爱情买卖

Hope you enjoy reading it! 🃏@nekoboydreams

I think this song suits him perfectly<Fragile-山下達郎>↓

Harlequin is not simply an avoidant personality. He has a complex personality structure characterized by high-functioning traits, coupled with narcissistic or manipulative tendencies.

This analysis delves into his character from psychological, philosophical, and narrative perspectives.The current storyline has yet to delve into the depths of their pasts, so everything presented below is purely my personal opinion and speculation.

In the official Q&A, it was stated that Harlequin harbors the strongest desires among all the characters.The more I ponder it, the more fascinating it becomes—he may have endured some kind of trauma. Of course, it’s also possible that he is just inherently this way (after all, as a monster, his way of thinking is not aligned with ours). That’s why I’m making this analysis to share my thoughts with everyone.

I believe the so-called hypersexuality is nothing more than a compensation for another kind of void. The emptier one feels inside, the more one craves to fill it with such pursuits.

This touches upon the core issues of desire, emptiness, and addiction in modern psychology and philosophy.

The Compensation Mechanism: Hypersexuality (or other behavioral addictions) is often not about the desire itself, but rather a compensatory strategy adopted to fill a more fundamental void or pain. This "emptiness" can manifest in several forms:

Emotional Void: Such as loneliness, lack of love, absence of intimate relationships, and low self-esteem (the official Q&A refers to him as a "sadomasochism all-in-one machine," and masochism itself is an expression of low self-esteem).

Meaning Void: A life lacking purpose, a sense of value, and deep connections.

Traumatic Void: Unresolved childhood trauma, abuse, or emotional neglect (which likely occurred long before the incident involving Colombina).

Existential Void: Confusion about the essence of life, boredom, or a sense of nihilism.

The Misplacement and Cycle of Desire: The intense sensory stimulation and fleeting sense of control obtained through sex (or other high-stimulation behaviors) can mask or numb that underlying sense of emptiness. This creates a vicious cycle:Emptiness → Attempts to fill it with behavioral stimulation → Temporary relief → Greater emptiness and an elevated threshold for stimulation after the behavior ends → Even stronger emptiness → An increased craving for stimulation.

This echoes the philosophy of Blaise Pascal, who famously said: "All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone." He argued that people rely on constant distractions and diversions to avoid confronting their inner emptiness. I believe Harlequin’s constant bickering with Pierrot and his relentless pursuit of amusement also fit this pattern perfectly.

"What exactly are you trying to escape from, and how?"

Harlequin’s behavioral patterns, including the things he says to you, all feel like tests to me.

Based on the hypothesis that his current behavioral patterns stem from past trauma, I have summarized his core traits: Having endured trauma, he adopts a frivolous demeanor, using words as a mask and excelling at pretense. However, if someone breaks through his defenses with genuine, direct emotional engagement—touching upon realms he has never known—he will fall silent and retreat to observe from a distance.

This reveals a core personality defense mechanism and a post-traumatic state of survival. He is a monster who has constructed an intricate psychological defense system as a result of trauma. Perhaps he is actually living quite freely, and I’m overcomplicating things, painting him as a pitiful figure. But this is also a valid possibility. He is inherently ambiguous, allowing for endless interpretations.

Key Traits of Harlequin

"A Frivolous Demeanor, Using Words as a Mask, Excelling at Pretense"

Essence: This is a defense mechanism. Frivolity serves as a smokescreen, designed to create emotional distance, avoid genuine deep conversations, test others’ reactions, and steer clear of profound connections.

Pretense: This is a survival skill he learned in a dangerous world. Having been hurt by revealing his true self in the past, he has created one or more "persona masks" as his protective coloration. This is why he appears mysterious and elusive—he wears many faces.

"If Someone Breaks Through His Defenses with Genuine, Direct Emotional Engagement—Touching Upon Realms He Has Never Known"

"Genuine, Direct Emotional Engagement": This means someone bypasses his verbal smokescreens and pretense, catching a glimpse of the vulnerability, sincerity, or longing he tries so hard to hide. This is an extreme threat to him—his entire defense system has been breached.

"Realms He Has Never Known": This could be unconditional acceptance, sincere care, non-judgmental understanding, or a safe emotional haven. Having never experienced these things before, he has no framework to deal with them. This triggers an existential fear within him.

"He Will Fall Silent, and If He Likes You, He Will Retreat to Observe from a Distance"

Silence: It doesn’t mean he has nothing to say; it’s a sign of system overload. When his old defense strategies (frivolity, pretense) fail, and the new situation (being genuinely touched) is fraught with unknown risks, his mind enters a "freeze" state. This is the most primal survival response: when you cannot fight or flee, you freeze.

Retreating to Observe from a Distance: This stems from the hyper-vigilance of a trauma survivor. He needs to withdraw to a safe psychological distance to observe you, analyzing repeatedly:

"Is this real?"

"Is this safe?"

"What do you want from me?"

This process requires immense patience and time, because he needs to rebuild a nearly non-existent belief: "There might be kindness in this world that won’t hurt me."

The Underlying Psychological Logic ChainTrauma (breach of trust) → Formation of core beliefs ("I am unlovable / The world is dangerous / Others are untrustworthy") → Development of defense strategies (frivolity, pretense, emotional detachment) → When defenses are broken by sincerity → Triggering of primal trauma fears (fear of being hurt again, fear of being unaccepted if he reveals his true self) → Entering a state of freezing/observation (unable to cope with the new situation using old patterns, requiring time to assess new risks)

Deep inside this man, there might be a child trapped in time by trauma. His external "frivolity" is a towering fortress wall, and his internal "silence and observation" are the only self-protection methods left for the terrified child hiding behind that wall. He has even started shooting cold arrows at passersby, deriving a twisted sense of pleasure from it.

Every word he says is half-truth, half-lie, but you can sense that he is testing you. At the same time, he enjoys playing with people’s feelings—testing others is a game to him.

His defense mechanism has evolved from "self-protection" into an "aggressive game" and a means of "power and control."

I suffer, I lose, I revel in pleasure—all my actions and interactions are just for the sake of amusement.

Core Transformation: From "Survival" to "Game"

The Essence of Testing:His testing has transformed into a form of "predatory probing." He treats interpersonal relationships (especially intimate ones) like a chessboard. His words, which are "half-truth and half-lie," serve three purposes:

To Observe Your Reactions: To see if you are smart enough to see through his games, and if your emotions can be manipulated by him.

To Verify His Sense of Control: "I can still play with people’s hearts; I am the one in charge of this relationship."

To Seek Stimulation: The sense of power and excitement derived from manipulating others’ emotions becomes his drug to fill the void within him.

The Psychological Motivation Behind "Enjoying Playing with People’s Feelings":

Compensation and Reversal: Perhaps he was once a victim of emotional manipulation himself—his trust was betrayed, leaving him feeling powerless, abandoned, and deceived (this could be related to a rift with Pierrot or something he experienced in his childhood). Now, by becoming an emotional manipulator, he gains a twisted sense of compensation and power. "This time, I am the one hurting others, not the one being hurt."

Revenge Against the World: Subconsciously, he might believe: "Since the world (and others) are dangerous and deceitful, it’s only fair—even smart—for me to deceive and hurt them first."

Escaping Genuine Intimacy: True intimacy requires vulnerability and equality, which is his ultimate fear. Playing with people’s feelings is a form of pseudo-intimacy—he holds absolute control, can walk away at any moment, and never gets hurt.

What the "Gamer" Mentality Entails:

His capacity for empathy is likely severely impaired. He is capable of cognitive empathy (knowing what words will make you happy or sad), but lacks emotional empathy (being unable or unwilling to truly feel your pain, and may even derive pleasure from it).

His Modus Operandi Can Be Summarized As Follows:I am the master of my own world: I am no longer a passive "character" at the mercy of fate, but an active "player" who sets the rules and manipulates the variables.Others are either NPCs or opponents: People become sources of resources, achievements, or pure entertainment. Deep emotional connections carry too high a risk, but I can actively avoid them.

Harlequin uses manipulation and hurt as substitutes for genuine connection. His inner void is vast, his hatred for the world is deep-seated, and his distrust of others is profound. Ultimately, he completely cuts himself off from the possibility of experiencing true warmth.

Treating life like a game is both an attitude, a form of testing, and a result in itself.

When a person’s behavior shifts from "I am afraid, so I must pretend to protect myself" to "I find it amusing, so I must toy with you", its nature changes entirely.

This is a state of extreme lucidity and complete alienation. He sees through the "game-like" nature of social norms, emotional commitments, and moral narratives. He chooses to:

Participate actively, but never truly commit: Just like a player who knows the game’s plot is fictional but still enjoys the thrill of completing quests. He can play the role of a lover, a friend, or a partner, but he never ascribes ultimate meaning to these roles in his heart.

Gamify pain: When everything is a game, hurt and loss become nothing more than "losing HP" or "failing a quest"—they no longer strike at the core of his soul. This is a powerful psychological defense mechanism, using nihilism to defuse the overwhelming weight of existence.

It is an attitude that is both extremely charming and incredibly dangerous. He will likely remain trapped in this perpetual state of loneliness, won’t he?

Why do I imagine him this way?

Because if he truly hated Pierrot as much as he claims, and if he truly didn’t care about anything, he wouldn’t obediently follow Jester’s orders to hand out flyers alongside Pierrot all this time. He wouldn’t even help deflect the malicious barbs directed at Pierrot. And when he learned that Pierrot was injured, he didn’t utter a single word of mockery or seize the chance to gloat.

It’s all so complicated, isn’t it?

This reminds me of a story I wrote before, which was also about him.

I wrote it in a sudden burst of inspiration—a portrayal completely different from his in-game character. It felt as if my hands were being guided by some unseen force to depict this alternative version of him, a vulnerable side of him. I titled that story The Shared Nature of Love and Medicine, which was actually a poem I had written previously. It felt inexplicably fitting to apply it to him.

In the story, the version of you that I wrote could see the hidden depths in his eyes, understood the things he kept buried inside, and was straightforward and brave enough to face her own feelings. She didn’t flinch or feel afraid; instead, she faced and accepted his provocations and frivolous advances with complete candor.

And then, Harlequin revealed a different side of himself—like a child who had finally been seen. He responded with a faint, disbelieving glimmer of love, eventually opening his heart completely. At the end of the story, it was you who took the initiative to propose playing a game with him, and he asked, curious, what kind of game it was.

The character in the story replied:

"This game… is called ‘Truth.’"

Many elements in my story align with the newly released Day 2 content.

In Jester’s short story, it is said that for Harlequin, hatred is sweeter than love.

In my story The Unequal Chase, Harlequin also says something similar:

"Hate me. Hatred is always more fascinating than love."

I often wonder why I wrote those lines.

Harlequin craves an extreme form of preference and patience. He needs to know that you are focused solely on him, that your love is expressed intensely and directly, and that he is the only one for you. But the prerequisite for him to fall for you is that he must feel the same way about you—he must care about you, and want to have you (whether it’s part of a game or a genuine desire to occupy someone’s gaze and attention). These feelings all stem from the same source.

He may become confused, unable to distinguish what these feelings truly are, but the most important thing is to make him feel them. Only then can he melt for you, learn to trust the world again, and step out of his own tiny, enclosed world.

If he is truly this kind of person, then what does it matter if he is confused? Isn’t this intense, overwhelming emotion exactly what he has been craving all along?

For no apparent reason, I feel like I understand him perfectly.

But at the same time, I feel like I don’t understand him at all.

Because I don’t know what he truly wants.

Perhaps he doesn’t know what he wants either.

If you were to ask him,

he would only smile and reply:

"My dear, going to all this trouble just to think about me… am I to take it that you like me far too much? But this is all just a game, darling. No one truly cares about the ending."

大家好呀，我是爱情买卖。

我在国内小红书，抖音，哔哩哔哩，老福特都有我的账号【爱情买卖】

现在为了让大家更清楚目前的情况，也为了避免信息在传递中出现偏差、造成不必要的误会，我想在这里跟大家同步一下我这边的沟通安排：

我已经和代理官方@darthsuki取得了正式联系，并且经过双方一致同意，后续所有想要和官方沟通的问题、建议或者想法，请大家通过我的QQ群（513528849）来集中反馈，同时也为官方减轻些压力，希望可以理解。

具体的流程是这样的：

1. 大家把问题或想法发到群内文档，我会统一整理和汇总。 ​ 2. 我会将这些信息同步给darthsuki老师（目前我们两个所有沟通都是经过neko同意进行的），并进行交叉核对，确保信息准确无误。 ​ 3. 等官方给出回复后，我会第一时间在群里和大家同步结果。

也请放心配音老师也会加到我们群聊中的！这样做的目的，是为了让信息传递更高效、更精准，也能最大程度减少因文化和语言差异带来的沟通成本，避免产生新的误解。这既是官方的希望，也是我为了保护咱们社区能平稳走下去的一点小心愿。避免更多无辜的人受到无端指责。

非常感谢大家一直以来的理解和支持，也特别感谢大家愿意阅读完毕也希望各位国人看到这个帖子将这个消息与群聊传播回去，这样大家都能早日明白事情真相，安抚大家不安的情绪。

Why couldn't I find you sooner?!!

I love your analysis about Harlequin so muchhhh😭💘. To be honest, I felt something and also considered a little bit; however, i didn't have enough experience and knowledge to explain for myself😔. I was tossed and turned during a long time. I know there's something but can expound---- 💔

On account of your post, I has already had the answer🎉

Besides, would you mind if I translated that analysis into Vietnamese and posted it on Facebook ( VN Fandom ), please 👀❓💦

I promise to properly credit, and send the link to you for verification if needed 🥺🌷💦

When Communication Devolves into War, We All Become Prisoners of Prejudice

What began as a discussion about character storylines has ultimately spiraled into cyberbullying rife with regional and national biases. If this is what people call the "charm" of the internet, then it is a most absurd one indeed.

The entire incident started with nothing more than a girl’s anxious inquiry. Baidao’s comments were never directed at the original poster’s analysis; rather, she turned to a dubbing artist in the comment section—someone regarded as a semi-official representative—to ask if romantic undertones might develop between Harlequin and Pierrot, while openly voicing her fears and concerns. In both her post and replies to others in the comment section, she repeatedly emphasized that she had no intention of hindering Neko’s creative process; she merely hoped that similar ambiguous hints would not appear in other story routes. Yet this restrained plea was completely twisted out of context. She was labeled a "creator oppressor," a "meddler in game development," and a "homophobe," mocked as a "petulant child throwing a tantrum because things didn’t go her way."

