Warnings: Reader-Insert, No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert, Gender-Neutral Reader-Insert, Reader is having a bad day, Soft Buggy, Protective Buggy, Buggy cares about his crew, Reader is the crew’s sailmaker
Summary: Reader is having a bad day, and Buggy surprises them in several ways.
Characters/Relationships: Buggy/Gender-Neutral Reader, Cabaji, Buggy’s Band of Pirates
A/N: This was the first Buggy fanfic I wrote, and since writing this I’ve only come to enjoy Buggy even more! This is a very self-indulgent work that I wrote while I was having a bad day, so hopefully it brings you some comfort too! Please enjoy!!
Today was not your day. It seemed that anything that could go wrong was doing just that, leaving you in the most sour mood possible. The worst part wasn’t even that you were having a bad day— those happened every now and then, and there was nothing you could do but blow off some steam and wait for your foul mood to pass. Not today, though. Today was the kind of bad day where distractions weren’t enough— hell, punching something with all your might wasn’t enough. It was one of those days where the frustration reached a fever pitch, where it completely overwhelmed you, and all you could do was cry about it. Try as you might, nothing could get rid of the lump in your throat or the tears threatening to spill if a seagull so much as flapped its wings wrong.
The flashy chaos of the Big Top was only worsening your mood and overstimulating you further. What would normally make you laugh had your skin crawling, and the smiles of the crew only highlighted how awful today was going. You wanted nothing more than to join them, to smile with them, but the irritability and tears stinging at your eyes left you holed up in your quarters instead. Hours went by of crying to yourself, curled up and desperate for these overwhelming emotions to pass. Muffled hollers and shanties bled into the quiet space where your hammock swayed in time with the boat— even here, you couldn’t get away from their partying. You had half a mind to stomp up to the deck and quiet them yourself, but you knew better. Buggy was up there and louder than anyone else, and attempting to stifle his flashiness would only result in being thrown overboard.
At least, that’s what you thought. That made it all the more surprising when you felt something warm and soft being draped over you. You hadn’t heard any footsteps, and you didn’t see anyone nearby— how the hell did this blanket get onto you? You carefully grab it, and the moment that you do, it becomes crystal clear. The “blanket,” a familiar brightly-colored coat with tasseled epaulettes and fuzzy trim, smells just like your captain. A combination of alcohol, sweat, and makeup encompasses the uniquely flashy musk of Buggy— it’s less than gentle on the senses, but standard for a seafaring man such as him. Though you would never admit it, you found a sort of comfort in his scent. With it came loyalty and protection, and that signature style of his that you somehow never tired of.
It was no secret that Buggy’s crew was a band of misfits. The lot of you were just as much a circus as you looked, but that only made the crew “flashier,” in your captain’s words. A crew of both sword-swallowers and mercenaries made you powerful and unpredictable, and that made you especially dangerous. You had all become a found family of sorts— though Buggy would never admit that aloud, for fear of being associated with “those damned straw-hat idiots”— that had less of a loving-each-other vibe and more of a tolerating-each-other-for-their-own-benefit kind of feel. Sure, they would party together and celebrate their wins as a crew, but personal problems were just that: personal.
That’s why, try as you might, you just couldn’t wrap your head around why anyone would seemingly come to comfort you on your bad day. There was realistically only one person onboard who could enter the room, lay the captain’s coat over you, and leave completely unheard and unseen— Captain Buggy himself, obviously. He must have used his devil fruit powers to disembody a hand or something, but it still made no sense. How could he have known that you specifically were having a bad day? More importantly, why would he even care in the first place, much less enough to do something like this? You couldn’t understand.
