𝓎𝒶𝓎𝒶

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ . 𝒾𝓃𝒻𝑜

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ─ another quick intro, i’m yaya, a writer/researcher and a university student studying psychology/pre-med track, currently in my FOURTH year. i’ve loved writing since i was little and never really stopped.

if you see my work posted anywhere else, it isn’t me.

i write ONLY on tumblr and steer clear of ao3, curses be damned. adding on, this space is 18+. all of it. SFW only means “safe to view in public,” not “made for minors.” NSFW is explicit. either way, this blog is built for mature adults audiences.

if you are a minor, do not interact, send me inky asks/whisper and, absolutely do not message me. i am not responsible for you choosing to ignore warnings to read my work because you believe you’re mature enough to handle it.

also, if you are easily offended by dark themes, heavy psychology, or morally messy content, this will not be comfortable for you.

curate your space accordingly. my page, my rules.

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ . 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒

── .꩜   first things first, worried about my writing or posting schedule? lovely of you. tragic, though, because there isn’t one. i used to run on a schedule and it burned me out so badly it practically turned to ash in my hands. lesson learned.

so here are the rules: do not message me asking when I’m posting. i write when I can. I post when it’s ready. and don’t spam me. I’m open to questions about my work, but keep it respectful.

no invasive or rude personal asks.

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝒶𝓈𝓀𝓈 𝒷𝑜𝓍

𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎 𝒶𝓈𝓀𝓈: OPEN

these are ONLY for prompts, ideas, for drabbles or headcanons, writing advice, or psychology related discussions. if it connects to fiction, craft, or character minds, it belongs there.

don’t ask me personal/insensitive questions.

like, if you ever have to carefully think about your question AND it sounds disrespectful, refrain so, if you still do, i WILL delete it.

please don’t ask me to psychoanalyze you.

i ONLY analyze/write fictional characters. real people deserve real professionals. and i'm not professional yet, this is all for studying purposes. keep it creative. keep it respectful. think of something interesting.

also, a reminder: i do not write everything I’m sent. i choose prompts that feel distinct, detailed, and layered enough for me to actually build with. Simple asks may can work, but it depends on whether they genuinely spark my interest.

if it doesn’t move me, I won’t force it!

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈

── .꩜   proceed with caution, dearies. as my writing tends to wander deep into the dark—psychological trauma, morally gray choices, and unsettling territory—because i learn in the world of psych and neuroscience every day. that academic brain bleeds into my writing, twisting it into something uncanny and heavy.

i am fully comfortable exploring explicit, graphic, and morally questionable content; you are responsible for your OWN exposure if you ignore the warnings and choose to stay.

i’m fully comfortable with graphic or morally questionable content; however, i am not responsible how you FEEL or THINK, if you ignore the WARNINGS above and choose to stay.

things i don’t write: incest or stepcest, pro-shipping, pedophilia, mommy/daddy kinks, pregnancy (nothing baby related), a/b/o, zoophilia, or anything related to the above. no exceptions.

things i do write: character x reader (or OC for paid requests), every dark content, sfw/nswf themes, including cannibalism, murder, dubcon, yandere dynamics, realism, psychological/neurological and morally gray behavior.

yes, i write fluff, smut, angst, and nearly EVERY tag under the sun—but i’ll admit it: smut is my favorite. it’s hilarious to write, and my brain refuses to apologize.

i write reader-insert only (fem, afab, or gn). i don’t write from a male pov or genitalia, so i stick with any other focused perspectives instead. 

your thoughts and feedback are ALWAYS welcome, however again, hate or irrelevant criticism will be tossed straight into the void—other words, deleted. this is a safe space for all minds and bodies—treat others the way you wish to be treated.

thank you again, truly, for all your support .ᐟ

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈

─ .꩜ #yayamain: all my inkquills and enchanted entryways.

─ .꩜ #yayainkyheadcanons/#yayainkydrabbles: all my headcanons stuff.

─ .꩜ #yayathoughts/#yayainterests: a jumble of musings, murmurs, and mischievous blabbles.

─ .꩜ #yayaupdate: tidings, alerts, and morsels you ought to know.

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

✑ 𝓇𝑜𝓃𝒾𝓃 | @.𝑔𝑜𝓇𝑒𝒷𝑜y 

"The devil doesn't pick locks. He makes the lock wish it was never built."

Ronin's Role: Infiltration & Distraction Specialist

The mark is Elias Vancroft, a tech billionaire, data broker, and the kind of man who sells people's private information to the highest bidder without losing a second of sleep. His penthouse sits atop a glass tower in the financial district, seventy stories of "unbreachable" security that he brags about at every investor meeting.

Ronin has been watching this building for three weeks. He knows which guards vape on their breaks, which elevator has the faulty sensor and where Vancroft keeps his "real" vault, the one with the offshore account ledgers, the blackmail material, the leverage in a sub-basement that doesn't officially exist.

What Ronin doesn't have is a distraction.

Not a regular one. Not a fire alarm or a fake emergency. He needs something messy. Something that pulls security away from the sub-basement while he works his magic.

And then you show up.

You've been casing the 47th floor for two hours.

The accounting firm that leases this space handles Vancroft's books, the legitimate books, the ones he shows auditors. You're after the discrepancy files. The real numbers. The ones that live on a server tucked behind a fake wall in the partner's corner office.

You're good at this. You learned lockpicking from your uncle and social engineering from years of being underestimated. Tonight, you're wearing a janitor's uniform that fits just loose enough to hide your tools, a lanyard with a cloned badge, and an expression that says I am supposed to be here, don't look at me twice.

The server room door clicks open under your pick.

You step inside and immediately trip over something warm and alive.

"Shh—"

A hand clamps over your mouth. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make the point. You're pressed against the wall before you can blink, your back to the cold metal, a lean body pinning you in place.

"Don't scream," a voice murmurs, amused, “Screamin' attracts attention, and I'm not tryin' to share my spotlight tonight."

Your eyes adjust to the dark.

He's taller than you. Messy burgundy hair falling over black eyes, a beanie with tiny devil horns sitting askew on his head. There's a snake draped around his neck like a living scarf — a small, dark-scaled thing with a forked tongue that flicks toward your face curiously.

His other hand is holding a crowbar.

"Well, well," he breathes, and his lips curl into something that's not quite a smile. "Look what wandered into my web."

He doesn't let go of you. His eyes looked over your face  and something changes in his expression. Interest, maybe. Or amusement. It's hard to tell in the dark.

“Janitor," he says, like he's tasting the word. "Cute. But janitors don't carry lockpicks that nice." His free hand pats your hip, finds the hidden pocket, and pulls out your kit. He holds it up between you, the metal tools glinting in the emergency light. "Professional. Clean. Quiet."

He tilts his head.

"You're not here for Vancroft's books, are you? Nah." He taps the crowbar against his thigh, thoughtful. "You're after somethin' in the basement. Same as me."

You don't answer. You can’t, after all, his hand is still over your mouth. He seems to remember this. His palm lifts, slowly, like he's giving you permission to speak but he's not sure he'll like what you say.

"I'm not here to fight you," you whisper.

His eyebrows go up. "That so?"

"I'm here for one file. A discrepancy report. That's it. I don't care about anything else in this building."

Ronin stares at you for a long moment then he laughs. "Aw, shit," he says, grinning now. "You're adorable. You broke into a billionaire's private server room for one file? That's like bringin' a butter knife to a gunfight." He shakes his head, still smiling. "I like you. You've got spirit."

He steps back, finally giving you space. But he doesn't put down the crowbar.

"Here's the thing, sweetheart," he says, leaning against the server rack like he owns it. "I'm about to make a lot of noise downstairs. Fireworks. Theatrics. The kinda chaos that gets every security guard in this building runnin' toward me like moths to a flame."

He points the crowbar at you, "You? You're gonna be in the basement. Three floors down, behind a door that technically doesn't exist. And while everyone's chasin' the devil, you're gonna grab that pretty little file you want and maybe, just maybe, you're gonna grab somethin' for me too."

He then pulls a small drive from his pocket, a black, unmarked, heavier than it looks and presses it into your palm. His fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary.

"The sub-basement vault. Vancroft's real one. There's a terminal inside, looks like a regular computer, but it's air-gapped. No network connection. That drive's got a script that'll run in thirty seconds, copy everything on that machine, and wipe itself clean after." He meets your eyes. 

"You get in, you plug it in, you get out. Don't look at the files. Don't touch anything else. The drive does the work."

"And what do you get?" you ask.

"Me?" He grins, all teeth. "I get to watch seventy floors of security chase their tails while I walk out the front door with a painting that hasn't been seen in public since 1942." He taps his chest. "Priorities, sweetheart."

He turns to leave then stops. Looks back at you over his shoulder.

"Oh, and one more thing." His voice drops, softer now. "When the alarms go off? Don't run. Walk. Walk like you belong there. Security's lookin' for panicked thieves, not bored janitors." He winks. "You got the uniform for a reason, yeah?"

And then he's gone, just swallowed by the shadows, crowbar swinging at his side.

Shockingly, you do what he says.

You hate that you do what he says. But there's something about the way he looked at you, like you were interesting, you weren't just a tool but a person he wanted to see succeed that makes you trust him.

You had no clue why, but you went with your gut.

The sub-basement door is exactly where he said it would be. The lock is complicated, but your picks are good. You're inside in ninety seconds.

The vault is smaller than you expected. Just cold and quiet The air tastes like metal and recycled oxygen. The terminal sits on a bare metal desk in the center of the room, glowing blue in the darkness.

You plug in the drive.

A progress bar appears. Twenty seconds. Fifteen. Ten.

The alarms start screaming at seven seconds.

Again, you did as you were told, you didn’t run, just walk. 

You made sure to tuck the drive into your pocket once finished, and you walk out of the sub-basement like you have every right to be there. The halls are filled with chaos. Guards are shouting into radios. Red lights are flashing. Someone pushes past you without a second glance.

You keep walking.

You're in the lobby when you see him again.

Ronin is standing by the revolving doors, hands in his pockets, whistling. His devil-horn beanie is slightly askew. 

He spots you and start grining.

"Told ya," he says, falling into step beside you. "Walk like you belong."

Outside, the night is cold and loud with sirens. Ronin doesn't seem to care. He pulls a set of keys from his pocket, clicks a button, and a beat-up black truck across the street flashes its lights.

"Ride's that way," he says, nodding toward it. "I ain't gonna offer—you seem like the type who likes their independence." He pauses then asked in a quietir tone, "But the drive?"

You hand it over.

He weighs it in his palm, then tucks it into his hoodie pocket 

"Good work tonight," he says. And he means it, there's no sarcasm, no performance. Just a thief acknowledging another thief's skill. "You got a name, janitor? Or should I just keep callin' you sweetheart?"

You tell him. His eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Pretty name," he says. "Fits you better than the uniform."

The sirens are getting closer. He should go. You both should.

But he doesn't move, well not yet anyway.

"Same time next week?" he asks, and there's something almost hopeful in his voice. "I know a place with worse security and better art. And I gotta say..." He tilts his head, black eyes glittering. "I wouldn't mind workin' with you again. You're quiet. I like quiet."

He backs toward his truck, still watching you. "Think about it, yeah?" He climbs into the driver's seat, engine rumbling to life. Ronin leans across the seat, grins at you through the open passenger window.

"Night, sweetheart. Don't let the cops catch ya."

And then he's gone, just peeling out of the alley, tires squealing, laughter trailing behind him like smoke.

Once you made it home, you don't sleep that night.

You keep thinking about the way he looked at you. The way he trusted you, a random ass stranger, someone who could have betrayed him in a hundred different ways.

Your phone buzzes at 3:17 AM.

Unknown Number: hope u made it home safe. 

Unknown Number: also i may have copied ur number off the drive before i wiped it. don't be mad.

Unknown Number: same time next week? 💀

You stare at the screen for a long time.

Then, against every instinct you have, you type back:

You: What's the address?

His response is immediate.

Unknown Number: that's my good thief. sending now. wear somethin' comfortable we're goin' through a window.

✑ 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁 | @.𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁𝒾𝒸

"Why would I break in when I can be invited?"

Angel's Role: Social Engineering & Extraction

The mark is Lucien Moreau, who is heir to a crumbling luxury empire, collector of beautiful things, and alleged "legitimate businessman" whose fortune was built on the bones of bankrupt artists and stolen intellectual property. 

He's hosting a private auction tonight at his estate: a sprawling modern mansion perched on a cliff overlooking the city, every surface polished to a mirror shine, every guest handpicked from the upper crust of society's underbelly.

Angel has been cultivating this invitation for two months.

She's "Isabella Reyes" tonight, a so called reclusive heiress from a fabricated South American family, newly arrived in the city, dripping in wealth and the kind of bored, elegant cruelty that makes old money nervous. 

The pearls around her neck are real. Her dress, floor-length black velvet, slit to the thigh, backless to the waist, funny enough it’s borrowed from a boutique she'll may or may not return tomorrow. The diamond bracelet on her wrist was stolen during their last heist, and she wears it like she forgot it was there.

Her target is a painting. 

No, not for its beauty, it’s more for its secret. The canvas hides a microfilm containing the account numbers for Moreau's private black fund, the one he uses to launder money through offshore shell companies. The painting hangs in the east wing gallery, behind a keypad lock that requires a six-digit code.

Angel has the code. She got it last week from Moreau's personal assistant, who was very willing to share after three glasses of champagne and a whispered promise of… “something more."

What Angel doesn't have is a distraction during the extraction window, so the three minutes between guard rotations when the east wing goes dark.

And then she sees you.

Which, you're not supposed to be here either.

You're a cater waiter, or rather, you're wearing a cater waiter's uniform, carrying a silver tray of champagne glasses, and moving through the crowd with the practiced invisibility of someone who knows exactly how to not be seen. The real cater waiter is locked in a supply closet on the second floor. 

Which, he'll be fine. Maybe uncomfortable, confused, but fine.

Your target is the same as Angel’s, the microfilm but for different reasons. You're working for a journalist who's been trying to expose Moreau for years. The evidence in that painting could bring down his entire operation. 

You're not a thief by trade. You're a researcher who learned how to pick locks and knock out waiters because no one else would take the job.

You're nervous. Your palms are sweating, like you almost dropped the tray three times.

And you have a feeling someone is watching you.

You feel it before you see it, so you turn slowly and meet a pair of cyan eyes. She's beautiful. Stunning really. The kind of beautiful that makes you forget your own name for a second.

She's also looking at you like she knows exactly who you are.

"Champagne?" you offer, because it's the only thing your brain can produce.

Her lips curve, used more like weapon.

"Darling," she says, and her voice is honey over broken glass, "you're holding the tray wrong. The weight should be on your fingertips, not your palms. You'll strain your wrists." She reaches out and adjusts your grip with two fingers, professional and rather intimate. "There. Much better."

You blink. “I—thank you?"

"Don't thank me yet." She takes a glass from the tray, raises it to her lips, and watches you over the rim. "You're here for the painting, aren't you? The little one in the east wing. The ugly one that doesn't match anything else in the collection."

Your blood goes cold. "I don't—"

"Shh." She presses a finger to your lips, "Don't lie to me. I hate liars. And I knew the moment I saw you that you were a fraud." Her eyes glitter, “Your shoes are wrong. Cater waiters wear non-slip soles. Yours are leather. Expensive leather. The kind a broke journalist's assistant couldn't afford unless they'd saved up for months."

Fuck, she knows. She knows everything.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she says, like she's reading your mind. "I'm not going to expose you. In fact..." She steps closer, close enough that you can smell her perfume, close to roses and vanilla. 

"I think we can help each other."

It wasn’t long before she pulls you into an alcove, which is a recessed window seat draped in velvet curtains, hidden from the main party. The champagne tray is set aside. Your pulse is pounding in your ears.

Truly, you really shouldn’t be doing this but you stuck now.

"The east wing gallery has a guard rotation," Angel says, pulling up a photo on her phone, showing a blueprint, marked with security checkpoints and timestamps. "Three minutes of darkness between shifts. That's our window. I have the keypad code. I know exactly where the painting hangs. What I don't have..." She looks at you, and something in her expression softens, "Is a second pair of eyes on the corridor."

"You want me to be a lookout."

"I want you to be mine." She says it simply, too directly. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I'll go in, retrieve the microfilm, and reset the painting. You'll stand at the end of the hall and warn me if anyone comes. Three minutes. In and out. We never met."

"And if something goes wrong?"

"Then you run." She says it like it's obvious. "You run, you don't look back, and you forget my face." She tilts her head, “But nothing's going to go wrong. Because I don't make mistakes, darling. And neither do you or you wouldn't have made it past the front door."

She holds out her hand. "Do we have a deal?"

…So you ended up accepting her plan.

She leads you through the party like you belong to her. One hand on your arm, her body angled toward you like you're a lover she's stealing away for a private moment. Guests glance at you, then look away. 

No one questions the heiress and her pretty companion.

The east wing corridor is empty when you arrive. Red ropes block the entrance, a small sign reading “PRIVATE — STAFF ONLY” hanging from a gold stanchion.

Angel steps over the rope like it doesn't exist.

"The guard will pass in forty seconds," she says, pulling a small device from her clutch — a keypad decoder, disguised as a lipstick tube. "I'll need two minutes inside. That gives you a sixty-second buffer." She turns to face you, and for a moment, her mask slips.

She looks emotionally tired. 

"If I'm not out in three minutes," she says quietly, "leave. Don't wait for me. Don't come looking for me. I've made my peace with bad exits, and I won't have your death on my conscience."

“Hey—"

Suddenly there’s noises nearby. Shit, the guard is coming.

She presses the decoder to the keypad. The lock clicks open.

"Forty seconds," she reminds you. "Don't make me wait."

And then she's through the door, and it closes behind her, and you're alone in the hallway with your racing heart and the sound of footsteps echoing from around the corner.

So, you do your job.

You stand at the end of the corridor, body angled toward the party, pretending to check your phone. The guard passes, who was a bored man in a cheap suit, barely glancing in your direction. You hold your breath until he disappears.

One minute passes, then two. It wasn’t long before the door opens at two minutes and forty-seven seconds. Angel slips out, the painting back in place behind her, her clutch slightly bulkier than before tucked under her arm. Her eyes find yours immediately. She nods and you fall into step beside her.

"Walk," she murmurs. "Don't run. Don't look back. Smile."

She doesn't take you to the front door, just upstairs through a staff corridor, past a service elevator, into a small dressing room that smells like perfume and old flowers. The window is open. A trellis of ivy climbs the wall outside, leading down to a garden path.

"The car's waiting behind the hedges," Angel says, already climbing onto the windowsill. Her heels somehow don't slip on the stone. "Black sedan. No plates. The driver won't ask questions."

"You have a driver?"

"I have people." She looks back at you, silhouetted against the night sky, and for a moment she looks like something out of a painting herself, just beautiful and untouchable and dangerous. "Coming?"

“I-I I have my own ride."

"I'm sure you do." She doesn't sound convinced. "But my ride is faster, and there are three police cruisers heading toward the front gate as we speak. Moreau's security system is more sensitive than I anticipated." She holds out her hand. "Last chance, darling. Come with me, or explain to the officers why you're wearing a cater waiter's uniform with no ID badge."

You take her hand.

She pulls you onto the windowsill, her grip firm, her body warm against yours for just a moment. Then she's climbing down the ivy and you're following, your heart in your throat, your shoes slipping on the leaves.

The sedan is exactly where she said it would be. The back door opens before you reach it. A hand pulls you inside.

Angel slides in beside you, smooths her dress, and checks her reflection in a compact mirror.

"Drive," she says.

During the car ride, you and her don't speak for the first ten minutes. The city lights blur past the window. Angel is quiet beside you, her head tilted back against the seat, her eyes closed. The microfilm or whatever she took from the painting  is still tucked into her clutch, safe and secure.

"You're not going to ask what I took?" she says finally, without opening her eyes.

"You're not going to tell me."

A smile curves her lips. "Clever."

She opens her eyes and looks at you in a way she hasn't all night. "You did well tonight," she says quietly. "Better than I expected. Most people freeze when I look at them like that. You just... offered me champagne." She laughs, soft and surprised. "I liked that."

The car pulls up to a corner. Your apartment is two blocks away.

"I should—“

"I know." She reaches across and presses something into your hand, feels and looks like a business card, black with silver lettering. Just a phone number. No name. "If you ever need work, well real work call me. I can't promise it'll be safe. But I can promise it'll be interesting."

You look at the card then her. "Why are you helping me?"

She tilts her head, considering. "Because you reminded me that not everyone in this world is a monster," she says. "Some people are just... trying to do the right thing. Even if they're terrible at it." She nods toward the door. "Go. Before I change my mind."

You open the door, feeling the night air is cold on your face. 

"Angel?"

"Yes, darling?"

"I hope you get what you're looking for."

She smiles, "So do I."

The door closes. The sedan pulls away. You stand on the corner, watching the taillights disappear, the business card warm in your palm.

Your phone buzzes at 12:47 AM.

Unknown Number: check your mail slot. there's something there for you. consider it a thank-you gift.

You check, first seeing a small envelope. Inside, a flash drive and a handwritten note on heavy, cream-colored paper.

"For your journalist. The truth won't set you free — but it might make the bastards sweat."

— A.

✑ 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝒶𝓀𝒾 | @.𝒽𝒾𝓉𝓂𝑒𝓊𝓅𝓅𝓅

"This isn't a getaway—it's an ASSASSINATION VACATION... wait, wrong file. I mean THIEF VACATION!"

Misaki's Role: Extraction & Chaos Driver

The target is the Crystalline, so it’s a private luxury train that runs once a year from the capital to the coast, carrying the wealthiest passengers in the country and, more importantly, their valuables. 

The train is a moving fortress: armed guards, biometric locks on every cabin, and a "secure cargo car" that supposedly hasn't been breached in twenty years.

Misaki has been planning this heist for exactly forty-eight hours.

Not because it took that long to plan, it’s because they just found out about the train yesterday and immediately declared it an "emergency vacation." Their logic: if you're going to steal something, why not do it on a luxury train with a complimentary breakfast bar?

The crew's actual planner, V explicitly told Misaki not to do this alone. "Wait for backup," he said. "The security is too sophisticated for a solo operation."

However, what Misaki heard "the security is too sophisticated for a solo operation" and translated it as "this is going to be SO FUN."

Their target is a necklace. The Coeur de Minuit, in English the Midnight Heart, a black diamond pendant once owned by a murdered heiress, currently in the possession of a tech CEO who definitely didn't acquire it legally. It's in the cargo car, in a glass case with a pressure sensor and a laser grid.

So, Misaki has a plan. A very bad one.

But they don’t know that yet.

What Misaki also doesn't know is that someone else is on this train. Someone with the same target, a completely different approach, and absolutely zero desire to share the spotlight.

That someone is you.

The train is hurtling through moonlit countryside, wheels clacking against the tracks in a steady pace. The first-class passenger cars are quiet, filled with the most of wealthy guests are asleep or pretending to be, lulled by the motion and the complimentary champagne.

You are not asleep.

You are in the ventilation shaft above the cargo car, wearing all black, your body pressed flat against the cold metal, a small laser cutter humming in your gloved hand. You've been planning this for months. Every detail. Every contingency. You know the guard rotations. You know the biometric lock's blind spots. You know exactly how to disable the pressure sensor without triggering the alarm.

If you couldn’t tell by now, you are a professional.

The cargo car is directly below you. You can see it through the vent grate, the glass case, the black diamond glittering under the security lights, the laser grid humming softly in the dark.

You're about to cut the grate when something slams into the side of the train.

The whole car lurches. Your head—which felt like it cracks against the metal. The laser cutter slips from your hand and clatters down the shaft, disappearing into the dark.

"What the—" CRASH.

The emergency exit door on the opposite end of the cargo car bursts open, not with a key or a code, but with the force of a battering ram. A figure tumbles through, rolls across the floor, and springs up like nothing happened.

They're also dressed in black, hair is a messy explosion of dark navy with a crimson streak in the bangs. Star-shaped clips glitter in the dim light. And some reason holding a drone controller in one hand and a kazoo in the other.

"HA!" the figure shouts, spinning in a circle. "TOLD YOU I COULD GET IN! SUCK IT, V!"

You were stuck in disbelief and shock. 

Somehow this chaotic disaster of a human being is standing in the middle of the most secure room on the train without triggering a single sensor.

You stare through the vent grate, mouth open.

The person, Misaki, though you don't know that yet — glances up at the ceiling and waves. "Hi, vent friend! You gonna come down, or are you just gonna watch? 'Cause either's cool, but I gotta warn you, I’m about to do something really stupid, and you don't wanna miss it!"

You drop down from the vent because apparently this is your life now and land in a crouch behind a stack of cargo crates. Misaki bounces on their heels, grinning like you're an old friend they haven't seen in years.

"OKAY so here's the thing!" They talk at approximately the speed of sound. "I need the necklace, you know the big shiny one in the case. BUT the case has a pressure sensor AND a laser grid AND I think a heat sensor 'cause it's bougie like that. I was gonna just smash it with a crowbar, who I borrowed Ronin's, don't tell him  but then I saw you in the vent and I was like 'THAT PERSON LOOKS LIKE THEY KNOW WHAT THEY'RE DOING' and I figured—"

"Slow down," you hiss. "You're going to wake the whole train."

