Chapter Text
You’ve been working at the Pink Lotus Pleasure House for almost a year now, and in that time, you’ve serviced your fair share of intimidating men. It’s hard to avoid such men in this profession, after all; this island is one of the last before Loguetown, making it one of the last stops for a vast range of bold adventurers looking to try their luck on the Grand Line, and the variety of travellers means a whole variety of interesting men making their way to the pleasure house for a night of relaxation and release before heading out in search of fate and fortune.
Despite the various dangerous men you’ve bedded for berries, never before have you serviced someone so dangerous that their reputation precedes them. But today, that’s about to change.
You’re waiting for your next client in your usual room. The futon linen is fresh, and the tub in the corner is equipped with soap and towels in case your client paid for a bath. The liquor and massage oil are close at hand in case your client wants those luxurious little touches. And last but not least, you’re ready, too, dressed only in panties and a flattering bustier with a short silk dressing gown as your cover-up.
You’re lounging on the futon reading a book to kill the time when you hear a deep masculine voice on the other side of the sliding door. “I’m coming in.”
You swiftly tuck your book under the futon and rise to your feet. “Come on in,” you say silkily, and you pad over to the door to greet your afternoon’s entertainment.
The door slides open, and a man steps inside: a very distinctive man. He’s tall and fit, with the build of a fighter; none of the usual pirate beer-tummy that you’ve long grown accustomed to. But that’s not what makes him stand out. It’s literally everything else. It’s his pale green hair and the three gold earrings that sway lightly as he steps into your room. It’s the traditional haramaki around his waist — an old-fashioned garment that you haven’t seen anyone wear in years. And most distinctively, it’s the three swords he carries at his waist.
Your heart seizes. You know this man — or rather, you know of this man. Of course you’ve heard of this man; you doubt that there’s a person in the East Blue who hasn’t heard about him. Especially in the course of your work here at the pleasure house, you’ve heard all kinds of things about him: from awed stories to spiteful gossip to frightened whispers, you’ve heard a whole range of things about a terrifying and relentless bounty hunter who has stalked from one end of the East Blue to the other like a bloodthirsty demon — the kind of bounty hunter who takes the ‘dead’ part of ‘dead or alive’ way more seriously than is warranted, by many accounts. You’ve heard that he made the jump from hunting pirates to being a pirate himself, that he travels now with an unusual captain known as Straw Hat Luffy, and that they’ve had violent run-ins with the Navy and with several notorious pirate crews. And in the course of all this whispering, you’ve learned how to identify that terrifying and notorious bounty-hunter-turned-pirate.
The green hair and gold earrings, the haramaki, and most of all, the three swords he’s carefully leaning against the wall nearest the tub: there’s no mistaking him. Your client for this afternoon is Roronoa Zoro.
He straightens and turns to face you, and your chest tightens with a pinch of fear. In all the descriptions you heard of him, no one had mentioned how stonelike his face is. That’s not to say he’s not handsome, because he is, but the look on his face is… well, it’s enough to lift the hairs on the back of your neck.
He’s pulling off his shirt already, and when he drops it on the floor and looks you in the eye, your heart bangs again. He just looks so stern that it’s alarming.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t be scared. I’m not gonna do anything pervy.”
“I’m not scared,” you say quickly. You force yourself to gather your composure and gesture at the tub. “Would you like a bath to start?”
His frown deepens, and your heart sinks. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. Oh shit, maybe you’ve offended him—?
Then, to your surprise, he lifts his arm and sniffs his armpit.
The gesture is so… not threatening that you can’t help it: a little laugh escapes you. “I didn’t suggest it because you, um, because of a smell. Some men like to start with a bath and a massage.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t have enough berries for more than the basics.”
He’s so matter-of-fact and unpretentious about his lack of berries that it’s kind of endearing. Maybe he’s not as scary as the stories say. Maybe he just has one of those faces that looks grumpy no matter what. In any case, you’re already starting to feel more at ease, and it helps to put you back in your professional state of mind.
You give him a flirty look. “Don’t worry. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll feel anything but basic.”
He nods and starts pulling off his boots. His face is as neutral-stern as ever, and the perfunctory way he’s undressing is as though he’s about to do nothing more interesting than his laundry.
Tricky, you think. Roronoa Zoro is a tricky man to figure out, that’s for sure. How will you know what he wants or what he’ll like when his face and his body language give nothing away?
You sashay closer to him and lean coquettishly against the wall, lifting your shoulder a little so your silk robe slips down to reveal the swell of your breast. “Where’s the fire, swordsman? You don’t have to rush.”
He doesn’t answer. He slips his haramaki off and drops it on the pile with his other clothes — all of his clothes except his black drawstring pants and a bandana tied around his left bicep. Then he makes his way toward you, all without saying a word.
