Hello! I've been having fun reading through your works and I really love the yandere circus. I was wondering if you have any crumbs to share about the ringmaster? I know they only showed up briefly at the end but I really really like them.
Each Night Circus member is intimidating in their own way, yet all of them have something in common: you can see their eyes flicker in terror whenever the Ringmaster comes up. It's a baffling thing, you see, because you've spoken to the man many times. A peculiar individual; small, slender, and always draped in black, with a soft voice and an exaggerated politeness about him.
Only at night - how truly strange! - he appears to be taller. Much taller, high above the circus tent, his long, crooked legs swaying in utter silence as he patrols the area. His voice is the same you've heard many times, yet something's not quite right. His friendly pleas seem to grip at your soul, filling you with a threatening dread that convinces you there's no space for a refusal.
Surely you must've wandered too far, (Y/N) - beloved Columbina. You've gotten lost. He trusts you with every bone of his body, and so he wouldn't even dare to suspect you'd been trying to escape! No, no, you know too well how much he adores you, how long he's waited for you to show up. His gargantuan hand reaches for you protectively, and you wrap your digits around his own.
You're beginning to realize that the other performers aren't necessarily hiding you away; they're just protecting you from the Master's wrath.
The scent of jasmine incense was a lie in the air every morning. It was meant to conjure mystery, to weave an aura of ancient wisdom around the cramped, stuffy velvet confines of your tent. In reality, it just covered up the smell of old canvas and the faint, coppery tang. You sat at your little round table, the crystal ball in front of you polished to a high sheen that reflected nothing but your own bored face.
You were good at your job. The locals lined up, clutching crumpled bills and desperate hopes. They wanted to hear about tall, dark strangers, about inheritances from uncles they didn't know they had, about love. Always love. You gave them what they wanted with a practiced, smoky whisper and a vague gesture at the lines on their palms. They left convinced they’d touched the supernatural, never realizing the only real magic you possessed was an uncanny ability to read the wear on a wedding ring or the desperation in a pair of drugstore heels.
But you knew the truth. You knew it wasn't just a knack for cold reading. The shadows in the corners of your tent moved when your back was turned. The tea leaves in your cup sometimes spelled out words you didn't put there. You kept your head down, just like the contortionist who sometimes blinked with vertical pupils when he thought nobody was looking, or the roustabout who lifted the iron tent stakes with one hand and a grunt that shook the earth.
You were part of the machine, but you weren't of it. Not really.
And then there was him. Julian the Illusionist. Golden boy. Stage lights loved him. He would stride out in his sequined tailcoat, all white teeth and slicked-back hair, and make doves appear from the very air you breathed. His assistant, Seraphina, with her legs that went on for days and her sparkly, skintight leotard, would smile and hand him the props. You’d seen them behind the ticket booth last night, his hand on the small of her bare back, his lips at her ear, sharing a secret that wasn't meant for the fortune teller in the dusty tent.
He got to stand in the light, creating miracles for applause. You got to sit in the gloom, reassuring farmers' wives that their husbands weren't cheating (they usually were).
Fed up. That was the only way to describe the feeling that boiled over in your chest that evening. You’d just finished reading for a woman who cried because you told her she’d meet a man with a J name. You’d plucked it out of thin air. The incense was giving you a headache. You wanted more. You wanted to see the real magic, not the tawdry, sequined show for the townies.
You slipped out of your tent, the heavy flap falling shut behind you with a soft whump. Dusk was falling, and the midway was empty as the crowd funneled into the Big Top for Julian's finale. The lights flickered, and for a moment, the path between the performers' quarters and the back lot seemed longer, darker, than it had any right to be.
There was a tent you weren't supposed to enter. Everyone knew it. It was black, made of a material that drank the light, tucked away behind the animal pens where the tigers never roared and the horses bowed without a command. It was the Ringmaster’s tent.
You pushed the flap aside and stepped in.
It was empty. Just black silk draping the walls and a single, heavy wooden chair in the center. But the air was thick, buzzing with a pressure that made your ears pop. You felt watched, assessed, and found wanting all at once. You felt gooseflesh on your skin. You backed out immediately, your heart hammering against your ribs. Stupid. Stupid, stupid girl.
You stumbled out into the purple twilight and a large shadow fell over you, blotting out the last of the dying sun.
You didn't have to turn around. You knew.
“My sweet little seer,” a voice crooned from behind you. It was velvety and soft, like the whisper of a knife being drawn from a sheath. It was a voice that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, a sound that lived in the same frequency as the moving shadows. “Wandering where little lambs ought not to wander.”
