pierrot bbg ♡

The cake had been one of his masterpieces.

Warm, sweet layers of doce de leite buttercream and ribbons of tart guava jam pooled between scrupulously-measured slabs of white sponge; each one was laced with almond extract and the sleep-inducing brew the Doctor had kindly concocted. A robe of Swiss meringue covered the whole sculpture. Dappled with gold leaf and icing flowers, the cake grazed the ceiling of his tent.

But you had only needed a single slice.

The perfect little wedge had been tucked into a small white box with drop-away sides and tied shut with a cheerful yellow ribbon. It’d been left outside your apartment door with a note that read, “My dear, please enjoy.”

Sweet, trusting you, you had fallen asleep after eating every bite.

Which was perfectly alright.

It was your wedding cake, after all.

Now, Pierrot knew most people ate their wedding cake after they were married, but surely the heavens could make an exception just this once.

Slowly, slowly, your balcony window slid open with an almost painful scrape. Darkness ensconced the other side. The moon, round as a bowl of cream, glowed against the railing, as its light spilled onto the floorboards inside your apartment. And in front of it, Pierrot’s shadow loomed.

Though, his silhouette was different tonight.

No longer lithe and jaunty—his neck collared with a ruffle and head capped in a hat—whatever he wore now flared out at the waist in a billowing triangle. For one heartbeat, he stood there, haloed by the moon like an angel. 

Then he stepped into your apartment.

The hem of his dress shuffled over the floor. It was a wedding gown. Strapless, because Harlequin had insisted that it wouldn’t stay up that way, and fitted tight through the bodice, it cascaded into a voluptuous skirt buried in a grave of tulle. Constellations of sequins, irritating against his skin but suffered because he wanted to be so, so pretty for you, adorned the bodice and glittered in the moonlight. All three of his horns protruded naked from his head, owing to the eschewal of his hat. Caught on them, instead, was a gauzy veil. 

Ungloved claws released the doorframe. The darkness of his fingers disintegrated into webs of black up his wrists and forearms, mirroring the way it waterfalled down his throat. One hand curled around the stems of a bouquet.

Paper roses.

Just like the one he had given you once.

And just like before, these were bloodred and ever-so-slightly wet, carrying a scent of metal rather than something floral. Hiking up his skirt, Pierrot gently crossed the room and stopped at the side of your bed.

His eyes shone wet in the dark, his black sclera glossy and his yellow irises throbbing in concentric hearts, as he looked down at you. Sleeping and peaceful … and unaware of the bridegroom standing over you.

“Oh, my dear,” he said. His cheeks glowed a feverish, ruby red. “Can you feel that? The joy in the air for what’s to come? Of so many promises?” His grip tightened on the chenille stems. “I intend to keep every single one, you know.”

You didn’t reply, naturally. Unless the hush of your breathing, steady and even, counted as one. 

It was exactly how he imagined it. 

The moonlight. The quiet. The two of you alone, with no interruptions, no taunts, no objections. He knew Jester would voice his, but that was only because he didn’t understand. Pierrot lowered the bouquet onto the pillow beside your head.

“There,” he whispered. “For you.” The bloody paper roses brushed your hair. He hoped they wouldn’t stain your sheets.

Swallowing hard, Pierrot reached into the bodice of his gown and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. It had been creased and uncreased so many times that some lines would have been rendered unreadable, had he not memorized them. He smoothed the paper with both hands.

Then he looked at you. Sleeping and sweet and dressed in shadows, because dreams had taken you for the night. 

Pierrot gave a sigh that seemed to come straight from whatever thundered in his ribcage. You were just … so perfect. “My dear,” he warned breathlessly. “You’ll undo me before we’ve even begun.”

You didn’t answer. As always, that was alright.

He’d prepared for that, too.

Carefully, he sank down onto one knee beside your bed. The skirt pooled at his ankles, and he brushed the decadent fabric away ever so slightly. He lifted the paper, the red on his cheeks blossoming even deeper.

