Ornamental

by RosiePeverell

"The look in Crocodile's eyes nearly floors him – there's such desire there that Buggy can hardly bare to perceive it. Crocodile rakes him over, taking him in, from the jewels glinting at his throat to the trail of hair at his navel, and the cold crystals circling his slender waist."

Kuraigana Island, gripped by the worst storm it's seen in years, howls and shudders around Castle Mihawk late one night. The hiss of rain on high windowpanes fills the main hall with a pleasant static, and now and then a distant boom of thunder rolls.

Enclosed within the castle sit three pirates – Hawk-Eyed Mihawk, sly Crocodile, and Buggy the Clown, wine-drunk and warmed by the glow of the dining hall fire.

Buggy slouches lower in his seat on a long high-backed couch, enjoying the way the velvet feels on the exposed small of his back. He's near nodding-off now, his wine glass hanging empty from one white gloved hand. He sits, deliciously relaxed, between Crocodile and Mihawk as they discuss their various endeavours – Crocodile has recently come into possession of a desert country named Alabasta (Buggy's never heard of it, but it sounds awful – dry and hot and depressing), while Mihawk continues to renovate the island, once devastated by war, to his liking.

Their voices drift over Buggy's tired head, deep and low and oddly comforting.

"Mm, well the people of Alabasta are… somewhat challenging," Croc muses. "But they've welcomed me quite openly."

Mihawk nods thoughtfully, and swirls red wine in his glass. Buggy feels him move away to reach towards the ornate wooden coffee table before them, and moments later hears the slow glug of first Mihawk's glass, then his own, being topped up.

"You do have a way with words," Mihawk says.

"It's far better to be adored and comfortable than to spend every day running from the idiots at Navy HQ."

"I'll drink to that."

He's always enjoyed a quiet life, has Mihawk.

Crocodile nudges Buggy's leg with his hook, jerking him fully awake. His foot kicks at one of the empty bottles on the floor, rolling it slowly across the deep red rug. "Sleepy, clown?"

"No!" Buggy glares at him. "Bored, actually."

"He has a point, I suppose," Crocodile says to Mihawk, over Buggy's head. "Hawk-eyes, isn't there anything to do here besides sit around drinking wine?"

"No," Mihawk says, after a pause. "Not during a storm. But you're not really complaining, are you?"

"I just hate to know that one of your guests isn't entertained," he grins, and chuckles, slow and deep.

"There are some strange old things up in the attic, I suppose," Mihawk muses. "Suits of armour, swords, various antiques. Most of it was left here by whomsoever, long ago."

"Sounds dreadful," Crocodile says. "But shall we go? I need to walk off some of this tarapaca."

Crocodile stands; he grips the arm of the couch to steady himself for a moment, then straightens, staring down at Buggy.

Buggy contemplates, only for a second, refusing to go. He could send the two of them away to look at ugly antiques and go to sleep on the couch, warmed by the dying fire.

Then Crocodile says, "Get up," and he finds himself obeying, as if in a stupor.

On his feet he really feels the several glasses of wine he's put away – his body and his mind feel detached, more so than in the real and actual way his devil fruit power allows, though he's pleased to find he can still think more or less straight if he really tries at it.

Quietly, Buggy trails behind the two Warlords as they lead the way upstairs. Down a long hallway lined with dusty old portraits, up a balustraded staircase lit by metal torches, to a heavy wooden door unlocked by a key Mihawk produces from a pocket, and a narrow stairwell leading up into pitch darkness. Mihawk pauses here and takes a torch from the wall beside him before ascending.

They emerge into a wide-open space with a high ceiling, wooden rafters and planked floors, and a complete and utter lack of outside light. From the moment he steps into the room Buggy can feel the stagnant air stretching in all directions around him, the queer echoes his footsteps give, the cold untouched feeling of an attic storehouse consigned to the dust of centuries.

Mihawk takes the torch along the inner wall and lights the brackets one by one, bringing the 'strange old things' he'd alluded to into starker relief.

Buggy also sees several extremely narrow windows lining the south wall. Though exposed to the outside, they're not much more than a few inches wide, and the driving wind and rain of the storm barely penetrate.

Crocodile, belying his actual interest in the collection, drifts away as sand to a heavy brass-and-wood chest at the far end of the room, while Mihawk walks in heeled boots to a bookshelf.

Buggy looks around, brows furrowed.

"I thought this was meant to be less boring," he says, a slight whine creeping into his voice. They ignore him. It's not a pointed silence – they've become engrossed in the attic collection and have simply forgotten his existence.

Which really, really won't do.

He drifts first to Mihawk, flipping through a huge leather-bound tome. "What's that?"

"A book," Mihawk replies dryly. "You'd hate it."

Buggy huffs and pouts over Mihawk's shoulder – he fails to react, engrossed. Buggy leaves him to it and glides towards Crocodile.

