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24 Years Ago
Crocodile’s fingers were cold, bruised and bloody, and they trembled and trembled, and he couldn’t get them to stop. Just as he failed to stop the bleeding. Why was there so much blood? Fighting the dizzying pain, Crocodile examined the wound in the mirror, and grimaced at his new reflection.
The wound across his face was neat, a perfect line that divided him in two.
Carefully, he pressed his quivering fingers to the sliced flesh and instantly recoiled. His skin was white-hot to the touch and as he jerked back, he felt a new rush of warm blood ooze from the wound.
“Fuck!” he hissed.
He stumbled back from the mirror and hit the bed. He slowly lowered himself, mindful of moving too quickly in case he unbalanced himself. His legs had gone weak and could no longer carry his weight. If he added a bout of dizziness then he was bound to end up on the floor, and he wasn’t sure if he would get back up.
His hook certainly wasn’t helping. Unlike his new facial scar, the injury to his hand was old. He had learnt to live with it. The hook, however, was new.
He still found it unwieldy, too heavy. He hadn’t yet built up the arm strength needed to carry it and use it as a weapon. It would come to him in time, he was certain, just as his rightful place as King of the Pirates would eventually be his. Or should be. Crocodile was starting to have his doubts now.
Whitebeard had made him look a fool and now Crocodile would never be able to escape the shame of that fight. It would be reflected back at him every time he looked in the mirror. A painful, shameful reminder of his hubris. Even with all his men, money and power, even with his devil fruit, Crocodile hadn’t been strong enough to be King of the Pirates.
A chill came over Crocodile and he forced himself to his feet and back to the mirror. He took the needle he had previously abandoned and began to stitch up his wound. His hand continued to shake. He tried to steady it, not wanting to risk making the scarring worse.
He tried control breathing, though it offered little reprieve. He attempted to harden his heart, become unfeeling and coarse like the sand he was now made of, but he couldn’t concentrate when it was clear even his devil fruit wasn’t infallible. There were people powerful enough to cut him down and the realization was frightening.
Crocodile searched about the room for something that could help and his eyes fell upon his calendar. There, written in black ink, was a reminder for today. It simply said birthday. Crocodile’s birthday. He didn’t know why he still kept track of the day, he had long stopped celebrating it. Perhaps it was habit, just as he still wrote down his parents’ birthday, despite having no contact with them for almost a decade.
Amongst the chaos and bloodshed, he had almost forgotten that today was his birthday. A clipped, bitter laugh fell through his dry lips. He hooked his flesh with the end of the needle and scowled at his tired, drained reflection.
“Happy fucking birthday.”
*
10 Years Ago
Crocodile stared at the mountain of gifts neatly arranged atop the table. A colourful parade of boxes, bags and gifts. Some with neat bows, others with bright, candy-coloured wrapping. Amongst them, a little velvet box that Crocodile regarded with the same disgust one might a piece of shit stuck to the heel of their boot.
He didn’t even need to open it to know what was inside of it. He knew it was likely beautiful, a big diamond with an even bigger price tag, the kind the storekeeper dreamed of one day selling just to have the bragging rights.
Crocodile pushed the box away with his hook and turned his attention to the figure sat at the edge of the dining room table, surrounded by the gifts as though they were a throne. Doflamingo was leant forwards, a predator ready to strike and trap Crocodile. If not with the ring, then with his strings.
Doflamingo had traded his usual attire for a more fitting suit, the shirt a salmon pink, unbuttoned at the top. He had slicked his hair back and, for this special occasion, even forgo his sunglasses. Doflamingo risked exposing his bad eye only because he had rented out the entire restaurant, leaving only him, Crocodile and a handful of staff. They had been instructed to always approach Doflamingo from his left side, his good side.
Crocodile was loathe to admit that he loved Doflamingo’s eyes. The lashes along the bottom lid were long and his good eye was the colour of autumn leaves. Even his bad eye with its jagged little scar cutting across the top and bottom lid, could be described more as pale silver than milky white. Beautiful eyes, for a man beautiful man with an ugly heart.
