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The nightly habits of his Cross Guild-mates were, uh, concerning to say the least.
Buggy took it in stride. Sure, sometimes there would be bloody-murderous screaming coming from Croc's tent, and Hawkeyes had been seen more than once prowling the meeting halls, with that oversized bedazzle-stabber clenched in his fist. They were quirky like that. He could get used to weirdness, pretty fucking quickly.
But sometimes his crew got scared.
They came to their great chairman, tears in their eyes, that Sir Crocodile could be spiriting people away for torture at night. Or that Lord Hawkeyes watched them sleep like he was waiting for a chance to strike.
Of course not! Buggy reassured. They listen to ME! Keep no mind of them and work! And the bawling masses followed their brave and powerful leader's order. They could count on Buggy to keep them safe, fed, and rich!
Buggy's teeth chattered as he approached Mihawk's tent first. Knocked. Heard no answer. He dared to step in, and further inside to the private quarters with a shakey, "S-sorry if this is a bad time, but you seriously gotta tone back on the vampire-predator gimmick—"
That was when he saw it: the swordsman, sat up like a statue in his bed, frozen like one.
Buggy waved his hand in front of his hooded eyes. The pupils were halfway dilated. Unseeing. Totally out of it.
"…Hawky? Uh, oh-!"
Mihawk turned his chin towards him, but otherwise didn't seem to register Buggy's presence as a threat. He stayed right as he was. Only after a good couple minutes did he stand up, walk around the clown, and wander out.
In simple linen bedclothes.
"Well fucking shit," Buggy muttered low to himself, even after Mihawk had left earshot.
So, a certain swordmaster had a bad sleepwalking problem.
Buggy creeped and scrawled after him. His investigation discovered the following fantastic news: Mihawk did not go hunting in his sleep! He just, kinda stared at the drunks and the watch guards, terrified them until Buggy offered his men words of comfort.
"Our great swordmaster is, double checking nightly defenses! He's a worrier, and, you know, he's not used to being around so many people." Buggy then added in a conspiratorial tone, "He hasn't been in a crew for decades, if ever! He's still figuring out where he fits with us…"
"Wow… Someone as strong as Lord Hawkeyes needs your help too!! Chairman, you're so kind!"
Buggy hid his cringe in a grin, please don't let this get back to Hawkeyes please I don't want to suffer a thousand cuts and reassemble from that.
Quickly, Buggy caught up to wherever the sleepwalking wonder went to. Which was apparently the garden. Mihawk's garden. And no one — absolutely no one, even the two other Cross Guild heads — were allowed in. He mentally screeched. If Mihawk woke up now, well, a swift death was all Buggy could hope for.
But no. The man did not wake. He stood at a soft patch of tilled land beneath a wide, dead tree's branches. And started stabbing it with Yoru.
Furiously, silently, with effort-taking breaths.
After a few minutes of the hacking, he stopped. Then, returned the way he'd come, to his tent.
At some point, Buggy set his own fuzzy coat over the swordsman's shoulders. These recent nights were getting a winter nip to them, and Mihawk had no awareness of the frosty dirt pasting to the soles of his feet, or the persistent shiver racing up his underdressed frame.
He returned to bed. He lay down. His eyes fluttered shut.
Silently, Buggy took his coat back and fled the scene.
One night was not the end of it.
As the rumors of Mihawk's night patrol persisted, Buggy kept track of the instances. Three times a week, most of the time he simply sat up in bed and stayed there. But when he went to the field?
The next day without fail, Mihawk would make morning tea. A special blend. He would rub his temples as if fighting a migraine, though he spoke nothing of discomfort.
Buggy thought, cripes, the whole nightwalking thing was fucking weird, but not something that risked the crew's wellbeing. If anything, he worried what it said about Mihawk's.
Yeah, the real problem came with Croc. Mainly, the screaming. And that it wasn't any poor victim or sad sap facing the sand's wrath.
It was Crocodile.
He was the one screaming.
No one realized it yet because he sounded so… unlike himself. It was in a voice higher than Buggy had ever heard of him. And so raw, so agonizing to the ears—
He wrung his hands together, scared to wake the man up from what was clearly a painful, horrible nightmare. But then he thought about explaining the reason why he was even present to witness it, and the embarrassment that would no doubt push Crocodile to sand-dry up Buggy's body to raisin wrinkles, to the brink of thirst and starvation. So he sealed his lips and stood helplessly at the entrance of the ex-warlord's tent. Listening, wishing he wasn't witness.
Buggy never grasped which words stuck between the shouts, what Crocodile could possibly be saying, who he could be talking to. Someone who hurt him, for sure. Someone close enough to him to haunt the peace from his dreams.
What the fuck was he supposed to do about this information, one might ask? Fuck if he knew. But he needed it to stop. He had to stop it somehow.
Maybe it was because of his own sleep-disturbed nights. The lack of rest giving him asinine ideas. But the genius jester set up a plan in motion:
Bring sleepwalking Hawkeye to Crocodile's tent, make them wake each other up, and let them deal with it themselves.
It was foolproof. Absolutely foolproof! his sleep-deprived brain shrieked. Crocodile respected Mihawk, so he wouldn't be utterly embarrassed to the point of slaughter, to be caught having nightmares in front of him. The swordsman could doubly handle and fend off the assault, as well as hold back on dealing a fatal blow onto Crocodile's screaming cranium. They could stare at each other awkwardly and talk, in stunted pauses, the minimal amount of effort it would take to say something of what bothered their sleep.
And Buggy, with his floating chopped ear, could overhear it all, sign off, and call the intervention a success.
First hitch in the plan:
Mihawk could not be led.
Not with words or closed doors. He simply ignored any command, and sliced any obstacle in two. Luckily, Buggy could be chopped and reassembled fairly easily. He'd gotten some practice in, on the first couple weeks of the swordsman's stay.
So, he had to resort to the unthinkable. He had to take Mihawk by the hand, and lead him.
His palms shook as they settled over Mihawk's iron grip on Yoru. "Hey… strongman, can you come with me?"
It wasn't every day Crocodile had nightmares. Today, the stars aligned. Buggy could hear the start of a low growl at Crocodile's tent entrance. He was revving up. Perfect!
Buggy had to work fast. He scrambled around on quiet feet and pulled the insensible Mihawk toward the private tent.
"Go in, come on." His hand slipped free, and he started scooting the swordsman through the tent.
Mihawk did not move for a panic-inducing second. Buggy's trapped breath burned in his chest. But then — Mihawk took a blind step through the curtained entrance. It would lead him to a kind-of vestibule, and surely, once Crocodile started his terror attacks, the man would wake, stir to action and figure a way through the real door of the private tent.
Buggy ground his teeth together anxiously. He waited for the worst. He suddenly reflected on the way he led two ex-warlords with murderous stab-first-ask-questions-later history to each other, and how he might have unwittingly pitted them against each other — Oh god, they're gonna say I'm scheming to get rid of them.
