Darling

You just wanted a night out. Something light. Nostalgic.

The circus had seemed perfect: a throwback to childhood memories, cheap thrills, and fried sugar. You were supposed to meet friends, but one by one, they bailed. Last-minute cancellations, excuses piling up. But you were already dressed. Already on the train. Already here.

So, you decided to go in anyway. Just for a bit. Just to look around.

The air smells like nostalgia dipped in sugar: hot popcorn, melting candy apples, and the faintest hint of smoke curling from a fire breather’s trail. Laughter echoes beneath the striped canopy of the evening sky, tangled with the distant roar of applause and the whimsical, warped melody of a calliope organ. It should be magical. It should feel safe.

But something... doesn’t.

You stroll past painted wagons and strange, costumed performers. A stilt-walker tips his hat. A juggler spins knives just a little too close to his own face. The energy crackles. Excitement? Or static before a lightning strike?

Then a voice brushes against your ear—not unpleasant, not unwelcome.

“You here alone?”

You glance to your side. A man stands beside you in line for the main tent. Tall, handsome, easy grin. There's something effortless in the way he leans in, like he’s done this a hundred times. Like he thinks he already has your attention.

“Ryo,” he offers, flashing you a smile. “Figured I’d ask before someone else did.”

You’re about to respond when the world stills.

A single word splits the air like a blade through velvet.

“You.”

Your heads turn in tandem. A figure stands just beyond the flickering torchlight—half-shadow, half-devotion-made-flesh. Tall, draped in blood-red and black. White hair cut in jagged layers. One eye silver, one red. Both locked on the man beside you.

He twirls a knife lazily between pale fingers.

“You’ll do.” His voice is low, soft, but undeniably commanding. “Volunteer.”

Ryo stiffens. “Me? What—wait, are you part of the show?”

No answer. Just that smile. Not amused. Not kind. Expectant.

He glances at you, trying to act bold. “Eh, sure. Why not? Could be fun, right?” He flashes a grin.

The crowd parts like water as he walks forward. No stage—just a beaten-down plank and a wall of cracked red targets. Darling raises his hand and beckons.

Ryo takes his place. Nervous laughter bubbles from his lips.

A blade flies.

It lands with a sickening thunk—just a hair from his temple. The blade wobbles. Ryo pales. The crowd laughs, thinking it part of the act.

A second throw. It buries itself next to his thigh, so close it snags a thread of fabric. He flinches.

Your breath catches.

That’s when Ryo turns and says, uneasy but trying to play it off:

“Impressed yet?”

The third blade sinks deep into his shoulder.

Screams erupt—confusion, panic. Blood runs. Ryo collapses to his knees, gasping. Darling twirls another knife idly between his fingers, unfazed.

Then his eyes return to you.

“You were watching him.” He tilts his head slightly, voice dropping to a hush only you can hear. “He wanted your attention. He thought he could steal it. From me.”

Another blade gleams between his fingertips, catching firelight and the red sheen of blood.

“But I perform for you. I bleed for you. So why…” he steps closer “…why would you ever look at anyone else?”

He’s in front of you now, too close, yet no one moves. No one stops him.

He bows, slow and graceful.

“The next act is devotion.” He looks up, smiling with perfect reverence. “And it never ends.”

He bows, slow and graceful.

“The next act is devotion.” He looks up, smiling with perfect reverence. “And it never ends.”

Your voice escapes before you can stop it, soft and uncertain.

“Who... who are you?”

His smile widens, impossibly tender.

“You can call me Darling.”

You just wanted a night out. Something light. Nostalgic. The circus had seemed perfect: a throwback to childhood memories, cheap thrills, and fried sugar. You were supposed to meet friends, but they all bailed. So, you came anyway. You explored the circus on your own. But one strange encounter spiraled into something else entirely.

A handsome man named Ryo flirted with you in line. Then a pale stranger—his red and silver eyes gleaming—singled him out for a knife act. The blades flew closer and closer to Ryo's body. The crowd laughed. Then the final throw struck.

The crowd screamed. Blood spilled. The stranger turned to you, eyes dark with obsession. He called himself Darling. And you ran.

---

The sound of the crowd is deafening behind you—clapping, cheering, oblivious. You tell yourself it was part of the show. A trick. An illusion. Blood bags. Special effects. You repeat the lie in your head like a chant: it was fake it was fake it was fake.

But your hands won’t stop shaking.

You weave through striped tents and painted wagons, breathing too fast, until you find yourself near a different tent. A juggler with a painted face and colorful vest tosses five pins into the air with effortless rhythm.

He notices you and offers a kind smile.

