SYNOPSIS - A new concubine tries to mess with reader so they show them why you are one of his favorites
♡- heian era!sukuna x concubine!reader (fem reader)
now playing - crazy in love x glory box (dj_ilot remix)
AUTHOR'S NOTE - hey pookie so this is a wip of mine so if you read this just know it not finished (btw reader poison somebody in this 🤷🏾♀️)
Being one of Sukuna's concubines means you could not be weak in any way; he hates weakness, and the other concubines are always looking for a way to tear each other down just to be in his good graces.
Now you never showed weakness, which is why Sukuna likes you so much and why the other ones hate you as well. They have tried to break you; they have tried to tear you down from his good graces very few have succeeded. The one who thinks they have succeeded has learned quickly why you are in his good graces.
Now when there are new concubine around, she's a pretty thing but a very stupid one as well. You have heard the other concubines tell her not to mess with you, not out of fear for Sukuna but out of fear for you, but the new one always learns the hard way.
Soon enough you found your new jūnihitoe ruined, a couple broken kanzashi, and a broken hiōgi as well. You could only sigh seeing the damages done, you turn to see your handmaiden already on the ground apologizing, poor thing, with tears in her eyes. You already know it isn't her fault.
"Please raise your head; I know it's not your fault." You put on your best smile, as you already know the perfect punishment for this new concubine.
Now being one of Sukuna's favorites comes with its benefits, like having a private garden. Oh, how you love your plants; it hurts to cut them, but she must be taught a lesson, so you snip a couple of flowers.
"Hello, Uraume." Now you know Uraume is no idiot; they know everything that goes on in this palace.
"I heard the new concubine is having dinner with Lord Sukuna today. Is that true?" You smile at them as they look at you with the most unamused expression you ever seen on another person
"The plate on the left is hers; the place on the right is Lord Sukuna's. Do what you will." Uraume never cared about anything other than Sukuna in moments like these that they truly come in handy.
"Thank you, Uraume I know you liked me." You add just enough to her food; you don't want to outright kill her, just teach her a lesson.
It only takes a few hours for the other to talk, saying how she passed out during dinner, how she developed an ugly rash over her body, and how her heart is weak. How the doctors don't know if she will be ok. It's a shame, really such a pretty face ruined by a stupid person all she had to do was not touch your things.
Everyone knew who caused her to pass out. It didn't take long for Sukuna to call you to his chambers.
"My lady, Lord Sukuna has called for you."
AUTHOR'S NOTE - hey pookie how you enjoyed this little short I would like to repeat that this is a wip but I really don't know in I'm ever going to finish this xoxo - momo
no one warns you how drastically your first idea will differ from what you actually end up writing.
i just opened one of my old notebooks full of early novel ideas and found notes about a character named “viktor.” there is no one named viktor in my current draft.
it took me an embarrassing amount of time to realize i renamed him adam somewhere along the way.
Life has been relentlessly rough for several weeks now and I fell out of love with my writing for a bit and wanted to throw in the towel with all of it. Thankfully, I'm past that! I am so happy to share a snippet from Chapter 1 of Her Harper, His Sufferer ❤️
Thank you so much for the tags of your lovely work over the past few weeks! @cinder-rellish181, @litsenn, @dynamicducks, @rdekarios, @deianestormborn, @faeriiefire, @scoldingdarjeeling, @kt-catt, @emmyandthetieflings, @thesanguinesonnet, @andromedaancunin @carnivaley, @gortashsrighthand, @cunthulhu-xo, @optimisticgrey, @lolthwoven, @missfortunetherogue, @arlynx, @hollowharp, @bladesingerlily, @wyfyoyo, @grandninjamasterren, and @cep-stories!! Thank you all, and if I have missed someone, please know it is not intentional and I apologize - life has truly just been challenging and my brain is not so good ❤️
Today we have smol Nienna 🥺 Content note for threats of violence towards a child and bullying, and I'll put the WIP under the cut ❤️
Note: I do not use Gen AI in any of my writing whether in fanfiction or my posts, and I do not support Gen AI in any capacity.
"Hi, Elminster! I missed you so much! I had another bad day today," she admitted, continuing to nuzzle her cheek against the tough bark, not concerned with the little scratches it would undoubtedly leave on her skin. "Roderick said he'd punch the tears off my face if I didn't stop crying." The elven child stomped her foot onto the ground and released her grip on the tree trunk to ball up her little fists. "I was only crying because he was stepping on ants during recess. They didn't do anything to hurt him! And he laughed while he killed them, too! Now there's ants that might not have any family left. It's not right!" she shrieked, stomping her foot even harder into the dirt and stirring up little clouds of dust into the air while choking back her sobs.
