Please don't follow me if you don't support LGBT+ or Kins. Thank you, and have a great day! 🕸️📸💖 5-8-23: Uh. Just personal at this point! I'll still do kin stuff in the future. But, I've been kinda discouraged that it's childish. (I'll try to get that spark back though) ((Jesus I haven't done proper kin stuff since Freshman year... I graduated...)) 🌻 Current Shift: None. Just me! Whoever that is..
can I request panic comfort with Mike Morton and a socially anxious reader?
🤹🏼Mike Morton x Socially Anxious!Reader
Socially anxiety fking sucks and I think everyone deserves a Mike to support them tbh:,)
If opposites really do attract, you and Mike would be living proof of it. He was good with people—not in a commanding or fake manner, but with a natural charm, in a way, that made others feel at ease around him. It wasn’t forced. Maybe it was his circus experience, or just something he was born with. He had a sharp tongue when needed, never hesitating to speak his mind.
You, on the other hand, were the polar opposite. Big crowds—or just unfamiliar people—could send your mind spiraling. From the outside, it looked like clumsiness or awkwardness. But people didn’t see the chaos in your head: the whirlwind of thoughts, the rising heat of panic that made your hands shake and blurred your judgment.
And today was one of those days.
You had just begun decoding one of the last cipher machines. Time was tight, pressure rising. Your hands felt slick with sweat, your heartbeat loud in your ears. A misstep. Then another. Your vision blurred slightly, the edges of your sight going fuzzy. All familiar signs.
"What the hell are you doing?" a teammate hissed at you, their brow creased in visible annoyance. "Maybe focus if you don’t want us all to get killed, huh?"
You couldn’t get a word out as they kept whispering annoyed comments at you. Your throat tightened, your mouth sealed shut under the weight of invisible pressure. Your eyes welled with tears, your body frozen in place.
Then a hand found the small of your back—steady, grounding.
"Maybe—just maybe—you should think about how your words aren’t helping, huh? Let them work instead of being an asshole,” Mike shot back at the teammate, his voice sharp but almost playful, winking at them before turning back to you.
"It’s okay. Breathe with me, yeah?" he said, his tone softening entirely.
You followed his lead, eyes closing, your breath syncing with his.
"Good. Just like that."
Slowly, the panic eased. You felt clarity trickle back in, inch by inch.
This wasn’t the first time Mike had helped you like this. He was your stabilizer. When situations became overwhelming and your thoughts spun out of control, he anchored you. He helped you sort through your panic, reminded you how to breathe, how to come back to yourself.
Even during the smaller, everyday things—ordering food, asking someone to pass the salt at dinner, he stepped in when it all got too hard to handle alone. He normally helped you get comfortable to do things for yourself, but when it all became too much he’d speak for you, without judgement. Sometimes he exaggerated a little for humor, but never in a way that made you feel small. You thought, he spoke.
In a way, he adored it. Not your anxiety—never the pain behind it—but the intimacy of being the one you let your guard down with. He loved being the person who knew how your voice cracked when you laughed too hard, the exact way your brows furrowed when you were thinking, the little things no one else saw. You were private and selective. And he got to be your exception.
He knew what it meant to be dismissed, to be misunderstood. You were both shaped by pain, just in different ways. He, the loud and theatrical firecracker. You, the quiet storm of tense nerves and unspoken, racing thoughts.
After the match, you sat on your bed, head in your hands. Shaking. Crying softly.
Mike followed quietly, slipping his arms around you and pulling you gently to his chest.
“Hey, baby. It’s okay.”
You sobbed into his suit, unable to speak. Agitated and raw, the memory of your teammate’s comment burned in your mind. You were embarrassed—frustrated with yourself for not being able to speak, for not defending yourself when you had so much you wanted to say.
"You did great,” Mike murmured. “You finished decoding. You were just a bit overwhelmed.”
He pressed a tissue to your cheeks, brushing away your tears with his thumb.
“I know how hard it is for you—and those bastards don’t make it any easier,” he added, the last part almost a whisper.
“But hey, who cares what they think? You did it. You’re learning to manage your fear, and I’m so damn proud of you.”
His words cracked through the haze. You looked up at him, and he smiled—warm, real—and then nudged his nose against yours before cradling you in his lap.
“It’s like… they think I’m stupid,” you said quietly. “Whenever someone talks to me unexpectedly, I just freeze and…”
“Hey,” he interrupted, gently but firmly. “Don’t you ever talk about yourself like that. The stupid ones are the ones who can’t even show an ounce of compassion. They don’t deserve to see you. You’re like a rare gem, baby—the most precious kind. And you’re not for everyone.”
