Firefly, 30+. Somewhere between Raftel and Shiganshina. Escaped the Rumbling, survived Impel Down. || Raised by stories. Fueled by hope. Fan of freedom. Fiction is my oxygen. ||
Catherine, a librarian who is searching for the trail of her sister who went missing on an expedition. Notes in books and diaries lead her to Cairo. There she finds a retailer from an artifact shop who, in exchange for selling her a map and equipment, insists that Catherine take her along. They get into a little (or maybe a big) adventure.. (based on my dream with Tom Cruise and Henry Cavill, but they have been replaced). Main characters: Sir Crocodile x OC, Buggy x OC. The Mummy and Indiana Jones vibes.
• Life Must Have It's Mysteries
Cathie-pie and Buggy are going to their new adventure to find the blue diamond.
Chapter 1, Chapter 2 (nsfw part is included), Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12 (the epilogue)
• You are what my sins enclosed, lust as not as creative as its discovery (nsfw!)
Buggy and Catherine live happily together in Cairo and they return home from the walk. Catherine made one mistake :)
• With each word your tenderness grows, tearing my fear apart, and that laugh that wrinkles your nose, it touches my foolish heart
Buggy and Catherine were spending their evening at a bar. He was busy all week with his circus, so they hardly saw each other (yes, this happens too). A simple game leads to their first fight.
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 (nsfw!)
• 'Cause honey your soul can never grow old, it's evergreen, baby your smile's forever in my mind and memory
Catherine's birthday. Buggy wants to give her a fun day.
• Let's stay together lovin' you whether, whether times are good or bad, happy or sad
Buggy had a rough day, he came home upset and got a share of comfort from his Cathie-pie :)
• Tell me what you want to hear, something that will light those ears I'm sick of all the insincere, so I'm gonna give all my secrets away
Catherine came back home and found Buggy lying on the couch with the headphones.
• If you ever find yourself lost in the dark and you can't see, I'll be the light to guide you
Buggy and Catherine have been living together for about a month one and a half to two months. Catherine sees him without his clown makeup for the first time (for a completely stupid reason, because these two couldn’t have it any other way)
• Cooking in the kitchen now that's what we do, there's something cooking in the kitchen just for you
Cathie-pie is making breakfast for her beloved clown.
• What do you do? What do you do in the bath? (NSFW part is included)
Buggy came home from a short tour. He and Catherine are taking a bath. Something gets out of control :)
• Just a second, we're not broken, just bent and we can learn to love again
Buggy asks Catherine out on a date, and they accidentally run into an old friend of hers.
• The score will show we're pretty bad, but look at all the fun we've had
Buggy screwed up (as always) and Catherine made him take her to the bowling club.
• Desire, I'm hungry, and I hope you feed me. How do you want me, how do you want me? (nsfw is included!)
Events take place after chapter 10 of "You've got the same dream as me". Catherine decides to stay in Cairo. Buggy brings her home.
• Dust the shelves and polish the glass-ware, the housework makes you happy
Catherine once again pulls out the trio Buggy, Cabaji and Mohji from the prison's point of view and forces them to clean the apartment.
• Sharing horizons that are new to us, watchin' the signs along the way, talkin' it over, just the two of us, workin' together day to day
Catherine and Buggy are celebrating six months since they first met.
• I stand in fear as she gets near, then everything's okay I hope this feeling never goes away (flashback)
Catherine and Buggy are going on their first date. Buggy sometimes reacts to simple little things in a very strange way.
• I'm still learning about life, my woman brought children for me, so I can sing them all my songs, and I can tell them stories
One morning if Buggy and Catherine had kids.
• Well, I don't know why I came here tonight, I've got the feeling that something ain't right
Neighbor asks Catherine and Buggy to look after the kids at their birthday party while she goes to get the cake.
• In my midnight confessions, when I say all the things that I want to (Bedtime Story Series)
Catherine's backstory in the format of fairy tales.
Chapter 1
• Today, my love, all I want, I wanna sing for you, yeah, I'll sing for you, baby! Happy birthday to you! (sfw + nsfw)
Buggy's bday! Catherine throws a party!
• Your nose is runnin', and your eyes are red, your head is achin', you'd be better in bed
Catherine caught a cold. Buggy takes care of her.
• I wanna kill something, I wanna destroy something
Catherine and Buggy are spending time before his imminent departure at their favorite bar. A nasty guy starts hitting on Cathie and our blue-haired hero finally finds the strength to stand up for his woman.
• I will dry your eyes, I will fight your fight, I will hold you tight and I won't let go
Catherine has a dream where she introduces Buggy to her parents (who are long dead)
• Ah, the snow is fallin', passion's callin', a glass of wine or two, I want a cuddle up, cozy down Christmas with you
Catherine and Buggy celebrate their first Xmas!!
• Watching it come true, it's taking over you, oh, this's the greatest show (flashback)
Catherine visits Buggy's show for the first time.
• Echoes of the Deep (musical again!)
Catherine brings her sister to Buggy's show :)
• Waves crash in, I give in, forever I’m yours
Buggy finally proposes to Catherine!
• An Audition for Mr. the Clown
Catherine comes to Buggy’s circus to pick up her fiancé after auditions and head to their favorite bar. Then she sees the line of hopeful performers wrapped around the tent, hears them whispering about the terrifyingly famous Mr. the Clown, and decides there is only one reasonable thing to do: join the audition herself.
Bugust (lifetime sketches, stories)
OC: Day 1, Day 2, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6, Day 12, Day 14, Day 15, Day 16 (nsfw), Day 19, Day 20, Day 21, Day 22, Day 24 (nsfw), Day 25, Day 27, Day 28. Day 30 (nsfw), Day 31
Reader: Day 1, Day 12, Day 16 (NSFW), Day 23 (NSFW), Day 26, Day 29
Sir Crocodile x OC
• Trembling, crawling across my skin, feeling your cold dead eyes, stealing the life of mine (a bday present for my @yujo-nishimura)
Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 (The Finale, NSFW part is included)
Yujo is a young girl whom her father has betrothed to Mr. 3. She and her sister come to the ball, where she meets one of the members of the Cross Guild Corporation Sir Crocodile.
I was thinking about how it would be hard for Buggy to give his daughters in marriage..
Buggy x Reader Masterlist / Buggy x Catherine's sketches / Buggy x OC Masterlist / Buggy x Reader's sketches.
The music swells. Buggy stands tall, but his hands won’t stop fidgeting at his sleeves. Catherine had to smack his arm three times already so he’d quit tugging his bow tie.
Then the doors open. Evelyn (or Aurora) appears, glowing, radiant, with that same sparkle in her eyes that always reminded him of Catherine. For a moment, Buggy forgets to breathe.
“Holy crap…” he mutters under his breath.
She slips her arm into his. Her hand is small but steady, anchoring him the way she’s done since she was little, when she’d grab his fingers before stepping into the circus ring.
“Ready, dad?” she whispers.
Buggy nods quickly, blinking too much.
“Y-yeah. But, uh, maybe slow down so I don’t trip? Don’t want your old man to faceplant in front of everyone.”
She giggles, and the sound nearly breaks him. He guides her forward, one step at a time, and the pride swells in his chest so big it almost hurts. He wants to shout, Look at her! That’s my girl! MY marshmallow!
Halfway down the aisle, he leans closer and whispers: “You’re the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t let anyone tell you different. And if that guy ever makes you cry.. well, he’ll have to deal with me.”
When they reach the end, Buggy’s hand hesitates. He knows this is the moment he has to let her go. His nose twitches, his lip trembles, and Catherine’s eyes glisten in the front row.
Buggy kisses his daughter’s temple, holds her just a second longer than tradition allows, and then, with the heaviest and proudest heart, places her hand into her partner’s.
As he steps back, he wipes his tears messily on his sleeve and mutters for everyone to hear: “Damn right she deserves a standing ovation.”
The band strikes up, not just any music - her music, something grand and dramatic. The doors fly open like a stage curtain, and there’s Aurora, radiant, confident, her grin so much like Catherine’s it knocks Buggy’s breath away.
“Holy sh...” He almost blurts, but bites his tongue.
Aurora loops her arm through his, giving him a little wink. “Showtime, dad.”
Buggy’s chest swells, and suddenly it’s just like all those times he guided her into the spotlight at the circus. He whispers: “Don’t forget, kiddo… no one steals the show from you.”
