Work Text:
Buggy took the initiative to plan a break day.
Lately the Guild has been thriving, with calm waters, bountiful coffers, and a surplus of recruits to the mercenary side of things. Thanks to Crocodile's last contract signing, the island earned a big trading surge. New businesses opened around the big top. They got cooks, tailors, blacksmiths, a gunsmith, new performers for the entertainment top. Even Hawkeyes, who preferred the company of none, came by and bought a new sword-harness for his colossal favorite, sewn onto his coat.
So Buggy — Chairman of Cross Guild, Emperor of the Sea, Genius Star Jester Who Never Made Mistakes — decided to treat his Second-Officer, "you've earned yourself a little vacation break! All-expense and paid for."
Crocodile glanced up from his desk, which was still covered in quite a few correspondence papers. He picked his cigar away for a second, tapped the ash to the side tray, replaced it with a slow inhale. The hourglass by the finished stack of contracts sieved down silently.
"Whatever it is, clown, it's not worth my time."
Buggy suspected this would happen. The damn workaholic would rather skip four days of sleep than let the work of maintaining an emperor's enterprise go neglected.
Fortunately, he had just the tiny, framed circular glasses for this. Plucked out of his pocket, and pressed over his nose. He fetched a smaller folded piece of fineprint paper from his front pocket, and read.
"'The Chairman's responsibilities will be listed as follows: —upholding ideal public opinion, addressing all journalistic retinues to the island of Karai Bari, delegating the lower officers' duties directly, planning, organizing, and closing the entertainment shows of the big top, announcing of holiday leave," the emphasis landing on the 'holiday,' "rapporting…debt funding…blah blah, yah. In testimony whereof.' Signed by all three of us, especially you," he tapped the cursive loop of Crocodile's signature twice. The largest of the scribbles.
"Yeah, and just because it's your job to announce it doesn't mean I have to heed."
He almost interjected to the contrary, about to point at another clause, when Hawkeyes — had he been sitting there, feet up on the coffee table, all this time?? — said, "Perhaps the clown has the right idea. You haven't gotten up from that chair all day. It might just become part of your spine."
Pen abandoned, Crocodile rubbed the tension from his temples. "Vacation where?"
Their day-off sail to a nearby island went off to a fantastic start. It hosted a dry climate, with hundreds of fungal species growing on its soil. No people either, as the island had never been populated, and being well within Cross Guild's territory, no one dared to try. From what Buggy's research rewarded, one of the myconids that proliferated here also made living off the land impossible. Some kind of 'bad' reputation with the region's locals.
Buggy grinned big at the suspicious glare Crocodile sent his way.
"So you do pay attention in the meetings."
"Of course I do! Clause fifty-five." A reference to the threat of torture should the Chairman shirk his extensive duties, one of which did include monthly rapports.
Crocodile narrowed his eyes to slits, but decided to sacrifice interrogation time in exchange for mushroom picking.
Beside the desert master, more casually-fitted and responsible for the foraging baskets, stood Hawkeyes. He had no excuse to come with, except that the lower officers back in Karai Bari would've looked to him for instruction. And he wanted none of that. (Leave Alvida and Daz Bones to bear the weight of keeping order.)
"Will you admit now that this is far better to sitting in the windowless inside of a smoke-stained office?"
"I'll find the most toxic bunch of mushrooms here and whip them into your next salad, Hawkeyes."
"You won't. You would rather try them out yourself to see how effective they are."
An agreeing nod, completely unbothered at the thought of consuming toxins. "There's probably a neurotoxic one somewhere, I've seen similar color patterns before..."
Meanwhile Buggy, smile twitching ear to ear, hung back and thrilled at his victory — of actually finding something Crocodile enjoyed, that would be sufficient reward for all their Guild's success.
It was such a shame that their great outing had to be ruined by a stampede of marines.
Marines who weren't even chasing after the Guild, but another unlucky crew of pirates that had crashlanded onto the island's coast.
The three of them had so far entered deeper into fungal territory when Mihawk sensed the disturbance first and hopped out of the way of gunshots and sabers, to a high tree branch. Buggy and Croc? Did not so much as move. Really, like a bowling ball landing a strike, all of Buggy's limbs tumbled apart with a yelp. They reassembled a few feet away, shouting out, "Hey! Watch where you're going!!"
Crocodile, unbothered, sieved into sand.
