I like the way you write the character of ticket taker besides being formal and orderly it's like you're close to him when you meet haha
Anyways, can i request for nsfw ticket taker next? Please? :]]
❝ aww, such fascinating choice, plaything! ❞
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
꩜ Warning: very strict, lil manipulation, freaky momments, 7.4k ~ ── ᓭི༏ᓯྀ
well, well, well. look who's come knocking at my box, asking about one of my favorite one—ticket taker. it's funny, isn't it? out of everyone, you pick the uptight one. the one with the clipboard and the ledger and all those rules.
don't worry. this is a judgment-free zone. like doctor, ticket taker hardly gets any love in the TFC Grotesque. maybe a little more than Doctor, but still not nearly enough for someone so fascinating.
you want to see what else happens when the clipboard is set aside and the ledgers are closed and all that order gives way to something hungry. so just sit, plaything, and let's talk, even about the things when he won't say it out loud.
and don't worry. I'll be thorough~
a = aftercare
let’s see… ticket taker's aftercare is efficient enough.
it’s straightforward—yeah that's the word for it. he doesn't do soft words or gentle touches, like not the way pierrot does, all trembling hands and desperate whispers. what he does is practical.
he'll get you water first. then a towel. then he'll check you over in a methodical way. just making sure you're okay, and nothing's torn or bruised or broken.
"you're fine," he'll say, his voice flat. "rest."
but his white eye will linger on you. just for a moment. just long enough to make sure you're actually fine. and if you're not? if you're shaking or crying or overwhelmed? he'll sit with you.
he won't say much, after all ticket taker doesn't do much but he'll stay. and that's more than he gives anyone else.
for example:
after a particularly intense session, you're lying on his desk, you know papers scattered, damn near everthing is knocked to the floor and he's standing over you, his shirt unbuttoned, his white and blue eye fixed on your face.
"you're shaking," he observes.
"i'm fine."
"you're still shaking." he reaches down and pulls a blanket from somewhere (you don't know where, he just has it) and drapes it over you. his gloved hand brushes your cheek.
"stay," he says. "i'll be back."
and he is. with water and a warm wet cloth.
b = body part
his favorite body part of his own? his hands.
because his hands are useful. they write. they organize. they keep order. and when they're not doing those things, they're touching you.
he likes the way his hands look on your skin—very pale against whatever color you are, controlled where you're not. he likes the contrast.
"your skin is so warm," he'll observe, his fingers tracing your collarbone. "mine is always cold. it's... interesting."
his favorite body part of yours? your throat.
he likes the vulnerability of it. the way your pulse jumps under his fingers. the way you trust him to touch such a fragile place.
"you let me do this," he'll murmur, his thumb resting against your windpipe. "you let me hold your life in my hands. do you know how rare that is?"
he does. and he treasures it.
for example:
you're lying on his desk again (understand it’s a theme of his) and his hand is wrapped around your throat. not squeezing. just... holding. his thumb traces the line of your jaw.
"beautiful," he says, and it's not a compliment. it's an observation.
c = cum
ticket taker is controlled about it.
that's the thing about him. he doesn't make a mess. hell he doesn’t even like making messes. doesn't spill everywhere. he aims, he finishes, he contains.
it's efficient like everything else he does.
there's something psychological about it—the discipline of restraint, the way he holds himself back even in his most vulnerable moments. it's a pattern. a ritual. a need to keep things in order.
but when he's really into it—when that control slips just a little—he lets go.
and that's when it gets interesting.
he'll paint your stomach. your thighs. your face if you let him. and then he'll clean you up. methodically and carefully like he's cataloging every inch of you.
"you're messy," he observes, wiping his thumb across your lips.
"you did that."
"i did." his white eye gleams. "i'll do it again."
but his favorite? keeping everything inside.
he loves when you take him deep—when you let him finish inside you and stay there. not just the act of it, but the aftermath. the way you hold him there, warm and full, his cum deep inside you where it belongs.
a pocket slut, that's what you become.
he'll stay buried in you, not moving, just feeling—the pulse of you around him, the heat, the way his release settles into you like it was always meant to be there. he'll press his forehead against yours, breathing slow, eyes half-lidded.