They start down the aisle. Aurora walks like she owns it: her chin is high, her eyes are sparkling, and Buggy feels the crowd’s gaze burning, but all he sees is his little marshmallow, the one who used to build forts out of blankets and pretend they were pirate ships.
Halfway down, he can’t help it. He throws his free arm up, announcing: “Ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes, the star of tonight’s performance!”
Aurora bursts into laughter, tugging him forward. “Dad!!”
By the time they reach the end, Buggy’s tears are streaming, but he still smirks through them. He kisses her cheek, and as he hands her off, he mutters to her partner:
“You hurt her, I’ll bury you under three tons of sand. Got it?”
The crowd chuckles. Buggy just beams. That’s my girl.
Evelyn’s Wedding (soft, tender, intimate)
The music is quieter this time. The doors open slowly, and there’s Evelyn: delicate, glowing, her shyness turned to calm grace. Buggy’s breath hitches, and he doesn’t have a single joke ready.
She takes his arm gently, looking up at him with that nervous little smile. “Don’t cry, dad…”
Too late. His eyes are already glassy. He squeezes her hand and whispers: “You’re… perfect, marshmallow. Absolutely perfect.”
Step by step, they move forward. Unlike Aurora, Evelyn leans into him, and Buggy straightens his back like he’s holding the whole world steady just for her. He whispers silly things to keep her calm: “Left foot, right foot… hey, you’re not even tripping! You’re killing it!”
She giggles softly, squeezing his hand tighter. The sound melts him into a puddle.
When they reach the altar, Buggy hesitates. His hand doesn’t want to let go. For years, he was the one she clung to when she was scared of the crowd, of the world, of that red nose she once hated. Now she stands beautiful and proud, and he has to give her away.
He kisses her forehead, while his tears dropping onto her veil. His voice cracks as he whispers: “Remember, no matter where you go… you’ll always be my little marshmallow.”
"I know." Evelyn smiles. "I love you, daddy."
"Love you too, Evie-bug."
Buggy places her hand into her partner’s, then stumbles back, wiping his eyes furiously.
Catherine in the front row just smiles knowingly, extending her hand to him.
Buggy x Reader Masterlist / Buggy x Catherine's sketches / Buggy x OC Masterlist / Buggy x Reader's sketches
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the gentle glow of the star-shaped nightlight on the shelf.
Evelyn lay on her stomach, her glasses were folded neatly on her nightstand, Lil' Whisper the bunny was tucked beneath her chin. Aurora was sprawled out next to her, hugging Boom Boom tightly, when her one foot sticking out from under the blanket.
The room was hushed but full of whispers and soft giggles, the kind only sisters share when the world is quiet.
“Aurie... Do you ever get… scared?” Evelyn asked suddenly.
"What do you mean?" Aurora blinked. “Like monsters under the bed?”
“No,” Evelyn said, hugging her bunny a little closer. “Like… scared of being weird. Or that people laugh at our noses. Or that I’m not as cool as you…”
“Me?" Aurora’s eyes widened. "But I thought you were cooler!”
“You always talk so much at on playgrounds, at the doctor's." Evelyn rolled onto her side. "And you don’t care when people look. I just… hide behind my book.”
For a moment, Aurora was quiet. She sat up, hugging Boom Boom tight to her chest.
“I get scared too,” She whispered. “Sometimes I look in the mirror and think... what if people see me like a joke. Like daddy thinks they see him.”
“Really?” Evelyn looked up.
"Yeah." Aurora nodded. “I love my nose. I do. But sometimes it feels like the world doesn’t.”
There was silence again. Evelyn reached out and grabbed her sister’s hand, holding it between them.
“I think you’re amazing,” She said.
“You too.” Aurora smiled.
The door creaked softly open and Catherine peeked in.
“Hey! Shouldn’t you two be asleep by now?” She asked with a warm little smile.
"Sorry, mom." Evelyn froze. “We were just...”
Catherine walked over and sat at the edge of the bed, brushing a strand of hair from Evelyn’s face.
“I heard whispers,” She said gently. “Everything okay?”
"Yeah!" Aurora nodded. “We were just talking about... stuff,” She said. “Like you and aunt Jules.”
Catherine didn’t ask more. She just leaned in and kissed each of their foreheads.
“You both are amazing,” She said, “Your dad and I are the luckiest parents in the world.”
“Even when I’m scared sometimes?” Evelyn blinked up at her.
“Especially then,” Catherine smiled, tucking the blanket up to Evelyn’s chin. “You know, your grandfather would say 'being brave doesn’t mean never being scared. It means you keep going'. And you two? You’re the bravest and the prettiest girls I know.”
They both melted under her touch.
Aurora suddenly pushed herself up on her elbows. “Mom?” she asked quietly.
"Hm?"
"Do you miss our grandfather?"
Catherine paused for just a second. "Of course I miss him." She stroked Aurora's hair.
"Is it normal to miss your family when you are not at home right now?"
"Yeah...."
“Do you think daddy misses us right now?”
"Why are you asking that, Aurie?"
Evelyn hugged her bunny a little tighter. “He’s at the bar … with uncle Cabaji and uncle Mohji,” She added.
Aurora made a small face. “Uncle Cabaji probably talks too much again, pretending he's cool.”
“And Uncle Mohji cries again,” Evelyn nodded solemnly. “He reread 'Eat.Pray.Love' again and can't stop talking about this book.” She immediately broke into giggles.
Catherine let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “That sounds about right.”
Aurora flopped back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling. “I think daddy misses us more than them.”
Evelyn nodded sleepily. “Yeah… he always does.”
"Of course he misses you. But he needs time for himself too. You will see him in the morning. Alright, my troublemakers. It's late, time to go to sleep." Catherine tucked both girls and kissed their noses. “Goodnight, my stars. Good night, Boom Boom and Lil' Whisper. Take care of my girls." She stood, turned off the nightlight. "If anything, I'm sitting in the living room for now, in a couple of hours I'll go to the bedroom. Look for me there."
"Okay, mom." Evelyn said, yawning. "Good night."
"Good night, mommy." Aurora added.
From the hallway, Catherine glanced back once more. The girls were curled up close, Evelyn hugging Lil’ Whisper, Aurora wrapped around Boom Boom. And in the distance, she could hear faint girls' giggles, probably calling to their daddy to say nighty night.
Buggy was at the bar, sitting in a corner booth with Cabaji and Mohji, half-listening to whatever ridiculous debate they were having about girls for one night or something like that. His drink sat untouched.
His phone buzzed. "Evie-bug" appared on his screen. He immediately perked up, excusing himself from the table.
“Heyyy,” He answered, trying not to sound too excited.
“DADDY!” Two little voices screamed in his ear at once.
Buggy chuckled, already smiling like a fool. “You’re supposed to be in bed, tiny menaces.”
“We are in bed!” Evelyn insisted. “Mommy tucked us in!”
“And kissed our foreheads!” Aurora added.
“And kissed Boom Boom and Lil’ Whisper too!” Evelyn giggled.
Buggy leaned against the wall. “Yeah? Did she kiss your little red noses too?”
“Of course,” Aurora said proudly. “And Evelyn let her even though she got shy!”
“I didn’t!” Evelyn gasped.
“You kinda did,” Aurora whispered, then giggled so hard she had to hand the phone back to her sister.
Buggy laughed. “Well, I’m glad your momma’s taking care of my favorite girls.”
Evelyn’s voice came back, softer now, almost a whisper. “Daddy? Don’t forget to buy muffins. Mommy’s favorite ones. The cinnamon ones with the crunchy tops.”
“And a cake!” Aurora chimed in. “A big one! Because mommy was working hard all day, she was at the amusement park with us and she definiiiitely deserves it.”
Buggy blinked. “You guys are trying to out-soft me, huh?”
“You’re still the best softy,” Evelyn whispered sleepily. “Can’t wait to see you tomorrow…”
“Don’t be too loud when you come home,” Aurora yawned. “We’ll be sleeping. But you can come kiss our cheeks. And Boom Boom’s. And Whisper’s.”
Buggy smiled into the phone. “Deal. Sweet dreams, girls.”
“Night-night, daddy!! We love you!”
“Love you muuuch, dad!”
Buggy stood there with the phone still pressed to his ear after they hung up, staring at the empty wall of the bar while his drink sat forgotten again.
"Captain?" Cabaji raised a brow when he came back. “You good?”
Buggy grinned. “Never better.”