Some claimed she was trying to control Neko’s game and force him to revise storylines she disliked—what arrogant nonsense this was. The respect and admiration Baidao has for Neko have always been evident: she has created numerous derivative works based on his games, and when Neko was previously targeted by cyberbullying, she not only spoke out domestically to call for an end to the attacks but also comforted him privately, a kindness Neko deeply appreciated. That two such gentle individuals have now been thrust into the eye of the storm due to a misunderstanding is truly lamentable.

People were quick to anger at the mere suspicion that Neko was being wronged, rushing to confront Baidao under the guise of "standing up for justice." Yet they forgot that every word Baidao wrote was born of pain and overwhelming negative emotions. Words have always carried little weight online, as exemplified by the cruel comment directed at her: "No one cares what this twenty-year-old girl is thinking. After all, you do realize you’re a public figure, don’t you?"

With that one sentence, a "war" erupted. As I watch this farce unfold, I’ve come to recognize the behavioral pattern of both opposing sides: we hurl insults at each other, neither bothering to understand the other’s stance nor respecting their interpretations. We are eager to argue, yet unwilling to pause and communicate calmly. We dismiss each other as biased and unreasonable, leading to a vicious cycle of insults, attacks, defamation, and abuse. Who still remembers that all we initially wanted was a peaceful, rational conversation? In the end, everyone lost sight of their original intent, driven only by the desire to "win" this meaningless conflict.

To make matters more absurd, the core of the dispute has shifted repeatedly with each retelling and misinterpretation, morphing into countless bizarre claims. Some argue that the intense backlash from opponents stems from homophobia rooted in cultural and environmental differences. But this assertion is both shallow and ridiculous. Every country has its share of ignorant and backward-minded people, just as it has open-minded and progressive ones. We are all ordinary human beings, shaped merely by different upbringings and educational backgrounds. When stereotypes run rampant, can we truly claim to be engaging in equal dialogue?

People from one side brand those from the other as selfish and violent; in turn, they are dismissed as naive and narrow-minded. The walls of prejudice grow taller by the day. I can’t help but feel a bitter amusement at the heart of this controversy—it is a tragedy destined to repeat itself. History and warfare have long warned us how fragile trust and peace between humans can be, yet farces like this continue to play out time and again.

This real-life scenario reminds me vividly of the first encounter with Pierrot in the game: he was bullied simply because people held preconceived biases against him—tall in stature, eccentric in appearance, and silent by nature. Labeled an "abnormality" just for being different, he became a target of unwarranted attacks. Such is the nature of humanity: we delude ourselves into thinking that ostracizing those who are different is an act of "upholding justice," blind to how our arrogance and ignorance only serve to reveal our own pathetic selves. We tell ourselves we are doing "good," while in reality, we are wielding words like knives against an innocent person. This quarrel has laid bare the deep-seated prejudices of both sides—we are all such pitiful creatures.

Some may wonder why this controversy has sparked such fierce reactions. Please forgive us foreigners for our limited expressive abilities, and for the cold, restrictive definitions found in dictionaries across different languages. Even in daily life, misunderstandings arise when we rely solely on words to communicate; when filtered through the barrier of translation software, conveying the warmth and emotion behind those words becomes nearly impossible. It is precisely because of this that Baidao’s comment section, private messages, and repost replies have been flooded with malicious "well-wishes."

She was bombarded with private messages containing questions like: "Are you homophobic?" "If you don’t like the game, then get out!" "Why play it if you hate it so much? Why not make your own game instead?" "Are you discriminating against this community? You’re so rude and disgusting!" As her friend, I want to address what seemed like the most genuine question among them: Baidao is not homophobic. In fact, she is bisexual—she has had both girlfriends and boyfriends in the past. It almost sounds like a joke: online, she created a male persona to ship herself with Pierrot; offline, she is a woman who also likes women. By any stretch of the imagination, the label of "homophobe" could not be further from the truth.

This line of questioning is no different from confronting someone face-to-face and demanding to know their sexual orientation—it is saturated with malice, prejudice, and provocation.

Words are truly incredible things. I wonder if anyone has noticed that throughout all this, I have maintained a calm tone, simply stating my observations as I watch this quarrel escalate.

Based on the limited information we gleaned through translation software, we can piece together the following plot thread: Harlequin has been secretly in love with Pierrot from the very beginning, consumed by jealousy when he realized Pierrot’s affections lay with Colombina. His constant antagonism toward Pierrot and deliberate attempts to get close to the player—every single action—were driven by his obsession with Pierrot. Eventually, this love curdled into hatred, yet Harlequin clung to it fiercely, believing that hatred lasts longer than love. At the very least, it ensured that Pierrot’s gaze would remain fixed on him, always. As he told Pierrot in the game, "Your eyes belong only to me now"—even if those words were laced with hatred, he would have cherished that moment all the same.

The core of this controversy, however, revolves around the polyamorous storyline Neko intends to add. To be fair, polyamory is hardly an uncommon trope in storytelling; many of us even enjoy it. Neko’s desire to explore this narrative direction is perfectly valid.

The crux of the issue lies in this: what kind of polyamorous relationship are we talking about here? Is it one where Harlequin and Pierrot set aside their past animosity and rekindle their friendship, bound together by their shared love for the player? Or is it a tangled love triangle—Harlequin loving both Pierrot and the player, Pierrot reciprocating Harlequin’s feelings while also loving the player, and the player caring for both of them? The latter is simply beyond our ability to accept. In our understanding, Pierrot’s love for the player is deep and unwavering, and this kind of storyline is far outside the realm of our expectations.

Even so, we are still willing to be understanding. Neko has his own creative vision, and he is fully entitled to refine his work as he sees fit—we have never sought to control that.

What truly pushed Baidao and those who share her stance to the brink of collapse, though, was a "response" from the past. You may not be aware that Neko was once targeted by cyberbullying simply for sharing a post depicting a romantic relationship between Pierrot and Harlequin—and that was when the seeds of this current conflict were sown. At the time, when Baidao reached out to comfort Neko privately, she asked him if he supported the idea of pairing these two characters together. Neko’s reply was: "I just love and support this kind of fan-created content." His words implied that he had no intention of writing a romantic storyline for these two characters himself.

It was this response that put their minds at ease: those people continued playing the game, and Baidao kept creating derivative works for her favorite character. In other words, neither she nor they ever anticipated having to confront such a plot development—after all, Baidao’s love for Pierrot is sincere and unwavering. So when she learned that romantic undertones might be introduced between Harlequin and Pierrot, her breakdown was entirely understandable.

She posted her thoughts while grappling with overwhelming emotions, yet her words were as restrained as possible, and her tone and replies remained gentle throughout. For this reason, please stop being so harsh toward her. The claim that she incited her fans to cyberbully Neko is utterly baseless. While it is true that she has a sizeable fanbase, this does not mean she must remain silent when something she cares deeply about is at stake—and this aligns perfectly with Neko’s own stance. He is free to express his creative ideas, just as she is free to voice her anxieties. Must she create a secret account just to vent her frustrations?

Furthermore, she never once tagged Neko directly in her posts. She merely turned to the person in the comment section who "might represent Neko’s views"—the dubbing artist—and asked: "Is this true? Are you telling the truth?" All she ever wanted was a clear answer. Those who accuse her of deliberately using her fans to fuel cyberbullying can finally stop. To this day, she continues to emphasize domestically that people should refrain from insulting or pressuring Neko, urging everyone to remain rational. She has even suggested that if people truly cannot accept the new storyline, they should simply walk away and enjoy the game in their own little circles.

In fact, Neko and Baidao have already been in contact, and their communication has concluded on a friendly note.

Having said all this, I believe my core message has been made clear. Finally, I would like to address these so-called "righteous" well-wishers.

I will not dwell on whether you made inaccurate remarks about Baidao out of misunderstanding; instead, I will focus solely on your actions. You claim to abhor the "cyberbullying" you accuse Baidao of perpetrating against Neko, yet your current behavior is exactly the kind of conduct you claim to despise. In Baidao’s comment section, on other posts, and in her private messages, you use words to fan the flames of this violent controversy and make it escalate further. Your motives and sarcasm are also a form of pressure and attack, flaunting your "victory" and parading your so-called "moral high ground."

You have positioned yourselves as her opponents, hiding behind the guise of "supporting the official team" and "standing alongside Neko." This sense of entitlement has laid bare your deep-seated malice. No one thought to spare the "naive, childish girl" you speak of a shred of dignity or a way out. Even though she was aware that some people held opposing views, even though she saw others creating content favoring the pairing of Harlequin and Pierrot, she never once pushed her own opinions on them or in their spaces, nor did she ever act with disrespect toward anyone. The girl you dismiss as "overbearing and crazy" is far more tolerant than you will ever be.

I do not seek to deny the original intention behind your defense of Neko, but I cannot condone your personal attacks against Baidao. Even if Baidao’s words may have seemed somewhat intense to some, she never once attacked anyone in her original post. But you? You have dissected her character from every angle—her life experience, her age, her mindset, her stance—twisting her words out of context to belittle her and tear her down completely. By contrasting yourselves with her, you parade your so-called "maturity" and "superiority" in front of everyone, adopting such a condescending attitude that it sends a chill down one’s spine.

As I stated earlier, communication between people is like looking into a mirror—how you perceive others reflects nothing but your true self. All your assumptions and criticisms only serve to reveal one thing: you harbor inexplicable, unprovoked malice toward this girl.

Watching people from all over the world spout comments that are nothing but pure negative emotion in the name of their own "justice" and "anger," I scoff, thinking only one thing: you are utterly hypocritical.

This incident offers us an opportunity to reflect anew and learn a vital life lesson—language is a weapon of immense power.

“This is the ‘gift’ you got me?”

Harlequin arched an eyebrow, his gaze locking on the intricately designed, cool metal chain in your hand—its end fastened to a leather collar.

You held it up with a cheeky grin, twirling it playfully. “A necklace for you… c’mon, this is so your vibe. A collar would look killer with your style! Look at this double chain—total edge.”

He let out a dry, noncommittal chuckle, his eyes sharp as shards of glass, like he’d already seen right through the naughty little scheme hiding behind your “gift.”

Your confidence wavered a smidge, but you squared your shoulders and met his piercing stare head-on. “Well… can I put it on you? Lean down a little.”

“Oh?” He drawled the word, his expression shifting into something playful and challenging—as if he’d just signed up for the most entertaining game in town. “Be my guest.”

The chain brushed against his bare neck, cold against his warm skin. For a heartbeat, he dropped his eyes, letting you do as you pleased—and looked shockingly obedient.

Your grin widened to a beam. You couldn’t resist reaching up to ruffle his hair, messing up his carefully styled black curls, then launched yourself into his arms, nuzzling him like a clingy cat.

“Ahhh you’re so cute like this…” He looked exactly like a well-trained big dog.

You hugged his head to your chest, rubbing it affectionately—just like you did with the strays back on the street.

He sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Really? That’s the same way you pet those stray dogs downtown, isn’t it?”

“You wouldn’t get it, Harlequin,” you whispered suddenly, leaning in to brush your lips against his ear, your voice oozing with mischief. “You know what?”

“Hm?” He blinked, caught off guard, then focused in, curiosity piqued by your tone.

“You…” You blew a warm breath against his ear, making it tingle.

“Are…” Your hand slid slowly down to his collarbone, your fingertips grazing his skin in a featherlight caress.

Then, your words and your action landed at the exact same time—

“Mine.”

You tightened your grip on one of the dangling chains and yanked it hard downward!

His body stumbled forward, forced to bow his head.

“My best-behaved dog.”

You announced triumphantly, your eyes sparkling with the pure joy of pulling off a perfect prank.

His bowed head stayed still for a split second. Then, slowly, he lifted it.

His eyes had changed.

The fleeting “obedience” was gone, replaced by a blazing fire of arousal and competitive heat. He curled his lips into a dark, menacing smile, his fingers brushing the collar around his neck—which had just been reduced to nothing more than a dog chain.

“So… this is the game you want to play~” His voice was smooth and self-assured as ever, but the dangerous glint in his eyes betrayed how thoroughly you’d lit a fire in him. “My dear Ma’am… it seems someone between us is a little confused about their place.”

“A dog?” He chuckled, the sound low and magnetic, oozing danger. “Heh… perhaps we need to ‘reacquaint’ ourselves with each other’s roles.”

Before you could even process his words, he grabbed the chain you were holding and pulled it hard in the opposite direction!

You stumbled forward, caught completely off guard, crashing right into his arms. One of his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pinning you to his chest, his gaze locking onto yours like a vice. His other hand stroked the edge of the collar slowly, deliberately.

“That little stunt of yours…” His thumb pressed against a tiny, delicate mechanism on the collar. “Was brutal, wasn’t it?” — If you’d pulled any harder, the chain’s hidden latch would have cinched the collar tight instantly, cutting off his air without mercy. That split second of silence? He’d been savoring the sweet, painful thrill of being on the verge of suffocation.

Yet his eyes blazed with even more excitement, his smile growing bolder and more unhinged.

“Then… let’s see how well our Ma’am can ‘tame’ her pet, shall we?”

You pushed yourself up against his chest, then grabbed a handful of his hair, forcing his head back and yanking his neck into a dangerous, intimate angle.

“Harlequin…” Your voice was lazy, laced with a warning. “Good dogs don’t suddenly ‘bolt,’ you know. There will be punishments for that kind of behavior… do you understand?”

You watched the excitement burning in his eyes with pure, unadulterated amusement.

“If you understand…” Your fingers trailed down his jawline, gliding over his rapidly throbbing Adam’s apple.

“Then you should call me ‘Master’—obediently… instead of hiding behind that fancy ‘Ma’am’ title like the gentleman you’re not.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed hard again. He almost laughed, like he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world, opening his mouth to sneer.

You knew all too well that his mouth only ever spat out trouble.

So, before he could make a sound, you kissed him—hard.

He clearly hadn’t seen the ambush coming, letting you invade his mouth easily. Your breaths tangled together instantly, silencing whatever sharp retort he’d been about to hurl your way.

His forked tongue—so alien, so his—froze in surprise for a heartbeat, then was stirred by your bold sucking, quickly joining the fray and responding with fierce, hungry passion. The kiss turned heated and desperate in seconds, the small space filling with the wet sounds of your lips clashing and the ragged, gasping breaths you both struggled to catch.

As your lips locked in a hungry embrace, your hands weren’t idle—you began unbuttoning his shirt deftly. He kissed you so fiercely that you had to fight to keep your balance, lest you be pushed flat beneath him. He was sitting, holding you on his lap, and his lower body was already hard and hot against you, throbbing and grinding in time with your kiss—like a silent, wordless preview of what was to come.