She had decided to name the tree Elminster after her parents had read her a bedtime story a few years prior about the famed wise wizard who reminded her of her best friend that lived in the forest. The child's face scrunched up in an expression of confusion and shame, and tears welled up in her eyes. "Elminster, why do people want to be mean? It makes me so scared and sad," she whimpered, her tiny body sliding down the side of the tree trunk to the ground, pulling her knees into her chest.
"We would all be safe and happy if people were just nice to other people, and nice to bugs and animals too." The elf turned her head and ran her hand along Elminster's bark. "I wish I could bring everyone here to meet you and they could be best friends with you too and they wouldn't want to be mean anymore," she said resolutely.
"Roderick hates me because he says I cry too much." Her face scrunched up in anger for a few moments before softening into a pained expression. "I can't help it, Elminster. Lots of things make me sad and I cry," she whispered defeatedly, using her little hands to wipe away the tears that were wetting her cheeks. She leaned her head against the tree trunk and closed her eyes. "You never judge me like they do, Elminster, and that's why I love you so much."
Uno-reverse tags to all the lovelies who tagged me! Plus, gentle no pressure tags to @galacticsparkles, @meeshrox, @graysparrowao3, @ann-bg3-lol @honest-moth-of-silver-grove @ceremorph0sis @onlytavs @nasaiki @tynithia @miauzuli @lucretiouswept - if there's anything you want to share, writing or art or headcanons or VP anything, I love seeing your posts!! ♥️♥️ and if anyone would like me to tag them in future WIPs for this work, please let me know ♥️ also, I'm tagging loose and fast (I need to make a formal fanfic tag list soon) so please let me know if you'd rather not be tagged ♥️
WHEW I have finally made it through all my tags and made a list of the things I've missed! Will be going through and participating as I can, but of course I gotta start with WIP writing :)
Thank you for the tags, patience, and thoughts over the last month @riddlerosehearts @thepalelawyer @elceewunjo @gortashsrighthand @litsenn @emmyandthetieflings @scoldingdarjeeling @lolthwoven @optimisticgrey @bladesingerlily @cinder-rellish181 @archduchessgortash @ginateeth @lilhumanoid @perpetualmaladaptivedaydream @lottavilja @michanvalentine @vividiana @unovafarm @andromedaancunin @spillingteanotpermitted @baelthi-vp. Truly heartwarming to be thought of by so many 💜
Uno reverse tags to all of you! Plus a few more for @burnt-by-marigolds @endermal @chaushaus @theya-art @lucretiouswept @careful-l-bite @alwaysmauria @et-augury @heartcrystal2000 and @saylofwaterdeep
Offering up the next edition of Madame Wispweed's society paper, in which Dalyria has become a viral sensation overnight 😏
Dearest Sleuthing Readers,
We find ourselves in the midst of a whodunnit! A devilish plant hiding amongst the splendor of a garden path. Unwitting revelers resisting the siren's call of its hypnotic orb. Poor Miss Lia taken in by its glow. Her brother, Archmage Rolan, caught in the crossfire. It was none other than an act of sabotage most foul during poor Viscount Silverbough's whimsical garden soiree.
The question remains: who was the assailant's intended target? Archmage Rolan, Lord Silverbough's reputation, or someone else entirely? Fear not, gentle folk, Madame Wispweed is on the case!
Already my sources have identified a handful of likely suspects: petty patriars with a penchant for feuds; unscrupulous scamps with ties to the hells, from whence the murderous plant originated; and lower-ranked figures who would risk besmirching their honor just to knock a social competitor down a rung.
I fear that is as detailed as I can get at present; to name names without ironclad evidence would be tantamount to slander, my dears. All shall be revealed in due time.
It is with great relief that I report Archmage Rolan has made a full recovery, however. And we all know precisely whom to thank! Miss Dalyria Szarr's name has danced across the lips of everyone in the Ton over the past few days. Some call her a savior. Others insist they saw her drinking Rolan's blood with gusto. My conclusion: Miss Dalyria is in possession of a bright mind and a quick wit, someone unafraid to take action.
