#tfc angst

"The weight of a Star" a little series between Mr. Jingle and pierrot(and soon for the other tfc crew)⭐💕

!!⚠️ WARNING IT CONTAINS BLOOD ⚠️!!

Small bonus in the end💕

Don't worry he was able to recover, good thing the doctor was around 💕

My SHAYLAAAAAA 😭😭😭😭 but also I do apologize if my grammar is off- pls don't bully me 😞 🍮

Spend any time near forums devoted to AI companions and a recurring chorus emerges from the newcomers. They're not asking which platform is loudest; they're asking something simpler and more honest. Is SweetDream worth trying as an AI girlfriend if you've never done this before? Watching how first-timers react once they actually open sweetdream.ai answers it better than any pitch could.

The early surprise is always the creation studio. Rather than handing you a finished character, it asks you to build one, shaping appearance, voice, personality, backstory and quirks into something specific. The deeper surprise arrives in conversation, where the AI feels natural, emotionally intelligent and reliably good at remembering context, which is exactly where so many competitors stumble.

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Pierrot will follow his father's steps and die of heartbreak.

At first, Pierrot maintains the mask. He still pretends in front of Jester, still performs the old routines, but the joy is gone.

He begins leaving small traces of MC everywhere: a ribbon tied around his wrist, a pressed flower from their last walk tucked into his collar, a half-finished letter addressed to you that he never completes. He talks to the empty air sometimes, soft murmurs in the voice he once reserved only for you. “You’d laugh at this, wouldn’t you?”

As weeks bleed into months, the heartbreak gets worse and Pierrot grows physically frailer.

He starts “forgetting” safety in performances. Each time, Jester intervenes, sometimes physically hauling him out of danger.

He writes letters to you that grow more incoherent, the pages filled with doodles of your face, pressed flowers, and apologies for not being enough to keep you here.

Harlequin will become a hollow shell of himself once again, just as he was before he met you.

If you helped him rebuild his relationship with Pierrot, he will turn bitterly against him. Every attempt Pierrot makes to cheer him up will only remind him of your absence. He’ll hiss and snap at any physical contact, rejecting it violently. He wants no pity, no sympathy, no gentle words. He's fine. Or so he claims.  

In truth, he begins to fade. He eats less, retreats straight to his tent after every show, and speaks to almost no one. He will never be the same after losing you. Some nights he catches himself thinking you were a mistake… only to drown in regret moments later.

TT remains silent for a long time. He knew this day would come, yet the pain in his chest still catches him off guard. After Columbina’s death, he barely processed anything until Jester stepped up as leader. 

Now that his life has returned to what it was before you, it no longer feels familiar.  He misses your warmth on the rare nights he let you sleep beside him. He misses finding coffee already waiting for him in the morning. He misses the soft way you used to wake him — a gentleness that made even his usual morning grumpiness fade.

Doctor throws himself deeper into his experiments, or at least tries to. He misses you constantly. He can’t look at another human without seeing your face. 

In the months following your death, he grows irritable, broody, and aggressive toward troublesome visitors. He doesn’t know how to process your loss. You were his partner, his mate. He knows he will never find someone like you again… and he has no desire to.

Jester takes it better than the others — not because he cared for you any less, but because he has grown used to losing the people he loves. He remembers you with a quiet tenderness. He keeps the book you kept insisting he read (the one he never opened while you were alive).  He also still keeps the collar he once used on you. Sometimes, when he’s alone, he looks at it with a small, sincere smile.

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I hope you liked it! ૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა

Masterlist

Taking requests

-----+* (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ CoCoOcelot! +*-----

No AI is used to create these and as such don't use it to train or input to AI. That includes character AIs too.

Sorry about any typos, I forgot to proofread this one.

Pairing: (Jester x Reader)

Warnings: gsw, blood, verbal abuse, angsty angst angst

A/n: This is for @r0yalj3ster’s event. I hope you enjoy! ~Fox🦊

The noise doesn’t stop, even after it’s over. Even after the second shot echoes through the tent, after the crowd breaks into something frantic and ugly, after bodies push and shove and scream as they try to escape something they don’t understand, you still hear it. It lingers, ringing in your ears, mixing with the pounding of your pulse until you can’t tell which is louder.

You don’t remember moving. One second you’re frozen in place, watching him fall, and the next you’re forcing your way through the chaos, shoving past panicked bodies, slipping on the edge of the stage as you climb up.

“Jester!”

He’s still there, collapsed where he fell, one hand pressed hard against his chest, the other bracing uselessly against the stage as if he could push himself back up and pretend this is all part of the act, but it’s not. You can see it; The blood.

Dark. Wrong. Too much.

Your stomach twists violently as you drop to your knees beside him, hands hovering for just a second before you force yourself to act.

“Hey, hey, I’m here,” you say quickly, voice shaking despite your effort to steady it. “You’re okay, I’ve got you, just…just hold on!”

Your hands press over his, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to do something, anything, even though you don’t know what you’re doing. The warmth of it seeps through your fingers almost immediately, slick and terrifying, and your breath stutters as panic claws its way up your throat.

“Stop moving,” you murmur, more to yourself than him, your hands trembling as you try to apply pressure. “I can—just—stay still,” a sharp sound cuts you off.

Not pain.

