Have you considered: the freak circus MC becomes tiny. As in, "can fit in just their palm" tiny. Any headcanons on how circus cast would react and treat MC?
hi cupcake! i love love love this prompt! I’m not sure whether you meant platonic or general/romantic HCs, so i kept it vague in order for you all to choose your own dynamics <3
Pierrot
“Baby?” he calls out, looking around all over his tent with a worried frown.
You had suddenly vanished even though he had been holding you all night!
He's so sure that you ran away, but when he sees the blankets rustling, he's quick to tug at them, revealing your tiny form.
He instantly melts into a puddle by the bed.
“You're so tiny,” he almost sobs, holding out his hand for you to come to.
When he figures out that you're barely even as tall as one of his fingers he lets a waterfall of tears flow freely.
He can't help it, you're adorable!
He would be very worried about you and how you got that way, but he'd always eventually want you to stay that way for a while.
He loves to carry you around and keep you in his cupped palms, showing you around in your new perspective.
He adores tiny you, and he won't let anyone take advantage of you in this state, still treating you with the upmost respect and kindness.
Harlequin
Boy oh boy. When he sees you he immediately bursts out laughing.
It delights him even further when he realizes it isn't a magic trick or an illusion.
He totally takes advantage of you.
He riles you up, talks about how easily you'd fit in his mouth now, and keeps you trapped in a little jar for a little bit.
“I could just swallow you whole~”
Give him like 2 days and he's tired of it.
He misses your big self. You can't mess around with him anymore or even fight back. It's no fun if he has such a big advantage.
He tries his best to turn you back once he's had his fill of fun.
“You’re not cuddle sized anymore” :(
Doctor
He's absolutely fascinated.
“How did this happen, hm?”
You are NOT allowed off his makeshift mini examination table the entire time. You’re going to be kept under a magnifying glass for sure.
Measures out the amount of medicine to give you in your new tiny size (literally just a few drops).
Honestly, wouldn’t mind if you stayed tiny, but would probably miss you helping him out around his tent.
If he can examine you successfully, he might find you a cure, but he won’t give it to you until he finds out how to turn you tiny again too.
Ticket Taker
“Oh dear. What happened here?” Ticket Taker says as soon as he spots you, gently picking you up to rest in his palms.
He’s very protective of you when you’re so small because he’s scared you’ll get squished.
He keeps you in his front breast pocket of his suit, not trusting anyone else to babysit you in this state.
He will read up insistently to figure out what’s going on.
If you’re tiny for more than a few days, he adjusts his suit pocket so it’s a lot more spacious and makes it into a comfy place for you.
He even makes you sleep in there now, so you’ll never not be at his side.
It’s kind of sweet, actually. You’re always right by his heartbeat.
Jester
“Oh isn’t that cute. You’re in your true form. A bug.”
He monumentally likes your tiny form much more than your big form.
He builds you a little cage, kind of like a hamster’s cage with a running wheel and everything.
Occasionally takes you out to pet you but likes staring at you through the glass most the time.
“Too bad acomodations like this are too hard to make when you’re human sized. I much prefer you like this.”
Will pretend like he doesn’t hear you complaining by closing your cage lid.
Ignores TT’s suggestions about this being human cruelty.
“I’m taking care of them well enough. In fact, I pay more attention to them now than before.”
Also, thank you Royallogana for drawing TFC art of my OC. I can't wait to see it.
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
If you're underage, leave now.
Pierrot
Feeling: Pierrot would feel like he is on Cloud Nine. He would feel overwhelmed in the best way possible. Having the love of his life on top of him; loving him, pleasuring him, complimenting him, using him; he could die happy. Just say the word, and he is on his back waiting for his love to do what they want to him.
Trust: Pierrot trusts MC with everything he has; his heart, his soul, his body, his life.
What He is Comfortable with: biting, light scratches, temperature play, praises, food play, and taking orders.
What He is Uncomfortable with: hitting, degradation, spitting, hair pulling, bondage, blindfolding, and choking.
Pierrot's Safeword: Sweets
The Best Aftercare for Pierrot: words of affirmation, pillow talk, food, water, petting his head and horns, kisses, cuddling, and rubbing comforting circles on his back.
Jester
Feeling: The first time MC brings up wanting to be on Top/Dom, he flat out refuses. He doesn't like being controlled, doesn't like losing control, and he especially doesn't like the feeling of not having any control over the situation. After some time, he will think long and hard if he should let his pet be in control. The next time Jester and MC have coffee together, Jester brings up MC being on Top/Dom. He has thought it over and has agreed to let MC be on Top/Dom, but he wants to establish his rules and boundaries with MC first.
Trust: Due to his past experiences with humans, he doesn't trust them at all, but he does trust MC a little bit, it will take a LONG time for MC to gain more trust from Jester, but patience is needed.
What He is Comfortable with: biting, body worship, praise, and licking.
What He is Uncomfortable with: spitting, hitting, bondage, choking, blindfolding, pet play, degradation, hair pulling, taking orders, and knife play.
Jester's Safeword: Silk
The Best Aftercare for Jester: changing the sheets, food, water, massaging him with lotions and oils, body worship, praise, cleaning him off with a washcloth, running him a bubble bath, and brushing his hair for him.
Columbina
Feeling: Columbina is slightly hesitant, but she knows that MC would never do anything to hurt her. Columbina and MC talk about what they are both comfortable with doing and what they are not comfortable doing.
Trust: Columbina trusts MC with all of her heart. She knows for a FACT that MC would NEVER do anything that would hurt her.
What She is Comfortable with: breath play, light nibbles, tickling, body worship, and praise.
What She is Uncomfortable with: anything to do with pain, bondage, spitting, hitting, spanking, blindfolding, rough biting, degradation, and choking.
Columbina's Safeword: Sugarplum
The Best Aftercare for Columbina: a plate of fruit, a wet washcloth to help clean her up, fresh sheets, pillow talk, praise, words of affirmation, a bubble bath, cuddling, and fruit.
Ticket Taker
Feeling: If Jester is in 1st place for being the most hesitant/stubborn one in the group to let MC be Top/Dom, then in 2nd place, we have Ticket Taker, but unlike Jester, whose main reason is that he has a grudge against humans, Ticket Taker's reason is different. The reason being is that he is extremely private about his life, that especially includes his sex/intimacy with MC. If MC wants to Top/Dom Ticket Taker, they have to sign a contract stating that whatever happens between them is to never be told to anyone. It stays between MC and Ticket Taker. Ticket Taker does, in fact, make the contract himself.
Trust: Ticket Taker is slow to trust anyone; that especially includes MC. Letting MC take control is a huge step for Ticket Taker, so for him to give MC permission to Top/Dom him shows that he has a lot of trust in MC.
What He is Comfortable with: blindfolding, praise, biting, temperature play, and scratching
What He is Uncomfortable with: hitting, choking, spitting, anything that makes a mess, sounding, bondage, gagging, food play, and anything public.
Ticket Taker's Safeword: Ticket
The Best Aftercare for Ticket Taker: a wet washcloth, a long bath, clean sheets, praise, laying together in silence, food, water, and a nice slow massage.
Doctor
Feeling: Doctor wouldn't be all that concerned. In fact, he is relieved. He is BIG, so when he Tops/Doms MC, he is always careful about the weight and pressure he uses on MC. He doesn't want to injure his favorite patient. So when MC brings up wanting to Top/Dom him, he is relieved, fascinated, and curious about how this will go. Relieved that he can just lay down and let MC use him, however they want, fascinated by this new variable in his and MC's sex/intimacy life, and curious about what MC will do to him. MC can't see his reaction due to his mask, but judging by the red color of his goggles, MC thinks Doctor is excited to experiment with this new method of sexual intimacy.
Trust: MC trusts him when he gives them a check-up/when he experiments on MC, so Doctor trusts MC with their sexual experiments on him.
What He is Comfortable with: bondage, temperature play, scratching, biting, overstimulation, dirty talk, praise, and taking orders.
What He is Uncomfortable with: choking, blindfolding, hitting, spitting, degradation, gagging, sounding, branding, and hair pulling.
Doctor's Safeword: Syringe
The Best Aftercare for Doctor: clean sheets, a bath, preening his feathers, small talk, praise, and stroking his chest.
Harlequin
Feeling: At first, he thinks MC is joking, but once he realizes that they are serious, he changes the topic. Once MC leaves, Harlequin is up all night thinking it over in his head. The next time MC and Harlequin are in his tent together, he tells MC that they can Top/Dom him, but not without teasing MC about it.
Trust: He doesn't show it, but he is wary/nervous. He isn't very good with emotions, but that doesn't mean he doesn't trust MC. In fact, he trusts MC a lot. He doesn't show it, but he does trust MC.
What He is Comfortable with: biting, scratching, gagging, pegging, cum play, bondage, electricity play, blindfolding, spitting, temperature play, overstimulation, sounding, licking, knife play, dirty talk, praise, and body worship.
What He is Uncomfortable with: choking, hair pulling, hitting, degradation, branding, teasing, and taking orders.
Harlequin's Safeword: Poison
The Best Aftercare for Harlequin: body worship, kissing and nibbling his neck, spicy food, soda, pillow talk, cuddling, and petting his scales.
I hope you liked this Royallogana. I also just want to thank you again for making art of my OC, I know I keep saying this, but it really does mean a lot to me. I hope you like this😊.
You hear a knock on your balcony door. Who can it be at three in the morning oh— him, for sure.
“Come in,” you said. And to no one's surprise it was Pierrot, silent as ever but you could sense a little bit of hesitation in his stance. You gesture him to sit down on the bed near you, in an attempt to make him more comfortable. He obeys as usual, sitting stiffly.
“You know you can come by the main door, right?” You joke trying to lighten the tension.
Pierrot just shook his head, “I… don't want to risk getting caught by them.”
“Them? The neighbours don't really care—”
"No, the circus people.
You stayed silent. You have so many questions but one thing you have learnt from all these encounters is that there are boundaries. You can ask anything and Pierrot will answer honestly until it's about the secrets of the circus. You had a bit of idea on the origins of the circus from the acts of Harlequin and Jester, but how did people end up being dolls in there? Why did they choose your city? And how come you are still alive and well even after encountering all those horrors??
Almost as if reading your mind, Pierrot reached out for your hand and caressed it soothingly. It's unfair the way he always knew how to calm you down.
“Don't worry, my lady. I will never let anything happen to you,” he said with that adoration in his eyes that made him look like a puppy.
You couldn't help but smile at him, “I trust you.”
Three words only, but that somehow made him grin like a fool. He took your hand, placing it on his cheek and began to nuzzle it.
“Mmm, you smell so good, my dear.”
“Is that so? Like what?”
“Like all the pleasures in the world,” he licked the tip of your finger slowly, savouring every second.
A shive ran down your spine which didn't escape his eyes. “You like that? I can give you more~”
Before you can even reply, he started sucking your finger. Gosh. Such a simple act but so incredibly erotic.
He removed your finger from his mouth, then gently pushed you on the mattress, crawling over you. His giant figure engulfed you away in his shadow, making you feel an odd sense of satisfaction.
Pierrot stared at your face for a few seconds, drinking in your features, your beauty, your fear and something deeper under all that.
“You are so beautiful, my lady.”
You blushed, “you always say that.”
He flashed a shy smile, “and I mean it everytime.”
He leaned in closer to your ear, licking your skin just under the ear. Your body reacted on its own towards his touch. It always did. Feeling you lean in, he wrapped an arm around your waist pulling you closer until there was no space left between you two. He breathed heavily in the crook of your neck,
“I want you, my love.
So badly. So so so badly it hurts.
I need to be with you.
I need to be in you.”
With those words he rocked his hips slowly but intently on your inner thigh. He was big. You could feel him hard and throbbing with need. And honestly? You were just as far gone as him.
“Have me,” you sighed out.
His movements paused before he pulled back to look at you, his expression asking if you are sure. You nod almost immediately. "I want to be yours. In every way.”
It was all he needed before he snapped. Within a minute your clothes were ripped and his hands were all over you.
It was obvious he never touched a human before with the way he was marvelling at the sight of you naked. His hands roamed over your chest, squeezing your breasts, “so soft…” He leaned in and kissed the nipple before sucking hungrily.
“Ah- Pierrot-” You pushed up in his mouth.
Hearing his name fall like a prayer from your mouth was something he never thought he would hear, and that only made him more eager to please you.
Waiting for you for so long was already taking a toll on him. He couldn't wait any longer. He sat up straight and took off his shirt, while maintaining eye contact.
For a non-human, his build was too good. You reached out, fingers grazing over his abs admiringly. A flush spread across his face, “you like it?”
You nod.
He leaned in closer, looming over you as he confessed slowly,
“all yours, my love.”
He eased you down on the bed before settling between your knees.
“Let me know if it's overwhelming,” and with that he pushes a finger in you. Just one but it still filled you so well you let out a noise of pleasure. He watched your expressions, noting every change in them as he pushed another, stretching you well. His fingers were so long, felt so good, you didn't have the time to care about the fact that you were letting a monster touch you. His slow gentle strokes made you feel too loved to care about any morals.
After a few minutes he pulled back his fingers, licking off your wetness from them. You whimpered at the loss before he hushed you,
“don’t be sad, my lady. I will take care of you really good~”
He zipped down his pants, his dick springing out. Oh. Maybe you underestimated his size.