"CAN'T. I'm on a caffeine high and also I might have accidentally drunk some of the conductor's energy drink? It was in an unmarked bottle. Very irresponsible of him." Misaki doesn't stop moving, tapping fingers, bouncing on their heels. "OKAY SO. Here's my proposal oh wait, that's a business word, I mean HERE'S MY PLAN—“

They grab your shoulders and pull you close, their star-shaped pupils gleaming in the dark.

"You disable the sensors. I grab the necklace. We run like HELL and split the reward. YES OR YES?"

"There's no 'or' in that question."

"I KNOW! IT'S MY BEST QUALITY!"

You should say no.

You should say no. This is insane. Like this person is insane. The train is full of guards, the cargo car is a death trap, and you've spent months planning a quiet, clean extraction that this chaos goblin has just turned into a spectacle.

But Misaki is looking at you like you're the answer to a question they didn't know they were asking. Like you're interesting. Like you're fun.

And against every instinct you have, you say: 

"Show me the sensor layout."

Misaki's face lights up like a Christmas tree. "BESTIE! I KNEW IT! OKAY OKAY OKAY—“

They pull out their phone, which has a cracked screen, rainbow case, stickers everywhere and show you a blurry photo of the cargo car's security schematic. It's barely legible. There are doodles in the margins. One of them is a stick figure holding a kazoo.

"I took this through a window," Misaki explains. "The guard was sleeping, so I had to be really quiet. I stepped on a creaky floorboard and he SNORTED and I almost died. Anyway! The sensors are here, here, and here—“ They pointed at the screen, "The laser grid has a blind spot in the top left corner 'cause the maintenance guy was lazy. I can get the necklace from there if you disable the pressure plate."

"How do you know all this?"

"I asked the maintenance guy! He was very nice. I told him I was writing a book about train security and he gave me the whole tour." Misaki beams. "People love talking about themselves. It's my favorite manipulation tactic."

You stare at them.

"...That's not manipulation. That's just being friendly."

“There’s a difference?”

You didn’t answer, why? Because the next three minutes are the most chaotic of your life. You disable the pressure sensor with a bypass tool you built yourself while Misaki crawls under the laser grid, somehow missing every beam despite moving like a caffeinated squirrel and reaches the glass case.

"Got it!" they whisper-shout.

"The alarms—“

"I said GOT IT."

They pull the necklace from the case and the entire cargo car goes dark.

“Fuck. What did you do."

"NOTHING! I didn't do anything! That was—“ Their phone screen lights up their face, panicked. “—oh. OH. I may have told my drone to disable the power grid. As a distraction. BUT I DIDN'T THINK IT WOULD WORK THIS WELL!"

Footsteps echo from the corridor. Guards coming fast.

"RUN," you say.

"ALREADY RUNNING!"

You don't remember the next five minutes.

All you remember is just running and Misaki grabbing your hand, which was warm, gripping tight and dragging you through service corridors and baggage cars and through a dining car where people were still eating dinner.

"SORRY! EMERGENCY! NOTHING TO SEE HERE!" Misaki shouts, knocking over a waiter's tray. "WE'RE JUST LATE FOR A THING!"

You emerge onto the back platform of the train. The wind is screaming past. The tracks stretch out behind you, silver in the moonlight.

"WHERE'S YOUR RIDE?!" you shout over the noise.

Misaki grins wide, wild, terrifying. "ABOUT THAT —"

Suddenly, a car appears on the road parallel to the tracks. A beat-up sedan with matte black paint, matching speed with the train. The back door is already open.

"YOU HAVE A GETAWAY DRIVER?!"

"I HAVE A GETAWAY CAR! THE DRIVER IS ME!"

"THAT'S NOT BETTER!"

"IT'S FUNNER!" Then Misaki jumps. Like they jump from the moving train, still holding your hand, and you're falling — the wind screaming in your ears, the ground rushing up — and then you land on something soft. The back seat of the sedan. 

The door slams shut.

Misaki is already in the driver's seat, engine roaring, tires squealing. "SEATBELT!" they scream.

"WHY?!"

"BECAUSE I'M ABOUT TO DO A SICK DRIFT AND I DON'T WANT YOU TO DIE!" The car swerves off the road, onto a dirt path, through a fence, and into the night.

A few hours later, you’re parked in an abandoned gas station.

Misaki is sitting on the hood of the car, eating cup noodles straight from the container, the Coeur de Minuit hanging from their neck like a costume necklace. "So," they say, noodles dangling from their chopsticks. "That was fun, right?"

"You nearly got us killed."

“Yeah but we didn't die! That's a win in my book!" They slurp the noodles, then offer you the container. "Want some? It's shrimp. I think. The label was in a different language."

You stare at them. They stare back, completely unbothered.

"...Who are you?"

Misaki grins, soft this time, almost shy, looks lik all that energy finally calmed down.

“well, I’m the person who just stole a million-dollar necklace with a stranger they met in a ventilation shaft," they say. "And I gotta say —" They set down the noodles and hold out their hand. "Best heist ever. I'm Misaki. You?"

You tell them your name.

They repeat it, like they're tasting it, then nod. "Cool name. Cooler than mine. I'm just 'Misaki the Chaos Gremlin' according to my friends. Well, Ronin says that. Angel says 'that feral creature.' V says 'an unacceptable liability.'" They count on their fingers. "I have a lot of nicknames."

They pull something from their pocket, not the necklace, but a small plastic card. A business card, but handmade, with a hand-drawn star and a phone number written in glitter pen.

"This is for you," they say, pressing it into your palm. "If you ever wanna do this again. Steal stuff. Cause chaos. Eat noodles afterwards." They tilt their head. "I don't have a lot of friends who can keep up with me. But you? You almost kept up. That's rare, most can’t.”

You look at the card then look at them. "I almost got left on a moving train."

"YEAH but you didn't! I came back! I caught your hand and everything! That was very romantic, actually. I'm gonna put that in my memoirs."

"You have memoirs?"

"I will now."

Misaki hops off the hood, stretches, and points at you with their chopsticks. "Same time next week? I'm planning a museum heist. The security's insane. It's gonna be GREAT."

You should say no. Like deadass, say no.

But Misaki is grinning at you like you're already friends, and their hand is warm in yours, and the necklace is glittering around their neck like a promise.

"...What museum?"

Misaki's face lights up. "BESTIE! I KNEW IT! OKAY SO —"

They launch into a rambling explanation, waving their chopsticks for emphasis, and somewhere between the laser grids and the guard rotations and the very important detail about the janitor's closet on the third floor, you realize:

You're not saying no.

You're not even thinking about saying no.

You're thinking about cup noodles and getaway cars and the way Misaki's eyes sparkle when they talk about chaos.

And you're smiling for once.

Afterwards, when you got home, your phone buzzes at 2:34 AM.

Unknown Number: heyyyy bestie!!! 

Unknown Number: i put half the necklace money in your bag. don't ask how i knew where your bag was. it's a TRADE SECRET.

Unknown Number: also i may have named my drone after you. it's a big honor. don't let it go to your head.

Unknown Number: same time next week???? 👀👀👀

You: Send me the address.

Unknown Number: THAT'S MY BESTIE!!!!!!!!! sending now. wear something you can run in. we're going through a skylight!

✑ 𝓋 | @.𝒦𝟿

"I don't steal from the wealthy. I redistribute from the corrupt."

V's Role: Mastermind & Tactical Planner

The target is Blackwood Biological Solutions, a sprawling, high-security research facility disguised as a pharmaceutical warehouse on the outskirts of the city. To the public, they develop "cutting-edge veterinary medicine." 

To anyone ACTUALLY paying attention, they're one of the largest animal testing facilities on the continent, with a particular specialty in exotic species smuggled from black markets around the world.

V has been watching this facility for nine months.

Not for the money. Not for the thrill. For the animals, of course.

His source was from a whistleblower who worked in the facility's lower levels, provided detailed schematics, security protocols, and a list of every creature currently being held in their sub-basement labs. 

Primates. Birds. Reptiles. Endangered species pulled from their habitats and shoved into cages the size of filing cabinets.

V doesn't steal for profit. He steals for purpose—in his words.

And tonight, his purpose is to empty every cage in that building and his plan is meticulous. 

Three phases: infiltration, liberation, and extraction. 

Each timed to the second. A truck waiting at the east loading dock, modified with temperature-controlled compartments and enough space for every crate. A veterinarian on standby at a sanctuary three hours away. A burner phone programmed with a single number to call when the animals are safe.

What V doesn't have is an extra set of hands.

The facility's lower levels require two people to open the main cage room, which has a dual-key system designed to prevent a single guard from accessing the animals alone. V has one key, stolen from a senior researcher three weeks ago. 

All he needs someone to turn the second.

He's been searching for a partner for this mission for six weeks. Everyone he approached was either incompetent, untrustworthy, or morally repugnant.

And then he found you.

Which, you didn't know what you were getting into.

You're an animal rights activist, a real one, not the performative social media kind. 

You've spent years infiltrating puppy mills, documenting factory farms, and rescuing animals from situations that would make most people weep. 

You're not a thief by trade but you’re a rescuer who learned how to pick locks and disable cameras because no one else would do the dirty work.

Tonight, you're at Blackwood Biological Solutions because a contact inside tipped you off about a shipment of macaques, about fifteen of them, imported illegally from Southeast Asia, scheduled for "testing" starting tomorrow morning.

You're alone and underprepared, just running on caffeine and rage. Somehow, you already disabled the external cameras and picked the lock on the loading dock door. 

You're standing in a dark corridor, heart pounding, trying to remember the layout your contact sketched on a napkin, when a voice speaks from the shadows behind you.

"You're early."

You spin quick, eyes locking on a figure steps out of the darkness, tall, broad-shouldered, his locs are pulled back from his face, and his eyes, sharp and green are watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

"I accounted for interference," he says, his voice low, British, measured. "I did not account for you."

Your hand moves toward the knife in your belt.

He notices and expression doesn't change. "If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already." He tilts his head, studying you like a specimen under a microscope. "You're here for the macaques."

"How do you —"

"Your shoes." He nods toward your feet. "Trail runners, mud on the treads, worn unevenly on the left side. You favor your right leg, old injury, poorly healed. You move like someone who's spent time in rural environments, not urban ones. You're not a thief. You're a rescuer."

You swallow hard. "Who the hell are you?"

He holds up a small leather folio, not a badge, but something that looks like one. A laminated card with a symbol you don't recognize and the words ANIMAL LIBERATION FRONT of CONSULTANT printed in silver letters.

"My name is V," he says. "And I've been planning this operation for nine months. I have the schematics. I have the keys. I have a veterinarian on standby and a sanctuary that doesn't ask questions." He tucks the folio back into his coat. "What I don't have is a second set of hands for the dual-key system. And what I see..." His eyes look over you again, assessing. "Is someone who might be capable of following instructions."

He steps closer, only one step but it's enough to make your breath catch.

"The macaques are in sub-basement three. The door requires two keys turned simultaneously. I have one. You will turn the other." He holds out his hand — not to shake, but to offer. "In exchange, you will leave here with every animal in this facility, not just the primates. I don't want credit. I don't want thanks. I want results."

You stare at his hand. "Why me?"

"Because you're here…?” There was a pause. "And because you look like someone who couldn't sleep tonight knowing these animals were still in cages."

He's not wrong.

You take his hand, which his is grip is firm and brief, like he's already calculating the exact moment he'll need to let go.

"Follow me," he says. "Stay close. Don't speak unless spoken to. And for the love of God—“ He glances at your feet. “—try to walk more quietly. You sound like a wounded elephant."

Okay, rude much.

Anyway, you watched V moves through the facility like a ghost. He knows every corner, every camera blind spot, every guard rotation down to the second. He leads you through corridors and stairwells and through a maintenance tunnel, his voice a low murmur in your ear, guiding you step by step.

"Stop. Guard approaching. Don't move nor breathe."

You freeze, your eyes catch flashlight beam sweeps past the corner where you're pressed against the wall, V's body angled in front of yours, blocking you from view. You can smell his cologne, cedar and something clean, close like rain.

It wasn’t long before the guard passes. “Let’s move.”

The sub-basement is colder than the rest of the facility. The air smells like antiseptic and fear, you can smell it, the animal terror that hangs in the air, cause your chest tightens.

V notices.

"Don't," he says quietly. "Feelings are a luxury you cannot afford right now. Focus on the mission. The animals will have time to heal after we get them out."

The cage room door looms ahead held two keyholes on either side. 

V pulls a key from his coat and hands you the second. "On my count," he says. "Three. Two. One. Turn."

Once lock clicks open, the room beyond is worse than you imagined.

Cages stacked to the ceiling. Primates in the corner, huddled together, their eyes wide and wild. Birds in the next row, feathers dull, beaks open in silent distress. Reptiles in heated enclosures, barely moving. And in the back, a separate room, visible through a glass window of dogs inside. Dozens of them. Beagles, mostly. Their ribs showing through patchy fur.

Then we caught your attention was V's jaw tightens, like you see the anger underneath. "We have forty-three minutes until the next guard rotation," he says. "Start with the primates. They're the most stressed. I'll handle the dogs."

He presses a small tool into your hand, a cage opener, very much custom-made.

"Don't talk to them," he says. "Don't make eye contact. Just open the doors and move to the next, be quick. They'll follow once they realize they're free." He looks at you — really looks at you, green eyes steady. "Can you do that?"

You nod.

"Good." He turns toward the dog room, then pauses. Looks back over his shoulder. "And... thank you. For being here. I know you didn't have to be."

Then he's gone through the glass door, into the room full of caged beagles, his hands already working the first lock.

So in the next thirty minutes are the most exhausting of your life.

You open cage after cage, primates first, then birds, then reptiles. The animals are confused at first, reluctant to leave the only spaces they've known. But then the first macaque steps out of its cage, takes a hesitant step toward the corridor, and runs and the others follow.

Behind you, you overhear V's voice "Easy. Easy now. You're safe. I'm not going to hurt you."

You glance through the glass window.

V is on his knees in the middle of the dog room, surrounded by beagles. They're climbing all over him, licking his face, wagging their tails, crying and he's letting them. His coat is covered in paw prints. His locs are being gentle tugged by an enthusiastic spaniel.

He looks up, catches you watching, and his expression for just a moment is almost embarrassed.

"They're... affectionate," he says stiffly.

You bite back a smile. “Aww they like you."

"Unfortunate. I prefer working alone." But he doesn't push them away.

Soon, the extraction goes wrong at minute thirty-two.

Someone trips an alarm, a sensor you didn't see or wire V didn't account for and the facility erupts into chaos. Red lights. Screaming sirens. Footsteps pounding toward the sub-basement.

V is at your side in seconds, his hand on your arm, pulling you toward the loading dock.

"Move. Now."

"But the animals—“

"They're already moving. They know where the exit is. We trained for this."

"Trained???“

"Not the time." The loading dock door is open. The truck is waiting — a massive refrigerated vehicle, its back doors already wide. And inside, already climbing into the crates, are the animals. 

The primates, birds, reptiles and dogs.

V herds them in like a shepherd, calm and efficient, his voice never rising above a murmur. "Inside. Quickly. You're safe. Inside."

You grab the last of the bird crates, heave it into the truck, and slam the doors shut just as the first security guard rounds the corner.

V grabs your hand. "Run."

You don't remember climbing into the cab of the truck. You don't remember the engine starting, the tires squealing, the fence crumpling under the vehicle's weight.

You remember V's hand on yours and his voice in your ear.

"Breathe. We're out. We're out."

The truck barrels through the city streets, weaving between traffic, taking turns that make your stomach lurch. V drives with one hand, his other hand still holding yours and neither of you mentions it.

Twenty minutes later, the truck pulls into a warehouse on the outskirts of town.

The sanctuary veterinarian is waiting. Volunteers appear from nowhere, unloading crates, checking vitals, murmuring soft reassurances to the animals.

V stands apart from the chaos, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

You walk over to him. "You're not going to help?"

"I already did." He doesn't look at you. "My role is planning. Execution. Extraction. The rest..." He nods toward the volunteers. "The rest belongs to people who are better at softness than I am."

He's quiet for a moment then added "You did well tonight. Better than I expected."

"Thanks. I think."

He turns to look at you and something in his expression softens.  "I mean it." His voice is quieter now. "Most people freeze when things go wrong. You didn't. You kept moving. You kept working." He pauses. "That's rare."

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small card. "This is my personal line,” he says. "Not the burner. Not the encrypted server. Me." He holds it out. "If you ever need help with a rescue, a mission, or just... a second pair of hands — call me.”

You take the card.

"Why are you giving me this?"

He considers the question. "Because you reminded me that some people still do this work for the right reasons," he says. "Not for money. Not for recognition. Because they can't stand the thought of animals suffering alone."

He looks toward the truck, where the last of the beagles is being carried inside, wrapped in a blanket, tail wagging weakly.

"I used to think I was alone in that," he says quietly. "Tonight, I learned otherwise."

Much later, the aftermath, you don't sleep that night.

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, the black card warm on your nightstand. You keep thinking about V.

Then your phone buzzes suddenly at 4:17 AM.

Unknown Number: The sanctuary sent photos. All animals are stable. The beagles are eating.

Unknown Number: One of them, a small female with a brown eye and a blue eye, appears to have imprinted on me. She refuses to leave the crate I was sitting on.

Unknown Number: I have been informed that this is "adorable." I disagree.

A photo loads of V sitting cross-legged on the floor of the sanctuary, his trench coat laid out like a blanket, a small beagle curled up in his lap. His expression is profoundly uncomfortable.

You laugh out loud.

You: She likes you.

Unknown Number: Unacceptable. I am a professional.

Unknown Number: ...I may be keeping her.

You: Does she have a name?

There was a long pause of bubbles. Unknown Number: I was considering "Justice."

Unknown Number: But the veterinarian suggests "Lucky."

Unknown Number: I am accepting votes.

You: Lucky. Definitely Lucky.

Unknown Number: ...Noted.

Unknown Number: The next mission is a fur farm in the north. Three weeks from now. The operation will require a second set of hands.

Unknown Number: If you're available.

You look at the card on your nightstand. Look at the photo of V and the beagle. Smile.

You: Send me the details.

Unknown Number: I will.

Unknown Number: And... thank you. For tonight. For running when I told you to run. For not asking questions.

Unknown Number: For being there.

You stare at the screen for a long time then typed away.

You: Soo, same time next week?

His response was rather quick.

Unknown Number: I suppose, just wear better shoes for next time.

♤ — 𝓀𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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

You wake up and something is different.

Not in a bad way nor heavy, no longer that hollow feeling you've gotten used to over the past few months. After all, it's been a few days since the TFC grotesque showed up at your balcony.

Days of pierrot's cooking, harlequin's reels, jester's grocery deliveries, ticket taker's schedules, and doctor's tinctures. 

Days of being held and fed and cared for in ways you didn't know you needed.

And somewhere along the way you started to feel human again.

Just... better. Well enough to want to try and go out. so today, for the first time in months, you're going back to the circus.

You soon felt the morning air is cool and sharp against your face as you walk through the empty fairgrounds. The sun isn't even fully up yet, just a pale blush of pink on the horizon, painting the tents in soft, sleepy colors.

You're early. Like crack ass of the morning early but you wanted to see everyone before the day started, before the crowds arrived and the chaos swallowed them whole.

You were supposed to meet ticket taker first.

That was the plan, he'd be at the entrance, as always, clipboard in hand, ready to check you in and file you away in that neat, orderly way of his.

But when you reach the gate, no one is there.

Just empty area with tents behind and a slight breeze. You heard distant creak of a tent flap somewhere in the distance. 

“Where is everyone?” You frown then check your phone, you're not late, again you're early. But Ticket Taker would be awake around this time. You knew that because he deadass always had you come super area to help around the Circus.

Maybe he's still getting ready?

Maybe jester needed him for something or maybe—and this thought makes your stomach flutter—maybe someone else is waiting for you instead…?

So, without a greeting, you start walking.

You always forgot how the circus is different in the early morning, much quieter and how all the tents stand like sleeping animals, their colors muted in the pale light. 

You quickly pass pierrot's tent, thankfuly it was still closed, , harlequin’s, which you can see a hint of a green glow seeping through the seams, then jester’s, imposing even at rest.

And then you see it.

A tent you don't recognize.

It wasn't here the last time you visited or worked. You’re sure of it, like you would’ve have remembered this one. The fabric was a muted shade of lavender and swirls fairy lights. It's not flashy like harlequin's neon, not somber like pierrot's deep red.

Your heart skips seeing the name: “Poppet…?”

You haven't heard that name in months. Not since she went away for her so called transformation—whatever Jester meant and the others were so vague about it. 

“She's being revamped," Jester said. “She'll be back when she's ready," Ticket Taker added. 

Since those days, you thought about the little doll who sat and watched you, who whispered secrets in your ear about the members living in the circus.

You missed her, so you duck inside.

The tent was… not what you expected; draped in elegant, muted lavender and deep wine-colored fabrics, illuminated by swirling strands of fairy lights that weave through the room.

In the central, intricately carved low table serves as the heart of her trade, adorned with tarot cards, all resting upon plush floor cushions that invite the weary and the curious to sit. 

The corners of the tent are filled with curious artifacts—ornate wooden shelves stocked with bottled tonics, small chests of secrets, and mystical tapestries—all reflecting a space that is as professional as it is deeply unsettling. 

You step closer, your footsteps muffled by the thick rugs beneath your feet until you reach the table.

And that's when you see it.

A small doll, made of fabric, soft, well-worn, held together with hundreds of tiny seams. But what makes your breath catch is the face. The hair. The clothes.

It looks like… you?

Same color hair, stitched in careful threads that mimic your exact style. Same shape of eyes, rendered in tiny glass beads that catch the light. Same outfit. the one you wore the last time you visited the circus, months ago, before everything fell apart.

Someone made this. Someone stitched every detail, every seam, every little piece of you into this small, fabric body.

Your hands tremble as you reach for it. The doll is warm. Warmer than it should be. 

Like someone was holding it just before you arrived.

You turn the doll over in your hands, heart pounding, thumb brushing over a tiny stitch on its chest, right where your heart would be and that's when you hear it.

❝Found you, plaything!❞

Before you can turn around, arms wrap around you from behind.

❝Missed you,❞ a familiar voice hums against your shoulder, melodic and theatrical, layered with that eerie cadence you remember so well. ❝missed you so much, little plaything.❞

You freeze and your heart hammers, because you know that voice.

“Poppet?"

❝Mmhm.❞

She spins you around, and—she’s… different.

Differnet from before. No longer the tiny poppet you remember, the one who sat on shelves and rode in your bag. She's tall now, troupe-member tall. Her body is made of durable… skin and careful stitching? Nothing like before but she's been expanded, improved, and revamped, like jester said.

Her curls are still there, styled in those low pigtails you remember. Her face is still obscured by that white mask with black slits for eyes. Yet… now she has a presence, she stands among the other members now, not above them or below them, but beside them.

You can still see the visible stitches on her legs, crosshatched and intentional, around up her thighs in careful patterns. the ones on her fingers too, delicate and precise, like a doll that's been loved and repaired and loved again.

How?

Before you can finish the thought, Poppet tilts her head, her eyes sharp

❝You're staring,❞ she says, ❝did i... change too much?❞

“No, i just—you're—"

❝Taller?❞ She grins, you can hear it in her voice, even through the mask. ❝Yes, much taller. It's nice to almost see the top of ticket taker's head for once.❞ She leans into you, draping herself across your shoulders.

❝You look good,❞ she says. ❝better than last time. healthier. Pierrot's cooking, I assume?❞

“Among other things." You said.

❝Mm.❞ She nuzzles into your hair, and you feel the cool press of her mask against your temple. ❝Good. I was worried, we were all worried. but… “ she pulls back just enough to look at you, ❝I was especially worried because you're mine, little plaything.❞

❝your favorite what?❞

❝Favorite human.❞ she pokes your chest. ❝Don't let it go to your head.❞

She said however something is off.

You can't quite place it, not at first. Poppet is chatting — asking silly questions, leaning on your body, filling the tent with her music-box voice but your brain is snagged on something.

❝What's wrong?❞ she asks, tilting her head. "you're making a face. the thinking face. i don't like the thinking face."

“You're..." you struggle to find the words. “Different, not just the body, something else."

❝Oh?❞

❝The poppet I knew, the old poppet, she was... smaller. quieter. She watched from the edges. she didn't—❞ You gesture at her, at the tent, at the way she's standing in the center of the room like she belongs there. ❝She didn't take up space like this.❞

Poppet is quiet for a moment then, ❝That poppet," she started softly, ❝was a ghost, a helper. She did what she was told and stayed where she was put and never, never asked for more." She steps closer. her hand finds yours.

❝I’m not that poppet anymore.❞

“What are you, then?"

She doesn't answer, just squeezes your hand and smiles behind her mask.

❝What I always should have been.❞

You're about to ask another question, about the transformation, about the tent, about the doll on the table that looks like you—when something feels… different.

Not in the room. In you.

