Archive of Our Own

The man towered over all but Lucky Roux, broad set and proudly held. His hair was greased back. His clothes were tailored to his frame, one sleeve knotted halfway down the forearm where his hand was missing. And lastly, the most painfully obvious sign, a bandage was smoothed over his nose and cheeks.

Shanks saw through the disguise so fast he was embarrassed no one else had. The ‘Barry’ his crew had apparently been hanging out with all afternoon was none other than the bane of Shanks’ love life, the thorn in the side of his dick, the rich bastard with the velvet voice and the smart smirk; Sir motherfucking Crocodile.

‘Barry’ couldn’t look Shanks in the eye. He was sat by Yasopp, rummaging his handgun back into its holster on his hip.

“Hey, Cap!” Yasopp beamed, unaware of the tension making itself comfortable around them, “This is that Barry!” he clapped Sir Crocodile on the shoulder, “Who’s been buying us drinks! He ain’t a bad shot either!” and he laughed.

The thought of drinking on Sir Crocodile’s Berri made Shank taste sick in his mouth. “Is it.”

“Uh-huh!”

‘Barry’ stumbled to his feet. “I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Huh?”

“I should go, I don’t wanna cause trouble,” his voice was eerily soft, its usual arrogance lost to demure panic.

“What are you talking about?” Shanks said as sweetly as he could, scrabbling for the advice on acting Buggy had given him in the past, “Sit down, it’s my round.”

“I really shouldn’t,” ‘Barry’ said.

“Why ever not, Barry?” Shanks spat the word.

“I have to catch a taxi-ship to Beyond Love Bay, it’ll be the last one.”

“We’re headed to B-L-B, we’ll give you a lift.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.”

“Yeah, come with us!” Yasopp slung his arm around Barry and dragged him in to a one-armed hug, “Don’t even gotta pay, save your Berri!”

Shanks had intended to charge him, seas knew the asshole could afford it, but a better plan formed. “Exactly. Stay the night.”

“I…” Barry stammered a second, “You don’t need to go out your way.”

“No issue, like I said we’re headed to B-L-B ourselves,” Shanks said, “Pull your weight and we’ll get along fine.”

A tiny frown pulled on Benn Beckman’s brow, the first to finally sense trouble.

“Surely you’re not trying to dismiss an Emperor?” Shanks said.

Quiet settled over the crew faster than Lucky Roux’s laugh ever had.

“No, I just…” Barry took a deep breath, “I’m headed from Beyond Love Bay to Buggy Town. I’m part of the Buggy Crew and I don’t know if there’s rules against fraternizing with other Emperors and I don’t wanna cause trouble, I can just get a taxi, I should have said something sooner I just distracted with the talking and the drinking and the shooting and the…”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Yasopp tugged on the bastard’s neck again, “Chill out! Cap’ and Buggy used to be besties, y’know? He’s still in love with the clown! If anything, this is getting you a promotion!”

‘Barry’ looked Shanks up and down with genuine caution. “It’s really okay?”

“It is,” Shanks said.

“I’m not gonna call you Emperor. That’s only for my Emperor.”

The crew cooed conspiratorially.

“Stubborn shit, aren’t you?” Shanks said.

Barry smiled. One of his canines was broken, and Shanks’ mind flashed with Sir Crocodile’s gold tooth.

“So Captain, small problem.” Lucky Roux was grinning more like he had a prank than a problem, “Y’know how I said Barry could borrow my spare hammock?”

Lucky Roux had said that. If he hadn’t, there’d be no way they could produce one large enough for Barry’s tall frame.

“I do.”

“Well, I just checked it, and I turns out I forgot to get it fixed. It’s still got a massive tear in it.”

Lucky Roux’s dagger had caught on the fabric. Why it had been out of its sheath, Lucky Roux had never been able to explain. He’d cut the hammock almost clean in half and swore he would get it fixed or replaced at the next island – six islands ago. Benn Beckmann made Lucky Roux have a spare for situations like this, but Shanks was surprised Benn Beckmann hadn’t personally marched Lucky Roux to a repair shop himself.

“So there’s nowhere for Barry to sleep?” Shanks said.

“Oh, come on Captain,” Yasopp groaned, “Don’t be so fucking dense!”

“What exactly are you saying to me, Yasopp of Syrup Village?”

“First you pulled rank on him. Then you bullied him into cutting the vegetables,” Yasopp counted his points on his fingers, “And then, I saw you over there, pestering him. You ain’t slick, Captain.”

Shanks stared at him, the smile on his face only slightly forced.

“Sure, his feet are gonna stick out the bed, but he’ll live.”

The smile pinched.

Having ‘Barry’ in his cabin would make some things easier. Shanks could pester him for information. He could make him tidy and clean the whole cabin. He could make him sit and listen to Shanks describe every last instance of Buggy and Mihawk being in the cabin.

But he didn’t really want Sir Crocodile in the space. Sleeping in the bed. Perusing the dresser and the bookshelf. He didn’t even have pyjamas with him – his naked skin would be against the bedsheets Shanks had bought with Mihawk’s thread preference and Buggy’s colour preference in mind.

He could kill him in his sleep. He wouldn’t mind the thought of Sir Crocodile’s corpse in his bed.

Lucky Roux and Yasopp were both waggling their eyebrows at him like they were in on a joke. The galley door swung open, the cook leading the way, ‘Barry’ carrying the great stack of dishes, the basket of cutlery over his stump.

“Lil’ update for ya, Baz,” Yasopp said, “You’re bunking with the Captain – lucky you!”

“Really will be fraternizing with another Emperor,” Lucky Roux said with a wink.

“Oh shit, I’d forgot about that.”

Lucky Roux nudged him with a laugh. Barry handed them their dishes, and the cook ladled them out some pasta with greens and some small, delicate shellfish he’d picked from the last island’s beach just that morning.

“Did’ya hear me, Baz?” Yasopp said, taking his spoon from Barry, “You’re sleeping with the Captain.”

