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Mo | 33 | they/them my carrd..... buggysamaaa.carrd.co

[buggy-samaaa]

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[lostfirefly]

"Red Nose in the Spotlight"

What was supposed to be a normal interview with Captain Buggy the Clown quickly turns into ninety percent flirting, ten percent actual questions, and several possible violations of broadcast standards. English isn't my native language, errors may occur :)

Buggy x Reader Masterlist / Buggy x Catherine's sketches / Buggy x OC Masterlist / Buggy x Reader's sketches

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The band had barely finished the intro before the studio exploded.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” You said with your most polished smile, holding your cue cards, “Our guest tonight is a captain, a performer, a self-proclaimed genius, and according to his own team, legally exhausting. Please welcome... Captain Buggy the Clown!”

The audience roared.

No, roared was too weak a word.

They erupted.

People were on their feet before he even appeared, clapping and screaming as the curtains parted and Buggy strode onto the stage like he’d personally invented celebrity. Red coat, gold trim, blue hair shining under the lights, big red nose bright as a warning sign to civilization. He spread his arms wide, grinning like an overconfident devil.

“Yes! YES!” He shouted, pointing dramatically into the crowd. “That’s right, scream for greatness! I accept your devotion!”

The audience screamed louder.

Of course they did.

Buggy spun once for no reason except vanity, kissed two fingers and tossed them toward the front row, then slapped a hand to his chest as if overcome by emotion.

“You people get it,” He declared. “You understand star power. Finally, a civilized country.”

You pressed your lips together, already trying not to laugh.

He turned, spotted you at your desk, and his grin sharpened immediately.

“Aaaand there’s my gorgeous little interrogator,” He said, prowling toward you.

The audience made that delighted, scandalized noise audiences make when they smell nonsense in the air.

You stood to greet him. “Captain Buggy. Thanks for being here.”

He took your hand.

Then, instead of a normal handshake, he lifted your knuckles and kissed them with theatrical flourish.

Half the audience howled.

The other half applauded.

You gave him a flat, professional smile. “Starting strong, I see.”

“Sweetheart, I haven’t even started.”

More screaming.

Buggy looked absolutely nourished by it.

He dropped into the guest chair like a king claiming a throne, spreading out shamelessly, one arm draped over the back, planted his boots wide, sliding his gaze over the set with obvious approval.

“Nice place,” He said. “Needs more red. More gold. Maybe a giant statue of me near the entrance. Naked, but tastefully.”

You sat down across from him. “Tastefully naked?”

He shrugged. “I’m versatile.”

The crowd laughed.

You glanced at your cue card. “Well, Captain, you’ve made quite a name for yourself. Pirate, performer, captain, occasional public nuisance...”

“Occasional?” Buggy pressed a hand to his chest. “That’s insulting. I work very hard to be consistent.”

A burst of laughter rolled across the room.

You smiled despite yourself. “My apologies. Full-time public nuisance.”

“Better.”

He crossed one leg over the other and angled toward you with lazy confidence, the stage lights catching on his rings and buckles. He looked perfectly at home here, which was deeply annoying.

“You’re very comfortable in front of an audience,” You said.

“Obviously.”

“Not nervous at all?”

He scoffed. “Please. I was born to be adored.”

One of the women in the audience screamed, “WE LOVE YOU, BUGGY!”

He pointed at her instantly. “See? She gets it. Sharp woman. Excellent taste.”

You leaned your chin into your hand. “Do compliments from strangers sustain you biologically?”

“They sustain me spiritually,” he said gravely. “And my spirit, tragically, is expensive.”

The audience laughed again.

You lowered your cards. “Let’s talk about that ego.”

“My what?”

“Your ego.”

He frowned. “I don’t have an ego. I have a perfectly reasonable awareness of my magnificence.”

You let the silence sit just long enough.

The audience started laughing before you even replied.

“Right,” You said.

Buggy narrowed his eyes at you, but there was a smile trying to happen at the edge of his mouth.

“You’re getting brave,” He murmured.

“I’m the host.”

“You’re flirting with danger.”

“Are you danger?”

He leaned in a little, voice dropping just enough to send a ripple through the crowd.

“Depends. Are we on or off camera?”

The audience exploded.

You blinked once, slow and unimpressed, though your ears had definitely warmed. “And there it is. We’ve reached minute two and already entered HR violation territory.”

Buggy leaned back, delighted with himself. “What can I say? I like to give people a memorable evening.”

A woman in the audience shouted, “TAKE YOUR SHIRT OFF!”

Buggy stood halfway out of his seat instantly, spreading his arms. “Finally, a serious interviewer!”

You pointed at him. “Sit down.”

He dropped back into the chair with a wicked grin. “Jealous?”

“I’m trying to protect broadcast standards.”

“From my chest?”

“From your personality.”

That one got a loud, sharp laugh from the audience, and Buggy actually slapped the armrest once, grinning at you like he’d just discovered his favorite kind of fight.

“Oh, this is nice,” He said. “You bite back.”

“Only when necessary.”

“And is it necessary often?”

“With you? Constantly.”

Applause.

He looked toward the audience and gestured grandly. “You hear that? They’re obsessed with me. Even the host can’t stop talking about me.”

You deadpanned, “You are the booked guest.”

“Technicality.”

You flipped to the next card. “Speaking of obsession, you do seem to enjoy attention.”

“I don’t enjoy attention,” Buggy said. “I require it. Like air. Or applause.”

The audience clapped obediently.

He closed his eyes and sighed as if basking in holy sunlight.

“Yes,” He murmured. “That’s the stuff.”

You laughed, and the sound made his eyes flick back to you immediately.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

“So tell me,” You said, “what’s the best part of fame?”

“Easy. Being right in public.”

The room burst into laughter again.

“And the worst part?” You asked.

Buggy made a face. “People assuming they know me.”

That shifted something, just for a second.

Still funny, but quieter underneath.

You noticed it. So did he.

His fingers tapped once against the armrest.

You tilted your head. “That happen a lot?”

“All the time.” He waved one hand, careless on purpose. “They see the coat, the nose, the genius, the impossible charisma...”

“Modesty.”

“And they think they’ve got the whole picture.” He looked at you. “Most people don’t.”

The audience softened into that almost-silence that happens when a joke brushes unexpectedly close to something real.

You held his gaze a second longer than the rhythm of the show probably demanded.

“And what do they miss?” You asked.

Buggy’s grin came back, but slower this time.

“That I’m also incredibly humble.”

The crowd laughed, tension broken.

You shook your head. “There he is.”

“There who is?”

“The clown.”

He smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No,” You said lightly. “Just a full-time thing.”

He watched you for a beat, then reached out, quick as a cat, and stole one of your cue cards from the desk.

“Hey!”

Buggy held it up and squinted. “Let’s see what vicious little questions you had planned for me.”

“Give that back.”

“No, this is mine now.”

“That’s not how interviews work.”

“Sure it is. New segment. Captain Buggy takes control.”

The audience cheered wildly.

Of course they did. Traitors.

He glanced at the card and read aloud, “‘There are rumors that you are difficult to work with.’” He looked up, offended. “Rumors? That’s the wording you chose? Very biased.”

“I was trying to be kind.”

“You should try harder.”

You reached across the desk for the card. He pulled it back, smug.

“Buggy.”

“Say please.”

The audience made delighted, evil noises.

You leaned over the desk a little farther, lowering your voice. “Give me the card.”

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

Tiny movement. Barely there. Still there.

Then he smiled, slow and scandalous. “Careful. Ask like that again and I might.”

The audience screamed so loudly the band drummer laughed out loud.

You sat back, composed only in the most fictional sense of the word. “Ladies and gentlemen, our guest tonight is no longer legally manageable.”

“I was never manageable,” Buggy purred, then handed you the card back with a flourish. His fingers dragged against yours for one insolent extra second.

You definitely noticed.

Judging by the audience reaction, so did everybody else.

You cleared your throat. “So. Difficult to work with.”

He folded his hands over his stomach. “I prefer ‘artistically uncompromising.’”

“One of your crewmates described you as ‘a loud disaster in expensive fabric.’”

Buggy beamed. “That’s leadership.”

The audience clapped.

“And another,” you continued, glancing down, “said that when you’re in a bad mood, the whole ship knows.”

“That’s called presence.”

“And when you’re in a good mood?”

His grin turned sharp. “Then the whole ship really knows.”

The audience lost its mind.

You dropped your head briefly into one hand. “I walked into that one.”

“Yes, you did,” He said softly enough that only the front rows probably caught it. “You keep doing that.”

You looked up.

He was still lounging in his chair, still all swagger and rings and smirk and ridiculous red-nosed confidence.

But there was something focused in him now. Less performing for the crowd. More playing directly with you.

Dangerous.

Terrible.

Excellent television.

You crossed your legs and smiled sweetly. “Tell me, Captain. Do you always flirt this much in interviews?”

“Only when the host can handle it.”

The audience shrieked.

“And can I?” You asked.

Buggy’s eyes glittered. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

You held the pause.

Then smiled.

The room erupted all over again.

He pointed at you like he’d just seen a worthy rival in the arena. “There it is! That’s why I like you.”

“Like me?”

“Professionally.”

The crowd groaned.

Then he added, “At the moment.”

They screamed even louder.

You laughed despite yourself, because really, what else could you do with a man like this except either laugh or hit him with the mug on your desk?

“Let’s take a question from the audience,” you said.

A young woman stood up near the aisle, already grinning. “Captain Buggy, what’s your type?”

The whole studio lit up.

Buggy didn’t even pretend to think.

“Beautiful,” he said instantly, setting his eyes on you.

The audience shrieked like a storm surge.

You lifted a brow. “How original.”

He continued, “Funny. Smart. A little dangerous. Good posture. Nice hands.”

The screaming intensified.

You stared at him. “Nice hands?”

“Yes. Very important.”

“Why?”

Buggy tipped his head, shameless. “I notice where capable hands might end up.”

The audience actually howled.

You set your cards down. “We are one joke away from getting fined.”

“One?” He asked. “That’s generous.”

Another audience member stood. “Would you ever settle down?”

“I’m a pirate.” Buggy scoffed.

“So that’s a no?”

He looked at you again.

That same tiny shift as before. Something less careless, hiding behind the bit.

Then he shrugged one shoulder. “Depends who’s asking.”

The audience went feral.

You smiled, but softer this time. “That sounds suspiciously like not a no.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” he said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

His grin flashed. “Liar.”

The crowd roared.

The band played a teasing sting. You laughed, shook your head, and then looked toward the camera.

“Well,” You said, “I think we’ve learned a lot tonight.”

Buggy leaned forward. “Have we?”

“Yes. We’ve learned that fame has only worsened your condition.”

“False.”

“That you are impossible to supervise.”

“Also false.”

“And that you should probably never be invited to daytime television.”

He spread his hands. “And yet your ratings have never looked better.”

That got applause and a very guilty laugh from you.

You stood as the audience clapped, the segment wrapping in a warm storm of cheers and music. “Captain Buggy the Clown, everybody!”