And on his way home, he bought the biggest damn box of muffins he could find and two cakes. Because his girls deserved everything sweet in the world.
I didin't plan to write ch. 2, but you asked me :) I'm sorry, I'm in a sad mood :)
"What He Couldn’t Believe" (Ch. 2)
Months after leaving Buggy’s crew with a broken heart, Y/N has done their best to build a life that no longer revolves around the clown who humiliated them. But moving on is messier than it should be, especially when Captain Buggy the Clown seems impossible to outrun. A chance meeting in port opens the door to awkward conversations, old laughter, and the painful truth that some feelings survive even when trust does not.
Buggy x Reader Masterlist / Buggy x Catherine's sketches / Buggy x OC Masterlist / Buggy x Reader's sketches / Catherine's food songs
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
Chapter 1
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
For a while after leaving Buggy’s ship, you learned how to live in pieces.
Not dramatically. Not beautifully. No grand reinvention, no miraculous new self rising from heartbreak in silk and moonlight. It was uglier than that. Quieter. You woke up in strange rented rooms and forgot, for a second, where you were. You reached for things that no longer existed. A familiar voice in the corridor. The creak of a ship under your feet. Blue hair in the edge of your vision that turned out to be ribbon, laundry, sea glass, anything else. Everything else.
You learned ports by their smells before their names. Coffee and tar. Fish and wet rope. Hot bread from street stalls. Old beer soaked into dockside wood. You learned which taverns were loud enough to drown thought and which cafés let you sit too long with a cup going cold between your hands. You learned how to keep moving before memory settled fully into your bones.
And still, some days, it found you first.
A red nose painted on a carnival poster.
A burst of theatrical laughter from a street performer.
Some idiot in a flashy coat thinking he could wear confidence the way Buggy did, unaware that on anyone else it looked like costume jewelry.
It was worst at night.
In the thin, ugly hour when the room went still and your body forgot to keep pretending, you would see it again. The cabin door half open. The bed. The stranger. His face turning toward you. That laugh. That bright, cruel laugh, sharp as broken glass because he had been afraid and that had somehow become your punishment.
You stopped crying all at once, one day.
That was stranger than the crying itself.
It happened in a café in a town you did not plan to stay in, with chipped cups and a blue awning and a woman at the next table arguing cheerfully with a fishmonger. You were stirring sugar into your coffee and thinking, dimly, that you should probably leave by noon if you wanted to catch the southern ferry, when you realized your chest still hurt but your eyes didn’t.
The grief had not gone.
It had simply changed shape.
It sat lower now. Deeper. Not a knife anymore. More like something buried and alive.
You learned how to smile again before you learned how to mean it. You worked where you could. Helped in kitchens, mended clothes, carried trays, copied inventories, did whatever made enough coin to buy another week of staying somewhere else. People liked you. You became good at being liked in ways that required nothing dangerous from you. Friendly. Useful. Funny in small doses. Never open enough for anyone to step too close.
You did not speak Buggy’s name.
Not out loud.
That part, at least, felt like dignity.
The world spoke it for you often enough.
He was hard to escape once you started trying.
Buggy the Clown had become a story people enjoyed repeating. In taverns. On piers. In market squares where sailors traded gossip like currency. Sometimes it was admiration. Sometimes mockery. Usually both. Tales of his circus, his temper, his impossible ego, his latest stunt, his crew, his fights, his mouth.
And, increasingly, his company.
It was stupid, how much that still stung.
You had no right, you told yourself. No claim. No place in his life anymore. If women laughed too close to him in some portside bar, if girls hung around the edges of his crew, if another body warmed his cabin, what did that have to do with you now?
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
But then you would hear it.
A barmaid in Alubarna saying she’d seen the clown captain with two women hanging off his shoulders.
A knife-thrower in a traveling troupe, half-drunk, claiming Buggy liked attention from anyone pretty enough to feed it to him.
A bored merchant’s wife gossiping over tea that she’d heard a dancer spent the night on his ship in Jeddah.
Half of it was probably false. Exaggerated. Turned into portside theater because Buggy attracted that sort of storytelling the way lamps attract moths. But the details hardly mattered. The shape of it hurt all the same.
Not because it meant he had forgotten you.
That would have been cleaner.
It hurt because you could imagine too easily what part of him was doing it. The same ugly part that mistook attention for proof, affection for a trick, desire for something to consume quickly before it disappeared. The same part that had looked at your love and, terrified, chosen to spoil it before it could leave him on its own.
You hated that you still understood him.
That was the indecent part.
Not the love. Not even the pain.
The understanding.
As for Buggy, he was having an even worse time than the rumors deserved.
Not that anyone who saw him publicly would have guessed.
Publicly, Captain Buggy the Clown remained Captain Buggy the Clown. Loud. Ornamental. Infuriatingly alive. He took up rooms the way storms took up skies. He was still surrounded, of course. By noise. By men eager to please him. By women eager to flirt with the bright dangerous thing in expensive fabric. He encouraged it on instinct sometimes, then seemed to realize too late what he was doing and snap at whoever had come too close.
Once, in a port on the western coast, a pretty girl with gold bracelets had leaned into him at a table and purred something about how lonely captains must get on long voyages.
Buggy had looked at her.
Paused.
Then stood up so abruptly he nearly overturned the chair.
“Actually,” he’d said, too sharply, “I’m in a terrible mood. Find someone else to climb.”
The girl blinked.
The crew went silent.
Buggy stalked out before the awkwardness could become complete, his coat dragging fury behind him like a banner.
On another night, one of the newer girls who helped with costumes had wandered a little too far into his cabin with a bottle of wine and a hopeful expression. She came out less than two minutes later looking confused and faintly insulted.
“What happened?” Cabaji had asked.
She made a face. “I don’t know. He told me to leave.”
Cabaji stared.
“He what?”
“He told me to leave,” she repeated. “Then asked why the hell everyone keeps coming into his room like it’s a rental.”
Cabaji, who was neither wise nor subtle but occasionally capable of pattern recognition, had watched the closed cabin door for a long moment before muttering, “...ah.”
Buggy was not noble.
That was important.
He did not become noble because he was sad. He did not suddenly turn into a saint with impeccable instincts and a broken little heart. He remained vain, rude, selfish in flashes, impossible to manage, quick to anger, quicker to perform. He still liked being looked at. Still liked being wanted. Sometimes he still leaned toward flirtation by reflex because he had spent so much of his life feeding on the shallow parts of attention that he didn’t always realize when he was reaching for them.
The difference was that now it tasted rotten in his mouth.
Now, every time a girl laughed too brightly at his jokes or touched his sleeve a little too long, a second image arrived behind it. Yours. In the cabin doorway. Looking at him as if the floor had just opened beneath your feet.
He could not unlearn that image.
It did not matter how much he drank or shouted or shoved himself into distraction. It remained.
Some nights he sat alone in his cabin after everyone else had gone quiet and stared at his own hands as though they belonged to the man who ruined things, not the man pretending to be him now.
Once, half-drunk and furious for reasons he could not explain aloud, he found the shirt.
The shirt.
He had shoved it into a drawer after that day without looking properly, as if hiding it quickly enough would undo the fact of it. Months later, hunting for a clean scarf and failing, he pulled the drawer too hard and there it was, caught beneath a belt buckle and an old deck of cards.
Folded badly. Wrinkled. With the button sewn back on.
He sat down on the edge of the bed so fast it looked like a collapse.
Then he laughed once, low and ugly.
Not because anything was funny.
Because of course that was what remained. Not some dramatic love token. Not a letter. Not a tear-stained keepsake fit for tragic legends. Just a button. A stupid, domestic, careful little repair. Proof that while he was busy wrecking the thing with both hands, you had been doing something small and kind for him with yours.
He kept the shirt after that.
Never wore it.
Just kept it where he could find it.
He told himself it was punishment.
Maybe it was.
Maybe it was the closest thing he had to prayer.
By the time six months had passed, you had almost grown used to being someone else.
Not wholly. The old self still turned up sometimes. In the way you paused at harbors and listened for ships without meaning to. In the way your chest tightened whenever someone laughed too cruelly. In the way you still made tea for two some mornings and only noticed after.
But you had built something. Thin, perhaps. Makeshift. But yours.
