Chapter Text
Buggy's heart climbs into his throat.
He rattles the knob again just to be sure— it doesn't budge. He slams his fist against the door.
“Oi, Shanks! Don't fuck with me!”
Belatedly, he checks the room number on the door plaque. The best he can hope for is that he accidentally got off of the elevator on the wrong floor, and that this isn't, in fact, his shared suite with Shanks that has a goddamned sock tied around the handle.
But it is indeed room 336, the room they'd bought together , splitting the bill 50/50.
The hotel had only given them one key card, and Shanks was the one who had it. Shanks, who was apparently not answering the damned door!
Buggy paces in a circle in the hall and considers hollering until Shanks comes out. But it's two in the morning, and even buzzed as he is from exploring the local bars, Buggy's not about to cause an uproar. He paid half of the bill, like hell he's going to act up enough to get himself kicked out.
So he makes the only noise he dares and knocks, but before his knuckles can rap against the wood he hears a grunt and a “ fuck ,” that definitely isn't Shanks.
He’d been hoping the sock wasn’t… exactly what it always is. But damn, Shanks is fucking someone in there?!
Lucky bastard!
With sudden clarity, Buggy remembers that the bill is in his name. If he shows the front desk his ID and explains, maybe they can give him another keycard.
And if he interrupts… whatever Shanks is doing, well, Shanks should have considered that before bringing someone into their shared room! Wasn't it common sense? What was wrong with… whoever was in there that they hadn't offered to host instead?!
Settled, Buggy stomps back to the third floor elevator in his four inch platforms, jabbing his finger against the down arrow unnecessarily hard in an effort to call the elevator just a little faster.
When it does finally arrive ten seconds later, someone is already waiting inside.
The twin doors open to reveal a man with shoulders so broad he probably had to twist to get inside. He’s been stuffed into a suit that Buggy supposes must be worth more than his entire wardrobe altogether. From the collar of a plum dress shirt slopes massive, olive-skinned trapezius muscles, climbing upward to a squared jaw. He has a prominent nose and browline, and the expression of a killer. A lock of black hair curls defiantly over his face, the exception to an otherwise perfectly slicked back style just barely long enough to peek out from behind his ears.
He's leaning against the back rail of the elevator, fixated on the phone in his ring bedecked hand. Whatever he's reading has his expression twisted into a cruel sneer that makes Buggy's stomach clench.
As shitty as his first night in Alubarna had been so far, it might've been worth it just to get an eyeful of the man.
And then the doors start to close. How long had he been staring?
Not that it mattered. It wasn't as if he was about to get in an elevator with that guy. He's… hot. Really hot. The kind of hot you look at from across the bar and think, ‘damn,’ but never once consider swinging for, knowing damn well you have no shot. Buggy probably stank of beer and sweat after one too many crowded clubs. He was wearing pants with chains that jingled irritatingly with each step, his hair was matted in messy, hairspray-filled pigtails. His makeup was smeared and his left boot was untied, the laces tucked beneath his heel. Maybe if he were twice as drunk, he'd have proudly walked up to that guy with full confidence, but now?
Dark eyes dart up from the phone screen, and Buggy feels like an insect that's been spotted by a lizard. The guy reaches his arm out and just barely catches the closing doors with his phone.
It crunches .
And then the doors seem to realize they've caught on something, and they politely retract.
The two men stare at the phone while the screen splinters onto the floor. Buggy stares in horror. The mysterious, beautiful man has a strangely neutral expression that scares Buggy more than his initial sneer had.
He shifts, putting one alligator-leather loafer in the door grate and pocketing the broken phone. It's the hand in the pocket that makes Buggy's heart start beating, again. Some impossible part of his brain says, He's gonna shoot you for fucking breaking his phone!
He practically dives into the elevator, babbling an apology.
“T-thank you for holding the door! Um, about your phone, I'll replace it, I swear. How much do I owe you?”
So much for spending a weekend gambling in Alabasta’s great casinos and drinking cactus wine deep into the night. There's no shot a guy like this uses a phone any cheaper than his whole weekend budget.
He retracts his foot from the door grate and hits the close door button. Only then does his gaze settle onto Buggy, as if he's barely worth noticing. Buggy freezes halfway to reaching for his wallet, prey instinct kicking in.
Holy shit I'm gonna die!
“Are you the one Hawk mentioned?”
“Yes!” He replies instantly, because it seems safer than the alternative of, “N o, I'm just some asshole that means nothing to you or this ‘Hawk’ guy, I'm completely disposable!”