He rose more slowly, basking in the ovation like a peacock had married a fireworks display. He waved to the audience, blew another kiss, and pointed at random people as though knighting them with his attention.

Then he turned to you.

For a second it seemed like he might behave.

A foolish hope.

Instead he stepped in close, took your hand again, and bowed over it dramatically while the audience screamed one last time.

“Same time next week?” He asked, low enough that it felt suddenly separate from the rest of the room.

You smiled up at him, polished and dangerous. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you survive the internet tomorrow.”

Buggy grinned. “Sweetheart, the internet survives me.”

And with that, he released your hand, threw both arms wide to drink in the applause again, and swaggered offstage like the world was a theater built solely to admire him.

You watched him go.

Then looked back at the audience, who were still clapping and laughing and very obviously convinced they had just witnessed something a little too charged to be called ordinary press promotion.

You straightened your cards.

Smiled at the camera.

And tried not to think too hard about the warmth still lingering on your hand.

[hey-august]

smoke and mirrors

One Piece Live Action - Season 2 Episode 1 - Buggy is caught by the Marines and looking to escape when someone, or something, comes to his rescue...

WC: ~1.1k Warnings: SFW, marine!reader, gn!reader, smoker, buggy, more buggy/reader interaction than smoker/reader, profanity, is it flirting or or clowny charm, too many smoke puns A/N: Honestly, I just want to imagine how OPLA Buggy could escape

"Hey, let's make a deal."

Your commanding officer ignored the proposition and continued assigning duties to you and your colleagues.

"C'mon, captain to captain. W-whaddya say? Hmm?"

You noticed the twitch of a sneer on Smoker's face. The drawling, grating voice was starting to get to him. Apparently the pirate's brash personality couldn't be completely contained by the heavy sea stone net. Sure, he wasn't at full strength to charm and schmooze his way out, but this clown was determined to talk.

"Smokey, buddy, I gave you valuable information about the strawhat," Buggy continued sluggishly, "now s'your turn to give me something."

Smoker gave nothing. Not even a glance towards the cluster of pirates sitting on the cobblestone, waiting for their captain to lead them to freedom or your captain to sentence them to captivity.

"I know you can hear me!" Buggy still had some fight in him. Apparently enough to try and kick Smoker through the netting.

Still, the Marine Captain didn't even give Buggy the satisfaction of indulging his tantrum. Smoker side-stepped the movement so casually that you felt secondhand embarrassment for the clown.

"Petty Officer, you deal with this headache."

Ah, shit.

"…and the paperwork."

Of course. You should have seen this coming. Then again, you could barely see his expression through the smoke swirling around his head. Maybe there was a hint of an apology in his eyes. Or maybe it was a growing migraine.

"Screw you, you white-haired bastard," Buggy screeched. "Old! Hard of hearing! Hair! Ears!"

Bits and pieces of insults tumbled out, skittering on the uneven ground while Smoker left the scene behind.

You only needed to stand guard alone for a few minutes. Once back-up returned, you'd bring this group in for processing. With a pirate crew this size, it was easier to deal with them in smaller groups. In the meantime, you pulled out your Marines-issued notebook and started jotting down information you'd need later.

- Four pirates, including their captain. Thankfully the net they were stuck under was the large size and too heavy for them to escape from. - One Devil Fruit user - moderate skill. He could split in to pieces but still couldn't avoid a net. It's literally holes. - No guns. Numerous blades. Why does he have one sticking out of his shoe? Was that there when he tried to kick Smoker?

"Stop staring, it's rude."

You shook your head and stayed quiet. You weren't going to play these games.

- Three notable injuries - 2nd degree burns and various open wounds. - Four notable injuries. Looks like the one with rabbit ears passed out. They're snoring, but still needs an assessment.

"I hope you're writing good things about me. Gotta impress Mr. Smoke Show, right?" Buggy laughed at his joke before continuing. "You know what would really blow his smokestack? If you let me go."

The desperation was scratching at his throat. You could practically taste it. Acrid and salty.

"Listen. The big guy is obviously dying to go after that shithead Luffy. He doesn't want to be here! And neither do I. So…"

You stared at your notepad, pretending you couldn't hear him. Pretending like you weren't even a little interested. Like you didn't taste a little sweetness in this story he was spinning.

"Right, you're busy. Let me continue. So, you let me go! I leave, you run the smoke alarm, and he has another reason to get outta here."

Wow.

That's a dumb idea.

But would you still have to do paperwork if that happened?

"You know, you could tag along. Join him on a chase across the ocean. For vengeance. To capture the one that got away."

For the first time tonight, you locked eyes with Buggy. Those big pathetic eyes were full of lies and tall tales.

You shook your head again. Scribbled in your notebook. Looked away.

"No. It doesn't work like that. I can't. I won't," you said.

Well, you could. But would you? Hell, you shouldn't even be considering this. Following frivolous ideas was for pirates, not for you.

"I'll make it fun," Buggy offered. Or maybe he was teasing.

Your chance to answer was stolen by a roar. A booming noise that shook your teeth. Stepping into your peripheral vision was something large. And furry.

A lion. A giant fucking lion.

"Ahh, Richie! Good job, buddy, you made it!" Buggy was unphased and absolutely delighted.

"R-richie?" you repeated. This wasn't in your training. You didn't remember a course on taking down big game.

The lion - Richie, apparently - chuffed in your direction before stretching out his ridiculously massive claws. He yawned and caught his lip on a canine. The goofy face would have been adorable if you weren't scared of the size of those fangs.

"Alright, help us get out of this mess." Buggy and his crew started shuffling under the net, working to escape the woven rope and stones while Richie hooked it with a claw and pulled.

You'd like to believe it happened faster than it seemed and that you didn't stand there frozen. Honestly, it did seem quick. One moment you were imagining life and adventure on the Grand Line, then you were faced with a…a pirate lion? What the hell was going on?

"What the hell is going on?" interrupted a deep voice.

"Good timing! Richie, give them back their toy, hm?" Buggy, now free, was dusting himself off.

All it took was a swipe of his paw and Richie launched the tangled net towards you, knocking you off your feet. You fell backwards against something. Someone.

"Ah, no!" Smoker shouted, although he sounded winded. You could smell tobacco and ash, but his usual hazy cloud had dissipated.

"Listen, sorry to cut our chat short, but it seems like your little victory has gone up in smoke!" Buggy twirled a finger in the air.

Behind him, the two conscious pirates hoisted their slumbering companion onto Richie's back.

"Hey, you can't do this! By order of the Marines-" you cried out, fighting against the knotted ropes.

"Can't?" Buggy laughed. "I can and will! I'm gonna lie, this has been loads of fun, but I've got better things things to do."

He paused. "No, wait. That was true."

"Shut up!" Smoker snapped.

"ANYWAYS," the pirate shouted back, "like I was saying - see ya shits later!"

He bowed and finally exited the scene. Not impressively, but with a shout for his ungrateful crew to wait for their captain.

Finally, it was silent.

Smoker grabbed a section of netting and yanked. Instead of providing a way out, the movement caused the rope to twist around your leg and contort you like a marionette. Smoker cursed under his breath and stopped immediately.

The quiet returned.

Then a distant roar. Some shouting. Some fighting.

"Sir…"

It fell silent again. 

"What."

"If Buggy and his crew escape, do I still need to fill out paperwork?"

[lostfirefly]

The idea for this sketch came to me about two years ago, but for some reason I kept putting it off. Sorry, dear reader, it's a bit sad here. English isn't my native language, errors may occur.

"What He Couldn’t Believe"

On Buggy’s ship, nothing is ever simple, especially not affection. What begins as stolen glances, quiet tenderness, and the fragile hope of something more slowly pulls you closer to the captain than you ever meant to be. But loving a man like Buggy means loving someone who hides fear behind laughter, cruelty, and painted arrogance. And when that fear finally strikes where it hurts most... let's find out!

Buggy x Reader Masterlist / Buggy x Catherine's sketches / Buggy x OC Masterlist / Buggy x Reader's sketches

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By the time you reached Buggy’s cabin, your heart was already doing foolish little things.

That had become a problem lately.

Not a dramatic problem, not at first. Nothing loud. Nothing you could cut out of yourself with one clean motion. It had started as smaller things, embarrassing things, the kind that crept in quietly and then made a home where they had no right to be. The sound of his laugh through the deck noise. The way his coat smelled like salt and powder and smoke when he leaned too close. The mean, ridiculous little comments that somehow landed softer when they were meant only for you. The rare moments when the captain’s voice dropped low and real, stripped of all that painted thunder, and became something almost shy.

You had made the mistake of taking those moments seriously.

Worse, you had made the mistake of believing they meant something.

Maybe they did. Maybe that was the cruelest part.

You stood outside his cabin door with a folded shirt over one arm, one he had thrown at you earlier with a barked, “Fix that button, would you? You’re good with little fiddly nonsense.” He’d said it carelessly, but you had smiled to yourself while sewing it anyway, hating the warmth that had bloomed in your chest over something so stupid. You had even straightened the collar after, smoothing your thumb over the fabric like it would matter.

Like he would notice.

The ship swayed gently beneath your feet. Somewhere above, a few crewmen shouted, then laughed. The afternoon had gone gold at the edges, lazy and warm, the kind of evening that made the sea look soft.

You knocked once.

No answer.

You should have left it there, maybe. On the trunk by the door. On the floor. On the damned railing outside, for the gulls to steal. But the door was slightly open, and you thought, just for a second, that you heard him inside.

So you pushed it wider.

And the whole world split with a soundless kind of violence.

At first your mind refused to understand what your eyes were showing you. It tried very hard, with all the mercy it had, to turn the scene into something else. A joke. A misunderstanding. Some stupid performance, maybe. Buggy liked performances. He lived inside them. There were so many ways he could make a moment ugly and absurd without it meaning anything.

But there he was.

Bare skin. Blue hair loose. One arm around a woman you didn’t know well, one of the girls who’d joined the crew a few islands ago. Her mouth against his throat. Their clothes in careless pieces on the floor. The bed unmade around them, warm from what they had just done or were still doing.

And Buggy, your Buggy, if he had ever been yours at all, turned his head toward the door.

He froze.

So did you.

The shirt slid from your fingers and landed in a limp, pathetic heap near your boots.

The woman looked between you both, annoyed at first by the interruption, then curious when she caught the expression on your face. That curiosity vanished fast. Even she seemed to understand, all at once, that she had stumbled into something ugly and human.

But Buggy understood first.

You saw it happen.

You saw the exact second he realized what this looked like.

What it was.

A thousand things flickered across his face in one terrible instant. Surprise. Alarm. Guilt. Then something else, something you knew too well by now, because it lived at the root of half his worst habits.

Fear.

And because he was Buggy, because he would rather juggle knives than stand still and let anyone see him naked in the truth, he chose the cruelest thing he could.

He laughed.

Not a real laugh. Not joy. Just that sharp, ugly bark he used when cornered, when he needed the whole world to turn into a stage before it could turn into a wound.

“Well,” he said, voice too bright, too casual, “don’t just stand there staring. Never seen a captain busy before?”

You didn’t breathe.

