Run For Your Life
Buggy x Fem!Reader
It’s all fun and games at the haunted carnival until Buggy dares you to run from him through it. You'd better run as fast as you can because if he catches you, he’s gonna have fun with you.
Tropes include: Primal play, CNC, IICYIFY, knife play, unprotected sex, creampies, double orgasms
about 5.3k words
This is very NSFW so MDNI
I'm so glad I was able to finish this before Halloween.
You’d never seen Buggy’s carnival like this.
It was the dead of night. Colder than a grave and twice as silent when you pushed through the warped iron gates.
The sign overhead groaned in the wind, each bulb flickering like it was struggling to remember how to shine. Fog hugged the ground in swirling, ghostly blankets, swallowing your boots and licking at your ankles with every step.
You tried to ignore the way it seemed to slither up your calves like a living thing.
Tried to ignore the feeling that you were being swallowed up, too.
The midway stretched before you, empty and vast and yet entirely too alive for a place that was supposed to be abandoned. You could make out the silhouette of the Ferris wheel: a broken halo against the cloudy sky. It every so often lurched into motion with a wet, metallic whine.
The horses on the carousel moved as well, turning slow and stately in a lazy circle, their chipped paint catching the light of a single flickering red bulb.
None of the music played, not even a warped note, but you could swear you heard the faint sound of some high pitched laughter. It was manic and echoing in the spaces between the rides.
You pulled your coat tighter around your shoulders, as if that could guard you from the feeling of eyes crawling up your back.
Dammit Buggy…
You told yourself you weren’t scared. That you’d come here because you needed answers.
Because you were tired of running, tired of dreaming about him, tired of wondering what might happen if you ever found yourself alone with Buggy, truly alone, with no one and nothing to get in the way.
You told yourself you’d come to just talk to him...
Yeah…that’s it.
Just talk.
You didn’t believe yourself for a goddamn second.
You kept walking, each step crunching over old, trampled popcorn and stray ticket stubs. A ring toss stand slumped to your left, the shelves of glass bottles all toppled, stained, and shattered.
The air smelled like burnt sugar and old blood.
You paused beside the Fun House entrance, painted faces frozen in shrieks and wide, greedy grins, and looked up at the string of lights snaking along the eaves.
They blinked on and off at random, chasing shadows down the wooden boardwalk, making the world stutter in and out of existence.
That’s when you felt it: the static charge, the buzz of adrenaline in your veins. Like the moment right before lightning strikes.
“Welcome to my domain, Dollface.”
You whirled around.
No one was there.
Just the echo of his voice, stretched thin and high as a violin string, skittering across the empty midway. You could practically feel his smile, the way it stretched wide and liked to show too many teeth.
“Buggy?” you said, hating how breathless you sounded. “If you wanted to talk, you could’ve just—”
“BORING!”
You spun again, eyes darting to the shooting gallery, the milk bottle pyramid, the black mouth of the Tunnel of Love. Nothing but shadows and fog and the hum of electricity in the air.
“Get out here, will you?” you snapped, though your heart hammered so hard you worried it might crack a rib.
No answer.
Just the squeal of the Ferris wheel spinning up again, each car swinging, and the chains rattling. You looked up, searching for movement, but the wheel was empty of riders.
His voice slithered out from the dark, curling around your ears, impossible to pin down.
“Wanna play a game?”
He truly was everywhere and nowhere, and that was what creeped you out the most.
You tried to keep your breathing steady.
“You always make it a game,” you said, hoping he couldn’t hear the tremor beneath your words.
“That’s what I do.”
Another giggle, this one bursting from inside the House of Mirrors.
The laughter bounced between the glass panels, multiplying, folding in on itself until it was a mad chorus of clowns with his likeness.
You stepped closer, peering into the doorway. The lights flickered to life above you, each bulb sputtering and popping, showering you in a rain of red sparks.
You couldn’t help it: you smiled and let out a small giggle.
Just a little one.
Only Buggy could turn a cesspool of doom like this into almost like a theater or his own playground.
Only Buggy could make a threat sound like a come-on.
Hmmm…Maybe it was…
“I’m not afraid of you,” you called into the Fun House.
Your voice echoed back: not afraid, not afraid, not afraid.
The laughter stopped. For a second, you thought he’d vanished, that maybe you’d imagined it all.
Then you heard him: one, two, three footsteps behind you, slow and deliberate. You froze, forcing your hands to unclench.