Barry straightened up. “Yes, I heard you. I can’t really argue with the Captain, he was kind enough to give me a lift.”

“Don’t say things like that, it’ll go straight to his head,” Benn Beckmann said.

“Damn right you can’t argue with me,” Shanks said.

“Fuck,” Benn Beckmann said.

Barry chuckled. It was a deep, earthy noise, and Shanks’ grip on his mug tightened. He couldn’t work out if ‘Barry’ was stupid, arrogant, or both. He was in enemy territory, forced to do menial labour, about to be forced into the enemy’s bed, and he was smiling and laughing like he’d been part of the crew for years. He even had a stupid nickname! His face, his voice, his stance, every grain of him was scratching on Shanks’ nerves.

Shanks glared into his pasta as he ate, overstuffing his mouth and getting sauce down his chin. Barry sat with the cook with his own portion, eating in small, gentlemanly bites that only pissed Shanks off further.

He knocked on the cabin door before he entered. Shanks was laid starfish on his bed, trying to assert his dominance. Sir Crocodile scanned the room, his eyes pausing on the shelf of books and the dresser. Shanks sat up on his elbow and opened his mouth to tell Sir Crocodile he could sleep on the floor when Sir Crocodile spoke first;

“I can sleep on the floor,” he said, so now that absolutely wasn’t happening.

Shanks slammed a pillow lengthways down the middle of the bed. “That’s your side.” He pointed.

Sir Crocodile didn’t comment. He put his bag down by the bed.

“Is Barry your real name?” Shanks asked.

“It would be my name on kinder seas,” came Sir Crocodile’s answer.

“That’s not a yes.”

“It’s not. Define ‘real name’.”

Shanks stared for several seconds.

“My legal name, the name that was on my Warlord contract and my prison file, is Sir Crocodile. Does that make it my real name?”

“I’m not a big fan of legal stuff.”

A small smile flitted across Sir Crocodile’s mouth. “Are any of us?”

“I don’t wanna call you Barry, it makes it sound like we’re pals. And I ain’t calling you Sir. Normally I just call you Rich Boy, but you stink of dish soap. Which is kinda funny, actually. Rich Boy, reduced to stowaway to keep up his weird little pretending.”

“The Marines harass me as much as they harass you,” Sir Crocodile said patiently, “Sometimes I would much rather pass through unmolested.”

“And then you get into shooting competitions with the crew of a rival Emperor so you can hitch a ride with them?”

“No. I only meant to buy Yasopp a drink, but it’s impossible to buy for just one of your crew. And then he saw my gun and insisted on a shootout, and I was in a good mood and agreed. And so I bought another round. And another. And I lost track of time, and then you came to collect the crew and…” he waved about the cabin, “You know the rest.”

“What did you want with Yasopp?”

“Just to talk.”

“About what?”

Sir Crocodile licked his lips. “I have a son a similar age to Usopp. I haven’t seen the boy since the day he was born. I…” he licked his lips again, “I wanted to talk to someone about that. The fear of seeing him again. The guilt of knowing you could have – you should have – done so much more. The pride you’re not entitled to feel. I know it’s common as crow’s nests for pirates to have children they haven’t engaged with but… I thought Yasopp might have understood. I think he did.”

Shanks’ fingers were gripping the pillow and twisting. Shanks knew the feeling himself, had had the harrowing pang as he docked somewhere he hadn’t been in years to the pretty bar-maid presenting him with a red-headed child that looked at him with total indifference. He sent money and treasure to ports the world over, supporting his lovers as their bastards grew to be pirates themselves, or teachers, or doctors, or even Marines. Yasopp had sent money back to Syrup Village, sometimes writing a letter to send with it only to rip it to shreds right there in the mailing office.

The thought of Sir Crocodile doing that made him sick. Taking money from the families of Alabasta, letting their children starve so his didn’t. Not even that – letting their children starve so his could have the latest toy, designer clothes, the best tutors and nannies to become whatever Sir Crocodile wanted. The child would want for nothing, and nothing would drip down to the children of Alabasta.

“You could have had your kid with you,” Shanks said, “Or were the rebels too likely to treat your kid the way you treated theirs?”

“It wasn’t up to me,” Sir Crocodile said. His stare was passing through Shanks to the far wall, “His father-in-law took him on the understanding I wouldn’t seek him out. I kept my word.”

“You keep a lot of shit.”

“Yes.”

A heavy silence fell over them both. Sir Crocodile blinked and seemed to reactivate, stooping to unfasten his shoes.

Shanks sat up to wrestle out of his own clothes, sandals left by the door. Gryphon usually stayed by the door, on a rack Mihawk insisted on having for him – ‘him’ being Gryphon, not Shanks. But tonight he was by Shanks’ bedside, under the mattress at the perfect angle for Shanks to unsheathe at any second. Shanks had even practiced doing so.

His hand idly on Griffin’s hilt, Shanks watched Sir Crocodile stand and strip, unbothered by Shanks’ stare. Mihawk’s lovebites shone in the dim light as Sir Crocodile unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off. Red lines were tattooed down his chest, and pale scars hugged the underside of each pectoral. A thick shape of hair hugged his sternum, a firm layer of fat hugged his ribs and stomach. He was built without being stocky, his body well-carried for a man his age.

Sir Crocodile folded his shirt and trousers and put them atop his bag. He sat on the bed in only his boxers, which weren’t branded but noticeably a higher quality than anything Shanks had ever bothered with. He reached into the boxers and pulled out something green.

Shanks stared at it. It was long, tubular, with embroidered zig-zags. As Shanks peered at it, he realised the zig-zags weren’t a pattern but a face; the item was embroidered to look like a crocodile.

The urge to ask why Sir Crocodile had a crocodile in his pants was simultaneously overbearing and too self-obvious to entertain. Of course, Sir Crocodile had a crocodile in his pants. Who else was ever going to have a crocodile in his pants?