But no sword swung to cut the tent in two. The earth didn't open up to swallow them in quicksand. There was a scream, a jostle of furniture, and a murmur of conversation. Minutes passed.
When nothing more seemed to happen, Buggy had the mind to chop his ear with a pop and get a good listen. It pressed snug against the tent's thick wall, where a bedroom, or, was it living room? the vestibule? ought to stand.
"Ah… fuck that's deep—"
His ear tumbled like a fat bee in the air, right down on the ground. It glowed a brilliant shade of red.
Oh I hear something going on alright. Whose voice had spoken in that fucked out rumble, he couldn't tell. Didn't want to tell, thank you!! The less he knew the better.
With the most nimble tiptoe of his life, he got the hell out of there.
Back at his own tent, it was Buggy's turn to lay in restless sleep. He tossed. He turned. The echo of that phrase — fuck that's deep — kept bouncing inside the empty walls of his skull. Everything else hollowed out to make room for it, to his dismay.
Early next morning had Buggy sporting the deepest eye bags, blessedly covered behind his facepaint.
And Mihawk was sleeping at the couch.
Actually. Actually fucking sleeping. He had his feathery hat tipped forward, but the slow rise and fall of his chest — something that Buggy had become far too familiar with after many a night's haunt — told him everything.
Mihawk was zonked the fuck out during a Guild meeting.
"Got any updates on your precious mercenary bands away on mission?"
Crocodile's deep mutter snapped Buggy back to the moment. "Y-yes! One phoned in yesterday. Got a successful pillaging of that nearby marine base. Uh, the other, uh—" Buggy blinked rapidly, trying to keep his damn eyes from staring, slack-jawed, at Mihawk's head nodding off against the couchback. Under the left side of his open coat, a bite-shaped bruise could be seen— "they're, still working on the recruitment of stronger allies!"
"Hm," Crocodile hummed. Coming from him, it was difficult to sparse a good hum from a pissed-off hum. However, Buggy prided himself in being a quick study and a last-minute survivor. This one sounded borderline pleased. "We shall see where that goes. Here, I have the proposed expenditure for this month's funds."
Buggy gave the lengthy sheet an eye. Provisions, residency expansion, something about dock defenses and island patrol. There was also something for reusing the nearby marine base, once the mercs emptied it out, without putting a target on Karai Bari territory.
"…Okayyy, Sir. Uh, I'll give it the chairman stamp of approval?"
Crocodile signaled for the official stamp sitting on the desk. The documentation he insisted upon, out of principle.
"In another life, you were an accountant," Buggy muttered under his breath.
"No, in another life I was a broker, and committed embezzlement."
They both came to a silent, unspoken agreement to let the Hawk sleep.
Buggy continued finding Mihawk sleepwalking into dark, strange corners of Karai Bari. So, he made a habit now of guiding him over to Crocodile's.
It was easier that way. After the second time, Mihawk's hand twitched to hold his, once he was found, placidly, automatically, and he went where Buggy led. He did not stir awake, thankfully. Would be awkward to explain how this all started. 'You were beating up the tomatoes like they owed you berri, so I walked you to Croc's and now you're beating each other off.'
Once, Buggy lingered. Just, out of curiosity.
"Fuck… fuck, yes, don't stop, mm—"
Buggy practically flew away in pieces, red-faced and hot down to his toes.
That, that had definitely been Crocodile's deep gravel-scratch voice.
Another morning where Mihawk fell asleep at the table. Buggy sweat as he read over the fund-raiding numbers, which might as well be written in poneglyph to him. Heard Crocodile chuckle, "Not enough sleep?" over to the tired Hawk.
"Whose fault is that I wonder."
Mine, actually, but Buggy said nothing. He also said absolute bupkis of this topical conversation happening with him in the room. Either they were more shameless than he gave them credit, or they didn't care of his opinion.
Well, knowing how Mihawk walked around half-dressed, and how possessive Crocodile acted over 'his' team (they were all part of Emperor Buggy's Delivery) and 'his' wares (the shedeh belonged to everyone!! not just solely Crocodile's stock)—
"Do you have something to say, Clown?"
"Whuh?"
Crocodile took a long drag of his cigar, then blew it all in the space of the meeting table. Most of it danced over Buggy's head, spice-sweet and tobacco rich. "You've been glaring at that proposal page for five minutes."
"I'm doing the math," came his only worthless excuse, as his eyes snapped up to Crocodile lounging — stretching his arms over the couch back. The tip of his golden hook tapped unsafely behind Mihawk's neck.
The swordsman looked as unbothered as a honey badger in a lion's den: smaller, more lithe, and ten times more ferocious than the great roaring beast.
Or maybe, Buggy reconsidered, they looked like — what's it called, the damn dentist bird, perched casually on a crocodile's open maw, and picking those lethal chompers clean? Yeah. Those two.
Just to be on theme.
His crew has never been happier.
Gone were the evenings when Buggy heard rumor and gossip of the ex-warlords plotting against their king. More people encountered Mihawk's empty night-stare from across the room, but it no longer caused them to pale with terror. "Lord Mihawk is always so devoted to the night's watch!" they said now. And the talk of Crocodile's torture sessions ebbed to confidence in their best interests. The man kept their coffers full and their pockets even richer, after all!
In the private shade of the tents, Buggy grinned to himself. His plan has brought peace to their nights.
Well, not his nights. He still had to live with the cursed knowledge. The truth of the peacekeeping. And also its faults.
It was a rare late evening which found Buggy, sleepless, too strung up. Bouncing on his heels inside the halls of the guild. The boardroom needed cleaning up. He only intended to check the coffee reserves and the wine rack.
When he found Croc, knocked out at his work desk.
Ink stuck to his cheek where it rested against a contract page. The man slept in a back-breaking hunch, being the huge pillar he was, though he didn't seem uncomfortable at all. His face was slack. His arms rested limp on the desk's wood. They had swept away some of the paperweights and pens. And Buggy, tired, sleepy-eyed, didn't question the man's choice to work himself to passing out. Of all of them, Crocodile maintained the busiest schedule. The brains and wallet behind the Guild's operations.
In that moment, something terrible happened. The telltale sounds of a coming nightmare began to buzz out of Crocodile's throat.
Oh no. Buggy tensed. His head swiveled to figure out which way to go, how to fetch Mihawk — no, the swordsman wouldn't be having a sleepwalking episode today, he'd gone through one yesternight. No way Crocodile would respond well to being woken up here. Inside the Guild headquarters' main building. By a clown he did not respect.
Worse was watching him scratch the tip of his hook down papers, and the flesh-and-blood hand clench and unclench around air. Precious contract papers were being ruined. The man would be more pissed off having to rewrite them.
No time to waste. Buggy made a decision. Quickly, he dashed down familiar halls to the remaining Guild Leader's tent.
