y'all are seriously underutilizing ticket takers abilities (โ ๏ธNOT MY ARTโ ๏ธ)
okay so we know that ticket taker can go through mirrors but what if it's not just the mirrors in his tent? What if it's ANY mirror or even better-- ANY reflective surface??? Imagine you saw something you shouldn't have, you hop in a car and book it out of town. You're thinking "oh shit did I just get away?" Only for TT's clawed hand to shoot out of the rear view mirror and break your neck. You crash and thanks to the broken neck, people just assume your car malfunctioned and you broke your neck on impact. TT wears gloves so there will be no finger prints and even if there were, those prints aren't human so it would be a cold case anyways. He wasn't physically present either outside of his hand so no one can trace it back to him or the circus. Witness gone and circus safe.
Or let's say you DO manage to escape into the woods and come across a lake or a pond. You're hot, sweaty and need a second to get energy back. So you jog over to the water and start splashing your face to cool off and all of a sudden TT grabs you by the throat and yanks your head underwater and holds you there until you drown, then he lets you go as you sink to the bottom.
Or he might even pull you through and put you right back into the circus to be devoured or turned into a fool? There would be NO escaping this man you'd be COOKED.
Anyways I want to impregnate that suit wearing, jester sucking hoeโค๏ธโ๐ฉน๐น
When you want to ask Neko if and when he'll drop art of the circus members ๐ฅฉ like he said he planned but you're terrified everyone will slut shame you for your unapologetic tom-gooner-y and you don't want to seem impatient
Harlequin, what the fuck have you been doing online ( ๏ธถ๏ธฟ๏ธถ)_โญโฉโฎ
๐ฆ: please do not make jokes like this. This is seriously disgusting. One is a real monster affecting real people. Another is a fictional creature. Yes he does bad things.. But none of them are rapists especially Harley. I'm sorry but this really makes me upset and pissed off
Iโm not one to stir the pot - but I feel this shit needs to be fucking said. And said loudly.
The fact there are people in the fandom comparing Harley to a literal very REAL monster - that has affected so many REAL victims, is absolutely deplorable. Itโs insulting to Neko and all he tries to create - on SO many fucking levels I cannot even word it correctly without flipping my shit. It has been said ENOUGH TIMES that Harley and the troupe would not rape or push MC if they absolutely did not want sex. The difference here is night and day. Harley is fictional - this man is not. Harley is a monster - this man is a predator in the most deplorable way, that hurt mostly CHILDREN. But this is not even funny, it is not correct, it is not NORMAL to compare him to this evil fucked up man, itโs not NORMAL to find this comparison funny in ANY way - when real people have been hurt by what this man did. Anyone who supports this crap just needs to rethink things through take a step back and seek help - seriously.
And to the person who sent this ask: this ask insulted the mod who is my friend, who I care about a lot, so to see that it has affected them to point theyโve dmโd me this shit clearly disturbed, has pissed me off. And Iโm sorry but this dumb assery deserves being called out. I donโt care if you didnโt know. I donโt care if you thought it was a meme. THINK THINGS THROUGH BEFORE YOU SEND ANYTHING TO ANYONE YOU DO NOT KNOW FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST. Do not assume itโll be funny for them. And Iโm sorry but at what POINT did you not know who the fuck Epstein was? Have you been living under a fucking rock? Iโm sorry but my patience runs out for this kind of shit. And Iโm not buying it. Itโs not even remotely funny EVEN if it was a meme - and I can see itโs from an actual video. Someone made this utter fucking garbage, and I hope to fucking god Neko doesnโt see it and it burns in hell, because quite frankly if I was him - Iโd can the whole ass game. People donโt deserve the love he puts into his work. And this is so insulting and butchering his character that he puts effort into developing both story AND design wise. What a way to thank him.
@nekoboydreams owns these characters (look what I made :D)
if I hear any of you saying "holy bucket tool" I'm going to suck all the blood out of your body via your elbows, I'm tired and I can't find my glasses ๐ made 2 different versions of TT's forehead because I realized that it was massive when I finished drawing it
First off, Good Luck on your Midterms!
Second, I have a TFC ask!
I was wondering how Pierrot would treat a Female MC who's extremely skeptical towards his feelings in them due to their utter lack of romantic (let alone sexual) experience. They've never been romantically pursued before even into their adult years and the few times they have were the result of a bet or joke, resulting in the long standing belief that they aren't someone who people would naturally find appealing in a relationship and that they're best off alone, withdrawing themselves a lot and leaving them with low-self esteem.
โฆis this a fucking play about aroace community?
แญเฝฒเผแฏเพ โโ Ink spun from my own fingertipsโplease donโt take, mirror, or rewrite it.
okay first, thank you! second, this made me laugh; not sure you ask for this because you relate or/and know my aroace ass would definitely answer this above anything else because the community is underrepresented!
so congrats, you caught my attention!!
as your reward for amusing me, iโll answer your Inky Ask, even add drabble because im feeling little nice. AND i recall Neko answering similar question to this, so iโll be using that as additional information!
so, starting off, here's the thing about Pierrot.
we all must know that this monster is from another time.
like WELL over century or centuries years old. his understanding of love comes from old poems, faded photographs, and the ghost of a female monster who existed and, as I mentioned before, heโs a monster, their view on loves compared to humans are HIGHLY different.
meaning, he doesn't know what "aroace" means.
all of termsโreferring to the LGBTQA+ communityโdoesnโt apply to monsters because what monster sees is not the same of what human sees. so he's never heard of the split attraction model. if you tried to explain queerplatonic relationships to him, his starry eyes would go wide and he'd tilt his head like a confused oversized puppy, trying to process terminology that didn't exist when his parents was teaching him to fish by a sunset lake.
what he does understand: love is love.
in his own monstrous way. not in a human modern, horrible artificial way that everyone try to use nowadays.
in a fundamental, soul-deep way. again, he understands that both monsters and people feel things differently. that some people burn with romantic fire and others glow more with a quieter light. that the heartโhis heart, your heart, any heartโis a mystery that doesn't fit neatly into boxes.
he learned this the hard way.
by watching columbina. watching the way she loved differently than he did. (because i can see neko shared a bit of light between pierrot, columbina and harlequin; how she lowkey was interested in both of them, but eventually picked Pierrot, in the game, not in the official 17th century one, even though Pierrot ends up heartbroken either way) watching harlequin โtakeโ her anyway, because loveโno matter what shape it takesโdoesn't always save people.
so when he meets youโyou, with your walls and your doubts and your absolute certainty that no one could actually want youโhe doesn't see a puzzle to solve or a challenge to overcome.
he sees someone who's been hurt. someone who's been told, in a thousand small ways, that they're not enough. someone who's withdrawn so deeply into themselves that they've started to believe the isolation is all they deserve.
and pierrot? pierrot knows something about believing you don't deserve love.
what pierrot understands (without understanding the terms) that first, on romance: if you tell him you don't feel romantic attraction, he'll blink those honey orange eyes and say, "you mean... you don't get the flutter? the thing in your chest when you look at someone and think theirs?" (omfg i can hear this darthsukiโs voice)
and when you just stare at this monstrous puppy and explain, awkwardly, waiting for the rejectionโhe'll just... nod. slowly. thoughtfully.
โI think I understand," he'll say. โFor me, the flutter is everything. It's the air I breathe. But you... you breathe different air. that doesn't mean you're not breathing."
so iโll say he won't push, for now.ย
like he won't try to "fix" you or prove that you could feel it if you just tried hard enough. pierrot can be needy, and wants to be seen too much loss to believe that love should be a battle.
now, moving on to sex: this one's harder for him, even though, heโs virgin, at heart heโs still has overly freaky thoughts and have express or accidentally said. because his own relationship with physical intimacy is so tangled up in grief and preservation and the desperate need to hold on.ย
but he tries. holy shit, heโs trying his best.
if you're sex-repulsed, he'll notice the way you flinch at certain touches, the way you pull back when things get too physical. and he'll... stop. not with hurt feelings, not with questions. just... stop. his hands will retreat, his long body will create space, and he'll look at you with those sad, patient eyes.