A room over a café near the port in a city far enough south that the air always smelled warm, even at dusk. Work helping the owner keep accounts in the mornings and serving coffee through the noon rush when the ferrymen came in shouting. Evenings mostly your own. A market you knew well enough to walk without thinking. Two or three acquaintances who might even become friends if you let them. A cat with one torn ear who had decided your windowsill belonged to him.
It was not the life you imagined once.
But it was a life.
And then one afternoon, while carrying a tray of small cups to a table of dockworkers arguing over cards, you heard a laugh so familiar your entire body forgot how to move.
No.
Not just a laugh.
His laugh.
Too loud for the room. Too sharp at the edges. Painted in arrogance even when he wasn’t trying. The sound of a man taking up air he believed had been made for him.
The tray rattled in your hands.
One of the dockworkers looked up. “You all right?”
You nodded.
You lied.
You set down the cups without spilling them, somehow, and turned before sense could stop you.
He was there.
Near the door, sunlight at his back, arguing with the café owner over something theatrical and obviously unimportant. Blue hair tied badly. Red nose bright as ever. Rings catching the late light. Coat slightly too grand for the room, because of course it was. He looked... older, perhaps. Or maybe simply worn in places you now knew how to recognize. There was more strain around the eyes. More tiredness in the mouth when it wasn’t performing.
For one terrifying second he didn’t see you.
And in that second you saw everything at once.
The months.
The hurt.
The stupid loyal leap of your heart.
The humiliation that followed it.
Then he turned.
Saw you.
Stopped.
It happened so completely the whole room seemed to change around it. Whatever he had been saying died mid-breath. Whatever expression he’d been wearing vanished.
You had thought, foolishly, that if this ever happened you would know what to do.
You knew nothing.
The café owner glanced between you both, confused. A sailor near the counter laughed at some unrelated joke. Outside, a cart rattled by in the street. The world did not care that your ribs had just become a cage again.
Buggy recovered first.
Not well. Not fully. But first.
He straightened a little. Removed his hands from where they had been moving too much. Became, very visibly, careful.
That was almost worse than if he had swaggered.
“...You,” he said.
Brilliant. Truly.
You might have laughed if your throat hadn’t gone dry.
“Yes,” you managed.
He nodded once, as if confirming you were solid. Real. Not some guilt-born hallucination conjured by caffeine and bad sleep.
“I didn’t know you were here.”
“Clearly.”
His mouth twitched.
Not a smile. More like a reflex toward one that he aborted halfway, remembering himself.
The owner looked between you both again. “Friend of yours?”
The pause that followed felt enormous.
Buggy answered first, and there was something almost respectful in the restraint of it.
“I know them,” he said.
Not mine.
Not beloved.
Not anything presumptuous.
Just that.
You hated how relieved that made you.
The owner shrugged and wandered off. The room resumed. Cups clinked. Chairs scraped. Somebody shouted for more sugar.
Buggy stayed where he was.
Then, after a hesitation so naked it startled you, he said, “Can I sit?”
Every instinct screamed no.
Every memory screamed worse things.
And yet there he was, asking instead of assuming, holding himself like a man approaching a wild animal he had once fed from his hand and then frightened away forever.
You should have said no.
You didn’t.
The word that came out was, “If you like.”
Buggy almost laughed at that, but the sound died before it could become itself. He crossed the room and sat at the small table near the window, hands visible, movements contained, as though he understood in every inch of his body that one wrong note would send you fleeing.
You remained standing for a second longer than necessary.
Then sat across from him.
The silence was appalling.
He looked at the sugar bowl. The spoons. The cat on the sill. Anywhere but your face at first. Then, slowly, up.
“You look...” He stopped.
Healthier would be a lie. Happier would be an insult. Alive sounded too dramatic.
You saved him from the sentence.
“Still here?”
That earned something dangerously close to a real smile.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Still here.”
There it was.
A small shard from a prison you had never even shared with him. A phrase shaped like surviving. It hurt for no reason except that too much of him still lived in the part of you that recognized things.
A girl at the counter called your name, asking where the cinnamon had gone.
You answered without looking away from Buggy.
When the interruption passed, he said, “I can leave.”
You studied him.
He meant it.
He looked as if he would go that second if you asked. Not sulking. Not performing injury. Just... go.
The knowledge settled strangely in you.
“No,” you said at last. “You’re already here.”
A flicker passed across his face.
Gratitude, maybe.
Or disbelief that you were allowing even this much.
He folded his hands. Unfolded them. Then, because he was Buggy and silence would kill him if left unchecked, he said, “This place serves terrible coffee.”
You stared.
Then, against all reason, laughed.
Not warmly. Not freely. More like the sound had escaped before you could decide whether it was safe.
Buggy blinked. Then smiled too, small and ruined around the edges.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s better.”
The words hung between you both.
Better.
Compared to what?
Compared to the cabin. Compared to the port where you left. Compared to six months of silence and rumor and imagining each other badly.
Better was not good.
But it was something.
He stayed for one cup of coffee and two false starts at conversation. You spoke mostly about neutral things at first. The city. The weather. The ferry schedules. It was absurd, sitting across from the man who had once held your heart in both hands and dropped it, discussing market prices for oranges.
Yet somehow the absurdity made it possible.
Because larger things waited like cliffs on both sides of the table, and neither of you was ready to step off them yet.
Before he left, Buggy stood awkwardly by the chair and said, “I’ll be in port two days.”
You nodded.
He hesitated.
Then: “I’m not asking for anything.”
You looked at him then, directly.
He did not look away.
“Good,” you said.
His expression tightened, but he nodded once as if accepting the hit.
“Right,” he said. “Good.”
And left.
You stood in the kitchen afterward with both hands braced against the sink while someone in the front asked for more honey and the owner shouted for cups to be washed. Your pulse would not settle. Your body seemed convinced you had either narrowly escaped death or agreed to it.
That night you slept badly.
Not because seeing him had reopened the wound exactly.
Because it had proved the wound still had a pulse.
He came back the next day.
Not to the café first.
To the flower stall across the street, where he spent ten full minutes pretending to argue over prices he could clearly afford, glancing toward the window often enough to insult your intelligence.
You let him suffer.
Only when your break began did you step outside.
He looked so obviously relieved that you nearly turned around on principle.
Instead you said, “You’re terrible at pretending not to wait.”
He sniffed. “I was buying flowers.”
“For whom?”
A pause.
Then, with maddening honesty, “Didn’t get that far.”
You looked at the flowers.
Wild white things tied badly with blue thread.
Of course.
Of course he would choose something that looked as if it had been assembled by a wounded magpie.
“Those are ugly,” you said.
He glanced down. “I know.”
You laughed again.
It was happening more easily than it should have.
That frightened you.
So you walked with him anyway.
Not far. Just through the market and down toward the harbor where the evening light stretched gold over ropes and masts. You kept space between you at first. He noticed. Said nothing. That, more than anything, made you aware that he was trying. Truly trying. Not to charm his way past what he had done. Not to crowd you into softening. Simply... trying not to make it worse.
He told a story about Cabaji falling into a barrel and getting stuck. You told him the cat at the café had bitten a customs officer. He laughed too loudly. You rolled your eyes. For ten strange, dangerous minutes it almost felt like some simpler world had opened briefly by mistake.
Then you passed a ship unloading cargo, and a woman on deck threw her head back laughing as one of the men touched her waist.
Your entire body went still.
Buggy saw it instantly.
The laughter died from his face.
You hated that he knew why.
You hated more that he looked gutted by it.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Not grandly. Not theatrically. No audience, no pose, no defensive smirk dressed as casualness.
Just that.
You looked out at the water.
He waited.
When you finally spoke, your voice was steady enough to impress even you.
“You should be.”
The words struck him cleanly. You saw that.
He nodded once.
“I know.”
That was all.
You went back to the café alone that evening.
He did not follow.
The next time you saw him was three weeks later.
Then a month after that.
Then on purpose.
That was the dangerous part.
At first it was coincidence. Or coincidence stretched thin by choice. He would appear in port when his routes allowed. You would happen to be free. He would ask, always ask, whether you wanted company for a walk, a coffee, a meal. Sometimes you said yes. Sometimes no. When you said no, he took it. Not gracefully, exactly. There was always a flash of old irritation in him, old pride smarting at denial. But he took it.
When you said yes, you discovered something almost unbearable.
He was still Buggy.
Still too loud. Still infuriating. Still vain enough to treat every reflective surface as a personal event. Still prone to inappropriate jokes at moments that did not need them.