He cupped your cheek.
“I’d have waited years just to discover how fantastic you are. And I’d do it all again.”
His presence was always calming — a steady kind of warmth that made you feel safe. The next time you saw that teammate, you decided to do something different: confront them. You told them — as calmly as possible, trying to hold yourself as confident as you could— how rude they'd been. Of course, they brushed you off with a scoff and more complaints.
But this time, something in you snapped.
You told them to fuck off. Bluntly.
No filter, no flinching.
The moment it left your mouth, adrenaline surged through you like you'd just outrun a serial killer. You didn’t stick around to see their reaction — you bolted straight to Mike’s room, heart pounding, cheeks flushed with shock and secondhand embarrassment.
You had practiced that exact moment in your head for a week.
And just like you'd hoped, Mike pulled you into a hug, his voice half-laughing, half-amused as he kissed your temple. You already knew he'd spend the next few hours showering you in praise, reminding you over and over how much he loved you — and how insanely proud he was.
How would an angel/divine reader be within the manor?
Finally over with exams so hopefully i can get back on track!^-^ I feel rusty for some reason but i hope someone likes this little something :)
Taken from this ask.
Tw: religious themes, non canon elements.
How long had it been since you gave up your humanity? That, you could no longer remember– just as all memories and details of your past life had begun to fade, consumed like old photographs until there was nothing left but faint outlines and torn margins. Don’t get me wrong- it wasn’t as though you felt sadness, nor even nostalgia. You didn’t feel much of anything at all. You had given up your humanity willingly, sacrificing it for something greater.
During your mortal life, you had wished for nothing more than to be useful– to help others in every way you could. You had been the selfless type, aching at the pain of others, hurting at the steady decay of humanity as it worsened with each passing day. How often had you sworn, in quiet frustration ‘If only I had the power, I would– could make this world a better place’.
You prayed often– knees scraping against the floor of your room until they bled, hands clasped tightly as you whispered hopeful pleas into the silence. You knew there had to be something- someone- listening. And even as time passed, the hope harboring in your heart never faltered.
People laughed behind your back. Perhaps at your naivety. Perhaps at what they deemed ridiculous devotion.
Yet all of it was worth it the night you finally saw it.
Flames erupted in your room as the six-winged creature stood before you, countless eyes shifting in your direction.
Beautiful women and men, fair-skinned and golden-haired– that was how you had always ingenuously imagined angels to be. So it was only natural that the true apparition’s presence left you dazed. The light radiating from the six-winged divine being was far too intense for your mortal eyes; You were forced to look away, shielding your face as the angel spoke.
Its voice was prophetic, firm, resonating through your very being as it revealed how long you had been watched. How each word, action, and thought had strengthened its conviction that you were one of the few mortals worthy of such a rare opportunity.
“Your ambition burns stronger than the boundaries of the mortality you’ve been given. Thus, we offer you the possibility to ascend– at the cost of relinquishing that very mortality”.
It was true– you hesitated, if only for a moment. You thought of the simplest things you would miss: hot, steaming coffee, the scent of spring, the quiet peace of a weekend after a difficult week.
Yet, how could you be so foolish to refuse such a blessing?
Your feet dragged you closer to the angel, tears welling in your eyes as you forced yourself to stare into its blinding holy light.
“I give myself up for this greater cause. It is all I have ever wished for.”
That night feels impossibly distant now.
You began serving the higher power loyally, ascending through the celestial hierarchy as you watched over humanity. You valued free will- guarded it fiercely, preferring to let mortals walk their natural paths. Yet when someone lost their way, when darkness consumed their heart, that was when you intervened.
You rarely manifested in a holy form like the one you had witnessed that night. More often, you walked among humans as one of them– perhaps slightly too polished, too formal, but unsuspecting all the same.
You were finally fulfilling your purpose. Being given messages and tasks and asked to execute them, a vessel of the power you’d given up your life for.
Yet somewhere within you lingered something… unsettled. Upset, perhaps– as much as you were still capable of such a thing. There was so much suffering. So much corruption. So much darkness in the very creatures you once belonged to.
Among all places, the Manor was where you felt it most.
It was a nest of pain, anger, and grief. Not every resident fit that description, of course, but most inevitably did.
You arrived quietly- unnoticed, or perhaps simply unremarked upon. New arrivals were common; Departures even more so. You appeared peculiar: polished shoes, pristine attire, a full and reassuring smile on your lips. You were not detached like the Hunters, yet neither were you consumed by the constant spiral of fear that plagued the Survivors.
