I guess the same thing i mentioned before but a different scenario
Anticlimatic Secrets ft Crossguild
A/N Ahhh Here we go!! Almost thought I woulden’t make it for today but here we are! We got some actually Uncle buggy time in this one! Finally got an idea on how to include him \0/. Hopefully this one is what you were looking for!
Reader here is replaced by Dokucha which stabds for reader in japanese for the enjoyment of both reader and oc character reader both!
Consider buying me a coffee!
Dokucha let out a sigh. They had once again successfully avoided their father. He was powerful beyond belief, but if he was the strongest, then his child was the sneakiest, something they juiced every time, especially during hard times like these.
It had been a week of narrowly avoiding and escaping their father. He was a busy man so it wasen't hard to play it off as the reason why they sudenly din't have much time together but their father was many things and naive was not one of them. Regardless of how busy Mihawk was, he had now begun to notice the quick exits the child would make, the excuses that would leave their mouth as soon as the two would have a moment together, the convenient chores that popped up when the man had found free time to spend with them.
When he began noticing the behavior, he let it go on, with nothing more than glances and raised brows, but they knew more than anyone that his father had no patience for such things, which meant that now their father had realized that they would not talk unless confronted. Dokucha had the upper hand when it came to avoiding the man, what with their small size, a fruit built for agility, a presence easy to hide, and an overall talent for sneaking in and out without being seen.
However, Dokucha had not considered his influence over those around him, whom he could easily convince to aid him with a minor inconvenience, such as a runaway child.
"Hello, Uncle Daz!" Dokucha cheered, gleefully approaching the man, who responded by simply giving them a court nod.
"I brought Cruncle the papers he was looking for!" they exclaimed, lifting the stack up for the man to see. The man, hearing this, couldn't help the small quirk of his mouth at the sound of the nickname the boss highly frowned upon.
"He should be right inside Little Tempest," he replied, gesturing to the office
"Thank you, Dazzy!" they called, making their way inside of the office and skipping to the brooding man inside,
"Hi, Cruncle!"
"Don't call me that," he responded promptly, lifting his gaze slightly to glare at the small child. He rolled his eyes as they just threw him a grin, allowing their fruit to activate and lifting themselves off the floor as they placed the paper on his desk.
“Why not!”
“Because I said so,” he deadpanned, pulling out one of his cigars and placing it in his mouth
“Puff,” he added after he had ignited the cigar
“I‘m not a puff!!” They protested
“My winds are way stronger than a little puff; I’m a hurricane! I bet they can blow your… your… your stupid sand away!”
“I can find much worse if you keep calling me that name.”
“Fine!”
“Glad we could come to an understanding.”
“Did you need something else?” they snapped, examining the different objects on display, from the highly valuable to the questioningly macabre.
“I don’t, but he does,” he mused, putting his full attention on the child as he willed his sands to blast full force into the doorway, effectively blocking it.
At the action, Dokucha flinched, looking around in alarm, spotting the one person they were hoping to avoid as Mihawk leisurely walked from who knows where and closer to the floating child.
“D-Dad!” They greeted with forced enthusiasm.
“You have been avoiding me.” He stated, not one, to beat around the bush
“I don’t know what you mean,” they laughed off, backing away slightly, getting closer and closer to the blocked-off door, their only hope of escape.
“Is that so? If memory serves correctly, you missed your usual sword lessons yesterday, not to mention that you always have collected daily tasks from me.”
“Ahaha! Well, I was just feeling a tad tired, and I figured I would bond some more with Crun—Uncle Crocodile!” They pushed out, ignoring the unamused look the man gave them.
“Is that so? Then I’m sure the target practice you were doing with the clown earlier occurred before your sudden fatigue.”
“Ah! I actually have to go do something for Uncle Crocodile-
“No, you don’t,” Crocodile cut in
“So I have to go,” they rambled, turning around and easily making their body whisp like enough so they could easily slip by the barrier of sand and make a getaway.
The two men stood there for a few minutes until the swordsman let out a sigh, turning to the devil-fruit user. He knew that their child had many abilities granted by their devil fruit, including the usual logia transformation. However, even this form would not allow them to simply go by a fellow devil-fruit user, especially when the latter was skilled enough to have been named a warlord.
“Is there a particular reason why you allowed them to leave?”
“I do find your struggles quite entertaining; who would have thought, the mighty Hawkeye bested by a six-year-old?” Crocodile chuckled, watching as Mihawk turned away, annoyed, and simply walked away.
“That was close,” Dokucha muttered, attempting to catch their breath, looking around where they ended up, and recognizing the tent to be that of the clown.
“Oh, it’s you windwhelp,” Buggy huffed
“Uncle Buggy-Sensei!” they cheered. Despite their father’s obvious disdain for the man, Dokucha had grown quite attached to the eccentric emperor.