But he was gentler with you now in ways so small they might have gone unnoticed by anyone who had not once loved every jagged edge of him. He did not crowd your space unless invited. He did not turn your silences into a performance. When he flirted by accident, as he sometimes did out of old habit, and saw the wrongness settle over your face, he corrected course with a speed that looked like pain.
Once, at a harbor tavern, a girl with red lipstick leaned over your table and purred, “Captain, you never visit us anymore.”
Buggy didn’t even glance up from his drink.
“Tragic,” he said flatly.
She laughed. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
And when she lingered a second too long, he finally looked at her with such exhausted impatience that she huffed and went elsewhere.
You had not asked for that.
That mattered.
Another time, in a narrow street full of fabric shops and hanging lanterns, he said something teasing about your hands and immediately saw your expression change at the memory of a different room, a different table, a different humiliation. He stopped walking.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
You looked at him.
“For existing?” you asked.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“For being an idiot in your general direction.”
“That’s a broad category.”
“I contain multitudes.”
You laughed despite yourself.
He did too, relieved and sad at once.
That became the shape of things.
Laughter with a bruise under it.
Months passed.
Not quickly. Not in montage. In the slow human way, full of weather and missed meetings and small choices. Sometimes you hated him all over again after seeing him, because his nearness stirred too much and left you raw. Sometimes you missed him before he had even left the table. Sometimes you thought you were only being cruel to yourself, allowing this half-return. Sometimes you thought perhaps this strange unfinished thing was the only honest form your feelings could take now.
He never asked for more.
Not at first.
That was part of what made it possible.
You heard, through him and others, that the crew had mostly stopped bringing girls near him like treats set on a tray. That he shouted more now when anyone assumed he’d be interested. That a pretty singer in a port town once called him “hard to please,” and he’d muttered, “You’ve got no idea,” into his glass.
You pretended not to care.
He pretended not to notice that you cared.
Then one evening, nearly a year after the cabin, you found yourself on the deck of his ship again.
Not because you had planned to return.
Because a storm had trapped half the harbor, and his crew had seen you at the docks, and somehow by the time the rain came sideways you were ushered aboard with dry blankets and loud complaints and no path back to shore until morning.
The ship felt wrong under your feet at first. Then, horribly familiar.
The deck remembered you.
The galley remembered you.
Even the corridor outside his cabin seemed to tilt with memory.
Buggy knew it too. You could see it in the way he stayed half a pace farther from you than the space truly required, as though he understood every plank carried its own ghost.
In the kitchen, he handed you tea without comment. You took it. Your fingers brushed. Neither of you said anything.
Later, standing under the awning while rain lashed the dark sea silver, you laughed at some absurd story Mohji told about a monkey stealing his boot, and Buggy laughed too, real and helpless for once.
The sound faded.
You both went quiet.
“There it is,” he said softly.
“What?”
He looked out at the storm. “That thing.”
You knew without asking what he meant.
The bittersweetness of it. The strange ache curled inside even the good moments now, because both of you knew what had once been broken to make them necessary.
You leaned against the rail.
“It doesn’t go away,” you said.
“No.”
“You remember too.”
He looked at you then, and there was no performance anywhere in his face.
“Every day.”
The honesty of it made your throat tighten.
Rain hammered the deck. Somewhere below, men shouted over cards. Lantern light shook gold against wet wood.
Buggy rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. A nervous gesture. Rare on him. Rarer still when he let it stay visible.
“I know this isn’t...” He stopped. Started again. “I know this isn’t before.”
There it was.
The whole impossible thing reduced to one terrible truth.
Not before.
Never before again.
You stared out at the sea because looking at him felt too dangerous.
“No,” you said. “It isn’t.”
He nodded. Accepted it.
Then, after a pause long enough to become choice, he said, “Do you ever think we’re... okay?”
The question sat strangely between you.
Not together again?
Not Do you forgive me?
Not Do you still love me?
Just that.
Are we okay?
As if he knew there were many ways to mean it and none of them safe.
You let out a breath that almost became a laugh.
“That’s a very cowardly question.”
His mouth twitched. “I know.”
“You’re asking because you don’t want the answer to the bigger one.”
He looked down at his hands. Then back up.
“Probably.”
The rain softened a little.
Or maybe it only sounded that way because your pulse had gone louder.
You studied him in profile. The red nose absurd as ever. The blue hair damp at the temples. The mouth you once knew too well set now in a line of careful waiting. He looked older in regret. Softer in it too. Not healed. Never that. But changed by carrying what he had done instead of outrunning it.
You could not give him what had been lost.
Neither of you could.
So you told the truth.
“I think...” You stopped, trying to find words that didn’t lie in either direction. “I think we can talk.”
He said nothing.
“I think we can laugh sometimes.”
Still nothing. Not pushing. Not grabbing.
“I think some days I don’t hate seeing you.”
At that, his eyes shut briefly.
A hit. A mercy. Both.
“And,” you said more quietly, “I think there are parts of me that still go cold when I remember.”
He nodded once.
“I know.”
“No,” you said. “You know as much as you can. That’s not the same.”
His expression changed. Not defensive. Stricken, maybe. But he held it.
“You’re right.”
You looked back at the storm.
For a long time neither of you spoke.
Then Buggy, sounding more uncertain than you had ever heard him sound in battle, in performance, in anything, asked the question he had been walking around for months.
“Do I...” He stopped, jaw tightening. Tried again. “Do I still have a chance?”
Your whole body went still.
Not because you hadn’t expected it eventually.
Because you had.
And still, hearing it was like stepping onto a floor you didn’t trust.
He rushed on before you could answer, words tripping over pride.
“I’m not asking you to forget. I know you won’t. I know what I did. I know I don’t get to...” He made an angry little gesture at himself. “I’m not asking for anything tonight, either. I just... I need to know whether I’m making a fool of myself, or whether there’s...” He exhaled sharply. “Anything.”
You almost smiled.
“Buggy,” you said, very softly, “you are definitely making a fool of yourself.”
That pulled a broken laugh out of him.
Good.
Let him shake a little.
Then you looked at him fully and gave him the only answer you could live with.
“There is no before,” you said. “No version where it goes back and becomes untouched.”
He nodded immediately. Too quickly. As if he’d rehearsed agreeing to that in his sleep.
“I know.”
“And I don’t forgive you all the way.”
Something in his face flinched and then steadied.
“I know that too.”
“I might never.”
The rain ticked softly on the awning now, gentler than before.
Buggy swallowed.
“...Yeah.”
You let the silence sit until it belonged to both of you.
Then:
“But I’m still here.”
He stared.
Those four words hit him harder than any shouting could have.
Still here.
Not promise. Not absolution. Not happily ever after wrapped in forgiving gold.
Just presence.
Still here.
Buggy looked as though someone had reached into his chest and squeezed.
When he spoke, his voice had gone rough.
“Why?”
You almost laughed at that.
Because he still didn’t understand fully. Even now. Even after all this. Some part of him remained stunned that love could survive in damaged form, that someone could know exactly where he had failed and still choose, cautiously, to stand near him.
“Don’t make me answer that tonight,” you said.
He nodded once, immediately. “Right.”
You sipped your tea. It had gone cold.
Below deck, someone started singing badly. Mohji shouted for them to shut up. The storm moved farther out over the black water.
Buggy shifted beside you, then held very still, as if fighting an old instinct. Finally he said, “Can I stand closer, or is that idiotic?”
The question was so painfully earnest coming from him that you had to close your eyes for a second.
Then you opened them and said, “A little.”
So he moved.
Only a little.
Shoulder near yours, not touching at first. Then the ship rocked gently, and the fabric of his sleeve brushed your arm.
You did not pull away.
That was all.
No kiss.
No vow.
No grand declaration beneath the rain.
Just two people on a deck that remembered everything, standing side by side with a laugh still echoing somewhere behind them and sorrow still curled somewhere underneath it.
Not healed.
Not ruined either.
Something in between.
Something that might, on some nights, almost feel like grace.
Buggy let out a breath you felt more than heard.
“Okay,” he said quietly, as if to himself, as if testing whether the word could hold. “Okay.”
I need to share something absurd that just happened to me.
So there was this translation agency I had been working with. Nothing serious — just occasional small projects. I think they sent me around six jobs in total, and I accepted most of them.
I only declined two.
One time I literally spent the entire day running around Moscow dealing with visa paperwork — police clearance, documents for my cat, all of that chaos. I physically couldn’t take the project.