You were something else entirely, that everyone could understand rather quickly.
Slowly, you approached each resident according to their needs.
Some were engulfed in personal grief- mourning loved ones like Vera or Emma. Others mourned lives that could have been, lives twisted by fate, like Michiko or Norton. What could you offer them? Their suffering ran too deep for hollow sop. They were fractured souls, far beyond empty reassurances.
So you offered them what you once longed for yourself: salvation.
If they no longer valued their lives, why not devote them to something higher?
With some, like Norton, it was difficult. He scoffed, dismissive, preferring to avoid whatever nonsense you spoke. Who would believe in promises of power and safety without anything in return?
Others, particularly Hunters or the deeply spiritual like Andrew, would kneel before you, pleading for redemption.
“I am nothing but a messenger of this heart. Please… grant me your grace.”
Eli and Fiona, already communing with higher powers, would watch you in awe- fascinated, reverent. They prayed as though rituals alone might anchor you to them. They, too, had been waiting for a sign.
Perhaps a way to survive the hell they'd been dragged into.
Even the most pragmatic found themselves intrigued. Aesop, for example. Faith was not so distant from death- both offered peace, quiet, rest. Faith was intertwined with the afterlife, something he had always respected. Though he would never surrender himself entirely, he would observe you with thoughtful curiosity. You appreciated him, the value he gave to people as they met with their last travel– even those who had nothing left waiting on this mortal world.
Hunters like Joker might surrender willingly, believing they had nothing left to lose- clinging to the fragile hope of one final chance for something better.
Maybe, for once, to not be doomed from the start.
Others carried sins heavy enough to bend their backs: Naib, Martha, Jack. Redemption was available to them— if they truly desired it. Not as a last, desperate attempt for salvation– they had to be sincere, repent.
Not all were born corrupted. Most had been shaped by circumstances. When one steals, lies, harms, or even kills, what can be offered but the possibility of cleansing? A second chance for them, too.
Foolish and questionable for some, yet before you all were equal.
And so you extended your hand.
Among all, Joseph was surely a peculiar case.
Though not a man of faith, he would be fascinated by you. The first time he captured your image, he was stunned– your frame barely visible in the photograph. Again and again he tried. When you finally allowed it, your radiance overwhelmed the image, light bleeding through the edges of the frame.
It was as though your essence could be engraved in the small photo- something eerily akin to himself.
Curiosity overcame distrust.
“Up there… if anything exists,” he would ask quietly “is my brother alright?”
Yet not all would accept you– at least not easily. Patricia, guarded by her own beliefs. Or Orpheus- rather, Nightmare- so severed from his humanity that redemption no longer held meaning. He had embraced that thing, whatever it was, that he had become.
Jack, who had just never cared enough for the consequences of his action during life; What made you think he would care now? He liked the manor, how it would allow to hurt others without the hassle of civil laws.
And above all loomed Yidhra.
Watching. Waiting. Hissing within the shadows of the Manor.
She fed upon those desperate souls, and she would not relinquish them willingly– not even as your presence weakened hers by its very nature.
Not everyone wished to be saved.
Not everyone could be.
That was something you had learned long ago.
Yet nothing would ever stop you from trying, devoting to your purpose.
Is it possible to request another addition to characters consoling you after witnessing one's sh scars? Specifically IDV Luchino, and maybe Ithaqua if I had to push. I've been struggling with sh for years and fics/scenarios like these are hard to come by, but give me great ease. Please only write it if you have the time and are willing, and I hope you're doing well with your health and school.
On a side note, I'm happy you write for ticci toby. It's nice to see people still enjoy that character. Much love.
Luchino and Ithaqua finding out about your scars
tw: mentions of sh, just bad mental health in general.
I’m so sorry to hear about that, anon. I really hope you can find peace soon and feel better ❤️ you’ve got this! I hope you like this :)
Luchino
You could always feel it coming.
That creeping numbness in a room full of people, feeling detached and absent. Your mind starting to roam, your hands itching. The sting of tears welling in your eyes as everything slowed, blurred, dulled.
You’d tried to fight it for so long, tried to get better. Of course you couldn’t. You didn’t belong. You were nothing without your suffering. It was like a vest, a heavy coat wrapped tight around you.
It had been growing heavier for a long time, long before you even noticed. You dissociated more and more until you were in the darkness of your room, the silence of night pressing in as you released those desperate feelings in unhealthy ways, careful not to make a sound that might alert the others in the manor.