“I didn’t pack pyjamas,” Sir Crocodile said by only way of explanation, “I was expecting to book a hotel room and travel tomorrow. I usually sleep naked.”

Shanks didn’t respond. He was naked, unbothered by the notion of having to fight with his personal sword swinging free. The thought of Sir Crocodile being too dignified to attack him naked was an amusing one, although a small part of him was disappointed. While he knew it was childish to think Sir Crocodile had some sort of magical dick that made Buggy and Mihawk stay with him, he still wanted to know what he was up against.

Sir Crocodile lay back, not bothering with the blanket. His feet did, of course, hang off the end of the bed, but he didn’t seem to care as he tucked his handless arm under his head, took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Are you seriously going straight to sleep?” Shanks said.

A think line of irritation pulled on Sir Crocodile’s brow. “That is what one usually does in bed.”

“Is it? Is it what one usually does? One usually shoves the stick a little further up his ass and lies down to sleep?”

Sir Crocodile’s head turned. Shanks hadn’t noticed him take the bandage off, his scar a deep maw in the dim light. His crow’s feet were deeper on one side from smirking around his cigar.

“Usually,” the word hissed through Sir Crocodile’s teeth, “When Buggy gets into his little mockery acts, he’s after getting spanked and spoiled.”

“Oh, so when Buggy makes a joke about you, you hit him?”

“And spoil him. Wrapped up in silks and ravished until he’s giggling.”

Shanks next accusation died in his mouth. It had been a long time since he’d heard Buggy giggle. It was almost an odd thought, after all they’d been through, that Buggy even could giggle. Such a gentle, carefree noise.

He could picture it. Buggy in a blue silk robe, hair in a messy bun, make-up smudged. Shanks’ lips on his stomach, blowing raspberries until Buggy was kicking and squealing with laughter, his hands pushing on Shanks’ shoulders weakly, more like an amused damsel than a sea-hardened pirate.

Sir Crocodile shifted, rolling onto his side to face Shanks. Shanks straightened, peering down his nose at Sir Crocodile.

“Mihawk tells me he’s invited you to stay,” Sir Crocodile said.

“He has,” Shanks said stiffly.

“As have I.”

“You have.”

“Buggy tells me he hasn’t, but I’m sure he’s said it in ways other than words.”

Shanks didn’t answer. Buggy would tell him to fuck off, but his arms and legs would be wrapped tight around Shanks, and when Shanks pulled away Buggy would whine and hold him tighter. When Shanks got up to leave before Sir Crocodile’s return Buggy would sigh and reach for Shanks in his sleep.

“And yet you never do.”

Shanks still didn’t answer. He’d leave, only Mihawk waking to bid him goodbye, whispered into his lips to not rouse Buggy. Shanks would put the cigars on the dresser, take the sake Sir Crocodile had left him, and be gone as Sir Crocodile’s ship ploughed in on the horizon. They’d miss each other, not even passing ships in the night but glimpsed sails in the sunrise.

“Are you scared of me, Red-Hair?”

“What? No!” Shanks snapped.

“I didn’t think so. Then why don’t you stay?”

“Because… I don’t know…” Shanks had to tear his gaze from Sir Crocodile’s face to think, to pull his words together, “I don’t know what I’d do if I had to watch you hurt them.”

“You still believe I abuse them.”

“Buggy has a fucking cigar burn on his chest.”

“He does. As I’ve told you, he can get rid of it if he so chooses.”

Shanks ground his teeth.

“In fact, he gets upset at times if I refuse to burn him. I believe I’ve told you that as well.”

“Shut up,” Shanks hissed.

Sir Crocodile was quiet for a few seconds before; “Red-Hair.”

“I said shut up.”

“Tell me what you think would happen if you stayed.”

Shanks dragged his gaze from the ceiling. “What?”

“Pretend you overslept. Or perhaps I was back early and your little spies,” Sir Crocodile’s mouth flinched a smirk at the word, “On the surrounding islands don’t tell you in time. You’re still in bed with Mihawk and Buggy. Mihawk’s bed. Early morning. The door is opening. Tell me what you think would happen next.”

“I…” Shanks stammered, “I don’t know.”

“Hm. How do you lay with them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when I lay with Mihawk and Buggy, I usually have Buggy laid on top of me. He says he likes how warm I run. Mihawk sleeps on this side,” Sir Crocodile waves his stump, “And has since we were young. He says if we were ambushed, an attacker would view my stump as my weak point and attack there first. He says if he is there, I have no weak point.”

Shanks had noticed Mihawk sleeping to Shanks’ left side, but had never thought to ask why.

“I have pointed out that anyone attempting to attack us our sleep is a downright fool. Mihawk reasons that fools can be some of the most dangerous sorts.”

“They sure can.”

Sir Crocodile nodded. “Well? What happens?”

Shanks sucked his teeth. “I don’t know. I think Buggy would panic. I think I’d panic if you just walked right in without us noticing you approaching.”

“Mihawk would have noticed.”

Shanks chuckled. “Yeah, he’d be sat up with a glass of wine already.”

“So it’s just you and the pretty fool panicking. Then what?”

“Then… look, it’s not like you’re dumb enough to go beating the shit out of ‘em right in front of me!”

Sir Crocodile’s brows rose. “I supposed that’s true.”

“You suppose?!”

“Yes. If I was beating the shit out of someone, I wouldn’t do so in front of an Emperor who is also in love with that person. That would be incredibly stupid.”

Shanks groaned in exasperation.

“Fine. Let’s talk one at a time. How do you think Mihawk would react if I started hitting him for no reason?”

“He’d hit you back, asshole.”

“Exactly. We both know the only reason I'm anywhere close to Mihawk’s calibre is purely my devil fruit powers. And even then Mihawk far surpasses me. The only hope I’d have in a real fight against him would be to dry him to a husk before he can get a hit in. Not raining down hits on him until he’s cowering in a corner. We both know that wouldn’t happen.”

“What are you saying?”

“That I couldn’t abuse Mihawk if I wanted to. He’s one of only a handful of people I truly believe could not only kill me, but could kill me without a single regret.”