"stay like this," he murmurs. "don't let any of it out."
and you don't.
because that's the thing about him—he doesn't just want to finish in you. he wants to claim you. wants to fill you so completely that even when he pulls out, you still feel him. still carry him. still have his mark deep inside.
it's not about the mess with him. it's about the imprint.
he'll trace circles on your skin afterwards, watching you with that quiet intensity. "you're holding all of me," he'll say, almost to himself. "aren't you?"
and when you nod, he'll smile. "good."
d = dirty secret
ticket taker's dirty secret is that he wants to lose control.
not all the time. not even most of the time. but sometimes — when the ledgers are closed and the schedule is empty and the world is quiet — he wants to let go. he wants to be messy. desperate. undone.
he wants someone to take his clipboard and break it over their knee. wants someone to push him against his desk and take what they want. wants someone to make him forget his own name.
but he'll never admit it.
instead, he'll keep his gloved hands tight and his posture rigid and his voice flat. and he'll let you unravel him, piece by piece, until he's a shaking mess on his own office floor.
example: you've got him pressed against his own desk, his hips pinned, his cock in your hand. he's trying to stay still. trying to stay controlled. but his breath is coming in short, ragged gasps, and his white eye is wide.
"stop," he says, his voice cracking. "i — i can't —"
"you can," you say. "you will."
and he does. because you told him to.
e = experience
ticket taker has experience, shockingly!
like deaddass, more than doctor, definitely less than harlequin, probably. so he's not a virgin—he's had partners before. efficient partners. transactional ones. the kind who came, did what they were supposed to, and left.
but intimacy? connection? those are newer concepts for him. he's still learning. still figuring out what it means to touch someone and have it mean something.
he's careful with you. methodical. like he's testing every reaction, cataloging every response.
for example:
"you like that," he'll observe, his fingers tracing your thigh. "the pressure. the control."
"yes."
"good. i'll remember that."
f = favorite position
ticket taker infact has two favorite postions.
favorite #1: missionary
he likes to watch. plain and simple. he likes to see your face. your reactions. the way your eyes roll back when he hits that spot.
he'll hold your legs apart with his gloved hands and study you like you're something precious—every flutter of your lashes, every parted-lip breath, every sound you try to swallow.
"don't close your eyes," he instructs, voice low. "i want to see everything."
and you can't look away even if you tried.
you're on your back, his desk cold beneath you, his weight pressed against you. his hips move in a steady, measured rhythm, and his white eye is fixed on your face—unblinking and cataloging.
"there," he says, angling his hips just slightly. "that's the spot."
you gasp. he smiles—just a little behind that mask. "there."
he leans down, breath ghosting over your lips. "you make the prettiest sounds when you're not thinking."
and then he does it again. slower this time. watching. always watching.
favorite #2: from behind, bent over something
this one is little different. less about watching and more about control.
he likes having you bent over his desk, his chair, the ticket booth counter. anything solid enough to hold you steady. he likes the curve of your spine, the way your hands brace against the surface, the way you can't see him coming.
"don't move," he says, palm flat against your lower back, pressing you down. "stay just like that."
he takes his time. every inch carefully so he’s not rushing—like he never rushes.
one hand grips your hip, the other tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back. he leans down, mouth close to your ear.
"i want to hear you," he murmurs. "every sound. don't hold back."
and when he picks up the pace—when that steady rhythm breaks into something hungrier—he's still controlled. still watching. still cataloging the way you fall apart beneath him.
"that's it," he says, breathless. "that's my good visitor."
his favorite part? watching you try to hold yourself together while he pulls you apart from behind. the tension in your shoulders. the way your fingers curl against the desk. the way you say his name like a question you're afraid to answer.
"you're doing so well," he soothes, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade. "just a little more."
and he gives it to you every time.
g = goofy
ticket taker is not goofy what so ever.
he highkey little lame, doesn't crack jokes or make silly faces or do anything that might be considered lighthearted.
understand, he’s an old ass creature—hell the oldest out of the entire group. but sometimes, which rarely—something will catch him off guard. a noise. a cramp. the way your stomach growls at an inopportune moment.
and he'll pause. tilt his head, a little almost amused.
"...that was unexpected," he'll say. and then he'll keep going. just a brief moment of almost humanity before he returns to form.
for example:
you're in the middle of it, you know fucking on his desk, of course and your stomach growls. loud. embarrassing. he pauses and looks down at you.
"hungry?" he asks.
"shut up."
"i'll take that as a yes."
h = hair
ticket taker is always immaculate.
so his hair is always neat. always styled. slicked back beneath his top hat like the old soul he is—not a strand out of place. it's part of the image. the control. the mask he wears.
he probably spends more time on it than he'd ever admit.
then for down there? maintained. trimmed. neat. nothing left to chance.