As he approaches the man's broad back, Buggy notes a sudden change in his stance. While before he'd been relaxed, calmly sifting through the huge chest and pulling out hats and coats and leather belts to admire, now he seems stiff and all too still. Buggy continues to advance, though more slowly now.

As he comes into the Warlord's space, Crocodile turns –

and Buggy stops, faced with something… incomprehensible, almost.

Crocodile calls over his head, "Hawk-eyes, where did you get this?"

Glancing over from his book, Mihawk frowns. "I told you, most of this isn't mine. I assume it was left here by a previous occupant. It is… somewhat beautiful though."

"Mhm, isn't it?"

Buggy, floating at shoulder height to Crocodile and a mere two feet away, simply stares.

What Crocodile holds in his hook and his hand really is exquisitely gorgeous. An intricate, crystalline piece clearly meant to fit a human body – it shines in the torchlight, glinting as it moves ever so slightly in Crocodile's grasp. Buggy notices how carefully the Warlord holds it – he recognises its delicacy and treats it with the respect it deserves.

"Something like this must be worth a fortune," Crocodile muses. Mihawk, walking over – still holding the leather-bound tome – nods.

"I believe those are real diamonds," Mihawk says, reaching out a hand and letting a supple, curved piece trail over his fingers. "Beautiful."

Buggy gulps. "A f- a fortune you say?"

Crocodile looks at him knowingly. "Oh, yes. Hundreds of millions of berī, most likely. Though without an appraisal..."

"Hawk-eyes," Buggy ventures, "perhaps I could –"

"I know what you're going to ask me," Mihawk says, and waves his hands. There's the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Do what you like with it. I've no use for such a thing. It's the books that really interest me…"

"I can think of a few uses for it," Crocodile murmurs.

"Huh? What would you want with it, Croco-chan?" Buggy whines. "You're a Warlord, I'm just a poor pirate with a crew of pitiful subordinates to support. Just hand it over…"

"You really want it, don't you?"

"Yes! Yes, can't you tell?"

"Well then, you can have it."

"Thank you, Croco-chan, I knew you'd see sense -"

"If," Crocodile interjects, his eyes dark, "you put it on."

Buggy gapes. Beside him, Mihawk raises his head, listening closely now.

"If I p… if I put it… pardon? You w-want me to…"

"If you won't, I'll keep it for myself."

"You must be joking!" Buggy nearly yells, suddenly furious, though he knows there's no trace of humour or irony in Crocodile's request.

"Show me how much you want it," Crocodile says, a troublesome grin on his face. He's enjoying this very much, Buggy can tell.

"You messed up, horrible old bastard, Crocodile."

"Fine, then." The Warlord moves to put the piece inside his ginormous coat, out of Buggy's sight.

"Wait! Stop, I'll…" He swallows, hard. He can feel a heat rushing to his face, his ears, his neck. He's glad for the makeup that hopefully hides the worst of it.

Crocodile says nothing, brows raised.

"I.. okay, well if you promise… I'll put it on."

Buggy can't imagine what Crocodile gets out of this, can't fathom his interest when he no doubt has many similar things at home in his loathsome palace.

Croc holds the piece out – diamonds glint tantalisingly inches from Buggy's face, and he reaches up to take it.

It's heavier than he'd expected in his grasp, the cold of the metal fastenings biting the exposed skin of his wrists. It feels expensive, all diamonds and segmented metal, with strong wire and elastic to keep the flow of it together. It could be garish, but there's something about it that defies the definition.

All of a sudden, he wants to put it on. He wants to see how it would look, how such richness might feel against his skin. He wants to see their faces at the sight of him, extravagant and on show. Flashy. Oh, yes.

He's topless before he can think too hard about it, pulling his long ponytail through in a practised sweep and dropping his shirt to the dusty floor. Crocodile watches, eyes narrowed. No doubt he's wondering if Buggy will try to make off with it, but no – Buggy needs to see himself in it now perhaps more than Crocodile does. Perhaps.

He gasps as the cool of the metal and diamonds kiss his skin, gliding with some resistance over his arms and sides as he pulls it on front-first. His arms go through two small holes, while a larger loop fits – a little tightly – over his head. He has to undo his ponytail to get the thing on, struggles with it a moment before Mihawk steps in to assist. Buggy's not expecting that, goes still as Mihawk pulls his hair out of the way. He lays the supple collar against the nape of his neck, and the sharp cold sends a delicious shiver down his spine.

He realises, with a start, that it fits him near perfectly. The cross on the front rests over his diaphragm, and two interlinked pieces curve around his pecs. It feels snug, as though it were made for him. Lower down, a few long pieces trail, awaiting someone to fix them together.

Wordlessly, Buggy turns his back to Crocodile, and equally as silent the Warlord does up the fastenings. He brushes the small of Buggy's back with a knuckle – accidentally or not, Buggy can't tell. It's far more pleasant than the velvet of the couch, and his stomach lurches with something like anticipation.

