Just Right
Pairing: Dean Winchester x F. Reader
Feat. Character(s): Reader, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Summary: Dean hates when you’re sick. Not only can he not kiss his best girl without the possibility of getting sick himself. But you also can’t make one of his favorite things to start off his day: his morning coffee.
Word Count: 1.9k
Warnings: Cursing (2x)
Author's Note: Apologies for not tagging people | If you liked this, don’t forget to like & reblog. I really appreciate it! Feedback is always welcome ♡
As much as you hated being sick, you knew that Dean hated when you were just as much, maybe a bit more. Whenever either of you were sick – which wasn’t often thankfully – you two had your own sick routine, a routine that Dean despised doing, but understood the reasoning behind it.
When you had found yourself sick, you would sequester yourself into another bedroom of the Bunker and curl up in your favorite blankets while wearing your designated sick pajamas. Your sick pajamas as you called them consisted of some of your favorite things that always tended to bring you comfort: a pair of Dean’s gray sweatpants, one of his band t-shirts that you borrowed with the promise of returning it but never did, one of Dean’s flannels, and a pair of fuzzy socks.
Over the course of your sick time, you had found yourself doing an assortment of different things: trying to find something to watch on Netflix that you and Dean weren’t currently watching together, attempting to read one of your favorite books, or just straight sleeping. Dean would either text or call you, sometimes even knocking on the door and talking through the door to you. If he was feeling extra cheesy, he would slip you a note underneath the door. He would always ask you the same question: Do you need anything? Your answer would always be the same, “My usual sick meal.” A meal that consisted of a hot cup of tea with lemon and honey, Dean’s version of chicken noodle soup, Ritz crackers, and a ginger ale. Whenever he made this meal for you, you would always tell him to leave the tray outside the door so you wouldn’t get him sick, but without fail, each and every time, he would come into the room with tray in hand, and either kiss you on the top of the head and forehead and say, “My gorgeous sick baby,” before you rolled your eyes and threatened to throw a pillow at him.
When Dean had found himself sick, you would still be the one to leave the bedroom – despite your beloved boyfriend being the one trying to get you to stay with him, because all he really wanted to do was cuddle with you; he was extra clingy sick. But you had to play bad guy, telling him that as much as you had wanted to cuddle with him more than anything, you didn’t want to get sick.
You would tell Dean that he needed to try his best to stay sequestered in his room as to not get you or Sam sick – Jack and Cas were the ones that you didn’t have to worry about thankfully; but without fail, Dean would always leave the bedroom, walking around the Bunker coughing and sneezing. You would be close behind him, with a couple rolls of disinfected wipes the moment he left the room, your shirt covering your mouth and nose as to not inhale the germs.
You would do the same thing that Dean would do for you, calling, texting, or slipping a note underneath the door asking him if he needed anything from you. Your usual answer would be your sickness meal, his usual answer would be: “I wanna cuddle with my Sweetheart.” When you would reject that, he would ask for the second best thing: “My usual sick meal.” A meal that consisted of a not one, but two grilled cheese sandwiches, a side of tomato soup with saltines on the side, a can of ginger ale and a tiny glass of whiskey. Although you would tell Dean not to come into the room when you were sick to drop the food off, you never listened to your own advice. You always walked into the room with the tray of food and promptly kissed him on the forehead or cheek and say, “My handsome sick boy.” Followed by him smacking your ass as you walked away.
Although Dean and you hated when either of you were sick because you couldn’t be intimate with each other, one of the biggest reasons Dean hated when you were sick in particular is because you couldn’t make him his morning coffee. Yes, Dean was more than capable of making his own coffee in the morning, or he could easily go to the café downtown to grab a cup; but ever since you moved into the Bunker, those two things just never tasted right again to him. Because once having a taste of the way you had made it, he couldn’t have it any other way.
It was one of those rare times in which you were sick, and you knew exactly how you had gotten sick too. About a few days ago, you, Sam, and Dean went on a case together in Topeka where each of you interviewed a different member of the family. Sam and Dean interviewed the parents while you interviewed their child – a child who happened to be insanely sick. While interviewing the child, she kept on sneezing and coughing and at one point had wiped her snot coated hand on your arm when trying to reach for the tissues behind you. As soon as the three of you had gotten to the Bunker, you knew that something wasn’t right, as you were starting to exhibit the same symptoms as the little girl was.
You were sequestered in your designated sick room, wearing your designated sick pajamas, completely under the covers; a combination of being hot and cold at the same time. Your phone was propped up on a pillow that was lying next to you; Dean was on Facetime with you in your shared bedroom. “I think this is the worst I’ve ever felt.” You said, your voice sounded super nasally, and weak.
