#here..with comfort...and ease...together against the world....

He's at his worst during movie nights, soft hands slipping under the cotton covering you up with the excuse that 'no one's gonna notice anyway', playing with your perky nipples until you're mewling sweetly against his jaw, trying your best to contain your sounds so no one else hears, while he makes that as hard as he can for you, turning his head nibble the shell of your ear until shivers are running down your entire body and your squirming gets a little too obvious to go unnoticed.

And once you're alone, it doesn't matter if in the comfort of your room or after slipping away from the others and sneakily meeting in the bathroom, he doesn't waste a second before having your tits in his mouth, tugging on your nipples lightly with his teeth, littering your skin in bites and bruises because even when you're completely covered by a turtleneck, it turns him on like nothing else in the world to know that under it all, the proof of his ownership and obsession decorates your skin. He's in love with the sight of it, pics of his artwork locked away in his phone for his eyes only.

He loves to grip them harshly, slap them when he's fucking you dumb in front of a mirror, getting the perfect sight of your cock drunk face and bouncy tits. He fucks them whenever he has the chance, globs of spit and cum dripping down the valley of your breasts by the time you think he's done, but the sight of you squeezing your tits together and lolling your tongue out to get a taste has his cock hard again almost immediately, because Heeseung simply cannot get enough of you.

⟡ "Fuck, baby. Just like that," Heeseung moans, eyelids fluttering closed every few seconds even though struggle to keep them open is obvious to you. Heeseung—and his life depends on this—cannot miss the show you're so nicely putting up in front of him. "You're so fucking nasty. Gonna make me cum like this?"

You nod, tits smashed against Heeseung's red, angry and throbbing length. Your nipples are coated in his precum, your entire chest shining with a mess of cum and spit, so slippery and wet his cock glides between your tits with so much ease.

You squirm on your spot on the ground, panties now completely soaked through and sticking to your folds like they're drenched in honeydew, clit throbbing with every groan Heeseung gives you.

He's so sensitive, it's a sight for sore eyes, to see him lose control this much. He's usually collected, in charge of everything, but the moment his cock touches your tits, his brain turns to complete mush. You see the ways his shoulders shake, how his stomach flexes so hard when you squish him a little harder, and you know it's not gonna be long before he comes on you again. So you spur him on, bending your head down just enough so that your tongue can reach the fat head of his cock, and give his most sensitive part a few licks, his eyes glued on yours the entire time.

"You're gonna fucking kill me like this, baby." His eyes roll to the back of his skull, and he mutters some prayer to whoever will listen, because apparently tonight you are on a mission to have him lose his goddamn mind over you and your sweet tits.

⚡︎ JONGSEONG. riding. rimming. anal. fingering. spit.

Jay, on the contrary, has a very obvious thing for your ass. You're walking in public? His hand is on the small of your back, dangerously close to your ass enough to gather a few looks, or resting inside the back pocket of your jeans. You're walking alone? He's squeezing the shit out of it too. You're bent over, looking for something in a drawer? He's spanking it. You're cuddling? He's using it like a pillow. You're napping and he has to wake you up? He does so by biting into your ass like a maniac. You get the gist.

It's precisely why Jay fucking loves it when you're riding him in reverse cowgirl, your naked back turned to him and giving him the most perfect view of your ass giggling with every movement you make. Your hips are perfect for his hands too, once you're growing tired and spent, so he can use them as leverage to fuck up into you from below, the ripples of skin on your ass dancing with every thrust simply the best reward he could ever ask for.

He loves you ass so much, he's more often than not prodding at the entrance of it with finger while his mouth works on your pussy, easing it in slowly and carefully, cock stiffening and leaking precum all over his pelvis when he feels just how tight you are. He might even look up at you, eyes straight up watery because he just wants it so bad, begging you to please let him use his tongue instead.

⟡ "I promise it'll feel so good, princess," Jay says from behind you, one hand spreading your ass cheeks open as far as they can possibly go, his mouth watering at the sight of your hole. "Just let me do my thing, yeah?"

It's not something he's ever really indulged in, but with you, it just feels right. He's slightly shaking when he lowers his mouth, starting with sweet reassuring kisses on your skin, mouthing promises and encouragements between each and every one. One hand his firm on your lower back, pushing it down so you arch gorgeously for him, ass on full display just how he likes it, just the perfect position for him to worship it like it deserves.

He starts slow, hardening the tip of his tongue and running in around the hole, one hand palming the outline of your cunt. "Just tell me if you want me to stop, okay?"

You mutter something in agreement, face mushed into the pillow hard enough that it comes out muffled and distorted, but it's enough for Jay, who gathers some spit in his mouth and lets it dribble right down on your puckered hole, the top of his tongue spreading it around before licking it back up, collecting some into his mouth again only to spit it back out.

The intrusion of his tongue is sudden, but he plunges it inside you at the exact same time he pushes two soaked digits inside your cunt to distract you from the new sensation. Even then, your body lurches forward because it's unlike anything you've ever experienced, the stretch aided by how wet and slippery is muscle is, but a stretch nonetheless. His hand soothes you with gentle touches on your hip, grounding you back to him and his presence, his tongue pulling out and licking thick slow stripes over your hole once again. He moans against you, fingers curling and digging inside of your cunt, hitting exactly the right spot he knows has you coming in record time, before easing his tongue back inside of your ass.

He'd thank you for giving this to him, for trusting him enough to let him do this, but the truth is that Jay is already far gone, eyes crossed as he fucks his tongue into your asshole, brain all fuzzy and cock leaking everywhere so hard, one might think he came untouched already.

⚡︎ JAKE. big dick jake. size kink. p in v. mutual masturbation.

Now, if you were to ask Jake, he'd probably tell you it's your eyes, or something equally sweet, but the truth is that he gets rock hard from the sight of your hands and the thought of your tight little pussy, hidden underneath layers and layers of clothing.

It's just that your hands are so dainty compared to his, and your cute pussy gets stretched open beyond belief when sinking down on his cock, because Jake is thick. He's large overall, but he's so thick it's almost mind boggling, and deep down there's very few things he enjoys more than watching you struggle to accommodate him and his redbull can of a dick.

He loves challenging your body and trying to fit as many fingers of his as he can in your cunt before you tap out with pretty tears aligning your lashes, a soft hand on his bicep to stop him which only makes him harder because, fuck, you're so adorable thinking you're strong enough to stop him. It's even better when you try your best to please him, hand tightly wrapped around his cock, not being able to touch your fingers to your thumb because that's how big he is. You have to use two hands, struggling to get a swift and nice glide, embarrassment flooding your features but unaware of how much that alone makes Jake struggle to hold back from pouncing on you.

⟡ Jake has three fingers inside of you, pumping in and out at a relentless pace, making it hard for you to even breathe, let alone jerk him off like he'd instructed you to do.

"Sweet girl," he moans when you shyly thumb the tip of his cock, some confidence igniting in you when a bead of precum spurts right out of the little slit decorating his pink skin after you tease it. "You're doing so fucking good. Keep stroking me like that, yeah? A little lower, grip harder when you stroke up—hmm. Fuck, baby. You were born for this."

He chuckles when your cunt instantly clenches hard around his fingers at his praise, and his head rolls back while he smiles, drunk off your little mewls of pleasure and so close to cumming all over your hand even though you're struggling to keep up with him.

Because truly, it's not even about how well you're doing, it's all about how hard you're trying. He's so proud of you. It's why he grabbed your shaking hand and placed over his sweats so you could palm his hard cock in the first place, and the touch of your cold fingertips when you snuck your hand inside his boxers… just that was heaven alone.

And if that isn't enough, the way you keep clenching around his fingers like a vice has his head spin and plushy lips fall open in low throaty moans, never scared to let you know just how good you make him feel, knowing how much hearing his sounds spurs you on. You're so cute, milking his cock with all your might, faltering every time his fingers curl to hit the right spot inside of you. And even when you come way before he does, hand on his cock going limp because you cannot concentrate on it any longer, Jake wouldn't have it any other way.

⚡︎ SUNGHOON. cum play. p in v. unprotected. orgasm denial, edging.

To the untrained eye, Sunghoon is a complete and proper gentleman. Sweet palm resting on the small of your back no matter what you're doing, gentle brushes of his fingers on your face, removing a crumb off the sides of your lips after you eat, or moving a strand of hair before it starts bothering you. Simple gestures, it's true, but some of the most loving someone can do, and everyone around you swoons over how cute you two are all the time.

If only they new better. How while it's true that your back and gorgeous face are some of Sunghoon's favorite things about you, the reasons are nowhere near as pure as they seem.

He loves how sensitive your back is, responding to his every touch and arching under the smallest amount of pressure he applies, how goosebumps litter your skin when he's fucking you from behind and he bends down to press kisses to your spine, the cold metal of the chain he truthfully wears for this purpose only, dangling from his neck and ghosting over your skin, making you squirm and shake so prettily while his cock reaches your deepest parts from within.

Your face, he needs to decorate in his cum, and when you look up at him with doe eyes and pouty lips as he taps his cock on your cheeks, he thinks that might be when you're at your prettiest, even though the competition for that is very harsh.

When he's gentle, he's borderline worshiping you and your body. When he's not in the mood to be, especially when you've been a bratty mess all day, he's ruthless.

⟡ Sunghoon's pace is relentless as he fucks you to oblivion right on the bathroom sink, your stomach pressing uncomfortably on the white marble and your face pushed against the cold mirror, condensation from your ragged breathing fogging it all up.

He's mean, he's so mean when he gets like this, even though he tells you this is him being merciful, the way he stops right before you come on his cock time and time again is damning evidence against his claims.

You try to hide how close you are to coming, the slaps of his front against your ass loud and clear despite the music and chatter outside the locked door. His fingers dig into the dimples at the base of your back, those perfectly manicured nails of his marking your skin as punishment, but your hips move back in instinct again his, chasing the bliss that you can taste on the tip of your tongue. You're so close it's painful, and knowing that he'll rip it away from you once again is damn near torture.

He pulls out of you with a sudden movement, your whines of complaint drowned by the sound his cock makes as he slaps it on the slick skin of your ass. "I told you to tell me when you're close. Not because I can't tell myself, but because I want you to know I control your pleasure." He spits on your lower back, uncaring for the way your legs tremble like jello, his grip on you enough to keep you upright even when you're burning to lay down. He jerks himself off right on top of your body, thick and beautiful eyebrows contorted in bliss. You look so perfect squirming under him, and look even better once he releases all over your back, cum pooling in the dips of your lower back. "Next time, you'll learn to not lie."

He bends down to lick his own cum up, spreading all over you and then kissing it off, from your shoulder blades and then down your spine, until he has to kneel on the floor behind you to reach the unexplored inches the lower he goes, until he's face to face with your dripping cunt, puffy and begging for attention. His mouth waters at the sight, mouthful of his own cum just waiting to be fucked inside of you. You're so lucky he's obsessed with you, even when you don't deserve it.

⚡︎ SUNOO. food play. marking. body worship. somno of sorts.

Sunoo has a really bad thing for your thighs and tummy. It's so bad it makes him look stupid, but he cannot help it (not that you would want him to change anyway.)

There's just something about how warm your plushy skin is, how soft and cozy you feel underneath him when he's doing his thing on you. He's a goner for the sight of your skin rippling with each movement, how absolutely gorgeous you look in both really modest looks, like a gift only he gets to unwrap, and revealing clothing alike. You make everything you wear come to light, and he's simply obsessed with your body whether you're wearing a skirt with a high slit, swaying and giving him teasing peeks of your thighs, or completely naked and sprawled out on the bed for him to worship to his heart's content.

He would—and does—spend entire days napping on your tummy, the faint ghost of his lips sending shivers down your spine while you play with his soft strands of hair. He lays there, enjoying your warmth until you're on the brink of sleep too, only to slide a little lower between your thighs, littering your skin with gentle bites and hickeys in his wake. He stays there, for hours on end, just appreciating the way you squeeze his head between your thighs the longer he teases you, until his scalp is sore from all the tugging you do, and his lips are raw from all the kisses he gives you.

There are days he comes back home tired, and the only thing in his mind is to have you sit in his face, his fingers digging into your skin until his marks litter your body, thighs squishing him until he cannot breathe anymore. And even then, who needs oxygen when your pussy taste as good as it does?

⟡ The spray of the whipping cream can rips you away from the brink of slumber, heart beating twice as fast in your chest before you recognize where the sound comes from. As usual, Sunoo is between your thighs, and while that is nothing out of the ordinary, the tug of his lip when you sit up slightly to check what's going on tells you a different story.

"Mornin' sleeping beauty." There's a blue can in his hand, and a suspicious bit of white fluffy cream on the corner of his lips. Not that he's hiding anything, because before you can even ask what's going on, senses dulled to a buzzing ache from the sudden tug into the waking world, he sprays some more on your lower tummy, right above the waistband of your sweats.

He looks right at you when he licks it all up, traveling up to your belly button and exploring that too, dipping his tongue back down to get the little corner he misses the first time. He moans, light and airy. "Lay back down, love. I'm just having dessert." He guides you back with his free hand, lowering himself between your thighs once again. "My gorgeous, gorgeous girl. Letting me use her body like a platter, you're lucky I love you enough to not eat you right up instead.

The whipped cream is cold and foamy on your skin, ticking and popping as it melts against the heat radiating off your body. Sunoo's tongue gets chillier the more he licks it off of you, soothing your feverish skin. He stays there, not a thought soared for your whines as your hips start lifting off the bed and running after his face, and since it's Sunoo, the little shit moves out of the way. Your panties are drenched, slick to your skin the more he tortures you oh so sweetly, and you know he knows. Of course he does.

"You smell divine, love," he says when he dips down to take a big whiff of your cunt while you can do nothing else but lay there and let him use you like the entrée to a full meal. "So much sweeter than the cream, should I use the mess you made to season your skin next? I think I'd like that better."

⚡︎ JUNGWON. tit play. p in v. overstim. creampie. cockwarming.

Jungwon, much like Heeseung, is a titty enjoyer through and through. His favorite part of the day is coming home to you and immediately getting on top of you, flinging your shirt across the room and latching his mouth on your perfect tits, wasting absolutely no time to change into something more comfortable first. He does this a lot especially when he's had a hard day, all he can think about on the way back is your soft skin, the weight of your chest in his hands and the way your nipples prickle and harden when he gives you soft suckles.

It's something he does mostly for his own enjoyment, but though the feeling of his mouth on you is toe curling, he usually also plays with your cunt in the meantime, fingers circling your clit through your panties, getting you all whiny and wet for him. He does it until your tits are slick with his spit, shining under the light, and your panties are clinging uncomfortably to your skin, a small smirk on his beautiful features when you give him proof of how easy it is for him to break you in with just a little foreplay.

Another thing he loves doing, is slipping right back in after you both came already, pulling you flush to his body so you can bask in the afterglow together, still as close as humanly possible, and softly suckle on your already way too sensitive nipples. It's slow and steamy, and while he truly means this as something more comforting than anything else, aftercare of sorts, it's not long before you two are back at it like bunnies anyway.

⟡ "Most perfect tits ever," Jungwon mutters right against the valley of your breasts, hands squishing the sides of your boobs so his face is completely squished between them. He licks a long stripe all the way to the base of your throat, lazily tugging a nipple in his mouth after he's content enough with the salty taste of your sweaty skin on his tongue.

He's inside you still, thick spurts of cum coating both of your thighs, and despite your half hearted complaints, he has no plan of getting off of you anytime soon. You want to ignore how he's half hard again already, when he promised he'd behave after tiring the shit out of you for hours on end—you think you might need to hit the gym to start keeping up with him—but the truth is that there's simply no reality where Jungwon is too tired to hit you with a 'just one more?' like, ever.

He laps away at your nipples, switching from one to the other because god forbid one feels left out, and a small whine leaves you when his hips start moving ever so slightly, the squelching mess between you making your skin sticky.

"Won—" you start, but he shushes you with a kiss, all tongue and spit, with no real direction to it. He gets so sloppy when he's like this, and while you're tired beyond belief, there's nothing hotter than seeing your always perfectly collected boyfriend slip into a messier pace for once. It's not a sight you get often.

“Of course we did,” you say, shaking your head. “We remembered the coffee maker but not paper towels.”

He winces slightly. “That’s on me.”

“No, it’s on us, baby,” you say. “This is a shared failure.”

He laughs softly, relief easing his shoulders. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” he promises, already reaching for his jacket. “Ten, max. I’ll just run downstairs.”

He hesitates before leaving, eyes lingering on you in a way that feels deliberate. Like he’s committing the image to memory, your hair pulled back messily, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose on you, surrounded by boxes labeled Kitchen and Bedroom and Our Stuff in his careful handwriting.

He steps closer, crouches down in front of you.

Before you can say anything, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t rush toward the next moment. Just affection, given freely.

Like he has nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Don’t unpack anything suspicious without me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin.

You snort. “No promises.”

That earns you a grin—fond, hopelessly in love—and then he’s standing again, slipping on his jacket, glancing back one more time before opening the door.

The lock clicks behind him.

The apartment goes quiet.

Not empty, but peaceful. The kind of quiet that exists only when you’re building something with someone. When silence isn’t absence, but comfort.

You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, just taking it in. The light filtering through the windows. The way the space already feels shaped around him. Around you.

Then you turn back to unpacking.

Clark’s boxes are… exactly what you expect.

Neat. Carefully taped. Every one labeled in that slightly slanted handwriting you know so well. You open a box marked Kitchen and find everything wrapped meticulously, towels folded evenly, utensils bundled together with rubber bands.

You smile to yourself. Of course he did this.

The next box reads Books (Misc.).

That one draws your attention immediately.

You open it and begin lifting out familiar spines—journalism textbooks from college, thick hardcovers with cracked spines, novels he insists he only read once but you’ve caught him rereading late at night more times than you can count. There’s a battered paperback with a folded corner you recognize; he’s had that one since before you met.

Each book feels like a quiet reminder: I know you. I know this life.

Then your fingers brush against something that doesn’t feel like the others.

Smooth. Cool. Leather.

You pause.

Nestled between two hardcovers is a notebook. Dark blue. Leather-bound. The edges are worn, the spine softened like it’s been opened and closed many times. Cherished.

You lift it carefully, like it might be fragile.

Your brow furrows.

You’ve been dating Clark for a while now. Long enough to know his habits. His routines. Long enough to know he’s not the kind of man who leaves things unexplained—not intentionally, anyway.

And he doesn’t keep a diary.

You’ve never seen him write in anything like this. Never noticed a notebook tucked away. Never seen him carry it, never heard him mention it in passing. For someone who’s otherwise so transparent with you, this feels… different.

Private.

Your thumb rests against the edge of the cover.

A small voice in your head speaks up, gentle but firm.

This is private.

You hesitate, the weight of the notebook suddenly heavier in your hands. You imagine Clark’s careful way of holding things he values. The way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. The trust between you—earned, mutual, precious.

You should put it back.

But curiosity slips in—not sharp or invasive, just confused. Tender. The kind that comes from closeness, not entitlement.

Why has he never mentioned this?

You glance once toward the door, as if he might somehow already be back, watching.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you open the cover.

Just a peek, you tell yourself. Just the first page.

The paper inside is thick, slightly yellowed with age.

And then you see the handwriting.

Clark’s.

Careful. Earnest. Familiar.

Your breath catches in your throat as you read the first line.

For my wife, Y/N.

Your heart stutters so hard you actually have to put a hand to your chest.

For a second, you think you’ve misread it. That your eyes are playing tricks on you. You blink once. Twice.

The words don’t change.

Wife.

The room tilts, just slightly—not enough to knock you over, but enough to make everything feel unreal, like the ground has shifted beneath your feet. You sink back onto your heels, the notebook heavy in your hands, heavier than any box you’ve lifted all day.

Wife.

He hasn’t proposed.

You’ve talked about the future—carefully at first, like people do when they’re afraid to hope too much. Conversations that started with someday and maybe and eventually grew into when and we. You’ve talked about living together, about places you might want to travel, about growing old in ways that felt half-joking and half-serious.

But this?

This feels like peeking behind a curtain you weren’t meant to see yet. Like stepping into a moment that was supposed to belong to another day. Another version of you—dressed up, heart racing, standing across from him while he asks the question out loud.

Your hands tremble as you turn the page.

The paper whispers softly, like it knows it’s holding something sacred.

I’ve held this diary since the moment I met you in the Daily Planet lunchroom. November 30th, 2021. The day my world changed color, suddenly brighter, like a rainbow I didn’t know I’d been missing.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat.

November 30th, 2021.

You remember that day. The awful salad. The broken microwave. The sandwich he offered you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You remember thinking he was kind in a way that felt rare, disarming.

You didn’t know you’d changed his world.

Tears blur the ink almost immediately. You swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, then stop—afraid of smudging the words, as if they might disappear if you’re not careful enough with them.

I’m giving you this on our wedding day. I don’t know what our lives will look like then, or how many ordinary, beautiful days will have passed between now and that moment, but I know this much with absolute certainty.

If one day, any day, you ever feel like I don’t love you, like I’ve grown distant or the world has tried to convince you otherwise, I want you to open these pages and see how completely, how endlessly, you are wrong.

Every word here is proof of how I fell in love with you and how I kept falling, again and again, without ever meaning to stop. I loved you then. I love you now. I will love you for the rest of my life.

Yours forever,

Kal-El

Your chest aches in the best, most devastating way.

It’s not the sharp kind of pain. It’s warm and overwhelming, like your heart has grown too big for your body. Like something is blooming inside you without asking permission.

Never stopped falling for you.

You press the notebook to your chest for a moment, breathing around the emotion, trying to steady yourself. The apartment feels impossibly quiet, like it’s holding its breath with you.

Then, slowly, reverently, you keep reading.

Every page is dated.

Every entry is a memory you recognize.

11/30/2021

I think I met the love of my life today.

I don’t know if that’s ridiculous. I don’t know if it’s too soon to even write that sentence. But if I don’t write it down, I’m afraid I’ll convince myself later that I imagined how it felt.

Daily Planet lunchroom. Same cracked tile floor. The microwave was broken again. Someone burned popcorn. Perry was arguing with someone down the hall. It was just… another day.

And then she was there.

She was sitting by herself at one of the small tables near the window, shoulders slightly hunched, staring at a salad like it had personally wronged her. She looked exhausted. Not just physically, like the world had asked too much of her lately. There was something about the way she sighed that made my chest tighten.

