🐇 ꞌꞌꞌ 𝓜𝓲𝔂𝓪🍓 𓄹 . ִ ֗

✧ OPEN COMMISSIONS ✧ 🎨 Digital Artist ✍🏻 Writer | UnB — O.T 21y | She/Her | auDHD🦋🧩 | RP? ♡ Sometimes it happens. | ✦ Main focus: 🎪 THE FREAKY CIRCUS |🔞NSFW & 🩷SFW ⊹ MDNI 🔞 | 🗣️PT-BR/ENG

[miya-s2]

Estou.. estou criando minha Oc de The freaky Circus.

Acredite no processo, vai ficar bom

O nome dela é Bunnybell, ela é irmã mais nova do Pierrot. (Isso não é canônico, é apenas.. a história da minha oc, headcanon no universo original)

Em breve irei falar mais sobre ela ✨ mas ela é pura purpurina, amores e bagunça caótica. Se você piscar, ela literalmente cola um adesivo na sua testa. Ou então.. você vai receber um balão cheio de tinta (se tiver sorte) na cara!

O que acharam?

[miya-s2]

Hellooo, Dear one..~

I hope you had fun in the green tent... But now, You need to go to the cyan tent to evaluate the side effects of your little escapade.~ Patients who follow instructions always receive the best treatment... You were so quiet, so perfectly still under my care. What a fascinating specimen you are... I wonder how long that fragile composure of yours will last when the analysis begins. Desperate for a cure, desperate to be taken apart... to be thoroughly investigated~

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Doctor ~ HC

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

“You are a curious anomaly.”

That is the first thing he utters while you are under the scrutiny of those eyes—cold, analytical, devoid of any human warmth. To him, in that moment, you are nothing more than a lab specimen waiting to be cataloged. The weight of his gaze sends a chill down your spine; you feel diminished, completely disarmed in the face of such coldness.

Doctor moves with an impeccably upright posture. His large hands work in surgical silence; every gesture is calculated to the millimeter so as not to waste a single second of energy. When he leans toward you, the harsh laboratory light reflects off his lenses and pale pupils, registering the involuntary tremor of your skin and the frantic racing of your pulse as data in an ongoing experiment. You try to swallow, but your throat feels raw, constricted by the suffocating atmosphere of the cyan tent.

At first, his silence is absolute. There are no moans, sighs, or any trace of ordinary lust. He works with mechanical precision as he observes, touches, and dismantles you, maintaining the unshakeable calm of someone who views human flesh merely as a subject of study. It is a form of psychological torture: feeling his fingers map out your most sensitive zones without him showing a shred of emotion, leaving you gasping alone in the dark, yearning for any reaction from him. Yet, his hands betray his clinical detachment. They are hot. Terribly hot. And the way those hands pin you against the table—with a relentless firmness that thwarts any attempt to escape, yet without ever resorting to unnecessary brutality—reveals the beast he tries to cage behind that stony facade.

His body heat begins to seep into yours, and you realize, with a jolt of pure panic and arousal, that his control is hanging by a thread. When the Doctor finally allows himself to feel, that aristocratic veneer cracks. The first sound to escape him is a low, harsh growl that vibrates straight from his chest before he can stifle the instinct. He closes his eyes for a fleeting second, brow furrowed, processing the unexpected surge of pleasure in his system as if it were a critical error in his calculations. Seeing that untouchable man falter triggers a response in your own body; you arch involuntarily toward him.

“Fascinating...” he murmurs. His voice is a raspy whisper as his claws lightly rake your skin, testing your pliability and wringing a sharp, yearning moan from your lips. He reads your body’s physical responses as one would decipher an ancient, forbidden text. That is when his gaze shifts entirely. A vivid, pulsing red glow takes over his pupils—and the composed scientist crumbles into ash.

Your legs tremble as you stare into that red; the realization hits that there is no turning back.

“What an excellent test subject you are for me...”

His voice emerges hoarse, thick with the heavy Russian accent he makes no effort to hide for the first time. His clinical demeanor has vanished. There is no more study or detachment; you feel his hip pressing against yours with brute force—the raw, possessive, dangerous desire of a monster that has found its obsession.

He grabs you with a vigorous grip, the heat of his hard pecs pressing against your body, taking your breath away as he growls in your ear:

“I will take you apart.”