You didn’t run, even when every part of you screamed that you should.
His shadow fell over your own.
A disconnected gloved hand snaked out, tracing the edge of your jaw, soft and unhurried. He leaned in so close you could smell the greasepaint and the hint of rum.
It was like the sweet-sick tang of fear.
His mouth ghosted against your ear as he whispered:
“Don’t be scared, sweetheart. The real fun’s about to start.”
You swallowed hard, not trusting yourself to speak.
His touch lingered for a moment, long enough to make your skin crawl with anticipation and slight wanting before he slipped away again.
He was there, and then gone, like a magic trick.
The carousel suddenly jerked to life behind you, spinning faster, the horses rising and falling in time with the thump of your pulse.
You watched the shadows race across the painted canvas, watched the blur of color and motion and light. You thought you saw his face reflected in the mirrors, in the glass eyes of a carousel horse, grinning and wild and hungry.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t.
You were part of the carnival now, just another attraction, and Buggy was the only visitor who mattered.
Every nerve in your body braced for the next move, for the punchline you knew Buggy was winding up to deliver.
You spun slowly, scanning the shadows for any sign of him, feeling your own heartbeat thudding in your throat.
Then, just as the carousel slowed to a shuddering halt, you saw him.
Buggy stepped out from the shadows beneath the Ferris wheel, his face bathed in the blood-red glow of a dying bulb. The greasepaint around his mouth was smeared, the blue ponytail messier than usual, and he wore that signature pirate captain’s coat with the collar turned up high.
His lips stretched delightfully, his green eyes burning with wild, unfiltered joy.
For a second, you couldn’t move.
He had that effect, a gravitational pull that froze you in place. You told yourself it was fear, but the heat curling low in your belly said otherwise.
He stalked forward, slow and deliberate, letting the silence hang until it hummed between your ears.
“You know the rules, right?” he called, his voice dropping an octave into a gravel, teasing at your boundaries.
You swallowed, feeling the taste of copper on your tongue.
“Uhhh…Why don’t you explain them to me?”
He laughed, loud and reckless, and every marquee bulb on the row behind him flared to life, framing him in a halo of devilish light.
“It’s simple, sweetheart,” he said, voice rolling with laughter and threat. “You run. If I catch you—”
He let the words dangle, stepping closer, the glint of his boots flashing through the haze.
He smiled, flashing that wide row of teeth. “If I catch you, I fuck you. Right here. Doesn’t matter who’s watching.”
The words landed hard, echoing in your skull, and you had to clench your fists to keep from shaking.
You felt every muscle coil. You felt the primal urge to bolt while also being at war with the raw, dangerous desire to stay put and call his bluff.
He watched you for a long, terrible moment, studying your reaction like he was cataloging every tiny flinch.
He wanted you to be scared, and he wanted you to like it.
You hated how well he knew you and how it was working.
He took another step, hands out and open, as if welcoming you to his personal hell. His eyes, was smeared with triangles of blue plaint, bored into yours.
“You got a head start,” he whispered, his voice so low it was almost tender. “Don’t waste it.”
A gust of cold wind tore through the midway, making the banners whip and the carnival lights rattle. You saw his grin widen as the fog billowed around him, eating away the edges until he was little more than a painted specter.
You stared him down, breath hissing through your teeth. “What if I don’t want to be caught?”
His laughter exploded, bouncing from every booth and tent. “Then you better run fast, babe.”
And then, just like that, he vanished.
The lights blinked out, the world snapped back to darkness, and you were alone again.
Alone again with the threat, the promise, the certainty that he was already on the hunt.
Your knees trembled, but your heart hammered even louder, a wild symphony of anticipation and dread.
This was the game. This was always the game.
And you were ready to play.
One…
Two…
You didn’t wait for the count of three.
You suddenly ran, full tilt, legs pumping through the slick, uneven planks of the midway.
Every breath tore at your throat, every heartbeat a drumbeat in your ears. The fog made it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead, but you barreled through anyway, fueled by the primal certainty that he was somewhere behind you.
He was chasing, hunting, and grinning with that unhinged smile.
The rides loomed on either side, shadowy and monstrous, every surface dripping with dew and dust. You veered left, toward the spinning teacups, thinking the maze of metal and plastic might buy you time.
As you ducked behind the nearest cup, something cold and wet wrapped around your ankle.