You muffled your tears, hiccuping in small jumps as you looked down at what you’d done. Frustrated. Sad. Angry. Disappointed. You couldn’t even tell anymore.
Why did it have to be like this for you? You must’ve been terrible in a past life to deserve a burden this heavy.
A sudden creak of the door. A figure peeking in.
“Hey, it’s late, you should be sl—…”
Luchino’s words cut short as he saw you.
“Oh.”
A wave of embarrassment hit you under the weight of his careful, observing eyes.
“I’m sorry. I know I said I wouldn’t do this but…”
He closed the door behind him quietly, lifting his gaze to meet yours.
You avoided his eyes; They burned too much.
“I understand. No need to explain.”
He stepped closer, reaching out a hand but freezing for a second, as if waiting for consent. You nodded. He took your hand gently, his fingers wrapping around your arm.
You sat on your bed, gaze hollow, as he sat next to you. He examined the wounds with quiet precision before looking back up, pressing his calloused palm softly to your cheek.
“It’s okay. I’m going to help you. Will you let me?”
You nodded, still and silent, as he began tending to your wounds.
“Next time you feel these… emotions flooding in, remember to reach for me, okay?”
“It’s not that simple, Luchino.”
“It’s not” he repeated.
“It’s not something you can manage. Not something you can fix. It’s on me. My brain, my heart- they’re dirty, polluted. I can feel them rotting by the minute. And as much as I try, I’m totally helpless about it.”
“…”
He stayed quiet as he finished applying gauze to your scarred skin.
“I see.”
That was all he said after a long silence.
“You’re right. It’s not easy, not something fixable in a minute. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be here to support you, does it?”
“…”
He looked straight into your eyes, his thumbs tracing the outline of your lips.
“We’re going to find the best support we can for you. Therapy, whatever you need. Just let me be here to watch and care for you, okay?”
Your eyes watered again. You nodded.
“We’ll do this together, every step of the way. Doesn’t matter how long it takes or how many steps back you take, mh? That’s normal”.
“Mh.”
He kissed your forehead, gently pulling you down beside him. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close.
No matter how painful, he would be here with you. You were not alone.
Ithaqua
It was the dead of night when Ithaqua found you.
The manor laid under an eerie, heavy silence while everyone else slept more or less peacefully. Ithaqua had woken up, his sleep schedule ruined after falling into a deep slumber that afternoon following a particularly long, tedious match.
He knew your own sleep was just as messed up, so he’d gone to your room to spend some time together. He wasn’t one to trust easily—not at all, but with you it was different. Easier. He’d grown used to your words, your touch, your whole presence. He sought that warmth every chance he could.
But that night your room was empty.
Your usual spot on the couch in the living room: just as vacant. The kitchen. Even the greenhouse; Empty. It was as if you’d vanished to a place only you knew.
His heart began to pound.
He was used to grief, had been since he was a child. But some things you never truly get used to. Deep down, he was constantly afraid of losing everyone he loved. And right now, that meant you.
He was roaming frantically through the mansion’s halls when he heard muffled sounds coming from one of the bathrooms: soft, suppressed whines, like someone trying desperately to stifle their lament.
He opened the door slowly and saw you.
Curled up against the toilet, holding yourself like a scared child. Tears streaming down your flushed cheeks, veins tense on your forehead.
“Are you okay?”
His sudden presence startled you; you obviously hadn’t expected him so your body tensed instantly. You turned your head, wiping some of the tears away.
“I’m fine. Sorry, just feeling a little sick.”
He watched you, then knelt beside you. A hand on your head, then pulled you gently closer.
He knew what was really happening, saw it in the way you held your arms protectively, how your legs trembled as if stinging a little too much. How the fabric of your pajama had some stains in little spots. He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.
“Let’s go to bed, okay?”
He murmured, not really asking as he began lifting you up.
He scooped you into his arms, holding you so close to his heart you could not only feel its beat, but almost mold into its very rhythm.
He carried you upstairs to your room.
Pressed into the silky red bed and crawled next to you. Your face rested close to the soft, cotton-like strands of his pale hair.
“Come to me when you feel like this again.”
It came out almost as a plea, his voice low and miserable, borderline desperate, making your throat tighten and your words catch.
You simply nodded.
You didn’t want to make empty promises, those you weren’t sure you could keep. You tried- really tried, but it felt like a force bigger than you dragged you back every time. The world threw bricks from every direction until you snapped, until you did stupid, impulsive things. Overreacting. But you couldn’t help it. It was your way of asking for help without saying it out loud.
“I know you won’t, not always. But I beg you.”
You tried to look into his eyes.
