Find your tribe in a Sea of Creativity
Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x GN!reader, mentions of sex, things get emotional at the end - poor communication, mentions of insecurities and crossed boundaries, crying, but things are alright in the end. Word count: ~1k A/N at the end. 👀
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When Buggy gets into aftercare, he does it so right. It takes time (a lot of time) and multiple tries for him to understand what aftercare is, why it’s important, and what to even do. And once it clicks, he is all in.
At first, he’d try to clean up using whatever was around. Discarded clothes were the usual, but the scolding he received when he tried to pull off a pillowcase turned things around. A little. After that, he’d send a hand off to grab a towel, if you didn’t grab one beforehand.
Eventually, Buggy realized he could keep towels near the bed. It worked out well, actually. He found space for a few different sizes - small washcloths, hand towels, and full-size towels - so there were always a few options. The washcloths were also helpful whenever he forgot to wipe off his face paint before bed.
If you two banged anywhere other than the bedroom, he’d offer his bandana to clean up. That was acceptable the first few times, but it was still kinda gross. He noticed the grimace you made one time and started carrying alternatives. Spare (unworn) bandanas, which worked as an extra accessory. Or scarves tucked in a sleeve, which could be used as an impromptu magician’s trick.
Want a snack? This was never a problem for Buggy, actually. He had food hidden around the bedroom. Everywhere. Near his bedside, in the closet, and in his desk. If you wanted something in particular, he would scrounge it up and grab food for his own munchies. Oh, thirsty? For something that wasn’t alcohol? He’d get a drink if you asked, or if he went off to find you food. It's easiest to keep the carafe in the room filled.
Ready to cuddle? Hell yes. Buggy is a glutton for attention, so cuddles are no problem. Honestly, he falls asleep most of the time afterwards. You learned to nudge him to clean up and use the bathroom before curling up with each other. He complained far less once you explained that he didn’t need to leave the bed entirely to take care of those things. His legs and a spare hand would get up and go to the bathroom while you snuggled his top half, pressing your chest on his bare back.
And on the flipside, sometimes Buggy would get incredibly sentimental and touchy towards you. Running his fingers through your hair, propping himself up so he could look at your face, wrapping himself around you and hiding his face in your neck. Anything to keep you close.
Talking was the hardest part of aftercare. Buggy liked to talk about what was good. What turned you on, what he enjoyed, what would be fun to try next. But talking about anything harder was…difficult. Things that wouldn’t be fun to do again, comments that hurt feelings, and the periodic uncomfortable emotions after sex - spurred on by self-doubt, body image issues, or outside stress. Buggy would clam up or leave if he thought any of those topics were coming up, which would only add to the problem until it exploded and you two were arguing into the night.
Buggy only realized how important this part was when you started pulling away. You became more closed off, not talking about yourself as much. Sure, you’d tell each other in the moment if you disliked anything, but you stopped checking in again afterwards. You still seemed bubbly and happy, but he could see shadows on your face.
You’d go through the motions after sex - nestling into him to cuddle, telling him what you enjoyed, making sure he was content, but that was it. You stopped pressing, stopped trying to build a new boundary.
That hurt him. It ate at him every time you avoided the topics he also avoided. Eventually, the pain came out.
Your head was resting on his shoulder and your fingers stroked the cerulean hair on his chest. His hand was on your shoulder as he held you close. You both just finished talking about the session - only the positives - and the room was silent. Buggy felt the quiet suffocating him, especially because he could tell you had moved on. You weren’t waiting to talk about anything else, since you were already resigned to the premature end of the conversation.
Pressing his lips against your forehead, Buggy blinked back tears you couldn’t see. “Was there anything you didn’t like? How do you feel?” The questions were gravelly and hesitant.
You could hear the beating in his chest get faster. You tried to push yourself up to look him in the face, to see what game he was playing, but he gripped your shoulder tighter and kissed your forehead again.
“Please tell me, I wanna know…” He spoke the words into you.
Hot tears fell on his chest, trapped between your squished cheek and his skin. You wrapped an arm around his torso and squeezed, wanting him as painfully close as possible. And then you shared. You unloaded. There was a lot you held in and once the dam broke, you couldn’t stop. And he didn’t want you to stop.
You told him about your insecurities. About things that you already said you didn’t like, but more. Why you felt the way you did. Why sometimes it was okay and sometimes it wasn’t. On bad days, you don’t really want to be called certain names. When you don’t feel good about yourself, there are things he does that make it better and things that make it worse.
