Eden

Ticket is a gentleman at heart, he’ll always open doors for you, or lift the flap of a tent up; fix your clothes; pull out your chair; have you hold onto his arm; the whole nine yards. And whilst he is a gentleman to everyone, most of the time. With you he amps it up to max.

That being said Bil follows a strict schedule - he is a busy busy man, his hands are constantly full and his head as always racing so having this schedule keeps him somewhat sane. And as a result he expects you to fit your stuff around his schedule as well. He isn’t just gonna throw his schedule onto you and say figure it out. No no no, he will move things around so both of you can have ample time together and you don’t start thinking he’s forgotten about you.

Just remember he is holding the circus together by the seam of the tents and he does need time to himself to work. This mans a workaholic and that won’t change with you. Work is how he gains control of situations, so if he feels he’s losing control, he slips back into his work. There's no pulling him out, not unless he’s about to knock himself out from how hard he’s headbutting his desk.

He loves to style you, clothes are something he prides himself in - the elegance they bring. Clothes are the first impression after all. So he always wants to make sure you look your best as he always does. 

Hand kisser, its simple, its gentlemanly, its traditional. Whenever you two part ways, he’ll place a gentle kiss on your knuckles and bow his hat to you before taking his leave. A quick but meaningful gesture. 

He is not a grand man, Ticket would much rather help in small ways than lavish declarations of love. It's much more convenient to wake up to a nice clean set of clothes, the washing done, and a nice breakfast. That's what he does, keeps things neat for you both, but he does expect you to maintain the standards he’s upholding.

I can see him as the type of person to know what a forever flower is and give you one of those on your birthday or valentines day, and its always a different one, he keeps track of which ones to get and when. Don’t ask where he got the money from, It’s not from selling tickets… 

Ticket hates humans, that's a fact. Does he find them interesting? Yes he does, but he does not enjoy their company and merely puts up with them to maintain his family's presentation. Except you, you're intriguing to him and that draws him to you. Bil enjoys your company quite a lot actually, more than he cares to admit, even deep into your relationship he won’t admit just have much he seeks you out.

Speaking of seeking you out. When he’s stressed, which is a lot, he will call for you. He’ll have you either just sit in the room with him and talk to him - Not a conversation literally talk at him, anything doesn’t matter just talk. OR he’ll set you on his lap and rub your arm to centre himself, as he talks to himself about what he’s doing. 

Hates loud noises, yelling, rowdiness, unnecessary noise - anything like that bothers him to no end. So he is very fond of quiet moments with you, sitting with you reading a book watching rain pour. Engaging in a nice conversation over a simple meal together. Things like that, simple, charming, clean.

Organisation maniac. Everything is perfectly organised. Usually alphabetical and yes he will organise your stuff at first it's impulsive - but if you have your own system, he’ll learn it and start doing that. But if his stuff goes unorganized, he’ll crack and he will not be able to focus until it's fixed. Bil has left you very abruptly with an excuse me, to go fix whatever's bothering him.

Mirrors everywhere. Bil’s mirrors in his tent are special, he can travel through them like doors and use them as a way to tell a story, as he did with Columbian and the broken mirror. So when your relationship became serious, Ticket took one of his spare mirrors and placed it into your home so he could have an easier way to reach you whenever.

Everything he does is calculated and thought out, nothing is accidentally. Take the broken mirror, he placed that there on purpose, he wanted you to look at it, and that's exactly what you did. Bil knows exactly what he is doing, and he knows how to move the chessboard in his favour - No matter how hard you try, you’ll almost always end up doing what he wants. Sometimes you can flip the script but most of the time, not a chance.

He loves control, he loves knowing you rely on him. The way he knows how his touch lingering longer than normal will get you turning for him. Bil lives for the feelings of being the one pulling the strings, the man behind the curtain. Every touch, every word, its all perfectly controlled to make you weak for him.

One of the few circus members to actively go out in public with you. Ticket has no issue with walking around the streets with you, he enjoys walks with you, having you hold onto his arm whilst conversing is a pleasant change of pace. Plus it makes looking for potential ‘fools’ easier.

Life has been... life-ing. 

If that's even a word. (it's not.) Lately, these days, everything feels chaotic and unpredictable and just... too much. 

You've been busy, like legitimately busy. Just dealing with things that required you to stay away from the circus for a while. you can't just live there like some monster who doesn't have real-world responsibilities. 

You have a life. Or, you had one.

You switched from full-time to part-time at the coffee shop so you could focus on school. Exams got thrown at your face repeatedly—irritating doesn't even begin to cover it. but now the exams are done. everything should be over. 

You should be resting. Recovering from your busy lifestyle.

At least maybe even feeling good.

But every morning, you wake up and you just... don't move.

You’re aware of it, vaguely. The way your body feels heavy, like someone filled your bones with wet sand while you were sleeping. the way your phone is always in your hand before you've even decided to pick it up. the way hours pass and you've done nothing but scroll and blink and exist.

Your boss has noticed. Fuck.

“You okay?" He asked last week, eyes scanning your face like they were looking for something you'd lost. “You seem... rather tired."

“Just busy," you said, and you almost believed it.

they asked again yesterday. “Seriously, are you sleeping? eating? you look—" He stopped himself, however, you heard the word they didn't say. 

Empty. Stuck. Motionless. I’m fine," Which you always say. 

Same words. Same tone. Same lie.

You know you're not fine. You know that. But acknowledging it feels like opening a door you're not ready to walk through. So you ignore it. You ignore the way your energy drains faster than it used to. You ignore the way getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain. You ignore your boss's concerned glances and the way they leave an extra pastries by your bag every shift now—just in case you haven't eaten.

You ignore it because ignoring is easier.

Because if you didn't ignore it, you'd have to admit that something is wrong. And admitting that means dealing with it. And dealing with it means... what? 

Therapy? Medication? Talking to someone? Changing?

You don't have the energy for any of that.

Causing your boss eventually stopped asking. Instead, he just... gave you time off. a week, then two, then three. "take as long as you need," he said, with that same worried look you kept pretending not to see. 

He figured, like maybe hoped that staying home would help. that rest would pull you out of whatever hole you'd fallen into.

So you stay home. You live in and out of your bed. some days you're awake enough to sit on the couch. most days you're not.

Every now and then, someone comes to check on you. A friend. a family member. someone who cares enough to show up unannounced. 

You don't have the energy to be annoyed—again you don't have the energy for much of anything—but you also don't want them to worry. So you clean. Just enough to make your space look lived-in instead of caved-in. You shower. You put on clean clothes. 

You play pretend.

“I’m good,” you say, same as always. “Just tired. exams took a lot out of me."

They nod. they leave. and the second the door closes, you're back in bed, phone in hand.

All you want is to be alone. all you want is to scroll. to disappear into the glow of the screen where nothing matters and no one expects anything from you.

Your handheld game helps, sometimes. one of your friends bought it for you as a congratulations gift—"you finished your exams! you earned this!"—a wildly popular life simulation series where you populate a bustling, personalized island with mii avatars of yourself, family, friends, or fictional characters. 

You act as an god like caretaker, watching these little digital people interact, fall in love, fight, perform concerts, navigate bizarre daily dramas.

It was supposed to be fun, relaxing, a reward for once.

Now it just feels like another task. another thing you should be doing. Another reason to feel guilty when you don't.

You even listen to music, too. Your favorite artist. The same songs on repeat, over and over, hoping to feel something. A spark of the person you used to be before everything got so heavy.

But at last, nothing comes. 

Just the same boring numbness. Same hollow ache. You're lying there, thumb hovering over your phone screen, when you hear it.

A knock. Soft, but definitely there. Weird thing is—it's not coming from your front door. It's coming from your balcony window.

"What the hell…?" You freeze. Your heart does this weird thing—not panic exactly, but something like recognition. Because normal people don't knock on balcony windows. Normal people can't even reach a third-floor balcony.

You turn your head slow.

And there's a silhouette on the other side of the glass. 

Tall. Familiar. Just... waiting for you to open up.

✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉 

“…Pierrot?"

Your eyes watch the figure on the balcony moves, seeing a shift of weight and tilt of the head. Enough for you to recognize that shape anywhere—just a too-tall frame, slump of his shoulders, the way he holds himself like he's always bracing for bad news.

You set your phone down then swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your body feels heavy, each step toward the balcony window an effort, close like wading through water.

The lock sticks for a few secoud, you haven't opened this door in weeks, no truly months. But it finally gives, and the late afternoon air hits your face, cool and sharp, and there he is.

Just standing on your third-floor balcony like it's the most natural thing in the world. His white masked face is even paler than usual under the dim city lights, and his starry eyes—those beautiful, swirling eyes—are wide and wet and devastated.

“My dear," he breathes.

And then he's moving, crossing the small space between you in one long stride, and his hands are cupping your face before you can say anything, his cool fingers trembling against your cheeks.

“We thought you were dead," he whispers. his voice cracks on the last word. “We… )-I thought—when you stopped answering, when the days turned to weeks, we thought something had happened to you. we thought you'd left me forever."

HIs eyes search your face, and you watch the worry settle into his features like a physical weight. Those now starry pupils flicker as they take in everything—such as the dark bruises under your eyes, the unnatural lightness of your skin, the way your cheeks look slightly hollowed out like you haven't been eating enough. 

His gaze drops to your hoodie (the same one from three days ago, you can't remember the last time you changed), then to the room behind you, displaying a dim, messy, stuck look, then back to your face.

“And you were just..." his voice cracks. tears spill over, tracking silver lines down his powdered cheeks. “You were just… scrolling?"

You open your mouth. the excuse is already there, the same one you've been giving everyone: i'm fine, just tired, exams took a lot out of me, i just need rest—

Pierrot shakes his head before you can even say it. “No," he whispers. “Don't. Please don't lie to me. i can see you, my dear. You're not fine."

You close your mouth.

He steps closer, his cool large hands finding yours again, holding them like they're something precious. “You look..." he trails off, searching for words. “Dim. like someone turned down your light. like you're fading."His lower lip trembles just a bit

“Please. Tell me what's wrong. I don't understand the things you humans go through, but I want to. I need to. because seeing you like this—" his voice drops to barely a whisper. "it's breaking me."

You don't have an answer. 

You don't have words for what's been happening inside your head. Burnout? Depression? Exhaustion? All you know is that you've been stuck and numb and tired in a way that sleep can't fix.

Pierrot doesn't wait for you to figure it out.

He pulls you into his chest again, but this time he doesn't let go. his arms wrap around you tight—not painfully, but firmly, like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his grip.

His face presses into your hair, and you feel him breathing you in, shaky and desperate. “I’ve got you," he murmurs against your head. “I don't know what's happening, but i've got you. you don't have to explain. you don't have to do anything. Just... let me hold you."

You were still there for a long moment, limp in his arms, letting him support your weight. and slowly—so slowly—you feel something unfreeze in your chest.

He starts moving you toward the bed. not pushing, not dragging, just... guiding. His long body curls around yours as he pulls you onto the mattress, arranging the pillows behind your head, tugging the blanket up over both of you.

“Pierrot, what are you—"

“Shh." he tucks you against his side, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other coming up to stroke your hair. “We're going to stay here. in this bed. and you're going to rest, and I’m going to hold you, mayebe later I can cook for you and eventually—" he presses a kiss to your forehead. 

“Eventually, you're going to feel better."

“You don't know that."

“I believe it," he says softly. "and sometimes that's enough."

He doesn't understand burnout. Doesn't know the word for it, doesn't have a framework for the way modern life drains the life out of people. But he understands sadness. He understands exhaustion. He understands what it feels like to be so tired that moving your body feels impossible.

So he holds you. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your back. his chest rises and falls against yours. And every few minutes, he whispers something soft and reassuring into your hair.

“You're safe." “I’m here." “You don't have to be anything right now."

His starry eyes never leave your face, even as the minutes stretch into an hour. he watches you like you're the most precious thing in the world—like he's memorizing every detail, every breath, every small sign that you're still here.

“Pierrot?"

“Yes, my dear?"

“…Thank you. For coming."

Your felt his arms tighten around you. “Always," he whispers. “Always, always, always." And for the first time in weeks, you close your eyes and let yourself be held.

✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃

“What the fuc… Harlequin?”

You whisper his name before you even open the door, and Harlequin's silhouette goes still. “…What?"

“Uh, just... come in."

You slide the door open, and he steps inside like he owns the place—because of course he does, it’s him. You notice his neon green eyes sweep across your apartment, taking in the dim lighting, the messy blankets, the general stagnation of it all. But instead of concern, his face splits into that familiar, jagged grin.

“Well, well, well," he purrs, dropping onto your couch like a cat claiming a sunbeam. “The human seems alive or, well… enough. Same difference."

You sit back down on your bed, phone already finding its way back into your hand. 

“So,” he drawls, kicking his feet up on your coffee table. "you gonna explain why you've been ignoring me? or are we just pretending the last few months didn't happen?"

“I wasn't ignoring you—"

“Oh, really?" he pulls out his own phone, scrolling with one claw. “Because i've sent you... let's see... forty-seven reels. FORTY-SEVEN. and you haven't reacted to a SINGLE one."

You open your mouth. Then close it.

The truth is, you've watched every single one.

You couldn't not watch them—harlequin has a way of knowing when you've seen his messages. but the things he sends you are... cursed. Like, genuinely deranged. Last week he sent you a video of a raccoon riding a roomba while wearing a tiny cowboy hat, set to dramatic classical music. The week before that, it was a compilation of geese committing what could only be described as war crimes.

You weren't sure if you were depressed or just terrified of birds now.

“I watched them," you mumble.

“Oh yeah? Then why didn't you react?"

“Because I don't know how to react to a goose stealing someone's sandwich." 

Harlequin snorts. “That's fair. That one was art."

You fall into something almost comfortable—him sprawled on your couch, you curled on your bed, both of you on your phones. This is normal for you two. parallel play, he calls it. existing in the same space without being annoying about it.

Except.

Except you stop responding to his commentary. Your thumb keeps scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling. reels blur together. cats, memes, a video essay about something you don't care about. Harlequin says something—a joke, maybe, or a sex joke—and you hum in response, not really hearing him.

“Hello? Earth to the human who's been ignoring me for months?"

You don't look up.

“Okay, that's—" he cuts himself off then you hear him stand feel the bed shift just a bit as he moves. Suddenly his hand is on your phone, tugging it gently but firmly out of your grip. “Hey—"

“No."

You look up. Harlequin is standing over you, your phone in one hand, his neon eyes fixed on your face. and for the first time since he arrived, he really looks at you.

The grin fades while his head tilts—catlike, curious, assessing. his gaze traces the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slump, the hollow emptiness in your expression that you've been hiding from mirrors.

“You look..." he pauses, searching for words. “Bad. like, really bad. When's the last time you slept?"

“I sleep."

“That's not what I asked, little thing.” Still, you don't answer.

One of Harlequin's tendrills flicks behind him—a nervous habit he'd never admit to. He looks at your phone, then back at you, then at your phone again. something shifts in his expression. 

Something almost like... guilt? 

“Was it the reels?" he asks, quieter than usual. “Did I… was I the reason you—"

“No.” and for once, you're being honest. “It's not you. I’ts… everything. I’ve just been stuck." He stares at you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he shoves your phone into his pocket. Sits down on the bed beside you. Like Close, very close than he normally would.

“Okay," he says.

“…Okay?"

“Okay, you're stuck. Okay, you've been ignoring me. Okay, you look like a sad, wilted lettuce." he bumps his shoulder against yours. “I’m still here, aren't I? I’m not going anywhere."