โI only want what you want to give," he'll whisper. โAnd if that's nothing physical... then i will hold you with my gaze instead. is that allowed?"
if you're neutral, like if you don't mind it but don't need itโhe'll adapt to that too. he'll learn to read your moods, to know when touch is welcome and when it's just... tolerated. and he'll never, ever make you feel guilty for the times when tolerance is all you have.
for on deep connection without romance: this is where pierrot actually excels.
because here's the secret: pierrot doesn't love romantically, well he does, its like he loves desperately. he loves completely, full heartedly. he loves in a way that goes into categories and makes the whole romance vs. friendship debate feel small and silly.
he will cook for you. not because it's romantic, but because feeding people is how he says you matter. he will sit with you in silence for hours, because your presence quiets the noise in his head. he will remember the smallest details about your day, your fears, your joys, because you are important to him in a way that defies easy labels.
is that romance? is that friendship?
โฆ.is that something else entirely?
well, pierrot doesn't care. he only cares that you're here (and staying near him). that you let him be near. that you exist in the same world as him, breathing the same air, sharing the same moments.
moving on, the thing about your walls, boundaries.
this is what pierrot knows, immediately: you don't believe him.
he knows it in the look you give him when he tells you something sweet, the look of puzzlement. he knows it in the way you stand, tense, waiting for the punchline, waiting for the moment he'll tell you that this whole thing has been some kind of joke.
it shatters him, more like a inner shattering. And you sense it, though you cannot see it. His eyes dim slightly, his hands shake slightly as he reaches for you, and you flinch.
he doesn't understand why you can't see what he sees. to him, you're obviously lovable. obviously worth cherishing. the idea that someone could look at you and see a punchline instead of a person is incomprehensible.
but he doesn't get angry. he doesn't get frustrated. he just... waits. patiently. persistently.ย
Eventually, heโll show how he proves it.
Pierrot doesn't do grand gestures. that's not his style. his love is in the small things, the quiet things, the things you can't fake.ย
He shows up. Every day. no with grand gestures or boundary-pushing heat. not with anything that pushes your limits, because he knows your limits too well for that. Heโll simply shows up. As a steady presence in your world, offering tea, offering food, offering quiet, andโฆ offering himself, daily.
Day after day after day.
Long enough that you start to notice. Long enough that the pattern becomes impossible to ignore. Long enough that the part of you waiting for the punchline starts to get... bored. More tired, more convinced.
Like, he never asks for anything back.
Why does his love, always have to feel so heavy?
That's the thing that gets you. he gives and gives and givesโfood, attention, patience, timeโand he never once looks at you like he's waiting for payment. Never once makes you feel like you owe him something.ย
It was freaking you out.
If you pull away, he lets you. if you need space, well itโs a bit hesitant, but eventually heโll gives it. if you can't return his feelings in the way he might secretly hope, he accepts it with that same quiet sadness he carries about everything.
โI don't love you to be loved back," he tells you once, softly, when you finally ask why he keeps trying. "i love you because loving you makes the world less cold. adore your kindness, even if you never love me at all. even if you leave tomorrow. loving you was warm. i'll keep the memory of that warmth forever."
And then, once you explain, awkwardly that you don't feel things the way other people do, he listens. really listens. his head tilted, his dotted eyes fixed on your face, drinking in every word.
When you're done, he's quiet for a long moment.
โSo when I feel the flutter," he says slowly, โYou feel... something else. something i can't name because i don't have words for it."
You nod, waiting for the disappointment.
Instead, he smiles. small and sad and infinitely gentle.
โThen i will learn yourโฆ language," he says. โTeach me what you feel. teach me what you want. Teach me how to love you in a way that doesn't hurt. I am... I am a slow learner, sometimes. but I will try. I will always try."
The first time he said itโโI care for you, my dear"โyou laughed. not exactly a pleasant sound of laughter. It was cutting and defensive. his eyes faltered, you loathe yourself for it even as the words came out of your mouth.
โSure you do. Whatโs the bet? How many eyes are on you? Did harlequin put you up to this?โ
He went still from your words. You'd hurt him without meaning to. โBet?" His voice was soft, confused. โI don't... there is no bet. why would there be a bet?"
You were already standing, already backing toward the door, your heart hammering against your ribs. โLook, I don't know what game you're playing, but iโve seen this before. The pretty one acts interested, the ugly duckling falls for it, everyone has a good laugh at how pathetic she is. so thanks, but no thanks. iโm not doing this again.โ
You were at the door when his hand caught your wrist.
โP-Please." His voice cracked on the word. โPlease. I don't... I don't understand what you're saying, but I know you're in pain. I can feel it. It's like... like someone's squeezing my heart. Please. Just... stay. For a moment. Let me look at you."
You should have left.
Every instinct, every hard-won boundary, every lesson learned from years of being the punchline screamed at you toย go. To get out of his his tent, out of his space, out of his orbit before you got sucked back into the gravity of those starry eyes and that desperate, clinging devotion.
You wanted to leave.
As much as Pierrot claims to understandโclaims to accept, claims toย respectย your boundariesโthere are moments where that mask slips. When the sweet, grieving lover peels back to reveal something needier underneath. Something possessive. Something that doesn't quite understand why "no" means "no" when what he wants feels so much like love.
He's gotten better. He has.
You've had the conversations, the tearful apologies, the promises to do better. He's learned to give you space, to read your discomfort, to pull back when you stiffen.
But then there are nights like this. Nights when he pins you down in bedโnot roughly, not violently, butย persistentlyโhis long body covering yours, his face buried in your neck, his hands holding your wrists just firmly enough that youย couldย pull away but he's making it clear he doesn't want you to.
"I just need to be close," he whispers against your skin. "Just for a moment. Please. You feel so far away lately."
And you lie there, frozen, trying to decide if this is a boundary violation or just... him being him. If you're overreacting or under-reacting. If the sickness curling in your stomach is legitimate fear or just your own broken brain reading malice where there is only misguided devotion.
You should have left.
But something in that raw, desperateย please, in the way his deep voice cracks on the word that holds you in place.
You turn. Slowly.
He's still sitting where you left him, his long body folded into itself on the edge of the bed. The same bed where, hours earlier, he'd held you down. The same hands that had gripped your wrists now twist together in his lap, nervous and uncertain. His starry eyes, just dimmed, almost dark, fix on you with an expression you can't read.
Devastation? Confusion? Love?
All of it, maybe. With Pierrot, it's always all of it.
"I don't understand," he whispers. "Who made you feel this way? Who hurt you so badly that you can't believe someone might... might justย seeย you? Without wanting something?"
The question hangs in the air between you. Innocent. Sincere. Completely, utterly missing the point.
You open your mouth to answer, really to deflect, to lie, to protect yourself like you always do but nothing comes out. Because how do you explain to someone, well a creature thatย he is the one who keeps proving your fears right?
That every time he pushes, every time he finds a new way around a boundary you thought was clear, he's just reinforcing the lesson you learned long before him: that love always comes with strings, that affection always demands payment, that no one wants you without wantingย something.
He stands. Moves toward you with that slow, careful graceโthe grace of someone who's learned to approach skittish creatures. He stops well before he reaches you, giving you space.
Always giving you space. Except when he doesn't.
"You said you understood," you hear yourself say. Your voice sounds strange. Far away. "When I explained. About not feeling things the way you do. About not wanting...ย this. You said you understood."
His face crumples. Just slightly. Just enough.
"I do understand. Iย amย trying. I justโ" He presses his hands to his chest, over his heart. "It's soย loudย in here. This feeling. It doesn't fit in my chest. It spills out. And sometimes it spills onto you in ways I don't mean. In ways I can't control."
He takes a breath. Another step closerโbut stops when he sees your shoulders tense.
"I'm not human," he whispers. "I know you know this. But I don't think you understand what it means. I don't have... I don't have the same... wiring. When I love, I loveย allย of you. Every part. And I wantย allย of you in return. Not because I'm selfishโI don't think I'm selfishโbut because that's what loveย isย to me."