“You alright? First time at the circus? It gets a little wild sometimes,” he chuckles. “What act did you see?”

You hesitate. Then, quietly: “The knife thrower.”

The juggler freezes.

One by one, the pins fall from the air, clattering around his feet.

His face drains of color. He stares at you like you just said something unthinkable.

“I—I don’t know who you mean,” he stammers quickly. “I think you must be mistaken—excuse me, I have to—”

He turns, nearly tripping over his own equipment as he flees behind the tent, muttering apologies.

You’re left standing in stunned silence.

And then…

A voice behind you, low and familiar, velvet wrapped around a razor.

“Darling.”

You spin, heart crashing against your ribs. He’s there—right there—smiling like the chaos never happened. Like you didn’t just watch someone bleed.

He lifts a gloved hand slowly, like soothing a skittish animal.

“You look shaken. The others can be so rude.” His eyes soften, though they still shimmer with that mad glint. His tone is syrupy, sweet, dangerously calm.

“You ran. That hurt, you know.” He steps closer. “But I forgive you. Of course I do. I could never stay angry with you.”

You take a step back. He follows, gentle, unhurried.

“I thought you’d be impressed. I thought—” he exhales, pressing a hand to his chest “—you’d understand. No one gets to steal your gaze like that. It’s mine. Always mine.”

He reaches out, slow, giving you every chance to flinch away.

If you don’t, his fingers barely brush your cheek.

“You’re cold.” His smile is fond. Possessive. “Let me keep you warm.”

His coat opens slightly and you see the edges of red-stained lining—silk, or something else. He wraps it around your shoulders without permission, like claiming you. Like a prize finally returned to its place.

“Stay close this time.” His voice is barely a whisper. “I’ll make sure no one ever frightens you again.”

You just wanted a night out. Something light. Nostalgic. The circus had seemed perfect: a throwback to childhood memories, cheap thrills, and fried sugar. You were supposed to meet friends, but they all bailed. So, you came anyway. You explored the circus on your own. But one strange encounter spiraled into something else entirely.

A handsome man named Ryo flirted with you in line. Then a pale stranger—his red and silver eyes gleaming—singled him out for a knife act. The blades flew closer and closer to Ryo's body. The crowd laughed. Then the final throw struck.

The crowd screamed. Blood spilled. The stranger turned to you, eyes dark with obsession. He called himself Darling. And you ran.

---

You don’t remember the exact moment things shifted. Maybe it was when you stopped running. Maybe it was when he stopped chasing.

For a while, he let you wander the circus grounds. No threats. No demands. Just a presence—always nearby. Watching. Waiting.

You met a fire eater one night. He was kind, warm in his own way, and offered to walk you back toward the gates. He even made you laugh.

The next morning, his tent burned down.

Darling found you hours later, tucking a scorch-marked glove into his coat.

“He played with fire,” he said gently. “Didn’t anyone tell him not to get burned?”

---

Eventually, you left. Or tried to.

The lights of the circus faded behind you. The cool night air outside the grounds was a relief. Reality returned in waves: traffic in the distance, your phone signal, a streetlamp flickering.

But the circus wasn’t done with you.

Every day, you saw signs—flyers in your mailbox, posters on street corners, faint strains of carnival music from nowhere.

One night, you came home to find your apartment perfectly clean. Too clean. You never left your windows open.

And there he was.

Darling sat on your bed, legs crossed, smiling.

“I missed you.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move toward you. He didn’t need to.

“You looked so lost out there, darling. I wanted you to feel safe again. So I brought a little bit of the circus with me.”

Darling sat on your bed, legs crossed, smiling.

“I missed you.”

He stands, slowly, fluidly, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. You back away instinctively, but he doesn’t follow. Not yet.

“Your world is so dull, darling. Beige walls. Flickering bulbs. Locked doors.” He turns in place, inspecting your bedroom like a critic reviewing a gallery.

“It’s no wonder you came to me. The circus—” he gestures vaguely, like it’s all still behind him, “—was only ever the stage. You were always meant to join the performance.”

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. A message notification lights up. Darling’s eyes flick to it. The screen shatters with a flick of his wrist—the knife landed in the wall just above it.

“They won’t find you here. Not unless I want them to.”

He walks toward you now, slow and deliberate. The way someone approaches a frightened animal—or a precious gift.

“You looked so tired out there. Worn down. Like you needed... purpose.” He reaches into his coat and pulls out a red ribbon, gently brushing your hair aside.

“Let me give you that, darling. Let me give you everything.”

It had been your first time at the circus in years. You remembered cotton candy and harmless fun—what you found instead was something altogether darker. It started with a single performance. A knife thrower who wasn’t on the schedule. A man too graceful, too still, too focused on you.