Your heart kicks in your chest like a nervous rabbit. His walk is confident, fluid almost, and his steps are silent now that he’s barefoot. There’s something about the way he moves that’s… predatory, almost. Not in a bad way, though, not in a way that you think you’re actually in danger. Somehow, even though Zoro has only been in this room with you for about five minutes, you’re convinced that he’s not a danger to you. A danger to other people, maybe. Certainly, actually, given the three swords and the stories. But a danger to you?
It’s funny, really. Maybe it’s just gut instinct, or maybe this makes you stupid or naïve. But you don’t believe that Roronoa Zoro will hurt you.
That doesn’t stop your pulse from rising as he treads closer to you, however. You’re face-to-face now, and he’s only about a foot away from you — less than a foot, actually — and now that he’s so near, you realize that he does actually smell like sweat. But the scent isn’t offensive or bad. And you would know; you’ve smelled your fair share of men’s sweat while working here, some of it so rank that you had to hold your breath throughout the job. But the scent of Zoro’s body isn’t rank at all. It’s a warm smell, salty but not sharp-briny like the sea, and as you breathe it in, you get a funny flash-memory of burying your face in a well-loved flannel blanket.
Then he places his hand on the wall beside your head.
Your heart jumps, like a thump-thump in your throat. He’s looming over you now, his expression still impassive as his gaze travels over your face. He’s looking at your eyes, your lips, your chin; lower now, to your throat and your collarbones. As his slow, appraising gaze travels even lower to the exposed curve of your breast, you feel something that you don’t always feel during these sessions — something that you enjoy when it does happen, but that you know better than to expect.
You feel a pulse coming to life between your legs: a warmth, a tantalizing heat, an excitement. As Zoro’s eyes travel over your face and your chest, you can’t help but peruse him in the same way, and what you see just makes your pulse rise even more. Tendons in his neck that look like they’re waiting to be traced with your tongue, riverlike veins that course along the length of his forearm and his hands, tanned skin with a long puckered scar that stretches across the sculpted muscles of his pecs and abs — oh god, he’s hard: there’s a tent at the front of his pants.
Excited now, your wandering eyes flick back up to his face — god, his face. His expression is still stonelike, but there’s a glint to his eye and an angle to his head now that’s making your cheeks feel hot.
“Take off the robe,” he says.
His words are blunt and no-nonsense, but his tone is calm and controlled. He might as well have asked you what time it was based on the blandness of his voice. But the words he said, the blunt-yet-gentle command… Honestly, with the heat that’s rising through your body, you’re only too happy to give him what he’ll be paying for.
“Whatever you want,” you say sweetly. You untie your sash and shuck off the robe, letting it pool enticingly around your feet, and when his eyebrows rise a little, you feel a little pinch of triumph. There, finally, a little hint of a reaction from this non-reactive man!
You playfully trail your fingertips over your décolletage. “See something you like, swordsman?”
“Mm,” he says. He’s looking you over again, his eyes travelling freely from your breasts to your belly and down to the slip of lace-and-satin covering your sex, and the confident-but-cool way he’s studying your body is really fostering the pulsing thump of excitement at the apex of your thighs.
His slow-travelling gaze comes to a stop, right there where your pulse is pounding. Then, without warning, without a word, he reaches down and slides his fingers between your legs.
A white-hot shock of lust-want-heat washes through your body, and a gasp escapes your throat — ah, he’s using his thumb now, he’s sliding his thumb along your cleft through the fabric of your panties, he’s pressing his thumb toward that spot, yes — oh god, oh fuck, he’s rubbing your clit with his thumb!
A shiver of pleasure spills goosebumps down your spine. Zoro is massaging your clit, his thumb pressing and rubbing you through the fabric in a way that’s so good but makes you want even more… Oh god, he’s relentless, he is relentless, and it’s making you feel like you want to melt. The way he went straight for your pleasure point, no flirting-back and no preamble, just straight to business—
Oh shit, business. This is your job, not his. What right do you have to be enjoying this, to be squirming against the wall and whimpering and opening your legs wider to invite his hand, when he’s the one who will be paying for whatever happens here today? Ngh, but he’s petting you through your panties in the perfect way, brushing his thumb over your clit in an up-and-down motion that’s making you moan and making your calves feel weak, and you’re trembling now, you might fall down if it keeps feeling this good…
He makes a low grumbling sound in his throat and rests his elbow on the wall. He’s even closer to you now, close enough that you can smell his masculine scent with every gasping breath, close enough that you can feel him breathing hard as his exhalations breeze across your forehead, and his panting makes your pleasure jump even more sharply. Finally, after all of his impassive behaviour and his calm-controlled talk, he finally sounds like he’s getting even a fraction as horny as you are, and it’s almost a relief — mm, yes, relief… He’s still touching you, still rubbing and caressing you through your now-wet panties, and if he keeps this up, if he keeps doing this, building up the tension and pressure in your abdomen in this amazing way: god, you can’t wait to get the relief…
Shit, but you should probably tell him that he doesn’t have to do this. The point here should be you making him feel good. “Are — is this really what you want to do?” you gasp.
