”

Their bittersweet banter, the ability to smile when remembering his parents would be, if River was asked, the greatest triumph they made as mother and son. Tied together by a fated stormy night, suddenly alone and without their favorite people in the world, they survive by holding hands. If asked, River will say his parents were stuck on the bridge because he made them late, distracted by jewels at the market. Claudia will say they were helpless to the weather. Neither of them remember too much about that night, but they honor their memory by going on together.

“Who are they?” Claudia said suddenly, breaking him from his thoughts.

At the edge of the village, River could see two strangers on the shore, a man and a woman in gaudy clothes. The man, irritated with the woman, it seemed, sported a lopsided crown on his feathering of ginger hair.

“…get inside. Don’t come out until someone comes to get you.”

Back on the mainland, an older man came to Esai’s side at the market, both recognizable to the other but struggled to recall names.

“Excuse me, but two people just crossed onto the land bridge. They didn’t look like natives.”

“What?!”

“I didn’t approach them, I mean I didn’t know if you were expecting somebody. But I’ve never seen anyone besides you all step foot onto that bridge.”

Esai didn’t bother to thank them before he was off in a sprint, grabbing a friend and yelling in their own language.

“…well, now I wish I’d said something.”

The Baroque Works agents found themselves barred from entering the village, stopped on the shore by what looked like a wall of the strongest among them.

“This is quite the welcome. They must not get too many visitors, don’t you think, Mr. 9?”

He shooed away an insect, tongue bared at the humidity. “Definitely not. Anyway, let’s not drag this out. We’re with the…” He struggled to recall the wording on their brief sheet.

“The Royal Coalition of Suspicious Persons, Peoples, and their Pets—”

“That’s right, the… The Crown. We’re here to apprehend River Faustina for crimes against the king,” he declared. When no one made any move to comply, content to stare at the two eccentric strangers, he jabbed a finger at the paper that flapped in his hand.

“We have a summons from King Cobra himself to arrest the man on this paper and any of you who will not cooperate will be apprehended as co-conspirators!”

Ines stepped forward, careful of her cane in the sand. “May I see that summons?”

“Impossible! You couldn’t read it anyway.”

She snatched the paper quick enough to make him yelp and flinch when she slapped it to smooth it’s wrinkles. “I speak three languages.”

After long, silent moments of watching her scan the page, she finally crumpled it up and pitched it into the sea.

“MA’AM—”

“Don’t yell at me, red, my ears work just fine. I’m not doubting the validity of your request. I just don’t care. Ka-HA!” She punctuated her laugh with a bonk to his head with her cane, and a hasty retreat on suddenly virile feet.

Ramon, the largest and second village leader, intercepted the yelling strangers easily while Ines made her escape from responsibility.

She reentered the village to find River waiting for her. “Mama Ines. You can’t just ignore them and hope they go away.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Whatever credentials they have, however mad they are about what you did… I’ll never hand you over to them. Okay?”

“… Yes, mama.”

“Good boy. Besides, what kind of king sends two skinny idiots to arrest one of my people? Ka-HA. Fucking moron.”

“Mama!”

“Sorry sorry. I forget Claudia raised you to be polite.”

Esai came up on the island as Ramon was restraining Mr. 9 with one hand, the latter kneeling on the ground as he yelled to be let go. Miss Wednesday wisely chose to give them space.

“What’s going on here? Ramon?”

“They’re from some royal organization, here to arrest River.”

“You can’t hurt them, it’ll make things worse.”

Ramon gave his hostage a hard shove, sending him face first into the sand with a muffled yell. “They were very rude. Ines says to leave them, and I second that.”

“You can’t refuse or we’ll take Mr. Faustina by force—” Miss Wednesday backed up when Ramon towered over her, his shadow suddenly blacking out the sun.

He leaned down so his threat would be their secret. “You have until sundown to decide what you will do, or you will be forced to survive on this beach for 8 days until the bridge reappears. Perhaps you’ll try to swim? The Bananawani have nests just offshore, they’ll be coming back for their young any day now.”

Both agents watched as Ramon and the others retreated down the path to leave them with only the oscillating sound of the ocean that chipped away at their time. “The sun is getting lower. We have to move now, Miss Wednesday.”

She watched the gap in the trees as if waiting for them to come back and make good on their threat. “Mr. 0 instructed us with nonviolence.”

“I’m more afraid of what he’ll do if we don’t bring Mr. Faustina back at all. Or get stuck here.”

Esai ran through the village from home to home to ask about River, but found no evidence of his whereabouts until he personally spotted him on the path to the beach.

‘Esai!’ He heard behind him.

“Not now, Claudia!”

“Damn it, Esai, talk to me! What’s going on with River!”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out!” He sprinted after the other man but skidded to a stop behind the treeline when he saw him already talking with the strangers.

“You’re River Faustina? Must be, they said you had violet eyes.” Mr. 9 said as he failed to crack his neck. “That gorilla did a number on me.”

“Have you called for help?” River asked.

“Of course we have,” the woman lied. “But this will be much easier if you leave peacefully. We don’t want anyone else to be hurt.”