“Well, you still look and sound hot to me.” Dean told you, a grin on his lips. You couldn’t help but shake your head at his comment, disagreeing with him. “What? I don’t give a rats ass if your nose is running like a faucet and you look like Rudolf. You’re still fucking hot to me.”
“Dean, I look like I haven’t slept in days and on the verge of death and I sound like a toddler. I honestly have no idea how any of this is remotely hot to you.” You sniffled, grabbing a tissue from next to you in bed and blowing into it.
“To be fair Sweetheart, I always look like I’m on the verge of death and you still think I’m hot.” Dean said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Dean, you manage to look hot no matter what you do. It’s an oddly weird talent that you have.” You sniffled again, tossing the tissue you just used into the trash can.
He shrugged his shoulders again, almost as if he was agreeing with you. “Do you need anything from the kitchen? I’m about to go make my own coffee cause somebody can’t do it.”
You rolled your eyes and coughed. “Well, I’m sorry that your barista is sick. She can always make it for you, but I can’t promise that there won’t be hints of mucus in it.”
Dean gave you a disgusted look, shivering at the thought of your comment. “Okay, okay. Please, don’t ruin coffee for me. Coffee is one of the few joys that I have in this life.”
Dean walked into the kitchen, and gave Sam a slight head nod in his direction who was already sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and his laptop. “There’s still some coffee in the pot if you want any.” Sam said, turning in his chair to face Dean who had started to make his way to the fridge. “I know it’s not how Y/N usually makes it but, I know you like the way I make it too.”
“Correction, I used to like the way you made it.” Opening the fridge Dean grabbed some milk and chocolate syrup and placed them on the counter in front of him. “Do you know how Y/N makes it? Cause she won’t tell me. And I feel like if anyone would know, it would be you.”
Sam gave Dean a questioning look. “Me? Why would Y/N tell me how she makes it?”
“Cause you’re her best friend. She tells you everything.” Dean knew for a fact that you had told Sam a lot; because more often than not, Sam would casually bring up something that Dean knew for a fact that him and you had talked about, and there would be no possible way for him to know that unless you were the one that told him.
“But you’re her boyfriend Dean. I feel like boyfriend trumps best friend in most cases.” Sam took a sip from his mug before closing his laptop and walked over to the counter, bringing his mug along with him.
“You know what they say Sammy, bros before well…hoes.” Dean gave Sam a grin, shrugging slightly.
“I think you might have insulted yourself with that one.” Sam said, finishing up his coffee. “So you really have no idea how she makes it uh?”
Dean shook his head. “No freaking clue. All I know is she puts milk and chocolate syrup in it.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret Dean.” Sam began to say.
“What?” Dean asked.
“I…She told me to never tell you how she makes the coffee, but…she did tell me.” Sam finally confessed.
“Well? Would you like to share with the rest of the class?”
Sam grinned and walked over to the cabinet. He reached all the way into the back and took out a box of Keurig cups and placed the box onto the counter. Dean eyed the box for a moment before picking it up. “Dunkin’ Donuts?” Dean asked, sounding slightly confused.”
“Her special coffee she makes you? It’s just Dunkin’ Donuts Keurig cups with a dash of milk and a spoonful of Hershey’s chocolate syrup.”
“Son of a bitch…” Dean mumbled.
A Few Days Later…
With your sickness behind you, you were finally back to your old self; which meant that you can about your somewhat normal routine. You were excited to be able to hunt again, and you were excited to finally fall asleep to and wake up next to your beloved boyfriend. But despite the normalcy that you were excited to get back to, you knew that there was one thing that Dean was excited about – you being able to make his morning coffee again.
Quickly throwing the Dunkin’ Donuts Kuerig cup into the trash, you took Dean’s coffee cup and placed it onto the island counter in front of you; smiling as he walked in. “Morning Sicky,” Dean grinned, and you simply rolled your eyes.
Walking up to the counter, he looked at the mug and gestured toward it. “Is that?” And you nodded. He rubbed his hands together like an excited little kid before he took the mug from the counter, slowly blowing the contents to cool it down a bit. Taking a sip, he felt like he was in Heaven – not actual Heaven of course cause there were no dick angels around, but pretty close.
“Good?” You asked, and Dean nodded. As much as he wanted to tell you that he knew the secret to your coffee, he was never going to; because this was one secret that you deserved to have for yourself, even if Sam and Dean both knew.
763 notes
·
View notes
The Unskinny Bop (Buggy the Clown x F!Reader)
Summary: You're a really good cook and that's most of the problem. The rest of it is that he's too weak-willed to resist a treat right in front of him.
Pairing: Buggy the Clown x F!Reader
Rating: 🌶 Explicit 🌶
Word Count: ~6.1k
Warnings: Body insecurity (male and female), cunnilingus, masturbation, PiV sex
A/N: Dad Bod Buggy my beloved
---
She's playing all night
And the music's all right
Mama's got a squeeze box
And Daddy never sleeps at night
---
It's his own damn fault, really.