You froze. No one looked at the Ringmaster’s face. His top hat was always pulled low, his collar always high. All you ever saw was the immaculate cut of his coat and the long, spidery elegance of his gloved fingers. But his presence was immense. He was tall, impossibly slim, and he radiated a cold that felt like the absence of hope.
“I’m not angry, pet,” he continued, and you felt the warmth of his breath on the shell of your ear. He was standing directly behind you, so close the fine wool of his coat brushed your bare arm. “But there are rules. Ancient ones. This circus runs on the tracks of my will, and those tracks do not lead into that tent without my permission.”
A hand, gloveless now, settled on your lower back. The touch was startlingly warm against the chill of the evening. He rubbed a slow, soothing circle over the fabric of your shawl.
“You were looking for a different kind of magic, weren't you? Tired of tea leaves and tears. Tired of watching the light shine on someone else.”
His hand slid down, moving with a languid, proprietary confidence over the curve of your hip until it cupped the swell of your backside. He squeezed gently, the pressure firm and undeniable. You gasped, a tiny sound lost in the vastness of the night.
“I have always thought it a terrible shame,” he whispered, his lips brushing the delicate skin of your earlobe before he pressed a soft, chaste kiss there. “That you cannot do practical magic. That glorious, earthy shape of yours…you’d look divine in one of those little assistant’s dresses. All sequins and vulnerability.”
His other hand came up to rest on your shoulder, steadying you. “But then again, who would believe a woman with her tits out has wisdom? No, the draping shawls and the modest necklines serve a purpose. They sell the lie of integrity.”
He chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated against your spine. “You’ve always been my favorite, you know. The one who pretends the hardest not to see.”
Then the pretense of gentle seduction vanished. His hands moved with swift, undeniable purpose, pulling at the ties of your skirt, pushing the heavy fabric of your blouse out of the way. He bent you forward, your palms landing flat against the rough canvas of a nearby supply wagon. The wood was cold and splintery under your fingers.
He didn't ask. He simply took. And as he pushed inside you from behind, a long, guttural groan escaped his throat. “Yes,” he hissed. “There she is.”
The pleasure was sharp, a blinding intrusion of sensation that drove the air from your lungs. But then it changed. He was enjoying himself, a rhythmic, deep, and possessive claiming. But the fullness became...more. It was a pressure that defied anatomy, a stretching that bordered on impossible.
You forced your eyes open, your vision blurry with unshed tears of shock and a dark, shameful pleasure.
His shadow was cast against the wagon in front of you. And it was growing. Lengthening. Stretching up and up, the silhouette of the slim man in the top hat distorting into something vast and ancient. And inside you, he was growing too, thickening and lengthening to match the monstrous scale of the shadow he cast. You cried out, a strangled sound of fear and overwhelming fullness as he filled you past any human limit.
“Shhh,” he breathed against your hair, his voice still that soft, velvety croon, even as his body pushed the boundaries of reality. “You wanted the real magic. Take it.”
He finished with a sound like the ground splitting open, a deep, resonant groan that seemed to shake the very stars above you. He held himself there, buried impossibly deep, for a long, shuddering moment before slowly, carefully, withdrawing. The pressure ebbed, leaving you empty and trembling.
He was human-sized again when he righted your clothes with gentle, almost apologetic tugs. He smoothed the hair back from your damp forehead.
“There shall be no unwanted consequences,” he murmured, his voice returning to that gentle, frightening whisper. “Not unless I will it. And I haven't decided yet if I will.”
He was gone then, melting back into the shadows between the tents as if he'd never been there at all. You stood there, shaking, your legs barely able to hold you. The air smelled like ozone and damp earth.
You walked back to your tent on numb feet, expecting the familiar cramped gloom and the smell of jasmine lies.
But when you pushed the flap aside, you stopped dead.
The space inside was three times the size it should have been. Rich, crimson velvet draped the walls instead of faded burlap. The single rickety table was gone, replaced by a heavy, carved mahogany desk upon which rested a true crystal ball, one that swirled with an internal, smoky light all its own. In the corner sat a chaise lounge upholstered in gold silk.
The air didn't smell like cheap incense anymore. It smelled like night-blooming flowers and something else, wild and unfathomably old.
You were his favorite. And now, the tent reflected it.
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The Ringmaster
My take on human Caine. White hair representing his teeth and of course a teeth-like cape.
Did you guys know I do tadc commissions now? 0_O You can find them here!