“Dearly beloved,” he began, then stopped. There technically was only one beloved here. Well, two, he supposed, if he counted himself. No matter. This was a private ceremony. He cleared his throat. 

“My dearest,” he began again. “My everything.” The paper quivered in his hands. “We are gathered here tonight beneath the moon and the God that spurned us to join what has, in truth, already been joined.” His smile trembled. “For haven’t I loved you all this time? Haven’t I watched over you? Haven’t I cherished your every movement and every word and subdued all those who dared cast their gazes on you with anything less than reverence?”

He stopped, panting. That hadn’t been in the script. But perhaps he didn’t need it.

“I promise,” he whispered, the paper becoming useless to his truth, “to love you when you are kind to me, and when you are cruel. And I even promise to love you when you do not look at me, and when you look at me too long, and make me forget how to exist. I promise to adore every version of you, even the ones that do not yet know they belong to me.” His claws curled. “I promise to be patient.” A pause. Pierrot’s smile sharpened. “As patient as I can bear, at least.”

Then he folded the paper, before he realized. 

“Oh,” he said in a hushed voice. “How could I have forgotten?” Reverently, he gazed at you. “Do you take me?” he asked into the night.

Your breathing stayed slow and measured.

Pierrot waited anyway. One second. Two. Three.

Then his expression softened. “I know you do, even if you’re too overcome to speak,” he mumbled. He reached out to adjust a lock of your hair. “And I take you, too. In joy, in sorrow, in sweetness, in decay.” His voice almost broke with the next words: “Until death parts us.”

With that vow, he finally tucked the paper back into his dress and reached into the hidden pocket sewn into the skirt. 

The box he drew out was very small. Red velvet, of course. More maroon than circus-tent-red, or Pierrot-red, even. Maroon was rich and dark and traditional. Pierrot opened the box. Inside were two rings.

Both were golden, although only one was set with a tiny citrine star along the band. The star pleased him. Better that than an emerald heart. Those were tacky.

Even still, his own heart stuttered at the sight of them. How many times had he looked at them? He’d slipped his own ring on and off until he was sure he’d worn a groove into the metal. He’d imagined yours resting on your hand and imagined you noticing its weight when you woke. 

He also imagined the way you might say his name when you finally understood.

Not frightened. Not angry. Happy.

Cautiously, he set the box on the edge of your mattress and reached for your hand. He was careful—so careful. His black claws slid beneath yours, your skin warm and fingers limp and trusting in your sleep. 

He lifted your hand and bowed his head over it. “With this ring,” he said, voice brittle, “I offer myself at your altar.”

The ring slid over your finger. It fit perfectly. He’d made sure it would.

He simply stared at your hand in his for a moment, his grip tighteningtighteningtightening around you before he forced himself to let go. Your fingers looked so lovely resting against his palm. His claws looked even darker beside them. And the ring, oh, the ring. It looked like it’d always belonged there.

Then, Pierrot took out the second ring. This was the trickier part. You couldn’t place it on him, not with your body heavy with cake and dreams. But that didn’t mean you had no part in it.

He looked around, thoughtful, then brightened. “Of course,” he said softly. He took your hand again and touched the ring to your fingertips first. “There,” he said. “You gave it to me.”

Then he slid it onto his own finger. The exchange, perhaps, was a hair unconventional, but he bowed to love, not logistics. The ring settled at the base of his finger, gleaming gold against the blackness of his skin.

Pierrot stared at it. Then his grin widened so much it looked like his face might split open. 

“My love,” he whispered. He pressed his ringed hand to his chest. “My spouse.” The word seemed to undo him entirely. His shoulders curled inward. The veil slipped down his horns. “My spouse,” he murmured again, quieter. Red stained his entire face. “Mine, mine, mine.”

You didn’t correct him in your sleep.

He smiled even further.

His spouse.