The second time I was already overloaded with a large clinical protocol from another client — the kind of project that takes priority because it’s bigger, more complex, and, let’s be honest, much better paid.
And today they wrote to me saying they decided to stop working with me… because I “often decline projects.”
Often.
Out of six.
I mean… what?
It’s honestly fascinating. They expect freelance translators to be available 24/7, even when the rates are significantly lower than other clients. As if we’re supposed to ignore bigger, more urgent work just to say “yes” to everything.
Of course, maybe I lost some potential extra income there. But at the same time, I can’t help thinking: if this is their logic, then maybe it’s actually a good thing they made that decision for me.
Because I’d rather focus on serious projects than try to fit into a system where being unavailable twice equals being “unreliable.”
Freelance life is unpredictable — some days you’re overloaded, some days you’re not. That’s just how it works.
Anyway… I guess they’re now looking for someone who can say “yes” all the time.
Somewhere in February 2024, I wrote the first chapter of "You've Got the Same Dream as Me" that was never meant to become… this.
It started as something small. Just a fun idea, really. A little adventure with vague inspiration from my dream with Tom Cruise and Henry Cavill, from the Mummy and Indiana Jones. Nothing too serious, nothing I thought would stay with me for long. Catherine existed in that story before Buggy did, and even when he appeared a couple of chapters later, they were never supposed to be anything more than reluctant companions. If anything, they irritated each other more than they got along.
Catherine was stressed and overwhelmed, searching for her sister, running on nerves and instinct, snapping at him without explaining much. Buggy, in return, was loud, dramatic, and absolutely unwilling to let her drag him into trouble without commentary. He would tease her, provoke her, flirt in the most inconvenient ways possible, just to get a reaction. She hated it. He hated how she would rush headfirst into danger without thinking. But for some reason, he always followed.
That was the beginning. Not romance, not softness, not anything gentle. Just chaos, tension, and two people who couldn’t quite stay away from each other.
At some point, somewhere in the middle of that first egyptian storyline, I realized they weren’t meant to stay just friends. It wasn’t planned. There was no outline, no grand intention. It was just a quiet understanding that the story had already made that decision for me.
And even then, I didn’t think it would grow beyond that.
But it did.
After they got together, I wrote a small piece about what their life might look like next. Just one fic. And then there was another one. And another. And somewhere along the way, they stopped being characters I controlled and became people I was simply observing.
They gained history. Catherine had her family, her memories, her traditions. Buggy had his past, parts of it still hidden, parts of it slowly unfolding. They began building something together in the smallest, quietest ways: evening walks, inside jokes, those oddly specific little anniversaries that only make sense to them, the kind you wouldn’t even think to celebrate unless you cared enough to notice.
Buggy, who didn’t understand why any of it mattered at first, started writing those dates down in his phone, because he realized they mattered to her. Not because he suddenly became someone else, but because he chose to pay attention. And that, to me, always felt more important than any dramatic declaration.
They changed, but not in a way that erased who they were. Buggy didn’t become calm or perfectly expressive, and Catherine didn’t stop being intense or emotional. They remained themselves, just more aware of each other. More willing to adjust. More willing to stay.
Two years later, they are not the same people they were at the beginning. They are still flawed, still complicated, still capable of making mistakes, but they have grown into something steadier. Something that feels lived-in rather than imagined.
And somehow, almost unexpectedly, they reached a point where marriage felt like a natural continuation rather than a distant idea.
Somewhere along the way, another universe appeared as well. It started as a joke, just a playful thought about what their life might look like if they had children. It wasn’t supposed to go anywhere, but, much like everything else in this story, it didn’t stay small.
Aurora and Evelyn appeared, and they quickly became more than just an idea. They weren’t copies of their parents, nor were they simple extensions of them. They became people in their own right, with their own personalities, their own fears, their own ways of navigating the world.
When they were younger, they carried a lot of Buggy in them - loud, chaotic, endlessly energetic, the kind of children who could turn any quiet moment into noise and laughter. But even then, there were differences. One would laugh through her pain, covering it with brightness and energy. The other would hold onto it more quietly, processing it in her own time, finding comfort in small things.
As they grew older, they developed further. Aurora gravitated toward the stage, toward performance, toward taking up space in the world in a way that echoed Buggy’s presence. Evelyn, influenced by the stories she grew up hearing, stories filled with pirates, myths, and ancient places, found her way into archaeology, into uncovering what was hidden and understanding what came before.
They didn’t exist to fulfill their parents’ dreams. They found their own paths, shaped by what they were given but not confined by it.
And through all of that, the bond between them remained strong. Not competitive, not defined by comparison, but grounded in something simpler and more honest.
This story was never meant to become something this large. It wasn’t supposed to last for years, or grow into multiple versions of the same world, or become a place i return to when i need comfort.
But it did.
Because somewhere along the way, it stopped being just about adventure.
It became about people learning how to love without losing themselves. About change that doesn’t erase the past, but builds on it. About growth that feels imperfect, uneven, and real.
Buggy is still Buggy. He is still loud, still dramatic, still impulsive, still carrying that quiet fear that he is not enough. Those parts of him don’t disappear. They don’t get magically resolved.
But now, he has something he didn’t have before.
He has a place to return to.
He has someone who sees him as more than his worst moments.
He has something worth trying for.
And in another version of that life, he has two daughters who love him without question.
This all started as something small, something I didn’t expect to matter.
And somehow, over time, it became something that does.
Not just a story, but a place.
And i think that’s the part i’ll always be most grateful for.
Today you would have turned 40.
I’m 39 now. Somehow I caught up with you.
It’s been 14 years, and people like to say that time heals.
It doesn’t. It just softens the edges so you can breathe without breaking every second.
There isn’t a single day I don’t think of you.
Some days it’s quiet.
Today it’s loud.
I keep thinking about how you knew how much I wanted all of this, to leave, to build something elsewhere, to start a different life.
I’m so close to it now that it scares me.
And sometimes, I hate myself for this thought, but it still comes:
if you were here, it would be easier.
Not because of politics, or countries, or anything external.
Just because I wouldn’t be doing this alone.
I imagine telling you everything, how overwhelming it feels, how fragile this dream suddenly seems when it’s about to become real.
And I already know what you would say.
“Hey. You’ll be fine. It’s you.”
Maybe that’s why I’m still moving forward.
Because that voice never really left.
I wonder sometimes what would have happened if life had gone differently. Maybe we would have ruined each other. Maybe not.
But that version of life still exists somewhere in my mind, like a parallel line I can almost touch but never reach.
So tonight I’m just sitting here with a glass of wine, watching something meaningless on YouTube, and thinking about you.
Catherine comes to Buggy’s circus to pick up her fiancé after auditions and head to their favorite bar. Then she sees the line of hopeful performers wrapped around the tent, hears them whispering about the terrifyingly famous Mr. the Clown, and decides there is only one reasonable thing to do: join the audition herself.
Nothing special, I just missed my lovebirds so much :) 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 / Catherine's food songs
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Catherine had come to the circus for one simple reason: to steal her fiancé for the evening.
That had been the arrangement. Buggy had auditions all afternoon, and when he was done, they were supposed to go to their bar, the one where they met each other, the one with the old wooden tables, the amber lights, and the bartender who never blinked anymore when Buggy demanded “something worthy of a star.”
Catherine had expected noise, of course. A little crowd. Some performers lingering outside. Maybe a few hopefuls stretching by the gates.
She had not expected half of Cairo.
She stopped dead at the corner.
The line started at the circus entrance, curled past the striped side banners, and stretched so far down the dusty street that for one absurd second she thought perhaps there had been some terrible misunderstanding and the king himself was inside.
Then she spotted the costumes.
Acrobat girls with glittering hair and elegant necks. Jugglers clutching rings and clubs. Men with dramatic cheekbones and tight vests. Two tightrope walkers. One contortionist calmly folded into a shape that looked medically insulting. A knife-thrower in black leather. A magician in entirely too much velvet.
“Fucking god!” Catherine blinked once and smiled. “Well,” She murmured to herself. “Look at you, Mr. the Clown.”
Of course, she knew why.
Buggy’s circus had always been alive, even before. Loud, bright, a little wild around the edges. But after Echoes of the Deep, something had changed. The second show had done what all his bragging had always promised and what, for a long time, nobody quite believed possible.