It puts a smile on the man's face. Buggy's not exactly sure that's a good thing. A massive hand takes him by the chin, moving Buggy's face as he pleases, examining him like produce. He's too scared shitless to even think of pulling away.
All too suddenly he's released, and he realizes how much of his weight had been held by the man in that instant as his balance lists, and he stumbles against the other side of the elevator.
“Interesting. You're definitely his type, but it's rare that Hawk can catch one worth my time as well.”
Buggy sees the button panel behind him in the mirrored back wall. Only one button is glowing, and it's not the lobby, as he'd been expecting.
Hadn't he pushed the down arrow?
If so, why are they headed towards the penthouse?!
—-
The beautiful stranger doesn't look at him twice as they ascend, and it gives Buggy time to look at himself in the mirror, anxiously detangling his pigtails and wiping at the pink smudge of lipstick staining his cheek. Nothing he does makes him look much better, and without much else to do and too much nervous energy to just sit still, he decides to fix his shoe, kneeling to tug the long lace out from where it is tucked.
“Oh, you are my type, aren't you?”
The deep baritone reverberates through the elevator, and when he looks up, those calculating eyes are on him again, and Buggy realizes that he's put himself at a very particular height. Dumbly, Buggy stares straight ahead, to the ornate golden belt buckle clasped above a… visible bulge.
Is this guy hard? Or is he just that big naturally? Either way, Buggy salivates as his eyes trace the massive outline.
“I-I didn't mean…” he stammers, starting to stand.
My type , he'd said.
The one Hawk mentioned?
Fuck, does this guy think he is a prostitute?
The stupid voice in the back of his mind cheers. This guy was really, really hot. The kind of hot you don't even consider jacking off to, you're in such completely different leagues.
If it meant he got to suck this guy's dick, starting now, Buggy was a prostitute.
This guy hired a prostitute from a guy with a bird of prey for a codename and lives in a penthouse, he's probably not someone to be fucking or fucking with !
But he's so hot. Not to mention, this solves his locked-out-of-the-hotel-room problem. There are no downsides.
He's still kneeling, and the very rich, very beautiful man is staring down at him expectantly. The indicator on the button panel indicates that they have three floors until the penthouse.
Three chances to get caught.
He reaches out for the golden buckle, half expecting the man to stop him, to tell him this is a wild misunderstanding. He doesn't, and Buggy's fishnet gloves do nothing to keep the chill of metal from penetrating his skin.
Scaly leather slips through the buckle until Buggy has it loose, exposing the button holding the man's slacks together. Buggy's eyes flicker up, just to make sure everything is peachy, and then he reaches for the clasp.
The elevator dings, and Buggy shoots up to his feet and spins to see who's almost caught them.
He's blocking the view of the man's open belt, he thinks.
“Sir Crocodile!” A feminine voice says from outside the elevator, sounding pleased to see Buggy's companion.
“Miss Stussy.” he greets her, and sounds relaxed as he does so. He even reaches out to press the hold door button, as if expecting her to join them.
“You'll have to excuse my little Jackie, always pressing buttons when we pass by. Must've interrupted your ride up, terribly sorry about that. And after a long day at work, no less. What has you coming home so late?”
Buggy's danger sensors are at full capacity, and it's taking all of his brain power to ensure the man's open belt is obscured. He takes microscopic steps closer to him— to Crocodile, he guesses, as they continue their polite, neighborly banter.
“I'll let you go, now!” The old woman says for a third time. Blessedly, it seems to finally hold true, because Crocodile lets go of the hold door button, and the doors shut.
Buggy stands deathly still as they move up another floor. He can tell the man— Crocodile — is staring.
There's only one more floor to the penthouse.
A giant palm lands on his shoulder, and it takes everything in him not to scream.
All that effort goes to waste when Crocodile's hot breath rushes past his ear, and Buggy jumps halfway out of his skin with a shrill squeak.
“Trying to make me look bad in front of very important people, aren't we?”
“N-no, sir,” that woman had called him Sir, hadn't she? “I only thought —”
A low, rumbling laugh vibrates through the hand on his shoulder.
Buggy hears the elevator ding at the same time that he is twisted and shoved into the elevator wall, suddenly facing Crocodile again. He desperately tries to read the curl of a smile imprinted on his lips. Only now, danger-detection in hyperdrive, does he notice the thin, silvery scar that spans the man's face just underneath his eyeline.