The woman shifted, pulling the blanket to her chest. “Captain…”

He barely looked at her. His eyes were on you, hard and glittering and wrong. Defensive already. Mean already. Building a wall out of broken glass before you could ask him for anything softer.

Your throat felt lined with ash.

“I…” The word tore on the way out. “I thought…”

Buggy’s mouth twisted.

What was it? Shame? Panic? Hatred of himself? It almost didn’t matter, because by the time it reached his face it looked like contempt.

“You thought what?” he asked. “That a few sweet looks meant wedding bells?”

The room turned cold. It didn’t matter that the windows were open to summer air, that the sea outside was shining, that the lantern on the wall was still warm from the sun. Something had gone dead in the space between you, and suddenly everything in that cabin smelled wrong. Sweat. Perfume. Rum. Cheap powder. Him.

You stared at him as if staring hard enough might peel this version of him off and reveal the one you knew underneath.

The one who had leaned against the railing at night and listened when you spoke.

The one who had gone strangely quiet when you patched the cut near his ribs.

The one who had once tucked his coat around your shoulders when the sea wind turned sharp, then yelled at anyone who noticed.

The one who had looked at you sometimes like he didn’t know what to do with the softness in his own hands.

You had not imagined all of that.

Had you?

“I thought…” Your voice broke completely now. You hated it. Hated the way your own grief made you sound small. “I thought we…”

Buggy cut in fast, almost viciously, as if your pain were a blade he had to grab before it touched him.

“Oh, come on,” he snapped. “You can’t seriously be acting surprised. What did you expect from me?”

That one landed.

Not because it was loud.

Because it wasn’t.

Because buried under the mockery was something so rotten and honest it made your stomach turn. He meant it. Maybe not the way it sounded, but he meant it. He truly believed this was the most natural ending in the world. That whatever had existed between you had always been flimsy enough to kick apart with one sneer and one stranger in his bed.

The woman on the mattress muttered, “I should go.”

Neither of you answered.

Your eyes stayed locked on his.

There was a moment, just one, when he could still have fixed it. Not the act itself. Not the image carved into you forever. But the thing beneath it. He could have said your name. He could have told her to leave. He could have stood up, shame-faced and shaking and honest, and admitted what he had done. He could have let himself look devastated. He could have let himself be small.

But Buggy would rather set fire to his own hands than reach for tenderness while he was afraid.

So he shrugged, careless. Brutal in his carelessness.

“You want a lesson, sweetheart?” he said. “Don’t build castles in your head because somebody lets you hang around his cabin.”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

And then, at last, his expression changed.

Only slightly. But enough.

Enough for you to see that he hadn’t meant to go that far.

Enough for him to see that he had.

Your hand went to your mouth, not dramatically, not like some stage heroine. Just because for one bizarre second you thought you might be sick.

You looked at the shirt on the floor.

At the button you had sewn back with such idiotic care.

At his boots by the bed.

At the woman who had gone pale and silent.

At Buggy, who suddenly looked less like a captain and more like a trapped animal with blood on its teeth, staring at a wound it didn’t know how to stop making worse.

“I understand,” you whispered.

You didn’t, not really. Not yet. But you understood enough.

Enough to know you had been standing in a place with no floor.

Enough to know he was not going to stop you.

Enough to know that if you stayed one second longer, you would start begging for dignity from a man who had just thrown his own out like ballast.

You turned and walked out.

He said your name then.

Too late.

Not loud. Not commanding. Just startled, almost.

You kept walking.

Behind you, there was a sharp curse, the sound of movement, maybe him trying to get up too quickly, maybe the woman saying something you couldn’t make out. You didn’t turn back to find out. Your body had become one single desperate instruction.

Move.

Move before he says something worse.

Move before he says something soft enough to trap you anyway.

Move before you collapse.

The corridor outside the cabin stretched forever. By the time you reached the stairs, your vision had blurred so badly you had to grip the railing. The ship creaked around you, huge and indifferent. Men laughed somewhere near the galley. Someone was hauling rope. A gull screamed overhead. The whole world had the indecency to continue.

You made it to the far end of the deck before the first sob came.

It didn’t come prettily.

It tore out of you.

You barely managed to get behind a stack of crates before your knees gave out. You folded forward against the rough wood, hand clapped over your mouth, shoulders shaking so hard it hurt. Tears came fast, hot and humiliating, dripping off your chin, soaking into your sleeve as you tried and failed to muffle every sound.

You cried because he had betrayed you.

You cried because he had humiliated you.

You cried because some grotesque, loyal piece of your heart was still trying to defend him.

He was scared.

He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s hurt.

He hates himself.

All of that may have been true.

It changed nothing.

Because no matter what frightened, twisted thing had driven him to that bed, he had still looked into your face while it broke and chosen cruelty over honesty. He had seen love in your eyes and treated it like a joke before you could.

That was the part that kept cutting deepest.

Not the other woman.

Not even the bed.

That.

The knowledge that your tenderness had been handed back to you with a sneer, because he found that easier than believing it.

By the time the sun had gone down, your face hurt from crying.

You didn’t go near his cabin again.

You didn’t go to dinner.

When someone knocked once on your door later that night, you sat very still on the edge of your bunk and said nothing at all until the footsteps retreated.

In the dark, the ship felt different. Stranger. Meaner. Every familiar creak reminded you that you were still here. Still on his ship. Still breathing the same air as him. Still close enough that if he chose to, he could cross the distance between your doors in seconds.

He did not come.

Maybe he had too much pride.

Maybe he had too much shame.

Maybe he thought this would blow over, like one of his tantrums, if everyone ignored it long enough.

Maybe he knew better.

You lay awake most of the night staring at the ceiling, eyes swollen, skin hot and aching with the aftershock of grief. At some point you realized you were clutching the edge of your blanket with the same hand that had stitched his shirt.

That finally made you cry again.

Morning arrived colorless and cruel.

You packed before breakfast.

Not all at once. You were too numb for that. You folded things mechanically, like someone helping a stranger move. Two shirts. A spare pair of trousers. The little tin of salve you used for rope burns. A book with water damage along the spine. A ribbon. A knife. The tiny collection of stupid odds and ends a life becomes when it is lived aboard a ship.

You left behind the shell he had once tossed into your lap because “it looks weird, like your face when you’re annoyed.”

You left behind the card he had won in a rigged game and pretended he didn’t keep because you liked the painted jester on it.

You left behind every brittle little relic of the fantasy.

By midday, word had spread that you were going ashore at the next port.

Nobody asked too many questions. Pirate crews were strange little ecosystems. People learned when not to touch a wound. A few looked at you with sympathy. One or two with curiosity. Cabaji opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, then thought better of it when he saw your face.

Buggy remained invisible.

That hurt too.

Part of you wanted him to come storming across the deck, loud and furious and impossible, demanding to know what you thought you were doing. Part of you wanted him to beg. Part of you wanted him on his knees, stripped of every excuse, every stupid laugh, every inch of poison he’d poured into the room yesterday. Part of you wanted him broken in a way that matched your own.

Part of you wanted him simply to look sorry.

He did not appear.

By the time the ship docked, you had almost convinced yourself that was for the best.

The harbor was crowded, loud with vendors and gulls and sailors shouting over one another. Ropes dropped. Cargo shifted. Boots pounded across planks. The gangway thudded into place.

You picked up your bag.

That was when you heard it.

Your name.

This time, no mistaking it.

You stopped on the gangway but didn’t turn right away. Your whole body had gone rigid, as though if you moved too fast the careful numbness holding you together would crack.

When you finally looked back, Buggy was standing near the rail.

Fully dressed. Hair tied back badly, like he’d done it with irritated hands. Face painted again, but not well. One line darker than the other. Red nose bright as ever. The whole familiar, ridiculous silhouette of him standing there under the washed-out noon sky, and for one insane second your heart still leapt toward him out of reflex.

Then you saw his expression.

Not smug.

Not angry.

Wrecked.

He looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

Something twisted in your chest so sharply you almost hated yourself for it.

The crew around him had gone quiet in that sly way people do when pretending not to witness a disaster. Buggy seemed not to notice. Or not to care.

He stepped forward once. Stopped.

For all his volume, all his theater, he suddenly looked like a man who had walked to the edge of a cliff and discovered he didn’t know how to jump.

“Don’t go,” he said.

Simple words.

You had dreamed of them once.

Now they only made your throat ache.

He swallowed. “I…”

The rest refused to come.

Of course it did.

Buggy the Clown, king of noise, master of idiotic speeches, destroyer of silence, could not seem to drag one honest sentence out of himself before an audience.

You watched him struggle.

You watched guilt, panic, longing, and pride strangle each other in real time behind his painted face.

And you realized, with a grief so tired it almost felt calm, that this was exactly why you had to leave.

Because maybe he did feel something.

Maybe that was the tragedy.

Maybe his hands had trembled after you left his cabin. Maybe he had stared at the door all night. Maybe he had finally understood what he had done and hated himself for it with an intensity that would rot him from the inside.

But if this, this ragged little plea, was the best he could do after shattering you, then love would not survive in his hands. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Your voice came out thin, but steady enough.

“You should have thought of that before.”

He flinched.

Only a little.

Enough.

“I know,” he said hoarsely.

And there it was again, that unbearable thing. Not denial. Not anger. Not mockery.

Knowledge.

He knew.

He had known the second he saw your face in the cabin doorway. Maybe even before that, on some buried, miserable level. Knew exactly what he was about to destroy and did it anyway because some part of him found ruin easier to trust than joy.

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. Your hand was shaking. You hoped he couldn’t see it from there.

“I loved you,” you said.

The harbor vanished.

The ship vanished.

The whole world narrowed to his face.

Buggy stopped breathing.

No joke came.

No barked laugh. No snarling defense. No grand offended speech.

Just silence.

Real silence.

Your own eyes burned, but you would not cry again here. Not in front of everyone. He had taken enough from you already.

“I know that sounds stupid,” you went on, but your was voice trembling despite your best efforts. “Maybe it is. Maybe it was too early, maybe I was a fool, maybe I built too much out of scraps, I don’t care. It was real to me.”

His mouth opened.

Closed.

He looked almost young for a second. Young and horrified. Like some cruel god had reached down and forced him to hear the one thing he had spent his whole life trying not to believe.

You gave him no time to answer.

“Whatever scared you,” you said, “whatever made you think this was easier… that’s yours to live with now.”

That landed harder than if you had screamed.

You saw it.

Saw him absorb it, silently, like a blade pushed in slow.

One of his hands twitched at his side. His power, maybe. The stupid instinct to reach without moving, to grab at what was slipping away while pretending he didn’t need to move his feet. He didn’t do it. Maybe because there were too many eyes on him. Maybe because even he understood that dragging you back physically would be the final unforgivable thing. Maybe because for once in his life, he knew no trick in the world could fix what he had broken.

So he stayed where he was.

And you turned away.

The first step onto the dock felt unreal. The second hurt. By the third, your vision was swimming again.

You did not look back.

Not when the crew started shouting cargo counts.

Not when the harbor noise swallowed the ship behind you.

Not when your chest felt hollowed out enough to echo.

You kept walking.