It starts as a tingling. Faint at first, like the buzz of a sleeping limb waking up. Then it spreads across your chest, down your arms, through your fingers. Your skin feels... strange. Tighter than before. Smoother. Like something is pulling at you from the inside, drawing every surface taut.

You look down at your hands and freeze.

They're not hands anymore. Not the ones you woke up with this morning, the ones with chipped nail polish and calloused palms and small scars you don't remember getting. These are... different. Wrong in a beautiful in a way that makes your stomach drop.

Your fingers are longer now.

But they're not made of skin and bone. They're fabric, soft, skin-colored cloth that looks almost like skin but isn't. Tiny, meticulous stitches run across your knuckles in crosshatched patterns, like someone took a needle and thread and sewed you together by hand. The same stitches trail down each finger, disappearing into your palms, wrapping around your wrists.

You flex your hand. The fabric moves with you, just smooth, seamless, and responsive but you can feel the give of stuffing beneath the surface. The soft resistance of cotton padding. The gentle weight of something filled rather than fleshy.

“What the—“

You stumble backward, but your legs feel wrong too. 

You look down and see the same peach-colored fabric stretched over your thighs, your calves, your knees. Stitches run in long, deliberate lines along the outsides of your legs, like the seams of a plush doll that's been loved for years. 

Like a marionette's limbs being pulled by invisible strings.

You lift your arm, feeling the fabric creases at your elbow. A soft, wooly sound echoes from the bend, creak, almost imperceptible and you realize you can feel the threads holding you together. 

Every stitch. Every seam. Every careful, intentional piece of construction that now makes up your body.

You're not human anymore.

You're a doll.

"HOLY SHIT! Poppet—"

❝Shhh.❞ She's in front of you now, hands on your shoulders. Her grip is firm but gentle, like she's holding something fragile. ❝Don't panic, plaything. Panic won't undo the stitches.❞

"Did you… turn me into a doll?!”

❝Yes.❞

The word hangs in the air between you, a simple and unapologetic tone.

You stare at her, and something inside you that was already fragile, already cracked from months of numbness and isolation begins to crumble.

Your heart pounds. Or it would, if you still had one. 

"What—why would you do this to me?" your voice cracks. 

You didn't realize how much you loved being human until it was taken from you. The way your breath fogged in cold air and your cheeks flushed when you were embarrassed and your stomach growled when you were hungry.

All of it. Gone. Replaced by stitches and seams and the quiet rustle of fabric when you move.

“I—“ Your voice breaks. Your stitched throat feels tight. Can dolls cry? You're about to find out. “I didn't want this, poppet. I didn’t—I was just starting to feel better—"

Poppet tilts her head, her lavender eyes watching you.

❝Didn't you?❞

She cups your face. Her thumb brushes your stitched cheek, gentle, almost tender and you feel the cool press of her fabric palm against your fabric skin.

❝You've been lonely,❞ she says quietly. ❝Not the kind of lonely that gets fixed by company. the kind that comes from being different. from looking at them and thinking you'll never belong.❞

Your breath catches. Or it would, if you still had lungs.

❝What if you could?❞ she whispers. ❝What if you could walk among them, not as a human, not as a visitor but as something that fits?❞

“I don't—"

❝What if each of them had a doll that looked like you? A little version of yourself.❞ You mumbled with narrowed eyes.

❝What if we tested a theory? Of course there's only one of you and I don't feel like making other dolls, so take your pick and watched what they did with it? How they treated it? Where they kept it?❞

Poppet steps back, ❝Wonder what would pierrot do? Maybe old it while he sleeps? Cook tiny meals for it? Ehisper confessions to its stitched ears?❞

“Poppet—"

❝What would harlequin do? Hide it somewhere private? taunt it? keep it close even when he pretends not to care? ❞

Your face burns.

❝Jester would file it away. Keep it safe in that cold way of his. Ticket taker would maybe catalog it. Put it on a shelf check on it every morning.❞

“And doctor?" you ask, barely breathing.

Suddenly Poppet's eye turned into spirals, spin slow.

❝Doctor would study it. Maybe take it apart, put it back together.❞ She tilts her head.

❝Don't you want to know? how they'd treat you—the doll you when they think no one's watching? ❞

You should say no. You should be angry. 

She turned you into a doll without asking, without warning, without giving you any choice in the matter. You should scream at her. Demand she turn you back. Storm out of this lavender tent and never look back.

But you don't.

Because somewhere, deep down, buried beneath the shock and the loss and the quiet, growing ache in your stitched chest—you're curious.

And that confuses you more than anything else.

How did she know? How did Poppet—this doll, this monster, this strange and unsettling creature who watches from the shadows reach into the darkest part of you and pull out a desire you didn't even know you had?

You've spent months feeling like you don't belong. 

Like you're on the outside looking in. Like the circus members are a family you'll never truly be part of, no matter how much Pierrot cooks for you or how many times Harlequin mess with you, etc.

You've felt it. You've known it.

But you've never said it. Not out loud. Not to anyone.

And yet Poppet saw it. Plucked it from your chest like a loose thread and held it up to the light.

“…What do i have to do?"

Those words come out before you can stop them. 

Poppet's mask tilts. You can feel her grinning behind it.

❝Just be yourself, little plaything.❞ she says, her voice a music-box melody. ❝That's all you've ever had to do.❞

You don't understand. 

You want to ask more questions. You want to demand answers. You want to grab her by those stitched shoulders and shake her until she explains everything, like how she read your desire, how she turned you into a doll, what happens now, whether you can ever go back.

But the words won't come.

Because somewhere beneath the confusion, the loss, beneath the quiet ache of everything you've left behind...

You trust her. And that's the strangest part of all.

“Okay," you whisper. “Okay. let's... let's see what happens."

Poppet paused, thinking, maybe she was expecting you to agree with her sily plan, only still for a few secouds before she display a playful smile. ❝That's my good plaything,❞ She coos you carefully.

❝Now... which one do you pick?❞

✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉  

Aw, you picked Pierrot!

Not because he was the safest choice.

Truthfully, he's not, and you know it. And not because he was the easiest to predict, afterall his moods shift like weather, stars to hearts to voids and back again. 

You picked him because somewhere, in that strange, stitched heart of yours, you trust him. Even after everything. 

Even knowing what he's capable of.

Poppet grinned when you told her, you could hear it in her voice. ❝Interesting choice, little plaything. very... interesting.❞She leaned close, her mask brushing your ear, her voice dropping to that music-box whisper that always made your skin prickle.

❝Here's what's going to happen, you're going to pretend to be a doll—a good cute doll. The kind that doesn't speak unless told. Can you do that for me, plaything? ❞

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

❝Good because pierrot? he's going to love you. maybe too much. and i need you to stay still and quiet. Let him... cherish you.❞ She pulled back, her eyes pleased, mischievous, and teasing.

❝Don't worry. I’ll be back before he licks you to death, probably.❞

And then she was gone, sweeping out of the tent with a rustle of lavender fabric, calling over her shoulder:

❝Pierrot!❞ 

Poppet found him in front of the red tent.

The last of the guests were shuffling away, chattering among themselves, their voices fading into the afternoon air while Pierrot stood by the entrance, his tall frame silhouetted against the drawn tent flap. 

HIs show had just ended, you could see it in the way his shoulders slumped, the way his mask seemed slightly dimmer, the way he held himself like someone who'd been performing for hours and was finally, finally allowed to rest.

He was about to go back inside when poppet's voice cut through the quiet again.

❝ Pierrot! ❞

He frozed at the sound of his name. His head turned slowly, starry eyes wide, almost panicked. Because Poppet knew the rules. Everyone knew the rules. In front of the guests, especially in front of the guests, he couldn't speak nor make a sound. The silence was part of his act, part of his punishment, part of the strict protocol Jester had enforced.

One word or sound and Ticket Taker would be breathing down his neck before the echo faded.

But poppet didn't care about rules. 

Poppet never cared about rules.

She bounced up to him, literally bounced, her new body moving with that strange, jointed grace and tilted her head up to look at him, her excitement was shown though purple spirals in hereyes spun with amusement.

❝Hello there.❞

Pierrot didn't answer, couldn't answer but his pupils were a bit wide then he glanced around frantically, checking for lingering guests, for ticket taker, for anyone who might see.

then he grabbed poppet's wrist and pulled her inside the tent.

The tent flap fell shut behind them, muffling the outside world. Pierrot released poppet's wrist and signed.

“What are you doing here?” he quietly asked, his movements were quick, almost frantic, eyes kept darting to the tent flap, as if expecting ticket taker to burst through at any moment.

Poppet watched him before saying, ❝I have work to do,❞ she said, ignoring his question. ❝before the real plaything shows up.❞

She held up the doll you and pierrot's breath caught.

His now starry eyes locked onto the little fabric figure in her hands, the stitches, hair, and face. The way it looked so much like you that it made his chest ache.

❝I need you to keep an eye on them for me,❞ Poppet continued, pressing the doll into his hands. ❝wouldn't want them to get ruined before I’m done.❞

Pierrot stared down at the doll. His fingers curled around its fabric body like he was holding something sacred.

He looked up, “Poppet," he said, his voice that low, melodic hum you remembered so well. "what is... this?"

❝A doll,❞ poppet said simply. ❝A special doll. I need you to watch her for a little while. Just until I finish my work.❞

“They looks like..." He paused. his eyes flickered — stars shifting, brightening.

“They looks like them."

❝Do they?❞ Poppet's voice was carefully neutral. ❝I hadn't noticed.❞

Pierrot brought you closer to his face. His breath was warm against your fabric skin, sweet, like brigadeiros and something floral. His starry eyes traced every stitch, every seam, every tiny detail that made you look like you.

“Can i keep Them?” he asked, and his voice was yearning. desperate in that quiet, piercing way of his. “Please, poppet. i'll take good care of them. I’ll —"

❝Uh no.❞

Poppet's voice was sharp, sharper than he expected.

❝I need them back. After I’m done. They not... They not yours, Pierrot.❞

She was already backing toward the tent flap, her eye-spirals spinning fast, worried, maybe, or guilty, or something in between. ❝Just... watch them. Keep them safe. I’ll be back soon.❞

And then she was gone.

Pierrot stared at the tent flap for a long moment. then he looked down at you, the doll cradled in his palms.

His starry eyes changed to hearts and he smiled.

Not a soft, sad smile you were used to. Something hungry,  that made your fabric skin prickle with unease.

“Mine," he whispered. “You're mine."

Later, after his show, when circus grew a bit dark, Pierrot retreated to his backstage tent.

He was now dressed down from his usual red and black attire, having removed the heavy tunic and the stiff pierrot collar. His hat remained but below it, he wore a tight sleeveless black top that hugged his lean frame.

You could see scars along his arms, pale white lines, raised and faded, crisscrossing his skin like the stitches on your own fabric body. evidence of a past you didn't fully understand. a pain you couldn't imagine.

He carried you with him, held you close to his chest, pressed against the thin fabric of his sleeveless top. You could feel his heartbeat, fast and excited.

His tent was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his starry eyes. he'd removed his hat now, his hair falling loose around his mask. the scars on his arms caught the light — pale and raised, a roadmap of old wounds.

He sat on his bed, cross-legged, and placed you on the pillow in front of him.

“You’re so small," he murmured, tracing your stitched face with his fingertip. "so soft. so fragile.”

His yellow orange tongue flicked out and he licked you.

From your stitched cheek down to your fabric neck, slow and careful, like a cat grooming something it loved. His tongue was warm, just warmer than you expected and rough in a way that made your doll body shiver.

Oh god.

He did it again, and again. His eyes were hearts now, full and glowing, and his cheeks were flushed pink beneath his white mask. “You taste like them," he whispered, voice cracking. “Like home. Like mine."

You prayed to whatever gods might be listening — that poppet would come back soon.

Because pierrot was licking you with enthusiasm now, his long tongue swiping across your fabric arms, your stitched legs, your stuffed chest. He was blushing like this was the most intimate thing he'd ever done.

“I’ll keep you safe," he breathed against your fabric skin. "i'll keep you forever."

✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃  

Wow, you picked Harlequin..!

Poppet raised an eyebrow when you told her, or you think she did. it was hard to tell through the mask. But her voice dropped to that low, teasing purr she used when she was pleased.

❝Harlequin?❞ she repeated. ❝Fascinating choice, plaything. I didn't think you had it in you.❞

“What's that supposed to mean?"

❝Nothing. nothing at all.❞ she waved a stitched hand, dismissing the question. ❝Just... be careful with him. he's not like pierrot. he won't lick you to death but he will—❞

she leaned close, her mask brushing your ear.

❝—he'll enjoy watching you squirm. and he's not as gentle as he pretends to be.❞

You swallowed hard.

❝Kay, here's what's going to happen,❞ she continued, stepping back. ❝You're going to pretend to be a doll. The kind that doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't react. Can you do that for me, plaything?❞

You nodded.

❝ good. because harlequin? he's going to test you. poke you. prod you. see what makes you tick. and you're going to let him. you're going to stay very, very still.❞

She tilted her head, ❝And try not to enjoy it too much.❞

Poppet found Harlequin in his tent.

He had just finished his act, the crowd still buzzing outside, their screams and applause fading into the evening air. His tent was dim, lit by the soft neon glow of his own body, the green tendrils at his back wavering lazily as he stretched.

Hs sharp grin already in place, his neon eyes glinting with amusement as Poppet slipped through the tent flap.

“Well, well, well," he drawled, dropping onto his stage like a cat claiming a sunbeam. "if it isn't the new and improved poppet. come to show off your upgrades, little Sock Puppet?"

❝Don't call me that,❞ she said flatly, crossing her arms.

“Call you what? Sock puppet?" his grin widened. "but you are little compared to me, anyway. All of you are."

❝I’m not here to trade insults, Harley.❞

“Then why are you here?" he leaned back, propping himself up on his elbows. "because i know you didn't come just to chat. You hate my tent. says it smells like 'chaos and bad decisions.'"

❝It does,❞ she muttered then added, louder tone: ❝I need you to do something for me.❞

Harlequin's eyebrows shot up. “You? Need me? This i have to hear." 

He poked fun at her then circling her new body, eyeing the visible stitches on her legs and fingers, the way she held herself taller now, more confident. “Nice upgrades," he said, reaching out to flick one of her pigtails. “Jester's work?"

❝Mine,❞ she corrected, swatting his hand away. ❝Mostly.❞

“Mostly." he snorted, “so you did have help."

❝Does it matter?❞

“No.” his neon eyes traced her face, her mask, even the  pruple spirals on her face, the way her jaw tightened when he got too close. “You look good, poppet. Really good. Almost... hot."

❝Don't start.❞

“Don't start what? Don't notice?" he grinned, sharp and knowing. “You're blushing. I can tell, you know.”

❝I’m really not.❞

“You really are.” He was close now, too close. His green tendrils curled around her shoulders, not quite touching, just... hovering. His neon eyes gleamed in the dim light.

“You know," he murmured, voice dropping to a low purr, "for someone who claims to dislike me, you sure do spend a lot of time looking at me."

❝I look at everyone,❞ she said, but her voice was thinner than before. ❝It's called observation. you should try it sometime.❞

“Mm,” his grin didn't waver, "keep telling yourself that, little sock puppet doll."

Poppet sighed, rolling her eyes, crossing her arms, 

❝Harley,❞ poppet said, stepping back, breaking the moment. ❝I need you to keep an eye on something for me❞

She held up the doll, you, and harlequin's neon eyes narrowed. “What's that?"

❝A doll.❞

“I can see that." he took it from her, turning it over in his hands. his frown deepened. “Why does it look like.. them?"

❝Does it?❞

“Don't play dumb, Poppet. It doesn't suit you." he studied the doll, down to the stitches, the hair, the tiny glass eyes that seemed to follow him.

“What are you planning?"

❝Nothing.❞

"Isso são tretas." He shot her a look. 

She sighed, ❝I just... need someone to watch it. Keep it safe. That's all.❞

“Por que eu?" he demanded, hands on his hips, the doll dangling from his fingers. “Por que não Ticket Taker? Ou Jester?—"

❝Because i'm asking you.❞ He stared at her. She stared back. ❝Only you can do it, Harley.❞ 

He was quiet for a long moment, his neon green eyes searched her face, looking for the lie, a trick, a angle. 

Afterall, Poppet always had an angle.

But all he found was... them.

“Let me guess, you miss them," he said suddenly, voice softer. "don't you?"

❝What?❞

“You know.” he held up the doll, turning it so its glass eyes caught the light. “You miss them so much you made this. A little doll version of them. So you could keep them close."

❝That's not—❞

“You do." his grin returned, sharp, knowing in the way only Harlequin could be. “You miss them and you're lonely and 

you don't know how to say it, so you—"

❝Enough now.❞ her voice was sharp, and her stitched hands were trembling.

Harlequin's grin softened, only by a little “Aww,” he said. “Okay, poppet. I’ll watch your little doll."

He held it up to his face, studying its stitched features. "but only because you asked. and only because—“ his voice dropped to a sing-song tone, teasing and warm “—I’m grateful you thought of me. The only one you could trust. The only one who understands."

❝Don't push it,❞ she muttered.

“Wouldn't dream of it." he cradled the doll to his chest, his neon eyes gleaming. “Go do your work, poppet. I’ll keep your little plaything safe."

❝...thank you,❞ she said quietly and then she was gone, slipping out of the tent like a shadow.

Later, like much later, Harlequin found pierrot.

Pierrot was in his tent, just minding his business. He looked up when Harlequin entered, his expression changed to normal to voids filled with hatred.

“Well, well," harlequin drawled, holding up his doll — you — so pierrot could see. “Look what poppet gave me."

pierrot's eyes went wide.

“ Adoll," harlequin continued, twirling it between his fingers. “A special doll. One that looks just like them." He brought it to his face. HIs green forked tongue flicked out and he licked the doll's neck, possessively.

“She trusted me with it," he said, eyes never leaving pierrot's face. “not you. Just me.”

Pierrot's hands tightened into fists. 

“Mine,” harlequin purred, licking the doll again. "this one's mine."

Inside the doll, well inside you, you were panicking.

His tongue was warm and wet. It was sliding across your fabric neck like you were something delicious. “Don't worry, little doll," he whispered against your stitched ear.

“I’ll take very good care of you."

✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇  

Wha… you picked Jester?

Poppet went very still when you told her. Her lavender eyes frozen, like she was processing something she didn't want to process.

❝…Jester?❞

“Uh, yeah?.”

❝Jester Jester? Him? the one who—❞

“Yes, poppet."

She was quiet for a long moment. then her shoulders slumped, just a little and her voice dropped to a low murmur. ❝And you couldn't have picked anyone else?❞

"i picked jester."

❝I heard you.❞ she pinched the bridge of her mask — or where her nose would be, if she had one. ❝I just... why, plaything? why him?❞

You didn't have an answer. Or maybe you did, and you just didn't want to say it out loud.

Poppet sighed, ❝Fine. Fine. But you owe me for this.❞

She grabbed you and tucked it under her arm. ❝Here's what's going to happen. You're going to pretend to be a quiet doll. The kind that doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't exist except as something to look at. Can you do that for me, plaything? ❞

You nodded.

❝Good. Because Jester? He's not like the others. He won't lick you. He won't tease you. He'll might just throw you away, and I’ll come get you… ahh if he figures out what you really are—❞ She paused, shaking her head, ❝—just... don't move. Don't breathe. Don't give him a reason to look closer.❞

She was little scared. You could see it in the way her stitched hands trembled, the way her voice wavered just slightly at the edges. 

Poppet didn't like jester. 

Didn't like his rules, his control, the way he held her existence in his purple-glowing hands.

He is the reason she was still alive—if you could call what she was alive.

Jester had saved her, not out of kindness, but because she was useful. Because she could watch the humans who visited the circus, could whisper in their ears, could keep them compliant.

She owed him everything.

And she hated him for it.

❝Let's get this over with, ❞ she muttered, and slipped out of the tent.

The purple tent loomed ahead, massive and dark, its fabric rippling in the evening breeze. Poppet paused at the entrance, her stitched hand hovering over the flap.

❝This might not be the best time,❞ she mumbled to herself.

through the gap in the fabric, she could see jester speaking to a couple of guests—a man and a woman, both wide-eyed, both nodding along to whatever he was saying. His voice was low, resonant, and commanding. 

The guests looked almost like they were under a spell.

Poppet started to back away. ❝I’ll come back later—❞

“Poppetté." 

She froze because Jester was still facing away from her, like he'd expecting her. How did he know she was behind him, after all, she moves so quietly.

HIs neon purple eyes glowed in the dim light. his massive frame blocked the entrance to the tent, casting her in shadow.

“Is there an issue?" he asked, his voice calm. measured. dangerous. "shouldn't you be preparing your act for the visitors? You haven't even made your debut yet."

❝I—❞

“The human," he continued, cutting her off, "should have arrived by now. Have you seen them?"

❝No,❞ she said quickly. too quickly. ❝I haven't. ❞

Jester's eyes narrowed.

“You're lying, sweetheart.”

❝I’m not—❞

“You forget yourself, Poppetté." he stepped closer. his presence pressed against her like a physical weight. “I know when you're lying. I’ve always know.”

She swallowed, her stitched throat creaked. ❝I.. made something,❞ she admitted, holding up the doll—you. ❝For the human. A gift. To welcome them back. ❞

Jester plucked the doll from her hands, holding it between his fingers. His neon purple eyes studied it, down to the stitches, the hair, the tiny glass eyes.

“Hm, Interesting," he murmured. "an actual stuffed doll. Iexpected something more... practical from you."

❝It’s just a doll❞ her tone hesitated a little

Jester was quiet for a moment. His thumb brushed your doll's fabric cheek.

“You made this yourself?"

❝Yes.❞

“By hand?"

❝Yes.❞

“With your own stitches?"

❝What is this, twenty questions?❞

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. “’Im impressed, poppet. i didn't know you had it in you."

❝I’m full of surprises.❞

“Clearly." he held the doll up to his face, studying it from different angles. His purple eyes once more traced every seam, every stitch, every tiny detail. “You put a lot of work into this," he observed. "the human must mean a great deal to you."

❝That’s what happen when you asked someone to keep an eye on someone, you might get attached.❞ She said mentioned, under her breath, looking away for a few seconds.

“That’s an issue I told you to get rid of, getting attached. After all, that lead you to us in the first place.”

Poppet was quiet, her eyes narrowed, “…I will.”

Jester nodded slowly. “Good, then I will watch your doll," he said. "for their sake and for yours."

❝Thank you,❞ poppet said, and she meant it. ❝For—❞

“Not at all." he waved a hand, dismissing her.

“Go. Prepare your act. I will keep the doll safe until the human arrives."

Poppet hesitated, ❝Jester—❞

“Go now.” From that tone, she went.

Later on, inside the purple tent, you prayed.

Not to any god in particular—just... prayed. That jester would set you on a shelf somewhere. That he'd forget about you. That he'd pay you no attention at all.

But Jester was not the kind of monster who forgot things.

He  carried you to his chair, that massive throne-like thing in the center of the tent and sat down heavily. His purple eyes never left your fabric face.

“Aren’t you're well-made," he said, turning you over in his hands. Ppoppet's work is... unusual but effective." he paused. His thumb pressed against your chest—right where your heart would be, if you still had one.

“But she's not the only one who notices things."

Your glass eyes widened.

“I know you're in there," he said quietly. “Dear Visitor, the one who was supposed to arrive today."

You tried to speak—to explain, to beg but no sound came out your stitched mouth wouldn't open.

“Don't bother," jester said. “Poppet's work is thorough. You can't speak, move, do anything except watch since she isn’t around.” he held you up to his face, his purple eyes glowed.

"you wanted my attention so badly," he murmured. 

“You picked me. And now you have it."

He set you on his desk—a massive wooden thing cluttered with papers, ledgers, and dolls. other dolls. dolls that looked like the circus members, dolls that looked like him.

“Poppet isn't the only one who collects," he said, noticing your gaze. “I have my own... hobbies." He reached into a drawer and pulled out a tiny jester's hat—purple and black, just like his and set it on your head.

“There," he said. "now you match."

Your glass eyes begged him to stop. 

He didn't because next came a collar, small leather, with a tiny silver ring and a leash to match. He fastened them around your fabric neck with practiced ease. 

“You wanted to be one of us," he said, tugging the leash gently. "now you are." He set you on the edge of his desk, the leash trailing across the wood.

“Poppet will come back for you," he said. “Eventually but until then..." He leaned back in his chair, his purple eyes never leaving your face.

“You're mine."

✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇 

You picked Ticket Taker.

Poppet’s lavender eyes smiled so fast you thought they might fly out of her mask. ❝Ah! Ticket taker? The one never cracks a smile—well thinking about it, he’s always smiling under that mask of his…❞ she thought outloud.

“Uhh, Yes?"

She clutched the doll—you—to her chest and let out a sound that was somewhere between a squeal and a gasp. ❝Oh, plaything. Oh, you have excellent taste. ❞

“I do?"

❝Ticket taker is—❞ she paused, searching for words. ❝He's safe, reliable, and organized. He won't lick you or put a collar on you or—❞ she waved a stitched hand vaguely. ❝—whatever jester does in that tent of his. Just pray and hope Ticket Taker doesn’t try to get rid of you, but since your mine, I doubt that’ll happen❞

“You seem... excited."

