Melty Love

"You could let me prove it to you," Shanks murmured, his voice dropping even lower, almost a challenge.

Buggy looked up then—really looked at him, and saw the spark in Shanks’s eyes: mischievous, daring, impossible to ignore.
He swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his mind a whirlpool of static and heat.

"...What exactly would you be proving?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Shanks's smile widened ,slow, dangerous, heartbreakingly beautiful.

"How much I like you," he said, leaning in just a little closer.
"That you're the best thing I've ever seen."

Notes:

English is not my first language, I wrote this instead of studying for my exam

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Feeling out of place was familiar to someone like him.

Being belittled, ostracized, or ridiculed didn't really matter to him, not as long as he knew the truth about himself.

In the end, the others were idiots. People with no taste who didn't understand his art and never would. Because what he created wasn't for everyone, it was for special people.

And no one was going to stop him from showing what he was capable of.

Buggy's routine was complicated. He had a main job in a boring office where he basically did whatever was asked of him. From printing documents, writing texts, or delivering coffee, he didn't really have a specific task.

Or well, he did, but no one minded leaving all the jobs no one else wanted to do to the rookie clown.

Rookie clown.

That's what they called him. Buggy heard him one afternoon from some coworkers in the cafeteria, thinking he wasn't there.

The same idiots who forced him to do extra work for nothing.

But it didn't matter; big stars went through a lot before they finally made it big, or something like that, he once heard.

The first time he showed up there, he was only 21 years old, a recent graduate of the performing arts academy, specializing in acting, body language, even juggling and dance.

With that resume, he assumed it would be easy to find a job. So he figured his job in that boring office wouldn't last more than a few months. He presented himself as a talented young man who would one day make it big, that his name would be heard by every single person there.

That he would be a star.

Buggy had been working for that company for over seven years. He was about to turn 30, and the only reputation he'd acquired was that of "the intern who's been here for almost 10 years."

Okay, who would have thought that getting a serious job doing what he truly loved would be so difficult? Haha.

Haha.

But he refused to give up.

Buggy himself founded his own circus. He sought out old colleagues, acquaintances, and even gave classes to new people who were interested in participating.

It was a noble project, losing more than he usually earned. They spent weeks rehearsing a single show where barely more than 20 people (mostly children) would attend, but the feeling of being on stage, the euphoria,

The smiles he managed to bring out.

It was what kept him sane.

Aside from that, he had a side job at a help center for people in need. Elderly people, children, anyone who showed up and needed help.

They called him sporadically, sometimes working shifts that were too long. But the pay was good, and he put on little shows for the people there.

Few adults’ paid attention to him.

The children loved him.

The weekend had finally arrived. He was about to throw himself onto his bed to rest (to question his life choices) when he recognized the sound of his ringtone.

Incredible.

"Buggy?"

"The very same."

"We need help. I know I told you we wouldn't call you this weekend, but there was an emergency."

Buggy groaned audibly. "So? What happened?"

"A fire. At an orphanage, we have a bunch of crying, starving children. Do you think you can bring Buggy the clown?"

Of course.

"I'll get there."

Buggy quickly packed his things and called his friends Cabaji and Mohji, who used to support him with his extra acts, juggling tricycles and Mohji's fat cat standing on its paws.

But none were as magnificent as Buggy.

After a long trip in which she endured the horrible weekend traffic, she arrived at the place.

His friend wasn't exaggerating.

The place was packed, God, it was crazy. There were sad faces everywhere, some just crying in the corners while others were sobbing their lungs out from the center of the place.

"Buggy!" Alvida quickly approached him, pulling him by his arm. "Come on, I need you to help me serve what's already prepared."

Buggy complained softly as she ran inside, a bag full of her supplies on her back. "God, what the hell happened?"

"People are saying it was an accident in the kitchen. A kid was playing with the gas."

"So? Anyone dead?"

"Many injuries and hungry stomachs. But luckily nothing fatal."

"Good, so I can make jokes without feeling insensitive."

Alvida rolled her eyes. "Think about your act later, serve that soup first."

He shrugged and complied.

"How much longer are you going to take?"

"Stop rushing me, will you? I'm finishing up some cleaning. The kids are in the living room, keep them entertained while I finish and get changed."

"Fine. But Moji's amazing cat is getting tired of the kids pulling his tail."

"Fuck the cat, the kids just lost their home."

Cabaji rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Move it, Captain."

Buggy clenched his teeth while he finished cleaning some dishes.

He had several ideas for tonight. He had some balloons in the car. He could make the kids' favorite animals Or he could put on a little magic act, have the kids praise his incredible skill, heh.

Hehe.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice someone approaching him.

"Wow! What's on your nose?" came loud and clear.

Buggy was used to hearing that question. It didn't mean it wouldn't stop bothering him.

But it didn't matter; childs were reckless. He was mature enough to know how to control himself in those situations.

The problem was that this voice didn't sound at all like a child's voice.

Buggy looked up with an expression of pure annoyance. "What the hell did you say-"

The words died in his throat when he saw the person in front of him.

Wow.

Wow.

He was tall. A tall, red-haired man with broad shoulders, wearing a firefighter's suit that seemed to squeeze him in a way that shouldn't have been so distracting.

He was also carrying a small child in his arm.

He looked like some kind of Prince Charming; it was ridiculous.

Buggy was speechless, a little absorbed by the sight.

The man smiled, repeating, "I said, 'What's on your nose?'"

"It's my nose," he said expressionlessly.

"Oh." The man shrugged, his expression changing to a more awkward one. "I'm sorry, I thought..." He looked even more handsome like that, a faint blush covering his cheeks, as if he were trying not to laugh.

"No, no." Buggy was stuttering now. God, how embarrassing. "It's okay."

"Really?"

"Yes." Buggy couldn't meet his eyes.

He heard a laugh. A more childish one.

"Hey, what are you laughing at?" The man scolded the boy in his arm.

"You. You insulted the food boy."

"I already apologized!"

The boy laughed again. "It doesn't seem like he's really forgiven you."

The man looked worried. He looked back at Buggy. "Did I really make you mad?" His voice was raspy. Masculine, but soft at the same time, gentle. Maybe the rasp came from the smoke exposure, but the thought that beyond being incredibly hot, he was also a damn firefighting hero wasn't helping Buggy's head.

"I already told you it's fine." Why did he sound so out of breath?

"I see. Sorry again, anyway."

Silence.

Buggy quickly rushed to serve a tray of food to the boy, without saying a word or making eye contact.

The boy quickly attacked the plate.

"It's very good! Even better than what we usually eat."

Buggy smiled. "We have a great chef. That guy never fails to show up when called, especially when it comes to-" He paused. "About... this situation."

Fortunately, the kid seemed too busy eating to look downcast.

Buggy sighed in relief.

He heard a chuckle and looked up again, meeting the most damn brilliant smile he'd ever seen.

It should be forbidden to have such a bright expression.

"...You, um... Why are you here?" he asked awkwardly.

"Huh? Oh, I just wanted to make sure this kid got here safe and sound. He couldn't stop crying when I took him out of that place."

The kid puffed out his cheeks, but didn't say anything.

Buggy couldn't help but smile. "You saved him?"

"Yes, I did. He was on the third floor, completely alone."

“That's amazing," Buggy said genuinely.

"Just doing my job." He smiled, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, as if he were nervous.

But it was impossible for such a handsome man to get so nervous over someone like him.

"Are you hungry?"

"Huh? Oh, I really shouldn't-"

"You can eat. There's still plenty of food left."

"Really?"

"You deserve it, don't you? Just don't let Alvida know." Buggy smiled, with an amused wink that managed to make the boy laugh, which was exactly what he was aiming for.

But it also made the man laugh, and the sound alone gave him goosebumps.

"You're charming."

Buggy was glowing. "I- Thanks, huh...?"

"Shanks. Call me Shanks."

"Uh, Shanks. Okay..."

Silence.

"And you?"

"Me? Ah, yes, I... I'm Buggy."

"Buggy. That's an unusual name."

"Mm."

"Unique."

"I don't think it's that special." Buggy laughed awkwardly as he handed the man a tray, unable to maintain eye contact.

Their fingers brushed for longer than they should have. At least that's how it felt to him. He didn't complain either.

"Well, I think it's a nice name," he whispered, a little closer than what should be considered normal, as if he wanted only him to hear it.

The clown refused to get his hopes up, but the way his heart kicked against his chest was completely involuntary.

"Shanks?" The boy's voice echoed as they walked to the auditorium.

"Um?"

"Are you going to stay with me during the show?"

"Sure." He smiled. "Whatever you need."

The boy grinned.

"Another question."

"Yeah?"

"Were you flirting with the guy with the funny nose?"

"No more questions."

"What the hell took you so long?" Alvida moaned.

"I was cleaning up a mess and..."

"No, I really don't care. Go get dressed, go on, cheer up those orphans."

"God, okay,"

Alvida walked out, leaving him alone and still exasperated.

For some stupid reason, he hasn't let his head wander because of that stupid firefighter. Which, ridiculously, barely spoke to him.

Buggy sighed, quickly pulling his suit and makeup out of his bag; he didn't have time for nonsense

He quickly got dressed, the easiest part of all. It was a colorful suit, a striking long orange jacket with gold shoulder pads adorned with fringes and white feat trim, over a red and white striped T-shirt that added to his flamboyant clown look. He wore emerald green baggy pants that tied at the ankles, accompanied by red and white striped socks. It was a completely original card, one he had designed and commissioned with one of his first salaries.

Very good material, really.

The most fun and at the same time overwhelming part for him was putting on makeup. He could never decide which color to use on his eyes, although red lipstick never left him, of course.