I don’t usually act on impulse. I think too much. I hesitate. I measure consequences.

But today I didn’t.

I walked over and held out half my sandwich before my brain could stop me. I didn’t even introduce myself first. Just said something awkward about how the salad looked like it needed backup.

She looked up at me, like really looked, and for half a second I thought I’d made a mistake.

Then she smiled.

Not polite. Not small. A real smile that reached her eyes. She laughed and said I was “brave but misguided,” and suddenly the noise of the room faded into nothing. I don’t know how else to describe it. It was like the air changed density. Like the world sharpened into focus around her.

We talked. About nothing important. About everything. She teased me gently. Asked questions that showed she was actually listening to the answers. When I told her my name, she repeated it like it mattered. When she told me her name, I repeated it because it did matter.

When she went back to work, I stood there for a second too long, holding the empty plate, feeling… undone.

My hands were shaking.

I’ve lifted mountains. I’ve stopped trains mid-crash. I’ve flown through storms without fear.

I have never, ever felt like this.

If this is love, then it’s quieter than I expected. Steadier. Like something ancient settling into place.

I don’t know what will happen next.

I just know I don’t want to forget how today felt.

12/14/2021

First date.

Coffee was supposed to be an hour. That’s what I told myself before I left my apartment. That’s what I told her when we sat down. I even checked the time at the start, like that would somehow keep things contained.

It didn’t.

It lasted almost four hours, and I didn’t notice the time passing until my cup had gone cold and the café started emptying around us. I don’t think either of us wanted to be the one to say it first, that it should probably end, like saying it out loud would break something fragile.

She talks with her hands when she’s excited. I noticed that almost immediately. Little movements at first, then bigger ones when she got passionate about a story. She smiles before she finishes her sentences, like she already knows how they’ll land. And when she listens, really listens, she tilts her head just slightly, eyes focused, like she’s saving every word somewhere important.

No one has ever listened to me like that before.

I found myself talking more than I usually do. About work. About Kansas. About things I don’t normally share. It felt natural, like my mouth was ahead of my caution for once. She never rushed me. Never looked bored. Every response made me want to tell her more.

When we finally left, neither of us wanted to go straight home, so we walked. No destination. Just side by side, letting the city unfold around us. The air was cold, and she tucked her hands into her coat sleeves. I kept noticing small things, the way she matched her pace to mine without realizing it, the way she pointed out things she liked as if she wanted me to see the world through her eyes.

The city felt different with her there. Smaller. Kinder. Like it was giving us space. Letting us borrow it for a while.

I kept thinking I should impress her. Say something clever. Something charming. Something worthy of the way she looked at me. But every time our eyes met, my chest felt too full for pretense. Every rehearsed line disappeared. All I could do was be honest.

And she seemed to like that.

I felt safe.

That word keeps circling back. Safe. Not because I’m strong, not because I could protect her if I had to, but because I didn’t feel like I had to be anything other than myself. I didn’t feel watched. Or measured. Or like I was hiding parts of who I am.

I walked her home and stopped outside her building. I told myself not to linger.

I lingered anyway.

When she said goodbye, smiled at me one last time, and turned toward the door, I felt it, physically, like something tugged inside my chest, like part of me wanted to follow her without question.

I stood there longer than necessary after she went inside, just breathing, memorizing the feeling.

I replayed her laugh the entire way home.

I still am.

01/22/2022

Dinner with her.

We went somewhere small tonight. Nothing fancy. One of those places that smells like oil and salt and warmth the moment you open the door. The kind where the tables wobble slightly and the menu hasn’t changed in years.

She ordered before me because she already knew what she wanted. I liked that. I ordered fries, intending to share them, but I didn’t say it out loud. I just assumed. That probably says something.

They came out hot, steam curling into the air between us. We talked while they cooled, about work, about something she’d read, about nothing important. I was halfway through a story when she reached over.

No asking. No hesitation. Just gently, like it was understood.

She took one fry, careful not to brush my hand, and went right back to listening like she hadn’t just done something quietly significant.

She didn’t even look guilty.

A few seconds later, she noticed me staring.

“What?” she asked, smiling around the bite.

The corner of her mouth curved up like she already knew the answer. I felt my face ache from smiling back before I even realized I was doing it.

Anyone else, I would’ve said something. Joked. Pretended to be annoyed.

Instead, I felt… calm.

Something settled into place inside me. Not a spark. Not a rush. Something steadier. Like my body recognized her before my mind caught up. Like some part of me had already decided: this is where you’re supposed to be.

I didn’t mind losing the fry.

I didn’t mind anything at all.

Oh.

This is it.

This is how it starts, not fireworks or drama or some grand moment you tell people about.

Just a shared table. Warm food. Easy silence.

Belonging.

03/05/2022

Fifth date.

I told her.

I knew I was going to tonight. I’d known all day, maybe longer. The thought sat in my chest like a weight—heavy, necessary. I kept telling myself that if this was going to be real, if she was going to be real to me, then she deserved the truth. All of it.

Still, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

We were sitting close, closer than before. The lights were low. The city outside the window hummed softly, distant and unaware that my entire world was about to split open. I could hear my own heartbeat. I kept rehearsing the words in my head, terrified that if I didn’t say them perfectly, I’d lose her.

Superman. Krypton. The truth.

I’ve faced down enemies without fear. I’ve stood between the world and destruction without hesitation. But tonight, my palms were damp, my throat tight, my voice almost too small to trust.

I told her anyway.

I told her who I am. Where I come from. What I can do. What I can’t. I told her about the loneliness. About the responsibility. About how sometimes it feels like I’m made of glass despite being unbreakable.

I watched her face the entire time.

I was ready, so ready for her to pull away. To stiffen. To look at me like I was something dangerous or unknowable. I was ready for disbelief, fear, distance. Ready for the sound of my own heart breaking quietly while I pretended I understood.

She didn’t do any of that.

She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t stare at me like I was a spectacle. She didn’t flinch when I said the word Superman. She didn’t look for the door.

She listened.

The same way she always does. Head tilted slightly, eyes steady, hands folded together like this mattered. Like I mattered.

When I finished, the silence stretched. I could barely breathe. I felt exposed in a way I never have before. Like I’d peeled myself open and handed her everything unguarded.

Then she reached for me.

She took my hand—warm, grounding, real—and said, “Thank you for trusting me.”

That was it.

Not I need time. Not I’m scared. Not I don’t know what to say.

Just gratitude.

Trust meeting trust.

Something inside me broke open then. Something old and carefully guarded. I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d been holding back until that moment, how alone I’d been even when surrounded by people.

I don’t think she knows what that moment did to me.

I don’t think she knows she became my safe place tonight. That for the first time in my life, the truth didn’t feel like a burden, it felt like a bridge.

I fell in love with her again. Deeper than before. Permanently. In a way that doesn’t fade or loosen or ask permission.

If she ever doubts how much she means to me, I want her to remember this night.

I want me to remember it.

06/18/2022

She fell asleep on my shoulder.

We were supposed to watch the movie all the way through. She picked it. I remember that, she was excited about it, insisted it was better than I thought it would be. She curled up beside me like she always does, close enough that our arms touched, close enough that I could feel her warmth even before she leaned into me.

About halfway through, her head tipped just slightly toward my shoulder. I felt it before I saw it, the gentle weight of her settling, like she was testing whether it was okay.

I didn’t move.

A few minutes later, she tucked herself in properly, her head resting just under my chin, her hair brushing my jaw. Her breathing changed slowly, quietly, until it evened out into something soft and steady. The kind of breathing that only happens when someone feels completely safe.

I could feel everything. Every small shift of her weight. Every tiny exhale. The way her fingers twitched once, then relaxed, trusting I was there.

The movie kept playing. The plot resolved. The credits rolled.

I didn’t move.

Forty-two minutes passed. I know because I counted, not because I was bored, but because I wanted to remember how long I’d been allowed to hold this moment. My arm started to ache. My shoulder went numb.

I didn’t care.

I’ve stopped disasters. I’ve lifted impossible things. I’ve been praised for saving the world more times than I can count.

Tonight, the most important thing I did was stay perfectly still so she could rest.

I watched the rise and fall of her chest. I memorized the way she fit against me, like she had always been meant to. I thought—very quietly—that if this was all love ever asked of me, I would give it gladly.

I would do it forever if she asked.

And if she never did, I think I still would.

09/02/2022

Work.

Nothing remarkable was supposed to happen today.

Just another morning at the Planet. I was standing by my desk pretending to read an article when I felt it.

That gentle pull. That awareness.

I looked up without thinking.

She was across the newsroom, half-hidden behind a monitor, focused on her screen. And then—like she felt me looking—she glanced up.

Just a second. Maybe less.

Our eyes met.

She smiled.

Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. Just for me.

My heart did something ridiculous. The kind of thing I’d laugh at if it were anyone else. I felt it in my chest, in my hands, all the way down to my feet like I’d forgotten how gravity worked for a moment.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t wave. We didn’t need to.

It felt like a secret we were sharing in plain sight, something small and precious tucked between deadlines and coffee cups.

I looked back down at my desk, fully aware that my smile was impossible to hide.

I still get nervous when she looks at me like that.

I’ve faced impossible odds. I’ve stood against things that should have terrified me. But that quiet smile across the newsroom still makes my pulse stumble like I’m fifteen and hopelessly obvious about it.

She makes me feel young. Not careless, but alive. Like someone who’s still discovering what love can be, who hasn’t reached the end of the feeling yet.

Lois noticed. Of course she did. She smirked when she passed my desk. Jimmy noticed, he raised his eyebrows and whispered “cute.” Cat noticed. Steve noticed. I think Perry noticed too, though he pretended not to.

I don’t care.

They can notice all they want.

All I want—all I will ever want—is for her eyes to keep finding mine. In crowded rooms. In quiet mornings. Across every place life puts us.

For the rest of my life.

11/30/2022

One year.

I don’t think I really understood what today would feel like until it was already happening. I knew it mattered. I knew it was important. But I didn’t expect the weight of it, the way it would sit in my chest all evening, heavy and warm and almost too much to hold all at once.

A year.

That sounds so small when you say it out loud. Twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five ordinary days stacked gently on top of each other. Days that didn’t look remarkable from the outside. Days filled with work and quiet dinners and laughter over nothing.

But when I looked at her tonight, really looked at her, I felt the miracle of it.

The fact that she’s chosen me. Every day. For an entire year.

Not the idea of me. Not the parts that are easy or impressive. Me. The quiet mornings. The long nights. The truths she learned early and never turned away from.

She gave me her gift first.

She didn’t hand it to me right away. She asked me to sit down, her voice careful, almost shy. I noticed her hands shaking as she set it on the table between us, wrapped in brown paper, the edges taped too neatly. Like she’d redone it more than once. Like she’d worried about it.

“I need you to know,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the package instead of me, “I tried my best.”

That alone made my chest tighten.

When I unwrapped it, I understood why she’d been nervous.

It was a painting.

Not small. Not casual. Not something done in an afternoon. This was time. Intention. Patience. The kind of work you only do when you’re willing to put your heart somewhere visible and vulnerable.

It was the farm.

My parents’ farm.

She’d painted it in late-afternoon light, the kind that turns everything golden and soft, the kind that always made me feel safe growing up. The house stood steady and familiar, the porch just right, the fields stretching out behind it the way they always do. Endless. Open. Like they belong to anyone who needs space to breathe.

And in the center—

All of us.

Ma and Pa. Me. And them.

My birth parents.

All of us standing together, arms around one another, no distance between us. No time separating what was lost from what was found. No planets. No years. No absence.

Just together.

Like it was always meant to be that way.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

She rushed to explain, words tumbling over each other as if she were afraid the silence meant she’d done something wrong.

She told me she used pictures to paint the farm I have hanging in my apartment since she hasn’t been there yet. Told me she watched the video again—the one that came with me when I was sent to Earth—paused it, rewound it, studied my birth parents’ faces so she wouldn’t get them wrong.

She told me she didn’t want to mess it up. That she just kept thinking—

Her voice softened then.

—that they’d want to see me happy. That my parents—all of them—belong together in my life. Even if it never looked like this in real life.

My hands were shaking when I held the frame.

She painted Ma’s smile exactly right. The gentleness in my Pa's eyes. That quiet pride he never needs to announce. And my birth parents—hopeful, loving, looking at me like I was everything.

She gave me something I didn’t even know how to ask for.

A world where nothing was lost.

I didn’t cry right away. I think I was too overwhelmed. I just stared, memorizing every brushstroke, every careful decision she’d made with love. Trying to understand how someone could see me so clearly.

“I didn’t know if it was okay,” she whispered. “But it felt important.”

I pulled her into my chest without thinking. I couldn’t help it. I needed to feel her there, solid and real.

It was the most understood I have ever felt in my life.

Then it was my turn.

I won’t pretend I didn’t agonize over her gift. I did. For weeks. I wanted it to be something beautiful. Something lasting. Something that carried meaning even if the words failed me.

Inside the small velvet box was a necklace.

Gold. Delicate. The chain thin and warm. And at its center, a butterfly—crafted so carefully it looked like it might lift off at any second if the light caught it just right.

She went very still when she saw it.

I remembered something she told me once—quietly, almost like she didn’t want to make it important. That butterflies were her mother’s favorite. That they reminded her of gentleness. Of transformation. Of staying, even after someone leaves.

I chose it because of that.

Because I wanted her to have something close to her heart. Something that carried love forward instead of marking loss. Something that said she is held—by memory, by love, by me.

It cost more than I usually allow myself to spend on anything. More than was practical. More than was reasonable.

But she’s worth it.

All of it.

She cried then.

Not loudly. Just leaned into me, clutching the necklace like it was something fragile and sacred. My hands weren’t steady when I fastened it around her neck. I don’t think I trusted myself to be.

It looked like it belonged there.

We didn’t say much after that.

We just sat together, her painting propped carefully against the wall, the butterfly warm against her skin, the quiet settling around us like a promise.

A year.

One year of choosing each other. Of learning each other. Of loving in ways that still surprise me.

I still can’t believe she’s with me.

I still wake up amazed that someone so thoughtful, so kind, so deeply human, has chosen to share her life with mine.

If this is what one year feels like, I want all the years.

Every single one.

With her.

02/11/2023

She had a bad day.

I knew the moment I saw her.

She tried to hide it, smiled when she walked in, asked how my day was—but her shoulders were too tight, her voice just a little too careful. I didn’t call it out right away. I’ve learned that sometimes she needs space to land before she can let go.

Later, when the apartment had gone quiet, she finally sat beside me on the couch and exhaled like she’d been holding her breath all day.

She didn’t want fixing. She didn’t want answers. She didn’t want me to make it better.

She just wanted someone to sit with her.

So I did.

I stayed exactly where I was. Close enough that our knees touched. Close enough that she could lean if she wanted to—but I didn’t pull her in until she chose it herself. When she finally rested her head against my shoulder, it felt like permission.

I wrapped an arm around her slowly, carefully, like she was something precious.

We didn’t talk much. A few quiet words. Long stretches of silence. I could feel the tension leaving her shoulders little by little, like she was setting something heavy down piece by piece. Like she trusted me to hold the weight with her, even if I couldn’t take it away.

I watched her breathe. I watched her relax.

I wished—again—that she could see herself the way I do.

Strong, even when she’s tired. Kind, even when the world hasn’t been. Brilliant in ways she never gives herself credit for. Braver than she knows, simply for showing up every day and trying.

She thinks strength looks loud. Unbreakable.

But this—this quiet endurance, this softness she allows only with me—this is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.

Loving her feels like standing in sunlight. Not blinding. Not overwhelming. Just steady and warm and certain. Like something you can build a life in.

I finally understand what “home” means.

It isn’t a place.

It’s this moment, her leaning into me, the world quiet for a while, knowing I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

With her.

07/29/2023

She met my parents today.

I’ve been nervous about a lot of things in my life. I’ve faced fear head-on more times than I can count. But today, today my stomach was in knots in a way that surprised me.

I brought her home.

Not just to Kansas. Not just to the farm.

Home.

I didn’t warn her much beforehand. Maybe I should have. I only said that my parents would love her, and that was true—but it didn’t feel like enough. I don’t think I realized until today how much it mattered to me that they see her the way I do.

She wore something simple. Comfortable. Herself. She was polite without being stiff, warm without trying too hard. When Ma hugged her, I watched her melt into it like she’d been waiting for that kind of welcome without knowing it.

Ma loved her instantly. I could tell by the way she touched her arm when she laughed, by how quickly she started asking questions—not the polite kind, but the ones you ask when you want to know someone. Pa watched quietly at first, like he always does, measuring more than he speaks.

Then she offered to help in the kitchen.

She didn’t have to. She just did. Like she belonged there.

I stood in the doorway for a while, pretending not to watch as she laughed with Ma, as flour dusted her hands, as she listened to stories about me growing up with the same attention she always gives me. I saw something in Pa's expression then. Something soft, approving, settled.

At dinner, she asked them about their lives. Their history. She listened when Pa talked about the land. She thanked Pa for the meal like it meant something to her.

When Pa finally said, “We’re glad you’re here,” I felt something loosen in my chest that I didn’t know I’d been holding.

Later, when she stepped outside with me and the cicadas filled the evening air, she slipped her hand into mine like it was second nature. Like she’d always known how to find me.

I realized then that this wasn’t just me bringing her into my world.

She was already part of it.

If there ever comes a day when she doubts—when the world feels loud or unkind or she wonders where she belongs—I want her to remember this. The way my mother smiled at her like she was already family. The way my father looked at her like she was someone worth trusting with what matters most.

I don’t know when I’ll say it out loud.

But today made something very clear to me.

She isn’t just someone I love.

She’s someone I’m building a life with.

Every single day.

10/26/2023

Tonight reminded me why I survive.

I came home barely holding myself together.

I don’t usually let it get that bad. I tell myself I won’t, that I’ll pull back sooner, that I’ll know my limits. But tonight I misjudged things. Strength. Timing. My own belief that I can always take one more hit if it means someone else doesn’t have to.

By the time I made it back to my apartment, my ribs felt like glass. Every breath was shallow and sharp, like my lungs were cutting against something broken inside me. My shoulder burned, deep, angry pain that wouldn’t quiet no matter how I shifted my weight. I could feel blood drying along my side, stiffening my suit, pulling at my skin every time I moved.

I didn’t knock.

I couldn’t risk standing upright long enough to do it.

I just leaned against the doorframe for a second, forehead pressed to the cool wood, wondering how much she’d see the moment I stepped inside. Wondering if I could make it to the couch without worrying her too much. Wondering—selfishly—if I could keep this from being one of the nights that lives in her fear.

She heard me anyway.

She always does.

The door opened before I could decide anything, and there she was.

Not panicked. Not shouting my name. Not frozen in shock.

Just there.

Her eyes found me instantly, sharp and assessing, taking everything in at once—the blood, the way I was favoring my right side, the way my shoulders were held too stiff, like they were bracing against pain I didn’t want to admit to yet.

I could hear her heart.

It was racing. Fast. Uneven. Terrified.

And still—her voice was calm.

“Hey,” she said softly, like she wasn’t looking at someone who’d barely made it home. Like she wasn’t scared out of her mind. “Come sit down. Slowly. I’ve got you.”

Those words, 'I’ve got you', did something to me. I felt my knees weaken the moment she said them, like my body finally believed it was allowed to stop fighting.

She moved with such care. Every step deliberate. Every touch gentle and precise, like she was handling something precious instead of broken. She didn’t rush me. Didn’t bombard me with questions or try to assess everything at once.

She knew (somehow) that her calm was the thing keeping me upright.

That her fear, however loud it was inside her, wasn’t what would help me heal.

I watched her swallow it down for me.

I watched her steady her hands before she touched me, watched her breathe slowly on purpose, watched her make herself quiet so I could finally exhale.

She helped me sit, eased my weight down inch by inch, murmuring small reassurances the whole time. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heroic. Just constant presence. Proof that I wasn’t alone in the room with the pain.

When she cleaned the blood from my hands, she did it like she’d done it a hundred times. Cloth warm, pressure careful, movements practiced. But I could hear her heart the entire time, still racing, still afraid.

It never slowed.

And still, she stayed steady.

She talked while she worked—not about what happened, not about what could have gone wrong. Just small things. The grocery list. Something funny she’d read earlier. The way the neighbor’s dog barked all afternoon.

Grounding sounds. Anchors.

I realized then how much effort it must take. How much strength it takes to choose calm when fear is screaming in your chest. How brave you have to be to love someone like me and still soften your hands when they come home hurt.

That’s when it hit me. Again.

Anyone can love the invincible part of me. The symbol. The strength. The idea of safety.

But she loves the part of me that limps home at midnight, trying not to bleed on the floor. The part of me that miscalculates. The part of me that hurts. The part of me that needs someone else to be strong for a moment.

She didn’t ask me to be Superman tonight.

She let me just be Clark.

The way she held me—careful, unafraid, unwavering—did something to me. It settled somewhere deep and permanent, like a truth clicking into place.

I fell in love with her again tonight.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

Just deeper.

And I don’t think there’s an end to how far that goes.

04/10/2025

We talked about moving in together.

It wasn’t supposed to be a big conversation.

We were sitting on the couch, legs tangled, the TV on low in the background. I don’t even remember what we were watching. She said it casually, almost offhand—something about how much time we already spend together, how it might just make sense.

My heart immediately started racing.

I tried to play it cool. I nodded. I said something reasonable. I even managed to keep my voice steady for a few seconds.

I failed.

I felt my smile give me away before I could stop it. I felt the warmth spread through my chest, that light, buoyant feeling that only she gives me. I don’t think I realized how much I’d been hoping for this until she said it out loud.

We talked about logistics—closets, commutes, who has the better couch—but underneath it all was something quieter and deeper. Certainty. Not excitement that burns out fast, but the kind that settles in and stays.

Ever since that conversation, my mind hasn’t stopped wandering.

I keep imagining mornings.

Her hair messy, sleep still clinging to her voice when she says my name. Sunlight spilling through the window, dust floating in the air like it’s been waiting just for us. The sound of her moving around the kitchen while I pretend not to watch, the comfort of knowing that no matter how the day unfolds, we’ll come back to each other at night.