Doflamingo glanced to the rejected box, venom burning bright in both eyes. Crocodile braced, knowing what came next, wondering whether he could placate Doflamingo with words or if it was already too late. If he would even want to pacify the man. Doflamingo knew Crocodile’s thoughts on marriage. The sandman had made them very clear, but as always, Doflamingo ignored him to put his desires first.
“It’s a no, then?” Doflamingo said, voice hard.
“It is.”
“You haven’t even looked at it.”
“It wouldn’t change my mind. I told you –”
Doflamingo’s hand clenched and the table besides them splintered, torn apart by the invisible strings the other Warlord had strung about the room. For protection, he said. To appease his paranoia, Crocodile knew.
The sandman didn’t flinch as the wood creaked and splintered. He kept his eyes on his lover, and focusing on the heat of his cigar to steady himself.
“I told you, Doffy,” Crocodile continued, opting to use his pet name, “because I thought you would understand my opposition to marriage.”
“Oh, I understand,” Doflamingo sneered. “I understand that you’re afraid.”
Yes, Crocodile was afraid, of Doflamingo. Being with the other Warlord was like walking around with a stick of dynamite in your pocket. Not knowing when the fuse was lit, unable to predict when it would explode and tear you in two.
If Crocodile was smart, he would have long tossed it out, but he had grown used to its weight and danger, and the absence of that familiarity was almost as frightening.
“Marriage is bondage,” Crocodile retorted. “Any self-respecting pirate would resist such a thing.”
“You’ve never been opposed to bondage before.”
“This isn’t the same and you know it.”
Cold wire coiled around Crocodile’s neck and arms, pinning him in place, the edges aligned with just enough Haki to remind Crocodile there was no escape. He couldn’t turn into sand. He couldn’t call for help, because the moment he even thought about it, Doflamingo would pull his strings and dice Crocodile up as neatly as he had the table.
So Crocodile did nothing. He sat there, smoking his cigar, calm and collected, even as dread slithered through his gut.
Doflamingo leant back, height giving him the impression of a stone pillar, unmoving and cold, yet Crocodile knew the foundations were weak. He would crack under the slightest pressure and crush Crocodile, if he so chose. Most nights, with his temper flaring, Doflamingo would. He would destroy the furniture, throw glasses, some childish, spiteful part of his soul unable to accept rejection.
He always brought out his strings when angered, tying Crocodile up, preventing him from escaping, the two forced to spit and hiss at one another until one of them yielded. Usually it was Crocodile, if only to end the pointless self-mutilation. Doflamingo would always be the first to apologise. He would retrieve bandages and clean Crocodile’s wounds and kiss him, saying he didn’t mean to do it, but Crocodile always knew how to get under his skin.
Crocodile would accept the apology and try to move on, promising himself that there would be no next time. And he would say it again and again, because Crocodile was a fool in love with a monster.
The strings tightened, they cut into Crocodile’s skin and his clothes, drawing a whisper of blood. Crocodile got ready to fight back, sand already shifting in his palm, when the strings suddenly pulled away.
Doflamingo released Crocodile and stepped down from the table. He reached into the pocket of his shirt, pulling out his wallet. He slapped down a stack of bills, enough to cover tonight’s dinner and a replacement table, with a little extra on top to buy the owners silence as to what they may – or may not – have heard.
As he put away his wallet, he retrieved his glasses. For a moment he hesitated to put them on, attention returning to the little box. He pushed it towards Crocodile. One last chance to accept it and move on. Crocodile didn’t even glance its way.
Doflamingo bent down and kissed Crocodile on the lips, the embrace stiff and distant, no passion or heat to it.
“Happy birthday, baby,” Doflamingo said.
He put his sunglasses on and walked out, polished shoes clicking against the floor. Crocodile watched him go, waiting for the man to be out of sight before he released a deep sigh. Alone, Crocodile took the box and peered inside. A thick gold band, the jewel golden and shimmering, almost too perfect to be real.
Crocodile slammed the lid shut and abandoned it and every other gift at the restaurant, hoping whoever found them would make better use of them.
*
6 Years Ago
Crocodile stared out at the city of Alabasta and the city lights winked back at him. The sky was dark, a velvet blanket cloaking the golden desert in its cool embrace. The yellowed lights of the city could almost rival the stars above and their clear, blue pinpricks of light.