"it's more efficient," he'd say if you asked. (please you don't ask.) but there's something about the unraveling that gets him.
when he's inside you—when the pace picks up and his composure starts to crack, you know that perfectly slicked back hair begins to shift. a tiny loose curl falls forward. then another. and another.
it's subtle at first. almost imperceptible. but you notice.
and he notices you noticing.
he might not acknowledge it. might not say a word. but you can see the lock in his white eye when you reach up and brush it back. the way he falters slightly before finding his pace again.
for example:
you're beneath him, gasping, fingers gripping his shoulders as he moves inside you. his hat is long gone—tossed aside somewhere in the heat of it. his hair is falling loose from its perfect slicked back style, strands clinging to his forehead.
you reach up and run your fingers through it.
he freezes. just for a moment.
then he leans into your touch. just slightly. like he's been waiting for permission to let go.
"don't," he says, but his voice is weak.
"don't what?"
"don't stop."
you don't as ordered. you drag your fingers through his hair again, messing it up further. ruining all that careful work. and instead of pulling away, he leans in.
his hips press deeper. his breath hitches.
"you're making a mess of me," he murmurs, but there's no frustration in it. only surrender.
he likes it. you realize. he likes when you mess him up. when you undo all that careful control and leave him bare. and then he says it, quiet, almost to himself:
"no one's ever done that before."
i = intimacy
ticket taker doesn't do romance.
not the way pierrot does, with tears and poetry and desperate clinging.
ticket taker's intimacy is simply observation.
he shows he cares by noticing. by remembering. by cataloging the things that make you you and keeping them safe in that neat, orderly mind of his.
"you always bite your lip when you're thinking," he'll say, mid-act. "and you make a small sound—here—when you're close."
the funny part, he's not trying to be sexy. deadass that’s just him telling you what’s gonna happend. sharing his thoughts. letting you see how much attention he's paid.
and somehow, that's more intimate than any love confession.
j = jack off
ticket taker treats it like... maintenance issue.
a biological need. something to address so he can focus on other things. not gonna lie, he's the type who probably has a schedule for it.
don't think about it too hard.
he's done it a thousand times before. palm against his cock. steady strokes. eyes half-lidded, mind elsewhere. it's nothing special.
just release. just pressure. just a box to check.
but sometimes when he's thinking about you, his sessions take longer.
for example:
he'll lie in his bed or sit at his desk. his hand wrapped around himself, grip just tight enough, and he'll remember. the way you sounded. the way you felt beneath his hands. the way you looked at him like he wasn't a monster—like he was something worth wanting.
and his strokes slow. deepen. his thumb drags over the tip, spreading the slick there, and his breath catches.
he's not rushing anymore. he's savoring now.
his hand wraps around his length, already half-hard from the thought alone. he starts slow—lazy strokes, testing the weight of it in his palm. his thumb traces the vein along the underside, and his hips twitch.
hmm... that's new.
he thinks about the way you gasped when he first pushed inside you. the way your fingers curled into his unbotton shirt. the way you said his name like it meant something.
his grip tightens. his strokes quicken.
his head falls back against the chair. his eyesflutters closed—a rare moment of vulnerability. his lips part. his breathing gets heavier.
he's not thinking about busy life anymore.
he's thinking about you.
the way you taste. the way you feel. the way you felt around him. the sound of your voice when you begged. the way you looked up at him with those eyes—"fuck," he whispers—the only time you'll ever hear him swear.
his hips buck up into his fist. his palm slides over the head, spreading the slick. he's close. so close.
and he remembers the way you looked at him. like he was human. like he was good.
his release spills over his knuckles, hot and messy. he keeps stroking through it, milking every last drop, breath ragged.
and then it's over.
he's staring at the ceiling, his white eye soft.
"...inefficient," he mutters.
but his hand is still slick. his heart is still pounding. and you're still in his head. he'll clean up. pull his pants back up and goes back to worl
and then he'll do it again tomorrow night. because he can't help himself.
after all, you've ruined him.
k = kink
ticket taker has more kinks than he'll ever admit.
he's not the type to sit you down and have a conversation about boundaries and desires. he just... takes. and you learn.
1. control
obviously. it's the foundation of everything he does. he needs to be in charge. needs to set the pace, the position, the everything. if you try to take control, he shuts down.
for example:
you reach up to touch his face—a move too intimate, too forward—and his hand catches your wrist mid-air. his white eye narrows. "no." his voice is flat. "i'm in charge." he pins your wrist beside your head and continues. measured. deliberate. reminding you who's in control.