His eyes meet yours, just flickering, dimming again.
"When you told me you don't feel romantic love, I heardย I don't love you the way humans do. And I thoughtโIย thoughtโthat was okay. Because I don't love you the way humans do either. I love you the wayย Iย do. Which is... different. But I didn't understand that different for you meansย absent. That some of the ways I need to express thisโtouch, closeness,ย claimingโare things you don't want at all."
He's crying now. Silent tears tracking through the white powder on his cheeks.
"I'm trying to learn a language I can't speak. Trying to feel in a way that doesn't hurt you. And sometimesโ" His voice breaks. "Sometimes I fail. And I don't even realize I'm failing until I see that look in your eyes. The one you're wearing now. The one that saysย you're proving me right."
You should feel sorry for him. Part of you does. Part of you always does, because he's trying, he's reallyย trying, and his love is genuine even when it's destructive.
But another part of youโthe part that's been hurt too many times, the part that learned to expect the punchlineโis justย tired.
"You pinned me down," you say quietly. "Tonight. In bed. I told you I needed space, and you pinned me down."
His face goes white beneath the powder. "IโI wasn'tโI just wanted to be closeโ"
"Youย pinned me down, Pierrot. After I said no."
The silence that follows is very much suffocating.
He stares at you. At his own hands, like they've betrayed him. At the space between you, which suddenly feels much, much larger.
"I didn't..." He swallows. "I didn't think of it that way. I thought... I thought you'd let me if I just... if I showed you how much I needed..." He trails off. Because there's no way to finish that sentence that doesn't sound exactly like what it is:ย
I thought I could find a way around your no.
"I'm sorry." The words tumble out, desperate and broken. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't meanโI would neverโyou have to believe meโ"
"Stop."
He stops.
"I believe you," you say, and you're surprised to find it's true. "I believe you didn't mean to hurt me. I believe you love me in your own weird, nonhuman way. I believe you'reย trying." you sighed, quietly before continuing.
"But trying isn't the same as succeeding. And intention isn't the same as impact. And I'm tired, Pierrot. I'm so tired of having the same conversation. Of explaining the same boundaries. Of watching you find new, creative ways to push against them because you justย can'tย accept that some parts of me will never be yours."
He flinches like you've struck him.
"That's notโI'm not trying toโ"
"Yes, you are. Maybe not consciously. Maybe not maliciously. But you are. Every time you find a loophole in a boundary, every time you push just a little further than I'm comfortable with, every time you make me explainย againย why no means noโyou're proving that my boundaries are negotiable to you. That whatย youย want matters more than whatย Iย need."
He's fully crying now. Great, silent sobs that shake his whole frame. His starry eyes are voids, just black and empty andย devastated.
"I'm a monster," he whispers. "I keep telling myself I'm not, but I am. I'm exactly what they all say I am."
"Yes and no." The word comes out sharper than you intended. "Of of course, biologically, but you're not a monster. You're someone who loves wrong. Who loves in a way that hurts the person he claims to care about. That's not monstrousโthat's just... broken. And broken can be fixed, if youย wantย to fix it. If you're willing to actually change, not just apologize and go back to the same patterns."
He looks up at you. Those void-eyes, searching.
"How?"
The question is so small. So lost. So genuinely, heartbreakingly uncertain.
You take a breath.
"First? You respect my boundaries.ย Allย of them. Even the ones you don't understand. Even the ones that hurt. Even when I'm right here, in your space, and every instinct is screaming at you to touch me. Youย don't. You wait. You ask. You accept the answer, whatever it is."
He nods. Fervent. Desperate.
"I can do that. Iย willย do that. I swearโ"
"Don't swear. Just do. Swearing is easy.ย Doingย is hard. And I need to see youย doย it. Consistently. For a long time. Before I can trust that this time is different."
He nods again, the bells ringing gently, tears still falling. He doesn't answer a few seconds after. Just stands there, trembling, tears streaming, looking at you like you're the only light in an endless dark.
And maybe you are. Maybe that's the problem.
You turn to leave. This time, you mean it.
"Wait."
His voice stops you at the door.
"I will." His whisper carries across the room. "I'll do the work. I'll learn. I'll become someone who can love you without hurting you. Even if it takes years. Even if you're not there at the end. I'll do it anyway. Becauseโ" A broken laugh. "Because loving you, even badly, even wrong, has been the best thing that ever happened to me. And you deserve better than bad love. You deserveย goodย love. Even if it's not from me."
He slowly make his way to you.
โI know, Iโm not... iโm not good with words," he said, and his hands twisted together in front of him, nervous and uncertain. โI don't know the right things to say. I don't know what a bet is, or why anyone would use something as precious as affection to hurt someone. That's... that's monstrous."
His eyes met yours, โI don't want anything from you. Do you understand? I don't want your body. i don't want your romance. I don't even want your time, if you don't want to give it. I just... I just want you to know. to know that someone looks at you and sees something beautiful. something worth protecting. Something that makes the world less cold."
He took a breath. let it out slowly.
โYou don't have to feel anything back. You don't have to understand it. You don't even have to believe it, not today, not tomorrow, not ever. I just... I needed to say it. I needed you to hear it, once, from someone who means it."
And there was silence.
You stood there, frozen, your back against the door, your heart doing something complicated and painful in your chest. the part of you that had spent years waiting for the other shoe to drop was screaming run, run, this is when it gets ugly.ย
After all, thereโs only so much pierrot can handle.
But another partโa smaller part, a part you'd thought was deadโwas whispering what if he means it? What if he actually means it?
โLook, I don't..." you stopped, swallowed. Started again, โI don't feel things. the way you do. the way people are supposed to. I don't get crushes. I don't want sex. I don't... I don't know what I am, but it's not normal. and peopleโthey figure it out eventually. they realize, in their words โIโm broken,โ and they leave. or they laugh. or both."
Pierrot's face did something complicated. Not pityโhe was too gentle for pity, something more closer to grief. grief for you, for the person who'd learned to expect cruelty instead of kindness.
โBroken," he repeated, and the word sounded wrong in his mouth, close like a language he didn't speak. โYou think you're broken because you love differently?"
He moved closer. Just one step. close enough to touch, if he reached out. he didn't.
โMy dearest one," he said softly, โi am a monster who ate hisโฆ friend. i have cried so much that I don't know if my tears are real anymore. i have loved one before so deeply that her ghost still sleeps in my bed. and you think you're the broken one?"
A pause. his hand lifted, hovered near your cheekโnot touching, just there.ย
โI don't know the words for what you are. iIdon't know whatโฆ aroace means, or any of the new terms. Iโm old, my love. Iโm from a time when we didn't have names for these things. we just... felt them. or didn't. and we loved anyway, in whatever way we could."
His fingers brushed your cheek, just feather-light. questioning.
โSo here's what I know: you are not broken. You are not a joke. You are not someone who deserves to be laughed at or used or discarded. You are a person. A person I want in my life, in whatever way you'll let me have you. As a friend. As a companion. As someone to cook for and worry about and sit with in comfortable silence. That's all. That's everything. That's enough."
Your felt eyes and cheeks were wet; crying.ย
You hadn't noticed when that started, shit. How dare he made you feel this way? And then, he kept goingโsuch a liar when he said he wasn't good with words...
โYou don't have to feel the flutter," he whispered. โJust... let me stay. let me be near. let me prove, day after day, that I'm not going to hurt you. that's all I ask. that's the only thing I want."
You should have said something.
Because he was doing it, yet again.
You should've have explained further, set more boundaries, protected yourself better. Instead, you leaned forward, so just slightly, just enough and let your forehead rest against his chest.
Why can't you get it out your head that he's not good?
He went very, very still. Then, slowly, carefully, his arms came up. Not wrapping around you. Just... resting. His hands on your shoulders, light as falling leaves. Giving you the hug without actually hugging, because he wasn't sure if you wanted that.