Past crates. Past fishermen. Past women with baskets of fruit. Past a child laughing in the street. Past a stray dog sleeping in the shade. Past all the bright, ordinary things that made grief feel obscene, as if the world should have gone dark in respect and simply hadn’t bothered.

At the end of the pier, you stopped.

Only because your legs refused to carry you farther.

You stood there with one hand over your mouth, with shoulders trembling, and your eyes fixed on nothing. The sea breeze hit your face, cool and merciless. Somewhere behind you, Buggy’s ship loomed at anchor, full of color and noise and memories you could not bear to turn around and see.

A sob climbed into your throat and stayed there, jagged and choking.

You had done it.

You had left.

So why did it feel like being torn out by the roots?

Slowly, carefully, you sank down onto an old coil of rope by the harbor wall and let yourself cry again.

Not the first violent storm of it, like yesterday.

This was worse.

This was the quiet kind.

The kind that leaked out of you in silence while your body shook and your mouth stayed open on breath that wouldn’t come right. Tears slid down and down, and there was no one to hide them from now. No need. You pressed your forehead to your knees and wept for the thing you had thought was beginning. For the ship that had started to feel like home. For the ridiculous clown with the frightened heart and the terrible hands. For yourself, most of all, for having loved him honestly in a place where honesty was always going to be treated like a weakness before it was treated like a gift.

Back on the ship, Buggy would still be standing there.

You knew it.

Still on the deck, still staring at the place where you had been, while the crew stepped around him carefully. He would stand there until anger found him or shame drove him inside. He would probably smash something. He would probably scream at someone who didn’t deserve it. Later, alone, he might sit on the edge of his ruined bed and stare at the floor until dusk. He might pick up the shirt you had dropped, see the mended button, and finally understand the full scale of his own stupidity. He might laugh once, sharp and joyless, because of course even his disasters came with tiny domestic details to make them crueler.

And for the first time in his life, perhaps, he would have no one else to blame for being left.

The thought did not comfort you.

That was the tragedy.

You still loved him enough to hate that he would hurt.

You still loved him enough to know exactly how he would replay your last words, over and over, each time with a little more self-disgust.

You still loved him.

And you would leave anyway.

Because love, however real, was not always a place one could stay alive in.

By evening, the ship would be a smaller shape on the horizon.

By morning, gone.

But for a long time after, maybe weeks, maybe months, maybe longer than you wanted to admit, you would still wake some nights hearing his voice in your dreams. Still turn at the flash of blue in a crowd. Still hate red silk and cheap perfume and the creak of old wood beneath your feet. Still feel your chest close up when somebody laughed too sharply in a doorway.

And somewhere on another sea, aboard another lonely night, Buggy the Clown would learn the most miserable lesson of his life.

That being loved had not been the joke.

Throwing it away had been.

[hey-august]

A Line from Me to You - Chapter 11

Description: Buggy finds a peculiar book on his ship. Enticed by the words contained on each page, the pirate opens up. Anonymity leads to vulnerability. What else will come from this? (Chapter 1 ... Chapter 10, check out the story tag for all the chapters)

Word count: ~1.7k

Warnings: buggy x afab!reader, NSFW - vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, misuse of devil fruit powers, awkward and goofy buggy

Tag list: @lostfirefly @rorywritesjunk @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction @voloured

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Velvet steam enveloped your body in a touch that was both indulgent and unfamiliar. You watched yourself fade into the foggy mirror over the sink, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Ones that you hoped would also become lost in the damp heat of the Captain's private bathroom.

While the throbbing between your legs had subsided into a tender ache, the pounding in your chest wouldn't stop. Every other beat ended with a twinge that curled into a question mark. The anticipation tickled and teased, courting you with sweetness and fear.

What exactly happened? Was cumming early good or bad? Was it a compliment? Or were you being used? Was this all just a way for him to empty his balls and have some fun? But would he have apologized if he didn't care? Would he let you use his shower if he didn't care? What if this was a trick to make it seem like he cared?

You wiped the mirror, looking for comfort.

Buggy's return had gone unnoticed. The sound of running water drowned out creaky hinges and footsteps. You definitely didn't hear him dropping fresh towels on the floor. But when you cleared a patch of mirror, he was the first thing your eyes landed on.

"H-uahh!"

Buggy hissed and swore when he stumbled over the traitorous terrycloth now underfoot. Using the momentum from tripping, he attempted to kicked the towels out of his way. Instead of recovering into the impressive nonchalant nude swagger he imagined, Buggy ended up shuffling and waddling awkwardly until he was standing behind you. He tried not to think about his dick bopping along to this fucking awful return.

"Hey. Hi," he said cautiously. Almost as if he was afraid you would turn and march out. Or that you were a mirage caught in the air. He waited to see if his whirlwind of movements would make you disappear.

When you didn't, Buggy slowly wrapped his arms around your shoulders. Your back was still damp, the lingering sweat bringing a brief chill to his skin. Still, he didn't want to stop touching you. Feeling you. Every damn thought in his head was about you.

"Hi," Buggy repeated, his voice just behind your ear. His lips followed like an echo, then came teeth and tongue.

The sounds of affection increased as he moved down your neck, until his messy kisses and moans were a one-sided rendition of making out.

"Sorry for earlier, let me make it up to you." The sheepish offer tasted more like begging on his tongue.

You shivered and agreed, leaning back into him. Buggy kept his face buried in the crook of your neck and held you tighter, hoping you didn't hear the noise that slipped out his smile.

His touch was everywhere. His hands were everywhere. His mouth. His tongue. No part of you went ignored as he struggled with his urges to take and to treasure. Although he hit a peak earlier, it wasn't enough, even if his body was still recovering.

Buggy wanted you. Badly. He wanted you to fall apart. His fingers ached to ruin you. To pull you apart, page by page, leaving his mark on each one. But he also wanted to savor you. He wanted your story imprinted on him.

Soon enough you were nearly bent in half over the sink, forehead barely grazing the mirror with every exhale. One arm was strapped across your chest and Buggy kept kneading his hand, just to feel your nipple poke and graze his palm. Another arm was wrapped around your waist, but with no hand found on the end since it was buried between your legs.

He had two fingers pressed against your entrance. Well, they were held there. Barely. If Buggy applied any type of pressure, he'd already be deep inside. He couldn't tell how much was your arousal and how much was his own mess. There was barely any resistance and not knowing whether it was due to your body wanting more or if he left you gaping had him cry out when his digits finally slipped in.

Buggy pumped his fingers in and out, revisting where he had been for too short of a time earlier. He groaned even louder than you did, turned on by the thought of your sweet cunt pulling him in so eagerly.

"You like it, hm? Tell me how it feels," Buggy asked.

"Mhm, m-more!" you choked out. "It feels good. You feel good. I wah~ w-want more!"

He could tell how hard you worked to say all that. He stuffed his fingers deep and felt every twitch and squeeze. You weren't the only one who wanted more.

With his other hand, Buggy quickly swiped at the foggy mirror and then tilted your face upwards. From over your shoulder, he watched your expression change from half-lidded lust to the surprise of a newly awakened want.

You locked eyes and the damn clown snorted at the expressions fighting to stay on your face for longer than half-a-breath. His favorite was watching confusion give way to bliss with every move of his hand between your legs.

Stutters and whines dripped from your lips, unfinished questions that Buggy relished. He winked and gave you an air kiss, while taking another sly taste. A roll of his hand brought a swipe of his tongue against your clit once more. At this moment, Buggy had all he could want in the palm of his hand.

It was worth not being able to talk to you if it meant that he could see and taste the pleasure you were succumbing to. It also meant he couldn't tell you that it was his tongue you were feeling, so he got to feel you writhe away and against it. Well, he probably could work out a poorly enunciated explanation, but this was more fun.

Buggy's fingertips danced inside, curling against a spot that brought stars to your eyes. Meanwhile, his tongue had you begging for more. He moved faster - thrusting, rubbing, and licking you to ruin. His hips pushed against yours, grinding you into his hand and towards the climax you so very deserved.

Your moans became choked and soon fell out as whimpers. Buggy could feel your desperate gasps for air against his chest, the tempo increasing until you stopped. As badly as Buggy wanted to fill the absense of movement and screw you harder, he knew better.

He stayed steady - well, as steady as he could handle. Broad licks against your clit, even though his hand was shaking. Fingers curling and pumping, keeping their place inside while you grew ever tighter. A little voice in Buggy's mind wondered if you were going to break his fingers and immediately after thought that came acceptance. And anticipation of pride.

Unfortunately, that irrational horny hope was the only thing that was crushed.

You hit the peak and cried out, nearly too soft to hear. A long sustained note fell from your lips, soon taking all of the tension from your body with it.

"I need-" you panted, "I need a minute."

Buggy nodded and stayed still. A little too still. He wasn't sure what to do, actually. He could feel your heartbeat against his pruned fingertips. His tongue was still pressed flushed against you while his mouth watered like a hungry dog.

He tried to hold back a full-body squirm as a drop of something (either optimistic precum or late and lazy cum) worked its way out of his barely half-mast cock. He tried. Really, he did. But what actually happened was Buggy shot onto his tiptoes before dropping back down with a scandalized grunt.

"Ah, ah, ah- okay, alright, okay," you said, just as surprised.

You gingerly grabbed the base of Buggy's hand and removed it from between your legs, shaking your head at that last sneaky flick of his tongue.

Pulling himself together, Buggy reached up as though he was wiping his mouth clean and sucked his tongue back into his mouth. Honestly, after a treat like this, it felt wrong for his face to not be a wet dripping mess. Maybe next time. And the dazed little smile on your face gave him plenty of hope that there would be a next time.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Heads empty and bathed in euphoria, the time in the bathroom was spent laughing together. When you realized how badly you needed to pee, Buggy graciously offered you privacy in the form of belting a sea shanty so loud he couldn't even hear you howling at him to stop. Buggy nervously chuckled when you stared at him, soap in hand. He wasn't ready for you to find out the shameful secret of how ticklish he was. Or where. Thankfully, you simply handed over the soap and left him to touch himself.

Too soon, the excessive hysterics slowed down and joined the suds swirling in the drain.

"I guess I should get-" you started to say while drying off.

"-back to bed. And get some rest," Buggy rushed to interrupt. "I mean, if you're tired. You probably are, right? Tired? Too tired to walk back tonight?"

That earned him a giggle.

He sent over a finger to push you. "Look! You can barely keep yourself steady."

He tugged at your towel. "You can't even keep yourself covered."

He paused and listened to your incohearent noises and laughter. "Wow, you can't even speak. What kind of captain would I be to let you leave in this condition?"

"Wait- No! Haha, you put me- heh- you did this to-HA!"

You were losing at tug-of-war against an index finger. The thought that you were weak against his fingers in more ways than one brought Buggy in to join with his own cackling.

"Oh fine!" you said, finally giving up on pretending to fight back. "You're right, I'm so tired and it's dangerous for me to leave. I hear there are -heh- pirates out there."

You looked at Buggy, cowering behind the bit of towel you were still clutching, face full of concern, and lip quivering. It was too much for him. You were too much.