He rubbed his tip on your entrance hesitantly, clearly holding back.
“Tell me to stop if it hurts… I don't want to do anything you don't want,” he looked so scared at the idea of hurting you that you almost wanted to reach out and hug him.
Instead you nod, reassuring him, “I know you want the best for me.”
His shoulders relaxed and he leaned in to kiss your lips. Most gentle and caring one you have gotten in your life, that too from such a giant.
He slowly slid in you while kissing you to distract you from the pain. His dick was stretching you by a lot but it didn't take you much long to adjust to him.
Feeling you relax he gently began to move; an audible shudder went through his body. Just being inside you was enough for him to come but as always his priority was you.
“I have been dreaming about this for so long… finally mine,” he thrusted deeper, hitting your sweet spot. “All mine,” he chanted while continuing his deep strokes.
You were almost in heaven seeing stars, moaning mindlessly with eyes rolled back.
Watching you in pleasure made Pierrot feel so useful and satisfied. He wanted to make you cum on his dick. Coat him in your essence, claim him as yours too.
He fastened the pace.
“Mine to pleasure… all m— ah! mine to love~”
His beast took over him as he fucked you more rough, making the bed creak.
“And I am yours, only yours,” he repeated.
It was too much at once. His words, his possessiveness, his dick— you didn't even have time to know before came on his dick. The feeling of you coming undone on his dick, squeezing him so deliciously, made him orgasm too.
“Ah~ you—love—feel so good- ahh-”
He kept thrusting lazily, riding out his high, making sure you were filled properly with his cum before he collapsed on you.
“Mmm~ I love you, my lady,” he hugged you by your waist and nuzzled your chest.
“I love you too, Pierrot…” you murmured, your mind still hazy from the intense night.
____________________________________________
first full smut lol I tried my best to not make it sound cringe.
Also ignore grammatical errors 🤞I didn't proof read
Damnatio Ad Bestias- Epilogue to “A Shattered Illusion”- A TFC x Ringmaster’s Child Reader!
────୨ৎ────
≫ The much-requested little bonus bit is here! Thank you all for your support and enthusiasm on my last work, it truly means the world to me! This goes without saying that this post won’t make much sense if you haven’t read the first part lol
≫ This work also makes some HEFTY assumptions about/canon divergences from the lore, backstories, and worldbuilding of TFC which very well may be (and probably will be tbh) proven wrong over time. Please excuse any possible inaccuracies or errors!
≫ Content Warnings: Depictions and descriptions of death, extreme violence, gore, starvation/binge eating, cruelty in several forms, cannibalism, referenced abuse and severe mistreatment, religious allusions relating to Christianity/Catholicism (lines in Latin), and severe trauma.
≫ Mild emetophobia warning! Mentions of nausea and v*
≫ Word Count: 8.7k words. (Leave it to ElectricChair759 to go overboard on a “tiny bonus part” ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ)
O blind cupidity, O wrath insane,
That spurs us onward so in our short life,
And in the eternal then so badly steeps us...
- Dante’s Inferno, Canto 12 lines 49-51
—————————
It was quiet for a long while after the Ringmaster had given his child the key to those iron cages. He waited outside the large tent, anticipating the inevitable time when the stubbornness and naivety would finally reduce from an emotionally-driven blaze down to embers. Impulsive anger would turn into shame, and shame into regret. And regret was the first step towards repentance.
It had happened countless times before when his child was young, and it would likely happen again. He was sure of it. Every child went through a rebellious phase, after all. His child–despite having since grown old enough to fledge the nest–was just a little late to do so.
It would all play out, he thought to himself, just like any other performance. It was all under control.
But time passed, and the Ringmaster heard and saw nothing. No screams of fear, no rushed footsteps, no calling for him to fend off the awful creatures of the night—not that those beasts could actually pose any threat to his child. Those wretched things were far too weak to stand properly, let alone cause any real harm. Their fangs were too rotted, their muscles too thin, their claws too brittle from malnutrition.
Strange, then, that there were no signs of…anything. Had his young one perhaps not yet accepted the truth? That the foul creatures cared for nothing and nobody but themselves and their own insatiable appetites?
Those freaks of nature would sooner feast upon the rats that scurried beside their cages than retain even a shred of dignity and die somewhat peacefully—he would know. He’s seen it before. Their kind chew off limbs if caught in traps like foxes in snares, go so far as to eat anything and everything available in their hunger-driven madness. And when those beasts did eat, they’d sooner feast until they were sick than feast until they were satisfied.
Such unfortunate bastards, those things. How wretched an existence to be forever empty and hungry and wanting yet so profoundly unable to be slaked. It was no wonder they were called demons. Their kind could almost be pitiable if they weren’t so loathsome.
This whole debacle would be over soon. One way or another, the Ringmaster would get something out of this. If the creatures were so insistent on being too dangerous and difficult to keep, then he would give them what they wished for. He would let them die. Not the Damsel, though. There could yet be another use for her. A different use.
The Ringmaster would be the first to admit his own mistake and single miscalculation in all this, though. He had underestimated just how much his own child’s curiosity outweighed the fear he had taught and ingrained. Just like him, so hungry for answers and thirsty for adventure into the unknown.
Such a stubborn thing. He should have nipped that curiosity in the bud long ago, should have snuffed it out in its entirety. But even the Ringmaster had his moments of weakness and indulgence, many of which consisted of being soft towards his only child. How couldn’t he be? His beloved wife was no longer in this world to do so. His child was all he had left of her, was all the tenderness she had left in the world and in his heart.
Truly, he had been too soft, too lenient. His own father was harsh and unforgiving, as was his father before him. But his familial chain had a weak link, and it was nobody’s responsibility but his, despite it not being his fault. Not entirely. He had allowed his child far too much time in the sun. It was inevitable that the inexperienced and unknowing fledgling would get lost in the dark.
The man sighed, pinching his fingertips between his eyes. His poor, stupid, utterly naive young one. So lost without guidance, even after growing up. His child knew nothing of the real world, nothing of its dangers and its sins. And to think he would have proposed that the circus would one day be passed down into those unsure and shaky hands.
It was times like these when he wondered what his wife would have done, what she would have said. She likely would have known what to do. She was the glue that held his family together, after all.
He then shook his head rapidly, not allowing the thoughts of his long-gone beloved to soften his heart. A point needed to be proven, even through pain and tears.
But the longer he thought of things and people he didn’t want to, the more the Ringmaster realized that it was downright ridiculous how long it was taking for the lesson to be learned. Surely his child couldn’t be so stubborn as to refuse to admit that he was correct in his ways?
He sighed. If he wanted something done properly, he would have to do it himself.
The rest of the circus members had long retired to their resting quarters or to their homes in the town just beyond the threshold. Luckily, nobody else would have to witness this complete and utter embarrassment.
With a quick adjustment to his coat, he began to move towards the closed-off area like so many times before. Honestly, just how much had those things affected his child? He was sorely mistaken in their influence; that much was apparent.
The curtains to the cages came into view, and the Ringmaster already began to speak before pulling them aside, scolding his young one for all of these unnecessary melodramatics. It was almost laughable, this situation.
“It’s about time you let go of this fantasy, child. I’ve humored your nonsense long enough.”
The curtains were then parted, allowing light to finally be brought into the darkness that housed the metal cages.
Which were…pried open.
The man simply stood there, unable to fully comprehend what he was seeing. What exactly he had expected, he wasn’t sure. But it most certainly wasn’t anything like this.
It was only after a few seconds that the Ringmaster realized just how unnaturally thick the air was, and the unusually strong metallic stench that sat heavily in his lungs like cigar smoke. The air here was normally bitter with the smell of rust from the cages, but this smell…it was almost organic. What had these filthy things done this time? Surely his child couldn’t have been so foolish as to attempt any sort of…
Something rattled beneath his shoe, and the man looked down to see that it was something small and metal and-
The key to the cages? What was it doing on the ground? What had been done with it? Why was it cast aside and forgotten?
A low rumbling growl came from further in the darkness. It was less heard and more so felt within the deepest hollows of the Ringmaster’s bones. Focusing his gaze into the dark, the man saw that just beyond where the light from the performance ring came from, there were five pairs of eyes staring straight back.
Purple, green, yellow, red, and mismatched blue and white. But no pink. None at all. The sight made something coil tightly behind his ribs.
Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
Though he didn’t know why, the man didn’t move. Instead, he looked closer into that darkness, searching for signs of something he didn’t quite know. His heart stopped in his chest and sank down to his gut as he noticed one very crucial detail.
The monsters were not as they once appeared.
Their once long and bony limbs were shorter and fuller, making them not nearly as tall as they once were. Their teeth and claws and sharp edges were all dulled—still visibly pointed and dangerous, but subtler now. Some animalistic features were hidden beneath clothes that now fit them slightly too big; others were still visible.
There were dark stains on all of their foul faces. Streaks that he initially believed to be blood or some other filth, but upon looking closer appeared to be…tears?
Impossible, he thought. These things cared for nothing but consumption, for their own survival.
But what was far more unsettling was that the beasts looked…almost human. If not for their horns and faces, they could easily be initially mistaken for very tall humans if they were to cover themselves head to heel.
But when the Ringleader looked closer at their faces, he saw red. It was a wine-dark red that stained their chins, their hands, the front of their tattered clothes. It soaked into the floor, filling the air with its stench. Blood. It was blood. And it was coming from something large and wet and organic-smelling.
The man took a half-step back, unable to suppress his utter disgust and shock at what he thought he had seen.
It was a corpse being eaten, a sight so profane and utterly unholy that it sent pinpricks across his entire body. Horrible chills accompanied waves of uncomfortable heat that made him both sweat and shiver. The damned things must have pried their cages open and killed one of their own. And what better meal than one that couldn’t fight back?
The horrid things had brandished their fangs against one of their own. They had torn the Damsel asunder. And…
Where was his child? Where? Surely the young one must have run off somewhere, immeasurably frightened by the sight of the beasts cannibalizing one of their own. But then, where was his child? The Ringmaster heard and saw nothing, and he knew he had stayed by the only entrance. But then…
The man’s gaze landed on the wet and stringy flesh held within those black claws once again. He forced himself to look upon the torn corpse between them more closely, bile coating his throat. The body’s skin wasn’t that unnatural ashen grey, nor did there appear to be any horns atop its head or fur on any limbs…
Denial raced through the man’s mind. He was paralyzed with shock, entirely unable to move, yet also unable to take his eyes off the sight. And the longer he looked, the less he was able to believe it was untrue.
There his child lay, body torn open, insides held within the grip of the monsters. It was a miracle the man was able to choke out words at all at the realization.
“You…My…”
The fiends stared up at him while continuing to slowly rip and chew and swallow, teeth squeezing and effortlessly tearing through soft muscle. A couple of them even bent their forms over the carcass on the ground, likely becoming territorial over their food like the disgusting animals they were. It took every effort in the man’s body not to vomit right then and there, though his insides ached and roiled the longer he stood there.
And then he felt the urge to move, to do something, anything, but what? It was clear just from a glance that it was far too late to save his child. He couldn’t hope to fight off five ravenous flesh-supped creatures. And if he were to run, where would he go?
But being reasonable in times of fear isn’t what humans are known for. A trembling finger was pointed in accusation at the menagerie, a single, unsure step taken away from the creatures.
“You godless savages-!”
But as soon as the man began to shout, one of the beasts leapt up unnaturally fast, gripping the Ringmaster by his throat. The man choked and sputtered, his hands instinctively moving to pry the dark and bony fingers off, but failing. The one choking him was revealed to be the purple-eyed beast with four horns, its eyes glinting a dangerous and unnatural hue steeped in pure fury. Its claws started pressing into the man’s neck harder and harder with every passing moment, almost certainly trying to draw blood yet also holding back just enough not to kill him.
Dies iræ, dies illa, solvet sæclum in favilla
A low-pitched animalistic sound came from the depths of its chest, aggressive and nothing short of nightmare fuel. The other creatures quickly joined the cacophony, trilling and hissing and chittering deeply unnatural and awful sounds while slowly moving towards the man and away from the gutted body of his child. He attempted to fight, but it was useless. Every little movement granted him only a tighter grip on his neck. When actions failed, he resorted to strained words.
“You filthy animals…You killed my…!”
The claws sinking into his throat went even deeper, blood beginning to bubble at the back of his throat and making him choke even further. The fiend in front of him snarled a vicious noise, sharp teeth bared back. Its other hand rose, claws prepared to skin and bleed him like a pig. He gasped out a desperate sound.
“No, please! You…You need me! If you kill me, you’ll have no way to survive!”
The Ringmaster gagged and coughed between his pleas for mercy, for any scrap of hesitation the monsters may possess. Surely these creatures weren’t so unreasonable as to be rid of their only source of protection from the outside world? They were impossibly far from their empty valley, stranded from any others of their kind. Other humans would surely have their heads the moment they stepped outside the circus grounds.
“I brought you here! I ensured your survival! Y-you made your point, we can make another deal! A fair one!”
These monsters already took his child from him, already made it clear that they were discontent with what had become of them. So much so that they ate one of their own just to survive.
But the point of no return had long been crossed. The man and the beasts knew it without saying it aloud. Yet he attempted to reason for his life anyway as the other creatures drew nearer, teeth and claws brandished and dripping.
“You’ll…have nothing, nobody! You’ll be torn apart out there!”
