Hi I’m Eden. I am a multi fandom enjoyer, but currently I’m very focused on Love and Deepspace. Though you might see some other fandom content at random!
NOTE: I AM NOW HOPING TO WRITE FOR DATE EVERYTHING
I currently DO take requests for LADS a, but no guarantees that I will write it. I will not write any full nsfw work as I do not like writing that type of content.
I will write for all the LADS boys, but to my Xavier girlies, please be kind as I try to get his character right as you guys deserve to eat well.
As for Date Everything, Eddie and Volt are my main focus (I love more characters, but they have taken over my brain)
Soooo as for requests n such, I write poly, hurt/comfort, ect.
I do NOT write only hurt fics, gross stuff like incest or anything of the like, again no nsfw
I will update these rules as I go along, but I guess my main rule is to be kind, respectful, and don't spread hate <3
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
✑ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: So yeah… You've been gone for months.
Not like forever. Just... away for a bit. You told them you needed space. Adult stuff. Life Stuff. Responsibilities that didn't involve a bunch of monsters. they respected it. well, tried to. pierrot left like seventeen tearful voicemails. But weeks turned into months. Texts stopped. Visits stopped. and somewhere along the way, you stopped explaining and just... vanished.
They've had enough and they will not leave until you are given the attention you deserve.
✑ 𝓌𝒸: 5.8k
✑ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: oneshot/s · tfc x gn! reader · hurt/comfort · fluff and angst · emotional hurt/comfort · burnout · depression · established relationship · post-avoidance.
Life has been... life-ing.
If that's even a word. (it's not.) Lately, these days, everything feels chaotic and unpredictable and just... too much.
You've been busy, like legitimately busy. Just dealing with things that required you to stay away from the circus for a while. you can't just live there like some monster who doesn't have real-world responsibilities.
You have a life. Or, you had one.
You switched from full-time to part-time at the coffee shop so you could focus on school. Exams got thrown at your face repeatedly—irritating doesn't even begin to cover it. but now the exams are done. everything should be over.
You should be resting. Recovering from your busy lifestyle.
At least maybe even feeling good.
But every morning, you wake up and you just... don't move.
You’re aware of it, vaguely. The way your body feels heavy, like someone filled your bones with wet sand while you were sleeping. the way your phone is always in your hand before you've even decided to pick it up. the way hours pass and you've done nothing but scroll and blink and exist.
Your boss has noticed. Fuck.
“You okay?" He asked last week, eyes scanning your face like they were looking for something you'd lost. “You seem... rather tired."
“Just busy," you said, and you almost believed it.
they asked again yesterday. “Seriously, are you sleeping? eating? you look—" He stopped himself, however, you heard the word they didn't say.
Empty. Stuck. Motionless. I’m fine," Which you always say.
Same words. Same tone. Same lie.
You know you're not fine. You know that. But acknowledging it feels like opening a door you're not ready to walk through. So you ignore it. You ignore the way your energy drains faster than it used to. You ignore the way getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain. You ignore your boss's concerned glances and the way they leave an extra pastries by your bag every shift now—just in case you haven't eaten.
You ignore it because ignoring is easier.
Because if you didn't ignore it, you'd have to admit that something is wrong. And admitting that means dealing with it. And dealing with it means... what?
Therapy? Medication? Talking to someone? Changing?
You don't have the energy for any of that.
Causing your boss eventually stopped asking. Instead, he just... gave you time off. a week, then two, then three. "take as long as you need," he said, with that same worried look you kept pretending not to see.
He figured, like maybe hoped that staying home would help. that rest would pull you out of whatever hole you'd fallen into.
So you stay home. You live in and out of your bed. some days you're awake enough to sit on the couch. most days you're not.
Every now and then, someone comes to check on you. A friend. a family member. someone who cares enough to show up unannounced.
You don't have the energy to be annoyed—again you don't have the energy for much of anything—but you also don't want them to worry. So you clean. Just enough to make your space look lived-in instead of caved-in. You shower. You put on clean clothes.
You play pretend.
“I’m good,” you say, same as always. “Just tired. exams took a lot out of me."
They nod. they leave. and the second the door closes, you're back in bed, phone in hand.
All you want is to be alone. all you want is to scroll. to disappear into the glow of the screen where nothing matters and no one expects anything from you.
Your handheld game helps, sometimes. one of your friends bought it for you as a congratulations gift—"you finished your exams! you earned this!"—a wildly popular life simulation series where you populate a bustling, personalized island with mii avatars of yourself, family, friends, or fictional characters.
You act as an god like caretaker, watching these little digital people interact, fall in love, fight, perform concerts, navigate bizarre daily dramas.
It was supposed to be fun, relaxing, a reward for once.
Now it just feels like another task. another thing you should be doing. Another reason to feel guilty when you don't.
You even listen to music, too. Your favorite artist. The same songs on repeat, over and over, hoping to feel something. A spark of the person you used to be before everything got so heavy.
But at last, nothing comes.
Just the same boring numbness. Same hollow ache. You're lying there, thumb hovering over your phone screen, when you hear it.
A knock. Soft, but definitely there. Weird thing is—it's not coming from your front door. It's coming from your balcony window.
"What the hell…?" You freeze. Your heart does this weird thing—not panic exactly, but something like recognition. Because normal people don't knock on balcony windows. Normal people can't even reach a third-floor balcony.
You turn your head slow.
And there's a silhouette on the other side of the glass.
Tall. Familiar. Just... waiting for you to open up.
✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉
“…Pierrot?"
Your eyes watch the figure on the balcony moves, seeing a shift of weight and tilt of the head. Enough for you to recognize that shape anywhere—just a too-tall frame, slump of his shoulders, the way he holds himself like he's always bracing for bad news.
You set your phone down then swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your body feels heavy, each step toward the balcony window an effort, close like wading through water.
The lock sticks for a few secoud, you haven't opened this door in weeks, no truly months. But it finally gives, and the late afternoon air hits your face, cool and sharp, and there he is.
Just standing on your third-floor balcony like it's the most natural thing in the world. His white masked face is even paler than usual under the dim city lights, and his starry eyes—those beautiful, swirling eyes—are wide and wet and devastated.
“My dear," he breathes.
And then he's moving, crossing the small space between you in one long stride, and his hands are cupping your face before you can say anything, his cool fingers trembling against your cheeks.
“We thought you were dead," he whispers. his voice cracks on the last word. “We… )-I thought—when you stopped answering, when the days turned to weeks, we thought something had happened to you. we thought you'd left me forever."
HIs eyes search your face, and you watch the worry settle into his features like a physical weight. Those now starry pupils flicker as they take in everything—such as the dark bruises under your eyes, the unnatural lightness of your skin, the way your cheeks look slightly hollowed out like you haven't been eating enough.
His gaze drops to your hoodie (the same one from three days ago, you can't remember the last time you changed), then to the room behind you, displaying a dim, messy, stuck look, then back to your face.
“And you were just..." his voice cracks. tears spill over, tracking silver lines down his powdered cheeks. “You were just… scrolling?"
You open your mouth. the excuse is already there, the same one you've been giving everyone: i'm fine, just tired, exams took a lot out of me, i just need rest—
Pierrot shakes his head before you can even say it. “No," he whispers. “Don't. Please don't lie to me. i can see you, my dear. You're not fine."
You close your mouth.
He steps closer, his cool large hands finding yours again, holding them like they're something precious. “You look..." he trails off, searching for words. “Dim. like someone turned down your light. like you're fading."His lower lip trembles just a bit
“Please. Tell me what's wrong. I don't understand the things you humans go through, but I want to. I need to. because seeing you like this—" his voice drops to barely a whisper. "it's breaking me."
You don't have an answer.
You don't have words for what's been happening inside your head. Burnout? Depression? Exhaustion? All you know is that you've been stuck and numb and tired in a way that sleep can't fix.
Pierrot doesn't wait for you to figure it out.
He pulls you into his chest again, but this time he doesn't let go. his arms wrap around you tight—not painfully, but firmly, like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his grip.
His face presses into your hair, and you feel him breathing you in, shaky and desperate. “I’ve got you," he murmurs against your head. “I don't know what's happening, but i've got you. you don't have to explain. you don't have to do anything. Just... let me hold you."
You were still there for a long moment, limp in his arms, letting him support your weight. and slowly—so slowly—you feel something unfreeze in your chest.
He starts moving you toward the bed. not pushing, not dragging, just... guiding. His long body curls around yours as he pulls you onto the mattress, arranging the pillows behind your head, tugging the blanket up over both of you.
“Pierrot, what are you—"
“Shh." he tucks you against his side, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other coming up to stroke your hair. “We're going to stay here. in this bed. and you're going to rest, and I’m going to hold you, mayebe later I can cook for you and eventually—" he presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Eventually, you're going to feel better."
“You don't know that."
“I believe it," he says softly. "and sometimes that's enough."
He doesn't understand burnout. Doesn't know the word for it, doesn't have a framework for the way modern life drains the life out of people. But he understands sadness. He understands exhaustion. He understands what it feels like to be so tired that moving your body feels impossible.
So he holds you. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your back. his chest rises and falls against yours. And every few minutes, he whispers something soft and reassuring into your hair.
“You're safe."
“I’m here."
“You don't have to be anything right now."
His starry eyes never leave your face, even as the minutes stretch into an hour. he watches you like you're the most precious thing in the world—like he's memorizing every detail, every breath, every small sign that you're still here.
“Pierrot?"
“Yes, my dear?"
“…Thank you. For coming."
Your felt his arms tighten around you. “Always," he whispers. “Always, always, always." And for the first time in weeks, you close your eyes and let yourself be held.
✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃
“What the fuc… Harlequin?”
You whisper his name before you even open the door, and Harlequin's silhouette goes still. “…What?"
“Uh, just... come in."
You slide the door open, and he steps inside like he owns the place—because of course he does, it’s him. You notice his neon green eyes sweep across your apartment, taking in the dim lighting, the messy blankets, the general stagnation of it all. But instead of concern, his face splits into that familiar, jagged grin.
“Well, well, well," he purrs, dropping onto your couch like a cat claiming a sunbeam. “The human seems alive or, well… enough. Same difference."
You sit back down on your bed, phone already finding its way back into your hand.
“So,” he drawls, kicking his feet up on your coffee table. "you gonna explain why you've been ignoring me? or are we just pretending the last few months didn't happen?"
“I wasn't ignoring you—"
“Oh, really?" he pulls out his own phone, scrolling with one claw. “Because i've sent you... let's see... forty-seven reels. FORTY-SEVEN. and you haven't reacted to a SINGLE one."
You open your mouth. Then close it.
The truth is, you've watched every single one.
You couldn't not watch them—harlequin has a way of knowing when you've seen his messages. but the things he sends you are... cursed. Like, genuinely deranged. Last week he sent you a video of a raccoon riding a roomba while wearing a tiny cowboy hat, set to dramatic classical music. The week before that, it was a compilation of geese committing what could only be described as war crimes.
You weren't sure if you were depressed or just terrified of birds now.
“I watched them," you mumble.
“Oh yeah? Then why didn't you react?"
“Because I don't know how to react to a goose stealing someone's sandwich."
Harlequin snorts. “That's fair. That one was art."
You fall into something almost comfortable—him sprawled on your couch, you curled on your bed, both of you on your phones. This is normal for you two. parallel play, he calls it. existing in the same space without being annoying about it.
Except.
Except you stop responding to his commentary. Your thumb keeps scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling. reels blur together. cats, memes, a video essay about something you don't care about. Harlequin says something—a joke, maybe, or a sex joke—and you hum in response, not really hearing him.
“Hello? Earth to the human who's been ignoring me for months?"
You don't look up.
“Okay, that's—" he cuts himself off then you hear him stand feel the bed shift just a bit as he moves. Suddenly his hand is on your phone, tugging it gently but firmly out of your grip. “Hey—"
“No."
You look up. Harlequin is standing over you, your phone in one hand, his neon eyes fixed on your face. and for the first time since he arrived, he really looks at you.
The grin fades while his head tilts—catlike, curious, assessing. his gaze traces the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slump, the hollow emptiness in your expression that you've been hiding from mirrors.
“You look..." he pauses, searching for words. “Bad. like, really bad. When's the last time you slept?"
“I sleep."
“That's not what I asked, little thing.” Still, you don't answer.
One of Harlequin's tendrills flicks behind him—a nervous habit he'd never admit to. He looks at your phone, then back at you, then at your phone again. something shifts in his expression.
Something almost like... guilt?
“Was it the reels?" he asks, quieter than usual. “Did I… was I the reason you—"
“No.” and for once, you're being honest. “It's not you. I’ts… everything. I’ve just been stuck." He stares at you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he shoves your phone into his pocket. Sits down on the bed beside you. Like Close, very close than he normally would.
“Okay," he says.
“…Okay?"
“Okay, you're stuck. Okay, you've been ignoring me. Okay, you look like a sad, wilted lettuce." he bumps his shoulder against yours. “I’m still here, aren't I? I’m not going anywhere."
You lean into him without meaning to. One of his tendrills curls around you. “You're gonna be fine," he mutters, almost to himself. “You're annoyingly resilient. it's one of your few good qualities."
“I have other good qualities."
“Name three."
“…I’m not doing this right now." He laughs—soft, real, nothing bitter about it. And for a little while, neither of you moves.
✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇
“The hell, Jester…?”
You whisper his name through the glass, and for a long moment, nothing happens.
He doesn't move, speak, just stands there, massive and still, like a statue someone forgot to finish. you almost think you imagined it—the knock, the shape, the whole thing—when his voice finally cuts through the night.
“You took longer than expected to open."
it's not a complaint. not really. just an observation, delivered in that low, resonant tone that makes your bones feel weird. You slide the door open, and Jester steps inside.
He doesn't say anything at first. just stands there in the middle of your tiny apartment, taking it in. The messy bed. the scattered snack wrappers. The phone in your hand, screen still glowing.
His purple eyes, just sharp, steady, ancient eyes—sweep across everything in your place. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and resonant, each word deliberate. “So this is what modern humans consider meaningful existence. Staring at box of light. Ignoring the living world.” He crosses his arms, and you feel the full weight of his judgment pressing down on you.
You should probably say something. Defend yourself at least. Explain your poor behavior. But your throat feels tight, and his presence is a lot, and all you can manage is a weak, "...hi."
One of his eyebrows lifts. just slightly. just enough. “Hi," he repeats, like the word is foreign. like he's testing it on his tongue. “You disappear for months. you stop responding to all forms of communication. You let me believe—" he pauses, something flickering across his face too fast to read. “And all you have to say is hi?"
You shift your weight, just a bit. “I didn't know what else to say."
"the truth is usually a good starting point."
You don't have the truth. Not one you can put into words, anyway. So you just stand there, phone still in your hand, and let him look at you.
He does, like for a long time.
And then he unexpectedly moves. Well not toward you. Toward your kitchen funny enough. You watch, baffled, as the jester—massive, purple, terrifying jester opens your cabinets. Peers inside. Closes them. opens your fridge. makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hum.
“You have no food," he states.
"i have... some food."
“You have instant noodles and expired yogurt." he turns to face you, arms still crossed. “This is not food. This is desperation or a cry for help.”
Vefore you can respond, he's pulling out his phone—a sleek, expensive-looking thing that seems too small for his hands—and typing something with practiced efficiency.
“What are you doing?"
“Ordering groceries."
“You… you can't just—"
“I can," he says, not looking up. “I am. Watch Me.”
And you do. you watch the most intimidating monster you've ever met stand in your messy kitchen and order you groceries like it's the most natural thing in the world.
When he's done, he pockets his phone and turns to you, expression unreadable. “You're going to eat," he says. "real food. more than once a day. i will ensure this."
“You don't have to—"
“I am aware that I don't have to. I am choosing to." his purple eyes meet yours. “There is a difference."
You don't know what to say to that, so you say nothing. He looks at your bed, all of the the rumpled blankets, the pillow you've been hugging for warmth and then back at you.
“When's the last time you slept? Truly slept? not the restless, nightmare-ridden version you've been enduring."
You blink, "how do you know about—"
“I’ve notice things." he says it simply. like it's obvious. "you have dark circles beneath your eyes. your posture has collapsed. your energy is... dim than before.” a pause. "you are not well."
It's not a question. “I’m just tired," you try.
“You are exhausted, burned out. there is a difference." he moves toward you—slowly, carefully, like you're a wild animal he doesn't want to spook. “And you are not going to fix it by staring at that device."
He gestures at your phone, still clutched in your hand.
"Give it to me."
“What? no—"
“Give me the phone, little human."
There's something in his voice—not a command, exactly. more like... an invitation. like he's offering to carry something too heavy for you. And maybe it's the exhaustion. maybe it's the numbness. maybe it's just that he's him.
But you hand it over.
He takes it gently, like surprisingly gently and sets it on your dresser, face down. “There," he says. “Now you have no choice but to exist in the present moment."
“That’s… terrifying."
“Good. Fear is motivating."
He sits on the edge of your bed, which it creaks under his weight and pats the space beside him. “Come. sit. tell me what has happened to you. or don't. Either way, you are not going to be alone in this room tonight."
You hesitate then you sit.
His presence is huge and warm and solid, and somehow, despite everything, you… feel something loosen in your chest.
“To be honest… I don't know what's wrong with me," you admit quietly.
“Nothing is wrong with you," he says, and his voice is softer now. almost gentle. “You are a human experiencing human things. Burnout. Exhaustion. The crushing weight of existence." he glances at you. “It happens. it passes. and in the meantime..." he shifts, draping an arm across your shoulders—heavy, grounding. “You’ll have to deal with me.”
“I disappeared for months."
“And I found you." he says it like it's obvious. like there was never any other option. “I will always find you."
You lean into him without meaning to. Again, surprisingly, he lets you. And for the first time in weeks, you don't feel quite so alone.
✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇
“Wha.. Ticket Taker…?”
You whisper his name, and the silhouette on your balcony straightens. instantly. like he's been waiting for permission to exist.
You slide the door open, and Ticket Taker steps inside. His eye don't wander. they scan. every corner, every surface, every crumpled blanket and discarded wrapper. his expression is unreadable—that perfect, black-and-white symmetrical mask he wears like armor.
But you see the tension in his jaw. The way his hands clasp just a little tighter behind his back. “You didn't show up," he says. No greeting, nor small talk. Just facts.
“I know—"
“To work. To the circus. TO anything." His voice is clipped, controlled, but there's something underneath it. Something that might be hurt, or anger or both. “You failed to appear. Repeatedly. Without notice. Without explanation."
You open your mouth. close it.
he pulls out a small notebook—the one he always carries, the one filled with your schedule, your preferences, your existence filed away in neat, precise handwriting. he flips through it, not looking at you.
“Your screen time has increased by approximately 400% since your departure," he states, adding on, “sleep deprivation is evident. your circadian rhythm appears to have collapsed entirely." his eyes flick to your fridge—you forgot to close it earlier. "nutritional intake is minimal. inadequate. frankly, embarrassing."
He closes the notebook with a snap.
“This is unsustainable. Even for an human, I will be implementing restrictions immediately."
"Restrictions?"
“ON your device usage. on your sleep schedule. on your diet." he finally looks at you, and his gaze is sharp. disappointed. "you have disappointed me."
the words hit harder than you expect.
“I didn't—"
“You didn't show up." his voice cracks, just slightly. just enough. "you didn't show up, and you didn't tell me why. I had to infer. I had to calculate. do you know how many variables I had to account for because you wouldn't simply communicate?"
You don't answer.
He paces—short, sharp movements, like a caged animal. “I have been maintaining everything, hoping and preparing for your return, assuming there would be a return." he stops, faces you. “And then i find you here. In this state. Living like..." he gestures at the room, at you, at everything. “Like this."
“Like what exactly?"
“Like someone who has given up."
The words hang in the air between the both of you.
And something in his expression just changes, a little softens, just a fraction. He looks at you, see him notice the dark circles, the hollow cheeks, the way your shoulders slump like you're carrying something too heavy.
He exhales as a hand through his hair already slick black hair—which is a rare tell, man’s was worried about you.
“…I’m pushing too hard," he says quietly, not a question more like observation.
You don't confirm or deny. You just stand there.
He sits on the edge of your bed—perched, really, like he's afraid of wrinkling his suit. his hands rest on his knees. he looks almost... uncertain. “Let's start smaller," he says. “Carefully. one thing at a time."
He pats the space beside him. “Sit.” which you do.
He doesn't touch you—he never initiates touch, not really—but he's close. closer than usual. his presence is solid, steady, there.
“Tell me," he says. “How do you feel?" It's such a simple question. and you don't have an answer. not one that fits into words.
“I don't know," you admit.
He nods, like that's acceptable. like he was expecting it. "then tell me what you do know."
You think about it. "i'm tired."
“Obviously."
“Like... bone tired. Mentally, the kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix."
He's quiet for a moment. then: “Continue."
“I haven't been eating. or... I have, but not enough. not the right things." you glance at him. “You noticed."
“I notice everything." his voice is softer now. less sharp. “It's what I do."
“Yeah."
Silence but like it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence that happens when someone is actually listening. “I miss the circus," you hear yourself say. “I miss... everyone. I just didn't know how to come back."
He turns to look at you. Now those cool, calculating eyes—but there's warmth there, hidden underneath.
“You're here now," he says. "that's a start."
He pulls out his notebook again—but this time, when he opens it, he doesn't start calculating. he just... holds it. like he's waiting.
“I’m going to help you," he says. “Whether you want me to or not. i'm going to make a schedule. I’m going to ensure you eat. i'm going to monitor your sleep. and eventually—" he meets your eyes. “Eventually, you're going to feel like yourself again."
“You can't know that."
“I can." he says it simply. “I’ve calculated the variables. the probability of recovery is high. provided you cooperate."
You almost smile. Almost. "...and if i don't cooperate?"
His lips twitch—the closest he ever gets to a smile. "Then i will be very persistent. you know this about me."
You do.
He stands, straightens his cuffs and looks down at you with something that might be fondness, if you squint. “We'll start tomorrow," he says. "Today, you rest. I’ll stay." He sits back down.
Doesn't touch you but his shoulder is close enough that you could lean on it, if you wanted.
✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇
“Is that, Doctor??”
You whisper-yelled his name through the glass with confusion, not expecting an answer.
You're about to call out again when you remember—oh. Right. This is Doctor. He doesn't do spontaneous visits. He doesn't leave the circus unless it's Halloween or the entire month of October when he apparently haunts the mortal realm like a goth Santa Claus.
Any other time? Good luck. He's in his greenhouse.
Talking to his ferns. Listening to heavy metal. Dissecting things that probably shouldn't be dissected.
So the figure on your balcony? On a random Friday?
You're either dreaming or he's lost.
But then he ducks because your balcony door is not small, but this man is very much tall. Like, Pirrot tall. Maybe taller. His horns scrape the top of the frame and he has to bend his neck at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable, and you realize with a jolt that you completely forgot how big he is.
Doctor is not a man who looms. He's a man who exists in the background, in the shadows, in the spaces between things. But up close? In your tiny apartment? He takes up soo much space.
“Well,” he says, his voice that low, pleasant hum that somehow makes your skin crawl in a not-entirely-bad way. "You look awful.”
"...Hi?"
"Hm." He sets down a medical bag you didn't notice he was carrying and starts circling you. Like a shark. Like you're a specimen in a petri dish. "Pupils are dilated. Skin is pale. Posture is collapsed. When's the last time you saw the sun?”
"I don't know. Two week ago?"
“Disgraceful."
He pulls out a small penlight and shines it directly into your eyes without warning. You flinch as you heard him clicks his tongue behind his mask, "Follow the light. Don't blink. Try not to be dramtic about it, sweetie”
"I'm not being dramatic—"
"You're flinching. That's dramatic."
He makes a note on a pad that has also materialized from nowhere. His handwriting is surprisingly neat. Almost pretty. There are little botanical doodles in the margins.
"Your eyes are strained," he announces. "You've been staring at that—" he gestures at your phone, still glowing on the bed “—Rectangle for hours. In the dark. Without proper lightting.”
"I have a lamp—"
“A lamp is not sufficient for retinal health. You need ambient light. Natural light. Just light that isn't blue and screen-sourced." He pulls out a small handheld scanner—you don't even want to know where he got it—and runs it over your face. It beeps. He frowns.
"Your melatonin production is essentially non-existence. Your dopamine receptors are fried. Your circadian rhythm is destroyed." He looks up at you, cyan eyes sharp. "You've turned your brain into much.”
"Wow. Thanks…”
"You're welcome." He pockets the scanner and tilts his head, studying you the way he studies anything else.
"Here's the thing, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. He doesn't ask permission. He just... occupies space. "I don't do interventions. I don't do heartfelt speeches. I don't do whatever Pierrot does—the crying, the clinging, the I thought you were dead theatrics." He waves a hand vaguely, like he's shooing away a fly. "Exhausting. All of it."
"You came all the way here though."
"I did." He says it simply. Like it's obvious. Like of course he did. "Because you're interesting, and interesting specimens don't just get to... wither. That's wasteful."
He pulls a small glass vial from his bag—something pale blue and faintly glowing. "This is a tincture. Herbal. I made it myself. It won't fix you, nothing fixes anything, not really but it'll help your body remember how to sleep. Real sleep. The kind where your brain actually resets."
He presses it into your palm. His fingers are cool, much larger than your own. "Drink it before bed. Not with your phone in your hand. Not with the screen glowing in your face. Just... close your eyes and exist in the dark for a while."
"This isn't going to turn me into a frog, is it?"
"Don't be ridiculous." A pause. "Frogs require a much higher dosage."
You stare at him. He stares back, completely deadpan.
"...That was a joke."
"Ah. Well. I can see that."
"Was it funny?"
You didn't have the heart to answer. Just looked away.
He followed your gaze, glancing around your apartment agaia—the rumpled blankets, the scattered wrappers, the general stagnation of it all. His mask made his expression hard to read, but something in his voice softened. Just slightly. Just enough.
"You've been existing, not living," he said quietly. "There's a difference. I know you know that."
Again, you didn't answer.
He didn't push. Instead, he moved toward you, not looming this time, just... present. Close enough that you could smell the dried lavender and chamomile clinging to his coat.
"You're not a failed experiment," he said, tilting his head. "You're not a specimen that's been left on a shelf to collect dust. You're just... unwatered. Like my ferns when I forget to open the greenhouse blinds."
"...Are you comparing me to a plant?"
"I'm saying plants don't choose to wilt. They just don't have what they need." His cyan eyes held yours. "You haven't had what you need either. That's not a moral failure. It's just... a missing variable."
You blinked. "That's... surprisingly gentle. For you."
"I have my moments." He pulled a small glass vial from his bag, pale blue, faintly glowing, and pressed it into your palm. His fingers were cool, dry, steady. "This will help. Not because I'm kind, but because I don't like watching interesting things wither. It's inefficient."
"You could just say you care."
"I could." He didn't. But he also didn't move away.
The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, just... full. Like something had been waiting to be said, and neither of you knew how to say it.
"I don't sleep much," he said finally, quieter than before. "I listen to music. I check on my plants. I... could sit with you. If you wanted."
"...You?"
"Surprised?"
"A little."
He almost smiled. Almost. "So am I."
He didn't leave immediately. Instead, he stood there for a moment longer, his presence solid and steady.
"You should drink that before bed," he said, nodding at the vial in your hand. "Preferably in the dark. Preferably without your phone. And preferably..." he paused, something unreadable wavering across his masked face. "Preferably not alone."
"...Is that an instruction or an invitation?"
"Yes."
You huffed something that might have been a laugh. It felt strange in your chest.
He turned toward the balcony, his silhouette massive against the dim light. His horns scraped the top of the doorframe again, and he ducked with that same awkward grace, pausing at the threshold.
"If you need anything," he said, not looking back, "I'm in the greenhouse. Or the tent. Or... somewhere. You know how to find me."
And then he was gone, leaving behind a faint scent of dried herbs, cool earth, and something that might have been chamomile.
You looked down at the vial in your hand. And for the first time in weeks, you thought maybe you weren't as alone as you felt.
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
✑ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: As we all know, a gentle touch can move the whole scene. For the TFC grotesques, closeness is something they have never learned, something they have observed from the periphery over the centuries.
And then you come. Your hand rises in pure kindness.
Your palm rests, warmth touching cool skin. Your fingers search through the hair, tracing the small routes, giving them something they never dared to desire.
Head pats!
✑ 𝓌𝒸: 4.2K
✑ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: drabble/s · tfc x gn! reader · head pats · fluff · soft monsters · touch-starved creatures · gentle intimacy · monsters being soft · found family · comfort · no angst just warmth!
✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉
You Pat Him:
You barely raised your hand before he noticed.
Pierrot’s amber eyes locked onto the motion with the rapt attention of a starving man watching food approach. When your hand touched his head, fingers interlaced through his long white locks, which felt surprisingly soft against your fingertips, he was silent.
Not just paused. Stopped. His whole body went rigid, his eye widening, his lips parting beneath the mask.
Then, slowly, almost impossibly, he leaned into it.
Like a flower turning toward the sun. Like a man dying of thirst finding water. His eyes drifted shut, and a sound escaped—soft, broken, grateful. “No one…” he paused, “No one touches me like this. not anymore.” He lifted a hand to meet yours, pressing your palm harder against his head.
“Please. Don’t stop.”
When you finally had to pull away, he followed your hand with his gaze, dizzy and torn.
“Come back?”
He Pats You:
His hand hovered for an eternity before landing.
Pierrot shuddered at the very idea of tripping up with you—his fingers, long and nervous, were shaking uncontrollably, and his amber eyes scrutinized your face frantically, almost pleadingly, for any indication of hesitation and fear. Every muscle in him was tensed and ready to retreat at the first sign that he was going too far.
When you offered nothing, and then you leaned into his touch the way he had just done, something in his face broke apart. “Oh,” he breathed, that ранe, musical voice of his trembling with wonder. “Oh, you... you like this?”
His touch passed through your hair, filled with a quiet ache, feeling the texture and weight and you beneath the surface. Every slow movement of his hands was almost ceremonial, tremulous and faithful.
“You’re so soft,” he breathed, almost to himself. “So warm. So… here.”
He pulled you to him, forehead to forehead, his breath passing across your skin in a warm murmur.
“I want to do this forever.” The words were raw and sincere, drawn from a deep well within him. “Will you let me do this forever? Please? I’ll be so gentle. I’ll never stop being gentle. I just—I need—”
He pressed a kiss to your hair. Then another. Then another, each one more reverent than the last.
"Mine," he whispered against your skin. "My dear.”
His arms were wrapped around you, hard and probing, a jumble of fear and compassion intertwined like a desperate attempt to mend himself whole again through you. His face was buried in your hair, his breathing shuddering, his entire body shaking with the struggle to contain the emotion you’d awakened within him.
“Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you for letting me touch you. Thank you for not leaving me. Thank you for staying.”
He held you as though you were something fragile and exquisite, something made of spun glass and stardust, something you didn’t touch carelessly.
Something like the most precious thing in his broken, lovely world.
Because, to him, you were.
✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃
You Pat Him:
He saw it coming.
Because Harlequin noticed everything—the movement in your weight, the lift of your arm, the intention in your eyes. His grin sharpened, ready with a teasing comment about how adorable you were being.
Then your hand came down on his head.
His words trailed off.
His neon green eyes snapped open. His tendrils, which were usually drifting lazily, stood stiff as steel. His body locked in place, as if a machine had encountered strange programming.
“What—” His voice cracked. “What are you—”
You stroked softly behind the spot where his ear would be, if he had one.
Then he relaxed, let go of the moment.
Literally sagged, his spine curving, his head dropping, a sound escaping him that was absolutely not a purr (it was definitely a purr).
"That's—" He swallowed hard. "That's not—I don't—"
His hand came up, not to stop you, but to cover his own face, hiding the flush spreading across his cheeks.
"You can't just—" Another swallow. "You can't just do that. Without warning. Without—" He peaked at you through his fingers. "...Again?"
He Pats You:
He approached it like a hunt.
Harlequin moved around you, observing and soaking up everything. His sharp eyes took in every nuance of every facial expression, every variation in your posture, every degree of the angle that constricted your breathing, every degree of touch that made your eyes flutter shut.
His tendrils trailed behind him through the air, yet you can feel the focus—intense, sharper than any second he portrayed on stage.
When he finally managed to deliver the blow, with his hand resting on your head with a surprisingly soft, almost ceremonial gentleness, his grin spread wide, triumphantly so.
“Found it,” he purred, a two-toned whisper that dripped with calm, self-satisfied triumph. “The weak spot.”
His touch had been so accurate, so playful, so skilful, dancing over all your nerves with a chilling precision. He scratched lightly behind your ear, made patterns on your scalp, homing in on the weak spot that made you tremble.
"You make the best faces," he murmured, genuinely delighted. "Little human, melting under my hand like butter in the sun. Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are when you're soft? When you're not trying to be tough or clever or anything other than just... you?"
His voice had changed, too, the playful snap giving way to something almost gentle.
He kept at it long after he should have stopped—long after the game was over, long after the punchline had been delivered. He just kept touching you. He just kept looking at you. He kept releasing all those little savoring breaths on you.
“Don’t get too used to this,” he lied, his voice rough.
But his hand never stopped. It never eased off. It never withdrew.
He moved closer, close enough so that his chest was against your own, and the warmth he carried enveloped you. His other hand rose to support your jaw, to bring your face to meet his.
“You're something else, you know that?” His voice was soft, unadorned, as if he was speaking without even thinking about it. “Something I didn't see coming. Something I can't quite pin down.”
His thumb traced your cheekbone, feather-light.
"I watch you. All the time. When you're not looking. When you think no one sees." A pause. "I see everything. The way you smile at Pierrot like he's not broken. The way you talk to the Ticket Taker like he's not a filing cabinet with a pulse. The way you look at me like I'm not just... a game."
His hand resumed its easy motion, slowing to a softer beat. Softer.
"I don't know what to do with that. With you. With the way you make me want to—" He stopped, swallowed hard, and said, "Never mind."
But he didn't move away. Didn't retreat behind his usual sharpness.
Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours, just for a moment. Just long enough to feel real.
"You're not supposed to make me feel like this," he whispered. "Soft. Quiet. Human." A breath. "But you do. And I hate it. And I love it. And I don't know which one scares me more."
He pulled back, his grin sliding back into place—but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Don't tell anyone I said that." A pause. "One more minute," he murmured. "Just one more. Then I'll let you go…”
He didn't. Not for a long, long time. And when you finally did part, he caught your wrist—just once—and pressed a kiss to your palm.
"Forgetting something," he lied again. "Just... making sure you remember who found your weak spot first." But the way he looked at you as he walked away...
That wasn't a game at all.
✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇
You Pat Him:
Your hand reached for him slowly—not out of fear, but out of respect.
The Jester had an air, a weight, about him that made even the simplest gesture, even the simplest touch, seem out of reach.
His burning purple eyes followed your approach, perfectly still, perfectly patient. One word, one glance, one gesture of that enormous presence could have stopped you in your tracks. One word, one glance, one gesture of displeasure, without even moving a muscle, could have sent you running.
He didn't.
Your hand had been resting on the curve of his head, avoiding the area of the horns, the one place you could touch without climbing all over him like he was a mountain. It had been warm, firm, real.
And then, almost unbelievably, the eyes had changed. Just a little. Just a fraction. Just enough to notice the change had occurred.
"Bold," the voice had rumbled, low enough that you were the only one who heard it. "No one touches me."
His hand had come up, slow, deliberate, and had covered yours. Not moving it. Not pulling it away. Simply... holding it there. Accepting it.
"You're either very brave," he had murmured, "or very foolish, little human." A pause, heavy as a weight you can’t quite shake. “...I haven’t decided which I prefer.” His thumb brushed your knuckles—once. Just enough to register, to linger without rushing.
He didn’t let you go. Didn’t step away.
Just existed in that moment, letting you touch him, letting you see him, letting you be the one person in centuries bold enough to try. When you started to pull back, his grip tightened—barely, but enough. “Stay,” he murmured, not a command but a request.
So you stayed. And the Jester, for the first time in longer than either of you could remember, simply... was. Held. Touched. Seen.
By you.
He Pats You:
When Jester’s hand descended, time stood still.
Not with any sort of flourish, but with the weight of his attention, the force of his presence, focused intently on you. His hand came down, resting over your head, warm, heavy, but strangely gentle.
The weight of his gaze fell on you, and you felt it, steady and heavy, while the rest of the world melted away: the distant din of the circus, the soft glare of the lantern, the beat of your own heart. It was all about him, his presence, his hand, this instant.
His hand was warm and real, solid and steady, and somehow that didn’t contradict the softness of his touch. He wasn’t pushing, grabbing, possessing. More like he was simply resting his hand on you, and that was somehow a blessing, a promise.
“You fit,” he said, and his deep voice was full of awe. “Under my hand. You fit.”
His thumb moved through your hair, slow and careful. He studied it, felt it, explored it. He learned the texture, the weight, the you inside it.
“This is... pleasing,” he says, the words costing him something to produce. He speaks from a place that doesn't often speak. “The texture. The warmth. The way you trust me enough to let this.”
He says it again, and again, his hand moving through your hair as a question, a venture, a statement.
Nobody touches the Jester. Nobody dares.
And yet here you are, underneath his touch, soft and trusting, yours in a way he hadn't realized he might want you to be.
He finally spoke, his words a little softer now, a little more intimate. "You can have this whenever you want. My attention. My touch." A pause followed, a heavy one, a meaningful one. "My softness. I don’t give it away easily. I don’t give it at all. But for you..."
He left that sentence hanging, unfinished.
Because his hand was resting on top of your head, still, still touching, still connected. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t done anything but stand there with you in that moment, allowing you access to him in a way he’d never allowed anyone else."
His other hand rose to cup your jaw. He tilted your face up to meet the intensity of his gaze.
"You are mine," he said quietly. Not a question. A fact. "Do you understand? In this moment, in this touch, in this softness—you are mine."
His thumb traced your cheekbone. "And I..." A pause. The words caught. "I am yours. However briefly. However impossibly. Yours." He pressed his forehead to yours, just for a moment. Just enough to feel real.
Then he straightened, his hand giving one last, gentle pass over your hair before, reluctantly withdrawing. "You may return," he said, his voice regaining its usual weight. "When you wish. For more... softness." A pause. "I will be here."
And the way he looked at you as he turned away...
That wasn't a decree at all.
That was a promise.
✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇
You Pat Him:
He froze completely.
The Ticket Taker’s figure went stiff, first white, then white and blue eyes flashing in rapid, chaotic bursts—like a system suddenly overloaded. His pen suspended mid-word. His shoulders locked. Every muscle became a rigid monument of startled professionalism.
“Visitor,” he uttered, the voice flat but tight. “What are you—”
You touched lightly at the back of the Ticket Taker’s skull, at the point where his collar met his hair in perfect starch and perfect grooming.
His breath caught. "I don't—this isn't—" He swallowed, hard. "There’s no protocol for—" He raised a hand, not to stop you, but to grasp his own sleeve. A desperate attempt at grounding himself.
"If you continue to press the issue," he went on, "then I shall be forced to..." He hesitated, unable to find the words for this, the proper construct for kindness.
"...Again," he breathed at last. "If you must. I suppose I could... endure... this moment.”
He Pats You:
He approached it like a task.
Because the Ticket Taker approached each instant as if it were a task to be fulfilled—exact, precise, businesslike.
His hand came down with a precise angle, a precise rhythm, as if he had spent years studying the art of quiet observation. When it came down on your head, its pressure was just so neither too hard, nor too soft.
It started out quietly—his eyes relaxing, his shoulders unkinking from their usual rigidity. His hands, those tightly coiled instruments of precision, relaxed and fell into a natural rhythm, unashamed to meander. He touched you without a plan—threading through your hair, making slow, aimless circles on your scalp, finding you by feel rather than by numbers on a page.
"This is... pleasant," he admitted softly, the edge in his tone replaced by something softer, more gentle.
There was a pause, his fingers continuing their movement, steady, sure.
"Your softness, your warmth, the way you seek out the contact without hesitation." Another pause, longer than the last.
"I have made countless observations about you, your habits, your preferences, your patterns." His hand paused again, the fingers continuing their movement.
"But this... this was not in any file." His fingers continued, well past the time when the data collection would have been finished, well past the time when any rational being would have stopped.
"I find myself... reluctant to stop."
His words came hard, like they had to be wrestled out. It was in the way his grid of eyes darted, faster and faster, in the slight clench of his jaw. It was in the way his stiff, orderly life seemed to try and avoid feeling.
“Is that… acceptable?”
The question was soft, tentative, out of character for the man, out of character for the Ticket Taker, the man who processes, files, controls everything, asking for permission to continue touching you.
You nodded.
He exhaled, a soft sound, almost relieved, like he’d been holding his breath without even knowing it.
His hand found its rhythm again, this time gentle, steady, present.
“You are,” he whispered, the words falling into something intimate, “the most pleasing variable I’ve ever met.” The words were suspended there, just full of significance.
Not 'specimen.' Not 'subject.' Not 'visitor.'
His other hand rose, hesitantly, and hovered close to your face.
"May I?" he asked, his voice low and quiet.
You nodded, and he cupped your cheek in a way that felt almost impossible. His thumb moved across your cheekbone, your jaw, the edge of your mouth, and each gesture was a question, a discovery, a revelation.
"You're warm," he observed, his voice steady and his tone full of awe. "Always so warm." He hesitated, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I've noticed that before, but..." He cleared his throat. "It's different, feeling it. You're different."
He pulled you close, not in anger, not in need, but in a way that felt almost certain, almost safe.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” he said, admitting defeat. “With you. With the way you make me want to… stop filing. Stop processing. Just… be. Here. With you.”
His forehead against yours, his grid-eyed gaze melting away to nothing.
“This is inefficient,” he said, his voice a whisper against your skin. “This is… illogical. This is everything I’ve spent centuries avoiding.”
He paused, breathed, and then said:
“I don’t care for once.”
He kept you there, in the quiet of his kingdom, his hand still tangled in your hair, his other hand still cradling your face.
He moved closer, his words brushing against your lips. “Take it if you want. When you want. My time. My attention. My… gentleness.” He paused, then added, “If that would be... acceptable.”
He pressed forward, “I find myself... reluctant to stop.” The words seemed to cost him. “Is that... acceptable?” When you nodded, a sound escaped him, a sound almost like a sigh of relief, and he went on.
“You are,” he murmured, “the most pleasing variable I have ever encountered.”
✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇
You Pat Him:
His head was cocked at an odd angle—a chance since he’s too tall for you to reach, his eyes fixed intently upon you as you approached, as if he were some kind of specimen under glass.
“Curious,” he said, his voice almost clinical. “What is your—”
And before he could complete the question, your hand reached out to touch his head, his hood, wherever that dark shape could be said to possess a head.
The light from his goggles shone brightly cyan as he talked.
“Physical contact. Voluntary. With me.” He sounded shocked. “Fascinating. Your heart rate increases and levels off immediately. Your pupils dilate, yet remain constricted. You’re not afraid; you’re enjoying this.”
He leaned forward just enough for you to notice.
“Pleasant,” he said. “The pressure. The warmth. The intent behind it.”
His eyes locked onto you with renewed interest.
“I think I’d like to research this further—the effects of light touch on your physiology. With your permission, naturally, sweetie.”
He Pats You:
His touch began as clinical curiosity, precise and methodical. His cyan eye scanned you like a specimen under a microscope, cataloging every micro-expression, every twitch, every physiological response to his fingers in your hair.
“Fascinating,” he breathed, barely above a whisper. “Piloerection at the base of the scalp. Pupil dilation within normal bounds but clearly reactive. Heart rate…” He paused, listening to the rhythm. “Elevated, yet not a fear signal—more like interest, perhaps pleasure.”
His fingers moved with care, tracing the contours of your head with a scientist’s exactitude.
And then something changed. It was small, a shift away from clinical detail and towards warmth, a softness creeping into his analytical eyes.
“Aha,” he breathed, his tone tinged with true surprise. “I see now. The allure.”