"Is this okay?" he breathed.
You nodded against his Circus uniform. Felt the fabric dampen with tears you hadn't given permission to fall. "This is okay," you whispered. "This is... this is okay."
He made a sound. Small and broken and infinitely relieved.
"Okay," he echoed. "Okay. We'll just... we'll just stay here, then. As long as you want. As long as you need. I'm not going anywhere."
afterwards, It takes months for you to really believe him.
orโno. that's not quite right.
It takes months for you to stopย waiting.
the waiting is the worst part, you've decided. the constant tension in your shoulders, braced for impact. the way your heart rate spikes every time he's late, every time he's too quiet, every time that desperate look in his adorable eyes.
but Pierrot is patient. Pierrot isย endless.
he shows up, day after day, with your favorite drink, exactly the way you like it and silence that doesn't demand to be filled. he's learned your boundariesโreallyย learned them, this timeโand he respects them with a reverence that would be touching if it didn't feel so much like penance.
he notices when touch is okay and when it's not. he adapts to your language, your needs, your particular way of being in the world. He's become...ย good. almost too good. like he's studied you so thoroughly that he can predict your every discomfort before you feel it yourself.
and one day, you realize you're not waiting anymore.
not because you trust him.
because you'reย exhausted.
the thing is, well, the thing you don't say out loud, the thing that curls in your chest like a sleeping anima, just like himlโyou're not sure you ever really believed him. not completely. not in the way that matters.
but youย stopped caringย about whether he meant it.
Because the alternativeโtheย otherย optionโis too heavy to carry.
what if you left? what if you walked away from those cute starry eyes and that desperate devotion and the way he looks at you like you're the only real thing in his world? what would he do? what would he become? what would he do toย himself?
what would he do toย you?
you've seen his dark side. you've felt his hands pinning you down, his need spilling over your boundaries like water over a dam. you know what lives underneath the soft, grieving exterior. and that knowledge?
it's like a chain as much as any mark he could leave on your skin.
so you stay.
not because you're happy. not because you're in love. not even because you believe he's changedโhe might of, you just don't know.
you stay because leaving feels like setting off a bomb with no idea where the shrapnel will land.
One evening, you're sitting together, not in his wagonโhim on the floor at your feet, his head resting against your knee (he asked first, heย alwaysย asks first now)โand the silence feels almost comfortable. Almost normal, keep in mind.
He looks up at you. Those starry eyes, soft and shining.
"I'm so glad you stayed," he whispers. "I'm so glad you let me stay. I'm so glad."
And he presses his forehead to your knee, nuzzling against you like a contented puppy, and something in your chestย clenches.
Because he'sย happy. Genuinely, radiantly happy. The happiest you've ever seen him. And he's happy because ofย you. Because you chose to stay. Because you'reย here.
You reach down. Your fingers card through his white hair, just soft, surprising, and he makes a sound like a purr, leaning into your touch.
"I'm glad too," you hear yourself say.
And the worst part? You mean it.
Not in the way he means it. Not with that desperate, all-consuming devotion. But in a quieter way. A more complicated way.
You're glad you stayed becauseย he'sย glad. Because his happinessโhisย safetyโhas somehow become tangled up with your presence. Because the thought of what he might become without you is more terrifying than the thought of staying.
Because in some twisted, fucked-up way, youย doย care about him. Not the way he wants. Not the way he deserves. But genuinely, nonetheless.
He's like a stray dog you couldn't walk away from. Dangerous, damaged, devoted one. And somewhere along the line, he stopped being a problem to solve and started being...ย yours.
Later that night, you lie in his bedโhis arms around you, loose and respectful, giving you space even as he holds youโand you stare at the ceiling.
Something feels off.
Not wrong, exactly. Just...ย off. A note played slightly flat. A color slightly faded.
You know, on some level, that this isn't right. That staying with someone because you're afraid of what they'll do if you leave isn't healthy. Again, loving someoneโreally loving themโshouldn't feel like diffusing a bomb.
But he's soย gentleย now. So careful. So desperate to prove he's changed.
And when he looks at you with those starry eyes, full of devotion and hope and something that might be worship...
It's hard to remember why you were scared in the first place.
In the morning, he makes you breakfast. Perfect drink, fresh bread, a small flower in a vase beside your plate. He hovers nearby, anxious and hopeful, waiting for your approval.
You take a bite. Nod. "Good," you say. "Thank you."
His whole faceย lights up. Like you've given him the sun. And you smile back, because it's impossible not to. Because his joy is infectious. Because in moments like this, it's easy to forget the darkness underneath.
You're not fooling yourself.
You know what he is. You know what you're doing.
But knowing and feeling are different things. And right now, sitting here, watching him beam at you like you're the answer to every prayer he's ever whispered?
It feels almost like love. Almost like choice. Almost likeย enough.
and maybe, just maybe, that's enough. for now at least.
แญเฝฒเผแฏเพ โโ Ink spun from my own fingertipsโplease donโt take, mirror, or rewrite it.
โ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐พ๐: What would happen if you tried to leave the circus? If you tried to walk away from TFC grotesque?
The short answer is no. Never.
The long answer is much, much worse.
Keeping you was always the plan. They just needed you to realize it too late. Some hungers are patient. Some loves are absolute. And some exits are permanentโjust not the kind you were expecting.
Welcome to your last day at the circus.
You won't be leaving.
ย โ ๐๐ธ: 6.7k
โ ๐๐ถ๐๐: mini onshot/s ยท tfc x gn! reader ยท major death ยท angst ยท psychological horror ยท body horror ยท consumption ยท trauma responses ยท monstrous love ยท tragic endings ยท do not romanticize ยท pure horror.
โ ๐ถ/๐: hello dearies! before reading, there's a reason why i wrote this.
so, lately there's been discourse about how people view the freak circus characters. fanon vs canon. it happens when a VN gains a bigger audience. but i need to be clear about something:
none of these characters are morally good.
not pierrot. not harlequin. not jester. not a single one.
and that'sย intentional.
for pierrot, as an example, i see a lot of people treating him like a "sweet obsessed boy." a comfort character. a soft yandere. and lookโi get it. he'sย designedย to be cute. the starry puppy dog eyes, the tragic backstory, the desperate devotion. neko knew exactly what he were doing when he made him.
regardless, he's a yandere. a real one.
like he stalks you. constantly. neko frames it as "keeping you safe," but again, that doesn't make it okay. he breaks into your house. how does he know your address?ย because he stalks you. he makes advances while you're asleep. that'sย canon. the game literally has a scene where the screen slowly zooms in while he rambles over your sleeping body.
he doesn't respect boundariesโhe worksย aroundย them. finds loopholes. pushes just far enough that you're not sure if you're allowed to be upset. the moment you stop following his script? the moment you reject him or try to leave?
he kidnaps you. he drugs you. he locks you away.
that's not "sweet obsessed boy." that'sย psychological horror. beautifully written, masterfully executed, absolutely terrifying psychological horror. neko didn't romanticize this. he showed it for what it is. and i'm not going to pretend otherwise.
and then harlequin, meanwhile, everyone treatsย himย like the irredeemable villain because he's openly freaky, a predator. the evil one. the one who's definitely bad while pierrot is "complicated." but like some of you are missing the point:
pierrot and harlequin are on the same level.
they're justย different kindsย of dangerous.
harlequin is upfront about it. he doesn't hide. he stalks you openly, invades your space aggressively, makes it clear he sees you as prey. he'sย honestย about being a monster.
pierrot hides behind it and "i just want to keep you safe." but underneath? he's just as possessive. just as boundary-violating. just as willing to take what he wants when you say no.
harlequin doesn't pretend to respect your consent. pierrot pretendsย so hardย that you almost believe itโuntil you try to leave. which one is worse? depends on the day. depends on your trauma. depends on how much you hate being lied to.
the others follow as well as they have their own mentality, especially on humans.
the point is that, i'm still gonna write cute moments. you know, the fluff and the freaky smut. i like to write pierrot being adorable and harlequin being a menace to society and all of them beingย comforting/realistic in their own twisted ways.