Buggy snorted. He laughed and laughed until he wheezed. Until your face was streaked with tears. Until his throat was scratched. Until your knees gave way and you were clinging to the towel still hanging from his finger. Until he hoisted you up and stumbled back to bed with you, staggering through the waves and the joy.

"Yeah, lots of men with swords out there. I think it's better if you stay here tonight," he said between breaths.

[hey-august]

@feral-artistry I want to talk about your One Piece Muppets AU post.

See, I adore your art and have since been plagued with visions. And inspiration! 💖

I had a compulsion. A drive. The kind that must have driven Michelangelo to carve marble, and Victor to stitch limbs.

So thank you for sharing your art! Now, let me introduce you to him.

He was created through motivation from an unhealthy obsession with clowns, mildly-medicated ADHD, and unending interest in various fiber crafts.

Plenty of needle felted wool, handspun yarn, and nearly too much ambition went into this little creature. (Although with more ambition and planning, I would have embedded little bells in his silly rotund body and his hat, heheh.) I'm so proud of how much he looks like your drawing!

Again, thank you for sharing your creativity! Thank you for drawing Muppet Buggy! And thanks for giving me a reason to try another hobby! 🩷🩷🩷

[lostfirefly]

January 29... It's my birthday, so this's a good reason to post something about Buggy and Catherine :) English isn't my native language, errors may occur)

“The Massage... and the Murdered Octopus”

Buggy x Reader Masterlist / Buggy x Catherine's sketches / Buggy x OC Masterlist / Buggy x Reader's sketches

The apartment was warm and quiet when Buggy dragged himself to the bedroom. He kicked off his boots with a grunt, tossed his bandana onto the nightstand, collapsed face-down on the rug and let out a groan.

“Dead. I’m officially dead, cotton candy. Tell the world. Buggy the Clown has collapsed.”

Catherine peeked out from the hallway, sipping wine.

“Long day, my little bear?” She asked sweetly.

Buggy answered by faceplanting harder into the floor.

"My poor clown, what happened?" Catherine walked over and knelt beside him, brushing the hair out of his face.

"This new guy in the troupe, he screwed up again."

"I'm sure everything will be fine soon, he just needs to get used to your high standards." Catherine kissed his head. “I know how to cheer you up. Want a massage?”

Buggy groaned louder. “Marry me.”

“Not until I break up with your side piece.” Cathering giggled. "Come on." She gestured toward the bed.

"Fine." Buggy stood up and followed her. He glanced at the nightstand.

Where the plush octopus sat. Smiling. Watching. As always.

“That smug little bastard...” Buggy narrowed his eyes.

"Who? Plush Buggy?"

"Stop calling that bastard by my name!!" He grabbed the octopus by the arm and slammed open a drawer, shoving the toy inside like a villain locking away his greatest rival. “YOU DON’T GET TO SEE THIS.” SLAM.

Catherine nearly fell over laughing. “You're unbelievable.”

“He doesn't get to see me in my vulnerable, relaxed state.” Buggy mumbled as he flopped back down. “I have my dignity.”

Catherine climbed up and straddled his lower back gently, sitting on his hips.

“Ready?”

“Do your worst, cotton candy.”

She rubbed her hands together, warming them up, and then began pressing into his shoulders. Buggy melted under her touch almost immediately, a low groan escaping him.

“You’ve got magic fingers.”

“You’re tense as hell.”

“Because I carry this circus and my hot girlfriend on my back.”

Catherine laughed, kneading along the line of his spine.

As her fingers moved lower, working out the tension from hours of chaos and stress, Buggy’s breathing shifted slightly.

“Cathie-pie…” He mumbled.

“Hmm?” She asked innocently, trailing her thumbs along his shoulder blades.

“You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Doing what?” She pressed down again.

“Turning me on.” His voice cracked into a grin. “This is some wicked sorcery. You knew what you were doing when you sat on me like that.”

“You're disgusting,” She said, smiling as she dug her elbow into a tight knot in his back.

“Ow! Okay, yes, I deserve that.... BUT...” He twisted just slightly under her, smirking up at her over his shoulder. “It is your fault. You’re cute, warm, and making very inappropriate touches.”

“I’m fixing your broken clown body!”

“Well now it’s broken in a different way.”

“Buggy!”

He grinned, grabbing her hand and pulling it to his lips, kissing it slowly.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He whispered.

Catherinf flushed, resting her forehead against his shoulder.

“Even better than winning a fight against the plush octopus?”

“Oh, he’s still alive in that drawer,” Buggy muttered darkly. “But not for long.”

Catherine giggled, leaned down, kissing the back of his neck.

"That's it, woman…" Buggy grabbed her hand and with a slight movement flipped her onto the bed, lying on top of her. "You’ve awakened something dangerous"

"Hey! What are you doing?" Catherine squealed. "I thought you were tired!"

"I don't know, it wasn't me, you got me confused with someone else." Buggy pressed her tighter to the bed, squeezing her hand. "So..."

"So..." Catherine smiled, wrapping her arms and legs around him.

The drawer wiggled slightly.

“STAY IN THERE, DEMON.”

A tiny thump came from inside.

Buggy froze, squinting at the furniture.

“If he learns to knock, I’m burning the apartment down.”

[lostfirefly]

“I Want You… But I’m So Fucking Tired”

Late evening. Back home after rehearsal. Buggy smells like stage lights, sweat, and sawdust. You were reading on the couch.

Buggy x Reader Masterlist / Buggy x Catherine's sketches / Buggy x OC Masterlist / Buggy x Reader's sketches

Buggy stepped into the living room.

“Y/N....” He purred, leaning against the doorframe.

You raised an eyebrow. “Yes, my silly clown?”

He smirked, slowly unbuttoning the top of his shirt.

“I was thinking…” Buggy strutted forward, though his eyes were half-lidded and moving a little out of sync. “…maybe you and I could… y’know.”

You squinted. “Buggy… are you drunk?”

“No..” He said indignantly. “Just… exhausted. And sexy.”

He leaned in to kiss you... passionate, intense, dramatic... and then missed your mouth entirely and face-planted into your shoulder.

“Ugh... fuck.” His forehead stayed pressed there. “I meant to do that…”

You bit her lip to stop from laughing. “Baby, you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He tried to straighten up. Failed. Slumped again. “Totally fine. I’m a goddamn menace.”

“You’re a sleepy menace.” You corrected gently, brushing his hair from his face.

Buggy blinked slow, heavy blinks, like a cat trying to stay awake but losing the war.

“No, no, no.. don’t look at me like I’m pathetic, my sweet muffin..” Buggy protested, though his voice was mushy. “I wanted to… y’know…” He waved his hand vaguely toward the bedroom. “…destroy you. In a sexy way.”

“You can’t even destroy a pillow right now.”

“I CAN TOO!” Buggy tried to lift you into his arms but his knees immediately buckled. “Oh god… nope… putting you down… gravity is an enemy… fuck—”

“Buggy, sweetheart… you’re exhausted.”

“No! I'm not! I’m romantic.” His head dropped onto your chest. “Let me be romantic.”

“You are romantic,” You whispered.

“Really?” His voice went small. “Even like… this?”

You slid your arms around Buggy, letting him fully melt into you, his weight warm and heavy, and you felt his muscles finally unclenching.

“Especially like this.” You said. “You don’t need to perform for me. Ever.”

“Oh…” His voice was barely there. “Oh, fuck. Y/N… don’t say things like that. My heart can’t handle it.”

You kissed the top of his blue hair. He made a soft noise. A tired noise. A safe noise.

“I still wanna touch your—...” He muffled into your shirt.

“Nope.” You stroked his head. “First you sleep.”

Buggy groaned dramatically. “But I’m a man with needs!”

“You’re a man who’s about to pass out standing.”

“I can rally,” He mumbled, already dozing off on you. “Just give me… one minute... or eleven minutes…”

“Buggy,” You whispered. “You’re literally falling asleep in my cleavage.”

“…nice…” He giggled.

You laughed.

“Come on, big man.” You said, gently guiding him toward the bedroom. “Let me put you to bed.”

“No sex?” His voice was heartbreakingly pitiful.

“Tomorrow.” You promised. “When you can actually stay awake for more than twelve seconds.”

Buggy sighed, defeated but relieved, letting himself fall onto the mattress. When you pulled the blanket over him, his fingers caught yours.

“Muffin…?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Thanks for not laughing at me.”

You kissed his knuckles. “I am definitely laughing at you.”

Buggy peeked one eye open. “…fair.”

“Goodnight, Buggy.”

“Good night, Y/N... But...” Before drifting off, he whispered... barely conscious. “If you wanna still do… stuff… in my dreams… you can…”

And immediately started snoring.

[lostfirefly]

I was in a mood to write something about my lovebirds... Welcome to the AU where Buggy and Catherine have kids :) Proud parents came to visit a school pay :) Soon I'll be back to the AY where they are preparing to the wedding! English isn't my native language, errors may occur :)

Buggy x Reader Masterlist / Buggy x Catherine's sketches / Buggy x OC Masterlist / Buggy x Reader's sketches

"Did you take Lil' Whisper?" Catherine asked quietly.

"Fuck!!!" Buggy rolled his eyes. "I forgot him at home!!"

"Damn, Buggy!! We can't do this to Evie..." Catherine glanced at her phone to check the time. "Do you think I still have time to go home? Give me the keys!" She reached into Buggy's jeans pocket. "Where are they?"

"Oh, Cathie-pie..." Buggy grinned. "Move your hand a little to the right and you will find the keys..." He giggled.

"Wipe that dirty smirk off your face, pervert!" Catherine hissed through her teeth. "Are you crazy saying things like that?!! We're at the school play!"

Buggy giggled idiotically again.

"I hate you, jerk!" Catherine squinted her eyes. "Buggy, I'm serious! You know Evie's nervous right now. She'll need that stuffed bunny later because she will be scared! Give me that damn keys!"

"First of all, woman! You are not driving my car! Na-ah! Over my dead body! Secondly, relax, cotton candy. Of course I took the toy. He's sitting in the car now, I turned on cartoons for him on the tablet. By my calculations, Lil' Whisper should now be watching The Little Mermaid and humming a song with that damn crab about how great it is to live under the sea. And I left a pack of candy for him, so he doesn't get bored."

"Miss...."

Catherine heard someone clear their throat behind her.

"Are you out of your mind?" The woman pointed at Catherine's hand in Buggy's jeans. "It's a school after all."

Catherine quickly pulled her hand out of the pocket.

"Score, Cathie-pie!" Buggy laughed loudly.

"Shut up, idiot! This is all your fault." Catherine hissed.

"Hey! I wasn't the one who reached into my pants! Someone just can't control themselves."

"I swear, clown, one day I'll chop your tongue and your little B—"

"Hey! He's not little!" Buggy barked.

"I knew you'd jump at this, you assh—"

"Can you both stop?" The plump woman behind them shushed Buggy and Catherine again.

"See?! That nice lady made a remark to you." Buggy grinned, crossing his arms. "Where are your manners, princess?"

"Hate you!"

"Two 'I hate you's in a couple of minutes. You're going for a world record, honey!"

