CROSS GUILD DAYS ARC 3 - TANGLED HEARTS

by HayHenna

Summary:

A simple breakfast turns into a battlefield of nerves, side-eyes, and thinly veiled mockery.
Crocodile faces the longest morning of his life — and it’s not even 9 a.m. yet.

Chapter 1: Wani's regret - Breakfast of Shame

Crocodile woke up to the smell of pancakes and bacon.

 

 

His head pounded—one of those migraines that could level a city block. His mouth tasted like whiskey, and his skin felt too warm, too exposed. He was sweating, heavy, limbs limp like overcooked pasta. His legs were weirdly tangled—pinned, maybe. Something was behind him. Or someone.

 

 

He tried to blink, but everything was blurry. Not his room. Not his sheets. Not his air-freshener.

 

 

His arms gave out when he tried to sit up. His body was all wrong. His skin prickled from the sudden shift in temperature—warmth peeled away, replaced by a cold breeze that kissed every inch of his bare, damp skin.

 

 

Oh no.

 

 

He was naked.

 

 

And, worse, there was a long pink feather coat around his arm.

 

 

Crocodile froze.

 

 

Slowly—painfully—he turned his head.

 

 

Doflamingo was lying on his side, one long arm slung over Crocodile’s waist, golden hair a wild mess, mouth slightly open. His back was a battlefield of faint red lines—scratches. Crocodile’s scratches. And his hand —Oh God—it was cupping Crocs dick like it was something sacred he wanted to protect.

 

 

No.

 

 

Nonononono

 

 

This was not happening.

 

 

He tried to get up, but his body said no. His arms trembled. His thighs ached. His hips—even his hips felt bruised.

 

 

When he could finally stand as quiet as possible not to disturb the blond figure behind him he felt it.

 

 

DRIP

 

 

DRIP

 

 

It came the final blow: a wet, slow sensation down his thigh.

 

 

A warm trail.

 

 

Eyes wide, he reached between his butt cheeks, cautiously, like a man disarming a bomb. His fingers brushed something… rubbery. He gripped, tugged it, and pulled slowly—

 

 

—and out came a loooong, thick, dripping condom from his ass.

 

 

His face contorted in horror.

 

 

The sensation was unbearable—thick, wet, humiliating. His stomach turned as the used condom slid free with a soft, obscene sound, still warm from being inside him all night. The evidence of everything he wanted to forget.

 

 

He stared at it in disbelief, holding it in disgust between two fingers like it might bite him.

 

 

He wanted to scream. He wanted to rewind time. He wanted to fling himself out the window and pretend none of this ever happened.

 

 

For one deluded second, he considered dying on the spot. Maybe if he held his breath long enough, he’d just disintegrate. Maybe he'd vanish into mist and never have to think about this again.

 

 

But life was cruel.

 

 

Life made him remember.

 

 

He remembered Doflamingo offering to drive him home. Said it was late. Said he looked tired.

 

 

He remembered straddling the tall blond in the club, exhaling smoke into his mouth and muttering, "I thought you were gonna try harder."

 

 

He remembered kissing him—hard, like they had no time left, like the world would end if they stopped.

 

 

He remembered Doflamingo laughing, low and hungry, and saying the drinks weren’t strong enough.

 

 

And Croc answering, “I want you.”

 

 

Not the alcohol. Him.

 

 

And somewhere in the haze of memory, Buggy’s teasing words from earlier at the gym rang in his ears:

 

 

“Is his dick as big as he is?”

 

 

Crocodile had wanted to know. Needed to.

 

 

Because Doflamingo hadn’t just been flirting—he’d been hovering, orbiting him like gravity all semester long.

 

 

And now, Crocodile knew.

 

 

No one had looked at him like that before. Not with want and wickedness, and something dangerously close to affection.

 

 

It hit him like a spell, like some fucked-up fairy tale—

 

 

Romance.

 

 

Real, reckless, disarming romance.

 

 

And Crocodile fell headfirst into it.

 

 

He was the one who tore off their clothes.

 

 

The one who dropped to his knees and took that long, heavy cock down his throat until he choked and his eyes were watery.

 

 

He was the one who begged.

 

 

Told Doflamingo what to do.

 

 

Told him how to fuck him.

 

 

How to ruin him.

 

 

He remembered how many times he came—once, then again, then again—how many positions they tore through like animals. The headboard slamming. The sheets soaked. His voice gone.

 

 

And then—

 

 

God.

 

 

He remembered what he said.

 

 

Right when Doflamingo had him bent over the bed, lips pressed to the back of his neck, just before he came again—

 

 

“Say my name”

 

 

“Crocod—”

 

 

“No— call me Wani," he whispered, drunk on heat and sweat and shame.

 

 

"You've earned it."

 

 

Doflamingo broke.

 

 

“Oh~ Wani, Wani, WANI—”

 

 

Then he bit him. Hard. Right on the curve of his shoulder, sharp enough to make Croc moan.

 

 

And after that—

 

 

A kiss. Slow. Gentle. Too gentle. Like Doflamingo couldn’t decide if he wanted to devour him or worship him.

 

 

Like he'd touched something real.

 

 

Crocodile snapped from the images replaying on his head and clutched his face in his hands.

 

 

"I'm so fucked," he muttered.

 

 

Then groaned, "Literally..."

 

 

And the worst part?

 

 

He bit his lip at the memory. Hard.

 

 

Because that night had been so fucking good.

 

 

Unbelievably good.

 

 

Better than anyone before.

 

 

And that?

 

 

That was the most humiliating part of all.

 

 

And he didn’t have the strength to unpack what all of that meant.

 

 

Suddenly—

 

 

A muffled voice from outside the room made his stomach drop.

 

 

"No way, you're making it up."

 

 

Crocodile froze.

 

 

“You gotta be lying.”

 

 

That was Hawkeyes.

 

 

Then came another voice—louder, whinier, absolutely unmistakable.

 

 

"I’m not kidding!! I was surrounded by like ten of them, all taller than Croc—I swear—giants ready to kill me!"

 

 

Buggy.

 

 

And finally, a third voice, cheerful and relaxed as hell.

 

 

"And you took them all out? You're amazing, Buggy!!"

 

 

Corazon.

 

 

Crocodile’s blood ran cold.

 

 

He wasn’t in Doflamingo’s room.

 

 

He was in… what the fuck was this?

 

 

He looked around for the first time with clear eyes. The space was cramped, dusty. Dim. The walls were lined with metal racks and storage crates. The floor was bare concrete. A stack of potato sacks leaned precariously in one corner. It smelled like rust, onions, and industrial kitchen knives.

 

 

He was in a storage room. Probably a supply closet or prep space just behind the kitchen.

 

 

The smell of bacon and pancakes made sense now—he was basically sleeping behind a grease trap.

 

 

His eye twitched.

 

 

A flash of memory hit him like a slap:

 

 

“My room’s on the third floor,” Doflamingo had said once they got into the Donquixotes mansion, already undoing the buttons of Crocodile’s shirt.

 

 

And Croc—eager, desperate, horny beyond reason—had shoved him up against the wall and growled, “I’m not waiting. Crash here.”

 

 

Apparently “here” had been the nearest dark corner with a flat surface.

 

 

Now his pants were only halfway on, no shirt in sight, no belt, no gold chain, his coat missing, a ring was missing and a very visible scratch—claw-deep—ran down his chest like a signature. Nothing short of a turtleneck or divine intervention was going to hide that.

 

 

It was the fastest he had ever gotten dressed in his life—chaotic, uncoordinated, one boot on, the other still missing. Which was ironic, considering how carefully he’d dressed before the fair. Tight jeans, heavy boots, and a black tank top under his jacket, that thing gold chain that frames him really well—like hell he was going to admit it, but he’d wanted Doflamingo to look. He never dressed to be seen. Not like that. But last night? He wanted to look hot. For once, he wanted someone to stare at his arms, his chest, not just the power in his name.

 

 

And now? Now he looked like someone who had lost a fight with a wild animal… or won one, depending who you asked.

 

 

He scrambled to shove his legs into place, stepping on his missing boot in the process and nearly falling face-first into a crate of potatoes.

 

 

Why was he nervous?

 

 

Crocodile?

 

 

Nervous?

 

 

This was bad.

 

 

This was really bad.

 

 

But it was about to get worse.

 

 

He barely had time to run a hand through his hair, smooth the sweat off his neck, and school his face into something vaguely neutral—anything but wrecked—before the panic hit.

 

 

Think. Think. THINK.

 

 

He needed to leave. Escape. Vanish.

 

 

His eyes darted around the room like a trapped animal—searching for an open window, a back door, a service tunnel, a dimensional rift, anything. He could only stare at the only door in front of him.

 

 

He heard footsteps. Laughter. Plates clinking.

 

 

He was going to die here. On the cold floor of some greasy prep room behind the kitchen, half-dressed and freshly fucked by Doflamingo.

 

 

And just when he thought it couldn’t get worse—

 

 

Behind him, from the shadows of the small mattress they'd ruined:

 

 

“Mmmfff~… Wani?”

 

 

Crocodile gasped, mouth snapping shut around a silent scream.

 

 

He got out and slammed the door closed on instinct, so Doffy didn't get to see him when he woke.

 

 

Only—he didn’t realize until it was too late—

 

 

The door led directly into the kitchen.

 

 

Not the hallway.

 

 

Not a staff corridor.

 

 

The kitchen.

 

 

And the second it swung open, the humid air rushed in—and three pairs of eyes looked right at him.

 

 

Hawkeyes blinked, frozen in mid-pour with a kettle of hot water.

 

 

Buggy dropped his fork with a dramatic clatter.

 

 

Crocodile’s back was to them all.

 

 

There was a beat of silence. A very long and uncomfortable silence.

 

 

Hawkeyes blinked, then—like the traitorous bastard he was—smirked. “Hmp”

 

 

Corazon just blinked at him for a second, head tilted like a curious puppy.

 

 

Then you could see it happen—

 

 

The mental math.

 

 

Two and two slowly sliding into place.

 

 

His lips curled into an unholy grin.

 

 

The silence in the kitchen was deafening.

 

 

Crocodile stood there, back to the group, eyes fixed on the door like it held the secrets of the universe. If he didn’t turn around—if he just pretended they weren’t there—maybe they’d pretend too.

 

 

King of Denial. Monarch of Fuck-it-All.

 

 

He straightened his spine.

 

 

“Uhm…” Corazon’s voice came, sweet and tentative.

 

 

“Croc?”

 

 

He flinched—a full-body twitch.

 

 

But he still didn’t turn.

 

 

Then—click.

 

 

The door swung open with a creak.

 

 

And for one horrifying second, everyone in that kitchen got a crystal-clear look at—

 

 

“Wani? You out here?”

 

 

Doflamingo.

 

 

Gloriously naked. Hair tousled. Covered in scratches. Grinning.

 

 

The door slammed shut so fast it echoed.

 

 

Crocodile spun around fast in panic, slamming his palm and back flat against the door with a resounding thud to keep it closed. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His lips were pressed into a thin, pale line. His nose exhaling a shaky audible breath.

 

 

That’s when everyone really saw him.

 

 

Disheveled. Red marks down his neck. His shirt barely on. Belt dangling. Eyes widen in disbelief.

 

 

Buggy let out a sound that started as a gasp and exploded into an ear-splitting wheeze.

 

 

“OH MY GOD,” he choked between shrieking giggles. “Oh my god. No way. No way.”

 

 

He doubled over, slapping the table.

 

 

“You fucked Doffy in the potato closet?!”

 

 

Crocodile didn’t respond.

 

 

He didn’t have to.

 

 

His silence was louder than any confession.

 

 

Hawkeyes sipped his tea, looking way too pleased with himself. “Rough night?”

 

 

“Go to hell.”

 

 

Buggy nearly fell out of his chair. “Holy shit, you did it! I thought you two just wanted to kill each other, but no, apparently you wanted to—”

 

 

Crocodile grabbed a knife from the table and sent it flying toward Buggy’s head. The clown barely dodged in time, cackling the entire way.

 

 

Corazon just shook his head, grinning. “So that’s why Doffy didn’t come down for breakfast.”

 

 

Hawkeyes arched an eyebrow. “Interesting choice, though.”

 

 

Crocodile clenched his fists. “Choice?”

 

 

Buggy wiped a tear from his eye. “I just never thought I’d see the day. You. Mr. Sandman. CG grumpiest bastard. In his house. And judging by the state of your almost shirtless, scarred-up self, you weren’t exactly playing cards.”

 

 

Crocodile was going to kill them. He was going to kill them all.

 

 

Then, just to make everything worse, a deep voice rumbled from behind him.

 

 

“Oh~? You’re up already?”

 

 

Doflamingo.

 

 

Casually leaning against the doorway, shirtless, his hair a mess, a satisfied smirk on his lips.

 

 

Buggy lost it all over again. Corazon looked so smug. Hawkeyes just kept drinking his tea.

 

 

Crocodile had been through a lot in his life. Betrayals. Near-death experiences.

 

 

But this?

 

 

This was worse.

 

 

Buggy was still howling with laughter. Hawkeyes was giving him the most smug, infuriating smirk. Corazon was grinning like he had just won the lottery. And Doflamingo—that bastard—was standing right behind him, radiating smug dominance.

 

 

Crocodile clenched his jaw, refusing to turn around. Maybe, if he ignored him, this would all go away.

 

 

Then he felt it.

 

 

A slow, deliberate touch at the base of his neck.

 

 

A shiver ran down his spine.

 

 

Doflamingo's fingers trailed lazily over his skin, grazing over the bruises and bite marks he had definitely left last night. His other hand slid around Crocodile’s waist, pulling him back against his chest.

 

 

Crocodile stiffened.

 

 

“Let go,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

 

 

Doflamingo didn’t.

 

 

Instead, he let out a deep, satisfied hum. “Why so tense, Wani-chan? You weren’t complaining last night.”.

 

 

Buggy screeched like a dying kettle.

 

 

Mihawk had the audacity to chuckle, low and dry, like this was the best entertainment he’d had in weeks.

 

 

Corazon actually covered his mouth with both hands, his eyes wide in delighted horror as if he’d just witnessed a public proposal and a car crash at the same time.

 

 

Buggy, still wheezing, turned to Mihawk with wide, stunned eyes.

 

 

“Wait. Wait. You’re telling me Croc got fucked?” he tried to whisper, like he couldn't bring himself to believe it. 

 

 

“I thought he destroyed Mingo—like bent him over a crate and made him cry.”

 

 

He pointed at Crocodile, who was still clutching the table like it held his last remaining shred of pride.

 

 

“But that guy—that guy—looks like he just got wrecked.”

 

 

Mihawk raised an eyebrow, sipping his tea with maddening calm.

 

 

“Looks accurate to me.”

 

 

Buggy’s jaw dropped.

 

 

“Oh my god.”

 

 

He doubled over again, snorting uncontrollably.

 

 

Crocodile was going to kill him.

 

 

He elbowed Doflamingo hard in the ribs, but the bastard only chuckled, pressing his lips against the side of his neck like they weren’t in the middle of a kitchen full of people.

 

 

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Crocodile hissed.

 

 

“Oh, absolutely.”

 

 

Doflamingo’s hands wandered. One slid up, fingers threading into Crocodile’s hair, tugging slightly. The other trailed lower, brushing over the ridges of his abdomen, teasing at the hem of his pants.

 

 

Crocodile grabbed his wrist. “Don’t you dare.”

 

 

Doflamingo smirked against his ear. “Or what?”

 

 

Crocodile turned sharply, ready to snarl something cutting, but the moment he did, Doflamingo grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back hard.

 

 

Crocodile moaned.

 

 

“Ah~”

 

 

Short. Loudly.

 

 

In front of everyone.

 

 

The moment the sound escaped his lips, he slapped a hand over his mouth, his entire body going rigid.

 

 

Silence.

 

 

Then—

 

 

Buggy collapsed onto the table, wheezing.

 

 

Corazon’s grin was so wide it looked like his face might split in half.

 

 

And Mihawk—calm, cool, stone-faced Mihawk—

 

 

Actually covered his mouth with his fingers, like holding in a gasp.

 

 

His eyes widened ever so slightly, brows arched in genuine shock.

 

 

Like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

 

 

Crocodile was going to disintegrate. Right here. On the spot.

 

 

Doflamingo, looking far too pleased with himself, leaned down, lips brushing against Crocodile’s ear.

 

 

“You really do sound good when you’re not growling at me, Wani-chan.”

 

 

Crocodile shoved him off. His entire face was burning, his ears felt like they were on fire, and he knew he’d never live this down.

 

 

Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out.

 

 

Buggy’s laughter followed him down the hall.

 

 

Corazon actually had the nerve to shout, “Come back, we were just starting to have fun!”

 

 

And worst of all?

 

 

Doflamingo let him go.

 

 

Because they both knew—

 

 

Crocodile would be back.

 

 

 

Notes:

💌 Psst… I’ve opened a Patreon! 🥳

Thanks for reading!🦩💕 🐊
This was pure chaos from start to finish, and I had way too much fun writing the disaster that is Crocodile’s morning.

Feel free to scream in the comments, send asks, or share your favorite lines — I live for your reactions.
I know what you're thinking... How did Buggy escape?

 

Oh, and… the very first smut art for the pre-chapter of Arc 3 is already up 👀✨

Chapter 2: Monday Morning, Chaos and Full of Regret

Summary:

If Buggy is a menace, Hawk is just a quiet one. Together, they’re pure chaos and honestly should be illegal. Shamrock’s poor soul never stood a chance. Meanwhile, Doffy is out here thinking he’s in a gangster romance novel… until Shanks slapped him with reality. Now, let’s all cross our fingers that he treats our little Wani better — or else.

The classroom was a mess of noise—chairs scraping, students shouting across aisles, someone blasting music from a phone that wouldn’t last long. The homeroom teacher walked in, clapping her hands and demanding silence like she had any control.

"Alright, listen up! You're seniors now. That means no more slacking off. University admission exams are coming up, final grades are around the corner, and none of you are leaving here without a damn plan. Got it?"

Crocodile barely registered her voice. He had always prided himself on being composed. Calculated. Unshakable.

But today?

Today was a goddamn nightmare.

His brain refused to work. His body felt restless. His skin felt too tight, his clothes too warm, and worst of all—his thoughts kept circling back to last night.

The way Doflamingo had touched him.

The way he had held him.

The way he had—

Fuck.

Crocodile ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. He was sitting at his desk, trying to focus, but it was impossible. His notebook was open to a blank page, his pen uncapped, but he hadn’t written a single word. Not one. Not since he walked in.

Buggy and Mihawk were no help. They had been insufferable all morning, and now, in the middle of class, they weren’t stopping.

Buggy nudged him. “So. How’s your neck? It almost snapped last weekend, huh?”

Crocodile ignored him.

Mihawk smirked, voice low. “You were awfully quiet during breakfast. I wonder why.”

Buggy grinned. “Oh, I know why.”

Crocodile’s eye twitched. He refused to look at them.

But then—

Shamrock, who sits next to Croc and had been minding his own business, looked up from his notebook. “Wait, what happened?”

Buggy’s eyes lit up. Mihawk turned, amusement sparking in his gaze.

Crocodile instantly regretted everything.

“Ohhh, Shammy, you’re gonna love this,” Buggy said, practically vibrating with excitement.

Crocodile shot him a warning glare. “Don’t.”

Buggy ignored him, voice pitching up with scandal. “No, no, you don’t get it—Saturday morning, Cora's place right. This guy wakes up in Doflamingo’s bed, covered in scratches, stumbles into breakfast half-dressed, and then—then—in front of all of us, with pancakes on the table and coffee still brewing—Doffy grabs his hair and he moans like we’re in a live action low budget porno!”

Shamrock choked on his water.

Mihawk, the traitor, nodded in confirmation. “It was quite the performance.”

Crocodile dug his nails into his palm, trying not to explode.

Shamrock stared at him, brows furrowed, then slowly covered his mouth with his hand.

“Oh my god… but… wait—how? That doesn’t even make sense.”

Buggy wheezed, “Because—” he gasped between laughs, “they didn’t do it in his room.”

Shamrock blinked. “Then where—”

“The fucking potato closet,” Buggy cackled, pointing at Crocodile like it was the punchline of the century. “Behind the kitchen! That’s how we saw them—BWAHAHAHAHA!”

He said it so loud the rest of the classroom gasped.

Then, with theatrical flair, Buggy twirled dramatically and flopped right onto Mihawk’s chest like they were performing a play.

“You’d think Croc would be the one wrecking Doffy,” Buggy declared, grabbing Mihawk’s hand and plopping it onto his own ponytail, “but from this point of view—”

Mihawk, without hesitation, gave a sharp tug, face still deadpan.

Buggy threw his head back with a loud, ridiculous moan. “Ooooh~ Doffy, harder—harder!” he howled, shaking like he was in a bad romance drama.

They both broke into helpless laughter, Mihawk actually cracking a rare smile.

Shamrock was as red as Crocodile now, face buried in his hands but still peeking through his fingers in horrified fascination.

Crocodile muttered “I hate you both” and pressed his palm to his temple like he was seconds away from throwing them both out a window.