“It’s not easy.”
“I know. But scar me. If you need to destroy something, do it to me, pretend it’s you.”
“…”
“…”
“That’s insane.”
“I prefer that to the thought of you hurting yourself.”
“…”
You scooted closer.
It was true. Difficult, absurd, senseless. But you would try. That’s all you could promise. Maybe it won’t work, but you will be able to say say you tried.
“When I look at you,
Oh, but I don’t know what’s real.”
TW: toxic behavior and relationship, delirant behavior, jealousy, unreliable narrator's perspective, gory descriptions of violence and murder, ableism, brief mentions of starvation, implied self-harm, implied masochism (consensual, not explicit), Se*gi, non-canon hullabaloo story, overall a dark story ok I’m sorry I’ll give him fluff someday.
I don't condone ANYTHING you find in here, nor should this be romanticized in ANY way. Joker's such an interesting character, and I wanted to try and develop this idea I've had for a while now. This is kind of my take (partially) on him, though he's far more complex. It's kind of different from what I've written until now, and I'm not sure how many people will read this, but I hope someone likes it! :) Happy (late) Valentine's day! <3
He’d been so good. Obedient, like a docile dog.
A fucking doormat. Crawling to you at your request, wrapped around your finger.
No matter what you did or what you said, you were perfect to him. You could’ve insulted him, spat on his disgusting body, right on the bones peeking under his paper-thin, pale skin. You could've stabbed him, too, if you liked. He wouldn't have minded; Actually, he’d have thanked you and asked for more.
There were many things he liked about you, yet the one he surely adored the most was the way you’d come to him whenever your anger boiled over the edge, all mean, and you’d take it all out on him.
Was he the first person you thought about? Wow!
At first it was accidental, but you’d noticed how the fucker got all turned on, so it became an agreement, a habit between you two.
How sweet it was whenever you pressed your hands hard around his neck, enough to make him gasp for air, for his vision to start growing hazy.
Body covered in bruises and marks.
Moments like that made it obvious you were the one perfect for him.
‘Look at that. How could you even call yourself a man? So pathetic ”.
You didn’t mean it, you only said that for the sake of the game, yet it made him shake nevertheless.
Yes, he was indeed! Pathetic. While you were perfect. Probably too precious and fantastic for a good-for-nothing waste like himself.
How had he even gotten so lucky? Lucky to find someone fitting next to him like a puzzle piece, and not just that! You’d reciprocated him, agreed to touch him, kiss him, and bite the healthy part of his lip to suck on the blood, right as some of the crimson liquid spilled down his chin. You took a part of him into yourself! You really had.
He could almost imagine that, the way his blood slowly fell down your throat, deeper in your body, until it mixed with your own liquids.
Blood had never seemed sweeter. More, cut him more, open him wide, and eat him if you wanted! All of it, if that meant becoming one with you. You could borrow his rib cage and use it as a carcass to shield yourself and protect your beautiful self.
He was used to being stepped on, mistreated, and hurt in all ways imaginable. Yet you’d made what once stung, dug like a dagger in his chest, become what he sought the most.
Just like a vaccine or an antidote for all his sicknesses.
To be loved is to be hurt.
Back at the circus, all he was valued for was his performances. Make a fool of yourself, cry, idiot.
They didn’t get it.
Nobody ever did.
Being born a freak, the universe must’ve cursed him! His body was abnormal, as if pieces had been assembled incorrectly. He wasn’t particularly smart, nor fun. He could not look in the mirror, too disgusted, wanting to rip his face off any time he was unfortunate enough to take a glance, even worse after what Sergi had done.
Ah, the incident. Was that his divine punishment for a form of envy he had no right to feel? In the end, he was nothing but a lowlife, the least in the chain in the circus. The very reason he even had the job was that he was enough of a freak to make people laugh at his pitiful situation, his parents selling him for nothing more than a few dimes— probably all he was worth.
Sergi. He’d always envied the smiling clown— joyful, good presence, charismatic, and loved by others— all he wasn’t.
He’d tried to copy his ways, craft a mask, wide and smiling to hide his poor excuse of a face, the everlasting frown and tenseness of his brows, yet all others saw was a clumsy fraud, a failed attempt to become something he ultimately was not.
A freak on a stage, falling after being pushed, prosthetic leg coming off—it was old and rusty; Too bad he could not change it.
But that was not the point.
He heard it, laughter and whispers of pity, and saw those rich spectators and the other circus members looking at him with hatred and disgust.
He had never done anything, yet he’d always been despised for the simple fault of being born. Existing.