His hands continued to move through your hair, softer than you had ever heard, softer than you had ever felt.
“Your answers are lovely,” he said, his tone quiet, a quietness that was new, a quietness that was different.
“The ease with which you let go, relaxing against my touch. The trust you place in me, closing your eyes, leaning forward, offering yourself to my hands, unhesitating.” His thumb traced the shell of your ear, feather-light.
"I have studied many subjects over the centuries. Countless specimens.” A pause. "None of them have ever looked at me the way you do. Like I'm not something to be feared. Like I'm just... me."
He continued on, lost in what he was seeing, and something more, something that could have been affection had he kept a file for such things.
“I could do this for hours,” he said, his words nearly dreamy. “Analyze the effects of gentle touch on your body, catalog all of your reactions, measure all of your shivers and sighs.” A pause. “Enjoy the process. Enjoy you.”
His cyan goggles looked at yours, and for a moment, there was nothing clinical about it.
"Would you permit that? Extended observation? For... science?"
The word was almost a joke now—a thin veil over something realer, something softer, something he didn't have a name for.
His eyes glinted, but this time, they were softer, almost affectionate.
“You know, sweetie,” he said, his voice low, smooth, and unhurried, the diminutive slipping out as if it had been there all the time, “I have spent centuries searching for anomalies, for exceptions to every rule, for things that refuse to be categorized.”
His hand never wavered in its gentle, unhurried caress.
“I thought I was searching for data, for discoveries, for breakthroughs.” Pause. “I was searching for you, but I didn’t even know it.”
He drew you closer, settling you at his side, his fingers continuing their gentle, unhurried stroking through your hair.
“Stay,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin, “just a little longer, please, I want to remember this, the weight of you, the warmth, the feeling of you pressed against me as if you belonged there, as if you had been meant to be there.”
Pause, soft now, the word almost a caress, almost an acknowledgement, almost a claim.
“You are my favorite specimen, my most interesting subject.” Pause, searching for words that didn’t exist in his medical lexicon.
And for the first time in centuries, the Doctor didn’t just observe...
...didn’t just study, didn’t just think—he felt.
✑ 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝓊𝓂𝒷𝒾𝓃𝒶
You Pat Her:
She froze the moment you touched her.
Not from fear, but from awe. Her one pink eye opened wide with a spark of light, and she shivered at your touch. When you scratched gently behind her horns, she let out a little breathless moan.
Nobody touches her. Nobody sees her. Nobody—
Except you.
Her hands reached out to grip your sleeve, drawing you closer to her. Her face pressed into your hand, hungry for more touch, more warmth, more reassurance that all of this was real.
When you finally pulled your hand back, she looked up at you with a sky full of stars in her eyes—thankful, but sad from loneliness. And then she reached out to put your hand back on her head, nodding resolutely.
Again. Please. Never stop.
She Pats You (Silently?):
Her touch was a whisper—almost nothing, cautious, curious, hopeful.
And when you didn’t pull back, when you moved closer to it, her whole face changed to joy. Pure joy, quiet joy, joy unadorned. She handled you with a gentle haste, her small hands outlining you, learning the feel of your hair, the warmth of your skin. Each touch was a question:
Is this okay? Do you want this? Do you want me?
As you nodded, and your smile touched hers, she made a noise that was not a noise—a tremor of joy that you felt rather than heard. Her forehead rested against yours, her eyes shut, her hands steady on your face.
Thank you. For really seeing me. For touching me. For staying.
When you had to go, she held your sleeve once again, and pressed a kiss into your palm.
Come back. Please come back. I’ll be here.
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
Changed my mind I finished Harley’s so I’m doing his first for his birthday and moved the one I already had queued to tomorrow-
These turned out sweeter than I intended but I got in the zone-
Happy birthday you fuckin’ menace /aff
Harlequin + Autistic MC HCs
• His interest starts the same way as in the canon game; you have a red ticket
• He learns pretty quickly you don’t react the way most humans do, and your reactions aren’t always what he expects when you give them
• You’re a strange one, but he’s determined to play this game with Pierrot for now, so he persists
• He finds you amusing and sees you as a sort of challenge. What can he do to make you tick?
• He takes note of your behaviors pretty quickly, but unlike the others, he’s not really… quick to act on them. He wants to observe you first
• He’d never really had an interest in “reclusive humans”. He saw them as quiet and boring
• You prove to be… quite the opposite the more time he spends with you
• You can be quiet, and not typically very expressive, but when you are expressive, it’s pretty big. You practically put your whole body into it with your stims, and you’re always honest when you’re expressive. He likes that
• He comes to learn that, when you speak, you either have something honest, interesting, or a mix of both to say
• I see him as a quality time type of guy, which works well for you bc you enjoy just being near him, even if no words are exchanged. Sitting in a silence that’s not loud, but comfortable. Easy. Calming
• Like Pierrot, I imagine he likes to be touchy. Unlike Pierrot, he likes to be touchy on his terms and does not wanna be touchy on your terms
• You both eventually come to an agreement that you must both agree on touches, either verbally or non verbally, such as reaching a hand out and it being accepted or not, thus essentially making you both touching on agreed terms as a middle ground
• The system works for you both, and you’re quite happy with it
• He starts doing little things to adhere to your needs a bit at a time. Making sure your comfort item is somewhere you can see it (with a bit of his smell on it), a new item for your nests, a gift that adheres to your special interests, a new casual shirt made of a material you said you really liked once
• He’s actually a really good listener, and so are you, he comes to learn
• And when he’s not in the mood to listen, you’re ok if he doesn’t hear a word you say, and he’s happy he doesn’t have to. Just the sound of you yapping without having to commit to hearing you is enough to keep him grounded
• He likes the sound of your voice
• He notices you’re not loud in your gestures either. You’re fairly quiet and simple with him. Sitting beside him, offering a hand without eye contact for him to take with no embarrassment attached since he can’t feel your eyes on him. It’s actually… just what he needs
• Very protective of his peace with you
• You quietly, unequivocally, chose in your own little way. And somewhere along the lines, he did the same
I was wondering if you could do Eddie and Volt headcanons or a blurb!! The two are my favorites ever<3 The scenario could be some sort of hurt/comfort.
Maybe reader gets into an argument with them (maybe over overworking themselves or just burning themselves out) OR maybe after events of Dishy’s fight and reader refuses to rest in order to help out the other Dateables
I love your work and the way you depict the characters!! No rush at all btw :)!!!
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE THANK YOU FOR THIS AAAAA!
I tried to write something for the second scenario you suggested (*starts crying in trauma remembering her Boss Fight with Dishy*, luckily Eddie came and managed to save me, because the situation was horrifying). And sorry, it came out long!
I hope you'll like it! Thank you again!
ᴀ ɴᴇꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ - ᴇᴅᴅɪᴇ & ᴠᴏʟᴛ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
⚠️Setting: after Dishy's fight ⚠️
⚠️Warnings: slightly mention of bruises and burns, blood, shock, cursing⚠️
Suddenly, you can hear the sound of your own ragged breath.
It fills your ears, the entire kitchen and maybe even the whole house, like the voice of a ghost in agony, and it scares you till the bones. Around you, the silence is devastating, every noise far away from these rooms; and in this absence, you are breathing.
You are still breathing.
The pain comes with the realization. You are alive: your body is still working, your mind is awake, but your skin burns... and...
You have to grab your own head, and take another long, deep breath: the images of what happened just some minutes before - but how much time actually passed? - flood your eyes, and you are not able to ignore the shivers shaking your body.
You survived - you survived a gruesome fight in your own house. Against one of the beloved ones you are sharing your days, weeks, months, life with. No, it's not a joke, a dream: the nightmare turned real. And you...
I cannot even think about it. I don't want to face it. It happened, but I don't want to believe I was going to-
You don't control your legs: they move by their own, dragging you around the rooms as if they weren't your flesh and bones, as if you were just observing everything from the outside. The horror feels real, too real, though.
The Dateviators are still on your nose, but you don't see who's around you: blind to everything, your mind barely registers the handrail of the staircase under the palm, and you have a moment of surprise finding yourself on the upper floor. Why did you even come up there?
I'm failing to understand a lot of things right now... ach, my head keeps hurting...
This, until the buzzling sound from the breaker box enters your ears with the strength of an elephant. And another memory kicks your thoughts with the same kindness.
There is complete darkness when you rush into the closet, icy sweat running down your nape and back; but suddenly the space is full of light, and two figures you know so, so well turn in your direction, immediately catching up to you. The familiar, velvet-warm walls of the Breaker Box envelop you, and the only thing you know and feel is the sensation of two pairs of hands gently coming to rest on you and steady your body.
The first your eyes focus on is Eddie, his expression never as worried and terrified as in this right moment; you suddenly remember he was with you during the fight, and hit each other with the same words at the same time: "Tell me you are okay."
A moment of silence follows, before your voice comes out again, trembling, pleading. "Answer me first. Tell me you're okay, Eddie..."
A flash of surprise crosses the man's features, then he grabs your shoulders. "It comes after."
"Eddie..." You try to grab his wrists and stop him, but your hands are weak: they just brush against his arms in the parody of a caress, before losing all their residual energy. "Eddie, Dishy hit you too... no, wait... he didn't. You are safe... and you saved me... yes, I remember you saved me, but I'm so confused, I..."
I'm not even able to think clearly...
Now, it is Volt who steps in, wrapping his arms around your body and allowing you to lean against his chest, while Eddie checks your arms and hands to give your bruises a better look. It feels so warm, so right to be there with them, and Volt's voice is the sweetest caress on your skin. "You are shocked, live wire, you need rest. Everything is over, we got you..."
"No, it's not..." you protest, your body wriggling against the secure embrace and the fingers tending at your wounds. The pieces keep coming to fall in place and clear the fog in your mind, showing you what happened, "I have to go in the kitchen... Miranda, Freddy... Daisuke... they saw everything, they are scared for sure... I have to return there and help them... what if they got hurt?"
"Live wire..."
"I have to! They have to know I'm okay, at least!"
Volt struggles for a moment in keeping you still, but refuses to let you go, his arms holding you tighter without adding to the pain; Eddie, however, is on the verge of losing every last string of control he has, as you can tell by how his hands are shaking.
"Guys, please... I have to..."
"You're not okay, and not in the condition of helping anyone. Not in this state! You would scare them more!"
The words hit you enough to chip away some of your resistance. The tone is not harsh, but as firm as a stone wall, and you know you cannot fight against the logic and maturity in them. Even if they taste so bitter on your tongue... and knowing you managed to argue with Eddie is the worst part, what hurts the most.
Congratulations, a great day from start to end.
Holding back a curse, Eddie takes your hands again and rubs your knuckles with his thumbs. His callouses are far from unpleasant on your skin, the soft, rhythmic pressure reassuring and comforting. "Just... stay."
"The others still have to know..."
"Come on, don't make me beg... Please."
And just like this, you crumble down. Utterly defeated, but for a good cause, and you know it. You cannot fight anymore, and it's right like this. "... Fine. Fine, okay, I will stay and rest for a bit. Sorry... sorry to both of you. And thank you, Eddie... my stubborn ass is safe only because of you."
You see the latter taking a small sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing just slightly, before giving you a soft smile. "I would like to say that's my pleasure... even if the entire shit was pretty rough, and not so pleasurable."
A chuckle escapes you, followed by a soft moan when Volt tightens the hug and sinks a hand into your hair, his fingers stroking the strands in calm movements before giving attention to your cheeks. An irresistible sense of peace falls over you, your body quickly relaxing under his expert touch and the quiet presence of Eddie beside you, and your lips tremble in a smile tinted with the colors of relief.
"So... since unnecessary arguments are behind us, better if both the heroes of the day take their proper rest. Make yourselves comfortable, and-"
Now, your hands have all the strength they need, and dart to stop Volt before he could leave the place. In your eyes, the usual light has returned. "You know... in order for me to rest properly, both of you are needed. So... stay here with us."
Volt has a jolt of surprise, before grinning back at you. "Interesting, live wire... we already know you are as sweet as liquorice, but this cuddly... you will never cease to surprise me. That's... alluring."
"Quit the serenade, Volt, our human is dangerously close to having a sugar rush..." Eddie comments without hiding the fondness in his tone, before taking a deep breath, "... but I agree, resting together is not a bad idea. Just... don't get too clingy all of sudden."
"Not even for once? Come on, Eddie, just for today... holding hands and snuggling a bit. Come on come on come on-"
"Oh, for fucking fuck..."
... And here it goes. With the horror fading, and the love winning. Here, in the nest for the heart, where darkness loses power, and connection blooms.
Your senses slowly return to you as rays of sunlight penetrate your eyes. You stretch out your limbs, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. However, as if sensing the movement, Olly clings closer to you, tucking his head onto your shoulder.
He murmurs, “What time is it?”
“Too early for you. Go back to sleep.” You nudge him to try to get him to loosen up his grip but he only hums in response.
He lets out an annoyed whine, “Stop movin’.”
You try to wiggle away yet your energy drains very quickly — you end up not making any progress. “You know, for someone who rarely exercises your grip is pretty strong…” You comment, finally accepting your fate.
“...Insulting me isn’t doing you any favors.”
“Worth a shot.” You don’t get out of bed until you hear his breathing slow down.
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
You’re lounging in the living room when you’re greeted with Tetia rounding the corner, flinging around a hairbrush.
“Master! Master!” She calls out. “Can you help me?” The girl points at her tangled hair.
You motion for her to come over, taking the brush from her hand as she settles in front of you. “What happened? Don’t you usually get Richeh to help you?”
Tetia shakes her hair violently. “Richeh wasn’t being much help, she kept tugging at my hair.”
You comb your hands through her hair, feeling out any particularly tangled knots. “Are you alright?”
She lets a small pout form on her face. “I’ll be fine but it still hurts!”
“Best to not be too mad at her, alright? It was probably a mistake.” You remind softly, brushing out the ends of her hair.
“No promises!” The girl says playfully.
You decide to switch up the topic. “Speaking of the others, how’s Coco doing? Qifrey said the few of you ran into danger a while ago at Kahln.”
Tetia lowers her head at the mention of such. She fidgets with her hands in her lap. “She’s doing good.”
You gently tilt her head upwards to avoid any unnecessary tension while brushing it. “Judging from your reaction, something’s still troubling you.”
She whispers, “I… I said some things I regret to her… I apologized yet I still feel guilty about it.” The girl adds on, “She was so nice about it too…”
You see Tetia grip at her gown in frustration.
You pass the brush through the last strands of her hair, placing it on the arm of the sofa, resting a hand on top of her head.
“It’s normal to feel that way, guilt has a weird way of doing that.” She angles her head back at you. “It’s best to not let it linger in your consciousness, otherwise you’ll never be able to move on.”
Tetia leans over, tucking her knees into her chest. “I don’t know what to do… everytime I think about it or even her, I just feel more ashamed of myself.”
“Coco loves magic, right?” You say. She nods hesitantly in response. “How about you make a spell for her?”
The girl shrivels out of her ball, leaning back against your legs. “Making your own spells is your dream, no? Why not start with Coco?”
Her eyes widen in revelation. “That could work,” she mumbles.
You lift up two tuffs of hair, mimicking her pigtails. “Now that you have your plans for today, let’s get your hair finished up.”
Tetia gets up, abruptly, scurrying out of the room. “I’ll get some hair ties from my room, be right back!” She yells out. You let out a chuckle at her antics.
Qifrey conveniently makes his way into the living room as she leaves, holding a mug that he sets down on the coffee table.
“How long have you been there?” You ask.
“Long enough.”
He lifts your chin up with an index finger and leans over to kiss you. When he pulls away, he rests a hand on your knee to steady himself.
“Any plans for today?” He questions.
“Sleeping, eating, that’s about it.”
“How productive.”
“I know.”
“Well then, want to help me clean?”
You shrug, “Sure.”
Tetia barges back into the room before he can get another word in.
“Master! I got the hair ties-“ she stares at the two of you in suspicion for a good while.
“Why are you looking at us like that,” Qifrey asks, “we didn’t even do anything?“
“Shoo!” Tetia nudges Qifrey away from you and gives you the hair ties. You tie up her pigtails as Qifrey stands to the side awestruck. The girl runs off with a “thank you.”
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
Following a mini clean up session and a hearty lunch, Qifrey leaves you to your own business as he holds a lesson for the girls.
You end up taking a walk around the atelier. First, you stop by the garden to see if any herbs or vegetables are ready for harvesting. Finding no ripe goodies, you decide to fly around the area to see if any wild plants are fit for dinner.
As you pass by a patch of kettlegourds, a familiar winged companion of yours drifts near your presence. Deactivating your sylph shoes, you allow Voy to perch on your arm. In its break holds a couple envelopes from various senders.
You pluck them out of Voy’s mouth, tucking them into a small bag. It flies off after a few pets.
Continuing your ingredient search, you stumble upon rotten, half eaten dewberries — which you could technically eat if you used a repetition seal to restore them. You decide not to bother with picking them, rather opting to settle for something more savory.
An hour of pouncing and scavenging around the plains is subsequently followed by a trip to town. You were a bit disappointed with the outcome. Was it supposed to be a walk? Well, yes, but some free groceries would’ve been nice too. You buy carapace yams and halfmoon legumes then head home.
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
The living room is empty when you return — they must’ve retreated to their rooms for independent studying.
You go through the usual procedure of cooking the yams; charring them over a fire and scooping out the insides. You mash up and blend them up to make a starchy soup. After you transfer the soup base into a pot, you grate a block of cheese on the side and chop up bacon for the toppings.
As soon as the smell of bacon fills the house, Richeh enters the kitchen. She tries to take a peek into the pot, though fails due to it being out of reach.
She tugs at your sleeve. “What are you making?”
“Creamy carapace yam soup.”
Richeh lets out a peeved sigh, “I’m tired of soup.”
“Yes, but we won’t have to eat this one for a whole week.” You toss the sizzling bacon. “Plus, you can however much meat you want so it doesn’t taste like or feel like soup.”
Her eyes sparkle at the comment, “Really!? You mean it?”
You nod in response. She pumps her arms in the air in victory, “I’ll eat all the soup then!”
A chuckle escapes your mouth at her enthusiasm. Richeh takes a seat at the table, kicking her feet in impatience. Occasionally, you glance at her, noticing her playing with something with her hands. You choose not to comment on it.
Sometime between preparing the legumes and sauteing them, Olly hobbles his way to the kitchen. His hair is disheveled in a way that tells you he most definitely slept all day.
He lets out a garbled groan, “What time is it?”
“Time for you to eat supper,” you remark.
His movements freeze in shock. “Are you serious…?”
“Yes?”
Olruggio starts gripping his head in panic. “I was supposed to wake up at lunch and finish my contraption…! I have no time, my deadline is tomorrow.”
He silently shrieks on the way back to his room. You huff out an exasperated sigh.
Soon afterwards, Richeh makes up her mind and makes her way over to your side. You lower the flame and turn your attention to her.
She extends her hand out to you, dropping an object into your palm. It's smooth and cool to the touch, dawning a light blue color. On closer inspection, it’s a mini figurine.
“I made one of Coco.” She looks away, a bit bashful. “Now everybody has one.”
Earlier on, Richeh had started experimenting with sculpting with her crystal ribbons. She made it her goal to make sculptures of people within the atelier, gifting you them after she’s finished — currently, they reside on a shelf in your room. You suggested moving them to the living room so everyone could appreciate their cute complexions, but she strongly refuted that idea.
“It’s beautiful,” you compliment. “I’ll put it with the others, thank you Richeh.”
Her cheeks warm up at the praise. “It’s nothing,” she says. “I’m… going to go back to my room. Let me know when dinner’s ready.”
“Of course.” You watch as she darts off.
Turning up the heat once more, adding a sliver of butter, stirring it in until it fully melts. Following that you add a heapful of garlic, cooking it until fragrant. Lastly, you season with salt and pepper among other species and top it all off with a squeeze of lemon.
Halfway through transferring the greens onto a plate, a large bang rings in your ears, with Qifrey partially crashing into the kitchen, looking equally as tousled as Olly was. You nearly lose your grip on the pan because of it.
“I overslept! I need to make dinner-” he pauses mid sentence at your presence. “Oh.”
You tease, “You didn’t smell anything?”
“Guess not,” he says, ruffling the back of his head in embarrassment. “Do you need any help?”
“No. Now go before you raise your blood pressure anymore.” You chase him away from the stove but he still hovers nearby.
“Are you sure? I feel bad making you do everything.”
“You make most, if not all, our meals, Qi.”
“Still,” he responds, stubbornly.
“Here,” you place the figure into his hand. “If you want to do something, put this in my room and tell the girls dinner’s ready.”
Qifrey pinches the object between his thumb and index finger, raising it towards the overhead light, getting a better look at it. “Richeh made another one?”
“Yeah. Isn’t it cute?”
“Just like the others.” He rotates the crystal in the palm of his hand absentmindedly, yet you can still tell his attention is focused on you.
You let him send a few glances your way then ultimately drive him away with kicks to his foot. “Okay, now stop stalling and go.”
“Ow, okay okay!” He exclaims, finally scampering away.
By the time everyone’s gathered at the table, everything is plated and ready to be eaten — along with a reserved portion for Olly, of course.
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
A/N: ahhhh i feel like i’ve been lowkey inactive on tumblr but thank yall sm for 112 followers 🥹🫶🫶 didn’t really expect this much attention when starting this blog so thank you from the bottom of my heart!!
Ronin x Reader who doesn’t take care of themselves
He notices it before it even starts and it kills him.
He HATES when you deny yourself stuff, and he will always stop the flirting to talk to you about it, direct.
“This isn’t a flirt, ya haven’t been doing shit to take care of yourself and I can see it, what’s been up with ya, Y/N.”
He will note the fact it’s bad enough a serial killer is more concerned with your eating habits than you are.
He gets you to spill, he won’t force you, not like he’s dragging you here by your own will, but don’t think you can ever trick him or that he’ll rub it off as nothing. Cause again, it’s not nothing.
He will crack a dry joke or too at the end, something not funny but very Ronin-esque. “Don’t kill your self in the process, alright? That’s my job, and I don’t do well to having my opportunities taken away from me.” While doing his stupid wink. But you know he’s serious about you and he damn well cares.