In the end, he settled on his favorite: blue on his eyes and a rich red on his lips.

The music played softly, a lively piano that gave way to the first applause when the lights went down. Buggy loved to start his acts like this, full of exaggerated anticipation and anxiety; the children loved it.

The curtain opened, revealing Buggy standing in the center of the makeshift stage. His brightly colored suit, impeccable makeup, and his enormous red nose gleamed in the light.

The audience—a mix of children, volunteers, and center staff—watched him intently.

Some were already laughing just by his appearance.

But he was just getting started.

He jumped, twirled, threw five balls in the air, and caught them all effortlessly. He acted clumsy, fell on his butt, imitated a cat, a grandfather, and a chicken. The children were doubled over with laughter. He could have sworn he saw Alvida smile.

And although Buggy's gaze was fixed on his small audience, he didn't notice that, among them, in an inconspicuous corner, stood a rather large man, his firefighter's helmet to one side and a stupidly wide grin on his face.

Shanks couldn't stop staring. He didn't know why, but his heart was pounding. Maybe it was the passion with which that guy moved across the stage, as if the whole world had disappeared except for the joy of those children. Or maybe... maybe it had something to do with the ridiculously colored tight pants. The point is: he liked it. A lot.

And he laughed at every silly thing the man on stage did; it was almost ridiculously funny.

He also found it charming how the clown spent almost three hours making personalized balloons for every child who came through the line.

God, it almost melted his heart.

Buggy wiped the last traces of makeup from his face, careful not to leave a smudge on the tissue. He was exhausted. The party had lasted way longer than expected, but how could he say no when the kids kept begging for just one more joke?

His body ached, but their laughter had been worth it. And somehow, that made him smile.

Cabaji and Mohji had already left. At least they helped him clean up before disappearing suspiciously fast.

But whatever. Not his problem.

He folded his suit with theatrical care, like it was some kind of sacred ritual, and began stuffing it back into his worn duffel bag.

"I'll call you soon," Alvida said casually from the doorway. "The kids are staying longer than planned. We'll need all the help we can get."

"Perfect. You know when I’m free—call me anytime. I need the extra cash, honestly."

"May I ask why?"

Buggy flashed a broad, proud grin. “We’ve got a show planned next month. Big one. This time, it’s gonna be huge.”

"Of course it will be."

"Think what you want. You’re invited."

She just smiled. “Good night, Buggy.”

“Night.”

As the door clicked shut, he slumped into the nearest chair like a puppet with its strings cut. “God,” he muttered, rubbing his face. It was nearly midnight. He was way too old to be up this late.

He let himself go limp, eyes closed, letting the silence fill him. Rarely did he have a moment like this—no noise, no chaos, no pressure. Just… stillness.

“Need a ride home?”

He didn’t even open his eyes. “Mm. I’ve got a car.”

“Then why are you passed out in that chair?”

“Can’t a man relax?” he grumbled.

The response was a deep, warm laugh. Familiar.

His eyes flew open.

Shanks stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, leaning in just enough to catch Buggy off guard.

Buggy jerked upright. “I—Sorry,— You— You’re the one who deserves a break!”

“Me? Why?”

“You’re a firefighter! You probably spent hours dealing with that disaster downtown.”

Shanks shrugged. “That was nothing. You, on the other hand? You had the real job.”

Buggy blinked. “What?”

“Those balloons couldn’t have been easy.”

“You’re— Are you laughing at me?”

“What? No! I mean it. I think what you did was amazing.” A pause. “I like you.”

Buggy froze, his brain catching on the words like a record scratch.

Shanks cleared his throat awkwardly. “I mean—your show. I like your character. And I really liked your performance.”

“Oh.” Right. That made more sense. Idiot. “Thanks. Uh, I’m not used to praise from grown-ups.”

“Really? I thought it was great. Though, I didn’t love a part.”

Buggy’s stomach dropped. “Which part?”

“You only made balloons for the kids.”

Buggy blinked again. “...Huh?”

“I wanted one too.”

Buggy laughed, rolling his eyes. “You weren’t even in line.”

“Still. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want one.”

“Too bad. You’re not a kid.”

Shanks tilted his head, eyes glinting. “So no balloon for me?”

“Nope.”

“Come on.”

“Maybe next time,” Buggy mumbled, grinning like a fool.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Shanks said, smile widening. “Do you do shows here often?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to start coming around more often.”

Buggy could feel it now—his face turning red like a tomato. Great. Just what he needed. Blushing like a schoolboy in clown paint.

He looked away quickly and stood up, trying to play it cool.

“Okay. I’ll… see you around.”

Shanks raised a hand in farewell. “Drive safe."

“Yeah, yeah. Uh, thanks. Bye.”

He turned away fast, not daring to glance back.

Halfway to his car, he let out a breath and whispered to himself, grinning helplessly:

“Idiot.”

Shanks had started stopping by more often.

At first, it was just casual—quick hellos in the hallway, the occasional wave from across the courtyard. Sometimes he came by to give the kids little tours of the fire station, showing them helmets too big for their heads and letting them sit behind the wheel of the truck.

He always wore his uniform.

And Buggy could barely look him in the eye without his gaze wandering to places it shouldn't.

One afternoon, Shanks dropped by unannounced, only to find Alvida alone in the kitchen, elbow-deep in dish soap and plates.

“He’s not here today,” she said before he could even ask. “Wasn’t much going on, so I didn’t call him in.”

“I see.”

He stood there awkwardly for a moment, hands in his pockets, eyes on the worn tile floor.

Then, quietly, “I think he’s cute.”

Alvida snorted, turning to him with a wicked grin. “You wanna fuck him, huh? That’s what twelve-hour shifts do to a man.”

Shanks laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “No, I mean… yeah, okay, he’s definitely handsome. But it’s more than that.”

Alvida stared at him like he’d just declared he was in love with a sea urchin.

“You like him? Like, actually?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Every time I talk to him, I like him more.”

Alvida groaned and wiped her hands on a towel, leaning against the counter with a dramatic sigh.

“Okay, listen. I’ve known Buggy for almost five years. He’s loud, stubborn, impossible to argue with, and his ego barely fits through the door.” She dropped the towel and crossed her arms. “At the same time? He’s a total mess. Pathetic, insecure, and has a heart so soft it might as well be made of pudding.”

Shanks smiled, eyes warm.

Alvida rolled hers. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious. He’s a dreamer—pushing thirty with nothing in his pockets but glitter and grand ideas. He’s all fireworks and self-sabotage.” She turned away, placing the last plate on the drying rack.

“He’s never had a relationship last more than two weeks. Not because no one tried. It’s just… Buggy’s only real love is his own damn dream.”

Shanks stood still for a moment, her words settling in his chest like dust after a storm.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then quietly:

“…I don’t mind.”

Alvida paused. She slowly turned her head toward him, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t mind?”

Shanks shrugged, calm and unbothered. “No. I think… there’s nothing wrong with dreaming. He has something most people don’t. He believes in himself—even when no one else does.”

She studied him for a moment, searching his face for some trace of naïveté, something flimsy to tear apart. But all she found was a quiet, almost stubborn honesty.

“And you find that attractive.”

“I do.”

Alvida scoffed, a disbelieving smile tugging at her lips. “What is this? A damn soap opera?”

“Maybe,” Shanks replied with a soft laugh. “But I swear it’s not just a phase. Every time I see him, I want to hear more. Stay a little longer.”

“Even when he talks about himself like he’s a global superstar?”

“Especially then.” Shanks folded his arms, thoughtful. “There’s something beautiful about that. I don’t know if he’ll ever make it. But the fact that he’s trying… that’s already something worth admiring.”

Alvida leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms as well. Her expression shifted. Tired, a little worn. More real.

“Just one warning, Shanks. Buggy isn’t broken, but he’s not easy either. He loves the stage because no one interrupts him there. Everything’s safe. Perfect. In real life, it’s harder. He struggles to connect. To accept that someone might want to be near him without being part of the act.”

Shanks looked down. He thought for a moment.

“Then I guess I’ll have to show him I’m not here for the show.”

“Good luck with that.” Alvida sighed, resigned. “You’ll need it.”

Buggy was about to throw himself off the nearest balcony.

"That pile of dishes isn't going to wash itself!" Alvida yelled from the other corner of the kitchen, making him shrink even more.

"Damn," he muttered, before putting on his cleaning gloves and beginning his daily torture. At least he had his headphones.

He spent almost hours washing, drying, and organizing the dishes and cutlery, humming every song while he did it. In the end, it wasn't so horrible; somehow, the order made him feel less stressed.

In his bubble, he didn’t even hear the footsteps approaching behind him.

A hand snatched away his left earbud, making him jump.

"What are you listening to?" was whispered right next to his ear, sending shivers straight down his spine.

“Wha—!” Buggy spun around, nearly flinging a fork across the kitchen. “Shanks?! What the hell—do you want to give me a heart attack?!”

Shanks stood there, smug grin and all. “You’re very jumpy. Guilty conscience?”

Buggy rolled his eyes and snatched his earbud back. “It’s just… Shazna.”

“Shazna?” Shanks blinked. “That’s unexpected."

“It’s—whatever—it’s good background music for scrubbing crap off plates,” Buggy mumbled quickly, already yanking off the gloves. “Anyway, what do you want?”

Shanks leaned casually against the counter, like he belonged there. “Nothing really. I was just… passing by.”

“Passing by the kitchen?”

Shanks shrugged, completely unapologetic. “I came by the other day, actually. But you weren’t here.”

“Oh.” Buggy tossed a towel onto the counter. “Yeah, I only come in when she needs extra hands.”