A single moment passed. A fleeting moment of consideration. Hope flickered and flared in the Ringleader’s chest. But it died just moments later when the monsters snarled and growled even louder than before. Their bright eyes became pointed and narrowed.
So be it, they seemed to say without words. They had made their decision long ago. It was painfully apparent that the man was at their mercy, and they remembered everything that was ever done to them with startling clarity. Every blow, cut, and bruise inflicted. Every scrap of food withheld. Every empty laugh at their pain. Every consolation denied. Every rub of salt in their wounds.
But no more.
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? Quem patronum rogaturus? Cum vix iustus sit securus
The Ringmaster was then thrown to the ground, each limb held down by one of the other creatures. Though the harsh and unforgiving grip on his throat was now gone, it was still impossible to speak, blood and fear clogging whatever words he would attempt to plead with. Eyes of varying colors bore into him like daggers as he thrashed and struggled. There was no delaying it, no denying it now. The man would die just in the same way he lived. Cruelly. Emptily.
In a way, one could consider dying to be his first and only good deed in this world.
The sickening man’s kind fledgling was the one who allowed the beasts to take on these new forms. He would be the first in a long line of humans who would allow them to sustain themselves. He would finally be of some use to them.
All he ever did was take and take and take, even when the beasts had nothing left to give. Especially when they had nothing left to give. Yet even still, he wanted more. Always more. But now…
It was their turn to take.
And so they took.
Each of the monsters descended upon the man with sharpened claws and hungry eyes.
Flesh was flayed and torn. Limbs were quartered and feasted upon. Wet squelches and heavy dripping filled the air alongside desperate gurgling screams as the man was torn open at the belly and disemboweled. Organs were splayed, tendons and ligaments ripped from their places and then swallowed.
But the Ringmaster was not eaten hastily or desperately. He was eaten slowly. Painfully. Savored, even.
Bite after bite after bite, the screams quickly faded. All too soon, the monsters silently thought. It would have been quite satisfying to inflict every agony and pain that existed—and many more that did not—upon him, drag and parade his carcass around for rats and scavengers to pick clean…
But that didn't matter. What mattered was that the creatures would be able to sustain their forms for quite a while with this meal. This flesh would have to suffice.
Bite after bite after bite, the Ringleader became unrecognizable. Eyes rolled back and glassy, elegant and coveted clothing reduced to nothing but bloodstained scraps. His blood tasted filthy, far more metallic than the others they had tasted; it was as though it were cheaply gilded, just like everything else in his life. It tasted of greed. Of an existence decayed with decadence. It was disgusting to them.
Yet the monsters continued to eat anyway, faces twisted and stomachs churning at the bitterness and pollution in the meat.
But after the creatures had their fill of the man’s flesh—which was quite soon, as they found revenge was a short-lived reason to eat something that tasted rather nasty—they turned back to the other corpse on the ground outside the cages. The Ringmaster’s kin. The one who showed foul devils kindness when the entire rest of the world wanted them to bleed. Though the naive human’s body and limbs were nearly scant of recognizable features, the face was untouched, eyes still half-lidded and lightless.
Such an unfortunate creature, that one. Caught in a very bad place at a very bad moment. Rewarded only death for such curiosity about things that best remained in the dark.
Could this human’s death have been prevented? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It didn’t matter now. What was done was done.
Yet even though the monsters did not shed tears—they had all been spent mourning their beloved angel—their sorrow was still evident in the way they positioned themselves in a circle around the human’s corpse. One of them gently closed the human’s eyelids as though the creature were merely sleeping—even though there was a gaping cavity split open just beneath the ribcage.
The purple-eyed beast then picked up the still-warm body, holding it up and carrying it carefully and efficiently so as not to spill any entrails. Blood seeped into his clothes—or poor excuses for them—and stuck to his skin. The other creatures looked questioningly at him, each of them in varying states between lucidity and borderline catatonia. His voice was low and hushed when he beckoned them to stand.
“...Come. Let us end this. This place can be a grave for him, for all of them. But not this one.”
Now that they had the strength, now that they had the time and means to do so, they could offer this one mercy. They could finally destroy this circus in its entirety, be rid of this godforsaken prison once and for all.
They could free their beloved Dove and the human who aided them from their bonds to this place.
The blue and white-eyed creature slowly took out one of the many small matchsticks that had been given to him merely a day prior and simply stared at it, then at the violet-haired fellow beast. They both nodded. Without another word, the match was struck and lit. And then it was tossed onto the tent walls, the thick fabric quickly feeding the sparks to turn into flames.
The monsters turned back to the dead Ringmaster’s mangled body for what would be the last time.
He who had grown complacent in his cruelty was no more. But unlike with their pink-eyed fellow beast and the human who had been good to them, the beasts did not intend to eat the man’s body in its entirety. No, they would leave his flesh and bones to be picked clean and scattered and defiled by rodents and maggots and carrion birds–assuming there would be anything but ash left after this fire ravaged and consumed everything.
Either way, his remains would be forever buried and entombed in the rubble of his greatest glory, which was now his greatest failure. A fitting end.
The entire menagerie moved as one, slowly walking—shambling, more like—out of the darkness and away from those awful cages. Those cold and corroded bars were once believed to be their coffins. That all felt so impossibly distant now after what they had done.
Their minds were still hazy and unable to fully process all that had happened. Their joints ached. Their eyes stung from the lights overhead. Their skin prickled with the unfamiliarity of freedom. True freedom. It felt strange to even think of it. Mere hours prior, they believed such a word to be a curse, a taboo to speak no differently than a foul profanity.
The night was dark when they parted the tent opening with trembling claws. The circus grounds were empty. The guests were long gone, and the workers had retired to their private quarters. For the first time in a very long time, the beasts had looked up to the sky. It was different from the sky back in the valley. There were fewer stars visible in the pitch-black, the air choked with smog from the developing world. But it was the night sky nonetheless, and so it was beautiful.
The air was cold, nipping at dark skin and fresh scars. But it was clearer and cleaner than anything any of them had known in many moons. The beasts breathed unweighted shaky breaths as one, in and out, in and out, in and out.
And though each of the monsters was sure that they could have stayed there for all eternity, simply basking in their unchained and uncaged existences, they knew that they were not yet completely safe. Not yet completely free. There was still work to be done.
An orange glow behind them began to make their shadows emerge and lengthen from their feet. The air was starting to become warm, almost uncomfortably so. The smell of smoke was beginning to drown out all other senses. The violet-eyed beast showed no urgency, no concern, for he had already known what he and the others would do with this quiet night’s opportunity while the evening was still young.
Still holding the corpse of the dear human in his arms, he took a couple of steps forward to address his fellow former prisoners. His eyes shone with ambition that burned brighter than any flame as he turned to the blue and white-eyed eldest of them, then to each of the others one by one.
“Disperse the matches. Go to each of the tents.”
The others looked slightly confused, but they did not question. Not yet.
“Watch the exits. Let none escape.”
Their bright-colored eyes all widened slightly with recognition of what was being tasked to them. Then their pupils turned to even thinner slits than before. Tonight was the perfect night to destroy this place. Now was the perfect time to hunt, to exact revenge, to make all of these humans suffer as they had.
This horrid place would reek of blood and smoke and cinders by sunrise.
“Kill them all.”
Without a word, each beast had taken a palmful of matches—matches that were once given for light and warmth—and ran off in different directions. The iris-eyed creature did not join them, though. He was still holding something very important, and he didn’t want it to touch the filthy ground of this place any longer. He walked very slowly towards the very edge of the circus and simply watched as flames slowly began licking at the edges of every tent he passed, acrid smoke rising over the tallest of them.
The air became bitter and thick, but he paid it no mind. It was nothing any of the beasts weren’t already used to.
Screams and shouts of fear echoed throughout the entire troupe, but they didn’t last long. They were either silenced by a swift strike of claws or eventually gone hoarse from burning smoke and drowned out by the growing blaze. A few strays even aimlessly ran around like ants in a disturbed mound before being stilled by a harsh tearing bite to the throat or a quick slice to their belly to spill their innards.
Time passed. Soon enough, the entire circus was engulfed in fire and smoke. How ironic, the beasts being the ones to destroy and consume this place, and not the other way around. One by one, each of the other creatures joined their new leader at the edge of the circus, claws slick with fresh blood and lungs heaving from chasing and hunting prey.
Such exertion would have been nigh impossible—dangerous, even—for beings afflicted with such profound starvation. But vengeance proved to be quite an ample motivator.
Confutatis maledictis, flammis acribus addictis. Voca me cum benedictis
And when the monsters had gathered with silent affirmations that all of the circus workers were dead, they collectively moved into the forest just beyond the furthest of the tents. The sound of flames and the scent of smoke gradually got more and more distant as they walked and walked, not once stopping or looking back. They kept moving until they reached a small clearing in the woods, and the iris-eyed beast had laid the dear human’s body on the ground.
Blood quickly dotted the grass and nettles like dewdrops at dawn. The monsters gathered around the corpse as they had before, not moving to touch it any further. It was quiet, save for the occasional breeze blowing through the tree canopy or the rhythmic insect chirps. They waited. What for, none of them could say. The body wouldn’t get any fresher. But still they waited for what felt like an eternity, when in reality it was likely merely moments.
“…Foolish. Utterly foolish thing.”
The emerald-eyed beast broke the silence. He was right in his words; none of the others could deny it. This human was a fool, no doubt about it. But there was something else. Something unaddressed.
The tallest of them, the avian creature, trilled a low sound, tilting his head at the corpse’s face.
“Yes. Naive, callow. But…”
But kind. Eager to listen, to learn. Willing to help even without getting anything in return. Especially without the promise of anything in return. Why? Why only that human, who had every reason to believe them devils from Hell? Why that human, who had that pathetic and ignorant man as a father? Nothing was given in return for that kindness, and yet nothing was expected in the first place.
“So much like her.”
The eldest of them with mismatched blue and white eyes muttered lowly, almost to himself. He wasn’t wrong. The human was dreadfully unwary, just like their roseate fellow beast. Perhaps that was why the two of them seemed to be able to get along so well.
So why, then, did both of them have to become sacrifices?
It was hard to comprehend, yet it was simple.
Not just one, but two pure lives had been lost in the span of a single night. No, not lost. Taken. But what difference does it make? What does it matter how they were gone?
The angels are still dead. And the monsters are sorrowful.
But sorrow does not equate to regret.
It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Precious flowers are always plucked from thorny brambles. Fruits are sweetest just before they rot. Pure and pale fabrics always end up stained sooner or later. There was only one way this all could have ended. There was only one way this should have ended.
Even if that human or their little dove hadn’t died tonight, they would have been inevitably swallowed up by the rest of the world, bound to have their goodness tainted or abused or taken altogether. This cold, dark world…those two wouldn't have been able to survive in it.
It was best this way. Wasn’t it?
Those thoughts were nothing but cold and sharp stings to the beasts’ wounds. Cruel and crude in their actions as they were, they weren’t heartless. What little comfort they could hope to gain was that they ate their little dove bones and all, leaving nothing behind but scraps of her dress. She would always remain with them. They made sure of it.
And now…
The four-horned unofficial leader motioned towards the dear human’s unconsumed body. The flesh was already discolored; it would soon begin to stiffen and rot if they weren’t fast.
“Eat.”
And so the creatures ate. They ate and ate and ate, not only because their newfound freedom spawned newfound hunger, but to do for the dear one what they had also done for their kin. They would keep this kind and unknowing outlier of a human close to them forever.
It was the least they could do for the poor creature.
Every scrap was eaten, every little edible piece of flesh and cartilage and whatever other meat that existed. The monsters remained undisturbed in their darkness and as such had scraped a majority of the bones clean. The largest of the bones were then split open, the marrow inside them licked and chewed. And then those bone fragments were carefully eaten as well.
Not a single digestible speck had gone untouched. None save for the human’s heart, which had long stopped beating.
Amid the pile of iron-stenched slurry and tattered red-soaked clothes lay the small organ. The other beasts had wordlessly agreed not to touch it. Not yet.
It was the violet-eyed leader who finally moved to grasp it in his palm and rip it from its place, the veins and arteries popping and gushing onto his black claws, but he paid it no mind. He pressed his thumb into one of the seams of the flesh as though he were splitting a citrus fruit, prying it open and tearing it into two, then four, then finally five pieces.
Five portions for five beasts. The four-horned creature pressed one piece of flesh into every one of his kin’s palms.
He said nothing. They said nothing. They all ate those pieces of flesh, not daring to waste even a drop of blood or a speck of meat. Such a fragile thing, that heart. It never should have been aching for such creatures. But now it would become a part of them, carefully eaten, savored, swallowed in its entirety.
Cor contritum quasi cinis, gere curam mei finis
Once the monsters were finally replete with flesh for the first time in years immeasurable, they scraped their claws against the earth to bury what little was left behind. Wetted and tattered clothing, mostly. Sticky clumps of hair. Needle-sharp bone fragments. They likely wouldn't need to do such a thing to hide their traces, but they did it anyway. It was tradition, after all.
How strange. Their pink-eyed kin was eaten in the same way monsters consumed their prey, and the human—or what very little was left of the creature—was buried in the same way they hid their kind’s bones from poachers.
Perhaps the beasts wanted to cling to parts of their old life in any way they could. Perhaps they simply didn’t want to risk anyone seeing what they had done.
