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Under the Big Top, your purpose has always been crowd-work, meant to enliven the audience before the next act. You’re a smaller character in the daytime show, a gymnast - a contortionist, actually - playing support behind the flashier matinee acts. During the afternoon shows, you're a firebreather in your own short segment. That had been your big draw and the reason why the captain had brought you on - you weren’t a Devil Fruit user, but you’d mastered the art of fire under long years of tutelage and showmanship.
It's some combination of contortionism and firebreathing that prompted the captain to add you to the after-hours show. You may have a relatively small role during the daytime shows, but those skills have made you a major act in the after-hours show. The star of Act II, in fact, and a major draw for the crowds. Your role is much the same as the more family friendly shows - contortionist and firebreather. Only, during the after-hours shows, you’re naked during your routine. Fun times.
And everyone knows about the after-hours show - it's the Big Top’s worst-kept secret. The after-hours shows were meant to be a draw for the pirate elite, invitation only, and a gesture of goodwill between ships. The captain, for all his abrasiveness, did at least have an eye for good business. And showmanship, when done right, can be very good business, which the after-hours shows had long since proven to be. Three acts, each escalating in intensity; actors do their routine, and the final act is a chosen rotation actor and mystery guest then-unknown to the actor. Tantalizing, tempting, and an easy draw for the type of debauchery much-beloved by pirates.
The captain manages the after-hours shows rather than participates as he does during the daytime shows. These require finesse, he says, and careful planning and orchestration. He simply can’t manage properly if he’s bound to perform. And him onstage during this type of show? He’d just take far too much attention away from the other actors. Strange how that’s never a problem during the daytime shows. You and the rest of the performing crew know it’s because he doesn’t want to get naked on stage, but no one’s had the balls yet to say it.
Tonight, the captain is more frantic than usual, shoving through rails of costumes and crew members, dragging Cabaji along behind him. He’s annoyed, clearly, if the shouting tells you anything. He taps his feet, chews on his lip, clenches and unclenches his hands while he thinks. He fidgets when he’s angry, you’ve noticed, in addition to all the yelling.
You watch from your mirrored makeup station as Buggy throws up his gloved hands. “Who the fuck is going to replace them this late? Can’t they just, I don’t know, power through it?”
Cabaji, clearly used to the temper tantrums, replies calmly, “Not unless you want them puking on stage. I heard Toro in the bathroom earlier - there’s no powering through that.”
“Fuck!” Buggy spits, and you turn back to the mirror. You’ve only just started your makeup for your performance, which gives you plenty of time to watch the continuing tantrum in the mirror’s reflection out of the corner of your eye. You’d had a feeling this was coming. Your cabin-mate was the rotation guest actor tonight for the third act, and you’d heard her vomiting half the day. He yells, and you glance over to that corner of the mirror, “We have a Marine lieutenant in the audience, and I need him to fuck off while we’re in his territory.”
He stops, and turns to you, shouting your name. “Congrats, you’re the rotation actor for the third act tonight.”
You blanche - you’ve never been part of the third act before. Act II is physically taxing, and you’re always exhausted afterward, so you’ve never volunteered. You don’t know the choreography, you’ve barely ever bothered to learn the lines - nothing.
You turn around in your seat. “Captain, I’ve never rehearsed-”
Buggy continues on, your objection ignored. “You know the basics, just improvise!” He waves his hand in your direction. “You’re good at that, that’s why I picked you! Pick a costume and figure it out - the gold ringmaster costume is nice, by the way - and be ready for your cue.”
Buggy stomps off at that, leaving you flabbergasted, staring in the mirror with a tube of lipstick halfway to your mouth. Cabaji glances at you pitifully before running behind the captain, clipboard clasped to his chest.
You apply your lipstick with a shaking hand. The captain always takes volunteers first for the third act before assigning it - though volunteers had never been a problem, therefore assignment had never actually occurred. The after-hours show is an exhibitionist show, after all; the crew members willing to perform in the after-hours show were always willing to volunteer for Act III. And while you’d never played one of the characters having sex on stage, you certainly don’t mind being naked on stage. You’d done that once a week, every week, since you’d joined the crew.
You’re just surprised you were the captain’s first choice. He’d never given you much direction during rehearsal and rarely ever watched you perform, save for the day shows.