You lean into him without meaning to. One of his tendrills curls around you. “You're gonna be fine," he mutters, almost to himself. “You're annoyingly resilient. it's one of your few good qualities."

“I have other good qualities."

“Name three."

“…I’m not doing this right now." He laughs—soft, real, nothing bitter about it. And for a little while, neither of you moves.

✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇 

“The hell, Jester…?”

You whisper his name through the glass, and for a long moment, nothing happens. 

He doesn't move, speak, just stands there, massive and still, like a statue someone forgot to finish. you almost think you imagined it—the knock, the shape, the whole thing—when his voice finally cuts through the night.

“You took longer than expected to open."

it's not a complaint. not really. just an observation, delivered in that low, resonant tone that makes your bones feel weird. You slide the door open, and Jester steps inside.

He doesn't say anything at first. just stands there in the middle of your tiny apartment, taking it in. The messy bed. the scattered snack wrappers. The phone in your hand, screen still glowing.

His purple eyes, just sharp, steady, ancient eyes—sweep across everything in your place. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and resonant, each word deliberate. “So this is what modern humans consider meaningful existence. Staring at box of light. Ignoring the living world.” He crosses his arms, and you feel the full weight of his judgment pressing down on you.

You should probably say something. Defend yourself at least. Explain your poor behavior. But your throat feels tight, and his presence is a lot, and all you can manage is a weak, "...hi."

One of his eyebrows lifts. just slightly. just enough. “Hi," he repeats, like the word is foreign. like he's testing it on his tongue. “You disappear for months. you stop responding to all forms of communication. You let me believe—" he pauses, something flickering across his face too fast to read. “And all you have to say is hi?"

You shift your weight, just a bit. “I didn't know what else to say."

"the truth is usually a good starting point."

You don't have the truth. Not one you can put into words, anyway. So you just stand there, phone still in your hand, and let him look at you.

He does, like for a long time. 

And then he unexpectedly moves. Well not toward you. Toward your kitchen funny enough. You watch, baffled, as the jester—massive, purple, terrifying jester opens your cabinets. Peers inside. Closes them. opens your fridge. makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hum.

“You have no food," he states.

"i have... some food."

“You have instant noodles and expired yogurt." he turns to face you, arms still crossed. “This is not food. This is desperation or a cry for help.”

Vefore you can respond, he's pulling out his phone—a sleek, expensive-looking thing that seems too small for his hands—and typing something with practiced efficiency.

“What are you doing?"

“Ordering groceries."

“You… you can't just—"

“I can," he says, not looking up. “I am. Watch Me.”

And you do. you watch the most intimidating monster you've ever met stand in your messy kitchen and order you groceries like it's the most natural thing in the world.

When he's done, he pockets his phone and turns to you, expression unreadable. “You're going to eat," he says. "real food. more than once a day. i will ensure this."

“You don't have to—"

“I am aware that I don't have to. I am choosing to." his purple eyes meet yours. “There is a difference."

You don't know what to say to that, so you say nothing. He looks at your bed, all of the the rumpled blankets, the pillow you've been hugging for warmth and then back at you.

“When's the last time you slept? Truly slept? not the restless, nightmare-ridden version you've been enduring."

You blink, "how do you know about—"

“I’ve notice things." he says it simply. like it's obvious. "you have dark circles beneath your eyes. your posture has collapsed. your energy is... dim than before.” a pause. "you are not well."

It's not a question. “I’m just tired," you try.

“You are exhausted, burned out. there is a difference." he moves toward you—slowly, carefully, like you're a wild animal he doesn't want to spook. “And you are not going to fix it by staring at that device."

He gestures at your phone, still clutched in your hand.

"Give it to me."

“What? no—"

“Give me the phone, little human."

There's something in his voice—not a command, exactly. more like... an invitation. like he's offering to carry something too heavy for you. And maybe it's the exhaustion. maybe it's the numbness. maybe it's just that he's him.

But you hand it over.

He takes it gently, like surprisingly gently and sets it on your dresser, face down. “There," he says. “Now you have no choice but to exist in the present moment."

“That’s… terrifying."

“Good. Fear is motivating."

He sits on the edge of your bed, which it creaks under his weight and pats the space beside him. “Come. sit. tell me what has happened to you. or don't. Either way, you are not going to be alone in this room tonight."

You hesitate then you sit.

His presence is huge and warm and solid, and somehow, despite everything, you… feel something loosen in your chest.

“To be honest… I don't know what's wrong with me," you admit quietly.

“Nothing is wrong with you," he says, and his voice is softer now. almost gentle. “You are a human experiencing human things. Burnout. Exhaustion. The crushing weight of existence." he glances at you. “It happens. it passes. and in the meantime..." he shifts, draping an arm across your shoulders—heavy, grounding. “You’ll have to deal with me.”

“I disappeared for months."

“And I found you." he says it like it's obvious. like there was never any other option. “I will always find you." 

You lean into him without meaning to. Again, surprisingly, he lets you. And for the first time in weeks, you don't feel quite so alone.

✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇

“Wha.. Ticket Taker…?”

You whisper his name, and the silhouette on your balcony straightens. instantly. like he's been waiting for permission to exist.

You slide the door open, and Ticket Taker steps inside. His eye don't wander. they scan. every corner, every surface, every crumpled blanket and discarded wrapper. his expression is unreadable—that perfect, black-and-white symmetrical mask he wears like armor.

But you see the tension in his jaw. The way his hands clasp just a little tighter behind his back. “You didn't show up," he says. No greeting, nor small talk. Just facts.

“I know—"

“To work. To the circus. TO anything." His voice is clipped, controlled, but there's something underneath it. Something that might be hurt, or anger or both. “You failed to appear. Repeatedly. Without notice. Without explanation."

You open your mouth. close it.

he pulls out a small notebook—the one he always carries, the one filled with your schedule, your preferences, your existence filed away in neat, precise handwriting. he flips through it, not looking at you.

“Your screen time has increased by approximately 400% since your departure," he states, adding on, “sleep deprivation is evident. your circadian rhythm appears to have collapsed entirely." his eyes flick to your fridge—you forgot to close it earlier. "nutritional intake is minimal. inadequate. frankly, embarrassing."

He closes the notebook with a snap.

“This is unsustainable. Even for an human, I will be implementing restrictions immediately."

"Restrictions?"

“ON your device usage. on your sleep schedule. on your diet." he finally looks at you, and his gaze is sharp. disappointed. "you have disappointed me."

the words hit harder than you expect.

“I didn't—"

“You didn't show up." his voice cracks, just slightly. just enough. "you didn't show up, and you didn't tell me why. I had to infer. I had to calculate. do you know how many variables I had to account for because you wouldn't simply communicate?"

You don't answer.

He paces—short, sharp movements, like a caged animal. “I have been maintaining everything, hoping and preparing for your return, assuming there would be a return." he stops, faces you. “And then i find you here. In this state. Living like..." he gestures at the room, at you, at everything. “Like this."

“Like what exactly?"

“Like someone who has given up."

The words hang in the air between the both of you.

And something in his expression just changes, a little  softens, just a fraction. He looks at you, see him notice the dark circles, the hollow cheeks, the way your shoulders slump like you're carrying something too heavy.

He exhales as a hand through his hair already slick black hair—which is a rare tell, man’s was worried about you.

“…I’m pushing too hard," he says quietly, not a question more like observation. 

You don't confirm or deny. You just stand there.

He sits on the edge of your bed—perched, really, like he's afraid of wrinkling his suit. his hands rest on his knees. he looks almost... uncertain. “Let's start smaller," he says. “Carefully. one thing at a time."

He pats the space beside him. “Sit.” which you do.

He doesn't touch you—he never initiates touch, not really—but he's close. closer than usual. his presence is solid, steady, there.

“Tell me," he says. “How do you feel?" It's such a simple question. and you don't have an answer. not one that fits into words.

“I don't know," you admit.

He nods, like that's acceptable. like he was expecting it. "then tell me what you do know."

You think about it. "i'm tired."

“Obviously."

“Like... bone tired. Mentally, the kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix."

He's quiet for a moment. then: “Continue."

“I haven't been eating. or... I have, but not enough. not the right things." you glance at him. “You noticed."

“I notice everything." his voice is softer now. less sharp. “It's what I do."

“Yeah."

Silence but like it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence that happens when someone is actually listening. “I miss the circus," you hear yourself say. “I miss... everyone. I just didn't know how to come back."

He turns to look at you. Now those cool, calculating eyes—but there's warmth there, hidden underneath.

“You're here now," he says. "that's a start."

He pulls out his notebook again—but this time, when he opens it, he doesn't start calculating. he just... holds it. like he's waiting.

“I’m going to help you," he says. “Whether you want me to or not. i'm going to make a schedule. I’m going to ensure you eat. i'm going to monitor your sleep. and eventually—" he meets your eyes. “Eventually, you're going to feel like yourself again."

“You can't know that."

“I can." he says it simply. “I’ve calculated the variables. the probability of recovery is high. provided you cooperate."

You almost smile. Almost. "...and if i don't cooperate?"

His lips twitch—the closest he ever gets to a smile. "Then i will be very persistent. you know this about me."

You do.

He stands, straightens his cuffs and looks down at you with something that might be fondness, if you squint. “We'll start tomorrow," he says. "Today, you rest. I’ll stay." He sits back down.

Doesn't touch you but his shoulder is close enough that you could lean on it, if you wanted.

✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇 

“Is that, Doctor??”

You whisper-yelled his name through the glass with confusion, not expecting an answer.

You're about to call out again when you remember—oh. Right. This is Doctor. He doesn't do spontaneous visits. He doesn't leave the circus unless it's Halloween or the entire month of October when he apparently haunts the mortal realm like a goth Santa Claus. 

Any other time? Good luck. He's in his greenhouse. 

Talking to his ferns. Listening to heavy metal. Dissecting things that probably shouldn't be dissected.

So the figure on your balcony? On a random Friday? 

You're either dreaming or he's lost.

But then he ducks because your balcony door is not small, but this man is very much tall. Like, Pirrot tall. Maybe taller. His horns scrape the top of the frame and he has to bend his neck at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable, and you realize with a jolt that you completely forgot how big he is. 

Doctor is not a man who looms. He's a man who exists in the background, in the shadows, in the spaces between things. But up close? In your tiny apartment? He takes up soo much space.

“Well,” he says, his voice that low, pleasant hum that somehow makes your skin crawl in a not-entirely-bad way. "You look awful.”

"...Hi?"

"Hm." He sets down a medical bag you didn't notice he was carrying and starts circling you. Like a shark. Like you're a specimen in a petri dish. "Pupils are dilated. Skin is pale. Posture is collapsed. When's the last time you saw the sun?”

"I don't know. Two week ago?"

“Disgraceful."

He pulls out a small penlight and shines it directly into your eyes without warning. You flinch as you heard him clicks his tongue behind his mask, "Follow the light. Don't blink. Try not to be dramtic about it, sweetie”

"I'm not being dramatic—"

"You're flinching. That's dramatic."

He makes a note on a pad that has also materialized from nowhere. His handwriting is surprisingly neat. Almost pretty. There are little botanical doodles in the margins.

"Your eyes are strained," he announces. "You've been staring at that—" he gestures at your phone, still glowing on the bed “—Rectangle for hours. In the dark. Without proper lightting.”

"I have a lamp—"

“A lamp  is not sufficient for retinal health. You need ambient light. Natural light. Just light that isn't blue and screen-sourced." He pulls out a small handheld scanner—you don't even want to know where he got it—and runs it over your face. It beeps. He frowns.

"Your melatonin production is essentially non-existence. Your dopamine receptors are fried. Your circadian rhythm is destroyed." He looks up at you, cyan eyes sharp. "You've turned your brain into much.”

"Wow. Thanks…”

"You're welcome." He pockets the scanner and tilts his head, studying you the way he studies anything else.

"Here's the thing, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. He doesn't ask permission. He just... occupies space. "I don't do interventions. I don't do heartfelt speeches. I don't do whatever Pierrot does—the crying, the clinging, the I thought you were dead theatrics." He waves a hand vaguely, like he's shooing away a fly. "Exhausting. All of it."

"You came all the way here though."

"I did." He says it simply. Like it's obvious. Like of course he did. "Because you're interesting, and interesting specimens don't just get to... wither. That's wasteful."

He pulls a small glass vial from his bag—something pale blue and faintly glowing. "This is a tincture. Herbal. I made it myself. It won't fix you, nothing fixes anything, not really but it'll help your body remember how to sleep. Real sleep. The kind where your brain actually resets."

He presses it into your palm. His fingers are cool, much larger than your own. "Drink it before bed. Not with your phone in your hand. Not with the screen glowing in your face. Just... close your eyes and exist in the dark for a while."

"This isn't going to turn me into a frog, is it?"

"Don't be ridiculous." A pause. "Frogs require a much higher dosage."

You stare at him. He stares back, completely deadpan.

"...That was a joke."

"Ah. Well. I can see that."

"Was it funny?"

You didn't have the heart to answer. Just looked away.

He followed your gaze, glancing around your apartment agaia—the rumpled blankets, the scattered wrappers, the general stagnation of it all. His mask made his expression hard to read, but something in his voice softened. Just slightly. Just enough.

"You've been existing, not living," he said quietly. "There's a difference. I know you know that."

Again, you didn't answer.

He didn't push. Instead, he moved toward you, not looming this time, just... present. Close enough that you could smell the dried lavender and chamomile clinging to his coat.

"You're not a failed experiment," he said, tilting his head. "You're not a specimen that's been left on a shelf to collect dust. You're just... unwatered. Like my ferns when I forget to open the greenhouse blinds."

"...Are you comparing me to a plant?"

"I'm saying plants don't choose to wilt. They just don't have what they need." His cyan eyes held yours. "You haven't had what you need either. That's not a moral failure. It's just... a missing variable."

You blinked. "That's... surprisingly gentle. For you."

"I have my moments." He pulled a small glass vial from his bag, pale blue, faintly glowing, and pressed it into your palm. His fingers were cool, dry, steady. "This will help. Not because I'm kind, but because I don't like watching interesting things wither. It's inefficient."

"You could just say you care."

"I could." He didn't. But he also didn't move away.

The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, just... full. Like something had been waiting to be said, and neither of you knew how to say it.

"I don't sleep much," he said finally, quieter than before. "I listen to music. I check on my plants. I... could sit with you. If you wanted."

"...You?"

"Surprised?"

"A little."

He almost smiled. Almost. "So am I."

He didn't leave immediately. Instead, he stood there for a moment longer, his presence solid and steady.

"You should drink that before bed," he said, nodding at the vial in your hand. "Preferably in the dark. Preferably without your phone. And preferably..." he paused, something unreadable wavering across his masked face. "Preferably not alone."

"...Is that an instruction or an invitation?"

"Yes."

You huffed something that might have been a laugh. It felt strange in your chest.

He turned toward the balcony, his silhouette massive against the dim light. His horns scraped the top of the doorframe again, and he ducked with that same awkward grace, pausing at the threshold.

"If you need anything," he said, not looking back, "I'm in the greenhouse. Or the tent. Or... somewhere. You know how to find me."

And then he was gone, leaving behind a faint scent of dried herbs, cool earth, and something that might have been chamomile.

You looked down at the vial in your hand. And for the first time in weeks, you thought maybe you weren't as alone as you felt.

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ

✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉

You Pat Him:

You barely raised your hand before he noticed.

Pierrot’s amber eyes locked onto the motion with the rapt attention of a starving man watching food approach. When your hand touched his head, fingers interlaced through his long white locks, which felt surprisingly soft against your fingertips, he was silent.