“Who are the others?”

“Maybe one or two Marines. Don Quixote, but I don’t think he has the capacity to regret. You, obviously.”

“So it’s you who’s scared of me.”

“I would call it more of a respect.”

“Would you?”

“But I acknowledge that I would view that as fear from someone I had disdain for.”

Shanks huffed a laugh. It was hollow and almost hard in his throat. “Go on then. Tell me how you beating Buggy doesn’t count as beating him.”

Sir Crocodile took a cautious breath. “I will admit to getting carried away with Buggy at times.”

“Do you?”

The dressers shook. The curtains swayed. The bedding flattened as though crushed under an invisible weight. Shanks’ Haki crackled on the air.

“He gets this dazed little look on his face. This dumb smile. This widening in his eyes like I’m the only one worth looking at. And he makes these little noises and he’s watching me. He’s watching everything I do.”

Shanks’ Haki pressed harder, the mattress bowing.

“And he moves exactly where he wants to be. And he begs so sweetly for the hit on his thighs or his ass, and if I don’t respond he begs a little more like we don’t both know I’m going to give him exactly what he wants. And he gives his thumb a coy little nibble as I make him pick out a toy as if he doesn’t already know exactly what he wants. And he flutters his fucking eyelashes like he doesn’t know exactly what the so-called punishment for his cheeky behaviour is.”

Sir Crocodile’s eyes were closed as he spoke, smiling like he’d taken a puff of cigar after a long week without one. The bedding was eerily smooth under him, the air thick, but his breath was even like the Haki wasn’t there.

“And when he nods off, he has this soft little snore, like a whistle through his nose. He gets mad if I tell him that, though. And some mornings I catch him in just his underwear, looking at his bruises. Touching them. And I always panic that this is it, this time I took it too far. And he’ll pack up, leaving only a treasure chest of his remaining debt. And if he sees me on the horizon, he’ll blow me out of the water and sail back just to watch me drown.”

Shanks’ Haki pulled back before he realised he was pulling it back.

“The only reason he’d regret killing me is that endless nostalgia of his,” Sir Crocodile babbled on, his smile dropping to a frown, “And he’d only regret it at odd times. When he’s smoking or bathing in a certain scent or when he stumbles across a ‘wani in the wild or…” he took a deep breath and opened his eyes, “But then he smiles. And he gets dressed, and he puts his knife holster over the bruises and a shirt over the burn and make-up over the split lip. And he’s talking and talking about where his clothes came from. And he kisses me. Right here,” he touches the side of his throat lightly, “Just to leave his lipstick on me. And he takes me by the base of my hook and leads me to the kitchen for breakfast.”

Shanks chewed on his lip. Buggy hadn’t led Shanks to breakfast since they were children. Even when staying for several days, Shanks would wake up alone and stumble to the kitchen to find Mihawk and Buggy already eating, already chatting idly. The thought of him leading Sir Crocodile around, a puff of colour dragging along a mob boss twice his size and the mob boss following with a blush, would be funny if it didn’t piss Shanks off so much.

“He’s a vicious little shit,” Sir Crocodile’s gaze was boring straight into Shanks’, and Shanks was struck for a second by how pale his eyes were, “He’s smart, he’s strong, he’s charismatic. If it weren’t for the ocean of feelings within him, I think he’d be King of the Pirates already.”

And Shanks sighed and rolled to stare at the ceiling.

Sir Crocodile paused for several seconds before he said; “You agree.”

“Yeah,” the word was a croak, “Yeah, he would be.”

Sir Crocodile reached over the pillow. Shanks’ gaze snapped to him, eyes wide with warning. Sir Crocodile stopped but didn’t withdraw the hand, his fingers grazing the bedding on Shanks’ side.

“I don’t understand it either,” Sir Crocodile said. His voice was soft, not as soft as his Barry disguise but something close to a whisper, “I don’t understand why they let me dominate them. Mihawk says having an ache gives him something to focus on to drown out the Haki, but there are a million ways he could distract himself. With Buggy, I… he says it makes his brain quiet. He says all the little choices are noisy, but when he makes them for someone else the answers make sense. It makes the choices smaller. I don’t know what he means by that.”

“There were always too many noises,” Shanks said, “He used to hide by the cannons in battle, because the boom of the cannons made his ears ring louder than everything else, and then he could think.”

Sir Crocodile nodded. “When he talks, it’s like he rolls straight from one thought to another, midsentence.”

“You sneeze, and between the ‘a’ and the ‘choo’ he’s jumped topic seven times.”

“And yet Mihawk has kept up perfectly. And he catches you up with a dry list.”

“And if he skips something he pauses to let…”

“Buggy add it back in,” Sir Crocodile said in time with him.

Shanks jolted. The dreamy smile that had grown on his face dropped as if slapped off him. The smile on Sir Crocodile’s, smaller than his smirk, was still in place. His hand had crept an inch closer.

“You are the only man who will understand when I say,” Sir Crocodile’s voice was somehow even softer, a whisper in Shanks’ ear despite the distance between them, “Buggy and Mihawk are relentlessly incredible.”

Shanks leant back on the pillows. “Yeah. Yeah, they are.”

A quiet settled over them. A quiet more than a silence, their breathing off kilter. Sir Crocodile was tracing lines on the bedding, and Shanks noticed tan lines at the base of his fingers and a distinct writer’s bump on the middle finger.

“Do you want a drink,” Shanks said, “I only have sake, though.”

“I will. I would offer you a cigar, but I don’t know your smoking policy.”

“Smoking’s fine with two rules,” Shanks stood to retrieve the bottle and two glasses, “One; share. Two; after sex.”

Sir Crocodile guffawed, “You intend to have sex with me?”

“I see no other way of breaking the ice permanently.”

“I didn’t pack for pleasure.”

“I always do.”

“I think you misunderstand.”

Shanks put the bottle down, the glass upturned on its top. “Then enlighten me.”