“Mm,” he grunts. “I wanna make you wet.”
God, his bluntness, the carnality of his words… “I am,” you whimper. “I am, I am, l-look…” You take his hand to stop him and pull the crotch of your panties to the side.
His eyes drop to your pussy. When he sees how slick you are, how the fabric of your panties is soaked with desire, his jaw goes slack. And honestly, the look on his face would be funny if you weren’t vibrating on the edge of a release.
Then he makes a sound: a deep, guttural sound in his chest, like an animal growling before it launches itself at a foe. And with that sound, something reckless snaps inside of you.
Shameless now, your professionalism abandoned, you tug his hand to your pussy. “Keep making me wet,” you beg. “Please, Zoro…”
His eyes dart up to your face, and through the haze of your desperation, you see a hint of surprise in his — oh, oh god oh god, he’s touching you again, and this time there’s no fabric in the way! His fingers are sliding through your wetness, his thumb sliding up along your cleft and pressing its way through your folds to find…
“Yes!” you gasp. Your fingers clutch convulsively at his arm — ah, he’s caressing you with his thumb again, but you can really feel him now, the warmth of his fingers and the slide of his thumb over the swollen nub of your clit, and if he keeps this up for just a little longer, even just a few more seconds… Ah, his heavy breathing against your temple, his manly-sweat smell in your lungs, his big body looming large over you as though he could crush you just as easily as he makes you come…Yes, he’s going to make you come, he’s going to, you can feel it coming on…!
The hot-thumping rise of tension bursts inside of you: oh god, he’s done it! The pressure of his relentless fingers was too much to take, and you feel the dizzying spill of ecstasy tumbling through you, pulsing in waves that make your body shake, making your calves tremble from the stress of holding you up — oops, they’re not holding you up anymore. You’re actually slumping against the wall now, making whimpery-moany noises that are completely genuine for once… Oh shit, this was totally unprofessional. You made this entire session all about you!
You force yourself to push his hand away, even though you want him to press his fingers deeper, and you run your palm over that bulging tent at the front of his pants.
He presses his face to your hair and makes that snarling-growling sound again, and a hot streak of mind-bending excitement lifts the hairs on your arms. That sound! It’s not a happy sound, it almost sounds vicious, and maybe it’s insane that it’s making you want him even more, but—
He picks you up and hefts you over his shoulder.
You yelp in surprise, then burst out a giddy laugh. He keeps doing things to surprise you! But before you can find the wits to say a word, he’s kneeling on the futon and setting you down.
You tumble a little awkwardly onto the bedding, but you don’t even get the chance to right yourself; Zoro is pushing your shoulders, your hip, forcing you to turn onto your hands and knees, and your whole body is thumping with excitement. He’s being a little rough with you, manhandling you just enough to force you onto all fours without hurting you at all, and in the duality of his roughness and his control, you’re starting to see the truth behind the stories. Zoro is dangerous and deadly, yes, but he’s not the terrifying killer they make him out to be. He’s controlled even now, even when his lips are drawn in an almost-bestial snarl as he pushes you down so your chest is flush to the futon, and you can’t explain how you know he won’t hurt you, but you know it down to your bones.
He’s pulling at the drawstring of his pants now, and you feel a hot throb of anticipation in your pussy: he’s setting himself free, he’s — yes, his cock is free, and already there’s a slick of moisture at the tip! He’s gripping the base of his cock in one big vein-laced hand, shuffling up behind you and pulling your panties to the side, yes, yes yes put it in—!
“Tell me if you get scared,” he snarls. “Or, uh, kick me or somethin’.”
You burst out a breathless laugh. “Kick you? I’m not going to—”
He drives his cock into you hard, and god, it’s — he—! Oh god, you are thrilling around him. His cock is pressing so deep, and it’s like your body is gripping around him, like your heart has migrated down to your pussy to pulse around him and keep him deep inside… Ah, but he’s pulling his hips back and fuck he’s filling you up again! Again, again, he pumps into you again, and you’re mewling and clutching the sheets for dear life as he fills you up with his cock. He’s looming over you now, bending over your back and holding your arms down as he flexes into you in a hard fast rhythm, and — god, the way he’s holding you down and grunting and growling with every thrust, you fucking love this. It’s like his length is stroking every nerve inside of your body in ways that you can’t remember ever feeling before, and all you can do is just lay there, blissfully helpless as Zoro holds you down and fucks you with the same relentless focus that he was using to touch you while you were slumped against the wall. He’s — relentless, it really is the right word. The way he’s driving into you, the nonstop flex of his hips into your upraised ass, the tight grip he has on your arms as though he’s not going to let you go until he gets exactly what he wants: he really is relentless, and it’s amazing. He sounds amazing with those chest-deep groans, the musk of his sweat smells amazing, and the way he feels, fuck, the way he feels: he’s going so deep, so hard, stroking every inch of you from the inside and making your whole body feel like you’re tightening around him, squeezing hard and bearing down in a way that’s making it hard for you to breathe, to think, to… You’re trembling, you can feel your hands and thighs trembling as he pounds into you — oh god, oh god oh god you’re coming again!