He's the one who charmed the pretty diner cook — that’d be you — into joining his crew. It was an easy sell. You get off of the little podunk island you’re stuck on and he gets those delicious little puffy pastry things every morning.
What he didn’t expect was how well you made everything else. He's had to let his pants out three times in two months because of it.
Fluffy pancakes, perfectly slung hash, and a pie-looking thing with eggs and vegetables and cheese you called a “keesh” for breakfast. Sandwiches stuffed with veggies and meat, piles of pasta tossed in rich sauce, and thick slabs of juicy steak for dinner. Not to mention the mountains of snacks and treats in between.
He came to realize that food is a key aspect of your personality. It's just what you do. A dog chases its tail, Richie pushes things off of tables, and you flit around the deck like a pastry pixie, abducting people into the galley for taste-testing.
Like right now.
His only warning that you're coming is a chirped “Captain!” before he's yanked through the door. He doesn't even have time to react before you've shoved a spoonful of something into his mouth.
He's not surprised. You do it to everyone who walks in. Food is how you show affection.
“Whaddya think?” you ask.
He swallows it too quickly to make a judgment, but it's sweet and that's all he needs to know. “Tasty.”
Every time you smile, he swears a flashbulb goes off somewhere. “Good,” you say. “It'll be even better tomorrow.”
He doesn't even bother to hide the whine. “What?”
“They're icebox pies, silly goose,” you say. “You gotta let ‘em chill.”
Another thing about you is that you're a tease. Form-fitting blouses done up just a button too short and your hair pulled back to show off your soft shoulders. A sweet little wink and a touch of the shoulder as you place a plate in front of him. And now feeding him something delicious only to tell him he has to wait until tomorrow to have more.
Your fingers snapping in front of his face jolt him back to the present. “Huh?”
“I asked if you wanted to lick the spoon,” you say.
Does he wanna lick the spoon? What kind of question is that? He plucks it from your hands. “Is the sky blue? Do bears shit in the woods? Am I the captain?”
You roll your eyes, but you smile. “Gonna stick these in the big cooler and I'll be right back for the other,” you say.
Carefully, you pick up two of the three foil-covered pie tins resting on the counter and turn on your heel.
He watches you closely as you round the corner and out of sight. Such a nice soft ass you've got. He desperately wants to grab it, but the one time you got goosed, you slugged the guy so hard he was out cold for the rest of the day.
Something pink, creamy, and flecked with seeds coats the wooden spoon. He drags his tongue along the back of it and--
Oh. Oh, that is good.
His taste buds scream in ecstasy. The slightest little moan escapes his lips. For the briefest of moments, he thinks it's better than sex and his cock twitches, but he regains his sense of self before going completely mad.
He licks and licks and licks until every little drop of pink, sweet, creamy filling is gone.
Frustration bubbles in his chest. Waiting all night for this is gonna suck. Especially since you probably won't be whipping it out for breakfast.
He is captain, though. He could order you to give it to him. But you'd almost certainly laugh in his face and he really, really doesn't want that.
The shimmer of foil catches his eye. The third pie sits on the counter. Untouched. Uneaten. Mocking him in its creamy deliciousness.
He looks around. You're nowhere to be seen.
...maybe just a little bit.
He scrapes barely half a spoonful from the top. Not enough to be noticeable, just enough to satisfy his sweet tooth.
Mmm. Smooth. Thick. Sweet. Fruity. Delicious.
...a little bit more can't hurt. Then he can wait until tomorrow.
He gets a piece of the fruit itself this time and the squirt of juice on his tongue is enough to make him spoon up another dollop. And then another. And then another.
This is why your pants are so tight, his inner monologue chides. This is why you need a new belt. This is why you wear that thing around your waist. Goddamn hedonist.
They're not that tight, he retorts. And they wouldn't be at all if you weren't such a damn good cook. It's all your fault for putting delicious food in front of him and looking so pretty while doing it.
He turns to lean against the counter, only to stop dead.
You're standing there, eyes wide and brows raised. You point at him, then at the pie tin, then back at him. “Are you... Eating the...?”
“No,” he says quickly. He realizes he's holding the pie tin. “No.”
Something odd glints in your eyes as you approach him. Gingerly, you take the pie and the spoon from his hands. He lets you. You step even closer.
You're so close to him, close enough for him to feel the rise and fall of your breasts. Hell, you're so short compared to him that he can see straight down your shirt.
His heart races. What are you going to do? Throw it out? Throw him out? Punch his lights out? Never speak of this again?
To his amazement, you do none of those things. Instead, you spoon up a bit more of the pie filling and raise it to his lips. You blink up at him with big doe eyes.