Even this late, the city was busy. Crocodile spied the steady stream of customers coming in and out of his casino. Couples on dates, losers looking to lose it all, and suckers who thought they could play the house. Beyond them, restaurants were crowded with families and bars housed lovers.
The city was breathing and busy and alive, and despite the chaos of it all, Crocodile’s heart was steady. He sat behind his desk, a glass of whisky in hand, and for the first time in a very long time, felt… happy. A genuine, free kind of contentment that wasn’t hampered by schemes and betrayals.
It helped he hadn’t spoken to Doflamingo in almost three months. Their relationship had always been uneven. There were times they wouldn’t speak to one another for weeks and not see one another for longer, to the point Crocodile wasn’t even sure if they were still whatever they were. This was different, however.
Crocodile didn’t dare hope that perhaps Doflamingo had given up on trapping him, but as it was Crocodile’s birthday, it seemed only fair he got to make at least one wish. And he wished to never again see Doflamingo in his bed.
There was a sharp rapping at the door. Sitting up in his chair, he called his new assistant in. Nico Robin entered with a quiet smile, though her eyes shined with the same rigid, wound energy as a trapped animal. She was always searching for an exit, for danger, always watching her back around him. Which she was wise to do.
This partnership of theirs was dependent on Robin providing Crocodile with what he wanted – the Poneglyphs. And if she couldn’t, then Crocodile wouldn’t hesitate to bury her.
She sauntered over in that faux cowboy outfit he liked, and stood beside his chair. She didn’t look at him, instead turning her attention to the city below.
“It’s a beautiful night,” she said.
“It is,” he agreed. “Why don’t you go out and enjoy yourself?”
“It’s a bit too busy for my liking,” she replied.
Crocodile wasn’t sure if she said this to earn favour with him, or if she truly meant it. They hadn’t been working together long. He was still trying to gauge her character, the real Nico Robin buried beneath the charm, the woman who the World Government had deemed a threat at only eight years old.
Undeterred by his silence, she carried on. “I noticed you had circled a date in the calendar. There was nothing else written there. I can only assume it was a reminder and nothing more.”
He instead tapped one finger against his drink, the ring striking the glass and making it sing.
“Is there any reason for you be looking through my calendar?” he asked.
“I’m your secretary, as far as those people out there are concerned,” she retorted. “It benefits me to stay up-to-date with your affairs.”
He stopped tapping.
“My business affairs, yes, not my personal ones,” he corrected. “Those are none of your business and you’d best remember that going forwards, otherwise this alliance of ours will be shortly lived.”
His sharp tone didn’t cut as he expected it to, as it usually would. Her smile remained easy and casual, unbothered by Crocodile’s threat.
“I overstepped, I apologise,” she said. “However, if today is what I think it is, then I can’t leave without giving you this.”
She reached into her pocket. Crocodile tensed, the point of his hook already turned. If he were to strike now, his hook would sink into her gut.
Robin withdrew her hand and formed several more, shaping them into a fan formation to conceal whatever it was she had hidden away. She set the object down and stepped back, her new hands vanishing in a cloud of pink petals.
“Happy birthday,” she said.
She stepped out of the office, leaving Crocodile with her gift. A small, plush bananawani with a lavender ribbon tied around its neck. He eyed it suspiciously. Half-expecting it to explode, to release a gas, to do something. It sat there, button eyes starting back as it waited to be embraced it.
Crocodile took it, thumb brushing against its velvet skin. Like Robin’s easy smile, her demeanour, the gift felt part of an act. A token designed to appease him, get him to drop his guard so she could get close to him.
He refused to let that happen. Crocodile wouldn’t be hurt, he wouldn’t be betrayed, not again. He deposited the plush into his top drawer and never took it back out.
*
Now
Buggy wanted to throw a party. Crocodile could see it in the clown’s face, the desire to put together a big, stupid party to celebrate Crocodile’s birthday. He didn’t even know how Mihawk and Buggy had found out. He had stopped marking it in his calendar ever since Nico Robin so quickly deduced what it signified.
Crocodile could only assume Mihawk had somehow learnt it years back, maybe from Doflamingo, who was happy to sell other people’s secrets if he thought it would benefit him. Either way, the how wasn’t the problem. It was what the pair would do now that they knew.