Not just paused. Stopped. His whole body went rigid, his eye widening, his lips parting beneath the mask.

Then, slowly, almost impossibly, he leaned into it.

Like a flower turning toward the sun. Like a man dying of thirst finding water. His eyes drifted shut, and a sound escaped—soft, broken, grateful. “No one…” he paused, “No one touches me like this. not anymore.” He lifted a hand to meet yours, pressing your palm harder against his head. 

“Please. Don’t stop.” 

When you finally had to pull away, he followed your hand with his gaze, dizzy and torn.

“Come back?”

He Pats You:

His hand hovered for an eternity before landing.

Pierrot shuddered at the very idea of tripping up with you—his fingers, long and nervous, were shaking uncontrollably, and his amber eyes scrutinized your face frantically, almost pleadingly, for any indication of hesitation and fear. Every muscle in him was tensed and ready to retreat at the first sign that he was going too far.

When you offered nothing, and then you leaned into his touch the way he had just done, something in his face broke apart. “Oh,” he breathed, that ранe, musical voice of his trembling with wonder. “Oh, you... you like this?”

His touch passed through your hair, filled with a quiet ache, feeling the texture and weight and you beneath the surface. Every slow movement of his hands was almost ceremonial, tremulous and faithful.

“You’re so soft,” he breathed, almost to himself. “So warm. So… here.”

He pulled you to him, forehead to forehead, his breath passing across your skin in a warm murmur.

“I want to do this forever.” The words were raw and sincere, drawn from a deep well within him. “Will you let me do this forever? Please? I’ll be so gentle. I’ll never stop being gentle. I just—I need—”

He pressed a kiss to your hair. Then another. Then another, each one more reverent than the last.

"Mine," he whispered against your skin. "My dear.”

His arms were wrapped around you, hard and probing, a jumble of fear and compassion intertwined like a desperate attempt to mend himself whole again through you. His face was buried in your hair, his breathing shuddering, his entire body shaking with the struggle to contain the emotion you’d awakened within him.

“Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you for letting me touch you. Thank you for not leaving me. Thank you for staying.”

He held you as though you were something fragile and exquisite, something made of spun glass and stardust, something you didn’t touch carelessly.

Something like the most precious thing in his broken, lovely world.

Because, to him, you were.

✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃

You Pat Him:

He saw it coming.

Because Harlequin noticed everything—the movement in your weight, the lift of your arm, the intention in your eyes. His grin sharpened, ready with a teasing comment about how adorable you were being.

Then your hand came down on his head.

His words trailed off.

His neon green eyes snapped open. His tendrils, which were usually drifting lazily, stood stiff as steel. His body locked in place, as if a machine had encountered strange programming.

“What—” His voice cracked. “What are you—”

You stroked softly behind the spot where his ear would be, if he had one.

Then he relaxed, let go of the moment.

Literally sagged, his spine curving, his head dropping, a sound escaping him that was absolutely not a purr (it was definitely a purr).

"That's—" He swallowed hard. "That's not—I don't—"

His hand came up, not to stop you, but to cover his own face, hiding the flush spreading across his cheeks.

"You can't just—" Another swallow. "You can't just do that. Without warning. Without—" He peaked at you through his fingers. "...Again?"

He Pats You:

He approached it like a hunt.

Harlequin moved around you, observing and soaking up everything. His sharp eyes took in every nuance of every facial expression, every variation in your posture, every degree of the angle that constricted your breathing, every degree of touch that made your eyes flutter shut. 

His tendrils trailed behind him through the air, yet you can feel the focus—intense, sharper than any second he portrayed on stage.

When he finally managed to deliver the blow, with his hand resting on your head with a surprisingly soft, almost ceremonial gentleness, his grin spread wide, triumphantly so.

“Found it,” he purred, a two-toned whisper that dripped with calm, self-satisfied triumph. “The weak spot.”

His touch had been so accurate, so playful, so skilful, dancing over all your nerves with a chilling precision. He scratched lightly behind your ear, made patterns on your scalp, homing in on the weak spot that made you tremble.

"You make the best faces," he murmured, genuinely delighted. "Little human, melting under my hand like butter in the sun. Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are when you're soft? When you're not trying to be tough or clever or anything other than just... you?"

His voice had changed, too, the playful snap giving way to something almost gentle.

He kept at it long after he should have stopped—long after the game was over, long after the punchline had been delivered. He just kept touching you. He just kept looking at you. He kept releasing all those little savoring breaths on you.

“Don’t get too used to this,” he lied, his voice rough.

But his hand never stopped. It never eased off. It never withdrew.

He moved closer, close enough so that his chest was against your own, and the warmth he carried enveloped you. His other hand rose to support your jaw, to bring your face to meet his. 

“You're something else, you know that?” His voice was soft, unadorned, as if he was speaking without even thinking about it. “Something I didn't see coming. Something I can't quite pin down.”

His thumb traced your cheekbone, feather-light.

"I watch you. All the time. When you're not looking. When you think no one sees." A pause. "I see everything. The way you smile at Pierrot like he's not broken. The way you talk to the Ticket Taker like he's not a filing cabinet with a pulse. The way you look at me like I'm not just... a game."

His hand resumed its easy motion, slowing to a softer beat. Softer.

"I don't know what to do with that. With you. With the way you make me want to—" He stopped, swallowed hard, and said, "Never mind."

But he didn't move away. Didn't retreat behind his usual sharpness.

Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours, just for a moment. Just long enough to feel real.

"You're not supposed to make me feel like this," he whispered. "Soft. Quiet. Human." A breath. "But you do. And I hate it. And I love it. And I don't know which one scares me more."

He pulled back, his grin sliding back into place—but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Don't tell anyone I said that." A pause. "One more minute," he murmured. "Just one more. Then I'll let you go…”

He didn't. Not for a long, long time. And when you finally did part, he caught your wrist—just once—and pressed a kiss to your palm.

"Forgetting something," he lied again. "Just... making sure you remember who found your weak spot first." But the way he looked at you as he walked away...

That wasn't a game at all.

✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇

You Pat Him:

Your hand reached for him slowly—not out of fear, but out of respect. 

The Jester had an air, a weight, about him that made even the simplest gesture, even the simplest touch, seem out of reach.

His burning purple eyes followed your approach, perfectly still, perfectly patient. One word, one glance, one gesture of that enormous presence could have stopped you in your tracks. One word, one glance, one gesture of displeasure, without even moving a muscle, could have sent you running.

He didn't.

Your hand had been resting on the curve of his head, avoiding the area of the horns, the one place you could touch without climbing all over him like he was a mountain. It had been warm, firm, real.

And then, almost unbelievably, the eyes had changed. Just a little. Just a fraction. Just enough to notice the change had occurred.

"Bold," the voice had rumbled, low enough that you were the only one who heard it. "No one touches me."

His hand had come up, slow, deliberate, and had covered yours. Not moving it. Not pulling it away. Simply... holding it there. Accepting it.

"You're either very brave," he had murmured, "or very foolish, little human." A pause, heavy as a weight you can’t quite shake. “...I haven’t decided which I prefer.” His thumb brushed your knuckles—once. Just enough to register, to linger without rushing.

He didn’t let you go. Didn’t step away.

Just existed in that moment, letting you touch him, letting you see him, letting you be the one person in centuries bold enough to try. When you started to pull back, his grip tightened—barely, but enough. “Stay,” he murmured, not a command but a request.

So you stayed. And the Jester, for the first time in longer than either of you could remember, simply... was. Held. Touched. Seen.

By you.

He Pats You:

When Jester’s hand descended, time stood still.

Not with any sort of flourish, but with the weight of his attention, the force of his presence, focused intently on you. His hand came down, resting over your head, warm, heavy, but strangely gentle.

The weight of his gaze fell on you, and you felt it, steady and heavy, while the rest of the world melted away: the distant din of the circus, the soft glare of the lantern, the beat of your own heart. It was all about him, his presence, his hand, this instant.

His hand was warm and real, solid and steady, and somehow that didn’t contradict the softness of his touch. He wasn’t pushing, grabbing, possessing. More like he was simply resting his hand on you, and that was somehow a blessing, a promise.

“You fit,” he said, and his deep voice was full of awe. “Under my hand. You fit.”

His thumb moved through your hair, slow and careful. He studied it, felt it, explored it. He learned the texture, the weight, the you inside it.

“This is... pleasing,” he says, the words costing him something to produce. He speaks from a place that doesn't often speak. “The texture. The warmth. The way you trust me enough to let this.”

He says it again, and again, his hand moving through your hair as a question, a venture, a statement.

Nobody touches the Jester. Nobody dares. 

And yet here you are, underneath his touch, soft and trusting, yours in a way he hadn't realized he might want you to be.

He finally spoke, his words a little softer now, a little more intimate. "You can have this whenever you want. My attention. My touch." A pause followed, a heavy one, a meaningful one. "My softness. I don’t give it away easily. I don’t give it at all. But for you..."

He left that sentence hanging, unfinished.

Because his hand was resting on top of your head, still, still touching, still connected. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t done anything but stand there with you in that moment, allowing you access to him in a way he’d never allowed anyone else."

His other hand rose to cup your jaw. He tilted your face up to meet the intensity of his gaze.

"You are mine," he said quietly. Not a question. A fact. "Do you understand? In this moment, in this touch, in this softness—you are mine."

His thumb traced your cheekbone. "And I..." A pause. The words caught. "I am yours. However briefly. However impossibly. Yours." He pressed his forehead to yours, just for a moment. Just enough to feel real.

Then he straightened, his hand giving one last, gentle pass over your hair before, reluctantly withdrawing. "You may return," he said, his voice regaining its usual weight. "When you wish. For more... softness." A pause. "I will be here."

And the way he looked at you as he turned away...

That wasn't a decree at all.

That was a promise.

✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇

You Pat Him:

He froze completely.

The Ticket Taker’s figure went stiff, first white, then white and blue eyes flashing in rapid, chaotic bursts—like a system suddenly overloaded. His pen suspended mid-word. His shoulders locked. Every muscle became a rigid monument of startled professionalism.

“Visitor,” he uttered, the voice flat but tight. “What are you—”

You touched lightly at the back of the Ticket Taker’s skull, at the point where his collar met his hair in perfect starch and perfect grooming.

His breath caught. "I don't—this isn't—" He swallowed, hard. "There’s no protocol for—" He raised a hand, not to stop you, but to grasp his own sleeve. A desperate attempt at grounding himself.

"If you continue to press the issue," he went on, "then I shall be forced to..." He hesitated, unable to find the words for this, the proper construct for kindness.

"...Again," he breathed at last. "If you must. I suppose I could... endure... this moment.”

He Pats You:

He approached it like a task.

Because the Ticket Taker approached each instant as if it were a task to be fulfilled—exact, precise, businesslike. 

His hand came down with a precise angle, a precise rhythm, as if he had spent years studying the art of quiet observation. When it came down on your head, its pressure was just so neither too hard, nor too soft.

It started out quietly—his eyes relaxing, his shoulders unkinking from their usual rigidity. His hands, those tightly coiled instruments of precision, relaxed and fell into a natural rhythm, unashamed to meander. He touched you without a plan—threading through your hair, making slow, aimless circles on your scalp, finding you by feel rather than by numbers on a page.

"This is... pleasant," he admitted softly, the edge in his tone replaced by something softer, more gentle.

There was a pause, his fingers continuing their movement, steady, sure.

"Your softness, your warmth, the way you seek out the contact without hesitation." Another pause, longer than the last.

"I have made countless observations about you, your habits, your preferences, your patterns." His hand paused again, the fingers continuing their movement.

"But this... this was not in any file." His fingers continued, well past the time when the data collection would have been finished, well past the time when any rational being would have stopped.

"I find myself... reluctant to stop."

His words came hard, like they had to be wrestled out. It was in the way his grid of eyes darted, faster and faster, in the slight clench of his jaw. It was in the way his stiff, orderly life seemed to try and avoid feeling.

“Is that… acceptable?”

The question was soft, tentative, out of character for the man, out of character for the Ticket Taker, the man who processes, files, controls everything, asking for permission to continue touching you.

You nodded.

He exhaled, a soft sound, almost relieved, like he’d been holding his breath without even knowing it.

His hand found its rhythm again, this time gentle, steady, present.

“You are,” he whispered, the words falling into something intimate, “the most pleasing variable I’ve ever met.” The words were suspended there, just full of significance.

Not 'specimen.' Not 'subject.' Not 'visitor.'

His other hand rose, hesitantly, and hovered close to your face.

"May I?" he asked, his voice low and quiet.

You nodded, and he cupped your cheek in a way that felt almost impossible. His thumb moved across your cheekbone, your jaw, the edge of your mouth, and each gesture was a question, a discovery, a revelation.

"You're warm," he observed, his voice steady and his tone full of awe. "Always so warm." He hesitated, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I've noticed that before, but..." He cleared his throat. "It's different, feeling it. You're different."

He pulled you close, not in anger, not in need, but in a way that felt almost certain, almost safe.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he said, admitting defeat. “With you. With the way you make me want to… stop filing. Stop processing. Just… be. Here. With you.”

His forehead against yours, his grid-eyed gaze melting away to nothing.

“This is inefficient,” he said, his voice a whisper against your skin. “This is… illogical. This is everything I’ve spent centuries avoiding.”

He paused, breathed, and then said:

“I don’t care for once.”

He kept you there, in the quiet of his kingdom, his hand still tangled in your hair, his other hand still cradling your face.

He moved closer, his words brushing against your lips. “Take it if you want. When you want. My time. My attention. My… gentleness.” He paused, then added, “If that would be... acceptable.”

He pressed forward, “I find myself... reluctant to stop.” The words seemed to cost him. “Is that... acceptable?” When you nodded, a sound escaped him, a sound almost like a sigh of relief, and he went on.

“You are,” he murmured, “the most pleasing variable I have ever encountered.”

✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇

You Pat Him:

His head was cocked at an odd angle—a chance since he’s too tall for you to reach, his eyes fixed intently upon you as you approached, as if he were some kind of specimen under glass.

“Curious,” he said, his voice almost clinical. “What is your—”

And before he could complete the question, your hand reached out to touch his head, his hood, wherever that dark shape could be said to possess a head.

The light from his goggles shone brightly cyan as he talked.

“Physical contact. Voluntary. With me.” He sounded shocked. “Fascinating. Your heart rate increases and levels off immediately. Your pupils dilate, yet remain constricted. You’re not afraid; you’re enjoying this.”

He leaned forward just enough for you to notice.

“Pleasant,” he said. “The pressure. The warmth. The intent behind it.”

His eyes locked onto you with renewed interest.

“I think I’d like to research this further—the effects of light touch on your physiology. With your permission, naturally, sweetie.”

He Pats You:

 His touch began as clinical curiosity, precise and methodical. His cyan eye scanned you like a specimen under a microscope, cataloging every micro-expression, every twitch, every physiological response to his fingers in your hair.

“Fascinating,” he breathed, barely above a whisper. “Piloerection at the base of the scalp. Pupil dilation within normal bounds but clearly reactive. Heart rate…” He paused, listening to the rhythm. “Elevated, yet not a fear signal—more like interest, perhaps pleasure.”

His fingers moved with care, tracing the contours of your head with a scientist’s exactitude.

And then something changed. It was small, a shift away from clinical detail and towards warmth, a softness creeping into his analytical eyes.

“Aha,” he breathed, his tone tinged with true surprise. “I see now. The allure.”

His hands continued to move through your hair, softer than you had ever heard, softer than you had ever felt.