“Mm~…” A soft moan escaped your intertwined lips, a sound of pure pleasure or a protest against the lack of air—you couldn’t tell, didn’t care.

He chuckled, pulling back slightly to let you gasp for breath, then dove in for another kiss, even deeper than before. His shirt was half-unbuttoned now, hanging loosely from his arms, and he tried to help you take off your clothes too.

But you raised your hand and slapped his away with a soft tap, a playful pout on your lips.

He arched an eyebrow, saying nothing, just watching you with those smoldering eyes—indulgent, like he was waiting to see what other “naughty” tricks you had up your sleeve.

You lifted your leg slightly, sliding your already soaked underwear off and tossing it aside like it was nothing. Then you pushed him backward onto the bed, not bothering to take off his pants—instead, you straddled his toned upper body directly.

You looked down at him, every inch the dominant Master.

“Be good… hold on, okay?” You could feel something hard and hot pressing firmly against your buttocks, a clear sign that he was already teetering on the edge of losing control.

He propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes narrowing as he watched you silently, waiting for your “performance” to begin.

Your soft, wet core was pressed against his taut abs, your arousal already soaking his skin, leaving a sticky, burning trail in its wake.

You began to move your hips slowly, grinding your most sensitive spot against the hard, defined muscles of his abdomen, sliding back and forth in a torturous rhythm.

“Mm…” A moan escaped your lips before you could stop it, the pleasure sharp and sweet.

“Ah…” You exaggerated your gasps deliberately, loving the way his eyes darkened with every sound you made.

Your body trembled uncontrollably with the friction, pleasure coiling deep inside you, hot and tight.

His hands shot up immediately, wanting to grab your waist and take charge of this deliciously cruel game.

But the hand you’d been using to hold the chain tightened without hesitation—yanking it hard!

“Cough!” His movements froze instantly, a reflexive cough escaping him as the sudden lack of air hit, his face flushing.

“That’s not allowed, Harlequin,” you gasped, your body going weak, your eyes glazed with desire, your cheeks flushed as you stared down at him. “When ‘Master’ is busy enjoying herself… how dare you interrupt? You should wait obediently for it to end… and then wait for ‘Master’ to give you some love and attention. Do you understand?”

You could feel the thing pressing against your buttocks harden even more, throbbing with need. His dark eyes locked onto yours, his voice low and hoarse, thick with lust:

“You’re so cruel… only caring about your own pleasure, completely ignoring your poor little pet’s suffering. What if you ‘break’ him… what will you do then?”

You ignored his mock “complaint,” lifting your hips slightly before slamming them back down harder, grinding your wet folds more firmly against his taut skin, the friction sending sparks up your spine.

“Lie down.” You ordered sharply, your voice leaving no room for argument.

“When I need you… I’ll let you know.”

He stared at you for two seconds, took a deep, shuddering breath, then slowly lay back down on the bed, complying with your command—if only to see how far you’d take this.

That was one of his best qualities—he’d go along with anything for the sake of “fun.”

You smiled softly, then began to move your hips with even more abandon, your rhythm growing faster, more desperate. Your clit rubbed against the hard outline of his abs occasionally, sending jolts of electric pleasure shooting through your body, making you jerk involuntarily and your gasps grow sweeter and more ragged.

It was clear that you were thoroughly enjoying yourself, lost in the pleasure he was so willing to give you.

And he was enjoying watching you just as much. He stared at you without blinking, drinking in every expression of pleasure on your face, every tremble that wracked your body, not missing a single detail—like he was committing every second of it to memory.

This…

He rolled the word around in his mind silently, a satisfied yet dangerous smile curving his lips.

A lewd little Master.

His chest rose and fell with his restrained breathing, his muscles taut with the effort of holding back. Those eyes that were always so calm and in control were now fixed on you, like a predator lurking in the shadows, patiently waiting for its prey to wander deeper into the trap. His forked tongue darted out unconsciously, licking his lower lip—the very same lip you’d bitten earlier—leaving it glistening with moisture.

“Heh…” He let out a soft, almost breathless laugh, his voice thick with lust, drawling lazily. “You’re really throwing yourself into this, aren’t you?”

You ignored the provocation in his words, your entire focus on the pleasure building between your legs—pleasure that was becoming harder and harder to ignore, hot and overwhelming. His abdominal muscles tensed and relaxed with his breathing, the perfect toy for you to grind against. Every deliberate, hard grind, every accidental brush against your sensitive spot, forced sweet, uncontrollable moans from your throat.

“Mm… ah…”

You tilted your head back, your neck arching into a vulnerable, beautiful curve, your fingers tightening unconsciously around the chain still attached to the collar around his neck. The cold metal pressed against your burning palm, creating a strange, thrilling contrast that only made the pleasure sharper.

He was lying right beneath you, his gaze burning with desire, watching every single expression of ecstasy and abandon on your face—like he was memorizing them. You could feel his body growing tenser and tenser—especially that hot, hard length pressed against you through his pants, throbbing restlessly with your movements, a silent testament to how close he was to losing control.

“Look at you…” You gasped, slowing your movements slightly as you leaned down to get closer to him, your fingertips tracing the lines of his collarbone before resting on the collar’s buckle. “My good little pet… you’re doing so well… it’s so hard to hold back, isn’t it?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed violently, his eyes darkening to the color of a bottomless abyss, but his lips twisted into a near-feral smile. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted to see?” His voice sounded the same as always, only thickened by desire, still refusing to concede defeat with his words.

“It is,” you admitted without hesitation, your tone cruel yet innocent, a wicked smile playing on your lips. “I love watching you lose control for me.” You tightened your grip on the chain, forcing his head back further, your faces inches apart. “But when and how you lose control… that’s my decision to make.”

With those words, you grew tired of teasing him through his pants—you wanted more. You lifted your hips slightly, fumbling to unbutton his already damp trousers, then—with a willful, provocative smirk—you sank down onto him.

But not in the way he was craving.

Instead, in a far crueler move, you pressed your completely soaked, heated core against the tip of his erection, grinding against it slowly, applying steady, torturous pressure.

“——!” Every muscle in his body tensed instantly, turning to steel, a low, guttural groan escaping between his teeth, his eyes fluttering shut. This was infinitely more torturous than grinding against him through his clothes. The wet, slippery sensation, the scorching heat, the maddening frustration of being so close yet not being allowed inside—this was almost enough to shatter his ironclad self-control. His hands shot up instinctively, wanting to grab your waist and slam you down onto him hard, but he stopped himself halfway, his fingers curling into fists, his knuckles turning white with the effort of holding back.

“Ahhh…” You trembled involuntarily at the direct contact, a satisfied sigh escaping your lips, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming. You looked down at him, savoring the flames of agony and ecstasy dancing in his eyes, feeling the faint tremors that wracked his body beneath you—feeling powerful.

“Good boy…” You praised him like you would praise a puppy, reaching out to ruffle his sweat-dampened curls with your other hand, your voice sickly sweet yet cruel. “Just hold on a little longer, okay? Once Master is satisfied… then it’ll be your turn.”

You began to move again, no longer just grinding aimlessly—instead, you rolled your hips in a rhythmic, pressing motion, rubbing your most sensitive spot against the tip of his cock over and over again, the friction sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. Pleasure washed over you in hot, heavy waves, your mind growing fuzzy, leaving only your most primal senses screaming in delight. Moans spilled from your lips uncontrollably, your hips rising and falling above him with increasing urgency, faster and faster.

His breathing was now ragged and heavy, like a broken bellows, his eyes fixed on your face—lost in pleasure, completely oblivious to everything else—and your breasts bouncing with the force of your movements. The last thread of his self-control was stretched to its breaking point, a faint, desperate creak echoing in his mind. You could even feel the part of him pressed against you throbbing harder and harder, hotter and hotter with each passing second—so close to the edge.

He was actually going to laugh out of sheer frustration.

Just as your climax was about to crest, your body trembling violently, your muscles clenching uncontrollably, pleasure coiling tight and hot inside you—

The last pretense of obedience in his eyes shattered completely, replaced by a fierce, predatory hunger that brooked no refusal.

“It seems…” His voice was dark and terrifying, rumbling from the very depths of his chest, thick with lust and the promise of revenge. “Master’s ‘playtime’… is going to be cut short for now.”

Before you could recover from the aftershocks of your orgasm or process his sudden words, he reached out suddenly—not to push you away, but to wrap his arms around your waist and hips like iron bands, flipping you over in one smooth, powerful motion—

The world spun dizzily around you, the room blurring at the edges.

He loomed over you now, the chain on his collar clinking softly with the force of his movement, a cold, metallic sound that sent a shiver down your spine. The playful smile was gone from his face, replaced by a dangerous, laser-sharp focus—thoroughly ignited by desire, by the game you’d started.

“Now…” He lowered his head, his nose brushing against your sweat-dampened neck, his breath hot against your skin, sending goosebumps erupting across your flesh. “It’s time for this disobedient little pet… to properly ‘serve’ his willful, spoiled Master.”

His hips slammed down against yours with unyielding force—a punishment and a declaration, shattering all the teasing games you’d been playing moments before, leaving no room for argument.

The metal chain clinked with each brutal thrust, the bed frame creaking softly in protest—but the sound was drowned out by your sudden, sharp cry, by the wet, squelching sound of him filling you completely. He entered you without any warning, any gentleness, sinking into you in one smooth, deep stroke until he hit the very end of you, until you could feel him in your stomach.

“——Nngh!?” The sound tore from your throat before you could stop it, pleasure and pain mixing together in a heady rush.

“Harlequin! You damned… horny… dog!” Your curse was broken into fragments by the force of his thrusts filling you completely, by the way he stretched you open so perfectly. Perhaps it was because of all your previous trysts, but your body accepted him with surprising ease—and that humiliating sense of familiarity only made you angrier, made the pleasure burn even hotter.

“If you’re scared…” He sneered, blowing a hot breath against your ear, then grabbed the cold chain and wrapped it around your wrists casually, looping it several times until you couldn’t break free easily, until the metal bit into your skin. “…then you’d better hold onto your dog leash tight.”

The chain had become a cold pair of handcuffs binding your wrists together. You were completely trapped, tied to him—no escape.

“Now…” His voice dropped to a low, hoarse purr, laced with malicious delight, his hips already beginning to piston in and out of you faster, the bed’s creaking growing louder and more frantic, the sound filling the room. “It’s time for me to start… training my Master.”

“Wa… ah…” Your rationality was swept away by the tide of pleasure instantly, by the way he filled you so perfectly, by the way he hit that spot inside you with every thrust. Your body betrayed you, opening up to him eagerly, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, pulling him even deeper inside you, until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. You tugged on the chain unconsciously, tightening the collar around his neck—but the only response you got was his even more excited gasps, his cock swelling to an even more impressive size inside you, stretching you even further.

“Ah… I can’t… I really can’t take it anymore…” Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, your voice thick with a sob as you teetered on the edge of collapse, pleasure crashing over you in waves.

But he suddenly stopped, just like a well-trained dog would—hovering right on the brink of his own release, not moving an inch, leaving you hanging, desperate and aching.

“Hm?…” You writhed your hips impatiently, the emptiness inside you tormenting your nerves, your voice breathless and needy. “Keep going… please…”

“So demanding.” He chuckled, a low, dark sound, lifting you up until you were straddling his lap again, until you could feel every inch of him pressed against you. Then he began to thrust into you once more—slowly, deeply, purposefully, hitting that sweet, sensitive spot inside you over and over again with each stroke, drawing out your pleasure until you were begging for more.

“Ah… ah… ah…” Your gasps were broken into short, sharp moans by his precise thrusts, your words dissolving into nothing but incoherent sounds of pleasure, of need. He savored the rhythm cruelly, drinking in the sounds of you losing control for him, of you begging for his cock, for his touch.

He felt your walls begin to clench around him involuntarily, knowing you were about to cum—and suddenly, he picked up the pace, pounding into you hard and fast, his hips slamming against yours with a brutal force that made you scream, made the bed frame creak louder, made the room spin. Your arousal mixed with his pre-cum, turning into a frothy mess that leaked out of you with each brutal thrust, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you. Your body was jolted back and forth by his movements, your breasts bouncing in front of his face through your damp clothes. He didn’t hesitate—he lowered his head and bit down hard on one of them, right through the fabric, his teeth sharp and hot against your skin, sending a jolt of pleasure shooting through you.

“Faster… please, faster…” You begged him deliriously, your moans mingling with the wet, slapping sounds of skin against skin, filling the room, growing louder and more desperate—until both of your breaths hitched in unison, held captive by the impending climax, by the hot, tight coil of pleasure that was about to snap—

The sound of his thrusts stopped abruptly.

He slammed into you one final time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and emptied his hot seed inside your trembling body in wave after wave of release, filling you completely, until you could feel it leaking out of you, hot and sticky.

“Ha… ha…” Your ragged gasps tangled together, your hot breaths mixing in the air, your bodies trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasms. Before you could even catch your breath, his lips crashed down onto yours again—greedy, hungry, desperate, his tongue invading your mouth, tasting the pleasure on your lips. He didn’t pull out of you; instead, he began to thrust into you once more, slow and torturous, moving through the mess of your combined release, drawing out the pleasure for as long as he could, until you were both trembling, until you could barely think.

The wet, squelching sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, your arousal dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets—but neither of you cared anymore.

Cold metal cuffs bit into your wrists, linked by a leather leash that you clutched tight—its other end fastened to the collar around his neck. The dark leather only accentuated the paleness of his skin, the buckle glinting coldly in the dim glow of the tent.

This was the Christmas “gift” you’d bargained for out of sheer curiosity. Never in a million years did you expect him to agree—let alone light up with such unbridled enthusiasm, his violet eyes dancing with a heady mix of playfulness, excitement, and unapologetic intrigue.

“Darling…” His voice was low, laced with a lazy smile. “This doesn’t mean… you can’t fight back.” He drew out the last words deliberately, like he was daring you to start a game.

Your wrists were trapped, but you still had the strength to yank that leash. A mischievous spark flickered in your mind—and you pulled it hard, sharp, backward.

The leather collar cinched tight, digging into the skin of his neck. The force tugged him forward, forcing him to bow his head, his long hair cascading down like a waterfall. Not a hint of anger crossed his face; if anything, his eyes blazed brighter with interest. His gaze swept over you slowly, deliberately, warm and tangible, like he was sizing up a present waiting to be unwrapped.

You trembled instinctively, unsure if it was the thrill of control… or a primal twinge of foreboding.