Crocodile had been sat at his desk in their shared captain quarters, diligently – and happily – working on some overdue paperwork. That’s when Buggy burst into the room, rushing over to Crocodile as if he had some essential news to share. Mihawk followed, reserved as always.
They stood before his desk, Buggy practically bouncing from foot to foot as he admonished Crocodile for not revealing his sacred day of birth. Mihawk let Buggy babble on, though his eyes never left Crocodile’s face.
“Buggy –” Crocodile began.
“I know, I know,” Buggy interrupted. “You don’t have to tell me. You don’t want a birthday party, I get it.”
“But?” Crocodile pressed.
“But what?” Buggy asked.
“I was expecting a ‘but’,” Crocodile said.
“Not today!” Buggy grinned. “It’s your birthday, we celebrate it your way.”
“If you even want to celebrate,” Mihawk added.
“And if I want to work all day?” Crocodile said.
Buggy pouted, clearly disapproving of the idea, but he didn’t protest. “If that’s that you want,” he grumbled.
Crocodile frowned, still expecting both men to be up to something. Buggy seemed like the type to plan a surprise party, enacted once he was safe in the knowledge Crocodile would be locked in their room all day and couldn’t interrupt his schemes to throw an over the top soiree. Crocodile trusted Mihawk to respect his wishes, whether he would keep Buggy in line would be another thing.
“Who else knows?” Crocodile asked.
“About your birthday?” Buggy said. “Just us. We’ve not told anyone else. Unless Daz…?”
“I never told him,” Crocodile admitted. “And he never asked.”
“Then you can spend it in peace,” Mihawk confirmed. “If you need anything from either of us, you only need call.”
“I – thank you,” Crocodile said, uncertain what else he could say.
Mihawk led Buggy out of the room, the clown still pouting and grumbling the whole time. The door clicked shut and Crocodile waited. He expected Buggy to burst back inside, arms full of gifts and flowers, or dressed in some ridiculous, revealing outfit designed to spark Crocodile’s desire. Maybe Mihawk would follow with a cake, baked by his perfect hand, with the flavours and jams he knew Crocodile liked best.
There was nothing, only the undisturbed silence of the room and the gentle rocking of the ship. Crocodile dared return to work. For the first hour he continued to check the door, expecting to be interrupted. When he remained unbothered, he managed to focus and the next few hours passed by in administrative bliss.
Crocodile, pleased with the work he had done, decided he had earned a break. He moved to the balcony and stood in the cool, evening air, lighting up a cigar and watching the sun set. Today felt like any other, and that was perfect. No fanfare, no drama, just one day of many.
The fact Buggy and Mihawk had respected his wishes made him adore them even more, even if he wouldn’t say such things out loud. There were other ways to make his adulation known, however. He took his time finishing his cigar and then tossed the stub over the ship, the sky ahead now black. He returned to the room and closed the balcony doors, just as Buggy and Mihawk returned.
Buggy squeezed through the door in his big Star Clown outfit, a package wrapped in brown paper bundled up in his arms. Mihawk followed, a rectangular shaped gift in his hand. Crocodile eyed both presents warily. He should have known neither man could resist giving him birthday presents. He hadn’t said ‘no presents’ after all, only ‘no party’. He should be thankful it was just two gifts.
“How was your day been, lover?” Mihawk asked.
“Mundane,” Crocodile replied. “Exactly as it should be. All is well with the ship and the men, I presume?”
“No problems!” Buggy confirmed. “We’ve had pretty smooth sailing so far.”
“Which is surprising,” Mihawk added. “Considering where we are going.”
“Maybe we’ve just gotten lucky,” Buggy offered.
Mihawk didn’t seem convinced, but he dropped the subject. He approached Crocodile and, without ceremony, offered the sandman his gift. Crocodile could now see that it was a dark wooden box, the lid stamped with the name of a brewery Crocodile was familiar with, because it happened to belong to his favourite whiskey distiller.
“When did you discover today was my birthday?” Crocodile asked.
“Some time ago,” Mihawk replied. “When we began courting I came across this and stashed it away, just in case we reached a point where we indulged in such celebrations.”
