The moon sure is beatiful tonight...

⭐️ 𝓟𝓲𝓮𝓻𝓻𝓸𝓽 ⭐️

For starters, things go as they do in game! Poor, lovesick Pierrot is saved from an altercation. The only difference here is that it isn't because of missing people. That's been going on for a while now, thanks to you. I suppose some people just really don't like clowns, huh?

You're fully aware of the stalking from the moment it begins. The symbiote immediately senses that you're being watched from outside the cafe. Plus, due to your diet, you know exactly what that rose is painted with from the moment you smell the blood on it.

Unfortunately for Pierrot and his nightly visits, symbiotes don’t require sleep.

"Ah my dear, You..." WHAM SMACK POW

He's immediately shoved away and grabbed by tendrils before being lifted up as a black, viscous liquid rapidly envelops you. He watches in a mix of shock and faint fear as you transform. Where you previously stood, now a 7ft tall monster with sharp teeth stands. You don’t look pleased, to say the least.

First of all- he’s frozen with the realization that he’s been caught breaking into your home. He’s definitely not making a good impression. Gulp.

Secondly, his dearest is like him! Ah, how perfect! You really are meant to be, aren’t you?

After some reluctantly accepted apologies, he’s set down carefully. He’s in awe. His dear, able to to blend in so perfectly with humans, yet so dangerous. A perfect predator. He didn’t suspect a thing!

He was originally interested because you were a kind human, but he’s not so shallow as to change his mind because you aren’t what he expected.

Someone taller than even the Doctor? With those sharp teeth and that long tongue? Oh his thoughts are running wild. This man is 100 shades of red just thinking about hand holding, but this? It’s all too much for his poor soul.

He’s quick to invite you to come see him at the circus the next night, perhaps to even join him for dinner! You could technically get a black ticket now, but ah, he loves seeing you use his red ticket.

Still reluctant to reveal his own appearance, but gives in quickly if you ask. Afterall, his dearest wouldn’t be scared of him.

Extras!

❤️ Doctor

- so many questions. Be prepared because you aren’t leaving this tent for hours.

- so you don’t actually need human flesh? Just a certain compound that happens to be found in human brains? And you substitute it with chocolate? Interesting…

- Don’t let this man see your healing factor. He’s gonna have 60 experiments planned before you can call anyone to calm him down.

💜 Jester

- Well… that’s an improvement, certainly.

- Before, he was suspicious and guarded. He didn’t understand how both Pierrot and Harlequin could go get themselves caught up in a human so easily. Now? It’s… still not ideal but certainly not as bad as he had feared.

- Truthfully, he finds it unnerving how seamlessly you blend in as a human.

- Now he has no excuse for when Pierrot inevitably insists you come along with them when they leave town. Fantastic. You just had to exist, didn’t you?

🖌️ Ticket Taker

- huh. He thought his own human illusions were good, but this?

- Advocates for you to join them when Pierrot suggests it… only because he realizes that if you join, he can send you to run errands instead of going out himself.

- he’s curious, certainly, but he has better things to focus on. So long as you don’t eat them out of fools, he couldn’t care less.

🐍 Harlequin

- Immediately lays on the flirting, but keeps his distance a bit better. Flirting with a random human to piss off Pierrot is much different than hitting on a monster that very well looks capable of ripping his head off.

- His thoughts are running wild. He’s thinking about that tongue for the next couple nights to say the least. And those muscles… and that shapeshifting…

- You just keep getting more interesting, don’t you? He’s teasing Pierrot even more now.

You stumble into HQ on shaky legs, your body simmering on low heat. The moment you step through the door, Zanka’s there to greet you, nodding a thanks to Riyo, who had led you in. He cups your face, eyes taking in the warmth on your skin and your blown-out pupils.

"Oi." His voice is calm, but edged with steel. "What happened?"

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Instead, you whimper, closing the distance by hooking shaky fingers into the front of his uniform.

The mission was simple, a quick clean-up in a No Man's Land you semi-knew like the back of your hand. You were masked up (protocol and common sense) and you nuked the trash beasts without so much as a grunt to alert others—rote.

But you hadn’t counted on getting sprayed with some kind of chemical dust, it misted up from the ground and seeped into your skin. When Tomme logged it as a cocktail of trash-born pheromones, your skin started to itch—annoying, but bearable. The moment it hit—warmth pooling in your gut and a sudden ache between your legs—your body started betraying you. You’d barely made it back.

"Zanka," You whine, pressing your body against him, trembling. "I don’t feel right."

He catches you easily, strong, slender arms wrapping around your waist and pressing you tighter against him. Your breath hitches when his scent hits you, all smoke and steel, and the citrus-scented polish he uses on Assistaff.

"You’re burning up," He mutters, steering you away from prying eyes and toward your shared quarters, nodding in thanks to Tomme and Semiu. "What the hell got ya?"

"Something that seeped into my skin—I don’t know," You breathe. "Just…help me." You can’t help it when your lips find his neck, kissing and nipping at that spot that makes him swallow a keen.

His eyes darken. "Shit, you’re all worked up from whatever that crap was." Then, quieter, almost possessive: "Didn’t want anyone else to see you like this, huh?"

You shake your head, desperate. "Only you, only want you." And it's true; the minute it sat in your system, your restraint locked in. It was obvious what happened to you, but the job wasn't finished and nobody needed to see you like that.

His jaw tightens as he pulls you toward the bed, your room bathed in low amber light. "Yeah? Poor thing," He murmurs, going for pity though he ends up sounding fond. If anything, his voice goes low, rough, affected. "Alright then, c'mere."

He sits on the bed, pulling you to straddle him, and you obey, legs bracketing his hips as you pull him in for a kiss that's all tongue. Your fingers knot in the hair at his nape, tugging gently and earning you a breathy laugh.