His mind raced with the possibility of what his resistance would bring, sunset casting the island in orange. How many reinforcements did these people have? Do they have the technology to cross the reef outside of King Tide? We can’t hold back an army if who I hurt was someone important. Did he die? Is that why I’m being arrested? There’s just not enough time.

“I’ll go with you. You and your people are to never step foot on this island again. I am the only one who has committed a crime.”

The strangers, seemingly satisfied with his answer, made to leave as Esai ran from his hiding place. “River—”

“Don’t, Esai.”

“Ines and Ramon told us to stay put, to leave those two alone.”

“That won’t solve anything.” He turned to smile at his oldest friend, eyes wet with pooled tears. “I have to protect my home.”

‘Don’t keep us waiting, Mr. Faustina!’

“We can fix this, River. Don’t just leave, what about Claudia, what about—”

River let a tear fall before hurrying to swipe it away. The sun was almost gone, sky covered by indigo, and the water was shrinking the bridge even smaller. Would he be allowed to write a letter before they passed their judgment? Surely they have that much mercy. “Hug Claudia for me.”

I’ll tell her I’m sorry. I was stubborn, selfish to wait until there was no time left for goodbyes. I hope they have enough paper, that the birds are strong enough to carry my testament to her.

Esai watched him go until they were out of sight, swallowed by the curve of the ocean but awash in his mind as he caught the last of River’s scent on the wind.

I wanted it to last forever. ____ ___ __ _

As fast as the trio ran, they were exhausted, soggy, and half drowned by the time they trudged from the rising sea at shore. Miss Wednesday upturned her shoes, letting out buckets of water and a few small fish as she tried to decipher what street they faced.“My boots are ruined, Mr. 9. Where’s the drop-off point anyway?”

“Thank you, Miss Wednesday. Mr. 9. But I’ll be taking Mr. Faustina from here.”

The pair seemed to pale at the woman that waited at the road, and River desperately wished he understood just what kind of danger she posed. He’d never felt such cold on a summers night, pinned helpless with no idea how to fight, where to run, unable to even recognize his predator.

“Mi-Miss All Sunday. Of course.” Mr. 9 managed to squeak out.

“Come with me, Mr. Faustina. You two: your next assignment is already on it’s way.”

River followed the presumed ‘Miss All Sunday’ without complaint through the streets, nose blind to the vendors he normally marveled, the lights dimmer than he remembered. He could only see the white suede coat billowing behind his handler, the ink-black of her hair. Should he be taken to the desert to be murdered quietly, he wondered if she would deliver his message. Her blue eyes didn’t look as though they even saw him.

“You brought no belongings. Were you denied that privilege or was it the time?”

“It was… It all happened so fast.”

His handler, no, Miss All Sunday stopped in front of a store. “Let’s purchase some provisions. Our destination is a couple days away, even as fast as we travel.”

“Where are we going? By boat?”

She gave him the same cold smile she had given to the gaudy pair who dropped him off; he had already forgotten their names. “Get a change of clothes. Have you eaten supper?” ____ ___ __ _

Esai held his lip where Claudia had struck him, tasting copper.

“You gave him to them?!” She screeched, eyes wild as she made to hit him again.

“He left on his own!” He yelled back and her hand stopped in the air.

“He wouldn’t do that, he trusts us to help him. He did NOTHING wrong! Why did they even come?!” Her voice cracked and anger made way for tears in rivulets down her face.

Ramon appeared to place his arm around her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Claudia. We’re going to get him back.” He declared to the hollers of the crowd.

‘Let’s go!’

‘They can’t do this to us!”

‘We will not be bullied!’ Every shout vibrated his blood, Esai scrambled to salvage his thoughts.

We are less than a thousand. It’s been 400 years since our island challenged the king, and we barely emerged from that fight with half of us left. Who knows how things have changed? Nothing has changed here, even with our gifts we cannot stop an army. At all costs, we must survive. We must protect each other.

“They made a deal!” His voice silenced the crowd, and the dozens of stares threatened to shrink him into the ground.

“Do not pursue him. He left of his own free will, they agreed he could negotiate his punishment for labor. He will not be executed.”

“They’re going to enslave him?!”

“NO! No, they spoke of an exchange. He would use his strength to work for the King and be compensated accordingly. It—It sounded like a lot of money.”

“You’re a liar, Esai, I will—”

“Think, Claudia. I know you’re hurting but doesn’t that sound like him? River’s always chased gold, you all watch him spend our money every single market day. He’s as old as I am but he’s never left the island… We were never going to be enough for him.”

The crowd began to slowly disperse, it didn’t matter to Esai why they relented. Whether in acceptance or disgust, he just needed them to break. But Ines refused to look away from her son, and he felt his face grow hot under her stare even as he kept his feet planted. “Let him go. River of all people will find a way to get on.”

Esai stayed until the sun was long gone, left to swallow against his tears when Ines was the only one left.

“Did he truly leave on his own?” She said, only barely louder than the bugs.

“Yes. I—He stopped me.” The old woman reached for him so he could crumble into her arms. She stood there, quiet and still, until his sobs had soaked through her cloak.

He felt her place a kiss to his head as he spoke. “I don’t want to lead us.”

She let her own tears fall onto his shoulder. He couldn’t recall the last time she cried.

“It has to be you.”

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