2. praise
he won't say it. won't admit it. but he craves it.
he's spent so long being feared, being distrusted, being viewed as something monstrous. when you tell him he's doing well? that he's being good? it rewires something in him.
for example:
he's above you, hips moving with that steady rhythm you've come to know, and you murmur, "good." his hips stutter. "you're doing so well." his white eye goes wide—almost vulnerable. his rhythm falters. and then he comes undone faster than he meant to, burying his face in your neck to hide the way his composure cracked.
3. bondage
not the elaborate kind. not jester's collars or poppet's threads. but he likes holding you in place. likes the feeling of your body trapped beneath his, completely at his mercy.
for example:
he's got your wrists pinned above your head with one gloved hand. his weight is pressed against you, keeping you still. "stay," he commands. "don't move." and you don't. because you know if you do, he'll just hold you tighter. and you're not sure if you want to test that.
4. overstimulation
he'll push you past your limits. then past them again. just to see how you react. it's not cruelty—it's curiosity. he wants to know how much you can take. wants to see the moment your brain stops thinking and just feels.
for example:
you're trembling beneath him, oversensitive, every nerve raw and exposed. "i can't," you gasp. his hips don't stop. "one more," he says, voice flat. "you can give me one more." and you do. because he's not asking. and somewhere in the haze, you realize he's watching you unravel like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
5. voyeurism
he likes watching. really likes watching.
he'll position you just right—legs open, face visible, everything on display—so he can see every reaction. every flutter. every gasp. every moment of your unraveling.
for example:
he's got you on his desk, legs spread, his hands on your thighs holding you open. he's not touching you—not yet. he's just... watching. his white eye traces the flush on your chest, the way your lips part, the way your hips twitch seeking friction. "you're so responsive," he murmurs, almost to himself. "i could watch you all night." and you believe him.
honorable mention: your voice
he doesn't just like hearing you—he needs it. the sounds you make. the way you say his name. the way you gasp when he hits that spot.
for example:
he's buried inside you, his pace punishing, and he leans down to whisper, "say my name." you do. his grip on your hip tightens. "again." you do. and he keeps going. like your voice is fuel he can't get enough of.
l = location
ticket taker's favorite location is his office.
it's his space. his domain. the place where he's most himself. every ledger, every paper, every inch of it is meticulously arranged to his liking. it's where he works, where he plans, where he maintains control.
and he wants you there.
in his chair. on his desk. draped across his desk. anywhere he can have you surrounded by the evidence of who he is.
"you're in my space," he'll say, voice low. "my territory."
"and?"
"and that means you're mine."
why his office?
it's not just about convenience—it's about context. he wants you in the space where he holds power. where every decision is made, every calculation weighed. he wants you to see the ledgers, the papers, the order he's created. and then he wants to lay you on top of all of it.
"look at that," he murmurs, guiding your gaze to the scattered papers beneath you. "you've made a mess of my work."
his hips press forward. "i'll have to reorganize everything now." but he doesn't sound upset. he sounds... satisfied.
for other locations:
1. his overall tent blue
you know, all the mirrors, efficient. he'll have you on that cot, the mirrors reflecting every angle. he can watch you from every direction. he likes that. a lot.
2. the ticket booth
only briefly. when the circus is closed and the guests are gone. cramped and dark and intimate. your back against the glass, his hands gripping your hips. he has to be quiet there. makes it more thrilling.
3. your apartment
once. when he was feeling bold. he wanted to see where you lived. wanted to leave his mark on your space. he didn't stay long. but he made sure you remembered he was there.
but mostly? sex will always happen in his office.
m = motivation
uhhhh… ticket taker isn't motivated by much?
look, most of the circus runs on some level of horny chaos—pierrot is motivated by his love for you, Jester has his own BDSM moment, Harlequin just wants to fuck anything and a doctor seems the type to be motivated whoever is the most willing to take part of his experiments.
but ticket taker? he's just... there.
he doesn't wake up thinking about it. doesn't seek it out. if it happens, it happens. if it doesn't, he's fine. honestly.
most of the time, it's just biology or the way how you dressed in neat fasion. a need that arises. something to address and move on from. no different than eating or sleeping.
and sometimes he gets randomly horny. no reason. no warning. just a sudden awareness that he wants you. and that's when he shows up at your door with that flat expression and says something like "come here" like it's a logistical request.
but that's it. that's the extent of it.
he's the least horny person in the entire circus. and he's fine with that.
now what can actually motivates him? order.
he wants things neat. controlled. predictable. and when you're with him—when you let him touch you, use you, claim you—you become part of his order.