"Bug—!"

"Be quiet!" Buggy covered Catherine's mouth with his hand. "We are at school after all."

In half an hour school theater was packed, parents whispering excitedly as little kids in paper crowns and tinsel wings fidgeted on stage. Catherine sat gracefully in her chair, smiling, a proud mom. Beside her, Buggy slouched with his arms crossed, already muttering.

"Stop grumbling, Buggy!" Catherine glanced at him.

"The stupid chairs are very small. See?" Buggy shifted in his chair. "Who are they made for? For dwarves?"

"I'm sorry your daughters go to a school where the chairs aren't designed to accommodate the butts of people the size of their egos."

The curtains opened. A plump little boy in a cardboard tree costume stepped forward.

"Fu— me!" Buggy squinted. “That’s the tree? Really? Looks more like a watermelon with legs.”

Catherine elbowed him, whispering, “Buggy!”

The boy mumbled his line, completely forgetting the second half. Buggy groaned loud enough for three rows to hear.

“Oh, come on! It’s two words: ‘welcome, travelers!’ How hard is that?!”

"Hey, you! With blue hair!" The boy’s mother in front turned around, glaring. “Shhh!”

Buggy leaned forward. “Shhh?! Did you see your round boy forget his line? I’m just stating facts here!”

"Buggy!" Catherine hissed, dragging him back into his chair. “Be quiet.”

"Beware, people!!!" A fair-haired girl dressed in a stone costume appeared on stage. "Who are you?"

"Where did they see the talking stone?" Buggy laughed. "What the fuck is going on here? Who wrote this?"

"Buggy!" Catherine glanced at him and hissed. "Quiet! This is an enchanted forest!"

Then Aurora came on stage in her princess costume, projecting her lines like she owned the whole theater. Buggy immediately sat up straighter.

“THAT’S MY GIRL! BRAVO! A STAR IS BORN!”

The boy’s mom turned again, shushing him furiously.

Buggy sneered, “Yeah, yeah, go polish your kid’s cardboard tree.”

When Evelyn appeared, shy in her angel costume, speaking her soft lines perfectly, Buggy actually grabbed Catherine’s hand, whispering, “She’s perfect. She’s better than Broadway. Tony Award right there.”

A dad a few rows down coughed. “It’s just a school play, man.”

"JUST A SCHOOL PLAY?" Buggy crossed his arms. “Do you even HAVE daughters this talented?! Look at them! Look at the grace, the delivery, the passion! This is ART! Admit, jerk! You're just jealous that my daughters have more than one line, while yours play the role of boring stones.”

"Buggy!" Catherine had to yank him with her hand. “I'm sorry, sir.”

"Aren't you that crazy guy from the poster?" The guy narrowed his eyes.

"Scranti!" The guy's wife slapped his hand. "Leave him alone. Look at the scene, your daughters will be hiding behind a tree soon."

"Scranti..." Buggy giggled. "Isn't this one of your exes, cotton candy?"

"What's wrong with you today?" Catherine squealed quietly. "Shut up and look at the stage too! That's where your daughters are performing!"

When the play ended, and all the children, holding hands, bowed, both girls ran off stage, glowing and proud.

"Mommy! Daddy!!!" They squealed in unison.

"Marshmallows!!" Buggy swept them up in his arms. "You both were amazing!!"

"Really? One moment I thought I forgot my lines! And I was like 'oh, my stars, no'!" Aurora gasped. "But then I heard Evie whisper my line to me! Thank you, Ev! You're the best sister!"

Evelyn blushed.

"Oh, oh, mom, dad!!" Aurora said with excitement in her voice. "You saw, you saw how Evie waved her wing when she lifted the spell from us! It was magical!!"

"Aurie, stop!" Evelyn blushed even more, burying her face in Buggy's shoulder.

"I won't!! I'm telling the truth, right, mom?"

"Of course! Evie was amazing! You were amazing! You both were amazing!" Catherine kissed their heads, smiling broadly. "So proud of you!"

“Can't even argue with you, cotton candy! Did you see yourselves?! You blew everyone away, marshmallows! Standing ovation material! Daddy’s so proud of you too!” Buggy kissed his daughters' heads.

"Well.." Catherine rubbed her hands, smiling. "I suggest we celebrate this occasion with something delicious! And go to a cafe!!"

"Oh! Oh!! I want to that one... Cina... Ckina.. Cinnabon!" Aurora squealed.

"To Muffinland!!" Evelyn added.

"How about..." Buggy looked at Catherine. "To mom's favorite. That one which is ruled by the bunny." He winked at her.

"YAAAAY!!!!" The girls squealed, kicking their legs.

"I am flattered by such attention to my person." Catherine giggled. "Wnna eat three piece of cakes, clown! I love you." She pecked Buggy in his lips.

"Stop it!!! Stop doing that disgusting thing!" Evelyn shrieked, closing her eyes.

"Hey, I want it and I do it! I've known this man longer than you! See?" Catherine pecked Buggy's lips again. "And there's nothing you can do about it." Smack. Smack. Smack.

"MOOOOM!!!" Aurora squealed.

"Alright!" Buggy kissed daughters' temples. "Stop muttering! The Clown Family goes out to eat chocolate cakes!" He said proudly.

Catherine smiled at Buggy widely, wrinkling her nose. She ruffled Aurora and Evelyn's hair, listening to their grumbling voice.

"First we go to mom's favorite bakery..." Buggy added proudly. "Then we go to Muffinland, then to Cinnabon."

"And what about you, daddy?" Evelyn added softly.

"And after all our pastries, we'll go to dad's favorite burger place and order his favorite five-patty burger and hu-u-u-u-uge fries." Catherine stroked Buggy's hair.

"I like that plan!" Aurora nodded.

"Me too!!" Evleyn added.

"While we're walking to the car, I'll tell you an amazing story about two pretty girls who performed on stage." Buggy hugged his daughters tighter.

"Can't be!" Evelyn gasped.

"It's true, I saw it myself!"

"Daddy..." Evelyn whispered in Buggy's ear. "Did you... Did you bring Lil' Whisper?"

"Of course!" Buggy said quietly. "He's waiting for you in the car, watching cartoons."

Catherine tilted her head, watching the girls laugh as Buggy told another story, changing the events on the fly. She rolled her eyes but smiled, thought to herself: That clown will never change. And thank God for that.

[lostfirefly]

“Interrupted Strategy”

(teasing / tension / Buggy distracted by Reader)

The deck was quiet except for the soft groan of wood and the scrape of waves. Buggy stood hunched over a map spread across the table, a compass and a knife pinning the corners. His lips moved soundlessly at first, then louder, muttering about currents, winds, the fastest route.

“Buggy.” You padded over, tilting your head. “Dinner.”

No response. Just more muttering.

You leaned a little closer. “Buggy.”

He shifted a marker on the map, scowling. “If we catch the wind here, then maybe…”

You sighed, dropped onto the bench beside him, and stuck out a finger.

Poke.

He flinched but didn’t look up. “Not now, sweetheart.”

You grinned. Poke.

“Stop,” He muttered, tracing a line with his finger. “If the tide turns before dawn…”

Poke.

“Y/N!” Buggy’s shoulders stiffened and he hissed through his teeth.

Poke. Poke. Poke.

This time his hand shot out fast, precise and wrapped around your wrist. His grip was firm, almost too tight, but his eyes never left the map.

“Do you mind?” Buggy growled, still studying the paper.

“Nah!” You leaned closer, smirking. “Not at all.”

His eyes flicked sideways at you, just once. Dangerous. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or snap. Buggy held your wrist tighter, his thumb brushing slowly over your pulse without seeming to realize it.

“What do you want from me, pumpkin?”

“Dinner’s getting cold,” You whispered back.

His eyes finally tore from the map, locking on yours. He leaned in, so close you felt his breath. “So are you.”

The map crinkled under his free hand as his grip on your wrist softened, not letting go, not yet, because he couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to drag you into his lap or back to the table.

“You think you’re clever, huh? Poking me like I’m some kind of toy.” His voice was low, dangerous, but the corner of his mouth curved up.

“Maybe I like getting your attention.” You winked.

“Sweetheart…” Buggy tugged you closer, your hip bumping against the table. “You already have it.”

Before you could fire back, he dragged your hand down onto the map, pinning it there with his own. The paper crinkled beneath your palm, markers rolling to the floor. His other hand slid to your waist, hot and deliberate, pulling you against him until your body pressed flush to his.

“See this?” Buggy murmured, gesturing with his chin at the charted lines and scribbled notes. “Hours of planning. Wind, tides, routes… strategy.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “And you just ruined it.”

“Sorry, Captain.” You shivered.

“No, you’re not.” His laugh was low, wicked. His hand slipped under your shirt, fingers splaying across your stomach. “But I’ll make you sorry. Right here. On this map.”

Buggy pressed you harder against the table, his mouth grazing your throat, teeth nipping lightly. The ink smudged under your pinned hand, the paper forgotten as his hips caged you in.

“You wanted my attention?” He whispered, dragging his lips slowly along your jaw. “Now you’ve got all of it. Every damn piece.”

“Congratulations. I’ve officially distracted my captain.” You giggled.

And from the way his lips claimed yours — hungry, claiming, unstoppable, you knew he had no intention of finding the course again tonight.

“You know what happens to anything on this map, sweetheart?” His voice was low, taunting. “It belongs to me.”

Before you could answer, his ink-stained fingers dragged down your arm, leaving smudged trails on your skin. He held your wrist up, examining the faint stain.

“See that?” Buggy murmured, pressing a kiss just above it. “Part of the map now.”

Your breath hitched as he leaned lower, smearing a dark line across your collarbone with his thumb. His mouth followed, teeth grazing where the ink touched.

“Mine,” He whispered against your skin. “Every curve, every line… I’ll chart ‘em all.”

Your laugh came shaky. “You’re insane.”

“Have no idea what are you talking about.”

Buggy's hands moved again — one bracing you firm to the table, the other mapping paths down your side, over your waist, leaving faint smears that blurred into the warmth of his touch. Each press of his palm, each kiss along your throat, felt like a claim.

The map crinkled under you, ink smudging across your back, but Buggy didn’t care. His laugh vibrated against your skin as he marked you again, softer this time, a thumbprint just above your hip.

“There,” He purred. “Now you’ll never forget who you belong to.”

And the way his mouth captured yours after — fierce, claiming, full of heat, left no doubt: the map was ruined, the plan forgotten, and you were entirely his territory.

[lostfirefly]

I thought that we need a nsfw-coded continuation of this. Not ready to write full 18.

Moonlit Undertow

(lightly NSFW-coded — kisses, hands, heat, consent; no explicit detail)

The surf hush-hushes up the sand and back again, like the sea is breathing for both of you.

Buggy sways you in a lazy circle, your heels carving half-moons in the beach. His coat is a dark puddle on the driftwood, his hair loose and salt-soft, his laugh low at your ear.

“Keep looking at me like that, Y/N,” He murmurs, “And I’m gonna forget how to dance.”

“You were never dancing,” You whisper back. “You were hovering.”

“Semantics.” His grin ghosts your cheek. “Let me hover closer.”