His hand cupped the back of your head, his palm cool yet unyielding, pressing your face down until it nearly brushed his chest. His voice hummed in your ear, soft as a whisper but sharp as a blade: “Naughty little things… are my favorite.”

Before the words could sink in, he pushed you down onto the bed behind you. Since your hands were cuffed, he leaned forward, following the pull of the leash, and straddled your waist. He loomed over you, his eyes burning as he stared down, his hair brushing your collarbone and chest—sending a cold, ticklish shiver skittering across your skin.

“So beautiful…” He sighed, his gaze tracing every line of your bound form like he was committing it to memory. “Like this… you look like you’re begging me to do whatever I want to you.”

He unbuttoned your shirt with one hand—and chuckled softly when he found you bare underneath.

His lips descended to your exposed chest, hovering just above the skin. You could feel the warmth of his breath fanning over your most sensitive spot, making your nipples pebble into tight peaks.

“Here…” His voice was a low rumble, his tongue darting out to lick one peak slowly, experimentally. “It’s beating so fast.”

You gasped sharply, your body arching off the bed—only to be pressed back down hard by his other hand. His teeth grazed the skin gently, not hard enough to hurt, but heavy with an unmistakable sense of possession. Pain and pleasure blurred into one, like tiny electric currents zipping up your spine.

“The leash…” You reminded him in a broken whisper, clutching it like it was your last claim to power.

He lifted his head, a smile playing on his lips—but his eyes were dark, dangerous, bottomless. “Oh? What do you plan to do with it?” He asked tauntingly, sinking lower until something hard and scorching hot pressed against you through his clothes. You froze stiff.

“Then pull it tight,” he coaxed, his voice dripping with devilish temptation. “If you let it slacken… there’ll be a little ‘punishment’ waiting for you.”

Your fingers tightened around the leather, the material digging into your palm. You tugged it hard—watching as the collar around his throat cinched, leaving a faint indentation in his skin. He tilted his head back, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips—as if the restraint wasn’t a cage, but a sweet, heady thrill.

He leaned down again, his breath hot and ragged, and captured your lips in a searing kiss.

His lips and tongue forced yours open, invading without mercy, swallowing every faint protest and whimper in your throat. Your breaths tangled together; you tasted the unique, icy flavor lingering on his tongue—now scorching hot with lust. His tongue explored every inch of your mouth—stroking, tangling, sucking—each touch purposeful, like he was marking his territory, savoring the sweet trembles wracking your body from lack of air and overwhelming sensation.

Your hands, trapped in the cuffs in front of you, could only press weakly against his chest. Your fingertips curled and uncurled futilely through the smooth silk of his shirt, leaving messy wrinkles in their wake. Your breathing turned ragged, your lungs burning—you were no match for his supernatural stamina. You tried to push him away, but your feeble resistance only made him chuckle low in his throat, deepening the kiss until he’d stolen every last breath from your lungs.

The lack of oxygen left you dizzy, your vision blurring—but your senses felt sharper than ever, hyper-aware of every touch, every breath, every beat of your racing heart.

His fingers slid down to your thighs, hooking under the edge of your stockings. With a slight tug, the fabric tore with a soft, sinful rip.

“Wait… Jester… I’m not… ready yet.” Your voice trembled, your hands lifting instinctively to shield yourself—only to be stopped short by the cuffs, hanging uselessly in mid-air.

“Wait for what?” He raised an eyebrow, his fingers already sliding the torn stockings down your legs, brushing against your warm, bare skin. “Wait for me to stop touching here?” He nodded at your thighs. “Or…” He paused, deliberately, his other hand sliding down your waist to cup your core through your underwear. “…here?”

You bit your lower lip, shaking your head, unable to form a coherent sentence. Your body betrayed you completely, breaking out in goosebumps, your breathing growing more erratic with every passing second.

“Tell me how you feel,” he murmured, leaning down until his lips were almost touching your ear. “Good little thing. I want to hear you say it.”

“I… I don’t know…” You turned your head away, your cheeks burning hot. “It’s weird… a little… tingly…”

He laughed softly, his fingers growing bolder, kneading the soft flesh between your legs through the thin fabric of your underwear. “And here? Do you like it when I touch you like this?”

A jolt of intense pleasure shot through you, making your hips arch sharply off the bed.

“Ah…!” You couldn’t hold back a soft gasp, then bit your lip hard in shame.

“Don’t hold back,” he coaxed, pressing harder, his thumb circling your clit through the damp fabric. “I love hearing your voice. Tell me—does it feel good? Or bad?”

“G-good… it feels good…” You admitted in a tearful whimper, your body trembling uncontrollably under his touch. “But… it’s too… too strange… the feeling… it’s so weird…”

“Weird?” He repeated, his violet eyes flashing with a dangerous glint. “Or… is it so good that it scares you?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer, pressing his finger against your clit through the remains of your stockings—hard, precise, unforgiving.

Your whole body jolted, your thighs clamping shut tightly—only to trap his hand between them. “No… not there… please don’t…” You shook your head frantically, tears pooling in your eyes. “It’s too… too intense…”

“Not where?” He pressed harder, rubbing slow, torturous circles over your clit. “Here? Or…” He tore the remaining fabric away with a flick of his wrist and slid his finger into your wet heat, moving slowly, deliberately. “…here?”

You screamed, your body shaking violently. “Stop… please… Jester… I can’t take it anymore…” You sobbed, pleasure crashing over you in waves, threatening to break the dam of your sanity.

“You can take it,” he growled, his voice low and dark, his fingers beginning to pump in and out of you in a steady, ruthless rhythm. “Look—your body is begging for me… it’s so wet.”

Shame and overwhelming pleasure threatened to tear you apart. You shook your head, trying to deny it, but only broken moans escaped your lips. “No… I’m not… ah…!” You tilted your head back, your vision whiting out as his finger brushed that sweet, sensitive spot inside you again.

“This is the spot, isn’t it?” He’d found your weakness, focusing all his attention on it, his thumb circling your clit in time with his thrusts. “Tell me—what does it feel like?”

“I… I’m gonna die…” You whimpered, your body arching into his touch involuntarily, your walls clenching around his finger. “It’s so… full… too much… it’s too much…”

He pulled his finger out, leaving a wet, squelching sound in its wake. Before you could recover from the sudden emptiness, you felt something hotter, harder, bigger pressing against your entrance.

Your eyes widened in terror. “No… that… that’s too big… it’ll break me…” You tried to squeeze your legs shut, but he pried them apart easily, his strength effortless, overwhelming.

“It won’t,” he said, kissing the tears from your eyes, his voice gentle yet unwavering, a promise and a command. “I’ll go slow… just relax for me.”

He pressed against your entrance, pushing in slowly—with a cruel, deliberate patience that made you feel every inch of his length stretching you open. You bit your lip until it bled, swallowing your cries, your hands clenching tightly in the cuffs. A sharp, burning pain made you gasp. “It hurts…” You whimpered, your fingers fisting the sheets beneath you.

“Breathe deeply… yes… just like that…” He waited patiently for you to adjust, his fingers stroking your clit gently to distract you from the pain, his thumb rubbing slow circles that made your hips buck.

You were driven to the brink of madness by this torturous pace, forced to take whatever he gave you passively. The leash in your hand had slipped from your grasp at some point, falling limply onto the sheets.

He picked up the leash, wrapping it around your cuffed wrists, then pressed the end back into your limp palm.

“Hold on tight,” he ordered, thrusting deeper with a sharp snap of his hips that made you cry out. “Or… it’ll hurt even more.”

You curled your fingers around the leash instinctively, clinging to it like a lifeline. The leather went taut, the collar cinching around his neck—his breath hitched, growing heavier, his movements becoming more urgent, more uncontrolled, his hips slamming into yours harder, faster.

He pushed in further, the pain slowly melting into a strange, heady fullness. You felt him filling you completely, stretching every inch of you until he hit the deepest part of your body, a spot you didn’t even know existed. When he was fully sheathed inside you, you both sighed in unison—his a sound of pure satisfaction, yours of relieved endurance.

“Now…” He pressed his forehead against yours, starting to move slowly, his hips rolling in a steady rhythm that made your toes curl. “Tell me—what does it feel like now?”

After the initial pain, a strange, scorching pleasure began to spread from where you were joined, a fire that coiled deep in your belly and burned hotter with every thrust. “Hot…” You gasped, your body trembling. “So full… it feels… weird when you move…”

“Weird?” He snapped his hips harder, hitting that spot dead-on, making you scream.

You cried out, your nails digging into his back through his shirt, leaving red marks in their wake. “Ah! There… right there… it feels… like I’m melting… so good…” You babbled incoherently, pleasure coursing through your veins like wildfire, your mind going blank, your only thought the way he filled you, the way he stretched you, the way he made you feel alive.

He thrust deeper and harder with each stroke, his movements punishing yet merciful—slowing down just enough whenever you seemed on the verge of breaking, giving you a fleeting chance to catch your breath, only to slam into you again, harder, faster, deeper, until you were begging for more, begging for him to never stop.

The last thread of your sanity snapped. You stopped holding back your moans, letting them pour out in a mix of whimpers and cries as he fucked you, your voice rising and falling with his thrusts, your hips bucking to meet his, your body arching off the bed, your clit rubbing against his pelvis with every stroke, sending electric shocks of pleasure shooting through you. “Too deep… it’s too deep… Jester… slow down… I can’t take it anymore…”

“You can take it,” he chuckled, his voice still gentle as he soothed you, his lips kissing your neck, your jaw, your lips, his tongue tangling with yours, his breath hot against your skin. “Darling… your body is clinging to me… look how tight you’re squeezing me…”

His humiliating words only fueled your arousal, making your walls clench around him tighter, drawing a low groan from his throat. You felt a blazing heat pooling deep in your lower abdomen, growing hotter with every thrust, every brush of his pelvis against your clit, every deep, deliberate stroke that hit that sweet spot inside you. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna cum…” You sobbed, your body tensing like a drawn bowstring, your orgasm building, coiling, ready to snap.

“Then cum for me,” he growled, grabbing your cuffed wrists and pulling you closer, his hips slamming into yours faster, harder, the wet slap-slap-slap of skin against skin echoing loudly in the tent, the bed frame creaking in time with his thrusts.

Your consciousness was swept away by a tidal wave of ecstasy, your body convulsing violently as you came undone, pleasure crashing over you in waves, hot and intense, making you scream his name, your walls fluttering around his cock, milking him for all he was worth. Your vision went white, every nerve ending in your body singing with pleasure, your mind blank, your only thought the way he filled you, the way he made you feel, the way he owned you.

It took you a long time to come back to your senses. Your body felt limp, still trembling faintly, your limbs heavy, your skin sticky with sweat and arousal. He pulled out slowly, a flood of wetness dripping down your thighs, a mix of your cum and his pre-cum. You felt the stickiness between your legs—all of it yours; he hadn’t cum at all.

He unlocked the cuffs around your wrists and tossed them aside, pulling you into his arms and patting your back gently, his touch surprisingly soft, surprisingly tender. “Merry Christmas, naughty little thing,” he murmured, kissing your sweat-dampened forehead, his voice warm with delight, his violet eyes glowing with affection and lust. “Did you like your gift?”

You were too exhausted to speak, only nodding weakly in his arms, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, every inch of your skin hypersensitive, tingling with a dull ache.

“Sleep now,” he whispered, stroking your hair gently, his fingers tangling in your locks, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

The room was drowned in thick, inky darkness—only a thin sliver of pale moonlight seeped through the gap in the curtains, barely sketching the blurred outlines of the furniture. The air was sweltering, thick with the lingering fumes of alcohol, the salt of sweat, and something stickier still—the sweet, heady tang of sex.

Your fingers dug into the muscles at the nape of Harlequin’s neck, your knuckles blanching white. His sweat dripped onto the hollow of your collarbone, slipping down the neckline of your nightgown as he leaned over you.

The wet, squelching sound of your bodies joining—slow, deliberate, relentless—mingled with the dull slap-slap-slap of skin meeting skin. The rhythm was unhurried, yet each thrust sent sharp spasms coiling through your lower belly.

You buried your face in the crook of his shoulder, a muffled whimper escaping your lips. On the other side of the door, your boyfriend lay passed out in bed, his breathing deep and heavy. Just one thin barrier separating you from ruin. You bit down hard on the cotton fabric of his shirt, your scorching breath quickly darkening the material with dampness.

He moved so slowly—slow enough to make you feel every inch of him stretching the soft folds inside you, slow enough to let the cool air kiss your sensitive flesh when he pulled out. The dull thud of his thighs hitting your hips—slap… slap… slap…

The thought that you were committing adultery cut through your heated senses like an ice pick, making the fullness between your legs feel even more vivid, more sinful… and infinitely more thrilling.

He seemed to savor your exquisite tension. One hand braced itself beside your ear, while the other wandered restlessly, his fingertips gliding over your sweat-slicked skin.

The wet sounds never stopped.

Sticky, viscous fluid was drawn out of you with each slow thrust, only to be pushed back in with a lewd squish on the next stroke. In the dead silence of the night, the noise was deafening.

His hand slipped under the hem of your nightgown, his palm covering your left breast. His thumb found the stiff, pebbled nipple and began to circle it—two clockwise, two counterclockwise—his rhythm deliberately out of sync with the thrusts of his hips, doubling your torment.

You tilted your head back, your throat bobbing, a whimper hovering on your lips—

And he kissed you, cutting you off.

It was a punishing kiss. His teeth scraped your lower lip, his tongue invading your mouth ruthlessly, stealing every last breath from your lungs. You gasped for air, your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt, your nails digging into his skin through the material.

When he pulled away, a silvery thread of saliva connected your lips. “Shhh,” he breathed, his thumb pressing harder against your nipple.

Your whole body jolted, your inner walls clamping down on him in a tight, spasming grip.

It drove him wild. You could feel him swell inside you, pulsing against the deepest, softest part of you. A low, guttural groan rumbled in his throat, the veins in his neck popping out with the effort of holding back.

“Ahh…” Half a syllable slipped through your teeth, only to be swallowed by another kiss.

This time, he let you breathe. His lips just barely brushed yours, swapping hot, humid breaths. But his movements below grew more brutal—slow, deliberate thrusts punctuated by sudden, sharp jabs that hit that one spot every three or four strokes.

You knew that spot.

Last time, he’d held your hips down, forcing you to memorize it. “This is the spot that makes you cry,” he’d said. Now it was being ground against relentlessly, a dull, tingling ache exploding from the base of your spine and shooting straight to your brain.