Finally, he turns to face them both, grinning and holding out his arms as he would to an adoring circus crowd. "Well?"

The look in Crocodile's eyes nearly floors him – there's such desire there that Buggy can hardly bare to perceive it. Crocodile rakes him over, taking him in, from the jewels glinting at his throat to the trail of hair at his navel, and the cold crystals circling his slender waist.

Suddenly, Buggy understands.

Crocodile wanted this all along.

Buggy remembers the way he'd felt slouched on the couch between them, the way the warmth of the fire seemed to pale at times to the heat he'd felt from Crocodile's presence – something he'd chosen to ignore at the time, believing it to be the effect of the tarapaca Mihawk kept in constant supply.

And Mihawk… he's far harder to read, but the swordsman watches him with what Buggy feels is a quiet hunger.

"What do you think, Hawk-eyes?" Crocodile drones.

"Same as you, I suspect," Mihawk says.

"Wh-what are you two talking about?" Buggy says, suddenly feeling much too exposed. His skin's started to prickle in the cool attic air, while the diamond harness leeches what remains of his body heat.

Crocodile walks towards him then, closing the gap between them in a few short strides. He raises his hook to lift Buggy's chin – his body segments at the contact, allowing Crocodile to raise him to nearly head-height. "You look beautiful in that thing," Crocodile grins. "I think I'd like to have you."

"You've always appreciated expensive things," Mihawk says quietly. "I suppose he's no exception, now."

The way they're talking about him, not to him… Buggy shudders, heat tickling his abdomen, the base of his spine. He's getting hard, can feel his cock pushing the fabric of his flashy red pants. Surely Croco-chan and Hawk-eyes have noticed by now. He licks his lips, head still tilted by the hard touch of Crocodile's hook. "Beautiful, huh?" he says. A slight quaver in his voice belies the quiet desperation he feels.

"Go ahead of us, Hawk-eyes," Crocodile murmurs.

"Of course." Mihawk smiles knowingly. His cloak whips out of sight down the dark stairwell, and all is quiet.

"You sent him away," Buggy whimpers. "Why?"

"He'll be waiting for us. I wanted a moment with you first."

"For what?"

He holds his breath, watches as Crocodile drops his arm and steps back, allowing Buggy to sink back down to his detached lower half. The Warlord looms a full two feet over him, suddenly so imposing in the half-light that Buggy gulps.

Wordlessly, Crocodile begins to pace around him. As Buggy turns to match his stride, he snaps "No," and Buggy stills.

"You're oddly obedient towards me," Crocodile muses. "Why?"

"The wine," Buggy blurts. Of course it's the wine – it's certainly not fear, no sir.

"Don't lie to me."

"Does it matter?"

Crocodile stares at him silently, then smirks.

"Before I take you… downstairs, I want to understand your stake in this, besides the invaluable diamond harness you're wearing so well. You came here with us – why?"

"A holiday, it's hard being captain to those guys, I –"

"A holiday, sure, but with us? That's no holiday. As you say, I'm a horrible old bastard, and Mihawk's hardly a comforting presence. You were hoping for something else. If not this, then…"

"I wanted to… to drink," Buggy whimpers, still as a statue as Crocodile circles him. He's more wolf than reptile in this moment, his dark oiled hair coming loose in stands over his eyes, his shoulders hunched towards his prey as though he might strike at any time. "I wanted to tell flashy pirate stories and eat my fill and wake at noon in silk sheets to a beautiful maid bringing me coffee, and – "

"Liar," Crocodile purrs. He stops. He's behind Buggy now, too close for comfort. "You wanted to be used, clown."

Heat, sharp and cruel, rushes to Buggy's cock, filling him with an arousal so potent it hurts. "I… I…"

"Am I right?"

Buggy remembers the invitation. A den den mushi call from Hawk-eyes himself, promising wine and food and good company – if he came alone.

He'd jumped at the chance. Mihawk, usually so private, inviting him to Kuraigana Castle? He simply had to go.

He'd asked, truly very innocently, who else would be there.

"Just Crocodile," Mihawk had answered.

Even then, something inside Buggy had twitched – his skin flushed, and a discomfiting feeling not unlike hope had begun to manifest.

Now Crocodile stands behind him, raising gooseflesh on his neck and arms as he fights the urge to turn around. It's easier to say it to an empty space, anyway.

"Yes," he whines. "That's what I want."

There's no further preamble – he feels himself lifted and carried, on a Haki-laden whorl of shifting sand, down the dark stairs to the middle of the adjacent hallway, where they quickly arrive before a half-closed wooden door.

Crocodile sets him down gently, reforms, brushes mussed-up hair behind Buggy's ear.

"After you."

Inside, Mihawk waits. He's taken up a comfortable seat in a high-backed armchair, velveted and lavish like the couch downstairs. He watches as they enter, silent for now. He's removed his cloak, wears only a white shirt and loose black pants. His feet, Buggy notices, are bare. He's truly relaxed, then.