Instantly recognized by his Devil Fruit, the whole collective of marine and pirate screamed. They stomped. They stamped up a mist of spores. What a sad poor waste of pickable mushrooms.
Buggy wisely scrambled up to Mihawk's perch and got away from all the squabbling. Neurotoxic, Crocodile had said. No way he was getting in the middle of that! Already a few of the brash pirates held their throats tight and seized up with twitchy spasms. Of the marines, a couple covered their noses and mouths with their neckties. Some weren't fast enough. In the minute that passed, a man who Buggy assumed to be the pirate captain fell to his knees, foaming at the mouth.
And then something, weird happened. That same captain rose up, garbled out a string of nonsense. The blade fisted in his hand began rending through his own crew.
"Peculiar," Hawkeyes noted, with the fascinated air of a birdwatcher. Personally, Buggy didn't like it one bit. It looked like a, a berserk frenzy? had overcome the poor sucker, and he wasn't the only one. One of the bigger marines shot off some friendly fire too.
The mist of spores got denser below.
At least there wasn't any wind to pick it up.
Crocodile reshaped in the thickest of it. He was indifferent to the infighting, the swings and confused orders tossed around. But, something about his stance seemed, off. When he stepped under their tall tree perch, his footing stumbled. His hook had curved on the base of a low branch for balance.
The impassive slouch of Mihawk's shoulders tensed. He passed the basket of evil mushrooms over to Buggy's unwilling hands.
"Uh, wait a second now Hawky—"
Without asking a single word of permission, the swordsman yanked off Buggy's pink cravat. It almost sent him tumbling down to doom. "I SAID wait a second now—!"
Mihawk wrapped it over his face, only his eyes exposed, and dove.
One spinning slash of the great blade in his grip cleared the air. Whoever was unlucky enough to be in the way lay in pieces on the ground.
Boots clicked on stone as he turned. "Crocodile, what is—"
The air dried up. A shiver broke down Buggy's spine. Or, no, not a shiver. A tremor. The air was vibrating. Crocodile closed his hand in a fist, and all the dust motes that had clouded the field below crushed down into a long sand spike. A, lance??
"Fucking ruining everything," Croc snarled, heavy, huffing smoke and sand out of his mouth. His hand shot out, lance flying by its command to skewer a crowd of the marines through.
"Don't get into a foul mood now," Hawkeyes chastized and then, moved back. Away from Crocodile's responding snarl.
Not a great sign, that.
Above, Buggy hugged his tree. He was still mourning the loss of a vacation day, and the extension of one berri-eyed workaholic's shit mood. But that moment — Mihawk going, "Calm yourself," the frenzy of the other two neuro-intoxicated brutes tossing their weapons aside to, start, biting each other's faces off — became so much worse. So, so much worse, as Croc collided onto the main fight. Physically. No sand, no hook, just his flesh-and-blood hand clamped onto the foaming pirate's neck, twisting, breaking, throwing them aside like a piece of meat. And his teeth latching onto the marine's arm—
He tore a chunk of it off.
If his hook slamming onto the bastard's skull didn't kill him, the gushing squirt of bloodloss would.
Crocodile dragged all the blood down his face. Smeared red over his scar like it was freshly cut across his face. His cigar fell on the dirt, forgotten, along with a mishapen chunk of arm flesh.
Ever a man out to scare Buggy into heart attacks, Mihawk sheathed his blade. He extended his very chewable hand.
He started, "Croc—"
"Get, back, fuck… Just wait a second," the man managed between panted breaths.
Well, Buggy did tell him that first.
Awful conclusion to a wonderful day. Because it was ruined. The simple joys of murder and bloodshed and slaying any survivors aside, everything had gone wrong. First, because most of the mushrooms in close vicinity had gotten trampled and crushed underfoot. Second, only one basketful had been collected so far, and Crocodile didn't seem up for gathering more.
On that related note — third, Crocodile kept trailing behind while they retraced the steps to their small unflagged ship. He wasn't foaming at the mouth or attacking them, but his pupils were blown black and the clench of his jaw hadn't relaxed one bit.
On the disembark, other things took priority. For Buggy, that meant the helm to chart a course back quickly, save what remained of his pride. For Mihawk, he, wasn't sure. The man hovered around with a rare frown of hesitation.
And Crocodile had sat below the mainmast, ass right on the deck, and chose to spend his time staring up at the sail. The bloodthirst had faded. Buggy hoped. He refrained from bringing it up just in case, as the blood still stained down his chin and neck.