You could improvise, surely. The third act is just a circus bit, after all, and that’s easy enough. It’s mostly improvised anyway. There’s a few specific lines at the beginning to go with the act, but the minutiae was dictated by the chemistry between the actors. You could handle that - you were friendly with everyone on the crew. Surely, surely, the captain would partner you with someone who already had a little stage chemistry with you.
Well, you’ll figure it out. You finish your makeup and head over to stand in the queue for the second act, clad in your robe. You’d grabbed the ringmaster costume the captain had pointed out and had it prepared for quick-change, but you didn’t have a costume for Act II, what with all the naked fire-breathing.
You take a deep breath and step out onto the floor.
Your routine is just rote memory, you've done it so often. Your muscles guide you, the imprint of hundreds of hours of practice and performance. The series of tricks and turns, the twirling of your blazing baton, the cheering of the crowd in your blood is ingrained in you so deeply, every twitch and motion, you could do this in your sleep. When the baton in your hand burns hot, threatening, warning you not to drop it, is when you twirl it, breathe it in, and blow.
You land in splits down center stage after a series of backflips with the baton in your mouth, breathing fire into the air like you'd bitten a Devil Fruit. The crowd, a mixture of pirates and marines and various esteemed, yet nefarious, guests, explodes into applause, whistles, and cheers. It's a rush that nothing else can touch, having the eyes of all these men and women on you.
Once you finish and the curtain comes down for intermission, you race backstage as quickly as you can, yank on your ringmaster costume, and stand behind the curtain stage left for the beginning of Act III. You can't see who's behind the curtain stage right, but that's part of the thrill of the third act - the mystery of your partner. Besides, the only cue you have to worry about now is the curtain coming up. You're in the ringmaster role, so you're the lead. You remind yourself, it’s mostly improv; the rest, surely, you remember well enough from having watched it at rehearsal. It’s improv and public sex, two things you can handle.
The curtain rises. You step forward into the ring on stage, under the spotlight, and begin.
You hold your baton aloft - an improvise - and set it alight. The crowd, now darkened beyond your sight, ooohs and ahhhs and whispers approval.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” you recite, stretching up into the air and pointing at the crowd with your baton. “Welcome to the Big Top's after-hours show! We hope you've enjoyed being toyed with and tantalized tonight.”
You toss your baton into the air and catch it with your opposite hand, earning a few gasps from the crowd. The spoken lines are cheesy, a little cringe, but you suppose the writing isn’t exactly the main draw for the after-hours show.
“We've certainly enjoyed you,” you say with a wink. “For our final act, we have a treat for you, a real show-stopper. But what else could it be? You're at the Big Top, aren't you?”
The crowd roars at that, delighted. You can’t see them, but just knowing there are other pirate captains, Marines, and dignitaries in the audience is thrilling.
“Then allow me to introduce you to the circus.”
This is it - the big reveal of your partner for the night. You turn and gesture with your baton to the opposite side of the stage, which, until that moment, had been completely dark. The fire from your baton offers little relief against the shadows, just enough for you to see another actor sitting in a chair. The spotlights spring to life, giving focus to the only other actor in the act tonight.
The crowd falls silent. You almost miss your next cue.
Your captain sits in the chair before you - your partner for the night's final act. He's resplendent in an exaggerated clown costume, all bells and whistles and stripes, his makeup fresh and hair left long down his back. He wears a jester’s hat, bells hanging and jingling from tricorn tips. One of the stage hands had tied his hands behind his back - that or he’d used his Devil Fruit powers to do it himself.
The captain looks up at you from under his eyelashes like a puppy begging for attention, those crystalline blue-gray eyes piercing under the stage lights. You know, at that moment, the captain’s choice to perform is no lack-of-volunteers, last-minute, fill-in decision. You wouldn't have been lacking in volunteers for this act - none of the crew ever were. He'd volunteered himself. He might not have even asked the other actors.
That, for whatever reason, sets your nerves alight like no performance ever has before. Consummate professional that you are, the beat you skip goes unnoticed by the crowd. Your captain, however, catches it and grins at you, the little twitch of his lips as imperceptible to the crowd as your pause. You catch it, though, just as he's caught you. This may be your first time performing in this act, but it's his first time performing in this act, too. You've never seen your captain's improv performance, but you suppose you're going to find out firsthand.
“And what's a circus without a clown?”
You're winging it now. This is beyond rehearsal - this is artistry now. This is sensation, desire, fantasy. You have a lot of talents, and though you've never seen this act with a partner tied up, you have a few attributes in your favor: you have vision and skill and a massive, massive crush on your captain. And a teeny, tiny penchant for being in charge.
