Buggy, the self-proclaimed star of the seas, has to look the part—gaudy, theatrical, larger-than-life. It’s his brand, after all. And that brand? It requires a painted face at all times. So here you are, perched in front of him, fixing his makeup. Who would’ve thought a pirate like him, loud and chaotic as he is, cares this much about appearances?

But then again, it’s Buggy. Of course he does.

He’s unusually still, which might be the strangest thing about this whole scenario. His sharp eyes follow every move you make as you swipe red lipstick across his mouth, smudge just the right amount. Normally, he’d be filling the air with jokes, taunts, or self-absorbed commentary, but right now? He’s quiet. Suspiciously so.

“Honey, you almost done or what?” he drawls, breaking the silence. “We don’t have all day, y’know. And my face is getting itchy.”

Of course, he does have all day. If it were anyone else handling his makeup, he’d be grumbling, yelling, or swatting them away by now. But with you? He sinks deeper into his chair, letting you tilt his chin this way and that as your fingers grip his jaw to keep him from fidgeting.

And that’s where it happens. That weird, unrecognizable feeling.

It sits heavy in his chest, like he’s swallowed an anchor, or worse—like he’s caught in some kind of freefall. Maybe it’s the way you lean in so close. Maybe it’s how focused you look. Or maybe it’s just you, completely unbothered by the clown sitting in front of you, treating him like he’s just… him.

Whatever it is, Buggy hates it. Or he thinks he does.

He huffs loudly, his grin reappearing like a mask. “Y’know, I could’ve done this myself, but I figured I’d throw you a bone. Let you work on greatness for a change.” He smirks, trying to wrestle back control of the situation. “I hope you’re appreciating the privilege here.”

But as your fingers tilt his face toward you again, his mouth snaps shut, and the freefall starts all over again. Yeah, he’s definitely not a fan of this feeling.