It was Mihawk who dared breach the personal space. Again, with strange pause, to say, "You're not cleaning your mess up."
Croc nodded. His eyes didn't quite focus on the figure in front of him. But he heard the suggestion in the tone. As did Buggy. You're not turning into sand.
It became clear why, the second after Buggy locked the rudder and crossed the deck over.
To say their grumpy giant was 'sweating' was an understatement.
The coat draped off to the deck. Below, the cravat and shirt neckline were dark with sweat and gore, intermingled. Signs of perspiration dotted down his temples. But way more obvious was how his mouth hung open despite the lack of the usual cigar, panting. Spit tained red with its last mauling.
Crocodile was damp, dazed and bloody. Didn't even react to the spray of seasalt over the ship, which would always make Buggy shiver, despite his career as a pirate and captain at sea.
All of it confounded the clown. He was truly, utterly lost to what had happened to the brains of the Guild to render him so, unbrainy. Mushroom toxins? Head injury? Could it be reversed any time soon? Please?
Two words knocked the brains out of his ears.
"You're aroused," he heard from the swordsman's own voice.
"Mmh."
Buggy refrained from looking. He, whistled to his nonchalance. Wandered back to the helm. Karai Bari's shadow loomed ahead. He pretended not to overhear.
"Will you be needing help with that?"
"S'fine." Crocodile grunted in refusal. "Just, ignore it. I'll take a real day off. I can't work like this anyway…"
"In a manner of speaking," Mihawk offered, "this vacation proposal worked."
Buggy smothered a pitiful groan into his hands. Don't rub it in.
Evidently the powers of their sand logia had been blocked because he slunk away after they had docked somewhere quiet and unseen, instead of misting into a dune pile and wallowing somewhere dry. Work had been verbally postponed, and all possible meetings and talks cancelled until further notice. No one was allowed to ask for Crocodile's presence. Leave a note at the mailbox.
Buggy shared a look with his second Second-Officer. "One of us should check on him later," he declared with more confidence than he had intended.
"Yes."
A beat of silence passed.
"If he doesn't show up by dinner, I'll do it," he, again, declared. Pretty pointlessly.
Slowly, Mihawk turned to him, deadpan stare ready. "Are you sure you'd rather not allow me to be the one to check on him?"
"Please, it's my responsibility! Clause thirty-one," in reference to if the Chairman directly and-or indirectly brought harm to the island, that it would rest on him to fix it before calling on the aid of the Second Officers. This entire situation definitely constituted within the clause's binding word. As his suggestion. His vacation plan to Nameless Mushroom Island. His sad, sad mess to fix.
And so, Buggy waved off the swordsman's raised brow, puffed up his chest and announced, proudly, "I've got this handled."
Buggy didn't have shit handled.
The tray of refreshments shook on his hands as he entered Crocodile's tent. The warm interior lifted some of the fear and trepidation, but no amount of cozy furniture would make him drop his guard. He has very likely signed his death just by coming here.
The way Crocodile had gotten into bloodthirst when the spore dust had hit him still passed through Buggy's mind. If Crocodile took a chunk of him between his teeth and ate it, that part of him was not chopping back into place. He would have a Sir Crocodile-sized gap forever missing from his body. He swallowed. Be brave. Like he knew, it had been his responsibility the other got exposed to any weird fungal neurotoxin.
(More reason for Croccy to kill him where he stood…)
An iron spiral staircase led to the top half of the tent, where more private living rooms should be. Buggy gawped at the stairs. His own tent had a rope ladder, a bit worn on the steps. Since when did they have these? Did Crocodile have that installed?
Above, he found the man himself to ask.
Well, Buggy would've asked. But Croccy was busy viciously humping the edge of a pillow and didn't seem in a talkative mood.
"Nnh," he heard grunted between gritted teeth. Crocodile hadn't noticed him yet, with his hair a messy curtain over his eyes. Naked hips thrusted on that poor plush thing. He was gripping it hard enough to tear the cover. His hook stabbed the bed itself. Soft down feathers had already rained on the carpeted floor, like a slaughtered goose.
The strangest part of it all was seeing him so undressed, really. No long suit trousers, no coat or checkered vest, which had been left abandoned on the floor instead of pressed away in the open wardrobe. No, only the olive-green button shirt had stayed on, and barely. the last three were unbuttoned, and giving Buggy a window view to the wet sheen on his groin and thighs.