Mihawk composed himself from laughing and asked. “Why didn’t you go with Shanks?”

“Red ate way too much junk at the fair,” said Shammy as he lowered his hands from his face. “Ended up with a bad stomachache, so I stayed with him.”

Buggy, clearly having the time of his life, nudged Croc again. “So? You gonna text him, call him, send him nudes?

Crocodile didn’t move. “Shut up.”

Shamrock leaned in, eyes wide. “Wait, you haven’t called back?”

Buggy scoffed. “Of course not. He’s an idiot.”

Mihawk tilted his head. “Do you even have his number?”

Silence.

Buggy gasped dramatically. “You don’t?!”

Crocodile clenched his jaw.

Buggy snatched his phone off the desk before he could stop him.

“Give it back.”

“Nope.”

Buggy typed something quickly, then smirked. “There. Fixed it.”

Crocodile snatched his phone back, glaring at the screen.

A new contact had been added.

[Do-fuckme-ngo🦩👉👌🐊]

His stomach twisted.

He should delete it. He should.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he shoved his phone back into his pocket, ignoring the way his pulse sped up.

Buggy and Mihawk exchanged a look. Shamrock was still staring, brows furrowed. Then his gaze dropped at Buggy's hand.

His smile faltered when he noticed Buggy’s hand closing around the phone. The skin across his palm was split in a dark, jagged line, the edges puckered where a fresh scab had formed. It didn’t look new, but it didn’t look good either.

“You cut yourself?” he asked, his voice low, eyes fixed on the injury instead of meeting Buggy’s. “That looks bad.”

Mihawk rolled his eyes.

“He says he fought off like twenty Celestial Dragon thugs after we split up at the fair. That he's invincible, apparently.”

Shamrock’s eyes went wide. “Did you?”

“like seven or Ten!” Buggy barked. “At least! And they had knives. And guns. And bombs, okay? It was a whole ambush!”

Crocodile caught his wrist before Buggy could shove his hands into his pockets.

“What the hell happened to you?” His tone was low, sharp—but there was an edge of something else under it. His thumb brushed over the scab before he realized. “These are fresh.”

Buggy yanked his hand back.

“I called you, Wani. But you were too busy taking a huge pink dick up your ass to answer. So I handled it alone!”

Crocodile scowled. “Tch. Idiot.”

“You’re such a whore, Croco-chan!” Buggy shot back gleefully.

“Enough,” Mihawk muttered.

He turned to Buggy. “Anyway, we’ve still got that delivery to prep this week. We’re just waiting on instructions. Unless Crocodile’s too busy, you know... getting railed.” said in a mocking monotone voice.

Buggy burst out laughing. “Yeah, maybe schedule the drop between Doflamingo's crotch.”

They wouldn’t stop teasing. Crocodile’s eye twitched. He regretted every life choice that led him to this group.

“You guys always talk about deliveries and thug crap,” Shamrock huffed. “Exams are next week! We should be getting ready!”

Mihawk waved a hand lazily. “You don’t need to worry about grades in this group. Croc has it all covered.”

Shamrock raised an eyebrow. “Does he? From the looks of it, he’s got other priorities to handle.”

Gasps all around.

“Did ShamSham just politely tease you?” Buggy clutched his chest dramatically. “I felt that.”

Crocodile hated all of them.

“I’m serious,” Shamrock added, brushing his bangs from his face. “We should stay late in the library this week. Actually study.”

Buggy snapped his fingers. “Ooooor! Make a Study group at your place with Shanks!!”

“No,” Shamrock said instantly. “We can’t study with you at home, Buggy. You always bring snacks and spill shit everywhere.”

“I’ll behave, promise!” Buggy grinned, already plotting chaos. “If Croc’s not gonna babysit our grades this week because he’s busy chasing dick, we’ve gotta do this for real.”

The whole classroom gasped.

Every head turned in surprise and horror.

Buggy’s eyes widened, then he broke into manic laughter. “Oh shit, was that loud?”

Crocodile put his head down on his desk.

He hated all of them. So, so much.

 

---

 

Rooftop Chronicles — Monday, After Lunch

The rooftop door creaked open with a loud clang before slamming shut again, the sound muffled by the city breeze.

Shanks leaned against the railing, flicking open a lighter with one hand and already grinning like an idiot. “You guys know we’re technically not allowed up here anymore, right?”

“That rule’s only for the weak,” Doflamingo replied, already halfway through lighting his own cigarette. Corazon sat cross-legged on the ground, sleeves rolled up, hoodie halfway off like he hadn’t slept last night. He probably hadn’t.

“I still can’t believe what happened Saturday morning,” Cora muttered, blowing out smoke in a long, shaky breath. He turned to Shanks. “And you. You bailed.”

“I had mean diarrhea,” Shanks groaned, clutching his stomach for dramatic flair. “Freakin’ takoyaki stand betrayed me.”

Doflamingo let out an obnoxious cackle. “You missed out, Red. Wanna know why?”

“No but you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

Doffy leaned in, eyes glinting. “I. Fucked. Crocodile.”

Shanks nearly dropped his cigarette. “NO FUCKING WAY—”

“He held my hand,” Doflamingo added, mocking a dreamy tone. “Kissed my neck. Said I made him feel soft. Soft, Shanks!”

Shanks burst out laughing. “I told you! Romance, baby! You can’t just jump straight into horny mode with that man.”

“You were right,” Doffy admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I played it slow. Took him out. Showed him he could trust me. Then I ruined him.”

Corazon snorted. “That sounds healthy.”

“He even sucked my dick and choked on it!”

“GOD, DOFFY—!!!”

Shanks cleaned a tear from his eye “ I'm a great love guru man!” Then he turned to Cora. “Hey wait a sec—you didn’t go off with your crush at the fair. You were with us the whole time.”

Cora exhaled like it cost him something. “We had… a small moment.”

“AAAND?!” Both Shanks and Doflamingo leaned in aggressively.

“I’m taking it slow,” Cora said, standing his ground. “I’m not like Doffy, jumping straight into the dick parade.”

“I did not jump— Okay yeah I wanted to. But Red here gave me a plan and it worked. Wani fell right into my seductive, romantic trap.” 

He made a fishing motion. “Hook, line, Boom! Ruined!”

The three of them burst into laughter, the kind only idiot friends share.

“Oh God, I like him too much!!” Doflamingo added with a dramatic sigh.

Shanks smirked. “Aw, are you in love?”

“LOVE?!” Doffy choked, eyes wide behind his sunglasses.

“Yeah bro, sounds like you’re in love,” Shanks teased.

Corazon put out his cigarette—then noticed a tiny flame at the tip of his bangs. “Shit—” He slapped the fire out calmly, as if this happened every other day.

Doflamingo didn’t even notice. He was too busy pacing now. “You think he feels the same? Or is he just letting it happen?”

Shanks leaned back, arms folded. “Actually? I don’t think so.”

“What? Why?!” Doffy froze mid-pace.

“Because yeah, you had a good fuck,” Shanks said flatly, “but come on, from what I'm hearing  right now, and what you did in the morning—you humiliated him in front of his friends instead of protecting him.”

Corazon raised a hand like he was in class. “Yup. I saw it all.”

“Oh…” Doffy winced. “So what do I do now?”

“Well,” Shanks said, slapping his fingers on Doffy's forehead, “you apologize, you idiot, you  cross your fingers and hope he wants to see you again.. and if so … you keep it slow again.”

“Mmmm… do you think if I do that, he’ll fall in love with me?”

“If you want something real with Croc,” Shanks said, pointing a finger at him, “you’ve gotta stop treating him like any other one of your bitches.”

“He’s not like that?”

“Nope. So you gotta treat him better.”

Doflamingo tapped his chin, considering. "Ok, ok… I’ll focus on the details. I’ll keep it slow… and hope he wants to see me again."

Corazon snorted, his hat still warm where the tip had smoldered, the fabric faintly singed and threatening to flare again. "Oh yeah, sure. You? Slow? That’s like telling a shark to become a vegetarian. I’m putting money on you screwing this up."

"Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Hey Bro, I’m just saying—romance isn’t exactly your… brand. Your brand is more ‘hostage negotiation’.”

The tall guys lit up another cigarette, the smoke curling lazily in the warm afternoon air. Doflamingo leaned back against the railing, phone in hand, flicking through his sticky-note app and jotting down reminders in neat pink script. Shanks stretched his legs out, letting the sun hit his face, and Corazon just exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift upward with a faint grin. The moment hung easy between them, a pause in the chaos, before the teasing picked up again.

Cora, regaining his chill, fixed his hood and looked at Doffy seriously. “If you’re gonna keep screwing around with Croc, you need to tell Pinky, V, and me what the plan is for the next two weeks. So we won't ruin your dates.”

“Aw, you guys ruined it?” Shanks asked with mock offense.

“Nah, I told them not to call him last weekend. But they screwed up and someone blew up the van,” Corazon deadpanned.

Doflamingo waves a lazy hand. “Yeah yeah, I’ll forward the new schedule if I have luck.”

Shanks grinned a little confused. “A van? What are you up to?”

Doflamingo’s smile is all teeth. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Doffy, no.” Corazon tried to stop him but his brother already shoved his hand on his face to shut him up.

“Well I guess he knows quite enough by now, don't you think? Red deserves to know the truth.”

Shanks raised an eyebrow. “What truth?”

“We’re not just any after-school punks,” Doffy said, his voice low. “We’re in deep. Weapons. Drugs. Underground networks. Mafia-level shit. We’re part of the city’s south division—but still short-range ‘cause we’re in high school.”

Shanks blinked.

“That’s why we don’t care about exams,” Doflamingo went on. “We know what we’re doing after graduation. Once we’re out, we’re gonna be real criminals. So enjoy us this last year, Red. It’s our only one left.”

“Doffy!” Corazon hissed. “He didn’t need to know that!”

Shanks just stared… then slowly smiled. “That’s kinda cool… and scary.”

“It’s fine. I trust Red,” Doflamingo said, patting his shoulder.

“Wait wait wait,” Shanks laughed. “So is it like CrossGuild or something?”

Doflamingo snorted, loud and sharp. “CrossGuild?” He tilted his head like he’d just been asked if ants were competition. “Bro, they’re a joke. Some knockoff thug squad with fake gold chains and kitchen knives. All bark, no bite.”

“But somehow they keep ruining our operations,” Cora muttered, lighting another cigarette.

Doflamingo snatched it from his lips without looking. “Because even trash can clog the system if you don’t clean it out.”

He took a drag himself, grinning darkly. “We don’t need to shout. We move in silence. Real power doesn’t need followers—it runs the damn city from behind the scenes.”

Shanks raised an eyebrow. “So they’re just noise?”

“Noise with knives,” Cora added dryly. “Idiots with weapons are still dangerous.”

Doflamingo smirked. “Let them play gangsters. When it’s time to clean the house, we’ll remind them who runs this place.”

“Uh-huh...” Shanks replied, still with a flicker of concern.

The smoke curled around them, lazy and heavy in the evening air. Absent-mindedly, Shanks took the half-burnt cigarette from Doffy's fingers, twirled it like usual—then, this time, brought it to his lips and took a slow drag.

Both Cora and Doflamingo paused.

Doffy raised a brow. “Well damn. About time.”

Cora gave a lazy nod. “Didn’t think I’d live to see it.”

 

Shanks exhaled with a shrug, smoke slipping past his grin. “Maybe I’m growing up.”

“Or maybe your boy’s got you stressed the hell out,” Doffy said, snatching the cigarette back. “You haven’t bragged about getting laid this week, Red. Trouble in paradise?”

Shanks let out a soft chuckle, leaning back against the wall. “Nah… nothing serious. Just… giving him some space. I’ll try reaching out later.”

“Pfff— sure you are.”

“I will!” Shanks snapped.

 

“Sounds like you’re the one in love,” Cora whispered.

 

Shanks froze for a second, then shrugged, eyes cool. “Yeah… I am.”

 

Cora blinked. “Oh—wow.”

 

Shanks leaned back, one hand tracing the wall, acting all calm and collected. “That’s when you gotta learn to read your person, kid. Pay attention, notice the signs… understand what they want before they even say it.”

 

Then, just like that, he burst into laughter, loud and messy, shaking his head. “God, why do I even give advice when I’m barely keeping it together myself?”

 

Doffy and Corazon exchanged looks, snickering, while Shanks wiped a tear from his eye, still grinning.

They all laughed like idiots, the smoke swirling around them, their secrets floating up into the sky with the ashes.

 

---

 

Later that night, 

 

Crocodile was in bed, staring at his phone.

 

The number was still there.

 

He told himself he wouldn’t text. He wouldn’t.

 

He had work to do, plans to handle, territory to manage.

 

And yet… every time he closed his eyes, last night played back in perfect, maddening detail.

 

The heat.

 

The taste of smoke and sweat.

 

The way Doflamingo touched him like he owned him — like he knew every vulnerable nerve in his body and exactly how to press it.

 

His jaw tightened. Saturday morning still burned in his memory — the humiliation, the smug grin. He should hate him. He should tell him to go to hell.

 

But all that anger was tangled with something worse.

 

Want.

 

Shameful, needy, bone-deep want.

 

And Crocodile hated that more than anything.

 

He tossed the phone to the side, but it didn’t help.

 

His hand moved before his mind could stop it.

 

Just a text. Simple.

 

[You awake?]

 

Last weekend, he’d been looking forward to a date.

 

A real one.

 

Instead, it had turned into drinks, making out, and hard, relentless sex. The kind that left you wrecked. The kind you couldn’t stop thinking about.

 

But the morning after… came humiliation. A cheap laugh at his expense.

 

Heartbroken? No. Crocodile didn’t get heartbroken.

 

He just hadn’t expected things to escalate that fast.

 

…And he was still horny. Incredibly, annoyingly horny.

 

That was the real problem

 

The reply came almost instantly.

 

[Miss me already, Wani?]

 

Crocodile’s heart skipped.

 

Damn him.

 

He could hear that smug, low drawl in his head — the one from that night, hot against his ear. He should throw the phone across the room.

 

Instead, he typed:

 

[Don’t flatter yourself.]

 

Three dots appeared.

 

Stopped.

 

Started again.

 

[Too late. I’m flattered.]

 

Crocodile stared at the screen, irritation curling in his gut, tangled with… something else. Something softer.

 

Then another message appeared:

 

[🌹 “Sorry about Saturday morning. Still your favorite pain in the ass?”]

 

Crocodile froze.

 

No one — no one — had ever apologized to him. Not without an ulterior motive. His chest tightened. And it hit him, all at once—

 

No. No, he’s just using me. It’s not romance. It’s not that stupid thing.

 

The phone buzzed again. A voice note.

 

He hesitated, thumb hovering… then pressed play.

 

“Hey… uh, just wanted to say I really am sorry. I got carried away. About everything. You make me… go crazy, and… well… uhm… if you still wanna see me later, I’m here.”

 

He should be angry. He should not want to see him again. His brain was screaming the truth at him—but his stupid idiot heart was already telling his fingers what to type.

 

Crocodile’s scowl softened despite himself, his grip tightening around the phone.

 

He typed, forcing his tone into something detached:

 

[Can’t today. Got some business pending.]

 

Almost instantly:

 

[Ok, so… uh… coffee at night? Maybe tomorrow… if you’re up to?]

 

Crocodile hesitated. Tried to play it cool.

No. No, no, no—let it go, he thought. It’s over. It’s not gonna work.

 

[Coffee would be nice.] he sent—

 

“Goddammit.” He ground his jaw, slapped a palm over his forehead, and rolled his eyes at himself. The phone slipped in his hand, dialing before he could stop it.

 

GASP 

 

“No No No NO!  hang up dammit!”

 

A click. Then:

 

“Whaa!,” Doflamingo’s voice, warm and surprised. “You called me back!”

 

“No shit… shit…”

 

Doflamingo laughed, and Crocodile could hear the grin in it. “You sound… desperate. Don’t worry, I got you.”

 

Croc’s mouth stayed shut, but his pulse was hammering.

 

“Look,” Doflamingo’s voice dropped, softer now. “I’ll say it again — sorry about Saturday. I got carried away. I should’ve treated you better. I’m not good at this… relationship stuff. But—” he paused, as if steadying himself. “Croc… I’ve been asking you out all damn semester. Every week. And every week you’d tell me to fuck off, until last weekend. And when you finally agreed, I thought… maybe we’d just take it slow, you know? Fair, rides, stupid games—” he gave a self-deprecating laugh, “—but then things went fast, and I lost control. That’s on me.”

 

There was a small exhale on the line, almost nervous.

 

“But I’m still into you. For real, I really like you, Croc. And I hate that I might’ve messed it up before it even started. I still wanna take you out—if you want it too. No games. No drinks. Just… us. Maybe a late night coffee if you're up to.”

 

Crocodile’s throat worked. No one had ever admitted fault to him. No one had cared enough to try.

 

“Coffee, huh?” he murmured.

 

“Yeah… coffee.”

 

“We’ll see,” Crocodile said, lowering his voice to something just above a whisper.

 

A playful kiss crackled over the line. “Sweet dreams, Wani.”

 

The call ended.

 

Crocodile set the phone on his chest, staring at the ceiling. His cheeks warmed — an unfamiliar, dangerous heat that sank deeper, pooling low in his gut. Damn him. Smooth words, a little vulnerability, and suddenly Crocodile’s pulse was pounding in his ears like he was some rookie with a crush.

 

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But his stupid heart kept tripping over itself, and his body still remembered every rough, perfect touch. His fingers curled into the sheets.

 

He was already imagining tomorrow night biting his lips.

 

He was so, so screwed.

Notes:

Alright, my lovely chaos crew — I’m curious 👀
What’s your favorite flavor of this story? 🍰

- The slice-of-life school drama where our boys try to survive homework, gossip, and dumb shenanigans? 📚

- The horny smut chapters that make you fan yourself and look over your shoulder while reading? 🔥

- Or do you crave more of the thug life, with street trouble, shady deals, and the boys showing their dangerous sides? 💣

Drop your vote in the comments and tell me why. Your feedback might just shape what’s coming next. 😉

Chapter 3: Soft Eyes and Candy Wrappers

Summary:

Two conversations, two pairs of friends, and two very different kinds of warmth. Sometimes a school day is about more than just getting to class.

The library was unusually quiet for a school lunch afternoon.

 

Buggy and Shamrock had taken over a sunlit corner near the windows, books spread messily across the table, a couple cold water bottles sweating into napkins. For once, they weren’t bickering or flirting or setting something on fire. They were actually studying.

 

Shamrock had his short-sleeved summer shirt on — a rare sight. He almost always wore long sleeves, like he needed to keep something hidden. Today, though, his arms were bare, lean and sun-kissed, a delicate silver bracelet clinking as he turned the pages of his textbook. His braid was especially neat — too neat — and tied with a bit of red thread that mixed with his hair.

 

Buggy’s kind of handiwork.

 

Mihawk noticed it the second he walked in.

 

He froze behind one of the tall shelves, eyes narrowing.

 

They were sitting close. Buggy leaned over the table, chewing on the end of a pen, while Shamrock gestured animatedly, explaining something with numbers and squiggles and more energy than he usually gave anything that didn’t involve glitter or chaos.

 

They looked comfortable.

 

Too comfortable.

 

Mihawk’s fingers flexed at his sides.

 

This was his spot with Shamrock. This corner of the library.

 

The last time they were here alone... he had kissed him. Just once, soft and quiet, in the hush between passing students and the rustle of paper. And Shamrock had let him. No teasing, no biting remarks. Just... let him.

 

Now Shamrock was smiling at Buggy. Not grinning. Smiling. Soft and real.

 

He stepped closer, deliberately slow.

 

Part of him wanted to make a comment. 

 

Something sharp. Something that would knock Buggy off balance and ruin this weird little domestic scene.

 

“I thought you two couldn’t breathe around each other?”

 

Maybe that would’ve made Buggy leave.

 

But he didn’t say it.

 

Because they were breathing. Talking. Really talking. Shamrock tapping the table, glancing around like he was pulling a formula out of the air, while Buggy — Buggy! — nodded along, asking questions that actually made sense.

 

They were studying.

 

Those two idiots were really studying.

 

Shamrock looked up first. His eyes met Mihawk’s — calm, unreadable.

 

Then he smiled.

 

Just like that. No tension, no flinch. A simple, bright smile, like it was the most natural thing in the world for Mihawk to be standing there.

 

And Mihawk…

 

His heart jumped like a startled animal.

 

It was like someone had applied the kawaii heart filter to the world. Everything faded — the books, the dust, the hum of the air conditioner — and Shamrock’s smile lit up like a spotlight.

 

Cupid, if he existed, was being excessive with the arrows today.

 

Buggy jumped in his chair, knocking over a pen.

 

“Hey! Look who’s stalking us again.”

 

Mihawk’s face didn’t change. Still cold. Still unreadable.

 

But his pulse was definitely doing something it shouldn’t.

 

He stepped closer.

 

“Didn’t know this place allowed clowns.”

 

Buggy scoffed. “Didn’t know vampires were awake before sunset.”

 

Shamrock just leaned back, chin resting on his hand, watching them both like he was amused by the whole thing.