I imagine shared spaces—books mixing on shelves, her things slowly finding their way into every corner. Little arguments about nothing. Quiet routines that become sacred simply because they’re ours.

I’ve already imagined a ring.

Not just the ring itself, but the way her eyes will widen when she realizes what I’m asking. The way her hands will shake just a little when I take hers. The way saying her name followed by my wife will feel like the most natural truth I’ve ever known.

I don’t know when I’ll ask.

I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—honest, unhurried, full of love.

But I do know this: the answer has lived in me for a long time. Longer than I realized. Since the day I offered her half my sandwich in a noisy lunchroom and felt my world shift in a way I couldn’t name yet.

Everything since then has just been catching up.

If love is choosing someone every day, then I’ve already made my choice.

I’m just finally ready to say it out loud.

11/11/2025

Lois asked me today why I haven’t proposed yet.

She didn’t mean it unkindly. Lois rarely does, even when she pretends otherwise. We were finishing up a story, the newsroom mostly empty, and she leaned back in her chair, studied me for a long moment, then said it like it was obvious.

“So,” she said, “are you ever going to put a ring on her finger, or are you just going to keep pretending she’s not wildly out of your league?”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

Because she’s right.

I know she is.

I’ve always known.

Lois kept going, softer this time. “You love her. Anyone with eyes can see that. So what are you waiting for? You scared?”

I thought about that long after she turned back to her screen.

Am I scared?

Yes. But not in the way she meant.

I’m not waiting because I’m unsure. I’m not hesitating because I don’t know what I want. I don’t wake up questioning whether she’s the one. That answer has lived in me for years now, steady and unmovable.

I’m waiting because I’ve never been this sure before in my life.

Everything else I’ve ever faced—every fight, every impossible choice—has always come with certainty baked in. I knew what had to be done. I knew I could endure it. I knew the risk.

This is different.

This isn’t about survival. It’s about forever.

I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—unrushed, honest, full of intention. I don’t want to trip over my own eagerness and risk losing something this precious by moving too fast, by letting the moment feel careless instead of considered.

She deserves a proposal that feels like a promise kept, not a step taken too quickly.

I want the timing to be gentle. The kind that says I chose you every day before this, and I will every day after.

I know she’s out of my league.

She always has been.

But she chose me anyway. She keeps choosing me. And that still humbles me more than I know how to say.

So no Lois, I’m not waiting because I’m afraid to commit.

I’m waiting because this is the most important question I will ever ask.

And when I ask it, I want my hands steady, my heart open, and the certainty she’s given me reflected back to her without doubt or hesitation.

I already know the answer.

I’m just making sure the moment honors how much she means to me.

Always.

Your tears fall freely now, blurring the words, splashing onto the pages of a love story written quietly, faithfully, just for you. You don’t try to stop them. There’s no point. This is what it feels like to be seen so completely it almost hurts.

The notebook trembles in your hands.

Then—

The soft jingle of keys at the door.

You gasp, sharp and startled, like you’ve been caught somewhere you weren’t supposed to be. Your head snaps up, heart slamming against your ribs. Panic flares—not guilt exactly, but something close enough to make your chest tighten. You scrub hastily at your cheeks with the heel of your hand, trying to erase the evidence, trying to breathe like your world hasn’t just quietly, irrevocably shifted.

The door opens.

Clark steps inside, paper towels tucked under his arm, jacket half-unzipped, hair slightly mussed from the breeze outside. He looks relaxed—content in that soft, domestic way he’s been wearing all day.

Happy.

Then his eyes find you.

Sitting on the floor. Diary open in your hands. Eyes red. Face flushed.

He freezes.

Not just still—suspended. Like time has paused mid-breath.

“…Hey,” he says carefully, voice gentle but alert, like he’s approaching something fragile. “What’s wrong?”

Your throat tightens painfully.

You push yourself to your feet slowly, the movement unsteady, like gravity has changed without warning. You clutch the notebook to your chest instinctively, fingers curling into the leather as if it might vanish if you don’t hold on tight enough.

“I—” Your voice breaks immediately. You swallow, try again. “I’m so sorry.”

That stops him.

He blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “Sorry?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out now that they’ve started. “I was unpacking and I found it and I didn’t know what it was and I shouldn’t have opened it, I know that, I just—” You shake your head, tears spilling again. “I’m really sorry, Clark. I never wanted to invade your privacy.”

For a heartbeat, he just looks at you.

Then realization dawns.

You watch it ripple across his face: the widening of his eyes, the sharp inhale, the way his shoulders tense as understanding crashes in. Horror. Embarrassment. Tender, helpless panic.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh—Y/N, I—”

The paper towels slip from his arm as he sets the bag down too fast, hands fumbling like his body can’t quite keep up with his thoughts. “No—hey, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. I swear, I wasn’t hiding it from you. I just—I wanted it to be for later. For the right moment.”

His voice falters, vulnerability bare on his face. “I was waiting. I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted everything to be… right.”

You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. “I know. I know. I just—reading it felt like stepping into something I wasn’t meant to see yet.”

His expression softens instantly.

Before either of you can say anything else, you cross the space between you in three quick steps and throw your arms around him.

Clark stiffens in surprise for half a second—pure reflex—before he melts into you completely. His arms wrap around you strong and sure, one hand pressing gently between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid to let go.

He holds you like you’re something precious. Like you’re fragile. Like you’re endlessly, irrevocably loved.

You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in—home, warmth, safety—and your voice shakes when you speak.

“It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever written about me,” you whisper. “About us.”

He exhales, long and unsteady, like he’s been holding that breath for years. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closing briefly as if to steady himself. When he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are glossy, shining with emotion he isn’t trying to hide.

“You weren’t supposed to read it yet,” he murmurs softly, thumb brushing beneath your eye, wiping away a tear with reverent care. “I was waiting for the right moment to propose. After we settled in. After this felt like home.”

Your breath catches.

“But,” he continues quietly, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at his mouth, “everything in there is true. Every word. I’ve loved you since the moment you smiled at me over a sad microwave lunch.”

A wet laugh slips out of you despite everything. “You really wrote it all down.”

He nods, almost shy now. “I wanted proof,” he admits. “For you. For forever. In case the world ever got loud. In case you ever doubted how sure I am.”

You lift your hands to his face, cradling him the way he always cradles you, thumbs brushing his cheeks. Your heart feels too full, like it might burst if you don’t say this out loud.

“I don’t need proof,” you say softly. “But I’m really glad I have it.”

He smiles then.

Wide. Radiant. Hopelessly, undeniably in love.

And in that moment—standing barefoot in a half-unpacked apartment, surrounded by boxes and cardboard and the life you’re still building—you know.

Even without a ring. Without a question asked out loud.

You know.

You’re already home.

---

It was like this every day. As such, The Jester grew bored while watching a droplet of beer slowly slide down the peeling walls of the trailer. 

The deep color stained what was once bright and gaudy orange paint inside the shabby kitchenette. Jester's tough flesh was marred somewhat against cracked tile as he knelt before the man who had just moments ago thrown a bottle near his chained person. Head tilted downward in forced submission; unflinching and calm, as the monster had to be in the presence of this self-imposed king.

Jester’s amethyst eyes cast away from the pitiful man, plotting…..waiting.

Soon the horrors will be over, as it would be every time this happened. The comforting monotony of such a response was something The Jester used to rejuvenate himself while counting every passing minute in his head; tick by tick. A skill our leader was forced to learn as the kitchen clock had been smashed ages ago from yet another stray bottle during some past fray. This tantrum however, as said before, was fully expected. Especially so whenever ticket sales didn't meet the insatiable human's quota for his dying circus. It was inevitable—thus, Jester remained still, as he always did, like a frozen fish in arctic water.

Grabbing yet another bottle near him, the red-coated Ringmaster ignored the creature sitting with regal grace before him. Sipping without a care as Jester, a leader in the making, stared at him….waiting….wanting to strike back with the rage of a spiteful and wronged god.

Oh, but we are getting ahead of ourselves aren't we, dear reader?

As one is often to do when recounting a heroic figure’s lengthy origin. Stories of adventure, tales of woe, and epic poetry demand an audience's rapt attention. Knowing this, I urge you to listen to what I’m about to say.

Truly listen.

I'm sure it will further interest you, dear reader, that even we, who now run The Freak Circus as you know it, did not begin our success story with ease. As you already are aware, fellow kin, our kind knows more than any other how horrid humans can be. This story is not for them, but rather for your sake, dear reader. It is my hope that learning of our struggles will show you that it is possible for monsters to have both a full life and a full belly, even in this difficult world. I know quite well how hard it is to hunt for food consistently. To be forced to ration the meager marrow of a sickly woman’s collar bone to last for days, hoping you won’t collapse from exhaustion before you’re lucky enough to stumble upon a proper meal. Surely your stomach is growling right now at the thought, so forgive the poetic subtext. Hunting in the shadows for a mere piece of human flesh to sate our unending hunger is a sad reality we monsters face and that, my kindred soul, is what led to our downfall and eventual rise to power.

So once more, I urge you to stick around, my monstrous fellow, in the hopes that you will gain something of use from The Jester’s story; if only to make your daily struggles a little lighter.

Some rules, however, need to be mentioned before we begin.

For one, the magnificent creature whom this story is about was not always known as The Jester. He had a different name back then, but for the sake of both relevance and personal preference, we will use the names we gave ourselves that fateful moonless night instead of what they actually were at the time. Nothing, if you are aware, is ever truly accurate--certainly not history. Even the artists commissioned to draw the illustrations you see in this booklet will be doing so using our current dress, instead of the patchy rags and archaic figures we had back then.

Sadly, it does not help that my knowledge only extends to what I personally witnessed during the time we were under The Ringmasters thumb, and what was told to me later in confidence. Even with our long memory, monsters are more than capable of rewriting certain scenes of the past to further embellish a hero’s strides. Humans, after all, did not invent imagination despite that they’d like to think so. Thus, as a warning to whomever reads this, I urge you to take my recounting of this tale with the usual grain of salt.

Oh, but please do not fret, reader! You will hear the story in its entirety; perhaps not as it was, but rather as it's meant to be told. All I ask is to bear this in mind as I recount our tale with a heavy bias towards an amethyst god and his fantastic rise to excellence:

Jester knew, before any of us, that this was too good to be true, yet it was difficult to argue with the results.

A human corpse, fresh, leaking, and raw, sat out in the open one autumn morning brush we monsters used to hide in. The strong and seductive odor of human flesh began to push away any doubts the starving group of creatures had when discovering such a feast. Still....it was far too convenient, too strange, even in a dying forest full of ravenous monsters.

The Jester cautiously circled the mysterious pile, keeping us all salivating at bay like a hyena circling a body to make sure it’s dead and ripe enough to eat. Checking carefully while trying his best not to breath in the alluring scent for any traps or signs of foul play. Wondering with great worry how this could happen? After all, none of the humans in the nearby town dared to venture in their woods thanks to one too many nightly ‘visits’ from the hungriest among us. Then again, we were a tad…distracted at the time to care about answers. Our stomachs growled in desperate need, claws digging into claw, eyes begging our leader to finish his inspection. The Pierrot even, had to be held back by three of us until Jester gave the signal. Soon enough, the purple creature took a long, hard whiff, a weakness he has never forgiven himself to this day. Making sure to claw his stomach enough to bleed as to hold back from ravaging the tempting treasure before him.

However, the gesture was futile, done much too late….Our leader’s doubts and endless queries slowly began to melt the longer he studied the tempting sight before him. Out of necessity, for us as well as himself, he gave the order:

“Eat."

And with a nod, we did just that. 

For weeks, our bellies were sated—not always full, mind you, but it was far closer than we’d been in years due to one or more bodies showing up in the wide but dead forest we resided in. Our mysterious benefactor blessed us with treats, big and small. Humans of all sizes found their way to our forest over the next two weeks. Some days a corpse was left by the entrance, other times they’d been by a lake or an old abandoned well (a problem as it nearly poisoned our fresh water supply, though even The Doctor wasn’t sure if such a thing could truly affect us in the way it does humans). Locations of the bodies seemed to be at random, but what did that matter? We thought. For once, monsters ate like kings of old, though unlike most monarchies the lessons of starvation had taught us to savor every bite and let nothing go to waste.

The Jester, as expected, was far from satisfied no matter how much he ate.

It became an obsession of his you see, to know where the source of our blessings had come from. So, in his great wisdom, our brilliant Jester mapped out the parts of the forest where the bodies were left behind—discovering what none of us dared to see: a pattern.

With this knowledge, our leader brought us together and formed a plan to find out who this anonymous donor truly was, and finally confront them. As you could imagine, reader, this was not a popular choice amongst the group. We monsters know full well the risks involved in approaching a human, any one of them, so openly. The Harlequin even argued the merits of knowing who it was; accepting that some poor idiot dropped their 'waste' and we'd all just gotten lucky enough to reap the benefits. Another reason, of course, that we hesitated in going along with The Jester’s plan was the fear of risking starvation once again.

Starvation....

A common end to our kind. There are many tales I could tell of acquaintances who never lasted long enough to be friends. Whose faces I only remember were as shriveled as their stomachs. Our circus troupe, as it is now but not then, had not always been this small, you see. However, The Jester found wisdom even in our losses. As fewer creatures around often meant more food to share among those who remained. For, as you already know reader, it is a kindness when we monsters must leave our families behind upon reaching adulthood. If we go, then they have a better chance to live, to find food and shelter and survive. After we leave them, we find our own ‘packs’, create our own families, breed with them, and send the children off when they are old enough to find their own way just as we did. Though I must confess dear kin, on occasional cold and dreary nights I often wonder if those who birthed us were able to eat well after we left since there is no true way to tell…

(Editor Note to Myself: perhaps leave out my personal feelings regarding our families and their well-being as it takes away from The Jester’s point of view.)

Regardless of how we felt about the strange piles of food that appeared every other day, we all eventually gave into The Jester’s demands and staked out the area. Specifically, where our leader predicted where this strange benefactor would leave his next ‘treat’ for us to eat.

And reader….shockingly enough, we found him. The man….who was ‘helping’ us live.

There stood a human dressed in a once but now faded bright red coat and patched-up top hat stood over a delicious smelling corpse; eyes full of sadistic glee, serrated knife in hand. At first, we were unsure as to what was happening. After all, why would a human want to eat one of their own? Surely that’s why he was cutting him up ---we reasoned; not quite understanding that food was nowhere near the man's true motivations. Still, the familiar alluring scent drew the monsters close enough to see the whites of the murderer's eyes finally widen in fear at the sight of us. However, once that delicious smell drew us in, focusing on the live meat before us became a secondary priority. You see, reader, it was incredibly difficult that very autumn for us to hunt regularly. Too many villagers talked to one another, spreading the word of beasts in the night and weaving cautionary tales as tall as we were. Sadly, such antics worked, and we almost starved due to their fear of coming into the woods. Our bodies thin and feral from hunger intimidated the man with the knife enough to make his frame shake. Easy prey, we thought, two for the price of one! It seemed as though our prayers were answered!

Slowly, we cornered him, ready to pounce before he could scream for help. 

Yet the man did no such thing.

Instead, he did something we monsters had never witnessed up close. Something we'd only seen obscured by the blanketed darkness of the forest that protected us from their kind. 

The man…..smiled....and laughed?

His arms drew wide enough to pull at the weakened seams of his coat. Dropping the knife and then to his knees, crying praises of our magnificence in reverent abjection.

As you could imagine….we had no idea what was going on.

The monsters looked at one another as the human continued. Only growing more confused upon hearing the pathetic human’s story. How he'd been searching for us, how his partner wanted to do bad things to us and he, the human who once held the knife now dropped, had valiantly stopped him. For our sake. It was surreal, fantastical even. Though only one of us had the courage to speak to the seemingly kind stranger, claws were still in view, making sure to catch the light of the moon like a mirror in a darkened corner.

"You are here to kill." 

How magnificent.

The Jester never asks questions, but rather demands answers, you see. 

"No, no—no--not I—well now you, anyway—-I’m your good friend? See? The knife is gone, vanished, I promise!—-D-do you understand what 'friend' means?" Sweat began to bead on the man's brow with every distressed word. "I am here to help the creatures of these woods the folks nearby talk about, honest!"

Another moment, one none of us had experienced, made silent and felt like an eternity to reply. I remember it as all of us frozen, even the pitiful human, unsure what to do or say to this….madness…..No one, not even our Jester, had any idea what this was. But one of us, another gentler source, stepped forward, closer to her leader and stood by.

"Perhaps he is being truthful?” The pink monster spoke up, voice soft as a feather, quiet enough only for those of us near to catch. 

Still wary, the rest of us did not move, watching instead with close and hungry eyes how the man now gestured towards the other dead human; eyes pleading, shaking like a heavy sound rippling the edges of a glass of water. 

"You eat meat—right? Human meat? I know you do! You must have loved the….uh—gifts, I left you all this time, yeah?" the human urged, words smooth like silk.

The Jester eyed the man, but did not move, allowing the human to finally stand. With an arrogance we would come to know later, the stranger brushed away the dirt off his already dust-ridden pants. Back straightening, the man finally stands in front of Jester and the angel, mouth no longer trembling, eyes still and reflective as amber. Flecks of mud still stuck between the piping of the worn corduroy he wore, yet the human carried himself as though wearing a cape of sewn jewels and gold.

"Where are my manners? I am The Ringmaster of a poor traveling circus,” boldly he extends his hand, still ridden with dirt, towards The Jester’s clean palm. “Let me be the first to thank you for your clean-up. Things got a little….messy….as they often do in my line of work. Though I’m sure a gentleman as fine as yourself would agree no doubt.”

The scene was comical, surreal. To this day reader, I doubt my own memory, wondering if it had truly happened or if the mist of that early morning had somehow been tainted by the poisonous flora that surrounded us. What kind of person….really….a human of all things, would walk up to an unknown creature and extend their hand, not expecting it to be bitten off? What made him so unafraid of us, then?

Well….herein lies your first lesson, dear reader:

Humans will do anything, risk life and limb, if it means getting what they want.

Putting his hand down, this ‘Ringmaster’ seemingly took no offense at our caution and continued smiling: A tactic you must be very aware of, reader! Keep these lessons close to your heart---Why do you think our masks have smiles on them? We learned well, the ways to lure prey to come to us rather than the other way around. Sacrifice out of necessity .A lesson that hangs over us like the legs of a dead bird tied around our thick-skinned necks.

“Well,” the human began, still with that grin, “introductions can wait, I suppose. You all must be hungry!”

The Ringmaster moved aside, presenting the dead body as only a showman would. Eyes darkening, showing their true nature for just a moment before saying proudly:

“By all means….Dig in!”

Before we could stop him, The Pierrot rushed forward, sinking his teeth into the heart of the feast. Sadly, our silent clown cannot be fully blamed here, though Jester was less than amused at his rash antics later that day, as Pierrot had given most of his rations to our weakest member in order to give her some strength for several weeks then. A ‘kindness’ that made Harlequin’s envious poison stew to a boil while glaring at the red clown’s blood stained face in a combination of personal disgust and unsaid longing.

The rest of the monsters then looked at one another again, unsure of what to do. A situation like this had never happened before, something they could never have prepared themselves to deal with. This Ringmaster was the first human most of us ever spoke to, at least not for longer than it takes to silence a scream. But it was that smell again, that intoxicating scent of fresh meat, permeating the clearing we all stood in that sealed our fates; Jester was no exception. Even gods succumb to temptation you see....or at least ones humans base off our likeness seem to. Thus, The Jester relented. Not easily mind you, we tested the 'generosity' of this stranger by allowing him to leave (while one or more of us trail him), making sure he came back with more food the next day.

Strangely however, this man actually did seem to keep his promise. Day after day, he brought us food. At first, he dragged a body or two to us, though that proved inefficient and slow. 

Still, we did not care if we had to wait for more meat, surely not! All that mattered was that we would not risk starvation that winter. We'd all survive. The Pierrot, most of all, was grateful to the stranger for his ‘kindness.’ His love, the one he’d snuck much of his food too, had caught ill more than once that winter, but the steady supply of food helped her recover in full.

Though most were won over once The Ringmaster brought out his Viola de buriti one night to play for us.

Before then, I’d only ever seen someone use instruments from afar so it was quite the novel experience to witness up close. This type of viola in particular, regrettably, I always thought made unnecessary noise and had a crude vibrato. However, the way that strange human strummed with those calloused fingers peeking through ripped gloves of his made smoother sounds than any of us could have expected to come out of the carved instrument. It wasn’t still my favorite type of music, mind you, but by far the man was more skilled than anyone I’d ever heard mindlessly plucking their strings on that Viola. The way Ringmaster’s fingers glided across the music, making the air seem far lighter, the moon more graceful, the water rippling to his beat—such joys and magic surrounded our small camp like a misty cloud of one’s visible breath in the winter. 

We were captivated, reader, truly; awe-struck rats to a piper.

Other instances he’d play a jaunty tune on that old thing while regaling us with stories of his travels. Something The Doctor in particular had an interest in, though I suspect it was because he was merely curious about the many flora and fauna the human had encountered in his travels. Places he went that we hadn’t seen, new potential subjects to study.

The human claimed he’d built his instrument from the dried bark of a buriti palm himself, though I often had my doubts. Especially after having seen him cut himself numerous times while attempting to whittle small sticks The Pierrot gathered for him. A task he soon made the naive silver-haired creature do for him after receiving one too many splinters—a cruel yet profitable joke it ended up being.

Another story with a lesson you should note when we get to it, loyal reader.

Yes, the Viola de buriti was an instrument that didn’t produce a sound I personally liked, though his skills were appreciated just the same. Despite this, much to my surprise, the one who had become the most mesmerized with The Ringmaster’s playing was none other than Jester himself. Jester truly believed in the magic of the human’s music, such as it was. Thinking that the sound he’d made had power and potential for more. One such night where the clouds covered the moon, we all gathered by a fire in the woods. Not that we needed any light to see in the dark, but it helped ‘set the mood’ as our new…companion…insisted during every visit. Only then, did the subject of The Ringmaster’s talent come up again.

Jester leaned forward, eager and with large eyes, “Your chords…I’ve never heard them played that way. Play it again! I wish to understand how you moved your fingers from one end to the other.”

The Ringmaster laughed upon hearing that after, “Looks like I found my biggest fan! Sure thing. Anything for you, my sharp-toothed friend, how could I refuse?”