Where Mihawk sat awake.
He seemed to be having a good night — if the open book and wine cup in hand were anything to go by. How unfortunate, that it had to be ruined.
"Buggy? To what do I owe this unexpected visit—?"
"Strongman, uh, can you come with me?"
Where he got the confidence to just, walk up to the sharp-eyed pirate and take his hand in their usual nightly grasp, Buggy didn't know. He was acting on pure routine. Pure instinct.
And maybe Mihawk was, too. Because he didn't immediately slice him in half for it.
He followed.
Heart hammering, Buggy skipped a few tents and louder areas, despite the longer walk. He gently squeezed the hand mirroring his hold — and later, later that might mortify him; the fact he had subconsciously sought a crumb of comfort from a man who once wished him dead — to urge Mihawk to walk faster.
"It's Crocodile," Buggy eventually found the voice to explain, right as they entered the main Guild meeting room.
The man in question was seizing up over the desk, panting. Not yet grating his voice raw, but visibly, it could start any moment.
"Crocodile," spoke Mihawk, and in a softer lilt, "Come to me."
Buggy had never heard it said before. Had never seen what went on to soothe the scarred man out of the sleep-terror's claws. But his eyes devoured it all avidly. He took in how Mihawk first rested a palm over Crocodile's stiff one, and how the other rubbed circles behind an ear.
The crack of Crocodile's neck snapping toward that gentle caress made Buggy wince for his own. Devil Fruit power aside, that looked like it hurt.
Not that Crocodile seemed to care for the sand melting out of his own face. He was too busy wrestling consciousness back. His eyes flew open, unseeing. The pupils shrunk to pinpricks. Their focus danced and traced an invisible path for a few seconds, before landing more intently on Mihawk's warm touch over his hand. The fingers there stretched, shook, then curled themselves into a fist.
He took a deep breath. It blew out, like from a gut-punch. Another minute passed in strained silence, interrupted only by the heavy breathing, before Crocodile straightened up.
Mihawk broke the quiet first.
"Do you hear me again?"
"…Yes…"
"Nothing else?"
The hook came up to rub at Crocodile's temples. "D'you take me for a liar?"
"I take you for someone too proud to ask for help when he needs it."
Crocodile growled something ugly. And yet, it was a little charming, since he did it while a pale, sword-calloused hand thumbed the shell of his ear. Twin spots of red darkened on his stitch-scarred cheeks. And Mihawk followed the blushing path with that devilish thumb of his, down to the corner of a downturned mouth.
"Have you rested this week." Mihawk did not phrase it like a question. Buggy could already guess the answer in the heavy droop in Crocodile's gaze.
A gaze that skated over the room, and landed firmly on the presence of Buggy the Clown.
Slowly, Buggy raised a finger in the air.
"…I just remembered I have some renovations to overview in the residential tents! How about we, we reconvene tomorrow?! Good night, co-presidents!!!"
He disappeared faster than one could say, "Reconvene what?"
Three whole Guild meetings later, Buggy had not suffered a dry, torturous death yet.
It put a pep in his step. Overconfidence oozed out of his gait. He had finally found a balance in the position of Emperor of the Sea. Not that he genuinely believed the other ex-warlords plotted to replace him. Crocodile had made it clear, that he preferred working from the shadows. And Mihawk preferred not working at all.
So I have to pull the most weight around here. Do the speeches, print the marine-hunt posters, send out our mercenaries, make the banquets, plan the night-watch and the morning routine, and on and on…
Actually, this job sucked.
He paced the space outside the more secluded, high-ranking tents. He did like the spotlight, though. People loved him. They genuinely believed he was worthy of the title 'Emperor.' They thought he was strong, a threat to the Marines and the World Government. Lots of bounty hunters have tried sneaking onto the island, but his men fought like hell to keep their chairman safe.
At some point Buggy wandered over to Crocodile's tent. It was, probably habit by now. Ingrained by his pathing, from the many nights walking Mihawk over.
The silence of the night abruptly ended with a familiar shout.
Still? Buggy crossed to the old warlord's tent. He braved going inside, to the source of disturbance.
It was warm inside. The lights had been turned off a while ago, and yet a cozy, almost stiffling heat remained. Buggy took in the tapestry at the antechamber, which covered the far wall in greens, purples and gold figures. It resembled something of a painting, like one of those oasis mosaics famous in Alabasta. There was the desk full of inkpots, correspondence, and a map of New World anotated at the edges. Furred coats hung on every available chair.
Two overgrown vines had consumed an old dresser, and were currently cannibalizing a small yucca plant sitting below a closed window. This, decor seemed to be cultivated on purpose.
Buggy scratched his head. He would not question Crocodile's hobbies. Maybe he'd ask what the fuck that was about later, once he woke the man up for a friendly midnight interview.
The private room beyond the first wall-split housed a stupidly, stupendously large bed. It had cover sheets as thick as rainclouds. Buggy didn't even comment on the impractical mirror that doubled as a — he squinted past — a bathroom door. Nor the various closet doors, or the vanity. That fucking bed had seventeen pillows and a silk canopy. It was a damn nest of sickening luxury.
Crocodile's greed knew no bounds.
Buggy nearly started complaning to get his own collection of face paints and so, so many bolts of fabric. He wanted to sew his own flashy outfits with the highest of quality materials, damn it!!
But then a sharp gasp doused his indignation cold.
Watching Crocodile — the towering, terrifying Sir Crocodile — curl up at the center of his big bed, and block his face from the room knotted something uncomfortable in Buggy's chest.
He…shouldn't be seeing this.
But he also couldn't bear to leave him alone.
"Mh…no…where did…take 'm from me…" The muttering cracked in Crocodile's voice.
Buggy tip-toed closer. He sat at the edge. Glanced down where the naked stump of an arm reached towards the dip on the bed. Did he do it in his dreams too? Lash out with the hook-that-wasn't-there? Or did he dream of a time long gone by, when more ordinary weapons could fit in both his palms?
He thought about how Mihawk had gotten him to listen. "Crocodile…?" He rested a hand, sweaty and shaking, ever so carefully over the fingered hand. Prying it off his face was hard, but he managed to rest it on one of the dozens of pillows.
Just as tenderly, he stroke the soft skin just above Crocodile's ear.
That light pressure stilled Crocodile from thrashing more. He didn't wake, but he also didn't have a screaming fit.
"You're alright. Yeah. Can you hear me, big guy? Come on, wake up…"
The hand under his flinched. Then flipped around. It felt intent, the way it pressed back between his fingers and, oh, held his hand?
"…what are you doing here," grumbled Crocodile, way too alert, way too soon.
"Uh, you were, having a nightmare? And, what, was I supposed to let you suffer over… over it?"
"It's nothing. I barely remember what it was about now."
The lie was so obvious as to make him laugh. So Buggy did. Two quick barks of laughter, which were met with a dangerous growl.