“Right. That’s the thing. Kinda hard to know when you’re around,” Shanks said, almost too casually, tracing his finger across the rim of a clean plate. “Would be easier if I had, I don’t know… your number.”

Buggy froze for a second. His first instinct was to ask why, but his brain short-circuited somewhere between Shazna and give me your number.

So instead, he reached into his back pocket, pulled out a pen, and scribbled something onto a napkin.

He shoved it into Shanks’s hand with a scowl. “Don’t use it for weird stuff.”

“No promises,”

Buggy sighed, grabbed another towel, and went back to drying. “And don’t call me when I’m busy.”

“Got it.”

“Or when you’re bored and just want to annoy me.”

“Now that one’s going to be hard.”

Buggy had gotten used to receiving the occasional message from Shanks, usually unexpected and sometimes bizarre. But lately, the firefighter’s texts had become more frequent—always casual, always friendly, but with a tone that made Buggy reread them once or twice. That afternoon, while Buggy was still at home finishing up some sewing for his next performance, his phone buzzed.

“Are you coming today? I came to see the kids.”

“I'll come later. Wow, you sure have fans.”

“They love my helmet and weird boots.”

“They certainly are.”

Shanks smiled as he read that one, already picturing Buggy rolling his eyes at his own phone. He typed:

“They're like that for a reason.”

“They make you look funny.”

“My whole uniform makes me look funny.”

Buggy didn’t think much before replying:

“I don't think that.”

A second later, Shanks hearted the message.

“?”

“I mean, it's normal.”

There was a pause before he answered

“Um, sure.”

“Stop it.”

"After that, Richie jumps through the hoop," Mohji said, practically vibrating with excitement.

The cat meowed and rolled onto his back dramatically.

"Is the fire really necessary?" Cabaji muttered.

"What? You think my cat can’t handle it?"

"I think if your cat turns into roast dinner, we’re going to lose the crowd."

"Oh yeah? Got something better in mind? More stunts on your broken-ass bike?"

"It’s a unicycle, dumbass."

"Buggy! Tell Cabaji my idea’s better!"

The clown didn’t even glance up. “Shut up,” he muttered, eyes glued to his phone screen.

Cabaji gritted his teeth. “You’ve been staring at that thing all afternoon. What are you even doing?”

Buggy startled slightly. “Nothing. I’m doing nothing.”

"That’s suspicious. Spill it. Now," Mohji pressed, moving closer to sneak a peek at the screen.

Buggy yanked the phone away and clutched it to his chest. “I said I’m doing nothing.”

"He’s talking to someone."

"No, I’m not."

"Yes, you are."

"Oh my god, you—?"

"It’s not like that. He’s a friend. That’s it."

"From where? Work? Everyone there treats you like garbage."

"He’s from my other job."

"You’re texting an orphan?"

"What—god, are you stupid?"

"Just say it."

"His name’s Shanks. He’s a firefighter. He’s nice. That’s all."

"A firefighter."

"Shanks."

"Mhm."

"A firefighter," Mohji repeated slowly, like he was processing a major plot twist.

"Shanks," Cabaji added, raising an eyebrow. "That sounds fake."

"It’s not fake!" Buggy snapped, cheeks already pink. "Why would I make that up?"

"I don’t know. Sounds like the name of a cartoon superhero. 'Captain Shanks, the Flaming Hero!'" Mohji said, puffing his chest dramatically.

"Is he hot?" Cabaji asked casually.

Buggy choked. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, statistically speaking, firefighters are usually—"

"I don’t care about statistics!"

Mohji leaned in with a smug grin. "You’re blushing."

"I always blush when I’m mad!"

"You’re not mad, you’re flustered."

Buggy groaned and covered his face with both hands. “God, why am I even talking to you two…”

Mohji threw an arm around his shoulder. "Because we’re your best friends."

"We’re also your only friends," Cabaji added.

Buggy smacked Mohji’s arm away. “Shut up, both of you.”

"Do you have a picture of him?" Mohji grinned like a gremlin.

"No."

"You definitely do."

"Shut. Up."

"So when do we meet him?" Cabaji asked with a totally serious expression.

"You don’t."

"Aww, come on! Bring him to the next show. He can be part of the act—Shanks and the Flaming Cat of Doom!"

"Richie would never agree to that!" Mohji gasped.

"He’s not coming to the show!" Buggy shouted, already halfway to storming out of the room.

"You’re totally in love!" Mohji called after him.

"Say that again and I’ll make you jump through the flaming hoop!"

"Oooh, feisty!"

Buggy slammed the door behind him. Silence.

Then Cabaji turned to Mohji.

"...He's definitely in love," he said, in a more serious tone.

"Totally."

Buggy pushed the glass door with a little more force than necessary. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie tucked into his pocket, and his face screamed, "Don't talk to me."

Another miserable day in a gray jungle of cubicles. Endless spreadsheets, a passive-aggressive supervisor, and someone had eaten his yogurt again.

He was halfway down the block when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He hesitated to ignore it, but when he saw the name on the screen, he slowed down.

Shanks.

Buggy hesitated before answering.

"Yeah?"

"Hey! Did I catch you at a bad time?"

Buggy let out a sharp sigh.

"Define bad time."

"That bad, huh?"

Buggy rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Same old hell. Eight hours staring at a screen while people ask me if I can 'make it look more Excel-like.' Whatever that means.”

“Ugh. You sound like you need a drink. Or a nap. Or both.”

“I need a new job,” Buggy muttered.

There was a brief pause before Shanks said, more gently this time, “Are you okay?”

Buggy bit the inside of his cheek. He hated how easily that voice made him quit acting. “Just tired,” he said finally. “Tired of… everything.”

“Well,” Shanks replied gently, “for what it’s worth, I find it incredible that you do all that, have a side job, and still play your shows on the weekends. Most people don’t even have the energy to microwave dinner after work.”

Buggy laughed, dry but sincere. “You’re too nice to me.”

“Someone has to be."

That made Buggy stop talking for a second. His fingers fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. "I have a show this weekend."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Saturday night. It's not much, just a local event. But... you know, you can... come." His voice faltered a little at the end, and he quickly added, "If you're not busy."

"I'd love to come," he replied immediately.

Buggy rolled his eyes, but he had a faint smile on his face. "Don't say that before you see it."

"Send me the address?"

He did.

And after a moment, he added, "Wear something fireproof. Mohji is threatening to bring real torches again."

Shanks immediately responded, "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Buggy laughed one last time before hanging up, his cheeks flushing despite himself. Then he silently put his phone away and continued walking.

It had been almost two months since Shanks and Buggy had become friends.

Or at least, that’s how Shanks saw it. From the moment they met, he didn’t quite feel worthy of calling himself a friend—not until Buggy personally invited him to one of his shows.

After that, Shanks took the bold liberty of calling him his friend.

He liked to bother him whenever he had free time. He’d send him nonsense texts, call him just because, and show up at the shelter whenever he confirmed Buggy would be there.

He thought things were going well. Maybe well enough to risk taking a step forward.

He’d taken it slow, following Alvida’s advice and what he himself had noticed about Buggy over the past few weeks. He knew he couldn’t just throw himself at him out of nowhere.

So first, he took his time—just got to know him, spent time with him.

And it didn’t take long to confirm that this went far beyond a simple, fleeting crush.

Shanks genuinely liked Buggy.

He was a determined man, harsh on himself. But somehow, he still managed to be clumsy and, honestly, way too kind.

Shanks liked the way Buggy puffed out his cheeks when he was stressed, the way he’d run his hands through his hair when frustration got the better of him—leaving it messy and wild and kind of adorable.

Shanks really had to control himself not to reach out and run his fingers through that soft, blue ponytail.

It was such a unique color.

Everything about Buggy felt unique. Different.

Special.

Shanks had been planning it for weeks, finally deciding on the perfect place to take him for dinner. It couldn’t just be anywhere.

Buggy was the kind of man who loved extravagance.

Shanks had figured that out from the expensive watches and rings that sometimes adorned his wrists and fingers.

Whenever he could, Buggy treated himself to something flashy, something that sparkled from across the room.

Shanks found it kind of endearing, in his own way.

And he would never say no to spoiling a cute guy like him with over-the-top dinners at top-tier restaurants.

He'd practiced a thousand times in front of the mirror. With a casual tone, a relaxed smile, his hands in his pockets, even a wink. All so it wouldn't seem so obvious he was terrified.

And yet, when he finally saw him coming out of the shelter, his blue hair half-done and that ridiculously shiny jacket he always wore on Fridays, he forgot all the rehearsed versions.

"Hey, Buggy!" he called, walking toward him with long strides.

The other turned around with a tired expression, but when he saw him, he smiled slightly. "Hey, you came."

"Of course I did," Shanks replied without thinking. He scratched the back of his neck. "But... more like, I came to ask you something."

"If you're coming for a balloon, it's not showtime yet," the clown joked, stretching lazily.

"No, no—it's something else. Look, uh..." Shanks lowered his voice a little and tried to sound natural. "I know a nice restaurant. Nothing too crazy, but something... well. I thought, I don't know, maybe you'd like to go this Saturday. With me."

Buggy blinked, surprised. He looked at him for a moment without saying anything, as if processing whether he was being pranked.

"Dinner?" he repeated slowly.

"Uh-huh. Just the two of us. I'm treating you. To celebrate your amazing show last weekend. And because... I'd like to spend time with you, in a different setting. One where you don't have to throw pies in your other bandmates' faces."

Buggy gave a nervous laugh, lowering his gaze, then raised it again, crossing his arms uncertainly.

"Where is that restaurant?"

"Downtown. I'll give you the address, or I can pick you up if you prefer."

Buggy studied him, his expression unreadable for a few seconds. Finally, he sighed and nodded.