You screeched and looked down just in time to see a disconnected gloved hand, severed at the wrist, digging its fingers into your boot. It scraped at your skin before you were able to shake the hand off, Buggy’s laughter echoing from all sides.
You kicked free, stumbling, then kept running.
The path twisted, slanting toward the games of chance. The bottles on the ring toss had been set up again, every single one bearing a tiny, painted-on Buggy face.
You didn’t stop to stare, but you felt their eyes follow you as you sprinted past.
Something shot out from the Skee-Ball booth: a flash of blue hair and the sharp clatter of a ball rolling at your feet.
You dodged it, barely, and heard his voice crow, “Good reflexes, sweetheart!” from the far end of the row.
You cut right, ducking behind the cotton candy stand. The smell of burnt sugar was stronger here, almost sickening.
The shadow of the Ferris wheel loomed over you, and you risked a glance upward. One of the cars swayed violently, back and forth, and you thought you saw a pair of legs dangling over the edge, kicking in midair.
You blinked and the car was empty again.
The wind howled, flapping the banners and sending loose tickets swirling around your feet. You pushed on, fighting the urge to scream for help.
You knew, deep down, that no one was coming.
And yet you didn’t think you wanted anyone to help.
The House of Mirrors stood dead ahead, its entrance yawning open, lights flickering like dying fireflies. You hesitated. If there was anywhere Buggy could fuck with you the hardest, it was here.
But you had no choice. You dove in.
The world inside was colder, the air thick with your own breath and the metallic tang of your sweat. Every surface reflected a fractured version of yourself.
There were dozens of different versions of your face, all wide-eyed frantic and all alone.
The mirrors were smeared with handprints, some red, some still wet and dripping.
You slowed, trying to move quietly, but the floor creaked beneath every step. You held your hands out, feeling along the walls for the next turn.
Then, in the next mirror, he was there.
His head popped out from the glass, suspended in the air, the eyes rolling wildly before fixing on you.
“Boo!” he shrieked, and you stumbled backward, crashing into another mirror.
The head vanished, only to reappear to your right, then your left, then above you, a chorus of maniacal Buggy faces cackling in surround sound.
You covered your ears, squeezed your eyes shut, but you could still hear him.
A hand clamped down on your shoulder. You whirled, ready to fight, but there was no one there, just the faintest outline of a shadow melting away into the next room.
You followed, legs shaking, vision blurred by panic and sweat.
You broke through the end of the Fun House, chest heaving, and nearly collapsed on the splintered deck outside. For a moment, you just stood there, hands on your knees, gulping air and trying to will your body to stop shaking.
A voice whispered in your ear, so close you felt the tickle of his breath. “Getting tired already, doll? Booooooo! That’s no fun!”
You spun. There was nothing but swirling fog and the faint, sweet scent of rum and his greasepaint.
But you could hear him, just behind you, just beyond reach.
You ran again, through the games row, past the shooting gallery, every booth a gauntlet of potential traps.
The world blurred at the edges; you felt less like a girl and more like a ball in one of Buggy’s rigged games, rolling wherever he wanted, slamming into every obstacle he set up for you.
You tripped, once, over a loop of coiled rope on the ground, and landed hard on your knees. You felt the sting, but ignored it, scrambling back to your feet just as the carousel started up again.
There was no music, just the grind of machinery and the rising, falling horses, their glassy eyes watching you with hungry intensity.
You ducked behind a wooden lion, pressing your back to the cold, painted flank. For a second, the world stilled, your breath the only sound.
Then you felt him: fingers in your hair, winding tight, the blunt edge of his nose pressing against your cheek as he leaned in from behind the horse.
You froze, knowing he could end this now—knowing, on some dark, secret level, that you kind of wanted him to.
It wasn’t a gentle catch or a sly grab. He crashed into you, a force of nature, all lean muscle and wild energy. You hit the nearest carousel horse, the wood biting into your ribs, the chill of the lacquered paint shocking through your thin shirt.
He slammed you flat against the horse’s side, one hand tangled in your hair, the other pressing your shoulder down until you felt utterly, inescapably trapped.
He leaned in, every inch of his body pinning you in place. You could feel the heartbeat in his chest, the ragged edge of his breath as it raked your ear.
His gloves were cold and rough and unyielding, but his voice was a low, hot purr:
“Guess what, sweetheart? You lost.”
You bucked against him, but it was for show. You could have played the prey a little longer, but you wanted this, wanted him, more than you’d ever admit.