You let your back settle to his chest, your hands sliding up, threading into his hair. He exhales quiet, punched out of him then folds you tighter, palms warm at your waist, thumbs stroking slow circles through thin fabric. The tide kisses your ankles and retreats, cool around the heat building under your skin.

“Don't you want to stop me?” Buggy says into your temple, the showman’s edge gone, voice gone soft and wrecked. “I mean it.”

“Nah!” You tilt your head, offering your throat. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

His mouth finds the hinge of your jaw: one kiss, two, a third that lingers like a promise. Your breath catches; his hands lift, skimming your ribs, mapping you with careful, wondering touches that ask questions without words. You answer by pressing back, rolling your hips to the slow rhythm of the waves until he groans, helpless, forehead tipping to your shoulder.

“Sweetheart,” Buggy laughs, “You’re going to put me in the sand.”

“Maybe I want you there.”

“Dangerous.” His fingers slip beneath your shirt, calluses drawing a path that makes your knees soften. “Say it again.”

You turn in his arms. The world narrows to him: moonlight in his eyes, salt at the corner of his mouth, a softness there he hides from everyone but you. Your hands travel his chest, slow, a little greedy, learning him all over.

“Please,” You say.

“Okay.”

He walks you back two steps, three - gentle, never rushing - until your calves touch his coat. He drops to one knee, not dramatic this time, just practical, and shakes the sand from the fabric with a sheepish little smile. “Can’t have you prickled to death, can we?”

“Chivalrous clown,” You tease, and he flashes teeth, then goes quiet again, almost reverent.

You sink onto the coat; he follows, bracing above you, elbows in the sand, giving you space to change your mind. You hook a finger in his necklace and tug him down instead.

The kiss starts soft careful, tasting, like he’s asking, and when you answer, it deepens, slow heat melting into something molten. His hand cradles your jaw; the other slides to your hip, guiding, grounding, a question he asks with touch, and you answer by arching to meet him.

“Still good?” He says against your mouth.

“Better.”

“God, I love when you take what you want.”

You do. You take his lower lip; you take the low sound it drags from his chest. You take his wrist and guide his palm higher, under, where you need him, his breath stutters, his forehead drops to yours, laughter warm and stunned.

“You’re going to be the end of me,” Buggy whispers, “And I’ll thank you for it.”

The wind lifts the edge of the coat. The sea keeps time. He trails kisses down your throat slow, open-mouthed, a line of heat the moon cannot see. Your fingers curl at his shoulders; he shivers like the touch sets him alight.

“Say my name,” he asks, not a demand but a plea.

You do.

His answering smile is a little wild, a little tender. “Once more.”

You give it again, and the world drops into the quiet between wave and wave, the space where everything else blurs - lanterns, ship, stars until there’s only breath and heat and the soft rustle of fabric becoming afterthought.

Nothing explicit. Nothing anyone else needs to know.

Just his mouth finding yours again. Just your hands in his hair, holding him there. Just the coat, the sand, the silver hush of the sea keeping your secret while the night fades to a warm, wordless yes.

And when you finally go still, boneless, laughing into his shoulder, he kisses your brow and murmurs, wrecked and happy, “Mine.”

You press a smile to his throat. “Yours.”

“Good,” Buggy says. “Now let me prove it… slowly.”

[lostfirefly]

Today I wrote a sad ending to the story of Buggy and Catherine, and cried for a long time. Then I wanted to write a sketch with a similar vibe for the reader, but you do not deserve such an ending. I am still in some kind of soft mood, but with a wild desire to close myself off from the world and I want to write something soft (strange, right?). Sorry, dear reader.. This is not 18+. This is another piece of crap about a kind and loving clown :)

“Beachlight Waltz”

(Fluff / romance / Buggy being soft and playful)

Buggy x Reader Masterlist / Buggy x Catherine's sketches / Buggy x OC Masterlist / Buggy x Reader's sketches

The beach was quiet, the only sound the hush of the waves curling onto the sand and retreating again. Lantern light from the ship flickered faintly in the distance, but here it was just you, the moon, and him.

Buggy had ditched his boots, his toes buried in the cool sand, his coat draped over a driftwood log. He looked almost strange without the stage lights or the roar of a crowd, just a man with messy blue hair falling loose around his face, silver glints in his earrings catching the moonlight.

You laughed softly, brushing your hand through your own hair as the sea breeze teased it into wild strands. “We’re supposed to be walking, not...”

“Not what?” He tugged your hand, spinning you clumsily toward him. “Dancing? On a beach? Under the moon? Sweetheart, that’s prime romantic material. Don’t ruin my reputation.”

You rolled your eyes but let him pull you closer, your chest bumping against his. “Since when do you care about romance?”

“Since you started looking at me like that.” Buggy grinned, softer than usual, hands sliding to your waist as he began to sway you side to side in the sand. “And don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

You leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. “Maybe a little.”

“Ha!” He chuckled, the sound rumbling under your cheek. “Gotcha. You’re just as sappy as me.”

“You know, clown...” You tilted your head up, smirking. “I think you’re worse.”

“Sweetheart, please. I’m a terrifying, ruthless captain. I don’t...” Buggy's words broke off as your fingers slid into his hair, gently combing through the loose strands. “Okay, fine, maybe a little sappy.”

You laughed quietly, pressing your back against his chest as you swayed together, raising your hands over your head until they linked with his. His arms wrapped around you, locking you close, the two of you rocking lazily to the rhythm of the waves.

“You know,” Buggy murmured near your ear, “if the crew saw me being this gentle, I’d never live it down.”

“Ha!” You smiled, leaning back into him. “Good thing it’s just us, then.”

“Not a word to anyone!” He said, brushing his lips against your temple. “Because gentle or not, you’re mine, meatball. And tonight? I don’t care about anything else.”

You swayed like that until the tide kissed your toes, the stars wheeled above, and for once Buggy wasn’t the showman or the clown, just a man who held you like you were his whole world.

[lostfirefly]

I saw a video on YouTube that had songs from cartoons from the 90s - DuckTales, SpinTales, Chip and Dale... Everything I grew up with) Oh, when I heard OHEEAY, OHEEOH an idea came to my head!

Buggy x Reader Masterlist / Buggy x Catherine's sketches / Buggy x OC Masterlist / Buggy x Reader's sketches

“The Encore”

(Family AU / Buggy tries to get out of it, fails spectacularly)

The lantern in the cabin flickered low, shadows swaying across the walls. Your little one was tucked into bed, cheeks pink from warmth, hair sticking in every direction from Buggy’s overenthusiastic goodnight ruffling.

Buggy had just finished telling them the story, his usual larger-than-life bedtime tale where the “brave, handsome captain” (himself, of course) saved the world and found treasure more valuable than gold (you, obviously).

By the end, the kid was yawning, cuddled under their blanket. You and Buggy exchanged a quick, relieved look of victory. Finally, sleep.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” You pressed a kiss to the child’s forehead.

“Yeah, night, runt,” Buggy added, gently tucking the blanket around them. “Dream of how awesome your old man is, alright?”

You both started to stand, sneaking toward the door.

“Smooth. No tears tonight. I’m a natural.” Buggy whispered.

Then, just as your hands touched the doorknob...

“Wait!” The child blurted.

“Fuck!” You froze.

“No...” Buggy’s shoulders tensed. Slowly, he turned back. “What?”

The kid grinned mischievously. “What about the dance and song?”

Your laugh nearly escaped, but you bit your lip. Buggy, however, looked like a man sentenced to death.

“Oh, c’mon, kiddo!!” He whined, dragging a hand down his face. “The story wasn’t enough? You want the full show package every single night?”

“Yes!” The child squealed, bouncing under the blanket.

Buggy groaned loudly, flopping against the doorframe. “This kid’s bleeding me dry of my talent, I swear…”

“Daddy,” The little one giggled, “you promised.”

“I did not!” Buggy gasped, pointing dramatically. “You tricked me!”

“Captain Buggy, scared of an encore?” You arched a brow.

“Don’t you dare challenge me in front of my own spawn.” His head snapped toward you, narrowing his eyes.

Buggy sighed, then dragged himself back to the center of the room. “Fine. You want the song? You want the dance? You got it.”

He struck a pose, finger pointed to the ceiling, hair falling loose around his face. Then, with all the flair of a circus ringmaster, he launched in:

“Spin it, let’s begin it! Bare it, grin it when you’re in it...”

You joined in, grinning, twirling past him with a little flourish.

“You can win it in a minute....”

Buggy grabbed your hand mid-spin, dipped you low, and shouted toward the bed:

“When you spin it, spin it, spin it!”

“I like that!!” The kid dissolved into giggles, kicking their legs so hard the blanket slipped down. “Again! Again!”

Buggy collapsed onto his knees, clutching his chest. “Again?! Sweetheart, they’re trying to kill me. Do you see this?”

You chuckled, brushing his hair back. “Maybe our child just likes seeing their daddy make a fool of himself.”

“Fuck!” Buggy groaned. “Then that kid is definitely mine.”

“Again, daddy!!” The child squealed under the blanket, clapping their little hands. “Song! Dance!”

“You’re relentless!” Buggy groaned, throwing his head back. “This is exploitation of a world-class performer!”

“Come one, clown! Join me!” You nudged his side. “Spin it, let’s begin it,” You sang softly, raising your arms with a flourish.

Buggy groaned louder but joined in, dragging his hands upward. “Bare it, grin it, when you’re in it…”

You twirled your hands in front of you, flicking your fingers, and Buggy copied, his gestures bigger, wilder, as if he was mocking a grand wizard casting spells.

The child giggled so hard they nearly kicked the blanket off.

Buggy leaned sideways, grinning at you with mischief in his eyes. You leaned the opposite way, mirroring him. Back and forth you swayed, arms outstretched in over-the-top flourishes, like two circus partners mocking a waltz.

Your gazes caught mid-movement, his blue hair falling into his eyes, your lips twitching with suppressed laughter, and suddenly the silliness softened. Buggy leaned closer, you leaned opposite, fingertips grazing the air between you like invisible threads tied you together.

“You can win it in a minute,” you both sang in unison, voices colliding.

Then Buggy snatched your hand, twirled you under his arm, and dipped you low, his grin wide and teeth flashing.

“When you spin it, spin it, spin it!”

The child shrieked with laughter, clapping, so wildly the sound echoed off the cabin walls.

You straightened, laughing breathlessly, and Buggy pressed a quick kiss to your temple, his lips brushing your skin as he whispered just for you:

“God, I love you when you play along.”

“AND THAT’S THE SHOW, FOLKS!” Buggy said louder for the kid and bowed.

]You joined him, curtsying mock-elegantly, both of you glowing in the lantern light.

The child, still giggling, finally flopped back onto the pillow, breathless with delight.

The dance was finished, the song faded into giggles, and finally your little one’s eyelids fluttered shut. The small body curled under the blanket, still hiccupping faint laughter even in half-sleep.

You and Buggy stood side by side, breathing hard from the ridiculous routine. Quietly, you both leaned down and kissed your child’s forehead, your lips brushing soft against their warm skin, Buggy’s nose nudging theirs affectionately.