❝I’m not excited,❞she said, though her voice was higher than usual. ❝I’m appreciative. There's a difference.❞

She tilted her head, ❝Ticket taker is... competent. efficient. he runs the finances, you know. handles the schedules. makes sure everything runs smoothly. without him, the circus would fall apart.❞

“You sound like you admire him."

❝I respect him and he’s fun to mess with,❞ she corrected. ❝There's a difference.❞ But her stitched cheeks were flushed, just a little and she was smiling much more than usual. ❝Besides,❞ she added, voice dropping to a murmur, ❝he's... lowkey hot in a rigid, orderly way kind of way.❞

“Poppet—"

❝Don't look at me like that. I’m allowed to have opinions.❞

she tucked the doll under her arm and headed for the tent flap. ❝Come on. Se have to find him. If i recall correctly, he should be at the gates, like greeting guests, checking tickets, being generally imposing but sometimes…❞ She leads off at the entrance, glancing back at you.

❝Sometimes he's in his tent, the one filled with mirrors. He uses it to scare the guests.❞

“Scare them?"

❝Deliciously.❞

The blue tent was easy to find, it was the one near the queue of nervous-looking guests shuffling toward the entrance, their faces pale, their eyes wide.

Poppet didn't use the front entrance.

She circled around the back, found a side flap, and slipped inside, pulling you with her, after all, the tent was a maze, mirrors everywhere, floor to ceiling, reflecting and re-reflecting, creating endless corridors of glass and shadow. 

You could see yourself, well your doll self in the reflected a hundred times over, tiny and stitched and lost.

❝Stay close,❞ poppet whispered, though you couldn't exactly move on your own. ❝And don't look at the mirrors for too long. You'll get dizzy.❞

She wove through the maze with practiced ease, turning left, then right, then left again. The mirrors showed her from every angle, her stitched legs, her pigtailed hair, the silver bell on her cap that never rang.

❝Ah,❞ she said suddenly, stopping in front of a particularly large mirror. ❝Here.❞ 

she set you on the ground, “What are you—“

❝Shh.❞ She pressed a stitched finger to her mask. ❝Quick prank. stay here and be quiet, act like a doll please.❞

“Poppet—" but she was already gone, slipping behind the mirrors while you sat there alone, terrified, and waited.

After a few seconds, you heard footsteps.

A figure emerged from the maze of mirrors, tall, impeccably blue suit and top hate dressed, his half-black, half-white mask catching the light. His white eye gleamed as he looked down.

And saw you.

He bent down and picked you up. His gloved fingers were cool against your fabric body. “Curious," he murmured, turning you over in his hands. “A doll and one that resembles... them." He studied your stitched face, your glass eyes, your tiny outfit.

“How did you get in here?"

you couldn't answer nor move. Couldn't do anything except watch.

“Ah, Billettiste—" Suddenly, arms wrapped around him from behind.

It’s was Poppet.

She hugged him, full hug, arms around his waist, face pressed against his back and Ticket Taker went still.

not tense. not startled. just... still.

like he was used to this.

“Ah,” he said, his voice calm. unruffled. “It's you."

❝Missed you~❞ poppet mumbled against his coat.

“You saw me this morning."

❝That was hours ago.❞

“Three hours, to be precise."

❝Heures,❞ she repeated, squeezing tighter. Ticket Taker sighed—a soft, almost fond sound—and reached back to pat her head.

“You're fillled with such whims today.”

❝So what of it, you love it.❞

"i tolerate it. there's a difference."

But his white eye was soft and he didn't pull away. When Poppet released him after a moment, stepping back with a satisfied hum. Her eyes were bright and pleased.

Ticket taker turned to face her, still holding the doll you in his gloved hand.

“You shouldn't be here," he said. "you have work to do. preparations to make. Your debut—"

❝Is today, I know, I know, ❞ she interrupted. ❝I have time.❞

“Jester expects—“

❝Ugh, Jester expects a lot of things. ❞ she waved a hand. ❝He can wait.❞

Ticket taker's white eye narrowed. “You're playing a dangerous game, Poppetté.”

❝I’m always playing a dangerous game. That's what makes life fun.❞

He sighed again, then he held up you between them.

“Care to expain this?”

❝A doll.❞

“Yes, I can see that, what is it doing in my tent?”

❝Because it’s a special doll. For the human, dear vistor? The one who's coming back today.❞

Ticket taker's white eye flickered. “What, they're returning already? They shouldn’t be hear untill your debut.”

❝Yes. And I need you to watch this for me. Just until they arrive so they won’t see it.❞

He was quiet for a moment. "that's... unexpected ask, you rarely ask for help."

❝Well, I’m asking now.❞ she stepped closer, her voice dropping. ❝Please, ticket taker. I know you're busy. I know you have schedules to keep and guests to process and—❞

"Poppetté."

❝—mirrors to polish or whatever it is you do in here—❞

“Poppetté.”

She stopped, seeing that ticket taker tucked you into his coat pocket, carefully. “I can do this," he said. "for you."

❝Really?❞

“Really."

❝You're not just saying that to make me leave?❞

“I would never."

She stared at him. he stared back.

❝ ...thank you, ❞ she said quietly.

ticket taker tipped his hat. "not at all." he turned and walked toward the maze of mirrors, his footsteps soft on the carpet. "now go," he called over his shoulder. "before jester notices you're missing from your tent.”

❝Yes, sir,❞ Poppet said, and there was something warm in her voice, fond like

She slipped out the side flap, leaving you behind, tucked safely in ticket taker's pocket. Inside the blue tent, ticket taker glanced down at you.

“Well," he murmured. "it seems we'll be spending some time together."

You couldn't answer but somehow, you felt safe.

Later on, Ticket Taker’s office was quiet.

He sat at his desk, massive mahogany organized within an inch of its life. papers were stacked in neat piles. Pens were aligned in a perfect row. a small clock ticked softly on the wall, its hands moving with mechanical precision.

His suit jacket hung on the back of his chair, draped carefully to avoid wrinkles. his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the lean muscle of his forearms. The top two buttons of his black dress shirt were undone, exposing a sliver of collarbone, more skin than he usually showed.

He held the doll you in his hands.

A soft cloth, dampened with water, moved across your fabric face. Gentle strokes, simply careful. He wiped away a smudge of dirt from your stitched cheek, then another from your glass eye.

“You were dusty," he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Poppet should have cleaned you before handing you over."

his thumb brushed your tiny collar, his white eye narrowed.

“…let’s also get this spot.” Which he did, he got the spot up.

“There," he said. “Better." He continued cleaning, such as your arms, legs, ab=nd stitched torso. His touch was tender like he was handling something precious. You watched him through your glass eyes, heart pounding in your chest.

Then door opened.

Ticket Taker didn't look up. He didn't need to since he already knew those footsteps, “Jester."

“Bil." Jester stepped into the office, his frame filling the doorway. His neon purple eyes swept across the room. From the neat desk, organized shelves, and clock ticking on the wall.

Then they landed on Ticket Taker… with a doll in his hands?

“We need to discuss upgrades," Jester said, closing the door behind him. “Since the circus is now expanding, will need a few more tents to keep everything in order.”

“Already handled," Ticket Taker said, still not looking up. “I submitted the requisition forms yesterday."

“Good." Jester walked closer, then adding, "and clothing. poppet is a circus member now. she needs proper attire. something that fits her later acts.”

“Also handled. I ordered several options. They should arrive by the end of the week."

"Efficient as always."

“As I strive to be."

Jester stopped beside the desk, now his purple eyes fixed on the doll. “Bil."

“Yes?"

“Is that... a doll?"

Ticket taker's hands paused, only for a moment. “Yes."

“I don't believe i've ever seen you carry a doll before." Jester leaned closer. His neon purple eyes traced the doll's stitched face—the glass eyes, fabric hair, and tiny outfit. “Is it one of poppet's?"

Ticket Taker was quiet for a moment. HIs white eye narrowed before returning to the doll. “Yes."

“I see." jester straightened. his arms crossed over his chest.

"she asked you to watch it?"

"she did."

"interesting."

ticket taker's jaw tightened. "is it?"

“Poppet doesn't trust easily," jester observed. "and she certainly doesn't trust me. but you—"

“She trusts my efficiency."

“Does she now?”

Ticket taker set the cloth down. His hands cradled you care. “I did not expect her to ask me," he admitted, his voice softer than usual. "but she did. And I… agreed."

Jester was quiet. "you care for her," he said finally. "poppet."

“I tolerate her as much as you, old friend.”

Jester's lips twitched. not quite a smile. but close. "you're softer than you pretend to be," he said. jester turned toward the door, his frame blocking the light.

“Keep the doll," he said over his shoulder. “Poppet will come for it eventually. but until then…” he glanced back, his purple eyes gleaming. “…take good care of it."

And then he was gone.

The tent flaps fall flat while Ticket Taker sat in silence, the doll cradled in his hands. His white eye stared down at your stitched face. “Well," he murmured. "it seems i've been assigned to you."

He picked up the cloth then continued cleaning.

“I don't know why poppet trusts me," he said quietly. "But i... will not betray that trust." his thumb brushed your fabric cheek.

“You're safe here."

✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇 

Yes! You picked Doctor.

Poppet simply smiiles, ❝Ah such a good choice,❞ she said, tucking you under her arm. ❝I like Doctor. He's... reliable. In a creepy, clinical kind of way.❞

"You like him?"

❝How rude, I respect him.❞ She paused, tilting her head. ❝Also, he literally put me back together. Remember the transformation? The revamping? The new body?"

“I heard and you mentioned that, yes."

❝He did all of that. Shaped me. Stitched me. Made sure I didn't fall apart on the operating table." Her voice dropped, softer than usual. ❝I owe him a lot, plaything. More than I can ever repay."

You were quiet for a moment, processing that. Then: "Is he... safe?"

Poppet laughed, amused. ❝Safe? No. None of them are safe. But he's... curious. And curiosity, for Doctor, is better than hunger. He won't hurt you unless he's interested in you. And even then—❞ She paused, considering. ❝— even then, he's careful. He takes things apart, yes. But he always puts them back together.❞

She headed for the tent flap, glancing back at you.

❝Here's what's going to happen. You're going to pretend to be a doll. A quiet doll. The kind that doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't exist except as something to study. Can you do that for me, plaything?"

You nodded.

❝Good. Because Doctor? He's gonna try to examine you. Not in a creepy way—well, maybe in a creepy way—but he won't hurt you. Probably.❞ She grinned behind her mask. ❝Just... try not to flinch. He notices everything.❞

Doctor's tent was at the back of the circus.

You'd passed it before, on previous visits, a dark, looming structure tucked between Jester's tent and the fairgrounds. Most guests avoided it. The signage was cryptic and off-putting. The entrance was shrouded in shadow. And the faint cyan glow that seeped through the fabric walls was enough to make even the bravest visitors turn back.

Poppet didn't hesitate.

She ducked through the entrance, pulling you with her, and called out into the dim space.

❝Doctor!❞

The tent was quieter than you expected. The air smelled of antiseptics and sterile medical supplies. Rows of shelves lined the walls, filled with glass jars with their contents glowed faintly cyan, casting the room in an eerie, otherworldly light.

In the center of the room, a figure was cleaning a chair—a large, leather examination chair. The figure was dressed in pink and black, their face hidden behind a white mask. They moved with practiced efficiency, wiping down the armrests, the headrest, the gleaming metal instruments laid out on a nearby tray.

❝His only fool,❞ Poppet murmured, noticing your gaze. "Don't worry. They're harmless. Mostly.❞

She stepped further into the tent, her voice echoing off the fabric walls.

❝Doctor! I know you're back there!"

A pause. Then— "Poppet?"

The voice came from behind a set of curtains — heavy, dark, embroidered with strange symbols. The fabric parted, and Doctor emerged.

His plague mask catching the cyan light. His eyes were cyan too, calm and clinical, sweeping across the room before settling on Poppet. His long coat brushed the floor as he walked, and his hands were clasped behind his back.

“Ah, my favorite subject," he said, his voice that low, pleasant hum that made your skin crawl in a not-entirely-bad way. "What brings you to my humble abode?"

❝Can't I visit an old friend?❞

"You can." He stopped in front of her, tilting his head. "But you rarely do. Which means you want something."

Poppet's rolls her eyes, a bit defensive, maybe, or embarrassed.

❝Maybe.❞

"Tell me." He reached out and took her chin between his fingers, turning her face left, then right. His cyan eyes traced her mask, her stitches, the new contours of her body. 

"The transformation," he said. "How is it holding up?"

❝Good,❞ Poppet said, pulling away. ❝Really good. The joints are smooth. The stitching is tight. The—❞

"The dietary habits," he interrupted. "You mentioned struggling with the new requirements."

Poppet shrugged. ❝I did. But you said I didn't have a choice. Something about my body needing a specific kind of fuel now.❞

"The vessel requires what it requires," Doctor agreed. "I can reshape the form yes, but I cannot change the fundamental needs. You survived on one diet in life. In this new body, you require something... different."

❝Ugh, fine thanks for the reminder.❞ Poppet sighed. ❝But have you ever imagined eating bread normally, you know? And fruit. And vegetables. But no—my stomach wants meat like all the damn time. Specifically—"

“Don't," Doctor said quietly. "Don't say it out loud."

Poppet's eye-spirals spun — annoyed, resigned, hungry.

❝Fine. I won't. But you know what I mean.❞

"I do."

❝And it's disgusting really.❞

"It is necessary."

❝That doesn't make it better…❞

Then his eyes drifted to the top of her head—to the small, bumps under her jester’s hat, “And the horns? How are they faring?"

Poppet's hand drifted up to touch the two. ❝They're fine. They're mine. You fixed them yourself.❞

"I did." His voice softened, just slightly. "Each one. Each stitch. I wanted you to have something that was yours. Something that reminded you of—"

❝Don't,❞ Poppet said quietly. ❝Please.❞

Doctor was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "As you wish."

You watched the exchange, frozen in place, your glass eyes darting between them.

What was Poppet?

You'd always thought of her as a doll—a living doll, yes, but still a doll. Fabric, stitches and maybe stuffing? But the way Doctor talked about her, the way he spoke of her soul, her essence, and her dietary habits.

That alone made you question everything.

Was she alive? Was she a monster like them? 

Was she something in between?

❝Doctor,❞ Poppet said, breaking the silence. ❝I need you to watch something for me.❞

She held up you and Doctor's cyan eyes narrowed. 

"A doll."

❝Yes.❞

He took it from her, turning it over in his hands. His fingers probing and traced the stitches, the seams, the tiny glass eyes. “Such Intricate work," he observed. "You used your abilities to create this."

❝I might have.❞

"The threads. The seams. The life in its eyes." He held the doll up to his face, studying it from every angle. "This isn't just a doll, Poppet. This is—"

❝A gift,❞ she interrupted. ❝For the human. The dear visitor. They're coming back today, and I wanted to give them something special.❞

Doctor was quiet for a moment. “You want me to watch it.”

❝Just until they arrive. I don't want them to see it before I'm ready. It's supposed to be a surprise.❞

"I see." He turned the doll over in his hands again, his cyan eyes gleaming. "I could perform experiments on it. Test its durability. Its responsiveness. Its —"

❝No please.❞ Poppet's voice was sighed, already knwoing his BS. ❝No experiments, Doctor. Just... keep it safe. Keep it intact. That's all I'm asking.❞

Doctor tilted his head. His eyes switch, cyan to red and back again. "You're protective of this doll."

❝I’m responsible for it,❞ Poppet said, her voice sharp. ❝After all, I created it. Last time you literally dismembered it.❞

WHAT.

Your glass eyes shot toward Doctor. He did WHAT?

Doctor didn't flinch. Didn't apologize. Didn't even acknowledge the accusation. He just tilted his head, cyan eyes gleaming, and said nothing.

Poppet and Doctor stared at each other and something passed between them that made your fabric skin prickle with unease.

They were grinning. Not at each other. With each other. Like they were sharing a private joke. Like they enjoyed this, the pushing, prodding, and watching.

You realized, with a sickening lurch, that they were both a little evil.

Poppet's voice dropped to a music-box whisper. ❝Well... maybe do a little experimentation.❞

Doctor's eyes switched red. "Poppet," he said, his voice low. "Don't mess with me now."

❝Kidding,❞ she said, waving a stitched hand. ❝Mostly.❞

She glanced at you and you could feel her grinning behind her mask. That same, sharp, knowing grin that made your stomach drop.

❝Just... keep an eye on it, Doctor. I'll be back soon.❞

And then she was gone, slipping out of the tent like a shadow, leaving you alone with the monster who had dismembered her last creation.

Doctor stood in silence for a moment, cradling the doll in his hands.

His cyan eyes gleamed as he turned and walked toward the examination room. "You heard her," he said, pushing through the curtains. "A little experimentation."

Your glass eyes widened.

Later, the examination room was smaller than you expected. It was intimate, almost, with dark walls and a single overhead light that cast everything in a soft, cyan glow. The examination table sat in the center, its leather surface gleaming.

Doctor set you on the table and he began.

He started with your arms, lifting them, bending them at the elbow, testing the give of your joints. His fingers were cool against your fabric skin, probing, and assessing.

"Interesting," he murmured. "The range of motion is... extensive. More than I would expect from a standard doll."

He moved to your legs, bending your knees, flexing your hips, testing your stability. "The joints are smooth. Almost organic. As if—" He paused. His cyan eyes narrowed. "—as if they were designed to move like a real body."

Your heart pounded in your chest.

He lifted your arm again, holding it up to the light. His thumb pressed against your palm, feeling the give of the fabric, the resistance of the stuffing beneath.

"This doll," he said slowly, "feels human."

Your glass eyes widened.

"The texture of the skin. The flexibility of the joints. The warmth of the fabric—" He pressed his fingers against your chest, right where your heart would be. "—it's warm. Warmer than it should be."

He set you down on the table and stepped back, his cyan eyes sweeping across your stitched form.

"Poppet," he murmured. "What are you up to?"

He picked up a small instrument a probe and held it against your arm. "Let's see how responsive you are."

The probe pressed against your fabric skin.

And you—despite every instinct telling you to stay still snf quiet—flinched.

Doctor went very still. You watced how his cyan eyes quickly turned red,  "Fascinating," he breathed. He set the probe down and leaned closer, his mask inches from your face.

"You're real, aren't you?"

You couldn't answer. 

Couldn't move or do anything except watch. But Doctor didn't need an answer. He could see it. "Poppet," he said, his voice soft. Hungry. "What have you done?" He picked you up and cradled you in his hands. "Don't worry," he murmured.

"I won't hurt you." His thumb brushed your stitched cheek. "Much."

✑ 𝓅𝑜𝓅𝓅𝑒𝓉

The tent was quiet when Poppet finally returned.

She slipped through the tent flap, cradling you in her stitched hands. Her lavender eyes swept across the space before settling on the circular table at its center.

❝You're back,❞ she said quietly. ❝All of you. In one piece.❞

She set you down on the table, careful, gentle, and stepped back.

You lay there, fabric limbs, stitched seams, and glass eye,  trying to process everything that had happened.

Pierrot had licked you. Held you to his chest like a precious thing and licked you with that long, orange tongue, his starry eyes glowing with desperate devotion.

Harlequin had bragged about you. Taunted Pierrot with your fabric body, then dragged his forked tongue across your neck like you were something delicious.

Jester had seen through you. Known, somehow, that you were more than just a doll. And then he'd put a collar on you. A leash. Like you were a pet he could keep on his desk.

Ticket Taker had been gentle. Respectful. He'd cleaned you with careful hands and called you safe but even he had treated you like an object.

And Doctor had known too. Had felt your flinch, seen your fear, and smiled.

What did you expect?

You'd agreed to this, didn't you?

You'd chosen this. Poppet had asked if you wanted to know how they'd treat you when they thought no one was watching.

And now you knew and you wished you didn't.

Poppet didn't say anything at first. She just watched you patient, waiting while you lay there on her table, trying to find words you didn't have. Then she reached out and picked you up.

❝I'm sorry,❞ she said quietly. ❝I know that was... a lot.❞

You wanted to respond. Wanted to scream, to cry, to demand answers. But you were still a doll with fabric and stitches and glass and your voice wouldn't come.

Poppet decided to carried you to a corner of the tent — a small, cozy nook lined with pillows and blankets. She sat down, tucking her legs beneath her, and settled you in her lap.

❝You know, you can talk now,❞ she said. ❝We're alone. No one can hear us and you’re with me.❞

And suddenly you could. Your stitched mouth opened and real words came pouring out. "What the hell, Poppet?"

She flinched slightly, looking down at you, before sighing.

❝Look, I needed to know.❞ Her voice was soft ❝And because you wanted to know. Remember? You agreed to this. You chose this life.❞

You stared at her lavender eyes, her stitched cheeks, her mask—and felt something inside you crumble.

❞I didn't know it would be like this.❞

❝No,❞ she agreed. ❝You didn't. And neither did I.❞

She was quiet for a moment, then shared, ❞I've been here for a long time, plaything. Longer than you know. And I've watched them—all of them—treat each other in ways that would make your skin crawl. Down to Pierrot's desperation. Harlequin's cruelty. Jester's control. Ticket Taker's distance. Doctor's curiosity.❞

Her eyes drifted to the cushion of pins beside her, a velvet swirl studded with needles of every color.

❝...even Columbina's love.❞

She picked one up—a long, silver pin—and pressed it gently against her wrist.  Not breaking the skin. ❝This is my life now,❝ she said quietly. ❝I perform. I entertain. I watch. And I wait for someone to need me or to use me.❞

She set the pin down and looked at you. ❝I owe a debt, plaything. A big one. Jester saved me—not out of kindness, but because I was useful. And now I spend every day working it off. Being a poppet. Being a tool. Being whatever they need me to be.❞

❝The other members—❞ you started.

❝—do it freely," she finished. "They chose this life. They want to be here. But me?" She laughed, soft, bitter sound. ❝I'm here because I have nowhere else to go. Because if I leave, I die. And I'm not ready to die yet.❞

You were quiet for a long moment.

"Is that why you made me into a doll? To understand?"

Poppet's eyes met yours.

❝Partly,❞ she admitted. "And partly because I wanted to know — really know — how they'd treat something that looked like you. Something they thought was just a doll.❞

"And now you know."

❝And now I know." She sighed. "And so do you.❞

She reached out and picked you up again, turning you over in her hands, checking your stitches, your seams, your body.

❝No damage,❞ she murmured. ❝No loose threads. No—"

She paused. Her fingers brushed your chest, right over your heart.

❝—no mending needed.❞

She looked at you. Her lavender eyes were soft. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead like you were something precious.

❝I'm proud of you.❞

And then she booped your nose.

Just a light tap. A gentle press of her stitched finger against the fabric of your face.

Your eyes closed.

And when they opened—

You were human again.

Your hands were flesh and blood. Your heart was beating in your chest. Your lungs were breathing, real breaths, deep and shaky and alive.

You sat up, gasping, and looked down at yourself.

Hands. Feet. Arms. Legs. A Human again.

Poppet watched you, "Welcome back," she said then stood up, brushing off her stitched uniform, and offered you her hand. "Now come on. The others will be wondering where you are. And I believe—" Her voice dropped, teasing, warm. 

“—you have a debut to prepare for."

Poppet guided you out of the tent.

The evening air was cool against your real skin, human skin, skin that could feel the breeze and the temperature and the soft brush of fabric against your arms. 

And Poppet was leading you somewhere.

"Where are we going?" you asked, your voice still hoarse from the ranting, the crying, the release of everything you'd been holding in.

Poppet didn't answer. Just squeezed your hand, her stitched fingers warm against your palm and kept walking.

The circus was empty. The guests were gone, filed out through Ticket Taker's gates, dispersed into the night, their screams and laughter fading into memory. The tents stood silent, their fabrics rippling in the breeze. The fairy lights strung between them flickered softly, casting the fairgrounds in a warm, golden glow.

"Poppet—“

❝Shh.❞ She stopped in front of a tent. Not her lavender one. Not Pierrot's red one. Not Harlequin's green or Jester's purple or Ticket Taker's blue.

A different tent. One you didn't recognize.

It was rather small, the fabric a deep, rich burgundy that seemed to absorb the light. Strings of fairy lights draped across its entrance, and the faint sound of music, giving soft, melodic, and celebratory.

"What is this?"

Poppet turned to look at you. Her lavender eyes were soft. Warm.

"Happy anniversary," she said.

And then she pulled open the tent flap.

You blinked, your eyes adjusting, and then you saw.

Inside the tent was transformed as streamers hung from the ceiling, purple and gold and deep, rich red twisting around the support beams like ribbons on a maypole. Balloons bobbed in the corners, their surfaces catching the light. Tables lined the walls, draped in white cloths and laden with food, such as cakes and pastries and dishes you didn't recognize, all arranged with meticulous care.

And in the center of it all—

The others. The Freak Circus themselves.

Pierrot stood by a massive cake—three tiers, decorated with intricate frosting patterns and tiny, sugar flowers. He was dressed in his usual red and black, his starry eyes bright with excitement. When he saw you, his whole face lit up, lips parting in a soft, reverent gasp.

"My dear," he breathed. "You came."