Laughter.

It’s wrong and it shouldn’t be there. Jester’s head tilts slightly, his breathing uneven, shallow, but his lips curl anyway, that familiar, unsettling smile dragging its way back into place like he’s forcing it there out of habit.

“You’re…terrible at this,” he rasps with a venomous bite.

Your chest tightens.

“I’m trying—”

“Are you?”

The words are quiet, but they hit harder than if he’d shouted them. His hand shifts suddenly, not to help, but to shove yours away just enough to break your rhythm, to disrupt what little control you thought you had. The movement makes him wince, just slightly, but the expression that follows isn’t pain. It’s irritation.

Sharp, focused irritation.

“Look at you,” he mutters, breath catching faintly as he drags in air, his eyes locking onto yours. “Standing there… shaking… making it worse.”

Your hands hover uselessly now, unsure where to go, what to do, your thoughts spiraling too fast to catch, “I—what do you want me to do?” you ask, voice breaking despite yourself.

That’s when it changes. Whatever thin thread of humor he was clinging to snaps. His expression hardens, the smile fading into something colder, something far more dangerous as his gaze sharpens.

“…Useless,” he says flatly. The word lands like a blow, “You are my most useless pet.”

Your breath catches. You don’t move. For a second you forget about the blood, the chaos outside, the fact that he’s hurt. Because that, those words, that hurts more.

“I said—” his voice cuts through the silence, harsher now, more strained as the effort of speaking starts to catch up with him, “—get Doctor.”

Your hands curl slightly at your sides, “I can’t just leave you!”

“Yes,” he snaps, sharper than before, his head lifting just enough to glare at you properly despite the way his body protests the movement. “You can.”There’s a tremor in his voice now. Not weakness; Strain, “Because standing here,doing nothing, is far less useful than bringing someone who can actually fix this.”

You flinch.

“I’m not doing nothing.”

“You are,” he interrupts immediately, his words cutting clean and precise despite the uneven rhythm of his breathing, “You’re panicking.”

A pause.

His gaze flicks briefly to your hands,

still stained, still shaking, before returning to your face, “And I don’t have time for it.”

The weight of that settles heavy in your chest. Not won’t. It’s ‘Don’t have time’.

Your throat tightens.

“Okay,” you whisper, the word barely there.

For a moment, neither of you move. Then you push yourself to your feet. Your legs feel unsteady, your head spinning, but you force yourself to turn, to step back, to leave him there even though every instinct is screaming at you not to. Behind you, his breathing falters slightly. You hesitate.

“Go,” he says, quieter now, but no less firm.

The spine, sturdy and strong. The backbone of majority of living things, unyielding and the foundational support of humans and animals alike. However, what happens when one's spine is curved and twisted?

the reader develops a fever as the day goes by, a hitched breath every now and then - each breath of air suffocating and limited, as if your very lungs were being restricted, leaving one out of breathe. Suddenly your legs started to tingle, like your legs became static themselves and you can't move them, from confusion to panic, noise from buzzing static you can hear and feel, your hands clammy from sweat, was it because of the scorching weather or because of the fever? You can not tell. You can't move nor breathe without pain, you started to heave - to force yourself to breathe and calm down but all was for naught as your breath hasten.

You suddenly arrived at the clinic, ordered to lie down... Confusion swimming on your mind, patiently waiting for your guardian to come. You had an inkling suspicion that it might be related to your undiagnosed yet painfully obvious symptoms but was only told that it was because of... stress? What do you mean it was because I stayed up late? Then... does that mean.. my health isn't a big deal? How come? the problem and symptoms are so obvious just by looking at my naked back yet... it was be because of.. staying up late?

How come the following event where this happened again my aunt, uncle and sister rushed me to the hospital? How come the time it happened again, you didn't do anything and blamed it on me of being unresponsible of my time?

Was I... was I the problem why I developed this...? My lungs may hurt as each breath I take, the slightest of movements both restricting and painful, the sound of bones popping and cracking as I simply walk, yet the uncaring emptiness swallows my stomach. My muscles ache for eternity, craving for the cure that never existed. My solution not by powers nor medicine, but through sheer effort, dedication and determination, but... who will keep my candle aflame when I am on my weakest? When my ribcage hugs my lungs too tightly, my muscles ache and sore, my bones sensitive from the cold emptiness. Body, mind, and less of a soul - all detached and held together by the string of reality.

No solution, no medicine, no cure.

masterlist ☆ tw: Canon typical violence, stabbing, injury description, panic, blood, accidental betrayal ☆ Hurt & Comfort, graphic injury ☆ GN MC ☆ Second POV ☆ Summary: Reader finds themselves unwillingly in the place of Pierrot's stage assistant. ☆ 1,602 words ☆ AO3 crossover link: The Assistant

“…you shouldnt…”

“I’m sorry."

Harlequin x OC 💚

TFC Writings [Masterlist]

(A masterlist or post created to better organize my writings for the visual novel game, The Freak Circus. This will include not only my oneshots, but imagines, headcanons, interactive stories, and, possibly, multi-chapter fics. As time goes on, I'll continue to update this.)

Please make sure to support its official release over on itch.io and the author himself, Neko or @/nekoboydreams. And, to further support this ongoing project, check out the official blog for future updates/any other information.