The bed rustled. Shanks poured the drinks. He turned.

Sir Crocodile had removed both the pillow between them and also his boxers. Shanks sat on the bed, passed Sir Crocodile his cup, and held up his own for a toast.

“To Buggy and Mihawk,” Shanks said.

“And every joy and pain they bring us,” Sir Crocodile added.

They sipped, Shanks watching Sir Crocodile over the rim. Sir Crocodile didn’t wince at the taste, and lay back on the pillow in a leisurely stance. His legs were open and as Shanks’ gaze rolled down him he propped one up to let Shanks look at him. His thighs were a web of thin scars wrapped around his thighs, like a messy, sprawling ladder to his cunt.

The quiet became a tense silence, and although Shanks knew in the back of his mind that it was mean to sit in it, he sat in it anyway. He cocked his head side to side, staring at Sir Crocodile, at the thick yet groomed pubes, at the enlarged clit, at the bite mark on the front of Sir Crocodile’s hip. He mused over the teeth marks left there, how higgledy-piggledy they were, and decided it was likely Buggy's. Mihawk had casually mentioned how much Buggy like to go down on Sir Crocodile, and then Buggy had rambled about the act and Shanks had intentionally tuned him out to take a nap between fucks.

And at last Shanks asked; “Why did you have a crocodile in your pants earlier?”

Sir Crocodile stammered a second, taken aback by the randomness of the question. Shanks took that as a victory.

“It’s a packer. It gives the illusion that there’s a penis under my clothes.”

“And why isn’t there a penis under your clothes?”

“Because…” Sir Crocodile stammered in surprise again, “Because I’m transgender.”

“No, obviously. But ain’t there a surgery for that?”

Sir Crocodile took a short, shallow sigh. “There is. But it’s a difficult surgery, requiring a specialist surgeon. Who have specialist surgeries full of staff who would all need hush money. And hush money doesn’t mean they won’t go pecking at News Coo Morgan to match it.”

“What about that one…” Shanks plucked for a word and skipped it, “With the…” he put his cup down to make vague clawing motions with his hand.

“Ivankov? I made the mistake of betraying her to the Marines. There is no figure I could produce that would change her mind.”

“So the one thing you can’t buy is a dick?” Shanks couldn’t help grinning.

Sir Crocodile raised an eyebrow. He was smiling. “I’ve made my peace with the fact my dick is detachable, and comes in many colours, sizes, shapes…”

“Hey, wait!”

“And speed of vibration.”

“That ain’t fair!” Shanks grabbed the pillow and smacked Sir Crocodile with it, almost knocking the cup out of his hand, “How the fuck am I supposed to compete with that?!”

Sir Crocodile’s cup moved in a tendril of sand. He laughed, a chesty sound, and Shanks smacked him in the arm. Shanks straddled Sir Crocodile to hit him a few more times, Sir Crocodile half-heartedly batting it away with his hand. Eventually Sir Crocodile caught it and wrenched it from Shank’s grip, tossing it out of his reach.

Shanks leant over Sir Crocodile, staring down at him. “There ain’t a rule that the bigger guy has to top, y’know.”

“I’m aware,” Sir Crocodile said, “But I can’t allow you to fuck me.”

“Me personally?”

“You personally.”

“Rude.”

Sir Crocodile smiled and tucked his stump behind his head. He looked so leisurely that Shanks wondered for a second if he was mocking him. “Buggy would be upset if he knew you fucked me before he did.”

“And why hasn’t Buggy fucked you?”

“He hasn’t asked.”

Shanks raised an eyebrow.

“He’s seen Mihawk fuck me. He’s eaten Mihawk’s cum out of my cunt. He’s fingered me, inserted toys in me,” Sir Crocodile spoke evenly, like he was listing off the contents of the kitchen pantry, “And yet.”

“And yet,” Shanks echoed.

Sir Crocodile’s fingers brushed Shanks’ thigh, just above the knee. His skin was warm, and Shanks settled himself to lie on Sir Crocodile’s front, his arm tucked between them both and leaning on Sir Crocodile’s stomach.

“Do you want Buggy to fuck you?” Shanks said.

“I think,” Sir Crocodile said, “He would approach it with the same passion and vigour he approaches most things, especially sex.”

“That’s a really long-winded yes.”

Sir Crocodile chuckled. The noise shook his chest, rumbling through Shanks.

“Have you told him?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Shanks poked at Sir Crocodile’s chest.

“I like him to ask. I like to say yes. He likes to be told yes.”

Shanks considered the words. “I think most people like to be told yes.”

“I think you’re right. But it’s rare I tell Buggy no. It’s rare I tell Mihawk no. Mihawk’s figured that out. Buggy hasn’t yet, but give him time.”

Shanks licked along his top teeth. “So if Buggy asked you to forget his debt, would you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Shanks’ Haki buzzed again, “How can you not know?”

“I could afford to, financially.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Because I have a reputation to uphold.”

“That’s it? You’re keeping a man enslaved to you so people don’t forget you’re an asshole?”

Sir Crocodile laughed again. Shanks shot up, his hand to Sir Crocodile’s throat and squeezing. Sir Crocodile only laughed harder, his throat dipping under Shanks’ hand.

Shanks clenched on the sand and pulled like he could yank Sir Crocodile’s vocal cords out. The laugh became a choke, stuttering and reigniting as Sir Crocodile’s throat reformed in swells of gold.

The air stiffened as Shanks’ Haki focused intensely on Sir Crocodile’s neck. His fingers dug and pulled, sending sand skittering across the bed. Sir Crocodile struggled, his legs kicking and his body bucking up.

Sir Crocodile grabbed Shanks by the forearm, forcing him still. Their faces were inches apart, both snarling.

“Fuckin’ scared now, ain’t ya?” Shanks drawled.

“As scared as you’d be if I enveloped you in sand,” Sir Crocodile said, his voice even as if he hadn’t just rebuilt the cords almost from scratch.

Shanks spat at him. His spittle vanished into Sir Crocodile’s cheek.