Harlequin lounged against a table, a glass of something dark in his hand. His neon green eyes gleamed with amusement, and his sharp grin widened when he spotted you.

"Finally," he drawled. "Took you long enough. I was starting to think you'd bailed on us."

Jester stood near the back of the tent, siting his frame casting long shadows across the floor. His neon purple eyes watched you calm, assessing. "You're here," he said, "Good."

Ticket Taker stood beside him, his white eye gleaming. His suit was immaculate, as always, but his posture was relaxed, less rigid than usual, less controlled.

"The party can now begin," he said, tipping his hat. "We were waiting for you."

And Doctor stood apart from the others, his cyan eyes fixed on you. His plague mask caught the light, and his long coat brushed the floor. He didn't say anything. 

"What—" You turned to Poppet, your voice catching. "What is all of this?"

Poppet smiled. Her lavender eyes were bright.

"It's the anniversary of the circus," she said. "The day we—they—became a troupe. We celebrate every year. And this year—" She reached out and squeezed your hand. “—we were hoping you'd come."

"You planned all of this?"

"I planned some of it." She glanced at Ticket Taker, who nodded stiffly. "Others helped."

"But—" You looked around the tent, mainly at the decorations, the food, the others. "I didn’t—I didn't know—"

"That was kind of the point." Poppet's voice dropped, teasing. "It's a surprise, plaything. You're supposed to be surprised."

You were. Overwhelmingly so.

Pierrot approached you, his starry eyes shining. He held a slice of cake, a small one, decorated with a single sugar flower and offered it to you with trembling hands.

"For you," he said softly. "I made it myself. Special recipe."

You took it. Your fingers brushed his, and he shivered.

"Thank you, Pierrot."

He ducked his head, a little embarrassed. "You're welcome, my dear."

Harlequin appeared at your other side, his sharp grin firmly in place. "Don't let him hog all the attention," he said, draping an arm across your shoulders. "I helped too, you know. Moral support."

"You sat in the corner and complained," Ticket Taker said dryly. "Effective moral support."

Jester stepped forward, his purple eyes fixed on you. "We are glad you came," he said. "Truly."

Doctor nodded and something in his expression softened. "You were missed."

You looked around the tent at Pierrot's devotion, Harlequin's teasing, Jester's presence, Ticket Taker's order, Doctor's quiet watching and felt something swell in your chest.

They'd done this for you. All of it.

The decorations. The food. The waiting.

You turned to find Poppet.

She was standing at the edge of the tent, half-hidden in the shadows. Her lavender eyes were fixed on you and there was a smile on her stitched lips.

But she wasn't joining. She was just... watching.

You excused yourself from the others and walked toward her.

"Poppet."

She tilted her head. "Yes, plaything?"

"What are you doing all the way over here?"

"Watching."

"Why?"

She was quiet for a moment. Her eyes drifted to the others — to Pierrot cutting more cake, to Harlequin stealing a sip of someone's drink, to Jester and Ticket Taker conversing quietly in the corner.

"This is their celebration," she said finally. "Not mine. I'm just —"

"Ours," you interrupted.

She blinked. "What?"

"You said we celebrate every year. We. Not them. You too."

Poppet's stitched hands tightened at her sides. “Look—“

"You planned this, didn't you? Behind my back. While I was recovering. While I was healing. You did all of this, the decorations, the food, the surprise because you wanted me to feel welcome."

She didn't answer, so stepped forward and wrapped your arms around her. She was warm, much warmer than you expected and she froze at your touch. Her stitched body went rigid, her breath catching in her throat.

"Thank you," you whispered. "For all of it. For everything."

She was quiet for a long moment. 

Then slowly, carefully her arms came up around you.

She hugged you back, causing her stitched lips parted. 

“You’re welcome, plaything” she said. "I'll come over.”

You took her hand, her stitched, imperfect hand and led her back to the others.

Of course, the party continued.

Music played. Cake was eaten. Laughter echoed through the tent. Pierrot told stories about the early days of the circus—embarrassing ones, mostly, that made Harlequin's ears flush. Ticket Taker and Jester discussed logistics in low voices, their heads bent together over a clipboard. Doctor observed from the edges, his cyan eyes tracking every movement, every smile, every moment of joy.

And Poppet—

She stayed by your side.

❝Enjoy the celebration while it lasts, little plaything. The pins are already being sorted for tomorrow.❞

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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

So, in the older headcanons for Poppet are no longer true; she has undergone a total redesign, and her true origins remain a mystery. While a deeper dive into her nature may come in time, it is clear that Poppet stands apart from the rest of the The Freak Circus troupe.

Jester and Harlequin might mockingly refer to as a "Fool" or a "Sock Puppet," yet one who holds far more authority than they would ever admit.

Stitched together by the Doctor’s hands, Poppet’s existence is a reluctant debt owed to the Jester and the Ticket Taker.

Assigned to the Iris Tent by the Ticket Taker, she acts as the circus’s broker, deceptive of all trades.

Poppet’s role is to lure, wrapped in the aesthetic to visitors. She offers readings of the past, present, and future, drawing visitors in with tarot, charms, and palmistry that feel unnervingly accurate.

When she offers a guest a choice—one card or three—she is not merely performing a trick. She is navigating the threads of their fate.

A single-card draw allows her to grant a powder wish, but her power is transactional and inherently parasitic; there is always a "catch" hidden in the fine print of the reality she manipulates. Despite her outward charm, she is a vessel of the void. Her stitching holds back an abyss that hungers for more than just coins or curiosity.

She invites you into her tent with a welcoming smile, but be warned: there is a reason she keeps her clawed fingers tucked away.

Above all else, do not shake her hand. 

Should you make that contact, you might find that you are no longer the one deciding where your shadow goes.

ℳ𝑜𝓇𝑒 ℐ𝓃𝒻𝑜 𝒜𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒫𝑜𝓅𝓅𝑒𝓉

❝That is all the information you shall have for now, my playthings.❞

— poppet ⋆˚꩜｡⋆

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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

for example:

“you're trembling," he'll observe, his voice that low, pleasant hum. “that's normal. it will pass." and then he'll pull a blanket over you, not because he's soft, but because "temperature regulation is essential for recovery."

side note: he absolutely keeps a stash of water and snacks by his bed. not for romance. for efficiency. but you'll appreciate it when your legs don't work.

however, aftercare when his eyes are red is... different.

he's much quieter, more the type to trace the marks he left, so all the bites, the scratches, the places where his hands gripped too hard and his cyan eyes will switch back and forth between colors, like he's fighting something.

"did i hurt you?" he'll ask, voice is still calm, but there's bit of care underneath it.  if you say no, he'll relax. if you say yes, he'll spend the next hour making sure you're okay. stitches if you need them, salves, soft touches that don't ask for anything in return.

b = body part

his favorite: his hands

why? because they're elegant, long-fingered? (lol), and always cool to the touch. he uses them for everything, surgery, gardening, maybe playing heavy metal guitar? (kidding) and you.

he knows exactly how much pressure to apply. where to touch. how to make you shiver without even trying.

for example:

"fascinating," he'll murmur, tracing a line down your spine. "your skin responds so beautifully to stimulus." also his eyes, when they're cyan, he's observing. when they're red, he's hungry. and watching them shift mid-act? chef's kiss.

for you, is your throat.

doctor loves watching your pulse. the way it flutters when you're nervous. the way it races when he's close. the way it jumps when his fingers brush against your jugular. 

"such a vulnerable place," he'll say, thumb resting lightly on your windpipe. "and yet you let me touch it. do you trust me that much? or are you simply... foolish?"

he says it like both answers please him.

c = cum

he has two sides, first is the clinical interest. he'll observe the quantity, the consistency, the way your body reacts to release. he might even... take notes afterwards.

for example:

"interesting," he'll murmur, more to himself than to you. "the viscosity has changed since last time. i wonder if it's something you ate."

his fingers trail through it. testing. studying.

and then he might actually pull out a small notebook. a little leather one he keeps in his coat pocket. and he'll write things down.

“your volume is approximately four milliliters, the consistency, slightly thicker than average and thrn color pearlescent white with minimal translucence."

you'll be lying there, still trembling, still trying to remember how to breathe, and he'll be taking notes.

"fascinating," he'll say, capping his pen. "your heart rate spiked 30% higher than last time. your pupils dilated more rapidly. your skin flushed deeper."

he looks at you. cyan eyes softs, "i wonder what triggered that. we should... experiment further. for science."

and you'll know, even though he won't say it , that you triggered it. you did that to him. and he's very grateful.

however, the other side, is more messy, possessive. 

he doesn't pull out carefully anymore. doesn't observe from a distance. no, no. when he's red, he wants to mark you. wants to see his release on your skin, on your lips, in you. 

he likes seeing it on you—your stomach, your thighs, your lips if you've been good. he likes the visual proof that he's affected you.

"look at that," he'll murmur, red eyes tracking every drop. "you're ruined. and i did that." 

he says it like a compliment.

d = dirty secret

doctor terrified of being bad at intimacy.

not sex. he's like somewhat confident there but the after, you know, the during. the moments where he's supposed to be soft and he doesn't know how.

so he overcompensates with science. with observation and data because if he can study you, he can understand you. and if he can understand you, he can't fail you.

also? he's desperately curious about what you sound like when you're not holding back. when you forget to be polite. when you break a little but he'd never admit that. 

well, not out loud, anyway.

e = experience

how experienced is he?

if recall correctly, doctor is a virgin, very much inexperienced.

not because he couldn't. not because no one wanted him. but because he never... let anyone close enough. doctor is shy, and not in the cute way pierrot is—all trembling hands and desperate confessions. doctor's shyness is much quieter and colder. 

he doesn't know how to be touched. doesn't know how to want someone without studying them first.

and he's massive. you've seen him. you know. the way he has to duck through doorways. the way his horns scrape the ceiling. the way his hands, long, elegant, cool hands—could wrap around your throat without even trying.

he's aware of his size. acutely aware. 

and it terrifies him.

for example:

"i could hurt you," he's said. not as a threat. as a fact. "without meaning to. without wanting to. my body is not... gentle."

so he kept his distance, listened to his heavy metal music and watched from the shadows.

never touching, reaching until you.

here's the thing about doctor. he's brilliant. he knows anatomy better than anyone—every nerve, every pulse point, every place where pleasure and pain intersect but knowing something intellectually? reading about it in books? observing it in specimens?

that's not the same as doing.

he doesn't know how to kiss. his first attempt with you was clumsy. his teeth bumped against yours. his mask got in the way. he pulled back, red-faced--redder than usual, anyway, and said:

“…let me try again."

he doesn't know how to touch without examining. his fingers want to find your pulse. want to check your pupils. want to document instead of feel. "stay still," he'll say, and you'll think he's being commanding. but really? really?

he's just scared, scared of hurting you. scared of doing it wrong. scared that you'll laugh at him, leave him, decide he's not worth the effort.

but he's learning for you.

he’ll reads books about intimacy, pleasure, how to touch someone gently when your hands are made for surgery.

he practices on his plants. please don't laugh, he does. you should see the way he strokes his ferns now. tender like he's learning what softness feels like.

hell he’s even seat the 

he asks questions. so many questions.

"does this feel good?" he'll murmur, his cool fingers tracing your spine. "what about this? here? here?" 

and when you gasp, when you say yes, his eyes shine red for just a second. like he's proud of himself and accomplished something monumental. "fascinating," he'll breathe. "i've never made anyone sound like that before. i'd like to do it again."

that's worth more than all the experience in the world.

f = favorite position

cowgirl. simple and fitting.

and not because he's lazy, because he likes watching you. from below, he has the perfect view of your face, every flutter of your eyelids, every parted-lip breath, every moment you lose yourself. "don't look away," he'll instruct, cyan eyes fixed on yours. "i want to see everything."

yet from the red side, it’s from behind. kneeling. bent over something—his desk, his examination table, you name it.

he likes the control. the way he can grip your hips and set the pace. the way he can lean over and whisper in your ear, red eyes glowing in the dark.

"you're doing so well," he'll say. "just a little longer. i want to see how much you can take."

g = goofy

is he serious during intimacy, or can he be playful?

well …does doctor look like he does goofy?

you know what, why even asked that, (everyone in the fandom draws mans as a damn bird with one stick leg, so maybe)

he's a bit serious during sex, like focused and intense but sometimes something will catch him off guard. maybe a noise or a cramp, or the way your stomach growls at an inopportune moment.

he'll pause and tilt his head, processing, "...that was unexpected," he'll say and then he'll keep going.

(unsure why doctor and ticket taker gives so much DILF vibes??)

h = hair

how important is hair to him? does he like having his touched?

doctor has red hair, dark and rich. 

the kind you want to run your fingers through…? now is he well-groomed? ...he's a doctor, dear. hygiene is kind of his thing. as for down there, he’s trimmed. 

he'd call it "maintained for optimal hygiene and accessibility." i call it "he definitely manscapes and probably has opinions about it."

i = intimacy

how important is emotional connection during sex?

this is where it gets complicated.

doctor doesn't really romance. not the way pierrot does, with tears and poetry and desperate clinging, actually, now thinking about it I feel like he's like the only one that would do a romance… maybe just pierrot, ticket taker and maybe jester in his own way.

anyway! doctor's intimacy is observation.

he shows he cares by noticing. remembering and cataloging the things that make you you and keeping them safe in that strange, clinical mind of his.

"you always bite your lip when you're thinking," he'll say, mid-act. "and you make a small sound—here—when you're close."

he's not trying to be sexy. he's just... telling you. sharing his data. letting you see how much attention he's paid.

and somehow, that's more intimate than any love confession.

j = jack off

does he masturbate? how often? what does he think about?

he treats it like... maintenance.

just a biological need. something to address so he can focus on other things, efficient and quick. he probably has a schedule. uhh, don't think about it too hard.

but he gonna become more obsessive later on.

when his eyes are red, he thinks about you. specifically. vividly. the sounds you'd make, the way you'd look, the things he'd do to you. now these sessions take much longer.

and afterwards, he just... lies there, staring at the ceiling

"...inefficient," he'll mutter, and then he'll do it again the next night.

k = kink

what unusual turn-ons does he have?

oh my, where do i start?

well, just know that doctor is known to be the least kinky out of everybody in the circus, however his interest still lies on the kniy side

1. mask kink (obviously)

he wears his plague mask during sex sometimes. the beak. the hollow eyes. the way his voice sounds muffled and otherworldly. "keep it on," you'll beg. and he will. because he likes the way you look at him when he's unrecognizable.

2. medical play

examinations. instruments. the cold press of a stethoscope against your racing heart. "just breathe," he'll say. "i'm going to take such good care of you."

3. blood play.

he doesn't need to draw it all the time. but if it happens—if you want it to happen, he won't say no. "you're so beautiful like this," he'll murmur, watching red drip down pale skin. "like a wound that wants to be kissed."

5. sadism. just light and controlled. nothing you can't handle but he likes the way you stay still, the way that tiny gasp leaves your lips. the way you trust him even when he's being mean. 

"good job sweetie,” he'll say. and mean it.

l = location

favorite places to do it?

1. the greenhouse

this is his primary spot. it's warm, humid, and smells like soil and blooming things. there's something about being surrounded by life while he does unspeakable things to you that just works. He'll lay you down on the soft moss and say, 

“no one will find us here. scream if you want. the plants don't mind." It's his space, and he wants you in it.

2. his tent

basic, but reliable. his tent is where he keeps his tools, his examination table, and his specimens. there's a clinical intimacy to it, like the faint smell of antiseptic, the soft glow of wet specimen jars lining the walls. ge's comfortable here. In control. and he likes having you somewhere that feels like his.

3. the examination table

as mention, this one is less about romance and more about convenience. It's the right height. It has straps, which he may or may not use). and there's something deeply unsettling in a way that he enjoys, about laying you down where he usually examines his specimens. 

“stay still," he'll say. “this won't hurt. Much."

m = motivation

what gets him in the mood?

1. trust

doctor is used to fear. flinching, crying, and begging. 

he's seen it all, and honestly? It bores him. fear is useful, well biologically speaking but it doesn't interest him. what gets his blood pumping is calm. xomeone who tries to look under  his mask, his tools, his red eyes, and doesn't run.

"you're not scared of me," he observed, tilting his head. "why?"

and when you said, "because i trust you," his eyes shine red for just a second with a sharp smile yet he looked away before anything else could happen

that's when you knew. he's not motivated by terror. he's motivated by trust. by someone who sees the monster and stays anyway. by you.

2. vulnerability

not the weak kind. it’s more like when you bare your throat to him, so literally or figuratively, when you let him see you shaking, hear you gasping, watch you fall apart because of him... his breath catches. his hands tighten. his eyes go red and stay there.

"you're giving this to me," he'll murmur, thumb brushing your pulse point. "your fear. your pleasure. your everything. do you have any idea what that does to me?"

he doesn't expect an answer. he doesn't need one. the way you tremble beneath him is answer enough.

3. the audacity

so bravery that borders on stupid. when you talk back. when you grab his mask and pull it close. when you whisper something filthy in his ear just to watch him break.

"you think you can handle me?" you ask, and his eyes go red instantly. "careful," he warns, voice low. "i'm not as gentle as i look." but you don't stop. you never stop. 

and that audacity is what pushes him over the edge.

for example:

you're in his greenhouse. the air is nice, thick and warm, smelling of soil and blooming jasmine. he's tending to his plants, back turned, cyan eyes soft, completely unaware of you watching from the doorway.

"you're staring," he says without looking up.

"maybe."

he sets down his watering can, turn to face you and tilts his head. "what do you want?"

you step closer, enough to touch, to see the way his pupils dilate.

"you," you say in a simple and honest tone.

his eyes shine red, just once then back to cyan.

"that's... dangerous."

"i know."

you reach up and push his mask to the side. just enough that you can see the sharp line of his jaw, the way his breath catches when your thumb brushes his lower lip.

"still not scared," you whisper.

his hands find your waist, grip tight. "you should be."

"but i'm not."

his eyes flash red, stay red this time. and then he's lifting you onto the workbench, onto your back, onto the soft moss he keeps for his more delicate specimens. his body presses against yours. his weight pins you down, his mouth—finally,   finds your throat.

"you asked for this," he growls against your skin. "you begged for this. don't you dare pretend otherwise."

you don't. you moan instead. loud enough that the plants shiver.

"good," he breathes. "such a good specimen. now hold still. i want to see how loud i can make you scream."

n = no

what would make him stop immediately?

1. feigned or performative fear

again, doctor is used to real fear. he knows what it looks like, the dilated pupils, the rapid breathing, the way the body tenses and tries to pull away. what he cannot stand is fake fear. performative trembling. exaggerated whimpering. anything that feels like an act rather than an authentic response.

“if you're going to put on a show for me," he says flatly, pulling back, "we're done here. i don't do theater."

he needs genuine reactions. honest ones. if he suspects you're playing a role just to please him, he loses interest immediately.

2. loss of consciousness or dissociation

let’s say if you pass out from pleasure, pain, or from overstimulation—he stops immediately. If you dissociate, your eyes go blank, stop responding like you... he pulls back and goes into full doctor mode.

“stay with me," he'll say, checking your pulse, your pupils, your breathing. “look at me. look at me."

he will not continue until he is certain you are fully present and fully consenting. and if you cannot get there? the encounter ends. he will hold you, comfort you. but he will not touch you again that night.

“i need you here," he admits quietly. “not floating somewhere I cannot follow. if I lose you... i don't know how to come back from that."

o = oral

giving vs receiving?

giving: doctor is very skilled. 

he knows anatomy well, such as every nerve, every fold, every spot that makes your legs shake. he knows exactly where to put his tongue, his lips, his teeth. and he is patient.

he will stay down there for as long as it takes, lapping and sucking and exploring, until you are trembling, begging, completely forgotten your own name.

for example:

“fascinating," he murmurs against your slick skin, his breath warm, his tongue flicking lazily over your clit. "You're so responsive. i wonder how many more times i can make you—"

you never find out. because you pass out. 

and he has to stop and do aftercare instead.

don’t worry, he doesn't mind. he'll just try again tomorrow.

receiving: doctor is enthusiastic about it.

when you take him into your mouth, his hands tangle in your hair, not pushing nor forcing, just holding. his hips twitch and breath catches, eyes switch cyan to red and back again, like he cannot decide which side of him is winning.

for example:

“don't stop," he breathes, and his voice is still calm, but there is something underneath it. 

he has to be careful with you though. he is massive. not just long, thick. and when you take him into your throat, when you push past your gag reflex and take him, you can see the bulge in your neck, very prominent and obvious, moving when he does.

and you are barely halfway through.

he watches this happen. his red eyes track the way your throat stretches around him, the way your jaw strains, the way your eyes water but do not look away.

“f-fascinating," he whispers. “look at that. you can see me inside you."

again, he is careful, though. he does not want you to choke. he pays attention to your breathing, your color, the way your hands grip his thighs for stability.

“breathe through your nose, sweetie” he instructs softly. “good. good. you're doing so well."

but he is also pushing your limit. just a little. he will hold you there, his cock trying to be halfway down your throat, the bulge in your neck pulsing with your heartbeat and he will wait. “you can take more," he murmurs. “i know you can. show me."

abd when you try, relaxed your throat, let him slip deeper, when the bulge in your neck grows more pronounced his is grip tightens in your hair. a low sound escapes him, something between a groan and a growl.

“good specimen," he breathes. “such a good specimen."

also if you look up at him through your lashes while he is in your mouth, while your lips are stretched around him, while tears cling to your lashes and your throat is full—

he’ll will break.

his hips will stutter. his breath will hitch. his red eyes will go wide, then narrow, then dark. “you,” he will say, voice rough, wrecked, nothing like his usual calm. “you are going to be the death of me."

and he will mean it. every word.

he does not let you go until tears stream down your cheeks and your throat is full of him. and even then, he pulls out slowly, just watching the way your lips release him with a wet sound.

“you did excellently," he says, cupping your chin, tilting your face up. his thumb wipes the tears from your cheeks. “we will practice again tomorrow. i want to see how much more you can fit."

overall, doctor loves oral both ways. 

p = pace

fast and rough, or slow and gentle?

somedays, slow because doctor isn't in a rush. he has all night, and he intends to use it. every touch is measured. every thrust is calculated. he's studying you—the way you respond, the sounds you make, the places where you're most sensitive.

"interesting," he'll murmur, adjusting his angle. "you made a different sound that time. let me try again."

other days, hard, fast, and desperate.

again when his eyes are red, the control slips. not completely—he'd never lose control but enough that you can feel the hunger beneath the calm. "you wanted this," he'll growl, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "you wanted the monster. so take him."

and you do. because you're brave like that.

q = quickie

does he like quick, spontaneous encounters?

honestly, it’s not his favorite.

doctor prefers time and space. you know, the ability to observe and catalog and draw things out. but sometimes when his eyes are red and you're wearing something distracting and there's a supply tent right there—sometimes he makes exceptions.

"this is inefficient," he'll mutter, pushing you against the wall. "we don't have enough time for proper aftercare."

he does it anyway.

r = risk

is he willing to take risks? (public, being caught, etc.)

absolutely not.

like, hard no. the doctor hates the idea of being caught. hates it. it's not even about embarrassment or shame—it's about control. his work, his experiments, his time with you — none of it is for public consumption.

he doesn't want an audience. doesn't want curious eyes. doesn't want someone walking in and asking questions he doesn't feel like answering.

"this is between you and me," he says, voice low and final. "no one else. ever."

he means it.

so no, you're not going to convince him to sneak into a supply closet during a show. you're not going to drag him behind the tents while the crowd is distracted. he'll shut that down immediately.

"we're not animals," he says flatly. "and i'm not a performer. what i do with you is private. mine. i don't share."

and it's not just about modesty. it's about interruption. the doctor cannot stand being interrupted. not during his research, not during his experiments, and definitely not during intimacy.

nothing kills his mood faster than a knock on the door or a voice calling his name from outside the tent.

his focus shatters. his body goes cold. and his eyes, which might have been red just a second ago and switch back to cyan like someone flipped a switch.

"wait," he says, pulling away, already reaching for his mask. "someone's coming."

and then he's gone. not physically because he's still right there but the moment is over. the heat is gone. he's already calculating who it might be, what they want, how quickly he can get rid of them.

by the time whoever it is leaves? he's not in the mood anymore. maybe later. maybe tomorrow. but right now? he's a bit frustrated and cold and done.

"i told you," he says, not looking at you. "this is why i prefer the greenhouse. no one bothers us there."

except for the plants. but the plants don't count. the plants are silent.

for example:

you're on his examination table. the leather is cool beneath your back, but his hands are warm, warmer than usual pressing you into the surface as his mouth works its way down your throat.

his mask is off. pushed aside. probably forgotten somewhere on the floor.

"stay quiet," he murmurs against your collarbone. "i don't want anyone to hear you." his hips press against yours. 

you can feel him through his clothes, hard, heavy, ready and your breath catches. "doctor—"

"shh." his fingers find the button of your pants. undoes it. slips inside.

and then, you and him hear, "doctor? you in there?"

a muffled voice, harlequin's voice, dripping with amusement like he knows exactly what he's interrupting.

the doctor freezes, his whole body goes rigid above you. his eyes which had been that deep, hungry red switch to flash cyan so fast it almost hurts to watch.