“I ought to punish you,” he rumbles, thumb skating from the hollow of Buggy's neck up to the stubbled flesh beneath his jaw. Buggy swallows his nerves, Adam's apple bobbing under Crocodile's palm.
He's… not sure if he's scared. He's horny. Maybe scared, definitely horny.
But he hasn't died yet, and the repeated false alarms are starting to have an anxiety dampening effect. He's not a quivering virgin, so when the word punish graces his ears, he's pretty sure it's a good thing.
Almost 80% sure.
His certainty is locked in, though, when Crocodile dips down to press their lips together. He's engulfing, and wastes no time dipping his tongue into Buggy's mouth as he gasps for air. He floods Buggy's senses. Everything suddenly tastes like cigar smoke and wine, and Buggy has a millisecond to feel insecure about the cheap, sour beer he must taste like before he's fighting for his life to catch a breath under the intensity of their contact. It's more a claim than a kiss, really. A predatory, dominating gesture that has Buggy clawing at Crocodiles shoulders and squeezing his knees together.
He feels the hand on his neck move down, jeweled rings snagging on his fuzzy crop top and the mesh shirt underneath before palming Buggy's cock.
He makes a high-pitched noise around Sir Crocodile’s tongue, and feels his lips curl up in response. Thick fingers massage him through his short, frayed jean shorts.
The doors of the elevator lazily close, and at the clunky sound Crocodile pulls away and removes his hand from Buggy's throat, smashing the 16 button with a grimace. They immediately open again, and he wraps his fingers around Buggy’s bicep, pulling him into a foyer space.
Buggy gets a second to stare in awe at a real-life penthouse. It’s just as generic and modern and lavish as the ones in TV dramas. A few objects indicate the owner’s personality: a bronze alligator statue, a coat rack laden with furs, an ashtray with a half-smoked cigar. Otherwise, he can’t make heads or tails out of the furniture arrangements, or the strange still-life spanning an entire wall. Was that part of the default package? Or had this guy ordered that, himself? Why tomatoes and bananas?
He considers asking, but as he turns to find Crocodile he’s surprised to find he is shirtless, and a few small details are revealed to Buggy:
- This guy is built like a tank.
- The scar on his face isn’t his only one.
- More than the scars, this guy is missing an entire fucking lower arm, and Buggy hadn’t noticed.
“Well?” He says, when Buggy meets his eyes. He’s folding a small cloth— the ascott he’d just been wearing, and setting it on top of a tidy stack of what must be his vest and shirt. He’s still wearing every single ring, and for some reason that makes Buggy feel giddy.
Buggy tugs the cropped sweater over his head and lets it fall to the floor as he steps on his own heel to free one foot from a boot, bending to untie the other. The laces are thankfully loose, and come away quickly. He steps out of it in knee-high white stockings and stumbles a few steps towards Crocodile.
His eyes land on the tidy pile of Crocodile’s clothes before he turns to look at his own crumpled shirt and haphazardly removed boots.
There’s a hand on his waist and legs pressing against his ass before he can bend over to try and set the boots against the wall.
“Keep the rest on,” Crocodile growls. His palm flattens against Buggy’s stomach, nearly spanning it. He mouths at the cleft between neck and shoulder, teeth grazing skin. His body folds against Buggy’s back and Buggy is once again reminded of how fucking big this guy is.
“B-bedroom?” he suggests. The word comes out in a stutter and takes more effort than usual to say. Buggy's mouth feels suddenly empty without Crocodile's tongue in it, and the word tastes strange on his lips.
“We could,” Crocodile hums against his throat.
“Or, I could fuck you right here and leave you quaking by the door.”
Buggy makes a noise he’s never heard himself make before. Crocodile laughs. His hand returns to the waistband of Buggy’s shorts, and his fingers don’t fit underneath the tight denim.
“These will have to go, won't they?”
He doesn't wait for an answer, pressing the flat of his tongue against Buggy’s neck as he scrambles to wrestle a single button open with quaking fingers. His hands are dwarfed next to the one lingering on his abdomen.
It takes longer than Buggy would like to unbutton them. When he finally does, he’s flushed with embarrassment, and almost finds himself apologizing. He’s saved from that humiliation, however, by the apparent impatience of his companion.
Crocodile’s large hand dives underneath the denim, palming Buggy through a pair of red briefs. The zipper is forced down by his intrusion, and Buggy’s tongue is tied in a keening gasp. He grasps at the only thing he can reach— a firm, naked bicep the size of his own thigh.