You step behind his chair and lean forward around him. His role has no speaking parts (must be torture for him), so he'll need to make use of his mouth somehow. You place your lit baton between his teeth and instruct him, quietly, to hold it in place. He obeys, and that one simple act is enough to spur you on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce my co-star for the evening - Captain Buggy D. Clown.”
The crowd erupts in screams and cheers. For them, this must be the ultimate finale. Seeing the pain-in-the-ass clown pirate fucked stupid on stage? Tied up and silent? Mildly humiliated? It must be satisfying for them on so many levels. You're astounded Buggy is willing to do this.
“What shall I have him do?”
The crowd screams out suggestions, none of which you can actually catch with everyone shouting at once. You’re pretty sure you hear someone scream to kick him in the balls, though.
“All wonderful ideas!” you say, and drag your fingers slowly through Buggy’s loose hair. You remove the jester’s hat and toss it to the back of the stage, the bells jingling merrily through the air. Your scratch lightly at his scalp with the tips of your nails, trailing your fingers down his temples to the base of his neck. He shivers under your touch, your baton shaking in his mouth. “But I have a few of my own!”
You crouch behind the captain's chair and reach around to his throat, careful to avoid the fire from your baton in his mouth. You find the front zipper of his costume and slide it down slowly, revealing inch by inch his naked chest. You trail your fingers along his skin, through his chest hair, down the lines of muscle, right behind the zipper. You unzip more, farther, down his waist, until your hands are just above his pelvis. The zipper goes down further than his waistline, though, and you slide it down to expose his cock to the crowd. You can’t see it since you’re crouching behind him, but it brushes against the back of your hand when it springs free, and you feel he's hard already, the tip of his cock leaking where it lays against his naked waist.
The crowd hums in appreciation, in amusement, in enjoyment. You hear him whimper, too low for the crowd, but just loud enough for you. And you understand why he wanted to do this now, why he likes to perform at all. This turns him on like nothing else.
You stand and whisper in his ear, far beyond the voyeuristic ears of the crowd. “I get it now - you like being watched like I do, don't you, Captain?”
Buggy’s eyes flick up at you with a heat you've never seen before, cock twitching in his lap. The muscles in his thighs strain, the planes of his body rigid. You catch the bead of sweat dripping from his temple and know it’s not just from the heat.
You lick the shell of his ear, tracing your tongue lightly along his skin. “You just needed the right partner, hmm?”
Buggy can't respond with the baton in his mouth, but he doesn't need words. His eyes roll back, and he whimpers against the metal of the baton. His breathing is labored, nostrils flaring, escaping around the baton in what could only be described as panting.
You whisper into his ear, “Can you get on your knees with your hands tied back, captain?”
Buggy nods, imperceptible to the cheering crowd.
You stand up straight, hands buried in his hair on either side of his head, and shout, “Who wants to see your ringmaster fuck this clown?”
The crowd screams, and you swear you can feel the whole ship vibrating from the force. You grin and take the baton from Buggy's mouth, then bring the lighted tip to your lips and blow, flames shooting up and spiraling into the air until the flames die.
With that, you toss your unlit baton into the air and step out from behind Buggy's chair. You catch the baton, twirling it between your fingers before you tap the back of his chair with it.
“On your knees,” you say sweetly, smiling as Buggy nearly falls out of the chair trying to obey.
He sinks to his knees on the stage, costume flapping uselessly. The shoulders of the clown costume have drooped down around his wrists where they're tied behind his back, the front sagging down around his knees while his cock remains flushed and rigid under the stares of the crowd. He looks pathetic, you think, on his knees and exposed on stage, but he obviously likes it from the way he's panting under the heat of the stage lights. You can see his eyes search the crowd, see just that little hint of oh shit in his eyes as he realizes, oh no, all of these important people are watching. Your captain may have decent business sense and an eye for performance, but thinking more than a step or two ahead has never been his forte.
You sit down in the chair behind Buggy, elbows on your knees, and lean forward to tap his chin with the tip of your baton. He leans his head back to look at you, long blue lashes fluttering under the spotlight's glare. You bury your hands in his hair and are struck by the desire to pull, and he moans when you do, too softly for your liking.
You slide one hand up under his chin and mumble. “Louder, captain, we have an audience.”