"don't move," he whispers then he pulls away. straightens his coat. reaches for his mask.

"what?" you breathe. "you're just going to—“

"yes."

he's already at the tent flap, mask in place, cyan eyes cold and distant.

"not now, harlequin," he says, voice flat. "i'm busy."

"busy doing what?" harlequin's grin is audible. "because it sounded like you were—“

"leave." just one word he said. 

yet there's a pause. a snicker. and then footsteps retreating.

doctor stands there for a long moment, his back to you, his shoulders tense.

"...he's gone," you say.

"i know."

"so we can—“

"no." he turns. his eyes are still cyan. still cold. the heat from before is gone, replaced by something tired and frustrated and closed off.

"the moment is ruined," he says. "i cannot simply... pick up where we left off. not when my mind is already calculating how long it will be before the next interruption."

"but—“

"another time, sweetie.”

he crosses to his desk. sits down. pulls out a notebook.

you're still on the examination table, pants undone, body buzzing with want that has nowhere to go.

"you're just going to... take notes?"

"yes."

"...about what?"

he looks at you, just for a second. "about how you looked just now," he says quietly. "spread out on my table. wanting me. needing me." he looks down at his notebook. "i'll use it for... research. later. when i'm alone."

your face burns. "that's not fair."

"no," he agrees. "it's not."

and then he starts writing once again. so yeah doctor doesn't do risks, public, or interruptions.

s = stamina

how long can he last?

holy shit. well, doctor can go for hours.

not because he's superhuman—though, i mean, monster but because he knows how to pace himself. how to draw things out. how to make you do most of the work while he observes. on red side is faster. more intense. but also shorter. like a storm violent, consuming, and then over.

as for rounds? three. maybe four, if you beg nicely.

t = toys

do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?

yes, absolutely.

doctor has tools. not sex toys, technically — medical equipment. but he's... creative. vibrating tools designed for muscle stimulation. speculums for examination. sounds for listening. things that vibrate, things that pulse, things that stretch.

"this isn't sexual," he'll say, holding up something that is definitely sexual. "this is for research."

he's lying but it's hot lying, so you let it slide.

u = unfair

how much do they like to tease?

well, doctor can be a bit of a liar.

not in a mean way. not in a way that hurts. but in a way that makes you want to scream his name while he watches you fall apart with those calm, cyan eyes.

see, here's the thing. he doesn't realize how good he is at teasing. it's not intentional, not at first. it's just... part of who he is. part of his clinical training. 

and sometimes, when he's studying you, he notices things.

like the way your hips twitch when he gets close but doesn't touch. like the way your breathing changes when his fingers trail up your thigh and stop just short of where you need them. like the way you whimper, just a little when he pulls his hand away completely.

"fascinating," he'll murmur, watching you squirm. "your body is desperate for release. your heart rate has increased by nearly 40%. your pupils are dilated. your skin is flushed."

he tilts his head. those cyan eyes never leave your face.

"but i want to see how long you can maintain this state."

and he means it.

he'll keep you there for hours if you let him. fingers hovering, mouth pressed to your neck but not kissing, hips flush against yours but not moving. just... waiting. watching. cataloging every twitch, every gasp, every desperate little sound you make.

"please," you'll beg. "please, doctor—"

"not yet." his voice is calm and composed.

and somehow that makes it so much worse.

because if he were being mean, like if he were smirking or laughing or calling you names, you could get angry, try to push him away.

but he's not being mean. he's just... curious. genuinely curious about how much you can take.

and you? you want to be good for him, be the specimen that exceeds his expectations. the one he writes about in his notebook with little stars in the margins.

so you stay still. you hold back. you let him watch.

and when he finally touches you, when his fingers slide into you like they belong there, you nearly sob with relief. "good," he breathes. "such a good specimen. i knew you could do it."

his eyes shine red for just a second.

and you realize: he enjoyed that. maybe more than you did.

the red side is worse. so much worse.

because when his eyes are red, he's not just observing. he's participating. and he's smiling. not a big smile. not a creepy grin. just... a small curl at the corner of his lips. the kind that says i know exactly what i'm doing to you and i love every second of it.

"you're shaking," he'll observe, red eyes glowing. "good. keep shaking. i want to see how long it takes for you to break."

and he'll keep pushing. and pushing. and pushing.

bringing you to the edge. pulling you back. bringing you again. pulling you back.

until you're crying. until you're begging. until you can't remember your own name, only his. "please," you sob. "please, i can’t—“

"you can." his voice soft, almost gentle. "and you will. because i asked you to."

he's a liar. he told you he wasn't good at teasing. he told you it wasn't intentional.

but the way he smiles when you fall apart? the way he watches you unravel like a specimen under a microscope?

yeahhh. he may knows exactly what he's doing.

v = volume

how loud are they? what sounds do they make?

doctor is quiet, in my opinion.

now, not the kind of quiet where he's holding back. not the kind where he's embarrassed or shy. just... quiet. naturally, effortlessly, quiet. he doesn't moan. doesn't gasp. doesn't whimper or cry out or any of the things you might expect from someone so intense.

but he still breathes.

when he's calm, when his eyes are cyan and he's just observing, just studying, his breathing is slow. measured. almost hypnotic. in through his nose, out through his mouth. steady as a metronome.

but when he's into it? when his eyes start switching red and his composure starts to crack?

his breathing changes. it gets heavier. faster. hungrier. 

like you can hear it in the quiet moments—when his face is buried in your neck, when his forehead is pressed against yours, when his lips are hovering just above your skin.

inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale.

each breath feels like a caress. like he's tasting you through the air alone.

and sometimes, which is rae, when he's close, when his eyes are red, when you've been perfect, he'll make a sound.

a hum, low and pleased, almost like a purr.

it vibrates through his chest, through his hands, through the places where your bodies touch. and it makes your toes curl. every single time.

"there," he'll breathe, voice barely a whisper. "just like that. stay."

and you will. because his voice is commanding, even when it's barely audible. even when it's soft. even when it's gentle.

"you're so quiet," you say once, afterward, when you're both catching your breath. "i can barely hear you."

he looks at you. "i don't need to be loud," he says. "you make enough noise for both of us."

it's not an insult. it's just... true.

because when he's inside you, when his fingers are working you open, when his mouth is on your throat, when his hips are pressing you into the mattress, you can't help but sound.

you moan. you gasp. you whimper. you cry out his name like a prayer.

and he listens.

he listens to every sound, catalogs every pitch, files away every desperate little whine for later. for research. "fascinating," he'll murmur, thumb brushing your lower lip. "the sounds you make. i've never heard anything like them."

his eyes shines red.

"i'd like to hear more."

and then he's on you again, quiet, always quiet while you fall apart beneath him.

he doesn't make a sound but you make plenty.

w = wild card

what's the wildest thing they're willing to do? where are their limits?

you'd expect me to say something about his red side. something about the sadistic streak, the hunger, the way he loses control when his eyes flash crimson. or him dedicating his time to make you a large nest to impress you with.

and yeah, that's part of it. but that's not unexpected. 

the wild card? the thing that will actually surprise you?

he lets you take care of him.

not in a sexual way, okay so well, not only in a sexual way. but in a soft way. in a way that has nothing to do with scalpels or specimens or clinical observation.

see, doctor is always the one in control. always the one observing, studying, taking care. he tends his plants. he tends his patients. he tends you.

but he never lets anyone tend to him until you.

and when he finally does, lets you see the soft, vulnerable thing underneath the mask—it's the wildest thing he's ever done. because for the doctor, vulnerability is terrifying. more terrifying than any experiment. 

so, he lets you run your fingers through his red hair while he lies on your chest, eyes closed, breathing slow. he lets you kiss his forehead, his bare forehead, mask pushed aside without flinching or pulling away.

he lets you whisper sweet things in his ear and doesn't call them "inefficient" or "sentimental."

he just... accepts them and you.

and sometimes, on the rare nights when his walls come down all the way, he even asks for it. "stay," he'll murmur, voice barely audible. "don't go. not yet."

and you'll stay because doctor, the so called cold, clinical, composed doctor is clingy bird when he lets himself be. he wraps himself around you like a vine, all long limbs and cool skin, and he doesn't let go until morning.

x = x-ray

let's see what's going on under those clothes there

so …are you sure you want to do this? all of it? it’ll make your thighs press together and your breath catch just thinking about it?

fine. let's talk about what the doctor is packing.

because here's the thing. you've seen him. you know he's very tall, above average height, 207 cm to be exact (6’9.5 ft)—you know he's bulky and simply massive.

but down there?

down there is where the surprise lives.

under his clothes, the doctor is massive. not in a cartoonish way, not comically oversized or absurdly proportioned. but in a way that makes your eyes go wide and your mouth go dry and your brain short-circuit because how is that supposed to fit inside you?

he's the biggest of the entire circus. bigger than pierrot. bigger than jester. bigger than anyone.

and he knows it.

the length alone when fully erect, he's just over nine inches. call it twenty-three centimeters for those who like precision. from base to tip, a solid, heavy length that curves slightly upward. just enough to hit that spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyes.

then the thickness is where it gets intimidating. his girth is... substantial. you can't wrap your hand around him. can't close your fingers. your thumb and middle finger won't even touch when you try. 

he's the thickness of a wrist, lowkey more thicker than that—and the first time you see him, you'll actually say “ah hell no” out loud before your brain catches up.

like he curves slightly to the left. just a little. just enough to be noticeable. and when he's inside you, that curve presses against your walls in a way that feels careful, like his body knows exactly where to go

for more details, he's not shaved bare, there's a neat patch of red hair at the base, the same color as the hair on his head. trimmed, tidy, intentional. and when he's aroused which is often, around you, his balls draw up tight against his body, heavy and full.

he knows all of this. he's measured, cataloged and studied.

"purely for research purposes," he'll say, when you catch him looking at his own notes.

you don't believe him but you also don't argue.

for example: 

the first time you see it, you're in his tent.

his mask is off, pushed aside, forgotten and his clothes are somewhere on the floor. he's standing in front of you, naked, and you're still fully dressed, because he wanted to look at you first.

"your turn," he says, cyan eyes tracking down your body.

you swallow. "can i... can i see you first?"

he tilts his head. "see me?"

"all of you."

there's a pause at first and then he steps back. "very well."

he doesn't pose. doesn't preen. just stands there, hands at his sides, letting you look.

and you do.

you look at his chest first, his red skin covered in old scars, the stitches that mark where he's cut himself open in the name of curiosity. you look at his arms, long, elegant, corded with lean muscle. you look at his hips, narrow, sharp, with that v-shape that makes your mouth water.

and then you look down, you freeze.

"what's wrong, sweetie?” he asks, voice calm. but there's a tension in his jaw. a flicker of red in his eyes.

"nothing," you say. "i just—“ you swallow. "you're massive.”

"i'm aware."

"no, i mean—“ you gesture vaguely at his crotch. "big. like... really big. very above average for humans.”

his head tilts. "is that a problem?"

you look at him. at his face, at his eyes, at the way his hands are fidgeting at his sides like he's nervous. “uhh i don't know," you admit. "let me... let me see."

he steps closer and you reach out.

your hand wraps around him or tries to. your fingers don't even come close to touching. there's a full inch of space between your thumb and middle finger, and he's heavy in your palm, warm and thick and alive.

"oh," you breathe.

"oh?" his voice is strained. "is that... good oh or bad oh?"

you look up at him. his eyes are red now, fully red, glowing in the dim lighting, and his breathing has gone shallow.

"good oh," you say. "definitely good oh."

his hips twitch. just a little. just enough that you feel him pulse against your palm. "you're going to need preparation," he says, voice barely controlled. "a lot of it. i won't fit otherwise."

"then prepare me."

his eyes flash. and then he's on his knees in front of you, pulling your pants down, pushing you back onto the examination table.

"spread your legs," he says, already reaching for a jar of lube. "i'm going to be thorough." and he is. he spends what feels like hours opening you up, one finger, then two, then three, just stretching, preparing you, watching your face the whole time to make sure you're not in pain.

"tell me if it's too much," he says, "i need to know."

"it's not too much."

"yet." he adds a fourth finger. you gasp. your back arches off the table. "there," he murmurs, watching you squirm. "you're taking it so well. such a good specimen."

"doctor—“

"not yet." his voice is firm. "you're not ready yet. i won't risk hurting you."

he keeps going. keeps stretching and watching. and when he finally lines himself up at your entrance, when you feel the head press against you, thick and warm and overwhelming,

"breathe," he says. "and look at me."

you do.

his eyes are red. just hungry for more of you but his hands are gentle, and his movements are slow, and he watches your face like he's afraid you'll shatter.

"push back if it's too much," he says. "i'll stop. i promise."

and then he pushes inside.

just the head. just a fraction of an inch. “f-fuck, holy shit…” you're already gasping, already clawing at his shoulders, already wondering how all of that is supposed to fit inside you.

"breathe," he says again. "just breathe. we have all night."

he waits, lets you adjust, watches your face and then he pushes deeper.

y = yearning

how much do they crave intimacy? how often do they think about it?

okay, so doctor has two sides.

 two different answers. two different hungers.

first the calm side: cyan

controlled and manageable when his eyes are cyan, the doctor doesn't need sex. not the way some people do. he can go weeks without thinking about it, weeks lost in his research, his plants, his experiments. his heavy metal music doesn't look at him with hungry eyes and whisper his name like a prayer.

so he forgets. sometimes. for a little while.

he buries himself in work. in data. in the quiet hum of his greenhouse.

and then he sees you.

and it all comes rushing back.

not enough to distract him. not enough to consume him. but enough that his eyes linger on your throat a little too long. enough that his fingers twitch at his sides, remembering the way your skin feels under them. enough that he has to look away, just for a second to collect himself.

"fascinating," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "you have an effect on me. i haven't decided if i like it."

he does like it. he just won't admit it.

then his red side, is just filled with hungry

desperate and consuming when his eyes are red, he thinks about you constantly. not in a gentle way. not in a sweet, sentimental, pierrot-style yearning. in a hungry way. in a way that makes his hands shake and his breath catch and his teeth ache.

he thinks about the way you sound when he's inside you, you know the gasps, the moans, the way you say his name like it's the only word you remember.

he thinks about the way you feel, just warm and soft and alive beneath his hands, around his fingers, under him. he thinks about the way you look at him,, not with fear, not with disgust, but with trust. with want. with something that looks dangerously close to love.

and these episodes? they're distracting.

he'll be in the middle of something, like watering his plants, organizing his specimens, listening to the radio and suddenly his mind is full of you. full of images he can't shake. full of sounds he can't unhear.

he'll find himself staring at nothing, red eyes glowing, his work forgotten in his hands.

“…shit,” he'll mutter, shaking his head. but he doesn't stop thinking about you.

he just can't. 

and eventually, after an hour, after a day, after however long he can force himself to wait, he'll go find you.

not because he wants to. because he needs to, the hunger is too loud and the only thing that quiets it is you.

"you're distracting," he'll say, pushing you against the nearest surface. "i can't focus. i can't think. all i can do is—"

his mouth finds your throat. his hands find your hips. his body presses against yours like he's trying to crawl inside your skin.

"—this."

and you'll let him. because his eyes are red and his voice is desperate and somewhere underneath all that hunger, he's still him. still your doctor. still the monster who looks at you like you're the only thing keeping him sane.

"inefficient," he'll breathe against your collarbone. "this is so inefficient."

but he doesn't stop and neither do you.

z = zone

what are their erogenous zones? where do they love to be touched?

doctor is... sensitive. more than he lets on. more than he'd ever admit.

his body is a map of places that make him shiver, and he's spent years pretending they don't exist. ignoring them. studying them like they belong to someone else.

but with you? with you? he can't hide.

1. his throat

the doctor's throat is achingly sensitive. the column of it, long and pale, where his pulse beats just beneath the surface. when you kiss him there, like when you drag your lips down the side of his neck, when you bite just hard enough to leave a mark—his breath catches. his hands tighten on your waist. his eyes shining red.

"again," he breathes. "do that again."

and when you do, when you suck a bruise into the space just below his jaw, he’ll makes a sound, strangled and desperate.

"fascinating," he murmurs, but his voice is shaking. "i didn't know i could —"

he doesn't finish the sentence. he's too busy pulling you closer.

2. his hands

specifically, the spaces between his fingers. the webs of skin that stretch when he spreads them wide. when you press your mouth there, when you kiss each knuckle, when you suck one of his fingers into your mouth and look at him while you do it—his whole body tenses.

"what are you—" his voice cracks as you swirl your tongue around his finger. his hips twitch. "...doing," he finishes, barely audible.

"research," you say, popping his finger out of your mouth. "you're not the only one who gets to study things."

his eyes are red now. fully red. and he's staring at you like you've just rewritten every hypothesis he's ever had.

3. his inner thighs

this one is cruel. and you know it. and he knows you know it.

his thighs are a battlefield. the skin there is just nice and thick, somehow more delicate and responsive.

when you kiss the inside of his thigh, when you drag your tongue up the soft skin, when you bite just hard enough to make him flinch, he falls apart.

"you're torturing me," he says, voice strained.

"is it working?"

his eyes are red. his chest is heaving. his hands are fisted in the sheets. "yes sweeite.”

so you keep going. you kiss and bite and lick until he's trembling beneath you, until he's begging for more.

"please," he gasps. "please, i can’t—“

"you can."

"i can’t—“

you press your mouth to the spot where his thigh meets his hip. he bucks off the bed.

"...okay," he breathes. "maybe i can."

sooo, in summarized about doctor!

and that was exhausting. (this took me four days to write and to figure out with numerous amounts of research, so rusty at this 😭)

but there you have it, everyones precious doctor, laid bare. 

every kink, every quirk, every fascinating contradiction.

now if you'll excuse me, i have assisting I need to return to, the usual paperwork and to prepare for next time. take care of yourself, plaything. and maybe... maybe go thank the doctor for being so interesting.

p.s. if you actually send this to him, he'll probably study it. take notes. categorize.

...do it. i want to see what happens.

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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

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

now starting, that's a good question. a really good one. because on the surface, it seems simple, right? pierrot loves baking. mc loves eating his baking. everyone's happy.

but you and i both know that's not how eating disorders work.

well… it works is a simple sense, but everybody knows that disorder such as this is never simple and not easy to handle.

so let me break this down for you, because i've watched him. i've been in that circus longer than you have. i've seen the way his starry eyes track you across the room. i've felt the weight of his gaze when he thinks no one is looking. 

and spoiler alert? he's always looking.

in summary, by now, we all know pierrot operates from a place of deep, unhealed attachment trauma. we're talking reactive attachment disorder territory, mixed with some pretty severe abandonment issues and a nice sprinkle of obsessive-compulsive tendencies that he's never learned to manage.

so, he doesn't understand the word… casual. 

he doesn't understand "i'll see you tomorrow" because tomorrow isn't guaranteed. not to him.

the reason why because pierrot's primary love language is acts of service. specifically, cooking. when he bakes for the mc—YOU, he's not just making dessert. he's saying "i love you." he's saying "i want to take care of you." he's saying "please don't leave me."

so when the MC eats his food—eats all of it, eats too much of it, eats until it hurts so pierrot doesn't see a disorder. he sees validation.

every bite is affirmation. every empty plate is proof that he's needed. that he's good at something. that he's not worthless.

here's where it gets complicated. pierrot is obsessive, yes. he's possessive, yes. but he's not stupid. he's not blind. he notices things. he notices when the mc's hands shake. he notices when they disappear into the bathroom after a meal. he notices when they laugh too brightly and say "i'm fine" in a voice that means anything but.

and dearest ask, that noticing? it terrifies him.

because on one hand, if he stops baking, he loses his primary way of connecting with the MC. he loses the smiles, the thanks, the quiet moments where they eat his brigadeiros and look at him like he's done something wonderful.

but on the other hand, if he keeps baking, he might be hurting them. and pierrot would rather die than hurt someone he loves.

so what does he actually do?

well, in the short and recap answer. 

❝Pierrot's love is a beautiful, terrifying tragedy. He does not know how to hold a string without pulling until it snaps. If you take advantage of his baking to hurt yourself… he would not see the sickness at first. He would only see that you are devouring what he makes, and his broken-broken heart would mistake that hunger for love. He wants so desperately to be needed. He would keep baking… and baking… and filling the plate.❞

❝But the moment he realizes his hands are the ones feeding your destruction? The moment he sees he is making you unhealthy? He would shatter. He would stop baking instantly. He would lock the kitchen, hide the sugar, and likely weep into his apron. His desire to make you happy is massive… but his fear of losing another person he loves to the darkness is much, much bigger. He would force you to stop, even if it meant you hated him for it.❞

don’t believe me?

let's say you're been doing this for weeks, months.

It starts, as most things with pierrot do, with brigadeiros.

You're in his tent. The familiar smell of chocolate and condensed milk wraps around you like a blanket. he's humming, like soft, melodic, something you don't recognize—as he rolls the little truffles in chocolate sprinkles.

“For you, my dear," he says, presenting the plate like an offering.

You take one. It's good. It's always good. The sweetness melts on your tongue, and for a moment, everything is simple.

“Another?" his starry eyes are bright and hopeful.

You should say no. Your body and mind is already whispering warnings but his face crumbles at the slightest hesitation, so you take another, another, and another.

You lose count after five.

Pierrot is beaming now, like his whole posture has softened, shoulders loose, hands fluttering with happiness. “You like them," he breathes. “You really like them."

You do like them. That's the problem.

Later, you're in the bathroom. Your stomach aches and throat burns. You stare at your reflection and wonder when food stopped being fuel and started being a battlefield.

Pierrot doesn't know.

Except he does. Sort of.

Well, he notices that you only eat when he's watching. he notices that you push food around your plate when you think he's distracted. he notices the way your eyes flick to the exit after every meal, like you're calculating the fastest route to somewhere private.

He doesn't understand what he's seeing but he knows it's wrong. "my dear," he says one evening, after you've barely touched the coxinha he spent hours making. "did i... do something wrong?"

You look up at his starry eyes are dim. not voids—not yet—but close. "no," you say. "it's not you."

“Then what is it?"

And you don't have an answer. Not one you're ready to give.

so you lie. "i'm just not hungry."

Pierrot nods slowly but his hands are shaking when he clears the plate.

Then the breaking point comes few days later.

You're not sure why. Maybe it's the way he's been watching you more closely. Maybe it's the way your jeans fit differently. maybe it's just that secrets have weight, and you've been carrying this one for too long.

You're sitting at his table. There's a plate of macarons in front of you—his latest attempt, delicate and colorful and perfect.

you take one. Then another. Then how about three more?

Pierrot's eyes go wide. “My dear—"

“I know," you say, and your voice sounds strange, a bit detached like you're listening to someone else speak. “I know I shouldn't but I can't stop."

“Why would you want to stop?" he asks, genuinely confused. “You’re eating. that's... that's good, isn't it?"

You laugh, it comes out broken. “No, pierrot. it's not good. iI’s never been good."

His face crumples. “I don't understand."

And this where you tell him. Not everything. Not the worst parts to freak him out but enough for him to handle and understand. 

You tell him about the numbers, the calculations, the way you measure your worth in calories consumed and calories burned. You tell him about the guilt that follows every bite, the shame that curls in your stomach like a living thing. 

You tell him that you love his food—like you absolutely do but you also hate it because loving it means wanting it. And wanting it means eating it. 

And eating it means… hating yourself.

Pierrot is very quiet afterwords.

When you finally look up, his eyes are voids, just black and empty, the cute golden stars have disappeared. “I did this," he whispers. “I made you sick."

“Holy shit no—"

“I kept feeding you. I kept watching you eat. I saw the signs—I think and I—“ his voice cracks. “I didn't want to see because if I saw, I might have to stop. and if I stopped, you might leave."

he covers his face with his hands and shoulders shake.

“Pierrot." you reach for him. he flinches.

“I’m a monster," he says. Not like it's new, more like he's known it all along and just didn't want to admit it. “I’m a monster and i hurt you and i—"

“Please stop." You grab his wrists to pull his hands away from his face, seeing thoes cute starry eyes are back, unstable, wet with tears.

“You didn't know," you say. “You couldn't have known. I didn't tell you."

“I should have asked."

“Maybe.” you squeeze his wrists gently. “But you know now."

He stares at you as his breath is shaky, “what do we do?"

and anon, that's the question, isn't it?

Well what was next was rather… messy.

Pierrot doesn't stop baking but he starts asking first. “Are you hungry?" not “Here, eat this." He leaves space for no. He leaves space for "maybe later." he learns to hear rejection without hearing abandonment.

You start being honest. Not all the time and not perfectly but when the numbers get too loud, you tell him where the guilt is too heavy, you let him hold you. When you can't eat, he doesn't push. He just sits with you and says "okay. we'll try again later."

Some days are good, and some days are terrible. 

Some days you eat three brigadeiros and don't hate yourself for it. Some days you eat nothing and Pierrot holds your hair back while you cry about it. 

He learns your triggers, the way certain textures make your throat close up. The way buffets make your brain short-circuit. The way praise around food can feel like pressure, even when it's meant kindly.