And then the ceiling flipped. Air rushed out of his lungs in surprise. The canopy of silk shadowed the long, looming line of Crocodile's body.
Buggy swallowed his fear. Well — if Crocodile wanted him dead for intruding into his personal space to see him at his most vulnerable, he would've done it already. Buggy convinced himself of it. Had to believe it, or else he would turn into a sobbing, begging (embarrassing) wreck.
"I half-expected you to start begging for your life," Crocodile correctly observed. Am I so predictable?
Okay, yes. The beg had been right on the tip of his tongue.
Whatever. He didn't care. He had a goal with all this. Besides the peace-keeping and pleasing everyone to his best ability—
"You still can," Crocodile continued, "It's a good look on you."
Buggy's brain short-circuited. It fired up two braincells, rubbed them together to a static-friz, and sent the excess heat flowing south.
A whole other level of embarrassment was about to happen to him. If he didn't calm down.
"You… must be feeling better, to be teasing me like that, hahah." Shut up. Shut up. Shut the fuck up. His mouth was moving for him, forever running its own course straight to hell. Taunting a cutthroat like Crocodile.
"How do you get away with being a mouthy little shit?"
"I dunno, are you gonna let me get away with it?" Shut up!!! Oh fucking shut the fuck up—
Buggy tensed as an immovable weight sat directly on top of his erection.
His heart, which had been beating faster than a hummingbird's until then, cracked against his ribs. He was going to die. Him, the great Genius Jester, to a heart attack and in Sir Crocodile's bed.
At least it's a great bed to die on.
Felt even better on his naked skin, Buggy immediately learned, as Crocodile ripped his sleep shirt in half.
"Hey!! This is Sorbet Kingdom cashmere—!"
"And I'm wearing chiffon dyed in Lulusian saffron. Which, no longer can be produced."
It was a very nice chiffon robe, Buggy could admit. It hung off Crocodile's broader shoulders loosely, while cinching just right around his middle, and then flared wide at the hips. Form-fitted. Probably tailored exactly to his measurements.
"Um," Buggy peeped, feeling Crocodile rock back against his dick.
One thing about chiffon to its favor was how it stretched thin and nearly translucent without losing form. Though little moonlight filtered through the tent, Buggy could see the rise and fall of Crocodile's chest. His wide eyes traced the scar lines running through more parts of Crocodile than he could've imagined. Under his pecs. Below his navel. They looked as surgical as the one across his face, and yet told of a very different story.
"Not gonna beg yet?"
The deliberate grind of their bodies finally snapped Buggy back to action. His hands flew to muscled hips, grabbed a handful of them, and pinched them tight. The robe parted at the front, to reveal no underwear below.
The only barrier between his throbbing hard-on and Crocodile's wet entrance was his own damn sash.
Why did he have to find all deadly things so gorgeous? Knives, bombs, the sea — they were bad for him, and he fell head first into the deep-end anyway.
Before he could do anything, heavy thighs trapped him to the bed. He squawked, and then wheezed — Crocodile's scarred stump arm came up to crush his windpipe.
"I'm waiting," the man challenged.
Somehow, Buggy's cock throbbed hotter. He felt dizzy, weak, totally out of his mind.
"You're so mean, fkh, for no reason, ngh!"
"Brat, should've expected that. Fine. Play hard to get."
I'm hard, and you're getting me, I promise.
Okay, but his blood did sing a little harder, having Crocodile crush him against the sinking bed. All that muscle, all his menacing presence, now dedicated to the act of seeking pleasure — from him. From his Emperor.
So this was the intent. Dominate him into losing his sanity. He had no control of the situation. Crocodile would take what he wanted from him, how he wanted it. And it boiled in Buggy's gut. "I can fuck you just fine myself, thank you—hfk," he whined, when the sash and his trousers were slipped lower, and the intense heat between Crocodile's legs glided over his length.
"Fuck me?" Crocodile laughed. His hair tousled to the side from the force of it.
"I can—"
"You'd be lucky to even survive me." The mock-whisper in his ear said, "Someone like you can't handle me."
"Fuck you, yes I can, I can prove it, you don't know — fuck — w-what I'm capable of!"
The slight part of Crocodile's lips stretched into a grin. He sighed something low, wordless, as his entrance slicked more of Buggy's cock. "Prove it. I think I'll have fun breaking you in."
A thick gulp clicked from Buggy's jaw. B-breaking me in. Like a horse.
He had a second to blank out on what that meant, when Crocodile rolled his hips up, and the tip of Buggy's cock caught on his hole.
"Ffh-oh."
Buggy's hands skirted higher. Higher, to the swell of Crocodile's chest. Higher still as the heavier man tipped forward onto them, until Buggy's wrists popped free, and his knees rose up for balance.
He carried a precarious weight. Devil Fruit or not, Buggy didn't struggle with it. He had worked a lot of manual labor in his life, and no matter which grand titles had snuck up on him, he was a strong pirate in his own right.
"Mm, not bad at all," admired Crocodile, one brow quirked higher.
"Heh, yeah, so you see—eehnmm."
A vicegrip swallowed his cock whole. Crocodile had sunk down to take him, suddenly, in one go, and had the cheekiness to cackle at him.
The top of his thighs trembled against the bottom of Crocodile's. "Please, nn, sir—"
"Ah," the great shade of the man moaned, "yes, that's more like it." He lavished in the stretch a moment, ground down against the futile pumps of Buggy's hips. "'Please' what?"
"P-please use me? You said you'd, break me in, I can, take it, please, sir."
The pits of Crocodile's eyes expanded. The relentless pressure around his cock squeezed, pulsed. Oh, he liked that. Buggy's heart fluttered, practically soaring to please. His babble might've gone on to a more embarrassing length, but it droned off to silence, the instant Crocodile shifted more of his weight to the knees.
"Since you remembered your manners and asked nicely…"
Buggy nodded, fervently. He could be nice. He could be so polite and well-mannered. His pride would only be wounded against a lesser opponent, someone unworthy—
Crocodile lifted himself until only the blunt head held him open.
He slammed back down without pause.
Fuck. Buggy's handgrip closed around meaty, fatty pecs. His nails scratched over the pebbled nipple there. Cotton filled his head, when he heard the deep-gravel sound vibrating under his palms. Oh fuck, me.
His gut lit up in flames. The wetness soaking down to his balls doused its fire, but only to slick the way and make every push of Crocodile's body easier, faster, harder.
"Fuck, that's right, you can keep up, can't you?"
Hearing that tone — that raspy, fucked out voice that has haunted his dreams — drilled a path straight through him. It hooked onto the base of his cock, stroked the empty insides of his skull, filled his ego — 'that's right, you can keep up' — all he wanted, that sweet, electrifying attention. The power in it.
It shouldn't be of any surprise how his trapped hips stuttered, and pumped far too suddenly inside the welcoming hole.