He looks between you and the spoon a few times. This can't be right. You should be furious. He opens his mouth to say something, but it's forgotten as you shove the spoon in his mouth.
Why are strawberries so delicious? Why is he so weak? Why are your breasts so warm and squishy against him?
He swallows it and, as he opens his mouth to breath, you shove another spoonful in. It's just as good the twentieth time.
You offer him another. And another. And another. He accepts them all.
Until he goes to take another and you pull it away. He frowns at you. You pull it back farther and farther. He grabs your wrist and pulls your hand closer. You resist, but he's spent every day of his life trimming sails and hauling cargo.
He gets the spoon into his mouth and claims his prize with a smirk.
That glint in your eyes turns into a blaze. You drop the pie tin and spoon and they hit the floor with a clatter. Pulling your wrist from his grip, you grab him by the cheeks and yank him into a kiss.
He yelps against your lips and you take the opportunity to shove your tongue between them. Licking, lapping, pressing your soft, warm body right up against his.
Only a eunuch could resist this.
He kisses you back with the same fervor, grabbing your ass to lift you up a bit and it's so soft and pliant and perfect that he can't help but dig his fingers in.
Oh, it's everything he dreamed it would be. Your warm lips moving against his, your slick tongue dancing in his mouth, your soft palms gripping his jaw.
You've lapped up all the lingering sweetness in his mouth by the time he runs out of breath. He pushes you away and you whimper, your eyes wide and your shoulders heaving up and down.
Deprived of oxygen, he says something completely, absolutely, utterly brain dead. “Can I touch your tits?”
Instead of slapping him, you nod so hard your updo shakes loose. Curly strands fall in your face.
He blinks. “Wait, really?” You nod harder. “You sure?”
Something in you snaps. He can see it in your eyes. You grab him by the hand and damn near drag him out the door.
A quick trip up the stairs and across the main deck and he's pushing open the door to his quarters. You bustle past him and, once the click of the lock sounds, you grab him by the collar and yank him into another kiss, just as wet and desperate as the last.
He barely has enough time to shuck his coat about you throw him onto the bed, clambering atop him. You're a bit heavier than he expects. Not that he says that to your face, but you’re so light on your feet that he was starting to think you were filled with cotton candy. You're certainly sweet enough.
You yank his hat from his head and toss it aside. His bandana follows and his hair falls around his shoulders.
You suck in a breath. “So pretty.”
He shrugs. “Thanks-- mmph.”
He’s silenced by you standing on your knees to pull his hair out of its pigtails. This requires you to stick your tits in his face and oh my god they're like big marshmallows you smell like cinnamon.
He can't help himself. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you in closer, breathing deeply. So warm, so soft.
You giggle and the vibration makes his face tingle. You pull away to fiddle with your blouse buttons. “Wanna know a secret?” you whisper.
“Is the secret boobs?” Wow, what the hell was that? He needs to stop talking.
Lucky for him, you grin. You open your blouse and a whole lot more than he was expecting spills out. You toss the blouse to the side and plant your hands on your hips. “Va-va-voom.”
He's speechless. Shaken. Struck utterly dumb by the sight before him. All he can do is pull off his gloves and take them in his hands, pushing them, weighing them, squeezing them. There’s just… so much. Round, squishy, bouncy, threatening to surge right out of your lacy bra.
“I am but one man,” he mumbles.
That makes you giggle and that makes them jiggle. Like two sacks of...like a pair of...
...he can't think of a metaphor that isn't unpleasant, so he just sticks his face in there again before something else stupid comes out of his mouth. You laugh even more and it vibrates against his cheeks and his -- that... -- and if God struck him down at this very second he would die a happy man.
You let him linger a moment before throwing your weight forward to push him onto the bed. He whimpers like a kicked puppy as you pull away.
You nibble your lip and knit your brow up as you fumble with his belt. “I showed you mine, now you show me yours.”
He's flattered, but it's the only thing keeping his stomach in check. That can't come off yet.
He takes your hands in his own. “What's the rush, beautiful?” he says. He brings them to his lips, first one, then the other. He gently kisses your knuckles, your palms, your wrists. “This is your show. We got all night.”
You're cute when you huff. You're even cuter when your face screws up into a pout. You yank your hands away and plant them on your soft hips. “Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for this?” you whine.
That throws him for a loop and a half. You've wanted him too? Someone as clever and cute and talented as you wanted... him? He's not used to that. Not used to that at all.
He's stunned just long enough for you to get his belt open. You move on to his vest straps next, making quick work of those. He sucks his stomach in just as you pull it open.
Your eyes widen, and you break into a grin as they sweep up and down his torso. “Oh, hell-o,” you say, voice breathless.
He's bright red, he just knows it. “Hi,” he replies dumbly. He hopes the strain in his voice isn't too obvious.