“Hah?! What do you mean, sensei!” He exclaimed, confused, his body coming apart in shock. As much as he played it off, much like his ‘coworkers’, he had grown a soft spot for the child, especially when said child was smart enough to understand his circumstances.
“Well, you’re teaching me how to aim better, right?
“I ‘m no-you know what it doesn’t matter!” he screamed, taking hold of the child and taking off, ignoring their attempts to escape.
“Don’t bother; the outside of the gloves have seastone in them,” Buggy explained as he noticed Dokucha attempting to enter their logia form.
“W-where are we going?” They grumbled, giving up and going dead-weight; if they were getting kidnapped, they would make it as annoying as they could, especially if their suspicions were true.
“Don’t be a brat,” he yelped as he adjusted his grip to manage the slumping child better.
“You’re going back to Hawkeye.”
“But you don’t like Dad Buggy-sensei, so why? " they whined, dread filling them the closer they grew to the main tent.
“'Cause we made a deal,” he admitted.
He was shocked when the former warlord had approached him with an odd order: retrieve Dokucha. He had wildly protested at first (that got him a beating), but eventually the man had offered a deal; find the child and he would give him an IOU, able to be used to get out of one of his usual beatings or to acquire a favor from the man. Buggy would have had to be a fool to say no to such a deal; all he had to do was get a child. He liked the child, and if the circumstances were better, he would have given mercy, but right now, he was basically a prisoner to the two men, and he needed all the leverage he could get.
“I don’t like you anymore, Uncle Buggy,” they said sadly, coming to terms with their situation.
“Yeah, yeah, join the club,” Buggy sighed as he pushed them into the small makeshift office Mihawk currently resided in.
“Well?” Mihawk prompted, raising a brow at the unusually quiet kid as they kneeled next to him, hands in their lap and eyes glued down. It had been a few minutes since the clown had left, but Dokucha was still refusing to address the issue, choosing to remain silent instead.
“Do you believe I will grow infuriated at your news?” He questioned, letting a slight hum at the stiff nod they gave.
“Did you skip your chores?” He questioned, amused.
“I-I don’t want to be a swordsman,” they finally confessed
“That’s it?” He replied without missing a beat, almost letting out a chuckle at the gaping reaction he received
“W-wh- I thought you wanted me to be a swordsman!” They yelled shellshocked
“I could not care less about that,” he mused
“But every morning you begin by giving me sword lessons!”
“That you requested”
“No, I didn’t!”
“You did. Three years ago, you woke up and demanded I give you daily sword lessons,” he reminded them
“Are you serious?!” They boomed standing up on the sofa, throwing themselves on his lap, and facing him face to face, ignoring the rare and amused smile on the swordsman.
“Are you for real, Dad?!”
“I do believe that's what I said, yes.”
“So, you don’t care if I ‘m not a swordsman?”
“I do not. I would prefer if you grew a battle skill, but if you are against it, I will not force you to,” he confirmed
“I do! I want to use a bow!” They confessed a hopeful glint in their eye at the sudden turn of events.
“Very well, I believe we have a woodworker on the island, we can acquire a bow for you to practice.”
“Thank you, Dad!” They gushed, wrapping their arms around his neck and squeezing tightly
“I would have liked for you to have told me before I had to make a deal with the clown.”
“It’s okay! Buggy-Sensei deserves a break!” She cheered
“What did you call him?”
I was gonna start the baby asl piece today since i am so exited about it but I am tired and I want to give it the effort it deserves
Synopsis: Michi’s job description includes tailoring, verbal abuse directed at Crocodile, and surviving deadlines that should kill lesser people.
What it does not include is falling in love with a former Shichibukai who sees her as a convenient tool.
Notes: I don’t know if I’m managing to make Michi suffer enough, but the goal is to torture you all until things start going to shit :)
Next cookies: The next piece will probably be something like this too, since I’m in that kind of mood. *maniacal laugh intensifies*
Crocodile’s ship was smaller than Michi had expected. No crowded deck, no shouting, no running around or numerous crew. Its members consisted of only a few people who moved with efficiency, each seeming to know exactly where to be and what to do. It was a compact, functional ship, discreet in a way that fit perfectly with the man who commanded it.
That was when she saw him. A tall man, rigid posture, arms crossed, an expression far too impassive to be mistaken.
“…Daz?” Michi stopped for a second, genuinely surprised. Even knowing he had once been a member of Baroque Works, she hadn’t expected to see him again after most of the others had scattered.
The man blinked a few times before a spark of recognition appeared in his eyes as he realized who the girl was. “It’s been a long time since anyone called me that.” he replied, his voice deep and controlled. “Miss Michi.”