You wanted the chase, the violence, the raw, shameless thrill of being caught.
He must have felt it, too, the way you arched into his touch instead of shrinking from it. The way your pulse shivered at his words. He laughed softly this time and loosened his grip, just enough to let his hand wander down the line of your throat, over the thudding pulse there.
The smell of him hit you: sweat and greasepaint, the faint tang of gunpowder, and something else. It was something wild and hungry and electric.
His nose nuzzled against the side of your face, leaving a trail of wet heat as he dragged his tongue along your jaw. You gasped, the sound half pain, half pleasure, and felt his hips grind you.
He shifted his grip, using both hands to spread your arms wide, flattening you against the horse. The chipped paint bit into your skin, but you barely noticed; you were too busy trying to decide whether to fight back or just let him have you.
He made the choice for you.
With a practiced twist, he spun you around, pinning you belly-first against the carousel pole. His hand closed around your wrists, holding them tight together above your head. You felt the bite of his strength and the pure lust radiating off him.
He pressed his body flush to yours, his chest against your spine, his cock already hard and insistent between your legs.
He bent low, teeth scraping your ear as he whispered, “Still want to play, baby?”
You tried to answer, but all that came out was a needy, helpless whimper.
He laughed, a hot puff of air against your skin, and raked his free hand down your side, over the curve of your hip, up under your skirt.
His fingers found you wet and ready, and he moaned, guttural and pleased.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “All that running just got you worked up, huh?”
“Fuck you,” you spat, even as your hips ground into the pole, desperate for friction, for more.
He barked a laugh, a sound so gleeful it almost broke your will.
“That’s the spirit!” He rocked his hips, rubbing his cock along the seam of your ass, making you gasp despite yourself. “You want it rough, babes? You just have to say the word.”
You’d never admit it out loud, not even to yourself, but you did.
Fuck, you wanted it.
You wanted him to take everything, to wring every drop of defiance out of you until all that was left was need.
He must have read the truth in your face. His hand slipped between your legs, finding you soaked and swollen, and he groaned, almost reverent.
You tried to twist away, but his grip was unbreakable. He angled his hips, pinning you tighter, then ground against you in a slow, punishing rhythm.
“Not so tough now, are you?” he taunted, lips pressed to the sensitive spot behind your ear.
All you could do was gasp and arch into his touch.
He nipped at your ear, then slid his hand between your legs, gloved fingers working you through your panties until you trembled.
“I told you, doll. If I caught you, I’d fuck you right here. Doesn’t matter who’s watching.”
He let go of your wrists, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. You just clung to the cold, lacquered pole, feeling the obscene, hungry throb between your thighs, the shameful thrill of being taken and displayed like this.
He slid two fingers inside you, curling them until you gasped and arched against him. You tried to bite back the moan, but it escaped anyway, raw and unfiltered.
He fucked you with his fingers, slow at first, then harder, twisting his wrist with every thrust. His other hand gripped your hair, pulling your head back so he could watch your face.
“Tell me you love it,” he said, voice thick. “Tell me you love being caught.”
You clamped your lips shut, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
He redoubled his efforts, adding a third finger, stretching you until your knees buckled.
“Say it,” he growled, all pretense of playfulness gone, replaced by a desperate, hungry edge. “Say it, or I’ll make you say it.”
You broke, not from pain or fear, but from the unbearable pressure building inside you. “I love it,” you gasped. “Fuck, I love it. I love when you chase me.”
That was what he had wanted to hear.
Buggy suddenly removed his fingers from inside you, making you feel so empty and on edge from the absence of being able to cum. He made quick work of your clothes, yanking them aside with practiced ease. He moved with an urgency, as if he couldn't wait another moment to be inside you.
His own pants were already undone, and when he pressed against you, you felt the hot, hard, and thick length of him sliding up your thigh.
He groaned your name, all mockery gone, replaced by a hungry, desperate need.
He lined himself up, then drove into you in one relentless, claiming thrust.
The world went white for a moment, the shock of sensation stealing your breath, your thoughts, your will.
“Oh fuuuuuuuuck…”
You felt yourself surrendering completely to the pleasure and the raw, primal connection between you.
He was rough, but you wanted it.
No, you needed it.
You wanted every brutal inch, every sharp, sweet sting. He fucked you like he was still chasing you, never letting you get comfortable, always keeping you off balance.
You clawed at the carousel horse, nails scraping paint, as he slammed into you over and over.