But when the ground was disturbed no longer, and when the claws of the beasts were coated in dirt and blood and organic filth, each of them stilled, staring down at the grime trapped in every line of their skin. It would forever remain there, each of them knew. But even after their primitive attempt at a burial, their work was still not done.
This was only the beginning. But at the very least, the hardest part was over and done with. Wasn’t it? They lost so much. Too much. There was no going back.
But luckily, they had a semblance of a plan. With the old circus burning to the ground, there would be an opportunity to take its place. An opportunity to hide in plain sight. It was simple. The monsters would play the roles the world had already cast for them–bringers of fear, vicious creatures of the night. The purple-gazed beast could see it all falling into place now. There was much to do, much to prepare for if they truly wished to succeed in this endeavor without any more sacrifices.
But for now, they all must focus on the present, on what must be done to survive their first night of freedom.
Later, the beasts would need to return to the ashes, only to ensure that nothing and nobody survived. Not a single worker, not a single trace of the circus. And they would salvage what they could from the remains. As much of a whited sepulchre the Ringmaster was, he was right about one thing. The beasts were on their own now. If they weren’t careful, one wrong move would have them killed. They must be cunning, prepared for any possibility.
The four-horned beast looked upon his kin. Their eyes were exhausted, like their rest needed rest of its own. Their stomachs were full, nearly bursting–something they assumed they would never live to experience–and their lungs clear of squalid air. Their claws were caked with all sorts of grime, their fangs sore from chewing. The wounds on their minds and hearts were still fresh. They wouldn’t be able to scavenge like this. It was best to remain here, hidden, until the sun went down once more.
“Rest. We will watch in shifts.”
It was quite clear that he would be taking the first shift. The others looked hesitant, eyes shifting uneasily. After all, the last time sleep beckoned them so profoundly, they likely wouldn’t have awoken. But the purple-eyed monster held a stained hand out in a gesture of reassurance. He would watch not only for danger from humans, but danger from death slowly stealing them away in sleep.
With little else to do, the creatures hoarsely agreed and took refuge beneath a nearby tree. They leaned against one another, unfamiliar with such close contact after all this time, yet their eyes almost immediately closed anyway. A couple of them looked concerned before allowing themselves to rest, like they were afraid this would all be some awful nightmare and they would wake up inside their cold and rusted cages.
All of them almost instantly lost their battle against their own eyelids. All except for the emerald-eyed serpentine beast. Instead, the youngest of them moved to sit next to his violet-haired fellow monster, who said nothing about how the former should be resting while he can.
There was much to be said, yet also nothing at all. About what had been discussed in that rust-choked hellhole. About the desperation they faced. About their pink-eyed angel who was now dead. About the human they found themselves endeared to who was also now dead. About how both of those kind souls were torn apart by their own hands.
Nothing would be the same after dawn would rise over the ashes of that hellish prison. Nothing. Both for better and for worse.
It was only a matter of time before their golden-eyed kin awoke and realized all that had happened. It was a miracle he was barely lucid enough to make it this far, especially after losing so much blood hours prior. He would be difficult to keep under control after his mind recovered from the shock and daze. Assuming it would be able to recover in the first place.
But that would be seen in the future. Tonight, in this calm and empty forest clearing, the green and violet-eyed beasts both simply sat next to each other, waiting for their first witnessed sunrise in too many moons to count.
Lacrimosa dies illa, qua resurget ex favilla
A moment passed. Then another. They both stared ahead at nothing, quietly watching smoke rise over the treetops from the former prison.
————
Years had passed since that fateful moonless night.
None know for certain what truly happened to the Ringmaster of the old freak show circus or those who worked for him. It’s widely agreed upon among certain social circles that the old leader likely went mad and killed all of his workers, then committed suicide and burned his circus to the ground with his last breath. Why? Nobody knows. Nobody could begin to fathom such a tragedy.
A result of accumulated depression from losing his wife years prior? A sudden bout of madness driven by his great faith? Or perhaps outside influence?
The tall tales spun from the event seemed to know no bounds.
But the true mystery is what happened to the man’s child. All of the other bodies—or skeletons, in some cases—had been found and identified. Some were mangled and found in pieces, corpses gutted and torn by what appeared to be wild animals. Others seemed to have been caught in the horrid fire and unable to escape.
And yet, the Ringleader’s only child was left unaccounted for. No gashed body found, no charred skeleton left behind that would match the physical description.
Where had the mysterious flyer distributor of the circus gone? There were minimal records of this person, and even fewer social connections to any living people.
Some say the dutiful young one remained with the ailing father, unable and unwilling to leave him even in his apparent sickness of the mind.
Some say that the father and heir to the circus both died, or that they both went insane and ran off into the night, never to be seen again.
Others say that the Ringmaster never had a child at all. Nobody was ever able to recall that person’s name, after all. Such a mysterious figure who spent every waking moment quietly praying or studying or working diligently at the circus threshold.
There was nobody alive who would know the truth of what happened. Nobody except for the five mysterious tall men who survived that night. They had covered themselves head to toe in bandages, masks, draping clothes, and heavy garbs that hid every inch of their bodies. To shield their burns from the fire in the circus, clearly. But they all claimed to have seen nothing, and then all five of them quickly disappeared from public view.
So much time had passed afterwards that rumors of the old circus’s existence and subsequent untimely end had been reduced to mere local legend whispered among children and mutterings among the senile elderly.
Was the event exaggerated or downplayed immensely with every new iteration of the story? Did the event even happen at all? One would get a different answer from each town resident.
There existed rumors and secrets that if a person were to wander into those old circus grounds, they’d quickly find that they weren’t alone. Among the buried bones and dilapidated remains, there were presences. Undeniable signs of being watched, stalked, hunted. Some claimed it was the restless souls of the dead. Others said that the one responsible for the killings and the terrible fire was still out there, still waiting for their next victim. Sometimes, people would claim to see silhouettes in the treeline just beyond where the tragedy occurred.
Those whispers were supported by the irrefutable fact that people had started to go missing whenever they treaded the path near those haunted grounds. Spirited away by the restless spirits there? Possessed to wander into the woods and end up lost and never found? Made yet another victim of the possible killers of the circus fire? Nobody knew. Nobody wanted to know.
Needless to say, not even the greediest of estate planners or eager companies wanted to go anywhere near the scorched and singed outskirts of that town.
The entire area was a shared tomb in all but appearance. It became something of a taboo to even speak of desecrating the place where such a tragic and horrible event occurred, not only because it was disrespectful to those who had perished, but also because it always seemed that someone–or something–was listening. Waiting.
Time passed. Too much and too little at the same time. Those who knew better never dared to go near the informal cemetery or walk alone at night. The ones who did were never seen again.
The tales of the old circus and its performances had quickly gathered dust.
But what was faintly remembered of that old circus was quickly revitalized and gossiped about when a new troupe emerged out of nowhere and established itself right where the old one had been. The Freak Circus of Horrors, it was called. It was eerie and unsettling like the last one, but for completely different reasons this time. Its performers were off-putting, the atmosphere welcoming but hollow. The entire place was rumored to feel like a giant stage, one in which every last person was a performer with dozens of unseen eyes watching them, waiting for them to slip up just once.
The worst part was that people started to go missing left and right. A runaway here, a local drunk there…Were the ghosts of the past exacting vengeance for the terrible offense of mocking what had happened not so very long ago? Was the new troupe somehow connected to the disappearances?
The whole place was a bad omen, it seemed. It reeked of death, of something sinister lying in wait like a coiled viper or a tripwire pulled taut.
It was a mysterious and secretive thing, but unlike the previous troupe, it was not stagnant. The circus of horrors had quickly moved on from that cursed town’s outskirts, never looking back even for a moment. And when that circus left the town, so too did the long string of disappearances. The events of the past and their wild rumors were quickly reduced to faded memory.
The child of the old Ringmaster was never brought up again. Rendered unfortunately yet ultimately forgotten by time, or even denied having existed at all.
But of course, like many things, the child of the Ringmaster isn’t truly gone, and neither is the beloved Little Dove. Not if one knows where to look to find scant traces of the two.
Just because something isn’t seen doesn’t mean that it isn’t there. Woven within the foundational fabric of the circus of horrors are tiny details that even now are echoes of certain unspoken yet vital influences.
The Pink Tent, where humans go to die or be stilted to service, where Fools are born or killed. The Black Tent, where the most special of guests find refuge with tickets dark as deepest moonless nights, where hope is renewed for the beasts and their kin with community and flesh to feast on. Both tents serve as macabre and morbid memorials for those who were sacrificed to spur the creation of such a system. Commemorations, in some distorted sense.
But with each performer of the troupe rests a relic of the past in some form.
In the golden-eyed Pierrot’s private quarters rest small creations of folded paper. Spare circus flyers idly creased to form different shapes, extra parchment sheets crafted into small models with practiced efforts. One of the most common of these creations is a simplistic flower. Petals pure and clean and unmarred, just like the meager earthen offerings plucked from the dead valley he once gifted to the one he loved. Just like the past human’s efforts to turn those wretched papers of the old circus into new things with new meanings.
The crafted blooms are never entirely accurate in how he remembered them, though. Always missing one unknown detail or simply deemed off in some subtle way. Every flower is always discarded at one point or another, only to be replaced by a new one that is inaccurate in some other unknown way.
In the Harlequin’s paper doll tale told only on very special nights, he shares a story of not one, but two angels offering themselves up for the monsters to be fed and granted the strength to live on. One of the angels was hidden among the monsters rotting in their cages, the other was hiding in plain sight as a human. One of them offered renewed strength and vigor, the other a way to take the forms of and live among humans.
Both of them were deemed miracles. Both of them are said to have disappeared without a trace into the night.
In the Ticket Taker’s hall of mirrors, there are countless lingering presences. Shapes and voices and reflections from beyond. But near the end of the hall—just next to his personal favorite pink-tinted one—is a cracked mirror that reflects not a twisted shadow but a fragile and flickering light, not too dissimilar to a small matchstick being lit. An old light from an age long past.
Some say that they see a figure in the glass. Others claim that they hear sobs and pleas and the heavy pattering of something dripping.
A rare few have even claimed to have seen that tiny flare become a ravenous blaze, one that consumed all it touched and swallowed the sounds of screams.
In the Jester’s tent, far away from prying eyes and safely hidden from all who would wander, is a small and nearly ancient-looking journal tucked away. A salvaged diary filled with scrawled writings and sketches of beasts, shadows, and watchful gazes. The edges of the tattered and worn pages are singed, almost as if caught in a raging fire. The place where the author’s name was written was burned off, leaving the owner’s identity a mystery even after countless years.
On rare special occasions, that small journal is silently taken out and flipped through, violet eyes reading and rereading the words that had been jotted down by a very curious soul many years ago, black claws carefully brushing over the old faceless ink drawings.
The names written in them, Leader, Knave, Sentinel, Oblique, Erudite, Lamb…He turns them around in his head and his maw, almost as if trying on a mask that doesn’t quite fit. Or perhaps it did fit at some point, however briefly.
And in the dark recesses of the Doctor’s tent lies a precious and priceless treasure, a single rusted metal key caked in soot. The last true kindness ever given to the monsters. Such a shame that it was irrelevant in the end, but the gesture did not go unrecognized. That metal key is a symbol of what the beasts had been given, and what they had taken. It is one of the only scraps of the past that was scavenged and saved over many years, many places traveled, and many hardships endured.
The Doctor once had more keepsakes of the one who aided them, but they were tragically lost. His favorite of the lost things was a small and smoothed fragment of a human sternum, specifically the bone that once rested over and protected that human’s fragile heart.
(Such protection proved to be futile, however. The human’s heartstrings had been tugged and bled and ripped out anyway. And it was rather easy to pry the muscle from its place when it was time to split it among the others.)
These minuscule details are either irrelevant or otherwise unknown to all humans who have ever entered the Freak Circus of Horrors. They’re easily missed, and just as easily forgotten—assuming they’re ever seen in the first place.
But the members of the troupe know the truth. Or at least, they cling to parts of it.
The other parts are twisted and refracted, warped by time and eventually lost to the foggy fringes of story-blurred memory and shielded trauma. A little detail changed or subconsciously misinterpreted here and there, another small part forgotten or ignored altogether.
Concrete agreed-upon facts and biased collective repression become interwoven and inextricably entwined.
Were the events of the past preventable? Had a single thing gone differently, would they be where they are today? Was everything that happened inevitable? Was there something else that they missed?
One would get a different answer from each member if they were to be asked such questions. Not that they would ever be asked such things. After all, who was left to know about the events from so long ago other than each other?
The circus is not a thing that stays in one place forever. Like an arrow, it never stands still nor deviates from its path. It simply keeps moving, one way or another, never giving a single backward glance. However, oddly enough, its members seem to be perpetually trapped in the past. They tell and retell the same story until it’s nearly unrecognizable, play the same songs until they become one massive elegy that permeates the heavy air of the place.
How much longer? How much longer until that story is no more real than the masks the members wear? How much longer until that tale is just as fantastical and detached from reality as the stories of God and His benevolence? How much longer until their song devolves and degrades into incessant noise?
Truly, not even the beasts themselves know.