Breathing too much of the same oxygen as others. He’d learned to avoid taking too much space, learned to make himself smaller, smaller, and smaller.
“He’s lucky enough he looks like some sort of natural experiment, a curiosity…at least he’s good for money," he’d heard Bernard say one evening after a show, counting some bills. "The thing about these freaks…they make normal people feel lucky. Such a great feeling of gratitude that those idiots are willing to pay a fortune. ”.
People never saw him as anything more than a handicapped, useless freak.
Freak among freaks! The biggest freak of them all!
Aha aha. How ironic, one would think.
But Sergi didn’t find him funny. Even less pitied him.
At least, between condescending words and counterfeited smiles, all the others in the circus laughed— at him, not with him, yet at least that made him feel seen. Useful in a sick, dumb way.
Yes, continue to make a fool of yourself, demented clown. That’s what you’re good for. A good boy. All you can do to make people not be completely repulsed by your mere presence.
Not Sergi. He really didn't care.
Sergi was just pissed. Joker's poor attempts at copying him were seen as nothing but an insult, mere mockery.
And rightfully so, the happy clown had well thought to prevent the weeping one from ever attempting his jest ever again.
Getting into his rundown tent was not hard, less so swapping Weepy’s usual pure white greasepaint with acid, kindly borrowed from one of the acrobats.
Oh, how harmonious were the sad clown’s screams that night. How exciting had it been, having to see his face, half scarred from the chemical, as he still moved, wept, and stumbled like a fucking idiot on the stage; Of course, the performance still had to go on.
Joker had never felt lonelier. More than that, he was truly lost. He was hopeless now. Over.
He felt like he had nothing left, nothing more for him to cling to.
It was over, stupid fool.
Ever since the incident, looking at himself became even harder.
A peek was enough to make him punch the mirror, screaming until his vocal cords rubbed so hard they bled.
“Get a grip! Useless piece of shit!" he’d scream at his reflection between shattered shards, eyes wide and bloodshot, face so close he could feel his nose touching the cold surface, the small glass fragments sticking into his skin.
He cried— cried a lot, probably more than he ever had, huddled on his dirty bed, a mattress eaten at the sides by rats.
But he was also angry with himself, punished for being so weak and useless, punching himself until big, purple and blue bruises formed on his arms and thighs, starving to the point he looked more like a skeleton than a living, breathing human being.
Deep down, though, he harbored hatred for all the others as well, Sergi, Bernard, and every single other performer. The smiling clown had not been punished for his actions, nor was he fazed by his own cruelty. He’d acted rightfully in his eyes, so why would he have to feel remorse?
Joker also knew, was sure of it, that everyone else in the circus just hated him as much as Sergi did and found him annoying like a fucking pest. The other performers were not only bystanders but also quite as well his accomplices! Laughing and cheering at Sergi’s jokes and acts at the afterparties they usually had after shows, the latter deep in the drunken haze of his histrionicism.
But Joker could see past that, past his mask, clinging to his face way past the stage.
He was a monster, a violent dog who thought of himself as untouchable and so justified in doing whatever he wanted.
What disturbed him more, however, was that he actually truly envied Sergi.
When you're surrounded by people telling you how useless and disgusting you are, you start to believe that, act on it, and see yourself the same and nothing more than that. You learn to cope and make sense of that, of what you have. It’s like a brain-eating worm, slowly munching all your tissues until there’s nothing but its mark imprinted.
But for people like Sergi, it was different. People like him were used to being valued since their childhood, made to feel seen and appreciated. They never had to struggle being a nobody, hated on, and not understanding what was so fundamentally wrong that it just made people mean.
People like him were good-looking, naturally pleasant, and charming; Had the perfect body, were complete. He never had to bend to others, make compromises, or beg for affection.
All Joker had not.
He was so miserable, it was only natural that you struck him ever since you arrived.
A freshly recruited performer.
Oh, how interesting.
How unaware of all the rottenness hiding in those striped red and white tents— though it didn’t take long for you to learn. Sure enough, the stress that quickly followed the realization took a toll on you, making you seek out comfort.
And what could be better comfort than the weeping clown you’d spotted multiple times, standing outside his tent or peeking behind a curtain at afterparties he was not invited to?
All the others already knew each other, which felt quite overwhelming, so you opted for the lonely man. It felt natural, easier.
Getting close to him felt like approaching a beaten dog, the ones you see in shelters, abandoned and abused, and waiting for someone to rescue them. But it was not hard; Just show him a little bit of compassion and genuine understanding, and he’s whipped! Nobody had ever taken the time to understand him, so it felt comfortably new.