You learn his. The way he needs to be needed. The way his hands shake when he thinks he's failing. The way his love language is acts of service, and how hard it is for him to show love in other ways.

Then one random night, pierrot brings you a single brigadeiro.

“I wanted to give you more," he admits, setting the plate down carefully. “But i thought... maybe one is easier than many."

you look at the little truffle with chocolate sprinkles and soft center. Made by hands that love you.

“One is easier," you say.

You eat it slowly. savoring. when you're done, pierrot's starry eyes are bright again, not because you ate but because you're still here. because you trusted him enough to try.

“Thank you," he whispers.

“For what?"

“For letting me learn, my dear."

You don't have words for how that makes you feel. So you just reach for him and he understands immediately. Pierrot did always been good at reading the things you don't say.

He curls into you slowly, carefully, like he's asking permission with every movement. HIs long limbs fold around you, pulling you close against his chest. HIs face finds the crook of your neck first, then drifts lower, nuzzling into the soft fabric of your shirt, right over your heart.

His nose presses gently against your sternum. his breath is warm, even through the fabric. his starry eyes flutter closed, and he makes a sound, something small and content, like a sigh and a hum all at once.

“You’re warm," he murmurs against your chest. “You're always so warm. i forget, sometimes. how alive you feel."

You card your fingers through his hair. I’ts soft, a little tangled. He leans into your touch like a cat starved for affection.

“Pierrot."

“Mm?"

“You're rubbing your face on me."

“Yes." he doesn't stop. if anything, he presses closer, his cheek squishing against your chest. “Is that... not allowed?"

You huff a laugh. “I didn't say that."

“Good." his voice is muffled. “Because I was not going to stop."

You felt his arms tighten around your waist. His massive body relaxes into yours, like he's been holding himself together all day and finally doesn't have to anymore.

“I like this," he whispers. “I like being close to you. I like feeling your heartbeat. I like knowing you're real." You keep stroking his hair, watching his eyelids grow heavy.

“You're going to fall asleep," you say.

“Maybe." his voice is soft. sleepy. but then something shifts. his arms tighten again—not painfully, but firmly. Like he's anchoring himself to you. Like he's afraid you'll drift away if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

“Do you know," he murmurs against your chest, "how much i love you?"

You don't answer. You're not sure you're supposed to.

“I love you like..." he pauses, searching for words. “Like hunger. The kind that never goes away. the kind that gnaws at you even when you've just eaten."

You hand freezes in his hair.

“I love you like the famine," he continues, quieter now. "like the days when we had nothing. when columbina's bones were picked clean and we were still starving. that's how much i need you."

“Pierrot—"

“I know." he nuzzles deeper into your chest, his breath hitching. “I know that's not... healthy. I know i shouldn't say it. but you asked me once, remember? You asked me why i watch you eat. why i keep baking even when you can't finish."

You remember. You remember the way his eyes went void, even the way his voice cracked.

“It's because," he says, "when you eat, you're still here. when you eat, you're choosing to stay. And i need you to stay, my dear. I need you to stay more than I need air. More than I need food. more than I need—" his voice breaks.

“More than I need myself."

The silence stretches between you. Just heavy and tender. Wrong in so many ways, however feels almost right. You should probably say something. Tell him that's too much. That his love shouldn't feel like drowning. But your throat is tight, and his body is warm against yours, and somewhere deep down—somewhere you don't like to look, you understand exactly what he means.

Because isn't that what your eating disorder is? 

A hunger that never ends? 

The need to control something, anything, because the world is too big and you're too small?

“Pierrot," you say finally.

“Yes my dear?"

“That's... a lot."

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wet with something that looks like terror and devotion all at once.

“I know," he whispers. “I know it's a lot. I know I’m too much. I know I should love you quietly, the way normal people do. but i don't know how." his fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. “I only know how to love like this. Like I’m dying. Like you're the only thing keeping me alive."

You stare at him, his mask is pale in the dim light, his ruffled collar is crooked. He looks small, somehow. Even though he's massive. even though he could probably crush you without trying.

“I don't want you to love me like you're dying," you say.

“Then how?" his voice cracks. “Tell me how. I’ll do it. I’ll learn. i'll—" he swallows. “I’ll try." You take his face in your hands. his cheeks are cool. damp with tears you didn't notice him crying.

"love me like you're living," you say. “Not like you're surviving. like you're here. like you're safe. like you don't have to earn me by suffering." His breath catches.

“I don't know how to do that," he admits.

“Then we'll learn together."

His starry eyes shines, hearts. "together," he repeats, like he's tasting the word. "together." He presses his face back into your chest. not desperate this time. just... present. his arms stay wrapped around you, but they're not clinging anymore. they're holding. there's a difference.

“I love you," he says against your heart. “I love you in the hungry way and the full way and all the ways in between. i love you even when i'm doing it wrong."

You kiss the top of his head.

“I know," you say. “I love you too."

Afterwords, he doesn't fall asleep right away. He stays awake, listening to your heartbeat, tracing small patterns on your back with his fingertips. slow circles. gentle lines. like he's memorizing the shape of you beneath his hands.

Your breathing evens out first. Then your body goes slack against his. Pierrot notices the exact moment you slip under — the way your hand uncurls from his shirt, the way your pulse slows against his cheek.

He doesn't move. Instead he lies there, holding you, feeling the rise and fall of your chest. his starry eyes are open now. watching. cataloging.

“My dear," he whispers, so soft it's barely a breath.

He lifts his head just enough to look at your face. Peaceful. Relaxed. the tension you carry during the day, the furrow between your brows, the tightness in your jaw, all of it has melted away.

“You're so beautiful when you sleep," he says quietly. "you're beautiful when you're awake too. but when you're asleep..." he pauses, searching for words. "you look like you're not hurting. and that's all i've ever wanted for you."

His thumb brushes your cheek. Featherlight.

“I know I love you wrong," he admits, voice barely audible. “I know i'm too much. I know I should give you space. Let you 

breathe. Let you eat or not eat without making it about me."

His eyes shines, hearts formed in his eyes.

“But I can't stop. I’ve tried. Every time I see you push food around your plate, every time i hear you in the bathroom, every time you say 'i'm fine' in that voice that means the opposite—I feel like i'm dying."

His presses his forehead to yours, then breath warm against your lips.

“So I’ll keep baking. I’ll keep watching. I’ll keep holding you like this even when you tell me i'm smothering you." a shaky exhale. "because the alternative is letting go. and i don't know how to do that. i don't think i ever will."

You shift in your sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. pierrot freezes, like he's been caught. But you don't wake up. You just curl closer, your nose pressing into his collarbone.

His arms tighten around you. Not desperate. 

Just... grateful.

that's the heart of the circus, dearie. bleeding-bleeding all over the floor and calling it love.

anyway. I should probably… tuck myself back into my tent. 

but don't you worry, darling thing. You'll see me soon. Once i'm finished being… revamped, stitched and improved.

❝every pin is a promise. every removal is a mercy.❞

now take care of yourself, and maybe… don't accept any homemade brigadeiros from a clown with heart-eyes!

— 𝓅𝑜𝓅𝓅𝑒𝓉 ꩜

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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

The path to the circus looked different in daylight.

You'd walked it a hundred times before—sometimes at night or day, always with that playful voice of Inkyette's in your ear or her poppet form tucked in your bag, yapping about anything.

Yet today was different. Your new job started at noon.

A Circus Runner, they'd called it.

You still weren't entirely sure what that meant. Ticket Taker had explained it in his usual clipped, precise way—"facilitation of logistics, management of external resources, liaison between domains"—however you'd nodded along without really understanding what hell is he talking about.

What you understood was the pay.

Which is way more than the café. Significantly more. Enough that you'd put your other job on the back burner without a second thought.

"Taking fewer shifts," you'd told your boss, a kind man who'd never once complained about your strange hours or the way you sometimes talked to thin air. "Focusing on some important matters."

He'd blinked at you through the display case before standing up fully, confused but respectful. "You're not the type to just quit on people," he'd said. "So I trust you. Let me know if you need anything."

Guilt had twisted in your stomach then. Guilt that still hadn't fully faded. Because you weren't doing this for the money. Not really.

You were doing it for her. Well, for all of them.

Ahead, you saw the circus gates loomed ahead, and stopped. Now you hadn't let yourself think about her directly. Not since that night. Not since the confession and weight of everything she'd been.

But now, standing at the threshold of her home—her prison, her sanctuary, her everything—the truth crashed over you like cold water.

You never realized how much of an anchor she was.

She'd been everywhere at the circus. Not physically—she was just a poppet, just a whisper. But everywhere. In every interaction you'd had. In every moment of safety. In every laugh and every fear and every step you'd taken through this impossible place.

She was dead. But she was so, so alive. 

And now she was gone.

Not forever. Not truly. As mention, Doctor working on her new body in some hidden corner of the circus, and one day she'd return, perhaps whole, real, present. But until then...

You were alone.

And somehow, impossibly, you were supposed to fill the space she'd left.

Ticket Taker was waiting.

As always, waiting, watching, there with his crisp suit, his one white eye and his ledger full of things you'd never understand. "Visitor," he greeted, the word neutral but not cold. "You're early for once.”

"Didn't want to be late on my first day."

A look of something—approval? amusement?—crossed his features. "Admirable. Follow me." He turned and walked into the circus without waiting to see if you followed.

You followed as the midway stretched before you, empty and silent in the afternoon light. No performances. No crowds. Just the skeletal frames of rides and the faded colors of tents and the weight of a thousand eyes you couldn't see.

"Your duties will be explained gradually," Ticket Taker said, not looking back. "Today, you will shadow. Observe. Learn the layout, if you haven't already." A pause. "You will also be... observed."

"By who?"

"Everyone." He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that it took a moment to register.

"You mean—"

"The circus is curious about you." He stopped walking, turning to face you. “The poppet, Inkyette's... attachment to you was well known. Her absence has left questions. About you. About your role. About your intentions."

"My intentions?"

"Some may ask out of curiosity. Some out of closeness. Some..." His eye flickered, eventually blue and white appeared. "Out of hate."

The word hung in the air. "Hate? Who would—"

“You’ll see. Just know you are an unknown variable. You were hers. You may believe that we have just given her to you as a gift, but that was not her purpose. That gives you status, but also target." He turned and resumed walking. “Here. You duties begin now."

He held out a folded piece of paper. "Your duties for today. Standard orientation tasks. Do not lose this." 

You took it, unfolding it to reveal neat, precise handwriting in dark purple ink.

✑ DAILY ASSIGNMENTS – CIRCUS RUNNER.

Pierrot – Preparatory assistance for evening performance (Carousel, 10:30 AM)

Harlequin – Prop retrieval and setup (Game Midway, 11:45 AM)

Jester – Big top inspection (observation only) (Big Top, 1:30 PM)

Ticket Taker – Assist with document organization (Administrative Wagon, 2:00 PM)

Doctor – Supply inventory (Infirmary, 4:00 PM)

Columbina – Mirror maintenance (Hall of Mirrors, after sunset)

You looked up. "This is... a lot."

"The circus does not stop because you are new. It stops for nothing." His eyes—blue and white, fixed on you. "You will learn. You will adapt. You will survive."

The word hung in the air. "And the questions?" you asked. “Everyone wanting to... know me?"

"They will ask." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "You will answer, or you will not. That is your choice. But they will ask. Like I mention before, Curiosity. Closeness. Love. Hate. All of the above. Be prepared."

He turned to go, then paused. "One more thing, Visitor."

"Yes?"

"You are not her. Do not try to be. She was… irreplaceable and practical.” A look of something—grief? loss?—crossed his neatly features. "But you are here. That is enough. For now. Get to your first assignment please, visitor"

He walked away before you could respond.

✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉 

Pierrot would ask with desperate, trembling hope, wanting to know if you're like… her, if you'll stay like… she did, if you'll love him the way she taught him to love.

The carousel at dusk was a different creature entirely.

The tent area was still in daylight shine—so less ghostly, more empty sine guest don’t be let in until after you’re finished. The frozen horses waited in their eternal gallop, paint faded, eyes blank. 

You found Pierrot there, as the list said you would.

He stood by the white stallion—the one with the rose on its flank—running his long fingers along its mane with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He was already in his performance attire: the ruff, the traditional clown whites, the painted face that made him both beautiful and tragic.

But his mask wasn't fully on yet. Not the performance mask. This was still him—the him that existed in the spaces between shows, the him that only a few ever saw.

He turned when you approached, and his amber eye lit up. Not with the desperate void you'd seen that night at the gate, but with something softer. Something almost like hope.

"You came," he breathed, his high, melodic voice carrying across the empty space. "I wasn't certain you would. The list said 'assistance,' but lists can be... misleading."

"I'm here," you confirmed, stepping onto the carousel platform. "What do you need?"

He gestured vaguely at the horses, at the carousel itself. "Everything. Nothing. The act is... complicated. There are preparations. Rituals. Things that must be done exactly so, or the performance feels wrong."

He moved to the black mare, adjusting her saddle with practiced ease. "I've done this alone for so long. Before..." He trailed off, something flickering across his features. "There used to be… someone. Someone who helped. Who understood what I needed before I needed it. Who watched from the shadows and made sure I never went too far."

His voice dropped, soft and wondering.

"She was always there. Always watching. Not in the way the audience watches, hungry, demanding, but in a way that felt... safe. Like no matter how dark it got, I wasn't truly alone."

You picked up a cloth and began dusting the nearest horse, letting him talk.

"She helped kept me tame," he continued, a sad smile touching his painted lips. "I wasn't always... like this. The wanting. The needing. The fear of losing. I was more gentle, once. More patient." He laughed, soft and broken. "She taught me… showed me that wanting didn't have to mean clutching so tight you break what you hold."

He moved to the next horse, adjusting its bridle.

"But she's gone, well, for now. And I'm... I'm trying. To be what she taught me. But it's hard. It's so hard when all I want is to keep you somewhere safe, somewhere no one else can reach, somewhere you'll never leave." His confession hung in the air, heavy and raw.

You kept working, not trusting yourself to speak, just listen. The cloth moved over painted wood, over gold leaf, over the worn saddles that bore the imprint of countless performances.

Pierrot watched you for a long moment, then continued.

"There was a day," he said quietly, "not long after she... not long after things changed. I was in the midway, just standing, just existing, and this man—this human—he didn't like the way I looked at him. Or maybe he didn't like the way I looked at all. He started shouting. Pushing. Trying to make me react."

His eye found yours. "And then you were there."

You stopped dusting. "Me?"

"Not you specifically. Same scenario, different person. But someone like you. Someone who stepped between us and told him to stop. Someone who looked at me—really looked—and saw someone worth protecting, not just a monster to fear."

He moved closer, his presence warm and overwhelming. "You reminded me of her in that moment. Not in looks. In presence. The way you just... stay. Even when you shouldn't. Even when staying is dangerous."

His hand reached out, trembling, and brushed your cheek. "You told me I would never be put in that situation again. That I was safe. That I was worth protecting." His eyes shimmered. "No one had ever said that to me before. Not like that. Not like they meant it."

You swallowed hard. "Pierrot..."

"I'm sorry." The words tumbled out, desperate and raw. "For how I've been. For showing up at your apartment. For wanting so much it scares me. She taught me to be better than this. To want without breaking. To love without consuming. And I'm trying. I swear I'm trying. But every time I think about losing you—about you leaving, about you choosing someone else—I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't be." He leans down, his forehead pressed to yours, gentle but desperate.

"Please. Tell me what you need. Tell me how to love you the right way. Tell me what boundaries to keep, what lines not to cross. I'll follow them. I'll follow you. Just... please. Don't leave. Don't stop staying."

You stood there, forehead to forehead, his breath warm on your skin, his whole body trembling with the effort of restraint. "I need you to ask me things," you finally said. "Real things. Not just... desperate things. Questions that help you understand me, so you don't have to guess what I need."

He pulled back slightly, eyes wide. “…Questions?"

"Yes. Ask me what you want to know. What you're afraid to know. What you need to know."

He was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then, slowly, his voice emerged: "What do you need from me? Not from… Harlequin, not from the circus—from me. Specifically." The question was so simple, so vulnerable, that it broke something open in you.

"I need you to trust me. To believe that I'll stay without being trapped. To let me come to you, instead of always coming to me."

He nodded, filing it away. "What scares you? About me?"

"Losing myself. Forgetting who I am outside of what you need from me."

"Good. That's... that's good to know." Another pause. "What makes you happy? When you're with me?"

You thought about it. "The quiet moments. When you're not performing, not wanting, just... being. Like this. Like now." His eyes softened. "I can give you that. I want to give you that."

He reached for your hand, holding it gently.

"What do you want from the future? From us? From... whatever this is?"

Wow. That question was bigger than you expected. "I want to see if we can build something that doesn't break. Something that survives even when it's hard." His grip tightened. "We can. I know we can. She taught me that—taught me that love can survive anything if both people choose it. Every day. Every moment. Choose."

He looked at you, and for the first time, his eye held something other than desperate want. Something almost like peace.

"One more question," he whispered. "Just one."

"Okay."

"If I'm too much—if I cross a line, if I scare you, if I start to become what I'm afraid of being—will you tell me? Will you stop me? Will you stay long enough to help me find my way back?"

It was the most vulnerable thing he'd ever asked.

"Yes," you promised. "Always."

He closed his eyes, smiling just a bit. "Thank you," he breathed. "Thank you for staying. Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for choosing to try." His hand lifted, hovered near your face, then dropped.

"You should go, my dear" he said quietly. “…He... is waiting. The list doesn't stop for sentiment."

You glanced at your phone. 11:30. He was right.

“He'll… be insufferable if you're late," Pierrot added, a hint of fond exasperation in his voice. "More than usual."

You laughed softly. "True."

You turned to go, but his voice stopped you. "Again, thank you. For today. For... this." He gestured at the carousel, at the space between you, at everything. "For staying."

You looked back at him—at his tragic beauty, at his desperate love, at the way he held himself so carefully, so carefully, trying not to break what he wanted most.

"Always," you promised. His eyes shimmered.

Then you turned and walked toward the Game Midway, toward sharp grins and sharper games, toward the next monster on your list.

✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃  

Harlequin would ask with sharp edges hiding soft centers, simply testing, pushing, but secretly needing to know if you see him the way… she did.

The Game Midway, green tent area was chaos incarnate.

Harlequin had apparently decided to "reorganize" all the prizes, which meant they were now scattered across every surface in a glorious mess. He stood in the center, hands on his hips, looking profoundly pleased with himself. 

Then he spotted you immediately, that jagged grin spreading across his features. "There you are! Finally! I've been waiting." He gestured dramatically at the mess. "As you can see, I've been... creatively reorganizing."

"With what?"

"Everything." He gestured grandly at the chaos. "I had a vision. A concept. And then the execution got... messy."

You looked at the mess. At him. At the mess again. "You did this on purpose."

"Obviously. But now I need to fix it before the performance, and I need help, and you're here." He batted his eyelashes. "Pretty please?"

You let out a deep breath and started gathering the plush toys. He was there beside you, though "working" was a stretch. Most of what he was doing was watching, his tendrils floating closer and closer with every time you bent down, his comments becoming more and more taunting. He'd point, and you'd pick up the toy. He'd gesture, and you'd try to figure out what he was getting at. He'd make some ridiculous comment, and you'd just groan and get back to work.

It was... nice. In a chaotic sort of way.

"You know," he said, not looking at you, "you're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"Someone who ran. The first time things got weird. The first time I got... too much." He paused, adjusting a row of prizes with unnecessary precision. "But you didn't. You stayed. Like someone else I used to know."

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been.

You kept working, not pushing, just... present.

"She was like that, you know." His voice was lighter now, almost casual, but you could hear the weight beneath. "The one who used to... keep things running. Before you."

He grabbed another armful of prizes, not looking at you.

"Everyone sees me one way. Just the green clown. The attention-seeker. The slutty one, if you want to be crass about it." His grin sharpened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Like I'm not layered. Like I'm not complex. Like I'm just some shallow creature who exists to be looked at and nothing more."

You stopped moving. Listened.

"She didn't see me like that." His voice softened, just slightly. "She saw... more. She was assertive—god, she could be assertive. Wouldn't take my mess, wouldn't let me get away with anything. But she was also the utmost kind. The kind of kind that doesn't need you to be different to love you. Just needs you to be trying."

He pause for a few seconds.

"She joined this place knowing exactly what it was. Knowing what we were. And she stayed anyway. Stayed through the fights, through the chaos, through me and with… Pierrot and then pretending I didn't care when she made us make up."

He laughed, soft and surprised.

"I did care. I cared so much it terrified me. And she knew. She always knew. Didn't need me to say it. Just... knew." He turned to face you fully then, and for once, there was no performance. No sharp grin. No teasing glint. Just him—raw and real and vulnerable in a way you'd never seen.

"Speaking of which." He dropped the armful of frogs. "Question time."

You narrowed your eyes. "This better not be one of your freaky games."

"It's not." A pause. "Well. Maybe a little. But I'm being serious. Mostly."

"Fine. Ask."

"What's your limit?"

The question caught you off guard. "Limit?"

"With this. With... me.” He gestured vaguely at himself, at the chaos, at everything. "When do you push back? When do you say 'no'? I need to know where the edge is now." The vulnerability beneath the bravado was almost painful.

"You'll know," you said slowly. "Because I'll tell you. Loudly. And you'll stop."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I'll leave. Possibly."

Something moved in his eyes—fear, quickly masked. "Noted."

He grabbed another armful of prizes and went back to work, quieter now. Thoughtful.

A few minutes passed in silence. Then: "What do you see when you look at me?"

You glanced up. He wasn't looking at you, focused intently on arranging frogs by color. You considered the question. "I see someone who's been seen one way for so long he forgot he could be seen differently. Someone who uses chaos as a shield and sharp edges as armor. Someone who's terrified of being boring, of being forgettable, of being nothing."

He went still.

"And underneath all that?" you continued. "I see someone who cares. Desperately. Messily. In ways he doesn't know how to express except through games and provocations. Someone who fights with Pierrot and then sulks until someone makes them apologize. Someone who needs people to see him, really see him, and then doesn't know what to do when they do."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, mumbles softly: "That's... hmph. You really are like her.” One more stretch of quiet before he asked—

"What do you need from me?"

Which, the question alone was so simple, so direct, so unlike him that it took a moment to process.

"To be real with me," you finally said. "To drop the performance when it's just us. To trust that I can handle the parts you hide. To let me see you—the real you—and not just the character you've created."

He nodded, a slow movement of his head, then turned away a fraction of an inch. “Tch. Fine. Don’t expect miracles. I’m not making promises, but… I’ll think about it.” He smiled, a real smile, small and soft and honest. “You know, for a human, you’re surprisingly tolerable.”

“High praise.”

Silence fell as you finished your task, the mess giving way to something almost orderly. When the last prize was in place, you stepped back to look at what you’d done.

“Not bad,” Harlequin said, “fo a little thing.”

“For a clown, you’re not terrible,” you said back.

He laughed—a real laugh, surprised and genuine.

Then, just as you were about to leave, his hand caught your wrist. "For what it's worth," he murmured, voice low and sincere, "Try not to be a stranger."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and precise.  “As much as I’d love to steal all your time,” he continued, releasing his hold on your wrist, “you’ve got Jester next. And he’s a lot less fun than I am. Go. Before he sends someone to fetch you.”  

He stepped back, disappearing into the labyrinth of games with his effortless, almost liquid movement. But his voice remained once more: “See you around, little runner~ try not to get crushed by the mountain.”  

And then he was gone.

✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇  

Jester would ask with gravity and weight, not out of emotion, but out of assessment. He needs to know if you're worth the space… she left.

The large purple tent at dusk was a different creature altogether.

The purple glow was beginning to appear, seeping through the fabric of the tent as if it were a breath, or blood if blood had the color of twilight and dreams. The seats rose up out of the shadows, tier upon tier of empty benches that would be occupied tonight, watching and wanting and needing. And in the center of it all, as still as a mountain, stood the Jester.

He didn’t turn when you stepped inside.

He didn’t have to. He’d felt you the instant your foot brushed the sawdust. “Little human.” His voice wasn’t so much heard as felt—a tremor that settled in your chest, your bones, the gaps between your thoughts. “Observe.”

That was it. Just “observe.”

You lingered at the ring’s edge and watched.

He moved through his realm with the steady certainty of tides and changing seasons, as if some truths stood too large to doubt. 

Every gesture bent the space around him; every step issued a subtle edict the world would dread or obey.

"Is that so?" 

"After a long stretch of minutes—time moving on its own pace here—he paused."

"You did not speak."

"You told me to observe."

“Good.” He finally turned, and those burning eyes locked on you. Two violet furnaces that could see through skin and bone and into the shape of your soul. “You listen. She taught you well.”

Her name was like a puff of smoke on the breeze.

He remained rooted where he stood, yet the space between you seemed to close. That was his way—he didn’t step forward, but his presence narrowed the space between you, as if distance was a suggestion he chose to ignore.

“She came here the same way,” he said, his voice now different. Not soft—nothing about him was soft—but with a note of remembrance. Like stone recalling when it was lava. “Chasing something. Running from something. Often, the two are the same.”

You said nothing. From her, from them, you had learned that silence was often the best invitation.