The sound of your bodies, slapping, gasping, the creak and groan of the ride itself, was louder than any noise from that carnival.
He bent you further, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tight it hurt. His teeth found your neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark, and you cried out, wanting everyone and no one to hear.
“Mine,” he growled, rutting into you with reckless abandon.
The world narrowed to the feel of his thick cock pistoning inside you, the greasy scent of carnival paint and the dizzy rush of your own blood in your ears.
He fucked you like he wanted to erase every other touch, every other memory, every other cock that had entered you. You felt the truth of it in your bones, the way his body claimed yours, the way your heart raced not with fear, but with joy.
You clawed at the carousel horse and at your own sanity. Every thrust drove you closer to the edge, every taunt and curse another push toward oblivion.
“Say you’re mine,” he demanded, voice cracking with need. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you cried, tears stinging your eyes, your whole body clenched around him. “I’m yours, Buggy. Only yours.”
He hauled you and bent you over the wooden saddle of the carosel horse.
The lacquer was slick with dew, the painted mane stiff and scratchy against your cheek, and every time both of you moved, the whole ride creaked and groaned beneath you. Buggy opened your legs as he wanted you open, helpless, and on display.
You cried out as he continued to fuck you, voice raw and wild, but the sound was drowned by the whine of the carousel’s machinery and the steady, taunting giggles that poured from Buggy’s lips.
“You begged for this the second you ran,” he hissed, leaning over you so his breath was hot on your ear. “Look at you now. So desperate you’ll let me take you right here, where anyone could see.”
The words made you squirm, but not to escape. You arched your back, shoving yourself against him, greedy for the rough rhythm he set. The movement made the horse rock beneath you, the whole world tipping and swaying like you were caught in a fever dream.
He thrust harder, fingers digging into your flesh, marking you as his.
“God, you’re filthy,” he snarled. “And I fucking love it.”
You moaned, high and helpless, clutching the horse’s head for support as he pounded you into the unforgiving surface. Every stroke felt sharper, deeper, like he was trying to etch himself into your bones.
He pulled out suddenly, only to flip you around, lifting you by the waist and slamming you down on the carousel’s wooden platform.
The red bulbs overhead flickered, throwing your shadows across the ride in a strobe of obscene, jerking motion. He spread your legs wide, forcing you to balance on the balls of your feet, and knelt between them, the grin on his face wide and predatory.
He ate you out like he was starving.
The slurping and sucking sounds of his mouth on your pussy were accompanied by the moans and gasps escaping your lips as his skilled tongue brought you closer to the edge.
You heard the animalistic grunts of pleasure coming from him as he tasted you and it made you even wetter.
You couldn’t help the sounds you made. They were loud, reckless, and wanton but you didn’t care.
Let the whole fucking carnival hear.
He rose up, face slick, wild and smeared with paint, and spat out, “You taste like sin, baby. Don’t you dare stop screaming.”
He shoved inside again, impaling you on his cock, and you wrapped your legs around his hips, using his momentum to drive him deeper. He fucked you standing, fucked you against the pole, fucked you so hard you thought the world might spin right off its axis.
He kept talking, taunting, each filthy word a spark that set you burning brighter.
“You’re mine,” he grunted. “All mine. No one else gets you like this, do they?”
You shook your head, eyes squeezed shut, and he slowed his thrusts just enough to make you beg.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say you need me.”
You gasped, clawing at his back, nails scoring through the thin fabric of his shirt. “I need you,” you sobbed, the words pulled from somewhere deep and desperate. “I need you, Buggy, I—”
He cut you off with a brutal kiss, biting your lower lip until you tasted blood.
“Good girl,” he spat, then continued to fuck you so hard the carousel violently shuddered beneath you, its painted horses rearing and plunging in silent applause.
“Buggy…I’m gonna…I’m gonna…”
You came for him, loud and unashamed, and he followed right after, pouring himself into you with a guttural cry.
The two of you collapsed in a heap, tangled and breathless, the world spinning around you in a drunken whirl of light and color.
For a while, there was nothing but the distant hum of the Ferris wheel and the click-click-click of the bulbs overhead. You were still recovering from a double dose of orgasms, boneless and half-dreaming, when he reached into his coat and drew out a knife.
The sight of it gleaming in the light made you tense, every muscle going tight. You didn’t think he’d hurt you, not really, but there was always a chance, with him.
Always a chance the game could tip over into something else.