If it does get really bad, he’ll show up at your door with just a “yo”.
He’s good at distracting you. When you hang out with him you don’t even notice the fact he got you a really good tasting and nutritious meal that’ll help you feel better (it was moved to a take out box disguised as just food he happened to pick up on the way to you to watch all the saw movies again).
He makes you drink a ton of water (for, getting your throat dry by screaming at him) or “accidentally” get blood or dirt on you so now you have to shower. And yes, you’re getting freshly comfortable clean clothes after.
He’s sleeping with you that night and if you truly do not want that, you two are still going out on a low pressure date to the grocery store or equipment store or just a drive or walk or getting some coffee the next day. Routine checks on you, dragging you out your house to go to The Purgatory and giving you little surprises there.
You will be rewarded the more you do for yourself, he notices every effort no matter how small and none of them go unchecked. He really does care a ton for you.
You get little pictures of half his face with a thumbs up and a caption telling you to drink your water you asshole or eat food properly or sleep for God’s sake, and that he just did the same.
You never feel dirty or like an inconvenience. It’s not possible to feel dirty with a red handed shrimp postured emo freak on your side and that’s what makes him such a comfortable person to be around and hey, not a bad thing and not gonna change.
Warning: This fandom is supposed to be +18. Minors I politely ask that you do not interact with this post.
Summary: You've left home and been part of the circus for a while now. There's been plenty of fights between them and you, been plenty of threats thrown. You never backed down nor shown disgust towards them. So what's life like now after all this time getting used to each other.
Triggers: There is some light violence towards the reader (Not from the clowns), Swearing, mention of drugs, kidnapping, reader being called pet by Jester, (If I missed anything please inform me,)
Word Count - 3420
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The obnoxious alarm on your bedside table goes off.
Your hand flails on the table a few times, trying to shut it off while still waking from sleep.
With a satisfying slide of your finger, the alarm is dismissed from your phone, and peace fills the air once more.
Until it was disturbed again.
“Dearest!! It’s morning!”
With a groan you throw the blanket over your head. Pierott laughs at your stubbornness.
“I assure you my love, you’re already perfect. No need for beauty sleep!” He sits on the bed next to your feet. “Jester wants everyone in his hotel room to give the daily jobs!”
You lay there, unmoving. Seemingly fallen back to sleep with your head under the covers. Pierott carefully pulls the blanket down to see your face, to confirm that - yes - you have gone back to sleep.
You were up for quite a while, insisting that you could handle the paperwork Ticket Taker threw at you last minute.
Pierrot sits there a moment admiring your beauty and the relaxing aura your sleeping figure produces. But, unfortunately, Jester is not a patient man.
So instead, Pierrot decides to start kissing you all over your face, slowly bringing you back to the land of consciousness. You throw your head back and forth trying to shake him off and leave you to sleep. He is persistent though, not missing a beat as you had started throwing your entire body over and he decides to just pick you up and press your back against his chest, you still wrapped in your blanket, continuing to kiss you. You finally give in with a laugh.
“Alright, alright! I'm up.” Your voice is still drowsy, and movement sluggish. But Pierrot can confirm that sleep has been chased from your eyes for now.
“There's my dearest.” He beams at you softly.
You return the smile and place a soft kiss on his cheek. He giggles and gently places you back on the bed.
“I will leave you to get dressed darling, I'll wait in the hall.” and with the click of the door shutting, he is gone.
With a final groan, you throw the blankets off yourself and quickly throw on some plain clothes. Like hell you’ll work in your costume like everyone else. Not only will it be warm today, but the chances of it getting damaged or dirty are not something you wanna bet on.
You follow Pierott down the hall towards Jester’s room, where Harlequin waits outside.
“Bout time you show. I bet I could've gotten you aware quicker, wouldn't I darling? The way your body responds to me? Though, we might've just made you drowsy all over again.”
Pierott tenses at Harlequin's teasing, looking ready to murder the green bean. He never would of course, but you're sure he has fantasies.
You look between the two of them a few times as they just stare at each other in the hallway.
…. It's too damn early for this. You walk past them, leaving Pierrot and Harle behind, and into Jester's room to get the work day started.
“Ah, look who’s finally awake.” Jester teases as he sits at the family sized table with coffee and a book. Ticket Taker and Doctor were also already sitting with their own respective drinks. Taker also with a cup of coffee and Doctor having tea. As you go to sit down, Doctor gets up and walks to somewhere behind you. You’re too drowsy to care where he goes, a yawn escapes you proving that point further.
“My my, quite a big yawn pet. Just how late did you stay up? You know you have other responsibilities.”
“And I’ll take care of them just like I always do, Jess.” You mumble out as you lean your head against your hand with your eyes closed. If you were still new, you'd surely pay for that comment. But you've been around long enough and shown your worth that Jester almost treats you like an equal. ALMOST. “Just like I took care of all the permit documents last night.” Your eyes open looking towards Taker, “Shouldn’t be having any unwanted guests coming by demanding our tents be taken down this time.”
Taker nods in thanks then takes another sip of his coffee. Right as you're thinking about getting yourself a cup, a porcelain mug is placed in front of you from behind.
“Just the way you like it sweetie.”
You smile, “You read my mind. Thanks Doc.”
Placing both hands around the rim of the mug, you take a sip of the steaming liquid. You hum as the comfortable burn flows down your throat and warms your chest. “Perfect.”
Doctor takes his seat once more, and the two you left behind finally enter. Only looking a little disheveled this time. At least they have the decency of not getting too rough in a public area. LIKE THE HOTEL YOU'RE RESIDING IN.
Taker sighs at the pair, and nods to Jester signaling everyone is finally ready.
“With the permit situation finally handled we can start putting up the tents today.” Jester began, “Seeing as how we are far off schedule, we'd like these tents up by tonight so we may open.”
You furrow your brows, “You so sure people are gonna show that soon?”
“‘Are you sure we will have guests immediately after opening’, is how you should ask.” Taker corrected your wording with an annoyed glance.
“Literally the same thing.”
He rolled his eyes. “While you were stuck dealing with legalities all day yesterday, the rest of us took care of the flyers and handing out tickets. We should have enough guests show up tonight for it to be considered successful.”
Oh, that makes sense…
After nodding at his explanation, you decided to keep quiet and to just sip on your coffee. You can feel the leftover drowsiness slowly lift little by little.
Jester chuckles at Takers annoyance with you and stands. “Let's get started then. Pet, go get dressed.”
“I am dressed.”
He looks at you, and you immediately get ready for a fight. “Jess, it's going to reach the nineties today. I can't work covered head to toe in that kinda heat.”
“And should someone approach you about the circus?”
“We're gonna be busy setting up said circus, there better not be anyone getting in the way.”
He pinches your cheek, “Wrong again my cute little rascal!” saying the last part almost with disdain in his voice, he lets go with a condescending pat on your cheek. “We'll have curious onlookers that may have missed the flyers. We will approach them and tell them about the entertainment we provide. You must be ready to provide that information at all times.”
Seeing that you're not going to win this argument, you take another swig of your coffee.
“.... Give me ten. I won't be long.”
“Good pet! We'll see you at the sight.”
As Jester walks past you, you realize everyone else is gone. Probably thought this would get ugly and didn't want to be dragged in. You didn't blame them, considering the fights you and the Jester have had in the past.
Just as Jester reaches the door leading to the outer hall he stops and turns back to you.
“Forego the gloves and hat until tonight. That should be enough to keep you from fainting.”
Before you can respond, he's gone.
—---
Sure enough, there were plenty of onlookers with questions about what was being set up. For the most part, they didn’t interrupt your work by much. If anything they would politely yell ‘Excuse me!’ and wait for you to finish what you’re doing before responding. No one rude so far, which you’re thankful for, though you still keep a baseball bat nearby just in case. But you’re also thankful for having the mask. Working as a barista for so long, you hated having to constantly be conscious of your facial expression. At least with the mask, you never have to worry about that.
“Hey! Freak!!”
…. So much for having polite potential guests.
“Did you think you’d be safe here? Get out of our town!!”
“Yeah! You’re not taking our people!!”
Rumors spread fast. Granted their not rumors, but no one truly knew that but you.
You turn from the knots you’re currently tying to properly face who is yelling at you.
Teenagers.
Fucking teenagers.
You’re glad that none of the others are near you. They hear this kinda stuff enough as is, they didn’t need to hear it from fucking children.
You try ignoring them, continuing to tie knots, only for something hard to suddenly hit the back of your head. Hearing something hit the ground to your right, you look over while cradling your newly throbbing head. An apple. A green. Granny Smith. Fucking apple. They threw an apple at you.
You turn back around to look at your attackers. They’re laughing as they get ready to throw another your way. Gritting your teeth, you march toward a stack of boxes where you laid your bat on top. You didn’t think you’d have to use this today. Oh well.
Grabbing the bat, they throw the apple straight at you. You swing, and…. You can personally call it a homerun. As the apple was launched back towards the pitcher and hit him square in the face.
He falls back gripping his nose. His friends crowd him trying to help, while the few witnesses that were watching either smirk at the kid getting what he deserved or just didn’t care. The teenagers leave, finally letting you work in peace. You drop the bat to the ground, feeling the heat beat into you after the whole endeavor. You turn around, planning to continue tying down booths, only to see them finished….? Perfectly done as well.
You look around, and don’t see a clown in sight.
You shrug, figuring maybe you did finish. You’re just so damn tired that you forgot. You start dragging yourself to the trailer for some much needed water. You’ve earned a five minute break anyways.
—--
Just as you sit down with a cold bottle of water, Jester enters the trailer. He stands a few feet away, staring at you. You take a huge gulp, then look up at him calmly.
“What’s up, Jess?”
His grin widens, “I just had a very interesting conversation.”
You lean back, “That so? What about?”
He ignores the second question, “Indeed I did. With the local police.”
You freeze for a moment. No way those little bastards were trying to get you arrested for defending yourself!
“He tells me that a group of teenagers were attacked with fruit.”
“Correction. Only one of them was attacked.”
He crosses his arms. His grin has turned into a closed smile.
You played with the bottle nervously. You made no move to defend yourself, or look away from his gaze. Just passing the bottle of water back and forth between your hands.
“Nothing to say for yourself?” He prods.
“What do you want me to say Jester? I already admitted to it cause I promised I’d never lie to you.”
“You also promised you wouldn’t be a nuisance to the circus. This draws attention to us.”
“‘Common clown from traveling circus gets harassed by local bullies, then defends job sight via apple’!..... I’d visit that circus in a HEARTBEAT.”
Jester actually chuckles at your fake broadcaster voice while moving closer. He leans down slightly to pat your head. “Next time, just say they started it. A lie of omission is still a lie. And you promised me.”
You relax at his words and close your eyes, appreciating the affectionate contact after the events of the day. He decides to keep petting you a moment longer, enjoying having you so submissive when you’re normally so feisty all the time. Not that it’s not fun reminding you of your place every time, you make it interesting. Seeing you like this however, that interaction must have taken a lot out of you, the heat is not helping you either.
He takes his hand away. “You have 2 minutes. We open in three hours. Everything better be done and ready by then.” And he leaves you to enjoy your water.
—-----
The circus is bustling, the guys did a damn good job selling people on an event that wasn’t even properly set up yet.
Dressed in full costume now, you're rolling around on your skates all over the grounds entertaining guests and helping the others. You don’t have your own tent, so no act of your own. You quite like it like this. No lines to memorize, no movements to rehearse.
The other clowns will sometimes roam as well, but that hardly happens considering their own showings. But when they do, you’ll roll towards them and enter a slow ‘Dance of the Damned’ to the creepy music that plays throughout the park. The public loves witnessing it, some will even come looking for you to inform that one of the clowns are out and about.
You thought it was so cute. Jester finds it annoying when it’s him. One time, you were told where to find him by guests, and when you found him you went for a dance and he just walked around you. That was another form of entertainment for everyone as you acted rejected and heartbroken.
Other than dancing, you just roll around and tell dark jokes to guests that appreciate them. Ticket Taker even got you a clip on mic and speaker. Sayin something like, 'If you insist to entertain guests in this way make sure they can hear you'. You won't look a gift horse in the mouth.
There was a guy in line to see the doctor who looked tired of waiting. Not rude or obnoxious about it, just written on his face. So you roll up right next to him and speak in a whispery voice straight into your mic, “How do diabetics get to heaven?”
He looks around, confused by your sudden proximity, “I don’t know.”
“..... One leg at a time baby!!”
You roll away as the man and others that overheard start laughing. Sure the joke itself might not be that original, it’s why the delivery is everything. You do well to make it interesting each and every time.
There was even one moment when a woman was so offended at the jokes being said near the Doctor’s tent. “These aren’t even funny! They are insensitive and cruel!! My mother has cancer!!”
You whip your head around, looking towards everyone else, “ …. Did you all hear me mention cancer? I sure don’t remember bringing up cancer. But sure! Let’s talk cancer! Cause, pfft! C’mon. We all know that it ain’t that hard to beat!”
The woman raises her voice even more in anger, “Oh really!? What makes you say that!? Are you a professional now!?”
“Lady! I might as well be classified as professional! I’m on a fucking role!! I’m already on stage fucking four!!” Some people in the crowd start laughing at the unexpected remark, “Not my fault your mom doesn’t know how to play!”
The lady starts storming off the circus grounds.
You start following after her, “No! Come back! I’m sure your mom will recover after tu-mor treatments!!” The audience laughs even harder. You even saw Ticket Taker’s shoulders shake for a moment as you passed him near the front. He’ll forever deny it and call you immature, but you got him to laugh for a split second and that will forever be a win for you.
—--------
As the night starts calming down, you start helping the fools clean up the trash people left.
That is until Ticket Taker interrupts you.
“You need something Taker? You ask.
“A moment of your time, if you don’t mind dear.” He starts leading you away from the main area and towards the pink tent.
“You all aren’t finally sick of me are you?” You joke.
“Goodness, I would hope after all this time you’d know us a bit better than that darling.”
“Eh, not as well as I’d like.”
“I believe it was your own words that once said, ‘what is life without a bit of mystery’?”
He smirks at you, using your own words against you. You simply smile back, knowing you’ll never truly understand them completely. No matter how much you want to.
You both walk into the pink tent where everyone is already waiting. You expect Pierrot to wrap his arms around you. Or Harlequin to make some seductive comment. Or even Doctor to ask if you’d fallen again and need treatment. No… instead there’s stillness, tension in the air. It’s fragile, yet thick and grimy. It hit you the moment you entered. You look at everyone confused.
Ticket Taker takes his position next to the others across from you. You finally ask the question that’s screaming in your mind, “Is everything alright? I didn’t do something wrong did I?”
You feel some of the tension release slightly at your words.
“My dearest, you did nothing wrong.” Pierrot soothed, “We just, have an…. Offer for you.”
“Offer?” You parroted.
Jester approaches you, shielding whatever Taker was currently retrieving.
“Remove your mask for me, dear.” He asked softly.
.... He never calls you anything but pet. Feeling the seriousness of the situation, you slowly remove your mask and set it to the side. As you do you can hear something heavy being dragged across the floor in loud screeches.
… “Is everything ok, Jester? No one has answered that one yet.”
He smiles at you, “That, is entirely up to you.”
He moves over to your side to reveal what Taker was pulling into view. A man having been gagged and tied up on display by his limbs. Just becoming conscious after being knocked out for the entire night.
“The rest of us have already passed, not really seeing anything remarkable about him. Normally we’d either ship him to another location or just…. Enjoy him in a different way.”
“.... Sounds wrong by the way, but I know what you mean.” And there it is. Your smart mouth trying to get you in trouble. A serious discussion and you’re cracking jokes. Harlequin has trouble biting back a laugh. If anyone else did, they didn’t make it as obvious. You doubt it though.
Jester gives you a disapproving look, you just keep chugging ahead though. "I mean, we all know that I know. Hell it's been over a year by now. But if this is, something else, don't let me harp-”
“PET.”
You smile at him after shutting your mouth. You got what you wanted, and everyone knew what you were doing.
The atmosphere here was no longer tense. Not as much as it was.
You wring your hands together acting like an innocent child. “Sowwy.”
“Why do we put up with you?” Jester asks no one but himself as he rubs his temples.
Ticket Taker clears his throat deciding to take over for Jester.
“Darling. Yes, it has been over a year now. Though, you have yet to be handed a proper title and routine. We are speaking of changing that.”
You look at him worried, “You want me to perform?”
“Are you not already?”
“Not like that. Not like… PLANNED. I just - go with the flow.”
He chuckles. “You can still interact with visitors as you have, but they also seem to like the impromptu dances that you do with us.”
“They’re not the only ones my dear~” Pierrot threw in.
You smile amused “I know love, you are literally the one I end up dancing with the most.”
You turn back to Taker, “So you want me to dance on stage.”
“In a sense.” Jester joins the conversation again, “We believed you’d like to have it as a group rather than yourself however. Hence…” He gestures to the tied up man again, who is wide awake and looking around in pure fear now. Yet, miraculously staying quiet.
Your eyes widen slightly after looking at the man again.
“.... I don’t have my own tent.”
“Already taken care of.” Doctor answers. “I sew more than just limbs.”
“I don’t know how to really dance on skates, I’m just going in circles with you guys.”
Harlequin jumps in this time, “That is not all you do and you know it. A new routine always takes practice darling, it will be fine!”
“You can even find a fun way to incorporate those jokes you love.” Pierrot added.
Taker jumps in again. “A special ticket has already been made for you as well. Should you find someone that shouldn’t be harmed.”
You turn to Jester again, knowing he has the answer. “.... What would be my new name?”
The Jester hums, “Seeing how the audience loves you for your humor, let’s just keep it simple, my dear Comedian~”
a fanfic that is Ronin Beaufort from killer chat X MC
May 12th, 9pm
You’ve always wanted to see the stars. Unfortunately, living in the city, you can barely ever see them; there's just too much light pollution. It's really a shame. You complain to Ronin about it all the time, how you miss seeing them and how you can never make time or have the money to drive out of the city and today is no different.
“It just sucks, you know?” you complain, spilling your woes to Ronin again. It’s become somewhat of a routine now, but you can’t help it. What else can someone do when they don’t even have the privilege to see the stars at night?
“You talk about this every other night, darlin’, what do ya want me to do?” Ronin says, Beaufortly.
“I don’t know, it's just such a shame. I love the stars so much,” you say with a sigh, sitting down on your shared bed.
“I know baby,” he says, kissing your cheek. “I have to go to the store, okay?” he says sitting next to you on the bed “Do ya wanna come with me?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.
“Sure,” you giggle, taking his hand as you stand together. He intertwines his fingers with yours, squeezing your hand tight.
After you both get your shoes on, (Ronin insists on helping you). He leads you through the apartment complex down to his beat up old truck that he insisted be wrapped in red. He opens the passenger door for you, always insisting on being polite. He loves pampering you and you have no idea why. He was always so kind, even if others couldn't see it; he has a unique way to express his affection that most struggle to understand.
As he drives, you look out your window at the cloudy sky, the only light in the sky being the moon peeking out from behind the clouds. Ronin would peek at you from time to time, his expression getting more and more woebegone. After about 10 minutes he finally pulled into the parking lot of a small store, the kind that would have all kinds of kids toys and cheap trinkets.
“Darlin?” Ronin questions, placing his hand on your shoulder in an attempt to snap you out of your daydreaming.
“Hmm,” you reply noncommittally, turning your head to look at him. He meets you with a toothy grin before he opens his door and then walks around the car and opens yours, reaching his hand out to help you step out and kissing your cheek.
He leads you inside, holding the door for you all the while smiling a sinister smile which makes you question if he has any ulterior motives. Knowing Ronin, it's highly likely that he does.
“Why don’t ya pick something nice out for yourself darlin,” he hums, already leading you to the candy aisle, holding his hand on the small of your back. His eyes meet yours and you smile at him. You turn to face the rows of candy and look around for the certain treats that you like. Ronin stands about a foot behind you, watching over you before he speaks up.
“Hey darlin’ I'm gonna go get some food, ok? You stay here and I’ll come get you.”
“Ok, Ro,” you mumble before turning your attention back to the treats.
He chuckles a little before walking away. He gets some fruits, vegetables, bread, and some meat. As well as some ice cream for you too.
On his way back to you, he passes the toy aisle and spots some cheap glow-in-the-dark stars that kids stick onto their ceilings. He thought about how much you wanted to see the stars and how sad it's been making you over the past weeks. On a whim, he decides to get them. Carefully, he repositions the groceries to hide the packet of little plastic stars at the bottom of the basket before walking back to you.
He taps you on the shoulder ”Hey, are you ready to go yet?” he questions, grinning at you.
You smile, holding up some chocolate and nod, taking his hand. He walks you to the check out and asks you to look for something on his phone to distract you from seeing what he got. He holds your hand as he walks you out together. Ronin puts the grocery bags in the back seat and then, being the gentleman he is, he holds the passenger door open for you to get in before getting on his own side and starting the car.
It’s around 11pm by now and the street lights have turned on, making it even harder to see the stars and the sky, which grew even more cloudy. Ronin rubs your shoulder as he sees your glum face reflecting in the window.
He parks the car in the apartment’s parking lot, leading you inside and into your apartment. He places the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. Using one hand, he tilts your chin up and kisses you with the other. He fishes around in the bag, looking for the packet of stars. Once he finds it, he hides it behind his back and gently lets go of you.
“Hey darling, do you think you can put these away?” he inquires, stroking your cheek.
“Mhm,” you mutter out, nodding ever so slightly before turning your attention to the bags. Ronin hums out a reply before disappearing into your bedroom leaving you alone in the kitchen. Unpacking the grocery doesn't take that long. You giggle seeing he got the ice cream you like and hum approvingly at different items.
After putting everything away you approach the shut bedroom door. You give it a questioning look before knocking lightly. “Ro?” you ask, waiting for a response.
“Come in!” you hear Ronin call out to you. You sigh and reach for the door but Ronin beats you to it, opening the door for you and staring at you with a shit eating grin.
“What did you do..?” you ask, trying to look around him into the room.