The rest of us stared at the man, blinking, before looking at each other, unsure. Unknowing….though The Pierrot answered before we could even think

“F-friend?” Pierrot’s eyes grew wide.

Our angel smiled calmly, placing a hand on his arm to calm the monster at those words.

“You were serious, then?…You would,” I looked at the man, eyes narrowed but shining amongst the lone campfire light, “want to be friends…with a monster?”

The Ringmaster laid down his instrument gently on his lap, hands on his knees and grin as wide as ever. Strange now, thinking back on it, how much he smiled at us in the beginning. As though he knew he’d already won his coveted prize with that very question.

Naturally, he answered full of confidence and oily guile dripping down from his tongue to his throat:

“Of course I’m serious! I’d have to be some kind of idiot to pass up this opportunity!”

For some time, the man sat with us. Playing cards with The Harlequin, gifting me an abacus. He even ‘found’ prettier clothing for our angel to wear, gave nods of approval and praise to The Pierrot, strange floral subjects for Doctor to study, and so on and so forth. The Ringmaster had seen many things in his travels, as had we monsters. All of us laughed every night, talking, and enjoying the opportunity to share our experiences with someone new. However, looking back on it, I notice only with the heaviness of hindsight the way this human’s face changed as the weeks went by. How he grew more and more wary of us upon realizing that his assumptions about what monsters were had been incorrect.

Mistakenly, The Ringmaster thought I had no knowledge of using an abacus nor of general mathematics—only to realize that I could divide fractions and was well versed in advanced arithmetic (a skill I’d learned the few times we were able to enter a new town and purchase items with human money). Additionally, the man grew unnerved of Doctor’s unique ‘discoveries’ with poisonous fungi, humbled more than once by Harlequin’s superior wit, frightened of Pierrot’s strength, and embarrassed by the angel’s infectious charm. Yet it was The Jester, we all noticed, who made the man the most…wary—especially so when they began playing chess with one another time and again. A game the two regularly tied in, no matter how many times they’d played through the night. Sadly, this is something even The Jester believes to be a great folly of his:

The fact that he played a game of strategy against a human, in earnest.

Another lesson you must take, my reader, is that humans are used to being on top of the food-chain. Breaking the illusion where they are the apex predators is detrimental to our survival as a species. Knowing of our existence, no matter how small, could cause them to think differently and in less predictable ways. Which, as the true predators of this world, we cannot afford for our quarry to become wise to their lower evolutionary status or we risk extinction as a people.

Hide your intelligence, dear colleague who is reading this tale, keep your skills from the humans—or they will take notice and their envy will peel the uniqueness from you like the thick yellow membrane of a banana only to discard everything you were by throwing you to the ground.

All of us were eventually gifted new clothing as well; fitted, shiny, and slimming, to distract from The Ringmaster’s bruised ego. An oddity given his own ragged attire, though I’d always suspected all of the ‘gifts’ were from the very food he’d culled for us. Our current purple leader welcomed the tribute however, as we all did, and for once found someone who could provide a steady supply of books as well as conversation and above all, food. At the time, we all thought we had done the impossible: found an ally…or a friend…in a human. Something amazing, unheard of. So new that we thought ourselves high above the rest of our kind, arrogantly assuming we’d done what no other could.

This of course, I beg you to forgive us our hubris, dear reader, for we did not know then what we do now.

“Perhaps this is a sign,” our angel said quietly with hopeful eyes and clasped hands; all while admiring her new pink dress. “That we could live together with humans…in relative peace.”

The Pierrot nodded, smiling as wide as he could in agreement.

“We could be free from harm with such friends…finally, truly safe.”

None of us had the heart to disagree with the two sweet yet naïve souls openly. Especially as we were all confused by The Ringmaster’s kindness. For once, we monsters believed that such a dream could come true, but it was just a dream all the same. This routine, as unconventional as it was, became our reality for nearly two more months where we would eat, play games, discuss many subjects and above all enjoy each other’s company.

“Who was that man?” Jester suddenly asked one night, gesturing to the half-eaten corpse on the ground at his feet.

The Ringmaster at first seemed like he hadn’t heard him, focusing on making the log he sat on a little more comfortable. Eyes locked on the cut stump where their game lay, determined not to lose again to Jester’s superior playing.

We had never thought to consider where our food came from or why. Only Jester managed, and cared, to weasel out of some information one cool night the two played against each other using dominoes from the nearby dead man’s pocket.

“Him?” Ringmaster stared at the black spots of tiles before him, not sparing Jester a single glance once more. “Some lowlife who takes money from good, honest hard-working folk such as ourselves. Not worth a dime, really.”

“Ah,” was Jester’s only reply.

Naturally, we’d already suspected that he’d killed merely to cover his own debts, but it certainly was not a problem for us monsters. The Ringmaster, as we’d come to learn later, had many enemies both in and out of the circus. Ones we were all too happy to devour—so please understand, reader, we were in paradise for a time. Things were nice, pleasant and calm, for once we had a home and a friend to count on. Please then keep this in mind before you blame us for accommodating The Ringmaster when he began taking back the many gifts he gave us.

Once we had a taste of the concept of safety and what it meant to have a home, we were far too addicted to the idea to go back to hiding in the shadows once more.

Soon enough, even The Ringmaster himself began telling us tales about whomever we were eating just for the sheer pleasure of doing so. Several more nights he’d amuse us, always while drinking, with stories involving a tax man who had punched him in the face (a meal we had only two weeks ago), only after Jester had asked. Another victim was someone at a bar he owed money too, or a snooty noble whose heir promised to sponsor The Ringmaster’s show if they ‘took care’ of his father. Pile after pile of corpses all full of fascinating origins that kept our bellies full and nights entertaining.

Even now, I look back on those stories and miss the times when they’d make me smile.

All human issues should remain human, which brings us to our next lesson: Do not involve yourself in the affairs of man, not even when it’s convenient to you. The fewer ties, the better, just as when we leave our parents to help them, and us, find food more easily. More than a few times, Ringmaster ruined ties with those of higher rank because of some drunken bout, one whose money and resources could have helped the business in the long run.

All was fine and merry with our new friend and the food, as well as entertainment, he provided. Until one day, when The Ringmaster came to us, for the first time, without any gifts or smiles to spare. An expression so pitiful, our Jester even placed a hand on his shoulder, asking what was wrong, as though genuinely concerned.

“My circus is dying, friends,” he gathered us in a circle to tell us his tale of woe; glycerin-stained cheeks, crushed hat in hands. “This is my last day here. If I don’t make any money soon….they will take me away. Lock me up till I’m old and gray….”

The words made our hearts sink in both fear and sorrow. A strange combination, a horrible mistaken sense of pity to a man who had no soul or real tears to spare. Another lesson, reader, do not trust those the woes of man—for their pain is often self-inflicted; a sickness they cannot help but spread it to others in shared misery like a plague.

We were stupid. We know better now, but at the time….we asked him a question.

One that haunts and hurts to this day, one that I asked specifically—oh Jester, forgive me.

“Is there anything we could do to help you, friend?”

As though on cue in the climax of a play, The Ringmaster lifted his head towards us, rays of sunshine adding to his performance as the threads of our fates were pulled, closing the seams.

Suddenly he spoke up again, not a choked sob to be found, “My show…if I could get more people to come, more customers….they would…it would save me from prison. I could feed my family…like how I fed yours…”

“You mentioned a son once,” Jester muttered under his breath to which The Ringmaster began pointing at him in glee.

“Yes! My poor son! My boy! He’s off to boarding school far away, but if I had some money….maybe I could bring him here. Have him meet all of you.”

The idea of such was absurd enough, of course, though absurdity had become a regular visitor in our lives upon meeting this man. His suggestion was far from the strangest thing to happen to humans and monsters in a nigh abandoned forest, after all. For me at least, as I can only speak for myself in this story, it was all very vexing. All I could think of was what would we do next? How we as a small group of beasts would have to hunt, survive, and lure prey from the shadows all over again. How our short time in paradise, knowing for once what it was like to have regular meals was nearly over made me want to sob back then. I felt bad for thinking this at the time too, reader, as logically I should have been worried for my friend instead of my own woes. So, like a fool, I bowed my head to him, ashamed.

New lesson, reader, empathy is a gift of monsters to man, but seldom does it ever go the other way around. Guilt is a powerful sword they use to stick in our chests, do not fall for it and re-read this sentence as many times as you need for it to sink in.

Mimicking my shameful pose, The Ringmaster then took off his patchy hat and bowed, matching my movements like a reflection in a mirror. I remember that day every time I set up my tent or adjust the ribbon of my hat. When I think of him attempting to be a reflection of me, hatred coats my heart like a blanket of snow over what once was a warm sunny field.

“If my son were to meet ya,” his eyes descended slowly to the ground, uncovered head nodding towards us in performative reverence, “then he could continue feeding you after I’m gone…I would make sure of it. You’ll never grow hungry again.”

Jester then, for the first time since I’d seen him, faltered at that. I remember looking at him, almost immediately, eyes wide as the gears in our heads began to turn. Once his purple gaze met my own, we both knew, agreed silently, at how well this could work out for us. That perhaps, even after our ‘friend’ were to die, we would be…..safe.

“A circus,” the man licked his lips, eyes still to the ground as though measuring his words before speaking. “A circus….is a family, you know? And you all? I would take care of you, like one of my own.”

We believed him.

His promises gleamed like pyrite, the inside just as worthless.

“Come with me,” he said, eyes still as water, pretty as a sunset, “and you will never go hungry again.”

And so, the string was pulled, a twig snapped, and together we were all trapped in the box our captor made, carrot and all. Perhaps, some of you blame us, think we decided our fate that day. That we were far too naïve because we agreed to his terms so readily. You may even feel that the pain inflicted later upon us was of our own doing. I’ve heard it all, my kin I’ve felt it even now, knowing that some of you reading this will not empathize with our pain.

All because you feel it was our fault to begin with, our fault in trusting.

However, in my experience, to blame the one on the ground bleeding over the figure holding the stone shows a lack of empathy for those who have suffered in ways you have not.

I am not asking you to change your perspective reader, certainly not. This is after all a cautionary tale to hopefully assist you in the next hundred years or so in the outside world. To help you live with less fear and hunger while providing weapons which are sharp enough to fight against those hardships. Certainly my goal is not to change your perspective, all are welcome. Despite this, I will ask you to politely set aside your biases until the end of our tale. Come back with me, reader, to a time where you believed in the trust of others as you did in childhood; where you willingly swallowed the lies told about human love and friendship like a sweet elixir. Empathize with us, as I know you are capable of, even if you may see us as a group of foolish monsters who made their choices out of fear of starvation and a naive hope for a new life.

There is only one villain in this story, after all.

Or more accurately, one type.

Luckily, dear reader, you know the end to this sorrowful saga. You are well aware that the circus comes out of this well. Consequently, if you do choose to go on, to feel our pain as though it were your own, do not fret about our well-being. I have a cup of boiled viscera near me, a lamp to keep warm, quill in hand, and thick tented walls for shelter—our ending is a happy one, but it was hard-earned.

I write this out for you, my faithful colleague, so that you may have a satisfactory conclusion too, as long as these lessons are adapted well in your lives.

May you never know what is to come. Therefore, let us continue, shall we?

The floor of a cage without alfalfa is stickier than you may realize, reader. Which is not difficult to imagine should you think about what’s thrown at you during a show and what you have to do in it each day. Even the blood of our ‘feed’ they gave us coated the black metal bars with a thin jellied viscous layer, so sticky it often ripped the hair from our bodies with even the slightest movement.

Before the cages, however, there wasn’t much to complain about really.

Humans threw things at us right as The Ringmaster introduced his new ‘act’, sure, but it hardly hurt then. The few workers he’d hired scattered about, avoiding the red-coated man like bugs skittering away from a foot. We never understood how the circus kept going through employees like scraps of paper, but we also never asked. Still, the cages were temporary, as we were led to believe, used only for showtime he told us. The Ringmaster would say that it helped to sell the idea of our ‘superior’ humans capturing the ‘stupid’ and ‘fierce’ monsters—made things more ‘fun’ for everyone. At night, in the beginning, we were always let out. Roaming freely in our own roomy tent to do as we pleased….that was of course, until the rumors began to spread.

“I saw it! The monsters! Running around at night!”

“So hideous! How could he put us all in danger like this!?”

“Is the circus part of the devil’s work? How could they let them out of their cages!?”

Thus, for the sake of ‘human safety’ and to keep suspicions low, we were meant to be kept away, hidden. Our tent was no longer large enough for several beds as it had been, but rather a few small dirty cages always locked for the public’s ‘peace of mind.’ At times another important human called ‘mayor’ would come in, for the more paranoid cities, to make sure we were put away ‘properly.’

Ridiculous, all of it, of course, but at the time such precautions made sense to us, especially after our benefactor sold the idea well with his seemingly heartfelt words and kind eyes.

“This is what a family does for one another,” The Ringmaster said with an almost apologetic look on his face as he tugs on the chains of the cage, making sure it held. “Sacrifices have to be made, you know? It’ll pass when we move to the next town, I’m sure of it!”

Jester narrowed his gaze, saying nothing but never taking his eyes off of the man.

“And…..food?” Weakly replied The Pierrot.

To which The Ringmaster suddenly perked up, bowing as though we were another group of passersby waiting in anticipation for his next show.

“Of course, of course!….Although,” he hesitated with a sharp edge to his voice, “there isn’t as much this time. Only a few were dumb enough to fall for the usual tricks—but I promise, the next town will be different.”

The Ringmaster then grinned, shiny teeth of a cornflower hue reflecting in our eyes with only a thread of hope keeping the peace we’d all longed for steady. As you could imagine my faithful colleague, the next town had ‘similar’ issues and the town after that, so on and so forth. Always with the excuse that The Ringmaster simply couldn’t find any humans deemed ‘eligible’ for feeding. Additionally, I’d always found it convenient as well that word kept getting around about our ‘nightly’ excursions. How do YOU think, reader, every important figure in every populated area got a hold of this information? Do you wonder, or do you know?

Soon enough, even the privilege of being let out at night was taken away.

Time after time, town after town, day by day.

It must be maddening to read this story, isn't it, reader? You must be upset or annoyed at our supposed naivety. If so, please understand that it is our anger, our frustration that is far greater than yours. We know how you feel, we’ve lived it. It’s a great shame to be out-smarted by a man who couldn't divide fractions nor count past two hundred until I taught him.

How could we have fallen for The Ringmaster’s guile when either Jester or Harlequin always met his every word with sharpened wit and valid critique? But that isn’t the important question here, reader, but rather, how is it you can avoid the same fate?

If you wish to know: Read on.

The angel, as expected, was a different sort of interest to the humans, an attraction that even The Ringmaster hadn’t expected. Thankfully, due to some unforeseen and desperate circumstances she was spared the tortures promised to her, though that detail is saved for the latter half of our story. This is The Jester’s tale, if you recall, hence we must focus on one tragedy at a time.

As I said before, at first the cages were temporary.

In the early days, our mornings, we acted like animals as the humans desired to see and at night we all played cards, eating our fill. They were fun nights, freeing even, despite what it turned out to be. We had even gotten along with the few human staff who dared to walk by our tent, if you could believe it. Though none of them ever helped us when The Ringmaster began his reign of terror. Most either disappeared or were given to us in pieces. Regardless, their lack of assistance during our times of need drained away any and all pity I might have had for those poor souls.

Being in charge of the finances even then, it was shameful just how much was used on booze and brothels by our new ‘friend.’ Money that could have been put to better use in repairing the lights, ripped tents, cleaning our cages, or hiring new help. The most intriguing thing however, was that I found no money being sent to the boarding school where The Ringmaster’s son was sent to. Jester, as I recall confessing this to one autumn night, agreed with me on the seriousness of these matters. Even going as far, though I hadn’t intended this reaction, to confront our ‘friend’ about it—all of it. He told me that it would be easy. That things would get back on track and we could easily afford better accommodations once Ringmaster saw reason.

“All it will take is some of that brown liquid he likes and getting him to rant about Steinbeck’s prose,” Jester said, confident in his plan. “Things will be different.”

A conversation that seemingly had no effect as The Jester came back late that evening and refused to speak with any of us for at least two days. 

Failure, as I surmised to be the reason for Jester’s silence, must have been difficult even for our leader to accept. 

Things then went as they always did, and a new normalcy was adapted. We were accomplices to our Ringmaster’s crimes, business partners, all while being animals in cages. Performers in a circus held back by chained puppet strings, and, supposedly, a family, his family, all at the same time.

Family being something Jester would emphasize to us regularly both then and now.

A word we never truly understood the meaning of until after we freed ourselves from The Ringmaster’s grip.

Even as we first left that small town with its dying forest through the cracked walls of an old boxcar, watching the trees blur into the gray sky as we began our journey on the road, our group truly realized that home meant being together through thick and thin. What happened to that town? Those woods? Well, it’s a city now, I believe, one we may be visiting again quite soon from when I’m writing this essay.

However, I heard that the forest is no longer around, a shame, but hardly unexpected.

Not a lesson, dear reader, but rather a fact you are well aware of given the forced nomadic nature of our kind: human progress destroys as much as it creates. I am grateful, of course, for the conveniences we have now as opposed to then, but every home is temporary because of this inevitable truth—nothing is permanent, though that is why we move.

Keep going, dear reader, even if you hate this story and learn nothing, then at least take this one truth to heart. Anyway, back to our tale:

Chains are harder than you think, they’re meant to be of course. But even for our rough skin, they will chafe and cut deeply given enough time. Cuffs can reopen even the oldest of wounds while the cries of ridicule keep them wide and raw. Jester however, remained still, even as he was locked up from head to toe, asking questions the rest of us were too afraid to try.

“Who is this for? Surely you don’t think these meager bonds could hold us.”

The Ringmaster clasped the chains with a wide grin, not meeting The Jester’s eyes, “It’s just for the audience’s sake. They’ll pay more if they think you’ll attack them at a moment’s notice.”

Jester’s mouth twitched at that, unimpressed, “Then why not tell them a story.”

The man finally looked at him with a raised brow, “What? What are you-?”

“Set the stage,” the purple clown’s gaze narrowed, a wide grin returning. “Create the story you know they wish to hear.”

Jester then leans forward, voice as quiet and low as a dark ocean, “Lie to them. I know you’re capable of that much.”

We all stiffened at his words, most of all, the human who our leader had dared spoken to in that tone.

“Your hair.”

Jester blinked, looking at The Ringmaster with a shocked expression. Unsure what to say at the sudden change of subject, mouth slightly open. A look, if I must be frank dear reader, I’d never seen on our leader’s face since.

“It’s too pretty,” the man’s dirty gloves then touch the god’s purple strands, not waiting nor caring for permission, twisting them between chewed nails like a miner crumbling a diamond free from coal.

“Far too smooth….Unnatural…..Freakish…..like all of you….”

Jester still had nothing to say. None of us did, not at least, until The Ringmaster yanked his hair, nearly pulling it from the scalp, his head hitting the front of the man’s belt, face scratched against the metal. Harlequin would later say that his eye had nearly been poked out from the force of his grip, claiming that our leader, Jester, even began to cry, holding his head. Though as a fellow witness to the scene, I assure you that our Jester was fine. 

But he would remember.

Unfortunately, however, this was one of the few times The Jester was wrong.

When he told our benefactor about the chains not being able to hold us, he wasn’t lying but the human proved shrewder than expected…All monsters know what I refer to here, how the strength we gain from devouring human flesh is both a blessing and curse. Though what species doesn’t gain more energy from eating? Food is a power source for our bodies, or at least I’m certain that’s how The Doctor would describe it. Still, The Ringmaster knew this, clever as he was—soon enough the chains that we were told were ornamental became truly binding as the food we were promised became as scarce as the times the man spoke to us with kindness all that time ago in our forest.

Even during good days when The Ringmaster would request Jester for conversation, myself to count up the earnings for the day, or the angel to his side often ended with us in bandages. Smartly, the human made sure to avoid The Pierrot for his strength, Doctor’s unsettling ‘uniqueness’, and Harlequin’s scathing bite when it suited him—or at least that is how I saw it. Sadly, we know that my perspective is limited so I will leave that part up to your interpretation, reader.

The switch, you may ask, from friendship to nightmare is one I cannot describe in a way that makes sense to those who haven’t experienced it.

To me, you see, it all seemed to happen so smoothly, so quickly while staring between the cracks of poorly patched tent through the drilled holes of my cage; though the hunger could have contributed to our poor judgement, I suppose. Cravings of meat were the price we gave our freedoms up for, all so that we’d never experience those empty pains in our stomachs again. How ironic that The Ringmaster would starve us regularly, putting us in the worst position we’d ever been in since those days in our old forest.

Perhaps you are still thinking about our foolish choices, reader. Those thoughts of it being our own fault must be rattling around in that eager mind of yours. Well, if you must feel this way, then at least learn from it. Though I’d urge you again to not discount yourself among the fools of this world, no matter how smart and clever you may seem to be. Why? Because no one, not one creature on this planet is immune to the seductive allure that is the promise of success.

It was this very desire of success that The Ringmaster himself wasn’t willing to compromise his own ill-gained luxuries for. One of many vices of this particular human.

You would think that going from being a tutor of math, to my new human friend  (I as someone who has the intelligence to discuss philosophy and literature in several languages), to being forced into a cage far too small for my body couldn’t make sense to you. Why did we scrub our own cages with burning lye and frayed brushes by hand you may ask? Why did we seemingly accept our new fate when it clearly had taken such a drastic turn for the worse? To answer: fear ….naturally. The idea of disobeying was so frightening, reader, that I would have scrubbed a hundred cages with a mere tooth brush just to avoid another day where my arm was forcibly bent into the opposite direction. The desire to never see the edges of my tongue blacken with thirst again was the only wish I had during those horrible times.

How can I somehow describe to you, make you see, my dear colleague, the reasons we obeyed him so readily? There is nothing I can do but beg for your empathy in a way that humans are unable to give.

If I could provide a map on the correct roads to avoid such circumstances for you, reader, I would, but until then this story will have to do. Maybe now, as you read and re-read what I’ve written here, you will see that things were always meant to turn out this way.