“Your answers are lovely,” he said, his tone quiet, a quietness that was new, a quietness that was different.

“The ease with which you let go, relaxing against my touch. The trust you place in me, closing your eyes, leaning forward, offering yourself to my hands, unhesitating.” His thumb traced the shell of your ear, feather-light.

"I have studied many subjects over the centuries. Countless specimens.” A pause. "None of them have ever looked at me the way you do. Like I'm not something to be feared. Like I'm just... me."

He continued on, lost in what he was seeing, and something more, something that could have been affection had he kept a file for such things.

“I could do this for hours,” he said, his words nearly dreamy. “Analyze the effects of gentle touch on your body, catalog all of your reactions, measure all of your shivers and sighs.” A pause. “Enjoy the process. Enjoy you.”

His cyan goggles looked at yours, and for a moment, there was nothing clinical about it.

"Would you permit that? Extended observation? For... science?"

The word was almost a joke now—a thin veil over something realer, something softer, something he didn't have a name for.

His eyes glinted, but this time, they were softer, almost affectionate.

“You know, sweetie,” he said, his voice low, smooth, and unhurried, the diminutive slipping out as if it had been there all the time, “I have spent centuries searching for anomalies, for exceptions to every rule, for things that refuse to be categorized.”

His hand never wavered in its gentle, unhurried caress.

“I thought I was searching for data, for discoveries, for breakthroughs.” Pause. “I was searching for you, but I didn’t even know it.”

He drew you closer, settling you at his side, his fingers continuing their gentle, unhurried stroking through your hair.

“Stay,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin, “just a little longer, please, I want to remember this, the weight of you, the warmth, the feeling of you pressed against me as if you belonged there, as if you had been meant to be there.”

Pause, soft now, the word almost a caress, almost an acknowledgement, almost a claim.

“You are my favorite specimen, my most interesting subject.” Pause, searching for words that didn’t exist in his medical lexicon.

And for the first time in centuries, the Doctor didn’t just observe...

...didn’t just study, didn’t just think—he felt.

✑ 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝓊𝓂𝒷𝒾𝓃𝒶

You Pat Her:

She froze the moment you touched her.

Not from fear, but from awe. Her one pink eye opened wide with a spark of light, and she shivered at your touch. When you scratched gently behind her horns, she let out a little breathless moan.

Nobody touches her. Nobody sees her. Nobody—

Except you.

Her hands reached out to grip your sleeve, drawing you closer to her. Her face pressed into your hand, hungry for more touch, more warmth, more reassurance that all of this was real.

When you finally pulled your hand back, she looked up at you with a sky full of stars in her eyes—thankful, but sad from loneliness. And then she reached out to put your hand back on her head, nodding resolutely.

Again. Please. Never stop.

She Pats You (Silently?):

Her touch was a whisper—almost nothing, cautious, curious, hopeful. 

And when you didn’t pull back, when you moved closer to it, her whole face changed to joy. Pure joy, quiet joy, joy unadorned. She handled you with a gentle haste, her small hands outlining you, learning the feel of your hair, the warmth of your skin. Each touch was a question:

Is this okay? Do you want this? Do you want me?

As you nodded, and your smile touched hers, she made a noise that was not a noise—a tremor of joy that you felt rather than heard. Her forehead rested against yours, her eyes shut, her hands steady on your face.

Thank you. For really seeing me. For touching me. For staying.

When you had to go, she held your sleeve once again, and pressed a kiss into your palm.

Come back. Please come back. I’ll be here.

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ

He notices it before it even starts and it kills him.

He HATES when you deny yourself stuff, and he will always stop the flirting to talk to you about it, direct.

“This isn’t a flirt, ya haven’t been doing shit to take care of yourself and I can see it, what’s been up with ya, Y/N.”

He will note the fact it’s bad enough a serial killer is more concerned with your eating habits than you are.

He gets you to spill, he won’t force you, not like he’s dragging you here by your own will, but don’t think you can ever trick him or that he’ll rub it off as nothing. Cause again, it’s not nothing.

He will crack a dry joke or too at the end, something not funny but very Ronin-esque. “Don’t kill your self in the process, alright? That’s my job, and I don’t do well to having my opportunities taken away from me.” While doing his stupid wink. But you know he’s serious about you and he damn well cares.

If it does get really bad, he’ll show up at your door with just a “yo”.

He’s good at distracting you. When you hang out with him you don’t even notice the fact he got you a really good tasting and nutritious meal that’ll help you feel better (it was moved to a take out box disguised as just food he happened to pick up on the way to you to watch all the saw movies again).

He makes you drink a ton of water (for, getting your throat dry by screaming at him) or “accidentally” get blood or dirt on you so now you have to shower. And yes, you’re getting freshly comfortable clean clothes after.

He’s sleeping with you that night and if you truly do not want that, you two are still going out on a low pressure date to the grocery store or equipment store or just a drive or walk or getting some coffee the next day. Routine checks on you, dragging you out your house to go to The Purgatory and giving you little surprises there.

You will be rewarded the more you do for yourself, he notices every effort no matter how small and none of them go unchecked. He really does care a ton for you.

You get little pictures of half his face with a thumbs up and a caption telling you to drink your water you asshole or eat food properly or sleep for God’s sake, and that he just did the same.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! 

The obnoxious alarm on your bedside table goes off. 

Your hand flails on the table a few times, trying to shut it off while still waking from sleep. 

With a satisfying slide of your finger, the alarm is dismissed from your phone, and peace fills the air once more. 

Until it was disturbed again.

“Dearest!! It’s morning!” 

With a groan you throw the blanket over your head. Pierott laughs at your stubbornness. 

“I assure you my love, you’re already perfect. No need for beauty sleep!” He sits on the bed next to your feet. “Jester wants everyone in his hotel room to give the daily jobs!” 

You lay there, unmoving. Seemingly fallen back to sleep with your head under the covers. Pierott carefully pulls the blanket down to see your face, to confirm that - yes - you have gone back to sleep. 

You were up for quite a while, insisting that you could handle the paperwork Ticket Taker threw at you last minute. 

Pierrot sits there a moment admiring your beauty and the relaxing aura your sleeping figure produces. But, unfortunately, Jester is not a patient man. 

So instead, Pierrot decides to start kissing you all over your face, slowly bringing you back to the land of consciousness. You throw your head back and forth trying to shake him off and leave you to sleep. He is persistent though, not missing a beat as you had started throwing your entire body over and he decides to just pick you up and press your back against his chest, you still wrapped in your blanket, continuing to kiss you. You finally give in with a laugh. 

“Alright, alright! I'm up.” Your voice is still drowsy, and movement sluggish. But Pierrot can confirm that sleep has been chased from your eyes for now. 

“There's my dearest.” He beams at you softly. 

You return the smile and place a soft kiss on his cheek. He giggles and gently places you back on the bed. 

“I will leave you to get dressed darling, I'll wait in the hall.” and with the click of the door shutting, he is gone. 

With a final groan, you throw the blankets off yourself and quickly throw on some plain clothes. Like hell you’ll work in your costume like everyone else. Not only will it be warm today, but the chances of it getting damaged or dirty are not something you wanna bet on. 

You follow Pierott down the hall towards Jester’s room, where Harlequin waits outside. 

“Bout time you show. I bet I could've gotten you aware quicker, wouldn't I darling? The way your body responds to me? Though, we might've just made you drowsy all over again.” 

Pierott tenses at Harlequin's teasing, looking ready to murder the green bean. He never would of course, but you're sure he has fantasies. 

You look between the two of them a few times as they just stare at each other in the hallway. 

…. It's too damn early for this. You walk past them, leaving Pierrot and Harle behind, and into Jester's room to get the work day started. 

“Ah, look who’s finally awake.” Jester teases as he sits at the family sized table with coffee and a book. Ticket Taker and Doctor were also already sitting with their own respective drinks. Taker also with a cup of coffee and Doctor having tea. As you go to sit down, Doctor gets up and walks to somewhere behind you. You’re too drowsy to care where he goes, a yawn escapes you proving that point further. 

“My my, quite a big yawn pet. Just how late did you stay up? You know you have other responsibilities.” 

“And I’ll take care of them just like I always do, Jess.” You mumble out as you lean your head against your hand with your eyes closed. If you were still new, you'd surely pay for that comment. But you've been around long enough and shown your worth that Jester almost treats you like an equal. ALMOST. “Just like I took care of all the permit documents last night.” Your eyes open looking towards Taker, “Shouldn’t be having any unwanted guests coming by demanding our tents be taken down this time.” 

Taker nods in thanks then takes another sip of his coffee. Right as you're thinking about getting yourself a cup, a porcelain mug is placed in front of you from behind. 

“Just the way you like it sweetie.” 

You smile, “You read my mind. Thanks Doc.” 

Placing both hands around the rim of the mug, you take a sip of the steaming liquid. You hum as the comfortable burn flows down your throat and warms your chest.  “Perfect.” 

Doctor takes his seat once more, and the two you left behind finally enter. Only looking a little disheveled this time. At least they have the decency of not getting too rough in a public area. LIKE THE HOTEL YOU'RE RESIDING IN. 

Taker sighs at the pair, and nods to Jester signaling everyone is finally ready. 

“With the permit situation finally handled we can start putting up the tents today.” Jester began, “Seeing as how we are far off schedule, we'd like these tents up by tonight so we may open.” 

You furrow your brows, “You so sure people are gonna show that soon?” 

“‘Are you sure we will have guests immediately after opening’, is how you should ask.” Taker corrected your wording with an annoyed glance. 

“Literally the same thing.” 

He rolled his eyes. “While you were stuck dealing with legalities all day yesterday, the rest of us took care of the flyers and handing out tickets. We should have enough guests show up tonight for it to be considered successful.” 

Oh, that makes sense… 

After nodding at his explanation, you decided to keep quiet and to just sip on your coffee. You can feel the leftover drowsiness slowly lift little by little. 

Jester chuckles at Takers annoyance with you and stands. “Let's get started then. Pet, go get dressed.” 

“I am dressed.” 

He looks at you, and you immediately get ready for a fight. “Jess, it's going to reach the nineties today. I can't work covered head to toe in that kinda heat.” 

“And should someone approach you about the circus?” 

“We're gonna be busy setting up said circus, there better not be anyone getting in the way.” 

He pinches your cheek, “Wrong again my cute little rascal!” saying the last part almost with disdain in his voice, he lets go with a condescending pat on your cheek. “We'll have curious onlookers that may have missed the flyers. We will approach them and tell them about the entertainment we provide. You must be ready to provide that information at all times.” 

Seeing that you're not going to win this argument, you take another swig of your coffee. 

“.... Give me ten. I won't be long.” 

“Good pet! We'll see you at the sight.” 

As Jester walks past you, you realize everyone else is gone. Probably thought this would get ugly and didn't want to be dragged in. You didn't blame them, considering the fights you and the Jester have had in the past. 

Just as Jester reaches the door leading to the outer hall he stops and turns back to you. 

“Forego the gloves and hat until tonight. That should be enough to keep you from fainting.” 

Before you can respond, he's gone. 

—--- 

Sure enough, there were plenty of onlookers with questions about what was being set up. For the most part, they didn’t interrupt your work by much. If anything they would politely yell ‘Excuse me!’ and wait for you to finish what you’re doing before responding. No one rude so far, which you’re thankful for, though you still keep a baseball bat nearby just in case. But you’re also thankful for having the mask. Working as a barista for so long, you hated having to constantly be conscious of your facial expression. At least with the mask, you never have to worry about that. 

“Hey! Freak!!” 

…. So much for having polite potential guests. 

“Did you think you’d be safe here? Get out of our town!!” 

“Yeah! You’re not taking our people!!” 

Rumors spread fast. Granted their not rumors, but no one truly knew that but you.

You turn from the knots you’re currently tying to properly face who is yelling at you. 

Teenagers. 

Fucking teenagers. 

You’re glad that none of the others are near you. They hear this kinda stuff enough as is, they didn’t need to hear it from fucking children. 

You try ignoring them, continuing to tie knots, only for something hard to suddenly hit the back of your head. Hearing something hit the ground to your right, you look over while cradling your newly throbbing head. An apple. A green. Granny Smith. Fucking apple. They threw an apple at you. 

You turn back around to look at your attackers. They’re laughing as they get ready to throw another your way. Gritting your teeth, you march toward a stack of boxes where you laid your bat on top. You didn’t think you’d have to use this today. Oh well. 

Grabbing the bat, they throw the apple straight at you. You swing, and…. You can personally call it a homerun. As the apple was launched back towards the pitcher and hit him square in the face. 

He falls back gripping his nose. His friends crowd him trying to help, while the few witnesses that were watching either smirk at the kid getting what he deserved or just didn’t care. The teenagers leave, finally letting you work in peace. You drop the bat to the ground, feeling the heat beat into you after the whole endeavor. You turn around, planning to continue tying down booths, only to see them finished….? Perfectly done as well.

You look around, and don’t see a clown in sight. 

You shrug, figuring maybe you did finish. You’re just so damn tired that you forgot. You start dragging yourself to the trailer for some much needed water. You’ve earned a five minute break anyways. 

—-- 

Just as you sit down with a cold bottle of water, Jester enters the trailer. He stands a few feet away, staring at you. You take a huge gulp, then look up at him calmly. 

“What’s up, Jess?” 

His grin widens, “I just had a very interesting conversation.” 

You lean back, “That so? What about?” 

He ignores the second question, “Indeed I did. With the local police.” 

You freeze for a moment. No way those little bastards were trying to get you arrested for defending yourself! 

“He tells me that a group of teenagers were attacked with fruit.” 

“Correction. Only one of them was attacked.” 

He crosses his arms. His grin has turned into a closed smile. 

You played with the bottle nervously. You made no move to defend yourself, or look away from his gaze. Just passing the bottle of water back and forth between your hands. 

“Nothing to say for yourself?” He prods. 

“What do you want me to say Jester? I already admitted to it cause I promised I’d never lie to you.” 

“You also promised you wouldn’t be a nuisance to the circus. This draws attention to us.” 

“‘Common clown from traveling circus gets harassed by local bullies, then defends job sight via apple’!..... I’d visit that circus in a HEARTBEAT.” 

Jester actually chuckles at your fake broadcaster voice while moving closer. He leans down slightly to pat your head. “Next time, just say they started it. A lie of omission is still a lie. And you promised me.” 

You relax at his words and close your eyes, appreciating the affectionate contact after the events of the day. He decides to keep petting you a moment longer, enjoying having you so submissive when you’re normally so feisty all the time. Not that it’s not fun reminding you of your place every time, you make it interesting. Seeing you like this however, that interaction must have taken a lot out of you, the heat is not helping you either.  

He takes his hand away. “You have 2 minutes. We open in three hours. Everything better be done and ready by then.” And he leaves you to enjoy your water. 

—----- 

The circus is bustling, the guys did a damn good job selling people on an event that wasn’t even properly set up yet. 

Dressed in full costume now, you're rolling around on your skates all over the grounds entertaining guests and helping the others. You don’t have your own tent, so no act of your own. You quite like it like this. No lines to memorize, no movements to rehearse. 

The other clowns will sometimes roam as well, but that hardly happens considering their own showings. But when they do, you’ll roll towards them and enter a slow ‘Dance of the Damned’ to the creepy music that plays throughout the park. The public loves witnessing it, some will even come looking for you to inform that one of the clowns are out and about. 

You thought it was so cute. Jester finds it annoying when it’s him. One time, you were told where to find him by guests, and when you found him you went for a dance and he just walked around you. That was another form of entertainment for everyone as you acted rejected and heartbroken. 