because that's fun! because theyย areย compelling characters! because exploring the soft edges of monsters is part of what makes this fandom enjoyable!
but i'm not here to baby them.
when i write them, again, i write themย realistically. which means sometimes they're monstrous. sometimes they cross lines. sometimes they do things that would beย horrifyingย in real life.
because that's who they are. that's the game. that's what neko created.
for my dearest readers, just know it's okay to like flawed characters.
it's okay to have a favorite monster. it's okay to write fluffย andย horrorย andย morally gray acceptanceย andย complicated feelings.
what's not okay is pretending the darkness isn't there. or acting like characters who stalk, kidnap, and drug people are "good boys" if you squint hard enough.
i love pierrot. i love harlequin. i love all of themโbecauseย they're complex,ย because they're dangerous,ย becauseย the game doesn't shy away from showing what they really are.
i didn't pick my favorites based on who would respect me.
i picked them based on who wouldย entertainย me.
and if you're here for my writing? expect the same energy. expect fluffย andย horror. expect cute momentsย andย realistic monstrosity. expect me to honor what neko createdโnot sand off the edges to make everyone palatable.
consider this your warning.
if you're here for soft, sanitized versions of these characters where everyone is secretly a good person underneath? that's not this blog.
if you're here for complex, morally gray,ย realisticย explorations of what it means to love (and be loved by) actual monsters?
welcome dearie! and pull up a chair. the circus is weird and terrible and wonderful, and i'm so glad you're here.
now let's get into this writing.
โ ๐ ๐พ๐๐๐๐๐ ย
He couldn't understand why you were walking away.
"You'd explained it to him a dozen times before. Work, family, the simple fact that permanence is not something you pursue. Each word fell into the water with the impact of a stone, rippling the calm surface of his pale face."
But he did not listen to you.
He listened to abandonment. He listened to once more.
He listened to people leave, and he knew you were no different.
The night before your departure, he came to you. Not lurking, not hiding, but simply...there. In your apartment, on your couch, as if he'd always been there, as if he'd been waiting for years, as if he'd been waiting for you, patient as grief, still as a photograph.
You didn't hear him come in. Didn't hear the door open. One minute, you were alone. Next, he was...there. His long fingers steepled together, his honey amber eyes locked on you with an unnerving focus.
"You can't go." he said softly.
"Pierrot, weโve gone over thisโ"
"No." His eyes, which usually had that soft, mournful look, the gentle stars tied to a sense of safety, had none. Void. Hungry, in a way that had nothing to do with food, but everything to do with need. "You donโt get it. I canโt let you go. Not again. Not afterโ"
He stopped, swallowing hard. His throat constricted, that human gesture that looked wrong on himโฆ like watching a doll struggle to breathe.
"Not after her."
The air between you was thick with the unspoken tears of the past. You knew who he was talking about. So did everyone else. The ghost that haunted every corner of the circus, the word that no one dared to speak out loud but everyone knew intimately, in memory.
You should have run then.
You should have known the threat in the stillness of him, in the way he dug the heels of his hands into his knees, in the way he opened his eye like a doorway into some empty place inside.
But you had never seen the other side of him. Not the gentle side. Not the soft side. Not the way he looked at you like you were something breakable, something he would save and keep locked in amber and velvet.
โPierrot, I have toโโ
He movedโsurprisingly fast, quicker than anyone would think possible for someone so tall and so weighed down by sorrow. One moment, he was on the other side of the room, and the next, his hand covered your mouth, gentle yet unyielding, a grip that felt more frightening than any raw violence.
His beautiful, tragic face was inches away from yours, and you saw his gaze go dark, as if the stars had been extinguished, leaving only a hollow, void-like blackness in their place.
โI'm sorry,โ he breathed, his voice so low it was barely audible. โI'm so sorry. But I can't. I can't.โ
His other hand rose to cup your cheek, reverent and desperate all at once, with the same tenderness with which he treated his horses.
โYou'll stay with me,โ he breathed again, his voice full of desperation, full of need. โForever. I'll keep you.โ
The first bite came out soft, almost gentle.
His mouth was pressed to your foreheadโa kiss, you decided, a final tenderness before...yet then his teeth found their hold, and you felt the brutal give of skin and bone.
He did not rip. He did not rend. He did consume with the same careful precision he used for everything else. Methodical. Reverent. Like this was a rite and you were the offering.
Piece by piece.
Your face first, because it was the part of you he loved most. The part of you that smiled at him, that spoke his name, that saw him when no one else did. He wanted to keep that. To carry that with him always.
Your hands next, because they had touched him with such gentleness. Because they had held his when he couldnโt speak. Because theyโd never flinched away.
Your heart last, because it had beat for him, for all of them, and he couldnโt stand the thought of it beating for anyone else.
Through it all, he cried, and cried.
Tears slid over the white paint on his cheeks, tracing paths through his tragedy mask. He made sounds, just small, broken sounds that might have been apologies or might have been prayers.
โI love you,โ he whispered, munching on a piece of food. โI love you more than anything. This is the only wayโthe only way to keep you safe, the only way to ensure you never walk away.โ
They found him hours later, still there, on the carousel.
He sat astride the white horse, the one with the rose on its flank, the one heโd painted himself, surrounded by horses in mid-gallop, frozen in time, frozen in paint. Pieces of you lay scattered across the platform, arranged with a kind of terrible care.
And your face, your beautiful face, lay pressed against his chest, held in place by a trembling hand, as if listening for the beat of a heart.
He was crying, still crying, hours on, tears streaming down his painted face.
โI just wanted them to stay,โ he sobbed, his voice lost in the silence, his voice crying to the horses, crying to the ghosts, crying to the memory of someone else heโd loved and lost. โI just wanted them to stay.โ
His fingers traced what was left of your face with a tenderness that could break a heart.
โTheyโre here now,โ he went on, his voice still crying, still sobbing, still broken. โTheyโre here forever. They canโt leave. They canโt.โ
The carousel didnโt turn, the horses didnโt gallop, the music box didnโt play. Pierrot kept rocking, kept crying, kept holding what was left of you. And in the dark of eyes, something snapped, something broke, the kind of break that will never heal.
You werenโt taken away from him.
You couldnโt be.
Heโd fight, heโd kill, heโd die, heโd do anything to keep what heโd finally managed to save. So you stayed, in his arms, on the carousel, forever.
Just as heโd wanted.
โ ๐ฝ๐ถ๐๐๐๐๐๐พ๐
He'd always been fascinated by the way your pulse skipped when he leaned in a little too close.
The way that skin was so vulnerable, that spine so exposed. The way that your breathing caught when his presence brushed against you, taunting, challenging, seducing. He never meant to cause you real pain. The games were games, boundary-pushing, limit-testing, the only way he knew to communicate.
But then you fought back.
โYou need to stop.โ Your voice was steady, resolute. The kind of voice that left no room for debate. โThis, whatever this is, itโs getting out of hand. I'm not going to be your toy anymore.โ
And something inside him broke.
โToy?โ His voice was wrong, wrong in its lightness, its cutting edge, its velvet wrapping around a knife. โIs that what you think of me? That I'm playing with you like youโre some sort of toy?โ
โAren't I?โ
The silence that followed was wrong, wrong in its oppressive quality, its heavy, thick feeling.
Like he'd spent so long hiding behind his performance. Behind his edges, his grins, his knives. Behind the mask of the predator with no feelings, no wants, no needs.
But youโd seen right through it. Always seen through it. That was the worst partโyouโd peeled away the games and found something real, and now you were turning that against him.
โYou donโt know anything,โ he said, his voice falling into something almost human. โYou think Iโm justโjust this? Just the green clown who jokes too much and touches too close?โ
โHarlequinโโ
โDo you know what itโs like?โ The words came out jagged and raw. โTo have someone inside you? To taste themโreally taste themโnot because you wanted to, but because you had no choice?โ
You stared.