From the beginning, The Ringmaster was a cur who had no heart and soul—though, like the teller of histories I warned you about before, dear reader, this is a bias I am afraid I cannot let go. We found out, as you likely already surmised, that he had no son, or if he did then that child was at boarding school far away from here; perfectly happy with someone who had the ability to care for them. It should come as no surprise that the man lied about many things, everything really, but that is a truth so deeply ingrained in our lives as monsters that it hardly counts as a lesson to be learned.

Jester was closest to The Ringmaster, out of everyone, the betrayal devastated him the most.

The Ringmaster in turn also had a fondness for our leader, it seemed. Though being in the presence of such a superior being such as Jester, how could he not? The Jester, as you have either already met or at least heard of, has a certain air to him doesn’t he? Grace with every movement, words coated in hot silver, eyes as dazzling as gemstones. The Ringmaster wouldn’t be the first human to be drawn to such perfection, as you could imagine, not that any of them are worthy of our leader’s attention. No matter how much our jailer hated us, hurt us, and used our bodies for ridicule and other such demeaning demonstrations for the sake of ‘entertainment’—the circus owner, of that time, was fascinated by our people just the same—Unfortunately, his curiosity only extended so far. This, strangely, I cannot blame him for. After all, now that one has discovered a species far superior to their own said person likely would not want to find more of their kind. Then we’d be far too much trouble than we’re worth to them, and we were worth a lot, reader. At least, as far as I could tell given that I was in charge of the finances.

My skills, while of use to The Ringmaster were something that Jester noticed with sharp precision and appreciated in ways the humans could not. To this day, Jester tells me how important my role has been in maintaining our circus, so I urge you as well, reader, to keep up your studies. You never know whom they may help or what you can create with knowledge alone. The Jester did exactly this: learn. Learn by shadowing Ringmaster everywhere and anywhere he went; noticing the cracks in his business structure as well as the strengths. No matter where or when, Jester always found some excuse or reason to entice the man with honeyed words to spill his secrets:

“Where do you print these tickets? I’ve never seen such fine material. Is it a rare paper from overseas?”

“Ringmaster, sir, your tents are always so immaculate, however do you maintain their luxury?”

“You’re so clever, friend, far more than we, lowly, monsters. Yet I’ve seen you draw-in a crowd with only your top hat and the twirl of a cane. Surely, that must have been a fluke.”

“Yellow tents are for families and orange ones are for the other….salacious shows? So resourceful! Brilliant even. However did you come up with it?”

Jester, over time, through seas of hardship, and with the patience of a newlywed nun, stayed by The Ringmaster’s side for this reason only. Even when humans were carving scars into his back or other such places the now torn purple robes the man had gifted him would hide. All this, for our sake, for our freedom—Jester had a plan unlike no other. The skills Jester learned from the humans atop the ones he already had made it so that our circus thrives to this day. Humans can burn our homes, take our loved ones, and autonomy, but as long as you keep learning, you see, rebuilding what you’ve lost becomes easier over time. Although, perhaps this is insensitive to say. After all, many of you reading this have lost much to get to our safe haven here in the circus. Though again, I urge you, my monstrous kin, to press on. Listen to the whole story and judge after:

Sacrifice, of any kind, is never in vain when it helps to achieve your goals.

Once again, reader I must confess to my own biases here. You see, I always believed The Ringmaster’s ire originated by how threatened he was by our beauty and intellect. We monsters are not the ‘dumb animals’ that he sold to the foolish masses, yet our cages were filthy just the same.

What led me to this conclusion, at least one of the reasons, was how The Ringmaster would look at us a certain way. An oddly lingering gaze similarly seen whenever the human would measure our angel for a new pretty dress to wear; presents she received, as I now note looking back, with less enthusiasm over time.

(Hm….Editor’s Note to Myself: discuss with Jester about whether or not this inclusion is an assumption or fact. It is important to warn our brethren of all the dangers they could face, no matter how unlikely or cruel.)

“What is that?”

Jester eyed the book Ringmaster held in hand. Old red coat now gone to nest rats in some back alley, replaced with a vibrant jacket, lined with gold, boots polished and new now scuffing the human’s freshly cleaned (As I had done before) coffee table of his tent. A tent you see, he had all to himself, as we six shared our space together, cages becoming beds far too small for our bodies to fit comfortably.

The Ringmaster squinted his eyes, lying lazily in his chair, looking at his book but never sparing Jester a glance, “This? It’s a book, you know that.”

Our leader didn’t dare reply to such a demeaning answer, as he recounted to me later, and the silence cut the human like a knife to the head. Next lesson, reader, ego is as much a weapon as it is a weakness, use it. You see, The Ringmaster was a performer, an actor, so to have his audience be silent was simply unacceptable to a showman such as him.

Sighing, the human glanced at his monster ‘friend’, pointing to a painted picture in his thickened novel, “Just a story, kid, there’s a king, here—a duke, princess, knights—“

“And that one?”

Jester then pointed towards the large hatted figure, head tilting, having never seen such an outfit before, “The one that dazzles the room. All eyes are on him…”

“You mean—?” The Ringmaster frowned, creasing his brow at the image.

“His outfit…it shines more than any hand sewn gown or gaudy cape this so-called monarchy of yours wears. A lovely shade of purple….it’s…fascinating.”

“Oh, him,” he chuckled, teeth gleaming in a smile wide enough to show off the man’s gold fillings, “well, he is far more powerful than any king, nobleman, or law man can be.”

My leader then tilted his head.

“And?”

The Ringmaster barked a laugh, “Idiot! That’s just The Court Jester! He doesn’t have any power, ya fool! I’m surprised at you! Able to take my queen with two pawns on the chessboard, but you mistake a servant for royalty? Set your eyes elsewhere, monster, you got a show to rest up for.”

The air stilled with new change and rising ideas.

“Does a Jester,” the purple one continued despite the ridicule of the human, “sit with the royalty at all times?”

With a sigh, The Ringmaster knew this subject would not be let go so easily.

“Yes, I suppose, Jesters even entertain visiting dignitaries and the like, stick around to keep them company, but just to play and perform,” the human picks at his teeth, pulling the book away from view. “Nothing important.”

Jester then paused at this, brow furrowing.

“Isn’t what we do important?”

Ringmaster then paused, shoulders stiff and fingers bending the corners of the hard cover novel into triangular curls. The Jester’s eyes roam over his form, to the book, the chair, the fancy coat bought from the money we made for him, and up to the man’s tired face.

“Of course it is,” the human’s voice closed along with the book in hand, a tone we all knew to indicate the end of a conversation, “as long as fools exist and booze is cheap.”

From there, Jester’s plan grew, smiling widely as he silently left the room, chains rattling on weary ankles. And now we come to one of the most important lessons you see, faithful reader, one you may in fact already know but it bears emphasis:

Learn from your enemy.

If a mere ‘Court Jester’ was allowed to sit with dignitaries, overhear important conversations, and be educated enough to use this information wisely….well….

Oddly enough, our Ringmaster did have a point about something that day:

Fools, or at least the idea of them, are pivotal in helping one achieve their goals.

“Smile,” Jester urged the poison of our circus with a strained grin. “Never forget that, Harlequin. You must keep smiling.”

The green one grimaced, “Oh, ‘must’ we? What difference does it make? They’ll still shove those pointed sticks in our ribs either way thanks to that whimpering idiot over there.”

“I didn’t know…” a weak voice mumbled, looking away from us, shivering in their slightly larger cage. “I swear I didn’t!”

Jester stared at The Pierrot with an empathetic gaze, reaching out to brush a strand of silver from the sad creature’s eyes.

“We know. He told you to gather firewood, didn’t he?”

The Harlequin scoffed, frowning, “What a fool…didn’t it seem strange to you that he asked you to sharpen those sticks too?”

“I—I didn’t—he said it would burn faster—I…I’m sorry…”

I sighed, removing a splinter or two from my injured forearm, “They paid a lot for those sticks….perhaps he’ll be in a good mood later and feed us something fresh this time…”

“All of you,” Jester stood, well he stood as well as he could in a cramped cage, “keep smiling. Particularly when the humans are around.”

“That will likely hurt our faces after a long period of time,” The Doctor spoke up.

Ah, Doctor….expertly, even then, he did what he could to bandage our injuries despite only being able to work with the dirty rags of what was left of our clothing. Unfortunately, our dear Doctor couldn’t always help as he was often bound with far more chains than any of us due to his frightening appearance.

Another word of caution, reader, for those of us who have larger statures and less, what they cruelly call, ‘human’ features, will always be regarded with more fear and hatred than anyone else. At times, The Ringmaster wouldn’t let our Doctor out of his cage for any reason, simply because he often unintentionally scared away paying customers with his magnificent figure. It’s difficult to say whether or not this has affected The Doctor to this day though he is seldom found outside his tent. Often refusing to shop with myself and the rest of the circus, but, at the same time, The Doctor does love his experiments and now has the freedom to work as long as he likes. So, who is to say what is habit or traumatically learned behavior, really?

Oh right, where were we?

“W-where is—I have to—?” The Pierrot suddenly noticed the absence of his angel and began to panic.

Harlequin turned away from the whimpering creature, “Must you always have your eyes on her? You know where she is…”

“…Oh.”

Jester however, as superior and wonderful as he is, kept us focused on task. The angel was of no concern just yet, he told us, but again emphasized the importance of a smile. At the time, I admit my own ignorance into his plan—then again, I was rather distracted with a few stab wounds to tend. Essentially however, Jester made sure we all kept smiling even during the worst pain….and reader…..dearest reader…. You must believe me when I say:

It worked.

There is a reason our masks are usually in the form of a smile, for you see, to grin when faced with danger is something that would unsettle even the boldest human.

Thus, we began our coup of The Ringmaster’s reign, with a smile.

Smiling with our teeth and strange faces kept people from getting too close. Unlike The Harlequin’s strategy, who used to growl and taunt the humans behind his barred cage, this was effective. Harlequin’s mannerisms, that admittedly I and the others used to employ, seemed to only bring the humans back—worse yet, with anger and revenge in their hearts. How ironic though, that Harlequin became the one who smiles the most out of any of us now in the circus, though I could not say so for under his mask.

It is possible then, that a smile can be a shield as well as a sword at the same time—if nothing else, then let that be the lesson to take here.

Ah and here we are, my monstrous companion! If you have made this far, then you know we are at the climax of this epic. The moment of all moments, where myth destroys all human concepts of reality—fiction and truth are blurred and we become: The Freak Circus of Horrors. For you see, The Ringmaster, horrible man that he was, decided after months of us driving customers away with our unsettling smiles and strangely calm demeanors in the face of their wrath, to get rid of….most….of us.

Us..The very creatures he promised he’d treat as family. Looking back, perhaps the human did treat us in the same way had his own blood-related family as shown by a lone picture that laid buried and torn in the breast of his coat pocket. Fitting, though, that the one record of the pitiful man’s old life eventually burned with the rest of his belongings when we were done eating our fill.

Once our fates were decided, The Jester came up with a plan, a brilliant means and an unfortunate but necessary sacrifice that burns in my heart to this day. But dearest reader, I find it important to keep the end goal of our actions in mind as I tell you truly what happened that moonless night we took back our lives through force and sacrifice. More than a recounting, this is a confession, an origin of our family as we made it without the need of human support.

That day, or night, rather, I remember being cold, starved, kneeling on the sticky floor of our cages in barely enough rags to cover my naked form. Only for the next morning to reek of burnt flesh and singed grass as sunrise gently caressed our Jester’s body in a halo of gold. A sight that was so mesmerizing that I could not help but kneel to our beneficent god after everything had happened in awe; giving him the title of leader which he accepted either out of obligation or the desire to make things right—A fact, I admit, I do not know.

But I am getting ahead of myself, patient reader. You wish to know what happened, how we finally became free and a true family and the difficult choices that were made along the way. It all began—

“Bil, care to explain what it is you’re doing in the main tent at this hour?”

The TicketTaker jumped in his seat, quill in hand slightly scattering the ink he’d just dabbed into the nearby well on his desk. Turning, though less surprised than before, there stood Jester, standing tall, arms behind his back, magnificent as ever in the blue clown’s vision. Amethyst eyes narrow at the piles of paper on the ticketer’s makeshift desk, as though silently repeating the question TicketTaker knew wouldn’t be asked again. Every query was an order given by The Jester, and to show your devotion to such a wonderful leader was simply to obey.

“Y-Yes, apologies,” the ticketer stood from his chair, adjusting the seat before facing his leader, back straight. “Harlequin’s tent is closest to mine this season, Jester, and, well, the poison recently brought two fools inside—Ahem, he’s being rather loud so—“

Jester hummed, knowing, “Of course, I will be sure to have a talk with him later then. But you didn’t finish answering my question, did you now?”

The TicketTaker stiffened at that fact, shame coloring his face while holding back a smile at how sharp his wonderful leader was. Jester never was one to miss a beat.

“I was writing a rough draft,” the blue one answered calmly, “of that guide, the one I spoke with you about the other day, for the black tent guests to use.”

“….I see,” Jester sighed.

“Yes, I-I know you weren’t originally too keen on the idea, Jes,” TicketTaker began to clasp his suddenly sweaty hands behind his back. “But many of our kind have wondered how we manage to survive and thrive in such a human-dominated world. They have questions….”

The amethyst clown held back another sigh, walking towards his ticketer with long and even strides. Stepping softly as a dancer would on the edge of a stage. His eyes glanced downward at the pages on the desk, the latest one still wet with ink, though this hadn’t deterred Jester from picking up the pile just the same.

“If they have such burning queries, then simply direct our more ‘curious’ guests to my tent. I will take care of the rest,” Jester said with some finality in his voice before softening it at the end. “You needn’t shoulder all the burden, old friend.”

TicketTaker’s eye then shot directly to Jester almost desperately.

“I-it’s no burden, really! I—forgive me,” the blue clown caught his enthusiasm. “I acted hastily, but….You are just…so inspiring, Jester. Your story has power. Perhaps, if we could teach the newest generation the means to survive out there from your good example. Then, perhaps, things could be easier for some. Naturally, I would burn the documents if you still didn’t approve, but--”

“But?” Jester raised a brow, gaze narrowed but steady.

The TicketTaker winced at that, knowing that such was the main reason as to why Jester hadn’t approved of the idea originally.

“I..made sure to keep things vague…”

Gripping the documents in hand, Jester’s claws brushed against the edges of the paper, eyes raking over the text with a long and steady leer.

“Do not speak of this to anyone, Bilheteiro,” he said with finality, not facing him. “Your actions were done out of kindness, my friend, I know, but it is simply too risky to have such documents around where any lone rat can find.”

The TicketTaker nodded, feelings not hurt as they could never be; Jester’s logic was always sound, always had purpose. So, for the blue clown, his leader, his god, could never be wrong. Bowing, he listened carefully to Jester’s words and silently allowed him to continue.

“Those under our care will have to settle for the stories our performances tell, or you will direct those who are unsatisfied with such to me. That goes for the rest of our group as well.”

TicketTaker straightens his back, “At your command, my leader. Would you like me to burn the pages, then?”

The Jester looks over his loyal follower up and down, slowly. A glance that made Bil feel some heat under his mask at the thought of being such an object of focus from his idol. Still, The TicketTaker was nothing if not a master of hiding emotions, though he knew deep down that Jester could always see right through him—hesitant, embarrassed, or otherwise.

“I will take care of it, meu Bilheteiro. It’s late,” Jester says while calmly laying a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Go. Rest for tomorrow where you will be needed at your best.”

TicketTaker’s heart sped upon hearing his full name said in such a way, immediately calming himself, knowing he must control his emotions, be the person Jester needed. Noting idly with one pearl white eye, the ticketer saw his leader hold the documents, now fully dry, to his chest, and nodded.

“Anything you wish, Jester,” The TicketTaker bowed before walking out of the tent only after the purple clown gestured again with his spare hand, signaling him to leave.

An autumn wind blows a few leaves inside as the flapping of the cloth entrance is the only sound available when The Jester is finally alone. Glancing over his shoulder, the leader makes sure his companion has truly left, a pleasant flowery scent no longer near before turning back to the pages he held.

“Still writing with quill, hm?” Jester notes, amused. “Perhaps, I should get him a proper fountain pen…”

Turning off the last spare lamp, the leader made sure to have a talk with The Harlequin and his noise issues. Fools were amusing, of course, but not at the expense of one’s good night sleep. Light wasn’t necessary for their kind, but it provided a nice atmosphere for writing, surely, as Jester noticed the sheer amount of pages his TicketTaker wrote. Sighing again, he exits the now empty tent, heading towards his own private quarters that had a nice pit for a small fire to burn the incriminating documents.

On the way through the circus, just to glance, surely, simply to amuse, Jester began reading the story Bil composed. Only to raise a brow at some moments, frown at others, and remember things the leader tried daily to forget. Occasionally, Jester found Bil’s word choices amusing. Of course, The TicketTaker would compare him to an epic hero or a god of all things. The thought was truly flattering, even if a part of him knew the praise was a tad overkill. Knowing that the blue clown’s devotion was true as ever filled Jester with a deep sense of satisfaction, however. A god? Perhaps he was, depending on who you ask. It was a comfort, to be sure, that sort of reverence. The type of power that never ensured he’d be on his knees again, chained, and at the mercy of another. Jester decided just then, with a small smirk, that he liked Bil’s words as it seemingly justified his proverbial throne in this circus of freaks. Never again would the purple clown allow someone else to hold the reins, not when the leader of the circus incessantly wrapped that leash tightly around his arm enough to cut off the circulation. In fact, Jester would rather give up that hypothetically bound limb rather than be under someone else’s power….never again. 

However, certain moments in the tickter’s story….were a little too close to home, something Jester noted with another frown, while passing by the pink tent in particular.

It also stood out how The TicketTaker assumed much about the way Jester felt in certain moments; emphasizing how deeply the purple clown must have hated his jailer. Naturally, Jester did…he does... Their shared rage at The Ringmaster’s gradual betrayal was surely never in question, but the writing brought back memories. Such as the sound of the human’s cold voice mixed with his honeyed words struck Jester to stop dead in his tracks in the middle of the circus. Feelings The Jester had long since buried began to slowly crawl out of him, though his figure remained still, not betraying the strength it exuded even then. Smaller details, such as referring to Columbina as merely ‘the angel’ was both a tribute to her sacrifice and innocence as much as it was an insult. Jester knew this, of course, why Bil wrote things the way he did—Why he avoided talking about her, despite the angel being the catalyst of the leader’s coup.

Regardless, it had to be done—a thought that helped the clown push back those old feelings and began walking to his tent once more, bones chilling under toughened skin. The Jester was not sorry for what he had to do, he wasn’t. To this day, however, he wasn’t sure if he was sorry that it happened at all.

“Bil was right about one thing,” the amethyst clown muttered under his breath, still walking with pages crinkling in hand. “The reader of this tale could never truly understand….”

However, the words his subordinate said mere moments ago echoed painfully, annoyingly as well, in The Jester’s mind:

‘Your story has power.’

Biting his lip while smiling only to curve downward into a frown, Jester began fighting his own mind to prevent another memory from resurfacing—a far more potent one. The leader of The Freak Circus was an intellect, controlling everything, body and mind. Nevertheless, there were some things his brain wished to go back to that Jester had no control over. Bracing himself, eyes now glazed and somewhat lethargic in stance while forcing himself to the front of his tent, did he succumb to the torture his own mind wished to wrought. Nostalgia and old pain rattled his bones like wind against a planks of rotted wood as the world around him began to change to what was rather than what is.

For a moment, before another memory took over, Jester recalled the beginning of Bil’s written story.

That day…where The Ringmaster pulled on his hair, nearly taking Jester’s eye out with a belt. Mercifully, The TicketTaker didn’t describe what actually happened, or perhaps, as the amethyst clown wondered while using a free hand to grip his chest, Bil hadn’t remembered. Thank goodness….

Jester recalls being pushed to the ground, in front of everyone by his once friend, eyes wide and in shock at what had happened. The dull burn of his scalp ached even now in the present day. Arms coming around, papers forgotten but still in hand, as the leader of the circus recalls being in the same position in the mud; staring at the human he trusted with a gradually sinking heart. How he looked up at The Ringmaster, curling into a ball like a tiny weak pill bug—a shameful pose but he couldn’t help it. All Jester could do was instinctively shield himself from the continuing assault, waiting to be struck again.

And he was…

Over and over….

Rough patterned skin matted to the clay of the ground, sinking his body deep enough to cake his legs in the stuff for days to come. 

It seemed that this however was omitted from The TicketTaker’s story, but Jester wasn’t sure at that moment whether that bothered him or if he was actually thankful for the considerate nature of his oldest friend.

Once more however, the leader’s treacherous mind began to play another scenario.

The scene of the dark, comforting circus soon melted away to the warm lights of an interior that made Jester’s body stiffen as though he were preparing himself to be struck by a thick glass bottle even now. Funny that, the way the past can still make you feel as though it’s still happening despite knowing it couldn’t again—Jester’s final thought before the scene floods his vision, blurring into the circus as he knows it and knew it, his mind plays a story exactly as it was, one he had no interest in recalling ever again:

It was nighttime still, at least this he was certain of.

The Ringmaster always asked for him at six pm on the dot, every day, no exceptions. Refusing to let the monster go until ten at the earliest, personal evenings lost because of this selfish demand. It became so instinctual to be taken from his cage at six o’clock that even in the present day circus would Jester, on occasion, feel an itch in his skin; as though knowing he needed to be somewhere else. Rubbing his wrists to make sure the chains that were once there had been taken off, knowing logically of course that they weren’t still on his wrists though the memory showing them plain as day hardly helped his current frantic state. It had become such a natural thing in his formative years that the feeling of rough iron always returned whenever he saw another human face.

So many faces Jester sees during every performance, so much iron….the taste of blood not helping.

In this memory, while sitting in the tent of his once friend near a human who was every bit as cruel as The TicketTaker described in his story, there was one detail about The Ringmaster that made Jester’s heart ache in ways he refused to admit. The fact that their shared enemy, the man who hurt, lied and imprisoned them, could have been so much more—the loss of that potential is something Jester mourns with every strum of a stringed instrument in his tent. A human, not of high intelligence nor means, but a lover of books, an artist, musician, and above all a tragically pathetic figure. Not that Jester cared, not any more….but the lingering sense of pity his body seemed to recall made him want to vomit in the midst of this memory his treacherous mind forced him to relive.