 

Mihawk sat on the edge of the table — not too close, not too far. His eyes flicked briefly to Shamrock’s braid, then to his bare arms, then away again.

 

The words sat on his tongue like wine he couldn’t swallow.

 

He wouldn’t say what he was really thinking.

 

That this was the first time he’d seen Shamrock look this at ease in weeks.

 

Instead, he reached over and picked up one of the books.

 

“Physics?” he asked flatly. “You two planning to launch yourselves into orbit or just drop out creatively?”

 

Shamrock grinned. “Bit of both.”

 

And Mihawk, damn him, smiled back. Just a little.

 

His chest still ached.

 

But he stayed, because Shamrock was glowing.

 

He sat straight on the chair over a sea of textbooks on the table, arms animated as he talked about college applications. “I’m thinking of business school—maybe take over the family company one day. Shanks says he’d help. I wanna do something that matters, y’know?”

 

Buggy and Mihawk exchanged a knowing glance, they were quiet. Just… watching him.

 

Shamrock didn’t notice it at first, too excited as he flipped open another brochure from his backpack. “There are so many great programs in the country. I’ve been researching admission dates, scholarship offers—” He trailed off when he finally looked up and noticed their blank expressions.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Buggy scratched the back of his neck. “We’re thugs ShamSham.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“People like us don’t go to college.”

 

Shamrock blinked. “Wait—what? You’re not planning on staying thugs forever, right?”

 

Buggy frowned. Mihawk’s eyes dropped to the floor.

 

Shamrock sat up straighter. “Guys. This CrossGuild thing? It’s not exactly a retirement plan. But you’re both smart and tough, and I know you could pass an entrance exam. You’ve shown me that already. You just need some focus. That’s it.”

 

He stood and rushed to the nearest shelf, yanking out a few extra books. He placed one in Mihawk’s lap and one in Buggy’s hands. Mihawk shot Buggy a wary glance, as if waiting for a signal. But neither said anything.

 

They hadn’t thought about a life like that—not really.

 

Shamrock sat again, cracking open a philosophy textbook. “Okay, here—Mihawk, what do you think this means? The meaning of justice?”

 

Mihawk’s lips parted, but no sound came.

 

Shamrock nudged his knee with a grin. “Come on, it’s not a trick question.”

 

“…A balance between punishment and protection,” Mihawk finally muttered.

 

Shamrock lit up. “Yes! Yes! Exactly!” He leaned in, the excitement bubbling right off him. “God, see? You get it. That’s literally one of the central arguments in restorative justice. You just said that off the top of your head.”

 

Mihawk blinked. “I… did?”

 

Shamrock grinned wider, practically beaming. “You should try law school. I’m serious.” He turned the book toward him and tapped the page. “This kind of thinking? That’s legal philosophy stuff. You’ve got the instinct.”

 

Mihawk huffed softly, half a scoff, half disbelief. “I’m not exactly the courtroom type.”

 

“Sure you are,” Shamrock said, eyes gleaming. “Sharp eyes, deadly logic, dramatic pauses—jury would eat it up.”

 

Mihawk gave him a slow side-eye, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You just want me in a suit.”

 

“Maybe,” Shamrock admitted, tilting his head. “But also? You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for. I mean it.”

 

And then, quieter, he added, “I wouldn’t waste my time studying with someone who wasn’t.”

 

Shamrock flipped open the chemistry book and turned to Buggy with a small smile. “Okay, your turn to quiz. What’s the atomic number of carbon?”

 

Buggy smirked, tapping his temple. “Easy. Six.”

 

Shamrock nodded, impressed. “Correct. And where can you find it?”

 

“In… like, everything that’s alive?” Buggy shrugged. “Plants, animals, people… my favorite snacks.”

 

Shamrock chuckled. “Yeah. And what can you do with it?”

 

Buggy grinned, eyes lighting up. “Burn it. Shape it. Turn it into diamonds if you’re feeling fancy. Hell, half the stuff I blow up has carbon in it. If it burns, it’s probably got carbon. So basically, I am carbon’s number one fan.”

 

Shamrock blinked, then laughed softly. “See? That was actually a perfect answer. You get this. You understand it.”

 

Buggy grinned like a cat who’d found cream. “Yeah, yeah—just like that time I blew up that car!”

 

Mihawk groaned. “Here we go again.”

 

Buggy puffed his chest. “So there I am, tied up in the backseat, right? Kidnapper’s got the radio blaring, two are outside talking, and an idiot one with glasses is babysitting me. Rookies.”

 

Shamrock frowned. “Wait, you were tied up?”

 

“Please. I’m flexible,” Buggy said with a smirk. “Slipped my legs through, got my hands in front again. First thing I do? Bam! Kick the guy right in the face. While he’s seeing stars, I slam the locks so the other two can’t get back in.”

 

Mihawk waved a hand lazily. “He’s been telling us this all weekend.”

 

Buggy ignored him, eyes bright. “Then I spot it—the old-school cigarette lighter on the dash. You know, the metal one you push in until it pops out hot? I press it in, wait for the click. Meanwhile, I’m thinking… time for some fireworks.”

 

“—and the car explodes,” Mihawk cut in, bored.

 

“Not yet!” Buggy snapped. “First, I had to make sure the vapor lock was set—”

 

Shamrock blinked. “Vapor lock?”

 

Buggy waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah—on old V8 engines, if the fuel pump gets too hot, gas boils in the line. Makes fumes instead of liquid, and those fumes? Boom.”

 

Shamrock opened his mouth… then shut it, cheeks a little pink.

 

Mihawk sighed. “Or maybe you just saw that in a bad action movie.”

 

Buggy smirked. “Yeah, sure, TV…”

 

Shamrock tried to scoff… but a small frown tugged at his mouth. “…Wait. Carbon buildup would actually—”

 

“Meanwhile, I’m thinking… time for some fireworks.”

 

Shamrock’s eyes widened. “You didn’t—”

 

“Oh, I did. Messed with the wires, the accelerator, everything while waiting, then grabbed the lighter, unlocked the doors so those idiots would rush in, then jumped right out the window with it in my hand. Ran to the gas tank, flipped the cover, dropped the hot piece in—boom!” Buggy threw his arms out, grinning wide.

 

Shamrock gawked. “You killed people?!”

 

Buggy rolled his eyes. “No! Wasn’t hot enough to set the whole thing off, but it scared the crap outta them. Made a nice little fireball, though.”

 

Mihawk sighed. “I”m pretty sure you just saw that in one of Shanks’ bad action movies.”

 

Buggy smirked. “'Yeah, sure…”

 

Shamrock tried to scoff… but his frown gave him away. “…Actually, with enough fumes—”

 

“Don’t encourage him,” Mihawk muttered.

 

The smoke from Buggy’s animated hands and laughter lingered in the air as Shamrock shook his head, cheeks still pink. Mihawk gave a low groan, waving a hand like he’d endured enough weekend recaps to last a lifetime.

 

Buggy took a deep breath, finally letting the tension slide from his shoulders, his grin softening. “Yeah, but… knowing it and being a guy who studies it in college? That’s different.”

 

Shamrock nudged his arm gently. “Not really. You’ve got the brain, Buggy. You just need to trust it—and yourself.”

 

Mihawk glanced at Buggy again. Buggy met his eyes.

 

They still weren’t sure. But for a second… maybe.

 

“If you want, I can help you both,” Shamrock said. “Like really help. We could study for finals together. Go over the big stuff. No thug talk. No distractions. Just… studying.”

 

Buggy laughed. “It’s been a while since I crashed with you guys. Sounds kinda nice, actually.”

 

Mihawk gave a small nod. “I wouldn’t mind crashing in with you guys.”

 

Shamrock brightened. “Perfect! Study group at my place then.”

 

He turned to pack his books, a satisfied little grin tugging at his lips.

 

“What about Shanks?” Buggy asked, leaning forward a little. “Is he going into that business thing too? Like you?”

 

Shamrock snorted softly. “Nah. He probably wants to work in a convenience store and live an easy life. Make his own brand of booze and live on a rented boat out on the sea.”

 

They both blinked at him, eyebrows raised like they actually believed him.

 

Shamrock paused, then turned his head and covered his mouth with a small fist, stifling a laugh. “I’m kidding,” he said with a grin.

 

Buggy’s jaw dropped. “Did—did you just tease us?”

 

“Shamrock?” Mihawk added, his voice low with disbelief. “You? Mr. Perfect Notes? You joked?”

 

“I cannot believe my eyes,” Buggy muttered dramatically, pointing at him like he was witnessing a miracle.

 

Shamrock just laughed, eyes shining, that boyish kind of joy bubbling up like it couldn’t be helped. For once, he wasn’t stressing or lecturing or reminding them to take life seriously—he was just… being. And they both kind of loved him for it.

 

Minutes passed and the sunlight kissed Shanny's skin just right—made his pale throat glow, the hollow of his collarbone shimmer with the light sheen of sweat. There were freckles there, too. Tiny, scattered like stardust across skin that Mihawk hadn’t touched before.

 

He couldn’t stop staring.

 

He remembered how it felt when Shamrock bounced on top of him at the fair—panicked, flushed, and shaking all over him.

 

He wanted that again. Right now. Right here.

 

Mihawk wanted to kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Until Shamrock was breathless and clinging to him like he’d never let go.

 

He wanted to tangle his fingers in that perfect little braid and yank—just to hear the sound Shamrock would make. He wanted to strip him down, push him open, and make him moan his name—over and over, until it didn’t even sound like a word and—

 

—Shit. Calm down.

 

Not here. Not in a library. Not when Shamrock was just happily explaining the structure of carbon atoms, totally unaware he was driving Mihawk out of his fucking mind.

 

He exhaled, slow and shaky.

 

Just then—CRASH.

 

A loud thud of books hitting the floor echoed through the library.

 

They all turned.

 

Corazon was standing in the aisle with a stack of textbooks toppled around his feet, blinking sheepishly at them through his coat collar.

 

“Found you,” he said, voice muffled, but grinning.

 

They were just recovering from Shamrock’s teasing when someone stumbled through the library entrance and nearly crashed into a bookshelf. Corazon, red-faced and awkward, was dusting himself off and apologizing profusely to a girl holding a stack of books.

 

“She thought I was going to rob her or something,” he muttered, making his way over to them. “I just picked up her notebook and she screamed.”

 

Buggy popped up from his seat like a spring. “Cora! You’re slouching again. And that hat—no wonder she got scared. You’ve gotta show off that cute face of yours!”

 

“My face is not—cute,” Corazon said flatly, already flushing red.

 

“C’mon, sit down.” Buggy pulled him down to the table without waiting for agreement and, without any shame at all, snatched the hat right off his head. He even reached out and brushed the long bangs away from Corazon’s eyes.

 

“There. See? Now you can see, and people can see you too.”

 

Shamrock and Mihawk blinked.

 

They had never seen Corazon’s face that clearly before.

 

“…He’s actually hot,” Mihawk said bluntly, no hesitation.

 

“Oooh stop it!!!” Corazon cried, mortified, grabbing for his hat while the rest of them burst into laughter.

 

Buggy leaned over the table, grinning. “Give me a pair of scissors and I can fix your bangs. You won’t be hiding behind that mop forever, baby.”

 

“Nooooo,” Cora wailed dramatically, pulling his hood farther down like a turtle retreating into its shell.

 

The librarian SHHHHed them so sharply it made Shamrock jump, and Corazon immediately shrunk into his chair like a scolded puppy.

 

A few minutes passed before Corazon leaned toward Buggy, speaking low. “Hey… Buggy. Can we talk for a sec? I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

 

Buggy blinked, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

 

They stood up and drifted toward the hallway, talking in soft whispers.

 

Left behind, Mihawk and Shamrock both watched them go in silence.

 

Buggy had straightened up a little, like he was actually trying to match Corazon’s height—even if it was a lost cause. Corazon, on the other hand, leaned down slightly—just enough to meet Buggy’s gaze without looming.

 

“They look like they’re trying to compensate for the height gap,” Shamrock murmured.

 

Mihawk hummed. “Buggy’s what—160 cm?”

 

“Cora’s 205 cm”

 

They both stared.

 

“…It’s like watching a Chihuahua fall in love with a giraffe,” Mihawk said.

 

Shamrock snorted.

 

They tried not to laugh, but a small giggle escaped anyway.

 

The scene was weirdly sweet. Awkward. Kind of domestic.

 

And for a moment… everything was calm.

 

Buggy returned a few minutes later, cheeks a little flushed. “Alright. I’m heading out. Catch you later, Shammy!”

 

Shamrock waved casually. “Yeah, see you.”

 

As the door closed behind him, Mihawk glanced sideways. “Shammy, huh?”

 

Shamrock raised an eyebrow. “Mm?”

 

Mihawk just looked ahead again, expression unreadable. “Nothing. Just thinking… maybe I’ll start calling you that.”

 

Shamrock’s smile softened a little, surprised but warm. He didn’t say anything.

 

And Mihawk didn’t add more.

 

He couldn’t kiss him. Couldn’t fold him into his chest or whisper how badly he wanted to stay near him.

 

But maybe… maybe he could start with a name.

 

---

 

Buggy and Corazon clattered down the stairwell, canned juice in hand, their footsteps echoing in the mostly empty hallway.

 

“I still can’t believe you tried to win that goldfish by yelling at it,” Buggy said, grinning over his can.

 

Corazon shrugged, kicking at the bottom step. “It looked like it was ignoring me.”

 

“You scared the poor thing! I thought it was gonna roll over belly-up.”

 

“It swam away, didn’t it?”

 

Buggy snorted, nearly spilling his drink. “You’re impossible.”

 

They turned down the corridor toward their classrooms, laughter fading into an easy silence.

 

“It was a good weekend,” Corazon said quietly. “Breakfast on Saturday morning? That was my favorite part.”

 

Buggy smiled. “Yeah. Mine too.”

 

Then, after a pause, Corazon dropped the bomb, as casual as tossing a coin in a well.

 

“I wanna take you out.”

 

Buggy blinked. “What? like with a gun?”

 

Corazon snorted. “No. I mean, like last time, remember? You, me, coffee, maybe. Just… something small.”

 

Buggy’s grin faltered, only a little. “Sorry, can’t. We’re staying over at Red’s place this week. Exam prep. Gotta study if we want to get into college.”

 

Corazon stopped walking. “College?”

 

“I just thought about it now,” Buggy admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Never saw it as an option before. But Shamrock said we’ve got nothing to lose, so… we’re gonna apply.”

 

Corazon looked at him for a long time. “Do you think I could do that?”

 

“Yeah, man.” Buggy nudged him. “Everyone can. You just gotta find the thing you like and never let go, you know?”

 

Corazon’s heart twisted a little at that. Find the thing you like and never let go. His eyes were on Buggy now, soft and unsure, and maybe a little lovesick.

 

“Well…” he said quietly. “If I can’t take you out after school, then what if I buy you lunch? Right now.”

 

“Right now?”

 

“Yeah.” Corazon smiled. “Let me treat you this week. Lunch, drinks, whatever. Just us.”

 

Buggy scratched his cheek, pretending to think. “Well, if strawberry milk is included…”

 

Corazon lit up. “I’ve got something better.” He fished into his pocket and pulled out a tiny red candy.

 

“I buy them whenever I see them now. They’re so small and bright and cute.” He looked at Buggy. “Just like you.”

 

Buggy took the candy, but narrowed his eyes. “Did you just compare me to a cheap candy?”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

“You dummy,” Buggy muttered, laughing despite himself. “You’re so weird.”

 

But his hand lingered on the wrapper.

 

He was flustered.

 

And falling, slowly but surely, for the weird, tall boy with soft eyes and candy in his pocket.

 

They reached the point in the hallway where their classrooms split off in opposite directions. Corazon gave him a little wave.

 

“See you after,” he said.

 

Buggy nodded, pretending not to notice the warmth in his chest as they parted ways—just for a bit.

 

---

 

Back in the library, the silence between them deepened.

 

Shamrock and Mihawk were still there at their hidden corner, where only the softest whispers and the faintest rustle of pages filled the air—like a secret world just for them.

 

Mihawk said nothing, fingers tracing slow, tentative rhythms on Shamrock’s thigh, measuring the space between them—testing how close he could get without shattering the fragile quiet.

 

Shamrock’s eyes flickered toward him, uncertainty mixed with a flutter of something dangerously tender.

 

The air thrummed with unspoken promises.

 

Then, with deliberate ease, Mihawk’s hand moved—sliding onto Shamrock’s leg, palm warm and sure, fingers tracing lightly beneath the fabric, sending a shiver straight to Shamrock’s core.

 

“Hey”

 

“Mm?”

 

“I want to kiss you again,” Mihawk murmured, voice low and smooth like silk sliding over Shamrock’s arm, Hawkeyes palm touched bare skin. “It’s been impossible not to think about you all weekend.”

 

His palm warm, fingers tracing slowly along the soft inner curve, the skin there untouched by sun, delicate, peppered with freckles. He followed a lazy trail of them with reverent, smooth strokes, sending shivers straight to Shamrock’s core.

 

Shamrock’s head snapped up, throat tightening, words caught on the tip of his tongue—but Mihawk leaned in, eyes steady and hungry, lips just barely curved in a silent invitation.

 

“Just a quick one,” he whispered, “No one’s watching.Let me kiss you—just a little.”

 

Shamrock’s mouth opened to protest, but his heart was pounding, cheeks burning a soft rose. Mihawk looked serious. Patient. And achingly close.

 

So Shamrock leaned in—just a little.

 

Their lips met in a tender, featherlight brush—a breath of a kiss that was more promise than passion, but enough to leave Shamrock’s head spinning and warmth flooding his chest like a rising tide.

 

Then, almost without thinking, their mouths parted and hesitated, before closing again—this time deeper, slower, lips melting together in a delicate dance of want and restraint, fingers twitching to reach out but holding back.

 

The library noise faded away, replaced by the electric crackle between them—until—

 

A sharp snap: a book closing nearby.

 

A faint buzz: a phone vibrating.

 

A quiet chuckle drifting from down the aisle.

 

They both stiffened, adrenaline flaring through their veins. Eyes locked, breath caught, pulse thunderous.

 

Mihawk’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smirk.

 

Shamrock looked away, cheeks aflame—not just from the kiss, but from the wild, undeniable truth settling in his chest.

 

Mihawk liked him. Wanted him.

 

Shamrock had dreamed of this boy so many times he’d lost count—imagined impossible moments like this in slow motion, yet never quite dared to believe it could be real.

 

The library—their sanctuary of quiet study and whispered secrets—had become the place where they first kissed. And now, Shamrock wanted more.

 

Because the tall, strong, impossibly hot boy sitting beside him wanted him back.

 

But Shamrock—being the awkward, nerdy mess he was—had no idea how to keep the moment alive.

 

His mind scrambled for normal, safe ground.

 

“You should apply to college,” he blurted, voice pitched calm but betraying his nerves. “You’re smart. You’re tough. You could get in. I mean, maybe law school? Or—uh—I dunno, police academy?”

 

Mihawk blinked, surprised.

 

Shamrock immediately cursed himself internally for ruining the perfect moment.

 

But then Mihawk actually huffed a laugh through his nose. “Me? Police academy? Stop being funny.”

 

“I’m serious.” Shamrock glanced at him sideways, voice quieter now. “You always act like you’ve got no plan, but you’re good at solving things. You think fast. You… you could be really good.”

 

Mihawk looked at him then, slower this time—eyes softening, tracing the nervous flicker in Shamrock’s gaze.

 

“Who are you, and what did you do with the real Shamrock?” he teased.

 

That earned a small chuckle from Shamrock, who shrugged helplessly. “I just… I don’t know. I think it’d suit you.”

 

For a moment, the noise of the library, the whispers and shuffling pages, seemed miles away.

 

Mihawk’s hand moved almost without thought, reaching up to gently brush a stray strand of hair behind Shamrock’s ear—a tender, careful touch that spoke more than words ever could.

 

It was the closest his hand dared get to Shamrock’s face in public.

 

Shamrock’s breath hitched.

 

Their eyes locked—Mihawk’s gaze steady and warm, filled with a quiet awe.

 

Because this—this was the Shamrock he liked.

 

Not the perfect little robot, the overwhelmed kid from last week—the one stiff and shaken, hiding behind walls of polite smiles and bad sleeping habits.

 

No.

 

This was the real Shamrock.

 

The nerdy, sarcastic, kind, thoughtful boy who cared so deeply about others, even when he forgot to take care of himself.

 

Mihawk’s fingers lingered, as if memorizing every freckle, every soft curve.

 

Then, almost shyly, their hands found each other—fingers entwining in the smallest, sweetest promise.

 

The library, the world, the chaos of their lives—all faded away for a breath, a heartbeat.

 

And in that moment, everything felt possible.

 

Notes:

This chapter felt like writing in soft pastels — just small moments between our duos, each carrying their own quiet weight.

Who’s your favourite ship?

 

Thank you so much for reading, liking, and sharing!

Chapter 4: Between Teeth and Chains

Summary:

Everyone’s pulling strings: Doffy with his dangerous offers, Shanks with reckless plans, Corazón with unexpected moves. In the middle of it all, Shamrock fights his own war—against temptation, focus and trying to drag Cross Guild out of the mud.