All they knew and all they will ever know for sure is that the circus will keep moving forevermore. So long as the Hunger exists, then the performances will exist. The show must go on. Their song must sustain. There hasn’t been a moment since that wasn’t in pursuit of this goal, not a single action that isn’t driven by those memories of teeth sinking into the flesh of the ones who were both most and least deserving of it.
And in their twisted, distorted minds…They might even view themselves as necessary evils. They cleanse the world of ignorant fools like the old Ringmaster. Reveal the single truth hidden within every human that had become cruel and empty like that wicked man—that humans are just as—if not more—bestial and depraved as the monsters. The performances bring to light what humans would normally keep in darkness, covered in laughable veils of decency and shame.
quidquid latet apparebit: nil inultum remanebit.
Humans hunger for fear. They crave it, no matter how much they try to hide it. Monsters hunger for flesh. They need it to survive, to maintain their human-like forms. And what are the circus members to do but provide for both? It’s almost too simple. The system practically runs itself. The performers simply…speed up the process on a smaller scale.
It is the least they can do to honor the ones who allowed them to pave their path to freedom…In their own strange and skewed ways.
That’s what they told themselves, anyway. And it’s what they continue to tell themselves.
Humans are empty in soul. Monsters are empty in appetite. Humans bask in their light. Monsters are swallowed by the dark. The two should never cross, lest they wish for death. It’s simply how things are. That lesson was painfully learned time and time again. But instead of being the learners, the monsters would be the teachers of that lesson.
Never again. Never again would they lose anything else, anyone else.
They swore it when they devoured their Little Dove entirely. They swore it when they buried the scraps of that dear human in those woods. They swore it when they burned that hellish prison to the ground.
The beasts will be in control of every last move they make. Never again will a mere human hold power over them. They come from a world where there was never enough to go around, where their best chances at survival rested in the cruel and greedy hands of another, where rats were considered delicacies to eat, where the killing and complete consumption of innocents was considered a mercy. “Want” was irrelevant. Need consumed and degraded their minds, occupied every thought, forced them to commit acts deemed unforgivable.
But no longer. Each of the circus members controls their lives now. Every mercy. Every cruelty. Every laugh and tear and moment shared.
Every bite.
—————————
≫ The term “Damnatio ad Bestias” translates to “condemnation to beasts.” It describes a Roman practice of capital punishment/execution in which a person convicted of heinous crimes was sentenced to be killed by large and fearsome animals. The more you know!
≫ The Latin verses in this work come from the Dies Iræ! I was originally gonna quote more of the Divine Comedy but changed it almost last-minute.
≫ I know nobody’s prob gonna mention this but I have to bc I’m a nerd. While writing this I realized it’s highkey crazy that the monsters were able to eat a sudden huge influx of food after prolonged starvation (and survive!) as it’s incredibly dangerous for humans to do the same.
≫ But obvs this fic doesn’t exactly deal with humans so uhhhh let’s just assume monsters in the TFC verse have adaptations to prevent that bc their species likely regularly deals with starvation. Cool? Cool.
≫ I’m still not sure if I’ll ever make any sort of fully-fledged AU for this, but who knows? No promises, but the idea has been growing on me…
≫ If you wanna use this work as the baseline for any AU’s, OC’s, or fics of your own, go ahead! I only ask that you do not feed it to any form of generative/character-based AI, and that you credit me if you plan on posting it.
≫ (Also tag me because id love to see whatever it is you guys do with this work!!! The fact that I’ve already seen a bunch of people wanna do different things with this makes me so happy I get dizzy if I think about it too much!)
≫ It was a lot of fun to kinda dissect the troupe's motives and interpret them in my own way! I wanted them to be sympathetic but still fundamentally different from human actions.
≫ Sorry if some of the paragraphs are too big! I swear they looked smaller in my docs...
≫ Also what a surprise! There's scrapped scenes from this too. Maybe I'll find a use for them someday. I got a lot of notes and cut stuff in general for this work that I now have no idea what to do with. Dunno, I'll figure it out.
Summary: Orange wrapped tight on the thumb, purple elegantly detailed on the index, green playful and cloying on the middle, white neat and simple on the ring, and cyan carefully knotted on the pinkie.
Five active Strings. More than you’ve ever thought was possible at one time. Five soulmates, and you’re left without any idea of who they might be.
But… could it be related to the circus that’s recently come into town?
Read on AO3 | Visual Reference of Strings
Your eyes linger across the back of your hand. Against the skin of each finger lay a string— well, not a real string. Made more of ethereal light than fiber or twine, they have nevertheless wrapped around the base of each digit like a ring. You can’t feel the strings normally outside of the occasional twitch and tug from an unknown partner, but you find yourself curious as to who is on the other end constantly.
Five strings— four more than what is normal— and each a distinctive color that you’ve long-since become familiar with. Orange on the thumb, purple on your index, green on the middle, white upon the ring, and cyan at your pinkie.
There also is… a separate String, though you’re not sure if it’s related to the others or not.
Instead of being entwined around a finger like most people talked about, it was instead wrapped several times around your wrist in a dull, broken pink visible only in the right light. Only when you stare at the faded, broken shape for a prolonged period of time. Where the other end would have led you off into the world to find the person attached at the other side, there was just… nothing. The string was already snapped and frayed by the time you gained yours and could see them properly.
A broken string could mean a lot of things.
What was more interesting was how the strings lay upon your skin— lots of celebrities and soulmate psychologists talked about what the color and nature of a String meant, but you… just saw yours as part of their person from the get go. A series of quirks and traits that you’d hope to learn more about if you ever got the blessing to meet them.
The orange string wrapped around your thumb multiple times, as if making sure that the hold was secure even though a soulmate string wasn’t a material thing to remove. The purple string was simple, but elegant. It felt like silk, and was tied around your index finger in a way that left a thin pattern of diamonds against your skin.
The green string was interesting. It looked and felt normal— as normal as you could assume of Strings and your particular situation— but it was the one that ‘tugged’ the most when you moved your hand too quickly or pulled on them yourself. It felt… like the person at the other end was playing a game, toying with the idea of leading you towards them.
The white string at your ring finger felt and looked almost textbook, matching the description perfectly of what your teachers had explained once. That random class felt so long ago, information about puberty and Strings funneled into young brains that could barely understand it all. You hadn’t paid too much attention or remembered many of the details, but the string on your ring finger seemed immaculate and exact to an almost unnerving degree.
The final string on your pinkie was interesting. Though you knew little about the psychology of strings or the metaphysical rules they followed (most people with doctorates didn’t either) it seemed peculiar in that it was tied upon your finger in a surgeon's knot. It was only mildly uncomfortable sometimes when you tried to curl your pinkie into a fist, but otherwise never seemed to call attention to itself— not nearly as much as the green one on your middle finger.
Five active Strings.
More than anyone else you know has ever had at one time. It’s not uncommon for Strings to fade away or appear over time as a person’s life grows and changes— heavens above, nobody could even agree what a String represents inherently. Platonic? Romantic? Sexual? Up for those connected to decipher, though plenty of big budget company commercials would love to sell you their services to ‘read’ your Strings. Most people knew those things were fake, but there was an appeal in knowing the unknown.
A comfort in a world of uncertainty.
You had a coworker who had two Strings at once; one was for their best friend since childhood, and the other for their soon-to-be husband. The wedding wasn’t for a few more months, and you were still invited despite not working at that company anymore. Sweet people, honestly, but it had also been your only personal example of someone with multiple Strings.
Never five. You had never once heard of someone having five.
A sigh leaves your lips as you stare down at your hand once more, mentally cataloguing each string and wondering what the person was like on the other end. You wondered if they were nice, if they were considerate. You wondered if they would make you laugh and brighten your day. Maybe someone rich and famous, you’d often joke, though statistically that is as likely as being connected to some unhinged serial killer (a staple trope in horror films nowadays).
You wondered if all five of them knew each other. Were they already in a relationship? Family? Friends?
… lovers? If they’re romantically together, what would they think of you? Would it be awkward? Would they like you?
A motion draws you from your thoughts. It’s felt before seen— a gentle tug of the bright emerald-green wrapped around your middle finger. At first the tugging seems random, but you eventually notice a pattern that starts to form and a smile pulls over your lips at the recognition.
‘Good… day?’
Most people don’t take the time to learn String Speak anymore. It’s considered a bit old-fashioned, no longer needed in a vastly inter-connected world of the internet and cell phones, especially since it’s not all that separate from morse code and isn’t very good for long messages.
But it’s always been a way for soulmates to communicate even without ever having met one another. To exchange gentle pleasantries, comforts, concerns, questions— the thought had crossed your mind to offer your phone number, but your green-string soulmate hasn’t offered their own… and you are smart enough to know how dangerous it could be to give any personal information out like that.
But you know String Speak— they taught it as an elective class in school, and you never once thought it would be so very important to you. At the time it was just an excuse to goof off with your friends, but now…
‘Yes… And… You?’
You’ve learned its easier just to tug your middle finger towards your palm than to actually try and pull it with your other hand— technically it’s material enough for you to feel *sometimes*, but you look more like a lovesick fool than anything else when people see you grasping at a String they can’t really see.
‘Good.’ The reply was quick and succinct, as conversational as it could get with a language consisting of tugging an ephemeral string in a morse code-like fashion. ‘Better… if… sending… nudes—‘
You immediately curl your fingers into a fist and physically pull your hand to your chest, effectively cutting off the words with a startled, flushed yelp.
Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe it was your little fantasizing heart… but you could practically hear this soulmate’s laugh.
…
Elsewhere, Harlequin is doubled-over in boisterous amusement. He ignores the sharp glare that Pierrot gives him from the center of the stage and tries to tug once more at the string on his middle finger, but finds that there’s no give for him to meaningfully pull on.
Ah, the little thing is smart.
He laughs uproariously again, unsure if Pierrot’s distaste is from Harlequin’s unprompted arrival during his practice or the fact that one of his throwing knives had been forced off-target by the sudden tug on his string— a tug meant for Harlequin, but they all felt it regardless. Pierrot probably figured that it was Harlequin being a nuisance with their own shared String.
How they were connected— still connected— neither truly understood.
… It was hard to label their relationship, but the strings connecting the troupe existed all the same, and they’d yet to talk about it in much depth— it’s not something that Harlequin wants to think about for long either, choosing instead to interpret his connections to the others in their merry band of monsters loosely and fluidly. Humans could barely understand what the ephemeral connections meant and liked so much to parade around differently. But Harlequin knew they were… different. Special even, and intimate on a level he doubted anyone else could understand.
One day Pierrot would see it the same way.
“Am I distracting you, dear Pierrot?” Harlequin finally says, turning his gaze towards the his fellow circus performer only when certain he wouldn’t be able to tease at the string anymore. “You know you could try to talk to them too, hm? Not that difficult to learn, though….” His grin widens, all sharp teeth, “maybe that brain of yours is too stuffed full of silly things to make room for—“
A knife cuts through the air and hits a wooden beam just beside Harlequin’s head with a loud THUNK as the metal tip sinks deep into the softwood.
“Ah, sensitive topic?” Harlequin teases, constantly overjoyed in knowing something that Pierrot simply couldn’t seem to grasp.
String Speak was an archaic language, but one that they’d seen humans develop over time— not hard in the most literal sense, but it required a gentle and subtle touch that Pierrot simply couldn’t seem to grasp. He tended to yank than to tug, and no amount of Harlequin’s attempts to teach him proved fruitful.
But despite his devilish grin, Harlequin felt merciful.
“They said they’re doing good today,” he muses, reaching a hand up to pluck the knife out from the beam behind him and tossing it back to Pierrot in one smooth motion. “Though they did decline my request for nudes, alas. I’m ever so curious to know what our sweet soulmate looks like~”
Pierrot growls, but the noise hardly carries an edge to it. It sounds more frustrated and half-resigned than anything else. He catches the knife without blinking, gripping the handle tight enough against his palm that Harlequin can hear the strain of his leather gloves.
“… Jester says to ignore it now,” he says carefully, voice hoarse and so low that it seems to drag across his vocal cords. “Says it will eventually go away. This soulmate isn’t…. Like us.”
The words feel uneasy and awkward in the air between them, like pungent rotting fruit neither wants to touch.
It hadn’t taken very long for them to notice the new string some months back. The new and foreign color clashing against the mismatched but familiar rainbow set across their fingers. The appearance was shock enough for all of them— as was the realization that it was likely a human on the other end of their new, shared String. The idea seemed impossible, especially since they had been connected to each other and nobody else for… well, as long as they had been together. Too many years to count.
The idea of a human sharing a String with any them, let alone all five of them was…. Well, they each felt differently about it. Some chose not to acknowledge it at all, while others were various levels of curious— Pierrot and Harlequin seemed to be the only two who actually acknowledged and questioned it.
It wasn’t a taboo topic, not technically at least. Nothing like the never-mentioned faded pink String tied all too tightly around their wrists, sometimes feeling like a death grip that never quite faded away.
No, not like that; Pierrot tried often to bring it up, wondering what would happen if they met this soulmate. Would they be allowed in the circus? Would they get to learn about the five connected to them?
The questions hadn’t been met with anger when he’d posed them, but arguably the response was something far worse:
Dismissal.
Doctor didn’t seem to care, Ticket Taker answered in circles, and Jester… well. Pierrot knew better than to ask Jester after he’d already gotten an answer to simply ‘ignore and forget it’. Of course it had been gentler, but the troupe leader had quite a talent in making even the gentlest things feel… painful, even if he didn’t mean to hurt Pierrot.