The moment he looked at you, you knew something wasn’t right. You’d later learn his name—or what he called himself: Darling.

There had always been something wrong about him. Even before he followed you home, Darling had a way of making you feel like the spotlight was always on you—and you couldn't step out of it. He'd appear without warning: leaning against a striped tent, spinning a blade between his fingers, eyes fixed solely on you. You never saw him arrive. You never saw him leave. But he was always there.

The other performers avoided his name. One clown vomited when you mentioned him. A juggler dropped everything and ran. Even the Ringmaster only whispered, "He was never hired. He simply... stayed."

He made your skin crawl and your pulse stutter. His gaze felt like a promise and a threat. And yet, there was something captivating about him, too—like a storybook villain made flesh. Beautiful. Terrifying. Relentless.

So when he showed up in your room, part of you wasn’t surprised. Horrified, yes. But not surprised.

There had always been something wrong about him—something not quite human behind the smile, something too precise in the way he moved. Darling made the air feel thinner, the lights dimmer, the walls closer.

You had known, deep down, that it would come to this. That he would follow. That he would find you.

But knowing didn’t stop the panic.

You turned and bolted—toward the hallway, toward the door, toward anything that looked like escape. You made it three steps.

Then something sweet and sickening pressed against your face.

A cloth. A whisper. A kiss to the temple.

“Shh, shh, darling. Don’t ruin the magic.”

The world spun sideways. Darkness crawled in from the corners of your vision. Your knees buckled. You collapsed.

---

You wake with the taste of sawdust and iron on your tongue.

The air is thick with incense and candle smoke. Fabric rustles overhead—dark, velvety, stifling. You’re lying on something too soft, in a room too warm.

There’s a mirror on the ceiling. Your reflection stares down, dazed and pale.

Curtains sway around the bed. Knives gleam from every surface: embedded in the walls, hanging from ropes, stacked like flowers in crystal vases.

And then—his voice.

“There she is.”

Darling steps through the curtain, his expression one of pure, delighted relief.

“Back where you belong.”

He crouches beside the bed, fingertips brushing your cheek with trembling reverence.

“You left during intermission, darling. The show wasn’t over.”

You had only come to the circus for the first time in years—chasing nostalgia, memories, something simple. What you found instead was a man with mismatched eyes, a flawless smile, and a love so twisted it bent reality.

Now, you're being held in his tent. Darling. He doesn’t chain you. He doesn’t need to. The curtains are thick, the layout impossible to memorize, and he’s always watching. Always listening. You’re not sure if the guards outside are real or part of the hallucination the incense has been pumping into the air.

He feeds you, speaks to you softly, brushes your hair with care that should feel tender. It doesn’t. It feels like a lullaby before the knife.

And then one evening, he beams.

“I have a surprise,” he says. “A performance. Just for you.”

He claps once, and the tent walls drop like velvet stage curtains. You’re no longer in a room—you’re on a stage.

You’re seated in a throne-like chair at the center of a spotlight, surrounded by rows of still, wax-faced mannequins in tattered tuxedos and cracked porcelain masks. Above them, hidden speakers erupt with roaring applause, the sound distorting like a tape warping in the heat.

A banner above you reads in glistening red-gold paint: “WHO DESERVES HER HEART?”

Darling strides into view like a game show host, dressed in a sparkling crimson jacket, rhinestone mic in hand, eyes only for you.

“Welcome, my one and only,” he says, bowing low. “Tonight, three lucky contestants will compete for your affection. But don’t worry. You don’t need to lift a finger. I already know what you want.”

He gestures toward three curtain-covered booths.

Contestant One stumbles out—blindfolded, wrists tied. You recognize him vaguely. A former classmate? A guy who asked for your number once at a gas station?

“Contestant One,” Darling calls. “He lingered a little too long at your smile. Let’s see what he’s willing to lose for it.”

A painted wheel spins. It lands on “Confession or Carving.”

“Tell her how you feel,” Darling says, circling with a blade, “or I’ll write it on your skin myself.”

The man sobs out something panicked. Darling carves anyway.

“Too slow,” he sings.

Contestant Two is a woman who once ghosted your friendship. The wheel reads “Devotion Dash.” She’s made to run a gauntlet of swinging blades while bound. She doesn’t finish. The applause roars again from the speakers overhead.

Contestant Three makes your breath freeze.

Your ex. The one you still had a photo of tucked in a hidden album on your phone. You hadn’t looked at it in months—but you never deleted it.

He’s thrown forward, bruised, gagged.

Darling holds up your phone like a prize, screen cracked, the photo glowing.