Fingers work themselves under the second layer of cloth, and then there’s a hand wrapping around Buggy’s cock, immediately setting a cadence that has Buggy’s knees buckling.
“Fuck, you’re easy.” He feels more than hears the words as they’re breathed into his shoulder.
“N-no…”
It’s a weak rebuttal.
Crocodile twists his wrist, and it shuts Buggy up fast. His head slumps, and his weight is wholly held up by the arm pumping his cock. The movements are small, limited by the confines of his clothes. Nonetheless, they’re effective. It’s all too soon that Buggy finds himself close to the edge.
Crocodile slows his pace ever so subtly.
“You f-fuck,” Buggy grits out between heavy pants. His nails dig into the flesh of Crocodile’s forearms.
“What’s wrong?” Crocodile purrs, and Buggy can hear the dangerous smile.
“Let me cum, you— nngh !” The grip on his cock tightens.
“It was barely five minutes ago that you nearly humiliated me in front of my neighbor. Did you already forget? Naughty boys don’t get rewarded for doing things like that.”
For some reason, he feels betrayed. Like he was actually promised to be fucked senseless in the entryway.
He gets the hint though. He slides down to his knees, fingers trailing down Crocodile’s arm until they’re level with Crocodile’s hand, glistening in the slick residue of his own eagerness.
He takes one finger into his mouth down to the second knuckle. His lips bump against a gold band.
It tastes like salt and musk and it’s thicker than a finger has any right to be, curling just towards the back of his throat. Buggy flattens his tongue, cleaning the finger with swirling motions. When he moves to suck another digit, he’s surprised when Crocodile presses two into his mouth.
Two fingers shouldn’t stretch like this.
He bobs on the fingers as Crocodile begins to finger his mouth, tugging his jaw as wide as it’ll go and pressing his fingertips into the back wall of his throat. When he retrieves them, they’re glistening with saliva and connected to his lips by a thin, translucent thread.
Crocodile grasps Buggy’s face, wet fingers digging into his cheek, and he grinds Buggy's nose into his crotch.
“Put those skills to good use.”
There’s a line of fine black hairs between Crocodile’s navel and his waistband. Buggy needs to know where that trail leads.
He takes just as long fumbling Crocodile’s pants open as it took to open his own. The reveal is worth the wait. His cock is so big that it snakes down one pant leg. Buggy has to heave it out, dark and velvety and weighty in his palm, overwhelming before it’s even in his mouth.
It's so warm in his hands, and while it smells clean, the intense musk resulting from wearing a full suit in a desert immediately suppresses the few remaining thoughts in Buggy’s mind.
He buries his nose in the coarse thatch of black hair at the base of Crocodile’s cock. After a deep breath, he nuzzles the length, lazily wrapping his tongue around the underside to trace a thick, pulsing vein.
He tastes unmistakably like a man who’s been working in the heat all day. And his cock is huge. And fuck, wasn’t there a reason this was supposed to be a bad idea?
Buggy finds himself at the tip of Crocodile’s cock, and he knows in his heart that he can’t take it all, but fuck if he won’t try his best to make it work.
Buggy purses his lips and presses them onto the tip of Crocodile’s cock, creating suction before flattening his tongue over his bottom teeth to guide the mass deeper. He bobs slowly, leaving wet streaks and lipstick stains a little further down with each repeated motion. What doesn't fit, he wraps in his hands— both of them, sliding down the shaft with the steady buildup of saliva.
The vein against his tongue throbs.
Crocodile’s hand tugs against one ponytail— not a threat, a promise.
Buggy opens his jaw as wide as possible, adjusting his posture to encourage the cock to curve down his throat. The hand in his hair slightly adjusts his angle. He gurgles at the first attempt and gags at the second, before finally the hardening muscle pushes through into the flex of his throat.
“That's it,” Crocodile purrs. He pushes down against Buggy's scalp, guiding his cock deeper. Buggy’s eyes flutter at the fullness. It's been a long time since he's sucked a dick, and that one hadn't been half the size of Crocodile's.
Crocodile fucks himself with Buggy's throat, and at some point Buggy's hands slip off to find purchase on the fabric of Crocodile's pants. Wet squelching echoes off of the tall ceiling, and interspersed, Buggy can hear the soft, stifled grunting of Crocodile's pleasure.
When he's roughly pulled away, Buggy coughs and gasps. Bubbly drool oozes from his chin. His eyes refocus on Crocodile's face, and pride rises in his chest at how undone he looks. Crocodile’s hand escapes Buggy’s tangled hair, smearing across Buggy’s lips and chin to collect the gooey mess of drool.