Maybe he didn’t intend for you to have it. Maybe it was just really hot outside, and he wanted to ditch the coat, so he put it on your hammock to keep it away from the other crewmen. Perhaps it needed a wash, and he meant to toss it with the dirty laundry. A million rationalizations race through your mind— anything to explain this hopefully insignificant accident— because if he somehow intentionally came to comfort you, your heart would damn near explode. The mere thought was enough to make your cheeks burn, and you hated it. You hated how your boss, your captain, managed to have you weak in the knees with his goofy-ass laugh and his even more ridiculous mannerisms. If you found out that somehow, beneath all the greasepaint and shouting, Buggy was a caring sweetheart? You would just have to jump ship on your own. At least then, he wouldn’t be able to follow you and you wouldn’t have to acknowledge the way your heart fluttered just a little every time he addressed you. With a huff, you bury your face into the fuzzy trim of Buggy’s coat. You’re not sure whether this whole thing has made your day better or worse, and your ability to think about it vanishes when you hear soft footsteps.
When you cast your gaze to the source of the noise, you’re relieved to see that it’s just Cabaji. His quiet is a stark contrast to the shouting from above-deck, and his presence grants your mind a much-needed break from thinking about Buggy.
“Sailmaker.” He greets, and you don’t miss the way his eyes zero in on Buggy’s coat. You swallow and wait for him to continue, hoping he doesn’t say anything about it. Mercifully, he continues on after a small pause. “The captain has requested your presence in his cabin. Er… or demanded, more accurately.”
“I’m sorry?” You reply, unable to mask the nervous confusion in your voice. Cabaji looks at Buggy’s coat again and crosses his arms.
“He seemed irritated. I dunno if that has anything to do with it,” he gestures vaguely to the coat, “but I’d be quick in getting over there if you don’t want to piss him off even more.”
You take a deep breath and nod politely. “Thanks, Cabaji.” Inside, you feel like crying all over again. When Cabaji gives a nod of acknowledgement and leaves you alone once more, you do. It’s impossible to blink away the hot tears as they come pouring for what feels like the millionth time today. Buggy gave you his coat himself, and now he’s upset about it? What does that have to do with you? It’s bullshit, and it only sours your already awful mood further. Truly, everything that could possibly go wrong is going wrong today.
Even still, you weren’t foolish enough to ghost your captain. Dramatic fool he is, he would most certainly take it as a personal insult, probably find a way to tie it back to his insecurity over his nose, and throw your ass overboard while yelling at you all the while. So, after wiping your tears and splashing some cool water on your face to hopefully look at least a little less disheveled, you grab the coat and make your way to the rear of the ship. You hate that you have to go above deck to get there, but everyone seems preoccupied and/or drunk enough not to notice the puffiness of your eyes or the fact that their captain’s coat is grasped tightly in your hands.
When you make it to Buggy’s cabin— or, more accurately, his massive circus tent, you hesitate. It’s eerily quiet, save for the distant hollers of partying crewmen. You had never been inside of his cabin before, and the thought of entering while he was supposedly in a foul mood filled you with heavy, suffocating dread. Still, you had no choice but to press forward if you didn’t want to end up marooned. So, with a deep breath, you finally gather your courage and slip inside.
To your mild surprise, the inside of Buggy’s tent looks like any ordinary captain’s cabin. It still has its unique charm with flamboyant, expensive-looking furniture and a few items matching his clown aesthetic, but otherwise it was mostly maps, a crate of spare Buggy Balls, and personal possessions. You catch a glimpse of his bed, and you immediately have to purge the image of those silk sheets from your mind, lest your imagination run in a direction that could get you killed. There’s also a large, empty desk with some sort of parchment on it— most likely another map— and a nearby chaise that looks as soft as it does pricy.
As you take a few more steps in and look around, it becomes apparent that Buggy isn’t in the room. As soon as you realize that, you’re not sure whether to be relieved or pissed off. Did that arrogant clown really call you all this way just to get under your skin? You grit your teeth at the thought, clenching his coat tighter in your hands. “Buggy…” His name escapes your lips in a low rumble, your irritation palpable as you try not to fall apart for what feels like the millionth time today.
As soon as you hear that familiar, unhinged voice, you stiffen. Any irritation is replaced by dread, heavy and nauseating. You quickly fix your face, putting on a more neutral expression in hopes of hiding your agitation and the shitty day preceding this little rendezvous. You clear your throat and turn around to face him, immediately holding out his coat. Naturally, he strolls right past you from the doorway without so much as a glance at what you’re holding, and he’s already talking before you have a chance to get a word in.