And when he finally breaks—when flesh yields to what his rational mind tried to deny—the sound that escapes him is deep and harsh, almost a sob of violent, stolen pleasure. Doctor buries his face in the crook of your neck, his ragged, searing breath burning against your skin. A long, vibrating groan escapes him—the sound of a predator surrendering to its own hunger—making you clutch his broad shoulders, completely yielding.

He slowly pulls his face away, his claws still digging into your hips and leaving marks that will last for days. Those red eyes stare at you in the dim light, etching every detail of your flushed, breathless face into his memory.

“Haah... I want to write my discoveries about you right on your skin.”

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Art credits: tfcning03 On Twitter.

Author's note: I had to change a lot of things from the initial short text until now... well. I hope you liked the change; it took a lot of work this time to make something that was really like Doctor. It started with small changes until it became this text. And I can guarantee you one thing... Doctor doesn't intend to finish you off anytime soon.

[miya-s2]

I'm back...~ I hope you enjoy another HC.

You asked for this so kindly, so sweetly... I will give you what you asked for. What good little things you are... so obedient, so well-behaved... I'd love to see what your faces would look like when you gave in to losing control, Desperate for someone to dominate you, to control you... to tame you~

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

Harlequin ~ HC

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

He laughs when you tremble. The laugh is low, husky, as if he’s savoring every second of your reaction.

“So sensitive... and I’ve barely started.”

The tentacles move slowly around your body, tracing paths you can’t predict. One wraps around your waist. Another curves around your thigh. A third slides across your skin, as if learning the map of your body. Meanwhile, his hands—warm, firm—hold your face, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“I want to see,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. “I want to see the exact moment you lose yourself in me.” The tentacles begin to move—synchronized, precise, relentless.

“That’s it... just like that...” he whispers, and the husky laugh that escapes makes you tremble even more. “Your body is so honest, Querido...~”

At first, the sound he makes is almost a theatrical moan—controlled, as if he were putting on a show for you. But as the tentacles move, as your eyes lose focus, the sound changes. A husky, surprisingly vulnerable moan escapes before he can mask it. He closes his eyes for a second, brow furrowed, as if processing his own pleasure.

“Ah... so that’s how you like it?” — his voice comes out deeper, as if he’s trying to regain control. He goes back to teasing you, but now the touch is faster, the laugh is lower, and you realize he isn't quite as in control as he’d like to be.

When he finally gives in, the moan is drawn-out, almost angry—as if he hates how much you’ve undone him. A husky, deep sound that rises from his chest and ends in a low laugh, as if he’s trying to hide his own vulnerability.

And then, before he can recover, one slips out: "Haah... Puta que pariu!..."

“You’re dangerous, Querida...~” he murmurs, and the laugh that follows is the first one that sounds genuine. “And I love it.”

His voice comes out drawled, with an accent he made no effort to hide—and for a moment, the persona vanishes. It’s just him. The man behind the mask. Breathless, undone, trying to catch his breath as he stares at you.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

The credits of art: Citrikscum On Twitter.

Author here: Holy shit, I don't know what happened to me while I was writing the beginning of the post. I think Harlequin possessed my body and typed it for me, haha

I'll post an update on the Doctor's and Pierrot's HC in sequence... separately, so they don't get mixed up. Love you guys~

[baidao]

[valehemorroide]

[valestarian]

A Surfeit of Choices (TFCAU) Part III

(Prone to changes) * * *

Stepping out into the night air, River made sure to lock the door securely behind him, testing it just to make sure. Finding it firmly locked, he tucked the keys into his pocket and pulled his hood down further over his face as he headed in the direction of home. As he walked, his thoughts drifted back to the two men he’d met – both connected to the Freak Circus.

Both his kind. Both dangerous.

River had rarely come across others like himself, especially in the last few years. So seeing two in one day was a little unnerving – even if he found one of them attractive. River ran his tongue over his sharp teeth as he walked, thinking about that Pierrot.

He was certainly something, River admitted to himself. He found himself wondering what the man looked like under that mask.

Finally unlocking the door to his apartment, River slipped into the small but tidy apartment he’d called home for almost 5 years now. It wasn’t much, but it was all he needed.

 Dumping his bag on the floor he made sure the door and curtains were all secure before he crossed to the bedroom. 

First he pulled out the black ticket, carefully setting it down on a side table. Only then did he strip off his work clothes and toss them to the floor of his room, uncaring. He stepped into the bathroom and switched on the shower. As he waited for it to heat up, he stood in front of the mirror and removed the black facemask that hid the lower half of his face.