The school halls were predictably noisy, but Shanks barely noticed. He and Buggy passed each other like clockwork—quick greetings in the locker room, a perfunctory kiss while changing shoes, and then off to their separate routines. Mechanic, automatic, like some unspoken script they were both following. Shanks kept his eyes on Buggy, waiting for a word, a spark, anything that would break the rhythm—but Buggy didn’t give him a hint. He walked on as if everything were perfectly normal. Shanks sighed, letting himself think, Okay… we’re fine.  

The truth, though, was far messier.

They had been avoiding each other on purpose, each step around the other heavy with the weight of things unsaid, both pretending that the normalcy of the routine could hide the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

So all week, the lunch bell had rung and Shanks and Doffy had fallen into a new routine—heading straight to the rooftop for a smoke, a snack, and a laugh, mostly about the ridiculous things Doflamingo said.

Meanwhile, Buggy had been living a parallel little joy. Corazon kept showing up at the cafeteria like he said he would, wallet in hand and smile crooked. He’d insisted on buying lunch every day. It had become a habit—sharing fries, giggling at stupid jokes about clowns and teachers, and pretending not to notice how close their knees were under the table.

The rooftop wind was warm, carrying the faint smell of fried cafeteria food. Shanks sat on the ledge with a cigarette dangling from his lips, flicking ash into the breeze while Doflamingo leaned against the railing, sunglasses hiding half his grin.

“So,” Doflamingo started casually, “you and the clown still not fucking?”

Shanks choked on his smoke. “Christ, Mingo—what the hell?”

Doflamingo’s smirk widened. “I’m serious. You’ve been walking around like you’ve got a permanent case of blue balls. Just… do something about it.”

Shanks shook his head, dragging out a long exhale.

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling like hell, but that’s not how it works, Mingo. We’re fine.”

Doflamingo tilted his head, smirking. “So fine means you’re not fucking him anymore?”

Shanks’ jaw tightened, a flash of irritation cutting through the exhaustion in his eyes. “It’s not about that. I want him, sure—I’m not made of stone. But just because I feel like horny doesn’t mean I get to take what I want.”

”But if you’re dating, doesn’t that mean you can just—” 

”Dammit—how many times do I have to tell you? Relationships don’t work like that, man. If Buggy’s not in the mood, if he’s not there with me, in feelings and emotions? Then it’s a no. Period.”

He rubbed his temples, softer now. “Everything has to be mutual. Otherwise, it’s not worth a damn.” 

For a second, even Doflamingo faltered, his grin slipping at the weight in Shanks’ tone.

“We’re just… doing different things right now, that’s all,” said Shanks almost above a whisper.

“Different things?” Doflamingo echoed, eyebrow quirking above his glasses. “That’s the polite way of saying he’s not staying over anymore, huh?”

Shanks’ mouth flattened. “…Yeah. Says he’s got business with Croc all the time.” He flicked his ash harder than necessary. “And I let him be. It’s not like I can control Buggy. He’s Buggy! You know he’s…just such a wild card.”

“Then maybe you need to start playing in his arena.” Doflamingo tilted his head, voice almost sing-song. “Become a thug like him. You could join my crew, Red. We could do cool things together at night out there in the city. You’d get more time with your little horny clown.”

Shanks laughed—short, disbelieving. “That’s not for me, man.”

“Why not? You’ve got the mouth for it, and the guts.” Doflamingo stepped closer, resting his elbows on the ledge beside him. “Look—come with me this Sunday. Just a quick thing. Nothing serious. I’m just cashing some money, grabbing a drink, and heading back. No one gets hurt. You’ll see—it’s easy.”

Shanks studied him through the smoke, uncertain.

“It’ll be fun,” Doflamingo pressed. “You can even wear that dumb hat of yours. Consider it… research. Into Buggy’s world.”

Shanks stared at the glowing end of his cigarette, letting the ember burn low. Part of him wanted to laugh it off. Another part—the reckless, restless part—was already picturing it.

“...I’ll think about it,” he muttered.

Doflamingo’s grin sharpened. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Day after day,  Shanks and Doflamingo had started falling into that unexpected rhythm, and it caught Doflamingo off guard—this weird, easy companionship. Shanks was loud, messy, and nosy, but he listened. Really listened. So Doflamingo began opening up, sharing more than just his usual bravado—little stories about the nights he spent navigating the city’s underworld, the schemes, the petty chaos, even glimpses into his flirtations and awkward missteps in romance.

Shanks didn’t judge; he offered ideas, cracked jokes, and pointed out when Doflamingo’s plans were overcomplicated.

“Hey, come on! You’d be great in my team, you’re great with strategy,” Doflamingo kept insisting, but Shanks waved him off.

“Nah, man, Shammy’s better at that,” he puffed a long line of smoke, “He's got those Excel sheets for everything.”

Still, the way Doflamingo caught himself, thinking through Shanks’ suggestions and laughing at his comments, hinted that the blond was slowly convincing him—bit by bit—that maybe he didn’t have to go through everything alone.

By the time Friday came around, Buggy was practically glowing around his tall cute friend. “You should come to the study group tomorrow,” he said, nudging Corazon as they walked up to the third floor where their classrooms were.

“Everyone’s gonna be there at the Twin’s place,” he added. “So you better go.”

Cora blinked, hesitated. “Everyone? Even… Wani?”

Buggy tilted his head. “Yeah. Why?”

A small smirk tugged at Corazon’s lips. “Mmm. I guess I can go, then.”

“Why why why why why Wani?” Buggy asked, wiggling his eyebrows like he already knew.

Cora rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling. “If he’s gonna be there… That means Doffy’s free. And that means I won’t have to babysit his ass all day. So I guess I’ll be free too. And I can come.”

“Hehe, great!” Buggy grinned and reached into his pocket. He handed over a small red strawberry candy—the kind they both liked. Another little habit now.

They paused outside their classrooms, the hallway buzzing with noise around them.

“Hey… Buggy?” Corazon asked, suddenly sheepish. “I know you’re busy on Saturday but, uh… wanna grab a coffee on Sunday? Or breakfast?”

Buggy blinked. “Huh? …yeah, sure”

Cora lit up. “Great! I know a great place. You’re gonna love it.”

“Sure, man. See you tomorrow with the twins then?”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll text you if anything changes.”

“Aight!”

They split off to their classrooms, but both boys glanced back just once, and their hearts were a mess of butterflies and summersaults. Buggy tried not to grin too wide as he sat down. Corazon failed completely.

He’d barely settled into his chair when Shanks dropped into the seat beside him, eyes narrowed.

“Your smile is way too wide, man. What happened? Spill.”

“Huh?” Corazon blinked innocently. “No, it’s not.”

“Oh, come on! You haven’t even smoked with us all week—what’s up, Cora?”

“Nothing. I’m just hanging out with someone else… I can talk to other people, you know.”

Shanks’ grin sharpened. “Is it your crush?”

Corazon froze mid-reach for his notebook. “...”

“Cora?!”

“…Maybe…”

Shanks gasped like a soap opera villain. “Oh my god—did you finally invite her out on a date?”

Corazon’s hand twitched on his pen, his foot tapping under the desk. His voice came out a touch too quick, too quiet. “…Yeah.”

“OH MY GOD, CORA—YES, FINALLY!” Shanks threw his hands in the air, almost knocking over someone’s pencil case. “What are you gonna do?”

Corazon laughed, cheeks pink. “Breakfast on the weekend. And, uhm… after that we’ll see.”

“No, no, no—move, dude,” Shanks barked at the classmate sitting in front of Corazon. The boy rolled his eyes but slid out of the chair anyway. Shanks dropped into it without bothering to turn it around, elbows hooked over the backrest, giving his back to the teacher and the board so he could grin directly at his tall friend.

“Alright, we’re planning you the best damn date ever.”

“Shanks, it’s fine, I got this—”

“No no. Listen up. You do your original plan, yeah. Then go for a walk. The weekend’s supposed to have amazing weather, so wear something casual but also hot. Not that dumb hat of yours.”

“What’s wrong with my hat?”

“Everything. You gotta dress like someone who wants to be kissed, bro.”

Corazon blinked. “...Okay?”

“Go somewhere fun. Somewhere you can talk and connect. Not the movies. Not the theater. Definitely not bars or fancy restaurants. First date should be chill, y’know?”

“Okay…”

“Say something that makes her laugh.”

Corazon rolled his eyes, but smiled. “If you can make your crush laugh, you’re halfway there,” he finished the phrase automatically.

Shanks grinned. “Damn right. And then—around 6pm, when the sun’s all golden and the light hits just right—that’s when you make your move. Not in the middle of a crowded street or something dumb. Find a place where the noise fades a little. Where it just feels… easy.”

“And then?”

“That’s when you kiss her.”

Corazon gave him a side-eye. “Her? … You’ve really thought this through.”

“That’s what I’d do if I wanted my boyfriend to fall for me all over again,” Shanks said with a wink.

“SHANKS! GO TO YOUR PLACE!” the teacher barked from across the room.

Shanks threw up both hands. “OKAY OKAY I’M LEAVING!” He slapped Corazon’s shoulder on his way back to his desk. “You got this, man!”

And just like that, he was gone.

Little did he know, he’d just planned the perfect date… for his own boyfriend.

 

---

Meanwhile, in 3A,

 

Mihawk sat slouched in the back row beside Buggy, half his attention on the board and the other half… elsewhere. The classroom felt heavy with the mid-morning heat, curtains drawn against the sun, windows cracked just enough for a breeze that barely stirred the thick air. Shamrock was a few rows ahead, leaning forward in quiet discussion with Crocodile, completely unaware of the effect he was having.

 

Then he stood—sharp and smooth, his uniform shirt pulling just slightly at the waist as he pointed to a passage in the textbook. Heat clung to him more than anyone else. He was always that way. The kind of boy who carried a handkerchief, discreetly brushing the sweat from his brow, from the line of his neck, with a small, practiced grace. Where Shanks would grumble loudly and tug at his collar, Shamrock simply smiled, polite and a little flushed, as if pretending the weather didn’t touch him at all.

 

But it did.

 

The fabric of his school pants clung damply to his thighs, tightening against him in a way that left no secrets to Mihawk’s wandering eyes. When Shamrock shifted his weight, the movement of his hips was subtle but devastating. The stretch of long legs beneath the desk, the faint sheen on his skin, the soft exhale as he wiped at his forehead again—it wasn’t supposed to be hot. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

 

Mihawk’s gaze dropped lower, his throat tightening. He swallowed. Hard.

 

He'd been thinking about the fair, the bounce, the flirting, the kiss, everything….

 

Buggy, sitting three seats beside him, grinned and flicked a paper ball across the aisle. “You’re gonna burn a hole in your pants, y’know.”

 

Mihawk just clenched his pen tighter and looked away.

 

Minutes later, Buggy got up, stretching dramatically, and wandered toward Shamrock under the pretense of borrowing a pencil.

 

“Here,” he said casually, placing a scrunchy on Shamrock’s desk. “You looked… hot.”

 

Shamrock blinked. “Uh… thanks?”

 

Mihawk narrowed his eyes, jaw tight.

 

Shamrock reached up to gather his hair, sweat glistening along his jaw from the heat. Fingers brushed along the back of his neck, lifting strands to reveal flushed, pale skin.

 

And that's when he saw them,

 

Freckles. Tiny constellations on the nape of his neck, followed by the smallest baby hairs curling near them.

 

Mihawk bit the inside of his cheek. There was no way those had always been there.

 

Shamrock let his hair fall again, unaware—or maybe deliberately ignoring—the trail of heat he’d left in Mihawk’s chest.

 

Buggy, grinning like a cat who knew the exact effect he’d caused, leaned back. “Oh yeah… he’s hooked.”

 

Mihawk didn’t even answer. He’d already memorized that flash of skin like a goddamn poem.

 

---

 

 

The teacher had finally droned on long enough for Shamrock to stand, contributing with sharp, precise answers while his classmates collectively groaned. Nerdy, focused, serious—Shammy swore under his breath, not caring that everyone else slouched in their loosened uniforms. Not him. His uniform remained tight, vest and tie perfectly in place, sleeves rolled just slightly, hinting at elegant discipline.

 

By noon, the heat was climbing. Shamrock’s face flushed, his skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Crocodile, ever the smooth operator, leaned over with a lazy flick of his wrist, offering him his cold water bottle.

 

“Here,” Crocodile said, cool and composed. “You’ll fry if you don’t drink something.”

 

“Thanks,” Shamrock murmured, twisting the cap and taking a long, grateful gulp.

 

Then—squeeze.

 

Buggy, grinning like a devil, pressed the bottle just as Shamrock drank. Cold water shot down his throat and up his nose, forcing him to jerk back violently, coughing and sputtering. The liquid dripped along his chin, pooled in the dip of his collarbone, and soaked the already damp vest. His eyes watered, catching the sunlight like tiny gems.

 

It should’ve been gross, chaos.

 

But Mihawk saw it all in slow motion.

 

Shamrock’s mouth parted, water dripping from the inside of his mouth, eyes wide and glistening, lips catching the light. His discomfort was obvious, he coughed and gagged but all Mihawk could register was something… else. Forbidden, obscene, sharp—a heat that struck low in his gut.

 

“BUGGY!” Shamrock snapped, swatting the bottle aside.

 

Crocodile feigned innocence. “Real mature,” he muttered, smirking.

 

Shamrock wiped his face, chest heaving, glaring murderously. Mihawk couldn’t look away. God help him.

 

“Dammit, it’s sticking to me,” Shamrock grumbled, tugging at his vest.

 

“Take it off, lay it by the window,” Crocodile suggested casually.

 

Shamrock hesitated. “I… I don’t really—” He trailed off, clearly uncomfortable showing skin.

 

Crocodile raised an eyebrow. “We’ve all got skin.”

 

With a resigned sigh, Shamrock slowly undid his tie, then tugged the vest over his head—halfway.

 

That was when Buggy lunged. Hands grabbing both vest and shirt, he wrestled Shamrock back and forth, trapping him. Pale, freckled skin gleamed under the sunlight slipping through the open window. Abs, faint but firm, waistband just visible—every inch was exposed as Shamrock squirmed, flustered, and angry.

 

“Wait—NO!”

 

“Quit squirming, ShamSham!! I'm trying to help!” Buggy laughed.

 

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU—!” Shamrock snapped, voice breaking somewhere between fury and panic. He stretched his arms out, trying to land a hit on Buggy, but the motion only dragged his shirt up to his armpits. His chest flashed bare, freckles scattered across pale skin, and the faint red hairs of his underarms were suddenly on full display. Buggy only cackled harder, dragging the hem higher still, like he was determined to strip him by sheer persistence.

 

Then—smack. His palm landed flat and hard against Shamrock’s ribs. The sharp slap echoed, and Shamrock let out an involuntary, high-pitched “Eep!” His pale skin flushed pink at once where Buggy had struck.

 

Shamrock twisted, writhing, trying to curl into himself, but his arms were still trapped overhead in the knot of his shirt and vest. The harder he tried to hide, the more he exposed: ribs flexing, hipbones jutting, stomach drawn tight with every useless squirm.

 

“W–wait—! No—mmf—!” he gasped in panic, muffled by the fabric half over his face.

 

Buggy only grinned wider, dragging the cloth higher, almost—almost—stripping him bare right there.

 

And Mihawk saw everything. He stood from his seat, arms on his table as if trying to say stop it, but his gaze was heavy, unflinching. He could’ve intervened. He could’ve said something. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He simply watched frozen, expression unreadable, as Shamrock’s flushed skin grew blotched with heat and humiliation.

 

And Buggy knew what he was doing. He flicked a glance sideways—straight at Mihawk. That bastard clown was putting on a show, dragging it out because he knew the swordsman’s eyes were locked where they shouldn’t be.

 

Shamrock froze, mortified, shoulders curling inward as if he could fold himself smaller, cover up what Buggy had revealed. His face burned hotter than his skin, chest tight with anger, humiliation—something else, too.

 

That was when Crocodile snapped.

 

A heavy hand clamped down on Buggy’s shoulder, yanking him back so hard he almost lost his balance. “Cut it out,” Crocodile growled, before his fist drove square into the clown’s ribs. Buggy wheezed, stumbling away, laughter breaking into a cough.

 

Mihawk’s breath hitched. A flash of nipple? Flecks of freckles? He couldn’t look away. Buggy smirked at him from the floor. “Blink or you’re gonna pass out, dude.”

 

Shamrock yanked free completely, threw his vest by the window, and snapped his shirt into place.

 

“Goddammit, Buggy.”

He fixed his messy red hair back into place, jaw tight, cheeks still warm from the heat—and from throttling Buggy in front of half the class.

He spun on his heel, ready to snap at Crocodile for not stopping it sooner—

—and froze.

Mihawk was staring at him. Not just looking. Staring like he’d been caught mid-thought, eyes darker than usual, gaze fixed somewhere it had no business being.

For a split second, neither of them moved. Shamrock’s pulse kicked.

Oh, hell. He saw.

Shamrock’s ears burned as he broke eye contact, stalking back to his seat with all the stiff dignity he could muster. He dropped into his chair like it was a shield, crossing his arms hard enough to keep from fidgeting.

Buggy was still snickering under his breath, but Shamrock barely heard him. His mind was stuck replaying it—Mihawk’s gaze, that second of stillness.

He definitely saw.

---

 

 

When the final bell rang, and chairs scraped across the floor as students bolted for clubs, cram school, or just home.

Shamrock stayed put for a moment, slipping his books into his bag with quiet precision. He was still a little flushed—heat clinging to him in a way it always did. Shammy was the kind of guy who ran warm year-round, and right now, with his collar slightly open and the afternoon sun pushing through the open windows, there was a faint sheen of sweat along his jaw. He didn’t seem to like that fact much; his fingers kept tugging at his shirt as if he could will the heat away.

Mihawk stood, sliding his hands into his pockets, and walked over.

“You going to Kendo club?” he asked, his tone casual but his eyes already tracing the little curve of Shamrock’s damp hairline.

Shamrock glanced up at him, a bit sheepish. “Yeah. Why?”

Mihawk’s mouth curved faintly. “Thought I’d join you. Could use some practice.”

His hand lingered as he said it—fingers resting lightly on Shamrock’s forearm, tracing a slow, absent line along the inside where the skin was pale and warm. Shamrock felt the weight of it, the way Mihawk’s touch wasn’t casual, but careful.

He was going to add ”and maybe some alone time with you”, but before the words could land, a voice cut in from the back of the room.

“Not today.”

They both turned. Crocodile leaned against the back doorframe, arms folded, his shadow stretching across the floor.

“You still owe me from earlier this week,” Crocodile said, voice smooth but firm. “We need to settle that deal before it gets dark.”

Mihawk’s jaw tightened just slightly. “Today?”

“Today-today,” Crocodile replied without losing eye contact.

Shamrock’s eyes flicked between them, reading the unspoken choice in the air. He let out a small breath, the faint pressure of Mihawk’s fingers slipping away from his arm. 

“If that’s what you’ve got to do, then go,” he said, softer now. “But… don’t forget you’ve got other options too. You said you’d think about it, right?”

Crocodile’s brows pulled together. “What is he talking about?”

Mihawk didn’t look away. “He wants me to apply for college.”

The word college hung there, absurd and fragile against the weight of the room—the school, the smoke, the tension. Shamrock straightened his shoulders, cheeks still flushed from before, but his voice was steady.

“Yeah. College. A future. Something that isn’t just running thug jobs like that. You can do it. Both of you can. You’re smart, tougher than half the idiots who make it out there. Don’t tell me you can’t.”

Crocodile gave a sharp laugh, low and cruel. “Pff. People like us don’t go to university, little prince.” His eyes cut to Shamrock, dripping with mockery. “You think a kid like him’s gonna drag us into lecture halls and dorm rooms? Cute.”

Shamrock straightened at that, jaw firm even as his ears burned. He didn’t flinch away from Crocodile’s sneer. “Better that than rotting in back alleys for the rest of your life.”

For a moment, Crocodile’s smirk froze. Then he clicked his tongue, brushing it off, and turned back to Mihawk. “Come on. We’ve got real business to handle.”

Mihawk looked at him—really looked at him—but didn’t answer. His gaze wavered, caught between Crocodile’s shadow and the boy next to him. Shamrock saw it, saw the split second where Mihawk’s chest ached with wanting one thing but his feet stayed rooted in another man’s orbit.

Shamrock didn’t move. Didn’t plead. That wasn’t who he was. His expression softened only enough to hide the sting, then smoothed back into something measured. He adjusted the strap of his bag with careful precision, gave Mihawk the faintest nod, and walked out through the front door.

For a moment, Mihawk just stood there in the middle of the emptying classroom, face shadowed, teeth tight like he was holding himself back from breaking. He wanted to follow him. He wanted to reach out, say something—anything—that might anchor them closer.

But he didn’t. He exhaled, turned on his heel, and walked toward Crocodile.

In the hallway, Shamrock felt the light before he saw it—afternoon sun spilling across the high windows. Across the stretch of corridor, Mihawk emerged with Crocodile at his shoulder, their footsteps a slow, heavy echo. For a beat, the world stilled.