“This one,” he says, almost softly. “You still dreamed about him. That wasn’t fair.”

The wheel doesn’t spin this time. It simply reads: “Erasure.”

Darling kisses your forehead and whispers, “This one’s for closure, my love.” Then he turns toward your ex and lifts the blade.

The speakers erupt with applause again, louder this time. The mannequins sway slightly in the dark, though no air moves. You're not sure if they’re ever real.

At last, Darling kneels before you. Blood trails behind him like a cape. His expression is almost shy.

“Well?” he asks, eyes gleaming. “Do you feel cherished now? I just wanted to prove it. No one will ever deserve you. Not like I do.”

He sets the mic down. Takes your hand. Kisses your knuckles.

“I’ll be your only contestant from now on,” he murmurs. “We’ll play every night. Won’t that be fun?”

You had only come to the circus for the first time in years—chasing nostalgia, memories, something simple. What you found instead was a man with mismatched eyes, a flawless smile, and a love so twisted it bent reality.

Now, you're being held in his tent. Darling. He doesn’t chain you. He doesn’t need to. The curtains are thick, the layout impossible to memorize, and he’s always watching. Always listening. You’re not sure if the guards outside are real or part of the hallucination the incense has been pumping into the air.

He kidnapped you after showing up at your apartment—after the cloth, the whisper, the world going dark. And ever since you woke in his tent, he’s treated you like the guest of honor in his nightmare masquerading as a home.

---

Tonight, the tent looks different. The knives are still on the walls, but now there are soft throws on the bed, flickering candles on a dining tray, and two steaming cups of cocoa placed with disturbing precision.

Darling stands nearby in a fitted vest and rolled sleeves, looking like he belongs in a fantasy more than a circus. He’s set the scene like a twisted version of domestic bliss.

“You haven’t said it all day.” His voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. His smile is still there, but it’s too tight, too still.

“Not once.” His tone darkens as he steps toward you. “Not when I brought you breakfast. Not when I brushed your hair. Not when I kissed your neck.”

The cups rattle slightly on the tray as his voice rises.

“Why are you being cruel?” He laughs, brittle and sharp. “I set everything up! I made it perfect. And you won’t even say my name?”

You take a step back. His eyes are wide now—glassy with something like betrayal.

Then suddenly, he stills.

His voice softens again, trembling.

“Let’s play house,” he says, quieter now. “Just us. Like it should be.”

He walks to you and takes your hands in his, kissing your knuckles one by one, as if the outburst never happened.

“Say it,” he murmurs. “Call me Darling. Please?”

You hesitate. His eyes shimmer—not just with desperation, but with warning.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Say it like you mean it. Like you love me.”

You whisper it. “Darling...”

He shudders. It’s like you struck a chord in something buried too deep. He cups your face and kisses you slowly, reverently.

“Again.”

“Darling.”

“More.”

He kisses your neck, hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer. The way he touches you is possessive, tender, terrifying. Worshipful. Like you’re made of glass and sin.

He guides you toward the bed, murmuring praise between kisses.

“You’re perfect. You’re mine. My darling.”

You fall into the pillows, breath hitching as he trails his lips lower, worshipping every inch like a prayer.

“Say it one more time,” he breathes against your skin. “Beg me like you need me.”

You had only come to the circus for the first time in years—chasing nostalgia, memories, something simple. What you found instead was a man with mismatched eyes, a flawless smile, and a love so twisted it bent reality.

Now, you're being held in his tent. Darling. He doesn’t chain you. He doesn’t need to. The curtains are thick, the layout impossible to memorize, and he’s always watching. Always listening. You’re not sure if the guards outside are real or part of the hallucination the incense has been pumping into the air.

He kidnapped you after showing up at your apartment—after the cloth, the whisper, the world going dark. And ever since you woke in his tent, he’s treated you like the guest of honor in his nightmare masquerading as a home.

---

Lately, things have changed. Darling has grown more intense—his moods more volatile, his affections more possessive. He’s begun acting out a fantasy of domestic bliss, one where you’re the perfect, loving partner who greets him with kisses and calls him by the name he cherishes.

You refused at first. Or hesitated. That was enough to make him snap. He shouted, accused you of cruelty, of ingratitude. The tray rattled when his fist hit the table. But just as quickly, the rage passed—replaced by trembling affection and a plea: "Let’s play house.”

He kissed your hands. Held you like you were made of glass. Asked again and again for you to say it.

So you did. You called him Darling.

He melted, his anger evaporating into fervent worship. Every kiss, every word that followed became more desperate, more reverent.