"you're mine," he'll say, voice flat. "mine to touch. mine to keep. mine to—"
he stops before saying, “…organize."
please don’t laugh at him. he's joking. mostly. hopefully.
n = no
ticket taker has hard limits. things he will not do. ever.
1. loss of control
he needs to be in charge. needs to set the pace, the position, the everything. if you try to take control—push him down, climb on top, dominate him—he will shut down. completely.
"no," he'll say, voice flat. "that's not how this works."
and he means it. it's not a negotiation. it's a boundary.
elaboration: he's spent his whole life maintaining order in a world that's chaotic. giving up control isn't just uncomfortable—it's wrong.
like a system error. he can't process it. so he won't.
2. mess (the uncontrolled kind)
not the good kind. not the kind that happens when you're both lost in it. he means chaos. unpredictability. if you're too loud, too wild, too much—he'll pull back.
"calm down," he'll instruct. "you're being unruly."
it's not that he doesn't want you to enjoy yourself.
he just needs it to stay within certain parameters.
3. being ignored
lowkey ticket taker needs attention. needs to know you're present, engaged, responding. if you zone out—if your eyes go glassy and your body goes slack in a way that isn't giving—he'll stop.
"look at me," he'll say, gripping your chin. "i need to see your eyes."
he's not doing this for himself. well. he is. but he needs the feedback loop. your reactions are what guide him. without them, he's just... moving. and that's not satisfying for anyone.
4. public or risky locations
this one comes with layers.
he doesn't do risk. doesn't do the thrill of being caught. the thought of another visitor walking in? a fellow circus member hearing something they shouldn't? his stomach turns.
"no," he'll say, when you suggest the ticket booth. "that's unprofessional."
his white and blue eye roll in disapproval. maybe discomfort. "we do this here. where it's safe."
it's not that he's afraid. it's that he values privacy. intimacy is something he doesn't share lightly. and the idea of someone else witnessing him in that state—vulnerable, undone, human—makes his skin crawl.
he's a private person. painfully so.
and public locations? absolutely not.
5. being called... "master"?
probably gonna get a lot of hate for this, he's not jester. he's not interested in titles or power dynamics that feel… performative.
"just my name," he'll say. "that's all i need."
okay like sir feels... alright enough, it's GOOD enough. BUT master? absolutely not. that's jester's territory and he wants no part of it.
he prefers his name. ticket taker. or if you're feeling bold—and if he really, really likes you—he might let you call him Bil.
(opinion: his name is the least mountable out of the whole circus. like. try saying “a-ah ticket taker!” in the middle of a heated moment. it's not sexy. it's not smooth. it's just... practical.
but pierrot? rolls off the tongue. effortless. nobody's out here trying to moan "ticket taker" with a straight face. honestly the most normal sounding one is pierrot and that's saying something.)
"you can call me Bil," he'll admit quietly, barely meeting your eyes. "if you want. just... don't make it weird."
o = oral
ticket taker is skilled at giving oral.
he treats it like a task, well more like a project and he approaches it with the same methodical precision he brings to everything else. he'll take his time. learn you. figure out exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you beg, what makes you fall apart.
"you're so responsive," he'll observe, his tongue tracing a line up your thigh. "i wonder what happens when i—"
and then he'll do it. and you'll find out.
receiving? he likes it. more than he'll admit. but he won't ask for it. won't beg. he'll just position himself in front of you, his hand tangling in your hair, and wait.
"you know what i want," he'll say. "don't make me say it."
and you won't. because you do know.
for example:
you're on your knees in front of his desk. the wood is cool beneath your palms, the dim light casting shadows across his face. his hand threads through your hair—not pulling, not guiding, just there.
grounding himself in you.
you take him into your mouth slowly. your tongue traces his cock, memorizing every ridge, every twitch, every sharp intake of breath that escapes his lips.
his white and blue eyes is fixed on you. tracking every movement. cataloging every flick of your tongue, every hollow of your cheeks, every time your gaze flickers up to meet his.
"faster," he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. "just—faster."
you obey as pace quickens. your hand wraps around what you can't take, stroking in rhythm with your mouth. his hips twitch—that careful control starting to crack—and his grip in your hair tightens just enough to make your scalp tingle.
"good," he gasps, his head falling back. "such a good—"
he doesn't finish the sentence. his hips stutter. his breath catches. his release spills warm across your tongue, and you take it. all of it. swallowing slowly, deliberately, until there's nothing left.
his hand loosens in your hair. his breathing is uneven. when you pull back, he's still watching you—white eye soft, something unreadable flickering behind it.
he reaches down. drags his thumb across your lower lip. wipes away the faint trace of him.