Two things ran through Buggy's mind immediately at the realization of Crocodile's sex. One, his colorful jester ass wouldn't be split in two like a stuck pig for a banquet. Two, his chances of ending up a dried-up mummy increased a hundred-percent.
And then Crocodile's pale eyes locked onto him.
The dark pits of his pupils blew wide. He snarled dangerously, "Clown…"
His tray of goods clattered noisily to the table. "I brought cucumber water and tomatoes?"
"Get over here."
"Okay," he peeped, did as told.
Many have called Buggy a mastermind for somehow surviving endless horrors and coming away a victor. He lived through Impel Down, witnessed Marineford, built an empire out of sticks and glue, and kept rising. How did he manage to get himself into so much trouble, and come out on top, some might ask.
Buggy would say he had the worst luck in all the seas.
Also, that he was fate's masochist.
And fate dearest be merciful, he walked to the luxurious bed like a dog to the pound. Right as he reached the edge, a broad hand shot out, gripped him by the neckline, and tossed him onto the covers.
"Oofh," the base of Crocodile's hook-hand clamped roughly on his neck. It didn't choke yet. Just pinned him in place, while the huge shadow of the man sat over his chest, knees on his forearms, legs long enough to trap his thighs down, too.
"Listen to me…" Crocodile swept his hair back, but it barely made a difference as sweat unclumped it back down his forehead. "The fucking spores… mixed with my sand… when I sieved around."
Oh, so it was worse than Buggy thought. It hadn't entered Crocodile's system. It became his system, and will stay there until he shifted back onto sand to sort through it, which. He couldn't do, on account of all the bodily fluids seeping out of his body and soaking on him. Sweat, slick, saliva.
"Uh. How long is it going to, uh…"
"Don't know. Can't think that far." A groan then ripped through his throat, and his hips canted upwards. It was impossible to ignore how his thigh muscles clenched around nothing. And his puffy entrance, dripped onto the baggy shirt Buggy wore.
"Those nasty spores, w-will also wither and dry up on their own! After some, time…-"
Long, heavy legs suddenly spun them around. Buggy flipped inelegantly to be on top. At least the soft meat of Crocodile's chest buffered his skull's landing. Miles of warm, damp skin had him gripping on for dear life.
He was going to shout his complains — you can't just flip your emperor like a pancake! — when Crocodile wrapped those legs around his waist. Yanked him to fall down over his abdomen.
"Clown, I need…" It almost sounded like a plea. His face flushed red to quietly admit the obvious.
"You need to cum your brains out," Buggy quipped to make light of the, uncomfortable vulnerability.
Whether it worked or not, Crocodile snapped his very sharp, very lethal teeth near enough to Buggy's nose to make the air bend. But he didn't tear the round red tissue off, which, a positive point in his potential survival?
"Do something about it. Now."
Oh. Stupid arousal jumped eagerly up his spine despite the dread still in his stomach. Me? Crocodile was asking him for help? (Well, demanding it, but same difference. He was telling Buggy to help. He gave no alternative.)
"Yessir, yes? Right on it. Right, so, after we get this shirt off you. Okay, maybe just the buttons! That's, uh." His brain scrambled to understand how the sight of a sweat-patched, wrinkled up shirt, barely holding onto the shoulders, managed to be even sexier on Crocodile.
Too distracting. He needed to get to work. It was simple enough from his position to kneel a little further down. Still caught in the cage of thick thighs, he had to wiggle his hips blindly, until the length of his curious, budding erection brushed heat. Pure, wet heat. Seconds after, Crocodile grunted. He seemed to relax his thigh muscles if just a tiny bit, so that much-needed cock could burrow more comfortably against his opening.
Buggy rocked forward. His head spun. He felt lightheaded, as all the blood in his body soared south, to the tip that caught in Crocodile's hole. Oh and it was soaking. Hardly any resistance to the first push that buried half his length inside.
At least, it would've stopped and smelled the roses at the half-way point, but someone — panting, delirious, desperate to cum — dug his heels on the low of Buggy's back—
"Fuck, oh fuck," he whimpered, as he sank down to the hilt. Like butter through a hot knife. Like. Like, something-something hot something hotter.
His brain might've started leaking out of his ears.