This odd, new, fantastical String was a mystery that almost commanded attention.
It was the only thing he and Harlequin could bond over. Their shared intrigue into this soulmate where the others didn’t seem to care at all. The painful, bittersweet irony wasn’t lost on either man, given their past… conflicts.
“You’re looking far too pitiful for my liking,” Harlequin finally says, tongue sharp and words sharper… though his tone didn’t quite match the venom. It was… softer, in a fashion. “Why don’t we go and pass out some flyers? I’m sure that will take your mind off things— we’ll even stop by that little bakery you seem stupidly infatuated with if you like.”
Pierrot levels a hard gaze with the other, as if trying to determine if the offer was a veiled prank or not. Harlequin meets his gaze steadily, giving nothing other than the wide grin that seemed almost plastered across his face at all hours of the day. Pierrot finally relents with a sigh, tucking away his last few knives into the hidden pockets across his uniform.
“I’ve wanted to go there for a while,” he finally says, choosing to ignore a majority of what Harlequin said. “There’s a cake I saw in the window I’d like to try making. It looks…. Nice.”
“And I’m sure it has enough sickly-sweet sugar to give someone cavities for a lifetime.”
It’s a purposeful prod to get a rise from Pierrot. He knows this, but he growls at the other all the same. “Just because you don’t like sweet things doesn’t mean they’re bad.”
”Apologies,” Harlequin hums, not at all apologetic. “After all, dear Pierrot. You know that my tastes run a little spicy.”
He flashes the other a wide, suggestive grin and Pierrot has to restrain himself from instinctively throwing a knife at his face.
…
Flyers.
Flyers everywhere.
The streets seem choked and covered with them aplenty ever since that circus arrived and had set up outside of town. You had been annoyed at first by the copious amounts of discarded marketing— and perhaps you still are in some way— but it’s not like the employees of the circus were the ones littering or mindlessly tossing them about. You were more annoyed watching the people take an offered flyer only to look at it for a second, make a joke to a friend, then simply crumple it up and toss it over their shoulder.
Your thoughts of the circus itself aside, it seemed atrociously rude and inconsiderate to simply litter the streets with them. Even the trash cans at work feel as though they’re half-filled with forgotten fliers at the end of every shift. And as much as you’d like to say you weren’t interested at all, curiosity had begun to get the better of you a little more each day. Maybe you’d visit the circus just once before they left, if only to say that you did and finally have a better answer for all the customers who asked you about it.
Maybe…
There’s a gentle chill in the air. It’s a breeze that settles somewhere between a nip and a cold bite over your bare skin— a good thing you tossed on a jacket before running out of the apartment. How soon would it be before the chill deepens? Will it get bad this year? The thought lingers against your mind idly as you turn a corner onto the main road, the one you’d follow to eventually get to the cafe. You wanted to get there early enough so you could ask Carol about covering a shift for you next week.
But something shifts in that moment.
That step.
That turn of your body around the corner of the street.
The Strings tighten against your skin for just a brief moment. It feels as though all of them are digging into your flesh— for the first time in the entirety of having them, you feel led by their phantasmal touch.
The one at your wrist hurts most of all, the pressure and pull so strong that you almost feel your hand physically move to follow its unseen guidance. It’s like the handle of a cheap plastic shopping bag stuffed full of too many heavy items and you completely unable to put it down or disentangle it from your person as it begins to cut off circulation.
Somewhere in the burning pain you realize the direction it’s leading you is straight down the sidewalk on the other side of the road, the side you would normally ignore in favor of a more direct path to the café. But before you can begin to wonder why, your eyes take in the scene unfolding near the crosswalk—
A small group of people. It’s hard to make out the details, but they all seemed to be grouped up around… something. You could hear their jeering from across the street, though it wasn’t until you moved closer that their words came into sharp focus from the din.
“Get out of our fucking town!” Came one shout, sharp and shrill.
“You weirdos shouldn’t be here,” came another, the owner seeming to jab a finger towards the subject of their abuse, “You're the reason that woman went missing huh? You think it's funny to just take people off the street?"
You're moving closer before your mind catches up with your feet, getting a glimpse of someone in the center of the small crowd. Someone in a costume, one of those performers from that circus you kept hearing about. He’s on the ground, head bowed and hands clenching tight at a stack of fliers that he must have been handing out before getting cornered against the building. They look like a lifeline in his fists, papers crumpled against the white-knuckle, trembling grip of dark gloves. Face turned down, his long hair is like a curtain of silver that hides most of his face from view.
He looks scared.
Accusations and threats began to fall like stones. One after another, thick with vitriol and malice that burns against your thoughts. But then, the sound of a glass bottle in someone's grip clinks dangerously into your ear—
"That is enough!"
Somewhere in the thick, suffocating chaos, you barely register that your hand no longer hurts. All you can do is force yourself between a few of the onlookers with a sudden wave of protectiveness surging like a wave upon a stormy beach. With barely a glance towards the red-clad performer other than to make sure he’s physically alright, you turn around and face the crowd with an expression you hope is half as angry as you feel right now.
”What the fuck are you people doing right now? You’re going to gang up on him like this? He hasn’t done anything wrong!”
Blood rushes in your ears. Your lungs burn. Adrenaline leaves your thoughts simultaneously sluggish and sped up into a blur that you yourself can barely follow.
“Haven’t you seen the news?!” One of the crowd yells in a half-hearted attempt to keep up the air of anger that you’d broken simply by speaking out. “They’re kidnapping people, those freaks from that circus. They took a girl just last night!”
For a moment you’re not sure what to say. It feels like a million eyes are on you, watching and waiting for a performance of anger that you can’t keep up for long. Nerves begin to make your fingertips shake as worry creeps into the cracks where confidence fails you.
But then there’s a whimper from behind.
It’s all a blur again, from idly standing with your hands to your sides and suddenly with your phone in your hand, camera open and recording in an open defiance to the mindless anger filling this side of the street. It’s all you can think to do in this moment.
“I will call the police,” you say, words coming off far more confident than they felt in your throat. “I am recording and I will call the police right now if anyone comes closer. Don’t fucking t-test me.”
One part of you genuinely expects to get hit while another begs for them to leave. Just leave. Please leave. Go away. All you can do is stand there looking halfway like a fool, one person within a crowd of angry and anonymous faces who had been so close to doing this poor man genuine harm. But your camera continues to record. Your threat hangs in the air.
Eventually, the near-mob dissipates with several low threats and demeaning insults— mostly to the circus performer behind you. You stand trembling even as the dozen turns into a handful, then a few, then to none.
It’s only once the entirety of the crowd is gone and your momentary paranoia settles that you feel safe enough to turn off your phone’s camera and slowly turn around to the man you had defended, tucking the device into a pocket.
You reach your hand out, eyes flicking back and forth to either side of the sidewalk, as if worried that someone else would kick up a fuss again while you were helping him up.
“I’m so sorry that happened,” the words tumble from your lips in an awkward heap. “Some people here are… not too fond of the circus. B-but that doesn’t give them an excuse to corner you like that!”
He doesn’t take your hand. You continue to babble.
“A-are you okay? Can you stand? If they hurt you then I can help you to a clinic or something…“
And that’s when your eyes look down at your hand. Extended, fingers splayed in an instinctual gesture to grab his and help him up. It takes a few seconds for your eyes to filter exactly what you’re seeing—
The String on your thumb is bright and glowing, so much that it almost blinds you for a moment. A warm, golden color wrapped several times over your knuckles like it was desperately trying to hold on. The free end falls, visible now for the first time in your life, towards the pavement where it winds ahead loosely and…
… the other end is wrapped around the mysterious man’s thumb. It glows so bright against his glove, unmistakable and clear as day. The other end to one of your Strings.
One of your Soulmates.
His eyes seem wide with shock in equal amounts, giant pools of obsidian darkness only pricked with the same golden color that made up the String shared between you both.
“Pierrot!” A shout forces you out of your reverie just in time to turn your eyes down the sidewalk where another circus performer turns a sharp corner. “Are you—”
He is dressed in a similarly odd fashion but with an outfit of bright emerald green— his eyes lock upon the man in front of you (Pierrot?) with what looks like a flash of worry-anger-relief before turning towards you. Anger is quickly tucked into a visage of calm (is this a worried coworker?) before his eyes drop to your outstretched hand.
Time seemed to stop.
As if the universe didn’t already have enough things to throw at you in the span of just a few seconds, you notice a line of bright green snaking across the pavement in the half-dozen paces the new man stood from you. Following it, you find either end of the String tying your hands together in a second connection— the holder of the green string on your middle finger.
The one who had just a few hours before asked for nudes.
You can’t speak. Neither can Pierrot. But this new man, unnamed but so familiar in ways you couldn’t begin to describe, seems to sum up the moment in a brief but sharp curse as a look of horror spreads across his face.
[ "The poison had bled itself dry, with nothing left but a bitter aftertaste of what remained."
Or
A fanmade Dead Leaves oneshot where Harlequin seems to have some difficulty trying to sleep. This AU does not belong to me, but to @destinysquared. Please make sure to check out and support Destiny's original story linked here! No beta reader we die like the man aka the circus' ringmaster . I am not dissing my hg Columbina here ] .
2K+ words.
࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂࿔*:･༄˖°.
It was another one of those nights again.
Gripping the pillow in his sleep, Harlequin buried his face deeper into it. His body shifted, twisted and turned underneath the soft blankets of his bed. Claws twitching every so often, they almost seemed to try to reach for something that was no longer there. One arm remained wrapped tightly around the pillow while the other curled beneath it, holding it close against his chest in a desperate sort of way.
As if it could stop something from leaving him again.
The sleeping chambers of his tent were dark save for the faintest sliver of moonlight peeking through a small tear in the ceiling. It cast pale lines across his form, illuminating parts of him before shallowing them whole again. His hat had long since been discarded somewhere nearby, leaving his curved horns exposed among curls of black hair. Even in sleep, tension sat heavy upon his face. His brows furrowed. His lips stuck in a frozen frown. Occasionally, a strained breath escaped him.
Almost like he was fighting something unseen.
Or perhaps remembering it.
Two rings glistened somewhere on his bedside table.
Carefully placed upon a folded handkerchief, the gold bands rested side by side under the dim light, with one being slightly larger than the other. Time had not dulled them despite the years that had passed. Harlequin made certain of that. He polished them often, more out of habit than necessity now, rubbing away fingerprints and dust with almost obsessive care until the metal gleamed like it was brand new.
Monsters did not wed.
Not truly at least.
There were no ceremonies among his kind. No vows exchanged between two people alike. No blessings or papers that bonded one to another. Creatures like Harlequin were not built for permanence. They wandered. They bit and bited. They tore into open wounds and flesh.
They consumed. They hungered.
They survived.
And yet you still confidently slipped one ring on anyway while he held the other.
He remembered the way you laughed breathlessly afterward.
Harlequin teased you for it at first. Of course he did. He teased everything that frightened him.
Yet later that same day, he couldn’t stop staring at the gold around your finger.
Or the matching one resting upon his own.
You were the first human to look at him and not immediately see the act.
Not the grin.
Not the sharp teeth.
Not the monster beneath his costume.
Just him.
Harlequin himself.
Ironically enough, you didn’t get along with him very well during your first meeting.
At the time, Harlequin still dressed himself in the venomous green and yellow, stitched through his costume as though to represent his poison laced into silk. And even the markings upon his mask seemed sharper back then.
It was fitting for him.
Passing out the circus’ flyers throughout the day, he twirled the papers between his claws while the disinterested humans of the town hurried past him without sparing a single glance. Most avoided eye contact entirely. Others looked at him with fear and disgust in their eyes.
Harlequin found all of their reactions boring and displeasing.
Then he saw you.
You stared.
Not with horror or awe, but with curiosity.
The green clown remembered slowing to a stop in front of you, grin stretched like a Cheshire Cat as he offered a flyer with dramatic flair.
“Care to visit the circus?” He had asked you. “But you know…Stare for too long and I might charge for admission.”
Instead of becoming embarrassed like how most people would, you glanced between him and the flyer before raising an eyebrow.
You had said something completely unexpected.
And that caught him a little off guard.
He was fascinated almost instantly.
Most humans either feared him or adored the performance.
You did neither.
You looked and spoke to him as though he were simply another person speaking to you. Strange.
Real.
And somewhere along the line, Harlequin found himself lingering around you longer than intended after your small talk continued and handing out his green ticket much later.
Then longer still.
He remembered wandering past the crowded grounds at the circus beside you late into the night using some shortcuts, though somehow the noise always seemed so distant whenever you spoke. The lights shined overhead while the roars of applause, the screams, or laughter spilled out from the nearby tents. No matter what though, his attention remained entirely upon you during those sacred moments when his performance was over for the night. After all, the sound of your voice, the casual brush of your shoulder against his cape, and the way you looked whenever he said something particularly stupid or pervy was everything to him.
He remembered walking you home beneath skies of orange and bleeding red.
He remembered sneaking away from the circus after it closed solely to hold you for another hour before dawn stole him away again.
He remembered pressing kisses against every single inch of you simply because he could.
Your knuckles.
Your forehead.
The corners of your mouth.
The inside of your wrist where your pulse fluttered.
Everywhere.
Harlequin always pretended affection came naturally to him, like how his seduction was merely another trick hidden under his sleeves.
