the baby episodes in TSAMS are getting really fucking weird.
why??? it's not even cute, the characters clearly hate it, and i honestly think this is only appealing to a certain group of people that REALLY shouldn't be in the fandom. i'm genuinely starting to think it's a fetish of some sort and it's really messing with me.
like, I know Meg is agere, and that's fine, great for her. i REALLY don't have any qualms with that, but putting it in the shows and making them seem to HATE it..? like what's the point..? cuteness? no one really finds it cute. the consensus i'm seeing is that everyone thinks it's really fucking weird.
idk. it just seems wrong. if you're gonna wanna do this, just make an agere character. i mean, Cosmos would have been great w that especially w how he used to act.
The circus had always smelled like sugar, sweat, and sawdust.
Every evening, under the striped canopy, laughter echoed like music. Lights shimmered, drums rolled, and the audience leaned forward in their seats, waiting for wonder. And among all the performers, there were two who worked in perfect harmony—We weren’t the stars of the show, not exactly. We were riggers, stagehands, sometimes clowns when needed—men who held the magic together from behind the curtains. We joked while hauling ropes, shared cheap meals, and laughed at things no one else found funny.
For a long time, everything was fine. Until it wasn’t.
It began quietly. He stopped laughing at jokes. Then stopped talking altogether. His movements grew sharper, impatient. Where there had once been rhythm, there was now tension—like a rope pulled too tight, ready to snap.
I would mutter sometimes, “you ever feel like something’s… wrong?”
My Sun would shrug it off. Everyone in the circus had their bad days, But his bad days didn’t end. They grew. His eyes, once warm and alive, became distant—then restless—then something else entirely. He began snapping at the others, but especially me. Small mistakes turned into accusations. Silence turned into hostility.
One night, after a performance, under the dim glow of a single backstage lamp, it broke.
He was already yelling the moment he stormed into the room. I don’t quite remember why he was yelling about.
The argument escalated too fast—words overlapping, voices rising, years of friendship collapsing into something unrecognizable. And then, suddenly—
Sun lunged.
I barely had time to react. The glint of metal flashed in his hand. Instinct took over—fear, raw and immediate. We struggled, stumbling into crates, knocking over props. The circus outside still roared with applause, unaware.
I begged him to stop.
But he didn’t stop.
So I did what I had to.
It was quick.
Too quick.
A single motion. A desperate push. The knife changed hands. And then—
Silence.
Sun fell.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
I stood there, trembling, staring at what I had done. The sounds of the circus seeped back in slowly—distant applause, muffled music—but they felt unreal, like echoes from another life.
My hands were shaking.
Red.
Not just red—carmine.
Deep, vivid, unbearable.
It stained my fingers, soaked into my sleeves, splattered across my face. Carmine—too bright, too alive, too present. It clung to me, refused to be ignored. It wasn’t just color—it was memory, it was guilt, it was the moment frozen in time.
I raised a trembling hand to his cheek.
The carmine smeared.
I stared at it, his breath uneven, eyes wide and hollow.
“I… I didn’t…”
The circus continued outside.
Lights. Laughter. Applause.
Inside, beneath the dim lamp, I stood alone—my face painted not by performance, but by something far more permanent.