"...perfect," he murmurs. almost to himself.
p = pace
ticket taker is always in controlled.
even when he's not. he always starts slow methodical building a pace that's steady and deliberate. he wants to draw it out. wants to feel every moment. "patience," he'll murmur, when you try to rush him. "we have time."
but when he's close, his pace changes. faster. harder. more desperate.
"just—" he'll gasp, his hips stuttering. "just stay —"
and then he's gone. and you're left breathless beneath him.
for example:
you're on his desk. his hips are moving in that steady, measured rhythm — slow, deliberate, controlled — and you're dying.
"please," you gasp. "please, i need—"
"patience," he says, his voice flat. "i'm not—"
"ticket taker."
he pauses. looks down at you. his white eye flickers.
"please."
and he gives in. just this once.
q = quickie
ticket taker is not a fan of quickies.
he prefers time. space. the ability to draw things out. "rushing," he'll say, "is inefficient. mistakes happen when you rush."
but sometimes when the schedule is tight and the need is urgent, he'll make exceptions.
"five minutes," he'll say, pushing you against the nearest surface. "that's all you get."
and he'll mean it. but he'll also take six. or seven. because he can't help himself.
for example:
you're in the ticket booth. the circus is closed. the doors are locked. he's got you pressed against the wall, his hand over your mouth, his hips moving fast and desperate.
"quiet," he breathes. "don't make a sound."
you don't. but you want to.
r = risk
ticket taker does not take risks.
not in his work. not in his life. and definitely not in the bedroom. he likes predictability. control. knowing exactly what's going to happen, when, and for how long. but sometimes, like when he's really into it, he'll push the boundaries just a little. a new position. a new location. a new kink.
"don't get used to it," he'll say, his voice flat. "this is a one-time thing."
s = stamina
ticket taker has excellent stamina.
he's disciplined. controlled. he knows how to pace himself, how to draw things out, how to make you wait.
he can go for hours. literally hours. not because he's superhuman…? supermonster but because he knows how to manage his body.
"patience," he'll murmur, when you're trembling beneath him. "we're not done yet."
as for rounds? two. maybe three, if you beg nicely.
t = toys
ticket taker doesn't own toys.
not the kind you'd find in jester's tent. BUT to make up for it, he has tools or random office supplies.
a ruler. a clipboard. the edge of his desk. a paperweight that's heavier than it looks. ooooo, his belt too, if he's feeling particularly inclined. he's creative in his own quiet, methodical way—always finding new purposes for the objects around him.
"this is for discipline," he'll say, tapping the ruler against his palm. a soft, careful thwack. "do you understand?"
you say yes, after all you're bent over his desk. your palms flat against the wood. your chest pressed to the cold surface. papers scatter beneath you, and you can feel the edge digging into your hip. his ruler is in his hand. his white eye is gleaming in the low light.
"count," he says. voice flat. "out loud."
the first strike lands. a sharp, precise line of heat across your skin.
"one," you gasp. the second lands just below it. "two."
he pauses. drags the edge of the ruler down your spine—slow, teasing, making you shiver. "you're doing well," he observes. "good at following instructions."
the third strike lands harder. you cry out. "three."
"good." he sets the ruler down. replaces it with his hand. palm flat against the warmth he's created.
"you took that beautifully," he murmurs. almost reverent. "now turn around. i'm not done with you yet."
(opinon: teacher! ticket taker is so hot…)
u = unfair
ticket taker is masterful at teasing.
it's not something he learned—it's instinct. a quiet, patient cruelty that comes naturally to someone who spends his life controlling every variable.
he'll bring you right to the edge. hovering. trembling. every nerve screaming for release.
and then he stops. "you're not ready," he'll say, voice flat. "not yet." and he'll keep you there. for as long as he wants. watching you squirm. needing more.
he doesn't do it to be cruel—not exactly. it's all about reminding you who sets the pace. who decides when you get what you want.
plus he likes watching you fall apart.
the way your breathing quickens. the way your hips twitch, seeking friction he's not giving you. the way your voice cracks when you beg. it's a study in desperation—and he's a very thorough.
"you're so responsive," he observes, tracing a gloved finger along your inner thigh. "like you're not sure what to do with yourself."
"please," you gasp. "please, i need—"
"i know," he says. "that's the point."
he draws it out for minutes, hours, like however long he deems necessary.
he'll touch you just enough to keep you on the edge—fingertips ghosting over sensitive skin, mouth hovering just out of reach, his breath warm against your ear while his hands stay still. "you're doing so well," he murmurs. "holding on for me."
he'll stop mid-motion. pull away just when you're about to tip over. watch you writhe with a detached sort of fascination.