"Okay. But I don't enjoy cheap wine."

Shanks grinned from ear to ear, relieved and excited at the same time.

"Expensive wine, guaranteed."

Buggy just mumbled a "You better be," as if he didn't care, but he couldn't stop a small smile from escaping.

And Shanks treasured it.

Shanks arrived ten minutes early.

He wore a rolled-up white shirt, a plain dark jacket, and had his red hair tied back as usual. He stood waiting outside, shifting from foot to foot, hands in his pockets. He was more nervous than he’d ever admit—even under torture.

Then he saw him.

Buggy walked in like there was a red carpet beneath his feet. He wore a scandalously shiny burgundy jacket with black satin lapels, tight-fitting pants, patent leather boots, and his usual perfectly tied ponytail. And the jewelry. Of course. A gold watch, rings with colorful stones, and little earrings that sparkled with every step.

Shanks stared at him, stunned.

Was he really going on a date with someone this handsome?

“Hey.”

“Uh…”

“What? Too little?” Buggy asked with a raised brow, feigning offense.

“What? No, no! You look… wow.”

Buggy snorted, clearly trying to hide the blush creeping down his neck. “Of course I do.”

They entered the restaurant amidst jokes and a small argument over who should open the door (Buggy was mildly offended at being treated “like a lady”).

The place was understated from the outside, but elegant on the inside. Warm lighting, white tablecloths, and a jazz quartet playing smooth live music in the background.

They sat down. Shanks ordered wine—expensive, as promised—and Buggy wasted no time making fun of the bottle’s unpronounceable name.

For the first twenty minutes, the conversation flowed easily: work stories, complaints about the shelter kids, gossip about coworkers. Shanks gestured animatedly, did voices to mimic people, and made Buggy laugh even when the jokes didn’t quite land.

“And then the guy tells me he can’t get off the truck because he’s afraid of heights. We were on the ground!”

Buggy nearly spit out his wine, covering his mouth with a napkin. “You’re such an idiot.”

“I know. Do you like that about me?”

Buggy narrowed his eyes, amused but cautious. “Sometimes.”

Shanks smiled a little softer. There was a pause—comfortable, but full of weight.

“You know, I don’t usually hang out with people like this,” Buggy muttered, eyes on his glass.

“Like what?”

“People who ask me out just because they actually want to spend time with me.”

Shanks lowered his gaze, then looked back at him with a half-smile.

“Well… I like you. It’s not that mysterious. But I’m not going to push you.”

Buggy stared at him for a long moment. He didn’t respond right away. Just sipped his wine, as if quietly processing something bigger than he was ready to say aloud.

“This is fine,” he said eventually, his tone calm. “This… is good.”

Shanks nodded. “Just let me know if I start getting too clumsy, okay?”

“You’re always clumsy.”

“But charming?”

“…Horribly charming,” Buggy muttered—without meaning to sound quite so breathless.

Shanks didn’t answer. He just smiled—one of those smiles. The kind that made it hard to breathe.

And somehow, this one was even brighter than usual.

They toasted, wordlessly. The tension still lingered, like a tight wire between them—but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Something hung in the air, unsaid, but understood. Neither of them needed to say it. Not yet.

Still, it didn’t stop Shanks from needing every ounce of self-control not to kiss him at the end of the night.

He really wanted to. His fists clenched a little when Buggy stopped in front of him outside, silent for a few seconds, like he was waiting.

Like he might say something.

But in the end, Buggy simply looked away.

“See you around,” he said, voice low.

And with that, he turned and walked off—his shiny boots clicking against the pavement, leaving Shanks standing there, heart racing, grinning like an idiot.

Buggy burst into his apartment and practically sprinted to his bed.

He buried his face into the pillow, gripping it tightly and mumbling nonsense he couldn’t quite string into coherent thoughts.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m so stupid.”

“Was that a date? No—we never said the word ‘date’.”

“But it was something.”

“I’m imagining things. He didn’t even… ugh.”

He lay there for a while, just staring at nothing, questioning every decision he’d made over the past few months.

How had Shanks, an impossibly attractive man whose smile alone could knock the air out of his lungs—and on top of that…

He was kind. He was sweet and awkward, laughed at Buggy’s dumb jokes, listened to his complaints, brought him coffee when he looked tired.

He messaged him every morning. Never forgot to wish him goodnight.

Was Buggy an idiot for falling so hard?

Hopelessly in love.

He pulled off his jacket and shirt without even thinking, slipping into his pajamas so he could sleep and maybe—maybe—stop thinking.

The problem was, he couldn’t.

His phone buzzed.

“Hey, did you get home safe?”

His heart clenched.

“Yeah, sorry, forgot to text. My bad.”

“No worries, I’m just glad you got home safe.”

“You’re so dramatic. What could possibly happen to me?”

“I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Seriously.”

Buggy smiled to himself as he typed:

“Well, I’m safe. You can relax.”

“Good. That means the world to me.”

“You’d be lost without me, huh?”

“I would. Now that I’ve got you in my life, you better not disappear.”

And that did it.

It wrecked him.

It was like someone punched him in the stomach, over and over again, without letting him breathe. His whole body tightened.

Buggy dropped the phone beside his pillow like it was on fire.

He lay still, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling while something heavy twisted in his chest.

Shanks had said it like it was nothing. Like it was normal to care that much.

Like he—Buggy, the clown, the wreck of a man—could actually mean that much to someone.

It was too much.

Too real. Too good. Too dangerous.

He covered his face with both hands, whispering something unintelligible, heart pounding like it wanted to escape his chest.

Don’t disappear.

What the hell did that mean? Why would he say something like that? Why was he so… easy to love?

Buggy rolled over, clutching his pillow like it could somehow protect him from himself.

He hadn’t meant to fall for anyone. Not like this. Not for someone who could break him with a single sentence, with a stupid promise he might not even remember later.

And yet, there he was.

Completely, stupidly in love.

His hands were shaking. And still… he wanted to answer.

He picked up his phone again, fingers trembling, and typed:

“Then don’t let me go either.”

He didn’t send it.

Backspaced. Typed it again. Deleted it.

Groaned into his blanket, twisted in the sheets—and finally just wrote:

“Good night, Shanks.”

The reply came almost instantly.

“Sweet dreams, Buggy.”

And somehow, that was worse.

He shut off his phone. Closed his eyes. Tried not to think about anything.

...

Damn it.

It was two in the morning and he still couldn’t sleep. Great. Just perfect.

As if he didn’t have a million things to do tomorrow.

With a groan, he grabbed his phone again, surrendering to the sleepless spiral. He started scrolling through random profiles, judging people's lives like some bitter nobody. Yep. Loser behavior. (He didn’t care.)

He was zoned out, halfway through snooping on an ex-coworker’s vacation pics, when a small notification popped up.

People you may know.

He always checked those out—former classmates, friends’ weird cousins, random faces he never wanted to see again. Mildly entertaining.

So, of course, he clicked.

Same old junk. A few familiar faces he didn’t care enough to click on.

And then he showed up again.

That stupid, radiant smile.

Of course Shanks’ profile had a ridiculous selfie of him holding a puppy. He looked like he was at… a beach? Maybe? Wearing a baseball cap, slightly sunburned, glistening with sweat.

Bright. Grinning. Adorably handsome.

And that scruffy facial hair… Buggy could practically feel how it would tickle against his ear if Shanks ever whispered something to him.

...

What the hell was he thinking?

Buggy stared at the photo far longer than necessary. He even zoomed in like a lunatic, as if the pixels might reveal some hidden detail about Shanks’ life that he didn’t already know.

He clicked the profile. Slowly. Hesitantly. Like it might bite him back.

Public posts. A few dozen.

Buggy scrolled.

There was Shanks with a group of firefighters in uniform—soaked from head to toe after what looked like a training drill. One of them had tagged the station. Shit. Buggy already knew which one it was. He zoomed in again, this time to check if the water made his shirt cling to his chest.

This is pathetic, he told himself. Utterly pathetic.

He kept scrolling.

Another picture: Shanks holding a ridiculous birthday cake shaped like a firetruck. The caption just said: “They said I couldn’t blow out the candles in one go. They were wrong.”

Fifteen likes. Two laughing emojis. One comment from someone named Yasopp saying: “We were rooting for the fire, traitor.”

Buggy rolled his eyes and kept going.

Until he saw that photo.

Shanks. Completely shirtless.

Flexing his muscles like the show-off he clearly was.

He looked like he was at the gym, with a dumb caption about how his friends couldn’t keep up with him. Classic.

They were visible in the background—kind of—but completely out of focus. The camera knew what it was doing. The center of the photo, the absolute star, was Shanks.

His skin glistened slightly, probably from sweat, and every muscle looked annoyingly perfect. His abs, his arms, even that goddamn smirk.

Buggy stared at it for way too long, then scrolled down. Then up again.

He clicked on the photo. Zoomed in. Zoomed out.

The post had more likes than any other on his profile, and comments full of fire emojis, compliments, and thirsty remarks.

Buggy wanted to throw his phone across the room.

Why did he post this?

Why the hell did he look so good?

He turned off the screen for a moment, stared at the ceiling, then turned it back on and went back to the post like a masochist.

“Jesus Christ…” he whispered to himself, dragging a hand over his face.

He was just looking. That was all. Just… looking.

Not obsessing.

Right?

Right.

He was so awake.

Completely, not a trace of sleep left in him—especially not after that discovery.

Especially not with the familiar pressure building low in his body.

"No," he muttered firmly, quickly locking his phone and throwing it onto the nightstand.

He yanked the covers up to his chin like it would protect him from his own thoughts.

He wasn’t going to do this.

Absolutely not.

Even if he was tired.

Even if it would probably help him fall asleep faster.