His hair is mussed, more loose strands falling over his eyes. His cheeks are warm and golden, and his chest flexes with deep breaths.
He smears the glob of spit up across Buggy's entire face. His hand comes back smudged in the red and black of lipstick and mascara.
“What a fucking mess,” he chides, as if he hadn't just done that himself. Buggy might just come right here.
He pulls himself up to mash their lips together.
He's never been much of a kisser. But Crocodile had kissed him first, hadn't he? And Crocodile has such interesting expressions: all Buggy wants is to see Crocodile's face when he tastes himself on Buggy's tongue.
He has to stand on his tip-toes to reach him. Crocodile's cock brushes against his belly as Buggy leans into him, and he curses, evidently sensitive, leaving room for Buggy to invade his mouth.
Crocodile immediately matches his intensity. Their tongues tangle and neither dares pull away to breathe, so they pant into one another's mouths. Buggy's eyes flutter open at the same time as Crocodile’s, and his singular focus makes Buggy squirm.
His hand gropes Buggy's ass over his shorts.
“Take down your hair,” Crocodile growls. Buggy scrambles to obey. His fingers claw against orange scrunchies, and he can't be bothered to mind the loose hairs that fall away in his haste.
While Crocodile waits, his hand wanders, moving from squeezing the modest globes of Buggy's ass to kneading the crease in between, fingers slipping underneath his waistline. Buggy's focus is diverted, and Crocodile takes control of the kiss, quickly abandoning Buggy's mouth to suck at his jaw and throat.
“Fuck, where did Hawk find you ?”
Buggy's heart drops, not with guilt per se, but something adjacent. He saves himself from answering by grinding into Crocodile's cock, and flattening his hands against the wide expanse of his naked chest. When his thumbs skip across Crocodile's dark nipples, he grunts, and Buggy comes back around for seconds.
“Stop that,” he grunts into Buggy's throat, and the word cute dashes across his mind before Crocodile suddenly has him face-down on the floor, forcing his shorts down his thighs.
“You're not gonna last long,” Buggy taunts. He's starting to catch the energy in the room. He likes it. He wiggles his ass and earns a firm smack against one cheek, and it's made painful enough to yelp thanks to Crocodile's various rings.
“Worry about yourself.”
He hears Crocodile spit, and then fat finger pads press against his hole, and an elbow presses his chest into the ground, causing his back to form a deep arch.
Buggy's head swims with the size of Crocodile's fingers, with the size of his cock . It had barely gotten halfway in his mouth, there was no fucking way it was going to fit inside of him.
He starts to giggle just as a finger presses past a tense ring of muscle.
“Something funny?” Crocodile's finger pauses, and Buggy allows his forehead to knock against the floor.
He tries to explain, but words are suddenly hard to find. “Big,” he eloquently manages.
“Wouldn’t be worth my time if you weren't a size queen,” Crocodile's voice seems almost annoyed, like he'd been expecting something else.
And then, he plunges the finger fully inside, and Buggy sees stars.
Even if he has half as many, Crocodile is twice as good with his fingers than anyone has any right to be.
He fingerfucks Buggy with a cruel, unrelenting pace, pressing easily against that magical spot deep inside. When another finger joins in, it's enough to burn just barely past the point of pleasantness, and the heat of its stretch makes Buggy melt against the floor.
He hisses as Crocodile scissors his fingers, letting his thumb glide down Buggy’s perineum to stroke the seam of his balls. But Buggy doesn’t mind a little pain, so he shakes his ass and presses back onto Crocodile’s hand.
His cock remains untouched, bouncing against his thighs, jumping at every other forceful dig at his core. He clenches his fists and bites the flesh of one thumb in a half-assed attempt to keep his voice down.
“Fu-hn-ck me already,” he cries through his hand, whole body rocking against the force of Crocodile’s efforts. He reaches one hand backwards, and Crocodile slaps it away with the arm that had been pressed against his back.
“So impatient,” Crocodile says in a rumbling chuckle. He pulls out, and Buggy almost thinks he’s done something wrong, before slick fingers come back down sharply against his ass. He rubs out the spanking with a squeeze, pulling the muscle to better see Buggy’s hole.
“Spread yourself for me,” Crocodile orders with another firm pat and Buggy stumbles over himself to obey.
He takes one cheek in each hand to expose himself further, wiggling and inadvertently flexing in anticipation, the rosy pucker of his ass begging to be filled.