You grin even wider. Your fingers ghost up his sides -- thank God it's his feet that are ticklish -- right up to his pecs. You give them a squeeze, not unlike how he palmed your breasts a few moments ago. The slightest of squeaks escapes him.
“I knew you were hiding something good,” you say. You give his nipples a tweak -- he squeaks louder -- and trail your fingers down to his waistband. “Let's see what else you've been keeping from me.”
He knows you're talking about his dick. He panics all the same.
He shoots a hand out to kill the light -- that should buy him some time -- and throws his weight into flipping you over. You squeal as he pins you to the bed and yanks your pants off.
And then he realizes. Your breasts? They're proportional.
Beneath him is the most lovely expanse of body he's ever seen. Soft and warm and squishy and made of convex curves that flow from gentle arms and smooth shoulders right into a pair of plump hips and shapely thighs.
He can't form words. He can't form thoughts. All he can do is stare with his mouth dropped open. What else can you do when you're in the presence of the divine?
And then he sees your face. Your eyes wide and unsure as they dart around the room. Your lips pressed together into a terse line.
“What?” he asks.
The line scrunches to the side. “I'm bigger than I ought to be, I know,” you say. You sound as if you've said it a thousand times.
He gets mad. He can't help it. It's what he does. “Are you shitting me?”
You flinch a little, though more out of surprise than fear. “N-No, I don't--”
He wants to say so many things. About how this is perfection. About how you are the most gorgeous human being he's ever laid eyes on. About how this is everything he's ever wanted in life. How you're everything and you shouldn't be so damn sheepish.
But he can't get it out. All that comes out is a raspy, rude, “Shut the fuck up.”
You stare at him in shock. And not the fun shock. It's the kind where you're not sure if you've stepped on eggshells or not.
Fuck it. No time for words. He grabs your thighs and pulls you forward, yanking your panties off and sweet holy shit you don't shave down there how could you possibly be any more perfect?
His mouth waters. His cock throbs. He dives in. He drags his tongue up your inner thighs, soft and smooth and sweet as that pie.
“Captain--!” A nip to the tender flesh turns the exclamation into a squeak.
“I said shut up,” he says between kisses.
Finally, you stop talking. You only pant and moan as he shoves his face into your pussy, lapping at your already sopping cunt. Did he do this? Are you this wet because of him?
He can't help it. He stuffs his hand down the front of his pants to fondle himself. Like the desperate bastard he is, his cock’s hard and leaking already.
He grinds against his palm as he gorges himself on you. Licking, sucking, swirling, punctuating with a few nips for good measure. It's all harmonized by the most beautiful sounds he's ever heard flowing from your lips, high-pitched and whiny.
He's not sure how long has passed when you grab his head and push him away. Time flows strangely between your thighs.
You've got a crazed look in your eyes again. “I want you inside me.”
He wants to say something clever, something cool and on brand for him, like it's not time for the finale yet or but my leading lady isn't satisfied.
But that would delay being inside you and he's too addled to think of anything. He jumps to his feet and wriggles out of his trousers and shorts. If he were more aware of himself, he'd be humiliated by just how much he has to shimmy and dance around to get them off his hips, but there's not enough blood in his brain to be self-conscious.
He kicks them away in whatever direction. Something crashes to the floor and he doesn't care. He looks back to your beautiful face--
You're wide-eyed as you look at him. He follows your gaze, right down to his--
In all the excitement, he's not sucking it in anymore.
Now it's his turn to be sheepish. He sucks it in again. But he can't hold it. Too much blood in his cock. He tries again with the same result.
Unfortunately for him, it's drawn your attention even more. Off comes your bra, and you don't take your eyes off his stomach the whole time.
Now he really can't think anymore. They're just so pretty and perfect. You're so pretty and perfect. He doesn't deserve this. This is a hell of a mismatch if ever there was one. You, divinity in the flesh. Him, a fat, dirty old clown.
This is a joke. It has to be. Someone put you up to this and now you're gonna back out and he's gonna let you because you deserve better so he better just rip the bandage off now and--
“Out,” he spits. “Get out.”
You blink at him in shock, then your face hardens. You speak with the firmness of a queen who's sick of her courtiers’ bullshit. “Get over here and get on top of me.”
You're mocking him. You gotta be. There’s no other explanation. “I said--”
You look him in the eyes. Something dangerous glitters there. “Buggy, get the fuck on top of me.”
It comes out at a hoarse yell. “Stop mocking me!”
You spring upwards and, with that wild strength that surprises him every time, you throw him on the bed. It squeaks as he bounces -- actually, that might have come from him.
You've got a look on your face he can only describe as murderous. “I did not wait two months for you to chicken out,” you say. You clamber onto him. “I did not wait two fucking months for you to finally man up and say something only for you to get self-conscious!”