We could do with a few more plucky youths like her, and dare I predict we may just get some? Overnight, Miss Szarr has become a cultural sensation among the other young lords and ladies. One cannot step foot near a public space without overhearing youngsters making a game of shouting "Damn the sensibilities!" at one other. This author has even spotted a lass or two cross-stitching the phrase over tea with friends.
If Archmage Rolan does not find her intellect a worthy match for his then I fear his standards shall preclude him from the marriage market entirely. For while Miss Jenevelle may be the beautiful diamond of the season, Miss Dalyria is the first edition rare tome.
While we are on the subject of desirous suitors, Lord Sasha Amastacia arrived on the social scene like a blooming rose in a hailstorm. Beautiful, fragile, and utterly trampled by a deluge of curious nobles plucking at his petals to the chant of "he loves me, he loves me not." Despite possessing an impressive height, one could scarcely spot him in a crowd for all that he remained flanked on all sides.
Except…when he was not. Lord Amastacia was spotted stumbling off in a daze at some point, leaving in his wake several snubbed debutantes and a bed of roses as flattened as him. A most ungentlemanly outburst! It would seem his sudden rise in station has left him lightheaded and in need of a more established gentleman to provide some ground rules in gentlemanly behavior. Whomever could be up to such an endeavor?
Inquisitively Yours,
Madame Wispweed
Edit: This is the chapter where Madame Wispweed's identity will be revealed!!! Would love to hear everyone's guesses on who you think they are!
Thank you everyone who keeps tagging me in wips since…June? It’s been a minute, I know. I’ve been keeping a running list when they pop up so that I can properly thank you, that now I have accumulated so many that I might as well say uno-reverses to you all! Thank you @gortashsrighthand @fireflyeyes @tociminna @cep-stories @rdekarios @scoldingdarjeeling @deianestormborn @defira85 @archduchessgortash @bladesingerlily @saylofwaterdeep @adrielmancy @riddlerosehearts @asorceresswrites @arlynx @tynithia (please know that if I’ve missed anyone it wasn’t intentional and that the uno-reverse applies to you as well!) 😘💜
The smut I keep threatening everyone with. Well, one of them. This is where I’m getting stuck because it’s not about the smut per se in the end, but I still want some smut and inconveniently I’m terrible at smut. (Also, clearly looking at how many time I can say smut in this paragraph. Smut.) I’m more into torturing them lately if I’m being honest haha. If anyone has any tips I’m all ears!
Anyway, a little bit more from a past WIP, though I’m pasting it all together so it reads better, but also because I did a little editing to the first piece again. I’m seriously thinking about this way too much for such a small piece of Ellie’s backstory. But I mean…look at them…they’re hot.
However, I’ve been considering giving them a little more of a backstory to show how they met and worked together. That’ll be farther down the road, though, if at all. A spin-off, if you will. I’m in process of working on so much of her act 2 and post-tadpole story at the moment. I don’t know…we’ll see.
A drink at the Elfsong.
That was how it started.
One decent job and a heavier purse than usual between them. Enough coin to justify a drink that turned into two, then three. Until the cheap whiskey stopped burning down her throat and the taste of it instead lingered on Rugan’s tongue.
After that came rough hands, bare skin, and a rented room upstairs that smelled like smoke and old wood.
By morning, they’d agree it wasn’t a thing. Just two people looking for a warm body and somewhere to sober up for the night. But afterward, all it took was another casual mention of a drink at the Elfsong and she would eventually find herself climbing the same narrow staircase, turning the knob that was never locked for her.
It was…convenient.
That was the word Ellie wrapped around nights spent lying beside him, both of them staring at the ceiling while their lungs still burned.
There were worse ways to spend a night. Worse people to end up beneath after too much whiskey and not enough sleep. Rugan never asked questions she didn’t want to answer. Never expected parts of her she had no intention of giving.
And in the dark, with enough drink and his hands hot on her skin, she could almost convince herself that having someone in pieces was easier than needing them whole.
What had once been a night every few months — Rugan slipping back into the city with another offhand offer for a drink — had quietly become something more frequent.
Worse still was the restlessness when too much time had passed. The way she’d eye the man running the stall across from her place, waiting to hear another amused complaint about the “bloke who keeps flirting with my customers.”
The realization sat poorly with her.
Still, it became difficult to care about blurred lines once Rugan’s hips were pressed against hers as soon as the door shut behind her, his mouth rough on her and his hands already fumbling impatiently at the knot of her belt like he’d thought about this very moment the entire journey back into the city.