Other than dancing, you just roll around and tell dark jokes to guests that appreciate them.  Ticket Taker even got you a clip on mic and speaker. Sayin something like, 'If you insist to entertain guests in this way make sure they can hear you'. You won't look a gift horse in the mouth.

There was a guy in line to see the doctor who looked tired of waiting. Not rude or obnoxious about it, just written on his face. So you roll up right next to him and speak in a whispery voice straight into your mic, “How do diabetics get to heaven?” 

He looks around, confused by your sudden proximity, “I don’t know.” 

“..... One leg at a time baby!!” 

You roll away as the man and others that overheard start laughing. Sure the joke itself might not be that original, it’s why the delivery is everything. You do well to make it interesting each and every time. 

There was even one moment when a woman was so offended at the jokes being said near the Doctor’s tent. “These aren’t even funny! They are insensitive and cruel!! My mother has cancer!!” 

You whip your head around, looking towards everyone else, “ …. Did you all hear me mention cancer? I sure don’t remember bringing up cancer. But sure! Let’s talk cancer! Cause, pfft! C’mon. We all know that it ain’t that hard to beat!” 

The woman raises her voice even more in anger, “Oh really!? What makes you say that!? Are you a professional now!?” 

“Lady! I might as well be classified as professional! I’m on a fucking role!! I’m already on stage fucking four!!” Some people in the crowd start laughing at the unexpected remark, “Not my fault your mom doesn’t know how to play!” 

The lady starts storming off the circus grounds. 

You start following after her, “No! Come back! I’m sure your mom will recover after tu-mor treatments!!” The audience laughs even harder. You even saw Ticket Taker’s shoulders shake for a moment as you passed him near the front. He’ll forever deny it and call you immature, but you got him to laugh for a split second and that will forever be a win for you. 

—--------

As the night starts calming down, you start helping the fools clean up the trash people left. 

That is until Ticket Taker interrupts you. 

“You need something Taker? You ask. 

“A moment of your time, if you don’t mind dear.” He starts leading you away from the main area and towards the pink tent. 

“You all aren’t finally sick of me are you?” You joke. 

“Goodness, I would hope after all this time you’d know us a bit better than that darling.” 

“Eh, not as well as I’d like.” 

“I believe it was your own words that once said, ‘what is life without a bit of mystery’?” 

He smirks at you, using your own words against you. You simply smile back, knowing you’ll never truly understand them completely. No matter how much you want to. 

You both walk into the pink tent where everyone is already waiting. You expect Pierrot to wrap his arms around you. Or Harlequin to make some seductive comment. Or even Doctor to ask if you’d fallen again and need treatment. No… instead there’s stillness, tension in the air. It’s fragile, yet thick and grimy. It hit you the moment you entered. You look at everyone confused. 

Ticket Taker takes his position next to the others across from you. You finally ask the question that’s screaming in your mind, “Is everything alright? I didn’t do something wrong did I?” 

You feel some of the tension release slightly at your words. 

“My dearest, you did nothing wrong.” Pierrot soothed, “We just, have an…. Offer for you.” 

“Offer?” You parroted. 

Jester approaches you, shielding whatever Taker was currently retrieving. 

“Remove your mask for me, dear.” He asked softly. 

.... He never calls you anything but pet. Feeling the seriousness of the situation, you slowly remove your mask and set it to the side. As you do you can hear something heavy being dragged across the floor in loud screeches.   

… “Is everything ok, Jester? No one has answered that one yet.” 

He smiles at you, “That, is entirely up to you.” 

He moves over to your side to reveal what Taker was pulling into view. A man having been gagged and tied up on display by his limbs. Just becoming conscious after being knocked out for the entire night. 

“The rest of us have already passed, not really seeing anything remarkable about him. Normally we’d either ship him to another location or just…. Enjoy him in a different way.”  

“.... Sounds wrong by the way, but I know what you mean.” And there it is. Your smart mouth trying to get you in trouble. A serious discussion and you’re cracking jokes. Harlequin has trouble biting back a laugh. If anyone else did, they didn’t make it as obvious. You doubt it though. 

Jester gives you a disapproving look, you just keep chugging ahead though. "I mean, we all know that I know. Hell it's been over a year by now. But if this is, something else, don't let me harp-” 

“PET.” 

You smile at him after shutting your mouth. You got what you wanted, and everyone knew what you were doing.

The atmosphere here was no longer tense. Not as much as it was. 

You wring your hands together acting like an innocent child. “Sowwy.” 

“Why do we put up with you?” Jester asks no one but himself as he rubs his temples. 

Ticket Taker clears his throat deciding to take over for Jester. 

“Darling. Yes, it has been over a year now. Though, you have yet to be handed a proper title and routine. We are speaking of changing that.” 

You look at him worried, “You want me to perform?” 

“Are you not already?” 

“Not like that. Not like… PLANNED. I just - go with the flow.”

He chuckles. “You can still interact with visitors as you have, but they also seem to like the impromptu dances that you do with us.”  

“They’re not the only ones my dear~” Pierrot threw in. 

You smile amused “I know love, you are literally the one I end up dancing with the most.”

You turn back to Taker, “So you want me to dance on stage.” 

“In a sense.” Jester joins the conversation again, “We believed you’d like to have it as a group rather than yourself however. Hence…” He gestures to the tied up man again, who is wide awake and looking around in pure fear now. Yet, miraculously staying quiet. 

Your eyes widen slightly after looking at the man again. 

“.... I don’t have my own tent.” 

“Already taken care of.” Doctor answers. “I sew more than just limbs.” 

“I don’t know how to really dance on skates, I’m just going in circles with you guys.” 

Harlequin jumps in this time, “That is not all you do and you know it. A new routine always takes practice darling, it will be fine!” 

“You can even find a fun way to incorporate those jokes you love.” Pierrot added.

Taker jumps in again. “A special ticket has already been made for you as well. Should you find someone that shouldn’t be harmed.” 

You turn to Jester again, knowing he has the answer. “.... What would be my new name?” 

“It just sucks, you know?” you complain, spilling your woes to Ronin again. It’s become somewhat of a routine now, but you can’t help it. What else can someone do when they don’t even have the privilege to see the stars at night?

“You talk about this every other night, darlin’, what do ya want me to do?” Ronin says, Beaufortly.

“I don’t know, it's just such a shame. I love the stars so much,” you say with a sigh, sitting down on your shared bed. 

“I know baby,” he says, kissing your cheek. “I have to go to the store, okay?” he says sitting next to you on the bed “Do ya wanna come with me?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Sure,” you giggle, taking his hand as you stand together. He intertwines his fingers with yours, squeezing your hand tight. 

After you both get your shoes on, (Ronin insists on helping you). He leads you through the apartment complex down to his beat up old truck that he insisted be wrapped in red. He opens the passenger door for you, always insisting on being polite. He loves pampering you and you have no idea why. He was always so kind, even if others couldn't see it; he has a unique way to express his affection that most struggle to understand. 

As he drives, you look out your window at the cloudy sky, the only light in the sky being the moon peeking out from behind the clouds. Ronin would peek at you from time to time, his expression getting more and more woebegone. After about 10 minutes he finally pulled into the parking lot of a small store, the kind that would have all kinds of kids toys and cheap trinkets. 

“Darlin?” Ronin questions, placing his hand on your shoulder in an attempt to snap you out of your daydreaming.

“Hmm,” you reply noncommittally, turning your head to look at him. He meets you with a toothy grin before he opens his door and then walks around the car and opens yours, reaching his hand out to help you step out and kissing your cheek. 

He leads you inside, holding the door for you all the while smiling a sinister smile which makes you question if he has any ulterior motives. Knowing Ronin, it's highly likely that he does. 

“Why don’t ya pick something nice out for yourself darlin,” he hums, already leading you to the candy aisle, holding his hand on the small of your back. His eyes meet yours and you smile at him. You turn to face the rows of candy and look around for the certain treats that you like. Ronin stands about a foot behind you, watching over you before he speaks up.

“Hey darlin’ I'm gonna go get some food, ok? You stay here and I’ll come get you.” 

“Ok, Ro,” you mumble before turning your attention back to the treats.

He chuckles a little before walking away. He gets some fruits, vegetables, bread, and some meat. As well as some ice cream for you too.

On his way back to you, he passes the toy aisle and spots some cheap glow-in-the-dark stars that kids stick onto their ceilings. He thought about how much you wanted to see the stars and how sad it's been making you over the past weeks. On a whim, he decides to get them. Carefully, he repositions the groceries to hide the packet of little plastic stars at the bottom of the basket before walking back to you. 

He taps you on the shoulder ”Hey, are you ready to go yet?” he questions, grinning at you. 

You smile, holding up some chocolate and nod, taking his hand. He walks you to the check out and asks you to look for something on his phone to distract you from seeing what he got.  He holds your hand as he walks you out together. Ronin puts the grocery bags in the back seat and then, being the gentleman he is, he holds the passenger door open for you to get in before getting on his own side and starting the car. 

It’s around 11pm by now and the street lights have turned on, making it even harder to see the stars and the sky, which grew even more cloudy. Ronin rubs your shoulder as he sees your glum face reflecting in the window. 

He parks the car in the apartment’s parking lot, leading you inside and into your apartment. He places the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. Using one hand, he tilts your chin up and kisses you with the other. He fishes around in the bag, looking for the packet of stars. Once he finds it, he hides it behind his back and gently lets go of you. 

“Hey darling, do you think you can put these away?” he inquires, stroking your cheek. 

“Mhm,” you mutter out, nodding ever so slightly before turning your attention to the bags. Ronin hums out a reply before disappearing into your bedroom leaving you alone in the kitchen. Unpacking the grocery doesn't take that long. You giggle seeing he got the ice cream you like and hum approvingly at different items. 

After putting everything away you approach the shut bedroom door. You give it a questioning look before knocking lightly. “Ro?” you ask, waiting for a response. 

“Come in!” you hear Ronin call out to you. You sigh and reach for the door but Ronin beats you to it, opening the door for you and staring at you with a shit eating grin. 

“What did you do..?” you ask, trying to look around him into the room. 

“It wounds me to know that you think so poorly of me, darl’,” he says, placing a hand on his heart before ushering you into the room and sitting you on the bed. He stands in front of you still smiling that devilish smile. 

“Ronin, what did you do?” you question looking more worried as time goes on. 

“Nothing bad babe, just close your eyes for me,” he snickers while holding your hands. After a beat, you finally close your eyes. You can hear his laughter grow louder and louder. You hear him stand, flick the light switch off, and then he takes your hands again, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. 

“Okay, open them again,” he whispers to you and you practically can hear him smiling. You open your eyes and the room is completely dark. You can just barely make out the contours of Ronin’s silhouette. You tilt your head, not understanding. He gestures up to the ceiling, causing you to look up. You see countless glowing stars of all different sizes. 

You make eye contact and squeal. You lunge forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and giggling. He chuckles, hugging you back. 

“I’m glad you like them, darlin’,” he states quietly rubbing your back. After a while, you pull away and look up again, collapsing back on the bed. You giggle more and more, giddy off of love. He stands and lays beside you, wrapping his arm around your back and over your stomach. He presses his face into your hair and peppers your head with kisses. “You wanted stars darlin’, so the devil himself carved them into your ceiling. He tore them free from God's hand and brought them to you, writer darling. You're welcome.”

“Thank you devilll,” you say teasingly, turning your head into his chest. 

The stars shine bright above, illuminating how you and your lover rest peacefully, tangled in the sheets of your bed and each other's arms. “I love you, Ro.”

“Love ya too, darlin’.”

٠🔪ིྀ⭑

"Maria meet your new manager," the agency said motioning to you.

You stand beside her, hands behind your back, letting out a small shy like you weren't quite sure you were supposed to be there.

You were cute, Angel thought looking at you. Like a shy little lamb who was accidentally herded into another group of people.

Angel knew that this place isn't for the weak. She had learned that in the hard way with her old manager that she killed with her own hand. It wasn't supposed to be that way, but he gave her no choice.

But you? You were different, Angel could see that.

So she decided, she'll take care of you and help you. Because even if you are just her manager, it doesn't mean Angel couldn't get to take are of you too.

٠🔪ིྀ⭑

"Are you sure this is okay...?" You asked nervously.

You were seated in front of the vanity of Maria de la Rosa. What was supposedly a check in after her videos ended up into something like this, you being seated here to try one of the makeup techniques that Angel had did earlier.

"Why not?" Angel smiled at you as she looked at the different shades of makeup that will match your skin tone. "I think this will suit nice on you."

"I didn't mean that," You answered as Angel lifted her chin, making you look at her blue eyes. "I'm your manager. I'm supposed to be the one handling all your schedules, modeling meeting not... not like this? Am I even allowed to do this? I'm sure my contract has something about-"

"You're overthinking it," Angel said lightly as she gently dabbed powder on your cheeks. "A manager can be close with their client. There won't be anything wrong with it unless the agency stated otherwise. Have they?"

You hesitated. "No, they haven't. Not verbally at least."

"Then there's nothing wrong," Angel smiled and stroked your cheek. "Let me take care of you."

How can you resist the Maria de la Rosa herself? With that charming smile and pretty face. No one could and so you let Angel play with your face. It feels strange, too intimate as she swiped down her lipsticks to your.

It suits you, the color of redness bringing out the life in your eyes. You're beautiful, Angel thought as she wiped the smudge at the corner of your lips. Why didn't you came here as her manager before that guy?

You were different. Too sweet, too kind to work for something like this. Fans, the crazy ones might be hard to handle, stalkers who follows them back home, and the pressure of the agency but you stayed for Angel. Even if they were pushing you to manage the contents and scheduling, you never pushed Angel to do them to do them.

And Angel loved you for that.

٠🔪ིྀ⭑

Angel knew it was unethical to get close with your own manager but who was she to care now? She killed her old one before, the agency wouldn't stop her unless they wanted to have the same fate as him. They don't the true cause of his death, she made sure of that.

As long as Angel wouldn't do anything that would harm her or you.

If there was one thing that Angel learned during her time in the modeling industry are the sharks. Those who pry at the weak, the new ones, and with you as having Angel as her new manager. It wasn't hard to figure out what they were planning to you.

"So your the new manager of Maria," one of the models said looking at you, eyes scanning your from feet to head. "I expected a lot more honestly... after all her old manager put the standards too high for her."

Angel's tilted her head. "There's no need for comparison, my manager is doing her best."

"Are you sure?" the model scoffed. "Doesn't she knows she's supposed to make sure that her client is comfortable around and looking for people for them to talk with? Not some kind of a... bodyguard who stays on your side like a stray puppy. Your old manager would put as much as attention to you unlike... now."

You lowered your head, ashamed. Angel knew this was your first time managing someone but doesn't mean they would insult you in front of her face.

Angel turned back at her. "That's true but I think there's nothing wrong giving others a chance in the spotlight. Besides," she let out a scoffed. "Have you thought that maybe the real reason why my old manager died was because of his own... competence?"

The model's eyes narrowed suspiciously at her words. "What are you implying?"

"I don't know," Angel said with a shrug like it wasn't something worth noticing but the glint in her eyes says otherwise. "Maybe the reason why he died was because he talked to the wrong person. Maybe his got his ego got too full that it got him killed. But we don't know about that right? He's dead and we wouldn't know all the things he did."

"Is that a threat?"

"No. Would you want it to be?" Angel smiled at her sweetly.

Angel killed her that night.

It was impulsive, she hate to admit that. She doesn't kill unless it was really necessary and she just did, the same night with a threat. No one would know, no one had suspected her before so why does she have a bad feeling someone was watching her?