The bare minimum felt like everything and more.
Willing to look out for him, seeking his presence and touch, kissing him despite his disgusting appearance.
He was in heaven, pure bliss.
He loved to let you destroy him at your wish, your hand marks imprinted in his skin erasing all the prior violence he’d lived.
Yes! You were the cure for him.
With you, nothing else mattered, and it never seemed to have mattered before, anyway.
He’d do anything, anything, to keep you close.
Whatever you asked, he was there. Even if it meant making a fool of himself.
Then why— why had that happened? At first, it was small changes, but why were you changing at all?
Disheveled clothes— far too many, scattered in your tent— and weird perfumes he’d never smelled on you before; Then you began to finish rehearsing later than before, five, fifteen, thirty minutes or so.
It alarmed him, his mind wandering to unwanted places. It couldn't be. It could not be.
‘What a fool, betrayed behind his back.'
He heard some fellow performers whisper as he passed down a hall. He turned and did not see anyone. Cowards! Running after saying such a thing…
It happened again that he’d stumbled upon people talking ill. Even at night! People really had nothing better to do than be envious that he’d gotten so lucky! Torment him for that.
Yet he could not deny, those ideas stuck with him. He’d become paranoid and suspicious, pestering you with questions whenever he could. Redundant.
Asking for reassurance that you still loved him.
It could not go on like that.
Something broke one night, After an argument, when he’d finally let those thoughts out, accusing you of cheating.
“That’s so unfair! Why are you doing this? Is this why you’ve been distant and different? Am I not enough for you? Was I ever?" you just sighed as he kept going. “It’s Sergi, isn’t it? Must be! --”
You’d snapped as well, screaming and pushing him away from you.
You hadn't talked since that night.
It could definitely not go on like that anymore. He’d destroyed everything, yet he could not give up.
You couldn't just slip away from his fingers.
You were his everything.
And so, like a damn idiot as usual, he tried to make it better.
On February 14th, he walked to the nearest town, grabbing some flowers. He didn’t have much, but spent all the last of his money to get a bunch of red roses. He could feel people staring, whispering like he was used to, as he walked the cobbled streets back to where the circus was staying. His hands were shaky with the flowers as he made his way to the main stage.
He moved the curtain, and walking past, he didn’t fail to notice it with his watchful eyes. You, reading down some piece of paper with Sergi, giggling like fucking idiots. So close, so much complicity. Something in his mind snapped, broke down completely.
It felt like finally coming across the undeniable proof of what he’d been dreading for so long.
“I’m going to kill you, bastard!” He didn’t even remember what happened clearly.
All memories after that were fuzzy and incoherent, as if some pieces were missing.
He just remembered punching Sergi to the ground, hitting him a few more times before the smiling clown, stronger and way bulkier than him, punched back.
“Be grateful I'm kind enough to not destroy even more of that fucking ugly face of yours, fucking monster!”
More blank gaps.
You’d screamed something as he ran away.
Back in his tent, hands pulling the red strands of his hair hysterically.
He turned to the mirror.
With you, some unusual, weird thoughts had crossed his mind; Maybe he wasn’t completely disgusting, right? Couldn’t be, if you still wanted to touch him after everything.
Yet as he stood and looked again, all he saw was a deformed mass of flesh, hollow cavities for eyes and mouth, a misshapen nose. Face long and weird, like it was melting away completely, a pulp ready to fall to the ground.
He screamed and punched the glass so hard it finally shattered, grabbing one long chunk. He could feel a tear falling down his cheek, dropping from his wide, disgusted eyes.
You’d played with him like everyone else, and now he’d lost himself! All your fault!
You couldn't lie to him about something and then expect to just take it back. Give him normalcy and a stable ground, and then let him fall.
He couldn't see himself.
Who even was that staring back at him?
He felt blood dripping down his desk as the glass pressed into the skin of his face. He stabbed again and again. Cheeks, mostly, let the fragment sink deep through his tissues.
He could not even feel pain anymore, or so he thought, before dragging the glass across his face.
It was then that a scream of agony rose from his mouth. The blade moved again and again and again, as if led by an invisible, outer force, as his other hand raked nails on the red, bloody surface.
Would this finally work to give him back a sense of who he was?
He was in a haze as if high. All that pain truly was like a rush, pure adrenaline pumping in his veins.
Was it sick? Was it twisted? Did it matter anymore, anyway?
He didn’t even remember hearing you enter; He simply found you standing behind him in the mirror.