“First time?”
He didn’t look up. Just answered with a crooked smirk and a grunt of concentration as he worked stubbornly at the knot she’d tied too tight on purpose.
“It’s not my fault you keep moving.”
She watched the faint creases gather at the corners of his eyes as he focused. Gods, he looked truly irritated by it now.
“Isn’t being good with your hands part of the job description?” she teased. “Maybe you should—“
The knot finally gave.
Rugan’s hand caught the belt before she could finish, hauling her sharply against him hard enough to pull a startled breath from her chest.
“Maybe,” he muttered low and against her mouth, voice rough with that same irritation despite the grin pulling at it, “you should stop talking.”
Then he kissed her before she could throw another smartass remark back at him.
The belt hit the floor somewhere beside them with a metallic clatter, forgotten almost immediately as his hands slid beneath her shirt instead. Rough palms. Calloused fingers firmly dragging heat across her ribs.
It was dangerous how easily her body remembered him. The weight of him on the mattress. The scrape of stubble against her throat. The imprint of his hands. Things she still remembered on nights when she was alone and…
”Forgot how soft y’felt,” he murmured close enough she felt the words, his voice dragging low enough through her that she hated the way her body reacted to it.
She laughed, but the sound caught thin and she knew he’d probably smugly hear through it. “Forgot how full of shit you are.”
His grin stretched against her throat first. His breath followed slower, and the way her body reacted — a jolt that sent her arching closer against him — was almost embarrassing.
“Missed you too.”
So, extra (no pressure) tags because I want to love on everyone since I don’t get to properly all the time: @wasteful-sam @bhaal-battle-beer-bard (& @judasiskariot jic), @babydinosaur930 @kt-catt @missfortunetherogue @carnivaley @heartsong94 @cursed-nyxan @thecampjuicebox @ele-millennial-weirdo @toomanyfamiliars @kcwriter-blog @lucretiouswept @purpleasters-inseptember @susann-noir @thepalelawyer @unovafarm (and if you’re reading this…YOU) 💜
Los Angeles was safe. Shroud was in custody. The astral pulse had been recovered. Invisigirl had taken a bullet and lived to complain about it.
And somehow, through all of that, half the team still didn’t know Robert was missing a leg.
He had meant to tell them. Really, he had. He hadn’t sat down and decided, yes, I will conceal this significant piece of personal information indefinitely. It just… never came up. Or rather, it never came up at the right time.
In the beginning, they didn’t respect him enough for it to matter. To them, he was just some former golden boy turned glorified baby sitter—the guy who sat behind a desk and told them what not to do.
By the time they started listening to him and trusting him and looking at him like he actually belonged there, everything else had already started going wrong.
The Red Ring ramped up their villainous efforts until the whole situation chaotically climaxed into a fight for their lives and the lives of every citizen in Los Angeles. Among it all there was the falsely assumed betrayal of Invisigal, the actual betrayal of Sonar who had now resettled on the team, and Chase’s near death. Robert still had nightmares about Shroud stooping to threaten his dog’s life and that horrifying moment when the bullet left his father’s gun.
But then, somehow, against every odd stacked against them, they won. Messily. But they won.
And when it was over, when the dust settled and the city stood (mostly) intact, there still hadn’t been a good time to say, “By the way, I’ve been hiding a metal leg this whole time.”
So he didn’t.
Now things had settled into something resembling normal. The Mecha Man suit was operational again, better than ever thanks to Royd’s handiwork and the recovered Astral Pulse. But Robert had made his decision. He stayed in dispatch.
Well, mostly.
Weekends were negotiable. He wasn’t built to sit on the sidelines forever, and pretending otherwise would’ve been a lie no one believed, least of all him. But during the week, he stayed behind the console, keeping the Z-Team from getting themselves killed all while, hopefully teaching them a thing or two about heroism. He knew now he could do more net good mentoring them than he could on his own.
And, he had to admit, they’d grown on him.
In their own annoying, HR violation riddled kind of way.
He rubbed at his knee as he sent Flambae and Prism on a call, the last before lunch he hoped. The top of his socket was grinding especially hard against the bottom of his kneecap today and he wanted nothing more than to rip the damn thing off for just a second, but he couldn’t.
Even the bathroom wasn’t safe once the team rolled back in for their company-mandated lunch break—the one they treated like an excuse to bicker loudly in every available space.
He loved them, more than he’d care to admit, but privacy was not a word a single one of them had in their lexicon.