Crocodile hadn't stopped seeking his own pleasure. But he did notice. He heard the high whine warbling from Buggy's throat. Felt the shake and shudder, of the thighs crushed beneath his.
The man gave a sigh. "You understand we're not done until I'm done."
"Y-yes, nhh, I-I under…stand…!"
"Good, then, make yourself useful."
Buggy's eyes filled with tears, so utterly overwhelmed, his cock stuffed lovingly inside Crocodile, again and again, not allowed to soften. His blood pounded hot. His knees locked where they had bent behind Croc, to make a throne for the other's seating. It was something put to immediate use, with how Crocodile arched his back, and his half-scarred arm rested over it.
"Mm." Normally, a hum from Crocodile warned to some judgment. But, those hooded eyes held no critique. The blush had spread from his ears to his chest. His heaving, ample chest, still in Buggy's clutch. One fingernail itched down the tender underside, over the scar that had gnarled on otherwise perfect, unblemished skin. Buggy gasped a muted echo of Crocodile's own moan.
Then, dry fingers pried his off of there. With his wrists still chopped free, the stolen hand could travel with Crocodile's, down to where their bodies pounded together.
Even at a completely unnatural angle, he had perfect control of his separated limbs. Of his hand, which caressed the slick folds growing puffier and hotter, the longer they fucked.
'Make yourself useful,' Croc demanded. So, Buggy ignored the borderline painful fullness of his cock, and thumbed the swollen pit at the apex of Crocodile's sex.
"Fuck, yes, yes," Crocodile panted, somehow managed to grind against the new stimulant, while fucking himself loose on Buggy's worn-out cock. "Yes, gimme, harder—"
He worked that pit with singleminded focus. And felt himself grow lightheaded, and his lungs grow twice too big to fit inside his ribcage, as Crocodile chased his release, his pale eyes rolling, his spine taut. The walls of his hole clenched to an unknown rhythm.
Then Crocodile's full weight slumped on top of his.
The expanse of that broad chest suffocated him.
Heaven may just fail to live up to, anything greater than this.
"Mm." Another hum from Crocodile. One Buggy could feel inside his bones, and slip beside his ear drums. "I believe that's earned you a chance to see tomorrow."
"Thank…you… Sir." He swallowed his whimper, to feel Croc arch with a stretch, and Buggy's abused half-hard cock slid free. "Will you… consider letting me stay here? You have… so many comfy pillows."
"Mm." A shift in the vocal fry. Crocodile wiggled like a lizard on a sunbathing rock: with the intent to bake for as long as possible. He did reposition a few inches to the side, and gave Buggy room to breathe more properly. The rest of his royal clownness was still territorially claimed beneath the bigger, heavier man. "I'll allow it."
Oh, spectacular. Greed could be rewarded.
"Hey, uh. I had a question. Like, another question."
"Mhm?"
"Why do you have vines assassinating a plant in your living room?"
Crocodile blinked. His relaxed touches scratched down Buggy's ticklish side. "They produce passionfruit."
"What about the yucca?"
"Yucca—what?" The indulgent fingers clawed into soft flesh. He finally snapped to the conversation topic, and just who was directing it. "Clown. That is a desert succulent in my antechamber. It's agave. It's fine, what, what the fuck are you on about. Are you concerned for my plants?"
"I'm not concerned. They just, look a little cannibalistic is all."
Nails dug a little harder. It made Buggy peep a tiny, scared sound.
"Clown," he growled.
"Ah!! T-that sounds more like the cranky Croc I know!!"
As one might imagine, Crocodile wrought his hand down onto rosy, perfumed skin. Buggy popped apart with a shriek as it happened, and reassembled six feet away.
"Y-!" His anger sputtered hot over his cheeks. "You were going to hurt me!!"
"Yeah, and you're gonna take what I give you, or else."
Buggy's turn to blink. He, didn't know how to take the hissed threat, while Crocodile sent him a provocative grin. The grin flashed all his teeth. It was also framing his tongue as it licked the corner of his mouth.
"Um. I'm getting really mixed signals here."
"Come here."
Buggy did more than just come here. He was yanked, shoved, twisted around, bitten, and clawed, and ridden like a toy. Parts of him popped apart when applied under too much pressure. It made Crocodile laugh — and like a sick, sick puppy, Buggy wanted more. Just, not enough to keep up with the horny beast.
"Wait wait, please," he begged, after one too many rounds used as a fuck toy to get off.
Crocodile hummed. He stopped, in the sense that he sat down fully on Buggy's achy cock and refused to let him go. "What now?"
"I-I should get Mihawk!"
Slowly, Crocodile tilted his head to the side. Never before had Buggy seen his eyebrows furrow so deeply. "Now? Right now you're thinking about Mihawk?"
"No, yes, I mean, he—" Buggy moaned pitifully as the pressure pinning him down squeezed around him, "it's about that hour, when he sleepwalks to the garden! He'll ruin the patch of tomatoes again…"
"Hawkeyes sleepwalks?"
"You, didn't notice?"
Crocodile had not a single shred of a clue that Mihawk suffered a sleep depravation spell that puppeteered him around the yard for a night, or three, of the week. He simply couldn't leave Buggy to do the fetching alone, now.
The company of two, robed in dark-shaded nightclothes plucked from Crocodile's wardrobe, slinked around the tent grounds, away from wandering eyes. There was merry being made, shanties sung, and quite a few barrels cranked open for pouring. It was a typical end-of-the-week evening. Half of the pirate force would wake up hungover on what counted as their free-day.
But this was not their destination.
"See? He's destroying the fruits again," Buggy whispered, sadly, at the mulch of tomatoes under Mihawk's blade.
"Huh. Hawkeyes?"
Mihawk's unseeing gaze turned to them. The ground-stabbing did not halt. On a good day, the unusual sharpness in Mihawk's eyes would send a shiver up Buggy's spine. Tonight's deadman stare poured a bucket of ice down Buggy's thread-thin clothes.
"Is he always like this?"
"Kinda," he grimaced, and took a couple measured steps. "Hey, Strongman."
The hacking paused. The muscles clenched around Yoru's hilt flexed, the instant Buggy slipped his own hand over them.
"Can you come with me?"
Like a switch being flipped, Mihawk's frame slumped. The deathgrip on Yoru relaxed, the tip of the blade dragging inelegantly on the dirt for a few steps, before it was sheathed again in the belt-loops at the black coat's back.
The return walk to Crocodile's large, private tent went eerily silent. Even sleepwalking, Mihawk's gait came as silent as a leopard in a thicket. Crocodile preferred misting into sand particles for half of the journey, saying, "It's damn cold out here," for explanation.
"You're the one who decided to go out all skimpy."
"It's Dressrosan cotton," the man hissed, as if that told Buggy anything.
"Go kiss a tailor about it."