At first glance, River’s face looked normal until the yawn that parted his lips revealed the sharp teeth beyond. He could make them look normal but it drained his energy – it was easier to cover up with a facemask and tell people he was a germaphobe.

Rubbing a hand over the horns that now erupted from just above and behind his ears, he yawned again.

“I got back earlier, but I still feel just as tired as on a normal day,” he grumbled to himself. “At least my shift starts later tomorrow. I’ll take a quick shower and crash in bed.”

While he waited for the shower to heat up, he stripped off the last of his clothing and leaned into the mirror, studying his reflection.

By human and monster standards, River was considered to be rather good looking and he’d used this to his advantage on multiple occasions to get what he wanted – that and his rather special ability.

Stepping into the heat of the shower, he scrubbed the smell of coffee from his body with rigor. He may enjoy the smell of coffee, but that didn’t mean he liked reeking of it. Getting out he carefully wrapped a towel around his head and returned to the bedroom with another towel wrapped around his waist.

Switching on the TV, he dried himself as he watched some mind-numbing game show, not really paying attention, his eyes drifting instead to the black ticket sitting innocently on the small table.

‘I was unsure about the circus,’ he thought to himself. ‘But it might be fun. They have this kind of gothic and eccentric style, and the ticket was a gift after all. I hope it’s okay I agreed to go.’

After getting dressed, River flopped onto the bed, staring at the television without real interest, figuring he'd watch it until he fell asleep. Given how tired he was, it didn’t take long, the effort required to keep up his normal appearance and work having drained him. The last thought on his mind as he fell asleep that night was his encounter with Pierrot.

* * *

He couldn’t get too close.

He needed to keep his distance, despite the fact River had fallen asleep. Even with the TV on he would surely sense Pierrot’s approach. River’s particular species had razor-sharp senses, and another of their kind approaching would wake him up. They were also very territorial over their homes and the area around them. Pierrot knew this, he’d met this kind before.

But none of the ones he’d met were like River Surfeit. Yes, that was the name he used to pass in the human world. The label as much a mask against the world as the ones Pierrot and his family wore upon their faces.

Watching River, seeing him –studying him– had been difficult without tipping him off. The other man’s nature was that of a natural hunter, one who could quickly become aware he was being stalked… like prey. Although that wasn’t Pierrot’s intention, it would be how River’s inner nature would see it – and he’d react in a way Pierrot could not allow. 

He was a little surprised that River had not detected him already, perhaps he was simply tired? Or maybe he knew Pierrot was there and didn’t mind?

Pierrot had observed every step, studied every routine and learned all River’s preferences. He knew the way River’s brow furrowed in confusion or deep thought. He knew how River avoided the touch of people around him and that he didn’t like being flirted with. Pierrot had also learned River hated being cold and loved baths.

And all of it was adorable.

Perhaps River would not like that label, he thought as he stared at the curtained balcony door, the light of the television not visible due to the thickness of the curtains. The sound of River’s deep breathing told Pierrot he was fast asleep, though he still didn’t risk getting closer.

Pierrot had met many people over his life – some good, some bad and some… evil. But never had any of them captured his attention like River had. The moment that River had stepped forward to yell at the aggressive human, Pierrot had felt something ignite within him and now he couldn’t go back, he wouldn’t let go. He had to have River.

By any means necessary.

[blakedougal]

A Sweet Poison

Harlequin lounged at the small corner table in the bustling café. His green-and-black jester hat sat slightly askew, the bells at the tips of its points jingling faintly whenever he tilted his head. A few stray curls of short black hair, one side shaped almost like a heart, framed the edges of the mask. The white mask clung to his face with its perpetual wide grin of sharp teeth, though his eyes narrowed in quiet scrutiny. His gloved hands, claws subtly visible through the fabric, cradled an iced coffee that he barely tasted. From this vantage point, half-hidden by a potted plant and the afternoon light filtering through the windows, he had a perfect view of the counter.

A perfect view of Monarca.

Just a human, he thought, the corner of his grin twitching with something between amusement and irritation. Why the hell is Pierrot so fixated on them? Pierrot had become utterly obsessed with them—Monarca this, Monarca that—ever since that first clumsy encounter. Even without his smitten murmurings, his obsession had been obvious from the start: moon-eyed and dramatic, the way only that fool could be. It had been almost comical at first—the fool trailing after this barista like a lost puppy.

