go forth and have no fear

BUGGY THE CLOWN is in heaven.

A freaky-deaky, kinky, weird, hot n’ heavy, zoo-wee-mama sorta heaven.

I mean, fuckin’ hell, his eyes are buggin’ out of his skull over here — and you’re over there, using his fuckin’ cock like it’s some sort of silicone hero.

The muscle in Buggy’s jaw feathers when you push his detached member in deep, and give it a little twist on the way out. He makes a sound unbecoming of a Warlord of the Seven Seas (albeit a new, fresh, shiny title), tries to remember how to breathe, and knocks his head back against the god damn wooden target board you’d pinned him to with throwing knives. Once, twice, three times.

These sea prism knives of yours are making his head feel all swimmy and—

“Hoooo, fuck, okay, yep,” Buggy’s eyes roll back; he struggles, but it’s half-hearted. He’s right where he wants to be.

This should be humiliating.

For fuck’s sake, his trousers are down around his knees. He’s been pantsed. Sexually. Sexually pantsed.

Buggy doesn’t even know what the word humiliation means right now — and this whole thing sure as shit ain’t, not when your thighs start to tremble, and Buggy realizes that’s his doing, even if by the grace of his chop-chop’d dick ‘n’ balls.

You thrust again, bite your lip, and sigh his name.

Buggy slams his head back against the board again. He searches the ceiling for something, anything, that will let him hold on for a little bit longer.

“You don’t wanna watch anymore?” comes the coo, and your grease paint is running; the dark make-up around your eyes has started to run from one too many blissful eyerolls, “I thought I was putting on a nice show, Bugs—”

Your voice. Your voice. Fuckin’… fuck. Fuck! You know what you’re doing — you… Okay, thoughts are hard. He can’t think. Breathe, Buggy. Think about something else except that hot, wet cunt. Think about… Think about Roger! Or, uh… Uh, no, no no, brain do not think about Shanks—

Buggy struggles. He grits his teeth. “I don’t… I… woof, baby, slow… Slow down—”

You don’t.