#ringmaster x reader

I'm finally back with a complete request!! Not a lot is known about ringmaster, so I went off purely what we have and a ton of my headcanons. I think he would be either a thundered or try to flirt openly lol. He'd definitely peacock and show off a lot

Can i get some Ringmaster(Forsaken) x reader

Thank u 😭❤❤❤❤❤❤❤🔥🔥🔥🔥very much! no rush!

This one goes out for the woeful souls that are fans of ringmaster 🫡 (this design was made on the spot so don’t kill me ive never actually fawn him) i was gonna have random objects coming from the right side like a car reck but got lazy :P

Pairing: Circus Ringmaster x f!reader

Warnings: smut, can be read as dub-con.

The scent of jasmine incense was a lie in the air every morning. It was meant to conjure mystery, to weave an aura of ancient wisdom around the cramped, stuffy velvet confines of your tent. In reality, it just covered up the smell of old canvas and the faint, coppery tang. You sat at your little round table, the crystal ball in front of you polished to a high sheen that reflected nothing but your own bored face.

You were good at your job. The locals lined up, clutching crumpled bills and desperate hopes. They wanted to hear about tall, dark strangers, about inheritances from uncles they didn't know they had, about love. Always love. You gave them what they wanted with a practiced, smoky whisper and a vague gesture at the lines on their palms. They left convinced they’d touched the supernatural, never realizing the only real magic you possessed was an uncanny ability to read the wear on a wedding ring or the desperation in a pair of drugstore heels.

But you knew the truth. You knew it wasn't just a knack for cold reading. The shadows in the corners of your tent moved when your back was turned. The tea leaves in your cup sometimes spelled out words you didn't put there. You kept your head down, just like the contortionist who sometimes blinked with vertical pupils when he thought nobody was looking, or the roustabout who lifted the iron tent stakes with one hand and a grunt that shook the earth.

You were part of the machine, but you weren't of it. Not really.

And then there was him. Julian the Illusionist. Golden boy. Stage lights loved him. He would stride out in his sequined tailcoat, all white teeth and slicked-back hair, and make doves appear from the very air you breathed. His assistant, Seraphina, with her legs that went on for days and her sparkly, skintight leotard, would smile and hand him the props. You’d seen them behind the ticket booth last night, his hand on the small of her bare back, his lips at her ear, sharing a secret that wasn't meant for the fortune teller in the dusty tent.

He got to stand in the light, creating miracles for applause. You got to sit in the gloom, reassuring farmers' wives that their husbands weren't cheating (they usually were).

Fed up. That was the only way to describe the feeling that boiled over in your chest that evening. You’d just finished reading for a woman who cried because you told her she’d meet a man with a J name. You’d plucked it out of thin air. The incense was giving you a headache. You wanted more. You wanted to see the real magic, not the tawdry, sequined show for the townies.

You slipped out of your tent, the heavy flap falling shut behind you with a soft whump. Dusk was falling, and the midway was empty as the crowd funneled into the Big Top for Julian's finale. The lights flickered, and for a moment, the path between the performers' quarters and the back lot seemed longer, darker, than it had any right to be.

There was a tent you weren't supposed to enter. Everyone knew it. It was black, made of a material that drank the light, tucked away behind the animal pens where the tigers never roared and the horses bowed without a command. It was the Ringmaster’s tent.

You pushed the flap aside and stepped in.

It was empty. Just black silk draping the walls and a single, heavy wooden chair in the center. But the air was thick, buzzing with a pressure that made your ears pop. You felt watched, assessed, and found wanting all at once. You felt gooseflesh on your skin. You backed out immediately, your heart hammering against your ribs. Stupid. Stupid, stupid girl.

You stumbled out into the purple twilight and a large shadow fell over you, blotting out the last of the dying sun.

You didn't have to turn around. You knew.

“My sweet little seer,” a voice crooned from behind you. It was velvety and soft, like the whisper of a knife being drawn from a sheath. It was a voice that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, a sound that lived in the same frequency as the moving shadows. “Wandering where little lambs ought not to wander.”

You froze. No one looked at the Ringmaster’s face. His top hat was always pulled low, his collar always high. All you ever saw was the immaculate cut of his coat and the long, spidery elegance of his gloved fingers. But his presence was immense. He was tall, impossibly slim, and he radiated a cold that felt like the absence of hope.

“I’m not angry, pet,” he continued, and you felt the warmth of his breath on the shell of your ear. He was standing directly behind you, so close the fine wool of his coat brushed your bare arm. “But there are rules. Ancient ones. This circus runs on the tracks of my will, and those tracks do not lead into that tent without my permission.”

Haii gaizz!! I got sim more artzzzz!!