“Harlequin…” You gasped the words between breaths, your tongue darting out to lick his lower lip unconsciously. “S-slow down… too loud… they’ll hear…”

Instead of slowing, he bucked his hips upward hard, maintaining the connection between your bodies.

“Ngh—!” You were caught off guard, a sharp cry dying in your throat. The impact was so intense, the slap of skin against skin almost loud enough to be called a racket in the quiet room. He held that deep, impossibly deep position, grinding against you slowly, torturously, each movement drawing more wet squelches from between your legs.

“Heh…” He pressed his sweat-dampened forehead against yours, his voice so low it was almost a purr—hot, burning, and laced with malicious delight. “Is this the spot, darling? The spot that makes you want to scream, but you’re too scared to make a sound?”

His blunt words and the relentless grind of his hips had you trembling, your head nodding and shaking frantically at the same time, your sanity dissolving into froth in the tide of pleasure. Your body betrayed you, opening up to welcome his slow torment, your inner walls clenching and sucking at him greedily, begging for more.

He did as you asked—sort of. He lightened his thrusts, then pulled out completely. The tip of his cock circled your entrance, teasing the sensitive ring of muscle, but he refused to push in. The wet squelches faded to a soft, sticky schlick-schlick as he rubbed against you.

“Here!…” You were powerless against his cruel teasing, arching your hips upward, pressing yourself against him. “Right here… please…”

He chuckled, his hot breath fanning your ear. “Where? Be specific.”

You were too ashamed to say the words, your hips writhing against his, wordlessly begging for more.

He refused to move, watching you with lazy amusement as tears pricked the corners of your eyes.

Finally, when you were on the verge of tears, he granted your wish—sheathing himself fully inside you in one smooth stroke, hitting that spot dead-on.

“Ngh!” You arched off the bed like a fish out of water, only to be pressed back down by his weight. He kissed you again, swallowing every sound you made, leaving nothing but broken whimpers in your nose.

The rhythm spiraled out of control.

Gone was the slow, torturous pace—his thrusts grew fast and erratic, each withdrawal pulling more wetness from you, each push slamming into you with a sharp, echoing slap. The bed frame began to creak in time with his movements, mixing with the wet squelches to create a lewd, unmistakable symphony.

You couldn’t take it anymore, tilting your head up to capture his lips in a desperate, pleading kiss, trying to muffle the moans that threatened to escape. He laughed—a low, rumbling sound in his throat, his hot breath fanning your face—then parted his lips, letting your clumsy tongue slip inside. As your lips and tongues tangled, he swallowed your ragged gasps and whimpers, leaving nothing but the soft, wet sounds of your mouths meeting.

“Aah! No… I can’t… Haah!” The sudden shift from slow torment to brutal, fast thrusts caught you off guard, your muffled moans rising in pitch, breaking into high, desperate whimpers. You tried to cover your mouth, but he caught your hands, pinning them in front of you. You tried to squeeze your legs shut to slow him down, but they were too weak, falling open helplessly, letting him pound into you relentlessly.

“Too loud… they’ll hear…” You tried to warn him, your words dissolving into broken gasps and moans as his thrusts grew faster, harder. “Aah… Haah… Nngh…”

“I can’t…”

“They’ll know…”

He ignored you completely, lifting your hips to angle himself deeper, harder, the head of his cock brushing against your cervix with every thrust, sending waves of mind-numbing pleasure crashing over you.

You were so close.

Your lower belly tightened, your toes curling and uncurling. Your vision blurred, the only thing you could see was his sweat-dampened hair and his eyes—glowing in the darkness, fixed on you with a cruel, intense focus. Even now, even like this, he wanted to watch you fall apart.

Just as you were teetering on the edge of a mind-shattering orgasm, torn between pleasure and panic, he slowed down again—almost to a stop—only the tip of his cock grinding against the deepest part of you, moving in tiny, torturous circles.

“Ngh… don’t stop… please…” You were trapped in the agonizing limbo between pleasure and release, your hips writhing against his, your voice cracking with tears. “Please… Harlequin…”

He laughed, a drop of sweat falling from his jaw onto your bruised breast. His eyes—bright, burning in the dark—swirled with a wild excitement you couldn’t understand.

“Heh… so fucking desperate,” he muttered, his thumb wiping away the saliva that had dribbled down your chin. “You should see yourself right now.”

You opened your mouth to retort, to tell him it was his fault, only to let out a sharp gasp—cut off by his hand clamping over your mouth.

You heard the sound of a door opening.

Your scream died in your throat, muffled into a whimper against his palm.

Your walls clamped down on him in a vice grip, pulsing and sucking at him so hard you felt your orgasm crest—right then, right there, triggered by nothing but pure, unadulterated fear.

He froze for a heartbeat. You could feel him throb inside you, swelling even bigger, harder.

Then he started moving again. Right then.

What the fuck?

You tried to struggle, tried to push him away—this man was insane. Someone could be walking past the door right now!

He fucked you without any rhyme or reason, driven purely by primal desire—fast, hard, ruthless, each thrust hitting that spot over and over again. His hand slid from your mouth to the nape of your neck, fisting your hair to force you to tilt your head back and meet his kiss. His other hand dug into your waist, his fingers leaving bright red marks on your skin.

You cried and moaned into his mouth, swallowing your own saliva, your body sliding up the bed with the force of his thrusts, your pillow tumbling onto the floor.

He slammed into you one final time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and stayed there. You could feel his hot cum flooding your insides, wave after wave, lasting for what felt like an eternity.

Silence crashed down on you.

Only your ragged, gasping breaths filled the room, mixed with the faint sound of a door closing and the soft creak of a mattress as someone rolled over in bed.

You lay rigid in his arms.

He pulled out slowly, a trickle of mixed fluids dripping down your thighs. By the faint moonlight streaming through the window, you watched him glance toward the master bedroom door.

Through the thin gap beneath it, you saw the light go out.

He’d woken up to use the bathroom, then gone back to sleep.

Harlequin’s lips curled into a smirk, and he leaned down to kiss your sweat-dampened forehead.

Your heart thudded so hard it felt like it might burst right out of your chest. All because you’d fallen—right on top of Harlequin.

It started simply enough. He’d managed to snag a rare day off, and you’d wheedled and begged until he agreed to be your “errand boy.” You had a mountain of shopping to do, way too much for you to haul alone. But he’d shown up early, while you were still lingering in front of your closet, fussing over your outfit. The more you tried to look casual, the more flustered you got. Finally, panicking that you’d kept him waiting too long, you grabbed the first jacket you saw, forced a calm expression, and turned to explain—

Only to crash headlong into his unwavering gaze.

It wasn’t his usual, playful, appraising look. He was just standing there, quiet, watching you—god knows how long—with such focused attention that it sent your heart racing. It was as if your little fashion show had been some kind of fascinating silent drama.

A wave of mortification washed over you, leaving your mind blank. Desperate to break the weird tension, you let out a nervous laugh and spun around in a hurry—

“Ack!”

Your foot caught on something. You’d forgotten all about the pile of shoes you’d tried on, scattered across the floor. You stumbled, flailing for balance, and he was right there in front of you. He could’ve easily stepped aside. But for some reason, he stayed put.

And just like that, momentum sent you crashing into his arms. He grunted, knocked backward by your weight, his back hitting your soft mattress with a muted thud.

The world went quiet.

You were sprawled on top of him, your face buried in his chest, your brain completely fried. Oh no, oh no, oh no… How could you be this stupid? Tripping over your own feet and dragging him down onto your bed with you? You’d never convince anyone this wasn’t on purpose—hell, you could barely convince yourself!

But it wasn’t! Honest!

You buried your face even deeper, like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand, your fingers twisting anxiously in the fabric of his dark hoodie. For once, he wasn’t wearing that signature, over-the-top clown costume of his. His casual outfit was just a simple hoodie and sweatpants, a knit beanie pulled over his head, a few unruly black curls sticking out from under the brim… He looked surprisingly, refreshingly, like a regular, sweet-natured guy.

When you’d asked him to come along, he’d agreed with a smile—but you could tell he hadn’t been all that excited. Running errands with you? Probably the most boring thing on the planet for him…

“Who would’ve thought…” His amused voice rumbled above you, cutting through the silence. His hand landed on your shoulder, his tone dripping with teasing, “You’re this eager to have me in your bed?”

“I’m not! It wasn’t like that!” You shot your head up to protest, your cheeks burning hot enough to fry an egg.

He raised an eyebrow, looking at you like you were some kind of fascinating new creature. “Then why aren’t you getting up? Or… do you want to stay? I wouldn’t mind, y’know. Though we might not end up doing any shopping today if we stick around.”

What kind of suggestive nonsense was that?!

Your eyes darted everywhere but his face as you scrambled to get up. “I’m getting up now! I’m so sorry!” In your rush, your hand landed on something that didn’t feel like the soft mattress. It was firm, warm, and… way too high up.

You glanced down, your breath catching in your throat.

Your hand was pressed firmly against the upper part of his thigh.

The body beneath you went rigid as a board. His eyes snapped wide open, his gaze darting from your face to your hand in disbelief.

You saw it too, and your mind exploded with a silent scream: “I-I-I-I’m so sorry!!!”

Your overwhelming embarrassment triggered a truly absurd reaction—you jerked your hand back like you’d touched a hot stove, forgetting that you were still half-lying on top of him. The sudden movement threw him off balance; he grunted, barely catching himself on his elbow before he toppled over again.

He propped himself up on the bed, his gaze locking onto yours. Those eyes, usually crinkled with laughter, were now dark and half-lidded, his stare sharp and assessing, as if he was trying to figure out just how much of this chaos had been intentional.

…You were never going to live this down.

You froze completely, your mouth hanging open, unable to make a sound.

Outside, the sun slipped behind a cloud, and the room plunged into sudden dimness. The light filtering through the sheer curtains was soft and hazy. You couldn’t see his full expression, but you could see those eyes—dark, deep, almost cold in the fading light.

A tiny, sharp ache tugged at your heart.

You went completely still, even holding your breath. But an invisible tension hummed in the air between you, thick and charged, wrapping around you both like a blanket.

He still didn’t say a word. He just kept looking at you, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his face, like he was trying to unravel the truth behind your flustered facade.

Under his silent scrutiny, your stiff, upright posture slowly melted away. You hunched your shoulders slightly, giving up on trying to explain, forgetting even to move.

You were completely, utterly captivated by him in this moment.

From this angle, that hint of confusion softened his usual cocky, carefree vibe, making him look… almost cute. The little curl sticking up from his beanie was cute. The unfamiliar, crisp scent of his cologne was cute. The thin jacket tied casually around his waist was cute, too, adding to that rare, boyish charm.

He must’ve finally read the starstruck, dazed look in your eyes, because he let out a quiet, breathy laugh.

He didn’t push you away. He didn’t stand up, either. His hand slid down from your shoulder to your waist, holding you steady, helping you sit more comfortably. Then, slowly, he leaned in closer.

You could feel his warm breath fanning across your skin, a steady, hypnotic rhythm that made your breath hitch. Just as his lips were about to brush yours—you turned your head, almost instinctively.

The second you did it, you froze in horror.

Harlequin was trying to kiss you… and you’d moved away?!

A voice inside your head screamed at you: You coward! You absolute disaster! What are you afraid of?!

You started to tremble uncontrollably, overwhelmed by frustration at your own cowardice, your eyes stinging with tears you were desperately holding back.

And then, a gentle hand cupped your cheek, firm but tender, guiding your face back to his.

His eyes held no trace of their usual humor now. They were deep, dark pools, staring straight into yours—into the fear, the embarrassment, the longing, the inner turmoil—like he was savoring a glass of wine with a million different flavors.

Time stretched on. Just when you thought he’d give up and pull away, he let out a soft, knowing sigh.

“I know…” His voice was low, rough, like the scratch of a cello string against your heart, “you don’t want to push me away.” His thumb brushed over your trembling lower lip, sending a shiver down your spine, “You didn’t. And your eyes… they’re begging me to stay.”

“Maybe,” he murmured, “we can try this… another way?”

You tried to lift your gaze to read his expression, but your vision was suddenly covered by a soft, hazy blue fabric.

It was the sheer silk scarf you’d tossed onto your bed while changing clothes.

Through the dreamy, blue-tinged filter, his eyes took on an otherworldly depth, even more captivating than before. You stared at him, transfixed, and watched as those mesmerizing eyes crinkled at the corners—slowly, surely—into a silent, confident smile that said he knew he’d already won you over.

A pair of hands cupped your face, gentle but unyielding.

And then, the soft blue fabric drew closer, and closer, and closer still…

Until all your messy thoughts, all your nervous trembling, were sealed away—completely, utterly—by the soft, burning press of lips against yours, separated only by a thin layer of silk.

Your eyes widened, your body going rigid.

But he never looked away. He held your gaze, steady and deep, through the veil of blue, drinking in every single one of your reactions—the shock, the confusion, the way you finally relaxed, surrendering to the moment. He took it all in, every last bit, along with this clumsy, fiery first kiss—

And gently, completely, devoured it.

…

Later, you managed to get all your shopping done. Every last item.

The summer heat hung like a sodden blanket, heavy and smothering the café. Even sheltered from the sun, stubborn streaks of light slipped through the gaps, fermenting with the stagnant air into an unpleasant, muggy warmth. To make matters worse, the café’s air conditioning had chosen this exact day to break down.

You dabbed the thin sweat from your neck with a handkerchief, returning to your work. The coldness seeping into your fingertips as you made cold drinks offered a modicum of relief, but your sweat-dampened white shirt clung to your skin, every movement creating a faint, irritating friction.

The soft jingle of the doorbell cut through the café’s stagnation.

You stifled the irritability sparked by the heat, lifted your head, and pasted on your usual smile. A flash of familiar red caught your eye.

“Ah! Pierrot!” He’d clearly just finished handing out flyers, stopping by your place as he always did. At the sound of your voice, he tilted his head, giving you a silent yet utterly sweet smile.

“You must be exhausted working in this heat. The usual milkshake?” you asked.

His gaze never left you as he nodded gently. Glancing around to confirm the café was empty, he leaned close to the counter and whispered in a breathy voice: “Yes, darling, the usual.” He carefully pushed a coin toward you, and after this little ritual known only to the two of you, he stepped back two paces, a sweet, mischievous grin on his face—as if he’d stolen a piece of candy.

You smiled back, amused.

——He’d clearly been watching me from outside the store for ages.

You turned to make the drink, your back to him. Where you couldn’t see, Pierrot rested his chin in his hands, his gaze clinging to you like thick honey, adoring and fixated. Ah… his darling was as enchanting as ever today, even more so with the lovely flush brought on by the heat.