٠🔪ིྀ⭑

"Darling, you did this before," Ronin's sarcastic voice answered to Angel's worries. "I don't see the point why you were now worrying about one measly kill of your coworker."

"I wish I know, Ronin," Angel sighed as she settled down at her chair, wrapping her blanket around her. "I never really planned it honestly, the last thing I know I had my gun out and blasted her head to pieces."

"Boring," Ronin mocked, laughing when he saw the annoyed expression on Angels' face. "Why'd you even do it?"

"She was being mean to my manager," Angel answered.

Ronin raised an eyebrow. "Oh... so it's because of your manager? And here I thought that you'll be hating them like that other guy."

"Oh she's different," Angel said quickly. "She doesn't push me to do stuff that I don't want to. Patient, ask my opinion about my own schedule and my comfort... She's not pushy, okay? I like how she manages things. I'm just worried for her... that maybe she thinks this job isn't for her and she'll leave - what's with that face?"

"You like her," Ronin said flatly. "Like like like."

"What?" Angel felt the warmth spread at her cheeks. "No, I'm not. She's just my manager."

"Yea, yea," Ronin snorted. "You killed someone for that same manager and you said you don't like them?"

"I kill for all my friends!" she defended.

"Exactly," Ronin pointed. "You kill for your friends, those who aren't part of your professional life. But you killed for them, for your manager because someone just got too mean on them."

Angel opened her mouth to argue but Ronin held out a finger like he was silencing her.

"Before you say anything regarding about your old manager," he drawled. "Let me remind you that you wouldn't have done it if we didn't encourage you and you'll probably still be rotting in your room with that manager."

Angel pursued her lip. Ronin knew her better she did. Of course, she wouldn't have learned about her self if she haven't been in a relationship with the Butcher, helped her understand what she really was. There was no point hiding from Ronin.

"Fine... you caught me..." Angel muttered. "I like them."

Ronin nodded. "Now that wasn't so hard, right?"

"Asshole," Angel said but there was no malice on it just familiarity.

"Now where's your manager? I don't think I've seen them before," Ronin said leaning against his chair. "You going to tell them about this server or not?"

"I don't think it's a good idea," Angel said twirling with a strand of hair. "She doesn't even know what I do at night."

"Then maybe you should tell her," Ronin offered. ""Isn't trust fucking foundational when it comes to love?"

"How many times have you said that before?"

"As many times as I want."

Angel rolled her eyes, a chuckle escaping from her mouth when a notification pinged at her phone. Curiously, she looked down and saw a message from you.

I know what you did. You killed my brother. And now I'm going to kill your new manager for what you did to him.

Angel felt her heart drop when another notification appeared. A picture of a dark alleyway, dark stains littered on the walls that she knew were blood stains. But that wasn't what she was focused on, but at the sight of you all tied up while the person held your head high with a knife in your throat.

No.

"Angel?" Ronin's voice asked but Angel had already stood up, grabbing her gun and rushing outside.

She knew that alleyway. It was the same place where she killed her old manager.

٠🔪ིྀ⭑

"Darling?" Angel called out, her voice shaking as she held her gun.

The alleyway was silent, too silent that it gives Angel chills. The bad feeling that she had been the whole time was all because of her old manager's brother. She barely remember him, just a small information that she didn't find important until now.

She stepped inside, eyes darting to look until she found them.

But it wasn't what she expected to be.

"Darling...?" she repeated, this time uncertainty in her voice as she walked closer.

Laying down there was a guy, his face was all messed up like something hit his face. Blood drip down from his nose and lips, eyes blank as he looked emptily at her. There was something in his shoulder, like something just got torn away from his body.

He was alive. Barely.

And beside him was you, staring at the blood in your hands and the knife that you held. Blood smeared across your cheek and mouth. Despite the mess, your expression was calm as you lifted your head to start at her.

The two of you were silent for a moment, speechless.

"Oh thank god," Angel let out a shaky laughter, "you're alive."

You blinked at her. "What?"

You expected something. Perhaps a look of disgust, horror, fear or the fact that there was a dead body at your feet.

"You came?" You asked quietly, looking around.

"Of course, I did," Angel said softly. "Why shouldn't I?"

You didn't got a chance to answer when something interrupted them. The man on the ground cough blood, barely alive but still alive. Ange's face twisted in disgust looking over him, he could see the resemblance of her old manager. The thought alone was enough for her to remember the annoyance she felt with him.

He let out a broken wheeze, was he laughing or crying? Both of you didn't know. "Fucking psycho..." he gargled through blood. "Crazy, your both fucking crazy..."

You look away, ashamed?

"Darling," Angel lowered her gun. "Did you bite him?"

"He wouldn't stop screaming," you said as you slowly back away. "He wouldn't stop talking about killing you and I just... I got angry and it just happened."

The man let out a muffle cry, crawling away from you.

Angel resisted the urge to smile. She was used to people fearing her but this? Seeing someone terrified of you? Her sweet, nervous shy little manager covered in blood while someone begged you not to eat them?

She licked her lips, remembering Ronin's voice.

"You like them.

Angel stepped closer carefully, her gaze locked on you but you immediately backed away.

"I know how this looks," you said immediately. "And I know how bad it is."

"You ate him," Angel said lightly. "You bite a chunk of her shoulder."

"I panicked, it wasn't supposed to happen."

"That seemed far too big for an accident."

"He was threatening!" you said and for a moment, Angel could see the little pout appearing on your lips.

Cute, your so cute, Angel chuckled as she tilted her head.

"This is a bit ironing," she said softly as she reached out, thumb brushing the corner of your lips and smearing the blood more on your face as if dazed. "Everyone called me a cannibal for years but you're the first person I've really met who tried to bite someone."

Your face went completely red. "I didn't eat him!" you insisted

"Darling, there's literally flesh in your teeth."

If it was more possible to make your face more red, it would have already happened as you slapped a hand over your mouth.

Angel laughed, a laugh so melodic and hysterical that it echoed across the alleyway.

The man behind them looked between the two of you, eyes wide in fear as he continued to desperately crawl away from the two of you.

"Killers... your both fucking---"

He didn't get a chance to finish when his head exploded, splattering the walls a darker shade of red. Angel hummed a tune, lowering her gun before smiling at you.

"You killed him," You said, staring at the lifeless body.

"He's too noisy, I just have to silence him," Angel said innocently. "You tenderized him first, teamwork. I'm sure the gates of hell are ready to cook him alive."

The horrified look on your face was priceless. It was adorable, you were so adorable. All shaken off and covered in blood with flesh in your mouth and Angel thought you were the most prettiest thing she had ever since.

The last thing you saw was him casually kicking out his long legs to slide into a pair of comfortable shoes.

When he finally stepped out from behind the winding partition, Jester seemed to catch your lingering gaze and knitted his brow. You swallowed hard, trying to mask your interest by smoothing the already perfect linens near the headboard. This small act earned you a low, bitter chuckle as he crossed to his desk. He clicked off the desk lamp — a piece clearly worn by time, the same light that accompanied his nightly circus ledgers and his reading habits. In the center of the desk lay a title, silent yet promising: The Happy Prince, by the renowned Irish wit. A master of metaphor, symbolism, and melancholy. Even from a distance, the cover piqued your curiosity.

“The Happy Prince?” you ventured, your voice soft and calm. “A different choice from last week. What is it about, Jester?”

Jester’s claws scraped faintly against the cover as his eyes drifted toward you. He offered a lazy smile, tilting his head slightly so his hair followed the movement like a silky, purple waterfall.

“Always the curious one, aren't you?” His eyes returned to the book, picking it up delicately. “This one is indeed different. A choice tale from a larger collection. Sober and discreet.” He exhaled softly. “A story that discusses the shallowness of beauty, sacrifice, and altruism as the path to happiness. Or at least, that is the line of reasoning the book strives so hard to make the reader consider,” he finished, his cadence dropping into something low and thorny.

A brief silence followed, as ephemeral as it had begun.

“Do you wish to hear this story?” Jester asked with an air of indifference, not waiting for an answer. He walked toward the bed and sat on the edge with calculated grace. You watched him from the corner of your eye, suspicious, waiting.

“Hear it? You want to read to me?” you asked, hesitant. Even after growing used to Jester’s company, you could never quite tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic. You searched his gaze for any flicker of scorn.

“Must I offer twice?” Jester’s retort came like a swift, cutting stroke. He sighed deeply before gesturing to the pillows and blankets you had prepared so carefully. “You look weary. Lie down, and I shall read to you. I am in a good mood today.”

You nodded and quickly settled onto the mattress, stretching out under his watchful gaze. Jester remained seated, the book anchored by the grip of his sharp claws. He cleared his throat discreetly, beginning in a low, melodious, and velvety tone.

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt. He was very much admired indeed. One day, a little Swallow decided to rest at the feet of the Happy Prince. She planned to fly to Egypt to join her companions, who were already among the pyramids. She was about to sleep under her makeshift golden roof when she felt something wet fall upon her.

A drop. And then another.

She looked up and saw the beautiful statue weeping copiously. The Prince’s face was a serene vision in the moonlight, so sad that she felt pity.

SWALLOW: “Who are you, and why are you weeping? You have quite drenched me.”

Jester’s tone mimicked the low, moved voice of the traveling bird. His eyes, however, captured your every gesture — the flutter of your lashes, the way your gaze followed his words with silent focus. You shifted under the covers, propping yourself up against the headboard.

You wondered why such a happy, beloved statue would cry. What could a golden face lack that would threaten to oxidize its angelic features with silent tears?

HAPPY PRINCE: “I am the Happy Prince. When I was alive and had a human heart, I did not know what tears were. I lived in a palace where sorrow was not allowed to enter. But now that I am dead, they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead, I cannot choose but weep.”

Jester gave a slight smile as he read the Swallow’s next line, affecting an indignant tone. The bird was more offended that the Prince’s heart wasn't gold like the rest of him. Jester shook his head, his voice turning critical and reflective.

“See, my dear? Even the bird, being unhuman, was first more horrified to hear the heart was made of common metal than moved by the horrible lives of the subjects. Quite revealing, don't you think?”

Jester shifted the book's weight to his right hand, while his left reached out unpretentiously toward your leg. Though you were still tucked under the pale blankets, his hand stroked your leg with a rare, tender delicacy. You savored the touch before leaning in further. The story was becoming fascinating — the aristocrat turned into a statue, his dignified suffering — but mostly, you craved the proximity of the man before you.

You moved. You gave a silent yawn before boldly lowering your head to rest in his lap. Jester stiffened momentarily, his brow furrowed in surprise. He stared at you, his violet eyes reflecting a cycle of acceptance: surprise, mild reproach, a certain embarrassment, and finally, a reluctant, prickly agreement. His gaze softened, as if those amethyst windows could liquefy only for you. His touch drifted to your hair, brushing against your ear. Despite the affection, his tongue remained sharp:

“You are quite sensitive today. In other circumstances, you would have thought twice before doing that.” Jester gave a playful tug to a lock of hair at the nape of your neck, eliciting a small, sleepy sigh from you. He chuckled, entertained.

“May I continue? Or are you about to shift again and distract me, my sweet?”

You nodded, huffing at his provocation, and curled closer to his thigh. Jester clicked his tongue but resumed the tale. The Prince pleaded with the Swallow to take the ruby from his sword to the home of a poor seamstress whose son lay ill. The Swallow hesitated, dreaming of Egypt, but eventually gave in. The bird flew through the city, dropping the intense red gem upon the woman's table while she slept from exhaustion. Having done the deed, the Swallow returned to the golden figure, feeling a strange warmth despite the cold.

SWALLOW: “Have you any commissions for Egypt? I am starting now.”

“What did he say to the bird, my love?” you asked faintly, your voice raspy. “Will he ask for more? She seems so decided, so anxious to fly away.” You fought the urge to close your eyes. “If she is so troubled, he should let her go in peace.”

Jester looked down at you, his fingers tracing the contour of your neck.

“The little bird is afraid, don't you see? She wants to escape the frost, to gift herself the freedom of travel and the heat of the East. The winter will do her no good.” Jester gave a conspiratorial smile. “She is worried she will die in this dull, rigid weather.”

HAPPY PRINCE: “Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not stay with me one night longer? Far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, his hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate. He is trying to finish a play, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint. Dear bird, I have no ruby now.”

Jester read with gravity. You listened with bated breath.

HAPPY PRINCE: “My eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play. Do as I command you, little Swallow.”

“And what did she say?“ you asked quickly. “She was ready for the East. Even if she wants to help, jewels are rare. You said they were Indian rarities, right?”

You were genuinely perplexed. If this continued, the statue would be stripped bare. You felt a pang of pity for the Happy Prince — wondering if he had ever truly been “happy,” standing immobile while witnessing such tragedy.

“An eye is an eye, sapphires or not, my dear. You are thinking like the Swallow now.” Jester gave a low, sinister giggle, momentarily covering one of your eyes with his hand in a teasing gesture. You weakly brushed his hand away, and his wrist found a new path, stroking your back. “Still, she yielded. She went to the disillusioned writer and hid the sapphire among his withered violets. He felt appreciated for the first time, just as the Prince predicted.“

“But he had to blind himself for that small triumph…” you whispered. “What else, Jester?”

You were now fully in the statue's corner, fearing its decline. You knew from Jester’s other stories that no good deed goes unpunished. Jester’s voice remained pleasant as he continued. The bird tried to say goodbye again at the docks, watching sailors prepare their sails, but no one noticed her, so she returned to the one-eyed statue.

“She really went back?” you murmured, surprised.

“She did.” Jester laughed softly. “How touching. You are truly invested. Just wait.” He tapped your nose with a subtle, affectionate flick. You weren't sure if you felt flattered or patronized by the gesture.

“It’s confusing... why hasn't she left yet? Birds can fly high. They can go anywhere. Why?” You yawned again, rubbing your eyes.

“You are human, but you aren't using your human lenses to see beyond the polished words and metaphorical ornaments, my dear.” Jester explained slowly, noticing your exhaustion. His knuckles brushed your lips. “This foolish, curious bird is denying herself to meet the expectations of the Prince, who is also denying and stripping himself of his most precious things. His gold, his sapphires, his beauty. Don't you see that the statue's entire worth lies in his appearance? No one sees him crying. No one truly cares.”

“That is... very sad,” you whispered.

“Perhaps it is, for a heart like yours,” the circus leader admitted. “But listen. The Prince welcomed her back, and she slept at his feet. She helped him once more, taking his remaining sapphire eye to a poor match-girl so her father wouldn't beat her. The Swallow almost wept at the plea, but do you know what he told her?”

You struggled to keep your eyes open, noting Jester’s frame hunched over you. His purple hair brushed your skin, his scent filling your senses. His lips brushed your ear — not with malice, but with a devastatingly tender tone as he spoke the character’s words.

“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, do as I command you.”

The Prince was completely blind now. Your mind was a blur, yet you clung to the story. Your hands gripped his thigh for support. He shook his head but said nothing to stop you. Not tonight.

Jester read how the Swallow, seeing the Prince blind, vowed never to leave him. She told him stories of the red ibises on the Nile, the Sphinx that is as old as the world, and the King of the Mountains of the Moon who worships a crystal. Beautiful, rich things the Prince would never see again.

Finally, you let go. You slipped into that realm between consciousness and sleep, feeling Jester’s languid caresses on your face, your nose, your lips.

He moved into the final act. You barely heard it, how the Swallow reported the city's misery one last time, how she stripped the Prince of his gold leaf to feed the hungry until he was nothing but grey, dull lead.