“A real fight between us would be a desperate scrap for who would end the other first,” Sir Crocodile said, “Followed by the champion losing the two very men we were fighting over. Calm down.”

“Fuck you.”

“I can’t; I didn’t pack for it.”

Shanks’ glare broke in a snort. He pulled out of Sir Crocodile’s grip and rolled to lie back on the bed, starfish, staring up at the ceiling. His leg was propped over Sir Crocodile’s claiming his territory like a stubborn cat ignoring the presence of the other.

“I don’t like you,” Shanks said.

“You’ve made that clear,” Sir Crocodile said.

“If I asked you to forgive Buggy's debt, would you?”

“No.”

“If I got together the money to pay off his debt, would you let him go?”

“No, but I’d take the money anyway.”

Shanks sucked his teeth to stop himself from spitting fuck you again.

“And what of Mihawk?”

“Huh?”

“What of Mihawk?” Sir Crocodile said, “Why do you think Mihawk tolerates me?”

“You…” Shanks chewed on a few different words, all words too eloquent for his sake-soaked mouth, “You’re constant. That’s what he calls you. Constant. You just coast along, making your fucking investments and your fucking banking things and your fucking Rich Boy shit.”

Maybe the word Mihawk said was consistent. Maybe he’d called Sir Crocodile reliable. Maybe he’d called Sir Crocodile many things, but Shanks would zone out when Mihawk started talking about other lovers. He didn’t bore Mihawk with his laundry list of lovers, and he couldn’t follow why Mihawk bothered to regale him with his.

“Not a bad thing to be called,” Sir Crocodile said.

“There’s better things.”

Sir Crocodile sighed. “Did you have this much animosity when I dated Mihawk in our youth?”

“No. I didn’t give a shit about you then.”

“So this is purely because of Buggy? I suppose that makes sense.”

“What the fuck are you saying?”

“That Buggy's feelings towards you are complex, and it’s rare for such complexity to be one sided.” Sir Crocodile sat up, “You love him.”

“Every day.”

“You miss him.”

“Every day.”

“Your heart breaks for him.”

“Every day.”

“And yet you abandoned him.”

Shanks swallowed. “It’s not like that.”

“You can’t tether him to you but you can’t let him go.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Would anyone? Truly?”

Shanks stared up at him. Sir Crocodile’s face was severe in the lantern light.

“Mihawk has come to terms with your phases. He knows when you are gone you will return, and when you are returned he knows you will go. His feelings are sensible in that way. Buggy's are not. He loves you and he hates you and he misses you and he resents you, and all of those feelings are oceans colliding within him, each so fierce no single tide can rip him from the others. They will never calm. He will never calm.”

“Do you love him?”

Sir Crocodile startled at the question. “Yes.”

“Do you love Mihawk?”

“Yes. I have for a long time.”

“Do you hate me?”

“No. I dislike you.”

“Damn. I need to try harder.”

Sir Crocodile huffed a laugh. “The men I love love you. I respect their opinions too much to hate you.”

The cabin was quiet for several seconds.

“Do you love Buggy and Mihawk more than you hate me?” Sir Crocodile said.

“I don’t hate you.”

“That isn’t a yes.”

“Yes. Yes I love them more than I could ever feel anything for you.”

Sir Crocodile managed a smile, and the smile managed to be soft. “Good.”

Shanks sat upright. “So if I’m not allowed to fuck you, what am I allowed to do to you?”

“You are allowed to spread your legs and take my fingers in your hole.” Sir Crocodile’s soft smile became a smirk.

“Fine. Impress me.”

Sir Crocodile laughed. He straddled Shanks and reached for the dresser. The lube was thick, in a jar he could dip his fingers into rather than a bottle he had to tip of squeeze into a second hand he didn’t have. Shanks shifted to tuck a pillow under his back, his legs bent and spread in a comfortable position.

“I assume Mihawk has fingered you to completion before,” Sir Crocodile said.

“He has.”

“Has Buggy?”

“No, I get on top if he’s taking too long.”

Sir Crocodile clicked his tongue, “No respect for theatre.”

“Shut up!”

Sir Crocodile chuckled. He ran his fingers into Shanks’ crack and rubbed a small circle over his hole.

Shanks shifted a little. Sir Crocodile’s finger was warm, unnaturally so, and his presence over Shanks was daunting. He was too big for the room, filling it with his dry heat.

He pressed his finger in, Shanks’ hole giving with ease. Shanks hummed at the mild stretch, his body well-practiced in receiving pleasure.

“I recall you being known as the Whore of the East Blue for a while,” Sir Crocodile said, “It seems the name faded, but the behaviour didn’t.”

“Yeah, I get laid more than you.”

Sir Crocodile pressed a dry kiss to Shanks’ shoulder as he eased a second finger in. Shanks held back the gasp. It didn’t hurt, but Sir Crocodile’s fingers were pleasantly thick.

Shanks cocked a finger to coax Sir Crocodile closer and Sir Crocodile cocked a brow.

“I wanna touch you,” Shanks said, “I’m allowed that, right?”

Sir Crocodile pulled his hand away to lay alongside Shanks, propped up on his stump, his leg propped up on a regally relaxed stance. Shanks reached between Sir Crocodile’s legs, tracing a vague circle over Sir Crocodile’s testosterone-swollen clit. Sir Crocodile sighed.

Shanks propped his closest leg up on Sir Crocodile’s side, letting Sir Crocodile reach under to return his fingers. It was a wider stretch than Shanks had dared in a few years, the back of his thigh pulling just a little.

Sir Crocodile’s fingers sank back into place, filling him to the second knuckle. Shanks worked his fingers, massaging Sir Crocodile’s hood in a gentle back and forth motion in time with Sir Crocodile’s thrusts.

They were almost nose to nose as they lay there, and neither one closed the gap. Shanks was once again struck by the bizarre paleness of Sir Crocodile’s eyes as they traced the flush of freckles across Shanks’ cheeks.