Crocodile didn’t have to lay a hand on him. His presence alone pulled Mihawk forward, an unspoken command wrapped in lazy dominance. Mihawk hesitated—just long enough for his eyes to find Shamrock’s. Something flickered there, almost regret, almost promise. But then Crocodile moved, and Mihawk fell into step beside him.

Shamrock’s lips pressed thin. He glanced back once, brief and sharp, before turning down the opposite hall. His bag weighed heavy against his shoulder, but not as heavy as the truth settling in his chest.

He didn’t blame Mihawk. Not really. From where he stood, Mihawk had no choice.

But that didn’t change what Shamrock saw: Crocodile leading him deeper into a life that would devour him whole.

And Shamrock—cold, calculating, resolute—wasn’t going to beg. He wouldn’t throw himself against the wall of Mihawk’s silence. He felt determined and aching all at once—the cruelest kind of strength.

He would find a way to drag him out. One way or another.

 

Notes:

Hey crew!
This chapter felt like juggling knives—schemes, secrets, and sparks everywhere. Between Doffy’s offer, Corazon’s bold move, Shanks scheming for romance, and Shamrock pushing against the thug life… it was chaos to write (the fun kind 😏).

So I need your thoughts:
💥 Would you take Doffy’s offer if you were Shanks?
💖 Who do you ship more—Buggy/Corazon or the slow-burn Shamrock/Mihawk tension?
🔥 And do you think Shamrock can actually pull the Cross Guild out of this world… or is he just fighting a losing battle?

I'd love to read you in the comment section n.n !!

Chapter 5: DoffuWaniDickParty

Summary:

Coffee dates weren’t supposed to end like this.
But Crocodile’s about to learn that “dangerous” can feel a little too good.

Crocodile was panting—sweat-drenched, breath hitching, lost in a blur of lust and greed.

 

He hadn’t expected the coffee date to end like this. What started as a simple late-night cup—two nights after their tense phone call—turned into Doflamingo’s room, the lights dimmed just enough to blur the edges of reality.

 

He’d never been fucked like that before. Not once. It wasn’t just sex—it was an assault, a storm that tore through every last defense he’d built around himself. His lungs burned, his chest heaved, every breath ragged as if he’d been dragged under and only now was breaking the surface.

 

He never thought Doflamingo would be this good. He always assumed he'd be loud, sloppy, all show. But the man fucked like he ruled kingdoms. For a terrifying, delirious moment, Crocodile thought he might actually pass out from the sheer pleasure. His body wanted it—wanted to collapse, to surrender completely to the exhaustion and heat flooding him.

 

And then—

 

Instead of gloating, instead of crowing victory like Crocodile expected—Doflamingo slowed. He shifted, his hands sliding across Crocodile’s body with a softness that didn’t match the feral chaos of moments before. He brushed sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead, pressed his mouth to his temple like a vow, and whispered something unintelligible, too quiet to catch.

 

He was… tender.

 

Dangerously tender.

 

The kind of intimacy that made Crocodile’s chest tighten worse than the sex ever had. Because he hadn’t prepared for this—hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t even thought it was possible. He could fight roughness, bite back against cruelty. But this? This warmth, this carefulness, this ridiculous affection—it was something he couldn’t fight at all.

 

And it terrified him how much he wanted it.

 

Tonight… tonight he said it.

 

He moaned it.

 

“Doffy—Doffy!”

 

Usually it was “idiot,” “pink menace,” “one-celled blond.” But not tonight. Tonight, Crocodile rode him eagerly until the world tilted, he let his guard fall completely, sobbing the man’s name into the sweat-slick crook of his neck as if letting it out could anchor him to the feeling.

 

And when it was over, when Crocodile collapsed onto Doflamingo’s chest, trembling fingers clutching at his broad shoulders, red-rimmed eyes, heat still rushing through him, Doflamingo smirked—soft, knowing, almost possessive, and Croc couldn’t help but think he was entirely, deliciously trapped.

 

Then the smirk softened. Doflamingo’s hands slid down, gentle but firm, cupping Crocodile’s sides, brushing damp hair from his forehead. He pressed him closer, holding him like he was fragile glass, rocking him slightly as if to soothe the storm still raging inside him.

 

Crocodile didn’t know what to do with it—no one had ever held him like this, not after sex, not after anything. He’d been abandoned too many times, taught to expect nothing but power plays and distance. Affection was foreign, dangerous. Yet here was Doflamingo, chest warm, breath steady, thumb tracing idle circles into his hip as if he mattered.

 

The thought burned more than the sex had.

 

When Doflamingo tilted his chin up, Crocodile froze—then yielded. The kiss was nothing like he imagined it would be: slow, unhurried, devastatingly tender. No hunger, no cruelty, no game. Just lips pressing softly against his own, sealing something Crocodile hadn’t dared to want.

 

For the first time, he let himself be kissed.

 

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low, teasingly gentle, his thumbs tracing slow, soothing circles across Crocodile’s shoulders. Croc melted into the touch, chest rising and falling against Doflamingo’s, completely unprepared for this level of care.

 

“Fuck,” Doflamingo said, breathless, mock-casual but utterly sincere. “I think I’m in love with you.”

 

Crocodile blinked at him, slow and red-eyed, then reached up with one finger and gently booped his nose.

 

“Don’t be stupid,” he murmured.

 

And promptly passed out on his chest

 

Doflamingo held him there. One hand on Crocodile’s back, the other buried in his hair.

 

His pulse was still thundering. His heart—ugh—was doing something.

 

This was Crocodile. The Crocodile. Gang boss. Sharpest guy in the damn district. And here he was—sleeping like a stone, his breath slowing down against Doflamingo’s chest.

 

Doflamingo grinned. “Damn, I’m good.” He kissed the top of Crocodile’s head. “You’re so fucking gone for me.”

 

 

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

 

 

His phone vibrated three times in quick succession.

 

 

Upper ups.

 

He couldn’t ignore it.

 

He sighed, reached for the phone with a practiced hand, and peeked at the message.

 

[Clean-up op postponed. Waiting on your final call.]

[ East Wing is asking questions.]

[ We need to meet. Tonight.]

 

Doflamingo’s smirk returned. He tapped a quick response.

 

[👍 Daddy's busy. Later.]

 

Then, just because he was a chaotic, loud, flamboyant bastard—he opened the camera app.

 

Click.

 

Crocodile’s face, squished onto his chest, messy hair, lip kiss-bitten.

 

Click.

 

One of them together. Croc dead asleep. Doffy kissing his forehead.

 

Click click click.

 

He cackled softly, stifling it in the blanket.

 

He made a folder.

 

DoffuWaniDickParty 💕💥

 

God, if Crocodile ever found out, he’d kill him.

 

Totally worth it.

 

He was about to get creative when—

 

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

 

His phone lit up. Three rapid messages from higher-ups.

 

“Goddamn it,” he groaned.

 

He glanced at Crocodile—dead to the world. Definitely out cold.

 

Still grinning, Doffy tapped out a reply. Forwarded to Corazon.

 

[Your call now. I’m busy.]

 

Cora answered almost instantly.

 

[🐊?]

[Yes.]

[😑👌]

 

“Perfect,” Doflamingo muttered, already sneaking out of bed like a horny ninja. Time to test a theory.

 

He tiptoed to the closet and grabbed his favorite feather coat. Then, gently—so gently—he slipped his sunglasses onto Crocodile’s sleeping face. Nothing.

 

He nudged him. Crocodile snored.

 

“Oh, he’s out,” Doflamingo whispered gleefully.

 

What followed was chaos.

 

Toe polish. Lipstick. A bright pink thong. He even moved Crocodile’s limbs a little, posed for a few shots with him—power pose, seductive lean, why yes, I am a mafia boss who takes it raw.

 

Buzz. Another message. He ignored it.

 

He glanced at Crocodile, then at the bulge in his own thong. He sighed. Temptation stirred.

 

“…Would it be abuse?... like… rape?” he muttered.

 

Shanks’s voice, angelic and loud in his head: Consensual sex only, Mingo.

 

Doffy huffed, tapping Crocodile’s cheek.

 

“Croc... hey... croc”

 

Nothing

 

Tap tap tap a little harder

 

“Wani… hey, Wani.”

 

No response.

 

He slapped his face with no hesitation.

 

“Mmmm…?”

 

“Can I fuck you in your sleep?”

 

Crocodile just groaned and buried his face deeper into the pillows.

 

“Yes or yes, Wani?” Doflamingo pressed, shaking his shoulder to keep him from drifting off.

 

“Mmmff~”

 

Doflamingo slapped him again. “Wake up, idiot!”

 

“What?!” Crocodile groaned, glaring blearily at him.

 

“CAN. I. FUCK. YOU. IN. YOUR. SLEEP?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, do whatever you want, goddammit!”

 

And just like that, he knocked out again—completely dead to the world.

 

Doflamingo waited a beat… then two.

 

He leaned closer, just to hear him breathe against the pillow. He looked so beautiful—so peaceful, so wrecked.

 

With a crooked grin, Doflamingo gently brushed Crocodile’s bangs back behind his ear, then leaned down and booped his nose. Nothing.

 

He wiggled a finger against his lips, making a ridiculous blblblblbl sound. Nothing.

 

He poked his cheek hard, really hard. Still nothing.

 

Finally, he lifted Crocodile’s arm and let it drop like dead weight. Gone, K.O. 

 

He grinned widely, “…Green light, baby.”

 

But there it was—Shanks’s angelic voice behind him, tugging at his ear like an annoying conscience. “You gotta treat him better, you idiot!”😇

 

“Uuughhhh… fine,” Doffy groaned, pouting as he shoved the lube aside and snatched the body oil instead. He wanted to fuck, not give a massage—but fine, he’d play along.

 

He pressed his palms to Crocodile’s shoulder, kneading into the knots with exaggerated annoyance. But then his hand dipped to a spot near Croc’s neck, pressing just enough to make the man let out a low, broken moan in his sleep.

 

That sound made Doffy freeze.

 

Too intimate. Way too intimate. Still, his hands moved again, slower this time, tracing down Crocodile’s shoulders, his neck, then sliding firmly along his back. Crocodile stirred, but instead of tensing, his whole body seemed to melt under the pressure, surrendering piece by piece.

 

Doffy felt his own chest clench in a way he didn’t understand. His lips twisted into something between a pout and a grimace, heat creeping up his face. This wasn’t sex, wasn’t power—this was something else, something he didn’t know how to handle.

 

When the words slipped out, they came softer than he meant, almost tender: 

 

“Yeah, yeah… I’ll treat you better, Croc. Maybe that way you’ll… maybe you’ll love me like I love you.”

 

And behind him, Shanks’s little angel stood with arms crossed, nodding like a smug bastard, as if to say finally.

 

 

---

 

When Crocodile woke up the next morning, Doflamingo was gone. Not a trace left of him in the room—no jacket, no shoes, not even a stray feather from his ridiculous coat.

 

He lay there for a moment, naked under the soft pink sheets, feeling wrecked but… strangely rested. Groggy, yes, but his body felt loose, like he’d been sleeping on puffy clouds. The pounding ache in his neck was gone. Even the stiffness in his back had vanished.

 

He rubbed his neck absently—then paused. His skin was slick. Oiled. He lifted his arm and sniffed, catching the faint scent of sandalwood and vanilla.

 

It came back in flashes—the hazy memory of Doflamingo sitting at the end of the bed, massaging one of his feet like it was some kind of priceless artifact, eyes full of cartoon hearts while murmuring cheesy nonsense about how beautiful Crocodile was.

 

“What an idiot…” Crocodile muttered into the pillow.

 

…An idiot who was hopelessly, shamelessly into him.

 

The thought made something in his chest do a ridiculous little somersault—before landing flat on its face because, no, absolutely not.

 

He didn’t like him like that. He didn’t.

 

…He didn’t.

 

Shaking off the thought, Crocodile sat up, noticing for the first time that he wasn’t in the same guest room as before. This room was massive—Doflamingo’s, obviously. All soft pink tones and decadent furniture, with an absurdly tall window draped in silk.

 

The bathroom door stood ajar, steam still curling out. Inside, the counter was spotless, save for a brand-new toothbrush in its packaging and a neatly folded school uniform—Crocodile’s size exactly. Beside it sat a thin gold chain. His chain. The one he’d lost at the fair… or at the bar.

 

“Damn…” he muttered under his breath.

 

Doflamingo was infuriating, but the man noticed everything. And worse—he remembered. Just like Shanks said: it’s the little details that matter.

 

And it was starting to get to him.

 

Crocodile wasn’t used to this kind of attention. It felt… warm. Safe, even. Like someone had wrapped him in a hug and left it there for later.

 

He shook it off, took a long hot shower, dressed, and left the room.

 

The Donquixote mansion was something else—three stories of luxury that balanced sleek modern design with old-money excess. Glass walls and marble floors mixed with heavy wooden furniture, antique vases, and massive paintings of the Donquixote family. Small framed photos dotted the shelves—blond kids growing up together, smiling, wrestling, making faces.

 

He slowed at one frame in particular—a family portrait. Doflamingo’s parents, both tall, blond and radiant, their hands on their sons’ shoulders. He remembered what Doflamingo had told him about them—about the way they’d died.

 

Crocodile stared at the smiling faces for a beat too long, a pang in his chest he didn’t want to name, because that happy family was something he never had.

 

He turned away quickly, not wanting that thought to root itself in his head. They looked so happy. Happier than anything he’d known.

 

By the time he reached the kitchen on the first floor, the smell of breakfast was already in the air. Corazon sat at the table, halfway through a plate, one long leg folded under him like he owned the place.

 

Across from him sat a fresh bowl—rice and eggs, still steaming.

 

“Morning,” Corazon mumbled with a nod, gesturing at the seat across from him. “He made that for you before leaving.”

 

Crocodile grunted in thanks and sat down. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was almost too easy. Crocodile hadn’t had that in a long time.

 

“You know,” Corazon said, spooning rice into his mouth, “my brother’s a damn idiot.”

 

Crocodile raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

 

“I mean it,” Corazon went on. “Add gigantic bastard, a psychopath, a level A asshole If you ask me “

 

“Aha?” Crocodile raised his eyebrow.

 

“But he really likes you.” Corazon continued “Like, seriously. I don’t think he’s messing with you, not like… a one-night thing. He doesn’t do this kind of shit.”

 

Crocodile froze, blinked and plopped on the chair.

 

The man took a deep breath and leaned back, took a bite of his breakfast, “So it’s just the two of you in this massive house?”

 

“Yeah. We have a cleaning crew come in every two weeks to help keep it from turning into a disaster zone, but it’s just us.” Corazon scratched his head. “Our parents were… well, rich as hell. Didn’t stop them from getting killed. After that, me and Doffy joined a gang when we were ten. It was either that or get chewed up out there.”

 

Crocodile nodded, then picked up a piece of egg with his chopsticks.

 

Corazon switched tones like flipping a switch. “So, you going with the twins to that study group later, or got plans?”

 

“I was—”

 

“He’s not going to school today or tomorrow,” Corazon interrupted, leaning forward. “Got stuff to do. So he won’t be with us.”

 

Crocodile blinked, “…And you’re telling me this because?”

 

“Because he likes you. But he won’t tell you when he’s busy or shuts down emotionally. And I don’t want you getting hurt by his stupidity.”

 

“…I see.”

 

“We were practically raised by thugs so don't expect us to be good with feelings and romance and all those things “

 

A long silence fell, the good kind. Then Crocodile spoke again, voice low but even. “I’ve been putting off my own business too. I wasn’t born into any of this. My parents… left me behind. Abusive assholes. I had to build everything I have from scratch. No money, no name, no nothing. Just me. I don’t plan on going back either.”

 

Corazon nodded slowly. “I get it.” He looked at him again, softer this time. “I really do.”

 

Another beat of silence stretched between them.

 

“I’ve been thinking about business school,” Corazon said as he blew on his tea and took a sip.

 

Crocodile glanced up. “Mm?”

 

“Yeah. Buggy’s been really excited about applying for college, and I think I wanna do that too. After all, someone has to take over the family fortune, right? Ha…” He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Our boss is just waiting for my brother to turn twenty-one this year so he can officially inherit it. Same thing for me in two years. But in the meantime, I wanna help out—learn useful things, y’know?” 

 

He took another sip, smiling faintly. “And I really don’t see Doffy in university.”

 

Crocodile raised a brow over the rim of his cup. “You’re older than us?”

 

“Yeah.” Corazon pointed at himself. “Nineteen. Doffy’s twenty. He should’ve been a year ahead of me, but he failed and got held back. I was still on track—until… well, after our parents died, we both lost a year. So now we’re stuck in the same class, both of us behind. Can you believe it?”

 

“What an idiot,” Crocodile muttered, rolling his eyes.

 

“Told ya.”

 

They both chuckled softly, the sound lingering for a moment before fading into comfortable silence. They finished their food without much else, just a quiet, shared understanding hanging in the air.

 

“It was good,” Croc muttered as he set his chopsticks down.

 

“Thanks. Doffy cooked. Three fried eggs, rice, and tea. He always takes care of me… looks like now he’s trying to take care of you too.” Corazon smirked.

 

They finished their food. Crocodile glanced up at him, squinting.

 

“You did something to your hair?”

 

Corazon blinked, caught off guard. “Oh—uh… yeah. Buggy gave me a haircut at school this week. During lunch.” His ears turned pink as he scratched at his cheek. “He, uh… botched it. So we skipped last class and went to Iva’s salon two days ago.”

 

“Iva, huh?” Crocodile leaned back, twirling a long strand of his own hair between his fingers as if debating cutting it. “Haven’t seen her in a while. Figures Buggy would drag you there.”

 

Corazon tilted his head, frowning. “Her? I thought—” he faltered, words tangling up in his mouth. “I mean, I wasn’t sure—her voice is kinda—uh—”

 

Crocodile arched a brow, a warning in silence.

 

“Right, right. Sorry. I’m not… great at those things,” Corazon muttered quickly, shifting in his seat. “It just surprised me, you know? Buggy took me down this shady little street, and I was sure he was about to mug me or something. But the salon? Super cute. Spotless. And I thought, huh… well, this is… not what I expected.”

 

He hesitated, lowering his voice.

 

“Why there, though? That part of the city… isn’t it Cross Guild territory? I mean—don’t they, uh, charge people to keep the peace? Isn’t it dangerous?”

 

Crocodile’s mouth twitched—half amusement, half disdain.

 

“Dangerous? For her? Nobody touches her.”

 

Corazon blinked.

 

“Oh… o—okay.”

 

A pause stretched, the kind that prickled faintly with something unsaid. Then, softer, hesitant:

 

“Buggy… uh… mentioned she’s… important to you. For some reason?”

 

Crocodile’s gaze sharpened, the faintest curl of a smirk on his lips. “That clown talks too much.”

 

Corazon ducked his head, grinning sheepishly.

 

Crocodile let his eyes linger a little longer this time, measuring. “…Well. You look good.”

 

Corazon’s grin widened, crooked and shy, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to accept the compliment. “…Thanks.”

 

“You’re such an idiot.”

 

“Yup. Now c’mon. Let’s go to school.”

 

---

Outside, they headed for Crocodile’s bike. But Crocodile froze when he saw it—sparkling clean, not a speck of dust, and the gas tank full.

 

“What the hell…?” he muttered. “Who touched my bike?”

 

“Ah—Doffy,” Corazon admitted quickly. “He, uh… ordered a tune-up. Thought it’d help.”

 

Crocodile dug into his pocket for his bike keys, fingers brushing over the familiar cool weight of metal. When he pulled them out, the little crocodile keychain Doffy won for him at the fair glinted in the light.

 

But dangling right beside it—bright, ridiculous, impossible to ignore—was a puffy pink keychain. A round ball of fluff that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday.

 

Crocodile froze.

 

“Tch.” His lip curled, though it lacked conviction. “That meddling bastard…” He shook his head, but his chest felt strangely tight.

 

Still, his hand lingered longer than it should have. The stupid puff looked even more absurd next to the sleek metal reptile. Yet somehow, together, they didn’t clash. They balanced each other.

 

He climbed on, and Corazon hopped on behind him without hesitation, wrapping his arms around Crocodile’s waist. As they rode off, Crocodile could feel the warmth of Corazon pressed against his back, his laughter carried on the wind as he teased him about driving too fast, too serious, too everything.

 

Crocodile didn’t answer. He just tightened his grip on the handlebars, jaw set, thoughts tangled. Doflamingo had done it for him—always thinking about him, even in the smallest ways.

 

It was stupid. Idiotic, like him. And yet, Crocodile couldn’t shake the thought that maybe—just maybe—he liked being thought of like that.

 

By the time they rolled into the school parking lot, Crocodile found himself slowing down just to make the moment last a little longer. Corazon hopped off, still grinning like an idiot, and gave him a jaunty little salute.

 

“Thanks for the ride, Croc. See you inside!”

 

Crocodile stayed seated for a moment, he took off his helmet and caught his own reflection.