“Zoro!” His name bursts from your lips in a strained cry, but he doesn’t reply. His grip tightens on your arms, his hips slam into you with an even more delicious roughness than before, and you just lay there on the futon, moaning and crying out with ecstasy as he fucks you relentlessly.
He grunts and shudders, his rhythm faltering for a second, and then he’s fucking you even faster, mm, you can feel him getting even harder inside—! And then he stops. He stops with his cock deep inside of you, and he’s groaning loudly: a telltale gut-deep sound that matches the pleasure that’s now wracking his body with shudders. He’s still holding you down with his big callused hands, and so you lie there beneath him, boneless and spent and happier than you’ve been in… honestly, maybe since you started working here.
Eventually, he releases your arms and pulls out of you. You feel the hot trickle of his seed dripping onto the bedding and trickling down the inside of your leg, and you quickly mop yourself up with the ease of long practice as you turn on your knees to face him.
He’s already on his feet, his pants in hand as he wanders over to the rest of his clothes, and you casually admire his muscular bum as he walks away. “Listen, I feel like I should be paying you,” you tell him. “That was something special.”
He grunts as he pulls on his pants. “You can save your breath. I don’t need empty praise.”
“It’s not empty,” you insist. “This was… great, honestly.” You gave him a shrewd look. “Why did you touch me first? You didn’t need to do that.”
He adjusts his haramaki, then meets your eye as he slides his swords back into place. “Went to a place one time that made me pay for the oils.”
“The oils?”
He nods. “You know, the lubricating stuff. Figured I’d save myself the berries after that by just being more hands-on.”
For a second, you’re stymied by his reply. He—? Wait. There was a pleasure house that made him pay for lube? And the reason he gave you an orgasm was because he was worried about paying for the lube? Is he serious?
You can’t help it: you start to laugh.
His customary frown deepens. “What’s so funny?”
“You should go back to that pleasure house and threaten the owner to get your berries back,” you giggle. “They gouged you, making you pay for lube. They must’ve thought you looked like a real patsy.”
He growls. “Should’ve known. The couch-sitting fee in their lounge should’ve been the tip-off.”
Couch-sitting fee? He’s kidding! You break out laughing again. “Oh, Zoro!”
He grunts again, but his frown is already softening. He reaches into his pocket as he approaches you. “How much?”
You quote your price to him. He swiftly counts out the berries and hands them to you, but as you take them, you realize he’s given you way too much: almost half-again as much as you charged.
You look up — hang on, he’s halfway to the door! “Wha— Zoro, wait,” you call. “You gave me too much.”
He waves you off. “You earned it. Good service.”
You give him a chiding look. Even for a tip, this is way too generous. “You could have had a bath with what you’re tipping me.”
He arches a brow, then lifts his arms and sniffs. “You sure I don’t smell…?”
You chuckle. He really is charming in his own way, gruff and unintentional though his charm might be.
He lowers his arm. “Hey, what’s your name?”
You tell him your name, and he nods. “Good to know. I’m — well. Seems like you already know.”
You nod, then tilt your head playfully. “Why do you ask? Are you thinking about coming back?”
“Not anytime soon,” he says. “We’re heading for the Grand Line. Just seems rude for you to make me touch you without even introducing yourself.”
“What?” you exclaim. “No, that’s—! But I didn’t—!” Hang on. Wait a second. Is he smirking? Is that…? Is that the whisper of a hint of a smile on his face?
A warm feeling blooms between your legs again, and your own face stretches into a smile. “I’ll make it up to you next time. If there is a next time. You can have a bath on the house.”
He snorts, then turns toward the door with a wave. “See ya,” he says, and he’s gone.
You chuckle and shake your head, then stand up and put the money aside so you can start cleaning up. So much for Roronoa Zoro being a terrifying and bloodthirsty demon. Honestly, he was… nice. Gruff and stone-faced, maybe, but nice, and he treated you well — gods, did he ever treat you well, even if making you come like crazy wasn’t his intent.
You smile to yourself as you putter around tidying the room. At least the stories were true in one respect: when Zoro aims for something, whether that something is an elusive bounty or an orgasm, he is relentless in getting what he wants. And damn, are you ever happy that you learned that truth.