“You gonna put it inside me already or what?”
“Think you can handle it?”
“Fuck, no,” Buggy admits, and arches his back a little lower for the sex appeal, anyway.
Crocodile spits, and a squelch betrays the slide of his hand against his cock. His shadow appears over Buggy’s shoulders, and a wet cockhead slides down the curve of his ass, catching briefly before passing his entrance.
Buggy keeps his impatient cursing to himself as Crocodile slides himself up and down the slope before finally pressing against the taut ring of muscle. The splay of his hand against Buggy’s shoulders is all the warning he gets before Crocodile snaps his hips forwards.
He has no idea how deep Crocodile got in the first thrust, no idea if he can take any more. He’s pretty sure he’s about to explode, though. Did Crocodile go straight through him, is he sticking out of his belly? He gropes at his stomach, but his skin is whole, duh. Of course it is.
“Fuck, you’re tight for a whore,” Crocodile purrs, and eases out before another punishing thrust. Then, Buggy can feel the slightest bulge of his stomach against his fingers.
“I'm not tight, you’ve just got a horse c- oh my god,” Buggy chokes on his words as Crocodile sets a new pace, stuttered pistoning becoming a more steady rock of hips, in and out and deep and fuuuuuck!
His cock keeps pushing against Buggy’s palm. He’s not sure if it would be visible, or if the fact that it’s his own body makes the feeling that much more pronounced. Maybe it’s all in his head.
His own cock dribbles gleefully against the cool tiles. He slides his other hand around to wrap around himself, and blessedly, no one stops him.
Except for the elevator, which opens.
Crocodile doesn’t stop, but the perfect, steady impaling stutters, and Buggy’s cockdrunk haze disappears into a state of dreaded alertness.
“Forget something?” Crocodile asks… Someone. Buggy’s too pressed against the floor, face turned the wrong way, he can’t see who’s there.
Whoever it is takes a while to respond. Buggy thinks he might smell some sharp cologne, but he’s not sure. The building orgasm is making it hard to focus.
“I wanted some rope,” A masculine voice with a faint European accent finally says. Crocodile grunts, presumably response enough for the stranger, because sharp heels click past Buggy and disappear down a hall. He shudders, releasing a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
“You just let anyone up here, huh?” Buggy whines, earning a deep laugh. The hand on his shoulders slides into his hair, yanking him up so suddenly that he has to reach out for balance.
Crocodile licks the lobe of Buggy’s ear before just barely biting down.
“Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy getting caught. You think I couldn’t feel you tighten up? Why not give him a show?”
Crocodile guides them backwards until Buggy is sitting on his lap, full to bursting, holding himself up with all four limbs.
Looking down, you could definitely see Crocodile’s cock pressing against his stomach.
“If you cum before me I’ll let him have a turn, too.”
Thrill ripples over Buggy’s skin. He isn't sure if that's a threat or a reward. He has a feeling he won't have much control over the matter, anyways.
He pushes off against Crocodile’s thighs and bounces like his life depends on it.
It isn't long before the stranger returns, but evidently neither Crocodile nor Buggy had needed much to reach their peak. His silhouette barely grazes Buggy’s periphery before one final slam of his hips sends shockwaves up his body, and his legs quake so much that he presses them together while cum splatters his chest.
He stops moving due to the force of his orgasm, and Crocodile immediately compensates by fucking full-force from below, white knuckling Buggy’s hip to anchor him down. With a grunt, he spills inside, churning his load with a few more rabid strokes. Only after Buggy is squirming and sensitive does he finally let go, letting Buggy scramble off of him.
“Fuck,” Buggy whines, all but forgetting the third party. He pants and wipes the mess off his chest onto the floor. He checks his ass for blood, finding it shockingly intact. Crocodile is spent and lying starfished on the ground, cock massive as ever against his stomach.
“And where did you find such a doll?”
The third party is a handsome man, with short black hair and a well-groomed beard. His eyes are piercing, and seem to betray no emotion whatsoever. His pristine image is stilted, however, by the gleam of sweat on his upper lip, and the unbuttoned cuffs of his shirtsleeves. Buggy considers Crocodile’s offhand promise, and supposes he wouldn’t mind letting this guy have a turn, if Crocodile ever meant to follow through.
“What are you talking about, Hawk?” Crocodile pants, eyes closed as he lingers as long as he can in his post-orgasm haze.
It is Buggy who came crashing back down to earth, first.