His smile slowly shifted from pure delight to something deeper, hotter.

Suddenly, his breath hitched.

He’d been so focused on you that he only just noticed—your shirt was damp with sweat on the back, clinging to your skin and outlining your figure clearly.

His eyes darkened first: How dare the owner make you toil in such conditions.

Then, his gaze froze.

Oh, that…

Beneath the white shirt, a glimpse of even whiter fabric…

“Goodness! Pierrot, why is your face so red?!” You turned with the milkshake, startled by his appearance. “Is the shop too hot? Can’t the circus let you wear less?”

You trailed off as you met his eyes.

There was no daze of heatstroke in them, but rather… mortification?

Was he… blushing?

You set the milkshake on the table. He shot upright like a spring, placing his hands neatly on his knees, sitting as primly as a schoolboy in his first class.

“Pierrot…” you called softly.

“Yes! I’m here… what is it, darling?” He flustered even more, his eyes darting everywhere but yours.

You leaned over the counter, nearly face-to-face with him.

“Let me check.”

“! W-What?!” He completely lost his composure, fidgeting uncontrollably.

You lifted your hand, standing on your tiptoes with some effort to press the back of your hand to his forehead—he towered over you even when seated.

He froze solid, turning into a motionless statue.

“Hm… no fever.” You pulled your hand back in confusion, waving it in front of his eyes.

He blinked as if rebooting, then grabbed the milkshake from the table and stood up abruptly. “D-Darling! I just got an emergency errand—I have to go!”

He took the drink as he always did, but this time his steps were hurried, almost fleeing.

How odd.

You watched the swinging door, the smile on your lips widening—

And turned even more mischievous.

Late at night, a familiar faint rustle came from the windowsill, then stopped abruptly.

Pierrot squatted on your balcony, a red statue frozen in place. The clothesline swayed gently in the night breeze, and hanging from it, beside your handkerchief, was something that made his blood run cold—

The white shirt he’d seen that day, soaked with sweat and now washed clean.

And… the matching delicate lace undergarments to go with it.

The bright moonlight illuminated the intricate cutout patterns clearly.

His mind instantly flashed to what he’d accidentally seen when you’d lifted your hand that afternoon.

He clapped a hand over his burning face, crouching down and pressing his hot forehead to his knees, his entire body turning as red as a boiled shrimp. The night wind brushed the lace edges, carrying a faint whiff of your scent that made even his fingertips tremble.

《"Young Hero… Young Hero… I really… really like you…"》

I’m here to dig another plot hole, heehee! It’s Killer Harlequin—when I heard this song, I suddenly craved writing about the love, hate, entanglement, and tender affections of the Jiangnan jianghu. Writing this was so thrilling, so liberating!

The rain in Jiangnan always seeps into one’s heart, stirring up a damp chill. Leaning against the wooden window on the second floor of the inn, you gaze out at the misty curtain of rain and the willow green that grows deeper under the downpour, yet never changes.

A cool, moist breeze brushes your face. You’re about to close the window to shut out this boundless melancholy when your eyes are seized by a flash of jarring green at the street corner downstairs.

This green is nothing like the gentle haziness of Jiangnan water towns—it’s bright, unbridled, brimming with a nearly arrogant vitality, like a jade dagger laced with poison, slashing through the tepid rain in an instant.

You freeze, then recall the buzzing rumors in the city lately—the Martial Arts Alliance Leader has issued a hero’s proclamation, setting up a martial arts tournament here; the victor shall claim a treasure handed down through the Alliance Leader’s mansion for generations. Overnight, eccentric warriors and jianghu knights from all corners of the realm have converged, turning this once-quiet Jiangnan town upside down.

Sure enough, the passersby below include many "jianghu folk" in martial attire with swords, their auras distinct from ordinary townsfolk. Watching their dashing or cold backs, a surge of longing for the "jianghu" and "young heroes"—a feeling no ordinary commoner should have—flits through your heart.

But what does it have to do with you?

You laugh at yourself. Your little riverside inn is no more than a tiny speck of dust on the tide of the jianghu. Those sword fights and treasure legends are far too distant for a small innkeeper counting rice, firewood, oil, and salt.

Right?

Wrong.

Your breath catches, your pupils dilating with sheer terror.

In your candlelit boudoir, an uninvited guest in night clothes, reeking of thick blood, stands by your bed like a ghost. You don’t even see how he slipped in—one moment your vision blurs, the next a cold blade is pressed against your fragile jugular.

What chills you to the bone even more is that, even through the eerie mask covering most of his face, you can feel it clearly—he’s smiling.

Those eyes, visible through the mask’s slits, are a deep, emerald green like cold jade in an abyss. They’re studying you with amusement now, no trace of panic in them, only icy appraisal and a hint of... playful mockery? How dare he smile at a time like this?

You can’t smile. Tears well up uncontrollably, your voice trembling violently:

"G-Great Hero... swords have no eyes... P-Please show mercy... This humble woman is plain of face, truly unworthy of your notice—if you’re here to... to abduct a beauty, I beg you to seek another maiden..."

Your incoherent pleas seem to work a little. You see his brow twitch almost imperceptibly, the terrifying malice in his eyes cracking open, as if he’s heard the most absurd joke.

Then he taps your cheek lightly with the back of his knife—thankfully not the blade—his gesture as frivolous as teasing a frightened sparrow. When he speaks, his voice is low and hoarse, wrapped in an eerie, sickly sweet drawl:

"Don’t worry~ With your scrawny figure?" He drags out the words, smiling wider, "You’re not even worth my time."

Your heart plummets even further. Not worth his time? Then this is worse!

As if to confirm your foreboding, a commotion suddenly erupts in the street below, mixed with furious shouts:

"Search! Tear this town apart door by door! That thief is badly wounded and carrying the item—he can’t have fled far!"

"Damn it, the bastard fought dirty, poisoning us beforehand! Took down half our men!"

"The Alliance Leader’s treasure is what matters! We must get it back!"

Your gaze shifts to the man in black, turning from terror to the despair of seeing a "bane of misfortune".

This man stole a martial arts treasure that sounds extraordinary, poisoned a horde of pursuers, and offended thugs who sound ruthless... And your inn is so close to where the search began—they’ll be at your door in moments.

Your mind races: if I can stall for just a little while, until they search upstairs...

"The second they break down the door and find me," he reads your thoughts, interrupting your last shred of hope with a smile and the softest tone, "I’ll kindly take you with me ‘away’. We won’t be lonely on the road to the Underworld, hmm?"

That sickly sweet "hmm" makes your hair stand on end.

You swallow hard, choking back the scream and tears that nearly burst out. Discretion is the better part of valor—you bow your head obediently, your voice thick with choked humiliation:

"Young Hero... This humble one... dares not... I’d be honored to protect you..."

Outside the window, the rain patters on. Inside, the blade is cold. Your quiet life as a small innkeeper seems to have ended prematurely tonight. And this green-eyed "bane of misfortune" is greeting you amiably with his knife and smile.

In the end, you choose (are forced to) "help" him evade the search.

It’s less help and more activating your family’s ancestral "emergency plan"—a hidden room in your chamber you’d almost forgotten, left behind by a restless ancestor generations ago.

The process is simple: you tremble as you press the mechanism behind the bronze mirror on your dresser, listening to the wall slide open with a dull thud, revealing a dark hole barely wide enough for one person to squeeze through. Then, under his smiling green gaze, you point to it in utter despair.

The shouts of the pursuers and the rough banging of doors ring out right outside.

He slips in like a sleek fish, yanking you in with him and slamming the hidden door shut behind you.

Darkness swallows everything in an instant, leaving only the ragged, overlapping breaths of the two of you, and the faint sound of ransacking and cursing from outside.

You’ve barely let out half a sigh of relief, grateful to have escaped for the moment, when you hear a soft click beside you—the fool has lit the spare tinderbox you stashed in the corner of the hidden room, groping in the dark!

The flickering dim light instantly illuminates this tiny space filled with your "absolute privacy".

It also illuminates the thick, almost tangible amusement that flares to life in his green eyes.

Your blood runs cold from head to toe, then surges back up, your cheeks burning hot enough to fry an egg.

Because... this hidden room is crammed, neatly categorized, with all the salacious, bold, and bizarre pamphlets and illustrations you’ve collected or created over the years, scrimping and scheming to get them.

Some are long-out-of-print rarities, some are your secret copies or even "reimaginings", and others... well, are "original works of art" you crafted by blending street gossip with your own imagination.

You hid them here for one reason—they are very, very, very indecent!

And now, this jianghu killer, who just held a knife to your throat, is covered in blood, and of unknown origin, is slowly pulling out one of the raciest books with his uninjured but bloodstained finger—The Carnal Chronicles of a Courtesan—and flipping through it with interest! The corner of his mouth under the mask curls into an infuriatingly smug grin.

 “Aah——!!”

A short scream bursts from your throat. Shame and anger overwhelm all fear of the knife and the pursuers. Like a cat whose tail has been stepped on, you lunge at him, claws out:

“Lothario! Who gave you permission to touch a young lady’s things?!!”

Blinding shame and rage short-circuit your reason, overcoming your fear of swords and death. You reach out to snatch the book.

His injury slows him for a split second. But he simply sidesteps your wild grabs with ease, then—extends a finger, pressing it precisely to your forehead with the advantage of his height, pinning you in place effortlessly, no matter how much you flail.

You tremble with rage, your eyes wide with a mix of blazing humiliation and bitter tears. When have you ever been so humiliated?! Okay, not counting the neighborhood aunties and fussy customers... this is by far the most cowardly and murderous you’ve ever felt in your life!

He holds up the book, skimming a few more pages by the firelight before raising an eyebrow at you, his eyes brimming with disdain and mockery. That sickly sweet, skin-crawling voice sounds even clearer in the confined space:

 “Oh~? Interesting.” He drawls, as if discovering a priceless treasure, “I never would have thought a seemingly honest, pure little innkeeper...”

He shakes the book, the tangled figures on the pages flickering in the firelight.

He cocks his brow, his emerald eyes swirling with disdain and playfulness, his voice dripping with even more sickly sweet mockery: “...has such unique tastes and an extensive collection in private.”

He pauses, glancing at the pile of books, a genuine look of connoisseur’s surprise flashing across his green eyes. “Whoa, you even have The Kama Sutra: Expanded and Illustrated... I heard it was banned and burned thirty years ago. Even a single torn page fetches a hundred taels on the black market, and a full copy is impossible to find. Not bad taste at all.”

 Fuck! (A plant)

 This guy is actually a connoisseur!

 This guy is not just a troublemaker, a failed seducer, a master thief... he’s a seasoned aficionado of smut!

 It’s over.

 Everything is over.

 Social death doesn’t even begin to describe this situation.

 It’s not just that your secret’s been discovered—your soul’s been put on public display in the town square, and then critiqued by an expert!

 All fear, panic, and humiliation vanish in an instant, replaced by blazing, unadulterated murderous intent.

 You grind your teeth so hard they creak, your nails digging into your palms, your chest heaving violently.

In that moment, all thoughts of jianghu danger, swords without eyes, and self-preservation fly out the window. Only one blood-red, bold, flashing thought remains in your mind:

 I must silence him! This bastard... he cannot live!

 I have to find a way to... kill him!

But he acts as if oblivious to the blazing "murderous intent" in your eyes, even doubling down. Leaning casually against your "collection", he slowly pulls out another book—your most embarrassing secret sketchbook! He even flicks through the pages with his bloodstained fingertips as if admiring a masterpiece, commenting aloud leisurely:

“This one... the lines are a bit clumsy, lacking in skill. Still, the composition has a certain rustic charm.”

He turns a page, a chuckle escaping his throat.

“Wow, this one... tsk, the coloring is bold and fiery, but the proportions are off.”

How dare he criticize your work! In that casual tone, like he’s strolling in his own garden!

Your blood boils, and you’re ready to pounce and scratch his masked face to shreds!

Just then——

His commentary cuts off abruptly.

The commotion, cursing, and chaotic footsteps in the street below have faded away at some point, leaving only the endless patter of rain outside the window.

His fingers pause on the page of the book.

Then, those emerald eyes lift from the colorful pages, settling on you again—slowly, deliberately.

The faint casual mockery is gone, washed away like a tide. In its place is a darker, deeper, more unfathomable shade, like a whirlpool at the bottom of an abyss, carrying a tangible, predatory scrutiny and calculation.

That cold, sticky feeling of being hunted returns.

And it’s clearer, more dangerous than ever.

You stand frozen in the dim, flickering glow of the only tiny oil lamp in the hidden room. The rage that clouded your mind fades, and belated fear creeps up your spine like ice water, numbing every inch of your body.

You start shaking uncontrollably—half from leftover anger, half from finally remembering to be afraid.

He stares at you silently, his expression hidden behind the mask, only those green eyes glinting in the dark like a beast assessing the final "disposal value" of its prey.

Your throat goes dry, swallowing becomes difficult, and you dare not step back. The "bold words" you muttered in your heart moments ago sound feeble and ridiculous in this suffocating, oppressive gaze.

If... if I can get out of here alive...

I, I swear I’ll...

The last blustering "threats" in your heart vanish like a stone thrown into an ancient well, not even a ripple left, drowned in the silence.

He just looks at you, his masked expression unreadable. Damp black bangs stick to his pale skin, and the blood on his shoulder seeps into his black robes, darkening the fabric further. The air reeks of old books, dust, blood, and a cold, dangerous scent that is uniquely his.

Mother...

You choke silently in your heart.

I’ll never envy those jianghu heroines in the pamphlets who act on their passions again... All that talk of fine clothes and gallant steeds, of wandering the world with a sword—it’s all a lie...

I want to go home.

I want to go home now.

I’ll sell the inn, move back to the old family farm in the countryside, and spend the rest of my life with you and Father, tending those few acres of thin land... I’ll never leave again...

Time drags by in suffocating silence.

The pursuers’ shouts and footsteps return to the street below, louder and more organized this time, with the certainty of cornering a trapped beast.

"Seal the city gates! Post men at every entrance and exit—no one leaves, day or night! That thief is still in the city, he can’t fly away!"

The shout booms through the wooden planks and rain, rolling into the tiny hidden room, shattering your last naive hope that "they’ll leave and it’ll be over".

Just then, he lets out a soft laugh.

Not the sickly sweet or mocking chuckle from before, but a shorter, drier huff, forced from his chest, tinged with the weakness of blood loss yet filled with cold irony—as if he’d expected this all along.

"Heard that?" He doesn’t need to elaborate; you heard it too. The gates are closed, a net cast tight.