You shifted under his grip, murmuring something inaudible. You were no longer responding, just clicking your tongue in a daze. Jester read how the Prince was now “shabby,” nothing like the angel he had once been. He stretched his legs, and the movement caused you to open one heavy eye.

“Hello there. What a sleepyhead you are, my sweet.” He gave a discrete, amused smile. “Were you drooling?” he teased, his claws turning the final pages.

“I was…” You brushed the back of your hand over your lips, catching a stray trace of saliva. “I wasn't! Alright?” you defended yourself, sounding amusingly indignant. This only served to entertain Jester further.

“You were going to ruin my pajamas with that drooling mouth of yours... how ghastly, my dear.” Jester observed you with those capricious, violet eyes before turning back to the ink-stained pages, breathing deeply. "Perhaps you’ve lost the rhythm. The Happy Prince is no longer such a flattering statue, and the swallow is weak, heavy with the winter chill. There is little food. Here is what we read.”

“She barely had the strength to fly up to the Prince’s shoulder anymore,” Jester explained, his voice winding and low. "Do you have any idea why?”

At last the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses. The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, she loved him too well. She picked up crumbs outside the baker’s door when he was not looking, and tried to keep herself warm by flapping her wings.

“The bird is... dying. Isn't she, my love?” you asked, your voice small and heavy with emotion.

Jester did not answer directly. He simply recited:

SWALLOW: “Goodbye, dear Prince! Will you let me kiss your hand?”

HAPPY PRINCE: “I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow, for you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”

As he read those lines, Jester’s eyes lingered on your lips for a moment too long.

“A melancholy sweetness,” he mused. “If I were a static prince and you a stubborn bird, perhaps I would demand the same.”

Your eyes shimmered with a faint, lingering hope at his words.

SWALLOW: "It is not to Egypt that I am going. I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?”

“And she kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet,” Jester announced, his voice simple and irrevocable. His eyes shone with a sudden, sharp intensity. “At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.”

You felt your heavy eyelids weigh down again. But it wasn't just sleep this time.

A drop. Then another, silently.

They traced paths down your face, disappearing into the fabric of his lap where your head rested. A silent rain of the heart. Wet droplets, just like when the swallow first found shelter beneath the golden roof.

Jester, however, didn't notice immediately.

He read of how the Mayor and the Town Councillors visited the monument the next morning. They were horrified by the statue’s state and by the bedraggled bird dead at its feet. The golden angel — now blind, sapphireless, without a ruby in his hilt, stripped of his fine gilding — was nothing but a leaden carcass. More like a beggar than a prince.

So, the men ordered the statue to be melted down to be replaced by a new one — a statue of the Mayor. The overseer carried out the request, melting the Happy Prince, except for one small piece that refused to break or melt.

The leaden heart.

You managed a weak murmur, tugging at his sleeve. “And what did they do with it, then?”

“They threw it away, darling. Both the heart and the body of the dead swallow. They tossed them both onto a dust-heap,” Jester admitted, his claws turning to the final, shorter page. The letters there, written in gold, barely reached the middle of the paper. “There is one last part.”

GOD: “Bring me the two most precious things in the city.”

One of His angels brought Him both the leaden heart and the little swallow that once shone in bright blue.

GOD: “You have rightly chosen. For in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.”

Jester finally closed the book, letting out a silent sigh of satisfaction. Without his immersive voice reciting the words, the tent felt tighter, almost claustrophobic. Without the measured tenderness of his performance, the air lacked its genuine warmth.

The circus leader tossed the book aside carelessly.

“Ready to sleep for good now?” he asked, his tone unusually mild.

No immediate answer came. The silence stretched until a new sound, faint and broken, was heard. A sob.

Another jagged sob followed, a small, involuntary hitch of your shoulders. You were crying like a tired child against his left thigh, letting out muffled whimpers that you still naively tried to repress. Why did a story so beautiful have to be so cruel? Were humans always so indifferent? You wanted to be stubborn; you wanted to believe that at least one soul would mourn the prince and the bird, for they were more than just metal and feathers.

You sniffled quietly, and then felt Jester’s hands reach for the sides of your head. He tried to lift it, but you hesitated, not wanting him to see your puffy eyes and tear-streaked face.

“You are crying, my beloved pet. Why?” Jester asked in a low voice, strangely sweet but awkward. He was not practiced in the art of consolation, except for Pierrot, on occasion. Excessive tenderness was not his forte.

His kindness was as guarded as a cautious carnivorous flower. The softness in his voice sounded foreign in his mouth. Still, he managed to lift your face with care. His knuckles brushed your skin before his hands settled on your shoulders with silent firmness.

With a discreet, almost ceremonial gesture, he slid his hands behind your back and pulled you up until you were draped across his lap, cradled against his chest. It wasn't a full embrace — he wouldn't be so explicitly sentimental, it would be “ridiculous” — but it was warm and significant enough.

“It was just a story, alright?" he whispered, his lips brushing your hair, inhaling your scent. It was as if Jester were trying to undo the very damage he had caused. "There's no need to be upset. It's over now.”

You shook your head in denial, eyes half-closed, pressing into the space of those exuberant purple curtains that were his hair.

“You know it wasn't just a story.”

“I know,” Jester conceded, not wanting to be held further accountable. For a moment, he felt strangely small under the weight of your grief. He hated the feeling. “Would you mind lifting your face once more? Look at me for a moment, my love.”

You raised your chin, though your eyes initially avoided his amethyst gaze. You felt exposed, too vulnerable under his scrutiny. You waited for the mockery, for the small scorns Jester usually let slip with unredeemable pleasure. But surprisingly, nothing happened. No jokes, no biting observations.

Jester simply pressed you closer to his body, an unscripted act. It was pure sentiment, a clumsy attempt to piece you back together and tuck you into a peaceful, rather than sorrowful, sleep. It was a gesture that likely made him feel more "stupid" than he’d like, but he allowed it anyway. Tomorrow would be another day, and he could spend the afternoon at the circus scolding himself for it, far away from you.

“You are so tired. Be still for a moment…”

Jester’s hands brushed your cheeks, his thumbs pressing softly, tracing your features. His long fingers ran along your jawline, curving upward to wipe away your tears. You caught the end of a sob, your attention snapping to the shape of his mouth. You pulled your own lips back hesitantly at the mere thought, but he seemed to sense the desire. His hands moved quickly to the nape of your neck, tangling in the small strands of hair there.

Jester leaned down to meet you. He held you close and firm, almost enveloping you. His long hair fell over your shoulders first, wrapping you in a sort of cocoon, and his forehead rested against yours in a gesture that felt almost too generous. Having him this close, you felt you could lose yourself in a gaze as deep as purple stone. You tugged at his pajama sleeve, and Jester’s index finger diligently traced the corner of your lips before he finally gave in.

His mouth met yours in a perfect, familiar mold. A kiss without pretense — slow, without ulterior motives, as if he could transmit some kind of healing warmth to your body through the simple gesture.

You murmured something against his lips before he pulled away. He smiled slightly, stroking your ear with his fingertips.

“Better now? Do you feel calmer?” His tone was serene, almost too careful. “You should lie down. I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”

You only nodded, his kiss wrapping you in a new wave of warmth and drowsiness. It was the safety of his arms, the privilege of being tended to by a man usually so invulnerable. You leaned in toward your man once more, aching for more. You gave him another quick, faint kiss on the lips. The soft touch made you practically melt under his guidance, clinging tighter and tighter to his silhouette with affection, craving more of that rare, sweet anchorage.

Jester lingered, his lips meeting yours in a series of soft, rhythmic smacks and gentle caresses, as if confirming that everything was indeed alright, before pulling back with a lazy smile.

“I think that's enough for today,” he murmured. “Time to rest, my sweet.”

Carefully, he tucked you under the covers and settled in right behind you. His hands rested distractedly on your shoulders, warming the space around you. The cold night air seemed to vanish in his proximity, while the moonlight bathed the purple tent in a pale, tranquil glow.

Your mind began to dissolve into blurred images: birds, angels, stories too sad and too beautiful. Nothing else needed to make sense. The weight of exhaustion conquered every remaining thought.

You sighed softly, completely relaxed, your arms settling over your chest in the shape of a crooked, sleeping heart.

Behind you, Jester smiled as he noticed.

b = best friend

what would they be like as a best friend? how would the friendship start?

okay, so. besties with the jester.

first of all, forget everything you know about friendship. there will be no texting. no memes. no "you up?" at 2am. (only harlequin does that)

it started because he spotted you in the crowd. not screaming, not crying, just... watching. with this look on your face like, 'huh. so that's a seven-foot-tall glowing horned monument. neat.' 

and for a being whose entire existence is about eliciting big, loud feelings, your calm, quiet 'not impressed' vibe was the most fascinating thing he'd seen in a century. it was an anomaly. a glitch in his programming. he had to know why.

so he let you stick around. and somewhere along the line, you became his personal soundboard.

as a best friend, he's... a lot. 

he won't give you pep talks. if you have a problem, he'll just... reconfigure reality around it. annoying co-worker? suddenly transferred to a different dimension. bad day? he'll have the ambient lighting in your vicinity permanently altered to a "serotonin-boosting spectrum." he's less of a friend and more of a fix-it type.

and the gossip? oh, it's the best. but it's not gossip. it's boardline venting.

you'll be sitting in his tent, sipping tea that tastes like quiet, and he'll just drop, in that deep, resonant voice:

"I despise them all."

you'll look up from your book. "who?"

“the fools. the entire circus. even Harlequin and pierrot... ah, all of it, so much…” he'll rumble, the purple glow of his eyes flickering like a faulty neon sign. he’ll let out a long, weary sigh that sounds like a mountain settling.

"I never applied for this position, you know. It was simply... apparent. Who else would do it? The doctor? He'd turn us all into terrariums. The ticket taker? He'd file us alphabetically by suffering. So it falls to me. To be the... the gravity."

he'll pause, then add, almost as an afterthought,"...I am, however, exceptionally good at it." and that's the crux of it. he hates the paperwork of godhood, the constant management of other people's messes. 

but he also knows, with every fiber of his being, that he's the only one who can do it. he loves the control, the order, the perfect and beautiful he keeps running—he just wishes the other parts weren't so... sentient and annoying.

so yeah. being his best friend means you get front-row seats to the most dramatic, existential "my coworkers are idiots" rants in the multiverse. 

c = cuddles

do they like to cuddle? how would they cuddle?

cuddling require casualing touching. the jester does not do casual. 

he envelops. if you initiate, he might allow you to lean against his side, and one of his massive, cloak-draped arms will come to rest around you, heavy as a fur-lined chain. 

it’s less a hug and more a ritual of safekeeping. you’ll feel the deep, rhythmic thrum of his internal energy, a purple vibration against your cheek. movement is minimal. he is a cliff face, and you are a bird nesting in a crevice. it is profoundly safe and subtly possessive.

d = domestic

do they want to settle down? how are they at cooking and cleaning?

he is already settled. the circus is his domain, eternally. “domestic” life with him is life inside his perfectly managed kingdom. he doesn’t cook, but he ensures food is provided. 

he doesn’t clean, but his mere presence enforces order—like dust seems afraid to settle where he stands. his environment is one of controlled ambiance: low light, rich fabrics, a sense of heavy, careful peace. mess is not cleaned; it is disappeared, as if the universe itself corrects the error to please him.

e = ending

if they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?

well... if he had to end it with you… consider it less a breakup and more a curation decision.

he wouldn’t sit you down so much as allow you to stand before him one final time, the space around you both growing still and bit awkward.

“ah, my dear little human,” he would murmur, his voice a low, rolling timbre that vibrates in the floorboards. “every story must find its final punctuation. even the most… captivating of footnotes.”

he wouldn’t call you troublesome. he’d be more poetic.

“you have begun to sing a melody that clashes with my symphony. a beautiful, wild little tune—but it threatens the harmony of my larger composition. i must return you to the library of the world, my precious volume. your chapter here is complete.”

You will miss him, like why you would?—you miss the weight and meaning he gave to your entire reality. you’ve been demoted from cherished pet to… ordinary human.

now. if you try to break up with him.

oh, you brave, foolish little creature.

you can say the words. you can pack your bag. you can walk toward the exit.

but you’ll find the path to the gate now loops back to his tent. your own reflection in the mirrors might sometimes show you standing beside him, a faint, possessive hand on your shoulder.

he wouldn’t stop you with force. he would stop you with narrative.

“leaving, little one?” his voice would come from everywhere and nowhere, a warm, dark hum in your ear. “but you are part of the cast now. the audience expects you. the story needs you.”

he’d treat your declaration not as a rejection, but as a misunderstanding of your own role.

“this is not a tale where the familiar wanders off. that is a different genre entirely. here, you are… treasured. curated. kept.”

to try and break up with the jester is to try and edit a story written in stone. you’ll remain his most interesting, beloved pet—the one who once thought it could choose its own cage.

f = fiance(e)

how do they feel about commitment?

okay, let's be real. the jester doesn't "get married." Marriage is a human contract for equals.

he doesn't have equals.

think of it less like a wedding and more like... getting permanently installed. Like a stunning stained-glass window being fitted into the wall of his cathedral. You're not becoming his partner. You're becoming a permanent fixture in his exhibit.

it's not about love, dearie. It's about curation. You've moved from "interesting temporary display" to "prized permanent collection." he's committing to your preservation, your upkeep, and your continued role in his grand design. it's the highest honor a human can receive from him: to be deemed too valuable to ever let go.

how quick would they want to get married?

hahahaha, quick? oh, no. he's the director. the show must be perfectly paced. he’ll watch you for acts and encores. He’ll see how you handle the clown's tears, the predator's taunts, the chill of the ticket booth. do you rust? Do you fray? do you make the narrative more... compelling?

Only when he’s certain you won’t tarnish, wilt, or disrupt the ambiance will he even consider it. you’re never label as his fiancé.

you're his masterpiece. and masterpieces don't get say.

g = gentle

how gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?

his gentleness is the gentleness of a glacier—slow, immense, and capable of reshaping everything without a single harsh sound. 

physically, for all his size, he can handle a butterfly’s wing or your wrist with impossible care. like he’s not the type to outright physically harm you. then emotionally, he is not soft, but he can be still. he won’t soothe with words, but he will create a pocket of quiet around your pain, a sanctuary where you can feel it without being assaulted by the rest of the world. 

it’s a stern, spacious kind of gentleness.

h = hugs

do they like hugs? how often do they do it? what are their hugs like?

he does not “like” or “dislike” hugs. 

he accepts them as a form of tribute or grants them as a boon. they are rare events. to be hugged by the jester is to be temporarily erased from the universe. 

his arms are a total enclosure, his broad chest a wall against everything else. the world goes dark, quiet, and safe. you don’t hear the circus; you hear the deep, hum of him. it lasts exactly as long as he deems necessary for your recalibration. 

when he releases you, you’ll feel dizzy, like you’ve just been set down on a planet with weaker gravity.

i = i love you

how fast do they say the l-word?

he might never say it. like those words are too small, too human, too frail for the enormity of what he feels. instead, you will hear it in the silence he builds for you. in the way the troupe’s chaos parts around you. in the gift of a single, perfect key that unlocks any door in the circus except his own private archive. 

his love is not a declaration; it is an appointment. 

if words absolutely must be used, they will sound like this, murmured against the crown of your head in the deep night:

“you are where you belong. be still.”

j = jealousy

how jealous do they get? what do they do when they’re jealous?

he doesn’t get jealous. he gets territorial. a low, possessive thrum will echo in the air around him. he won’t snarl or posturing; he will simply rearrange reality. 

the person garnering your attention while you trying to work around the circus will find their path perpetually blocked by scenery, perhaps taken care of by the doctor.

you, meanwhile, will find him suddenly, constantly there—a vast, purple-clad shadow at the edge of your vision, a silent reminder of where your attention should be anchored. 

it’s not petty; it’s a correction.

k = kisses

what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss you? where do they like to be kissed?

a kiss from the jester isn't something you share.

it's something you receive.

imagine: the applause is still ringing in your ears like a fading bell. the scent of sawdust and air hangs thick in the air. he’s been watching you all night, you know. watching you play your part in his grand, twisted play. and you played it well. no stumbles. no missed cues. 

now, in the heavy quiet of the wings, he is just… there. a wall of velvet and shadow that wasn’t a moment before. the ambient glow from his eyes paints the space between you in soft, pulsing purple.