So, he stood with a groan that came from too deep in his lungs for a man his age, and shifted his weight side to side a few times. The imbalance still caught him off guard sometimes—the way his prosthetic foot flexed and unflexed mechanically under pressure, just slightly out of sync with what his body expected.
It reminded him that it hadn’t been that long since the crash, since his suit exploded around him, sending him crashing to the earth like a meteor. Since he’d woken up alone in a sterile white hospital room four months later in a body he no longer recognized.
Honestly, it should’ve been obvious by now.
There were tells. As much as his ego begged to differ, he knew there were. The unevenness in his gait when he was tired, the way he clearly favored one side, the slight delay when he pivoted too quickly. None of it screamed amputee, but it was enough that someone paying attention should’ve at least asked a question.
Especially considering how many physical therapy appointments he’d blown off.
So yeah—maybe this was karma finally catching up.
Because the moment he turned away from his console, his foot—the one he couldn't feel—snagged under the leg of his desk chair.
This alone wouldn't have been a problem if not for the loud bang that came after.
“Fuck,” he swore under his breath as he heard the hollow sound of something small hitting the ground after tumbling down his pant leg and bouncing off the top of his shoe. Something that he'd just chipped off of his prosthetic leg.
When he went to take another step, he could feel the weight of the prosthetic pulling against him, tugging at the silicone sleeve that ran snug up his thigh. And when he put the foot back down, the bottom of his residual limb struck the bottom in a way it most definitely shouldn’t. It wasn’t painful, not yet. But it would be soon.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered, barely moving his lips as he subtly shifted his weight again, testing—
Whoosh
His jaw tightened.
… the valve.
The socket itself was almost entirely carbon fiber—durable and built to take impact—but the one-way air valve on the side? That tiny, protruding piece of plastic he’d been specifically warned about? The one that stuck out just enough to be vulnerable?
Yeah. That valve.
He hadn’t thought much about it when they told him. He’d just filed it away under things that probably won’t happen and moved on.
And now it had.
Air leaked out with every step. The suction that held everything in place was failing, the socket pistoning in a way that would go from “annoying” to “problem” to “actively painful” in no time at all.
It was fine, perfectly fine.
He just had to make it through the second half of his shift. Then he could go home, shoot a message to his prosthetist who would promise to see him sometime in the next few… weeks, and switch into his old socket. It didn’t fit great—far too big since it’d been designed before his residual limb had finished shrinking, but he’d make it work. He’d pad it out with socks, he told himself as he sat down too much listlessly on a protein bar that promised to taste like brownie batter but actually tasted like dry wall. Sure, he’d have to wear like 30 goddamn ply socks to do it, but he’d manage. He always did.
Or so he thought, until Sonar came around the corner, paused with his head titled, and one moment later loudly proclaimed. “What the hell is that sound? It’s like… an asthmatic baby trying to blow up a fucking birthday balloon?”
Robert froze mid-step.
He was three paces from the trash can, protein bar wrapper still in hand—half the bar shoved inside because even starvation wouldn’t have convinced him to finish it. One foot lifted slightly off the ground, body caught in that awkward in-between-steps moment.
Around the room, everyone else paused too, more out of habit than real concern. Sonar saying bizarre things at full volume wasn’t uncommon, but it was often entertaining.
“I don’t hear it,” Prism said after a second, glancing around with exaggerated suspicion. “You sure you ain’t just hearing Visi?”
“Oh, fuck off,” Invisigirl replied, “It’s not me. Trust me, if I was blowing anything, you’d know.”
Visi was one of the only people who actually knew. The only one on the Z-Team, technically, courtesy of the whole uniform changing incident in the conference room on his first day. But she had no reason to know that his leg was the cause of the sound.
“No, I know what Visi’s weird lungs sound like. This is different.” Sonar said, pointing vaguely into the room. “Ah, whatever. I don’t hear it anymore.”
Yeah, of course he didn’t. That’s because Robert hadn’t moved a damn muscle.
Sonar took another sip of coffee, then added, “But if we get gas attacked or some shit, don’t let anyone say I didn’t warn you.”
Robert remained statuesque in the middle of the break room, wrapper still in hand. Because he knew that the second he took another step—
Whoosh
And Sonar, once interested in something, had the persistence of mold.
Fuck, Sonar could keep a secret, right?
Well enough anyway.
Maybe.
“Hey, Sonar,” Robert said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to strained professionalism. “Could you come look at something on my computer for a second?”