 

He watched his tall friend jog off toward the entrance, heart oddly unsettled— because what he saw was a tall blond figure in the distance, broad shoulders, that unmistakable stride. For half a second his chest jolted, tricking him into thinking it was Doflamingo.

 

His pulse spiked.

 

The hell…?

 

It wasn’t him, of course—it was just his stupid brother—but the way his stomach flipped, the way his heart had leapt at the thought…

 

Crocodile exhaled sharply, clenching his fingers on the helmet.

 

Oh, shit. Don’t tell me…

 

He ran a hand down his face utterly frustrated.

 

Goddamn it. I’ve got feelings.

 

Notes:

That’s it for this chapter 🐊💖

Tell me—do you prefer your Doffy/Croc soft and tender or chaotic and unhinged? 👀

Drop your thoughts in the comments, I’d love to hear what side of them you enjoy most!

Chapter 6: Two Thug Lives

Summary:

Two gangs. Two brothers. Two lives stuck in a world they didn’t choose—Cross Guild circling from the shadows, the Celestial Dragons pulling the strings, and everyone else just trying to survive the streets.

The alley stank of piss and blood.

The guy on the ground was already out cold, but Hawkeyes didn’t stop. His fists kept coming down, sharp and deliberate, like he was punishing more than just this sorry bastard. By the time he finally stilled, his knuckles were wet, and the man wasn’t even twitching.

Daz tilted his head, knives balanced on his palms like toys.

“…You good?”

Buggy snorted, crouching nearby with a smirk. “He’s frustrated. Sexually frustrated, hah! Been walking around with blue balls all week. Ain’t that right, Hawkeyes?”

“Shut up.” Mihawk’s voice was low, dangerous.

“Come on, don’t act coy,” Buggy grinned wider, fishing cash and keys from the KO’d man’s jacket and kicking another one already sprawled on the ground. “We can all see it—tension thick as smoke with Shammy. Just take him out for a good fuck. He won't say no.”

Daz’s brow ticked. “Shammy? Shamrock? The rich kid who transferred with you guys this year?”

“Yeah,” Buggy said with delight, yanking open the bag in his hand. “Shanks’ twin. Can you believe it?”

The silence from Mihawk was heavy. Daz just flicked his knife against his thumb, watching the glint. Buggy, of course, didn’t know when to stop.

“He’s been crushing on him since I stole Shanks." Buggy’s grin stretched sharp, savoring the sting. “Both of us had a thing for Red, huh? But neither of us confessed. Shanks saw me. Couldn’t resist, really—look at me, I’m a goddamn catch. And this guy? Tall, broody, boring... poor Hawky never stood a chance.”

He kept mocking.

 

“And now? Poor bastard can’t get Shammy out of his head. Those little freckles, that soft needy look—bet you wanna kiss his neck, hear him moan, bend him over and—”

That was when Mihawk shoved him. Hard. Buggy hit the wall with a bark of laughter.

“Stole him?” Mihawk’s words cut sharper than steel. “What the fuck are you saying, clown? You think Shammy’s a consolation prize? Don’t talk about him like that, you little shit.”

Buggy spat and cackled.

“Like what? Like how you’re always comparing him to Red? How Shanks is all muscle and fire while Shammy’s just a soft little prince waiting for someone to take his ass? Buggy’s grin twisted, sharp and teasing, eyes glittering with wicked curiosity. Who do you jerk off to, Shanks or Shammy—or both? Mmmm, I bet you're dying to feel that comparison for yourself, huh?”

Mihawk’s fist cracked across his ribs. “SHUT UP”

Buggy staggered, still grinning through the sting. “I can talk all I want, emo face with a sword collection. About me, about Red, about Shammy Sham-sham—” His eyes glittered wickedly as he leaned in closer. “I see how you look at my man, Hawky. When he strips his shirt off and you can’t stop staring at his pecs. When he kisses me, smooches my cheeks—you wish it was you.”

 

He licked his teeth, savoring the cruelty,

 

“And Shammy? Sweet little Shammy’s growing up fast. He’s not like he used to be anymore, is he?  He wants someone to see him, touch him, treat him like he's not a kid. Tell me, Hawky—don’t you lie awake wishing it was you?

Another shove slammed him back, Mihawk’s eyes burning now. “Liar. You don’t know a damn thing about him.”

Buggy’s grin widened, wicked. “Don’t I? I know your pretty prince is still single ‘cause you’re too slow to ask. Someone faster might snatch him from you, Snail-eyes—bwahahaha!”

This time Mihawk’s punch came hard to the face, but Buggy caught his fist with a sharp snap of his palm. He was laughing, but the strength in his grip was real. For a moment, Mihawk remembered—Buggy wasn’t just a pretty face and bad jokes. He was an annoyingly strong bastard who knew how to fight. That was why he was still alive. That was why he was still here in the guild.

Buggy lived for moments like this—needling, prodding, pushing buttons until the other man snapped. It was his favorite game, one he never got tired of, because the only way to win against him was not to play at all.

For a beat, Mihawk’s fury simmered—then he suddenly shifted. One hand snapped up, grabbing Buggy’s face, squeezing his cheeks hard until his lips puckered. He shoved him against the wall, lifting his chin, forcing eye contact.

“Shut. The fuck. Up.”

Buggy wheezed against the squish, eyes gleaming with mischief even as his face was pinned. Then he gave a muffled chuckle. “Careful, Hawkeyes… that kinda rough touch? Might turn me on.”

His hand drifted slowly over Mihawk’s chest, fingertips tracing the contours just enough to tease, pressing lightly as if testing him, sensual and deliberate.

Mihawk dropped him instantly with a sound of disgust. “Ugh, you’re vile.”

Buggy rubbed his cheeks, grinning like a lunatic. “Mmm, so mean. But admit it—you compare him to Red in your head all the time. Strong body, weak body… fire, softness… you can’t even separate them. And that’s why you’ll never have him.”

Mihawk didn’t shove him again. He only stepped in, close enough that Buggy could feel the weight of his gaze, the stillness of a predator considering whether to strike. His voice dropped to a lethal whisper.

“You yap about loving Shanks so much, huh?” Mihawk didn’t blink, his eyes locked on Buggy’s as he tilted his head, leaning close enough that his breath brushed warm across Buggy’s cheek. “Yet you’ve been ducking your own man. Can’t even look him in the eye. What’s the excuse this time—cheating, or just proving you’re still a coward?”

Buggy’s grin faltered. For once, he didn’t answer.

Daz finally broke in, his voice flat but edged. “So that’s why you two been off lately. Christ. All this over some pretty redheads? Go play boyfriends and come back when you wanna talk real business.” He muttered under his breath, “Why the hell am I working with high schoolers…”

“Stop messing with them,” Mihawk gave him one last dark glare and turned on his heel.

The alley went still again. Daz crouched by the KO’d man, pulling open his backpack. His fingers curled around a set of gleaming knives, smooth grips, wicked blades. For a second, even he whistled low.

Buggy and Mihawk could barely stand each other on their own. They didn’t agree on much, but with Daz? They could set their bullshit aside. They weren’t friends, not really, but knives made them something else. Looking at beautiful blades was their common ground.

“Pretty piece,” Daz muttered.

Buggy, wiping his nose, leaned over. “Right? Those Celestial pigs get the best steel. Feel that balance—ohhh, smooth as butter.”

Mihawk barely looked, but his grip tightened as he adjusted the sword strap on his shoulder. He didn’t like sharing obsessions—but he gave Daz the faintest nod of approval at the blade.

“Forget the shine,” Daz muttered after a beat, dragging out a heavy zip bag. The thick plastic crinkled, sharp and loud in the silence. Inside were smaller transparent packets—dozens of them—stuffed with tiny white pills, and even a couple of square patches that looked almost like stickers. An envelope bulged with folded cash pressed against the side.

Daz’s eyes narrowed. “…Shit.”

Buggy leaned closer, lips pursed, voice pitched in mock-curiosity. “Ooooh… someone’s into painkillers, huh?”

Daz shot him a look, voice cutting flat. “Not painkillers. Drugs.”

The word dropped heavy, dragging the air down with it.

Buggy blinked. “…Oh no.”

Daz slung the bag over his shoulder. “We tell Croc. Now. Where the hell is he?”

Buggy cackled, “Chasing dick, probably!”

Daz’s eyes snapped up, sharp as his knives. “What?”

Buggy threw his hands up, laughing. “He’s been horny as hell, dodging our calls for two weeks. Called him that night I almost got snatched, you know what he did? Sat his fat ass on a pink flamingo cock while I nearly died.”

“You exaggerate too much. No one’s gonna believe half the shit you spit,” Mihawk said coldly, clearly not liking the way Buggy referred to Crocodile.

Daz wasn’t laughing. He shot Buggy a glare, pulled out his phone, snapped a photo of the drugs, and sent it to Crocodile. “If you’re so sure, clown, let’s see.”

“Go ahead. Call him. I dare you.” Buggy grinned wide, blood on his teeth. “Bet he won’t pick up.”

Daz dialed. Usually Croc answered him immediately.

Now—nothing.

He tried again. Straight to voicemail.

Then—call ended instantly. Like Croc had turned the phone off.

Daz’s jaw clenched. “That’s why it feels like I’m running this fucking guild.” He stuffed the phone back in his pocket. “Goddammit. Get your shit together, both of you. If Celestial dipshits are moving drugs, that means they’re making a play for the city.”

The three went quiet, the only sound the faint buzz of the street lamps.

Buggy nudged the unconscious guy on the pavement with the tip of his shoe, lips curling. “But these idiots are around our age. Why the hell drugs now?”

Hawkeyes’ tone was flat, almost too calm. “They won’t push it themselves. They’ll use high schoolers. Scare the kids into it, pay them scraps to run their packets. Middle schools too, if they’re desperate. Easy money.”

Buggy’s grin faltered for once. “…You think they’ll fuck with our school?”

Daz didn’t answer immediately. The silence stretched, heavy.

“Probably.”

They headed for their bikes, the night pressing in around them. Mihawk snatched one of the fallen guy’s phones, already swinging a leg over his seat. Buggy lingered in the dark, bouncing on his heels, eyes darting between the two.

“Wait, wait—” He scampered closer, hands clasped, almost pleading. “Hawky, can I—” He made to climb on behind Mihawk..

Mihawk shook him off with a sharp shove of his hand. “No.”

Buggy pouted, big watery eyes shimmering in the lamplight. “Oh, come on, Hawky—”

The answer came quick: Mihawk kicked him square in the chest, sending him staggering back onto the pavement. “Fuck. Off.”

 

Buggy wheezed, arms splayed on the asphalt, staring up like a child who’d just been told Santa wasn’t real. “But Hawkyyy—” His voice cracked into a whine, pathetic and small, all the bark gone from him.

He turned, ears red, and padded toward Daz’s bike like a kicked puppy. Daz groaned the second Buggy’s arms locked tight around his waist.

“Every damn time,” Daz muttered, throttling the engine.

The roar drowned Buggy’s little whimper, but not the way he pressed his cheek against Daz’s back—helpless, clinging, as if letting go would mean being left behind.

---

 

The car swerved so sharply it nearly clipped the sidewalk, pedestrians screaming and diving out of the way.

 

“CORAZON!!” Doflamingo’s palm smacked the back of his brother’s head so hard the horn blared. “What the fuck are you doing, driving like a grandma in reverse? Get off the wheel—Bellamy, drive!”

 

“Huh—?!” Bellamy squawked, scrambling over the seat.

 

Corazón froze for a second, eyes wide. “Wait, what—?”

 

Doflamingo growled, lunging toward the passenger side. “Now! Move!”

 

In a flurry of limbs, they attempted to switch places: Bellamy clambered toward the driver’s seat, Corazón dove face-first into the copilot’s spot, and Doflamingo plopped into the backseat like a sack of bricks.

 

The sedan bucked violently, tires squealing, as three oversized blond men tried to fit into positions clearly not made for them. A trash can flew under the wheels with a denting bang.

 

“Your knees are crushing my ribs!” Corazón wheezed, wedged against the door.

 

“Boss, your coat’s in my FACE—!” Bellamy protested, clutching the wheel for dear life.

 

“Shut up and DRIVE!” Doflamingo barked from the back, planting a boot on Bellamy’s thigh to force him down.

 

The car lurched forward, dangerously close to another curb. Somehow, they had done the swap opposite of clockwise, and chaos reigned inside the tiny sedan.

 

There was a beat of awkward silence between them.

Bellamy adjusted the seat, huffing. “Man, what’s up with you today Cora? You're usually quiet and sharp. Now you're spacing out like a lost puppy.”

Doflamingo tilted his shades down, grinning sharp. “This idiot finally invited his crush out on a date. Can’t stop daydreaming about her. Loud little pouty babe.”

Corazon opened his mouth to protest. “It’s not a gir—”

But Bellamy cut in with a laugh. “Yeah, Pinky’s been like that too. Talks about her all the time—says he wants to marry her someday and have a bunch of kids.”

“Bellamy.” Doflamingo’s voice flattened.

“Yes, boss?”

“Shut up before I break your jaw.”

They pulled into a narrow alley. The place was supposed to be crawling with their men. Instead, it was empty.

Doflamingo’s smile vanished. He yanked the door open from the back seat and shoved Bellamy out. “Go look.”

Bellamy obeyed, jogging down the street. Doflamingo leaned across the front seat, his shades catching the dim streetlight.

“We’ve got business tomorrow morning” he muttered.

Corazon blinked. “but tomorrow's Saturday?!” He twisted in his seat. “No—I was gonna go with the guys to the twins’ place for study group.”

“Pfff. Study group, my ass.”

“I wanna try business school,” Corazon whined under his breath, his voice cracking. “Just like Sham…”

Doflamingo’s shades glinted as he turned. “Just because you and Shamrock were in the same school once doesn’t mean you share the same brain, you idiot.” His laugh was sharp, cruel. “He’s a donkey-house nerd — you’re not.”

“Still,” Cora muttered, leaning back on his chair. “We are family. Someone’s gotta take care of the numbers and the legacy. You really think the upper-ups won’t eat us alive if we don’t have one of our own men handling our money?”

“You think you get to ‘try’ anything?” Doflamingo’s voice cut like a blade. “The upper-ups expect us this weekend. Either we move tomorrow or Sunday.”

“Sunday’s my date!”

“Jesus fucking christ!! Tomorrow then!”

Bellamy came jogging back, face pale. “Boss! I found them—they’re… uh, they’re all beaten up. Someone took the knives and the packages.”

Doflamingo was out of the car in an instant, Corazon on his heels. They crouched by the bleeding men. One of them croaked something barely audible.

Doffy’s jaw tightened. “Call backup,” he snapped. “Get the family’s doctor. They’ll patch them up.”

Back in the car, the mood shifted heavy. Bellamy drove, Corazon silent in the passenger seat, and Doflamingo sat in the back, muttering while counting bullets.

“What did he say?” Corazon finally asked.

Doffy’s shades glinted. “Cross Guild.” His grin was gone, jaw sharp with rage. “If I see them, I’ll kill them. I'll cut them into little pieces and feed them to the shanks.”

The silence stretched.

“So… what now?” Corazon asked quietly.

“Nothing,” Doffy said cold. “We tell the bosses our guys failed. Make the kids clean up their mess. That’s why we use high schoolers. If they screw up, it doesn’t matter, they're minors.”

The drive back was tense, street lights flickering through the class and the reflection on Bellamy's and Doggy's sunglasses.

Corazon stared out the window, bitter and restless. “What am I even doing?”

“Huh?” Mingo asked, glancing back.

“I’ve been thinking… about college, about escaping, about trying to build something different. But birthdays are curses in this family—you inherit everything, and there’s no way out.”

SMACK. 

 

Doflamingo’s hand cracked across his face from the back seat. “The fuck’s wrong with you, idiot? You think we can just walk away? You think the Celestial Dragons would let us live?” His voice was sharp, cruel. “We’re stuck in this shit forever, CORA. Don’t even dream otherwise.”

“But I wanted to try university, Doffy!” Corazon said, his face pouting.

Doflamingo groaned, dragging his hands down his face in exasperation. “You’re impossible…”

Bellamy gasped, gripping the wheel tighter.

“What now?!” said Doflamingo, clenching his teeth.

“Caesar and Monet are trying out for science school! Let Cora try uni, boss! Three, four years from now, they’ll have mad skills to push the family higher!”

Doflamingo snorted, “Pff, Monet is just a dumb babe, she's so into Caesar she'll do anything for that faggot.

“Don’t talk about her like that. She’s really smart!” Corazon shot back, voice sharp. “She’s the one who told us to cut the patches in half for less effect on teens and—OOUCH!” Doflamingo cut him off, slapping Corazon’s face full force and yanking back his hair.

 

“SHUT YOUR YAPPING ASS UP!”

 

“BOSS…” Bellamy said quietly, rubbing his cheek, voice almost swallowed by tension. “Next month, when we get the big package—I wanna help. I’ll follow you wherever you go. If you leave the Dragons, I’ll build my own crew just for you—”

 

SLAP.

 

Doflamingo’s huge hand connected squarely with Bellamy’s face. He didn’t need to say anything. He just kept driving.

 

For a long beat, no one spoke. The engine hummed, tires skimming the road, and the alley seemed to hold its breath. Even Corazon, curled low in his seat, didn’t dare peek. Every flick of Doffy’s coat, every twitch of his fingers was a warning. The silence itself felt like a slap.

 

Then the car jolted to a stop. Doflamingo leaned forward, smacking Bellamy’s forehead lightly. “Wait—Wait! Stop here. Drop me off.”

 

He swung the door open like a king stepping onto a stage, coat billowing, presence suffocating the alley. “Report back. Make sure the doctors handle the cleanup. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Are you coming home tonight?” Corazon rolled down the window, leaning out with his little hands stretched forward like a puppy

“Nope. Daddy’s busy.”

The door slammed, and he was gone.

As Bellamy started the car again, he sighed dreamily, shoulders slumping back. “Man… Boss is so cool. So mysterious. Can’t believe he’s our age.” He tilted his head, fingers drumming on the wheel, eyes wide as if seeing a movie in his mind.

Corazon lit a cigarette, handing one to him without looking. He leaned back in the seat, flicking the lighter with a lazy wrist. “Cool? Please. He just saw the guy he wants to screw in his favorite bar. That’s all.”

Bellamy blinked, jaw dropping slightly. “He… likes guys?” He leaned forward, squinting at Corazon, hand flinching to his cheek like he couldn’t believe it.

“Mmmmmmnnnnnno—” Corazon smirked, shrugging one shoulder, smoke curling around his fingers. “He’s just into Wani.”

“…Wani?” Bellamy frowned, tapping the steering wheel. “Weird. I think I’ve heard that name before. Someone was yelling it.” He dangled the cigarette from his lips, shaking his head, then gasped loudly, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Oh yeah, the idiot that almost blew up the van two weeks ago.”

“What an idiot.” Corazon snorted, waving one hand dismissively, leaning back with a little smirk.

Bellamy puffed on his cigarette, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, then leaned toward Corazon with exaggerated curiosity. “Huh… so this Wani guy… what’s he like?” He raised an eyebrow and tilted his sunglasses up like he was peering into someone else’s life. “Is he short, cute, and nerdy?”

Corazon snorted, flicking ash out the window, one hand gesturing vaguely, like he was conducting an orchestra of gossip. “Pfft— He’s tall, strong, long hair, lean muscle, likes jewelry—” He paused, wiggling his fingers in emphasis.

“Yeah? And uh… like… What does Boss see in him?” Bellamy gasped, leaning closer, hand to his cheek, almost bouncing in his seat.

Corazon leaned back, smirking faintly, palm pressed to the seat beside him, gesturing lazily with the other. “Uh—he’s… complicated. Stiff as hell, looks like he’s permanently constipated, but if you catch him off guard… he’s not all that scary.”

Bellamy gasped again, flinching forward as if Corazon had dropped a bomb. “Not scary? How so?” He jutted a finger toward Corazon, then touched his own lips like he was keeping a secret.

Corazon rolled his eyes, waving a hand dismissively, but his smirk grew. “I’ve had real conversations with him. He’s… actually kind of funny when he lets his guard down. Sarcastically funny. And there’s this softness under all that ‘don’t touch me or I’ll eat your soul’ attitude. Makes him… cute, in a weird way. Like a pouty dragon trying not to smile.” He tilted his head, puffing smoke over his shoulder like a bossy gossip queen.

“He’s the type of guy who’ll put his hand on the corner of the table if you lean down too far, just so you won’t hit yourself. The type who’ll fix your clothes if they get all messed up, just to steal a small moment with you. He’ll brush his fingers over your lips instead of yelling at you to shut up. And he’s not the kind to throw money at you to  buy yourself something nice—he’ll know what it is and just leave it there, where you’ll find it later.”

Corazon’s smirk softened into a teasing grin, smoke curling lazily. “Once he gave me a lighter because he noticed mine was running out of gas. Look, it’s this one—pink, glittery, covered in hearts, all my kind of ridiculous stuff. How the hell did he know? How does he know?” He shook his head, clearly impressed. “That’s Croc for you. All sharp edges, and yet… somehow, he notices everything.”