“you held your note,” his voice is a low, resonant thing that doesn’t seem to travel through the air so much as materialize directly in your skull. “The composition was… balanced.”

it’s the highest praise you’ll ever get.

you know the drill. you don’t move. you hold still. you become the plinth awaiting the statue.

his  hand comes up, not to cup your face, but to frame it. his thumb rests just under your jaw, a cool, unyielding pressure tipping your chin up. His other hand settles at the nape of your neck, not pulling you in, but anchoring you. there is no question of escape. there is only the inevitable.

he bends, the world narrowing to the twin points of his luminous gaze. You can smell him now—hint of something sweet, intoxicating.

Then, his lips.

they are, as always, cool. like marble warmed by a single, shy sunbeam. they are firm. this isn't a meeting of mouths; it's a stamp. a seal pressed upon you.

he doesn’t kiss you. he applies his mouth to yours. It’s a deliberate, vertical press. final. authoritative. the constant, sub-audible hum that is the soundtrack to his existence suddenly focuses, condenses, vibrates directly into the seam of your lips. it travels through your teeth, down your jaw, into the very core of you, replacing your heartbeat with his frequency.

And just before he pulls away—in the split-second where his coolness has started to burn—you feel it. the faintest, most impossible quirk at the corner of his mouth.

a smirk. 

it’s not warmth. it’s satisfaction. the smirk of a collector admiring a perfectly placed piece. the smirk of a god pleased with a prayer.

he pulls back just enough, his lips leaving yours with a soft, shocking sound of separation. His glowing eyes are already scanning your face, reading the dazed slackness of your mouth, the unfocused sheen in your eyes. 

he’s not looking for pleasure. (well, not in that moment) he’s auditing the impact. his thumb swipes once, almost absently, over the pulse now hammering in your throat.

“acceptable dearest,” he murmurs, and the word feels like the locking of a vault.

he stole your breath. and in return, he gave you a purpose: to stand perfectly still, and wait for him to do it again.

for other parts, beside the lips.

the forehead: his favorite. a vertical press of his cool mouth to the center of your brow. it feels less like a kiss and more like being anointed. sealed. marked as his. it's a command to be still, and a promise of shelter, all at once.

the back of your hand: this is for show. when he does it in front of the others—usually after you've done something that pleases him—it's a performance. a demonstration of ownership. his lips are a barely-there brush against your knuckles, but the weight of his gaze pins you in place. it says, 'look what belongs to me.'

the crown of your head: the rarest, most private one. he has to bend so far down for this. you'll feel the sweep of his horns frame your head, blocking out the light, before his mouth presses into your hair. it's not romantic. it's profoundly possessive. it feels like he's trying to kiss your very thoughts, to imprint himself on the source of you. you feel small, and utterly safe, and like you might never be allowed to leave.

getting him to accept a kiss? that's the real trick.

he doesn't guide you. he tolerates your approach, watching with that deep, patient stillness.

but you found the one spot. you have to reach up. his head is bowed, maybe over a ledger, and you see the place where the elegant, terrifying sweep of his horn meets the tense, elegant line of his neck. the skin there is just... skin. no glow, no armor.

you press your lips to that tiny, hidden junction.

the effect is instantaneous.

his entire massive frame goes rigid. not with rejection, but with shock. a full-system shock. the deep, constant hum that emanates from him stutters, catches, and then restarts as a deeper, rougher vibration that you don't just hear—you feel it in the floor, in your teeth, in the water glass on the table.

it's the only crack in his composure. the only sign that something you did reached the being beneath the monument. he won't gasp. he won't pull away.

but for one endless second, the king holds its breath.

l = little ones

how are they around children?

sooo, he doesn't see children, he sees miniature, un-auditioned audience members. like, i'm pretty sure in his head he's running a zoo and humans are the main exhibit, and having a kid or kids is just like... getting a new, smaller, squeakier animal for the habitat. 

he's not bad with them, he's quite the entertainer, but it's in the way a zookeeper is "good" with a rare penguin—mostly focused on not letting it disrupt the ecosystem or fall into the predator pit.

the kids are either gonna be completely terrified or weirdly, deeply mesmerized by him. there is no in-between. he might allow a particularly quiet one to play with the bells on his boots or hat, just staring up at his glowing purple eyes while he ignores them completely. 

he wouldn't teach them to play tag. he'd teach them to stand perfectly still for twenty minutes to hear the dust settle. he's that scary, beautiful statue in the garden they're afraid to touch, but he might, once, if the kid is very still and very quiet, lower one massive hand and let them briefly touch the cool, polished curve of his horn. 

one slow blink of those luminous eyes. a silent benediction. and then he'd go back to ignoring them, now forever filed in his mind under 'small human: acceptable levels of noise.'

m = morning

how are mornings spent with them?

mornings with the jester are basically the circus’s corporate headquarters opening for the day. he’s been up for hours, the main engine already humming while the rest of the troupe is still hitting snooze. 

you’ll stumble out to find him talking with the ticket taker—it’s like watching the ceo and the cfo of a freaky ahh company plan their quarterly earnings. the ticket taker has the spreadsheets and the ledger, all the numbers and the amount of guests list, and the jester is the one who looks at the data, gives a single slow nod, and basically goes, ‘make it happen.’ 

he’s placing the orders for the day’s specific brand of terror and wonder. then you’ll notice a perfect breakfast just… there. did he make it? no. did he think it, and a terrified minor imp somewhere scurried to fulfill the thought? probably. 

he’ll acknowledge you with just a turn of his head, his purple glow doing a little ‘good morning, asset’ pulse. the whole room smells like quiet power and very expensive, vaguely ominous bergamot tea.

n = night

how are nights spent with them?

nights with the jester are for relaxing. 

after the final curtain falls and the last screaming audience member has been gently ushered out by the ticket taker (who is probably now filing the screams by decibel level). 

the loud, flashy circus goes to sleep, and the quiet,  circus manager comes back to his tent. you might find him in the deepest, plushest part of his tent,  reading a book. he won't talk. the show's over; words are for the performance. you can just... stand there. exist in the same quiet. 

that's the big intimacy. 

you're not a guest; you're witnessing the anchor do its job. he might put a heavy, cloak-draped hand on your shoulder, and it doesn't feel like a hug, it feels like he's plugging you directly into the mainframe, grounding you so you don't float away. you're both just two specs of dust tethered to the same cold, beautiful star.

o = open

when would they start revealing things about themselves? do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?

figuring the jester out such a hard task. 

you get what he allows to break off, in its own time. first, he’ll just let you see the ringmaster veneer—the unshakeable authority, the cool control. that’s the surface layer. stick around long enough without being deemed ‘troublesome,’ and you might catch a glimpse of the weary stage manager underneath, the one who has to keep all the other volatile acts from burning the big top down.

but the deep stuff? the real foundational trauma? 

the famine-memory, the cold truth of what he let happen to keep his circus alive? that’s locked in the permafrost at the center. you won’t hear about it. you’ll see it. in the way his glow gutters for a split second when harlequin gets too sharp with pierrot. 

in the absolute, vacuum-like silence that follows the mention of a certain shade of pink. it’ll be a truth that flashes in the sudden, bottomless dark of his eyes, just for a heartbeat, before the steady purple light floods back in.

he doesn’t confess. he has a momentary systems failure. and if you’re standing close enough, you get to witness the crash.

p = patience

how easily angered are they?

you don't anger the jester. 

you fail a quality assurance test. his patience isn't human patience; it's the patience of a mountain watching an ant hill. it's vast. but cross a line? disrupt the sacred composition of his circus? 

oh, honey. his anger isn't a tantrum. it's a gravitational anomaly. the air gets thick and soupy, lights dim to a bruise-purple gloom, and all sound gets swallowed until the only thing you hear is the low hum coming from him. 

his eyes become the only light source, pinning you in place like a bug under a spotlight. he won't yell. his voice will just drop an octave and vibrate in your marrow. "you are a dissonant note in my symphony." and just like that, you're not in trouble—you're edited out of the score. 

the troupe fears harlequin's bite, but they dread the jester's silence. it means you've become background noise, and he's tuning you out.

q = quizzes

how much would they remember about you? do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?

does he remember things about you? pfft. 

he has a live-updating dossier. he remembers the exact steepness of your tea, the specific frequency of your sigh when you're bored, the way you hugged your elbows that one tuesday when the doctor got too close. 

but it's filed under 'human quirks.' it's cataloged under 'asset parameters: optimal performance settings.' he'll use it to curate your reality. didn't laugh at pierrot's joke last week? don't worry, pierrot's act will be gently redirected away from you. mentioned you liked the smell of rain? surprise, the humidifiers in your section of the tent will start pumping out petrichor. 

he doesn't care about the joke; he cares that the joke made your smile drop by 3.2 seconds. you're not a person to him; you're a beautifully complex instrument he's learning to play perfectly.

r = remember

what is their favorite moment in your relationship?

it wasn't something you said.

it was a silence you shared. that night you just sat in his space, not reading, not talking, not fidgeting. you just... existed in the same profound stillness. you held the quiet without trying to fill it. in that moment, you stopped being a chattering pet or a demanding guest. 

you became what he needs most: a calm, deep pool of stillness beside his mountain. a complementary part of the landscape. not another problem to manage, but a piece of the peace he struggles to maintain. he thinks of that silence often. 

it's the only time the weight of his crown felt light.

s = security

how protective are they? how would they protect you? how would they like to be protected?

protecting you isn't about throwing punches. it's about editing the script. harlequin looking a bit too bitey today? suddenly, harlequin finds a fascinating, time-consuming puzzle locked in his tent. a tent pole looks shaky? you'll find a handwritten note (not in his hand, but the thought is his) redirecting you to a safer path. 

his protection is invisible, seamless, and somewhat controlling. to protect him is a funny thought. but he'd appreciate you maintaining the sanctity of his focus. being a buffer between him and the troupe's needier members. being a small island of quiet he can glance at and remember what he's anchoring. 

you guard his peace, and in return, he guards your entire existence.

t = try

how much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?

thinking about the jester "trying" is like asking a force of nature to put in effort. the sun doesn't try to rise, dearie. it just does, and the world warms.

so no, he doesn't put in "effort." he orchestrates reality around you.

a date isn't dinner and a movie. it's a private, immersive performance staged in a pocket dimension he manifests just for the evening. 

the narrative will subtly mirror that story you told him once about getting lost in the woods as a child—except here, the woods are made of velvet shadows and whispering silk, and getting lost feels like finally finding your way home. 

he watches from the shadows, noting your every micro-expression, adjusting the lighting and soundtrack of your life in real time.

a gift is never an object. it's a thesis on your existence. a music box that doesn't play a song, but replays the exact timbre of his internal hum from the moment he first decided you were his. 

a scarf that's impossibly light but carries the weight of a comforting hand on your shoulder when you're anxious. a key that opens any door in the circus and also, somehow, makes your own heartbeat sound quieter, more steady, when you hold it. 

and everyday life? please. 

the universe itself seems to bend to make your path frictionless. you’re never out of your favorite anything, always taken care of. the chaotic noise of the troupe always seems to hit a lull right when you have a headache. it’s not luck. it’s curated existence. 

he’s not trying to be a good partner. 

he’s perfecting the habitat for his most treasured human.

u = ugly

what would be some bad habits of theirs?

i have a few in mind….

the paternalistic veto: he will quietly, irrevocably override your choices “for the good of the design.” want to explore the east wing? suddenly, it’s condemned for repairs. forever.

emotional landscaping: he doesn’t just notice your mood; he tries to fix it by altering your environment, which can feel incredibly manipulative.

the silent treatment: his displeasure isn’t shouting; it’s a complete, chilling absence of his attention. being ignored by the axis of your world is a special kind of cold.

assuming the role of god: he genuinely believes he knows what’s best for everyone, always. it’s not arrogance; it’s a fact of his existence, and it’s infuriating.

v = vanity

how concerned are they with their looks?

let's get one thing straight: the jester is not vain. vanity is for beings who are insecure.

what he is, is iconic. he is a monument, a symbol of absolute, otherworldly authority. his appearance is his uniform, his brand, his unshakable truth. the horns aren't an accessory; they're a crown. 

every single element is meticulously maintained, not out of pride, but out of necessity. if he looks less than perfect, the entire illusion of his control shatters. dust does not dare settle on his shoulders.

and you? oh, you're part of the display now.

he cares deeply about how you look, because you are a featured piece in his gallery. you reflect on the curator. you think that outfit is 'cozy'? he sees a fabric that clashes with the deep jewel tones of his tent's interior. you think your hair is fine messy? he sees a disruption in the composed visual harmony he's built.

he will ensure you are always... presentable. 

not to his taste, but to the aesthetic of his world. you'll find your wardrobe quietly shifting. Rough fabrics replaced with silent, luxurious ones. Clunky shoes disappearing, replaced with elegant, silent ones. Your colors will slowly mute to complement, not compete with, the dominant purples and blacks of his domain.

it's not control. it's curation. he is fitting you into the frame of his life. you will be beautiful, yes. but it will be a beautiful that matches the furniture. 

you are the most prized objet d'art in his collection, and he will make damn sure you are displayed to perfection.

w = whole

would they feel incomplete without you?

no. a cathedral is not incomplete without one specific stained glass window. but that window, once installed, defines the light, gives the space its character, becomes the focal point for prayer. 

you are not his missing piece. 

you are the art that makes his architecture worth maintaining. without you, his world is still structurally sound, but it has no heart. no point. 

just perfect, empty order.

x = xtra

a random headcanon for them.

he has a secret, tiny garden in a place no one can find—maybe behind a mirror, maybe under a stage. in it grows one, single, impossible flower that thrives on silence and shadow.

he tends to it not with joy, but with a deep, solemn reverence. it is the only living thing he nurtures just for the sake of its own existence, not for the design. 

if he ever gives you one of its ink-black petals, you will hold a piece of his soul that even the circus does not own.

y = yuck

what are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?

chaos for chaos’s sake. (harlequin’s entire existence is a mild irritant.)

neediness and loud emotional displays. (it’s troublesome.)

disrespect for the narrative. heckling his shows, breaking the illusion.

independence that threatens the troupe’s stability. (his number one deal-breaker.)

Being referred to as "mom." or "mommy" the fandom's joke is his personal, silent hell. One twitch of a horn is the only signal of his immense simmering discontent.

z = zzz

what is a sleep habit of theirs?

he doesn't sleep. he anchors. he enters a deep, meditative state where his consciousness becomes the literal keel of the circus, keeping it from drifting into the chaotic seas of unreality. 

he might be seated on his throne or standing in a ring of cold fire, glow reduced to the barest ember. spacetime gently warps around him. if you sleep near him during this, you will have the most profound, terror-free rest of your life. 

you are sleeping in the eye of the godstorm, wrapped in the absolute certainty of his watch. 

you are safe because his will makes it so.

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