...But there was no way he could do it without thinking about Shanks the entire time, especially after seeing that photo.

So no.

Definitely not.

Buggy groaned into his pillow, muffling the frustrated sound.

But the image was already burned into his brain—like a brand.

Of course Shanks had a body like that.

Of course he looked like he was sculpted by the gods themselves.

He was a goddamn firefighter.

It almost wasn’t fair.

Buggy rolled onto his side and tried, desperately, to think about literally anything else.

"This is pathetic," he whispered to himself, pressing his hands hard against his face.

He wasn't some lovesick teenager.

He was a grown man.

A professional.

He had control over his own brain.

...Or so he liked to believe.

Buggy lowered his hand down his abdomen, feeling a tingling sensation run through his body. He played with the waistband of his pajamas for a few seconds, trying to stop, until the arousal became unbearable.

"Shit, fuck it."

He touched his cock through his underwear, palming it clumsily, feeling a combination of relief and need as it hardened with each touch.

He was really going to regret this the next time he saw him.

With his other hand, he reached for his phone to turn it on. He wasn't thinking; his head was a mess, and looking at the photo again right after unlocking it finally broke his reason.

God, Buggy was sure Shanks wouldn't have to work at all to bend him over. To push him down on the bed and do whatever he wanted. Huge arms, a strong, warm chest to hide his face in while the other did a thousand things to him.

Because if he was sure of one thing, it was that Shanks was an experienced man. Everything about him spoke volumes: that confident smile, that laid-back personality, and his appearance. Shanks was the kind of man who would surely have a line outside his door waiting to suck his cock.

And Buggy would definitely be there.

He was probably huge. It would leave his jaw aching. And he'd probably never shut up while doing it. He always talked, always had something to say, and he was sure these were no different.

"That's it, that's a good boy."

The voice sounded so real in his head. He'd memorized it so, so well that he could practically hear it in his ear.

Buggy would do well; he'd use everything he had to get something from him. If he had even the slightest chance, he wouldn't waste it.

He quickly pulled down his pants and boxers, finally grabbing his cock directly, which was so sensitive it made him hiss through his teeth.

He pumped slowly, barely getting used to the sensation. It had been a while since he'd done this, he literally hadn't had time.

"Fuck, Shanks." He couldn't help but say, moaning his name into the pillow, his vision blurry but still fixed on his phone screen.

He really needed him. It was pathetic, the way he knew he'd give anything just to have a bit of his attention.

For the chance to touch him. For him to touch him.

What would he say if he saw him like this?

Gasping his name, his hand moving with such desperation it made him feel like some kind of horny teenager again.

He felt guilty, God, he felt disgusted. His chest burned just thinking about what he was doing, but the way his cock twitched as he let his eyes wander over the photo—Shanks's ripped abs—made him ignore it.

If he ever got caught like this, he'd probably die of embarrassment.

But his brain liked creating a scenario where Shaks wanted to see him like this. Where he'd force him to touch himself for him.

"That's it. Keep going like that, keep going like that for me."

He gripped his cock tighter, pumping so hard he felt like he was going to die. "Shanks, please, please."

His other hand gripped his phone so tightly he would have worried about breaking it in any other context, not now. Not when he felt the knot in his stomach growing and growing, ready to burst.

"Do you want me to help you, baby? Do you need me?"

He fantasized that his hand wasn't his own, that it was Shanks's rough, heavy palm massaging his cock, whispering all sorts of nonsense in his ear.

"Let me hear you, let me make you feel good."

"Shanks, sir, please."

He trembled violently, feeling himself getting close.

"Ask me nicely, baby."

"I want to cum, to fuck, I want to cum in your palm, Shanks." He was drooling, practically babbling at this point.

His hips shook, and he forced his face into the pillow to stifle the tearful moan that escaped his throat.

He came all over the sheets, Shanks's name on his lips.

He stayed like that for at least five minutes, trying to catch his breath.

He refused to look at himself or think about what he'd done. He wiped himself quickly, closed his eyes, and turned off his phone.

It was just a slip, it wouldn't happen again.

He wouldn't do it again.

Fine, he was ruined.

It had become the worst habit he'd ever developed in his life.

Every damn night, without fail, he returned to Shanks's profile to look for material. New fantasies, new ideas of what he'd like to do to him, or for him to do to him.

He fantasized about being between those enormous thighs, devouring him, fucking him. And God, the mere thought of having a man like Shanks beneath him, ravaged and wanting, had kept him awake all night.

He couldn't look him in the eye the next time they met, or the one after that.

Saturday with nothing to do.

Buggy woke up late.

Late and grumpy.

His alarm had gone off a couple of times, but somewhere in the middle of his four a.m. existential spiral, he'd turned it off. Now the sun beat down mercilessly on his face, and his brain felt like it'd been put in a blender.

He dragged himself to the kitchen in his pajamas, searching for coffee like a castaway searching for dry land. He'd barely started the coffeemaker when he heard a knock on the door.

Knock, knock.

He froze.

He wasn't expecting anyone.

Had he ordered something? Annoying neighbors? Mohji coming to complain again?

Knock, knock, knock.

Damn.

With his t-shirt wrinkled and his hair tangled, he walked to the door and opened it just a crack, as if facing an armed attack.

But it wasn't an attack.

It was worse than that.

Shanks had a grin that made Buggy want to slam himself against a wall.

And in his hands, he held a paper bag.

"Hey, did I catch you at a bad time?" he asked, tilting his head like a curious dog.

Buggy stared at him for a second, blinking slowly.

"What are you doing here? Like, you know where?..."

"You told me once. I was passing by, thought we could have lunch together. I brought some food."

He dared to pick up the bag, as if it were a peace offering. The delicious smell of freshly cooked food hit him immediately.

Buggy hesitated.

He should tell him no. He should tell him he wasn't presentable. He should close the door, go back to his bed, and forget about the idiot.

And he really shouldn't let the man he'd been masturbating to all damn week in.

What if Shanks could read minds or something?

Okay, I was being paranoid.

He just sighed, opening the door wider.

"Come in."

Shanks smiled even wider and walked past as if it were his home, leaving the bag on the table as Buggy trailed behind him, still in shock and internally struggling with the fact that he had zero energy to deal with his presence and, at the same time, zero will to ask him to leave.

They sat down.

Shanks pulled out cardboard boxes: hamburgers, fries, salads, soda.

"I ordered too many," he said innocently.

A bald-faced lie.

Buggy grunted under his breath but grabbed a burger without protest. Hunger was stronger than pride.

They ate in silence at first, as Buggy slowly regained human consciousness.

Shanks stole glances at him, amused, watching the clown attack the food as if he hadn't eaten in days.

"Rough night?" he finally asked, hiding a laugh in his glass.

Buggy nearly choked. He glared at him as he chewed.

"None of your business," he muttered.

Shanks raised his hands in surrender. "I was just asking. You look..." He paused deliberately. "like a grumpy cat."

"Don't talk nonsense!" he snarled, his cheeks burning.

Shanks burst out laughing, resting his head on one hand as he looked at him, as if it were the best view in the world.

Buggy cursed internally.

Damn Shanks.

Damn him for letting him in.

After lunch, there was no logical reason for Shanks to stay.

But there was also no logical reason for Buggy not to invite him.

So it just... happened.

They ended up on the couch, the TV on as a mere excuse, with an old game show filling the awkward silence.

Buggy sat stiffly, arms crossed over his chest, eyes straight ahead. He pretended not to care. Not too much. Just enough to make it impossible to ignore.

Buggy forced himself to look at the screen, though it registered nothing he saw.

Every now and then, Shanks would make a stupid comment, under his breath, as if he were only saying it to him.

Buggy didn't reply. But he was smiling. He was smiling despite himself, biting his tongue to keep from laughing outright.

"Did you know," Shanks murmured, turning slightly toward him, "that I'm incredibly good at useless trivia?"

Buggy raised an eyebrow, barely turning his face to look at him. "Yeah? And what kind of embarrassing knowledge are you hiding?"

"Ask me anything," Shanks challenged, smiling in that slow, almost lazy way that made Buggy's face heat up.

How unbearable.

His heart pounding, Buggy chose something at random from the program.

A history question. Pirates. Because of course, who doesn't like pirates?

"Who was known as the 'Knight of the Sea' in the 17th century?" he asked, unable to avoid a certain tone of defiance.

Shanks tilted his head thoughtfully.

The afternoon light made his red hair gleam, and Buggy had to look away before he stared at him like an idiot.

"Sir Henry Morgan," he finally said, his voice lower. "A legendary drunk. Just like me," he added with a soft laugh.

Buggy let out a nasal laugh, lowering his head so his hair covered his face.

"Idiot."

"But a talented idiot," Shanks retorted, leaning a little closer.

The distance between them was minimal now.

All it took was one of them to move a little more, a lame excuse, and they'd be completely touching.

Buggy knew it. He felt it. And yet, he didn't move.

Neither did Shanks.

They stood like that, breathing the same heavy, almost electrically charged air.

Buggy crossed one leg over the other, surreptitiously, to break the moment. Or so he wanted to think. But his knee brushed Shanks's again, and this time, neither of them moved their legs.

The television continued in the background, but it was as if the entire world had shrunk into that tiny space between them.

At those quick glances, those casual touches that were beginning to cease to be accidental.

As the afternoon began to turn orange, Shanks stretched, stretching his arms above his head in a wide, somewhat clumsy movement.

His hand, as expected, bumped into Buggy's side.

"Hey, idiot, watch it!" Buggy growled, pushing him slightly, but not too hard.

Shanks didn't move away. He just lowered his arms slowly, with a crooked smile that seemed to hide something else.

Something he didn't dare say.