Bellamy’s jaw dropped, hands flying a little as he whispered, “Sounds like you’re the one in love with him.” He tapped his chest dramatically, then clutched the wheel, leaning back in faux shock.

“Nah, man. He’s my friend. Besides, I wouldn’t talk shit about my friends.” Corazon tossed one hand out, then gave Bellamy a pointed look. “Though… if you asked me about you? I could say good things too, don’t worry.”

Bellamy smiled. He didn't think Cora considered him a friend. Then his smile faded, a faint whisper escaped his lips, barely audible: “Croc, huh?”

Corazon’s head tilted, just slightly, catching it. His smirk softened into a knowing half-smile, but he said nothing, letting Bellamy mull it over.

Bellamy squinted at him through the dark. “Croc? Ain’t that the guy with the gold brass knuckles? the one runnin’ Cross Guild?”

Corazón’s hand flicked in the air like he was brushing lint off his sleeve. “Tch. Don’t be stupid. Just a name. Forget it.”

But the wheels were turning. Quietly. Slowly. Carefully.

Corazon crossed his arms tight, lips pushed into a pout, staring out the window as the headlights carved through the dark. He waved one hand like he was dismissing the entire world, letting the silence settle just long enough for the headlights to paint the interior in shifting shadows.

“I don’t want to keep doing this forever,” he muttered. “I really wanna try college, y’know? All my friends are applying. I don’t even care if I don’t get in. I just… I just want to prove I can do something different.”

Bellamy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then glanced over at him with a grin.

“I feel you, man. Don’t worry about it. If you decide something different—if you try college, or build your own crew, or whatever—you know you got our backs. Pinky, Vergo, me… hell, even the rest of the guys. We’ll always ride with whatever boss decides.”

Cora tilted his head, his frown softening.

“Even Caesar and Monet are trying out for entrance exams,” he said, voice caught between admiration and disbelief. “You know how nerdy they are.”

Bellamy barked a laugh.

“Exactly! That’s what I’m saying. You should try too, because think about it—if it’s three, four years, you get mad skills. Then we can improve the family. Caesar and Monet with the science, you with the business—organizing the heritage, the fortune. You guys are already loaded, man. If we convince Vergo to make it into the police academy? Boom. We got ourselves a double agent.”

He shook his head in awe, still laughing at the thought.

“Can you imagine?”

Cora gave a small, uncertain smile.

“I dunno…” he admitted, slouching back against the seat.

But for a long moment, neither said anything more. The car hummed along the empty road, headlights stretching into the night, two kids dreaming out loud about impossible futures—and trying, just for a second, to believe them.

Notes:

Buggy’s still an ass (shocking no one). But the boys are finally starting to put the pieces together—who’s really behind Cross Guild, and what that means when the Celestial Dragons tighten their grip. 👀

What do you think is gonna happen when Cross Guild’s gang collides head-on with the Dragons’ empire?

Chapter 7: From Notes To Moans

Summary:

A quiet Saturday study session turns into a dangerously distracting lesson in temptation. Shamrock and Mihawk explore unspoken desires, with more than just physics on the table.

Shamrock was up early, tidying and checking every corner of the apartment. Today was the day—the study group day. His friends were actually going to sit down and study with him, something he secretly loved more than he’d ever admit. The idea of everyone gathered around the table, books open, pens in hand… it made his chest buzz with a nervous kind of excitement.

It was a lazy Saturday, quiet and sunlit. Shanks had gone to the station to pick up Buggy and the others, leaving Shamrock alone for the morning.

Mihawk arrived early. Of course he did.

Twenty minutes early, as always. That bastard.

When Shamrock opened the door, his heart gave a jump. And there he was—tall, cool, calm, dressed like he wasn’t trying but still managing to look like he’d stepped out of a magazine ad.

They hadn’t talked about what they were. Not yet. But they knew. The kisses, the touches, the way Shammy’s breath always hitched when their eyes caught too long. Something unspoken curled between them like smoke, impossible to ignore.

Shamrock smiled sheepishly. “Hey.”

“Morning,” Mihawk’s gaze swept over him, slow and steady. “The apartment looks neat.”

“Thanks. Shanks and I cleaned yesterday. He’s out now.”

Mihawk nodded, then added—softly, like an afterthought, but with weight: “You look nice.”

Heat crept up Shamrock’s cheeks. He glanced down at himself—just shorts and an oversized black shirt, hair unbraided for once. Definitely not an effort. Not for a lazy Saturday.

“Uh… thanks,” he muttered, brushing strands out of his face.

He cleared his throat. “So, uh… do you wanna check something in the textbook together?”

“Sure,” Mihawk replied, that smooth, infuriating calm never breaking. He stepped inside and slipped off his shoes by the door—left first, then right. With the right one, he nudged the pair neatly into place, lined up as if it were second nature.

Mihawk had these little habits: always on time, always quiet, always precise. Even the way he sat was predictable. He lowered himself into the chair, adjusted with a faint tilt of his neck, then let his back fall against the support—straight, never slumped, like posture was a law he refused to break.

Shammy had started noticing those things, collecting them in silence the way he might press flowers in a book.

They exchanged the briefest nods before settling on the floor around the low table. Books stacked. Notebooks open. Everything in its place.

And still—Shammy’s heart wouldn’t stop fluttering.

A physics book lay between them, untouched. Pens ready. Silence stretching.

Shamrock tried to focus. He really did. But every few seconds, his eyes flicked to the door. He told himself it was because he was expecting the others. Not because of the man sitting next to him. Not because of the warmth between them.

Then it started.

A brush of toes under the table—light, casual. Barely a graze.

Shamrock flinched.

He didn’t look up.

Then again. This time firmer. Mihawk’s foot sliding softly along his ankle.

Shamrock cleared his throat. “Are you—?”

Mihawk didn’t answer. Just watched him with that unreadable gaze. Calm. Patient. Dangerous.

Then came an elbow. A nudge that pressed against his arm and didn’t move for a beat too long.

Then fingers.

Light. Teasing. Their pinkies touched. Then their hands. Barely laced together.

Shamrock swallowed hard.

“M-Mihawk…”

Still nothing. Only those eyes, sharp and burning.

“Shanks and the others should be here any second,” Shamrock mumbled.

“Then we’d better hurry,” Mihawk said softly—and then he leaned in.

One hand slid to Shamrock’s thigh, firm. The other caught his jaw. Their mouths met in a kiss—slow, lingering, devastating. Tongues brushing. A soft moan in the back of Shamrock’s throat. Everything else faded.

His hands trembled on the edge of the table.

Mihawk kissed him again, deeper this time, tasting him. One hand slipped beneath his shirt, tracing the soft dip of his stomach, then gliding up to the curve of his ribs. Shamrock shivered.

Then Hawkeyes shifted.

Without breaking the kiss, he gently pushed Shamrock down onto the floor. Leaned over him, braced on one elbow. His eyes never left Shamrock’s face.

Then, he leaned up and with one finger, he traced lazy circles around Shamrock’s lips.

“You’ve been teasing me all week,” Mihawk whispered, low and mocking, breath hot against Shamrock’s lips. “Acting all cute and smart. So damn nerdy.”

“What? I haven’t—” Shamrock started to protest, voice catching in his throat.

But Mihawk only smiled—a slow, dark curve. His eyes burned with heat. “You have.”

He leaned in, noses brushing, and claimed his mouth again.

Another kiss. Possessive. Deep. Slow and burning.

 

The kind of kiss that left no space for doubt.

Shamrock’s head tipped back against the floor, hair loose and tumbling around his face, the oversized black shirt slipping just enough to bare the line of his collarbone. Mihawk’s gaze flicked down, hunger sparking in his chest.

“You look too good like this,” Mihawk murmured, mouth trailing along Shamrock’s jaw, down the soft edge of his throat. “Your hair… your freckles…” His lips brushed warm against pale skin, drawing a startled shiver. “I want to taste every inch of you.”

“Taste?!” Shamrock’s breath hitched. His hands fumbled uselessly at the hem of Mihawk’s shirt, unsure where to go, unsure what to do.

Mihawk caught one trembling hand, steadying it. He opened his own shirt slowly, never breaking eye contact, then pressed Shamrock’s palm flat against his chest.

“Touch me, Shammy,” he said, voice low and tender. “I want to feel you.”

Shamrock’s cheeks burned crimson. He swallowed hard, but let his fingers roam—hesitant at first, tracing the hard planes of Mihawk’s collarbone, the slope of his neck, sliding lower over defined muscle and faint scars. His hand shook, but he didn’t stop.

Mihawk closed his eyes, a low hum slipping past his lips as if the touch was pulling something deep out of him.

Encouraged, Shamrock let his hand drift back up, slower this time, roaming over Mihawk’s chest. His breath caught when he found the spot he’d always thought about—the peak of a nipple. With a shaky breath he dared to brush it, slow and lingering, almost reverent.

The hum in Mihawk’s throat turned into a low growl. His eyes opened, sharp and burning.

 

“You’re going to set me on fire if you touch me like that.”

 

“I want to touch you, Shammy...”

Shamrock trembled at the plea, but he gave the smallest, shy nod. Mihawk kissed him again—longer, deeper—coaxing him to forget his hesitation. His hands moved slowly, deliberately, slipping beneath the hem of Shamrock’s shirt. He traced each rib, then drifted lower across the hard plane of his stomach before sliding back up, mapping the unfamiliar territory with quiet hunger.

When his fingers found a nipple, Mihawk brushed over it, his lips never leaving Shamrock’s. The touch was light, teasing, yet full of promise. Shamrock’s breath hitched, the heat beneath his skin spreading faster than he could control.

When Shamrock gasped into the kiss, Mihawk took the moment, pressing further. His hand slipped lower, past waistband and fabric, until his palm cupped the top of Shamrock’s thigh, brushing against the curls just above his cock—close enough to make Shamrock arch and moan, but not enough to give relief.

Shamrock’s whole body shook, every sound spilling from him raw and unguarded. Mihawk drank it in, every reaction, every tremor, savoring him piece by piece.

He was melting. Every touch, every kiss felt like gravity was pulling him harder into Mihawk’s orbit.

His lips parted to speak, to protest, to beg—

But Mihawk silenced him with another kiss.

Click. 

The door swung open.

And Shamrock sprang apart like they’d been electrocuted, but the heat clung to them, invisible and smoldering.

“Sorry we’re late,” Shanks grinned, arms full of snacks. “But good news—we brought brain food and Buggy didn’t eat it all on the way.”

“Hey!” Buggy barked. “I only ate, like… two things.”

Shamrock stood still under the table, clutching a book to his lap like it was a lifeline, cheeks flushed crimson. Mihawk leaned back casually, legs crossed, unreadable as always.

“We’re gonna learn a lot today,” Shanks said cheerfully, plopping onto the floor beside Shamrock. “Red’s the best at this topic. Right, Croc?”

Crocodile arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I bet he is.”

His eyes slid toward Mihawk.

And Mihawk—cool as ever—glanced back. Their eyes met for just a second.

Then a smirk.

Silent. Wicked.

Everyone settled around the low table in the living room, cross-legged or half-lounging like a group of misfit kings holding court. The books were spread out between them, pens rolled into corners.

Shamrock sat with his back to the couch, Mihawk directly across from him like a challenge, Crocodile on his right, calm and unreadable, and Shanks to his left, bright-eyed and loud. Buggy flopped beside Shanks, legs already stretched out rudely, one arm slung over the backrest like he owned the place.

They bickered the way only longtime troublemakers could—arguing over who brought what, who lost which notebook, who always forgot a pen and still got top grades. Shamrock rolled his eyes fondly and tried to keep them on the open page in front of him, but Mihawk wasn’t making it easy.

The bastard was watching him. Still. Again.

His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. He just sat there like a quiet menace, long fingers loosely clasped together, head tilted slightly like he could see something behind Shamrock’s eyes he wasn’t saying out loud.

Shamrock’s skin prickled under it.

He cleared his throat, flipping a page just to have something to do. “Okay, let’s start with the physics stuff. This chapter’s easy if you get the formulas—”

“Alright, ShamSham,” Buggy cut in, already chewing on something obnoxiously crunchy. “Explain this formula thing. It looks like math and I hate it.”

Shamrock opened his mouth. “Sure, so the idea is to—mf—”

Mihawk’s foot had found his inner thigh. Pressing. Slow. Firm.

Shamrock twitched so hard his pen skidded across the page.

No one noticed. Or if they did, they pretended not to.

Buggy blinked. “You good?”

“Fine!” Shamrock squeaked, voice way too high. “Totally fine.”

Mihawk didn’t smile. But the corner of his mouth twitched—just once. Like he’d gotten away with something.

Shamrock opened his mouth. “Like I said, the idea is—mm—”

Mihawk’s foot was still there. Pressing. Slow. Firm.

Shamrock twitched. Swallowed.

“I-It’s, um… just about how the force interacts with—uh—mass and acceleration…”

Shanks frowned. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I just—” He shifted in place, biting back a sound as Mihawk’s foot slid higher, pressing right against his crotch. Deliberate. Steady.

“Mff—”

Buggy leaned in, squinting. “You sound weird. You sick or something?”

Crocodile chuckled lowly. “Why can’t you explain Newton’s laws, huh, Red?”

“I—I can! You just have to—mh—just remember the second one: net force equals mass times acceleration…”

His voice cracked halfway through.

Mihawk, still perfectly stoic, adjusted the pressure again—his foot grinding slow, subtle circles.

“You feelin’ good?” Mihawk murmured low, just for Shamrock.

“I just…” Shamrock whispered back, trying to sound composed, “I just need to focus…”

Mihawk pressed again.

“—fuck…”

“Red?” Shanks blinked.

“I said focus! FOCUS! That’s what I meant.”

Buggy shrugged. “That’s what I heard. Right, Croc?”

But Crocodile was too busy watching Shamrock squirm, a curl of smoke slipping from his lips as he chuckled behind his cigarette.

This was going to be a very long afternoon.

Shanks leaned forward, grinning too wide, his legs bumping into Shamrock’s under the table—almost enough to glance Mihawk’s still-pressing foot.

Too close.

Shamrock tensed. He coughed, eyes flicking down. Carefully, he grabbed his notebook and slid it across his lap, shielding himself.

Mihawk paused. Didn’t move the foot—but didn’t press either.

Relief swam through Shamrock’s lungs. He cleared his throat. “So, uh… college applications open in two months—after finals.”

Everyone blinked.

He continued, voice steadier now. “That gives us, like, eight-nine weeks. If we all want a shot, we should seriously get our grades up. I can help. We can study together.”

Crocodile raised a brow, exhaling smoke lazily. “You really think thugs like us can make it to uni?”

Shanks perked up. “Come on, Wani! Just imagine it—us five, on campus! A biker gang but make it college edition.”

Buggy cackled. “I’d cause a scene in every lecture.”

But the truth hung heavy in the air.

None of them—Mihawk, Crocodile, or Buggy—had really imagined a future like that. Not beyond this year. Not beyond survival.

Shamrock smiled anyway. “We’d kill it. Trust me.”

And for a while, they did.

Shamrock moved on to literature—eagerly explaining thematic parallels, his voice animated, when Buggy suddenly stood up, heading straight for the snack shelf.

Buggy, noticing the chip bag was empty, tilted it to his mouth, hoping the crumbs might fall in. Instead, they cascaded everywhere, spilling across his shirt. Without a second thought, he blew the mess to the side, but in a cruel twist of fate, the crumbs landed directly on Mihawk’s face.

Mihawk’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t react immediately. His eyes shut, his face folding into a frown, the silent message clear: If I don’t see it, it doesn’t exist . He was trying, desperately, not to let it annoy him.

Buggy, oblivious, just shrugged and took a step back, wiping his hands.

"Hey!" Shamrock pointed at him, a mock-serious scowl pulling his lips. "Get your ass back here."

Crocodile stretched his arms behind his head, rolling his shoulders like he’d been sitting through this physics bootcamp for two damn hours too long. He caught Shamrock’s sharp glare at Buggy for getting up, and just waved a lazy hand. Let the clown get his chips, kid.

Shamrock huffed, scanning the book for a question—only for Buggy to beat him to it, crunching loud as hell. “Alright, Professor Red—what’s irony again?”

Shamrock started to answer, leaning back. That was when Mihawk’s foot moved—slow, deliberate, pressing just enough against Shamrock crotch under the table.

He faltered. “Irony is when—mf—when… the, uh… opposite of what’s expected… happens…”

His voice broke.

 

Across the table, Crocodile’s mouth twitched around his cigarette, a curl of smoke slipping out. He didn’t say a word—just gave Mihawk the kind of sly, knowing grin that said caught you, bastard.

Buggy blinked between them, confused, crumbs all down his shirt. “...Wait, am I the irony?”

Crocodile actually chuckled, low and smug. “Something like that.”

Buggy blinked. “Dramatic irony, right?”

“Exactly,” Shamrock choked out.

“See?” Shanks beamed. “Buggy’s the smartest and the cutest.” as he blew a kiss to him.

Buggy flushed. “Stoooop~.”

Buggy plopped into his seat with a theatrical whump, the table rattling under his elbows.

Shanks leaned in immediately, grinning, and planted a noisy smooch on his cheek.

Buggy scrunched his face, but instead of pushing him away, he grabbed a chip and stuffed it between Shanks’ lips mid-kiss.

“Here, eat,” he said with a grin, like it was just a joke.

Shanks laughed around the chip, chewing happily like nothing was off.

But the tiniest flicker lingered—Buggy’s easy dodge of affection. A move so small it could be brushed off as a gag.

And yet… it wasn’t nothing.

Across the table, Crocodile snorted, amused—and Mihawk’s lip twitched, just faintly.

They were enjoying this, the noise, the chaos, and the red hair next to them squirming silently.

Shamrock tried to recover, sitting up straighter.

But Crocodile shifted closer and reached out, brushing a strand of red hair behind Shamrock’s ear. His fingers lingered, tracing gently along his jaw.

“You didn’t braid it today,” he murmured. “Lazy on Saturdays, huh?”

Shamrock froze, heart hammering in his throat. “I—yeah. I guess.”

“You’re so easy to fluster, Red,” Crocodile said, low and knowing.

And Mihawk’s foot pressed again, unrelenting.

He was either going to explode—or implode.

Maybe both.

Shamrock managed to explain everything. Every concept. Every theory. Every damn chart.

But he was sweating bullets the entire time, biting the inside of his cheek to stay focused as Mihawk’s foot teased him relentlessly under the table. He was barely holding it together, voice trembling every time the pressure returned—right where he was hard and aching.

Shanks, sitting closest, finally noticed. “Hey… Shammy, you okay? You’re so flushed. You need water?”

Shamrock nodded like his life depended on it. “Yes—please. Water. Just. Yes.”

Shanks stood and headed to the small kitchen. “I’ll get it.”

Crocodile stretched lazily, stood, and walked toward the balcony. “I need another smoke,” he muttered. Mihawk watched him with a glance.

Buggy stayed, still munching chips.

“You’re not even listening,” Mihawk said coolly. “Why don’t you go bug Croc. He loves that when he’s trying to smoke.”

Buggy lit up. “Oh hell yes.”

And like that—gone. All of them.

Mihawk stood immediately. “Come with me.”

 

Shamrock blinked. “W-what?”

 

But Mihawk had already seized his wrist and yanked him down the hallway with purpose, his grip like iron. They spilled into one of the bedrooms. The door clicked shut behind them—but Mihawk didn’t lock it.

 

Shamrock stumbled backward and landed on the bed with a graceless thud, clothes and clutter scattered across the sheets.

 

“This… this is Shanks’ room,” he whispered.

 

Mihawk didn’t even glance at the walls. “Figures.”

 

He was already on him, gazes meeting.

 

“Shammy,” Mihawk said, voice low and teasing, but with something dangerous curling beneath. “I can't resist you any longer.”

 

And then his mouth crashed against Shamrock’s in a kiss that was all hunger and heat — no hesitation, no mercy. It stole the breath from Shamrock’s lungs, sent sparks down his spine. Mihawk kissed like he had waited too long for this, like he was trying to memorize the shape of Shamrock’s mouth with his own.

 

Mihawk’s mouth claimed Shamrock’s neck with ruthless intent, lips dragging across skin before he sank his teeth in sucking, biting hard enough to make Shamrock gasp.

 

He didn’t know what to do—he’d never been kissed on the neck like that before. The sensation was alien, too soft, too close. His eyes widened as Mihawk’s mouth traced along his skin, slow and searching.

 

And then—there. Mihawk found a spot just under his jaw, just beside the curve of his throat, and bit down lightly.

 

A spark of pleasure burst through him curling his toes. White-hot. Dizzying.

 

“Mmmf—” The sound tumbled from his throat before he could catch it, low and trembling.

 

Mihawk growled softly against his skin.

 

“You’re making the prettiest sounds, Shammy,” he murmured, voice gone dark with want.

 

He leaned back just enough to push away the loose strands of Shamrock’s long hair, fingers combing gently behind his ear, revealing the pale column of his neck.

 

And that’s when he saw them.

 

Freckles.

 

Scattered like stars just beneath the skin—hidden until now. Mihawk stilled, staring. Something lit in his eyes, something wild.

 

“…Oh, fuck,” he whispered.