“Goodnight, runt,” He whispered.

“Sleep well, sweetheart,” You added.

The child sighed, finally drifting off, a smile still painted across their tiny red nose.

You and Buggy tiptoed to the door.

“Y’know…” Buggy leaned in, just as closed the door. "All that spinning and twirling got me thinking…”

“Buggy...” You raised a brow.

He grinned wickedly. “When the kid will be older, we’ll have to teach him a different kind of dance routine. One that starts in the kitchen… and ends in the bedroom.”

“Shut up your dirty mouth! You just came out of your baby's bedroom!! You should be ashamed!” You smacked his arm, stifling a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

Buggy slung an arm around your shoulders as you both padded toward your own cabin. “Oh, sweetheart…” He purred, pulling you closer, “That’s exactly what you love about me.”

[lostfirefly]

Nothing special. Soft shitty shit again :) English isn't my native language, errors may occur :)

Buggy x Reader Masterlist / Buggy x Catherine's sketches / Buggy x OC Masterlist / Buggy x Reader's sketches

“Breakfast Pest”

(Buggy x Reader / soft pestering / morning teasing / domestic Buggy chaos)

The galley was quiet, save for the sizzle of sausages in the pan and the faint scrape of a fork against the counter. The morning sun filtered in through the small round windows.

You were focused on not burning the eggs when you heard the creak of the door.

Buggy appeared, barefoot, wearing nothing but loose pajama pants hanging dangerously low on his hips. His blue hair was wild and untied, falling around his face in messy waves. He stretched like a cat, yawning, before spotting you at the stove.

“Well, well, well… look at you.” He grinned. “Little domestic dream, cooking me breakfast.”

“Don’t start.” You rolled your eyes. “Sit down. It’ll be ready in a minute.”

But of course, he didn’t sit. Instead, he padded over, slow and lazy, until he was standing right behind you.

“Hello-o-o-o...” Buggy grinned when his warm fingertips ghosted along the hem of your t-shirt. Just a light brush at first, but it was enough to make you stiffen.

“Buggy…” You warned. “Hands!”

“What?” He asked innocently, sliding his hands under your shirt anyway, fingertips grazing along your waist, mapping your skin with feather-light touches. “I just said good morning.”

“Good mornings didn’t usually involve distracting the cook.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” his voice dipped lower while he brushed his lips against your neck. “That’s exactly what they involved.”

You tried to keep your attention on the pan, but it was impossible when his mouth trailed soft kisses from your shoulder up to your jaw. His hair tickled your skin, his chest pressed flush against your back, warm, firm, smelling faintly of sleep and sea salt.

“Fuck!” He chuckled when you shivered. “Mmm, you liked that, huh?”

“Buggy…”

“Say my name like that again, and breakfast’s going to burn,” he murmured, grazing your earlobe with his teeth. One hand drifted up slowly, teasingly, while the other curled around your stomach, pulling you closer.

You managed to flip the eggs without dropping the spatula, which earned you a low laugh against your throat.

“Look at you. My little multitasker,” Buggy teased, pressing another kiss just below your ear. “Cooking and falling apart in my arms? Talented.”

“Or maybe I was just trying not to let you win.”

“Oh...” Buggy smirked against your skin, tightening his hands around your waist. “Sweetheart, you already let me win.”

“Stop distracting me!”

“Distracting you? I’m motivating you. There’s a difference.”

The sausages hissed and spat in the pan, eggs just starting to set.

“Let me go!!” you tried to keep your hand steady, spatula firm… but Buggy’s mouth on your neck made that mission impossible.

“Na-ah! You couldn’t even hold a spatula straight with me around.” He giggled against your skin.

“No!” you gritted your teeth, managing, “I can!”

“Good. Then I’ll make it harder.” His hand suddenly snatched the spatula right from your fingers. He waved it in triumph. “HA! And now you couldn’t.”

“Buggy!! Give that back!” you swatted at him, but he danced away.

“I was the captain,” Buggy declared, pointing the spatula at you. “Which meant I was in charge of the kitchen.”

“Since when did captaincy apply to breakfast?” you crossed your arms.

“Since right now.”

“Keep talking, and you’ll be my dead breakfast clown! Give the spatula back!”

“You're so boring in the morning!” Buggy grinned, flipping a sausage (badly). It landed half out of the pan. “Look at that. My natural talent.”

“Go away, fucking natural talent.” You groaned, grabbing the pan before he ruined everything. “You were going to burn breakfast.”

“Good,” Buggy teased, sliding up behind you again, still clutching the spatula. “Then it would match your cheeks. The only thing burning in here was you when I touched you like this...” He ran his lips over your neck.

“Stop doing it!” you squealed.

Buggy didn’t respond. His free hand slid under your shirt again, slow and deliberate, his fingertips tracing up your side. He pressed a kiss just under your jaw, smug at the way your breath hitched.

“Buggy…” You muttered, half warning, half plea.

“Mmmm... There it was,” He teased. “That little voice. My favorite breakfast sound.”

“Give it back!” You finally wrestled the spatula out of his hand. “What was I going to do with you?” You sighed.

“Oh, I could think of a few things. But first…” He stole a piece of sausage straight from the pan with his fingers and popped it into his mouth. “Mmm. Perfect. Just like you.”

“Fuck you!” You threw the dishtowel at him. “Calm down and sit at the table before I killed you.”

Buggy laughed, catching the towel. “Milady!” He snatched the frying pan from the oven and bowed. “Breakfast was served, sweetheart. Compliments of your favorite clown.”

He sat down and took a bite of egg, chewed with exaggerated care.

“Tasty?” You asked, smiling.

“Hmmm… a little too much love in this one. Next time, hold back.”

The dishtowel hit him square in the chest this time.

Buggy just grinned wider. “What? That’s showbiz, baby!”

[lostfirefly]

Buggy the Dad again :) You, Buggy and your kids are baking a cake :) Today I was at a birthday party for a coffee shop in my building and I saw a family eating a colorful cake. So they were my inspiration. English isn't my native language, errors may occur :)

Buggy x Reader Masterlist / Buggy x Catherine's sketches / Buggy x OC Masterlist / Buggy x Reader's sketches

“Three Clowns and a Cake”

(Fluff / domestic chaos / family AU)

“Please, stop!!” You said sternly.

The kitchen was already a war zone. Flour on the floor. Eggshells in the sink. Sprinkles in places where sprinkles should not be.

You stood at the counter with the mixing bowl, trying to remember if you already added sugar… or if that was just wishful thinking.

Behind you, chaos brewed.

Your daughter, in a crooked paper chef’s hat, was sticking her tiny fingers into the frosting bowl. Your son is banging a wooden spoon like it’s a drum. And Buggy, fully grown man, mind you, was sneaking more chocolate chips into his mouth than into the batter.

“Buggy!!” You started, turning just in time to catch him mid-chew.

“Whaaaat?” He froze like a guilty raccoon. “Quality clown control!”

“You are the quality problem!”

The kids giggled, clearly taking his side. Your daughter tried to feed her father another handful of chips.

Buggy took them with exaggerated delight. “See? She gets it!”

You sighed, turning back to the bowl, only to feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind.

“Smells good, sugar.” Buggy leaned his chin on your shoulder, peering at the batter. “Wanna taste?”

“It’s raw.”

“So am I,” He whispered in your ear, waggling his brows until you shove him away with a laugh.

Your son now decided the spoon was a catapult, flinging batter onto the floor. The daughter was trying to put the chef’s hat on Buggy’s head over his bandana.

And at that moment, surrounded by giggles, flour, and the worst attempt at cake-making in history, you couldn't help but smile.

Because these were your three clowns. Messy, noisy, ridiculous, but so full of love that your heart feels like it might burst.

When the cake finally came out lopsided and a little burnt, Buggy presented it with a flourish.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Greatest Cake on Earth!”

“Mommy, are we gonna decorate it?” Your daughter asked, looking at the cake.

“We need to wait for it to cool down.” You ruffled her hair.

Buggy and the kids stared at the plate with the cake, not taking their eyes off it, poking it periodically. It was cooling on the counter.

“Who wants to help me with the decoration?” You asked, placing the frosting bowl in front of the kids.

You would regret your question, because that was the point where things went wrong.

You handed your daughter a butter knife and your son a spatula. “Okay, my little hurricanes. Remember? Nice and easy...”

“No!” Buggy interrupted instantly. “Nice and easy is for cowards, sweetheart.”

“Buggy!” You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t!”

“Too late, Y/N!” He dipped his finger into the frosting, smeared a big stripe across your cheek, and grinned.

“DADDY!!!” The kids screamed with glee.

Your son flanged a blob of frosting onto Buggy’s shirt. Your daughter joined in, giggling so hard she nearly dropped the bowl.

“OH, IT’S ON!” Buggy bellowed, scooping a glob and smearing it over your son’s nose. “You’ve activated the Captain’s revenge!”

Suddenly, the kitchen turned into a battlefield.

Frosting flew. The cake got half covered. The rest ended up on faces, hair, clothes and somehow even on the ceiling.

“Oh! Come on! Don't be mad, Y/N!!!” Buggy, now looking like a pirate cupcake, tackled you in a hug from behind, pressing his frosting-covered cheek against yours.

“Nooo!!!” You squealed. “Get your hands off!! You’re sticky!!!” 

“You love me sticky!” Buggy shouted back with a smirk.

The kids were shrieking with laughter, smearing more frosting onto their father. Buggy let them, pretending to stagger, they’re defeating the mighty Captain.

Finally, exhausted and sugar-high, everyone collapsed onto the kitchen floor. Buggy had both kids in his lap, you were leaning against his side, all of you were covered in more sugar than the actual cake.

“Best. Cake. Ever,” Buggy declared proudly. “And I didn’t even burn it this time.”

“Yeah...” You laughed, leaning in to kiss his frosting-smeared cheek. “Happy mess, Captain.”

[hey-august]

A day late because I spent all of Buggy's birthday working on this~ 🥁🥁🥁

🎉PIÑATA BUGGY🎉

It's hard to see, but he also has little hands and boots!

And the ribbons are set up so that pulling 2 of them will open a candy flap, so he doesn't need to be broken open. (Although the cuteness aggression is calling to me...)

Kinda-vague but kinda-detailed how-I-made-it illustrations under the cut

No measurements for anything because this is a "maybe measure once, cut multiple times" household.

There are a few things I would have done differently:

Have the light blue hat hair thingies go out further so they don't touch the cardboard body and block the hands.

Planned the hanging strings better. The head pieces added more weight than I expected, so he tips forwards a bit.

Paper-mâché the cardboard body to give the overall shape a bit more softness.

Play with the body fringe more. I wish he was fluffier and maybe cutting the fringe longer or overlapping it more would have given that effect.

Know how to handle hot glue gun burns beforehand. 😭 Thankfully I only received 1 glue injury, but ouch.

REGARDLESS, isn't he such a cutie?!

[buggy-samaaa]

A very happy birthday to our genius jester, Buggy the Clown!!!!

🎈 🤡

That's him, I gave him a balloon for his bday ❤️