“It wounds me to know that you think so poorly of me, darl’,” he says, placing a hand on his heart before ushering you into the room and sitting you on the bed. He stands in front of you still smiling that devilish smile.
“Ronin, what did you do?” you question looking more worried as time goes on.
“Nothing bad babe, just close your eyes for me,” he snickers while holding your hands. After a beat, you finally close your eyes. You can hear his laughter grow louder and louder. You hear him stand, flick the light switch off, and then he takes your hands again, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.
“Okay, open them again,” he whispers to you and you practically can hear him smiling. You open your eyes and the room is completely dark. You can just barely make out the contours of Ronin’s silhouette. You tilt your head, not understanding. He gestures up to the ceiling, causing you to look up. You see countless glowing stars of all different sizes.
You make eye contact and squeal. You lunge forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and giggling. He chuckles, hugging you back.
“I’m glad you like them, darlin’,” he states quietly rubbing your back. After a while, you pull away and look up again, collapsing back on the bed. You giggle more and more, giddy off of love. He stands and lays beside you, wrapping his arm around your back and over your stomach. He presses his face into your hair and peppers your head with kisses. “You wanted stars darlin’, so the devil himself carved them into your ceiling. He tore them free from God's hand and brought them to you, writer darling. You're welcome.”
“Thank you devilll,” you say teasingly, turning your head into his chest.
The stars shine bright above, illuminating how you and your lover rest peacefully, tangled in the sheets of your bed and each other's arms.
“I love you, Ro.”
Angel x CannibalManager!Reader. Fem reader. Reader's backstory is open for any interpretation.
Summary: Angel had got a new manager, a cute one she would say. But she never thought she would also have her own secrets like she does.
Angel knew the jokes revolving around her.
A cannibal.
A maneater.
In all honesty, Angel doesn't know where the thought came from. Was it because of her her matching necklace and bracelet made of her victims teeth? If could be the reason, but she swears she had never tasted a flesh of a human being before.
She might be a maneater.
But not literally a cannibal.
The thought unsettled her even if she doesn't verbalize it.
Angel wouldn't try eating a human person.
Yet.
٠🔪ིྀ⭑
"Maria meet your new manager," the agency said motioning to you.
You stand beside her, hands behind your back, letting out a small shy like you weren't quite sure you were supposed to be there.
You were cute, Angel thought looking at you. Like a shy little lamb who was accidentally herded into another group of people.
Angel knew that this place isn't for the weak. She had learned that in the hard way with her old manager that she killed with her own hand. It wasn't supposed to be that way, but he gave her no choice.
But you? You were different, Angel could see that.
So she decided, she'll take care of you and help you. Because even if you are just her manager, it doesn't mean Angel couldn't get to take are of you too.
٠🔪ིྀ⭑
"Are you sure this is okay...?" You asked nervously.
You were seated in front of the vanity of Maria de la Rosa. What was supposedly a check in after her videos ended up into something like this, you being seated here to try one of the makeup techniques that Angel had did earlier.
"Why not?" Angel smiled at you as she looked at the different shades of makeup that will match your skin tone. "I think this will suit nice on you."
"I didn't mean that," You answered as Angel lifted her chin, making you look at her blue eyes. "I'm your manager. I'm supposed to be the one handling all your schedules, modeling meeting not... not like this? Am I even allowed to do this? I'm sure my contract has something about-"
"You're overthinking it," Angel said lightly as she gently dabbed powder on your cheeks. "A manager can be close with their client. There won't be anything wrong with it unless the agency stated otherwise. Have they?"
You hesitated. "No, they haven't. Not verbally at least."
"Then there's nothing wrong," Angel smiled and stroked your cheek. "Let me take care of you."
How can you resist the Maria de la Rosa herself? With that charming smile and pretty face. No one could and so you let Angel play with your face. It feels strange, too intimate as she swiped down her lipsticks to your.
It suits you, the color of redness bringing out the life in your eyes. You're beautiful, Angel thought as she wiped the smudge at the corner of your lips. Why didn't you came here as her manager before that guy?
You were different. Too sweet, too kind to work for something like this. Fans, the crazy ones might be hard to handle, stalkers who follows them back home, and the pressure of the agency but you stayed for Angel. Even if they were pushing you to manage the contents and scheduling, you never pushed Angel to do them to do them.
And Angel loved you for that.
٠🔪ིྀ⭑
Angel knew it was unethical to get close with your own manager but who was she to care now? She killed her old one before, the agency wouldn't stop her unless they wanted to have the same fate as him. They don't the true cause of his death, she made sure of that.
As long as Angel wouldn't do anything that would harm her or you.
If there was one thing that Angel learned during her time in the modeling industry are the sharks. Those who pry at the weak, the new ones, and with you as having Angel as her new manager. It wasn't hard to figure out what they were planning to you.
"So your the new manager of Maria," one of the models said looking at you, eyes scanning your from feet to head. "I expected a lot more honestly... after all her old manager put the standards too high for her."
Angel's tilted her head. "There's no need for comparison, my manager is doing her best."
"Are you sure?" the model scoffed. "Doesn't she knows she's supposed to make sure that her client is comfortable around and looking for people for them to talk with? Not some kind of a... bodyguard who stays on your side like a stray puppy. Your old manager would put as much as attention to you unlike... now."
You lowered your head, ashamed. Angel knew this was your first time managing someone but doesn't mean they would insult you in front of her face.
Angel turned back at her. "That's true but I think there's nothing wrong giving others a chance in the spotlight. Besides," she let out a scoffed. "Have you thought that maybe the real reason why my old manager died was because of his own... competence?"
The model's eyes narrowed suspiciously at her words. "What are you implying?"
"I don't know," Angel said with a shrug like it wasn't something worth noticing but the glint in her eyes says otherwise. "Maybe the reason why he died was because he talked to the wrong person. Maybe his got his ego got too full that it got him killed. But we don't know about that right? He's dead and we wouldn't know all the things he did."
"Is that a threat?"
"No. Would you want it to be?" Angel smiled at her sweetly.
Angel killed her that night.
It was impulsive, she hate to admit that. She doesn't kill unless it was really necessary and she just did, the same night with a threat. No one would know, no one had suspected her before so why does she have a bad feeling someone was watching her?
٠🔪ིྀ⭑
"Darling, you did this before," Ronin's sarcastic voice answered to Angel's worries. "I don't see the point why you were now worrying about one measly kill of your coworker."
"I wish I know, Ronin," Angel sighed as she settled down at her chair, wrapping her blanket around her. "I never really planned it honestly, the last thing I know I had my gun out and blasted her head to pieces."
"Boring," Ronin mocked, laughing when he saw the annoyed expression on Angels' face. "Why'd you even do it?"
"She was being mean to my manager," Angel answered.
Ronin raised an eyebrow. "Oh... so it's because of your manager? And here I thought that you'll be hating them like that other guy."
"Oh she's different," Angel said quickly. "She doesn't push me to do stuff that I don't want to. Patient, ask my opinion about my own schedule and my comfort... She's not pushy, okay? I like how she manages things. I'm just worried for her... that maybe she thinks this job isn't for her and she'll leave - what's with that face?"
"You like her," Ronin said flatly. "Like like like."
"What?" Angel felt the warmth spread at her cheeks. "No, I'm not. She's just my manager."
"Yea, yea," Ronin snorted. "You killed someone for that same manager and you said you don't like them?"
"I kill for all my friends!" she defended.
"Exactly," Ronin pointed. "You kill for your friends, those who aren't part of your professional life. But you killed for them, for your manager because someone just got too mean on them."
Angel opened her mouth to argue but Ronin held out a finger like he was silencing her.
"Before you say anything regarding about your old manager," he drawled. "Let me remind you that you wouldn't have done it if we didn't encourage you and you'll probably still be rotting in your room with that manager."
Angel pursued her lip. Ronin knew her better she did. Of course, she wouldn't have learned about her self if she haven't been in a relationship with the Butcher, helped her understand what she really was. There was no point hiding from Ronin.
"Fine... you caught me..." Angel muttered. "I like them."
Ronin nodded. "Now that wasn't so hard, right?"
"Asshole," Angel said but there was no malice on it just familiarity.
"Now where's your manager? I don't think I've seen them before," Ronin said leaning against his chair. "You going to tell them about this server or not?"
"I don't think it's a good idea," Angel said twirling with a strand of hair. "She doesn't even know what I do at night."
"Then maybe you should tell her," Ronin offered. ""Isn't trust fucking foundational when it comes to love?"
"How many times have you said that before?"
"As many times as I want."
Angel rolled her eyes, a chuckle escaping from her mouth when a notification pinged at her phone. Curiously, she looked down and saw a message from you.
I know what you did.
You killed my brother.
And now I'm going to kill your new manager for what you did to him.
Angel felt her heart drop when another notification appeared. A picture of a dark alleyway, dark stains littered on the walls that she knew were blood stains. But that wasn't what she was focused on, but at the sight of you all tied up while the person held your head high with a knife in your throat.
No.
"Angel?" Ronin's voice asked but Angel had already stood up, grabbing her gun and rushing outside.
She knew that alleyway. It was the same place where she killed her old manager.
٠🔪ིྀ⭑
"Darling?" Angel called out, her voice shaking as she held her gun.
The alleyway was silent, too silent that it gives Angel chills. The bad feeling that she had been the whole time was all because of her old manager's brother. She barely remember him, just a small information that she didn't find important until now.
She stepped inside, eyes darting to look until she found them.
But it wasn't what she expected to be.
"Darling...?" she repeated, this time uncertainty in her voice as she walked closer.
Laying down there was a guy, his face was all messed up like something hit his face. Blood drip down from his nose and lips, eyes blank as he looked emptily at her. There was something in his shoulder, like something just got torn away from his body.
He was alive. Barely.
And beside him was you, staring at the blood in your hands and the knife that you held. Blood smeared across your cheek and mouth. Despite the mess, your expression was calm as you lifted your head to start at her.
The two of you were silent for a moment, speechless.
"Oh thank god," Angel let out a shaky laughter, "you're alive."
You blinked at her. "What?"
You expected something. Perhaps a look of disgust, horror, fear or the fact that there was a dead body at your feet.
"You came?" You asked quietly, looking around.
"Of course, I did," Angel said softly. "Why shouldn't I?"
You didn't got a chance to answer when something interrupted them. The man on the ground cough blood, barely alive but still alive. Ange's face twisted in disgust looking over him, he could see the resemblance of her old manager. The thought alone was enough for her to remember the annoyance she felt with him.
He let out a broken wheeze, was he laughing or crying? Both of you didn't know. "Fucking psycho..." he gargled through blood. "Crazy, your both fucking crazy..."
You look away, ashamed?
"Darling," Angel lowered her gun. "Did you bite him?"
"He wouldn't stop screaming," you said as you slowly back away. "He wouldn't stop talking about killing you and I just... I got angry and it just happened."
The man let out a muffle cry, crawling away from you.
Angel resisted the urge to smile. She was used to people fearing her but this? Seeing someone terrified of you? Her sweet, nervous shy little manager covered in blood while someone begged you not to eat them?
She licked her lips, remembering Ronin's voice.
"You like them.
Angel stepped closer carefully, her gaze locked on you but you immediately backed away.
"I know how this looks," you said immediately. "And I know how bad it is."
"You ate him," Angel said lightly. "You bite a chunk of her shoulder."
"I panicked, it wasn't supposed to happen."
"That seemed far too big for an accident."
"He was threatening!" you said and for a moment, Angel could see the little pout appearing on your lips.
Cute, your so cute, Angel chuckled as she tilted her head.
"This is a bit ironing," she said softly as she reached out, thumb brushing the corner of your lips and smearing the blood more on your face as if dazed. "Everyone called me a cannibal for years but you're the first person I've really met who tried to bite someone."
Your face went completely red. "I didn't eat him!" you insisted
"Darling, there's literally flesh in your teeth."
If it was more possible to make your face more red, it would have already happened as you slapped a hand over your mouth.
Angel laughed, a laugh so melodic and hysterical that it echoed across the alleyway.
The man behind them looked between the two of you, eyes wide in fear as he continued to desperately crawl away from the two of you.
"Killers... your both fucking---"
He didn't get a chance to finish when his head exploded, splattering the walls a darker shade of red. Angel hummed a tune, lowering her gun before smiling at you.
"You killed him," You said, staring at the lifeless body.
"He's too noisy, I just have to silence him," Angel said innocently. "You tenderized him first, teamwork. I'm sure the gates of hell are ready to cook him alive."
The horrified look on your face was priceless. It was adorable, you were so adorable. All shaken off and covered in blood with flesh in your mouth and Angel thought you were the most prettiest thing she had ever since.
She stepped closer, brushing hair away from your face. "Darling. Is there anything else you've been hiding from you? Or do I have to expect more surprises from you?"
Soaked to the Bone (Qifrey x Reader x Olruggio Fic)
Summary: Reader is in a polyamorous relationship with Qifrey and Olruggio but has a habit that keeps driving them insane - going out in the rain and coming back completely soaked. Eventually they decide enough is enough and devise an alternative.
Reader is gender neutral. This fic is a bit spicy in certain places, but it's mostly just fluff lmao. This is also my first Witch Hat Atelier fanfic, so please excuse any inaccuracies!
Sidenote, but I'm also wondering about writing a prequel fic for this about how the Reader, Qifrey and Olruggio all got together in the first place. Would anyone want that?
While both of your partners, Qifrey and Olruggio, love you to death… you really do confuse them sometimes. You had all been apprentices together, and after you came to live at the Atelier to help protect and mentor Coco, it wasn't long before you all developed deeper feelings for one another. Thanks to a bit of meddling from the girls, you all got together and started a polyamorous relationship. You adored them, and the apprentices, and they all adored you, though you do have a habit that completely baffles the others.
Whenever it rained or snowed you, without fail, would go outside to sit and enjoy the weather. You'd come inside hours late, absolutely soaked to the bone and often shivering, and yet you did it constantly.
It's a habit that, quite frankly, baffles everyone. You say that you just enjoy the wet weather despite nearly catching your death of cold for the 3rd time this week, giving your partners, and some of the apprentices, minor panic attacks in the process. Qifrey, rather infamously, does not like getting wet, and Olruggio has started wearing his link rings around the house whenever the sky gets even a little bit dark. He complains every time he has to dry you off, of course. It's a good thing that they're so respectful because they probably would have locked you inside if it began to drizzle by now.
Though, while it is a very irksome habit, both Qifrey and Olruggio had to admit that it did have its benefits. Something about seeing you disheveled and drenched in rain was… oddly attractive. Your hair soaked and clinging to your forehead, your clothes wet and sticking to your skin in a mesermizing way… they'd probably rather die than admit it, but you did look stunning whenever they finally managed to bring you indoors.
This latest time, you had snuck out in the dead of night after the girls were asleep, watching as the light emanating from your bedroom cast its glow on every raindrop that fell. There were many reasons why you loved the rain, but it's beauty was probably the main thing that drew you to it. Plus, the world itself always seems to slow down and stop for a minute when it rains - farmers stop tilling their fields, the ordinary hustle and bustle of the outdoors stops and everyone locks themselves inside for a cozy day in, leaving you to enjoy the quiet beauty in peace. Watching the rain at nighttime was especially pleasant. It felt like you were finally granted some peace and quiet after a long day of worry and teaching the girls. As much as you absolutely adore them, they can be quite the handful-
"(Y/N), don't tell me your outside at this time!" You hear Qifrey's voice ring out from your window, breaking your quiet concentration.
Looking back into your room, you see Qifrey holding a floatglow lamp in one hand as the other props open your curtains. It seems that he respectfully closed your bedroom door behind him when you enter, probably after looking around the house for you before realizing that it was still raining.
"What are you thinking sitting outside in the rain at this hour?" He scolds, offering you his hand, "Come in, you'll die out there if you're not careful!"
A fond smile crosses your face as you take his hand, feeling his wince slightly at how cold and wet you are, before he pulls you back inside. You're not even sure how long you were out there, but it must have been a while because you are absolutely soaked. And were you always shivering? You didn't notice it when you were outdoors.
Qifrey sighs and walks towards your bed - apparently, when he realized that you had been outside, he had already prepared some fresh towels for you. Such a gentleman… even when he's clearly frustrated with you. He pats your head down with the towel before wrapping it around your shoulders, then taking your head and leading you away.
"We must take you to Olruggio. You must be freezing." He says as he guides you towards Olly's room, "If you keep overworking him like this, he'll stop helping you eventually, you know?"
"And then I'll catch my death of cold?" You tease, only to sober up when Qifrey's head snaps back towards you.
"Yes. And we can't have that, my love… I wouldn't make it if you did."
Despite the ever-present chill you were feeling, you can feel your cheeks flushing. For as romantic as he can be, Qifrey is still a deeply secretive man. Such vulnerable confessions from him are rare, and it makes your heart skip a beat.
By now Qifrey had knocked on Olruggio's door and politely let you both in, catching Olruggio's attention. His head shoots up from his work desk as he leans over to look at you.
"Don't tell me-" He begins before seeing you standing there, absolutely drenched and dripping onto his glowstone path tiles, "Oh, for hell's sake."
Despite his obvious irritation, he's immediately by your side and activating his link rings, leaving you nice and dry. Still, you know that you're in for the scolding of a lifetime, especially since both of your partners are here. Olly's face pulls back in an angry grimace as he looks you in the eye, his voice stern.
"When are you going to stop doing this, love!? I can't keep drying you off after every stupid attempt on your own life like this! Either you stop this little habit or you'll die when I'm not here to help you!"
"It's already dangerous to be going outside in the cold rain, but to do it at the coldest time of night is particularly deadly." Qifrey adds, gentler than Olly but still just as stern, "Really, you must stop doing this."
"If you keep tempting death like this, someday he'll actually come around." Olruggio scolds, his voice a little softer now, "So just stop doing it, ya here?"
You hang your head in shame, probably looking for all the world like a guilty brushbug that got caught trying to steal a cookie. You try to find the words, but nothing seems good enough. And now that you're all warm and dry, your face begins to flush red with shame. The boys soften a bit as they see your current state. Qifrey gently takes your hand.
"What do you like so much about the rain, love? Perhaps we can find an alternative habit that's less dangerous."
"Well, it's very pretty… but I also really like the quiet. Everything kind of stops when it rains, and at night, so it's comforting after a long busy day. It's like a quiet respite from everything, albeit a rather wet one." You smile a bit to yourself at your attempted joke near the end, which makes Qifrey and Olruggio relax a bit.
"If that's what you're needing…" Olruggio begins, "You could always just come to me. Most of the girls don't bother me in here, and it's plenty quiet." He looks away a bit and blushed, "Besides, I'd be happy to have ya."
Both you and Qifrey laugh a bit at his flustered state, before Qifrey says, "And the same offer goes for me, too, love! I can't always promise that one of the girls won't interrupt us, but I'll make it as peaceful as I can."
Their sincerity makes you chuckle as much as it makes you blush, and you look down at your feet, suddenly feeling bashful.
"I would love that."
Qifrey and Olruggio both breathe sighs of relief, and Olly awkwardly rubs the back of his neck as he looks up towards his work desk.
"You both can hang out in here for a bit now, if ya want. My work does get a bit lonely this time of night."
You all agree and before you know it, you're relaxing on Olruggio's bed as he works, chatting idly while sipping tea. Qifrey is slotted against your back, his arms around your waist as his head rests comfortably against your neck. It's a cozy, though somewhat flustering, position to be in, but you wouldn't have it any other way.
Still, you can't stop thinking about how much trouble you've caused them both. Particularly Olruggio, since he does have to dry you off constantly. Your hear sinks into your chest as you realize how much you've been overworking him, so you slip out of Qifrey's arms for just a moment. Walking over to Olruggio, you place your hands on his shoulders and learn over his back, startling him out of his work.
"Hey Olruggio," You say as you lean over to press a kiss to his neck, "Thank you."
It was just meant to be a guesture of thanks, but it nearly sends Olruggio into a coma. The feeling of your pressed against his back, your lips on his neck and your sweet voice in his ear - he blushes harder than you'd ever seen before, stuttering as he tries to come up with a response but, for once, his mind is drawing a blank. All he can think about is you - in fact, that moment would stick in his mind for the next month or so.
You're surprised at the effect that has on him, but Qifrey only chuckles behind you and comes to wrap his arms around you again.
"And where's my kiss, (Y/N)?"
Without hesitation, you place a gentle hand on his cheek and bring his lips to yours in a sweet, intimate kiss.
By now Olruggio has spun around in his chair, only to see you both kissing, and he feels like his heart may flatline at any moment.
"You two will be the death of me…" He grumbles, bashfully but undoubetdly affectionate.
➛ resume: on a calm night, jester offers to read you a tale to ease you into sleep. surrounded by metaphors of gold, sacrifice, beauty, and true love, you slowly drift away — having wandered through the world of the story chosen by your beloved. the tale mentioned is oscar wilde's “the happy prince”.
inspired by an ask by @plebbypebblepleb ♪ thank you so much!
The lights of Jester’s purple tent glowed softly, like muted, amber lanterns. A sense of modest calm draped over the space, accompanied by a biting breeze that slipped through the half-open flap. Outside, the night was peculiar and mysterious; the moon hung majestically in the center of the dark sky, surrounded by tiny stars that flickered intensely — glittering pinpricks in the vast immensity.
Inside, the crisp air of the outside world drifted in slowly as you handled a few plush pillows, carrying them back to his bed. You had already smoothed the warm blankets, tucked the elastic sheets, and straightened the slightly rumpled pillowcases. With a subtle gesture, you finished tidying the bed in silence, then cast a stray glance toward Jester as he changed into his sleepwear behind the folding wooden screen. You could hear the rustle of discarded clothes and catch fleeting glimpses of the circus leader’s movements as he settled into his fresh attire. It was easy to trace the shape of his lithe silhouette: adjusting the loose pajamas at the waist, the sharp projection of his horns, and the way his hands swept through his loose hair to realign strands disturbed by the change of fabric.
The last thing you saw was him casually kicking out his long legs to slide into a pair of comfortable shoes.