Fear, anger, and arousal battle for control of his body. Arousal wins. You are hot as a griddle when you're mad.
You sit yourself on his belly, just above his cock. It twitches against your ass and he's sure it's made of clouds and he groans.
“Look at me,” you say.
He doesn't. He can't. He doesn't want to see the scorn that's surely in your eyes.
You learn forward and grab his chin, squeezing his cheeks and forcing him to look. Even in the dim light, he can see the sheen of sweat on your face and the rise and fall of your chest as you pant.
“If you want me to leave, I will,” you say, “but you will never get this chance again.”
No. No no no no. He wants you. He wants you so bad. He's never had perfection this close and it's never wanted him as much as you seem to.
“Do you want me to leave?” you ask firmly.
He shakes his head so hard it hurts.
You don't grin. You simply release his chin and lift yourself up. You lower yourself on his cock and, as he watches it disappear, inch by slick inch into your hot, wet pussy, the battle is over.
He doesn't care if this is a trick anymore. He's going to get his.
He grabs your thighs and pulls you down onto him, fingers sinking into the smooth flesh. You gasp as he bottoms out, gripping the swell of his hips. He doesn't care. They're called love handles for a reason.
And then you start to bounce.
It starts in your legs. Pumping your thighs to lift yourself up and drop down onto his cock. The jolt ripples through your whole body, from your thighs to your belly to your breasts.
He's transfixed. So transfixed that he doesn't even notice you grabbing his pecs, squishing and squashing them between your gentle fingers. You tweak his nipples and he damn near howls.
He can't let you have all the fun. He pops his hand off to swirl his fingers around your clit.
But you don't cry out or moan. You start babbling. Something about eating and how hot he is and how much you love that he loves your cooking and it's all interspersed with pleasant-sounding gibberish. But he doesn't hear a word of it. You're too warm and slick and it goes in one ear and it the other.
But the sounds. God, the sounds of him sliding in and out of you. Wet and disgusting and it makes his mouth water and his cock leak and that just makes it wetter--
The slap of skin on skin and wet on wet and his moans and your chattering all mingle into a delicious symphony.
But it stops all too soon. Your breath hitches and you bend at the waist, singing his name like a songbird, the same little melody over and over. “Buggy, Buggy, Buggy...!”
His name dissolves into little yips and gasps as your cunt flutters around his cock. It's so good. Better than treasure. Better than adrenaline. Better than a full belly after a hard day's work--
He realizes he's not wearing a condom. Fuck. “Where ya want it?” he grunts.
You don't hesitate. “In me,” you say between gasps.
In you? Inside you? Spilling his hot, wet cum into your hot, wet cunt? Your cunt? Soaking it? Seeding it? Making it even messier and sloppier and filling you up so much that--
He almost pops right then and there, but he bites his lip. “Nuh-uh. Where?”
“In me!” you spit.
He whines the most unmanly of whines. He will. He won't. He wants to. He can't. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Captain,” you whimper, “Buggy, please...”
He looks up at you. Your hands on his chest, your breasts heaving with each breath, your little belly rising and falling, your luscious thighs on either side of his hips, your lips dropped open as you pant, your bush surrounding his fingers--
God damn it.
He throws you to the side as he pops like a champagne cork. A few drops end up on you, but most of it splatters onto the underside of his belly, where it's started obeying gravity.
One hand grips the sheets and the other grips something warm and his hips buck and his head swims and his mouth makes utterly pathetic noises. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.
He crashes back to earth like a meteor strike. All he can see is white as he flops back onto the mattress, gasping for breath.
He has no idea how long it takes for him to recover. But something soft tickles the knuckles of his detached hand. A shudder racks him as he turns his head towards you.
Post-orgasm haze still clouds your eyes, but they're big and round as a doe’s as you cradle his hand close to his face. You press your lips to his knuckles.
He gives a weak smile. “Hi.”
You giggle. God, he loves that giggle. He wishes he could hear it every day. He'd put it in a sea shell if he could, carry it around in his pocket and press it to his ear whenever he feels lonely. Or spin it into cotton candy. It's certainly light and sweet enough. Or whip it up onto a foam and fold it into batter like he watched you do that one time for cake...
His stomach growls. He needs to stop thinking about food.
You kiss his knuckles again, still smiling so very sweetly. “Are you alright?”
“Fuckin’ amazing,” he mumbles. It's the truth.
Detaching his other hand, he feels around on the floor. There's a towel here somewhere... Unless he threw it on the chair... Or over the folding screen...
He finds it slung over the door of his wardrobe. He offers it to you, but you shake your head. “After you.”
Suit yourself. He mops his belly up as you watch. Shit, this was a big one.
Satisfied, he tosses the towel away. He rolls over to take you in his arms, but he finds nothing. You're standing up, pulling his coat on and closing it around your front.