He gazed up, for a smidge of reassurance. But his eyes reached only as far as the swell of Croc's chest. Line of sight cut off at the underside of that strong jaw. The rest of his head blurred somewhere against a plush pillow.
"Move, mmmh…"
"I-I'm on it, sir," he gasped as ankles locked on the small of his back, yanked hard, and his cock already down to the root throbbed. The walls holding him in tight contracted.
Carefully, he tried pulling out to do his part. He got halfway before a growl, and the snap of heels, buried him home again. Move, the giant lug demanded, and did not allow its prey to move.
At this rate, Crocodile should just fuck himself on him, free Buggy of the responsibility.
He muttered, "Lemme get a damn chance in," and fought the python-embrace suffocating him. Despite the snapping and hissing, Buggy forced their bodies apart. The wet slap of skin on his pelvis, as he slammed in, ached deep in his gut.
Maybe realizing some of the effort's purpose, Crocodile loosened up. His legs parted wider. Hook circled dangerously on Buggy's neck. But it didn't slash his head off. It simply hung there. Okay. That's fine by me. A little decapitating wouldn't kill him. His lower half would keep pounding into its prize, pressing every last drop out of the huge man's insides.
The weight of the hook shifted. Buggy swallowed hard. The sharp point scratched along his nape, and Buggy's skin knit together in its trail. It left a faint, funny feeling. Warm. Sizzly.
Crocodile's good hand had its own ideas in mind. It scouted out one of Buggy's, grabbed it up, to pave a path to his tit. And the damn plushness of it failed to fit in Buggy's palm. If he squeezed, the meat swelled between his fingers.
"You, want me to, tease you?" His words wobbled uncertainly, as he grinded into that sucking heat. He clawed a single nail over a hard nub, and felt the clenched response, the hitch in Crocodile's chest.
Fuck, he was barely able to hold on to those pecs from below. His own torso lying on top of Crocodile's lower abdomen seemed so, pitifully narrow. Like wicker matches on top of a fallen log.
Crocodile was so huge. And, Buggy was laid on top fucking him.
He had to chop apart to even reach up and see how the spored-up man was enjoying, or not enjoying it. But to separate his head from his body would remove the hook's grip, so — irrationally, Buggy split at his diaphragm line. It left him a bit more breathless, but now he could float up, rise, keep both his hands kneading on soft tissue, and see—
The lust-hazy mess of Crocodile's face.
The red creeped down to his collarbone in a blushing spread. His dark hair fanned into the pillow. Those pale eyes, usually cutting and proud, were drooping half-close. Lips half-parted, with a bright spot of saliva on the lower one. Buggy saw why immediately, as Crocodile arched, tense, and bit a moan between his teeth.
"Clown," the pleasure-cloud lifted to narrow in rage. At being paid attention to, like that. Seen losing his composure to cock. It was a goddamn lethal view, up here. Goddamn beautiful.
The anger melted as Buggy's hips rocked and sped up. "I'll get you off," he promised, and not lightly, "I know you don't want a tease right now, and it's not. Just don't get mad at me for this."
"Mad…for…?"
One of the hands working tirelessly to pull and pinch at a heaving chest snaked lower. Not a second after, Buggy replaced it with his mouth. Really, it was worshipful, a relentless attempt to nip and suck the skin pink, in the form of an honest apology. With being kinda partly at fault — (if those marines and pirates hadn't trampled a perfectly good day!!) — and fully accountable for any danger brought to Cross Guild's triumvirate (Clause thirty-one, as cited). Please, please don't kill me later. I wanted to give you something nice for once, you big bully!
And he could feel it under his tongue. See it. The face paint smearing on the expanse of Croc's tits? Rosy red smudged around his nipple, teeth dents on the skin. The sweetly driven bruise-sucking and kissing on his sternum. That might stir Crocodile's anger. But everything else? — the hook pulled hard, his abdomen tightened. It must be especially sensitive, the underside of his pecs.
One final bite of the hardened nub. Crocodile jerked his knees higher. The wet vice around Buggy's cock slicked wetter. Really, really wet.
Buggy's lips, no longer painted in his show-approved lipstick, slipped off with a pop. "Did, you... cum with that?"
"Mmh, yes…"
A pause. The hook unwrapped from its prey, to tap its curve on Buggy's ruined face. A sigh now. But no cleaving happened. The split space between top- and bottom- halves of Buggy left some empty space for his long tangle of blue hair to spill into. It tickled where it touched on Crocodile's stomach, the man sitting up a bit out of reflex.