“Have you made progress on your newest song?” the amethyst clown had asked.

The Ringmaster however, finishes his drink, at first ignoring Jester’s question; tongue out digging in the neck the empty bottle as though a drop more would satisfy his unending thirst.

“Why bother?” The man groggily responded. “There isn’t any power in my music—no one has good taste anyway.”

An answer he often gave to silence the topic of his skills that society ignored. The monster however refused to obey Ringmaster’s wishes this time. Determined, with one last strand of hope in his chest to return to those days where they were happy, singing, and merry by a small fire in the woods.

“You have power,” Jester lowered himself, kneeling on the ground in front of The Ringmaster’s chair as he knew it was the only way he could be heard by the arrogant man. “We are performers, Court Jesters who stand by kings, queens, and nobles, but they do not mind our presence. We can use this invisibility, friend! Take us out of our cages, let us monsters tell stories with your songs to accompany. Such a show would shake the Earth itself, can’t you see? Draw a crowd no other; making those kings who rejected you reflect on their errors in judgement—like that play we read together.”

“Hamlet?” Muttered The Ringmaster who fingered the empty bottle in hand while never breaking eye contact with his favorite monster.

“Naturally, it won’t have the same ending,” Jester’s fingers tap against the chair the human sat in like fingers on a piano, restless, ready to compose the most beautiful of songs if given the chance. One of many talents the clown mournfully knew his companion was capable of should he have tried.

Carefully, almost hesitantly, Jester reaches out with a clawed hand. Palm facing upward in a silent means to indicate to the human that he wouldn’t hurt him. Waiting patiently, The Ringmaster allowed it, and Jester held his free hand with a calmness he vowed to never bestow on another human again.

“Our story won’t become a tragedy that ends in bloodshed. We could…make this circus grander; your story has power after all. A play within a play. The entire circus could be a stage where we could all be safe, sated, and…free within its tented walls.”

The Ringmaster scoffs yet he holds Jester’s hand only a fraction tighter, “And what do you know about power? About running a damn business like this?”

“I know,” The Jester’s throat is dry but voice steady, “from your good example.”

Grasping the human’s soft hand in his own, Jester as we know him now recalls his warmth with sickening dread; feeling it still in his palm as though the man were still there. Round human pads against roughly clawed skin, one would never have thought such a lesser species could have thrived more than monster-kind—or cause far more scars in their thick hides than any other natural beast on this planet. Ringmaster then looked at Jester with some clarity in his drunken eyes, a glance that once filled the clown with foolish hope that his words had reached his old friend.

Though the human’s sobering gaze had also been part of Jester’s plan back then as well.

At times, the clown carefully diluted some of the man’s beer bottles with water—mostly, of course, to avoid yet another drunken beating from Ringmaster but worst of all….Jester was…..worried, annoyingly so, at the health of his friend. As though he wanted to preserve him for as long as possible. Why? The answer was too grotesque for the clown to admit, even to himself.

Leaning forward, the human is now a breath away from Jester who remains still as untouched water, waiting for a response. Wanting more, and hungering for their conversation to continue, until…

“Get me another,” The Ringmaster says plainly.

And Jester’s heart began to sink before coating the last bit of its flesh with hard steel.

Naturally, the monster wasn’t surprised at this response, but disappointment and failure were emotions Jester would come to associate with this sack of useless flesh. Horrid man, what a fool! Did he even listen to Jester’s words? The opportunity he’s squandered? The fate he just sealed? No…of course not. So much power, this human had, potential…lost. A waste of a man.

“Have you written any music lately?” Jester asked, clinging to faith even as it just let him go as he hung on the edge of a cliff. “Those songs on the Viola de buriti you showed me in private last month, there is so much you could be doin—“

The man clicked his teeth, head gesturing again, angrily at the bottle he’d asked for.

Jester seethes while he stands, and eventually hands the man his coveted prize, with a glare. Carefully, Jester pries the empty bottle from the human as well—more out of concern for his own safety than The Ringmaster’s now that all hope was truly dashed. Worse off, nothing else could be accomplished this night other than getting out of the human’s tent in one piece. Though the chances Ringmaster had accepted Jester’s idea were slim to begin with, the monster had been hopeful his words reached him in some way.

Useless creatures these humans are. If they would only obey The Jester, or any of monster kind without question, then they would be able to be of ‘some’ use at least.

“Tell me about how you like Steinbeck’s pretentious prose,” the man’s voice grows hoarse, mouth drying which only feeds his need for him to drink more. “You always have such high opinions of the man. I suppose you had a point before….uh?….About his biblical references…but the guy never shuts up about those damn mountains!”

Jester stays still, standing in front of the sitting pitiful human, noting his disheveled outfit and sprawled knees almost angrily, but happy at the same time. Angry at the potential wasted, the power this man had over him—happy….however….because now Jester had the freedom to go through with his plan to escape his cage. Now that The Ringmaster had graciously showed him that there was no hope for humans and monsters in this horrid circus, Jester had nothing left to lose. 

No regrets, hope for more, no more pity.

Though for now, Jester would pretend to revel in literary discussion with The Ringmaster. He may even be able to change the human’s mind regarding Steinbeck and Kafka, but it was foolish to think he could do so in regards to how the man ran his struggling business. It would be difficult however, to just pretend to talk about novels and plays as though things were normal. Every word in their conversation would feel like hot lead in Jester’s belly, but go on he must—for now, so that the plan would work.

“I…would be delighted to, Ringmaster,” Jester ended with some venom in his tone.

The Ringmaster’s wrist then flicks in Jester’s direction before the monster can begin speaking again, and the sinking feeling returns ten-fold in the now dimly lit room. Reality finally bringing out the clown as we know him in present day. Slowly slinking back to his familiar circus of horrors instead of the human’s oppressive tent, right as the Ringmaster’s last order echoed like a fading alarm in the back of Jester’s mind.

“Get back on your knees, fucking arrogant creature. I’m the king of this castle, not you.”

The monster’s jaw clicked at that as he knelt by his human’s side, ever the loyal Court Jester, fulfilling the role given to him by a lost and mad king.

That night, certain fates had been decided and finally Jester was back in his own reality, mind finally freeing him of the shackles of memory.

Autumn leaves cracked under the leader’s boots as he finally entered his tent, finished with The TicketTaker’s story, ready to watch it burn. So there he stood, in a dark room, not needing the light, grabbing some tinder and throwing it in a pit. Only one lone claw against flint caused a spark and suddenly the tent grew as bright as his jeweled eyes, sparkling, waiting to be fed. Fire and monsters were so similar weren’t they?

Never satisfied, always hungry.

As The Jester tore the pages of his would-be biography he first reached into his pocket, grabbing a lone lighter and singing the edges of the paper before sending it into the fire. Eyes lingering on his name, the man’s name, the inaccurate illustrations of what was, a thought occurred to the leader just then. Head then tilted to a piece of large parchment on his desk, a map of destinations for the circus, places they’ve been and yet to be. Jester’s smile fades as he notices in that tent, during autumn, under a moonless sky, the next city their circus was destined to visit in a month or so.

“Ah…how nostalgic,” arms then cross behind his back as he turns back to the small pit of fire, expression neutral and cold.

That fateful night when the group of monsters surrounded The Ringmaster who betrayed them under the very same cold, moonless sky. The background which was strangely outlined by the smell of fire and the cinders of a lost dream. A dream that Jester had wished to see accomplished with all of his heart, if only the circus had not been run by an absolute fool. Irresponsibility and cruelty made this happen, not the monsters who would be blamed; it stoked the flames behind the figures as they stood in that clearing, standing tall and strong while everything The Ringmaster worked for crumbled. The remaining humans either laid on the ground, their useless forms read to be of some use in nature, or scattered about from the disaster their group wrought. How poetic it was, that day, to see humans resemble squirrels in the forest running at the slightest sound. 

Nothing felt truer to life ever since to the monsters then–animals pissing themselves out of fear.

What could be more natural than that?

Jester recalls with clarity, while putting his lighter away after a few clicks, the man’s expression on the ground; his own claws covered in blood, teeth glowing at night, and hatred hot enough to melt the iron chains that used to bruise the monster’s wrists. It was cathartic (how could it not be?) to see this ‘king’ trembling with fear, the same fear he’d seen when they met. What was wrong then? About all of this? What did he feel? Hatred yes….but worst of all….

Jester mourned.

“O que poderia ter sido,” he swallowed heavily with a growl.

Is it even possible to cry over someone who both lifted your spirits and spat viciously in your face in one breath? Does it make sense to care about what could have been when you overheard the one you cared about brag to his friends and audience alike about how ‘clever’ he was in tricking those ‘mindless beasts’ into their cages? How much it burns the edges of your eyes, knowing that he was right?

Why did he call out to Jester at the end? Why bother?

Did he truly expect mercy after everything?”

“My…..my…?!”

The Ringmaster could only say this, reaching out to him, to the monster he used to love playing chess with. Only for Jester’s calloused but clawed foot to lodge deep into the man’s sternum, keeping the human heaving on the ground. Leaning down, the once great Ringmaster could swear he saw a light outline of Jester's hovering body despite there being no moon to be found; beautiful, terrifying in his stance. Staring at the once great Ringmaster with glee, delighted in the spoils of his victory. Finally, Jester was the one standing tall while he sank deeper into the mud. A grin, wider than humanly possible appeared on the purple monster’s face as he said:

“No no, not ‘my’ but rather ‘ours’, friend. You do know what that word means, don’t you?”

What was the point in forgiveness if the person who hurt you never intended to change until it finally suited their needs?

“Please—wait! I’m sorry! SORRY!” He cried.

It doesn’t matter how badly Jester wished he could hear his songs again, revel in those memories without wanting to scream…the days he only remembered under the covers in a travel cot, coated in the dark. Cold nights brought back painful recollections to Jester, ones so haunting that he wanted to pull at his eye lids and gnaw at a rod of metal until his teeth left pointed dents all over.

Amethyst eyes locked on the human that night, full of rage, chest puffed, haughty and delighted in his victory. Creatures of all colors except one bore into the human’s shivering form on the ground. Dewey grass soaked into their jailer’s once fine clothing before that along with his flesh and bone were torn to pieces after one word from the monster’s new appointed leader:

“Eat.”

Victory however, was not as sweet as the monster thought it would be.

The first thought Jester had as his teeth dug into Ringmaster’s neck were their games of chess of all things. Confusion, anger, fondness, as well as a rising ball of bile in his throat is all he could feel as the monster tore the man’s esophagus out, crushing his once talented hands with heavy claws.

Every sip the human took of that vile brown elixir, every cracked bone Jester endured, the endless sight of blood pooling atop broken glass, the feeling of salt in his throat, the stains, and the ripping of skin from the sticky metal floors of his cage all mixed together in that moment creating a gray blob of batter. As though his mind acted as a chef putting too many incompatible ingredients in a mixing bowl hoping for the colors of a rainbow and instead getting a pile of blobby mush.

Memories of The Ringmaster’s few kind words and gentle promises as he killed him were one of the reasons why softness something The Jester could no longer stand. A sword far sharper than anything he used to hurt his enemies and lovers alike.

It was best, was it not, to break soft things until they learned their place in this world. Until they realized that if they’re not strong enough to think for themselves then The Jester would happily set them on a far more…useful path.

Light, though low, from the small flame inside his private tent illuminated what it could with its now dimming embers. Small sparks touched the edges of the bells on Jester’s boots, reflecting his bed, chest, and desk as well as the few other possessions he kept nearby.

Resting behind the large box by his cot, almost hidden if one didn’t look closely, was an object that caught the leader’s attention as soon as a bit of flame reflected in its shiny strings. Arms stiffening, Jester’s skin bristled under his tight gloves at the sight of the eerily familiar object—

How could he have forgotten? When did he take it out?

Walking towards the chest, Jester opens it with ease, carefully placing the object inside, so as not to accidentally tear the wires attached to it with his sharp claws.

Eyes narrowed further as his other hand grasps the lid of his private crate, closing it slowly with a low creek as the fire finally dies out; all traces of The TicketTaker’s story travel upward in the air before becoming ash in the ground. With the box finally shut, Jester knew immediately that he wouldn’t get any rest that night. Pulling a key out from a hidden pocket in his coat, the purple clown finally locks the box with the Viola de buriti now safely tucked inside; making a mental note to have the instrument stored elsewhere once the circus arrives at their next destination.

----

----------

--------------

A/N: This story took a lot out of me, emotionally speaking, drudged a lot of personal experiences and placed them in this story haha. Not everything of course but man I was drained for dayyyys. Special thanks again to DarthSuki for beta reading and Neko for being the amazing person he is <3 greatest friends ever tbh. <3333

You sat alone on the low stone ledge that ringed the courtyard, the late-autumn sun doing little to chase the chill from your bones. Across the cracked pavement, a young couple stood wrapped in each other’s arms, pressed so close it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Their laughter floated on the wind, soft and intimate, the kind of sound that belonged solely to those who have never once doubted their ability to touch and be touched in return.

They moved together like reeds in the wind, foreheads resting against one another, fingers curled into the fabric at the small of each other’s backs as though letting go might spell the end of their world. When they finally parted, it was only far enough to breathe; their hands found each other instantly, fingers knitting together with ease, knuckles brushing, thumbs tracing idle circles over warm skin. They walked away like that, tethered together in a way they have probably never thought about twice.

You can’t look away.

Only when the courtyard empties and the wind carries the last echo of their footsteps do you finally drop your gaze to your own hands. They rest palm-up on your thighs, unmarred, but useless. Slowly, deliberately, you lace your fingers together the way you had just watched them do, tight, then tighter still, trying to mimic the pressure, the heat, the simple comfort of another person’s living skin against your own.

It felt cold, hollow. A cruel pantomime of everything you can never have.

Because you had never, not once in centuries of borrowed lifetimes, been touched the way ordinary people touch one another. Every accidental brush in a crowd, every desperate grab during combat, every hesitant handshake offered by someone who didn’t know any better yet, had all ended the same. The moment bare skin met bare skin, you stole from them. A heartbeat, a month, a year; whatever fragment of life you unwillingly siphoned before they jerked away in horror or crumpled, suddenly older, suddenly closer to death because you had dared to brush too close to them.

Decades had passed since anyone had risked it.  

Decades since you had felt the deliberate weight of another person’s hand on your skin, the slide of fingers through your hair, the press of a palm against your back in comfort or desire or simple friendship. You couldn’t even remember what temperature human skin was supposed to be. You had forgotten the difference between the slickness of sweat and the softness of someone else’s breath against your neck.

Even your own hands are foreign to you now, like they belong to someone else entirely.

“Come on, let’s get going.”

Nanami’s low voice cuts through the haze. You startle, yanking your fingers apart quickly. Heat floods your face, you shove both hands deep into the pockets of your uniform jacket as though hiding evidence, then rise too quickly, knees stiff from sitting too long in the cold.

“There’s a situation in Shinagawa” he continues, already turning toward the gates. “They want us on site.”

You falls into step beside him, the familiar rhythm of boots on stone grounding you as you fished your phone from your coat. The report loaded, erratic cursed-energy spikes, civilians transfigured into unrecognisable shapes, no clear grade on the special-grade suspect yet. You grunt in acknowledgment, scrolling.

Nanami glances sideways. “They haven’t classified it. We go in assuming the worst.” His jaw is a hard line, brows drawn low, the small tells of a man who hates unknowns. “Itadori, Fushiguro, and Kugisaki are shadowing us for field experience. Their safety is our priority. Understood?”

You manage a faint smile at the thought of the first-years. Yuji’s ridiculous pink hair that always looked impossibly soft; Nobara’s bright eyes and even brighter personality; and Megumi’s perpetual stormy scowl that you secretly wanted to smooth away with a thumb the way a parent might.

You wanted to ruffle that fluffy hair until Yuji laughed and ducked.  

You wanted to tap the tip of Nobara’s nose just to watch her swat at you and threaten violence.  

You wanted to rest a hand on Megumi’s head and tell him, without words, that the weight of the world didn’t have to be his to shoulder alone.

But you never would.

Your hands stay buried in your pockets, curled into fists so tight the knuckles ached, as you follow Nanami toward the gate and whatever waited in Shinagawa, toward the one place where your touch was nothing more than another weapon. 

… 

The sky over Shinagawa had turned the colour of dried blood, thick with drifting ash and the copper reek of transfigured corpses. What had started as a containment mission had, in the space of a single heartbeat, become the single worst day of your long, cursed life.

Ryomen Sukuna stood in the centre of the ruined intersection like a god who had grown bored with this game, four arms flexing lazily, laughing in four different registers. Every step he took cracked the asphalt. Every breath he took felt like annihilation.

You and Nanami had never been meant for this. No one was.

“Nanami!”

Your voice cracks as you hurl yourself backward, boots skidding across broken glass. A wave of cursed energy carved the air where your head had been a half-second earlier. Sukuna’s face split into that wide, maniacal grin that meant someone was about to stop existing.

Nanami slides in behind you, tie already knotted tight around his knuckles, sleeves rolled high, sweat cutting tracks through the grime on his temples. Three hours of nonstop fighting had left him hollow-eyed, but his stance still never wavers.

“We need to fall back” he barks, Ratio Technique flaring as he drives a precise, brutal strike toward Sukuna’s ribs. “Regroup with—”

Sukuna twists away from the blow as though it were a breeze, laughing loud enough to rattle windows three blocks away.

“He’s not letting us leave!” you shout, voice raw. You slam your palms together, dragging a brutal fistful of years from your own lifespan, twenty… thirty, you stop counting, and turn the stolen time into a searing lance of cursed energy. The beam hits Sukuna square in the chest, forcing him back two whole steps. It was the first time anything had moved him all day.

Nanami’s eyes flick to you, wide with refusal. “Y/N—”

“Take the kids and go!” You didn’t look at him; you couldn’t afford to. Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara were crouched behind an overturned bus, pale and shaking. “I’ll buy you the minutes you need.”

“You’ll die.”

“No” you said, sharp enough to cut metal. “I won’t, I never do”

Something in your tone made Nanami go still. His eyes search your face for one heartbeat longer, then he gives you a single, curt nod and vanishes toward the first-years.

You turn back to the King of Curses.

He was already strolling forward again, unhurried, delighted.

“Alright” you mutter, rolling your shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

Your reserves are like a dying candle. Distance attacks are finished. There is only one option left now.

You need to close the gap. Touch him. Steal whatever monstrous lifespan he possesses and turn it into power.

You run straight at him.

The fight becomes nothing but fists and instinct. No technique, no elegance; just survival. His punches land like sledgehammers, every impact drives the air from your lungs, cracked ribs, split skin. You taste metal with every breath. You kept reaching, fingers brushing air again and again as he bats your hands away like gnats.

“Come on!” he crows, foot slamming into your sternum and sending you tumbling across the dirt. Gravel shredding your uniform, your palms. You roll, coughing blood, pushing upright on shaking arms. You spit a red clot into the dust before you look up again.

Sukuna’s crimson eyes glitter. “Weak” he sighs. “Far too weak for me.”

“Yeah” you rasp, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. A crooked, reckless grin pulled at your split lip. “Maybe. But you still won’t be able to kill me.”

The words light something feral behind his eyes. In less than a blink he is on you, fist burying itself in your stomach hard enough to lift you off your feet. Pain explodes white-hot. Your vision tunnels, darkness carving in from all sides.

On pure reflex you clutch at the front of his robe, anchoring yourself to him so you wouldn’t fly. Your right hand snakes between two of his blocking arms and slams flat against the centre of his bare chest.

You brace for the rush, the familiar, sickening flood of stolen life pouring into your veins like molten sunlight.

It never came. There was nothing.

Just skin. Warm, living skin beneath your palm.

For one impossible second the world narrows to that single point of contact. You feel the steady thump of a beating heart beneath muscle and bone. You feel the faint texture of markings under your fingertips, the impossible heat radiating off him.

Your head tilts, slow and curious, like a cat discovering a new sound.

Sukuna has gone perfectly still. His hand raised, claws extended for the killing blow, hovered inches from your throat.

You lift your palm a fraction, stare at it in open wonder, then press it back down again, harder, as if testing whether reality might change if you pushed firmly enough. Your fingers splay wide, tracing the ridges of muscle, the slight give of flesh. 

It so warm, alive…real.

You look up at him, eyes bright with something dangerously close to joy.

“Do you feel that?” you whisper, voice trembling on the edge of hysterical laughter.

Sukuna’s lip curls, baring sharp canines. “I’m going to kill you” he hisses, low and venomous.

You don’t hear him. All you can do is stare at your own hand as though it belongs to a stranger. His next slash came fast, aimed to remove the offending limb at the wrist.

It stops short though when he realises you aren’t even looking at it, you’re not bothering to defend yourself. You were ignoring him completely, lost in the simple miracle of touch.

“You ignoring me, brat?” he snarls, stepping back, letting your fingers sleep free.

“Come here” you breathe, reaching with both hands now, palms open and hungry.

He takes another wary step back, four eyes narrowing.

“I need to touch you again.”

“The hell; keep your filthy hands off me.” He strikes your wrists away, but the blow carries no real force; just enough to warn, to create distance. You follow anyway, stumbling forward, fingers curling greedily on empty air.

“Just one moment, please.”

You lunge.

Both palms hit his chest again, slide upward in a frantic, reverent glide; over the slope of his collarbones, along the thick column of his neck, thumbs brushing the black markings beneath his lower set of eyes. You feel everything at once, the faint prickle of stubble along his jaw, the thrum of his pulse beneath the skin, the impossible warmth seeping into your cold hands like you’ve plunged them into fire.

You were shaking. Tears you didn’t know you still had gathered at the corners of your eyes.

It was all so surreal, like the world had tilted on its axis and crushed every rule you’d ever lived by into the cracked pavement.

Sukuna’s eyes narrow to molten slits, glowing with open contempt, yet he hasn’t moved. Hasn’t torn you apart. Hasn’t even shifted his weight. Four arms hung loose at his sides, deceptively relaxed, while the mouth on his stomach curls up in a silent snarl.

“I suggest…” he rumbles, voice rolling like thunder, low and guttural, the kind of sound that crawls between your ribs and rattles bones, “ that you take your hands off me. Now.”

You don’t. You can’t.

