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Something was up with you. You were distracted lately, all flighty and weird and nervous. Sure, you were still a reliable crew member and performer; that hadn't truly changed, but over the last month you’d been decidedly off and Buggy was bitterly struggling to put his finger on why.
Even worse, you'd nearly missed your cue today, glancing over to look at him and freezing for a moment when he looked back. To your credit, you’d managed to correct course before it was blatant, certainly evading detection by the audience, who woefully lacked the artistic insight to see what had almost gone wrong, but Buggy? Buggy noticed.
He saw you freeze, saw the split second of breathless panic in your eye, the antsy nervousness as if he might notice something you didn't want him to, and he could feel it all itching, suspicious and persistent, in the back of his mind. It wasn't like you, none of it was.
So he decided to keep an eye on you, or, rather, an ear. On the way back to the crew's lodgings, he'd tensed his temple and, with a twitch of his neck, popped his left ear off to follow behind you. He tucked it safely into your bag, nestled it against your belongings, and let you go on your way.
Then, Buggy headed back to his own stolen house, naturally the most lavish one this town had to offer. Probably the mayor’s, or maybe just some other rich fuck. He kicked open the door, slamming it back against its hinges behind him.
Buggy listened in through his detached ear, you and your friends’ voices slightly muffled through the bag. He heard you tell your friends that you didn't feel well, that you had a nasty headache. Buggy wasn't inclined to believe you, but your crew mates seemed to as they wished you well and you went on your own way.
He found the kitchen next, its nearby table decorated with a menagerie of fresh fruits. Like a welcome gift just for him, he thought. He sat down, propping his boots on whatever poor fuck's dinner table this was, and tossed a grape into his mouth. There was nothing better than the creature comforts a good pillaging provided.
They'd head out in the morning, long before the marines flooded the island's beach, but for now, this town and its amenities were all his.
In his right ear, the distant, raucous noise of his crew's singing and partying outside mixed with the rhythmic crashing of waves. He'd have to make an appearance later, but for now his attention was all on you.
In his left ear, a door clunked firmly back into its frame. He felt your bag get flung to the floor, pinching his ear uncomfortably between its contents. Your boots thumped down onto the floor one by one as you untied them and tossed them aside. It seemed you had simply gone back to your own stolen room instead of sneaking off somewhere more interesting. Maybe you really did just feel sick, Buggy thought with a twinge of guilt.
He heard you take a moment to groan, your joints popping as you stretched. “I'm so fucking stupid,” you mumbled to yourself, bare feet padding across the room. “Lucky he didn't notice me.”
Ah, but I did, Buggy thought to himself, suspicion needling at his spine anew as he tilted his chair back to balance precariously on two legs.
Water trickled and splashed around a basin as you cleaned up for the night. You took your time moving around the room, shuffling clothes and bedding around as you went.
He popped another grape in his mouth, chewing. Listening to you drift around your room doing absolutely nothing outwardly suspicious was quickly becoming boring. Buggy simply wasn't made to sit around and play spy like this. The longer you did jack shit, the antsier he felt. Maybe he should go greet his crew, really get the party fucking started. Or, the rarely listened to responsible part of him thought, maybe he should get some rest as well.
He froze, his train of thought throwing on the brakes hard, as a soft, throaty noise reached his left ear.
A grape sat half chewed between his teeth as he sat up straight. His eyebrow twitched. Was he hearing shit or was that a moan?
Another soft noise reverberated in his ear and he let out a breathy curse.
Fucking yep. That was a moan.
His head spun as the blood in his body raced to fill his cock. Truly, he hadn't meant for this to happen, but, shit, Buggy was never truly a fool when it came down to it and he certainly wouldn't turn down a free show.
His boots met the ground again as he spread his legs and pulled his zipper down. He took out his cock, savoring the whimpering noise you made next.
Was this why you'd actually gone to bed early? Because you were making a fucking mess of yourself and couldn't stand it any longer? Shit was this why you'd almost missed your cue earlier too?
His cock had grown heavy in his hand now, and he tugged at it once, twice, and let his imagination go as your whines and moans echoed in the distant room. He thought of you sitting pretty in front of him, looking up at him with those same eyes that had frozen when they'd met his earlier today, imagined that the hand wrapped around himself was more like yours than his.
He wanted to put on a show for you, make sure you were begging, desperate and dripping, before he fucked you into the floor. He wanted you to want him more than anything, more than anyone.
You whispered something he couldn't hear and he realized he was still listening in from your bag, likely across the room. He shifted his ear, blindly navigating it closer to you to hear you better and — oh fuck, he could hear your cunt now. The rhythmic slip of your fingers sounded mouthwatering and he groaned out a pitiful noise.
Fuck, why had he only sent an ear? It wasn't enough to hear you. He needed to see you, smell you, taste you.
His imagination spun in a new direction. He envisioned your thighs twitching in his hands as he sucked and kissed your dripping pussy. The colorful oils of his face paint smearing against your skin as he bit at your thighs.
With his ear closer, he could make out your desperately whispered words now as you murmured “Please please please,” to yourself over and over like a prayer as you brought yourself higher.
“Buggy, Buggy please,” met his ears next and his head spun anew. His abdominal muscles tensed, holding his breath and clamping his fingers around his cock to keep from coming right then and there.
His name sounded effortless from your lips, easy and practiced like you'd done this a hundred times before. How many times had you cum on your fingers thinking of him? How many places had you begged and whispered his name where he couldn't hear you?
Fuck, he'd give you everything you ever wanted just to hear you come, just to hear his fucking name again. He'd be king of the pirates and he'd make you his queen.
He relaxed his fist, fucking into it more desperately than before. He wasn't going to be able to hold on much longer after that close call.
“Oh god,” you breathed, the wet rhythm of your fingers speeding up.
“Wrong name, sweetheart,” he mused. His hips flexed at the desperate cadence of your voice nonetheless. He felt his core tensing again, toeing along the edge of orgasm.
“Buggy,” you whined, a few desperate breaths shuddering out before peaking into a long, whimpering moan.
Fuck yes, you were coming weren't you? His head flooded with endorphins as he thrust up into his fist those last few frantic times. Cum splashed against his fingers, dripping down onto the kitchen floor between his boots.
He fell back into the chair, his own breath echoing in his right ear, yours in his left. He knows where you are, can track down his own flesh like a bloodhound. A smile curled on his lips.
“Oh, sweetheart. Tonight is going to be a good night.”