Buggy had apparently become cockwarming material, and a cuddle pillow for an equally pillowy chest. It was nice. Actually, very nice.
"Buggy."
He had almost fallen into a horny nap, when Crocodile spoke. Hips were rising up to take in his cock again. The hot flush to Crocodile's skin hadn't gone away.
"Okay." Buggy rubbed the heel of one palm on his eyelids. Wake the fuck up, those spores were kicking back into gear. "Okay. What are you feeling?"
Crocodile shook his head. The sweatier strands of his hair clung to his forehead and scarred cheek.
"Dunno, just, need… more."
Down to simple words. Anything else got lost in heaved breaths. The spores must be really messing with his head, besides all the dampness neutralizing his power.
"I'll, uh, give you more, I think I can. You don't even have to move, but I'll need a little, em, rearranging!"
With that, Buggy re-connected all his parts, then chopped again at a single point: his cock.
It stayed right where it had been for the last however-minutes, buried to the base, feeding in and out gently. Crocodile hummed as the rest of him scooted down the bed, his hook managing to tangle in the ponytail and tugging at his scalp. A minor complication, one he had to carefully lower from. Fortunately, Croc's limbs were also long as fuck. He could continue crawling on hands and knees, until hipbone and pelvic mound met eye-level.
There, Buggy found his mission. The pretty pleasure center of many people's dreams glistened so burdenously hard, so needy.
He sucked it into his mouth.
"Hah! Ah… you're…"
Cheeky break. "Pretty good at this? Just wait," Buggy smiled, the adrenaline rush of being so close, but staving off his orgasm unnaturally like this, always went straight to his head. It was as if all the blood meant to pump down to his cock pooled up in his brain, and tingled on his tongue as he pressed it flush to the apex of Crocodile's sex. Lipstick-swiped lips wrapped around it for a soft, lapping suck.
A fist cinched on his blue ponytail along with the hook's metal. Neither one pulled him away yet. They only held on.
He felt the ripple of muscle inside Crocodile, the next time he sucked — so wet — it made an indecent slurp. Once he latched on, there was no letting go.
"Fuck! F'ngh—" The hand on his hair tugged, once, before Crocodile grinded up to meet him. His body was squeezing again — cumming, for the third time? fourth, in his alone time? — and milking Buggy for all it was worth. Uselessly, since his detached cock could only dribble and throb, nothing more to offer.
And Crocodile must have realized it. The clenched fist urged him to sit up, up so their generous emperor could reattach and get back to fucking him stupid.
"I can't… C'mon. Clown…"
"Yeah, I know," his hands pet down Crocodile's sides as if to soothe a feral animal, "Be patient, I'm really good at this, promise!!"
Then his hands chopped free of his wrists.
There was a thought in his mind. A test that he figured could be possible, but the kinds of partners Buggy has slept with in the past wouldn't be interested in. They were also reasonably-sized people. The average across humans.
Crocodile was anything but average. So, as his cock slowly pumped inside that slippery hole, Buggy brought one of his floaty hands down onto it.
Carefully, he pushed his cock all the way in, deeply in, until the base vanished inside the tight squeeze of Crocodile's entrance. Just for a second, and there, at the keeny sound whistling from Crocodile's throat, Buggy tentatively pressed a finger in.
"Bug—" A sharp gasp interrupted that simple name. Crocodile spread his thighs, twitched them up, confused, because there was a cock still buried home inside, and fingers pressing in after it.
Only Buggy could really feel the gap behind his cock like this. His Devil Fruit, a real devilish thing, to allow him to compress his fingers together, touch the smooth, chopped surface of his length, and grasp it.
"Bug-Buggy, what—" With his power, Buggy pulled his cock out, to sit in the palm of his hand, spread the flower of his fingertips, all the way inside Croc. Fisting him and cock-fucking him both.
It was a sight. The way Crocodile ripped a new tear in the bedspread leaning back, and yet rocked his hips to take that combination. Buggy's cock inside his hand, shoved inside his hole to the knuckles.
"You, really could take a whole arm if you worked for it, couldn't you. Wow. That's, amazing." His praise came off breathless and aroused, like he was the one getting split deliciously in half.
"Shut-it. Fuck, I told—you, don't fucking, tease," Crocodile panted, clawed at the tender tissue under his tits. He rocked into the impossible fullness again.