He laughedโa broken, awful sound. โYeah. Thatโs right. You didnโt know that part, did you? You didnโt know Iโve done this before. Had to do this before. Because if I didnโt, we all would haveโโ
He stopped. Swallowed. His tendrils twitched erratically.
โBut you didnโt care about that. You just saw a monster. Just someone to run from.โ
โIโm not running,โ you said. โIโm leaving. Thereโs a difference.โ
โIs there?โ His eyes, truly those sharp, predatory eyes, suddenly filled with tears at the edge. โIs there really?โ
You didnโt answer.
And that silence told him everything.
He found you that night. Not in your apartmentโyouโd been smart enough to stay away from home. A hotel, maybe. A friendโs couch. Somewhere you figured was safe. You were wrong.
He was in the corner of your room when you woke, crouched in on himself like a child, his tendrils wound around his own body as if he were trying to hold himself together.
โYou called me evil.โ
You shot up, your back against the headboard. โHow did youโโ
โYou called me evil.โ His voice cracked. โYou looked at meโreally lookedโand decided I was justโฆ just the bad one. The cruel one. The one who enjoys this.โ
โI didnโtโโ
โYou did.โ He uncurled, rising with that terrible, liquid grace. โYou donโt know the full truth. You never asked. You justโฆ assumed.โ
His eyes found yours, tears bright there. Bright with something worse.
โShe was my friend too, you know. Before. She mattered to me. And when they saidโwhen we had toโโ He faltered. โI still taste her. Some nights. When itโs quiet. When I canโt distract myself.โ
โHarlequinโโ
โIโm not evil.โ The word broke on his lips. โIโm justโฆ Iโm just trying. Like everyone else. Like you.โ
He stepped closer. You should have run. You should have fought. But something in his faceโso young, so hurtโfroze you in place.
โBut you wonโt stay,โ he whispered. โYou wonโt even try to understand. So Iโll keep something. Just something. So youโre always here. So Iโm not alone again.โ
His tendrils curled around your wrists. Gentle at first. Then tighter. Thenโ
It wasnโt gentle.
Heโd been good to you, though, in the other one, at least. Good, in his own hard way. But youโd called him evil. Youโd looked at his deepest wound and called it his nature.
So he wasnโt good to you then.
Heโs hungry.
Not hungry for meat, for blood, for anything like that. Hungry for proof, for you, for you staying, for you being real and being with him and not leaving him like all the rest of them.
His teeth were in your throat first, the small, delicate column of your neck, the part of you heโd always been fascinated by, always been drawn to, always been drawn to bite, to taste, to see your pulse beat against his lips one last time, to see you die, to see you live, to see you be his, to see you be his and no one elseโs, to see you be his and to know heโd been the one to take you.
You struggled. You struggled hard.ย
You scratched at his arms, his face, whatever you could get your hands on. And he did nothing. He just stood there and let you mark him, just as he was marking you.ย
This was your proof, your evidence, that you had been here, that you had mattered, that youโre still here. And when your struggle finally ended, his tears started.
They found him hours later inside his tent.
His green tent, normally so sharp and chaotic, a whirlwind of color and clutter, was quiet, as if he'd put everything in its place and locked the door behind it.
Every item in its place. Every corner laid out with grim, exact care.
And in the center of it all, Harlequin knelt upon the floor, himself folded into a cross-legged position, you resting in his lap, your blood still dark upon his lips, his chest, his hands.
He was laughing.
But it was not his usual laughter, quick and sly and full of tricks for you. No, this was different. This was broken. This was hysterical. This was the laughter of a man who'd won at last, but found that there was nothing to win.
โThey finally stopped running,โ he wheezed in between the laughter. โThey finally stayed. They finallyโfinally stayed.โ
One of the others, maybe Pierrot, spoke out in disgust or horror. โHeโs enjoying this.โ But another voice spoke out, maybe Doctor or Jester, softer, older, more sad.
โNo. He isn't.โ
They leaned in, and saw the tears streaming down his face, the rivers of red through the blood. The way his hands shook as he held you close to him. The way his voice sounded, the quiet plea beneath the laughter.
โPlease,โ he whispered, his voice so soft that the silence around him seemed to lean in to listen. โPlease come back. Please don't leave me alone. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please.โ The laughter ended then. Only the tears remained.
They did not move you out of his arms. They could not.
So they left you there. In his lap. In his tent. In his arms. Forever.
Just as he'd never wanted it.
โ ๐ฟ๐๐๐๐๐ ย
He didn't chase. Didn't plead. Didn't need.
That was the performance, the act you wore like armor: a being so above ordinary human concerns that nothing could touch him. Heโd been wearing that mask for an eternity, long before you, long before her, long before anything had even begun.
When you told him youโd had enough, standing at the foot of the stage, at the foot of his throne, your voice calm, rational, announcing your decision to leave the circus, heโd simply regarded you.
His burning eyes had locked onto you with the same weight, the same sense of being a specimen under the lid of a glass, the sense of being seen but not seeing.
โYou want to leave,โ he said, announcing the discovery rather than making a question of it.
โYes. Iโm sorry. I have to.โ
โI see.โ
You waited for something, anything, that would breach the stillness, the calm, the sense of serenity that surrounded him like an aura.
But nothing. Not one thing. His face didnโt change, his stance didnโt change, the purple light in his eyes didnโt change. He was empty, completely empty.
You began to turn away.
His voice stopped you.
โYou do not understand what you are leaving.โ
You turned to look again. He hadnโt moved, not outwardly anyway. Yet something had shiftedโthe kind of shift that crawls up your spine, subtle and terrible all at once. The purple in his eyes had darkened, grown heavier, like storm clouds wrapping around an ocean you canโt see the bottom of.
โ...She left too, once. Tried to. Thought she could walk away from the gravity of this place.โ A pause. โShe learned.โ
Those words fell into the air like stones dropped into a still pool. You knew who he meant. Everyone did. The ghost that haunted every corner of this circus, the name no one spoke aloud but everyone carried in their pocket like a secret.
โIโm not her.โ
โNo.โ He rose, slowly. Careful, finally deciding to move.
The stage seemed to shrink as he stood to his full height. His horns caught the shadows above, and the purple light that poured out of him grew darker, spilling into the air like ink bleeding through water.
โYouโre smaller. Softer.โ He stepped down from the throne, each footfall sending a vibration you could feel in your bones. โLess smart, easier to keep.โ
You ran.
Not smart. Not careful. Pure, animal fear steering you toward the exit, toward the flap, toward anywhere but here.
But you didnโt get far.
His handโnow claws came from behind you, steady and unhurried, not rough, just... there. The fingers trailed over your ribs, your sternum, your heart. Through your skin, which felt like it weighed nothing, through your muscle, which felt like it was air, through your bone, which felt like tissue paper.
And then they were inside you.
Not tearing, not ripping, just... occupying the space where your most vital organ beat with a desperate pace. โYou tried,โ he breathed into your ear, the words sending a tremor through your whole body. โThat means something. She would be proud of you for trying.โ
You couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, only feel the fingers of his hand curling around your heart with a strange, gentle tenderness.
โBut trying is not enough,โ he continued, his face inches from yours, the neon purple eyes blazing with heat, nearly touching yours, close enough for you to feel the furnace behind them, the ancient hunger he kept hidden behind his indifference.
โI let myself care for you,โ he said, the fingers of the other hand cradling your face, turning you to face him.ย
โThat was my mistake.โ
His fingers tightened around your heart.
Just a fraction. Just enough.
They found you hours later, tucked inside the purple tent, curled at his feet as if you were a child, sound asleep. Your eyes were closed, a small smile played on your face, your body undisturbed, no blood, no sign of struggle, no sign of a fight. Only the rise and fall of your chest told a different tale, the one thing missing.
Jester sat upon his throne, your heart nestled in the palm of his broad hand. It was still warm, its color a dull red, still beating, an anemic drum that would not keep time for much longer.
โThey gave it willingly,โ he said when they entered, his voice unchanged, uninflected, carrying the same weight as it always had. โIn the end.โ
And yes, no one believed him. But no one could prove otherwise.