But Harlequin couldn’t see why Pierrot was so enamored. Monarca moved behind the counter with grace and competence, apron tied neatly around their waist, handling the morning rush with a firm smile and a patience that bordered on saintly. Nothing particularly remarkable at first glance. They were ordinary. Soft. Breakable. A human among humans. They would wither away in a handful of decades while someone like Pierrot—or himself—moved on to the next town, the next performance, the next century. Even if Pierrot somehow won their affection, the ending was written.

A tragic end. That was the only way it could go. Even if Monarca somehow returned those fluttering feelings, what then? A brief spark of warmth followed by inevitable heartbreak? A relationship would only end in heartbreak, or worse. Harlequin’s forked tongue flicked briefly against the inside of his sharp teeth at the thought. He wasn’t here to play hero or savior or chastise the fool’s decisions. He was here because Pierrot’s obsession amused him, and stealing Monarca’s attention had been a delightful way to poke at his rival. At least, that had been the plan.

And yet…

His gaze lingered as Monarca smiled at a customer, that same gentle smile they’d given him. At the counter, Monarca was patiently explaining something to an older customer who was growing red in the face. Harlequin watched the exchange with predatory interest, the green pupils of his mask gleaming. “A cappuccino with no milk is still a cappuccino,” the customer insisted. “You’re wrong. I know what I ordered. Just make it right.”

Monarca’s shoulders tensed ever so slightly—Harlequin caught the micro-expression, the brief flash of frustration in their eyes—but their voice remained kind, civil, that professional warmth never cracking. “I understand, but without the milk it’s essentially an espresso. Would you like me to make you a dry cappuccino instead, or perhaps—”

The customer cut them off with another complaint. Most humans would snap by now. Raise their voice, roll their eyes, mutter something nasty under their breath. But Monarca simply smiled that same professional smile, explaining again with gentle persistence. No bite in their tone. No sharp retort. No venom. Just... civility. Harlequin’s fingers drummed faster against the wood. How tedious. How strangely compelling. 

Their kindness and patience reminded him of that night. He had shown up unannounced. He had expected suspicion after their encounter in the tent. He’d been teasing, flirtatious as always—maybe a little threatening, the way he liked to blur the lines between play and peril. He had expected irritation, perhaps fear, maybe even the thrill of a chase. Instead, they’d treated him with kindness. They had looked at him with genuine worry. Worry for him. And before he could spin another seductive line, they had wrapped their arms around him in a hug.

Harlequin had frozen completely when their arms wrapped around him. His eyes had widened in genuine surprise, the wide grin faltering for a split second into something almost vulnerable. Affection wasn’t something he dealt in often. Seduction? Yes. Handsy teasing, sharp little bites meant to mark and claim? Absolutely. But this… this worried embrace because they’d been *concerned* for him? This soft press of their body against his chest, the worry in their voice as they asked if he was alright, the simple feeling of affection without a hidden agenda... He remembered how his own arms had hovered awkwardly before he eventually managed to recover enough to ask if it was an invitation—one to continue what they had started in the tent. His claws had itched to pull them closer, to turn their kindness into something more familiar. “If you want me to touch you again so badly, we can—” Monarca had softly sighed, exasperated, and let him go. No fear or irritation. Just... understanding? Pity? He still wasn’t sure.

Why? Why waste kindness on something like him? Even after his flirtatious threats, his wandering hands, his deliberate provocations, his sadistic little games, they had treated him like something worth worrying over. The memory made his chest feel strangely tight sometimes, an unfamiliar flutter that had nothing to do with playful seduction and everything to do with the way they had worried for him. And Harlequin hated how it made him feel. He shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. His fingers tapped faster against the table. He didn’t like it. He liked the chase, the thrill of watching Pierrot squirm, the game of stealing Monarca’s attention just to see what would happen. He liked the heat, the desire, the way his tendrils and forked tongue would make them focus only on him. He liked the idea of taking them to dark rooftops or empty parks, away from prying eyes, where he could be as handsy and teasing as he pleased. Where no one else would witness the bite of his teeth or the mark of his claws. Where he could test how long that patience would last. But genuine affection? It complicated things. It irritated him in a way he couldn’t quite name. It made him want to push harder—to see when that patience would break, or if it ever would. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be curious. He was supposed to toy with them, enjoy the game, and move on.