Their bickering tickled something in the back of Buggy's throat. Then he realized. This the first time I feel like he won't kill me for hissy-fighting back. Probably. Which, funny that because — one; Croc liked violence. Two; he liked dishing out violence. Count 'em, three; he liked dishing out violence to clown-painted individuals. Wrap it up and call it a strike.
But the longer Buggy thought back to the last couple of weeks, the more he puzzled on the ex-warlord's good graces. Entering the tent — just being able to reenter the tent — left Buggy with a sense of, bewilderment. Since when are we on the same page?
Was it the sex?
(He was an amazing catch. Desperate-to-please, willing to bet it all on a gambler's lucky risk. No one else in the four seas could match Buggy's bed-fervor.)
Was it for Mihawk's sake?
(There was this unspoken… thing between them. Crocodile has known the swordsman for longer than anyone else, at this point. Out of all the options, among allies and enemies alike in the whole New World, Mihawk decided to bet on their chances united, rather than continue the captain-of-none, loner-lifestyle.)
Had something changed, something that Buggy failed to notice, that led to Crocodile giving him the privilege of mercy?
"How do you get him out of this state?"
Buggy shook the spinning thoughts out through his ear, to refocus on the two men expectant on his word — Crocodile, expectant on him, down on one knee in front of a lethargic, seated Mihawk.
"Well, I don't wanna just say 'scream'," Buggy muttered unhelpfully.
"Clown."
"I usually just, bring him to a safe place! And he goes right back to sleep on his own!"
The safe place in question being this very tent didn't cross his mind, until he had said it out loud. Safe, with Crocodile. It had been so simple a thought, once. Too true, as they all soon learned.
Crocodile stared at the clown a few seconds longer. It made him tremble in his borrow-stolen robe — (he was not giving this precious, silky thing back, oh no, this belonged to Buggy's wardrobe now, forever and beyond.)
"Help me get him under the sheets," came sighed from Crocodile's lips.
That, he could do. His limber, floating hands enabled many helpful things. Like hoisting Yoru off Mihawk's belt-loop to set it against the wall. Lifting the black coat off slender shoulders. Guiding Mihawk to the mass of pillows, hand in pliant hand.
After a minute, the empty stare in Mihawk's expression fluttered and folded closed. He drooped onto the pillow mass. Finally sagged, with real sleep.
The fluffy throw at the foot of the bed came hovering up by floating hands. Crocodile had taken advantage of the clown's generous care to slip under the warm covers himself. He put on a show of stretching, groaning his relief, before nestling in the luxurious nest of his greedy making.
And Buggy was left outside of the makeshift coccoon. On top of the bedsheets and the throw. Cold, alone, abandoned.
"…worm in a fucking spot for yourself, somewhere," Crocodile grumbled, as if mentally bombarded by the bratty anguish oozing out of the clown's pout.
Buggy's mood immediately turned around. He practically skipped in the air, popped apart at various points along his body — neck, arms, torso, hips and feet, specifically — and very literally wormed under the divine throw blanket.
"Your generosity knows no bounds, your most superior majesty of the sands."
"Never say that again."
"Okay, how about calling you 'Croccy'?"
The tip of a hook appeared just over his eye. A no, then, pity.
"We'll workshop it. Maybe 'Croc' for now?"
"Go the fuck to sleep."
They must've woken up earlier than him.
Somehow, despite Buggy being a very, infamously light sleeper. Crocodile and Mihawk did. They must've whispered something about the night's happenings. Explained a few developments. Discussed the pros and cons.
"Ah…"
His pretty blue eyelashes batted open. Curiosity roused with the sound.
"Yes…ahn, uhn, nn…'hawk…"
Buggy fought the total, cozy heat of sleep. He tried shifting around. Recollection came in snapshots. Crocodile, having a nightmare. Coming into his tent to brave waking him. Coming into Crocodile, and the surprising ease of their bickering. And Mihawk.
"Like that, yesss, yes, Mihawk…!"
Oh, Mihawk.
Buggy's eyes shot open.
In the span of a heartbeat, he met a sharp, unblinking gaze. It bore down from above. Its predatory zeal sent a shiver through Buggy's spine, turned the animal in Buggy's hindbrain into — a bug, a tiny, terrified little thing, about to be plucked and eaten in the jaws of a vicious bird of prey.
Not to mention how Crocodile had been folded in half beneath Mihawk's hips.
"Uhmagh," Buggy rasped intellectually. Truly, an achievement for him because; one, his brain was currently struggling with morning lethargy and poor blood flow, and; two, his rock hard erection stole all the blood flow meant for his brain.
It wanted to rut against the blissful friction of the bedsheets. But Mihawk's stare froze him in place. This was, undoubtedly, his nest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Buggy knew, he couldn't move without Mihawk's permission, or be removed.
"Admiring my work, Chairman?"
Uh. Is this a trick question?
His eyelids fluttered rapidly, then drew to the centerpiece of the bed: Crocodile, hair tousled and wild. The darker flush to his face and chest. The chiffon of his nightfit had parted at the loosened belt. His single hand fisted onto the rich wood of the bedframe. And cracking it.
(Now that Buggy saw it, more hair-thin fractures had marred other points of the wood. They looked like older marks.
Buggy's cock gave a weak, needy twitch.)
Mihawk had taken possession of five pillows, had set them up in a barricade on the bedframe, and bent the huge man over the cushions to better fuck into him. Crocodile's knees were bowing below Mihawk's armpits. It brought the soles of his feet to face the ceiling. When Mihawk drove into him, the bed would shake. The entire length of his cock would be sheathed — then pull swiftly back, to show thin translucent streams still clinging to its base — and push right back home.
"You're — a jealous little shit, Hawk-mm!"
"I am not jealous. I am inviting him."
Dumbly, Buggy pointed at himself. "Me?"
"He is difficult to please, as I am sure you have learned."
"Mihawk—" Crocodile hissed, but another thrust cut his curse off into a moan.
"Bossy, contrarian brat." Buggy blinked, for a second believing Mihawk's words were meant for him, that he had seen through him and how he had been ravaged last night; but no, his penetrating gaze was only for Crocodile. "Learn to accept what is given to you."
"Make me." Then Crocodile bit Mihawk's wrist next to his face. His canines clamped down hard enough to draw blood.
The pits in Mihawk's eyes expanded.
Oh, they're freaks.
"Clown, sit up," Mihawk called, and the clown scrambled to obey. "Does your Devil Fruit allow you to separate every and any part of your body?"
He understood the question's direction. Definitely freaks. "Yeah-uh."
Mihawk's movements stopped cold. He was ignoring the heated snarling coming from Crocodile below. Who bit down a little harder. A line of blood dripped down Mihawk's wrist and painted Crocodile's lips red.
"Would you be able to remotely fuck his mouth with your penis?"
"Y…yeah… uh, but I won't be able to, cum."
"Hm. Good."