“I’m not taking anything from you…” The words slip out softly, dazed by this new experience. Your gaze stayed locked on the impossible place where your bare palms met his bare chest. No drain. No flicker of stolen years rushing into your veins. Just heat bleeding into your cold skin like sunrise after centuries of night. “I’m not killing you”.

Your fingers move on their own, greedy and trembling. They dig into the thick cords of muscle along his neck, feeling the way tendons shift and flex beneath the surface, resilient and alive. You trace the bold black bands that cover his chest and arms, following their paths with the pads of your fingers as though reading braille. 

Every ridge, every dip, every faint scar you find sends a shiver racing up your arms and straight into your heart.

Sukuna’s breath hitches, barely. A fractional tightening of the abs beneath your fingers. The mouth on his stomach parts, tongue flicking once in irritation.

“So that’s your cursed technique” he sneers, the words dripping with disdain, yet still he doesn’t strike. He stands there, towering and terrible, and lets you map the topography of his body like it was yours to discover. “A leech. How utterly pathetic.”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy pressing both palms hard over his pectorals, squeezing experimentally, watching in open wonder as the muscle yields and then springs back. Your thumbs brushes across a nipple by accident, you watch in amazement as it stiffens under the fleeting touch, and a low, involuntary growl vibrates through his chest into your wrists.

Before the sound has fully left him, his leg moves.

The kick comes lightning-fast, heel slamming into your sternum with enough force to launch you clear off your feet. You fly back ten metres, hit the pavement hard, rolling twice through broken glass and ash before the world stops spinning. Pain explodes across your back, your ribs, your skull. Air flees your lungs in a ragged wheeze. You curl up instinctively, arms wrapped around your middle, coughing blood into the dirt.

Through the haze you lift your head.

Sukuna is already turning away, pink hair whipping in the wind, four arms folding across his chest like a king bored with a mildly entertaining insect. The distance between you grows with every lazy step he took.

“No—” The word tears out of you, cracked and desperate. You shove up onto your knees, one arm outstretched, fingers splayed wide toward his retreating back. “Wait—”

He didn’t wait.

In a ripple of cursed energy he’s gone, leaving only the echo of laughter and the lingering warmth still clinging to your palms like a brand.

You stay there on your knees in the wreckage, hand reaching for a phantom that had already vanished, chest heaving around the hollow ache of almost.

All you want, more than breath, more than survival, is to touch him again.

…

The common room at Jujutsu High smelled faintly of cedar shavings and old paper, the late-afternoon light slanting through half-closed blinds. You’re stood in the centre of the worn flooring, palms damp, heart battering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Gojo lounges against the wall, one hip cocked, arms folded, that infuriating megawatt smile already locked and loaded. He bends forward slightly at the waist, presenting his face like a dare.

“Go on then” he sings, voice bright as fracturing glass. “Just don’t take too much, yeah? I still have plans for this century.”

Yaga sits hunched over his worktable in the corner, black glasses catching the light as he tilts his head up. “I really don’t think this is wise” he rumbles, the words half-lost beneath the rapid click-click-click of his felting needle stabbing into plush.

Your hand trembles in the air between you and Gojo, index finger extended. The distance feels like miles. His Six Eyes flickers toward you, glacier-blue and sparkling with wicked amusement.

“Go on” he urges again, waggling his brows in an exaggerated invitation.

You swallow the stone in your throat. One second of contact with Gojo Satoru would feel like drinking lightning from a bottle. But some desperate, foolish part of you still hopes. Hopes that the miracle on that blood-soaked street had rewritten the rules entirely. Hopes that you are finally, finally free.

You press your finger to his cheek before doubt can pull you back.

The moment skin meets skin, your world implodes.

Life, raw and infinite, slams into you like a freight train made of suns. Your knees buckle instantly. You tear your hand away, collapsing to the floor with a choked gasp, every nerve screaming from the overload. The influx is too much, too fast; your body convulses once, hard, then folds in on itself as nausea surges.

Gojo straightens, fingertips brushing the spot you’d touched, head cocked like a curious cat. “So I guess it still works” he murmurs, almost gentle. “How much did you take?”

“A day” you groan, curling onto your side, forehead pressed to the cool floor while your stomach tries to turn itself inside out. “Remind me… never to touch you again.”

He laughs, so bright and careless, and steps over you without ceremony, treating your sprawled body like a minor obstacle on his way to the door. “Noted.”

“Told you so” Yaga grunts, never once looking up, needle flashing as another cursed corpse takes shape beneath his hands.

No one else offers. Not Ijichi, not Mei Mei when she breezes through later, not even Shoko when she comes to check if you’ve concussed yourself on the floor. The invisible ring around you widens again, three feet of polite, flinching distance. When you stumble getting up, no hand reaches out to steady you. When you laugh too loud at something Nobara says, Yuji’s answering grin falters the instant your arm lifts in an aborted gesture that might have ruffled his hair.

You’re alone in your own skin again, sealed inside the same old prison.

And at night, when the dorm finally goes quiet, the memory of Sukuna’s warmth comes back to torment you.

You dream of it relentlessly. The impossible heat of his chest under your palms, the flex of muscle, the thud of his heart. In the dreams your hands didn’t stop at polite exploration. They slide over shoulders, down the ridged plane of his stomach, tangled in pink hair that feels softer than it looks. You dream of his four arms caging you close, of mouths that speak filth and praise in equal measure, of being pressed skin-to-skin with no death between you.

You dream of kissing him, of tasting blood and smoke and something darker. You dream of fingers laced tight, of walking hand-in-hand like that couple in the courtyard, drawing lazy circles over black markings while he pretends to be annoyed but lets you anyway.

Every morning you wake gasping, sheets twisted, cheeks wet. The ghost of his skin lingers on your fingertips like a stain you can’t wash off.

Sukuna is the exception.  

The only exception in centuries of slow, starving isolation.

And of course, because the universe has always possessed a vicious sense of humour, the one person you can touch without killing is the single most wicked, most wanted, most untouchable being in sorcerer history.

Ryomen Sukuna, The King of Curses.

Your only salvation, and the one creature alive who would probably laugh themselves sick if they ever learned what you’d started to crave in the dark.

…

You start your desperate search in whispers.

Every question is wrapped in the facade of duty. “intel on high-grade movement,” “historical patterns of the King of Curses,” “any sightings of white-haired attendants in the north.” You volunteer for the worst missions, the ones that take you into abandoned mountain shrines, flooded subway tunnels, cursed villages half swallowed by frost, because the curses there are old enough to remember Heian gossip.

You sit across from them while they’re bound in talismans and chains, voice calm, asking the same three questions disguised as a dozen different ones.

Where does he rest?  

Who serves him?  

Who brings him meat and sake?

Most spit in your face, try to bite, try to kill. 

You don’t sleep, and eating becomes an afterthought, a rice ball scarfed in the dark, black coffee that tastes like battery acid.  Your reflection starts looking like something that crawled out of a grave, hollow cheeks, bruised eyes, hands that won’t stop shaking from caffeine and want.

Weeks bleed into one long, cold night.

Then, on a wind-scoured ridge in the Japan Alps, snow hissing sideways through skeletal pines, you finally crack the cipher.

Uraume.

They stand ankle-deep in fresh powder, white robes untouched by the storm, breath pluming in perfect silence. The moment you step into the clearing they know. Maybe it’s the way you’re swaying on your feet. Maybe it’s the tremor in your outstretched fingers or the raw, frantic edge to your voice that hasn’t felt human in days.

“Take me to him.”

Uraume’s face is porcelain carved from winter itself, no surprise, no fear, only the faint curl of disdain at one corner of their mouth. Pink eyes flick over you like you’re an insect that’s wandered too close.

“You must have a death wish” they hiss, voice soft, flat.

“I won’t do anything” you say too quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “I swear I won’t fight. I won’t—”

“Like you could.”

The contempt is obvious, so clean and cold. You flinch, but you don’t back down. Snowflakes melt the instant they touch your burning cheeks.

“I just… I need to see him.” Your voice cracks on the last word.

Uraume studies you for a long, frozen moment. The wind howls through the pines; somewhere far, far below an avalanche rumbles, flattening whatever's in its wake.

At last they tilt their head, the tiniest concession.

“Sukuna will enjoy this” they murmur, almost to themselves. A faint, humourless smile touches their lips, sharp as frostbite. “I’ll prepare your body. He prefers human meat.”

They turn without another word, robes flaring white against white, and begin walking deeper into the storm.

You follow, heart hammering so hard you’re half-surprised you’re still standing.

You are finally going to touch him again.

The air inside is thick with old blood and incense. Torchlight flickers across walls, throwing long, dancing shadows that crawl like spiders across the floor. At the far end, raised on a dais built from the bodies of things that were once mighty, Ryomen Sukuna lounges.

Four arms, four eyes, one heart beating slow and steady beneath skin painted in living ink. Pink hair spiked up wildly. Blood, someone else’s, still clings to the corner of his smirking mouth. He is sprawled upon a throne like a bored god amongst the carnage, legs stretched out, one set of arms folded behind his head, the other idly spinning a severed finger between clawed knuckles.

The moment your eyes find him, the knot that has lived in your chest for weeks finally loosens. Breath rushes into lungs you hadn’t realised were starving. Your knees almost buckle right there.

You take one involuntary step forward, both hands already reaching, fingers trembling with centuries of withheld need.

His voice cuts across the cavern like a blade dragged over stone.

“You brought me a leech, Uraume.” The words echo, amused and venomous. “I can’t eat leeches. They leave a sour taste.”

Uraume, still half a step behind you, opens their mouth, perhaps to explain, perhaps to apologise, but Sukuna flicks two fingers in a lazy, dismissive arc. The air ripples. Uraume bows low, robes whispering over the floor, and casts you one last glacial glance, equal parts disdain and promise of later dismemberment, before vanishing into the dark.

The great doors thud shut somewhere far behind you.

Silence falls, broken only by the soft crackle of torches. You drop.

Your knees hit ice-cold stone so hard the impact jars up your back. Your forehead follows, pressed to the ground in a bow that is half desperation, half surrender. Your whole body shakes.

“Let me touch you” you rasp, voice cracking like thin ice. “Once. That’s all I need. Please.”

A low, rolling laugh reverberates through the chamber, through your bones.

“You come into my house…” His voice is closer now; you feel the shift in air pressure as he leans forward on his throne of corpses. “…and you make demands.” 

The words drip with contempt. A single clawed finger lifts, lazy, as though he’s already imagining how easily it could separate your head from your shoulders. “What a strange little leech you are. You don’t want something from me. You want to do something to me.”

You stay folded to the floor, forehead still touching stone, tears you didn’t realise you were shedding leaving hot trails down your cheeks and dripping onto the ancient floor.

“You’re the only one” you whisper, the confession torn out of you, voice trembling. “In a thousand years… you’re the only one I can touch without killing.”

The torches flicker. Somewhere high above, frost cracks along the rafters.

You wait, breath held, heart hammering so loudly you’re certain he can hear it, for judgment, for laughter, for the slash of claws that never comes.

Instead, there is only the slow, deliberate drag of bare feet across bone as the King of Curses descends his throne and comes to decide what to do with the creature begging at his feet.

His hand descends like judgment itself, and clamps beneath your jaw. His grip is like iron. Your head snaps up; the world tilts, crimson eyes filling every inch of your vision until the shrine, the torches, the bones, everything collapses into that searing gaze. Cursed energy rolls off him in waves so dense it feels like drowning on dry land.

“You’ll touch” he says, voice low, vibrating through the bones of your face, “where I allow. Understand?”

You try to nod. The movement is tiny, strangled by his hold. Satisfied, he releases you. You drop the short distance back to your knees with a soft thud, breath sawing in and out.

Then he extends one hand, palm down, fingers lax, lazy and disinterested. An offering and a test.

You don’t think. You simply lunge.

Your trembling hands close around his first, fingers wrapping around a wrist thick enough that your fingertips don’t even meet. The heat is immediate, shocking. You drag his palm upward, pressing it to your cheek like a man dying of thirst who has finally found water. The calloused skin sears away weeks of cold; the faint drag of claws over your cheekbone sends shivers racing down your spine. You turn into it, nuzzling shamelessly, lips brushing the heel of his hand, tasting iron and smoke and something darker that must be him.

A low, rumbling sound, disdain, disgust, or amusement, rolls out of his chest.

You can’t stop. You won’t.

Fever takes the reins. You surge upward from your knees, clumsy, frantic, and throw yourself against him. Arms wrap around the impossible breadth of his torso; you bury your face against the centre of his chest. Your palms skate over bare skin, greedy, memorising every ridge of muscle, every raised black marking, the faint texture of old scars. 

You press closer, and closer, until there is no space left between you, until the heat of him bleeds through your uniform and brands itself into your bones.

Your hips move without permission, a helpless, animal like motion, rubbing against the hard plane of his body like a starved thing finally allowed contact. Your cheek drags back and forth over his sternum, chasing warmth, chasing proof that this is real. Breath comes in broken sobs against his skin.

He stands perfectly still, four arms hanging loose, towering above you while you rut and cling and tremble like something feral that has forgotten how to be human.

And still, beneath the disgust curling his lip and the cold amusement glittering in his eyes, he does not push you away. Not yet.

Your palms refuse to still. They glide over the broad planes of his chest, tracing every ridge and scar, then climb higher, reverent, back up the powerful column of his throat. Your fingertips sink into his hair, those wild pink strands that looked coarse from afar, and you freeze, stunned. It’s impossibly soft, like heavy silk sliding between your fingers.  

“It’s like silk” you whisper, voice cracking open with wonder. Tears spill freely now, rolling down your cheeks and dripping onto his skin.

“Are you insane?” he growls, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

You shake your head, frantic. “You don’t know what it’s like.” Your nails drag lightly down the nape of his neck, raising faint lines that vanish almost instantly. You lean in until your ear presses just left of center, right over the steady thud of his heart. “You don’t know what it’s like to never have touched anyone… never held someone’s hand… never been kissed.” 

A low, grudging grunt rumbles out of him. Two of his arms lift, barely, as if making reluctant room for the creature clinging to his torso.

“You’re so warm” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut.

The mouth on his stomach speaks, voice rough as gravel dragged across steel. “You’re trembling like a virgin, little leech.”

You only hum, burrowing closer, chasing the heat, the scent, the impossible reality of him.

Then the world tilts.

One massive hand closes around both your wrists, yanking them from his hair. Another palms the center of your chest and shoves. Your back meets a frozen pillar with a soft thud that knocks the air from your lungs. Your captured wrists are dragged upward, stretched high above your head until you’re forced onto the balls of your feet, spine arching, body presented like an offering. The position leaves you utterly helpless, chest heaving, throat exposed. 

Sukuna looms closer, crimson eyes glittering with predatory amusement.

“Do you want to feel more, little leech?” The mockery drips from every syllable. His gaze drags slow and deliberate across your tear-stained face, your parted lips, the desperate rise and fall of your chest. “Curious enough to find out what everything on me feels like?”

“Don’t call me that” you gasp, turning your face away, cheeks burning.

He leans in until his breath fans hot over your ear. “Well, little leech?” he croons, “I won’t do a thing unless you say it.”

You squirm, wrists twisting uselessly in his iron grip. He’s so much taller, broader; the pillar at your back is unyielding stone and he is living flame. His thigh slides between yours without warning, thick and deliberate, pressing up hard against the aching length straining your uniform pants. The pressure drags a broken sound from your throat.

“Please” you choke out, hips jerking involuntarily into the friction. “I—I want to feel—”

Before the plea is finished, his free hand seizes one of your trapped one and forces it downward. He guides your palm beneath the loose waist of his robes, past coarse pink hair and scorching skin, until your fingers close around one of his cocks, rigid, impossibly hot, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

You gasp, eyes flying wide. You can’t see it, only feel, but gods, the weight of it in your hand, the slick bead of pre-cum already coating the head, the thick veins that throb under your hesitant touch. You stare, transfixed, at the place where your wrist disappears beneath the fabric.

Of your own accord, you begin to move.

Slow at first, exploring, careful, then faster when his breath hitches. You trace every ridge, map every vein, spread the slick gathering at the slit so your hand glides smoother. His head tips back, throat working, a low growl building in his chest. You learn by the way his hips twitch, by the flex of abs, by the sharp inhale when your thumb sweeps just under the crown.

You tighten your grip, stroke faster, utterly drunk on the power to make the King of Curses shudder.

He snarls, something feral, and bucks hard into your fist, and cums suddenly.

Hot, thick pulses splatter over your trapped wrist, coat your fingers in viscous heat. You rub the viscous liquid between your thumb and forefinger, feeling the slippery warmth, the faint salt scent rising in the air.

Your hand is still curled around him when he finally lowers his head again, eyes glowing like fresh-spilled blood, a slow, dangerous smile curling across his face.

“Still curious, little leech?”

You nod before the question even finishes leaving his mouth, frantic, thoughtless, fever-hot. Anything. You would take anything he deigns to give you right now.

He laughs, sharp, cruel, delighted, and the sound slices straight through your spine.

Then the world tilts again.

One of his arms, thick as your thigh, slides under your ass and lifts. You’re airborne for a heartbeat, weightless, before he carries you across the shrine like you’re made of paper. The bone dais looms. He bends you forward over the armrest of his throne, crimson velvet plush and cool against your chest. Your toes barely skim the floor, your folded over the padded edge, spine arched, ass jutting high, utterly exposed. 

“So eager for me” he mocks, voice dripping acid amusement.

Fabric rips. First your shirt, torn off your shoulders and thrown. Then, your uniform pants, torn like wet tissue, shredded down to your knees in one brutal yank. Cold air kisses bare skin, then his palms, rough and scalding, spread your cheeks wide. You feel the weight of his stare on your hole, clinical and predatory.

“You’re not going to take me like this” he says, almost conversational, one brow arched high.

You twist to protest, words already forming, but the sight steals them. He pinches the claws of his right hand between thumb and forefinger and snaps them off, index to ring finger, like breaking dry kindling. The black tips clatter to the floor. The fingers are still thick, still dangerous, but blunt now.

A second hand seizes your chin, wrenching you upright until your back almost touches his chest. Those three declawed fingers appear in front of your lips.

“Suck” he growls against your ear, teeth scraping the lobe hard enough to sting.

You open instantly. He thrusts them in without ceremony. They fill your mouth, heavy and salty, stretching your jaw. You swirl your tongue desperately, coating every inch, tracing the pads, the ridges of knuckles. Saliva pools, spills over your lip, but you don’t care. You suck like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

He watches you for a long moment, eyes hooded, then pulls free with a wet pop.

The hand disappears behind you. One slick finger circles your rim once, twice, before pressing inside.. 

The intrusion is shocking, so foreign and thick. You gasp, body clamping down instinctively.

“Relax” he snaps, crooking the finger and dragging it out only to push back in. The burn is bright, but it fades quickly into something you have no name for. You force air into your lungs, force your muscles to yield.

He works you open with ruthless patience you never expected. One finger becomes two, scissoring, twisting, spreading saliva and slick until the burn melts into a heavy, electric ache. The third slides in alongside the others and you keen, high and broken, tears already leaking from the corners of your eyes to soak dark patches into the red velvet beneath your cheek.

He speeds up. The drag turns rougher, deliberate.

“Never been touched here either?” he sneers, curling his fingers just to hear the choked sob that rips out of you. “Pathetic.”

Then he shifts angle, knuckles pressing deep, and finds it.

You feel the stroke like lightning forking through every nerve. Pleasure flashes behind your eyes, white-hot, radiating outward until your toes curl and your thighs shake uncontrollably.

“Wha—” The word fractures. Your nails rake the velvet, tearing tufts free.

He laughs, low and vicious, and attacks that spot again, again, again. Each firm press drags another helpless cry from your throat, each drag back leaves you empty and begging.

“Stop—” you sob, not meaning it, not even close.

“Come on, little leech” he croons, seating all three fingers to the hilt and grinding mercilessly against that devastating place inside you. “Cum for me.”

You can’t breathe. Pressure coils so tight it hurts, coils tighter still, until something inside you shatters.

You come with a raw, ragged scream, entire body seizing, back bowing off the armrest as if an electric current is ripping through you. Pleasure crashes in endless waves, so intense your vision blacks out at the edges. Cum spills untouched between your belly and the velvet, pulse after pulse, until you’re limp and trembling and still twitching around the fingers buried deep inside you.

He keeps them there, pressed firm against that spot, milking every aftershock until you’re whimpering nonsense into the ruined cushion, tears and drool and sweat soaking the throne of the King of Curses.

Only then does he lean over you, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice velvet and venom.

“Good boy.” 

He doesn’t give you even a single heartbeat to recover.

While the aftershocks still ripple through your thighs, he drags two fingers through the mess you left on the velvet, gathering the warm, slick spend. You hear the wet sound of him coating himself, then the blunt, impossible pressure of one thick cockhead nudging against your loosened rim.

There is no pause, no mercy, no slow inching in.

He simply grips your hips with two hands, spreads you wider, and drives forward in one relentless thrust. The stretch is blinding. Your vision whites out; your mouth opens on a scream that never makes it past your throat. He seats himself to the hilt in a single stroke, pelvis flush to your ass, his other cock pressing against yours, filling you so completely you can feel him in your spine.

Your hands scrabble uselessly at the fabric of the throne, fingers flexing and clenching around nothing. All you can do is breathe, shallow, desperate pulls of air, while your body tries to decide if it’s dying or ascending.

Then he moves.

He fucks exactly the way he kills. Overwhelming, brutal, absolute. Each thrust slams the air from your lungs, jolts your whole body forward over the armrest, only for his grip to yank you back onto him harder. The head of his cock drags over that devastating spot inside you on every stroke, relentless, unerring.

And yet you push back to meet him, greedy, shameless, chasing more each time.

His hands are everywhere, mapping you with possessive violence.

One hand grips your hip, digging bruises into your skin, anchoring you exactly where he wants you. Another palm splays across your chest, flicking a nipple hard enough to spark pain, then slides higher and collars your throat. He lifts, forcing your back to arch slightly.

A third hand wraps around your leaking cock, pressing it flush to his extra one, stroking both in perfect, cruel synchronicity with his hips, thumb swiping over the slit on every upstroke.

The fourth hand fists your hair, tilting your head back so he can crush his mouth to yours. Teeth catching your lower lip and biting down; blood blooms copper-bright between you. Tongues tangle, messy and violent, sharing spit and crimson while he growls into the kiss.