When he finally stepped out from behind the winding partition, Jester seemed to catch your lingering gaze and knitted his brow. You swallowed hard, trying to mask your interest by smoothing the already perfect linens near the headboard. This small act earned you a low, bitter chuckle as he crossed to his desk. He clicked off the desk lamp — a piece clearly worn by time, the same light that accompanied his nightly circus ledgers and his reading habits. In the center of the desk lay a title, silent yet promising: The Happy Prince, by the renowned Irish wit. A master of metaphor, symbolism, and melancholy. Even from a distance, the cover piqued your curiosity.
“The Happy Prince?” you ventured, your voice soft and calm. “A different choice from last week. What is it about, Jester?”
Jester’s claws scraped faintly against the cover as his eyes drifted toward you. He offered a lazy smile, tilting his head slightly so his hair followed the movement like a silky, purple waterfall.
“Always the curious one, aren't you?” His eyes returned to the book, picking it up delicately. “This one is indeed different. A choice tale from a larger collection. Sober and discreet.” He exhaled softly. “A story that discusses the shallowness of beauty, sacrifice, and altruism as the path to happiness. Or at least, that is the line of reasoning the book strives so hard to make the reader consider,” he finished, his cadence dropping into something low and thorny.
A brief silence followed, as ephemeral as it had begun.
“Do you wish to hear this story?” Jester asked with an air of indifference, not waiting for an answer. He walked toward the bed and sat on the edge with calculated grace. You watched him from the corner of your eye, suspicious, waiting.
“Hear it? You want to read to me?” you asked, hesitant. Even after growing used to Jester’s company, you could never quite tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic. You searched his gaze for any flicker of scorn.
“Must I offer twice?” Jester’s retort came like a swift, cutting stroke. He sighed deeply before gesturing to the pillows and blankets you had prepared so carefully. “You look weary. Lie down, and I shall read to you. I am in a good mood today.”
You nodded and quickly settled onto the mattress, stretching out under his watchful gaze. Jester remained seated, the book anchored by the grip of his sharp claws. He cleared his throat discreetly, beginning in a low, melodious, and velvety tone.
High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt. He was very much admired indeed. One day, a little Swallow decided to rest at the feet of the Happy Prince. She planned to fly to Egypt to join her companions, who were already among the pyramids. She was about to sleep under her makeshift golden roof when she felt something wet fall upon her.
A drop. And then another.
She looked up and saw the beautiful statue weeping copiously. The Prince’s face was a serene vision in the moonlight, so sad that she felt pity.
SWALLOW: “Who are you, and why are you weeping? You have quite drenched me.”
Jester’s tone mimicked the low, moved voice of the traveling bird. His eyes, however, captured your every gesture — the flutter of your lashes, the way your gaze followed his words with silent focus. You shifted under the covers, propping yourself up against the headboard.
You wondered why such a happy, beloved statue would cry. What could a golden face lack that would threaten to oxidize its angelic features with silent tears?
HAPPY PRINCE: “I am the Happy Prince. When I was alive and had a human heart, I did not know what tears were. I lived in a palace where sorrow was not allowed to enter. But now that I am dead, they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead, I cannot choose but weep.”
Jester gave a slight smile as he read the Swallow’s next line, affecting an indignant tone. The bird was more offended that the Prince’s heart wasn't gold like the rest of him. Jester shook his head, his voice turning critical and reflective.
“See, my dear? Even the bird, being unhuman, was first more horrified to hear the heart was made of common metal than moved by the horrible lives of the subjects. Quite revealing, don't you think?”
Jester shifted the book's weight to his right hand, while his left reached out unpretentiously toward your leg. Though you were still tucked under the pale blankets, his hand stroked your leg with a rare, tender delicacy. You savored the touch before leaning in further. The story was becoming fascinating — the aristocrat turned into a statue, his dignified suffering — but mostly, you craved the proximity of the man before you.
You moved. You gave a silent yawn before boldly lowering your head to rest in his lap. Jester stiffened momentarily, his brow furrowed in surprise. He stared at you, his violet eyes reflecting a cycle of acceptance: surprise, mild reproach, a certain embarrassment, and finally, a reluctant, prickly agreement. His gaze softened, as if those amethyst windows could liquefy only for you. His touch drifted to your hair, brushing against your ear. Despite the affection, his tongue remained sharp:
“You are quite sensitive today. In other circumstances, you would have thought twice before doing that.” Jester gave a playful tug to a lock of hair at the nape of your neck, eliciting a small, sleepy sigh from you. He chuckled, entertained.
“May I continue? Or are you about to shift again and distract me, my sweet?”
You nodded, huffing at his provocation, and curled closer to his thigh. Jester clicked his tongue but resumed the tale. The Prince pleaded with the Swallow to take the ruby from his sword to the home of a poor seamstress whose son lay ill. The Swallow hesitated, dreaming of Egypt, but eventually gave in. The bird flew through the city, dropping the intense red gem upon the woman's table while she slept from exhaustion. Having done the deed, the Swallow returned to the golden figure, feeling a strange warmth despite the cold.
SWALLOW: “Have you any commissions for Egypt? I am starting now.”
“What did he say to the bird, my love?” you asked faintly, your voice raspy. “Will he ask for more? She seems so decided, so anxious to fly away.” You fought the urge to close your eyes. “If she is so troubled, he should let her go in peace.”
Jester looked down at you, his fingers tracing the contour of your neck.
“The little bird is afraid, don't you see? She wants to escape the frost, to gift herself the freedom of travel and the heat of the East. The winter will do her no good.” Jester gave a conspiratorial smile. “She is worried she will die in this dull, rigid weather.”
HAPPY PRINCE: “Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not stay with me one night longer? Far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, his hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate. He is trying to finish a play, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint. Dear bird, I have no ruby now.”
Jester read with gravity. You listened with bated breath.
HAPPY PRINCE: “My eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play. Do as I command you, little Swallow.”
“And what did she say?“ you asked quickly. “She was ready for the East. Even if she wants to help, jewels are rare. You said they were Indian rarities, right?”
You were genuinely perplexed. If this continued, the statue would be stripped bare. You felt a pang of pity for the Happy Prince — wondering if he had ever truly been “happy,” standing immobile while witnessing such tragedy.
“An eye is an eye, sapphires or not, my dear. You are thinking like the Swallow now.” Jester gave a low, sinister giggle, momentarily covering one of your eyes with his hand in a teasing gesture. You weakly brushed his hand away, and his wrist found a new path, stroking your back. “Still, she yielded. She went to the disillusioned writer and hid the sapphire among his withered violets. He felt appreciated for the first time, just as the Prince predicted.“
“But he had to blind himself for that small triumph…” you whispered. “What else, Jester?”
You were now fully in the statue's corner, fearing its decline. You knew from Jester’s other stories that no good deed goes unpunished. Jester’s voice remained pleasant as he continued. The bird tried to say goodbye again at the docks, watching sailors prepare their sails, but no one noticed her, so she returned to the one-eyed statue.
“She really went back?” you murmured, surprised.
“She did.” Jester laughed softly. “How touching. You are truly invested. Just wait.” He tapped your nose with a subtle, affectionate flick. You weren't sure if you felt flattered or patronized by the gesture.
“It’s confusing... why hasn't she left yet? Birds can fly high. They can go anywhere. Why?” You yawned again, rubbing your eyes.
“You are human, but you aren't using your human lenses to see beyond the polished words and metaphorical ornaments, my dear.” Jester explained slowly, noticing your exhaustion. His knuckles brushed your lips. “This foolish, curious bird is denying herself to meet the expectations of the Prince, who is also denying and stripping himself of his most precious things. His gold, his sapphires, his beauty. Don't you see that the statue's entire worth lies in his appearance? No one sees him crying. No one truly cares.”
“That is... very sad,” you whispered.
“Perhaps it is, for a heart like yours,” the circus leader admitted. “But listen. The Prince welcomed her back, and she slept at his feet. She helped him once more, taking his remaining sapphire eye to a poor match-girl so her father wouldn't beat her. The Swallow almost wept at the plea, but do you know what he told her?”
You struggled to keep your eyes open, noting Jester’s frame hunched over you. His purple hair brushed your skin, his scent filling your senses. His lips brushed your ear — not with malice, but with a devastatingly tender tone as he spoke the character’s words.
“Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, do as I command you.”
The Prince was completely blind now. Your mind was a blur, yet you clung to the story. Your hands gripped his thigh for support. He shook his head but said nothing to stop you. Not tonight.
Jester read how the Swallow, seeing the Prince blind, vowed never to leave him. She told him stories of the red ibises on the Nile, the Sphinx that is as old as the world, and the King of the Mountains of the Moon who worships a crystal. Beautiful, rich things the Prince would never see again.
Finally, you let go. You slipped into that realm between consciousness and sleep, feeling Jester’s languid caresses on your face, your nose, your lips.
He moved into the final act. You barely heard it, how the Swallow reported the city's misery one last time, how she stripped the Prince of his gold leaf to feed the hungry until he was nothing but grey, dull lead.
You shifted under his grip, murmuring something inaudible. You were no longer responding, just clicking your tongue in a daze. Jester read how the Prince was now “shabby,” nothing like the angel he had once been. He stretched his legs, and the movement caused you to open one heavy eye.
“Hello there. What a sleepyhead you are, my sweet.” He gave a discrete, amused smile. “Were you drooling?” he teased, his claws turning the final pages.
“I was…” You brushed the back of your hand over your lips, catching a stray trace of saliva. “I wasn't! Alright?” you defended yourself, sounding amusingly indignant. This only served to entertain Jester further.
“You were going to ruin my pajamas with that drooling mouth of yours... how ghastly, my dear.” Jester observed you with those capricious, violet eyes before turning back to the ink-stained pages, breathing deeply. "Perhaps you’ve lost the rhythm. The Happy Prince is no longer such a flattering statue, and the swallow is weak, heavy with the winter chill. There is little food. Here is what we read.”
“She barely had the strength to fly up to the Prince’s shoulder anymore,” Jester explained, his voice winding and low. "Do you have any idea why?”
At last the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses. The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, she loved him too well. She picked up crumbs outside the baker’s door when he was not looking, and tried to keep herself warm by flapping her wings.
“The bird is... dying. Isn't she, my love?” you asked, your voice small and heavy with emotion.
Jester did not answer directly. He simply recited:
SWALLOW: “Goodbye, dear Prince! Will you let me kiss your hand?”
HAPPY PRINCE: “I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow, for you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”
As he read those lines, Jester’s eyes lingered on your lips for a moment too long.
“A melancholy sweetness,” he mused. “If I were a static prince and you a stubborn bird, perhaps I would demand the same.”
Your eyes shimmered with a faint, lingering hope at his words.
SWALLOW: "It is not to Egypt that I am going. I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?”
“And she kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet,” Jester announced, his voice simple and irrevocable. His eyes shone with a sudden, sharp intensity. “At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.”
You felt your heavy eyelids weigh down again. But it wasn't just sleep this time.
A drop. Then another, silently.
They traced paths down your face, disappearing into the fabric of his lap where your head rested. A silent rain of the heart. Wet droplets, just like when the swallow first found shelter beneath the golden roof.
Jester, however, didn't notice immediately.
He read of how the Mayor and the Town Councillors visited the monument the next morning. They were horrified by the statue’s state and by the bedraggled bird dead at its feet. The golden angel — now blind, sapphireless, without a ruby in his hilt, stripped of his fine gilding — was nothing but a leaden carcass. More like a beggar than a prince.
So, the men ordered the statue to be melted down to be replaced by a new one — a statue of the Mayor. The overseer carried out the request, melting the Happy Prince, except for one small piece that refused to break or melt.
The leaden heart.
You managed a weak murmur, tugging at his sleeve. “And what did they do with it, then?”
“They threw it away, darling. Both the heart and the body of the dead swallow. They tossed them both onto a dust-heap,” Jester admitted, his claws turning to the final, shorter page. The letters there, written in gold, barely reached the middle of the paper. “There is one last part.”
GOD: “Bring me the two most precious things in the city.”
One of His angels brought Him both the leaden heart and the little swallow that once shone in bright blue.
GOD: “You have rightly chosen. For in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.”
Jester finally closed the book, letting out a silent sigh of satisfaction. Without his immersive voice reciting the words, the tent felt tighter, almost claustrophobic. Without the measured tenderness of his performance, the air lacked its genuine warmth.
The circus leader tossed the book aside carelessly.
“Ready to sleep for good now?” he asked, his tone unusually mild.
No immediate answer came. The silence stretched until a new sound, faint and broken, was heard. A sob.
Another jagged sob followed, a small, involuntary hitch of your shoulders. You were crying like a tired child against his left thigh, letting out muffled whimpers that you still naively tried to repress. Why did a story so beautiful have to be so cruel? Were humans always so indifferent? You wanted to be stubborn; you wanted to believe that at least one soul would mourn the prince and the bird, for they were more than just metal and feathers.
You sniffled quietly, and then felt Jester’s hands reach for the sides of your head. He tried to lift it, but you hesitated, not wanting him to see your puffy eyes and tear-streaked face.
“You are crying, my beloved pet. Why?” Jester asked in a low voice, strangely sweet but awkward. He was not practiced in the art of consolation, except for Pierrot, on occasion. Excessive tenderness was not his forte.
His kindness was as guarded as a cautious carnivorous flower. The softness in his voice sounded foreign in his mouth. Still, he managed to lift your face with care. His knuckles brushed your skin before his hands settled on your shoulders with silent firmness.
With a discreet, almost ceremonial gesture, he slid his hands behind your back and pulled you up until you were draped across his lap, cradled against his chest. It wasn't a full embrace — he wouldn't be so explicitly sentimental, it would be “ridiculous” — but it was warm and significant enough.
“It was just a story, alright?" he whispered, his lips brushing your hair, inhaling your scent. It was as if Jester were trying to undo the very damage he had caused. "There's no need to be upset. It's over now.”
You shook your head in denial, eyes half-closed, pressing into the space of those exuberant purple curtains that were his hair.
“You know it wasn't just a story.”
“I know,” Jester conceded, not wanting to be held further accountable. For a moment, he felt strangely small under the weight of your grief. He hated the feeling. “Would you mind lifting your face once more? Look at me for a moment, my love.”
You raised your chin, though your eyes initially avoided his amethyst gaze. You felt exposed, too vulnerable under his scrutiny. You waited for the mockery, for the small scorns Jester usually let slip with unredeemable pleasure. But surprisingly, nothing happened. No jokes, no biting observations.
Jester simply pressed you closer to his body, an unscripted act. It was pure sentiment, a clumsy attempt to piece you back together and tuck you into a peaceful, rather than sorrowful, sleep. It was a gesture that likely made him feel more "stupid" than he’d like, but he allowed it anyway. Tomorrow would be another day, and he could spend the afternoon at the circus scolding himself for it, far away from you.
“You are so tired. Be still for a moment…”
Jester’s hands brushed your cheeks, his thumbs pressing softly, tracing your features. His long fingers ran along your jawline, curving upward to wipe away your tears. You caught the end of a sob, your attention snapping to the shape of his mouth. You pulled your own lips back hesitantly at the mere thought, but he seemed to sense the desire. His hands moved quickly to the nape of your neck, tangling in the small strands of hair there.
Jester leaned down to meet you. He held you close and firm, almost enveloping you. His long hair fell over your shoulders first, wrapping you in a sort of cocoon, and his forehead rested against yours in a gesture that felt almost too generous. Having him this close, you felt you could lose yourself in a gaze as deep as purple stone. You tugged at his pajama sleeve, and Jester’s index finger diligently traced the corner of your lips before he finally gave in.
His mouth met yours in a perfect, familiar mold. A kiss without pretense — slow, without ulterior motives, as if he could transmit some kind of healing warmth to your body through the simple gesture.
You murmured something against his lips before he pulled away. He smiled slightly, stroking your ear with his fingertips.
“Better now? Do you feel calmer?” His tone was serene, almost too careful. “You should lie down. I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”
You only nodded, his kiss wrapping you in a new wave of warmth and drowsiness. It was the safety of his arms, the privilege of being tended to by a man usually so invulnerable. You leaned in toward your man once more, aching for more. You gave him another quick, faint kiss on the lips. The soft touch made you practically melt under his guidance, clinging tighter and tighter to his silhouette with affection, craving more of that rare, sweet anchorage.
Jester lingered, his lips meeting yours in a series of soft, rhythmic smacks and gentle caresses, as if confirming that everything was indeed alright, before pulling back with a lazy smile.
“I think that's enough for today,” he murmured. “Time to rest, my sweet.”
Carefully, he tucked you under the covers and settled in right behind you. His hands rested distractedly on your shoulders, warming the space around you. The cold night air seemed to vanish in his proximity, while the moonlight bathed the purple tent in a pale, tranquil glow.
Your mind began to dissolve into blurred images: birds, angels, stories too sad and too beautiful. Nothing else needed to make sense. The weight of exhaustion conquered every remaining thought.
You sighed softly, completely relaxed, your arms settling over your chest in the shape of a crooked, sleeping heart.
Behind you, Jester smiled as he noticed.
And there he stayed — holding you with a rare, silent tenderness, while sleep finally carried you away.
I LOVED your SFW Alphabet for the doctor, and i love what you write for headcanons in general. could you write a SFW Alphabet for Jester please?
yes! yes, only doing this cause he’s favorite~
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
꩜ Warning: mhm... a lil bit suggestive, intimate ! ── ᓭི༏ᓯྀ
ahhh—dearies. i get to do one for jester?? i did this at research, and yesss, i know he absolutely should not be my favorite—followed by harlequin. i’m fully aware he’d treat me like a fascinating little human pet and ruin my life about it. but unfortunately? he gives cunt.
terminally. so yes. i’m giggling, kicking my feet, and choosing him anyway.
a = affection
how affectionate are they? how do they show affection?
mhm… the jester shows affection like a mountain shows a valley shelter—through immense, gravitational presence. he’s not one for sweet nothings; his love language is allowance.
he lets you exist in his space, a sacred concession. he shows he cares by watching over you, by being the unmovable thing you can lean against when the circus gets too loud.
he might gift you a heavy, embroidered blanket, or silently place a cup of tea at your elbow, his large hand lingering near the saucer for a half-second too long. it’s protection, coded as politeness.
b = best friend
what would they be like as a best friend? how would the friendship start?
okay, so. besties with the jester.
first of all, forget everything you know about friendship. there will be no texting. no memes. no "you up?" at 2am. (only harlequin does that)
it started because he spotted you in the crowd. not screaming, not crying, just... watching. with this look on your face like, 'huh. so that's a seven-foot-tall glowing horned monument. neat.'
and for a being whose entire existence is about eliciting big, loud feelings, your calm, quiet 'not impressed' vibe was the most fascinating thing he'd seen in a century. it was an anomaly. a glitch in his programming. he had to know why.
so he let you stick around. and somewhere along the line, you became his personal soundboard.
as a best friend, he's... a lot.
he won't give you pep talks. if you have a problem, he'll just... reconfigure reality around it. annoying co-worker? suddenly transferred to a different dimension. bad day? he'll have the ambient lighting in your vicinity permanently altered to a "serotonin-boosting spectrum." he's less of a friend and more of a fix-it type.
and the gossip? oh, it's the best. but it's not gossip. it's boardline venting.
you'll be sitting in his tent, sipping tea that tastes like quiet, and he'll just drop, in that deep, resonant voice:
"I despise them all."
you'll look up from your book. "who?"
“the fools. the entire circus. even Harlequin and pierrot... ah, all of it, so much…” he'll rumble, the purple glow of his eyes flickering like a faulty neon sign. he’ll let out a long, weary sigh that sounds like a mountain settling.
"I never applied for this position, you know. It was simply... apparent. Who else would do it? The doctor? He'd turn us all into terrariums. The ticket taker? He'd file us alphabetically by suffering. So it falls to me. To be the... the gravity."
he'll pause, then add, almost as an afterthought,"...I am, however, exceptionally good at it." and that's the crux of it. he hates the paperwork of godhood, the constant management of other people's messes.
but he also knows, with every fiber of his being, that he's the only one who can do it. he loves the control, the order, the perfect and beautiful he keeps running—he just wishes the other parts weren't so... sentient and annoying.
so yeah. being his best friend means you get front-row seats to the most dramatic, existential "my coworkers are idiots" rants in the multiverse.
c = cuddles
do they like to cuddle? how would they cuddle?
cuddling require casualing touching. the jester does not do casual.
he envelops. if you initiate, he might allow you to lean against his side, and one of his massive, cloak-draped arms will come to rest around you, heavy as a fur-lined chain.
it’s less a hug and more a ritual of safekeeping. you’ll feel the deep, rhythmic thrum of his internal energy, a purple vibration against your cheek. movement is minimal. he is a cliff face, and you are a bird nesting in a crevice. it is profoundly safe and subtly possessive.
d = domestic
do they want to settle down? how are they at cooking and cleaning?
he is already settled. the circus is his domain, eternally. “domestic” life with him is life inside his perfectly managed kingdom. he doesn’t cook, but he ensures food is provided.
he doesn’t clean, but his mere presence enforces order—like dust seems afraid to settle where he stands. his environment is one of controlled ambiance: low light, rich fabrics, a sense of heavy, careful peace. mess is not cleaned; it is disappeared, as if the universe itself corrects the error to please him.
e = ending
if they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?
well... if he had to end it with you… consider it less a breakup and more a curation decision.
he wouldn’t sit you down so much as allow you to stand before him one final time, the space around you both growing still and bit awkward.
“ah, my dear little human,” he would murmur, his voice a low, rolling timbre that vibrates in the floorboards. “every story must find its final punctuation. even the most… captivating of footnotes.”
he wouldn’t call you troublesome. he’d be more poetic.
“you have begun to sing a melody that clashes with my symphony. a beautiful, wild little tune—but it threatens the harmony of my larger composition. i must return you to the library of the world, my precious volume. your chapter here is complete.”
You will miss him, like why you would?—you miss the weight and meaning he gave to your entire reality. you’ve been demoted from cherished pet to… ordinary human.
now. if you try to break up with him.
oh, you brave, foolish little creature.
you can say the words. you can pack your bag. you can walk toward the exit.
but you’ll find the path to the gate now loops back to his tent. your own reflection in the mirrors might sometimes show you standing beside him, a faint, possessive hand on your shoulder.
he wouldn’t stop you with force. he would stop you with narrative.