Suddenly, he raised a hand and, without thinking much about it, ruffled Buggy's hair.

Buggy froze.

Heat rushed from his neck to his cheeks in a second, and the touch of Shanks's fingers against his scalp was like an electric shock.

"Don't mess this up, you bastard!" he protested, pulling away abruptly.

But his voice didn't have half the aggression he'd intended.

Shanks laughed, that low, vibrant laugh that Buggy felt in his chest more than in his ears.

The air in the room was thicker now.

Buggy tried to relax, but his body remained tense, as if something in the air was about to explode.

Finally, it was Shanks who broke the silence.

"You know, I never imagined myself as a firefighter," he murmured, looking down, fiddling with the wrist of his T-shirt. "I always thought I'd end up doing something different. Something... well, not that dangerous." He paused. "But one day, I saw a group of firefighters in action. They were working at a fire, risking their lives to save others... And something clicked in my head. I thought, 'This is what I want to do.'"

Buggy watched him closely, trying to catch every word. There was something vulnerable about Shanks, something he hadn't expected to find. He'd always seen him as a confident, carefree figure, as if nothing affected him.

"It was... instinctive, I guess. I dropped everything I was doing, threw myself into training, and... here I am. I don't know if I'm any good at it, but it makes me feel like I'm doing something important, you know?"

Shanks looked up, meeting Buggy's eyes, and somehow, that gaze seemed more open, more real than he was used to seeing. "Sometimes life doesn't give you what you want, but... that doesn't mean you can't find something that makes you feel alive."

Buggy didn't say anything at first. He just stared at him, as if processing Shanks's words.

Who would have thought that such an easygoing, confident man had such deep thoughts? Something in his chest tightened.

"I..." Buggy began, the words stumbling in his throat. "I always wanted to be something more. Something big. When I was a kid, I dreamed of being a circus star. I wanted to be the center of attention, juggle, jump through hoops, have everyone look at me and think I was amazing."

He laughed bitterly, without much joy. "But... things don't work out the way you expect. Life isn't a show. I ended up stuck in boring jobs, things I don't want to do. But I keep dreaming, you know? Something in me still wants to be there, at the center, to be seen, to be admired..."

Buggy's sincerity surprised Shanks. He hadn't expected to hear something so real, so vulnerable from someone like him.

Shanks stared at him, his gaze softening even further. "It's never too late. You... are the only one who sets limits on what you can do. It doesn't matter if you're not the star of the circus today. Maybe someday you will be, but what really matters is what you do now."

Shanks's words spun around in his head.

"Maybe you're right," Buggy said, his tone lower, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "Maybe I can still do it. Someday, you know?"

Shanks smiled, a warm, genuine smile. "Don't hesitate. Don't let anything stop you."

Buggy stretched, trying to ease the discomfort in his chest, and raised an eyebrow. "So what? We're just going to stay here all-day philosophizing?"

Shanks laughed, shifting a little closer to him on the couch. "Maybe that's what you want?"

Buggy glanced at him, trying to hide a smile. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea."

Buggy gave a dry chuckle, trying to hide the way his heart was beating too fast.

Shanks was smiling too, but there was something different about his expression now.

Buggy looked away, suddenly uncomfortable, and fiddled with the hem of his shirt. "You should go," he murmured, his voice weaker than he'd intended.

"Do you want me to go?" Shanks asked, dangerously calm.

Buggy opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say no.

He wanted to say stay, but don't look at me like that.

Instead, he just slowly shook his head.

That was all Shanks needed.

He leaned forward, slowly, giving him all the time in the world to back away, to say no. But Buggy didn't move. Not an inch.

He was a little scared, to be honest, but he still doubted. It wasn't possible; he didn't believe Shanks was really going to-

Their breath hitched. Buggy closed his eyes for a second before he felt Shanks's lips on his.

The kiss was gentle at first, almost fearful. A touch that sought permission.

Buggy responded just as timidly, barely pressing his lips against his.

But it only took an instant for the whole world to seem to lean in.

The built-up tension, the silent confession of his repressed desires.

Shanks deepened the kiss, his hand slowly moving up to wrap around the back of Buggy's neck, pulling him closer.

Buggy clutched the front of his shirt, as if afraid it would disappear if he didn't hold on tight.

It was clumsy, messy, a clash of labored breaths and anxious lips.

But it was real. Honest.

When they finally broke apart, they were both panting lightly. Shanks leaned his forehead against Buggy's, smiling in that stupid, disarming way only he could muster.

Buggy couldn't even look at him directly. He felt like if he did, he'd melt right then and there.

"Do you know how long I've wanted to do that?" Shanks whispered, his voice raspy.

"I..." He stuttered, nervous, still processing.

"You're so soft, I knew your lips would be perfect."

"God, silence."

The silence after was thick, charged.

Buggy blinked, still processing, his lips slightly parted, his eyes shining with something even he couldn't deny anymore.

Shanks looked at him as if no one else existed in the world.

And then Buggy did something completely impulsive.

He tugged Shanks's shirt tighter, closing the distance again, and kissed him again, without warning.

This time there was no shyness.

The kiss was hungry, urgent, everything they'd been holding back bursting out at once.

Shanks moaned softly against his lips, his hands instinctively traveling to Buggy's waist, holding onto him as if he never wanted to let go.

They stumbled back, bumping awkwardly against the edge of the couch. Buggy let out a nervous laugh between kisses, but he didn't stop.

He didn't want to stop.

Shanks slid his hands under Buggy's shirt, touching the warm skin of his back, making him shudder.

The contact was desperate, needy.

Buggy clung to Shanks as if he were the only solid thing on the whole damn planet.

Between hurried kisses, Shanks barely whispered against his mouth:

"Is that okay?"

Buggy nodded, breathless, without hesitation.

Shanks smiled—that stupid, perfect smile—and kissed him again, slower this time, as if he wanted to savor him. As if he had all the time in the world to learn every little tremor, every ragged breath he elicited from Buggy.

Their bodies pressed together, their clothes beginning to feel too much, their hands exploring aimlessly but not wanting to go too far, not yet.

They just wanted to feel. To confirm that this was real. That they could finally touch each other without barriers, without excuses.

Shanks trailed slow kisses down Buggy's jaw, down to his neck.

Buggy let out a husky sigh, arching involuntarily toward him.

"Shanks, god..." he whispered, barely.

It was a plea.

Shanks paused for a second, looking into his eyes.

Their foreheads were still pressed together, their breathing heavy.

"I promise I'll stop if you want," he said, his voice deep and sincere.

"I just... I don't think I'm ready to go any further. I haven't even showered and—god, this is new," he confessed softly.

"Hey, it's okay. I won't do anything you don't want, okay?"

"...Yes, yes. I trust you."

And that was all the answer Shanks needed.

The rest of the afternoon unfolded between kisses and anxious caresses.

It was strange.

They hadn't talked about "what they were" after that day on the couch.

There was no need, or so Shanks thought.

They spent more time together, more hugs, more stolen kisses, more quiet moments that said so much more than any formal conversation.

There wasn't a title, but there was something.

Something warm. Something that made Shanks smile every time he thought of Buggy.

He was happy. Sure.

That's why it hit so hard when Buggy walked away.

It all started with a series of small humiliations at work.

Small, almost invisible ones, that accumulated like drops of water in a cracked vessel.

First there was the constant criticism.

Emails from his boss pointing out "mistakes" that were nothing more than the whims of someone looking for excuses.

Then the glances over his colleagues' shoulders, the whispers behind his back.

The times someone took his work without giving him credit.

He was used to it, but this time it was different; he was more sensitive, he felt like an idiot.

Buggy, who had fought his whole life against that inner voice telling him he wasn't good enough, began to hear it louder and louder.

The final blow came that morning, at the weekly meeting.

He had this stupid presentation about expenses that wasn't even his responsibility, but he'd worked hard to do well.

And they didn't even give him the chance to present it.

"Thanks, Buggy, but we already have other plans," they said, turning the page as if it were nothing. As if he were invisible.

He sat there, hands clenched under the table, pretending not to care about all the time he'd wasted.

When he left work, shame was a lump in his throat.

He felt exposed, vulnerable, useless.

How could he feel worthy of Shanks, of his light, when he couldn't even be taken seriously in his crummy office?

He wasn't enough.

He wasn't enough for his boss.

He wasn't enough for his coworkers.

He wasn't enough for anyone.

He didn't answer when Shanks texted him asking if he'd like to stop by for coffee.

Nor when he sent him stupid memes as usual.

Shanks, worried, ended up calling him directly.

Buggy answered in a muffled voice.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," he lied. "Just tired."

Shanks didn't swallow a word, but he didn't push it.

"How about we go out to dinner?" he said, his voice light, almost cheerful. "A real date this time." Not one of those impromptu ones."

There was a long, awkward silence on the other end of the line.

Buggy swallowed.

His fingers trembled.

"Shanks, I... I don't think I can," he said, his voice heavy with a sadness he couldn't hide.

"Why not?" Shanks asked, with that mixture of concern and hurt that Buggy hated to provoke.

"I'm not in the mood for... that," he murmured, hating himself for sounding so broken.

"I don't want to ruin it," he added, his voice barely a thread.

Shanks didn't press the issue, though every second of silence between them burned in his chest.

"You wouldn't ruin it. You could never ruin it for me," he said finally, with such aching tenderness that Buggy almost cried.

"Not this time, Shanks. Please."

And Shanks, though every fiber of his being wanted to run and hug him, forced himself to nod, even though Buggy couldn't see him.

"Okay," he said gently. "Whenever you're ready."

The call ended.

Buggy dropped the phone on the bed, feeling worse than before.