“Is it boobs? Cause I’m not falling for that trick again,” he replied immediately as he grabbed a second freshly poured coffee cup off the counter. Probably not the most nutritious lunch but Robert had learned to pick his battles.
“What? No it’s not–how would it even be boobs?” he said incredulously, motioning half-heartedly at his noticeably boob-less chest.
Sonar took a sip of coffee. “Screens. Or man-boobs. I’m not picky.”
“No one ever tricked you with boobs.”
Sonar just tsked. “That’s what Coop wants you to think.”
Robert dropped that particular conversation with a shake of his head. He was sure Coupe would have a clean cut rebuttal to add, but she was off with Malevola and Punch-Up at a new deli that opened up down the street that miraculously none of them had been banned from.
Yet.
As he took his first step forward, he noticed Sonar’s ear twitch again as that soft whoosh of air slipped from the open valve, but he didn’t comment this time. Sonar was smart, a lot smarter than people cared to remember. Robert could practically see the gears turning behind his big white eyes as he stitched together the evidence.
Weird sound. Only when Robert moved. Sudden invitation to a private conversation. Slightly panicked body language. Something secret.
So, he fell into step behind Robert without further debate.
By the time they reached a quiet corner of the office, Sonar had undoubtedly arrived at at least six incorrect theories and one potentially accurate one.
“So, Bobert, what weird medical shit do you have going on?” he asked, his voice quick but slightly quieter than normal. A small courtesy. He leaned against the wall, one hand coming across to rest beneath his elbow as he held the steaming coffee cup closer to his face.
“You got a shit bag under there? Glucose monitor? Diabetic from too many twinkies?” He reached out to poke Robert in the stomach only to have his hand slapped away. “Ow, touchy. I hit a nerve there? No, wait, it’s a butt plug, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not a butt plug. What kind of butt plug would sound like that?”
Before Sonar could reply, Robert spoke again. “No, don’t answer that,” he sighed, “Just—just look, alright?”
With that, he finally bit the bullet, leaning down to wrestle up the cuff of his trousers just enough that the titanium pylon peaked through.
“Oh, shit,” Sonar said, though the surprise in his tone was muted. “I thought you just walked like that because you’re a bottom.”
Me: man I’d love to write some chase kink with Pierrot or Harlequin, perhaps them together with the reader
My brain: No, write polycircus action
Me: Wait—
So anyway in addition to being the resident biggest Pierrot/MC/Harlequin shipper I am now going to drag you all into shipping the MC with the whole Freak Circus with me
The logic I’m running with is that the reader knows that the boys aren’t human, but doesn’t *know* what they actually are and had been taken in after a mixup with a pink ticket before Pierrot could switch it out properly. At first they were something of a stray, but now the reader is the beloved little circus pet :3c so uhhhhh have this WIP
You didn’t… expect them to entertain your request. Not really. While there had been plenty of jokes about them hunting you down for sport, never once had that line of humor pressed into genuine curiosity— it would have remained as such in your own mind if it wasn’t for Harlequin’s verbal barbs one particular evening, teasing you into complete honesty.
“With how frightfully skittish you act around us, dear one,” he had said in a tone so low and dangerous it left your stomach flipping, “one of these nights we might accidentally mistake you for prey.”
“Well, maybe I wouldn’t mind that.”
The words are instant, unfiltered and out of your mouth before you can think to stop them. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d discussed… personal proclivities with them, but each previous time had been gently shrouded in euphemism and humor so that you could easily jump away from the topic at the earliest sign of judgement or embarrassment. It’s a dance of words and desires that each of the performers seem to be terrifyingly adept in— it was a matter of time before something like this would slip out.
And at first you’re not sure how they take it. The air is thick and still in the wake of your admission, as if time itself had frozen solid and left each of the boys to their own silent reaction.
Harlequin and Pierrot sit nearest you and are the most obvious in their sudden and heavy attention, but you can’t shake the feeling of Jester’s gaze from somewhere else unseen nor the stillness of Doctor and Ticket Taker from where they’d been discussing finances and scheduling for the next several months of the season.
All of them have gone eerily quiet.
You know they all heard you clearly— though the details of their biology and true shapes are still a mystery to you (a mystery you never want to force an answer for), they’re still not human. You are acutely aware that their senses are far, far sharper than what should be possible; hearing a whisper across a crowded room or the softest change of your scent when using a different perfume or body spray.