Buggy blinks up at you and licks his lips. “Then give me a reason to get loud.”
You tilt your head in surprise, and he smiles at you like he's the one in control. Oh, you're going to have fun. You run a hand down his neck, down his chest, and pinch one of his nipples, which earns you a sharp gasp.
“Turn towards me,” you say, your cheek pressed to his, “and stay on your knees.”
Buggy shuffles until he’s turned on his knees facing you. You can get a good look at him now, the way his makeup is carefully placed, not greasy or fading or running halfway down his neck like usual. The exposed portion of his body is corded with muscle, and a smattering of soft, blue hair covers his chest and trails down the line of his stomach. It occurs to you that, while he’s seen you completely naked on stage at rehearsals, you’ve never so much as seen him with his shirt off. He is absolutely distracting.
His eyes rake over your face like you've broken him with just a look, like you've earned his absolute devotion in less than five minutes on his stage. He’s not acting, you think - not the way he's looking at you. That's desire, that's fantasy. That’s months of wishing and watching, wanting. You lean towards his face like you're going to kiss him, hand tilting his chin up, but stop just shy of the tip of his nose. You can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, see his cock jump at your proximity alone.
For his ears only, “Do you want me to fuck you, captain?”
The desperation in his eyes at your words get you wet like nothing else. He's panting, open mouth begging for your kiss. His hands behind his back twitch, aching to get his fingers on you. “Yes.”
You wind your fingers through his hair. “Can you lay back on the stage like this? Legs bent? Hands tied?”
He nods.
“Then lay back.”
Buggy lays back so that the top of his head is facing the crowd. He’s sprawled across center stage, hands tied behind his back underneath him, knees bent like he’s bracing his lap to be your chair.
You stand, surveilling the crowd, and you shout, “Are you ready?”
The crowd cheers again, then peters down into a hushed quiet. As they watch, you drop the bottoms of your ringmaster costume and kick them over to the side. You leave the top - it doesn't leave much to the imagination anyway, being that it's just a corset. A whistle here and there cuts through the silence.
You drop to your knees and straddle Buggy's waist, naked cunt flush against his skin. He tilts his head up to watch you, struggles up onto his elbows to see, and the sight he's met with makes him groan, loud this time, so that the audience can hear. You crawl down his body on your hands and knees until you're sitting on his chest with your front facing the crowd. Your cunt is close to his face, just out of reach of his mouth. He's tempted to detach his head and get a taste, but he's deterred by your control. You’re the star here - he’s a willing prop for your performance.
You hover over his mouth, just out of reach of his tongue, and he huffs like you're depriving him. He turns his head and mouths at your thighs, biting at you in defiance, harder the longer you make him suffer.
When you finally settle down onto Buggy’s mouth, he moans against your cunt like a starving man. You hear the collective sigh of the crowd as he licks at you. He swipes his nose against your clit, spearing you over and over with his tongue. His moans are muffled, but you can feel them against your skin, deep into your core. You shift your hips, grinding down against his tongue with every motion, your hands settled back onto his chest to give the crowd a good view. He may hate his nose - the whole crew is well aware - but the benefit is he can nose your clit without ever even using his hands.
Just as you start teetering close to the edge of release, you stop and shift back until you're sitting in Buggy’s lap, his legs bent behind you. His head drops back to the stage, and he whines at your absence. His mouth glistens with you, and so does the tip of his nose. The crowd snickers, pleased by his desperation.
You take Buggy’s cock in hand, stroking lightly, and he bucks his hips under you. His plea of, “please,” is downright pitiful, almost enough to make you feel bad for teasing him. Almost. You might feel guilty if you weren’t having so much fun.
You're at your limit, aching for your own relief, when you sink down onto him. His strangled moan when you bottom out, hips pressed flush to his, resonates through you. You shift slowly at first, hands reaching back to brace yourself against his thighs. You set the pace, though, riding him slowly and deliberately, forcing him to acclimate to your teasing. His muscles flex and strain, hips rocking up against yours. He's almost in tears, begging you to fuck him for the crowd to hear.
“Please, please, please,” he begs, and that's only for you to hear, “touch me, just kiss me, please.”
You lean over him, hands on the stage on either side of his head, and grind. He strains up to kiss you, but you pull away with a grin and shake your head, teasing, “Make me cum, and I might.”
