#corruptverse.

He trills a warm note, in ghost, carrying tones of happy possessiveness.  This is his and all his and all good.  He snugs as close to the warmbright core as he can get without jabbing them sharp in the chest.  His faint blue glow brightens, trying to answer their light even if he can’t see it.  Further tones laced with a feeling of Safety join the others with a soft whir.  

[Clockwork will deign to give them some gestures of physical affection to encourage the good behavior.  What a sweet and unquestioning tool, ready to mold the world to his whim, at his command.]

[Clockwork cannot answer this offering of broken-hearted flowers, given that he’s long since dead at the hands of the giver, with the timeline collapsing around him shortly thereafter.]

But just to be clear, I’m not running the Ghost Zone like some kind of Ruler.  No, no, that would be far out of line.  I assure you that I know my place.  I’m just here to offer some... guidance.  Keeping everything progressing smoothly, that’s my satisfaction. 

He’d been darting through the strange hallways for entirely too long before managing to catch the bigger light signature that matched.  One he does, though, he makes a beeline for them with intent to tuck himself into their shirt.  It’s astounding that a tiny ball composed of almost more movement than substance could press close without one of the tiny and delicate gears and mechanisms catching or pinching, but he manages it.  This is His.  He knows that, absolutely.

Bonus: CorruptClockwork at his most honest.