But you knew better.
You saw every pause hidden behind his grin.
Every hesitation.
Every fragile thing he buried with a wicked and unbothered demeanor.
And somehow, despite it all, you stayed.
His claws started to twitch again, starting to tear into the fabric of his pillow.
The dream shifted.
Just like it always did.
This was because time was cruel and unforgiving.
Your face that once carried the softness of spring slowly began to shift. Not all at once. Never all at once. Time was more careful than that. It worked slowly, deliberately, like a painter determined to finish what they had started with a new project.
Your eyes tired first.
Then the smile lines settled deeper beside your mouth.
Your skin changed into something thinner, gentler, with your veins becoming more visible too. Your hands changed. The same hands that once tugged him without hesitation trembled ever so slightly whenever they held his own.
Harlequin noticed everything.
Every wrinkle.
Every ache.
Every deep and drained breath you tried hiding from him.
To watch you age was to watch a masterpiece being finished, one stroke of the clock at a time.
Humanity called that beautiful.
Poets and scholars alike spoke of time as the ultimate virtue, or a gift bestowed upon the living to be savored and honored. It was the currency of the soul, a precious, finite resource that gave meaning to every “hello” and weight to every “goodbye.” Humanity held time up as a blessing, a golden thread that wove experience into wisdom. And even some of monsterkind agreed with them.
How absurd of a concept that was.
Time wasn’t a virtue. It was a burden.
And that burden would weigh itself on his shoulders like an unmovable force of nature.
And Harlequin hated it.
He hated the way your body slowly betrayed you. Hated the medicinations lining your bedside. Hated the fatigue you felt when you still perked up near the end and when you still tried comforting him through your own pain.
Most of all, he hated himself for being unable to stop it.
Because his kind was “meant” to survive, and yours, unfortunately, didn’t last for so long.
Yet there he stood, like a helpless little thing, while something as simple as time took you away from him piece by piece.
He would never be able to meet your eyes again.
Or intertwine your fingers.
Or feel your arms wrapped loosely around his neck while his claws scratched patterns across your skin.
Or feel your legs tangled with his beneath the sheets.
Or press your body against him while he could hear the steady beat of your heart.
Or even have his lips press against your own, capturing your taste with his poison to create something that was once so beautiful.
But as cruel as time was, that itself faded away too.
The poison had bled itself dry, with nothing left but a bitter aftertaste of what remained.
And just as his claws just barely touched your shoulders, it all went away too soon for his liking.
You faded.
Not suddenly, but just slowly enough just to hurt.
Like standing among the dead autumn leaves while the final colors of spring disappeared.
Like watching smoke unravel into thin air.
Like trying to hold onto a reflection in old glass while cracks slowly split through it until nothing recognizable remained.
Your smile blurred first.
Then your voice.
Then your eyes.
The very culmination of your being faded away until there was nothing left for him to reach.
His eyes finally opened.
For one horrible second, the dream still clung to him.
He could still smell you.
Sweet. Earthy. Familiar.
Then the cold morning air ruined it.
A ray of sunshine slipped through the opening of his tent, stretching across his bed like mockery. Morning was supposed to feel hopeful, wasn’t it? It was supposed to bring the promise of a new day. A fresh start.
Instead, it only showed the dampness that stained his face.
The pillow he had been holding onto throughout the night remained trapped between his claws. Tear stains darkened the fabric where he held it against himself all night long, but most of it had already dried up by now.
Blinking groggily, Harlequin stared at the ceiling of his tent. He felt less like himself and more like the empty room.
His breathing felt uneven.
Heavy.
Like something sat on top of him refusing to let him move.
The dull ache behind his eyes remained unbearable. Sleep still tugged at him, trying to lure him back towards the promises of a fantasy he both craved and despised.
Sometimes he woke up screaming.
Those nights were worse.
Pierrot once nearly tore through the tent walls trying to reach him after hearing the noise. Other times, Ticket Taker or Jester rushed inside only to find Harlequin gasping violently among tangled sheets and pillows, clutching his chest with a single hand as though his own heart attempted to escape him. Doctor usually had to get involved when this happened too, as he knew exactly what to do in order to make him calm down.
Those nights usually ended with shaking claws, sweat-soaked skin, or something far worse.
This morning, however, was quieter.
…
Slowly, Harlequin rolled onto his back before lifting a palm toward his face, dragging it down from the start of his hairline to the bottom of his chin. His throat tightened.
Even after two hundred years, grief still found new ways to hollow him out.
Eventually, begrudgingly, the scaled monster forced himself upright.
The room swayed as the pure and utter exhaustion settled into his bones. His gaze drifted toward the bedside table almost immediately. Toward the two rings resting carefully on top of the folded cloth.
Waiting for him.
Always waiting.
After all, there were more pressing matters to take care of. Ticket Taker and Jester were already up for the day, with the Doctor more than likely helping them out to gather supplies and do other preparations. Only a month remained before the fae trials began, and Pierrot would be the first to face them.
He had to play his role too.
Because he was the Harlequin.
And the Harlequin was meant to laugh in the face of misfortune. To dance alongside the suffering until tragedy itself became an entertainment. To remain high in spirits even if life itself left him feeling unsatisfied.
That was the role he was meant to perform best. The clown all dressed up while his inner turmoil quietly rotted away.
A performer until the very end.
Harlequin slipped the rings back onto his fingers.
Gold caught onto the light for only a moment.
Until that too would start to fade away.
First time posting fanfiction to this site kinda nervous. I have many mixed feelings about this since it's been YEARS since I was a fanfic writer.
That is because, once upon a time, I was in fact a fanfic writer. A popular one in fact, but on a different platform and under a different user. One work I was well known for had over 100K views and that's still crazy to me even to this day. For reasons I won't name here, I lost the spark to write fanfic. Let's just say it was related to the popularity and with that...I genuinely couldn't find myself to write anything for any fandom again. I archived everything - including that one popular work - and left said platform.
That was, until, I joined the fandom for The Freak Circus and read Destiny's "Dead Leaves." Then, because I really enjoyed her story, I checked out some of her other works. Her stuff lit my spark again, so now I present this oneshot to everyone here.
I'm a little rusty I know. With time and patience, I'll improve maybe. I have lots of writing tips in my saves already haha.
With that being said...
Should I become a writer again??
HELL YEAHHHHH 🔥🔥🔥
HELL NAHHHH ❌❌❌
Voting ended onMay 21
^ This poll will be very helpful to me if you decide to vote on it. I find polls to be very informative already for my Insta stories, so why not do it here too?
And a quick thank you to the mutuals/oomfs I DMed since I told them that I would be writing again just for TFC. They were all very supportive when I told them the news, and, when I showed them a little WIP of this oneshot...they all got very excited to my surprise. (I have mixed feelings about my writing style tbh :'D I tend to be poetic and all of that when writing).
Thank you to those who read this all the way through!! Have a silly meme I made:
I'll be posting a speedpaint of that banner I made later on ^^
Not Friends, Not Enemies, But A Secret Third Thing (they want to hunt each other for sport)
Character(s): Pierrot (The Freak Circus), Harlequin (The Freak Circus), Reader (Gender-Neutral), Jester (The Freak Circus), mentions of Ticket Taker and Fifth
Pairing(s): Pierrot/Reader, hints of Pierrot/Harlequin and Harlequin/Reader
Warnings: Harlequin
Summary: Harlequin’s POV of the first day.
Clink
The bell clapper landed into the trash can, quickly followed by a second.
Harlequin sauntered past without even missing a beat, curling a smile at the passerby who had turned their head to follow the source of the sound. Crimson consumed their face, a rush to turn their head. More tasty was that flash of immediate humiliation and regret when they realized what had made them blush.
Ah, fun, but no matter- it was a different source of crimson he was interested in now.
The Pierrot was never so easy to track as they haunted the streets like a ghost. Unable to speak, they relied on staying quiet and invisible, a mere presence handing out flyers. It didn’t deter the flies, but ah. Could Pierrot be Pierrot without inspiring those rising feelings of disgust in Harlequin?
If Pierrot got the merest whisper Harlequin had turned his way, he’d ghost to another street. Jester allowed it, preferring it over the alternative when they didn’t see it suitable for the two to go out together.
Harlequin found it boring.
But the trick was to do it ever so carefully. A flyer here, a flyer tossed carefully there. Slowly working his way down. A quick chat with a passerby, trailing behind them as they rushed to work, trying to pretend like they didn’t care about the circus performer in their heels.
Step after step, a flawless mask of excuses. He could feel his grin sharpen, making the man approaching him with a scowl suddenly change their mind and turn the other way.
Harlequin watched them idly go, wondering if he should raise that one for a pink ticket. They had the look of someone who could be an aggravation, the kind who might push things too far before the group was ready to move.
Mm. A thought for another time. He enjoyed the look he always got when he made his way onto the street. Such a deep revulsion from the other
Bells silenced, path varied, quiet as the hush that fell over the audience. But the Pierrot’s eyes always found him. To see that rising aggravation, knowing all the nasty, nasty words that the other had to bite back and keep locked away?
Oh, truly the highlight of his day. Harlequin enters the scene, stage right. Or, rather, enter the scene from the top of the greet, guiding his stalk as a tossed flyer-
Pierrot wasn’t looking at him.
Harlequin led his gaze slide sideways, keeping up the charade of animation as he passed his flyer off to a human. “I hope you see you there.” He murmurs words he doesn’t care about. “Oh, what a show you’ll see.”
“Perhaps you can show me around?” They stutter, and he smiles but still, his gaze slides to the side.
Pierrot always looks at him when their path intersects. Like a hound after a bone, the moment Harlequin turns down the street, the other’s gaze will find him. Observing. Waiting.
It’s delicious. In public, all the nasty little words Pierrot wants to say are held back, kept inside by the rule they follow. Harlequin delights in it, revels in it. In pushing and prodding, watching as Pierrot holds back their rage.
His littlest game the last few towns is simply… finding the other. Sauntering down the streets, passing the flyers out to people before Pierrot can.
Never has it failed to have Pierrot’s eyes on him. It annoys Jester to no end, managing them both, but if the flyers are passed out and Harlequin maintains the mask of respectability, where could he be impinged? It was usually good for a short bit of fun before one of the others drifted through and Harlequin departed, knowing to press further may draw a potential scene. Or ire from Jester.
And yet. Harlequin murmurs a half hearted reply to the stranger, wishing they would take the hint and depart.
Pierrot’s eyes were away from him.
Instead they stared down at their hand, eyes wide and almost giddy. A crimson flush to their face that wasn’t there before as they clutched it like the item was priceless, something fragile, their body hunched in like they half expected the object to be plucked from their hand or scattered to the winds. As if Harlequin doesn’t exist.
“Perhaps you should go see for yourself.” Harlequin’s words come out sharper now, and he sighs as he watches the stranger scramble away, suddenly deciding maybe it was for the better to not speak to the clown.
Harlequin tucked the posters under his arm with a flourish, handing an extra to yet another passerby, closer this time. No sharpness can hide his charm for long, potential audience members approaching like moths to a lantern. But for Harlequin, it was all a means to draw closer.
Closer that he can just make out what Pierrot was holding.
Harlequin tilted his head.
A bandaid.
How would the Pierrot have a bandaid? The circus never kept those on hand. With their healing, an injury small enough for a band aid would be healed in a matter of hours, if not less. Anything more severe Fifth had full bandages for, or stitches in very rare cases.
Something light and tiny as that would be practically useless, and anything useless tended to get pared away over the process of moving from place to place.
And yet, he watches as Pierrot carefully peels open the bandaid as if working on defusing a bomb, slowly sticking it to the ever so light scrape on his cheek. Even the pink wrapper is carefully tucked away in a hidden pocket, a gloved hand patting down the outside as if assuring it was there.
They even leaned into the window of the nearby cafe, staring into the glass, admiring their reflection.
Harlequin has carved rents in his skin. Blood has spilled across the floor. They’ve been sent staggering by violence. Even to a lesser extent is the violence wreaked on Pierrot by outsiders.
That’s where the scrape likely came from. Yet another passerby, and Pierrot’s pretended muteness- perhaps Jester would be making them walk together again.
They’d torn hair out.
And yet, the Pierrot carries on with their little bandage. Every moment or so, they reach up to trace around it. They keep glancing into the cafe window, claws reaching out to trace something on it.
Even as Harlequin orbits around him, the other never once looks toward him.
His teeth ache. His tongue presses against the back of them, and true effort keeps his claws from pressing through the flyers in his grip as he’s stopped by yet another interested passerby during his prowl.
Before he can draw closer, a flicker of purple crosses the opening of the street. Jester’s eyes are narrowed and the other jerks his head to the side, indicating up the street.
Harlequin sighs.
Time to continue on his route then, with his plausible deniability gone. When Pierrot returns to the circus tonight, Harlequin will take his pound of flesh then.
Tonight, the lights are dark. In the beginning, when lights were added, they had discussed whether to leave them bright or turned off on nights with no shows, and settled on turned off.
Turned off, and less annoyances crept in, lured by the bright lights. Turned off, and what did it matter? They could see just fine anyways. It certainly didn’t slow Harlequin from reaching an empty booth by the main entrance, settling himself on the counter with one leg slung up, the other tapping on the ground.