He did not move like the others did. No desperate swiftness in the movement of Pierrot, no hungry gleam in the eyes of Harlequin. He simply observed. He cataloged you as "Visitor, New," and then went about his business.
But you continued to return.
You talked to him like he was a person, like he was more than simply the function of the clockwork. You inquired about his systems, his ledgers, his order. Not in derision, but in genuine interest. You did not shy away from the lingering look of the grid eyes. You did not flee from the silence.
He found you pretty.
The realization was... inconvenient. Humans were variables. Messy. Unpredictable. He'd spent centuries perfecting his detachment, his professional distance, his immunity to the chaos of emotion.
And then you smiled at him one day, and something in his perfectly organized mind stuttered.
He never thought he would find himself attached to a human. He'd watched others fallโPierrot's obsession, Harlequin's games, even the Jester's quiet attentionโand found it all completely unnecessary.
Until you.
Until the way you said his name like it meant something. Until the way you sought him out, not for paperwork or assignments, but just to be near. Until the way your file grew thicker and thicker, filled with observations he'd never made about anyone else.
Subject: Visitor
Notes: Arrives at 10:23 AM. Stays for 47 minutes.ย
Smiles 12 times. Pulse elevates when addressed directly. Interesting.
He'd never written "interesting" in anyone's file before. So when you told him you were leaving, just standing in his tent, calm and rational, explaining that your time at the circus had run its courseโhe processed it like any other departure.
"Date of exit. Reason for exit. Forwarding information." His pen moved steadily across the page, each stroke precise, controlled, perfect. "I will update your records accordingly."
"That's... that's it?"
He looked up. His white eye were unreadable. One had to be. If he showed even the blue one, a fraction of what he was feeling, the whole system would collapse.
"What else would there be?"
You'd expected something. A fight. A plea. A crack in that perfect, professional facade.
He gave you nothing.
So you left.
You made it three blocks.
Three blocks of streetlights and empty sidewalks and the slowly dawning realization that something was wrong. Your keys? Your phone? You patted your pockets, checked your bagโ
And turned back. He was there.
He stood in the road, unmoving, unshaken, as if the moment itself had paused to hold him there. A streetlight passed across the sharp definition of his suit, the sharp definition of his pose, and the faint grid of the streetlight in his eyes flickered in the dark.
He did not exude the vibe of the type of person who follows you around.
He exuded the vibe of the type of person who had been waiting for you.
โYou forgot something,โ he said.
Your heart was slamming in your chest. โWhat?โ
โMe.โ
His hand shot out, quicker than youโd ever seen him move, quicker than anything that stiff, improper for a body to do, could plausibly manage, and it closed around your wrist.ย
The grip was gentle, exact, almost inexorable.ย
โYou are filed under โPermanent,โโ he said. His voice still calm, still smooth, still polite, but thereโs something in it now, something that wasnโt there before, and you realize, with a jolt of fear, that you are dealing with a man who is no longer calm, no longer polite, no longer sane? โDid you think Iโd simplyโฆ let you walk away? Not under my jurisdiction?โย
โTicket Takerโโย
โYou know, I kept of you, even files on her for decades after she was gone." His grip tightenedโjust slightly, just enough. "Did you know that?"
His other hand reached into your your waist
"You're in my files now," he continued. "Every interaction. Every smile. Every time your pulse elevated when I addressed you. It's all there. Permanent. Irrevocable."
"Pleaseโ"
"I will preserve you too." His voice crackedโjust once, just slightly. "Something small. Something I can keep. Something that will never leave."
He was gentle. That was the worst part.
He did not rip, nor gnaw, nor devour. He processed. Each slice precise, exact, exact, careful in its own horrible way. He spoke to you throughout the whole thing, calm, even, almost gentle.
โThis will not hurt much longer. I have seen to that.โ
โYou were always so patient with my systems. No one else ever asked me how they worked.โ
โI should have told you sooner that you mattered. That you were not just another file.โ
โIโm sorry. Iโm so sorry. But I cannot let you go. I cannot.โ
Your hand was the first to go. The right handโthe one that had reached out to him, touched his sleeve, held the pen when you let the scribbling in the margins.
He kept it, careful and intact, wrapped in wax, labeled with pristine handwriting.
The rest of you... Well, he was a keeper of records. He knew precisely how to make things last.
They found you months later.
Not all of youโnever all of you. But pieces. Filed away in his cabinets with the same precision he applied to everything else.
Your hand, preserved in wax.
Your voice, recorded on an old device, saying his name. A lock of your hair, pressed between pages of your file. Your smile, captured in a photograph he'd taken without you knowing.
And in the main cabinet, under "Permanent Collection," your complete fileโthicker than any other, filled with years of observations, annotations, and one single line written in the margin of the last page:
"I should have told them sooner."
He was at his desk when they found it all. Working. Filing. Processing.
"They're still here," he said when asked, not looking up. His voice was calm. Professional. The same tone he used for inventory reports. "That's what they wanted. To be kept. To be permanent."
And you were still there. In the careful, precise way he said your name when no one was listening.
Right, where you belong.
โ ๐น๐๐ธ๐๐๐
He'd always been fascinated by your eyes.
You see, from the moment you entered his infirmary, your nerves thrumming, your curiosity piqued, your life force pulsating, he saw you. Saw you look at him with those wide, interested eyes when he drew closer to you. Saw you look at him, really look at him, with no flinching, no recoiling, no disgust or fear or revulsion of any kind.
Most people looked away, of course. Most people couldnโt sustain that look for more than a second or two before their baser instincts propelled them back, away, toward safety and distance and comfort.
But you didnโt look away. You didnโt flinch or frown or otherwise betray your discomfort with what you saw, with how you saw him, with how you saw him as if you really, really saw him for the first time in your life.
Heโd never had a subject quite like you, no, not quite like you at all.
So when you told him you were leaving, when you stood in front of him in his own infirmary, calm and composed and serene, when you told him your circus days were over, he simply nodded, thoughtfully, clinically, and said, โI see. And youโve weighed all the variables?โ
โYes.โ
โInteresting.โ
You smiled, a touch of sorrow, a flicker of hope, and turned to leave.
He let you go. For now.
Then you woke, strapped to a table.
The infirmary ceiling came into focusโfamiliar canvas, familiar shadows, familiar antiseptic scent, and something else, organic. You tried to move. Nothing. Tried to speak. Found your voice.
โWhatโDoctorโโ
โHush, hush.โ His face drifted into view above you, steady and curious, those cyan eyes bright with a kind of excitement he rarely allowed himself. โThis is for science. You understand.โ
โI donโtโyou canโtโโ
โI need to know.โ He plucked a small, sharp instrument from the tray at his side. It caught the dim light. โI need to understand what makes you stay. What makes any of you stay. She stayedโfor years, for decadesโand I never got to study why.โ
His free hand stroked a strand of hair from your forehead. Touching. Almost...tender.
โBut youโre here now. And I have so many questions.โ
The instrument was held close to your face.
โLetโs start with the eyes.โ His voice was low, almost...reverent. โTheyโre very expressive, arenโt they? The way they dilate when youโre afraid. The way they move when they see movement. The way they looked at me...really looked at me...without flinching.โ
His head tilted slightly.
โI wonder what they look like from the inside.โ
He was meticulous.
That was the thing about the Doctorโhe never did anything...carelessly. Not ever. Every cut precise, every detail noted, every sound you made...filed away.
โFascinating. The pupil constricts even in death. Reflexive, of course, but...โ A scratch of pen on paper. โNoting that.โ
He worked on you for hours.
Your eyes were next, surgically removed and preserved in separate jars, labeled with your name, the date, and โOptic Nerves: Intact.โ
Then your brain. This is where the answers were kept, where the reasons for you resided. He wanted to understand it, map it, figure out what made you different from everyone else.
Then your heart, because it belonged to them. To him. He wanted to hold the weight of it, to comprehend the force that kept it there when everything in you wanted to flee.