It had made the circus legendary. Not just popular. Legendary.
People talked now. About the lights. The music. The costumes. The story. The dangerous beauty of it all. About Buggy himself, of course, barking orders, but also seeing every detail, controlling every rhythm, dragging miracles out of people by sheer force of standards and ego.
And now everyone wanted in.
Catherine adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and started toward the entrance.
One girl was practicing a routine, nearly knocking over a guy beside her.
“Sorry!” She laughed nervously.
“It’s fine,” He said, stretching his arms. “Oh, I’m telling you, if he rejects me today, I’m coming back tomorrow.”
Catherine slowed.
The speaker was a beautiful acrobat with glossy dark hair, stretching one leg against a crate while he spoke to the girl beside him.
The girl laughed nervously. “You say that now, but I heard he made a girl cry yesterday.”
“That’s because she landed badly.”
“So?”
“So if you land badly in front of Buggy the Clown, apparently you deserve emotional damage.”
“Righ! You have to be perfect. This's best circus in Egypt,” Someone added. “Maybe even beyond.”
A young man farther back in line, balancing three clubs in one hand, muttered, “I heard Mr. the Clown’s impossible.”
A woman behind him sighed dreamily. “Impossible men are usually the interesting ones.”
"Stop dreaming." Another voice chimed in, “I heard he’s taken.”
That caused an immediate stir.
“Taken? By who?”
“Don't know.”
“No, really? That can’t be true.”
The juggler shrugged. “That’s just what I heard. Some woman.”
The acrobat with the dark hair rolled her eyes. “Men like that are always ‘taken’ in rumors. It makes them sound more desirable.”
Catherine looked down at the engagement ring on her hand and back up. And smiled the smile of a woman who has just been handed a tiny, ridiculous gift by fate.
She could have gone inside like a normal person. She could have asked one of the crewmen to fetch Buggy. She could have waited politely near the side entrance until he finished tearing through the last of the applicants and came stomping out in all his post-audition glory, dramatic and starving and glowing with self-importance.
Instead, Catherine quietly stepped to the end of the line.
The girl in front of her turned almost at once.
She was tall, blonde, and holding a pair of silver hoops.
“Oh! Are you here for the audition too?”
Catherine folded her hands politely. “I am.”
The girl looked delighted. “What do you do?”
Catherine thought for a moment. “A little bit of everything.”
“That sounds mysterious.”
“I try.”
Another girl twisted around from the front. “Have you seen him before?”
Catherine widened her eyes just slightly. “Mr. the Clown?”
“Yes.”
“A few times,” Catherine said.
The girls leaned in instinctively, hungry for information.
“What’s he like?”
"Is he really that mean?”
“Does he shout?”
“Is it true he can tell in three seconds if someone belongs on stage?”
Catherine glanced toward the tent entrance, where muffled noise and occasional barks of Buggy’s voice escaped into the evening air.
“He has high standards.” She said.
“That’s exactly what everyone says.” The blonde girl groaned.
One of the acrobats sighed and fixed a loose curl. “I don’t mind high standards. I just don’t want to embarrass myself in front of him.”
A second girl muttered, “I wouldn’t mind embarrassing myself a little, honestly.”
That got a round of giggles.
Catherine lowered her head so they wouldn’t see her grin.
Inside the tent, Buggy’s voice cracked through the canvas.
“No. Again!”
A guy made a move.
“What was that? You call that a turn? Don't make me laugh! I’ve seen camels pivot with more grace!”
The line stiffened like one organism.
A minute later he barked, “Next! And if any of you are planning to waste my time, do it with better posture!”
Catherine had to look away.
The blonde girl pressed a hand to her mounth. “God.”
“I knew he’d be terrifying.” A knife-thrower muttered.
“He’s not terrifying,” Catherine said absently.
Five faces turned toward her.
“Well,” She corrected with a small smile, “Not once you get used to him.”
The blonde girl laughed. “That sounds oddly specific.”
Catherine only smiled.
The line moved.
Applicants disappeared into the tent one by one and returned transformed.
Some looked radiant. Some looked broken. One man came out muttering, “He said my energy was visually offensive.”
Another woman looked near tears and whispered, “He told me to come back when my soul had more tension.”
Catherine nearly choked. Yes. That sounded exactly like her clown.
She inched closer to the entrance, enjoying this far more than any sane woman should.
By now, the girls around her had accepted her as one of them.
The blonde asked, “So what’s your act, really?”
Catherine answered with complete seriousness. “Nothing special...”
The dark-haired acrobat let out a confused little laugh. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
The blonde frowned. “Nothing special?”
“Yeah.”
Someone behind them snorted.
Another girl said, “Is that code for something?”
Catherine tilted her head. “Who knows..”
That earned a few laughs, though the girls still clearly assumed she was joking. Which was perfect.
A crewman stuck his head out of the tent flap. “Next three!”
The blonde straightened instantly.
The dark-haired acrobat inhaled like she was heading to war.
And Catherine, serene as a cat in a church, stepped forward with them.
Inside, the circus smelled like sawdust, perfume, chalk, and ambition. Ropes hung coiled and waiting. The pista glowed at the center. Around it stood a few performers and assistants, shuffling cards, checking notes, whispering reactions. And there, near the ring, sat Buggy.
Of course he had made a throne out of it.
Not a literal throne, but close enough. An ornate chair with carved arms and red velvet, positioned so he could look down at the applicants like a king deciding whose fate deserved to continue. One leg was thrown over the other. A stack of notes sat on the little table beside him. Cabaji leaned against a pole nearby, trying and failing to look impartial. Mohji held a clipboard.
Buggy himself looked magnificent.
Tired, probably. Irritable, definitely. But magnificent.
His hair was tied back, though a few bright blue strands had escaped around his face. One hand drummed lazily on the armrest while he watched the current audition with narrow, merciless eyes.
A young tumbler landed in the ring.
Buggy stared.
The poor boy swallowed.
Buggy lifted one finger.
“No.”
The tumbler blinked. “W-what? No?”
“Lame,” Buggy said, waving a hand. “Next.”
“Wait... wait! Can I come tomorrow? Please? I can do better! I was nervous..”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Everyone’s nervous,” Buggy snapped, already looking past him. “You think the crowd gives a shit about your nerves? Now fucking way!”
“Sir... please.” The guy swallowed. "See? I can be better!"
The tumbler tried again. Better this time.
“Less embarrassing.” Buggy considered. “Continue practicing until I stop feeling insulted. Alright. I'll give you one chance. Tomorrow. Now go away.”
“Thank you, Mr. the Clown!!” The boy lit up and nearly tripped on the way out.
“Yeah, yeah...” Buggy scribbled something on his paper, then without looking up said. “Next. Name.”
The blonde girl went first. She performed with hoops, lovely and graceful, and Buggy gave her a sharp, impossible critique that somehow made her look honored to have survived it.
The dark-haired acrobat followed. She was very good. Buggy made her repeat a landing three times just because he could. By the third, even Catherine was impressed.
Then he tapped his pen against the paper.
“Next. Name.”
Catherine stepped into the ring.
Buggy’s eyes stayed on the notes.
“Catherine Elizabeth Mitchell, Mr. the Clown.”
Everything stopped.
Cabaji made a sound somewhere between a cough and a death rattle.
Mohji dropped the clipboard.
Buggy froze.
Slowly, he lifted his head.
Their eyes met across the pista.
Catherine smiled, watching the exact procession of emotions flash across his face: confusion, recognition, shock, delight and finally that beautiful, doomed realization that she had chosen violence in public.
For one glorious second, he looked as though his brain had simply left the building.
His expression changed.
Because Buggy was Buggy.
Because the applicants were watching.
Because Catherine had stepped into his circus and handed him a performance.
He sat back in his chair, narrowed his eyes, and spoke in the iciest professional tone he could manage.
“Well... Miss Mitchell,” He repeated. “And what exactly is your talent?”
Behind Catherine, she heard one of the waiting girls whisper, “Nothing special...”
“Don't know. I make the most delicious pancakes in Cairo.” Catherine shrugged.
“Pancakes.” He said flatly.
“Yes, Mr. the Clown.” She nodded. “Pancakes.”
He tapped the pen once against the paper. “Any stage experience?”
“No! But I routinely calm overdramatic people under difficult circumstances.”
Buggy did not look away from her. “That is not a stage skill, miss Mitchell.”
“I know. But it is in my life.” Catherine shrugged.