“It’s not very flashy to be early, you know. Dramatic, fashionably late entrances always steal the show.” He plops down onto his plush canopy bed that almost looks like a miniature circus tent— go figure— with a dramatic wave of his arm, grinning at you like he isn’t pissing you off now. Cabaji said that Buggy was upset— what the hell was this? Again, you’re unable to speak as your captain continues to ramble. “You’ve been notably absent today, little sailmaker. When I throw a party, I expect everyone to attend and flashily bask in my presence.” He pauses for a moment and narrows his eyes at you ever so slightly, and you straighten your posture.
You open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to the punch again. “Why weren’t you there? Explain yourself.” He looks you up and down, then shoots a disembodied hand out to rest against the small of your back. It applies gentle pressure, guiding you to the velvety chaise near Buggy’s bed before reattaching to his wrist. You decide to ignore the way your stomach fills with butterflies at the touch and take a seat, his coat still in your hands. Your mind races all the while, trying to come up with some relatively believable reason other than having an off day. Nothing sticks, and anything that does is too blatantly a lie. Buggy waits on the bed impatiently while you think, tapping his fingers against the sheets as he waits for your explanation.
Once you’re sure he’s not going to interrupt you, you take a breath and have no choice but to tell the truth. You say a quick prayer to any deity listening that you won’t start crying, even as you already feel the lump in your throat returning. “I just… wasn’t feeling it, Captain. It’s been a rough day.” Your voice is meek and you don’t dare to meet Buggy’s eyes. You’re more than aware of how weak of an excuse that is, and you wouldn’t be surprised if your captain outright laughed at you.
It took you by surprise when, instead, he quietly moved to take a seat next to you on the chaise. He didn’t say a word, but you could feel the warmth radiating from his proximity. There’s a long stretch of silence before, just like earlier, a disembodied hand tucks his coat around you before retreating once more. When Buggy finally speaks, his voice carries a softness you’ve never witnessed in-person.
“And you didn’t think to ask anyone aboard to help you?” He sounds almost offended as he replies, and you realize that he’s upset for an entirely different reason than you thought. Suddenly, his comforting gestures make a little more sense. As you open your mouth to reply, he cuts you off with a harsh bark of a question. “What ship are you on right now?”
You swallow and reply quickly, “The Big Top, Captain.”
He huffs. “And who is your captain aboard this flashy ship?”
You take a breath. “You are, Buggy.”
“And what does that make you?”
You pause and think for a moment. “A… sailmaker?”
‘Wrong?’ What the hell was that supposed to mean? You feel indignant almost, your craft so readily dismissed by your own captain. You can feel hot tears threatening to well up once more, but a sudden touch jolts you out of your rapidly cresting emotions. The feeling of Buggy’s gloved hand gently lifting your chin renders you speechless, and it feels like all the breath leaves your lungs when he directs you to look at him.
He looks… soft. Your notoriously loud, temperamental, overconfident captain looks soft, and those sea-green eyes of his are looking at you like you’re a delicate flower caught in the middle of a maelstrom. You’re not sure what to do at all, now. Should you say something? What would you even say? It feels like one wrong move could break whatever spell has Buggy acting so tame, so you opt to not make a move at all. To your relief, he continues on anyway.
“It makes you my responsibility, you fool.”
Yet again, he’s caught you completely off guard. It was clear that Buggy cared for his crew, and that his crew held him dear in return. Not once, though, had anyone actually said anything to confirm that implicit truth. But right here, right now, he was doing more than enough to prove himself to be a caring captain. You feel him shift closer, enough so that your knees touch. His hand is still beneath your chin, keeping your eyes on his to make sure you’re hearing exactly what he’s trying to say. “Like it or not, you’re my sailmaker and therefore my responsibility. That means you’ll attend the parties I so flashily throw— and if, for whatever reason, you can’t…” he trails off, his grip on your chin tightening ever so slightly in a way that leaves nervous butterflies stirring in your stomach. When he speaks again, his voice is little more than a gruff murmur, “…you’ll come to me personally instead.”