“leaving, little one?” his voice would come from everywhere and nowhere, a warm, dark hum in your ear. “but you are part of the cast now. the audience expects you. the story needs you.”
he’d treat your declaration not as a rejection, but as a misunderstanding of your own role.
“this is not a tale where the familiar wanders off. that is a different genre entirely. here, you are… treasured. curated. kept.”
to try and break up with the jester is to try and edit a story written in stone. you’ll remain his most interesting, beloved pet—the one who once thought it could choose its own cage.
f = fiance(e)
how do they feel about commitment?
okay, let's be real. the jester doesn't "get married." Marriage is a human contract for equals.
he doesn't have equals.
think of it less like a wedding and more like... getting permanently installed. Like a stunning stained-glass window being fitted into the wall of his cathedral. You're not becoming his partner. You're becoming a permanent fixture in his exhibit.
it's not about love, dearie. It's about curation. You've moved from "interesting temporary display" to "prized permanent collection." he's committing to your preservation, your upkeep, and your continued role in his grand design. it's the highest honor a human can receive from him: to be deemed too valuable to ever let go.
how quick would they want to get married?
hahahaha, quick? oh, no. he's the director. the show must be perfectly paced. he’ll watch you for acts and encores. He’ll see how you handle the clown's tears, the predator's taunts, the chill of the ticket booth. do you rust? Do you fray? do you make the narrative more... compelling?
Only when he’s certain you won’t tarnish, wilt, or disrupt the ambiance will he even consider it. you’re never label as his fiancé.
you're his masterpiece. and masterpieces don't get say.
g = gentle
how gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?
his gentleness is the gentleness of a glacier—slow, immense, and capable of reshaping everything without a single harsh sound.
physically, for all his size, he can handle a butterfly’s wing or your wrist with impossible care. like he’s not the type to outright physically harm you. then emotionally, he is not soft, but he can be still. he won’t soothe with words, but he will create a pocket of quiet around your pain, a sanctuary where you can feel it without being assaulted by the rest of the world.
it’s a stern, spacious kind of gentleness.
h = hugs
do they like hugs? how often do they do it? what are their hugs like?
he does not “like” or “dislike” hugs.
he accepts them as a form of tribute or grants them as a boon. they are rare events. to be hugged by the jester is to be temporarily erased from the universe.
his arms are a total enclosure, his broad chest a wall against everything else. the world goes dark, quiet, and safe. you don’t hear the circus; you hear the deep, hum of him. it lasts exactly as long as he deems necessary for your recalibration.
when he releases you, you’ll feel dizzy, like you’ve just been set down on a planet with weaker gravity.
i = i love you
how fast do they say the l-word?
he might never say it. like those words are too small, too human, too frail for the enormity of what he feels. instead, you will hear it in the silence he builds for you. in the way the troupe’s chaos parts around you. in the gift of a single, perfect key that unlocks any door in the circus except his own private archive.
his love is not a declaration; it is an appointment.
if words absolutely must be used, they will sound like this, murmured against the crown of your head in the deep night:
“you are where you belong. be still.”
j = jealousy
how jealous do they get? what do they do when they’re jealous?
he doesn’t get jealous. he gets territorial. a low, possessive thrum will echo in the air around him. he won’t snarl or posturing; he will simply rearrange reality.
the person garnering your attention while you trying to work around the circus will find their path perpetually blocked by scenery, perhaps taken care of by the doctor.
you, meanwhile, will find him suddenly, constantly there—a vast, purple-clad shadow at the edge of your vision, a silent reminder of where your attention should be anchored.
it’s not petty; it’s a correction.
k = kisses
what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss you? where do they like to be kissed?
a kiss from the jester isn't something you share.
it's something you receive.
imagine: the applause is still ringing in your ears like a fading bell. the scent of sawdust and air hangs thick in the air. he’s been watching you all night, you know. watching you play your part in his grand, twisted play. and you played it well. no stumbles. no missed cues.
now, in the heavy quiet of the wings, he is just… there. a wall of velvet and shadow that wasn’t a moment before. the ambient glow from his eyes paints the space between you in soft, pulsing purple.
“you held your note,” his voice is a low, resonant thing that doesn’t seem to travel through the air so much as materialize directly in your skull. “The composition was… balanced.”
it’s the highest praise you’ll ever get.
you know the drill. you don’t move. you hold still. you become the plinth awaiting the statue.
his hand comes up, not to cup your face, but to frame it. his thumb rests just under your jaw, a cool, unyielding pressure tipping your chin up. His other hand settles at the nape of your neck, not pulling you in, but anchoring you. there is no question of escape. there is only the inevitable.
he bends, the world narrowing to the twin points of his luminous gaze. You can smell him now—hint of something sweet, intoxicating.
Then, his lips.
they are, as always, cool. like marble warmed by a single, shy sunbeam. they are firm. this isn't a meeting of mouths; it's a stamp. a seal pressed upon you.
he doesn’t kiss you. he applies his mouth to yours. It’s a deliberate, vertical press. final. authoritative. the constant, sub-audible hum that is the soundtrack to his existence suddenly focuses, condenses, vibrates directly into the seam of your lips. it travels through your teeth, down your jaw, into the very core of you, replacing your heartbeat with his frequency.
And just before he pulls away—in the split-second where his coolness has started to burn—you feel it. the faintest, most impossible quirk at the corner of his mouth.
a smirk.
it’s not warmth. it’s satisfaction. the smirk of a collector admiring a perfectly placed piece. the smirk of a god pleased with a prayer.
he pulls back just enough, his lips leaving yours with a soft, shocking sound of separation. His glowing eyes are already scanning your face, reading the dazed slackness of your mouth, the unfocused sheen in your eyes.
he’s not looking for pleasure. (well, not in that moment) he’s auditing the impact. his thumb swipes once, almost absently, over the pulse now hammering in your throat.
“acceptable dearest,” he murmurs, and the word feels like the locking of a vault.
he stole your breath. and in return, he gave you a purpose: to stand perfectly still, and wait for him to do it again.
for other parts, beside the lips.
the forehead: his favorite. a vertical press of his cool mouth to the center of your brow. it feels less like a kiss and more like being anointed. sealed. marked as his. it's a command to be still, and a promise of shelter, all at once.
the back of your hand: this is for show. when he does it in front of the others—usually after you've done something that pleases him—it's a performance. a demonstration of ownership. his lips are a barely-there brush against your knuckles, but the weight of his gaze pins you in place. it says, 'look what belongs to me.'
the crown of your head: the rarest, most private one. he has to bend so far down for this. you'll feel the sweep of his horns frame your head, blocking out the light, before his mouth presses into your hair. it's not romantic. it's profoundly possessive. it feels like he's trying to kiss your very thoughts, to imprint himself on the source of you. you feel small, and utterly safe, and like you might never be allowed to leave.
getting him to accept a kiss? that's the real trick.
he doesn't guide you. he tolerates your approach, watching with that deep, patient stillness.
but you found the one spot. you have to reach up. his head is bowed, maybe over a ledger, and you see the place where the elegant, terrifying sweep of his horn meets the tense, elegant line of his neck. the skin there is just... skin. no glow, no armor.
you press your lips to that tiny, hidden junction.
the effect is instantaneous.
his entire massive frame goes rigid. not with rejection, but with shock. a full-system shock. the deep, constant hum that emanates from him stutters, catches, and then restarts as a deeper, rougher vibration that you don't just hear—you feel it in the floor, in your teeth, in the water glass on the table.
it's the only crack in his composure. the only sign that something you did reached the being beneath the monument. he won't gasp. he won't pull away.
but for one endless second, the king holds its breath.
l = little ones
how are they around children?
sooo, he doesn't see children, he sees miniature, un-auditioned audience members. like, i'm pretty sure in his head he's running a zoo and humans are the main exhibit, and having a kid or kids is just like... getting a new, smaller, squeakier animal for the habitat.
he's not bad with them, he's quite the entertainer, but it's in the way a zookeeper is "good" with a rare penguin—mostly focused on not letting it disrupt the ecosystem or fall into the predator pit.
the kids are either gonna be completely terrified or weirdly, deeply mesmerized by him. there is no in-between. he might allow a particularly quiet one to play with the bells on his boots or hat, just staring up at his glowing purple eyes while he ignores them completely.
he wouldn't teach them to play tag. he'd teach them to stand perfectly still for twenty minutes to hear the dust settle. he's that scary, beautiful statue in the garden they're afraid to touch, but he might, once, if the kid is very still and very quiet, lower one massive hand and let them briefly touch the cool, polished curve of his horn.
one slow blink of those luminous eyes. a silent benediction. and then he'd go back to ignoring them, now forever filed in his mind under 'small human: acceptable levels of noise.'
m = morning
how are mornings spent with them?
mornings with the jester are basically the circus’s corporate headquarters opening for the day. he’s been up for hours, the main engine already humming while the rest of the troupe is still hitting snooze.
you’ll stumble out to find him talking with the ticket taker—it’s like watching the ceo and the cfo of a freaky ahh company plan their quarterly earnings. the ticket taker has the spreadsheets and the ledger, all the numbers and the amount of guests list, and the jester is the one who looks at the data, gives a single slow nod, and basically goes, ‘make it happen.’
he’s placing the orders for the day’s specific brand of terror and wonder. then you’ll notice a perfect breakfast just… there. did he make it? no. did he think it, and a terrified minor imp somewhere scurried to fulfill the thought? probably.
he’ll acknowledge you with just a turn of his head, his purple glow doing a little ‘good morning, asset’ pulse. the whole room smells like quiet power and very expensive, vaguely ominous bergamot tea.
n = night
how are nights spent with them?
nights with the jester are for relaxing.
after the final curtain falls and the last screaming audience member has been gently ushered out by the ticket taker (who is probably now filing the screams by decibel level).
the loud, flashy circus goes to sleep, and the quiet, circus manager comes back to his tent. you might find him in the deepest, plushest part of his tent, reading a book. he won't talk. the show's over; words are for the performance. you can just... stand there. exist in the same quiet.
that's the big intimacy.
you're not a guest; you're witnessing the anchor do its job. he might put a heavy, cloak-draped hand on your shoulder, and it doesn't feel like a hug, it feels like he's plugging you directly into the mainframe, grounding you so you don't float away. you're both just two specs of dust tethered to the same cold, beautiful star.
o = open
when would they start revealing things about themselves? do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?
figuring the jester out such a hard task.
you get what he allows to break off, in its own time. first, he’ll just let you see the ringmaster veneer—the unshakeable authority, the cool control. that’s the surface layer. stick around long enough without being deemed ‘troublesome,’ and you might catch a glimpse of the weary stage manager underneath, the one who has to keep all the other volatile acts from burning the big top down.
but the deep stuff? the real foundational trauma?
the famine-memory, the cold truth of what he let happen to keep his circus alive? that’s locked in the permafrost at the center. you won’t hear about it. you’ll see it. in the way his glow gutters for a split second when harlequin gets too sharp with pierrot.
in the absolute, vacuum-like silence that follows the mention of a certain shade of pink. it’ll be a truth that flashes in the sudden, bottomless dark of his eyes, just for a heartbeat, before the steady purple light floods back in.
he doesn’t confess. he has a momentary systems failure. and if you’re standing close enough, you get to witness the crash.
p = patience
how easily angered are they?
you don't anger the jester.
you fail a quality assurance test. his patience isn't human patience; it's the patience of a mountain watching an ant hill. it's vast. but cross a line? disrupt the sacred composition of his circus?
oh, honey. his anger isn't a tantrum. it's a gravitational anomaly. the air gets thick and soupy, lights dim to a bruise-purple gloom, and all sound gets swallowed until the only thing you hear is the low hum coming from him.
his eyes become the only light source, pinning you in place like a bug under a spotlight. he won't yell. his voice will just drop an octave and vibrate in your marrow. "you are a dissonant note in my symphony." and just like that, you're not in trouble—you're edited out of the score.
the troupe fears harlequin's bite, but they dread the jester's silence. it means you've become background noise, and he's tuning you out.
q = quizzes
how much would they remember about you? do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?
does he remember things about you? pfft.
he has a live-updating dossier. he remembers the exact steepness of your tea, the specific frequency of your sigh when you're bored, the way you hugged your elbows that one tuesday when the doctor got too close.
but it's filed under 'human quirks.' it's cataloged under 'asset parameters: optimal performance settings.' he'll use it to curate your reality. didn't laugh at pierrot's joke last week? don't worry, pierrot's act will be gently redirected away from you. mentioned you liked the smell of rain? surprise, the humidifiers in your section of the tent will start pumping out petrichor.
he doesn't care about the joke; he cares that the joke made your smile drop by 3.2 seconds. you're not a person to him; you're a beautifully complex instrument he's learning to play perfectly.
r = remember
what is their favorite moment in your relationship?
it wasn't something you said.
it was a silence you shared. that night you just sat in his space, not reading, not talking, not fidgeting. you just... existed in the same profound stillness. you held the quiet without trying to fill it. in that moment, you stopped being a chattering pet or a demanding guest.
you became what he needs most: a calm, deep pool of stillness beside his mountain. a complementary part of the landscape. not another problem to manage, but a piece of the peace he struggles to maintain. he thinks of that silence often.
it's the only time the weight of his crown felt light.
s = security
how protective are they? how would they protect you? how would they like to be protected?
protecting you isn't about throwing punches. it's about editing the script. harlequin looking a bit too bitey today? suddenly, harlequin finds a fascinating, time-consuming puzzle locked in his tent. a tent pole looks shaky? you'll find a handwritten note (not in his hand, but the thought is his) redirecting you to a safer path.
his protection is invisible, seamless, and somewhat controlling. to protect him is a funny thought. but he'd appreciate you maintaining the sanctity of his focus. being a buffer between him and the troupe's needier members. being a small island of quiet he can glance at and remember what he's anchoring.
you guard his peace, and in return, he guards your entire existence.
t = try
how much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?
thinking about the jester "trying" is like asking a force of nature to put in effort. the sun doesn't try to rise, dearie. it just does, and the world warms.
so no, he doesn't put in "effort." he orchestrates reality around you.
a date isn't dinner and a movie. it's a private, immersive performance staged in a pocket dimension he manifests just for the evening.
the narrative will subtly mirror that story you told him once about getting lost in the woods as a child—except here, the woods are made of velvet shadows and whispering silk, and getting lost feels like finally finding your way home.
he watches from the shadows, noting your every micro-expression, adjusting the lighting and soundtrack of your life in real time.
a gift is never an object. it's a thesis on your existence. a music box that doesn't play a song, but replays the exact timbre of his internal hum from the moment he first decided you were his.
a scarf that's impossibly light but carries the weight of a comforting hand on your shoulder when you're anxious. a key that opens any door in the circus and also, somehow, makes your own heartbeat sound quieter, more steady, when you hold it.
and everyday life? please.
the universe itself seems to bend to make your path frictionless. you’re never out of your favorite anything, always taken care of. the chaotic noise of the troupe always seems to hit a lull right when you have a headache. it’s not luck. it’s curated existence.
he’s not trying to be a good partner.
he’s perfecting the habitat for his most treasured human.
u = ugly
what would be some bad habits of theirs?
i have a few in mind….
the paternalistic veto: he will quietly, irrevocably override your choices “for the good of the design.” want to explore the east wing? suddenly, it’s condemned for repairs. forever.
emotional landscaping: he doesn’t just notice your mood; he tries to fix it by altering your environment, which can feel incredibly manipulative.
the silent treatment: his displeasure isn’t shouting; it’s a complete, chilling absence of his attention. being ignored by the axis of your world is a special kind of cold.
assuming the role of god: he genuinely believes he knows what’s best for everyone, always. it’s not arrogance; it’s a fact of his existence, and it’s infuriating.
v = vanity
how concerned are they with their looks?
let's get one thing straight: the jester is not vain. vanity is for beings who are insecure.
what he is, is iconic. he is a monument, a symbol of absolute, otherworldly authority. his appearance is his uniform, his brand, his unshakable truth. the horns aren't an accessory; they're a crown.
every single element is meticulously maintained, not out of pride, but out of necessity. if he looks less than perfect, the entire illusion of his control shatters. dust does not dare settle on his shoulders.
and you? oh, you're part of the display now.
he cares deeply about how you look, because you are a featured piece in his gallery. you reflect on the curator. you think that outfit is 'cozy'? he sees a fabric that clashes with the deep jewel tones of his tent's interior. you think your hair is fine messy? he sees a disruption in the composed visual harmony he's built.
he will ensure you are always... presentable.
not to his taste, but to the aesthetic of his world. you'll find your wardrobe quietly shifting. Rough fabrics replaced with silent, luxurious ones. Clunky shoes disappearing, replaced with elegant, silent ones. Your colors will slowly mute to complement, not compete with, the dominant purples and blacks of his domain.
it's not control. it's curation. he is fitting you into the frame of his life. you will be beautiful, yes. but it will be a beautiful that matches the furniture.
you are the most prized objet d'art in his collection, and he will make damn sure you are displayed to perfection.
w = whole
would they feel incomplete without you?
no. a cathedral is not incomplete without one specific stained glass window. but that window, once installed, defines the light, gives the space its character, becomes the focal point for prayer.
you are not his missing piece.
you are the art that makes his architecture worth maintaining. without you, his world is still structurally sound, but it has no heart. no point.
just perfect, empty order.
x = xtra
a random headcanon for them.
he has a secret, tiny garden in a place no one can find—maybe behind a mirror, maybe under a stage. in it grows one, single, impossible flower that thrives on silence and shadow.
he tends to it not with joy, but with a deep, solemn reverence. it is the only living thing he nurtures just for the sake of its own existence, not for the design.
if he ever gives you one of its ink-black petals, you will hold a piece of his soul that even the circus does not own.
y = yuck
what are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?
chaos for chaos’s sake. (harlequin’s entire existence is a mild irritant.)
neediness and loud emotional displays. (it’s troublesome.)
disrespect for the narrative. heckling his shows, breaking the illusion.
independence that threatens the troupe’s stability. (his number one deal-breaker.)
Being referred to as "mom." or "mommy" the fandom's joke is his personal, silent hell. One twitch of a horn is the only signal of his immense simmering discontent.
z = zzz
what is a sleep habit of theirs?
he doesn't sleep. he anchors. he enters a deep, meditative state where his consciousness becomes the literal keel of the circus, keeping it from drifting into the chaotic seas of unreality.
he might be seated on his throne or standing in a ring of cold fire, glow reduced to the barest ember. spacetime gently warps around him. if you sleep near him during this, you will have the most profound, terror-free rest of your life.
you are sleeping in the eye of the godstorm, wrapped in the absolute certainty of his watch.
you are safe because his will makes it so.
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
thinking about pierrot's performance and a really scared darling
after your encounter with the rude man, pierrot had his eye on you. he couldn't quite put a finger on what exactly it was that magnetized him toward you. maybe it was your care for him when he was just a stranger, maybe it was the way you looked at him like he wasn't a monster. whatever it was, it drew him toward you. he'd been so impressed by you, he wanted to impress you back.
so, you end up with a red circus ticket in your hand. you were aware of the devilish demeanor of pierrot and his green little.. friend.. (or that's what you'd like to call him, regardless of the glares pierrot shoots him), but you never expected the scares you received at the circus.
like the good friend you were, you happily entered the red tent and found a seat to watch your friend perform; a dance, you had assumed. as the least you'd expected, the act involved knife throwing, body contortion and strange (almost worrying) gymnastics. you shook in your seat at the realistic sight of a woman being impaled in the forehead by knives, splitting the mask she wore in half. your fingers clutched at the hem of your shorts, cold sweat beginning to pour as your stomach churned. the more his body moved, the more ill and afraid you felt.
at the end of his act, you stood up and clapped, attempting to ignore the fear brewing in your stomach. you decided you needed something to distract yourself, and attempted to wander out of the tent to try to ease your nerves with the fresh air. unfortunately, that didn't work!
your ears rung with the sound of circus music, screams and chatter. no matter which corner you turned, you couldn't seem to get rid of that smell of fake(?) blood and those pictures out of your head. the more you walked, the more you spiraled, until-
"my dear?"
your head whipped around faster than ever before, both startled and comforted by the whispers of the silent pierrot.
"ah- jeez, it's just you.." you craned your neck up to look at the tall man. he seemed far more elated to see you than you were to see him.
"my dear! did you enjoy my show? i performed it just for you. what are you doing around here? we should go-" pierrot's eyes snapped onto your sweating face and furrowed brows. he knew something was up. he softly engulfed your hand with his larger one as he inconspicuously led you away from the forbid area.
"the air is.. nicer here. what seems to be the matter? did you.. not enjoy my show, my dear? was it har-"
"no, no, pierrot." you softly laughed out. "i just.. uh.. it looked really real, you know? that's uh.. that's a good thing! good job." you awkwardly praise.
pierrot's eyes suddenly dilate. ahhh, he gets it now.. the performance frightened you. how sweet you are! you came to watch and stayed throughout it all, regardless of how you felt.. you were too good for him.
"my dear, did it frighten you?" he softly spoke, almost adoring. "i-i'm sorry.. it was good, i swear! i just got queasy.. it's dumb, i know." you mutter quietly, embarassment laced in your tone. your eyes meet the ground in shame.
much to your surprise, you hear a quiet chuckle. you glance up at the clown to see his pinked cheeks and wide grin. his golden eyes forming small hearts. "my dear.. that's.. very cute. i'm touched you stayed." he smiled out, his hand covering his mouth. his bells jingled as he tilted his head. 'he's very cat-like..' you state to yourself.
"you're really not mad i was scared..?" you say as your feet hit the sidewalk toward your apartment. "not at all, my dear. i'm happy you came. really, truly.. happy." he smiles at you and you smile back. he walks you back to your apartment, his eyes glued to you for the entirety of the walk back.
to him, you were this fragile beauty, too good for the world around him. and your adorable fear is only making you more vulnerable in his eyes. not to worry though, he'd never let you get hurt. not while he's here. and he's always here. and while he's at your bedside as you lay asleep, nothing will even come close to hurting you.
a/n: guys sorry if this is like ooc or not lore accurate (i wasn't aiming for it to be fully tho) i just finished the game yesterday and i just HAD to write for pierrot. I LOVE HIM BRO
if you have any tips pls give GOODNIGHT!!