Shanks bucked his hips and let Sir Crocodile brush his sweet spot. Shanks gasped, and Sir Crocodile’s smirk had a flash of triumph.

Sir Crocodile’s thrusts became shorter and quicker, focusing hard on Shanks’ prostate, filling him with hot pleasure.

Shanks sped up his own motions, letting the pad of his finger ghost at the nerves peeking out of Sir Crocodile’s hood. Small hums purred from Sir Crocodile’s smirk.

It was rare for Shanks to miss having his second hand. He’d loved to fondle himself as Mihawk had fingered him, to have Mihawk’s cock in one hand and his balls in the other. His cock felt neglected without it, as if he was scratching a few inches away from a debilitating itch. A small part of him didn’t want to cum without it, to give Sir Crocodile the satisfaction of undoing him in such a way.

But he was going to. His small thrusts were focused, almost as intense as his gaze. Shanks stomach was tightening with anticipation, and gasps of pleasure were squeezing from his throat.

Sir Crocodile’s hips bucked. He rolled to half-lay over Shanks, pinning his leg between them. His smirk was faltering into a smile, and there was a slight whistle on his breath.

Shanks twitched as his stretch widened. Sir Crocodile’s fingers kept thrusting inside of him, the movement focused on his prostate. He gave a moan, strangled by his stubborn refusal to let Sir Crocodile think he was doing well.

Sir Crocodile kissed Shanks on the cheek. The touch was so soft, so bizarre, Shanks almost wanted to turn his head and kiss him back.

“Cum for me,” Sir Crocodile’s voice was soft, “Captain.”

Shanks groaned. His hand movement became erratic, desperate to make Sir Crocodile cum first.

“Captain,” Sir Crocodile sighed again.

Shanks’ hips bucked hard as he came. He rolled, escaping Sir Crocodile’s hand to press the man under him, his circles to his clit more like a frenzied rub.

Sir Crocodile’s legs spasmed as he came. Shanks pulled back, almost embarrassed by his desperate behaviour.

They sat for a long moment, legs open, pants slowing. Sir Crocodile broke it, standing to wash his hand. Shanks poured himself a cup of sake and downed it.

Sir Crocodile returned to his side of the bed and lay down without comment. He stared at Shanks for almost a minute, waiting for him to speak. Shanks rolled his empty cup in his hand, deciding if he wanted another.

Eventually, he decided he didn’t. He turned down the lantern, turned his back on Crocodile, and lay still until he heard Crocodile’s breaths even out as he fell asleep. Shanks kept his hand on Gryphon’s handle, still tucked under his mattress, still debating pulling him out.

Eventually, he fell asleep himself.

The cabin was empty when Shanks woke, only Sir Crocodile’s bag on the dresser as any sign he’d been there. Shanks sat up with a mild grimace – he wasn’t hurt but regretted not cleaning himself up after Sir Crocodile had fingered him. He poured himself a cup of sake and sipped at it. His shoulders let him know he shouldn’t have slept at the angle he had. From his jaw to almost halfway down his stomach, he was stiff and creaky.

Sir Crocodile let himself in, balancing a tray in the crook of his arm. His face bandage was returned, his gun was on his hip, his hair was held out of his face with a piece of string.

“Breakfast,” he said, “Congee made with fish broth and a couple’ soft-boiled eggs, and an extra strong coffee with a glug of rum.”

Shanks groaned.

“I know, there’s a some painkillers too.”

Shanks groaned again.

“Come on, sit up.”

Shanks groaned. Sir Crocodile took up the painkillers and dropped them into Shanks’ open mouth. Shanks gagged a little and downed his sake.

Sir Crocodile put the tray over Shanks’ lap. The congee was thick with an even thicker scent, two eggs with golden yolks and a chunk of kimchi sat on top. The coffee was black and already staining the sides of the mug.

Shanks dug into the congee, the porridge-like mush soft and silky. He moaned a little, “Fuckin’ good.”

“I can claim nothing,” Sir Crocodile said, “Only the rum in the coffee.”

“Buttering me up with booze?”

“That obvious?”

Shanks snorted.

“Your crew are actively invested in your sex life. There’s a betting pool in the back of the kitchen, did you know that?”

“I had a feeling.”

“I told them I don’t kiss and tell, but the rumours of your prowess are true. I have it on good authority that the rumours are true, so it’s not a lie.”

“Are you saying last night didn’t count as sex? You’re the one who wouldn’t let me fuck you.”

“It doesn’t count, but you know where I’m staying when you want to try again.”

Shanks had to laugh at the audacity. “You weren’t amazing yourself.”

“And should you decide to visit, I’ll let you take your pick before I fuck you with it.”

Shanks choked on the coffee. Sir Crocodile laughed.

“Don’t take too long. The bets on you having a limp today are steadily rising.”

Beyond Love Bay was named after its cliffs, which swelled the whole way around the island like the walls of a fortress, accessible only through a heart-shaped tunnel. The island thrived on its business of delicate herbs and berries, the fields sheltered from the wind by the cliffs that sloped up sharply, almost impossible to climb from either the island or the sea. Only a select few, the island’s toughest guards every braved it, standing sentinel on the island’s borders to watch for incomers.

The place was popular with doctors and chefs alike, as well as with various bands of pirates for their more smoke-worthy, Marine-regulated herbs. The island welcomed all three groups – as well as the regulating Marines. And as the Marines would approach with their distinctive ships and their distinctive flags, B-L-B would hang the flag of the World Government over their heart-shaped hole, welcoming the Marines and warning the pirates to stay away.

The flag was flying today. Benn Beckman patted ‘Barry’ on the arm.

“You’ll have to make your way back from another island,” he said, “Buggy will understand.”

‘Barry’ pulled a tight expression.

Shanks had dragged himself out of bed and poured himself another coffee. His crew watched his stance closely as he did, and as he walked away evenly, he heard a quiet exchange of Berri. He stood by ‘Barry’ and Benn Beckmann, gazing out over the sea and cliffs.