Monarca was wiping down the counter now, the frustrated customer momentarily placated with a fresh drink. Harlequin’s eyes lingered on the line of their neck, the way their hands moved steadily as they prepared customers’ orders. He imagined those hands on him again, not in seduction, but in that unexpected gentleness. Wondering what it might feel like if those same arms hugged him without the excuse of worry, simply because they wanted to. It made his heart beat a little faster when he thought about it. What is it about you? Harlequin thought, eyes narrowing further until they were thin slits. Pierrot sees something worth breaking his own heart over. And I... He wasn’t sure if he’d enjoy watching them break. Whether he wanted them to curse him or embrace him again. Whether he’d prefer them crying out of hatred or pleasure. He wasn’t sure which outcome intrigued him more. He took a sip of his iced coffee, the sweetness dancing on his tongue. Their kindness lingered like sugar, cloying in the same way this wretched drink was. The kind of sweetness that could rot him if he let it linger for too long. He muttered under his breath, “Too sweet,” though his gaze never left the barista. The drink wasn’t the problem. They were. Too sweet. Too kind. Too human. It didn’t fit with the circus he thrived in. Yet here they were, patiently remaking a drink for a rude stranger while Harlequin sat in the corner like some lovesick fool spying from afar. Unlike Pierrot, he didn’t constantly hover at their workplace. That wasn’t his style. But when night fell, he found himself waiting in the shadows outside, ready to walk them home. He finished the coffee in one final gulp. Then, Harlequin adjusted his cape before standing up, letting the chair screech as he moved. Monarca glanced up at the sound, their eyes meeting his across the café for a brief moment before they smiled at him. He offered them a dramatic bow, sharp teeth flashing in that permanent grin. His behavior and costume drew a few curious glances from other patrons, but he paid them no mind. With a final glance at the cup, how they had written his name on it, Harlequin turned and slipped out of the café, the bells on his hat chiming. Outside, he paused on the sidewalk for a moment, glancing back through the café window. Monarca was already helping another customer, that same polite smile in place. Harlequin’s clawed fingers flexed at his sides. The afternoon sun felt too bright as he melted into the foot traffic. He wouldn’t go far. Not yet. There was still time before nightfall, after all. He’d be waiting outside their shift later. Wait in the shadows near their workplace when the shift ended. Walk them home if they’d allow it—maybe brush a clawed glove against their arm just to see them shiver. Perhaps even allow them to hold his hand as they walked. To claim that gentle warmth for himself, even knowing how fragile it all was.

Gatinhe. The word echoed in his mind with reluctant fondness. A playful, slightly sadistic smile curled his lips. Somehow, Pierrot’s tragic little obsession made slightly more sense. Perhaps Pierrot wasn’t entirely a fool. But if anyone was going to unravel Monarca, it would be on his terms. Where their sweetness could be tasted slowly... and perhaps corrupted, just a little. Even if he knew how the story would eventually end. After all, even tragedies could be entertaining.

[sanfangzhu]

💟The doctor's aftermath💟 💟The doctor's aftermath 2💟 💟Ticket Taker's continuation💟 💟Pierrot and Harlequin Continuation💟

[asukava]

🔞[Being Ticket Taker desk pet ] 🔞

Being his desk pet means:

You will be tied up and forced to pleasure him with your mouth as he is working on pretty important papers~

He will thrust into you, after not acting for quiet a while, to make sure you are still there and still function to pleasure him~

You will only hear slight humming. Maybe a small noise here and there, before He is picking up his pace to go faster, more intense.

He wants you to realize that your only purpose in that moment is to serve him. To pleasure him. To keep him busy while He is doing his usual work.

Of course He is stressed, you know it, you know how acts and how messy and clocked up his mind can get. So why not helping Bil to get rid of that feeling? He loves when you act all obident and loyal after all. Just like a dog would do.

He will ask, calm and collected, after He is done with his papers...

"Do You have enough stamina left? Nod for me"

You eventually nod

"Good. Keep going"

Without evening thinking about it, you keep going. You can feel your mouth getting tried. Your thighs hurt from sitting on them for to long

But that small chuckle. The way He is ruffling through your hair after you said yes, it makes you melt on the spot and all you can do is watch yourself in a tiny mirror right next to you, where you sometimes can spot his eyes looking at you.

Making sure you are still doing your job

[mokitobear]

working on a few things

[miya-s2]

Hi everyone~ ★ I know it's been a long time since I posted anything here, but I was... hmm... learning a few things.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

Like how a whisper can feel louder than a scream when it's pressed against your ear.