Buggy nodded as you spoke, his face still pressed against the top of your head. His sniffles matched yours. He asked questions. He cared. And when you were done, it was his turn.
The conversation went long into the night. At the end, you were both drained. You felt a headache coming on from all the crying. Buggy’s eyes stung from the tears and remnants of face paint. You two looked awful, honestly. One look at each other and you both broke into tears that walked hand in hand with laughter. How could you let it get this bad? That was terrible! And yet, you did it. You both made it through and things were okay.
Once you both ran out of steam, it was time for food, some water, and a shower. Then sleep, full of sweet, sweet dreams.
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A/N: Wanna know what you did that Buggy didn’t like? It was when you said, “I’m going to screw you until your fucking nose rolls off.”
He was very upset about that. Very. Upset. Which is understandable, really. You’ve both moved past it now and every once in a blue moon he’ll joke about it - if you’re getting on his nerves, Buggy will tell you that you’re going to make his nose roll off.
Word count: ~1.4k Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x GN!reader, no use of Y/N, partaking in the devil's lettuce 🍃, masturbation while fantasizing about sex, assumed unrequired infatuation, smidge of edging/delayed orgasm, lil bit of angst and shame at the end. Apparently I have a thing for lonely perv buggy whoops
Title from "A Decade Under the Influence" by Taking Back Sunday
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Moonbeams seep into the room. Slow and lazy, easily caught in the swirling heady smoke. A lighter clicks. A deep inhale followed by a slow exhale, nearly a sigh, adds to the drifting currents. Buggy sinks into his pillows, the softness tricking his body into thinking it might fall straight through.
While the pirate prefers copious amounts of alcohol as his main vice, some nights he’ll indulge in a different session. A sticky feeling on his fingertips, the taste of fire and ash, a deeply earthy smell that’s pleasantly unpleasant. It doesn’t take long for the smoke to blur the edges of his mind and stretch it out like loose cotton. The fiber seems to extend throughout his body, replacing muscle with fluff, and wicking away moisture in his mouth.
His body moves to meet the craving while the thoughts are still traversing the maze in his head. He pauses for a moment, holding the glass of water, and waits for the next step to reveal itself. Drink. Of course. He gulps down the refreshing liquid. Quickly, greedily.
Coolness rushes in his body, a tide of crisp hydration. Rivulets escape the corners of his mouth, coursing down his chin and neck, before stopping among the blue curls on his chest. Buggy sets down the glass and returns to the nest of pillows, feeling at home with the cushioning.
The water on his body is cold. Then warm. It feels good. His body reacts with goosebumps. His nipples harden. Now that’s all he can think about - two points of tension sending electricity through his soft, fluid body. Buggy closes his eyes and follows the trail, visiting the body parts as they light up. His biceps and shoulders. Fingertips. Ribcage and stomach. Skin held under the tight waistband of his underwear. Thighs under the fabric. Everything that’s encased in the only clothing he has on.
The signal concentrates in one spot and Buggy’s not sure if he willed that to happen. But it does. He feels the swelling. Movement. Growth. Pulses that flash thoughts in his head. Thoughts of you. It always happens - there’s a connection that Buggy can’t break. The bobbing of his dick easily catches the teasing images swimming through his imagination.
Buggy’s body is heavy. He tries to ignore himself, despite his cock crying for attention. Precum is already seeping into his underwear and smears with each throb. Fuck, it feels good. He still tries to ignore it, though. The fabric dances against the underside of his sensitive head. Buggy bites his lip and indulges for a moment, letting the tension move his erection. Feeling it fight against the fabric before falling with a sticky sound on his pelvis. A sound that he desperately wants to recreate with you. Rubbing and hitting his dripping tip against your flushed cheeks. Across your kiss-bruised lips. On your thighs.
Body moving faster than his mind once again, Buggy slips a hand - just a hand - under the waistband and drags it along his swollen cock. It’s hot and needy beneath his touch. Moving his hand lower, the pirate cups his heavy balls. Still soft and pliable, they fill his grasp and flow with a gentle massage.
His mind was too focused on touch and forgot to remind the pirate to breathe. Really breathe. A lungful of oxygen reignites the herby air in his body, somehow adding to the haze in his head, rather than clearing it out. Feeling his control fraying, Buggy releases the anchor and floats in the body high. He pulls off his underwear and lets his body meld into the soft sheets and pillows, becoming a part of the environment.