“More, more, more” you chant, delirious, the word slurring against his mouth.

He laughs, maniacal, delighted, and gives you everything. Hips snap harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off bone walls like war drums. Grunts tear out of him, animal and triumphant; your own broken moans answer every one.

You claw at the hand around your throat, not to remove it but to beg. “Please, please, hold me, touch me—”

“Pathetic” he snarls, but he obeys.

He hauls you upright in one smooth motion, chest plastered to your sweat-slicked back. The hand in your hair slides down to splay over your sternum, pinning you flush against him. The hand that had been choking you slips upwards and cups your cheek, tilting your head until it rests on the broad slope of his shoulder. Tears spill freely now, streaking over his fingers.

His thumb strokes once across your cheekbone, a feather-light, almost tender motion that breaks you open more thoroughly than anything else.

You shatter.

The orgasm tears through you like a blade, violent and total. Your whole body seizes, cock pulsing helplessly in his grip, ropes of cum splattering across the scarlet velvet in long, obscene arcs. You clamp down around him so hard he groans, raw and guttural right against your ear.

Two more stuttering thrusts and he follows. Heat floods you, thick and endless, painting your insides with pulse after pulse of his cum until it leaks hot down your thighs. His other cock paints the throne with cum, joining yours.

He stills, buried to the root, the only sound being your ragged breathing and the wet drip of spend hitting ancient stone.

Your legs give out completely.

He doesn’t let you fall.

Four arms tighten and hold you pinned against his chest, impaled and trembling, heart hammering against his ribs while the aftershocks roll through you both. Your head lolls on his shoulder, cheek smeared with tears and blood and his thumb still tracing idle, soothing circles you never thought the King of Curses capable of.

For a long moment, the only movement in the entire shrine is the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back, and the faint, lazy throb of him still inside you.

Hot seed trickles down the inside of your thigh as his cock slides free with a slow, wet drag that makes you shudder all over again. The sudden emptiness is almost painful, but his arms don’t loosen; they keep you suspended, impaled on nothing now except the cradle of his hold. Your toes barely skim the cold stone.

“That enough, little leech?” he purrs against the shell of your ear, voice mocking and warm all at once. The mouth on his stomach flicks a lazy tongue over your spine, tasting the sweat gathered there.

You turn your head. Tears still leak in steady tracks from the corners of your eyes, your lips are swollen, bitten red from his teeth, and when you speak your voice is nothing but a raw, hoarse thread.

“Not even close.”

The words come out steady despite everything, despite the shaking, the tears, the cum cooling on your skin and his still dripping out of you. It’s a dare, a plea and a vow all at once.

For one heartbeat the shrine is perfectly still.

Then Sukuna laughs, the sound rolls through his chest into yours like distant thunder.

“Greedy little thing” he murmurs, teeth grazing the hinge of your jaw.

One hand slides down to cup your spent cock possessively, thumb smearing the mess there. Another tangles in your hair again, gentler this time, tipping your head back so he can look straight into your teary eyes.

“Fine” he says, voice dropping to something dark and promising. “We’re just getting started.”

“Better?” he murmurs, low and rumbling like distant thunder.

You hum, “Perfect. Soul sufficiently crushed.”

There’s a soft huff of laughter you feel more than hear. He squeezes you gently, the kind of hold that says he’d stay here forever if you asked him too.

Dick Grayson

The second you say, “Be my personal weighted blanket,” his face lights up like you just gave him the best mission of his life, “Finally! I’ve been training for this moment.”

He launches onto the couch dramatically, sprawling across you like an octopus, arms and legs everywhere. He wiggles until you’re giggling and trapped under his warmth.

“Crushing your soul into mine in three… two…” he whispers, then hugs you tight enough you squeak. He laughs against your neck, pressing a kiss there, “There. Now you’re never escaping.”

It’s silly, it’s playful, and it’s exactly the comfort you needed.

Jason Todd

When you say it, he smirks, cocking an eyebrow. “You sure? I’m heavy, sweetheart.”

But he’s already easing down, settling across you with surprising gentleness for someone his size. He lets his weight rest on you, his head tucking into the crook of your neck, arm wrapped firmly around your middle.

You sigh happily, “Yes. This is perfect.”

Jason chuckles, voice muffled against you, “Congrats. You’ve officially turned me into a human paperweight.”

But he doesn’t move. Not even a little. His hand rubs slow circles into your back, his warmth seeping into your bones. If anything, he presses closer, because nothing in the world feels safer than being this close.

Tim Drake

He blinks at you, caught off-guard, “Uh—you want me to… crush my soul into yours?”

You nod, grinning. “Yes. Exactly. That is the assignment.”

Tim laughs softly, cheeks pink, but he obeys without hesitation. He climbs onto the bed and carefully lowers himself onto you, bracing his arms so he’s not too heavy, until you tug him down all the way.

“Oh,” he breathes, settling fully on top of you. His weight is warm, comforting, like a cocoon. He nuzzles into your neck, surprisingly clingy.

“This is nice,” he admits in a drowsy voice, “You’re not allowed to make me move, ever.”

And within minutes, he’s melting, his steady breathing syncing with yours as if your souls really have fused together.

Duke Thomas

He tilts his head at your request, a slow grin spreading across his face, “You want me to be your human blanket? I can do that.”

He stretches out carefully, settling his chest across yours. He’s tall, but he shifts around until it’s cozy and snug.

“Better? You cozy?” He murmurs against the side of your head, how he’s tucked himself in on top of you, and you hum in agreement, giving him a nod.

The longer he stays, the quieter he gets, until you feel him relax completely. His weight grounding you, his warmth humming gently into your bones.

Damian Wayne

When you tell him to “crush his soul into yours,” his brows shoot up,“That’s… ridiculous.”

But the next moment, he’s already climbing onto the bed, lying stiffly on top of you like it’s a tactical operation. His chin lands on your collarbone, arms crossed as if he’s pretending this isn’t supposed to be comfort, just efficiency.

“Am I… sufficient?” he mutters, though his voice softens when you shift his arms to wrap around you.

You laugh and whisper, “Perfect. Don’t move.”

There’s a tiny pause before he exhales, settling fully against you, his weight grounding, “Tt. Fine. But only because you asked,” he says, though his fingers curl into the sides of your shirt like he has no intention of ever leaving.

Wally West

The second you ask, he practically teleports onto you, moving faster than you can blink. One moment you’re speaking, the next you’re pinned under red hair and laughter.

“Personal weighted blanket? Babe, I’m your personal gravity field.”

He sprawls across you dramatically, limbs everywhere, making sure you’re properly squished. He even vibrates just slightly, the warmth radiating through you like a heated blanket.

“Too much? Not enough? Want me to add extra cuddle-pressure?” he teases, nuzzling into your neck.

You giggle helplessly, wrapped in his sunshine energy, and Wally just hums, content to hold you there forever, like he’s finally found the one place he doesn’t have to rush.

Clark Kent

Clark chuckles, low and warm, when you make your request, “Are you sure, sweets? I don’t think you realize how heavy I actually am.”

But you only grin, so he carefully lowers himself over you, impossibly gentle despite his size. His arms cradle you as though you’re the most precious thing in the world, and the warmth radiating from him is steady, constant, like sunlight.

“This okay?” he murmurs, brushing his lips against your hairline.

You sigh happily, “Better than okay. Soul successfully crushed.”

His chest shakes with laughter, and then he holds you tighter, strong enough that you feel completely encased yet safe beyond question. “Good,” he whispers, “because I don’t think I’ll ever let go.”

⭐️DCU Masterlist⭐️ 🦇Return to the Batcave🦇

If you like my work and want to support me, consider Buying Me A Coffee?☕️

✨Join the Taglist✨

Taglist: @jellibean420 @maaaahhhiii @eastblockchaigirl @the-jess-life @lillian-morningstar @ilovethecreativity @laurakinneyswife @animegamerfox @localgaytrainwreck @gojoswaterbottle @liloolsi @sapphichotmess @silverklaus @jakiicomics @rae-akarui @th3d1n0r3ad3r @gaychaosgremlin @x-intothevoid-x @qardasngan @signal-is-online @lumestar @nerrivm @httpstoyosi @hades1304 @fri3nd-buddy-pal @invinciblewaffles @lettucel0ver @emskryptonite @changYumi @kyriekurokami @loverofmenandcats @dia111lavillant @warmcookiepuff @chikenuggetrat @mooniewantstowrite @unclearblur @cheese-vikings @alphabetically-deranged @sugacor3 @Imagineadream @demigod-jack-hearth @raggabashie @ludovicachemblyn @hostilityghost @prongspower @koshox @zeena-the-fandom-fiend @kerosene-demon @sept3mberchild @misamisa

Jack studied you for a beat too long – long enough for the silence between you to start humming. His eyes flicked over your face: the nervous lip bite, the slight tension in your shoulders.

He stepped back without breaking eye contact.

“Come in,” he said simply.

The door opened wider, letting you step inside.

Somewhere in the background, jazz was playing softly. A single lamp burned low by an armchair, a book lying on the side table. Everything looked simple, but warm.

He walked ahead toward the stove, where a pot of coffee sat warming, and poured two cups without asking. Because honestly? You looked like you needed one.

"I'm sorry for intruding so abruptly, Dr. Abbot," you said, taking the cup from his hands.

You looked different today – less collected than you usually did at work.

You and Abbot generally got along well. You didn’t work together often, but you respected each other. Still, you were younger, and sometimes it made you feel like you came from slightly different worlds.

Jack took a slow sip from his own mug before answering, leaning back against the counter with the effortless ease of someone who owned every space he stood in – whether it was an operating theater or this quiet kitchen at midnight.

“Call me Jack.”

For a moment, you forgot about everything around you. Such a simple request at first. But there was something personal – something intimate – hidden behind it.

Or maybe you were just being wishful.

"I know I probably should have called you, but I... uh… I was nearby..."

Nervousness and exhaustion seeped into your voice. You didn’t even realize how close to the edge you were.

But Jack did.

He didn’t buy the “I was nearby” excuse – not for a second. He saw it: the way your voice dipped on certain words, like you were holding back something heavier; the faint tremor in your fingers that had nothing to do with the cold; the quiet intensity behind your eyes that usually stayed polite and professional during hospital shifts.

You looked… raw. Not broken – but like someone who’d been keeping everything together by sheer willpower, and finally let one stitch unravel at midnight.

He exhaled through his nose and set his mug down on the counter with deliberate care. Without asking, Jack closed the distance between you in two steps and reached up, cupping one side of your face gently with his hand.

You went quiet, feeling the warmth of his touch. Eyes closed and you were barely breathing.

"I just... I can't do this anymore,” you whispered, your voice soft and tired. "I can't sleep."

It wasn’t a confession. It felt like a plea. And it hit him right in his chest.

"I know you're not my doctor,” you continued, “But I also know that you have experience with things like this. Please… tell me what to do."

Jack’s thumb brushed lightly over your cheekbone, a gesture so quiet and tender it almost didn’t feel real.

Sleep deprivation. He knew that look: the hollows under the eyes even if you’d tried to hide them with makeup, the slight tension in your jaw.

He exhaled again, softer this time. When he spoke, his voice was gentle.

“Right. You’re not my patient, but you are tired.”

A pause.

“When was your last real sleep? Not when you're tossing and turning in bed half the night… I mean actual rest.”

His hands were warm, rough with calluses. You pressed your cheek against his palm, just a little harder. It felt like a lifeline.

“A month ago. Maybe more. It didn’t seem like a big problem at first.”

You felt him gently take the coffee cup from your hands – and you let it go without resistance. You didn’t have the strength to hold onto it anyway.

Without warning, Jack slid his other arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer. Not quite a hug, but close enough that you could feel the solid warmth of him: the broad line of his chest beneath thin cotton, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the faint scent of antiseptic soap mixed with something earthy – wood polish, maybe.

His hold was firm and protective. That was enough. Your hands stopped shaking. Your breathing steadied. You rested your head against his chest, warmth slowly spreading through you. He was strong, and gentle, and for a moment you just wanted to disappear into it – into him.

"So soft," you whispered, so quietly he almost didn’t hear.

Then your legs gave out. Your body went heavy, your ears ringing. And everything went dark.

Jack felt the exact moment you went limp. He reacted instantly – surgeon reflexes kicking in like muscle memory. His arms tightened around you to keep you from collapsing, one hand bracing your shoulders while the other slid down to support your knees.

Not trauma. Not blood loss. Just exhaustion finally winning. Your body had been running on empty for weeks and now it just shut off.

Without hesitation, Jack scooped you up and carried you through his quiet house toward a door off the hallway.

His bedroom.

When you opened your eyes, the sheets were soft around you, and sunlight filtered through the window. A gray blanket was draped over you as you tried to figure out where you were, panic was rising in your chest. The surroundings were unfamiliar.

Slowly, you lifted the blanket and exhaled. You were still wearing the same clothes as yesterday (your shoes neatly placed beside the bed).

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, and the awareness of what happened began to return.

Last night – you went outside because you couldn’t sleep. You walked and walked, exhaustion never coming… until, somehow, you ended up at Dr. Abbot’s door and–

Oh, no.

A door clicked open down the hall.

Jack appeared in the bedroom doorway, dressed differently than last night: black sweatpants, a faded gray t-shirt pulled taut over his shoulders, hair slightly damp like he’s just showered. Calm. Observant. Old habits die hard – especially after you passed out in his arms.

Your eyes widened as you tried to gather your thoughts.

"Dr. Abbot?"

He stepped forward quietly and leaned against the doorframe instead of coming closer, giving you space without making it obvious.

“Morning,” he said, voice low but warm. “You slept fourteen hours.”

"Fourteen hours?" You ran a hand through your hair. "God, I'm sorry. I've caused you so much trouble."

You already felt more like yourself – still shaken, but more grounded.

Jack exhaled – almost a laugh, but not quite.

“Trouble?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow as he walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, leaving space between you. “I carried you to bed because you passed out from exhaustion after showing up at my house looking half-dead.” A pause. “You weren’t trouble.”

You shook your head, smiling weakly.

"You know, it still sounds like 'caused trouble' to me," you said. "But thank you... for taking care of me."

The thought hit you unexpectedly – what it would be like to wake up in his bed under different circumstances. You lower your head, suddenly embarrassed. Your fingers twitch nervously.

Jack watched you – the way you fidget, the faint flush rising on your cheeks. It’s… endearing, in a quiet way.

He didn’t say anything for a few seconds – just studied the sunlight catching in your hair, how you looked more like yourself now: softer around the edges but present. Then, without overthinking it, he reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You leaned into the touch before you even realized you were doing it. Breath barely caught. The lips are slightly parted.

It wasn’t flirtation, teasing or seduction, but a pure, instinctive trust. A quiet vulnerability that hit him like a punch to the chest because… Christ, you were sitting here, looking at him with those eyes that held both wisdom and something so achingly tender it made his throat tighten.

Slowly… carefully…

He cupped your face again – both hands now framing either side gently – and pressed a feather-light kiss to your forehead.

You looked up at him, your vision slightly hazy, one hand sliding along his forearm as if anchoring yourself. Your gaze dropped to his lips.

You reached forward, lifting yourself slightly on your free hand, your breathing quickening. He leaned in too – hesitant.

But just before the distance disappeared–

"Shh..."

His thumb brushed softly over your lower lip, stopping you. Not rejection. Not quite restraint either. More like: not now.

But instead of giving up, you closed your eyes and gently bit his thumb. The one that had just stopped you. A small act of revenge, a quiet tease.

If you can’t kiss him, you can still leave a mark.

Jack inhaled sharply through his nose. The playful bite sent a jolt down his spine.

Goddamn.

It wasn’t supposed to be sexy. Not at all. He’d stopped you because this was… complicated. You were exhausted yesterday, you’d shown up in crisis, he didn't want your first kiss (if there ever was one) to be some sleep-deprived blur of confusion and desperation.

But now?

Your breath hitched.

His hand gently rested on your shoulder as he moved a little closer. His breath was on your neck, and you couldn’t seem to move. Jack didn't kiss you. Instead, he responded to your small act of revenge with mutual teasing.

His teeth sank gently into the soft skin of your neck. A sharp thrill that shot straight through your nerves like electricity. And you had to hold onto his forearm tighter to ground yourself, because otherwise you'd pass out again.

Jack didn’t linger there – no bruises or marks left behind – but the brief pressure was enough. He pulled back just enough after that single nip to look at your face – the flush creeping up your cheeks.

You forgot how to breathe. Then a smile spread across your face, and he heard a soft chuckle escaping your lips.

"This is not how I’ve imagined our first intimacy."

Now his gaze became more curious. Jack smirked.

"Oh, so you’ve imagined it?"

You looked at him like a contented cat. The veil of desire was still present between you, but now you both seemed to be a little more sober. As if these two bites could defuse your inner desire.

"Who didn't?" you snuggled back into his hand. "You're saving people's lives in that damn medical uniform, even those whose chances of survival are close to zero. And then, as if nothing had happened, you come up and say some light nonsense bordering on flirting."

You rolled your eyes. The playful grin didn't leave your face.

"Of course, I’ve imagined it.”

A light chuckle came from his chest when he heard your words.

“Light nonsense bordering on flirting,” he repeated, voice low and rough with amusement. “That’s new.”

Still cradling your face, his thumb resumed its gentle stroking along your cheekbone – slow circles that felt more intimate than any kiss yet.

His light flirting was always harmless. These were light jokes, funny jokes, or just sincere compliments. It came naturally to him. But this closeness right now isn’t like his usual manner of communication. It feels like a new territory for both of you.

You nuzzled into his chest, inhaling the scent of sandalwood and musk. You wanted to bury yourself in him, to lose yourself in this sensation, to absorb his scent into yourself, to remember this moment. Jack gently stroked your head.

"So soft." You repeated your words from yesterday. “You are so damn soft."

You made it sound like a personal offense – like the biggest injustice of your life. Something so beautiful that made you physically ill.

Jack actually laughed this time – a quiet, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest where your ear pressed against him. It wasn’t loud or showy; it was rare and low.

“You’re mad I’m soft?” he murmured into your hair, still running his fingers through the strands with that same slow rhythm. “Unbelievable.”

And he just held you closer.

⭒ uncle!aerion, whose eyes would follow you everywhere like a moth drawn to the light.

⭒ uncle!aerion, whose actions would leave you tossing and turning all night, wondering whether or not your close relationship has blossomed into something more… intimate.

You and your uncle have always been awfully close, your bond going beyond what most would consider normal. Despite your family’s warnings to keep your distance from him, claiming he was ‘mad’, you felt he was misunderstood.

At first, Aerion wasn’t particularly pleased about you following him around like a shadow, but when he learned that you, too, were just as interested in dragons as he was, a switch in him flipped. Soon enough, the pair of you found comfort in each other. Where he lacked generosity, you lacked the courage to stand up for yourself and so, you made a surprisingly fine match.

Though your father was visibly concerned about your ‘friendship’ with his unstable younger brother, he trusted your empathy and hoped that with age, you would come to realise the kind of man he was. Much to his dismay, you did not. If anything, your infatuation with your uncle had only deepened.

You found that whenever you were in the presence of your uncle, whispers would follow. After all, no one could understand what the realm’s delight and its mad Targaryen prince shared that made them so fond of each other. You were kind-natured, full of compassion while your uncle was — well, he was the complete opposite.

But opposites attract, right?

Temptation has a way of finding everyone, even the most obedient children have something or someone that draws them toward rebellion and for you, that had always been your uncle. As a child, you often found yourself sneaking off to meet him and the two of you would disappear into your own little world.

Now that you were a woman grown, your outings with your uncle didn’t consist of watching some lifeless play — no, it appeared that the more you matured, the more dangerous the places he took you to spend your time together in became. Aerion would often tell you that he’d ‘put a dragon in you one day’, making you giggle, unaware of the dark meaning behind his words, taking them for nothing more than a jest. If only you knew.

“You see my darling niece, the rest of our family isn’t like us.” He explained as the two of you lay cuddled together, hands intertwined, in a tiny room of a brothel. “They aren’t dragons, they wouldn’t understand the bond we share.” He continued in a soft voice, gently tucking your silver hair behind your ear before leaning in to kiss your temple.

It made perfect sense, just like everything that your darling uncle has ever said made sense. Anytime you came to him with any concerns, he knew exactly what to say to ease your nerves and like the young, naive girl you were, you believed every word that came out of his mouth. No matter how bizarre it sounded, you would simply nod, glossy eyes filled with admiration. After all, who were you to question him, the dragon himself?

For now, Aerion’s touches still remained fairly innocent — gentle pecks on the lips from time to time, laying with his head against your plush breasts as you stroked his hair to sleep. That was until one day, everything changed and those small pecks turned into heated make outs with you straddling your uncle’s lap.

Of course, poor, innocent you couldn’t grasp just how intimate your actions were. Over the years, you had grown so accustomed to your uncle’s lingering hands on your body that this seemed like another one of your games. When you were younger, Aerion could suppress his desires for you — but now, that your body had matured into one of a woman, he found himself unable to continue to do so.

“Mhm!” You squealed as you felt something hard press against your lower thigh. Confused, you pulled away from the kiss, a thin string of saliva connecting the two of you. When you asked your uncle about what exactly that was, he only chuckled at your innocence, finding it the most adorable thing. Perhaps, if you hadn’t skipped so many lessons with your septa to sneak out with your uncle, you wouldn’t be in this position.

“You’ll learn soon enough, zaldrītsos (little dragon), hm?” He’d say. Despite your eagerness to know, you also knew better than to argue with him. He smiled at your obedience and cupped your rosy-tinted cheek with his large hand. Closing your eyes, you nuzzled into his touch, letting yourself forget about all of your responsibilities as a princess. Here, in your darling uncle’s arms, none of it mattered.

Maybe if Daeron had watched over his first-born daughter more carefully, if he had not been so quick to dismiss your closeness with your uncle, everything might have turned out differently. Maybe if had he paid closer attention, his younger brother would never have gotten his filthy hands on you — would never have groomed you into becoming his perfect little doll. His perfect little princess to carry his heirs.

But that was just a maybe.

Worst of all, you remained completely unaware. As you rested peacefully on your uncle’s bare chest, feeling safe, too blinded by your twisted idea of love to realise that safety was the last thing you should have felt.