“And if we didn’t?” Crocodile said.
“Then I would gift it to myself,” Mihawk shrugged. “I’m not opposed to whisky. It’s simply not my first choice.”
Crocodile smirked. Mihawk was as calculating and pragmatic as always. Another of the things Crocodile loved about the swordsman.
Crocodile took the gift, setting it on the table to undo the latches. Inside was a single bottle of premium whisky, sat atop a plush, padded interior. The label was signed by the master brewer herself, a little note proclaiming how she hoped the master swordsman would enjoy her work. Included in the box were two whisky glasses, etched with fine, zig-zag patterns. They almost resembled teeth.
Crocodile almost didn’t want to touch the glasses, fearing he would spoil it with his ink stained fingers.
“Thank you,” Crocodile said. “I mean it, truly.”
He closed the lid.
“Let’s keep it until we claim the One Piece,” he decided.
“A wonderful idea,” Mihawk agreed.
They looked to Buggy, who had grown quiet, holding his package to his chest with an embarrassed flush to his face.
“N-now don’t go getting your hopes up,” Buggy stammered. “This – it’s not fancy like whisky, okay? I don’t…”
I don’t have the money, he meant to say, and held back, knowing talk of his debt to Crocodile would sour the mood.
At one point, Crocodile was taking 95% of Buggy’s treasure earnings as part of his repayment plan. This had been reduced to 80%, since Crocodile wanted Buggy to pay him off quickly so they could move on from this ugly point in their relationship.
If Buggy ever did want anything, all he had to was ask, since Crocodile would always give in, despite his own complaints that Buggy was spoilt.
That being said, Buggy couldn’t have asked Crocodile to buy his own gift.
“Just hand it over,” Crocodile sighed.
Buggy hesitated, did as he was told.
Crocodile could tell by the texture of the parcel that there was fabric inside. He carefully tore it open and found a waistcoat, one Crocodile recognised. It was his, or it had been. He had caught one of the buttons on his hook and, in an attempt to free, it, tore through the fabric and lost the button in the process.
He had discarded it, not having the time or patience to find a tailor to repair it. He shouldn’t have been surprised Buggy saved it, never one to waste anything.
Crocodile examined it, trying and failing to find the original tear. Buggy had perfectly repaired the damage. More than that, he had replaced each and every button with new gold-plated ones and had taken the time to replace the interior fabric. He opened it up to get a better look, discovering a repeating pattern of sparkling gold bananawani dancing within.
“I only found out about your birthday yesterday,” Buggy told him. “Mihawk said if he told me sooner, I’d have revealed it to the whole ship by now.”
“Sitting on it secret until this morning had been hard enough for you,” Mihawk observed.
“I’m a gossip, I can’t help it,” Buggy said. “But I won’t tell anyone, Croc, I swear! I thought you was just being private, but I get that it’s more than that.”
Buggy could sense there was some underlining tension tied into Crocodile’s birthday. Whether it was Buggy’s latent Haki attuned to the sensation, or just how familiar he had become with Crocodile, neither Crocodile or Mihawk could say. Either way, Crocodile knew Buggy was telling the truth when he promised to tell no one about Crocodile’s birthday.
Buggy had kept Gold Roger’s secrets for over twenty years, despite how much he would have benefited to reveal even one. If Buggy could do that, then Crocodile’s own secrets were safe with the fool.
“Anyway, what I mean to say, is that that I did my best in the time I had,” Buggy continued. “Is it – okay?”
Buggy had panicked when Mihawk revealed their dear one’s birthday was the following day. Buggy had nothing to gift the sandman and, short on money and time, he feared turning up empty handed. Then he remembered the waistcoat and the spare roll of bananawani print he had been saving. Inspired by the shirt Mihawk had gifted Buggy on his own birthday, the clown got to work, spending yesterday and the majority of today getting it all ready.
Crocodile’s hooked snatched Buggy by the collar and he dragged the clown to him, to deliver a smoky kiss directly to Buggy’s lips. Crocodile withdrew, mouth stained red by Buggy’s lipstick. He grinned.
“It’s beautiful,” he purred.
“Y-yeah?” Buggy smiled. “Good! I hope you’d like it.”