Buggy closes his eyes and looks for you. He’s seen your face flushed from exertion, so it’s easy to reframe the scene and imagine you looking down at him like that. Your sparkling eyes glazing over with lust, redness spreading from your cheeks to your ears, tongue darting out to lick your delicious lips. He thumbs the tip of his cock, swirling the viscous precum around his head in anticipation of the vision of you lowering yourself down.
Frowning in concentration, he thinks about how you’d gasp feeling his flared head enter your body. The way you’d sink down slowly, giving your body time to adjust and to memorize the feel of his member. Buggy drags a loose grasp along his cock, imagining it dragging along your insides. Releasing a shaky breath, he tightens his grip. It’s nothing like how your heat would feel, but it helps him fantasize.
He squeezes down to the base, wanting to be fully sheathed in your body. His cock twitches within the imposed prison, a sensation that would probably have you whine in response. Seeking more, you’d rock your hips and grind. Buggy can’t replicate that, so he adds to the scene instead. Your hands on his chest, holding yourself up. His touch would run up your thighs and to your rolling hips, before reaching around to your ass. He’d grope and squeeze, pulling your asscheeks apart so he feels deeper. So you feel fuller. So full that you have to let out the moans and whimpers you had been holding in.
Buggy fists himself faster. His balls start to tighten and he feels the thread in his body grow taut. You’re amazing. Lovely. You’d feel so good. His foggy head can only focus on directing the manifestation, not on an accompanying script. The words he’d want to say simply come out. Not for him to hear, but to taste. To feel in his mouth, just as he feels you riding him.
“F-fuck, you’re taking it so well. You’re taking me so well.” “You make me feel good, baby.” “I can feel you twitching on m-my cock.” “Tell me how full you feel.” “Fuck, harder p-please.” “Yeah, just like that. Keep going, gonna cum.” “N-no, stop teasing. P-put it back in. Please, please…”
Despite his looming climax, Buggy pulls back and whimpers between gasping breaths. He maintains a hold at the head of his distressed cock. How sinful you’d look like that, with just the tip of his dick stretching you out. Bucking against his hold, Buggy can see how you’d tremble from thrusts that don’t bottom, from a teasing touch that would break you when you give in. And you would. You’d fall to his sweet words and promises.
“I’ll make you feel so good. Don’t you want to cum on my cock?” “Please, I w-want to feel you. I need to feel you squeeze me.” “S’like my dick was made for you.” “Fuck, l-let me put it in, please. Wanna be deep in you.”
He’d wait until you let him. His toes would curl. His breath would hitch. He’d bite his lips. He’d beg. And when you do let him fully thrust into you, you’d fall apart.
Buggy fucks his fist without abandon, through the climax that would have you shaking on top of his body, crying out for the pleasure overwhelming you. Imaginary pleasure that snaps his own thread, the tension exploding from his cock and all over his hand and stomach. There’s a lot. You’d feel it fill your insides and some would escape with each thrust. Buggy groans as he milks every drop, imagining the pearls that would escape when you pull yourself off of him. As much as he wants you to stay, the vision drifts away until it’s lost in the empty swirling air.
The hot ecstasy in his body also starts to dissipate, leaving behind an uncomfortable emptiness. Buggy uses his discarded underwear to clean up. The still-warm jizz leaves a chill slick as the fabric struggles to soak the sticky liquid. Swallowing his disgust, Buggy scrapes the cloth against himself hard, scrubbing the unwelcome remnants. It’s still not the best cleaning job. He still feels dirty. Scummy, both inside and out.
Buggy drops the soiled clothing onto the floor and reaches towards the side table so he can burn the guilt into ash. Smoke fills his lungs, but not the aching void in his chest. Falling back with a sigh, Buggy tries to replace the hole with promises that are just as empty. Plans to talk to you. To tell you how he feels. To face fear, rather than drown in remorse. Anything to chase away the loneliness he’s surrounded himself with.
Ignoring the sting pricking the corners of his dry eyes, Buggy lets his mind follow the hope until it flies too high and he falls back to sleep.
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A/N: Gonna keep sharing the lines that I particularly like. This time it's "The words he’d want to say simply come out. Not for him to hear, but to taste. To feel in his mouth, just as he feels you riding him."