"Little innkeeper," he speaks again, his voice hoarse from pain and the effort of keeping it low, yet strangely clear, each word striking your frayed nerves like a small hammer, "it seems I’ll be imposing on your ‘hidden sanctuary’ for a few more days."

He pauses, his emerald eyes roaming your bloodless, defeated face slowly, as if appraising an object that’s suddenly become valuable—or savoring the despair of prey who knows there’s no escape.

"As a reward for your ‘safe house’..." he drawls, his fingertips brushing the cold hilt of his knife unconsciously, "I might take pity on you and consider... sparing your life."

"Of course," he adds, his tone as casual as discussing the weather, yet his words send you plummeting into an ice pit, "how long this ‘mercy’ lasts depends entirely on..."

He leans in closer. The thick stench of blood and the cold damp of rain wash over you, and you can even see the dried blood at the edge of his mask, and the cold glint in the depths of his green eyes.

"...how ‘obedient’ and ‘cooperative’ you are from now on."

"What a shame..." His fingertip brushes a tear from your cheek, his touch gentle but his eyes cold, "Once you board a pirate ship, it’s not so easy to dock again, is it?"

Your legs give way, and you nearly collapse if not for the cold wall at your back. The last spark of hope is snuffed out by cruel reality.

Mother...

I’m truly done for.

Not only will my innocence be ruined, but now my life hangs by a thread.

Worse still, I have to share this tiny space with this green-eyed killer, thief, would-be seducer, and snarky bastard who criticized my private collection...!

The hidden room was already cramped, and with all your "treasures" piled up, there’s barely room to turn around. Now, his presence—bloody and dangerous—fills every inch of air, suffocating you.

He seems pleased by your ashen, resigned expression, the cold mockery creeping back into his eyes.

"Don’t look so glum, little innkeeper." He readjusts his leaning position slowly, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly as he jostles his wound, but his tone remains as light as talking about the weather, "At least here... well, the library’s extensive, so I won’t be bored. And besides..."

His gaze flicks to your precious books, his tone lingering suggestively:

"...we’re ‘kindred spirits’, aren’t we? Maybe we can exchange notes?"

Pierrot is a monster through and through.An oddity among monsters, an outcast among humans.While the other monsters are creatures of harsh reality, he is a dreamer—an utterly unique monster with a world of his own.

He fell in love with a human being, hopelessly and irrevocably.If the circus were a big family, Pierrot would be the youngest child: the most obedient, well-behaved and innocent of them all.Down to his very core, Pierrot is a monster with a soft and delicate heart.And gentleness, by its very nature, requires great courage.

When the old ringmaster bullied him, when someone had designs on Colombina, even when he could barely protect himself, he was always the first to sense the malice directed at her, the first to step forward and shield her from harm. He did it simply because he thought he had to. That instinctive urge to protect, that word guardian—it defined him through and through.

He couldn’t bear to see anyone suffer. That was the root of his overprotective streak. Having witnessed too many loved ones get hurt, it had turned into an obsession.In the dark, sunless ruins of his life, he bloomed into a flower of resilience and tenacity. He bore no resentment, nor did he build up walls to lash out at the world. Instead, he turned his beliefs into actions he lived by every day. He dreamed, he hoped, but all he ever wanted was something simple: he wanted stability, he wanted "happiness". Yet that wish seemed greedy, for the things he could ever have were far too limited.

There was a purity about him, a strong animalistic instinct—but it was an instinct rooted more in innocence than savagery. At the same time, he was quite in tune with his human side, which made him alternate between the straightforwardness of a beast and the agony and hesitation of a man. He was honest, so he faced his own feelings with honesty, never shying away from them.

But once, he didn’t have any of this. This emotional turmoil, exclusive to humans, this humanity—he didn’t possess it at first. Not until he fell ill. The name of that illness was you. And it was a sickness only he could ever contract.

The reason he fell in love with you was far more profound than what meets the eye.Do you remember what I said earlier? He was always the one who stepped up first to protect others.But can you be certain he never longed to be treated the same way in return?That look of his—wronged, helpless, silent, like a victim of bullying.It never appeared again after he met you.

He loved you because of the split-second decision you made without hesitation.Your courage, your gentleness, that unhesitating gesture of stepping forward to shield someone behind your back—wasn’t it exactly like his own?In you, he saw everything he had ever dreamed of having for himself.His barren, shattered world suddenly bloomed with a flower; his fantasies finally bore fruit.You appeared like a gift tailor-made by fate for this monster.

Your willingness to stand up for what’s right, your smile, your gentleness, your care—they locked this monster into a cage of his own free will.

Did he love you? That wasn’t a question for me to answer. It was one you had to figure out after savoring every detail of his story. Only then could you do justice to all his tangled pain and contradictory actions.

Love was something unique, something exclusive. It could only be born from the collision between you and him alone.

Was his love pure?Pierrot had a secure attachment style. He might feel anxious in a relationship sometimes, but not very often. His anxiety only arose from the overwhelming urge to protect you, from the fear of something befalling you.

I’d sum up his attitude toward love in one sentence: Love is a hand that yearns to touch, yet hesitates and draws back. Precisely because the more he loved you, the more he couldn’t bear to see you hurt.

His "base" monster instinct screamed to draw near, to claim you. But his mind—the part that was Pierrot—was constantly warning him: You can’t do this, Pierrot. She’ll be in pain.

What was love?It was going against his own instincts, going against his very nature.

But he wasn’t human. So he approached you in the only way he knew how—awkwardly, clumsily—every gesture rooted in that naive, burning love of his.

If he liked you, he’d ache when he couldn’t see you—and so he’d come looking for you.If he felt sorry for you, seeing you being picked on and unable to fight back—he’d step in to resolve it for you. (In his mind, he truly thought you’d be happy about it. But a beast could never fully comprehend the complexities of human emotions. You might be upset for a while and then move on, but all he could think about was your eyes—wordless, sad, wronged, apologetic.)

Pierrot was a monster at his core. He was towering, his strength undeniable. His hand could hurl a projectile with unwavering force from ten meters away, piercing straight through a human skull—and even through the bullseye beyond it. On stage, he was the true Pierrot: the one who felt no sympathy for any human being except you. That was his inner divide. His world only consisted of you and his fellow circus members—and he was still a predator at heart. Yet in front of you, his supposed prey, he was always flustered and tongue-tied. If you accidentally asked about a forbidden topic, he’d panic, or quickly change the subject. Because if you learned the circus’s secrets, the others would target you—and you’d be in grave danger.

He went out of his way to win your favor. Those hands that could easily snap a man’s neck were used to fold paper flowers for you, each one a token of romance. On his way to see you, he might get bullied again, bleeding from the wounds—but he was used to it, so he paid no mind. Until he touched his forehead and felt the blood, and thought to himself: Hmm, maybe red flowers are prettier after all. And just like that, you received a flower that changed color. This wasn’t a sign of his madness. It was his way of giving you the very best he had to offer, straight from the depths of his heart. He loved you, guarded you, in his own awkward, clumsy way.

Yes, on the first day, you were scared of him and tried to run away—and he could tell. In that split second, his emotions overrode his reason for the first time. The terror of losing you overwhelmed his desire to protect you. He couldn’t help but make you stay. But when he saw the look of sheer terror on your face when you woke up, his heart ached with remorse. He instantly regretted what he’d done. (That’s right—he imprisoned you for less than a day before wanting to let you go. But he still wanted to try, because he knew that once you left this place, you’d never come back. He’d never get to see you again.) So he said to you: If, after we’ve spent some time together, you still want to leave—I will respect your choice.

This was exactly why I called him a gentle monster. That innate sense of respect stemmed from his profound love for you. To love someone meant putting their needs first, prioritizing their feelings over your own desires. Selfishness had no place in Pierrot’s heart—he didn’t even have a trace of it.

From beginning to end, all he ever wanted was for you to be happy.

If you ever clearly expressed your disgust for him, and admitted to having someone you liked instead—he would be heartbroken, but he would respect your wishes and let you go without a fuss, never once becoming a burden to you.

On the second day, you finally went home. He followed you. This time, he didn’t climb through a window—he knocked on your door. (Because he knew you must have been angry with him by then, and he wanted to act more cautiously, not to provoke you further.) Then he begged you to listen to his explanation. Pierrot confessed his love to you twice, both times with sincere, straightforward words. Yes, he loved you. His love was intense and unreserved, so powerful it felt like it could reach right through the screen. It was the most genuine expression of love from Pierrot himself—he gave you his entire heart and soul.

If you chose to let him stay, and reached out to touch him—you would discover the horns hidden beneath his hat. He would freeze up, but when you chose to stay silent about this secret, it marked the beginning of a shift in your relationship. A silent understanding bloomed between the two of you.

You finally began to face his feelings head-on.

That red ticket was a pass he gave you exclusively. In the circus, tickets were equivalent to marks of ownership. That red ticket signified: You belong to him. The color red would send a clear message to all the monsters who knew the rules: First come, first served.

This was Pierrot’s rule. Only he had the right to decide how you should be treated. (That was also why Harlequin kept tempting you to use his ticket instead, but never dared to steal the red one from you. You had to be the one to voluntarily choose to switch it.)

Thanks to that red ticket, when you went to see Doctor, you came out safe, sound and unharmed. Thanks to that red ticket, when you encountered the Ticket Taker in the maze, he didn’t lay a finger on you—instead, he warned you that if it weren’t for that ticket, he would have disposed of you long ago. If it weren’t for Pierrot, the moment you met Jester, you would have become just another one of those pink-clad dolls in his little theater.

The other circus members were quite caring toward Pierrot—even a little indulgent. (No one said a word when he brought a human into the circus, which was no small matter.) Then there was his relationship with Harlequin. They seemed like bitter enemies, always clashing and trying to outdo each other. For example, when Pierrot had his hair pulled during a fight, Jester assigned Harlequin to go out with him to distribute flyers—and Harlequin didn’t utter a single complaint. It was very much like two former friends who had a falling-out over something, and now bickered and acted like mortal foes, but still couldn’t help caring about each other deep down. Even though they fought fiercely enough to draw blood, they were still family at the end of the day. To them, this kind of squabbling was perfectly normal—even commonplace. So the other members paid no mind to their constant bickering. They might fight like cats and dogs, but their dislike for each other never ran deep enough to make them want to kill one another. But when Harlequin set his sights on you—that was when things stopped being a trivial spat. Pierrot wanted nothing more than to tear Harlequin to shreds for trying to steal his beloved.

He followed you everywhere he went. All the other monsters knew it, and their words were always laced with hints about how fiercely he guarded you, how deeply he cared for you. That was why the moment you stepped out of Jester’s tent, he rushed over to pull you into his arms, soothing you gently.

You finally mustered up the courage to ask him: Do you really like me? We’ve only known each other for a day, after all. (Why was his love so intense, so passionate, so all-consuming?)

His answer sounded almost too good to be true, like he was just trying to placate you—but every single word was the absolute truth.

Because, you, you were the dream he had been chasing his whole life. You were the only "outsider" who had ever chosen to protect him, to treat him with gentleness.

We were so alike. But he became the kind, idealistic person he was because he longed to be treated that way. Whereas you—you were just being your true self.

And that was why he fell in love with you so naturally.

Pierrot, new to fatherhood, and you, ever tolerant and gentle.

It seemed Pierrot was simply not cut out for handling infants.

You lowered your eyes with a smile, watching the towering monster crouch cautiously before you, his breath so light it was as if he feared disturbing the dust motes dancing in the air. His palms, far larger than any human’s and marked with inhuman traits, now sheathed his sharp claws carefully, using only the backs of his fingers to brush faintly across the baby’s tender cheek—barely a whisper of a touch, like a feather skimming the water’s surface, leaving not a single trace behind.

Just then, the newborn in your arms seemed to sense something in his sleep, scrunching his tiny nose softly. He parted his lips slightly, searching left and right instinctively, but when he realized it was not his mother come to nurse him, he smacked his lips and drifted into a deeper slumber.

This minuscule movement, however, made Pierrot’s eyes widen in surprise, his golden irises swimming with confusion and helplessness. He looked up at you in a fluster, his gaze filled with worry and a silent question, terrified that his mere proximity had disturbed the fragile little life.

You merely reached out, brushing your fingers gently against his cheek, feeling the faint tautness beneath his skin.

“Darling, relax. You’re doing just fine.” Your voice was low and soft, like warm wind rustling through the forest.

He leaned into your touch, and the tension in his shoulders finally eased a little. His gaze drifted back to the baby, fixating intently on the rise and fall of that tiny chest with each breath, unwilling to miss even the smallest flicker of movement.

After a moment, you stood up, and under his slightly puzzled stare, carefully laid the sleeping child back in the padded cradle. He followed you immediately, silent as a shadow, his eyes still lingering on the cradle.

“Pierrot,” you called his name softly, a hint of tender resignation in your eyes, “you’ve been like this for days now.”

It was only then, beneath your tolerant gaze, that he finally seemed to snap out of his hyper-vigilant state of guardianship. His massive frame relaxed a fraction, and he let out a barely audible sigh—a belated response to you.

He swayed slightly, like a plaster statue suddenly losing its rigidity. Those golden eyes, usually blazing with frenzy or obsession, now glistened with a childlike sense of grievance. He drew near to you cautiously, almost soundlessly, burying his heavy head in the crook of your neck and breathing deeply, as if trying to draw comfort and strength from your very being.

“…He’s so soft,” his voice muffled against your skin, raw with an unprecedented, almost panicked confusion, “like… like a snail without its shell. Like a newly hatched bird… I don’t even dare to breathe, my love. I’m afraid my breath alone might shatter him.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, threading your fingers through his soft hair and massaging his scalp gently. He let out a contented rumble, the last of the tension seeping out of his shoulders and neck at long last.

“He won’t shatter,” you murmured, your tone as sure as an unshakable truth of the universe, “he’s our child. He carries our blood—well, not entirely human, perhaps. But he’s strong.”

He lifted his head, his eyes glistening faintly—not with sorrow, but with the overwhelming tide of a strange, unfamiliar emotion. “Ours…” he repeated the word, his golden pupils pooling with a sweetness so thick it was like spilled honey, brimming with a love so intense it threatened to overflow. He glanced back at the tiny form in the cradle, and this time, his gaze held less fear, and more of that clumsy, fledgling paternal love.

“…May I touch him again?” he asked softly, as if begging for a priceless treasure, “Just a gentle touch… I promise.”

Looking at the longing and caution in his eyes, your heart melted completely. Since becoming a mother, you seemed to have learned the knack of soothing two “children”—one small, one not so small—all at once.