“Why B-L-B?” Shanks said, “There’s closer islands to Buggy Town.”

“There are, but I like one of the cigar manufacturers here. Smooth flavour, smooth burn, well recommended within the community.”

“The…” Benn Beckman’s own cigarette bounced on his lip as he spoke, “The cigar community?”

Shanks gulped his – sadly sober – coffee before he choked on it. “Uh, Benn, I think uh Lucky Roux was looking for you. In the kitchen.”

“And you waited a good five minutes to tell me that?”

Shanks glanced from Benn Beckman to ‘Barry’ and back a couple of times.

Benn Beckmann sighed. “Fine. Just don’t let me catch you fucking on the deck again.”

“Again?” ‘Barry’ said.

“Mihawk,” Shanks said.

“Ah. Understandable.”

Benn Beckmann frowned up at ‘Berry’, blinked a couple of times to convince himself it wasn’t worth asking, and took himself off to the kitchen.

“Does Barry buy the cigars, or Rich Boy?” Shanks asked.

“Their patron is Sir Crocodile,” Sir Crocodile said, “I have a hotel booked with my usual attire in the wardrobe and strict instructions not to disturb me on my ‘stay’.”

“When do you check out?”

“Today.”

“Where do you actually go, in your little disguise?”

Sir Crocodile kissed his teeth. “I collect my hormones from a clinic that specialises in care for older transgender men. I get a blood test and some other check-ups while I’m there. They’re discreet, for the right price.”

Shanks nodded. “So you need to get back on the island.”

“If we sail a little closer, I’ll be able to reach the top of the cliffs and make my way from there,” Sir Crocodile said, “But it’s unlikely I’ll manage without your crew seeing me go.”

“What about the Marines?”

“I can slip by a few Marines. Once I’m in the hotel, the receptionist will let me know when the Marines have gone and let me check out then. She’s a good woman like that. Earns her tips.”

Shanks was still nodding.

“Are you explaining my disappearance to your crew, or shall I?”

“You’re really offering?”

“I’m really getting sick of holding olive branches out to you, Red-hair.”

Shanks finished his coffee. “Explain your damn self.” He turned on his heel.

Lucky Roux hadn’t been in the kitchen but at the helm, and Benn Beckman was hovering around him anyway.

“Kiss the cliffs a couple’ minutes, would you?” Shanks said.

“Captain, what?!” Lucky Roux said.

“We gotta drop Barry off!”

“And what, he’s gonna climb up the cliff?!”

The crew within earshot looked up at the sheer limestone. It formed in scale-like flakes, prone to breaking off in thin chunks should anyone try to grab.

“Nah, just jump,” Shanks said.

“Captain, what?!”

‘Barry’ had retrieved his bag and clapped Lucky Roux on the shoulder as he passed. “Just a little closer, I can manage from there.”

“Barry, what?!” Lucky Roux gripped the wheel tight, edging the Red Force closer to the cliffs.

“Gentlemen!” Sir Crocodile announced as he hopped up onto the railings, the cliffs looming above him, “It has been an thrill to share your ship, your food, your booze, and your Captain’s bed for the night.”

The gathered crew laughed. Yasopp whistled.

“But I must admit, much as I wasn’t forthcoming about my inclusion on the Buggy Crew, I haven’t been forthcoming about my position either. But rest assured, gentlemen, I abide by the oldest pirate code; what happens aboard a ship, stays aboard a ship.”

The crew laughed again. Someone nudged Shanks again.

“With that,” the cliffs loomed ever closer, “I bid you good day.”

‘Barry’ stepped back. The crew gasped, a couple lunging forward to grab him.

He erupted into a cloud of gold, floating up on the wind. The crew watched mouths agape, as the gold rose like smoke up the side of the cliff and reformed into the shape of a man, leaning over the cliff’s edge.

He had forgone the face bandage, grinning down at them. The bandage had made him seem younger, boyish. The scar made him seem hardened with age, made his face dark and sinister, paralleled his smile into a gape of a smirk.

“Is that fucking Sir Crocodile?!” Benn Beckman snapped.

“Sure is,” Shanks wished he had another drink to nurse.

“Did you know that was Sir Crocodile?!”

“Straight away.”

“And you basically forced him onto the ship?!”

“Yup.”

“And you slept with him?!”

“No, he just fingered me.”

“Oh, because that’s so much better!”

“Look, we hashed things out. Kinda. A little.” Shanks faltered under Benn Beckman’s unimpressed glare, “Okay, not much. But more than not.”

A vein was pulsing in Benn Beckman’s forehead.

Lucky Roux turned the ship hard before it hit the cliffs. The miss wasn’t narrow, but closer than Lucky Roux would have liked. The crew clamoured around Shanks, squawking about ‘Barry’ fooling them all.

Yasopp stood alone by the railing, still staring up the cliffs. ‘Barry’ waved down to him, and Yasopp raised his hand to wave back. Later, a couple of men on the crew would ask if he was angry; he’d made such fast friends with Barry, bonding over their boys, and it was all a lie! Wasn’t he fuming?

He wasn’t. He couldn’t explain it, but something in the way Barry had talked, nursing his whiskey and gazing out over the sand, over the bottles they’d shot to pieces – it all seemed too real to Yasopp. The frankness of his guilt. The faraway look in his eye. The calm depth of their silences. He’d been a man wrestling with the same chosen loss Yasopp carried. It was a choice that couldn’t be faked.

As the Red Force sailed away from Beyond Love Bay, they glimpsed the Marine ship leaving the heart-shaped tunnel. The ship turned to them, and the crew began to gear up to make a quick getaway when the Marine ship surged. Sand rose in waves around her bilge, holding her fast like she’d sailed straight into a sand bank.

A man stood on the cliffs, watching the Red Force go through the lens of his shotgun. If he’d pulled the trigger, he would have hit the ship’s Captain square in the chest. But he didn’t, and eventually he put his shotgun away, and returned to his hotel.