“So it really is you…” she murmured, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “What a pleasant coincidence.”
“It’s good to see you alive.” He inclined his head slightly, a minimal but respectful gesture.
“The feeling is mutual.” she answered, sincerely.
Crocodile watched the exchange in silence, his gaze shifting from one to the other with attention. “You know each other?”
“Spiders Café.” Daz replied before Michi could open her mouth.
“I used to be a regular customer, nothing special.” the girl continued, trying to make it sound like it was nothing at all. Daz, however, seemed willing to be less economical with the details.
“Until she got into trouble with Miss Valen— I mean, Miss Mikita.” For an almost imperceptible moment, his lips curved upward.
Michi clenched her teeth, jaw tense, clearly holding herself back from grabbing her own suitcase and throwing it at the man’s head as she was reminded of that inconvenient incident.
Crocodile let out a low sound through his nose, somewhere between a sigh and a restrained chuckle. He would have to ask Daz later what Michi had gotten herself into that time. Then he turned to one of the nearby crew members, who had been paying a little too much attention to the conversation. “Take Michi to her quarters. Show her everything she’ll need.”
He handed the heavy suitcase to the man without ceremony. “If anything is missing, let me know.” he added, already walking away alongside Daz.
“Alright…” Michi murmured, watching him disappear across the deck.
The crewman made a short gesture for her to follow. The ship’s inner corridors were narrow, but clean and well lit. No excessive luxury, everything designed to work. When he finally opened a door and stepped aside to let her in, Michi paused at the entrance.
The room was small, yes. But comfortable. There was a bed against the wall, simple and neatly made. A long table by the window, with enough space for her to cut her fabrics. A sewing machine already in place, rustic in appearance, but definitely functional. A low cabinet, a coat rack fixed to the wall—and when she opened the furniture, Michi felt her chest give a small jolt. Fabric rolls. Good fabric.
Some chosen with frightening precision for the kind of work she usually did. So he had been paying attention after all. The air felt lighter in her lungs. Breathing became… easier. It was as if the rose growing inside her had noticed the gesture too, retreating a little in the face of the hope that flickered back to life in her heart.
“M—Mr. Crocodile ordered everything prepared in advance.” the crewman explained, a bit awkwardly. “He said you’d need a place ready for sewing.”
“Yeah, I am a work maniac after all.” she replied. Her lips trembled, rehearsing a smile she stopped before it fully formed. She had no intention of showing how much it had affected her—not there, not in front of someone from Crocodile’s crew. There was a reputation to maintain, and a pride just as large as his. “We can continue the tour of the ship later. I have a lot to do. You’re dismissed.”
“Y-yes, miss!”
≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈
The corridor was quieter at that hour. Most of the crew had already turned in, and the ship’s constant sway became more noticeable without hurried footsteps or pirates shouting back and forth. Crocodile stopped in front of the door that led to Michi’s quarters. Just to check if everything was in order. Nothing more than that.
He knocked twice.
“Come in.” her voice replied almost immediately.
The room was lit only by an oil lamp near the table. The smell of new fabric, waxed thread, and machine oil mixed in the air. Crocodile took a few steps inside and stopped. His attention immediately landed on the coat rack beside the seamstress.
The vest was finished and properly hung. Not just finished—it was perfect. Embroidered with meticulous precision, delicate patterns running through the dark fabric as if they had been born there. Beneath it, carefully folded, was a matching handkerchief, the colors chosen to complement the set without stealing too much attention—exactly what he had ordered three days earlier.
“This…” he began, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Wasn’t this scheduled for two days from now?”
Michi was sitting in the chair, shoulders slightly slumped, writing something in her planner. When she lifted her face toward him, the light revealed what the silence had been trying to hide. She was a little pale, dark circles already beginning to form, her eyes still attentive but tired in a way that didn’t come only from work—something easier to notice when she wasn’t wearing her usual oversized lenses.
“Yeah… it was” she replied, closing the notebook and setting it aside along with her glasses. “Guess I got a little carried away.”
Crocodile watched her hands—slender and steady—tremble just a little. “You pushed yourself too far.”
“You know that I hate delays.” Michi shrugged, forcing lightness. But the attempt fell apart when she coughed. Dry at first. Then deeper. Hidden into a clenched fist, too fast to be polite, too slow to go unnoticed. Crocodile frowned for a moment before shifting his gaze to the vest, as if evaluating the stitching—though his attention was on something else entirely.
“I noticed earlier.” he said, his voice far too neutral to be casual. “The coughing.”
“I think I caught a cold.”
He lifted his eyes to her, surprised by how quickly she answered. “The ship’s doctor is available. It would be wise for you to see him.”
Michi smiled. A smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Too rehearsed for his taste. “Alright, I’ll do that tomorrow.”