 

Then he dipped his head again, and this time he wasn’t just kissing. He was devouring—lips brushing over every freckle like they were sacred, tongue tracing each one, mapping them as if he’d never forgive himself for forgetting where they were.

 

Shamrock could barely breathe.

 

Mihawk didn’t stop at his neck.

 

Still straddling him, he began a slow descent, lips dragging down Shamrock’s collarbone, tongue tasting every inch he could reach. His hands were already under Shamrock’s shirt, pushing it up—impatient, greedy—but when Mihawk finally pulled it over his chest, he paused to look.

 

Shamrock’s body wasn’t carved like some fighter’s statue, but there was strength in the lean lines of his frame—athletic, taut, built from movement rather than brute force. His skin was pale, like a little prince who had never once been kissed by the sun. It struck Mihawk at once—the difference. He’d seen Shanks shirtless more times than he could count, skin bronzed, weathered, warm. But Shamrock… Shamrock was untouched light.

 

And he didn’t show skin, not to anyone. Which made the sight all the more intoxicating.

 

Mihawk’s jaw tightened with the urge to devour him whole.

 

“You have no idea,” he said, voice low, “how long I’ve wanted to see you like this.”

 

Shamrock’s cheeks burned.

 

Then, with deliberate patience, Mihawk pulled his own shirt off, the movement slow, controlled. The only thing left between his skin and Shamrock’s was the gold cross necklace that always hung around his throat, catching the dim light.

 

For a heartbeat, Shamrock froze—just staring. Really staring. Mihawk was seventeen just like him, but he was cut like something out of marble, all lean power and firm lines, every angle sharp, every plane sculpted as if the world itself had carved him. A Greek god in a teenager’s body.

 

Shamrock had never seen a man like that. Not this close. Not for him.

 

Mihawk leaned down, offering without words, and caught Shamrock’s trembling hand. Slowly, gently, he pressed it flat against his chest.

 

Shamrock’s breath shook, but he let his fingers travel—hesitant at first, brushing over the warmth of solid muscle, tracing from pecs down his sides. Mihawk closed his eyes at the touch, a low hum rumbling in his chest, surrendering to the contact like he’d been waiting for it.

 

The sound made Shamrock’s pulse stutter. His hand lingered, shaky but curious, until Mihawk leaned back in, caught his jaw again, and kissed him—deep, slow, lingering—pulling him back under.

 

Then Mihawk dipped again—this time over his chest—and his mouth closed around one pink nipple, tongue flicking, sucking lightly.

 

Shamrock gasped.

 

“Oh—”

 

His back arched, hips twitching like he didn’t know which way to move. His hands clutched Mihawk’s bare shoulders, unsure if he should push away or pull him closer.

 

He’d never been touched like that before. Never even thought it could feel good. He wasn’t sure what startled him more—the sensation or the fact that Mihawk clearly knew exactly what he was doing.

 

Mihawk chuckled against his skin.

 

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmured, switching sides, teasing the other nipple with a swirl of his tongue, then a soft bite that made Shamrock whimper.

 

“Ah~ wait, wait—” Shamrock’s voice cracked, but Mihawk just hummed, dragging kisses down his chest, slow and deliberate.

 

He didn’t rush. He worshipped.

 

Down the line of his ribs. Across his stomach. Featherlight brushes of lips, as if tasting every reaction.

 

When he reached the waistband of Shamrock’s shorts, he stopped.

 

Paused.

 

His fingers skimmed the hem. Teasing. Suggestive.

 

He glanced up, eyes gleaming. Dangerous. Patient.

 

“…Do you want me to stop?” he said, voice like silk and fire.

 

Shamrock froze.

 

Their eyes locked, and for a heartbeat, everything else vanished.

 

He bit his lip, unsure — shame flickering in his gaze. He didn’t want to say no. But he couldn’t bring himself to say go either.

 

So he just shook his head. A small, trembling no — but it meant don’t stop.

 

Before Shamrock could even catch his breath, Mihawk was stripping him down— shorts yanked down in one sharp tug. Shamrock’s pulse spiked, face burning.

 

“Wait—!” he blurted, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. He was already hard—aching, really—and the suddenness, “I—this is—!”

 

Mihawk didn’t answer. He was breathing hard, like he was losing control of himself, like every second he didn’t touch more of Shamrock was a second wasted.

 

He gripped the waistband of Shamrock’s boxers and slowly, very slowly peeled them down, knuckles brushing flushed skin as he went. Every motion deliberate. Worshipful. Torturous.

 

Shamrock’s cock sprang free—stiff, flushed a delicate pink, red curls at the base, and faint freckles scattered over the shaft like secrets.

 

God.

 

Mihawk paused.

 

His eyes widened. His head tilted slowly to the side, jaw cutting against his shoulder in that sharp, frustrated motion—like a wolf shaking off a chain. Shamrock lay beneath him, shirt bunched high under his arms, freckles scattered over his chest, flushed and trembling. Too soft. Too precious.

 

Mihawk’s body screamed to take. Every instinct begged him to press down, to claim, to devour. That was what he knew—taking without asking, drowning out the ache with intensity.

 

But then he saw Shamrock’s wide eyes. The way his hands trembled on his chest. The way his chest rose and fell too quickly.

 

What if this is his first?

What if I break him?

What if he thinks this is just a one-time thing… that I only wanted to use him and walk away?

 

No . His mind burned like steel hammered into shape. Not like this.

 

Mihawk closed his eyes, forcing in a long, steady breath. Holding it. Releasing it slow. A single act of control. He couldn’t lose himself. Not with Shammy.

 

I won’t take. I’ll give.

I’ll make him feel good.

 

When he opened his eyes again, the hunger was still there—but tempered. Focused. Patient.

 

And then he sank to his knees.

 

Shamrock couldn’t even speak. He felt exposed, pinned under Mihawk’s gaze like prey under a hawk’s talons.

 

“M-Mihawk—!”

 

“Shhh.” Mihawk’s voice was pure velvet, thick with promise. “I didn’t lock the door.”

 

And then he leaned in.

 

His tongue traced up Shamrock’s shaft in one unbroken line, teasing the head, flicking lazily—and then down again, slower this time, licking the base with reverence. He gently tugged at the foreskin, playing softly, and then he slid his tongue inside and pressed a tender kiss to the tip.

 

“Hmp—” Shamrock choked on a moan, hips jerking. 

 

Then, without warning, Mihawk opened his mouth and slowly took his cock in.

 

GASP

 

Panic slammed into Shamrock's chest—but it only made everything sharper. Hotter. Every wet, hungry movement of Mihawk’s mouth sent white sparks exploding behind his eyes.

 

No one had ever touched him like this.

 

No one had ever taken him like this.

 

It was too much. Too fast. Too good.

 

His hands clawed at the sheets, desperate for something to hold on to, mind unraveling in a haze of lust and fear and blinding pleasure.

 

Shamrock whimpered, hands trembling as he tried—tried—to push Mihawk’s head away. “Mm—Mihawk, wait, you—mmf”

 

But Mihawk didn’t budge. Instead, he caught Shammy’s hand, guiding it into his hair—pressing firmly until Shammy’s fingers curled in, holding him there.

 

He didn’t speak. He didn’t blink. His mouth stayed latched around Shamrock’s dick, sucking with a slow, devastating rhythm—deliberate and deep, lips stretched tight, tongue dragging along the underside with every movement. His fingers dug into Shamrock’s thighs, keeping him wide open, trapped. Helpless.

 

Unmovable.

 

Shamrock had never—never—been sucked before. Not once. And now it was him . Mihawk. The man he liked—wanted—and who wanted him back. The sheer fact that this was his first—

 

It was too much.

 

Too intense. Too real. Too perfect.

 

He wanted to enjoy it, to melt into it, to lose himself—but panic prickled just beneath the surface. The door was still unlocked. Anyone could walk in. Anyone could see him like this: panting, wrecked, coming undone under Mihawk’s tongue.

 

“You’ve never been sucked before, Shammy?”

 

Mihawk’s voice purred up from below, dark and amused, as he popped his head up like he’d just been sipping something thick through a straw. His lips were swollen, glistening.

 

Shamrock could only shake his head, burying it into the pillows as if that would hide how red he was.

 

“Mmmfff—!” he choked, thighs trembling, his hips giving tiny, shameful jerks forward as if they had a mind of their own. He was unraveling. His body was betraying him, clinging to the pleasure like it was the only thing keeping him breathing.

 

Mihawk drank it all in—eyes half-lidded, smug, hungry. He loved seeing him like this. Needy. Sensitive. Desperate.

 

“ Mihawk— wait,” Shamrock gasped, voice cracking as his back arched clean off the bed, every nerve on fire. “Hold on—!”

 

But Mihawk didn’t hold on.

 

He leaned in again. Teasing.

 

His tongue flicked over the flushed, leaking head—just a single, wet stroke that made Shamrock jerk like he’d been shocked. Then another lick, lazy and slow, from the tip down the shaft, tracing every vein, every freckle. He paused at the base—hot breath spilling over sensitive skin—then nosed lower.

 

Shamrock’s thighs jolted.

 

Mihawk parted them further.

 

And then he took one of his balls into his mouth and sucked .

 

Shamrock gasped . Really gasped this time—loud, stunned, raw—like his soul had just left his body.

 

“Oh f-fuck—!”

 

He slapped a hand over his own mouth too late, eyes wide, body shaking uncontrollably as Mihawk rolled his tongue around the soft weight, lips sealed tight, sucking just hard enough to make it unbearable.

 

Pleasure surged through him in waves, heavy and hot and completely out of his control.

 

He was a mess—hips twitching, breath catching, thighs trembling like leaves in the wind. Mihawk’s grip stayed firm, grounding him, but his mouth kept driving him higher.

 

Shamrock couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. His mind was mush and Mihawk knew it.

 

“Sensitive?” Mihawk murmured, lips brushing against Shamrock’s trembling thigh as he knelt between his legs, voice like silk wrapped in steel.

 

Shamrock nodded quickly, cheeks flaming.

 

“First time?” Mihawk asked again, even though he already knew the answer.

 

Another nod.

 

He smirked.

 

“Want me to stop?”

 

A frantic shake of the head.

 

Mihawk chuckled darkly, the sound curling around Shamrock’s spine like smoke.

 

His hands were slow now—massaging the inside of Shamrock’s thighs, stroking gently, deliberately, letting the tension rise again. Shamrock’s breath was shallow, every nerve alight, especially when Mihawk’s fingers strayed . One hand slid up higher, thumb grazing the crease between thigh and groin, just enough to make him twitch.

 

Then Mihawk struck—lightly, just a sharp tap to the inside of his thigh.

 

Shamrock jolted.

 

“Too much?” Mihawk whispered.

 

Shamrock shook his head, legs falling open even more without realizing it.

 

“Good,” Mihawk breathed, and then, lower, darker: “There’s a little spot around here… that makes everything feel so much more.”

 

His fingers brushed toward his entrance—but didn’t touch. Not yet.

 

Mihawk didn’t give him time to breathe. One sharp tug had Shamrock sliding across the sheets, his hair flying wild around his face as his body jolted. In a blink, his thighs were caught and tipped up, hips hanging just at the edge of the mattress. Shamrock gasped, half-arched, helpless in the way Mihawk arranged him—open, messy, and waiting. The swordsman didn’t climb back onto the bed; he stayed standing, looming, leaning down with dark intent as his mouth found him.

 

He stood there,

 

Exhaled slowly—then bent lower.

 

His tongue traced along Shamrock’s inner thigh, wet and warm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He licked higher, just beneath the curve of his ass, then paused.

 

And then—

 

Shamrock’s mouth fell open in shock as Mihawk’s tongue licked a broad, wet stripe over his entrance. Slow. Indulgent. Worshipful.

 

“M-Mihawk—!”

 

He barely managed the sound, because Mihawk kept going—tongue pressing in, swirling, teasing, wetting him thoroughly with unrelenting focus. One hand stroked his cock lazily, keeping him hard, trembling, wrecked.

 

Shamrock was a mess of whimpers and breathless moans, fingers clawing at the sheets like they could anchor him to reality.

 

Only when Mihawk was satisfied—when Shamrock was slick and twitching and panting—did he pull back.

 

And then came the finger.

 

Mihawk sucked it, making sure it was nice and wet, then slowly—so slowly — he pressed in, circling first, then breaching him in one controlled push, watching Shamrock’s face the entire time.

 

Shamrock choked on air. “F-Fuck—!”

 

Mihawk’s finger sank deeper, inch by inch, until he was knuckle-deep, his free hand still stroking Shamrock’s cock in an almost lazy rhythm—just enough to keep him needing .

 

“Relax,” Mihawk murmured, kissing his thigh again.

 

The finger curled. Just slightly.

 

And he found it .

 

Shamrock gasped , the pleasure sharp and sudden like lightning snapping up his spine.

 

Mihawk grinned.

 

“There it is.”

 

He did it again. This time slower. Deeper.

 

Shamrock’s legs kicked uselessly, hips stuttering, breath lost. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Mihawk’s hand kept stroking him, mouth returning to his cock, sucking him down again in one greedy motion.

 

He fucked him open with smooth, deliberate strokes—coaxing sounds out of Shamrock he didn’t even know he could make. Shamrock was shaking, voice caught in his throat, legs falling open wider, surrendering to the pleasure curling in his gut.

 

And Mihawk watched him.

 

Watched every tremble, every broken breath.

 

“You feel that?” Mihawk murmured, pressing a second finger beside the first—slow, deliberate.

 

Shamrock let out shaky breaths—his whole body tensing, hips twitching at the sharp sting of intrusion. There was a burn, hot and real, and it made him squirm—his thighs instinctively trying to close, breath stuttering in his throat.

 

“Hmp—Hmp!!”

 

“It's ok,” Mihawk whispered, voice low and steady. “Breathe, Shammy.”

 

Shamrock nodded and tried. Inhaled. Exhaled. His fingers clutched at the sheets as he forced himself to relax, to open—and just like that, the burn softened, shifted. That thin line between pain and pleasure started to blur. Melted into something electric.

 

And then Mihawk curled his fingers—slow, dragging them right over that perfect spot again and again.

 

Shamrock sobbed a yes he couldn’t say—his head nodding desperately, body trembling with the rising crest of it all. Too high. Too fast.

 

It was too much. Too much.

 

“Mihawk, please —!”

 

Mihawk didn’t let up.

 

He doubled down—fingers thrusting slow and deep, mouth sucking hard , his hand working in brutal rhythm.

 

Mihawk felt it. He knew.

 

So he picked up the pace.

 

His hand on Shamrock’s ass moved faster—tight, slick pushes that hammered his prostate over and over. The pressure wound tighter and tighter inside him, molten heat curling low in his belly.

 

Sparks burst behind his eyes with every thrust, vision blurring as the rhythm took over. The pounding in his ears was deafening—his own ragged breaths mixing with the wet sound of Mihawk’s mouth driving into him. It was like electricity ran up through his legs, tingling, crackling, climbing higher with each relentless push.

 

Shamrock’s body arched—his voice catching as his toes curled.

 

“Hmp! —Hmp!!”

 

It was like a current running under his skin—sharp, tingling currents racing up his spine, coiling in his stomach, and flooding every nerve with the promise of release. The more Mihawk pushed and sucked, the tighter Shammy’s body wound, until he was trembling, breathless, desperate for that breaking point.

 

“Oh—F-Fuck, Fuck—I’m gonna—!”

 

And then he came.

 

It tore out of him—silent, broken, his whole body jerking as white heat spilled over his stomach, his chest, his thighs. He was shaking, gasping, clenching tight around Mihawk’s fingers even as he came apart.

 

And Mihawk's face moved aside just in time to watch every wave of release, Shamrock’s body twitching under his grip, too raw to think, too full to move.

 

But Mihawk’s hand on his ass never stopped. The pressure stayed. Moving. Insistent.

 

Shamrock’s body twitched violently, nerves raw, too sensitive to bear it—yet somehow craving more. The stimulation was dizzying, sharp and unbearable and impossibly good, like every nerve was split open, begging and burning.

 

“Ha—ah—!! W-wait—mmff!!” 

 

His voice cracked as he tried to sit up, trembling hands pushing weakly at Mihawk’s wrist. Panic and lust tangled together, his mind screaming stop even as his hips jerked forward for more.

 

Mihawk caught him easily, his free hand pressing flat to Shamrock’s chest, shoving him gently but firmly back down into the sheets. Shamrock’s eyes flew wide—then squeezed shut again as Mihawk’s fingers found that spot, moving, slamming faster in that devastating, forbidden place inside him.

 

“Hmp—HMP!!”

 

And it lit him up.

 

“—ah!”

 

A strangled cry tore from his throat—loud, raw, nothing like his shy gasps before. His back arched clean off the bed as another wave slammed through him, fiercer than the first. Shamrock had never felt anything like it. His eyes watery, body seized, shuddering uncontrollably, his voice breaking apart in desperate moans as Mihawk wrung a second climax out of him—one born of overstimulation and that relentless, perfect pressure.

 

He slowly eased his fingers out, kissed the inside of his thigh, then rose with that same calm, wicked expression, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

Shamrock just stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted, burning in his gaze.

 

Hawkeyes expression was wicked, composed—dark eyes never leaving Shamrock’s flushed, wrecked face.

 

And then, instead of stepping back, Mihawk leaned down—hips pressing firm and deliberate against Shammy’s, one hand sliding to grab the curve of his ass, claiming.

 

Shamrock’s breath stuttered—low, dizzy, heart hammering in his chest.

 

That's when he kissed him. Not rushed. Not brutal. But soft. Lingering. A slow drag of lips that left Shammy shaking all over again, heat surging back into him like the ground might fall away.

 

Mihawk broke the kiss only far enough to murmur against his lips, voice rich with quiet promise:

 

“Now imagine what I can do with my dick.”

 

Shammy shuddered, lips parted, dazed under his gaze. Mihawk kissed him again—hungrier this time, tongues brushing, Shammy’s fingers clutching weakly at his shoulders.

 

Mihawk grabbed Shammy's hand and lowered it down, tracing his neck, his collarbone his torso until he met his waistband, slipping it under inviting him to touch him. He caught Shamrock’s wrist and guided it lower, pressing until Shammy’s palm rested against his aching cock.

 

Shamrock’s eyes squeezing shut as if bracing against a storm. He tried to focus on the heat, the shape, the startling weight of Mihawk dick beneath his touch—

 

And then—footsteps in the hall. Voices outside.

 

“Shammy?? You good bro?” Shanks knocked on the bathroom door right in front of his room, thinking his brother was there.

 

Mihawk stilled. One last, softer kiss—almost tender—before he pulled back. His hand lingered a moment longer on Shamrock’s hip, then slipped away.

 

“Maybe another time,” he said, cool, quiet.

 

And then he smirked—that smirk—and walked out, putting on his shirt and shutting the door with the lock behind him like nothing happened.

A few moments later, he was on the balcony, leaning on the rail with the others, sharing a smoke. Maybe rolling his eyes at one of Buggy’s dumb exaggerated stories.

And Shamrock?

He laid on Shanks’ bed, wrecked, still flushed and sticky and gasping for breath.

He’d touched himself before—of course he had—sex with Buggy in that old cabin was good, yes, but this… this was nothing like that.

Mihawk’s hands, his mouth, his slow, deliberate pressure… it had lit up every nerve in him in ways he didn’t know were possible.

His muscles still trembled, deep and low, with each aftershock—little echoes of the way Mihawk had made him feel. Every place Mihawk had touched seemed branded, alive, still hungry.

He dragged in a breath and tried to compose himself, pulling his shirt back down over his chest—but his hands stalled halfway, fingers brushing over the skin Mihawk had kissed. The memory of it was too vivid, too sharp. He let his palms roam up over his own chest, slow, almost shy, shame curling in his stomach because he knew it wouldn’t be the same.

His touch wandered lower, tracing the edges of his ribs, then down his sides. His fingers caught on bare skin where his boxers should have been—discarded on the floor—and when they grazed the inside of his thighs, his body twitched involuntarily.

He bit his lip, eyes squeezing shut as Mihawk’s voice echoed in his head. Every word. Every look. Every wicked promise.

He was alone.

With his thoughts.

And a terrible, aching need for more.

 

Notes:

This chapter is so special to me—I’ve been working on it for almost three months, opening it again and again just to add one more detail, one more touch, one more moment to make it feel right. I wanted it to be as intimate and thrilling as possible, and honestly? I wanted you guys to feel every spark right along with Shammy on his skin. Writing this was like a slow burn turning into wildfire.
What did you find more startling? The sharp rush of Shammy’s news sensations, or the fact that Mihawk clearly knew exactly what he was doing?👀
As always, if you want the full experience—the spicy pics and even the audio version—you can find them on my patreon.com/HayHenna♥.

Notes:

💌 Psst… I’ve opened a Patreon! 🥳
If you wanna peek behind the curtain, you can find me at @hayhenna — where I’m posting NSFW goodies, “what if” scenarios, extra filler chapters, and even audio versions of some scenes (still cooking those 🎙️).
Oh, and… the very first smut art for the pre-chapter of Arc 3 is already up 👀

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of CROSS GUILD DAYS