More TFC drabbles because I cannot be stopped! (*^▽^)/★*☆♪
✨️Period edition✨️ because I'm in so much pain uuuuuuuhhggg (´Д` )
Notes/tags: gn!reader, but they're able to get their period. Mentions of blood, obviously. Sliiiight sadism from Jester, but I swear he cares. Fluffy comfort because my body hurts like hell.
Who needs a heated blanket when you've got Pierrot and Doctor? The second you grimace in pain and curl up while clutching your stomach in bed is the same moment Pierrot darts to your side. His eyes will be all wide and worried as he gently pries your arms open and slot himself between them, and if you looked close enough, you'd see the beginnings of tears in his eyes. How can Pierrot not tear up at the sight of you in so much pain? His heart aches even more at the fact that he can't do anything to fix it, other than comfort you as best he can. He'd hold you close and keep your stomach against him to warm it, occasionally sliding a hand down to massage and rub either it or your lower back. The heat and pressure would be soothing indeed, and the little whispers of care from him would earn him a kiss or three. Oh! And let him know of any particular foods you might want! Lord knows periods cause some weird cravings, and Pierrot would be happy to indulge you. He'll cook whatever you'd like or go out to fetch it for you, though he will encourage you to eat red meat if you're willing. You're losing a lot of blood and need the iron, but if you don't want to then he won't force you, of course.
Doctor would be equally as comforting, me thinks. A guy as big as he has got to generate a lot of heat, and hands as large as his have got to be warm as heck. If he managed to get into your apartment or you his bedroom, he'll lay beside you similar to Pierrot. Otherwise, he'd sit you down in a quiet spot in his tent and hold you, likely at his desk. He'd got plenty of logs and records to go over, and he's also got a comfortable lap to snooze in. Take all the time you need with him to soak up his warmth, and he'll listen to your grumbles and complaints all the while with genuine care. Just be careful if he offers to massage your belly; make sure he's washed the blood off his gloves. Oh, and maybe don't agree to his injections as opposed to ibuprofen or tylenol. Or do, it might help, only one way to find out. Doctor would be the most knowledgeable with how periods work, but only from records on paper. Because of this, expect a lot of questions and notes from him about your experiences and what you've heard from others. He'd especially like to hear about the misconceptions and old stories about them, after all, seeing your indignant face when ranting about people shunning periods and making them seem like such a dirty thing is too cute to pass up.
I feel like Jester would either be the least caring of your pain or the most doting. On one hand, the lingering bitterness in his heart would relish in your pain and find it satisfying, even amusing. After all, it's your own body causing you to whimper and cry in agony, how unfortunate for you. Though, that bitter enjoyment is minimal compared to the ugly distaste Jester feels for seeing you so miserable. If anything, it's similar to a guilty pleasure that he manages to shoo away in favor of actually helping you. A couple blankets and pillows would be offered in his tent to make a little cozy corner for you, while he'd likely go out to buy or fetch you a heating pad. Scratch that, he'd buy a second one for keeping around his tent for the next time this happens, that way he'd be more prepared. Other than getting you comfortable, he'll keep you company and make sure you drink plenty of water and tea. You can't argue with him on drinking the tea even if you don't like it, he needs you hydrated. Besides that, Jester will stay with you between tasks and shows to help you rest and relax, maybe even read to you if you ask sweetly enough. Don't expect him to touch you more than is necessary, buuuuut I'd see him giving a slight massage on the rare occasion (he can't beat the mommy accusations).
Ticket Taker would be fairly similar to Jester, but he'd be a little more fumble-y about it. I honestly don't see any of them knowing much about periods other than they happen once a month to folks with uteruses, and that they are less than pleasant. Doctor would know the most about them, but I find it a little funny to think that Bill would know the least. He'd know that blood and pain is involved, but since he never focused on learning about it in the past as it never seemed important, he'd have to learn about it from you. He'd listen well and follow your instruction, all while mentally jotting down notes for future reference. Warmth and light pressure helps soothe cramps, while warm drinks and foods can ease discomfort in general... got it. Pads and/or tampons would need to be supplied, so he'll keep a box or two in his tent for when you need them. You'll have explain that there is different sizes and you'll need specific ones, but there's no need to feel embarrassed about it. TT wouldn't be grossed out at all, and I think he'd even enjoy learning about all this to help you. The unpredictable parts of a period would bother him purely because he won't always know how to help you, but so long as you communicate what you need, he'll make sure to supply it.
Harlequin would be both prepared to help and completely in the dark of what to do. You're in pain and bleeding like you're dying, but you're not dying... right? He doesn't need to take you to a hospital or to Doc? With how much your face is strained in pain he'd find himself rather tempted to do so. You wouldn't be moving much for the whole duration of your period, but especially not for the first few days. Harle can't stand seeing you hunch over in pain while staggering to and fro in your apartment, so as much as he'll give you shit for it, just tell him to carry you or get you something. He won't let you stand otherwise. He'd be similar to Pierrot in terms of worry, but he'd hide it better behind his actions. He'll bring you an extra pain reliever just in case, or he'll tuck the blankets a little closer so you're more snug. Hell, he'll close the curtains if the light is bothering you and snuggle up to make sure you're comfortable. Harlequin will still make his little jokes and tease you, but he won't be too insistent on it all. He'd rather not piss you off while your period is causing you mood swings and immense pain, otherwise you might do more damage to him than Pierrot.
Summary: you show the girls a spell you created for Qifrey when you were kids. But during them trying out the spell you get injured
Warning: injury, blood, spoilers/hints at Qifrey’s backstory
A/N: my darling how I love you…. I’d do anything for him. I also have an Olruggio fic like this, click here if you want to read it! Anyways I hope you all enjoy <333
The soft breeze of the morning sends a chill down your spine as you walk outside the atelier. You were restless throughout the night because you have a dreadful feeling that something is going to happen today. It frustrates you because today you and Qifrey agreed to take the girls out for a picnic. You want to be able to focus on spending time with everyone but this feeling won’t stop nagging you.
As you sit on top of a hill by the atelier looking off at the mountain range in the distance, you’re trying to run through every possible scenario that could happen.
It could rain out of nowhere, or one of the girls wakes up sick and can’t go. Or that the area Qifrey said he found would actually not work so it would ruin the mood.
But all those ideas and nothing feels right. It feels like something worse could happen but you can’t place it.
You’re so focused on this feeling that you don’t hear a pair of footsteps coming up behind you.
“Now why are you out here so early in the morning without any layers?”
Your body straightens at the sudden noise. You put a hand over your racing heart, “You scared me.”
Your boyfriend chuckles, “It wasn’t my intention to.” He places a cloak over your shoulders then sits next to you, “Something the matter? You were tossing and turning all night and you look lost in that mind of yours.”
Clenching the grass below you tightly, you explain to Qifrey how you’re feeling. “I have this feeling that something is going to happen today. I can’t figure out what but the feeling won’t go away.”
“Hm. Maybe you’re not use to a peaceful day now. Not many have come since Coco’s arrival.”
“Ugh that’s not it.” You burry your face in your hands. “I just have a feeling that my dreadful feeling is right.”
Qifrey wraps an arm around you and pulls you into him. “To alleviate this feeling I’ll keep a careful eye on everything today. I won’t let anything happen to any of you. I promise.”
You cuddle into him, “Qifrey that’s only going to strain you.”
“I’ll do anything to keep you all safe.”
“Qifrey-“
“This is one thing you cannot fight me on,” he swiftly cuts you off.
“But-“
He cuts you off this time by placing his forehead against yours, “I want to make this a fun day for everyone but I will make sure I’m not harming myself in the process.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” He pecks your lips real quick before pulling back, “Now let’s go prepare breakfast and gather everything we need.”
You and Qifrey spent the next hour prepping breakfast sandwiches and fruit. The entire time you were cooking with Qifrey, your mind never drifted off to that dreadful feeling. Maybe you were just cautious because you want the day to go smoothly. Or it was his words that calmed you.
“Good morning!” A cheerful voice appears beside you.
Turning you see Coco smiling brightly at all the food Qifrey is packing, “Is that all for us?!”
“Yes. I didn’t know how long we would stay there so some snacks are in there too,” Qifrey answers.
“You two are the best!”
“Don’t tell Master Olly that,” you comment with a wink.
“It’s a good thing he’s out on a project then,” Qifrey jokes.
“You all are great!” Coco says in a panic.
You place a hand on her head, “I’m just teasing you. Go ahead and grab the girls, we will be leaving soon.”
With that she darts off to the stairs and rushes up them.
“She is going to get hurt one day running up the stairs like that.”
“Knowing Coco she’ll bounce right back quickly.”
You look over at Qifrey, who is smiling fondly. “A penny for your thoughts?”
“I…” he tries to find the right words, “I am happy. I love this and everything about it.”
Closing the distance between you two, you raise yourself on your tiptoes and place a soft kiss to his cheek. After you step back you tell him, “You deserve this. Don’t forget that.”
He turns immediately to you now wearing a serious face, “I will never. If I ever forgot this feeling, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“Well it’s a good thing that you don’t have to worry about it. After all our memories are the best.” You say happily before grabbing a smaller basket that has the blankets and heading off to the door where the girls now stand.
He watches you walk away slowly, “Ah yes ‘perfect memories’. If only you could truly remember everything.” He murmurs before grabbing the basket full of food and making his way to the door.
“Ready everyone?”
“Yes!”
“Mhm.”
“I’ve been waiting all week for this!”
“Let’s get going!”
All the girls pitch in an answer before following Qifrey out the door.
***
The walk to the area Qifrey had in mind was short from the atelier. You’re glad it wasn’t too far or you know the girls would have started complaining.
The area is breathtaking though. It’s a massive field with a huge river cutting down the middle of it. Flowers and different types of plants are growing all over the field giving it a bright pop of color.
“This is beautiful,” you tell Qifrey as the girls run around to look at all the flowers. You place down the basket you were carrying and pull out the picnic blankets.
“I’m glad you think so.” Qifrey is quick to grab a blanket out of your hold to help you set up both blankets you brought. Once the blankets are smoothed out he begins unpacking the food.
“Girls come along now, you all can play once you’re done eating.”
They rush back to the blankets and plop down on them.
“It smells so good.” Richeh says as she stares down her breakfast sandwich.
“I knew breakfast was going to be special this morning,” Tetia comments while trying to figure out what she wants to eat first.
“Ah the melon is so sweet! It’s incredible!” Coco cheers with delight.
“I told you to start using other words to describe things,” Richeh murmurs.
The three girls talk back and forth while Agott eats quietly, “Thank you. It’s delicious.”
“You’re welcome.” Qifrey and you respond in unison and that makes her smile.
The girls end up finishing quickly because they want to go play in the field. You laugh at their eagerness but you’re happy they can actually act like children in this moment.
“I think they forget they are kids sometimes.”
You nod along, “With how crazy all their lives were I can’t blame them. But I hope these are moments they’ll remember.”
“Childhood memories should be happy ones so I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that happens.”
You scoot over to lean into him, “And you’re doing a perfect job.”
You two watch the girls walk over to the river and dip their hands into it. Tetia splashes Coco which makes both of them laugh before looking at what Agott is pointing out in the water. Richeh seems to be explaining something about was is being pointed out.
“Master Qifrey!” Tetia yells.
“What is it?”
“How can we walk on water?”
“Why would you ask that?” Agott scolds her.
“Well Tetia you might be in luck, I know someone that made a spell to do that.”
“REALLY!? WHO?”
“It would be the beautiful witch sitting right next to me.”
Tetia runs over which makes the others follow. “CAN YOU REALLY!? TEACH MEEEEE!”
You sit up, leaving Qifrey’s warmth. You slip off your boots then wipe off the sylph spell. You grab your pen and draw two new spell, one on each boot, then slip your boots back on.
Pushing yourself off the ground you start to walk to the water. You don’t even have to tell the girls to follow because you hear them eagerly following.
Once you get to the river you take a deep breath before taking a step forward. As soon as your foot makes contact with the water, a small area around your foot freezes the water. You step off the solid ground with your other foot repeating the same process. You walk about halfway across the river before turning around to see the girls standing in awe with a proud look Qifrey.
“You’re so cool master!”
“Wow.”
“That’s impressive.”
“Ice magic is incredible!”
You walk back to the riverbank and step off the water. When you’re back on solid ground the girls crowd you.
“That’s how I can walk on water without it effecting the water too much.”
“But I don’t get how the whole river didn’t turn into ice. How do you do that?” Coco asks.
You slip off one of your boots to show the seal. “See it’s a basic ice spell but I draw many pillar runes to keep it balanced and controlled to just where I am stepping.”
“So you really only control the area under your foot?”
“Correct. It’s a simple spell for just walking nothing too crazy.”
“Why did you make this spell?” Agott speaks up while looking at the spell.
You smile at the memory of why you made the spell before telling them a brief story. “As you all know, your master does not favor water that much. So when I was younger I wanted to surprise him for his birthday by giving him a spell that would help him with his discomfort towards water.”
“How did he react?!” Tetia and Coco question.
“I felt touched that someone put so much time, effort, and energy to make a spell that would help me. I was shocked that someone would do something like that for me.” Qifrey kneels by your side to look at the seal he’s known since he was a child.
“That’s so cute!” The girls squeal.
“Master can we try?” Agott asks.
You turn to Qifrey because at the end of the day it’s his call.
“I suppose but you all must be careful. The river is huge and dangerous, I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
That reminds you, you haven’t felt that dreadful feeling ever since Qifrey managed to calm you down. Maybe you really worried for nothing because everything has gone smoothly all morning.
The girls are quick to take off their shoes and wipe off the sylph spell before copying the ice spell. While the girls go slowly Qifrey manages to quickly write the spell on his boots.
You check over everyone’s seal and they look really good for doing it for the first time. They all have really strengthened their skills.
Qifrey and you step out first then watch carefully as the girls walk onto the water. Your eyes are glued to their feet to make sure ice is appearing below them so they won’t fall into the river. After seeing they are walking perfectly on the water you look back up to see them full of excitement.
They begin to walk all around on the river happily chatting about how they are walking on water without getting wet at all.
“You made their day.”
You look over your shoulder to see Qifrey looking down at you. You smile gently at him, “I’m glad I can make them smile like this. Ironically when I gifted you this spell, you had the same smile plastered on your face. It feels good to have it be a full circle.”
He smiles back at you, “You gave me a reason to smile when I thought the world had taken all the reasons to.”
“You’re smiling a lot more so it looks like you found your reasons.”
“All because it started with you.”
You go to respond but you feel a shiver go down your neck. Out of the corner of your eye you see a massive icicle shooting towards Qifrey and you react without hesitation.
Without saying anything you push him out of the way but it puts you in the path of the icicle and you feel it lodged itself in your leg.
You hiss in pain before losing your balance due to the overwhelming discomfort you feel now. But before you could fall in the water you feel a pair of arms catch you.
“Are you okay!?” Qifrey pulls back your cloak to try and access the damage.
You look down at your leg to see a massive blood stain around where the icicle is stuck in your leg. Once you’re aware of the blood you start to feel it running down your leg making your pants wet and stick to you. The feeling makes your skin crawl.
You hear many footsteps coming closer to you but you can tell they are going slow.
“Master…” Coco hiccups, “I am so sorry! I didn’t know if I ran it would shoot an icicle! I think I didn’t draw the spell right. Now you’re hurt. I am so sorry.”
“Girls we need to clean up and get back to the atelier so I can help her. I need you all to go get all our stuff then make your way back to the ateleir. I am going to get her as comfortable as I can to get her back to the atelier.”
They don’t put up an argument at all so as soon as their feet hit solid ground they are off running towards the picnic baskets.
Qifrey gets you two off the water and holds you in his arms. He watches how your eyes are focusing and how they droop every couple of seconds. You’re losing consciousness.
His heart drops at the revelation.
No this can’t be true.
This can’t be happening.
“Hey, darling stay with me now.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“You don’t have to apologize, you just have to keep those pretty eyes opened.”
“You’re warm…” you cuddle into his embrace before closing your eyes.
“Hey. Hey.”
No response.
“Please, don’t do this.”
“Please,” he begs.
When he doesn’t get a response he picks you up carefully and makes his way back to the girls.
They are all done cleaning up and watch anxiously as he gets close to them.
“We must head back now.” He turns on his heels and the girls silently follow.
He curses himself over and over again for wiping off the sylph spell.
He curses himself for not seeing the icicle.
He curses himself for not being able to keep his promise to you.
He promised that nothing bad would happen today but now you’re passed out in his arms.
Qifrey is so disappointed in himself and can’t stop beating himself up over this.
He’s never walked so fast in his life because all he wants is to help you. He feels bad though at the same time because the girls are having a hard time keeping up with his long and fast strides. But he thinks they sense his urgency and aren’t saying anything about it.
As soon as he’s back to atelier he kicks open the door and heads right to his bedroom and places you on your side of the bed.
He calls out to Agott, “Can you please get me some bandages and salve?”
She nods before rushing off to get the materials.
Qifrey sheds his cap and cloak before focusing on getting a towel to place under your bleeding leg.
When the towel is in place, Agott comes in placing the bandages and salve next on the nightstand by you before making a swift exit.
Qifrey cuts your pants just above where the icicle is so he has room to work.
He stares hard and longly at the icicle before taking a deep breath and apologizing, “Forgive me my heart.”
He pulls out the icicle out from your leg to get a look at the wound. The icicle wants that deep in your leg, it was just big that’s why there was so much blood.
You probably passed out due to a mix of how much blood you lost and how exhausted you must have been from not sleep at all last night.
Pushing that aside he grabs another towel and uses a water spell to get it wet so he can clean the wound.
When your leg is thoroughly cleaned he puts the salve on your wound then wraps your leg up.
He leans back to look at the bandage to make sure he didn’t put it on too tightly it loosely. But after another close look he is confident with his wrapping.
He goes to grab a chair he has in the corner of his room and drags his back to your side of the bed.
Qifrey watches you breathe in and out evenly. Based on how you look now, you’ll be asleep for a couple more hours. He can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.
He watches over you for the next hour until all the adrenaline in his body starts to ware off and he falls asleep in the chair.
***
You wake up in a dark room. Strange the last thing you remember is being at the river. Right, you were at the river with an icicle in your leg!
You sit straight up and turn to your side to see your boyfriend sleeping. His glasses that have obviously fallen into his lap and his fluffy white hair covering most of his face now.
Before calling his name you look at your leg. It’s sore but it’s all cleaned and wrapped up. He did a really good job.
“Qifrey?”
His head shoot’s up like he actually had been awake this whole time.
He doesn’t say anything instead he launches forward and wraps his arms tightly around you.
“I was beyond terrified when you passed out. I felt my whole world shift off balance. I hated the feeling of me not being able to do anything right away to help you. I felt so useless.”
You bury yourself into the embrace and hold him back tightly, “It’s okay, I’m here. I’m alright.”
“No you’re not. I broke my promise and you are paying the price for it.”
“You couldn’t have known this was going to happen.”
“I should have been paying more attention. I should have-“
“Qifrey,” you say his name sternly and it immediately makes him stop.
You pull back so you’re looking him in the eye, “No one is to blame. It was a little slip up that no one saw coming or could have predicted. Yes I got injured and yes it hurts I’m not going to lie to you. But I won’t let you beat yourself up over it.”
“It’s my job to protect you and I couldn’t do that.”
“Qifrey you have protected me more times than I can count. One little accident doesn’t make those times not count.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for handsome. We all are alright and that’s what matters.”
You lean in for a kiss but hear the door open which makes you pull back and look at the door. Qifrey puts his glasses on and fixes his hair before looking at the door.
You see Coco carrying a plate with something on it and the girls following behind.
“Coco, is something wrong?” You ask.
She rushes over to you and showing you the batch of cookies she obviously made on the plate she’s carrying.
“You’re awake!”
“I just woke up.”
She holds the plate of cookies in front of your face, “HERE! I made apology cookies.”
You then remember you heard her apologizing right before you passed out.
“No need to apologize Coco. I heard what you said before I passed out. Don’t feel bad you were trying to run around and have fun. I should have explained the spell more instead of letting you all go on your own.”
“No it’s was my lack of knowledge-“
“Coco.” You cut her off too, “It is a masters job to teach and explain a spell fully and I did not do that. I do not want you blaming yourself for a spell you had barely any knowledge over.”
“I still feel bad though, you’re hurt because of me…” she looks down at the ground.
You tilt her chin up to look her in the eyes now, “I get that. If I was in your position, I’d feel the exact same way. Sometimes we have to learn that not everything is in our control and we can’t account for anything.”
You glance at Qifrey who is watching the conversation closely, “So we shouldn’t blame ourselves over every tiny little thing. Make sense?”
“I understand. You really can calm me down,” she admits before holding out the cookies to you once again.
You grab a cookie and take a bite out of it. It’s so soft and sweet, “And you really know how to bake and me feel one hundred percent better.”
She smiles brightly at the compliment.
“But…” you trail off seeing her hesitate, “I’m going to need help finishing all of these. Dig in everyone.”
Coco places the plate of cookies on Qifrey’s bed and everyone sits around it.
The girls all talk about different spells they want to create so they can help others or make them happy like you did with your spell.
You’re stop focusing on them once you feel a shoulder bump into yours. You look towards your boyfriend who is smiling lightly down at you.
“Thank you.”
You furrow your brows, “For what? I should be thanking you for helping me.”
“This. Giving me something to smile about even after all this time.”
You feel your eyes begin to fill with tears. Qifrey rarely talks about how he truly feels so having him admit something like that right now fills you with so much joy.
“You deserve it,” you whisper. “I love you.”
“And I love you,” he kisses your forehead before whispering words only you can hear, “I swear I’m going to marry you.”
You pull back to stare at him in shock. Did he really just say that. You can’t even form a sentence to ask if he meant it.
“Master Qifrey?” Richeh calls for her master and he easily turns his attention to her to answer her question.
All you can think about how you hope what he said is true. Because marrying Qifrey sounds like a dream come true.