Another night, and he could see the spectral forms of crowds, the beat of music and voices. He shifted his weight, careful not to press too hard on certain areas that would collapse the stand down, making it ready for packing.
He spreads out his supplies, selecting the paper before he begins working at it. A tracery reveals no flaws, and the shape is in his mind before he begins working.
Clumsy little silhouettes, just cute little shadow puppets. Art, and yet, simple. He’s made these dozens of times, cut the same lines over and over. But, ah, it’s tradition by now! And there is a delight in presenting a truth as a story, twisting the details, silhouetting the characters and presenting them to an unsuspecting audience. Watching them ooh and ahh, unaware that the story was alive. And hungry.
But a tradition meant requirements, and Harlequin is naught but a perfectionist when it came to his show. When the old puppets wear thin, he makes them anew. A cycle of return.
By now, he could likely cut these during his resting periods. The shapes have been perfected over the years, and soon, he finds eyes looking back at him, ready for poisonous green.
The circus grounds are dreadfully quiet. Bilheteiro was managing the pink tent, the Fifth in their own tent. Jester himself had left a short time ago, a woman’s bag slung over his shoulder.
The Pierrot had never returned for the casting call.
Worse is the energy that teases along his limbs, teeth idly snapping at the air with nowhere to aim it. Tonight there will be no performance, no puppet show to burn off the edge or pink ticket to handle. They didn’t perform every night, needing time off to make the necessary arrangements for their… props.
And with Jester wound up over the hurried case of one of their newest pink tickets, tonight’s show had been put towards tomorrow.
Click. Harlequin adjusted his scissors again. That had been quite the event. Hurried and rushed, and hopefully dismissed by any… concerned members of the community. They had never confirmed the performance after all, even if it was teetering towards being realized.
His bells were rattling again this morning, despite the clappers being removed the day before, the other must be really out of sorts, Harlequin mused. The other hadn’t seemed concerned at the removal of the tongues from his bells before yesterday night, but when he awoke from his resting period in the morning, they had returned again.
No matter. They were gone now, plucked away and buried in trash. What interested Harlequin more was the why.
A scrape.
Harlequin’s eyes flickered back to the gates, only to be met by violet eyes. Jester tilted his head as he swung the gate shut, the bag missing from over his shoulder. They stare at Harlequin, eyes assessing for one long moment.
“Wrong person.” He said, stepping away. Violet flickered to the bells over Harlequin’s shoulder and Harlequin rolled his shoulders, smiling disarmingly. There was no clink from the bells and he saw Jester bite back a sigh.
“Oh, but perhaps the right person? Jester, do you consider yourself so lowly in my thoughts? Perhaps I could be more interested in you tonight.” Harlequin purred, leaning forward to prop his head on his chin. The puppet abandoned, his scissors hanging in his free hand. In true comical fashion, it shapes what could be Jester, if one squinted, lacking a few more cuts to be free. “Oh, the tragedy!”
“Interesting attempt.” Jester said, unrising to the bait. Simply, no fun at all. Harlequin’s eyes narrowed. More brusque than usual. “Keep things between you and Pierrot contained tonight.”
Ah. How very fascinating. Did Jester not know where Pierrot went either?
“And already assuming I’ll get into trouble?” Harlequin said, his tongue tasting the air. No blood. Only the scent of the maçã do amor this booth sold, the candied sweetness ingrained in the wood. “I simply rise to the occasion.”
“That you provoke. It may not be a show night, but after things with the last batch...” Jester’s claws tapped against the ornate metal before pulling away from the gate. “Keep it quiet tonight. No more attention for now, and I don’t want blood splattered against our props again. Você entende?”
Harlequin’s eyes darkened at the jab, the reminder of a fight that went rather badly for him. It had even brought the Fifth out intervening in later fights, after having to bandage them both up.
“Talvez. We’ll see.” He says. Jester takes that as agreement, sauntering into the night. Violet eyes flicker to his bells when he passes, and Harlequin knows in a few days, he’ll be picking out bell clappers again. Maybe even as quickly as tomorrow, should he rest tonight.
For a moment, Harlequin considers his next lines. How perfectly placed an idle comment would be here. Jester already knew Pierrot was gone, he had no doubt about that. The other always kept tabs on where they were. But did they know about the bandage? The odd look in Pierrot’s eyes?
Instead, he swallows the words back, relishing in their taste. Another day, maybe two. Peel back the secret before Jester knew. Or already knew, and refused to say, sadistic as they could be.
Snip. Another puppet took shape under his scissors. Bilheitero this time.
Columb The Angel will be last. He always saves her that puppet for last.
An oddity, Harlequin mused. It was not as if the circus crew did not roam on the nights they didn’t perform. Pink tickets must be distributed, Jester enjoyed his exploration, and occasionally Harlequin desired a little entertainment. Even on a night as tense as this, with the scrap of that pink ticket, they could still drift free. No curfew existed unless declared.
But the Pierrot…
A fourth puppet. Three spikes rising like a twisted crown, eyes awaiting their golden marks. Shorter, but not quite the shortest puppet still. Harlequin eyed it, and spitefully chose to trim it a little shorter than before, savoring the potential look on Pierrot’s face when they saw how Harlequin made him shorter than his own puppet.
Personally, Harlequin found his height to be suitable for him. But still, he enjoyed aggravating Pierrot more.
A forked tongue swiped out, tasting the air and finding it lacking that disgustingly sugary sweetness that always drifted off of the other, something light and saccharine. Only the sweetness of the apples, obscuring any hint of the other.
The Pierrot rarely left the circus tents all night.
Clack.
Harlequin watched as the puppet’s head drifted to the ground with hooded eyes. After a moment, he reached forward, plucking another piece of paper and beginning again.
Where, oh, where could Pierrot have disappeared to?
The mystery follows him the next day. Puppets made and back in his tent, he found himself with a fresh sheaf of flyers prowling the streets. Jester had practically thrown them in his arms, eyes amused and watchful.
His bells were jingling again.
Part of him presumes the mystery would be solved tonight, after the circus. With the curfew command at play, Pierrot would return and Harlequin always knows what buttons to push. The cracks he could wriggle his claws into, pry and push and twist until the ugly ugly face hidden under that smiling mask roared out.
The Pierrot could keep no secrets from him. He always knew how to make him dance on a string. The other may be physically stronger but in this, Harlequin excels.
Instead, it’s rather innocuous. Perhaps that’s just how the story goes. It’s never the grand adventure that overturns the stone hiding the answer, but the lightest kick on the path of life.
Planning to take out his frustration and inconvenience another, knowing that his charm can twist any snap at him into public embarrassment for the other, he picks a smaller target. One of the residents, clearly rushing down the street for work, eyes fixed on the cafe ahead. A cafe Harlequin still remembered from Pierrot’s admiring of their reflection. A face that said that any bite would be mitigated by so-called societal politeness.
And truly, he made his pick well. Even as their answers come short and clipped, they can’t quite shake him off.
“I already have a ticket, actually.”
Harlequin pivots, curiosity flaring. “Oh? Wonderful! You got one? Was it a pink one then?” There was something delicious about finding a pink ticket out in the wild. Of seeing it in the hands of someone unknowing of their fate.
Already, he finds himself turning the idea of following the other over in his mind. Pushing and prodding, pacing along their path, seeing if this one is interesting enough to keep. Or perhaps aggravating enough to provide additional savor to their flesh-
“It was red, actually.” They drop the information so innocuously, so casually. Like it wasn’t a stone thrown into the mirror, glass shattering.
Harlequin freezes, his saunter missing a beat. One eye widens, his mask cracking. Just for the briefest of moments before he schools it into something artful. And fake.
Pierrot has found someone?
Harlequin examines the other, and finds not a trace of a silvery tongue. No lie drips from their face. Interesting. But not surprising. The only way they’d know a ticket could be red was if they held one.
It wasn’t as if any of the performers revealed their own tickets. As far as most were concerned, the only tickets in circulation were yellow, pink and black being more covert.
The bandage. Maybe even the interest in the cafe. The disappearance at night. Each wrapped into a thread tangled around the other. What would happen if Harlequin pulled on the knot? He could feel eagerness clawing at his throat, beginning him to try.
“A red one, huh? So that Pierrot gave it to you? Interesting.” Harlequin said. He leans in closer, watching the way their step hitched, their breathing catching for a singular moment as he stared at their throat. His gaze flickered up to their face, catching tired but wide eyes.
“I’m the Harlequin, dear one.” At the sound of his name, their eyes flicker, crease at the corners. Recognizing it. Had they heard about him in town? Or, vanishingly small, did it drop off Pierrot’s voice into their ear?
The idea filled Harlequin with repulsion and a spiteful sort of fascination. The Pierrot breaking the one rule he had to talk to another? How… interesting.
“Ah! I’ve got an idea. How about we trade?” He suggests, a half step blocking them in and stopping their quaint little attempt to flee past him. “I give you mine… and you give me that red one.”
A snap of his fingers and he’s holding his own ticket, the same green of his clothes. The edges are curled slightly, aged from how rarely he passed them out to others, instead hidden away.
“What’s the difference?” They asked, eyeing the ticket in evident confusion. Harlequin smiles, unwilling to explain. To ruin the game.
You. He wondered. How did you get Pierrot’s attention? What brought the other’s eyes onto you? What could he find under your skin? What would I find if I keep taking you apart?
But alas, his scene is cut short. He can feel the other even before they appear, shoving him to the side with strength that could be called accidental, if it wasn’t for the way Harlequin had to dodge a subtle swipe that would have shredded his flyers. And likely part of his arm.
No, not quite a dodge. Pierrot pulled back just at the last moment, something staying his claws even as Harlequin bares a sharp smile at eyes firelit with rage.
A warning.
Poor Pierrot.
Now Harlequin is only more interested in this darling that Pierrot is so nervous as to reveal themself to harm him, to warn him off.
“Oh my. Speak of the devil.” Harlequin purrs, and he can see the minute tense of Pierrot’s shoulders, the barely hidden flexing of their claws. No flyers- had they not even returned to the tents yet to retrieve more?
Were they in the tents, blood would already be spilled, infecting the air with its tang. Those golden eyes promising maiming, flesh rent under knives. Pierrot rips the ticket from his hands like a promise, green against black and red.
And Harlequin breaths with the glee of knowing.
Oh, this is not Pierrot’s attention that this one held.
This is his love.
You think he would know better. Love could not survive between the Pierrot and a fool. Not with the Harlequin in the wings, ready to step onto the stage.
Pierrot narrows his eyes, telling Harlequin to step away this time.
Instead, Harlequin luxuriates. Tilts his head back, and smiles, knowing how the morning light casts a glow onto him, the glow of stage lights.
Both of them have their eyes on him.
Author’s Note:
This can be read as Harlequin x Pierrot because like… look. It can be read platonic, romantic, or seething hatred. That’s just the side effect of having a deep rooted arch nemesis who you don’t actually want dead. And we do have confirmation Harlequin would hate smooch Pierrot (which I hinted at but decided to leave open to interpretation, especially because the world and lore is still in flux)
I find Harlequin fascinating. Now, admittedly, this is Neko’s lore stitched together with my interpretation of certain things. But like- Harlequin hates Pierrot. But wants his eyes on him. Calls him disgusting, but doesn’t actually want him dead no matter how much they brawl.
⚠️ = Contains triggering themes within the narrative.
PIERROT
Breathing You In 𖦹
Our Sweet, Strange Duet 𖦹
The Sleeper's Web 𖦹 ⚠️
(cw: r*pe, somnophilia)
HARLEQUIN
Hypnosis 𖦹
Unloveable ★
JESTER
The Price of Bargain ★
Anesthesia 𖦹 ⚠️
(cw: sex with an injured character)
A Tale Told in Violet ★
Umbra 𖦹 ⚠️
(cw: gore, death, violence)
TICKET TAKER
Reflections ★
DOCTOR
Nothing yet.
— ASKS
HOW WOULD THE CIRCUS TROUPE...
React to a MC who knows how to play classical or eletric guitar
React to the discovery that MC is pregnant
How would Pierrot react to an Uma Musume MC
How would they kiss
How would they experience jealousy
OTHERS
TFC CIRCUS TROUPE AS “TAROT CARDS”
ABOUT ME AND THE BLOG IN GENERAL
Hello! My name is Letícia, but you can call me Lele or Let. I’m a 19-year-old Brazilian student who writes for fun. I’m currently studying Occupational Therapy, in the healthcare field, and besides writing, I enjoy listening to music and doing manual crafts like working with clay, free painting, and making collages.
I’m interested in many fandoms, but at the moment I mostly write for The Freak Circus, so that’s what you’ll predominantly find here. My current favorite characters are Jester and Harlequin.
📩 ABOUT THE ASK BOX
Feel free to leave questions or comments in my ask box. I might take a little while to answer sometimes, but I always try to respond to most requests. Although writing is a passion, college comes first, so sometimes my workload affects how quickly I can reply.
I usually write mini-scenes, short scenarios, or brief commentary based on asks, depending on how inspiring the request feels. I also accept NSFW requests, although I prefer developing that kind of content in separate fanfics.
The ask box is currently CLOSED.
⚠️ RULES & SAFETY
I do not accept requests involving incest, bestiality, pedophilia, or related themes. I also value respect — so no bullying, fighting, homophobia, xenophobia, or any form of discrimination.
I also do not want minors interacting here. If you notice such a situation, please let me know.