Crocodile brings the door to a close behind them. The room – what Buggy understands now must be Mihawk's master bedroom, is mostly filled up by a king-sized bed, adorned with assorted cushions, silk pillows, silk sheets, and a thick comforter. Three tall windows crossed by dark iron show the height of the storm still raging outside, while a small fireplace burns pleasantly in the corner. Cosy, unassuming – an ideal place to be defiled by two powerful Warlords.

Crocodile shrugs off his coat, steps out of his fancy snakeskin shoes. He unbuttons his blood-red shirt almost to the navel, but remains dressed otherwise, clearly wanting to take a little time with Buggy first.

The room feels smaller, all of a sudden, as Crocodile crowds him against the bed. The backs of his thighs bump against it, feeling the coolness of the sheets. He shivers as Crocodile touches him, brushing over diamond and wire to the exposed parts of his chest and stomach, the taut wiriness of his body, small in the Warlord's presence. Then Crocodile pushes him back, onto the bed. He obeys without thought, begins to shuffle back to make space between them, thinking Crocodile will follow him – this is where Crocodile wants him, now, so this is where he'll go.

But the Warlord grips his thighs and pulls him closer, so easily, to the edge of the mattress again, removes his plain black shoes, then wordlessly unbuttons Buggy's pants. They come off easy – he's lost his erection in the literal whirlwind of getting here, though he's not worried about that. In his underwear before Crocodile, with gorgeous shining diamonds adorning his body and his long hair splayed behind him, Buggy feels with certainty that he looks fucking incredible, can see confirmation of that thought in Crocodile's eyes and in Mihawk's behind him.

"He looks pathetic, doesn't he?" Crocodile smirks. "Expensive, maybe, but…"

"Wretched, yes," Mihawk confirms.

"Flushed and untidy," Croc continues. "Whorish, really…"

Buggy gapes. This isn't right –

"I can help him, I suppose."

"Are you sure you could?"

"Oh, yes. Might take some work, though."

Buggy can't find words, can hardly understand what's happening – only he realises with a start that he's hard again, his erection showing clearly against the sapphire blue of his underwear. They're talking about him, not to him, again – he realises that it thrills him.

"See?" Crocodile says. "He's aching for it."

He tries to protest; then Crocodile's hand, borne by a spear of sand, reaches out to cover his mouth with a force that sends his head snapping back. The scent of cigar smoke and spice – cinnamon, perhaps? – fills his nose, making his eyes water. He blinks tears away, breathes sharply through his nostrils. The metal in the harness digs into his back against the mattress. It's hardly any warmer now than it was when he put it on, though the exposed parts of his skin feel caressed by the light of the fire behind him.

"You know you're nobody, don't you?" Crocodile demands.

Eyes still stinging and teary, Buggy nods.

"And you want us to help you?"

He nods again.

"Good. Now…" Crocodile says.

Buggy starts as the Warlord's golden hook touches the inside of his thigh, gliding towards his crotch. Shivers like electric darts explode within him, and his hips buck involuntarily upwards. His breath comes hard and fast, blowing across Crocodile's fingers. His own hands, still gloved, clutch at the comforter; he resists the urge to touch any part of Crocodile, though he needs to. He feels, perhaps instinctively, that this isn't allowed yet.

As he settles, Crocodile moves the hook again – this time loops it into the elastic of his underwear, pulling them slowly down. Buggy's hips shift again as his cock comes free, lifts his legs to allow Crocodile to remove the garment easily.

Naked now except for his gloves and diamonds, Buggy stills. Crocodile, sensing his full acquiescence, removes the hand from his mouth. Though he wants this so, incredibly much, Buggy's instinct always is to talk back – but Crocodile doesn't want that, he thinks. He wants Buggy submissive, pliable. Dressed in finery and displayed, splayed – he's a thing, an ornament, a pretty toy to be taken apart in front of them.

If Crocodile wants to understand him, it's not for whatever's inside his head.

There's a rustling behind Crocodile, and Buggy lifts his head to see Mihawk, still relaxed in his chair, pulling his own erect cock out of his pants. He strokes himself, watching.

Then Crocodile spreads Buggy's legs, snapping his attention back.

Somehow, from somewhere, Crocodile's produced a small bottle of lubricant, which he pumps now onto two fingers of his right hand.

"Eyes on me, clown, and bend your legs" he purrs.

Buggy obeys the command, then squirms and gasps as Crocodile rubs the cool lubricant into him, then enters him with a finger. The Warlord's trapped his waist with the cruel curve of that hook, cool metal sending extra shivers up his spine. Crocodile works inside Buggy, quickly making room for a second digit. Excitement lances through him, curling inside his gut, twitching his legs, shivering up and down his spine. The cold of the hook, the warmth of the fire, the heat-sucking diamonds sitting heavily on his chest and digging into his back, his ass hot and tight around Croc's fingers – every sensation demands part of him, though there's not room enough in any person in the world, he thinks, to give in to every one of them at once.