“Get over here,” he says. “That's an order.”
“I gotta clean up,” you say.
He panics. He can't help it. His voice quivers like a child's. “Don’t leave. Please.”
You give him a kind look that almost makes him cry. “I’ll be right back,” you coo. “I promise.”
He doesn't want to be alone. Not now. Tears prick at his eyes and his lip quivers. But you're out the door before he can stop you.
You're not coming back. He knows it. He disappointed you. How could he not? You're beautiful. You're divine. You're perfect.
And what is he? A fat old clown.
He lays there, shivering in the cold air, too afraid to move. Too aware of his shortcomings. Too aware of every flaw, every defect, every deficiency. His temper. His teeth. His nose. His appetite. His everything.
The door opens. The moonlight frames your silhouette for a moment before you close the door behind you.
He nearly sobs with relief. You don't notice, thankfully, as you shuck his coat.
He launches his arms at you as he sits upright, pulling you into an embrace as he falls back down. He lays you to the side, slipping under your arm and tucking his head in the crook between your chin and chest.
You thread your fingers through his hair. “Don't tell me you thought I wasn't coming back.”
He murmurs something he forgets as soon as it leaves his lips. You're so soft. So warm. So comfortable. And he's so exhausted.
You giggle. You kiss his forehead and slide your fingers through his hair. “Bonwee, sha.”
He has no idea what that means, but you say it with such warmth that it must be something good. He snuggles up close to you.
Rocked by the sea and calmed by your heartbeat, he drifts off.
---
He sleeps well, but he stirs a few times.
The first is when you shift out from under him, mumbling something in a language he can't place. You roll onto your side, your back to him. He doesn't like that at all and pulls you in to be the little spoon. You squeak. It's cute. He doesn't care that his belly presses against your back.
He stirs again when his arm falls asleep and he rolls onto his side. You follow him this time. You press yourself right up against his back, breasts and belly and thighs squishing against him. You're so warm.
The final time is as the gray light of dawn slips through the windows. He's shaken from a dream and he grumbles.
“I gotta go get started on breakfast,” you whisper. “Just wanted to let you know I wasn't lovin’ and leavin’.”
That's so sweet of you. “You're so sweet,” he mumbles sweetly.
You giggle. “See you in a few hours.”
You kiss the tip of his nose and he's not even upset.
===
You had a lovely night, but you're walking a bit funny and it's making your usual bustling around the galley just difficult enough to be annoying. And the visions of your stark naked captain filling your head are making it even harder.
You're a very simple woman, like your mother before you. You like men. You like food. You like men who like food. You especially like men who like your food.
Captain Buggy's a man. Captain Buggy likes food. And he loves your food, if his constant hovering in the galley is anything to go on. And he loves it a lot and it's showing.
The memory of him lying beneath you, his warm hips against your thighs, his belly wobbling as you bounce atop him, his head thrown back in bliss, surprises you just as you're tossing a flapjack. It slams into the ceiling and stays there.
Your fellow cook, a swarthy fellow going by Bloomer, casts the new ceiling decor an odd look. He turns it on you. “You alright, girl?”
You know what? Screw this. Everyone else can handle breakfast. “I'm gonna go wake up the captain,” you say. “How's he like his coffee?”
Milk and two cubes of sugar, he tells you. You put in cream and three cubes. Man's gotta get his strength back from last night, you tell yourself as you set off across the deck.
You knock three times on the door. No answer. You knock harder. Still nothing. You take that as a sign he may be dead and enter just in case.
Captain Buggy is, in fact, quite alive, if not also naked. He's in front of the mirror... or his face is, anyways. His body is turned completely around as he examines the reflection of his rear. He grabs a handful, thick fingers sinking into the squish. He gives it a jiggle and it wobbles.
You don't blame him. It's a great ass. Perfect for grabbing and digging your nails into. Next time, you're making him get on top so you can do just that.
But you prefer his front. That's where all the good shit is. Soft, muscular pecs, perfect for grabbing and groping, covered in a dusting of hair that trails down to his soft belly.
His hands go there next, pinching his sides. He gives them a shake and his belly bounces.
That little zing shoots up your gut and into your throat, that one you always get around men like him. That same one as when you first saw him from across the diner, draining a pitcher of beer. The same one you had last night when you walked in on him eating pie filling. And now, watching him preening after a wild romp.
...or you thought he was preening. He turns his body around and as his hands go to his face -- he's got a stronger jawline than you'd expected when he's barefaced -- you notice his laugh lines deepen. He lets out a grunt of disgust as his lips curl.
You frown. He's saying ugh as if you couldn't keep your hands off of him last night. Coaxing him in closer with pie filling just so you could feel his body molding against yours. Grabbing his cheeks and yanking him in for a kiss you'd been craving for months. Dragging him to his cabin and fucking yourself on him while you dug your nails into whatever soft flesh you could grab.