"Okay, I won't torture you. Clause twelve, right?"
"'Threat of death… if Chairman is found to be plotting a coup'," Crocodile mindlessly cited.
"I dunno if torturing an orgasm counts as a coup, though. Just give it a sec." Distantly, his cock pulsed and pumped, like a machine's instrument setting. His fingers squeezed in the cramped space only a slight bit, but it was enough to make the pump of his cock shallower. Still with one other hand available, he had one more plan. To pet the neglected mound right before his eyes. Palm the swollen nub there—
Every lax muscle of Crocodile's sopping wetness tightened. His body arched almost painfully. Buggy couldn't see his face clearly anymore, smothered into his pillows as it was. Oh but he heard the scream. Felt the vibrating pitch of it from inside, as he didn't stop, he kept the pace, movements a grind. He palmed, shoved, stretched as much as Crocodile's body would allow, fingers on the outside and inside working that sweet spot driving his bed partner wild—
Then Crocodile kicked the air, and a whole lot of arousal gushed out of the fuck-fisted hole.
Buggy froze. Heard the shaky moans bitten into the pillow. "Nnuh…ah…hah…"
Ah. He made Croccy squirt.
With molasses slow care, his hands slicked away to rejoin their wrists. Buggy, stared. It had been his goal, but fuck, he hadn't actually thought Crocodile still carried that much in him. Shouldn't he cumming high and dry by now?
"Mmh," the man in question mumbled, very much jelly-limbed and out of breath. "Come…in…"
Come inside? Buggy practically leapt at the permission, instantly reconnecting cock to hips — flooded with every sensation he had detached away by the groin—
His whine reached an embarrassing pitch. Hot, burning hot all around his poor purpled cock. Two pumps and he was spilling his load into Crocodile's well-fucked hole.
"…Uhn…"
"...Worn out now?"
Crocodile was gazing blankly at the ceiling of his tent. Unresponsive. Focused on breathing.
"Ah, did I do too much?"
In the calm of the storm, Buggy reassessed his chances. Not dead or maimed yet. All limbs attached. Jugular safe from sharp incisors.
His hands separated to carefully pick up a few silky rags from the cabinet and the cucumber water. He went about both drying up the sand man and supplying some much needed hydration. Things may end up repeating for hours, if not given the chance to sieve into sand and sort out the spores.
"You asked… if torturing an orgasm counted." The beaten man spared a moment to gulp down the rest of the water. "I won't count it. Let's call it your act of vengeance on me, then."
"Is that what you think, huh?" Buggy wouldn't exactly call them even. Comparing the pain and humiliation he had suffered at the creation of Cross Guild, with how helpless Crocodile became inside his own body to accept Buggy's help. Well, he would say, definitely all water under the bridge now.
Something tensed in Crocodile, followed by a sharp grunt. His face twisted in pain.
"Still?"
"I'm…dry now… just," everything broke away into sand for a minute. It rubbed and scratched along Buggy's skin, a bit abrasively. The damp spots all over the sheets got sucked up. Then, Crocodile reformed, chest-down, ass up, and sighed.
"There," the man muffled into the bed.
Buggy poked his back. The muscle twitched under his touch. "No more spores in your system I take it?" No more need of the clown. Responsibility completed.
As he went to stand, the hook loop caught on his leg.
"Where do you think you're going?" He had a frightened little retort on the tip of his tongue but Croc beat him to it. "Shit boss you are."
"What, I...I am an excellent boss!!"
"Where's the tomatoes you brought." It was not a question, but a demand.
An hour later, Buggy still hadn't been kicked out of the, nest of luxury. Crocodile regained mind enough to set the bedroom rules: no shoes inside, which he had to prop on top of the staircase. Pants were optional wear. Facepaint had to be completely removed, or him be removed. Hair perfumes could be shared, though only two drops a day. All they were missing was the paper to sign.
Already Buggy acted on the expectations of these vastly different clauses: bed-visitor would be permitted ten minutes of top spooning, and no more.
"I'll memorize these too, Sir. Clause names and all."
"Y'bett'r treat 'em like law," Croc mumbled around a mouthful of tomato.
Alright. Not the vacation Buggy planned. Nor would anyone in their right mind have asked for it. But from within these tent walls, he could make sure no pen scratched onto paper. Just, his body. By the faint threat of teeth.
Yeah, he truly was fate's little masochistic survival monkey.