Through a haze, Mihawk's voice comes. "Lend me a hand, Buggy."

He obeys, knowing what Hawk-eyes wants right away; he detaches his right hand from the comforter and sends it towards the swordsman. Mihawk catches the hand easily, curling his fingers around Buggy's goose-fleshed wrist, and Buggy feels the contrasting cool of the air on his palm as his glove is removed. He's guided towards Mihawk's cock – Hawk-eyes is rock hard and huge, curved and comfortable in Buggy's grasp. Mihawk keeps a hand over Buggy's own, which he's glad for. He's not sure he can concentrate well enough right now.

He wants, desperately, to look, but Croc holds his gaze. On me, he seems to say.

His possessiveness over Buggy's body is starting to get… really fucking hot.

He groans and squirms again as Crocodile adds a third finger, stretching him a little painfully now despite the lubrication and adding further to the sensations coursing through him from the tip of his head to every curled toe.

"I-If I'm s-so pathetic," he gasps, "why d-do you want me?"

"I like to play with pitiful things," Croc answers. "And you… well."

"You think I l-look good though, don't you?"

He's pushing him – has to, although he's sure that's not exactly what Crocodile wants. He has to regain… something, can't lose himself entirely here.

Crocodile finger-fucks him harder, curling violently into that sweet spot and bringing fresh tears to his eyes. "Delightfully so," he drawls. "Now shut up."

And all of a sudden, Croc lets him go – uncurls the hook from around Buggy's waist, takes his fingers from his aching, twitching asshole. Shocked by the unexpected emptiness, Buggy simply lays there and breathes, concentrating on the warmth of Mihawk's cock in his distant fist.

"Over to the pillows," Crocodile orders. "And wait."

Buggy obeys, of course. He's desperate for that full feeling again, knows with some trepidation what must be coming for him.

Crocodile, obscured a little by the comparative dimness of the room near the door, undresses. From a bed of silk covered pillows and tasselled cushions, Buggy watches as he removes his socks, pants, shirt, and underwear, 'til all that remains is the golden hook. Buggy stares, skin flushed and speckled with sweat.

Crocodile's quite handsome, this he knows – but seeing him undressed is like seeing him anew. His skin, marked by a constellation of old scars, glows faintly in the firelight. Dark hair dusts his chest, stomach and back; taut muscles ripple beneath,

He's not much larger in girth than Mihawk, as Buggy can now see from his prime pillowed vantage point, but he's long; and veined, and slightly darker between the legs than he is everywhere else.

It's taken Crocodile longer than Buggy would like to undress himself – he's not only folded his shirt and laid his cufflinks on top of it, but hung up his trousers on a purpose made hook on the door. He's not only placed his socks inside his shoes, but lined them up neatly by the dresser. It's so intentional, and absolutely infuriating.

Finally, trembling and incensed by the lack of contact, he rips the glove on his free hand off with his teeth, and reaches down to touch himself –

and stops as Crocodile flies as sand to rest in front of him, the weight of his body pressing the mattress around Buggy down.

"I said wait," Crocodile snarls. Unbidden, Buggy whimpers an apology, slapping his hand back onto the comforter where he clutches, hard, at the soft fabric.

Crocodile takes a moment to look over at Mihawk, still idly stroking himself with Buggy's hand. The swordsman nods – go ahead.

Not permission, exactly, but acquiescence – perhaps Mihawk knows he'll get his turn, eventually. Perhaps whatever agreement the two of them have doesn't involve fucking each other.

Crocodile, shifting back, barks a command, "On your stomach."

Whining ever so slightly, he complies. With his back to the Warlord, face pressed into a brocaded cushion, Buggy breathes, tries to steady his racing heart for a moment in preparation. He feels Crocodile's cock bump against his ass, gasps, tries to breathe.

The hook first brushes his long hair from his back, then comes around to rest at his throat, the spike of it putting pressure on his jugular – a threat? A promise? He can't tell. He's never not aware of Crocodile's strength, can always somehow feel the intent radiating from him, the line he walks between suave businessman and violent murderer, but here, in this place, it's different. Hotter, somehow. The idea that Croc could cut his head off – whatever that meant for the weaker man – or throttle the life from him… he finds some sick, sharp pleasure in it.

And it is sick, really, how Buggy feels when Crocodile, his cock slicked with lube, finally pushes inside of him, how he gasps, how his knees weaken as a tidal wave of intense heat spreads from his groin to his chest, lodging itself in his throat. He wants to choke – how is it possible? Crocodile's so fucking big, and he's sure no one on any sea on any island in the goddamn world has ever felt so full.

His right hand tightens on Mihawk's cock, an involuntary spasm, and the swordsman groans. It's too much, too much –

Crocodile hasn't moved yet. He kneels behind Buggy, waiting in heavy silence.

Buggy senses a look exchanged between the other two. He crouches on hand and knees, shuddering, head down, trying not to collapse.