The thought fluttered through him. His smile twitched once. No one had ever warned him that being loved would feel so close to being torn apart.

“My spouse,” he whispered again.

His gaze drifted to your mouth, and he stilled. A laugh almost escaped him, but he kept the noise that might cut through the cake at bay. His claws clenched his skirt. How silly of him. How very, very silly. He had been so preoccupied with vows and rings that he had nearly neglected the simplest seal of all.

A wedding kiss.

His veil slipped further down one horn as he leaned closer. The mattress dipped under the weight of his arm as he braced it at your side. He hovered above you, his shadow casting over your face.

Pierrot lowered his mouth to yours. The kiss he pressed against your lips was chaste. Just enough to lick the sugar that lingered there. Your mouth didn’t move beneath his. Your breath didn’t hitch.

He pulled back. The yellow hearts in his irises continued to pulse. “You’re shy,” he gasped.

So cute.

His gaze lowered again, but not to your mouth this time. His eyes roved your sleeping form, from your beloved, beloved neck to your curled toes.

Ah.

Wedding night.

It shouldn’t have been possible for him to turn any redder, yet he felt his face burn all the same. Pierrot’s eyes widened in surprise, even though he couldn’t fathom why the words startled him. He’d rehearsed the act many times with you as the unconscious supplicant.

Mournfully, his face fell. “No,” he murmured. “No, no, not tonight.”

Then he smiled again, madness dancing feverishly behind his eyes. The consummation had to be postponed, because he hadn’t made enough cake. One slice had been enough to make you sleep, yes, but not enough for what a wedding night deserved. Not enough for the depth of devotion he intended. Not enough for the hours and hours and hours of pleasure he had promised himself and you and the stars that granted wishes.

He would need more.

So much more.

A full tier, perhaps. No, two. Enough to keep the world away and you pliant with sleep while he loved you with all the fervor he could summon.

So, instead, he leaned down again. This kiss was not as delicate. His mouth pressed to yours with a desperate, shaking insistence. His hand cupped your face, his veil slipping against your hair. When he finally found one of your hands, he spread the palm flat and laced his fingers with yours, squeezing too hard. His teeth caught your lower lip, just enough to bleed, to bruise.

When he drew back, his whole body shook. He stared at your mouth, his face crumbling with something far beyond ecstasy. His mark glistened in the moonlight. Hishishishishis. Claimed for anyone to see.

At last, he stood.

The gown fluttered around his legs as he backed away from the bed. He reached for the bouquet, but then thought better of it. No. That was yours now. A wedding gift.

At the balcony door, he paused. He lifted his hand and kissed the ring on his finger, eyes never leaving you.

“Sleep well,” Pierrot murmured. “My dear, dear spouse.”

Then he, your allegiant husband in every way that mattered, stepped backward onto the balcony, his veil trailing after him.

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So, fair warning: you were only an adequate baker. By this, you mean to say that you have the ability to follow directions. If the recipe says to sift in two cups of flour, guess what? You’re sifting in two cups of flour. If the recipe says to cut in a stick of butter, well, you’re breaking out your pastry cutter. If the recipe wants you to slowly stir in the essence of two hundred souls of the damned, you’re fishing the scythe from out of your closet (you went as Casper the Friendly Grim Reaper for Halloween last year). 

You have no idea how the mini lemon cake you’ve baked tastes. You followed the recipe to the letter—and had even added a thin, sour glaze and delicate curls of lemon peel—and, now, on a simple white stand you’ve procured from somewhere, the cake sits. It’s small, only six inches in diameter, but you know he doesn’t like sweets. A cake of this size would be perfect. 

Shit, you hope it’s perfect. Harlequin grinds your gears in the best possible way, and you want his birthday to be special. He deserves a nice one, and, although you know the rest of the troupe will most likely do something for it, you want to show him your affection as well.

Even if he’s really, really … 

You don’t say “annoying.”

Because he’s not really.

You’ll say … interesting.