Because he knew he was hurting the only person who seemed to actually see him.

And, in the back of his mind, fear whispered,

"How much longer before he tires of you?"

"So it's tomorrow, right?" Alvida sighed on the other end of the phone, her voice laced with that mix of exasperation and affection she reserved only for him.

"Yeah," Buggy grumbled, sinking deeper into his bed, clutching his pillow like a lifeline. "I'm nervous. Damn, I should just cancel it."

"Don't be stupid," Alvida said sharply. "You've been working on this for months, Buggy. Blood, sweat, tears, and enough stress to kill a normal person. Plus, a lot of money on those anxiety pills."

Buggy let out a half-laugh, half-whimper. "No one's gonna show up. It'll just be me and an empty room."

"I'll be there," she said immediately, her tone softening. "I'll even drag some of the kids with me. You won't be alone."

Buggy smiled weakly, murmuring a small "thank you" that barely made it past the lump in his throat.

This wasn't just another silly performance at the shelter, trying to make children laugh for five minutes to forget their problems.

This was bigger.

Buggy had rented an actual venue—a modest hall near the center of town, where real people came to hang out, where eyes that mattered would be watching.

It had cost him a fortune he didn't really have, and countless nights of sleepless preparation.

Cabaji had almost given up two weeks ago, panicking about logistics, but Buggy had kept him going—Buggy with his stupid pep talks about believing in dreams, about chasing the spotlight.

And now... now he couldn't even believe in himself.

He was terrified.

Anxious.

Depressed.

Everything had been going wrong all week—little failures piling up like debris after a storm.

And just when things had been getting good with Shanks—really good—he had pulled away.

He couldn't even bring himself to text him.

Every time he picked up his phone, guilt and shame knotted his fingers, forcing him to set it down again.

"Hey," Alvida called softly, sensing his spiral.

"Hmm?"

"You should invite him."

Buggy froze, clutching his pillow tighter. "I can't just—just send him the invitation out of nowhere. It's pathetic."

"It's not," she insisted. "He loves your shows. That's how he started falling for you, idiot."

"God, shut up, that's not—" He covered his burning face with his hands. "That's not true."

"It is true," Alvida said, laughing. "He told me."

Buggy peeked through his fingers, mortified. "You're lying."

"Nope. Straight from the firefighter's mouth."

Buggy groaned, kicking his legs into the mattress like a sulky teenager.

He felt raw and exposed, like the mere idea of inviting Shanks would tear down the fragile walls he had put up to protect himself from disappointment.

Still...

What if Shanks really did want to be there?

What if he actually believed in him?

The idea was terrifying—and unbearably tempting.

He sat up slowly, picking up his phone again with shaking hands.

He stared at Shanks’s name on the screen for a full minute before typing out a message, erasing it, and typing again.

Finally, he hit send:

"Hey... I’m doing a little performance tomorrow. If you're not busy, I'd really love it if you came."

Simple. No expectations. No pressure.

But his heart felt like it might explode.

He threw the phone onto the bed as if it were on fire and buried his face back into the pillows.

Moments later, his phone buzzed.

He cracked one eye open.

It was from Shanks.

"Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Buggy."

Buggy bit his lip, feeling tears prick the corners of his eyes before he angrily wiped them away.

Stupid, stupid, stupid Shanks.

Making him feel like he wasn't completely alone after all.

The day of the show arrived all too quickly.

Buggy put on her makeup as usual, plastering an exaggerated smile over her tense lips.

The room wasn't empty.

In fact, it looked pretty good: a few families, young people laughing, and in a corner—impossible to miss—Shanks, with his old jacket and his hair tied back, sitting like he was the number one fan, with a smile Buggy would recognize anywhere.

Breathe. Just breathe.

The show started well: juggling, jokes, simple tricks that drew laughter and timid applause.

Buggy moved with her typical exaggerated grace, each step rehearsed a thousand times in her head.

Until the final act arrived.

A balancing act she'd practiced for weeks.

An improvised tightrope, only at a low height, but designed to close the show with a standing ovation.

He climbed the rope, his heart in his throat, pretending to wobble comically as part of the act. The audience laughed.

One step, another. Everything was going well.

Until his foot slipped.

He didn't fall dramatically or hurt himself, he simply tripped and stepped awkwardly down before reaching the end.

Nervous laughter filled the room. Soft applause tried to cheer him up.

Buggy smiled, took an exaggerated bow as if it had all been part of the show, and closed with an absurd pirouette that drew a few final laughs.

But inside

Inside, he was falling apart.

He had failed, and that bothered him immensely.

When the show ended and the crowd began to disperse, Buggy gathered his things as quickly as possible, still wearing face paint, but not daring to look anyone in the eye.

He didn't see Shanks until he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Hi."

Buggy tensed, trying to smile naturally, as if he didn't want to tear his face off in embarrassment.

"Good show," Shanks said sincerely, his eyes shining with pride.

"You don't have to say that," Buggy murmured, lowering his gaze.

"I'm serious," Shanks insisted. "You were amazing."

Buggy gulped, not quite able to believe it.

There was an awkward silence, where Buggy pretended to pack things in his briefcase, and Shanks just watched him.

Finally, Shanks gave a soft laugh and said,

"Come on. I'll buy you a beer. You deserve it."

Buggy hesitated. He wanted to lock himself in his house, wash off that stupid face paint, and not go out for a month.

But Shanks looked at him like he was the most important person in the world.

And that look was stronger than any insecurity.

"...Okay," Buggy snorted, crossing his arms as if he were doing him a huge favor. "But you pay."

"Of course." Shanks smiled, and Buggy, against his will, felt his chest loosen a little.

Maybe he had failed today.

But Shanks still wanted him around.

For some reason...

The bar Shanks chose was small, warm, and noisy.

Soft music played, yellow lights hung from the ceiling like stars.

A refuge from the real world.

Buggy sat at a table in the back, uncomfortable, with Shanks's old jacket draped over his shoulders because he'd forgotten to bring something to cover up.

There were still traces of makeup on his face, but by now he didn't care too much.

Shanks returned with two beers, plopping them down beside him instead of in front of him, as if personal space didn't exist between them.

"Cheers," he said, lightly clinking his glass against Buggy's.

Buggy could barely muster a smile, taking a long sip of his beer to calm the anxiety still throbbing in his ribs.

For a few minutes, they did just that: drinking, in silence, sharing the space.

Until Shanks spoke, in that low, confident voice that always managed to make Buggy feel like the world was a little less hostile.

"You don't have to be perfect, you know."

Buggy frowned, but said nothing.

"What you did today... people don't come just for the tricks. They come because you're lovable. Because you're fun. Because you're you."

Buggy tightened his grip on his glass.

"It wasn't enough," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the ambient noise.

"Enough for whom?" Shanks asked softly.

"For me," Buggy thought, but didn't say.

Instead, he gave a bitter laugh. "Forget it. I'm being dramatic."

"No," Shanks shook his head, turning slightly to look at him better. "I'm not going to forget it. Not if it's hurting you."

Buggy's heart did a small leap in his chest.

Why did he have to be this good? That attentive?

Why couldn't he just make fun of him like everyone else?

"...Sometimes I feel like no matter how hard I try, I always end up... falling short," Buggy confessed, barely moving his lips.

Shanks listened to him as if every word were a treasure.

"You're not short on anything," he finally said, leaning a little closer. "You're amazing, just the way you are."

Buggy let out an incredulous laugh, taking another sip of his beer so he wouldn't have to deal with the heat rising up his neck.

Shanks didn't move.

In fact, he placed a hand on his, barely touching, but the contact was so real, so tangible, that Buggy had to close his eyes for a moment.

"I don't want you to think... that you have to be someone else for me to like being with you," Shanks murmured, his voice barely a whisper between them.

Buggy opened his eyes, and there was Shanks: close, warm, so damn beautiful it hurt.

Shanks smiled, as if sensing his fear, and didn't press.

He just waited, patiently.

Finally, Buggy let out a weak laugh and said, in a low voice,

"...Are you going to buy me another beer or what?"

"Sure," he said, jumping up. "Anything you want."

Buggy was pretty drunk.

Not drunk enough to forget how to walk, but drunk enough to let his tongue run wild.

Across from him, Shanks rested his head in one hand, grinning sarcastically as he listened to Buggy ramble on about anything and everything: his favorite circus acts, his hatred of some of his coworkers, his inexplicable fear of geese.

They laughed, nudging each other with childish elbows, swapping stupid anecdotes like trading cards.

"If you're really thinking of adding more dangerous acts," Shanks said, twirling his drink in his hand, "or anything that requires strength... I can help you."

"Help me?" Buggy repeated suspiciously.

"I've been going to the gym for about nine years. I'm sure I could teach you a thing or two."

There was a moment of silence before Shanks broke into a wider, almost mocking smile. "Besides, I've seen you before... you know? In your gym photos."

The laughter died away on Buggy's lips.

The world seemed to turn upside down.

Shanks blinked, slow and deliberate, his smile frozen like a cat sensing cornered prey.

"...What?" he asked quietly, amused... and dangerously interested.

Buggy shrank back in his seat; heat rose from his chest to his ears so fast it made him dizzy.

"Nothing! I didn't say anything!" he shouted, waving his hands as if trying to erase the words.

Shanks's eyes glittered with a slow, predatory amusement. He leaned both elbows on the table, leaning closer, the space between them growing ever more intense and heated.

"Photos," he repeated in a low, mocking tone. "From the gym."

He tilted his head slightly, his smile widening. "Buggy... were you stalking me?"

"No. No, no, no..." Buggy stammered, wanting to crawl under the table and never reappear. "It was the algorithm, okay? I was just looking... your stupid selfie with that ugly dog popped up! What was I supposed to do, ignore it?"