The whole time, he talked to you? To himself? To the data? It was difficult to say.
โShe would have understood this, the need to know, the need for answers.โ A pause. โShe let me study her, you know? Just once? Beforeโโ Another pause. โI should have asked for more time.โ
His hands did not shake, nor did his voice betray him.ย
He simply... worked at it.
They found you in the infirmary hours later.
Your body had been placed on the table, still, quiet, and warm, with an odd sort of dignity: your arms at your sides, your eyes closed, well, what was left of them, and a peaceful stillness on your features. The eyes, however, stared out from their jars on the counter, labeled and catalogued.
Your brain had been placed in a solution, awaiting further study.
Your heart, pink and fresh, was nestled in a small dish next to his notes.
Doctor was at his desk, turned away from them, his pen scratching across the paper.
"Fascinating," he muttered, unaware they had entered. "The optic nerve indicates signs ofโฆ yes. That will be recorded. And the hippocampal formationโremarkable preservation. I must section it further, but initial findings indicateโ"
"Doctor."
He looked up, blinking as if surfacing from deep water.
"Oh. You're here." He glanced at the table, at you, at the jars. "The specimen is... no longer viable for certain types of observation. But the data! The data is extraordinary."
He didn't notice the expressions on their faces. Didn't register Pierrot's horror, Harlequin's hollow shock, the Jester's heavy silence.
He only noticed the data.
"She would have been proud," he added, almost to himself. "Of the thoroughness. The attention to detail." A pause. "I hope."
He turned back to his notes.
They took you away. He didn't notice.
In the days that followed, the Doctor continued his work.
Your eyes sat on his shelf, next to other specimens, other contributions. Your brain was sectioned and studied and understood. Your heartโhe couldn't bring himself to section it. Not yet. It sat in its dish, slowly fading, a reminder of something he couldn't quite name.
He talked to you sometimes.
When the infirmary was quiet. When the others were performing. When the weight of his own curiosity pressed too heavy.
"I wish you'd stayed longer," he murmured one night, holding your heart in his gloved hands. "There was so much more I wanted to ask."
Your heart didn't answer.
It never would.
But in the silence, he almost heard your voiceโasking questions, seeking answers, wondering alongside him.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For the you of it all."
He placed your heart back in its dish.
And went back to work. Because that was what he did.
That was what he'd always done.
โ ๐ธ๐๐๐๐๐ท๐พ๐๐ถ ย
It started small.
A glimpse out of the corner of my eye: me, broken and discarded at the base of the merry-go-round, Pierrotโs empty eyes looming over me. I blinked, and it was gone.
And then there were more.
Me, caught under Harlequinโs grasp, his sly smile the last thing I saw before everything went black. Me, hollow and still in the Jesterโs chair, my heart cradled in his hand. Me, dissected and divided on the Doctorโs table, my parts neatly tagged and filed away. Me, a room full of parts and pieces in the Ticket Takerโs collection.
The visions plagued my nights, my moments of stillness, my moments of closing my eyes and holding my breath.
Iโd be smiling, laughing at something Pierrot had said, and then suddenly, Iโd see my own face: torn, eaten, gone. Iโd feel Harlequinโs ropes against my arm, and my mind would flash with visions of them wrapped tight around my throat, squeezing.
They kept me awake, kept me jumping at every creak and rustle, made me wonder if every kind word, every soft touch, every moment of peace, was all a lie.
You had no idea what was real anymore.
The only thing I knew was that I had to get out.
On the last day, you found yourself in the Hall of Mirrors, a place where your thoughts sounded louder than they actually were. You told the others that you wanted some air, that you had a headache, nothing more, to leave the others behind once more and wander the labyrinth a little while longer, past the decoys, the dull, second-hand reflections, to the center.
The special mirror. The pink one.
There she stood, as she always did, watching. Her one eye locked onto you with a gentleness that burned a little too brightly. Your hand touched the cold glass. โColumbina,โ you whispered, your voice breaking. โI need to go. I need to leave. The things Iโve seen. I donโt know whatโs real anymore. Iโm afraid of what theyโll do to me if I stay.โ
She did not blink, did not say a word. Yet you felt it, the air vibrating with the shifting heat, the warmth that seeped into the glass. Understanding.
โIโm going to run,โ you whispered. โTonight. Leave the town. Disappear. I wonโt be able toโฆโ Your voice caught on the memory of the threat you had not quite named. โI wonโt be able to become what Iโve seen.โ
She put her hand to the glass, her fingers fitting against yours.
And then you felt it, felt it beyond the understanding, beyond the pity. Approval.
She knew what they were, all the same.ย
Knew what they did. They were still familyโthe ones whoโd been there since she was alive, the ones sheโd loved and would have died for. But time had stretched on. Decades. And this is what their presence looked like now: a frantic, starved defense against a world that had always bruised them.
She didnโt want you to become like her.
Didnโt want you swallowed by the people she loved.
She wanted you to run.
Her eyes met yours for a long time. Then, with a calculated tilt of her head, she nodded the smallest, most certain nod.
Go.
You ran. No bags, no goodbyes. Just you, disappearing into the night, your heart thudding in your chest, your feet carrying you further and further away from the light, the music, the monsters who had loved you too much. And the circus continued on, louder and louder, as if you had never been there at all.
They started to notice you were missing.
In the mirror, Columbina stood still, quiet, unmoving.
Pierrot was the first to discover your apartment was empty, his voice echoing in the space as he called out, โWhere are youโฆ? Please answer. Please. Iโm scared.โ
Harlequin's messages were sharper, tinged with a fear he could barely hide in his words, โFunny game. Come back now.โ
The Jester did not send a message. He just waited, his weight bearing down on the space where you used to be.
The Ticket Taker marked your Status: Missing. Search initiated.
The Doctor prepared his tools, just in case.
They hunted all night.
The midway, the tents, the roads leading out of the circus, none of them gave up a clue, a hint, a whisper of where you might be. Just the empty space where you used to be.
Columbina watched from her mirror.
She watched Pierrot collapse against the carousel, sobbing, your name a broken prayer on his lips. Watched Harlequin's sharp grin fade into something hollow, his tendrils drooping as he realized you weren't coming back. Watched the Jester's purple light dim, just slightly, as another human proved that love meant leaving.
Watched the Ticket Taker close your file with trembling hands. Watched the Doctor set down his tools and simply... stop.
She watched them grieve.
And she smiled.
Not a cruel smile. Not a triumphant one. Something bitter. Something sad. Something that had been waiting decades to feel.
Good, she thought. Good. They'll hurt. They'll learn. They'll understand what it means to lose someone who chose to stayโbecause you didn't. You chose to live.
Her hand pressed to the glass one last time, as if reaching toward the distance where you'd disappeared.
Run far, little one. Don't look back. Don't let them find you.
And they never found you.
Weeks turned into months, months turned into years, and the circus went round and round, demanding, needing, and consuming all in its path. But it wasnโt quite the same. Something had changed, something had shifted, and no one knew what or why or how.
Pierrotโs empty eye still couldnโt quite adjust to wearing its stars again, Harlequinโs tricks had become sharper, more sinister, and less playful, the Jesterโs pull had grown stronger, the Ticket Takerโs ledgers gathered dust, and the Doctorโs curiosity had mutated into something else, darker, and more sinister.
But Columbina observed it all.
From her mirror, from her solitude, and from the prison of a love that had already consumed her whole.
She saw them suffer.
And she felt joy.
Because you were out there, somewhere, alive, and safe, and free. Because she had helped you escape, escape the same fate as Columbina. Because for once, one of them had managed to slip through the net, to escape the circusโs clutches, and live.
In the Hall of Mirrors, at the heart of the maze, a small pink figure placed her hand flat on the glass and closed her eye, and thought, Thank you, to the distance, to the night, and to you, for letting me help, for letting me save someone, for letting me love, for once, and for a moment, and for not destroying me with it.
Her joy shone brightly in the glass for a long time after she vanished, and you, somewhere, felt it, felt warmth, and approval, and freedom.
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