Like how a gentle touch can be more devastating than a grip.

Like how certain sounds — low, rough, broken — can live inside your body long after they fade in the air.

So I wrote about them.

And I thought maybe... someone else would want to read it too.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

A little thread about moans, touches, and the way words can make you tremble.

(And maybe I'll write more... if you behave.)

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ᰔ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Doctor~

He isn't loud. Even with all that height and presence, his sounds remain low, contained—a thick, guttural purr that starts somewhere deep in his chest and travels along his ribs before it even reaches your ears. It’s the kind of sound you feel before you hear it. A raspy vibration that seeps into your skin, settling beneath your ribs, making your own breath hitch in response. Most of the time, he maintains control with surgical precision. But when he lets go—even just a little—the sound shifts into a low, drawn-out growl that makes his torso tremble, pressing against you like a second heartbeat. And when he’s really holding back, you can hear it in his breathing. Ragged, uneven, almost strained, as if he’s fighting against his own restraint. That’s when he moves closer—not suddenly, but deliberately—his mouth hovering just above your skin, his voice dropping to a thick, dangerous murmur:

"What an excellent test subject you are for me... Mmh..~"

The words are drawn out, his Russian accent pulling the final syllable into something deeper—and then his lips press against the curve of your neck. It isn’t a kiss. It isn’t a bite. It’s a slow, open-mouthed glide, as if he’s tasting you, sizing you up, savoring the way you shiver beneath his touch. His hand finds your waist—large, warm, with long claws, anchoring you in place—and he pulls you closer as he finally sinks his teeth into the soft spot where your neck meets your shoulder. A low growl vibrates against your skin as he does it. The sound travels from his chest, through his lips, and into your body—and you feel it everywhere. He doesn’t pull away immediately. He stays there, his breath hot and ragged, his voice muffled against your skin as he murmurs:

"You’ve held up so well so far... But I still want to see how long my little test subject can resist while I explore your taste... your body...~"

The growl that follows is low and deep, lasting just long enough to make you forget how to breathe.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ᰔ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Pierrot

He moans softly right against your ear, as if afraid the surrounding silence might shatter if he were any louder. It is a husky sound—almost a sob—that starts out trembling and fades away at the end, as though every moan were a confession he isn't sure he should be making. As he holds you, he buries his fingers in your hair, pulls you close, and murmurs between gasps:

“My lady (My lord)… my dear…” — his voice falters, as if the words are too big for his mind to fully grasp. “I love you, I love you, I love you…” He repeats it like a mantra, as if saying any less would be a sin.

"H-..haaah~ mm..~ Haaa..~" — The moan ends with him resting his forehead against your shoulder, his breathing ragged and his eyes closed—as if he needs a moment to remind himself that all of this is real. While trying to stifle his moans, he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, watching how you react to him... how you tremble beneath him. Watching how every movement of his makes you gasp, his tongue trails wetly from your shoulder up to your neck... tracing a path back until it pauses at the juncture of neck and shoulder. His breathing seems to falter even more as he threatens to bite that spot, still amidst moans that are now far more intense than before.

"Do you want me to make you mine, my dear...? Do you want me to make you forget your own name while I make you scream mine? Do you want me to mark you...?~"

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

And... that's it~ I hope you enjoyed it. Give me suggestions for future writings... Love you all~ ♥️

[yoyrif]

Doctor art!!! + part 2 doodle of last last post lol

[freakcircusofhorrors]

Sorry if this question has already been asked, (you can ignore me) but I'm curious. Is there an official Discord server for The Freak Circus? I love Neko's work and the mods' work here. Don't forget to get plenty of rest and drink water. <3

Hello! There is not an official TFC Discord server.

We've seen quite a few fan servers pop up, but at this time we don't plan on making an official Discord server.

It's more likely for us to make an official Twitter first, but we still need to work on that.

[fhenris-art]

🎀⭐

[rattetytat]

bunch of circus family doodles

[lvnarr]

Theyre so cute I had to reblog this 🥹🥹

[freakcircusofhorrors]

Why are all the members so persistent on pretending to be human when it's so obvious they're not?

Why does the lion hide in the grass?

Why does the snake blend in with the branches?

Why does the alligator appear to be just a floating log?

Isn't it interesting how predators always try to go unnoticed by their prey? The prey questions the camouflage, notices something strange, but they're still there, staring carelessly.

[mokitobear]