Shanks chuckled, a sound so soft it felt like silk against his skin.

"And after that?" he purred, "you kept looking?"

Buggy let out a soft, pained moan and rested his forehead on the table with a thud.

"I'm going to jump out the window," he mumbled against the wood.

Shanks laughed, his sound deeper, and slid his hand across the table, moving his fingers with deliberate slowness until they brushed against Buggy's knuckles. His touch was light, but it set her nerves on edge.

"So," Shanks said, his voice raspy and almost tender, "which picture did you like the most?"

Buggy peered at him from under his bangs, his heart pounding so hard it rattled in his ribs.

"I'm not going to tell you," he said, his voice cracking.

"Come on," Shanks coaxed, barely above a whisper. "Let's exchange secrets."

Buggy squeezed his eyes shut, cursing the alcohol, the night, and Shanks's stupidly handsome face.

"It was..." he muttered so softly it was almost inaudible, "the one where you were with some friends at the gym. Laughing."

Shanks's smile widened slowly and triumphantly, like a predator finally closing in on its prey.

"I knew I looked good in that one," he murmured.

Buggy moaned pitifully, covering his face with both hands again. Shanks laughed softly and, without pulling away, let his fingers gently brush over Buggy's knuckles, soothing and comforting.

"I've been looking at pictures of you too," Shanks said, almost shyly, if someone like Shanks could be considered shy.

Buggy choked, nearly knocking over his drink.

"I... I don't even have..." he stammered, the words tumbling out of him.

"You don't," Shanks agreed gently, smiling wickedly. "But your friends do. And they post a lot."

Buggy blinked, dazed; the alcohol clouding his mind, blurring the boundaries of reality, preventing him from fully processing what Shanks was implying.

Sensing the perfect opportunity, Shanks leaned even closer; his warm breath brushed the shell of Buggy's ear.

"You were wearing that ridiculous pirate costume in one of them," he whispered in a low, silky voice.

"You were... handsome."

A pitiful squeal escaped Buggy before he could stop it, his whole body tensing like a spring.

Shanks laughed again, a softer, more genuine sound that sent a shiver down his spine.

"There were others as well," Shanks continued, his voice almost thoughtful, as if savoring each memory.

"Photos from some booth... before a performance, perhaps? You looked disheveled... without a ponytail."

Buggy groaned, running a hand over his face.

"Probably after a performance," he murmured sadly.

Shanks hummed thoughtfully, as if reliving the moment.

"You weren't wearing a shirt."

Buggy hit his forehead against the table with a thud.

"I beg you to stop talking," he murmured against the wood.

But Shanks was relentless, the smile in his voice unmistakable.

"You looked fine, Buggy," he said, more gently now, lightly brushing Buggy's wrist with his fingertips, urging him to look up.

"More than fine."

Buggy peered at him through his fingers, his heart pounding, the weight of the moment pressing down on him harder than the alcohol.

"You're drunk," he accused, though his voice trembled.

"So are you," Shanks said matter-of-factly, with a crooked smile.

"But that doesn't make it any less true. I had a good time, looking at those pictures."

For a second, neither of them moved. The sounds of the tavern around them faded into a blur, leaving them alone in their own heavy, trembling bubble.

Shanks's fingers, still tracing slow, careful strokes over Buggy's wrist, finally curled to gently grasp his hand.

"You could let me prove it to you," Shanks murmured, his voice dropping even lower, almost a challenge.

Buggy looked up then—really looked at him, and saw the spark in Shanks's eyes: mischievous, daring, impossible to ignore.

He swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his mind a whirlpool of static and heat.

"...What exactly would you be proving?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Shanks's smile widened, slow, dangerous, heartbreakingly beautiful.

"How much I like you," he said, leaning in just a little closer.

"That you're the best thing I've ever seen."

He doesn't even know how they got there.

He barely remembers leaving the tavern, let alone stumbling into this deserted alley, hidden from the world.

What he does know—what he's fully aware of—is how Shanks has him pinned against the wall, one hand clenched in the front of his shirt and the other by his head, trapping him.

Buggy doesn't understand how he's still standing, not with the alcohol weakening his legs and the dizzying heat coursing through his veins.

But it's not just the alcohol anymore.

It's the way he looks at him: hungry, unfiltered, as if Buggy were something he wanted to devour whole.

The wall behind him is cold against his heated skin, but Shanks's body in front of him is pure fire, and Buggy can barely breathe under its weight.

Shanks leans in, so close their foreheads almost touch.

"You have no idea," he whispers, his voice low and broken, "how much I've missed the taste of your lips."

Buggy's heart slams into his ribs so hard it hurts. His hands, which had been floating uselessly at his sides, come up to clutch weakly at Shanks's sleeves.

Shanks chuckles, a soft, breathless sound, and closes the distance.

The kiss is rough at first, filled with the urgency of drunkenness.

Buggy gasps against his mouth, feeling himself being pulled under, willingly drowning in Shanks's warmth, his hands, everything that is his.

Shanks pulls away enough to look at him; their breaths mingling.

"I want you. I want you right now."

It made him tremble. It made him feel weak in the legs, dizzy, stupid. "That's a terrible idea. Someone might come-"

He interrupted him with a chaste kiss on his lips, barely a simple touch that definitely shouldn't have made his cock throb like it did.

"I want to hear you say my name."

Buggy was really dying; it wasn't fair.

Saying that right on his lips was dirty.

Shanks's hands squeezed his waist perfectly, as if they belonged there. He was close, so close. He could feel the other man's erection pressing against his hip.

"Can I?"

Buggy didn't push him away. He didn't want him to leave.

"Shanks..."

"Please?"

He buried his face in the other man's shoulder, squeezing his back tightly. "Do it, just do it now." He murmured.

Shanks's hands quickly found his fly. It was fucking embarrassing how the man ran his hands over it, as if he couldn't believe he was hard too.

Buggy swallowed hard and said, "Take it off now."

"Whatever you say," he replied, chuckling softly.

The way his hips jerked the instant Shanks's hand was on his bare cock was beyond embarrassing.

"Look at that, I can barely hold you in my hand."

The blush trickled down his neck, almost exaggerated; he was burning hot. Every word coming out of the other man's mouth was killing him.

"I can't, God, I can't, Shanks-"

"I knew you were big."

Maybe Buggy was overly sensitive to his voice, or maybe the idea of Shanks fantasizing about his cock was what had burned his brain, but the moan that left his throat hadn't been quiet at all. He was about to apologize for it, panicking a little, before a hand covered his mouth.

"I could ride you for hours," Shanks continued, nibbling at his neck, leaving marks he knew he wouldn't be able to hide for a long time. He ran his thumb over the slit at the tip of Buggy's cock, pressing the precum there and spreading it around.

"God, my God." He whimpered against his palm, bucking his hips against Shanks's other hand as much as he could. But Shanks squeezed. He squeezed his cock almost painfully, coating his tip, keeping him from cumming.

Shanks laughed low, sensual, and slow. "Or would you rather be fucked? Tell me which you prefer, Buggy."

Buggy swallowed hard, his nails digging into Shanks's shoulders as hard as he could. "Anything—Mhp!—I'd be happy with anything... God, I just want...to feel you."

Shanks loved that. "You're so adorable," he whispered, trailing kisses down Shanks's neck and up to his jaw. "So hot, I'll give you anything you ask for."

"Please, please, I want to cum with you, masturbate with me." He said softly.

"Yes? Is that what you want, baby?"

"God, Shanks, I'm begging you."

"More."

"Shanks." Buggy whimpered, "Please."

The redhead would never deny anything to such a pretty face.

He unbuttoned his pants in one swift movement; he was already just like Buggy, about to explode. And it was huge, so big that his hand now made it harder to masturbate them both.

Buggy gripped his shoulders tighter, his eyes fixed on the way their cocks slid together through Shanks's hand. He was almost drooling at the sight.

"God, Buggy, stop looking at me like that. I won't last."

He swallowed hard, his hips shaking again.

"Please, please, Shanks, I've wanted this, I've dreamed about this. Fuck, you have no idea."

"Tell me."

He bit his lower lip, his cheeks burning with shame, tears welling up uncontrollably. "I, I thought about you, shit... I thought about you doing this to me. Fucking you, you fucking me."

A sob

"Mm, ah-, and I, god, I kept looking at your fucking pictures."

"So you used them too."

"You don't know how much."

Oh, that did things to Shanks's head. Things that couldn't be fixed.

He kissed his neck again, bit and licked as if he were actually thinking about devouring him right there, tearing him to pieces.

"You don't need those pictures anymore, you can do whatever you want to me."

"Mm,"

"I can give you whatever you want. Whatever you need, precious."

Buggy's cock was leaking more and more precum. It was sticky, messy, and that made him feel even more aroused.

"Yours. I'm only yours."

"Shanks." He moaned a little loudly. "I'm cumming, Shanks, Shanks."

This time he covered his voice with his lips, sealing the noises and drowning them out with short, pitiful gasps of his name.

"Shanks, shanks..."

They were both breathing heavily, their lips almost touching as they caught their breath, feeling Shanks's hand move away, now filled with his cum.

And his own.

"You're perfect. You're so, so cute." Shanks whispered against his cheek, peppering him with kisses.

"I... we need to clean up-"

He kissed him again, softer this time. Buggy kissed him back immediately.

They stayed like that for a long time, neither of them showing any signs of wanting to stop.

"... We really should clean up." Buggy murmured.

"Yeah."

"..."

"Hey."

"Hm?"

"I love you."

"... I love you too."

Notes:

and then they got married yeii

Series this work belongs to:

Part 1 of Buggy and Shanks being stupidly in love

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