“I’ll fuckin’ make you cum, alright-”
You've forgotten that your captain is actually quite flexible, so it’s quite a shock when he hooks his ankles around the backs of your calves and sits up, yanking you into his lap without ever touching you with his hands. You wrap your arms around his neck to keep steady, looking over his shoulder at the crowd, while he bites your shoulder and thrusts up into you. He buries his face into your neck, breathing in your scent, as you tighten your arms around him, nails scratching at his back, pulling at his hair.
Buggy’s chatty enough on a daily basis, but you riding his cock for an audience takes it up a notch. Nothing he says is meant for the crowd to hear, though, not a single word of his stream-of-conscious babble. It’s all for you, a private moment in the midst of performance.
“If you let me do this again,” Buggy says, “I swear, I’ll keep you coming for hours. Just, just - just me and you. Ride my face until I can’t fuckin’ breathe - I’ll fuck you however you want me to just to feel you break me-”
You can’t help but smile. You wouldn’t even let him kiss you thirty seconds ago out of the basest desire to tease him, but he’s making promises on a hard, wooden stage floor in front of a host of other pirates and people watching. He’d done so well keeping it hidden, you’d had no idea your silly little crush was reciprocated.
“This is our act from now on,” he swears, “gonna fuck you for everyone on the Grand Line to see.”
Buggy’s close, and you are, too. His cock twitches inside you, pulsing with every movement, and he moans loud enough for the whole ship to hear the tighter you clench around him.
You press your lips to his ear, “Ready?”
You feel him nod against your skin.
When you come, it hits you like a sack of hammers. Buggy bites down on your shoulder and comes, almost unseating you, and lets out a groan like nothing you've ever heard. It's broken, incoherent, and you think he's begging in your ear, but you can't quite concentrate well enough to catch what he’s saying. He fills you up, one stroke right after another, until his hips are stuttering and his cock twitches and he collapses against you with relief for just a moment. You can barely see the fuzzy outline of the dark crowd, but you can hear their gasps and moans, their whistles and applause.
Your sweaty face is pressed into Buggy’s hair, panting into his ear. “Want me to untie you?”
You can feel him mouthing at that space between your shoulder blade and neck, licking at you. His voice is muffled when he answers, “Perks of detachable hands - I'm already untied.”
Buggy wraps his arms around your back and stands, cradling you until you can get your legs to work properly enough to stand up. Your legs feel like jelly, but you turn back towards the crowd anyway, your hand in Buggy's, and take your bow. He clasps your hand and bows with you, gesturing towards the crowd. The applause is thunderous, the vibrations rocking the boards of the ship.
Buggy, apparently satisfied by the rapturous applause, for once doesn't linger on stage soaking it all in. He hauls you off your feet and over his shoulder, strutting backstage at the crowd whistles and oooh at your departure.
“Curtain call, captain,” you remind him, peeking over his shoulder. You smack his ass to make him listen. “Captain.”
Buggy shifts you around in his arms and presses you up against a back wall, away from the cast and crew. It’s a testament to his strength, and something you’d never gotten to see for yourself before. Buggy’s jacked - he’d flipped you around in his arms like nothing, twisted you into his lap on stage with ease.
He shoves his face into the hollow space under your ear. “Don't care.”
You laugh and wrap your arms around his neck, “Captain Buggy D. Clown doesn't care about curtain call? Since when?”
“Nope,” Buggy says, then proudly declares, “Since I made you cum, you owe me a kiss.”
You raise an eyebrow, pretending to think about it. “I think I said I might give you a kiss.”
Buggy pulls back away from you, eyes wide like a kicked puppy. “What-”
You roll your eyes, take his face in your hands, and kiss him. His lips are soft against yours, and he’s surprisingly gentle, almost sweet. Undeterred by the announcement of the final curtain call in the background, he unhooks the back of your costume corset and pulls you close so he can feel your tits pressed against his chest. He scoops his hands under your knees and hoists your legs up around his waist.
You can feel him pressed against you, and you’re completely aware that his costume is puddled around his feet now that his bound hands aren’t keeping it up. And that you don’t have any pants on. Good thing there’s no crew around - it’s one thing to perform in an exhibitionist show, it’s another thing to get caught dry-humping backstage. Not that Buggy cares. You can’t believe he’s already hard again. It’s got to be that damn Devil Fruit.
You pull back for just a moment. “Were you just waiting on me to volunteer for Act III so you could fuck me?”
“Uhhh…”
“You're an idiot,” you say and kiss him again.