"look at you," he says. "so desperate. so... unravelled."
there's something almost tender in his voice. but his
white eye is sharp. assessing.
he's cataloging this moment. filing it away for later.
and when he finally lets you—"now," he says. "now you're ready." and he gives you everything you begged for. but he makes you wait. just a little longer.
because that's who he is.
v = volume
ticket taker is quiet.
not the kind of quiet that comes from shyness or restraint—it's controlled. like he's actively choosing not to make a sound. every moan swallowed. every gasp bitten back. every whimper locked behind his teeth.
like he doesn't moan. doesn't gasp, or whimper.
but he breathes!
okay look! when he breathes, it’s like heavier than usual. faster. the pace of his chest changing, hitching, betraying him in ways his voice never will.
and sometimes—when he's close, when his careful control slips just a fraction—you'll hear something. a low hum. almost a growl. a sound that seems to come from somewhere deeper than his throat.
"there," he'll breathe, voice strained. "just—there."
and then he's gone. pulling himself back together. and you're left wondering if you imagined it.
the sound of him unraveling, omfg it's so rare. precious. something you have to earn.
for example:
he'll be inside you, hips moving with that steady, measured pace, and his breathing will change. shallower. faster. his gloved hand will grip your hip a little tighter. his jaw will clench. his white eye will flutter like just for a second. and then—a sound. low and guttural. almost involuntary. like it escaped before he could stop it.
your name. or a word. or just... a random sound.
"ticket taker—"
"quiet."
"but—" he covers your mouth with his hand. his hips stutter. his breath catches. and then he makes it again. that low, raw sound that vibrates through his chest. and then it's over. he's still breathing hard. staring at you like you've seen something you weren't supposed to.
"...that didn't happen," he says.
but his hand is still trembling against your lips…
w = wild card
lmfaooo since when has ticket taker ever been wild??
the only thing can be said is that he has a SCHEDULE.
not just for work—for everything. when he wakes up. when he eats. when he sleeps. when he reviews ledgers. when he polishes his boots. and yes—when he fucks. he probably has you penciled in. tuesday, 8pm. thursday, 9pm. saturday, all night because he's generous like that.
"it's more efficient," he'll say, when you ask. "i don't have to wonder when i'll see you next. i know."
it's not romantic. it's not sexy. but it's him. and somehow, that makes it worse.
like. he didn't even ask. he just... slotted you in. between "inventory check" and "polish top hat."
you're not sure if you're flattered or terrified.
x = x-ray
as we all knowm, ticket taker is on lean side.
so, not bulky like pierrot, not wiry like harlequin. just... elegant and the short out of the memebers. long limbs. narrow hips. nice ass. the kind of body that looks good in a suit.
overall, ticket taker's body is just pristine. but he has lines, like faint pale lines that look like they've been pressed into his skin for years. from sitting. from writing. from being still for too long.
"it's from the desk," he'll say, when you ask. "i spend too much time there."
and down there? ...it's proportional enough?
overall, it's neat. maintained. like everything else about him. trimmed, tidy, no surprises. he doesn't have anything to prove, and honestly? that confidence is kind of hot.
"it's efficient," he'll say, like he's defending a business decision. "does the job. no excess."
and he's not wrong. it does the job. perfectly well, actually. he knows exactly how to use what he's got.
"size isn't everything," he'll mutter, adjusting his top hat. "it's about precision. technique. consistency."
and then he'll prove it.
"i don't need to compensate," he adds. "unlike some members of this circus."
the thing is—he's not insecure about it. he's the shortest. he's got the smallest everything. and he's fine with that because he's still the most controlled, the most precise, and probably the only one who can keep a schedule.
"quality over quantity," he says, straightening his coat. "that's my motto."
"that's not—"
"i know what i said."
y = yearning
ticket taker's sex drive is moderate and manageable.
he doesn't need sex. overall, he can go days—weeks—without thinking about it, lost in his work, his schedules, his order.
it's just another bodily function to him. something that arises. something to address. nothing more.
"it's not a priority," he'll say, if you ask. "i have more important things to attend to."
and he means it. BUT when he does think about it—when he thinks about you—it's consuming.
he'll be in the middle of something. a ledger. a schedule. an important task that requires his full attention. and suddenly his mind is full of you.
the way you sound when he hits that spot. the way you feel beneath his hands. the way you look at him like he's not a monster, like he's something worth wanting.
his pen will pause. his white eye will go distant. his breathing will change, just slightly.