Crocodile’s hook danced down Buggy’s back, and Buggy’s body arched into Crocodile’s, his painted lips parted in anticipation.
“Dare I ask if you’ve got anything else planned for me tonight?” Crocodile asked.
“We’re yours to do with what you like,” Mihawk said. “We’ve even taken the time to… prepare ourselves for you.”
“Oh?” Crocodile grinned and Buggy squirmed under the sandman’s hungry eyes. “Remove your clothes, pretty fool.”
Buggy nodded eagerly and Crocodile removed his hook, giving Buggy the space to throw his clothes off. He tossed his costume and hat aside, hair falling down his back and across his shoulders in twisting, mesmerising patterns. He stood before Crocodile in his thigh-high candy cane socks and his underwear, a baby blue thong that sat high on his hips.
Crocodile hardened at the sight, arousal pooling heavy in his gut. Mihawk hummed in approval and moved to the bed, retrieving a bottle of lube. Crocodile reached for one of the thong’s strings and pulled it back. Buggy cringed in expectation. Crocodile released and it snapped against Buggy’s hip. He hissed in pleasured pain, his cheeks and chest pink from arousal.
Crocodile disappeared amongst his sand, the small storm sweeping Buggy up. The clown squeaked in surprise, blush darkening as Crocodile rematerialized, his clothes discarded to the floor. He supported Buggy’s weight in his hand and hook, Buggy’s leg snug in the curve of the hook. Buggy assisted by chopping in two and halving his weight. His torso raised to be eye level with Crocodile, arms wrapping around Crocodile’s thick neck.
Mihawk offered a helping hand and applied a generous serving of lube along Crocodile’s pulsing length. He stroked Crocodile slowly, drawing a low groan from the sandman. With his other hand, Mihawk smeared the excess lube along Buggy’s fluttering rim.
Unable to resist teasing the clown, Mihawk pressed two of his fingers inside. Mihawk quickly located Buggy’s prostate and moved his fingers in a tight circle against it. Buggy gasped, his breath hot and warm against Crocodile’s lips as they exchanged moans.
“You should have heard him,” Mihawk sighed. “Calling your name as I fingered him, pumping his little cock and moaning how he wished you was there to fill him.”
“I-it’s not little,” Buggy weakly protested.
“But everything else is true?” Crocodile growled.
Buggy’s shuddering sigh was his reply.
Satisfied both were suitably riled up, Mihawk withdrew his hands and stepped back to watch. Crocodile lowered the clown onto his thick cock. He pushing through wet, convulsing muscle, taking his time to sink in inch by inch.
Buggy’s torso clung to Crocodile, mouth pressed to his neck as his breathing quickened. Crocodile could feel Buggy’s thighs tighten in his grasp, his toes curling as he took more and more of Crocodile, thinking it would never end. Buggy thought he’d be used to Crocodile’s cock by now, but every time felt like a fresh struggle, and he welcomed it.
Finally, Crocodile was buried down to the root, and he quickly glanced about for a flat surface. He found a space along the wall that wasn’t occupied by books or clothes. He pressed Buggy against the cool wood, pinning Buggy between it and Crocodile’s hard body.
Crocodile didn’t move, not yet, and Buggy realised he was waiting for the Mihawk. The swordsman had stripped and moved to the bed, laid out across their pillows to get the best view. Now in place, Crocodile began to fuck Buggy.
His slick cock worked in and out like a machine, a perfect, uninterrupted pounding that penetrated every one of Buggy’s senses. He threw his head back, hitting the wooden wall with a crack. The short burst of pain didn’t bother him. It hardly registered, not when Crocodile was spearing his prostate with every roll of his hips.
Buggy’s feet jerked with every thrust, his fingers digging into Crocodile’s back and twisting through his hair. Each blow set his nerves alight with a heavy, intoxicating pleasure that sat thick in his veins like sweet honey. Quickly, he was lust-drunk and his words unfiltered.
“There! Right there!” Buggy screamed. “Don’t stop!”
“My, the clown’s mouth is filthy tonight,” Mihawk purred.
Crocodile huffed in agreement, trying to stay focused on moving his hips, and not on Buggy’s delirious expression. Between the sweat and tears, Buggy’s eyeliner had begun to run in ghostly, frantic streaks down his face, the colour accentuating the blush in his cheeks. His debauched appearance fanned the flames in Crocodile’s gut.