Buggy shook like a leaf. He quickly glanced down where Crocodile licked up that coppery, red trail. Daggers chilled in his glare.
"Don't worry," Mihawk started, "he only bites if he's enjoying himself. He maims when he is not."
The bruises and scratches evident all over Buggy's body begged to differ. Last night wasn't considered maiming? That was Croc enjoying himself, genuinely?
Well. If anyone in the world might survive getting their dick chomped off, it would be him. Quite literally.
The ease of a Devil Fruit's lifetime had Buggy separating to comply. His top-half drifted closer. The borrow-stolen robe slipped away in the gaps. Half-nakedness became total. His arms, chopped at the elbows, hovered closer. Their hands swept the sweat-stuck hairs away from Crocodile's face.
He dared to press his thumb under that wide jaw, on a nerve, and it unhinged from Mihawk's wrist.
He might've been about to snap his teeth onto Buggy's palm. Wouldn't ever know, as Mihawk restarted their fucking, heavy and relentless.
"Ah—fuck, y-uhn," the sound pitched higher, breathless, from Crocodile. The thigh muscles flat beneath Mihawk's abdomen tensed. "Nn! How—do you do that, every time-ah… ah."
Pleasure rolled Crocodile's eyes back. His mouth fell slack, chin nudged to the closest touch — it being Buggy's detached hands. One of Buggy's fingers traced the edge of the puckered scar line.
"You heard him the first time, Clown." Every floaty part of him jerked to Mihawk's calm drone. "Make him."
'Make me.' And said with so much vitriol, blood on Crocodile's teeth.
His hips and legs stayed assembled together where he had been sleeping peacefully moments ago. Right. Fuck, right. Quickly, his disembodied erection set a course to its given mission, the wet tip taking the place of his finger.
There was no plan, for which way to fulfill Mihawk's insane idea. He teased the hot glands over parted lips, at first, expecting the merciless chop. But then Mihawk — slight, slender, powerful man that he was — lifted Crocodile by the hips, and slammed their bodies together.
"Hah! Hyeah…" The unfocused drift to Crocodile's gaze landed somewhere on the canopy ceiling, "yess, like that yes, y—mmh."
And just like that, Crocodile fed himself Buggy's cock.
"Fuckingfuckshit—you're-fuck—" Buggy was less elegant about fucking down Crocodile's throat.
His hips-legs shivered, humped the smooth surface of his groin on the bed. They couldn't do anything about how his cock pushed, and pulled, and sank, down to the hilt, past the relaxed opening of that clicking throat.
"Fascinating sight."
"Please when c-can I, mmfuck! When—"
"You will find release once I am done with him."
Okay. Okay, shit, he has never fucked like this. With his cock separated like this. Sure, he had experimented with whether he could cum mid-powers. Found out he couldn't, so no fun. It felt, kind of like, blue-balling himself, indefinitely. Why would he edge himself that way?
When Mihawk shoved inside, it hitched Crocodile onto Buggy's cock. When Buggy ground down, Croc slammed his hips down and met Mihawk's halfway. They set a rhythm — overwhelming and zealous.
And Buggy did his best to please. His cock paved a path, pushed deep. It throbbed with need against Crocodile's lax throat. Its entrance didn't even flutter with a gag. No matter how far his own pace went, nothing blocked it. He doesn't, have a gag reflex?
Tears gathered in Buggy's eyes. There was a tightening sensation — a swallow, the click of saliva — and the earth-shattering vibration of a groan all through his cock. He didn't stop, but he also couldn't hold back a keening kind of whine. The ache blocking his orgasm, it didn't stop either. It built up. Built, and built, and built, with nowhere to go—
And then Crocodile tensed every muscle, every fiber, and sucked at the intrusion making a break-in down his throat. If he hadn't been in the throes of pleasure before, this was it.
In a detached way, Buggy witnessed it. He was less like a person right then, and more, a concept in human form. A head; a torso; hands, each an individual will. Hips remained with their legs. The erection pulled out, shoved completely back inside, mechanic in method. It yearned to be part of a whole again.
Please, please, his whining might be louder than thought and seeping through his voice, let me—
"Grant him his reward."
The top and bottom halves of Buggy's body shambled together first. Quick to please, he shakily got over to Crocodile, brought his hips to his cock.
Reattached sensation flooded him. He felt, blood re-circulating, nerve endings return to life. The faint pressure at his groin became a throb, pulse, arousal spiked to blinding.
"Y-yes, thank—you—" A sob cracked in his voice, and he came down Crocodile's throat. Fuck, fucking damn it all, he kept coming and to his terror, that throat kept squeezing to take every last drop. Even after release slowed, and he started softening over Crocodile's tongue. It sucked him dry.
"Mmm…" That satisfied little purr caressed the underside of his retreating cock.
Buggy scrunched his eyes shut. He couldn't risk looking down and seeing whatever expression awaited there. He was shaking. By the thick of his skin he avoided collapsing in a heap of limbs right on top of Crocodile's skull. But, pretty sure tumbling like that would send him straight to the circus kennels with Richie — and although he loved his lion friend, sleeping on hay always gave him allergies. No post-fuck cuddle session for him.
So he willed himself off and to the side, back to the extra ridiculous pile of pillows. His knee still caught over Crocodile's shoulder. Mihawk, too, settled down where he lay. Stuffed home.
For a solid few minutes, Buggy only focused on breathing. And controling his tremors.
That was. A lot. That was a lot. Not enough that he couldn't handle it. But fuck. Borderline terrifying sex.
It was the most aroused he had ever felt in his life.
A callused hand tapping him nearly sent his body chopping apart again. "Mfh?" he grunted—
Mihawk's intense stare loomed over his head. The man had crawled silently, unnoticed to the head of the bed. He was brushing those uncanny eyes over every revealed patch of skin.
Buggy held back from crossing his arms together.
"Do you have an easy way to announce when you need to stop in the middle of intercourse?"
"Uh...? Yeh. 'Yellow' for hold on. 'Red' for no." The classics were classic for a reason. Little late for that, though.
"I see," Mihawk hummed, way too composed. He was tilting his head between them — the vibrating puddle of clown, and the melted mattress of desert-man — scheming something no doubt. "That is not what I am used to, but I can adapt to that for your benefit."
"…Okay."
Croc sighed something amused and tired both. "You mean my benefit."
"All of our benefits, if this is to reccur."
Oh. This would be a reccurring thing?
His surprise must've shown transparently. Because Crocodile rolled his eyes. His stunning, mean, pale eyes. Still flushed around the cheeks and ears. It struck Buggy now, how Crocodile was pinned down below Mihawk's crawl, and Buggy's own leg, and he hadn't kicked up a fuss about it. Or more specifically, eaten Buggy alive.
"Hasn't it been clear since Day One, clown? You're stuck with us until you die."
And then he sat up.