"inefficient," he'll mutter, shaking his head.
but he doesn't stop thinking about you.
it's never predictable. never convenient. he'll be reviewing inventory counts, calculating ticket sales, organizing his desk—and then a memory surfaces.
your voice. your touch. the way you said his name like it meant something.
his hand will still. his jaw will tighten.
"this is ridiculous," he'll say to no one.
but he's already distracted. already thinking about the next time he'll see you. already running through the schedule in his head, checking if there's a window, an opening, a moment he can carve out.
and when he finally gives in—
he doesn't just want you. he needs you. in a way that surprises him every time. he'll pull you into his office. lock the door. pin you against the desk. and for a moment all that control slips away.
"i was trying to work," he'll murmur against your neck. "i was trying to focus." his hips press forward.
"and then i thought about you." he says it like it's an accusation. like you've done something to him.
and lowkey maybe you have.
z = zone
ticket taker is sensitive. more than he lets on. more than he'd ever admit.
his body is a map of places that make him shiver, and he's spent years pretending they don't exist. ignoring them. suppressing them.
but with you? he can't hide.
1. his neck
ticket taker's neck is achingly sensitive. the column of it, long and pale, where his pulse beats just beneath the surface. when you kiss him there, so when you drag your lips down the side of his throat, when you bite just hard enough to leave a mark and his breath catches. his hands tighten on your hips. his white eye flutters closed.
"again," he breathes. "do that again."
and when you do, when you suck a bruise into the space just below his jaw, he makes a sound. quiet. strangled. desperate.
"fascinating," he murmurs, but his voice is shaking. "i didn't know i could —" he doesn't finish the sentence.
he's too busy pulling you closer.
2. his hands
his hands, plaything.
specifically, the spaces between his fingers. the webs of skin that stretch when he spreads them wide. when you press your mouth there, so when you kiss each knuckle, when you suck one of his fingers into your mouth and look at him while you do it—his whole body tenses.
for example:
"what are you—" his voice cracks as you swirl your tongue around his finger. his hips twitch. "...doing," he finishes, barely audible.
"research," you say, popping his finger out of your mouth. "you're not the only one who gets to study things." his white eye and blue is wide, fully dilated. and he's staring at you like you've just rewritten every hypothesis he's ever had.
3. his inner thighs
this one is soooo cruel.
it was originally a secret, something he kept buried deep, something he never planned to share. but somehow, somehow, you found out. maybe you noticed the way he flinched when your fingers brushed too close.
maybe you saw the way his breath caught when your lips grazed the inside of his leg. maybe you just knew because you know him. because you pay attention.
his thighs are his weak spot.
the skin there is thinner than the rest of him. more delicate. more responsive. it's where he's most vulnerable, most exposed and he hates it. hates how much he loves it.
when you kiss the inside of his thigh, like when you drag your tongue up the soft skin, when you bite just hard enough to make him flinch—he falls apart.
not slowly. not gracefully. completely.
his composure shatters. just leaving him all raw and desperate and needy in a way he never lets himself be.
for example:
you're in his bed. his office is quiet. his shirt is nearby off. his white eye is fixed on the ceiling, and his breath is already shallow just from the anticipation.
you start at his knee. soft kisses. gentle.
he tenses. "what are you—"
"shh." you move higher. your lips brush the inside of his thigh.
he gasps."stop—"
“hmm… no." you kiss him there. linger. his hips twitch.
"you're torturing me," he says, his voice strained.
"is it working?"
his white and blue eyes are wide. his chest is heaving. his hands are fisted in the sheets.
"yes."
so you keep going. you kiss and bite and lick until he's trembling beneath you, until he's begging.
"please," he gasps. "please, i can't —"
"you can." you press your mouth to the spot where his thigh meets his hip. the most sensitive spot. the one that makes him break.
he bucks off the bed. his whole body arches. "...okay," he breathes. "okay. maybe i can."
you smile against his skin. and you keep going.
that was maybeeee out of character, but i wanted to see for myself
so overall, in summary about ticket taker!
remember, he's not like the others. he won't lick you or collar you or experiment on you. he'll just... watch. wait. catalog.
and when he finally lets you in and when he finally cracks, trust, it'll be worth it. because ticket taker doesn't give his trust easily. doesn't give his body easily. and when he does, like when he chooses you—it means something.
so take care of him, plaything. be patient. be gentle. and for the love of all that is stitched and sacred—kiss his thighs.
he'll might thank you.
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