Funny.

Hot.

Really hot.

Damned.

… Cute, sometimes.

And will appreciate the heart you’ve piped in venom green icing atop the cake much more than he’ll let on. 

Despite the fact that you’re still only an adequate baker.

You’ve set a glass lid atop the cake stand, and it wobbles in your slightly-trembling hands as you walk into the Circus on the morning of May 26th. The Circus has just opened its gates, and hardly anyone wanders the midway this early, not even the Fools. It’s quiet. The stalls are still shuttering open, and the fog clings low on the ground and swallows your shoes. The day is crisp and clean like the first bite of a tart apple. 

You reach Harlequin’s tent without fanfare, and, seconds after you stop in front of it, he slides out through the flap like he’s been waiting there the entire time.

Which he probably has.

He leans one shoulder against the entrance, his eyes dropping immediately to the cake stand in your hands.

“Oh~? Is that for me?”

You meet his stare, even though your cheeks warm. You thrust the cake in his direction. “Yes, and I know you don’t like sweets, but I was promised that this was more sour than anything.” You hope www.dessertrecipiesforpeoplewhohatesweetsenoughtomakeitapersonalitytrait.com doesn’t fail you now.

He looks from you, to the cake, then back to you again, the smile that’s somehow his mask and not his mask curling from ear to ear. “Que atencioso,” he croons. “Did you bake it?”

“Yes.”

“For my birthday?”

“Yes.”

“With your own little hands?”

You roll your eyes because why had he put it like that? “Yes.” 

His smile widens. Harlequin steps closer, circling you with predatory intent. Your spine straightens, which is actually so fake, but you know he shouldn’t scare you. He wants to, of course, because it’d be easier if that’s all you were: scared. 

He doesn’t take the cake from you immediately. Instead, he bends at the waist until his face is level with the glass lid. His acid gaze peers down at the little green heart you’d piped on top.

“Hm,” he says softly. One clawed finger taps at the glass, just as it’d done when he’d fastened the enamel pin on your collar before. He doesn’t say anything else.

“It’s lemon,” you reiterate, because you feel like you have to explain yourself. “Like I said before, I know you don’t like things that are too sweet. The recipe said that it’d be sour. The glaze is sour, too. I mean, I hope it is. I didn’t taste it after, because then I’d have to cut into it, and that would ruin the whole—” You stop. Your cheeks heat further. “Happy birthday.”

“My dear,” he murmurs, eyes still fixed on the green heart. “A whole cake? For me? So generous.” 

“It’s only six inches.”

“Hum~” His pointed teeth are bared in a wicked smile. He raises his stare back to yours, and you try not to squirm. “Some would say that that’s a very respectable size.”

You stifle a smile because you’re determined to be serious. He’s going to take this present if it kills you. “Harlequin, c’mon.”

His grin flashes.“Humhum ♫ There you are.” He stops in front of you again, and he’s close enough that you can smell the cologne he’s applied in a way that’s intoxicating yet tasteful. “And what, indeed, does my dear baker desire in exchange?”

You look at him, but he only cocks his head.  Your mouth goes somewhat dry. “W—what?”

“For all this effort.” He gestures toward the cake before dragging his eyes down your form. “Perhaps if you wanted me on my best behavior, you shouldn’t have brought me something made to be eaten.” He smirks as he watches your throat bob. “Come now, surely you didn’t flit all this way only to place a sour little confection into my hands and run away, all hot and bothered?”

Your face feels like it’s scorching. The words, “That was kinda the plan,” are on the tip of your tongue, but you bite them back. Taking a deep breath, you tell him the truth: “I don’t want anything.”

His brows scrunch. “Quê?”

“I don’t want anything,” you repeat. You’re firmer, even if your voice drops a few decibels in volume. Why does it feel like you’re not trying to scare him? “I just wanted to do something nice.”