He sat but with Buggy and Mihawk still in the way, sieving right through them. Sand caressed the obstacles in their path. Just like that, the logia reformed at the mirror-door to the bathroom. Standing. Stretching with an unnecessary arch.
"Need a wash after all that," he said, in explanation. The door shut with a silent click behind him.
Buggy fiddled with his thumbs. It took all his willpower to stare everywhere but Mihawk. Who, to Buggy's dismay, prowled over to sit right on top of his chest.
"One cannot bottle a whole desert, isn't that so?"
His big blue eyes blinked. What was the freak swordsman talking about? "So. He, really could've done whatever he wanted to, us?" To me, he meant, but admitting it already chipped a little of his pride off.
"Yes. As I said, difficult to please."
'Stuck with them,' huh.
One of those nice, calm nights, a week after their leadership triad became a ménage-a-troix with extra steps, Mihawk shot up from bed.
Croc, who had been quietly retelling the pros of adding a proper bananagator tank at the Big Top to his audience of clown, stopped. He slowly, deliberately, glanced up at the ramrod man. "Mihawk?"
"Oh, he's sleepwalking again."
Though their sleep habits hadn't worsened, the signs haven't exactly gotten better either. Spending three nights out of seven burning their sexually-charged bodies to exhaustion mitigated most of the nightmares and the sleeplessness, at least.
Well, not Buggy's. He rolled a fist over his heavy eyes. The makeup hid it during the day, but here, the eyebags would stand out like bruises. He didn't know why, but for weeks he just, had trouble catching a wink of rest.
"Hey, Hawkeyes," Croc plucked the swordsman's more callused right hand in his — Buggy's chest tightened, recognizing his own technique to guide Mihawk out of the fields and into this very tent — "Come back to me."
For a minute, Mihawk's unseeing eyes stared off. The hand over his squeezed a few times. Then, a deeper inhale. Mihawk's pupils shrunk, he reacted with a tug of his sword hand. Frowned when it didn't move inside Crocodile's grip.
"…you are holding my hand."
"And you were haunting the bedroom."
"I was…?"
Buggy grumbled, "You don't know you're sleepwalking? Which, by the way, terrifying. What the fuck is up with that?"
Mihawk's frown pinched into a pout. "There is something evil in the land here."
"Uh." That wasn't ominous at all.
Turned out, something was worth digging for under all those tomato plants.
Buggy and Crocodile stood back a couple feet while Mihawk grabbed for a proper ground-stabbing shovel. The two of them made up quite the contrast, him in clownish red overalls and a blue-dyed, fox-fur cape for the night's chill, Crocodile in a forest green button-up, burnt sienna vest, and alligator-skin overcoat. They looked like competing animal party gang members.
Mihawk sported a much simpler, much more basic poet's shirt and black pants. He dug a pile of dirt away from the bickering duo.
"—but that fur is fake, clown."
"Yeah! So??"
"It's undignified."
He puffed his cheeks with air. "I'd rather not wear something that will offend Richie."
"You feed the lion foxes."
"But I don't go cutting their pelts and wearing them! That's like, a taunt—!!"
The loud thunk of the shovel hitting metal shut them up.
There was a small wood-and-iron trunk at the bottom of the shallow pit. Sealed with two rusted old locks. One strike from the swordsman's shovel cracked them open.
"So," Buggy dawdled. He kicked a rock away, and stared everywhere but the trunk. "Anybody else getting a bad, awful, spooky feeling about whatever's inside?"
Mihawk deadpanned, "It is a cursed Devil Fruit."
Immediately the clown's curiosity piqued. Head chop-chopping airborn, it floated over Mihawk's hunched stance to get the trunk out.
What he saw would make anyone scratch their heads. A plum-dark fruit, shaped like a crescent moon. Devil swirls covered its bumpy surface. But that wasn't what confused him. That all summarized the usual Devil Fruit look.
It was the other dried up preserved fruits stacked beside it.
Buggy feared to even touch those ordinary bundle bits. "What is this? And which Fruit is that?"
"Dream-Dream. I've seen it highlighted in an encyclopedia for cursed paramecias," Mihawk said. Then, glanced at the floating head. "How long ago did you get this island? This has been here for months."
"Like, since the warlord system was abolished?" The other ex-warlords raised the exact same eyebrow at him, "Don't look at me like that! Obviously my crew and I raided, plundered and kicked out the previous tenants. We're pirates, we didn't ask what they buried in the backyard!"
"What does the Dream-Dream do," Crocodile got them on track.
Out of the trunk, Mihawk plucked the object of their discussion. It sat in his hand like, like an evil banana, in Buggy's opinion.
"It allows the user to put others to sleep and to manipulate their dreams. However, in exchange for this power, it curses whoever eats it with somnolence."
"Huh. So, they're gonna be perpetually drowsy? Doesn't sound worth it." Even though it could cast a Sleeping Maiden-like spell on their enemies, having another narcoleptic on crew could put them all in a bind. Buggy already had a rough time falling a sleep most days. Actually, ever since they set up shop in Karai Bari for the Delivery…
He glared at the Devil Fruit in Mihawk's palm. "It doesn't like me."
"'It' is a damn edible power," Crocodile argued, but they didn't start another bickering match over it. Because they both knew, too personally, how Devil Fruits had a will of their own.
This one had a personality to it. It prickled Buggy's nerves. He had to say it. "You were sleepwalking to dig it up most nights."
And Mihawk was nodding before he had finished speaking. "Whatever power it possesses understands I am the strongest man on the island." His eyes gleamed, blinking. "Of those who aren't already in possession of a different Devil Fruit power."
"Humble," Crocodile shrugged. "Are you planning to eat it?"
"No, I will not. One of us should at least keep their ability to swim, should it be necessary. There are plenty of paramecia users among your crew as well. Which begs the question: what do we do about it?"
The answer was written plainly in the sky and on Buggy and Crocodile's shared berri-shaped look.
"We could make a betting pool, or an auction!! Highest bid takes it."
"No, that will get messy fast. And whoever is daring enough could simply kill the winner at the end." The cogs were turning into diamonds in Crocodile's eyes. "Make it a bounty reward. Whoever gets a five-star Marine first earns it."
"But that might take weeks!"
"Then we create a false sense of urgency. We'll feed it to the damn lion if they fail to make ends meet."
Buggy gave an indignant gasp. "Not Richie!! He's just a boy!"
"An overgrown pet."
"You don't see me insulting the bananadile in the lake."
"Those are special bananadiles and they are babies—"
Mihawk turned back around, muttering, "'What should we do' I ask the greed-viced captains," at the Fruit, as if it wouldn't become utterly upset with the swordsman for refusing to eat it, once nightfall comes again.
They better extort a gullible or devoted sucker in Buggy's Delivery to eat it soon.
Marine hunting was about to get a whole lot easier for that someone. And Mihawk's nights a lot noisier.