You close the door with a firm check of the hips. The slam startles him, but he calms as he sees you. Somewhat. There's still an uneasy look in his eye.
“G’morning,” he says. A little blush blooms across his cheeks. He avoids eye contact.
He'd be cute if he wasn't pathetic. You set the coffee down on the nearest surface and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your hands on the swell just above his hips and resting your cheek between his shoulder blades.
“Thank you for finally taking the hint,” you say into his skin.
He chuckles, a low, vibrating thrum. “I never miss a cue, baby.”
Lies. You've been trying everything. Flirting. Making his favorite food. You even went braless one day on a supply run with him and he didn't even blink. Idiot.
“Then why'd it take you so damn long?”
He scoffs. “Had to make sure I wasn't seeing things,” he mumbles.
He's so pathetic. Like a wet cat. You can't help but squeeze his sides--
He jumps away from you like you gave him an electric shock. “Stop it!” he spits.
You blink. “Stop what?”
“Stop-- Stop mocking me!”
You blink a few more times. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
The flush deepens along with his scowl. “Quit touching me like that.”
Not what he was saying last night. “Like what?”
“Stop grabbing my--” He huffs. “I know I’m fat. Quit rubbing it in.”
Pardon? Did you hear that correctly? Does he know who he's talking to? You try to keep your tone even, but you were never good at that. “Permission to speak freely, Captain?”
He blanches. “...No.”
Too bad. You grab him by the waist and throw him onto the bed. He yelps as he bounces, then once again as you straddle his waist.
“Buggy. Darling. Cher,” you say. “Do you really think I would have fucked you if I didn't think you were hot shit?”
He simmers like a boiling pot with the lid still on. “Maybe!”
Pour l’amour de Dieu, c’est un contraieuse et un tête de cabri et pourquoi ce clown so fucking stupid?
You scoot backwards, kissing your way down his chest. Each one gets a tiny grunt from him until you get to his belly. He growls and tries to roll away, but you hold fast. You gently kiss just above his navel, then the tuft of blue hair right below it.
You peer up at him. He peers back, brow knit up, questioning you.
You press your face into his navel and blow a raspberry against his skin.
Buggy squeal-laughs. You've never heard him make that noise before and it's very cute. You do it again and he devolves into laughter.
“Sto-o-op!” he cackles.
You do not. You do it again and again until he's wheezing and not scowling any more. You stare up at him, fingering the tuft of hair below his navel.
He comes down slowly, cackles turning to giggles to breathless gasps. He finally sees you staring. “What?”
“Feeling better?” you ask. He huffs, but he does nod. “Good. Now stop being mean to my favorite captain.”
He frowns a bit at that. “Who’s that? Alvida? When'd she come up?” You keep staring at him. He blinks. “Wait, you mean--?”
Gros couillion. “No, the other guy I fucked last night,” you say. He bristles. Fuck’s sake. “Yes, you!”
He blinks again. The flush returns. “You mean that?”
“I wouldn't be on top of your naked-ass body if I didn't.” You place lean in close, the tip of your nose bumping his. “And you have a very nice body, Captain.”
Just for emphasis, you grab his side, right at the fleshiest part, and give a hard squeeze. He jumps, but nods.
He tries to dive in for a kiss, but you pull away. If you do that, you'll be here all morning. You stand up, offering him your hands. “C’mon, breakfast is ready,” you say.
“I'm not hungry.” His stomach growls. He glares at it. “Shut up.”
Trump card time. “Guess I'll just have to feed all those beignets to Richie, then.”
His eyes go wide. “...you made bin-yays?”
He still can't pronounce it right, but he's getting there. “Sure did,” you say coolly. You examine your nails. “Won't be good for much longer.”
His stomach growls again. “And that pie?”
“Should be good to go, but you better be quick. They'll go fast.”
He jumps to his feet and licks his lips. “Well, keep some for me! Lemme-- Lemme get dressed and I'll be right down.”
“Don't take too long,” you say.
You turn to leave, but he grabs your hand. With a yank and a twirl, he pulls you flush against him and into a kiss.
You melt right into it. Rough lips move against yours, his warm body molds against you, strong arms holding you tight, belly pressing against yours... his nose squishing into your cheek. Wonderful, all of it.
You separate with a pop. He grins at you and wipes his wrist along his lips. “Didn’t think I was gonna let you leave without that?”
You blush. Now he decides to be slick. “Just get dressed.”
You twirl him around and, with a flat hand, you swat his ass. Just to see it quiver. The slap echoes in the small room and he jumps, but you can't stick around to see the look on his face.
You've got work to do.
---
Special thanks to my bf, Meg, and Ollie for beta-ing!
To the Mastahpost | To the Tip Jar
245 notes
·
View notes