“Of course you can, Pierrot,” you whispered, your voice so light it was barely there, afraid of disturbing both the sleeping infant and this fragile, precious moment of his, “but we’ll wait until he wakes up, alright?”

Your free hand cupped his slightly tired cheek, your thumb brushing the faint tremor of lingering tension beneath his skin. He leaned into your palm like a large dog finally receiving the affection it craved, then flushed faintly, a touch of embarrassment coloring his features at this moment of vulnerability.

“Now, you need to rest too,” you said, your eyes fixed on the faint shadows beneath his eyes, your tone gentle but firm, “alright? You haven’t slept in three whole days.”

His golden eyes flickered, as if he wanted to argue, but beneath your steady gaze, he simply nodded, submitting wordlessly. The circus tent had never held such a delicate life before—all the noise, the glitter, the danger of the performances felt utterly out of place beside a baby who needed nothing but the softest care. Faced with this completely foreign responsibility, all his love and anxiety had morphed into this overbearing vigilance, guarding the cradle tirelessly, as if the fragile miracle would vanish the moment he blinked.

He wrapped his arms around you obediently, nestling his head against your chest. His massive body curled slightly to fit yours, like a fierce beast sheathing all its claws and fangs, finally finding its way home. The steady, strong beat of your heart echoed in his ears, more comforting than any lullaby ever written.

His nose nuzzled unconsciously against your clothes, breathing in a scent he had never smelled before. It was no longer just the intoxicating fragrance that had always drawn him to you; it was now mixed with something softer, richer—a warm, sweet blend of sun-kissed milk and freshly bloomed flowers. It was the unique scent of motherhood, a scent that wrapped around him like a blanket, filling him with an indescribable sense of peace, deep down to his very soul.

He could feel the subtle changes in your body beneath his cheek—softer, fuller now, brimming with the warm, nurturing power of new life. This mature, all-embracing charm overlapped delicately with the slender figure he remembered smiling at him in that café, blending together to create something far deeper, far more captivating than ever before.

These sensations converged quietly, sending ripples of warmth coursing through his heart. He thought of how this life—your life together—had changed you, of how your body now held the very source that nourished your child… A rush of heat, a heady mix of profound reverence and intimate affection, flooded his cheeks, turning them bright red. He buried his burning forehead deeper into your embrace, hiding this sudden, sweet surge of shyness from the world.

You watched all these changes unfold—from his cautious, tentative touches to this moment of complete, unguarded dependence—and a soft smile tugged at your lips. Your fingers, like combing through the finest silk, threaded through his hair again and again, feeling the coolness of the strands and the gradually relaxing muscles beneath them.

Guided by your gentle caresses, he let himself fall back onto the soft bed, like a ship finally dropping anchor. Almost instinctively, he nuzzled his way back, pressing his cheek against your abdomen—the very place that had once carried this miracle of life, and still held the warmth of it now. You wrapped your arms around him, feeling him shift slightly in your embrace, the soft, fuzzy top of his head tickling you gently, like a large, restless creature finally finding its den.

Your other hand patted his back in a slow, steady rhythm, just as you would soothe a fussy baby. Enfolded completely in your scent, surrounded by a happiness so intense it felt like it might burst, the last of his frayed nerves finally unraveled. You heard his breathing grow long and even, as he drifted off into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Inside the tent, the lamplight glowed softly, casting the intertwined shadows of your figures onto the canvas walls. The baby’s cradle stood quietly nearby, the tiny rise and fall of his chest a silent, steady rhythm of life. All the noise, all the anxiety, all the restlessness—they were all gently smoothed away, dispersed into the quiet night.

Calm settled over the tent once more, broken only by the soft, synchronized sound of your breathing, rising and falling together.

Your fingers still tangled in a lock of his hair, your gaze lingering on his sleeping face—the usual frenzy and obsession in his features replaced by exhaustion and serene peace. You leaned down, pressing a kiss as light as a falling feather to his lips.

“…Goodnight.” Your voice was a mere whisper, barely audible.

Warning: Contains graphic scenes of blood and cannibalism. Proceed with caution.

He was starving, driven mad by repressed desire—forgive him, please…

Darling, do you know?

Your words are like poison.

Every time those thin lips part, I can smell the sweet danger. Your contemptuous, casual gaze, the arc your slender fingers trace in the air, even the trajectory of my hair when you flick it casually—all these can become your weapons against me.

I stare, day after day, until I finally see some truth.

Deep in your eyes, there is a faint boredom and weariness, as if nothing in this world can arouse your interest anymore.Yet when you speak, you are so effortless, every syllable carrying an unrefusable aggressiveness.

And I listen piously, like a believer hanging on your every word.

Sometimes, you may not even realize it—your habitual tone when speaking is like a unique scent, deeply branded in my senses.The deliberate upturn at the end of your sentences is like a carefully designed fishhook, and your charming words are the bait you excel at using.

Ah, yes, with you, I have become a happy fish. Knowing full well there is a hook, I still bite eagerly.

But how cruel you are, Harlequin.

You actually want to hunt a person’s soul.

What vivid desire to win. You want to turn me into your trophy, don’t you?When you intentionally want someone to fall, even your tenderness carries deliberate traces. Yet every time, even though I know full well, it only makes me more addicted.I want to hear your voice more, so even knowing it’s poison, I savour it willingly.

I think, the gaze that lingers and slides slowly over you will one day turn into sticky, wet kisses.

I want to look at you, always and forever.

I want to bury myself in the crook of your neck, no matter who wins or loses this silent war between us.

I want to smell your scent, until my sense of smell can no longer distinguish anything else.

I want to have your embrace, even if it’s just a gentle trap.

I want to possess your thoughts, just as you already possess mine.

Look at me, keep looking at me.

Take it, take this remaining sanity of mine.

Give me, those poisonous kisses and touches of yours.

Smile, like you do every time you succeed.

Do it again, push me into a deeper abyss.

As payment—

Ah, those scars and pains, please leave them generously.

——

The first time I met you was on a drizzling night.

The circus tent, like a huge, out-of-place mushroom, grew abruptly on the edge of the town. People said the performances there were eerily disturbing, that the performers were not like humans. And I, someone who even thought of myself as too ordinary, was drawn into that world by an invisible thread.

That was the first time I saw him.

He sat in the corner of the tent, like an ill-timed shadow. When I mustered up the courage to meet his eyes, he didn’t look away quickly like everyone else. Instead, he narrowed his eyes slightly, as if appraising an interesting new collection.

"Darling, you have such special eyes." Those were the first words he said to me.

From that day on, I became an uninvited regular in his tent. During the day, when the circus was closed to the public, he would allow me into that mysterious tent. There were walls lined with all kinds of strange collections, jars emitting odd smells, and him—the being that both terrified and fascinated me.

No matter what we did, as dusk fell, I would leave on time, returning to my mundane life.

"Why are you always in such a hurry to leave?" One day, he grabbed my wrist, his upturned tone carrying a curiosity I had never heard before.

I looked at his slender fingers encircling my wrist, like a beautiful shackle.

"Because I’m afraid." I replied honestly.

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid that once I get used to being here, I will never be able to endure the ordinariness outside again."

He laughed, a smile that was both cruel and beautiful. "Darling, you’ve already lost your way back."

He was right. I had already been poisoned too deeply.

In our "game", pain is the only universal language.

He would break into my small apartment on a cold rainy night, covered in dampness, and pin me against the cold wall without a word—just because he wanted to.His kisses were like punishment, yet also like rewards, carrying an unyielding dominance. I could feel the coldness of his fingertips seeping into my skin through the thin fabric, and the constant, playful heat in his breath.

"Shivering again?" He would rub his nose against the sensitive skin behind my ear, his low, hoarse voice laced with malicious amusement. "Is it the cold, or… is it because of me?"

I bit my lower lip, refusing to answer. We both knew the truth.

He was fond of leaving all kinds of marks on my body—sometimes bruises from his fingertips, sometimes bite marks from his teeth. As he made these marks, he would stare at me intently with those eyes that seemed to see through everything, observing every subtle change in my expression, capturing every suppressed gasp or whimper.

"Beautiful." He once stroked a fresh red mark on my collarbone with his thumb, his gaze as focused as if admiring a work of art. "Your pain is the most honest color I have ever seen."

I hated his attitude of treating everything as a plaything, hated that he could even judge my pain. But I hated even more that when he whispered in my ear with that effortless tone, when he hugged me with that aggressive tenderness, my soul did tremble for him.

Sometimes, we did nothing at all. He would just lie lazily on my old sofa, his black hair glowing with a cold sheen in the dim light. I would sit not far away, staring at him quietly. His profile was particularly clear in the shadow, yet also particularly distant. At that moment, I would have an illusion, as if we were just an ordinary couple, sharing a quiet moment.

But I knew, this was just the calm before the storm. Beneath his tranquility was an unceasing desire to conquer and destroy.

And I, while sinking consciously, prayed frantically—

Prayed that his gaze would linger on me for just one more second, prayed that his embrace would open for me once again, even if the price was more scars and deeper pain.

But Harlequin had a hateful habit—he liked to show me the infatuation others had for him.

That day on the street, I saw a girl in a pink dress beside him, her face wearing a dazed, happy expression. When she passed by me, I smelled the lingering scent of Harlequin on her—that blend of spice, mint, and some unknown fragrance.

An unnamed anger flared up in my heart. Not because he had someone else, but because he allowed others to taint his scent that belonged only to him.

When I walked into his tent again, he was lying lazily on a recliner, as if he had long anticipated my arrival.

"What’s wrong?" He raised an eyebrow, his tone filled with annoying amusement.

"Do you want me to be jealous?"

"I just want you to show your true self." He stood up and walked towards me, his fingers gently brushing my cheek. "That crazy soul hidden beneath the polite surface."

I grabbed his wrist, my grip so tight that it slightly surprised him.

"Do you know why I’ve always kept the freedom to leave?" I looked straight into his eyes."It’s not because I want to go, but because when I stay, it’s out of my choice, not your manipulation."

His eyes changed instantly. That usual frivolity disappeared, replaced by that intriguing emotion I had seen before.

"Interesting." He smiled, his voice low. "You’re even more interesting than I thought."

That was the first time I felt a subtle shift in the balance of power between us.

"Do you understand me?" He suddenly asked one day.

At that time, we were lying on the carpet in the middle of his tent, with an endless expanse of canvas above us. It was raining outside, and the raindrops hitting the tent sounded like a thousand tiny heartbeats.

"I’m not sure." I rolled over and propped my head up to look at him. "How much of you that I see is real? How much is what you want me to see?"

He smiled softly, twisting a strand of my hair around his finger. "What is reality, darling? Every side I show you is part of me. Just like this tent."He waved his hand casually in a circle. "From the outside, it’s just an ordinary circus tent. From the inside, it can be the entire universe."

"What about you? Are you different from the outside and the inside?"

"That’s for you to tell me." He suddenly rolled over, casting me under his shadow. "You’ve been observing me for so long, you should have your own conclusion."

I reached out to touch his cheek, feeling the faint pulse beneath his skin.

"I think you’re someone who’s afraid of loneliness, yet avoids feelings instead." I said softly. "So you use games and lies to attract others’ attention, so that you’ll never be alone, and no one can hurt you."

His eyes flickered—that was the first time I saw him show an almost real and vulnerable expression.

"A dangerous conclusion." He lowered his head, pressing his forehead against mine. "Aren’t you afraid I’ll kill you for your impertinence?"

"Would you?"

His kiss fell, gentler and more deadly than any before.

"Maybe," he whispered against my lips, "but I’ll reward your courage."

The change happened on a quiet afternoon.

That day, I went to the circus early. Instead of waiting for his permission as usual, I lifted the tent curtain and walked in directly.

He was facing away from me, sorting through a pile of old performance props. When he heard the sound, he turned around. There was no surprise on his face, only a look of realization, as if saying "you’re finally here".

"You’re early today." He said.

"I don’t want to follow your rules anymore." I stood in the middle of the tent, straightforward, feeling my rapid heartbeat and speaking my thoughts honestly.

"I don’t want to only see you when I’m allowed, nor leave at a fixed time. I don’t want to continue this game where you always control the rhythm."

He slowly put down what he was holding, turned to face me with a curious gaze."What do you want then?"

"I want equality." I said. "Or, at the very least, another form of inequality."

He laughed—not that frivolous laugh, but a real, joyful one.

"Do you know why I’ve always let you come?" He walked towards me, his steps as light as a cat’s.

"You’re the only one who both craves me and remains sober."

"Isn’t that what you hate about me?"

"No," he reached out to touch my neck, his thumb pressing on my pulse. "That’s exactly why I’m obsessed with you."

I knew it, I knew something had changed forever at that moment.

In this soul-hunting game he led, I had given up escaping. All I wanted was for him to remember me, in the deepest way possible.Even if it meant being the most vivid trophy destroyed by him completely.

So when I looked at him again—Harlequin, my lover and enemy.When he looked back at me, my eyes said:Then,please continue your game.Water me with your poison, wrap me with your hooks and threads.Let me confirm my existence in this pain.And let you find your insatiable pleasure in my downfall.

He understood my meaning, and smiled even more widely, unable to contain the curve of his lips.

Now, I still go to that circus tent, but no longer at fixed times. I stay there overnight, lying in his arms to sleep on nights when starlight filters through the gaps in the canvas. Sometimes I deliberately don’t go for several days in a row, letting him taste the feeling of uncertainty.

Although he still stabs me with his poisonous words and tries to manipulate my emotions, now I fight back with equally sharp words, dealing with him in the way he taught me.

We are like two gamblers who know each other’s cards, yet still indulge in this bet.

Back to the present—When I walked into the tent, I saw him playing with an exquisite small knife. When he saw me, he looked up, his eyes shining with a dangerous and charming light.

"What do you want to play today?" He asked.

I walked up to him, took the knife from his hand, and gently made a small cut on my fingertip. A bead of blood oozed out, like a tiny red ruby.

"This game," I held up my bleeding finger in front of him, "is called 'Reality'."

He stared at that drop of blood, his eyes becoming deep and profound. Then he grabbed my wrist, lowered his head, and licked off that trace of red with the tip of his tongue.

He raised his head, a little of my blood lingering on his lips, and for the first time, his eyes were filled with deep emotion."You win."

But I know, in this soul-hunting game, there is never a true winner. Only two equally lost people, looking for an antidote in each other’s poison.

"**." I said.

And he did as I asked.

Darling, do you know? Those who drink poison to quench their thirst are not unaware of the danger of the poison. It’s just that the thirst is too intense, stronger than the fear of death.