Your eyes widen and it feels like your heart is going to leap right out of your chest. Even in your wildest fantasies— ones that you would never admit to enjoying— you had never imagined that Buggy could be so outwardly caring or protective. It seems that he may be just as surprised as you, because you swear that his cheeks and ears are ever so slightly flushed. He holds your gaze for a moment longer before withdrawing his hand, and immediately you miss the warmth. Pulling his coat tighter around you works for now, though, as you softly reply, “Yes, Captain.”
He rises to his feet again with a soft grumble, moving to sit at the desk now. You follow him with your gaze, but he doesn’t look back at you. Was that it? He just… wanted you to know that he cared? He had noticed you were having a rough time, and he went out of his way to make sure you knew that he had your back. If you weren’t so baffled and shocked, you certainly would be crying. Worrying about feelings wasn’t exactly pirate culture and, quite frankly, Buggy could be more than a little self-centered. That only made it more confusing as to why he would bother with comforting you.
You rise to your feet after a moment, ready to excuse yourself from his private quarters. When you do, he shoots you a sharp look that has you sitting right back down. Once you’re seated, it’s as though you don’t exist again. The silence is tense and deafening, and you’re so confused and ready to just go to sleep and put the day to rest. You yawn, wondering if he’ll let you go if you ask nicely.
“Captain-“ You begin, and one of his hands detaches the moment your mouth opens. It floats into the air, then points to the canopy bed. His canopy bed.
“You’ll sleep there.” He says simply, and you’re surprised that he isn’t yelling or making a flashy fuss. You’re even more surprised that he’s telling you to sleep in his bed, of all places, just when you thought today couldn’t get any stranger. You stare at him for a long moment, quiet and unsure, perhaps waiting for him to go back on his words. He doesn’t. His hand still lingers in midair, pointer finger extended toward the bed. Again, a tense silence falls over you, broken only by the soft sound of him writing on the parchment covering his desk with his other hand. You pull his coat just a little tighter around you. After another long moment, you rise once more. Immediately, his sea-green eyes are on you again.
“Yes, Captain.” You reply softly, and he seems to relax just a touch. His hand reattaches at the wrist while he watches you pad over to his bed, and you feel his eyes on your back as you hesitate. Was this some kind of trap? A sick joke or prank? You have no clue who would even set it up, or why. Even if it was, could the humiliation really be worse than pissing off your hot-headed captain and being strangled by a disembodied hand? You highly doubted it. So, with a deep breath, you climb into bed. Your captain’s bed. Buggy’s bed.
The crimson silk sheets are divine, soft and cool, and the bed itself is surprisingly plush. Then again, Buggy spared no expense when it came to himself, so it truly isn’t all that surprising. You allow yourself to sink into the mattress with a soft sigh, your head falling onto one of his pillows. By the time you’ve settled in and turned to look at Buggy again, his eyes are back on his desk. You should thank him, right? But how? Would he flip out if you mentioned his generosity and take it all back? You sigh. It’s like walking on eggshells with him half the time, and even still you can’t bring yourself to hate or even dislike him. Your fingers tighten their grasp on Buggy’s coat in mild frustration. Consequences be damned, he did something nice for you, and you’re going to thank him for it.
“Captain?” Your voice comes out much more timid than you intend it to be. Buggy replies with a soft grunt, not bothering to turn his gaze toward you. When you’re sure he isn’t going to say anything else, you offer him a soft smile— the first truly genuine smile you’ve had during this wretched day. “Thank you. For all of this.”
You hear Buggy stop writing for a good ten seconds, and then he starts again. Again, he grunts without looking at you, and you’re not sure whether or not to be surprised. Normally, a modicum of praise was enough to inflate his ego enough to warrant a party celebrating his very existence. Then again, neither of you were your usual selves today. You were certain that all would return to normal tomorrow, and he would be back to his loud, obnoxiously flashy self with plenty of orders to give you. For now, though, you yawn and allow your eyelids to droop. In the unexpected safety of Buggy’s quarters and the soft embrace of his bed, you find restful slumber that finally carries the day’s woes far away.