He saw the way your eyes locked on the blade, the quick flare of panic you couldn’t hide, and smiled slow and sweet.
“Don’t worry, baby. I’m not gonna cut you.”
He turned the knife in his hand, then pressed the flat of it against your white oozed inner thigh. The metal was freezing, a sudden jolt that sent goosebumps rippling up your skin.
He dragged it up, inch by inch, pausing just below your pussy.
You shivered, half from the cold and half from what you knew was coming.
Buggy used the tip to nudge your legs wider, then knelt between them, his painted face a mask of focus and intent. He traced lazy circles on your clit with the handle, teasing you until you were writhing, desperate for more.
“You trust me, right?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically soft.
You nodded, unable to look away from the gleaming knife. “Yes.”
He grinned, then without warning, slid the smooth, hard handle inside you. The stretch was sudden, unfamiliar, and you gasped, clutching at his shoulders for balance.
He fucked you with it, slow and deliberate, watching every twitch of your body, every gasp and whimper.
“Look at you,” he said, almost reverent. “I could do anything to you, and you’d just take it. You’d beg for it.”
You blushed hot, but didn’t deny it. You wanted him, all of him, the madness and the risk and the filthy, impossible joy of being his.
He worked the handle deeper, twisting it, making you gasp and squirm.
“Told you I’d make you mine,” he whispered, lips pressed to your ear. “Every damn way I can, even if it means fucking my cum into you more with this knife handle”
You clenched around the handle, the fullness sending waves of pleasure through your exhausted body.
“Please,” you moaned, not even sure what you were asking for.
He fucked you harder, hand steady and sure, eyes never leaving your face. “Say you want it,” he demanded. “Say you want me to ruin you.”
You didn’t hesitate. “I want it. I want you to ruin me, Buggy.”
He laughed, then kissed you hard, tongue tangling with yours as he pumped the handle in and out, faster and faster.
You came again, this time with a scream, the sensation so sharp and bright it left you dizzy.
He pulled the knife out, then licked it clean from base to tip of the combination of your fluids, eyes glinting with triumph.
“Perfect,” he said, tucking the blade away and pulling you into his lap. “You’re fucking perfect.”
You melted against him, boneless and content, letting him cradle you as the carnival spun slowly around you. The rides had gone silent, the only sounds now the hum of the bulbs and the faint, steady rhythm of Buggy’s heartbeat under your ear.
The carnival had never been this quiet.
You were limp with exhaustion from your double orgasms, while he stroked lazy patterns up and down your spine.
The rides had all stopped, the carousel horses frozen mid-gallop, their glass eyes catching the last, weak flickers of red light. The air was cold and damp, heavy with the aftermath of sweat and smoke and sex.
Buggy cradled you with surprising gentleness, his big hands warming your bare skin. His smeared face nuzzled into your hair. For a long time, neither of you spoke.
The world outside the carnival didn’t exist; it was just you, the clown, and the ghosts of laughter echoing through empty tents.
He was still smug, of course, grinning like he’d just pulled off the best heist of his life. But every so often, when he thought you weren’t looking, you caught him staring at you with a kind of hungry awe, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d actually caught you. That you hadn’t slipped away into the fog at the last second, like all good dreams do.
You snuggled closer, feeling the thud of his heart under your ear. “You happy now?” you murmured, voice scratchy but content.
He snorted, a sound equal parts delight and disbelief. “Doll, I’ve never been happier in my life. You were made for me, you know that?”
You rolled your eyes, but didn’t move away. “You say that to all your conquests?”
He tilted your chin up, so you had to meet his gaze. The blue around his eyes had run together, pooling in the corners
“I’ve had a lot of obsessions,” he admitted. “But you’re the only one that ever made me feel alive.”
You almost laughed, but then you saw the flicker of something soft in his eyes.
“You’re such a dork,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his painted mouth.
He kissed you back, less rough now, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he pushed too hard.
When you broke apart, the only sound was the slow creak of the Ferris wheel settling in the wind. The bulbs overhead had dimmed to a faint glow, more shadow than light. The world was still.
Buggy wrapped his arms tighter around you, tucking your head under his chin.
“Careful, dollface,” he said, voice low and fond. “You might start running just so I’ll chase you again.”
You grinned, teeth flashing in the gloom. “Maybe I want you to.”
He grinned, the sharpness of his teeth glinting in the red light.
“Better keep running, then. I’ll always catch you.”