And gasps as Mihawk's hands grasp him – in all the heat and breath of it he hadn't heard or seen Hawk-eyes move, hadn't sensed his own right hand drawing closer. He hadn't noticed him undressing, either, but he's entirely nude, and so warm.

Crocodile pulls him up, gently, as Mihawk slides in beneath him, catching his right arm and carefully fitting the detached hand to it. He settles back against the bed, pulling Buggy close enough that he can put his mouth to his ear. Buggy groans as Crocodile slides out of him just slightly, adjusting to their new position.

"He's a lot, isn't he?" Mihawk murmurs, and Buggy nods.

So they've fucked before. Of course. He wonders idly if Crocodile's always so… giving.

Mihawk's eyes, like pools of molten gold, catch Buggy's, and he almost forgets the massive cock currently stretching his asshole, the heavy diamond harness digging into his skin – has hardly any time to process that before Mihawk kisses him, pulling Buggy down to meet him. His mouth is soft, his breath somehow fresh despite the bottle of tarapaca on his lips. Mihawk murmurs into the kiss, "Relax…" and Buggy feels himself melt, a little.

It's undeniably romantic, that kiss. Surprising, for a moment, until Buggy remembers Mihawk filling his glass, the way he'd taken Buggy's soaked raincoat at the massive front door – had met Buggy himself, not left some butler to do it (and in fact Buggy's not sure that Kuraigana Castle even has staff). He'd handed him a towel to dry his face and hair, and shown him to a little bathroom by the kitchen where he could fix his makeup. Mihawk, despite all appearances, is just a little bit sweet.

But Buggy's in more of a situation now, because Mihawk is very naked and very hard, and while Crocodile had sat patiently inside him as Mihawk combed a hand through his hair and kissed the tension from his shoulders, Mihawk has been… moving. Shifting, ever so slightly, against Buggy. He gasps as he feels Mihawk's cock twitch against his own, then lowers his head and groans. They're going to fucking kill me.

As if in agreement, Crocodile starts to move.

The time they'd taken to let Buggy adjust had helped, no doubt, but being fucked by Crocodile is still like being torn open in myriad wonderful ways – and Buggy supposes for a moment that he could use his devil fruit to make himself more comfortable, but he doesn't want that, not really.

With the first thrust he nearly bites his tongue; with the second he's lowered his head into the crook of Mihawk's neck, groaning; and with the third all thoughts leave his mind, taken over by the electric intensity of feeling, the blind insanity of it. He can barely feel the silk sheets clutched in his hands, nor the weight of the diamond harness clinging to his back and chest.

Buggy's world narrows to a point, a small range of motion – he hears his own moans and gasps distantly, as though they're uttered by someone else. His skin grows slick with sweat, and he begins to lose strength in his arms, gradually collapsing to Mihawk's chest with a breathy whine. Mihawk holds him, then, keeping him steady as Crocodile strokes in and out of him, the Warlord's face, though Buggy can't see it, set in a dark, concentrated half-smirk. His huge hands, gripping Buggy's waist, tighten and un-tighten, leaving marks that'll surely bruise later. Crocodile's many rings dig painfully into his skin. (Later, he'll find an almost-perfect imprint.)

And beneath Buggy, Mihawk keeps him in a warm, slick embrace.

With a struggle, he refocuses. He can smell florals and a pleasant candle-smoke musk, realising with pleasure that it's Mihawk's smell, and he breathes in deeply, exhaling with another whine as Crocodile slows for a moment to readjust.

Mihawk raises a hand to brush hair from Buggy's face, catching his eyes with a golden stare.

Without really thinking, Buggy leans in and kisses him again. It takes Mihawk off guard for a moment, but he reciprocates quickly, pressing into Buggy's mouth with a smile. The sly chuckle that escapes from Mihawk makes Buggy blush, and he feels silly for just a second before Mihawk's hands – big as they are they don't measure to Crocodile's – rise to touch either side of his neck.

And as that kiss deepens, and Buggy grows warm with its intensity, Crocodile slams into him from behind.

A sound he's never heard before escapes from his mouth into Mihawk's. He feels, more intently than ever, the situation he's in.

Because Crocodile's focused, it seems, on unravelling him for good.

And that simply won't do.

He grinds backward, pushing himself further onto Crocodile's cock with a moan, only eclipsed by the sharp huff of breath from the Warlord himself – though the bump of that perfect cock so deep inside him has him seeing stars for a moment.

He forgets Mihawk, that kind warmth embracing him lost in a storm of cruel, calculated movement, every rock of his hips hot with intent. Within seconds he feels a shift, not just within Crocodile but in the air itself. He shivers. The room has changed, hasn't it?

He sneaks a look back, and grins at the sight of Crocodile with his head thrown back and eyes closed.