Another coughing fit came, stronger this time. She turned to the side, pressing the handkerchief to her mouth. For a second, Crocodile thought he saw something dark stain the fabric, but when she folded it quickly, there was nothing visible.
Maybe he was imagining things. After all, he was tired too, from all the logistical movement he’d had to handle in the past few hours.
“Go to the doctor.” he repeated, more quietly. “That’s not a request.”
Michi nodded slowly. Crocodile didn’t like the answer. But he didn’t push. He turned to leave, then stopped at the door. “The work turned out… excellent, as always.” he said, without looking directly at her. “Rest. That’s also an order.”
When the door closed, Michi remained seated for a few seconds. Then she opened the handkerchief. It was red, and there was a petal. She took a deep breath—once, twice—until the discomfort settled. “Good thing he didn’t see that.”
≈ ≈ ≈ ≈ ≈
The night refused to pass, and Michi knew it without needing to look at a clock, without counting the ship’s sway or the intervals between the creaking wood. Her body simply no longer shut down like it used to. Sleep had become a fragile agreement, made of short naps and abrupt awakenings—and that night, not even that seemed possible.
Since the first signs had appeared weeks earlier, the nights had grown shorter. Sleep came late and left early, sometimes didn’t even show up to explain itself.
She lay there for a while, staring at the dark ceiling of the room, counting her own breaths as if that might make any difference. Each inhale came with a strange weight in her chest, as if the air had to pass through a path that was too narrow. It didn’t exactly hurt—at least not yet. It was just… uncomfortable.
“Don’t think about it. Keep your mind busy doing something.” That was what she always did.
Before, that meant sewing until her fingers went numb, embroidering increasingly intricate patterns just to keep her mind occupied with something other than his name and the damn uncomfortable feeling that came with it. But now there was nothing to sew. No pending orders. No cut fabric waiting for finishing. Crocodile had given the girl a night of rest, and it wasn’t helping her relax in the slightest.
Michi sat up carefully on the bed, half-expecting the world to spin—it sometimes did when she got up too fast—but that night only a heavy fatigue came, as if it were stuck to her bones. She grabbed her coat, her glasses, slipped her feet into a pair of slippers, and left.
The ship’s corridors were almost completely silent. The low lighting cast long, distorted shadows, making everything feel slightly unreal—as if she were walking inside a thought, not a real place. Each step echoed too loudly in her own ears, so she began to walk more slowly.
The ship smelled different at night. Less heated metal, more salt, old wood, and oil. A steady smell. Michi liked it—it was easier to breathe when the world smelled like something concrete.
Breathe.
She stopped for a moment, resting her hand against the cold wall. Inhaled deeply. Held it. Let it out slowly. It worked… more or less.
It was strange how the body seemed to learn to love someone before the mind had given permission. Before she could organize it into safe words like crush, admiration, or mistake. The feeling had simply taken root—silent, patient—growing where it shouldn’t, taking up more and more space.
Michi touched her own chest over her clothes, pressing lightly, as if she could keep everything in place with enough force. There was no pain at that moment—just the memory of the cough, the strange taste in her mouth, the way she had learned to fold the handkerchief too quickly.
She moved to a side porthole and watched the dark sea outside. The waves reflected little light, breaking and reforming without hurry. The sea didn’t care—it never did—and strangely, there was something comforting in that.
If I die at sea… she thought, with a calm that scared her. Maybe that would make sense.
Not because it would be romantic. Not because it would be beautiful. But because the sea didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand embarrassing explanations about loving someone who could never return it the right way—someone who looked at her as a resource, a useful piece, a controlled variable.
She didn’t blame him for that. In fact, that was the cruelest part: she understood. Crocodile was made of control. Of walls. Of cold decisions. Truly liking someone would be a dangerous weakness. Michi knew that better than anyone. She herself had spent her life sewing things for others—reinforcing, repairing—without ever being the center of the structure. She almost never made a piece for herself. She knew he was the same way.
The problem wasn’t loving. It was her body deciding to expose it. She coughed again—this time weaker—but still brought her hand to her mouth out of reflex. When she lowered it, she stared at her palm for a second longer than necessary, searching for something she didn’t want to see. There was nothing. Not yet.
“Just a little longer…” Michi rested her forehead against the cold corridor wall, closing her eyes. “Let me stay just a little longer…”
Not for him. Not exactly. For the work, the routine, the sound of the ship waking up, the way things still seemed possible during the day. For the comforting illusion of usefulness she had near him.
Michi straightened her posture, took another deep breath, and started walking again. If she couldn’t sleep, at least she could exist in motion. As long as she was walking, sewing, breathing—even with difficulty—she was still here. And for now, that had to be enough.