“---- it was not what you thought, for fuck’s sake! Stop overreacting as—" The words died as you lowered your eyes to his face, disfigured and skinned.
“What the fuck did you do?” You covered your mouth, stepping back.
He turned so you were forced to look at him, and he saw it, those eyes. Full of fear, confusion, and disgust.
“It’s your fault! All I've done and you…sneak around my back…" He crept dangerously close.
He shook your shoulders so hard some blood flew on your shirt.
“Why did you have to do this? I did everything I could! What does he always have that I don't?”
“Get the fuck away from me!”
“NO! You need to see what you’ve done! You don’t understand… don’t know what it’s like…”
“We were looking at a script for a new performance Bernard had given us! We were laughing because it was funny! You’re just fucking crazy."
“It’s your fault!” his voice rose over yours, furious as if trying to redefine a new concept you’d seemingly not quite grasped.
He then laughed, the sound slowly twisting into a choked-up, gagging cry. You didn’t even know how to describe it; It was almost inhuman. Screams rose from the man’s weeps before spit and reflux began dripping past his lips, mixing with blood in a grotesque, brownish mess of fluids on the floor as he collapsed to the floor.
That was the moment you fled out of his tent, trying to seek help.
Bernard, anyone you could find.
“Joker’s hurt…he's badly injured; We need to call doctors!...”
However, to your surprise, when you brought the others to his tent where he’d collapsed just a few minutes prior, you could find nothing but some glistening stains, the only sign he’d ever even been there.
“He— he was here! I swear, his face was all torn and bloody and—"
"Look, whatever you have going on with the freak…that’s your business, but if you two think of wasting my time on whatever perverted practices you are into, I'm not—"
“I don’t think they’re lying. I’ve seen Sergi pissed, saying he’d been attacked by Joker, and passing by here earlier, I heard some weird sounds," another performer interfered “I didn’t intrude because I thought he was just doing some weird shit and…”
“Okay. Well, then he must be around.”
Everyone got to search, yet it was as if the sad clown had dissolved completely.
Suddenly, a woman's scream made you all run to the central stage.
“Oh God! Sergi!”
Someone cried, some other people turned to vomit, and others just stared in pure disbelief. You peeked through Bernard’s shoulder, and you could barely register what you saw as a scream erupted from deep down your throat.
Sergi’s head had been severed, face ripped out; All that was left of the smiling clown was his orange curls and a mass of nerves and capillaries, darkening from oxidation.
“That sick fucker…we need to call the police," Bernard hissed, stepping back.
Panic erupted among you all as people scrambled in all directions. You made your way out, looking around as if waiting for a sign on what to do. Your head was spinning, everything moving in slow motion as you walked down a corridor to a blind spot.
This could not be happening. This must've been a bad nightmare.
You pressed your hands on a nearby wall for support, feeling on the verge of vomiting— all accentuated by a sudden smell of something acidic, mixed with rotten eggs.
Oh no.
You knew it was a bad idea, yet you couldn't help as you dragged yourself towards the source of the smell, a small corner ahead of you; That's when you finally spotted him.
Joker, standing next to some gas tanks Bernard had refilled, a small circular saw discarded at his feet.
He slowly turned, expression unreadable and terrifying, big dried blood stains making him ultimately unrecognizable.
You’d always thought he looked pretty.
All his 'imperfections,' or what he called so, had never mattered to you. He was fundamentally kind and gentle. He usually apologized repeatedly for anything he did, or whenever you kissed, whenever you two intertwined your bodies deep into the nights you spent together. Apologizing like he was embarrassed, as if he thought of himself as a chore for you.
He was hurt, wounded by all he’d ever had to go through.
But at that moment? You had no idea who was standing in front of you. Eyes flat and hollow, face the product of the hatred he’d grown for so long inside his heart.
Whoever that was, you wanted nothing to do with him.
“This is what I've been pushed to do. I can’t live like this anymore…treated worse than a fucking animal," his voice was flat. “I’m just so tired."
His gaze finally lifted from the undefined point he was fixated on, piercing straight into your orbs.
“I’m not going to let you live in peace after what you’ve done to me. You’re coming too."
You lowered your eyes to his hands, widening as you took in the small lit match.
“Happy Valentine’s ”.
-----
By the way, i had originally thought of doing this with Joker and Margie (not shipping/romanticizing!!!!) as a sort of 'rewrite', but then discarded the idea.
Legoshi was Louis’ sexual awakening and we were robbed of their romance!! They had so much potential and we got Haru and Legoshi instead… meanwhile Louis is doomed in his straight herbivore relationship.
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