His head again at Mihawk's chest, he concentrates on fucking Crocodile, trying to ignore for now the way Mihawk's cock rubs against his own, though the longer this goes on the harder that becomes. It's a triumph, really, when Crocodile's huge hands grasp at his hips, so tightly that his range of movement is stifled in favour of the Warlord's blind indulgence, the gasps and moans he lets out as he comes, given over to senselessness. Buggy whines, lost in Crocodile's pleasure – though not so much that he forgets the body beneath him.

Heavy-lidded and flushed, Mihawk watches him. The rock and tilt of Buggy's body has been moving Mihawk in kind. He feels like a jewelled metronome.

"Hawk.. eye," he pants, as Crocodile shudders again, and finally slows to a stop.

Eyes closed now, Mihawk groans.

"What do you want, Mihawk?" Buggy whispers.

Buggy can see Mihawk's jaw clench, the tightening of muscle in his cheeks.

The room, so warm and heavy with the smell of sweat, smoke, spice, sex – stills.

Buggy leans forward until his mouth rests against the cold, red shell of Mihawk's ear.

"Tell me you want me," he whispers.

Mihawk growls, and lifts his hips. Buggy feels himself emptied, and the warm rush of seed that slips down the insides of his legs, and gasps as Mihawk shifts Buggy to his side, back onto the cool satin sheets and pillows. Diamonds grasp at his skin, pinching and cutting – this thing was never meant to be worn, he thinks, only admired – yet here he is.

"Would you have me?" Mihawk says, quietly now.

"P-please…"

Again Buggy wonders how he looks, splayed used and damp on the Warlord's bed, diamonds glinting in orange firelight. His back stings, sweat mingling with half a dozen tiny cuts bought about by the harness – how will Mihawk see him, after this, for bleeding on those perfect satin sheets?

He whimpers again, "Please," barely feeling the words leave his lips before Mihawk pushes inside him.

He's lost, then, to a sea of stars. He watches the ceiling, feels his hands grasping at smooth cold fabric, his head now and then threatening to hit the bedframe. He wonders for a moment about Crocodile, alone and spent at the end of the bed – until Mihawk arches back, slowing his rhythm, eyes closing in pleasure as Croc roughly kisses his neck. Crocodile keeps his eyes on Buggy's as he nuzzles into the swordsman, strands of dark hair falling forward to partially cover one eye.

Then Crocodile moves, his bulk denting the mattress around Buggy's body until he finally settles at his side. Crocodile watches his face for a few moments, seeming to take it in. Quietly, he says, "Seems your makeup's wearing off, clown", before lowering his head and planting his lips on Buggy's own. He realises that this is the first time Crocodile's kissed him, and that he never, not once, expected it, but now that it's here he can't help but gasp and shudder and move in closer to the dark-featured Warlord, shifting his hips slightly under Mihawk to touch one naked thigh to Crocodile's own.

The kiss is heavy, like being pored over by spiced molten syrup. An acrid taste fills his mouth, then sweetness, then something like cinnamon or clove.

And it's not tender, not by half – Crocodile's body is hard and tensed, and even now there's a frown decorating his features. Day-old stubble rubs into Buggy's face, and he wonders why it's happening at all. How, in a million years, could Crocodile decide he wants to do this? How do they look in this moment? Frowning now, Buggy pulls back.

For a moment he stares. What is this look on Crocodile's face? He remembers the dark desire that exuded from him in the attic, his hand on Buggy's mouth, the way he'd looked when Buggy had taken some semblance of control over him as he fucked him.

Finally, he says, "It's okay," and raises a hand to Crocodile's cheek. He's barely noticed the pause in Mihawk's movements, how he waits and watches with two piercing golden eyes.

Saying nothing, Crocodile traces the shining harness sitting flush against Buggy's chest. Diamonds hum beneath his fingers, and bruises Buggy hadn't quite felt until this moment complain under the sudden pressure.

"Funny, isn't it…" Crocodile says softly, and Buggy thinks he sees some of that tension leave him.

The next kiss is different – still not tender, of course, but careful. For the first time now since the whole night began Buggy feels truly embraced by the Warlord, the way his hand now slides up Buggy's chest to rest in his hair and pull him closer, the weight of his arm resting on Buggy's diaphragm. It feels like a long while before they finally take a breath.

Of course the breath lasts only a moment before Mihawk slips out, adjusts, and slides in once again, fucking into him at a steady pace while Crocodile kisses his mouth, his jaw, his neck, and lowers that same hand to wrap around Buggy's aching cock.

He could cry, he thinks – he's so full and so warm and while it's a near sight from being loved or desired he can't deny that the pure attention to his body feels like something he's been missing for a long time. He finds himself again making some wholly embarrassing noises, and he realises, almost with a start, that he's very, very close.

Crocodile murmurs "Good, good" as he comes all over the Warlord's hand, and moments later feels another burst of warmth inside him as Mihawk empties himself into Buggy, shuddering and groaning with his beautiful eyes closed tight.

As the storm outside rages on, Buggy lies in a near-stupor.