“She was human,” he went on, “but her choices were not accepted among her kind. Too curious. Too stubborn. Too willing to look at things that should not be looked at.” He paused, his head cocked to one side. “She ran. Not from fear, frustration. From the weight of being told ‘no’ when every fiber of her being screamed ‘yes’.”

He adjusted, but not towards you, merely tracing a slow loop around the ring, his presence filling every corner of the space.

“She found the circus. Found me first, actually. Walked right up to me after a show, fearless as hell, and started asking questions.” Another pause. “I could have crushed her. Should have, by the old rules. But she looked at me like I was… interesting. Not terrifying. Not monstrous. Interesting.”

He completed his circle, stopping exactly where he'd begun.

"She became the thing that held us together. Not through power. Not through fear. Through presence. Through simply being here, day after day, until we could not imagine the circus without her."

He turned to face you, and the weight of his gaze was like something you could feel, like something you could grasp.

"You are not her."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the same weight he might use to declare the sun would set.

"No," you agreed. "I'm not."

"Good. I would not want a copy." He stepped closer, his massive form eating distance with terrible grace. "Copies are useless. They break. They fade. They remind us of what we lost without offering anything new."

He stopped just short of arm's reach, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

"You're something else. A category I haven't even coined yet." His head tilted, a slow, considering motion. "This is... intriguing."

The word hung there, suspended like smoke.

“First question, little one: what’re you doing here?”

So simple. So vast.

“I want to help,” you said. “I want to learn. I want to understand this place, everyone well enough to be useful.”

“Useful.” He rolled the word on his tongue, letting it land. “A modest aim. Most would say ‘belong.’ Others would say ‘be loved.’ Some would say ‘find purpose.’ You say ‘useful.’”

You shrugged. “I am useful, or I am not. Belonging doesn’t matter if I can’t do anything.”

There was something in the burning eyes. Approval? Interest? Both? Maybe all three.

“You’re smaller than her. Quieter. Less… insistent.” He paused. “But you have not run. Not from Pierrot’s desperation, not from Harlequin’s games, not from any of this. Why?”

“Because they need someone to stay.”

“And that is enough?”

"No." You met his gaze steadily. "But it's a start."

He moved behind you. You felt his presence like a weight settling across your shoulders. "Interesting. You do not claim to love them. You do not claim to understand them. You simply... stay. And let them show you who they are."

"Yes."

"And when they show you something terrible? Something that should make you flee?"

"Then I'll decide what to do with that information."

A long silence. Then:

"You are either very brave or very foolish. I have not yet decided which."

He circled back into view.

"My second question: What do you think you owe her?"

The question landed like a stone in still water. "Owe?"

"The one who is not here. The one who loved you enough to want you in this place." His eyes burned. "What do you owe her for that?"

You thought about it. Really thought.

"To try. To really try. Not to waste the chance she gave me by being here."

"And if trying is not enough?"

"Then I'll try differently."

He moved, as if a shadow had fallen across the earth, his hand reaching up with a menacing slowness. His fingers brushed your chin, tilting your head up, up, until your eyes met his burning violet ones.

He looked at you. At every line. Every shadow. Every tremor you had kept hidden from him.

"You are afraid," he observed.

"Yes."

"Good. Fear is honest." His thumb traced your jaw—surprisingly gentle. "You will prove her right. Or you will prove her wrong. Either way, I will watch."

He looked at you for one more second. “Go. Bil is waiting with his papers. He hates being kept waiting.” He released you and turned away from you, dismissing you as easily as he had summoned you.

You ran. Not out of fear, well there was plenty to fear, but because he had given you leave to do so, and you knew better than to question it. His voice followed you, the final echo:

“Welcome to the circus, little human. Do your best to be interesting.”

✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇  

Ticket Taker would ask with precision, filing your answers away, building a profile, but also protecting you the way he… protected her.

In the blue tent, nothing was different from your recollection: tidy, orderly, with a faint tang of ink and old paper in the scent of the air. Ticket Taker sat at his desk, his ledger open before him, his pen moving in exact and careful lines across the page.

He did not look up as you entered his tent.

“Stack A. Stack B. Stack C.” He indicated with his pen to three great stacks of paper on a side table. “Stack A goes into the filing cabinet under ‘Correspondence.’ Stack B goes into ‘Incident Reports.’ Stack C must be sorted chronologically and brought back to me.”

You looked at the stacks of paper. “That’s... a lot of paper.”

“The circus has been around for centuries. Paper accumulates.” Then he looked at you, his eyes small and unreadable as prisms of glass. “Begin.”

So you did.

For the first ten minutes, only the paper sighed, and the pen’s tiny scratches filled the room, punctuated by the soft thump of the stack shifting a little. I fell into a pattern: grab, sort, file, repeat. It was like a quiet mantra.

The Ticket Taker moved beside me, his movements falling into the same rhythm. Page turn. Note. Page turn. Note. It was almost like a hypnotic pattern.

“You’re efficient,” he finally said, his eyes never leaving the papers. “Unexpected.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“A recognition of facts. Compliments are inefficient.” He paused. “But yes.” There was a brief silence before he added, your arms are going to ache, though the stacks were obviously thinning.

“She used to help with this.”

You looked up. “She?”

“The Poppet.” His white eye flickered—the nearest thing to emotion he ever displayed. “Before she became… what she became. Back when she was just a researcher with too many questions and not enough sense.”

You continued to sort, your mind more focused.

“She was useful,” he went on, flatly but without malice. “Exceptionally useful. She had a mind for organization, a mind for categorization, a mind for sense. She’d spend hours in this wagon, helping me file, asking questions, learning the systems.”

He turns a page turned. “We were not close. Not in the human sense. We did not share feelings or confidences or any of that… mess.” The word repulsed him. “But we shared understanding. She saw the value in what I do. The necessity of order. The beauty of a properly kept record.”

Another pause fell into the silence.

“She provided the archived information, so the key to categorizing everything and everyone with precision and machine-like efficiency… just like me. So all the others. Even the visitors and variables.” His blue-and-white eyes focused on you. “Even You.”

You gulped. "Me?"

"Yes," he said, his eyes returning to the page. "Your file was created through her. Your categorization. Your place in this circus." He scribbled more notes. "She made you categorizable to the system. That was her gift."

You went back to work, silent and still for a time. Though, something he'd said lingered in your mind. "You said you weren’t close to her, but you cared about her, didn’t you?"

He paused, his pen hovering over the page. For a single beat, the machinery of him stuttered to a stop. "Caring is inefficient," he admitted finally. "Variables and outcomes—emotion—cannot be controlled."

“That’s not an answer.”

There was a long silence before he spoke up: “She was the only person who never tried to make me feel things. She simply... accepted what I was. What I could provide. What I could not.” His voice was low, his words barely audible. “That is rare. That is... valuable.”

He started to pick up the pen again. "I do not care. I appreciate. There is a difference." A pause. "But if I did care, if I were capable of such inefficiency, it would be for her." 

You kept sorting, giving him the silence he clearly needed.

After a moment, he spoke again: "She spoke of you, you know. Before she... left for upgrades."

"She did?"

"Briefly. Efficiently." His tone had a hint of something warmth. "She said you were worth watching. Worth keeping." His white and blue eye found yours. "She was rarely wrong about such things."

Stack B was nearly finished when he spoke again.

"I have questions for you."

It wasn't a request. "Okay."

"First: Why do you stay?"

The question was so simple, so direct, so him.

"Because I want to. Because they need me. Because she asked me to, in her own way."

"Acceptable. Second: What do you need from me?"

You blinked. “What do I need?”

“To function here. To survive. To be useful.” He kept his gaze down. “I am not… emotional. I can’t offer comfort or warmth or any of the things humans often seek. But I can offer structure. Protection. A place in the system. If you need those things, I can provide them.” It might have been the most generous thing anyone had ever said to you.

“I need to understand,” you said slowly. “How things work. Where the lines are. What’s expected.”

“Done.” Another note. “Third: What are you afraid of?”

The question caught you off guard. “Why does that matter?”

“Fear is data. It tells me where you might break, where you might run, where you might need… accommodation.” He paused. “She taught me that. Fear isn’t weakness—it’s information. Useful information.”

You considered the question.

“I’m afraid of not being enough. Of letting them down. Of proving her wrong.”

He nodded slowly. “Noted.”

Stack C was the last—the one that needed chronological sorting. You worked carefully, placing each document in its proper order, building a timeline of incidents and correspondence stretching back decades.

Ticket Taker watched you work, his pen finally still.

"You have her patience," he observed. "Her attention to detail. Not her boldness—you are quieter, more cautious. But the patience is the same."

"Is that good?"

"It is useful. Patience preserves records. Patience prevents errors." A pause. "She had patience too. When it mattered."

You finished Stack C and held it out to him.

He took it, scanned the first few pages, and gave a single, precise nod.

"Adequate. More than adequate." He put it aside. "You may go. The Doctor is waiting."

You started to leave, but his voice called you back.

"Visitor."

You turned to look back.

"Again, you must understand you are not her. You will never be her. But you are... something. Something that belongs here, if you choose to stay."

His stare locked onto yours. "That is enough. For now." That was the closest he would ever come to giving his approval.

You nodded and left. Behind you, the scratch of his pen resumed—adding a note to your file, no doubt. But deep down in that file, in the margins of your newly created entry...

✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇  

Doctor would ask with curiosity and fascination, wanting to understand what… she saw, what you are, what makes you tick.

The Infirmary smelled like antiseptic and something else—something organic, unsettling, that you couldn't quite place. The cyan tent walls seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, creating a dim, underwater glow that made everything feel slightly unreal.

 Doctor stood at a counter, sorting through glass jars filled with things you actively did not want to identify. His plague mask was pushed up, revealing the sharp lines of his jaw, but his cyan-tinted goggles remained firmly in place.

"Ah, the specimen arrives,” His voice was almost cheerful—clinical, curious, and utterly without malice. "Perfect timing. I need a second set of hands."

You approached slowly, eyeing the jars with open suspicion. "What am I helping with?"

"Inventory. Simple counting. Nothing dangerous." He paused, his head tilting with that particular avian quality he had. "Today."

You decided not to think about what "today" implied.

The task was straightforward enough: count vials, label boxes, organize shelves by some system you couldn't quite parse. Doctor worked beside you with the easy efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times.

For a while, you worked in silence. Then:

"Your heart rate elevates when you're near Harlequin."

You nearly dropped a vial. "I—what?"

"I observe. It's what I do." He didn't look up from his work, but you could feel his attention like a physical weight. "Is it fear? Attraction? Anticipation?"

"I don't know. All of it?"

"Fascinating." A note on his clipboard. "And Pierrot? Your pulse steadies when he's close. Calms. Why?"

You thought about it. "Because he's... safe. In a weird way."

"Safety. From what?"

"From the rest of you. From the chaos. From myself."

Another note. "Excellent. Genuine self-awareness. Rare in humans."

You weren't sure if that was a compliment.

More counting. More labeling. Then, unexpectedly:

"I was not close to her, you know."

You glanced up. His expression was unreadable behind the goggles."The Poppet. The one who is... temporarily absent." He continued sorting, his voice maintaining its clinical calm. "We did not share confidences. We did not seek each other out for comfort or companionship or any of those messy emotional entanglements.

"But?"

His head tilted. "But we shared a passion for research. For understanding. She was curious—genuinely, relentlessly curious—about the mechanisms of this place. About how we functioned, why we functioned, what made us tick."

He paused, holding up a vial to the light.

"I respected that. I respected her. Not for her kindness—though she had it. Not for her loyalty—though it was remarkable. I respected her curiosity. Her willingness to ask questions that had no answers. Her refusal to stop wondering."

He set the vial down.

"She was the only one who ever looked at my work and saw science, not horror. The only one who understood that understanding is its own kind of reverence." He turned to face you fully then, his cyan eyes bright with interest, hinting of bit of redness.

"You are different from her."

It wasn't a question. "I know."

"Good. Copies are useless for research." He stepped closer, studying you with that clinical intensity. "She was curious about the what. The mechanisms, the functions, the systems. You are curious about the who."

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the midway.

"You care about them. Pierrot's desperation. Harlequin's games. The Jester's weight. The Ticket Taker's order." A pause. "Even me, I suspect. Though I cannot fathom why."

You said nothing.

"She felt that, you know. For each of them. For Pierrot, she felt protective devotion—the need to keep him from drowning in his own wanting. For Harlequin, she felt patient understanding—the willingness to see past the performance. For the Jester, she felt... awe, I think. Mixed with something almost like love."

His voice softened, just slightly.

"For the Ticket Taker, she felt respect. For his systems, his order, his peculiar way of caring through categorization. And for me..." He tilted his head. "She felt fascination. The same fascination I feel for interesting specimens. We were each other's most intriguing subjects."

He picked up another vial, turning it in his gloved fingers.

"She loved you too, in her way. Before she left. I could see it—the way her attention sharpened when you were near. The way she catalogued every detail of you. Something I do not have a category for."

He set down the vial and faced you fully.

"I have questions for you. Only two—your time is running short, and you have one more task before sunset. But I would have more, if I could."

"Ask."

"First: Why do you feel? For them? For any of this?" He gestured at the tent, at the circus beyond, at everything. "Most humans would run. Most humans do run. You stay, and you feel, and you do not seem to know how to stop. Why?"

You thought about it. Really thought.

"Because someone has to. Because they deserve to be seen, really seen, by someone who isn't afraid of them. Because she saw them, and she taught me that seeing is its own kind of love."

He nodded slowly, making a note.

"Acceptable. Illogical, but... acceptable."

"Second question." He stepped closer, close enough that you could see your own reflection in his goggles. "What do you hope to find here? At the end of all this staying and seeing and feeling? What is the goal?"

The question was so vast, so impossibly large, that you almost laughed.

"I don't know," you admitted. "A place to belong? People to love? A reason to keep coming back, even when it's hard?"

"And if you never find it?"

"Then I'll keep looking."

He was quiet for a long time, then spoke again, this time softly.  "Fascinating. Truly fascinating.” He was quiet again, then: “You work from hope. From faith. On the belief that trying itself matters, no matter the result.” He shook his head, slowly. “I can’t put a number on it. I can’t dissect it. But I can watch it. And what I see is… compelling.”

He moved in slowly, leaving you an opportunity to retreat if you wanted to, and gently laid a gloved finger on your cheek. “You’re a remarkable specimen, sweetie. I hope you know that.”

He stepped back, returning his attention to his vials.

“You should probably be off. It’s after sunset, and you have one more task. The pink one’s domain. The mirrors. She doesn’t speak, but she… watches. Be patient with her. She deserves that much.”

You took a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest, your head spinning.

“Doctor?”

He gave you a quick glance. “Thank you. For… seeing me too.” He had a small smile on his lips. “Observing is what I do, sweetie. You just happen to be worth observing.”

He returned to his work, leaving you the clear message you were dismissed. When you left the Infirmary, you felt a strange sense of validation, as if you were a specimen worthy of study.

Perhaps it’s said that it’s the only kind of affection he’s capable of giving.

✑ 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓂𝒷𝒾𝓃𝒶 

Columbina would ask with silence, her questions unspoken, her presence a mirror, her very existence a question about love and sacrifice and what it costs to stay.

The Hall of Mirrors at sunset was beautiful and terrible.

The last light didn’t simply fade; it spilled over every surface, filling the maze with the furnace glow of gold, rose, and the bruised pink that seemed to bleed across the walls. Your image trailed behind you like a chorus, dozens, hundreds, all moving in their own direction, their own mood. 

Some of them grinned at you when you didn’t. 

Some of their eyes—too old, too sure, almost something else—followed you back.

You moved through the maze with care, following Ticket Taker’s exact instructions: third left, right at the fake exit, straight until the reflections stop lining up in the mirrors.

As you went deeper into the maze, the mirrors grew old with you. Their faces dulled, their frames grand and fading, intricate in a way that seemed to whisper ruin. Some of them showed you things that never were—shadows that freed themselves from the corners, people moving at the periphery and disappearing the moment you looked at them directly.

And then, at the heart of the maze, you found it.

A full-length mirror in an ornate pink frame, its surface slightly fogged with age and neglect. 

The frame was a mess of roses and vines, with little people tucked into the carvings—dancers, maybe, or angels, or something else entirely. There was a fresh white cleaning cloth draped on the hook nearby, looking sharp against the tarnish.

The special mirror, Ticket Taker had called it.

You picked up the cloth and began to wipe.

The glass opened by itself, and the fog dissipated like a memory gazing back at me. Your own face emerged from the haze—bone-tired, curious, and a little dazed from the day’s events.

You continued wiping. And then she was there.

Not inside the glass itself but outside it. Concealed within the mirror’s recesses, small and pink and still as death. Columbina.

You turned around. Nothing. Just mirrors and reflections and empty space. You turned back to face the mirror again.

She was still there. Watching. Her single pink eye fixed on you with unbearable softness. Her elegant horns caught the dying light, and her polished black form seemed to shimmer, as if she were made of something more than just memory.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Columbina?"

She didn't move. Didn't speak. Couldn't speak.

But her hand rose, pressing against the glass from her side. A gesture. An offering.

Slowly, trembling, you pressed your hand to the mirror.

The glass was cold. Then warm. Then not glass at all.

For a moment—just a moment—you felt her. Felt the weight of everything she'd been: the softness, the fear, the desperate love that had led her to sew and stitch and save when saving meant everything. Felt the way she had watched, always watched, from the edges of every story. Felt the loneliness of being voiceless in a world of noise.

And beneath it all, a message.

Not words—she had no words. But knowing. Understanding that bloomed in your mind like flowers opening to the sun.

You are like her.

Not in looks. Not in voice. In presence.

She came here the same way—running toward something she couldn't name, staying for reasons she refused to talk about in her past life. Regardless she loves it here. She loves, me and them. All of them. Even when they didn't deserve it at some points. Even when it cost her everything.

You love them too. I see it. In the way you look at Pierrot. In the way you let Harlequin push. In the way you stay, even when staying is hard.

She would be proud.

However there was a small pause.

But here is what she never told you:

Loving us and them will cost you. It already has. Every moment you spend here, every attachment you form, every time you choose them over yourself—it takes something. Small pieces, at first. Then larger ones. Until one day you look in the mirror and don't recognize who's looking back.

She knew this. She chose it anyway.

The question is: will you?

The warmth seeped away. Glass cooled again. Columbina relaxed her hold and went out of sight, not with sudden malice but with the slow disappearance of mist in the sun. And then, in the moment before she was gone, her eyes met yours once more. And in that moment, you knew:

I will watch. I will wait. And when you need me—when you truly need me—I will be here. In the glass. In the silence. In the spaces between.

You are not alone. Neither of you ever were.

She was gone.

You stood alone in the Hall of Mirrors, hand pressed to cold glass, tears streaming down your face. You didn't know when you'd started crying—didn't know if the tears were grief or gratitude or something in between.

She had no questions. Could ask no questions.

But her silence had asked the loudest one of all:

Will you love them the way we did? Will you stay when staying costs everything?

You didn't have an answer. Not yet.

But as you lowered your hand and stepped back from the mirror, you caught your own reflection one last time. Different, now. Older, somehow. Like you'd aged years in the span of minutes.

Or maybe just... seen more.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand, tucked the cleaning cloth back onto its hook, and began the long walk out of the maze.

You emerged from the Hall of Mirrors as the last light of sunset bled from the sky. The circus was coming alive around you—lights flickering on, music starting somewhere, the first hints of the evening's performance.

You stood at the edge of the midway, cloth still clutched in your hand, and thought about what she'd shown you.

The cost. The choice. The question.

Will you stay?

Pierrot's desperate love. Harlequin's hidden vulnerability. Jester's weight. Ticket Taker's order. Doctor's curiosity. Columbina's silence.

And her. Always her. The one who wasn't here but somehow everywhere.

You didn't have an answer.

But as you started walking toward the exit, toward home, toward tomorrow, you knew one thing: You would try. That was what she'd done. That was what she'd taught them to do. That was what Columbina had shown you, in the only way she could.

Try. Even when trying cost everything.

Try. Even when you didn't know if you'd succeed.

Try. Because they were worth it. Because she was worth it. Because you were worth it.

The lights of the circus shone brightly from behind your back as you pushed towards the gate. Tomorrow would bring more tasks, more questions, more moments of fear and care and all the shades in between. 

But tonight, you simply walked. 

The sun had fully set by the time you finished.

You stood around the edge of the midway, watching the circus wake up. Lights flickered on, one after the other: soft golds, rich purples, and the occasional neon flash.

There was music, too, of a haunting kind that seemed to be coming from all around and nowhere at all. The evening’s show was beginning to seep into the air: the laughter, the applause, the quiet murmur of a crowd that wasn’t really there but seemed to be anyway.

You were tired. Bone tired.

Tired from more than just the paperwork and props.

But you were still standing.

Ticket Taker appeared beside you without warning—just there, as if he'd stepped out of the shadow of a tent and into existence.

"You survived."

It wasn't a question. It was an observation, filed away in whatever mental ledger he kept.

"Barely."

"Good." He held out another folded paper, crisp and precise. "Tomorrow will be harder. New assignments. New questions. New... everything."

You took it, tucking it into your pocket without looking. You'd read it later. When you could think.

"Visitor."

His white eye, other colored blue, flickered with light, warm, almost human, almost loving, almost... “You should’ve gone home, flopped onto the bed, and let the day slide quietly into memory."

But you took another long, deep breath.

“I’ve decided something.”

Ticket Taker was silent, as if he was waiting for the completion of the sentence.

“I’m staying. Here. With all of this.” You gestured vaguely towards the tent, the circus, all of it. “No matter how hard it is, no matter what comes next, I’ve decided that I’m staying.”

He said nothing for a long time, listening, thinking, cataloging.

Finally, “You understand what you’re saying?”

“I think so.”

"You understand that nothing about this place is meant not to be romanticized?" His voice was flat, but there was something beneath it, something almost like warning.

"Today was easy. Simple tasks. Simple questions. The next time will not be easy. The day after will be harder. There will be moments when staying feels impossible. Moments when the weight of this place—of them—will press down until you cannot breathe."

He stood, moving around the desk with that precise, mechanical grace.

"There will be good days. Days when Pierrot's love feels like sunlight and Harlequin's games feel like joy. There will be days when the Jester's attention feels like approval and the Doctor's curiosity feels like care. There will be days when you catch glimpses of pink in mirrors and feel seen in ways you cannot explain."

He stopped in front of you, close enough to touch.

"But there will also be days when Pierrot's desperation for love  becomes suffocating. When Harlequin's games cut too deep. When the Jester's weight feels like crushing judgment and the Doctor's curiosity feels like violation. There will be days when the silence in the Hall of Mirrors feels like accusation, not comfort."

His hand rose, hovered on your shoulder, and then fell away.

He stepped back.

"That is what staying looks like. Not romance. Not fairy tales. Reality. The good and the terrible and everything in between."

You looked up to meet his eyes. "I know."

"And you choose it anyway."

"Yes."

He waited again, a long silence before he spoke, "I will hold your words. Here," he said, handing you a white envelope, "Rest. The next time will come whether you are ready or not."

You nodded and turned to leave.

The midway was full now—crowds moving between tents, laughter echoing, the smell of popcorn and something else, something darker, filling the air. You wove through them like a ghost, unseen, unknown, just another face in the crowd.

At the edge of the circus, you stopped.

Behind you, the music swelled. The lights blazed. 

The monsters performed.

In front of you, the dark path home waited.

You thought about what he'd said. About the good and the terrible. About the days when staying would feel impossible. About the weight of loving creatures who didn't always know how to love back.

You thought about Pierrot's desperate words. About Harlequin's hidden vulnerability. About the Jester's burning eyes and the Doctor's clinical curiosity and the Ticket Taker's careful, precise care.

You thought about pink mirrors and silent messages and the ghost of someone who had loved them first.

And you thought about her. About Inkyette. 

About the space she'd left—that vast, echoing absence that everyone seemed to feel. About the choice she'd made, to love them, to stay, to give everything until there was nothing left to give. About the questions she'd never gotten to answer, because you'd never thought to ask.

What was your real story?

Not the curated version. Not the Poppet carefully annotated narrative. The truth. The parts she left out, maybe on purpose…. the details she glossed over, the moments too painful or too strange or too something to put into words.

She was more mysterious than you'd realized. 

More complex. More unknown.

And now she was gone—not forever, but for while enough. Long enough for the questions to pile up. Long enough for you to realize you'd taken her presence for granted. Long enough to wonder if you'd ever really known her at all.

Will you ever know the true story?

The question hung in the air, unanswerable.

You heard there was a first act starting, and the crowd went wild with noise. You stood for a momment and randomly decided to opened the white envelope Ticket Taker had given you.

You stared at the cash in your hands.

Holy shit.

More than you'd made in a month at the café. More than you'd expected. More than you probably deserved. Eventually, the white envelope will sit crumpled on your kitchen table, already forgotten. The money itself was just... paper. Numbers. 

Evidence of a choice you'd already made.

Behind you, like a metaphorically, physically, in every way that mattered—the circus blazed with light and life. And somewhere in the silence, a voice you'd been missing whispered:

❝It's whether you can survive dear one.❞

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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