"Impatient," He chides, fingers teasing the hem of your shorts, grinning when your knees spread further apart and you begin a slow grind on his clothed cock, half-straining against the seam of his pants. Deft fingers pop the button on your shorts; his middle and ring fingers tap your thigh—a signal to stand—and when you do, he slips them, along with your panties, down in one fluid motion.

He lets his gaze drag down your frame—savoring your controlled breaths, your nipples poking through your shirt, begging to be toyed with, the restless shifting of your stance as you try to be patient. He stands; a tug on your wrist and you're drifting toward him, letting him turn you and lay you on the bed. Your legs instinctively fall open—shameless in the way he follows like a bee to pollen.

Sinewy fingers tap your lips, and you obey the nonverbal command to get his fingers wet. Your tongue coils around the digits, catching on his rings in a way that has your eyes fluttering. He lets you indulge before a pinch to your side stops you.

You writhe under him, anticipation twisting in your gut, and you gasp when his fingers slide inside, two of them, calloused and curling just right. It should help, he thinks, should take the edge off, but it doesn’t. If anything, it just makes you needier.

"Zanka," You gasp, grinding down on his hand, eyes almost rolling when the cold ring of his glove bumps your clit. "It’s not enough, please..."

He watches you squirm, pupils blown wide. "Greedy little thing," He murmurs in reverence. "My fingers alone ain't gonna cut it, huh?"

You shake your head furiously, tears pricking your eyes from how badly you ache. "Need more. Need you."

He leans down, licking into your mouth, slow and messy, while his fingers keep pumping in and out of you, teasing your walls.

"You’ll get me," He groans. "You’ll get everything. But first, I’m gonna wear you out just like this, until your body’s begging to give out."

Your hips buck at his words, hands clinging to his shoulders as the heat coils tighter and tighter inside you. Zanka just smirks against your neck.

"Let it out, sweetheart. We’ve got all night."

You’re practically climbing him now, fingers curled in the front of his shirt, breath ragged. His fingers haven’t stopped moving inside you, but even he can tell it isn’t and won’t be enough. Your hips chase more friction, more him, whimpering into the curve of his neck like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

"Zanka," You gasp, voice thick and wrecked. "Need you to fuck me. Now."

He stiffens slightly, and when he pulls back to look at you, there’s a flicker of something rare in his usually unreadable eyes, surprise. Sometimes he still gets flustered at how direct you can be. "H—hell. You’re really gone, huh?" He mumbles, ears slightly pink even as he tries to play it cool.

You nod, lips parted, tugging at his belt now. "Please. I can’t think straight. I need you."

He sucks in a breath when your hand slips beneath the waistband of his pants, feeling the heat of him, already hard against your palm. "Tch. Damn it, you're gonna make me lose it too."

You shove him gently but insistently, and he lets you push him down onto the bed. He tries to grab hold of the rhythm, to take charge, but then you’re straddling him again, grinding down and reaching between your thighs to line him up. He curses, trying to keep some control.

"Hey, slow down, I should be the one to—" But the second your hips sink down onto him, tight and desperate, Zanka chokes on a groan. His hands fly to your waist like a lifeline.

"Fuck, you’re…gods—" He bucks up involuntarily, breathing sharp as you start moving, using him to chase every ounce of friction you’ve been aching for since the aphrodisiac hit.

"You feel so good," You moan in relief as your body clamps around him. "So fucking deep."

"Y-You’re gonna kill me," Zanka pants, head falling back, sweat starting to bead at his temple. "Didn’t know you could get like this."

You lean forward to press your lips against his ear. "Only for you."

That seems to snap something in him. One hand slips from your waist to your ass, fingers digging into the flesh; the other finds your jaw, guiding your lips to his again. His kiss is messy, desperate now, like he's the one trying to catch up. And he is—because no matter how much control he usually holds, right now you’ve turned him into the one who's unraveling as you chase your high.

"Shit," He growls, hips starting to thrust up into you—harder now and chasing his high too. "Don’t stop. Fuck, don’t you dare stop."

You take that as an order, bouncing harder and grinding against him as your vision goes hazy, the heat building to a fever pitch. His name falls from your lips again and again until your body finally breaks, slick heat tightening around him like a vise.

That finally pushes him over the edge, the sight of you falling apart on top of him, the desperation, you taking what you want from him. He tries to warn you he’s gonna cum but you don’t stop. He's spilling into you with a shudder and a curse, holding you tight as his fingers find your clit, spurring you along when he feels the tell-tale shake of your thighs. His other hand shoves your shirt up and he’s sucking a nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking the hardened bud as your noises crescendo.

Zanka lets you use him, lets you milk him until he’s tingling with overstimulation. He doesn’t fight what he likes. Your mouth finds his again, and he swallows the gasp you make as your orgasm slams into you, slicking him in your arousal.

The air crackles with afterglow. You collapse on his chest, boneless, breath heaving.

"…You okay?" He asks, voice hoarse. "You’re not gonna try to ride me again, right?"

You giggle weakly against his neck. "Not unless you want me to." The unbearable heat has settled, leaving only the humidity of exertion.

He groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. "You’re gonna be the death of me."

But his hand never stops stroking your back, gentle and grounding. He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you cling to him just a little tighter in gratitude.

You lie there for a few slow minutes before you shift again. "Can we shower now?"

"Oh, thank God," He says, already grinning as he helps you up. Your knees wobble; his arm is there, steady as a handrail. "Up you get. I’ve got you."

The tile hisses, steam blooms, and the last of the wrong heat rinses away—leaving the good kind, warm and easy, with his laugh low in your ear.