It's not real, he thinks absently. It was wonderful, but it's not real. I'm dreaming.

Another minute passes before he hears Crocodile's voice, low and commanding – "Sit up."

Barely thinking, he does as he's told, and rough fingertips alight over bruises and stinging cuts now adorning his back.

Still in a haze, he hears Crocodile – "Take care of him."

"Of course," replies Mihawk.

And like that, Crocodile is gone. Buggy watches him step into his trousers, gather his shirt and other affects, and disappear through the door, bringing it softly to a close behind him.

Buggy stares, dumbly. "He left," he says simply, and looks at Mihawk, who smiles.

"He doesn't stay."

"Why?"

Mihawk shrugs, and beckons for Buggy to move to the end of the bed. Sitting there, aching, he considers letting a few tears fall. Mihawk's hand on his back distracts him, that warm weight.

"We did a number on you, didn't we."

Not a question. Buggy doesn't answer.

Mihawk sets about removing the harness, unclipping the fastenings at his back and sides. Buggy breathes a small sigh of relief when the harness loosens on his torso, and he looks down to see red indents in his skin. Mihawk pauses a moment when Buggy's hair catches on it, patiently detangling him so he can slide it easily over his head. He lays the piece out on the sheets next to them. "I think it'll need some cleaning before we give it back to you," he notes.

Mihawk then moves to a door next to the one that Crocodile left through and opens it to reveal a small bathroom. There he takes a cloth and holds it under the tap until it runs warm, wrings it out and steps back into the room, closing the door behind him. Buggy watches him from the bed, admiring his toned physique.

Returning, he sits with legs crossed on the bed behind Buggy and begins to softly dab at each cut and bruise, wiping away the accumulated blood and sweat that Buggy can't see.

"He asked for you to come here, you know," he says suddenly, quietly.

Buggy freezes – he what?

He finds he's at a loss for words, and Mihawk doesn't elaborate. The concentration on his face when Buggy glances back endears him to Buggy further. He's so sweet. But why would he tell me that?

"How strange," he says finally.

"Maybe."

Mihawk finishes up in silence, then motions for Buggy to collect his clothes, and leads him out of the room, back down the balustraded stairs and through a series of passages. Buggy can't help but look for Crocodile, though of course there's no sign of him.

They finally emerge into a comfortable lounge area – smaller than the one they'd sat in in another life, earlier in the night, but just as warm and inviting. Aware that they're both still naked, Buggy looks anywhere but at Mihawk, pretending to admire the plush sofas, the open fire, the collection of dark bookcases filled with musty tomes, and the hand-woven ornate rug beneath his feet.

"This is my private lounge," Mihawk offers. "There's a bathroom there –" he points, "and a bedroom through there. It's comfortable enough, and you're welcome to stay."

"W-with you?"

"Yes. The guest bedroom upstairs is no longer fit for purpose, I'd say."

So he hadn't stained Mihawk's bed with blood, after all.

"Go and clean up."

"I – okay."

Sinking into the water, feeling his hair drift in blue whorls around his shoulders, Buggy allows his mind to wander; though he keeps his arms tensed over each side of the bathtub to keep his body from sliding down fully. How strange this night has been, he thinks. And how… freeing it had been, almost, to allow himself to be a plaything, to be adorned and admired and beautiful, despite that the two Warlords – Crocodile especially – had never capitulated to his desire to be seen as such fully.

Maybe they would, in time, he thinks, and startles himself with the thought. Who's to say that either of them would ever want to do this again?

Sitting up to scrub at himself with a cloth he goes over every moment a few times or more, trying to identify something that would truly tell him what this was all about.

Yet he exits the bathtub – with some difficulty – still not knowing.

Mihawk waits for him in the bedroom, now dressed in a loose white cotton shirt and a pair of blue boxers. He reclines easily against a mountain of soft pillows atop a massive king-sized canopy bed, engrossed in yet another book. He's wearing a pair of spectacles, too. Cute, Buggy thinks.

Mihawk glances at him as he enters, then turns his attention back to his book.

Suddenly overcome by a wave of fatigue, he crawls, nude, under the covers next to Mihawk and pulls them over his head.

Silk sheets… he thinks, and falls asleep.

Buggy wakes to find the worst of the storm has ended, though the skies are still dark grey and heavy with clouds, and a howling wind still blows.

Rubbing at bleary eyes, he sits to see Mihawk, dressed in his usual tailored shirt and pants, entering the room with a mug of something hot. He hands it to Buggy wordlessly.

Silk sheets. Waking at noon to a beautiful maid bringing me coffee. It's close enough.

"He's gone away on business," Mihawk says, somehow anticipating Buggy's first question. "He'll be back in a few days, if you want to wait."

Buggy thinks of his crew, wondering how they'll fare without him – then remembers leaving them on a small summer island not too far from here, complete with a bustling fishing village, a lush sandy beach, and – most importantly – a fully-stocked bar.

"That'll be fine," he says. "Just fine."