He crossed one leg over the other again, settling deeper into the role. “Anything else?”
"Yes!" Catherine considered. “I can't fix costumes, can't bandage injuries, can't comfort frightened children, bu-u-ut I can improve bad moods, and tell when a circus captain has skipped lunch.”
“And why,” He asked silkily, “Do you wish to join my circus, Miss Mitchell?”
“I was hoping to take the lead performer to a bar after work.” Catherine looked at him with enormous innocence.
“Little shit...” He leaned forward and pointed the pen at her. “This is a professional audition.”
“Of course, Mr. the Clown.” She nodded. “I know that.”
“You are wasting valuable time.”
“I would never.”
“Then explain your qualifications more clearly.”
Catherine nodded solemnly. “Very well. I make exceptional pancakes. My lavender tea is famous in select circles. I have extensive experience dealing with a talented but difficult star. And I am deeply familiar with the emotional needs of your captain.”
“Hm,” He said, pretending to review a list. “The pancake skill is promising.”
“Thank you.”
“The lavender crap you call tea, useless.”
“I knew you think so.”
“The familiarity with the captain is concerning.”
Catherine tilted her head. “Concerning for whom?”
“For me,” Buggy snapped. “Miss Mitchell,” He said with a low voice, standing from his chair and approached to Catherine. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“Waiting for my fiancé.” Catherine whispered and smiled up at him.
“Your fiancé,” He repeated.
“Yes.”
“And where is he?”
“Hmm.” She looked him over, pretending to search. “Somewhere here. You probably know him: Tall. Loud. Overdressed. Full of opinions. Beautiful in a threatening way.”
“Out,” Buggy lunged just enough to grab her gently by the elbow. “Go wait outside like a normal woman.”
“So I didn’t get the part?” Catherine blinked at him.
“You got nothing.”
“That’s not what you said last night, my little bear.” She whispered, running her fingertips over his hand.
“Catherine Elizabeth Mitchell,” He warned.
“Yes... Mr. the Clown,” She answered.
He stared at her, breathing through his nose, trying so hard to remain authoritative that it became adorable.
Catherine reached up, took him lightly by the jaw, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Buggy jerked back. “OI! What do you think you’re doing?!”
“I’m showing initiative.”
“This is not initiative!”
“It felt employable.”
He pointed wildly toward the exit. “Go away!”
“So I should assume the audition went well?”
“It went terribly!”
“Did I impress the director?”
“No! You are a menace!”
“Will you still come to the bar with me?” Catherine smiled, radiant and utterly unbothered.
Buggy crossed his arms, trying to gather what was left of his dignity around him like a shredded cape. “I have important artistic responsibilities.”
“Mm.”
“Serious work.”
“Of course.”
“I can’t just leave because some woman with pancakes barges into my circus right now.”
“I know.” She stepped a little closer and lowered her voice.
“Wait outside, woman.”
“Outside?”
“Yes.”
“In the line?”
“No!”
“Near the line?”
“Far from the line!”
“Can I at least tell the girls whether I got the role?”
“Absolutely not.” Buggy narrowed his eyes.
“Why?”
“Because,” He barked, finally losing the battle, “They’re here for actual jobs, woman!”
“Fine. I'll go to the hall and grab muffins.” Catherine whispered and smiled. “Hey! How long do you think you're stuck here?”
“Don't know, cotton candy. One or maybe two hours. Sorry.”
“That's okay! I'll wait for you. I'm so, so proud you, my genious jester.” She stood on tiptoe and smoothed his collar. “See you, darling.”
“Don’t call me darling in front of applicants, little shit!”
“Bye, Mr. the Clown.” She said loudly.
“GO!”
Catherine turned and strolled toward the exit. As she passed the waiting performers, the blonde with the hoops stared at her with round eyes.
“Who are you?”
"No one." Catherine smiled and slipped out into the warm evening light.
Behind her, inside the tent, she heard Buggy slam back into command mode.
“Next! And if any of you think such behavior gets you hired, you’re already disqualified!”
That only made the next poor girl more nervous.
Catherine leaned against one of the striped poles outside, laughing quietly to herself while the sounds of the circus drifted around her. The applicants still in line were whispering furiously now. Some looked scandalized. Some delighted. One girl looked personally betrayed by romance itself.
Catherine just touched her ring with her thumb and waited.
A little while later, the tent flap snapped open.
Buggy emerged with all the force of a storm cloud in jewelry.
He looked offended. Flustered. Beautiful. And his expression said very clearly that he had survived something harrowing, namely being adored in public and ambushed by his own future wife.
Catherine straightened. “Well?” She asked.
“For the record, cotton candy”, Buggy marched up to her, leaned in, and muttered, “that was sabotage.”
“Did I get the job?” She smiled.
“Yeah,” He said. “Unfortunately, you’re overqualified.”
She laughed, and just like that some of the last irritation melted out of him. He offered her his arm with absurd dignity. Catherine slipped hers through it at once.
Together they started down the street toward their bar, the circus humming behind them with ambition, gossip, lights, and the aftershock of Buggy’s impossible standards.
After a few steps, Catherine glanced up at him. “So, Mr. the Clown...”
“What?” He groaned already.
“Was I your favorite applicant today?”
“Your audition was highly inappropriate.”
“But memorable?”
“Extremely.”
“Promising?”
“Disturbingly so.”
“Would you cast me again?”
Buggy looked down at her, his expression finally softening into that small, private thing he only gave her when the world wasn’t allowed to interrupt.
“Cathie-pie,” He murmured, “Don't ask me to say obvious things. I cast you a long time ago.”
“I knew that!” Catherine laughed. “Was it because of the pancakes?”
“Yes,” Buggy said. “And your terrible behavior. Fuck, I knew you would ruin my life.”
“I'm glad you've come to terms with your fate.” Catherine gazed at his weary face and ran her fingers gently over his arm. “You're tired, little bear. We'll order you your favorite burgers. And I want a slice of cake… oh, oh! Better two slices!”
“Fine.” He laughed.
“Thank you for this.”
“For what?”
“For the walk. You were tired after a hard day. We could have taken a taxi. But you decided to take a walk with me... I love walking with you. And also, my blue-haired love.."
"Hm?"
"I realize that right now you are struck by a sense of your own grandeur, but please, do me one favor.”
I'm really sorry, but I wrote another Catherine's food song :) English isn't my native language, errors may occur! Feel free to share your thoughts :)
“Come Home, My Jester” (Buggy x OC)
Buggy x Reader Masterlist / Buggy x Catherine's sketches / Buggy x OC Masterlist / Buggy x Reader's sketches / Catherine's food songs
The oven hums, the city sighs,
Soft neon slipping through the blinds,
I set the table just for two,
Like I’ve done a thousand times.
Your pizza piled with meat and heat,
The way you love, the way you boast,
Three kinds stacked, a dripping mess,
You’ll say it’s bad… and eat the most.
There’s beer on ice, don’t say I care,
(It’s only three, don’t roll your eyes)
And I already know, my love,
You’ll bring me something sweet tonight.
My blue-haired love, my midnight storm,
My jester loud, my quiet place,
You’ll walk in, grumble, drop your coat,
And still look at me like I’m your safest space.
You joke about the rings and vows,
You laugh it off, you always do,
But in your hands, I feel the truth,
You’re mine… and I belong to you.
A chocolate bar… or maybe cake,
You’ll shrug it off like “just because”,
But I can read you, silly clown,
You’ve always known it’s only us.
I spin around in some old dress,
Pretend I don’t see how you stare,
But in your eyes, I see a home
That somehow always leads me there.
You curse my candles, call them trash,
Complain about my pillows too,
But every night you pull me close,
So, what’s that say about you?
My blue-haired love, come home to me,
My jester wild, my steady ground,
The world can scream your name all night,
But I’m the place you’re always found.
You joke about the wedding rings,
Say “too much shine,” then look away,
But when you hold me just like this…
I hear the words you’ll never say.
We’ll fight about the stupid chair,
You’ll roll your eyes, I’ll call you names,
Then you’ll kiss me like you care,
And suddenly we’re fine again.
(and yeah, you’ll grab my ass again)
So come back home, don’t make me wait,
The food is warm, the lights are low,
I’m right here, your future wife…
(But don’t you dare say I told you so)
My blue-haired fool, my heart, my fire,
The world can have your grand display,
But when it all goes quiet, love