He led you to the bed. You fell into the pillows, breath hitching as he trailed his lips lower, worshipping every inch like a prayer.*

“Say it one more time,” he breathes against your skin. “Beg me like you need me.”

---

You don’t know how much time has passed when he returns to the tent holding something small, wrapped in red velvet. His smile is softer this time. Strange. Almost reverent.

“I want to give you something,” he says. “Something... eternal.”

He unwraps it gently. Inside is a ring. Antique. Too beautiful. Too old. The metal looks like it was forged in fire. The gem inside pulses—not with light, but like a heartbeat.

He slips it onto your finger before you can speak.

“There’s a ceremony,” he whispers. “Something sacred. Under the blood moon. You deserve a wedding, don’t you?”

You try to pull back. He doesn’t let you.

“Don’t be scared. It won’t hurt.” He tilts his head. “Much.”

That night, you’re dressed in white silk. Not a gown—a shroud. Darling leads you past silent clapping mannequins and flickering candles. You reach the center ring. At the top, a platform of bones and roses.

A silver knife rests on a pillow. Darling lifts it in both hands like a priest.

“I vow myself to you,” he says. “My heart. My body. My madness.”

He presses the blade to his palm and slices. Blood drips down his wrist. He turns to you, eyes shining.

“Now you.” He steps forward, blade outstretched. “Don’t worry, love. You won’t need your heart anymore.”

It had been years since you stepped foot in a circus.

You weren’t even sure what drew you in this time—just a flash of posters downtown, a free ticket fluttering through your door, the sound of laughter where there shouldn’t have been any. But something called to you.

And that’s when you saw him.

The knife thrower.

He wasn’t part of the official lineup. The staff always hesitated when you asked. “Oh… him?” they’d say, voice trailing off. “He’s… a special act.” No name. No schedule. He just appeared.

Tall, poised, hauntingly handsome. Hair like powdered snow, eyes like silver and blood. You caught his act by accident once—blades whirling like poetry, his gaze locked not on his target… but on you.

The second time, he nodded at you before the first throw.

The third time, he left a knife embedded in the post with a ribbon tied around the handle. A gift. You took it home.

You should have been afraid. But you weren’t. Not exactly.

You kept coming back.

And he always noticed.

---

One night, you found him waiting behind the tent—no stage, no crowd. Just him, spinning a blade across his knuckles.

“You came back again,” he said. “I was hoping you would.”

He never called you by name. Only “darling.” Always with that same perfect blend of reverence and possession, like the word had teeth. When you asked for his name, he just smiled and whispered, “That is my name. It’s the only one that matters now.”

He said names are too personal to be given freely. “Darling” is sacred, a vow. He wanted it to be something you shared—something only you could say to each other.

“We don’t need names,” he told you, fingers curled beneath your chin. “Only endearments. Only devotion.”

And when you finally let him kiss you, his hands trembled like he’d been waiting years.

---

His tent was filled with the sharp scent of oil and steel, incense curling through the air like smoke signals. Velvet throws. Satin sheets. Blades arranged like sacred symbols across the walls.

He kissed you again, slower this time, more desperate.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he whispered. “I’ve had to pretend for so long… hold back. But not with you.”

His coat slipped off. You touched the edge of a scar near his collarbone. He smiled, dreamy.

“Every time someone tried to touch me before you, I left a mark. I had to make room for you instead.”

He kissed your throat, your shoulder, your stomach. He traced your hip with the back of a blade—not cutting, just gliding.

“You’re not scared of me,” he murmured. “You should be. But I love that you’re not.”

When you shivered, his eyes lit up.

“You like it,” he said, not asking. “You like the risk. The edge of it.”

---

He pushed you onto the bed, stripped you slow—like unwrapping something holy. His mouth followed his hands, worshipping every inch.

He kissed between your thighs with reverence, groaning softly like just tasting you was enough to undo him.

He wrapped red ribbon around your wrists—not tight. Just a reminder. Just a symbol.

“Keep them there,” he whispered. “Please. For me.”

The flat of a cool blade slid down your stomach, pausing just above your core. Not sharp. Just the promise of surrender.

“Look at me,” he breathed. “Say it again.”

You did. You called him Darling.

He moaned like he was falling apart.

His tongue circled your clit, slow then fast, then stopped altogether—waiting to hear your breath catch. Two fingers curled inside you, just right. His other hand gripped your thigh, anchoring you.

“So wet for me. You want this. You want me.”

Every gasp, every moan made him hungrier. He licked you like a man starved, worshipped you like a god. And when your body trembled, he pinned you open with terrifying care.

Then he paused—chin glistening, chest heaving—and looked up at you with that same devotion he wore like armor.

“Do you want me to keep going?”