Crocodile’s grip became bruising, his hook catching on Buggy’s flesh and tearing it open, only for Buggy’s devil fruit to stitch it back up within seconds. Using the lube still on his hand, Mihawk had begun to stroke himself in time with Crocodile’s hips. His breathing had grown heavier, now loud enough to be heard amongst Buggy’s crying and writhing.
“Cross your legs,” Crocodile ordered.
“W-what?” Buggy gasped.
“Cross your legs,” Crocodile repeated.
Buggy, mind pounded to jelly, managed to do as he was told. He folded his legs behind Crocodile’s back into an X. Closing his legs tightened each of his muscles, heightening the sensation of Crocodile’s thick cock penetrating his very core. Buggy cried as the pleasure pulsed with new, wonderful sensations that threatened to unravel him.
“Fuuuccckk,” Buggy warbled.
Crocodile pressed his lips to Buggy’s collarbone, suckling and biting the skin, the sweat on his brow mixing with Buggy’s. Crocodile could feel his hips moving quicker and quicker, overtaken by lust. He wanted to fuck Mihawk too, make the swordsman beg and claw at his back just as Buggy was doing, but Crocodile’s vision had narrowed and all he could concentrate on was Buggy and filling the clown with his cum.
“Do you want me to cum inside of you?” Crocodile growled.
“Yes! Yes!”
“Say it!”
“I want you to cum inside of me, Croco-Baby!”
Crocodile did, his orgasm crashing down hard enough to leave him light-headed. His stomach went tight as he spilled his seed, the accompanying warm burst deep inside of Buggy made him tremble. Crocodile stayed buried inside, even as his spent cock softened, wanting to keep Buggy full for few more moments.
Buggy whimpered, holding Crocodile closer as he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart, not when he hadn’t yet cum.
“I’ll take care of you now,” Crocodile assured him.
He carried Buggy over to the bed and laid Buggy’s lower half down besides Mihawk’s legs. He withdrew his cock carefully, watching the cum leak out from Buggy’s abused hole.
Mihawk’s hand hadn’t stopped for a moment. Its speed had increased as he chased the feeling he felt building up behind his naval. Buggy, never able to resist giving either Crocodile or Mihawk a helping hand, floated his torso over to Mihawk.
Buggy put his hands to Mihawk’s knees and the swordsman spread them, allowing Buggy to slide into place and replace Mihawk’s hands with his mouth. Mihawk moaned loudly, fingers brushing through Buggy’s hair as the clown’s head bobbed up and down as he sucked.
Crocodile, seemingly inspired, swallowed down Buggy’s swollen head and slipped two fingers inside of Buggy. The clown’s movements stuttered, but he didn’t relent, sucking licking, one hand twisting around Mihawk’s shaft as the other caressed his balls. It didn’t take much more for Mihawk to cum, spilling down the back of Buggy’s throat. Seconds later Buggy followed, hips jerking as he finished on Crocodile’s tongue.
Crocodile swallowed and collapsed on the bed beside Mihawk, throwing one arm over both him and Buggy, the three of them entangled in the aftermath of their orgasmic highs. Buggy kissed Crocodile’s thick arm, fingers dancing across the back of Crocodile’s hand. Mihawk pressed kisses to Crocodile’s collar and neck, gentle and fleeting.
“Tell us, lover,” Mihawk said softly. “Did you have a good day?”
“Yes,” Crocodile replied. “Thanks to you both. I hope you know I expect every other birthday to go the same way.”
“You never want a party?” Buggy asked.
“Ever,” Crocodile confirmed.
“At least we have Hawky’s and my birthday,” Buggy said.
“I do not want a party either,” Mihawk quickly affirmed. “But we will have other reasons to celebrate.”
Buggy floated up to Crocodile’s other side and kissed him on the cheek, just as Mihawk delivered a soft kiss to his jaw. Together, the pair of them smiled and wished him a happy birthday. And for once, the words didn’t burn Crocodile. In fact, he actually looked forward to hearing them again and again, so long as they were uttered by Buggy and Mihawk.