Harlequin goes still, and you almost wish you could snatch the words back—not because they aren’t true. They are, and something in your heart clenches at that … There’s just so much more conviction than you’d ever imagined. He really does deserve nice things today.

Harlequin’s smile remains. Um. Mostly. Something about it looks pulled tight, now, like he’s struggling to not look entirely baffled.

“‘Something nice,’” he echoes.

You clear your throat. “For your birthday.”

His gaze flicks away before it returns a moment later. “I see … Because you thought of me.”

You lower your stare to the cake. “I mean, yeah. Of course I did.” That wasn’t so strange, was it? That you would think of him?

His claws twitch, as if he’s resisting the urge to reach for the cake. Or you. Maybe both. “Careful,” he says softly. “If you keep giving me things so sweetly … there are … some … who may start to believe you mean it.”

You meet his eyes, acid green and calculating. The heat is starting to creep up your neck, now, and you know that, had it been any other circumstance, he’d pounce on the fact. “I do mean it.”

“Ah,” he says, very quietly. “Claro.” There’s nothing in his tone that suggests that it’s clear at all.

He reaches for the cake almost warily, as if it might bite him before he can choke it with a tentacle. His gloved hands settle around the base, and, when his fingers brush yours, he pauses for a heartbeat too long before finally taking the weight from you. One claw traces the neck of the stand. He’s acting like he’s never received a gift before, when you have it on good authority that he has.

Harlequin looks down at the green heart again. Carefully, he lifts the glass lid just enough to let the potent lemon scent escape. He inhales sharply; it’s almost like he’s trying to memorize it—all of it, the fragrance, the heart, the way you look offering it to him.

Then he takes a sweeping bow, imitating a picture of gallantry he’s never once demonstrated in his life. 

“Thank you,” he says. The words are quiet. Then, because he must sense the sincerity of them and because his entire survival hinges on eschewing anything even remotely honest, his smile slides back into place. “And if you change your mind about wanting something in return, kitten,” he purrs, “I am, as ever, entirely yours and entirely available.”

This time, you can’t stifle your smile. Shaking your head, you tell him again: “Happy birthday, Harlequin.”

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Happy birthday to him …

Happy birthday to him … 

Happy birthday, dear Pierrot …

 His eyes, black and bottomless, glimmered in the shadow of your curtains, irises pulsating in yellow concentric hearts.

Happy birthday to him. 

He pulled the balcony window open so slowly it barely made a sound. Quietly—so quietly that a mouse would be slack-jawed watching him—he slipped through the slitted opening. For a single second, he only listened. To the sound of your air conditioning whirring. To the soft creaks of your apartment settling. To you, tucked under your blankets like the world had any right to keep you from him on the day of something like his birth.

You didn’t awaken. Good. Nothing aided your slumber tonight, except pleasant dreams, he hoped. You’d stir if he wasn’t careful. 

The curtains brushed over his shoulders as he entered, and the bells on his hat didn’t make a single jingle, because he was good. Because he could be so good when it mattered. Because tomorrow—today, technically—you had plans.

He knew you did.

You’d written them down in your planner in that adorable handwriting of yours, your yellow star doodles in the margins marred with only the faint scribble of a green heart, which he’d kindly erased for you. Breakfast at that creamery with a strawberry, coffee, and chocolate ice cream sundae that he liked so much. Lunch in your kitchen as you made brigadeiros together (“sort of”). A special surprise outing, punctuated with a “!!!” to the park at night, where the two of you would picnic under the stars.

Pierrot had read it six times. Seven, if the first time counted, though he’d been shaking so badly with delight that he’d had to start over.

Plans for him.

For his birthday.

His hand clamped over his mouth, his claws grazing the cheeks of his mask. He laughed, the noise muffled as his shoulders trembled in pure, unadulterated glee. Oh, his sweet dear. You precious little criatura. Did you have any idea what you’d done to him? Did you know a monster could be incapacitated with a spiral-bound planner? Impaled by a gel pen? Left bleeding out on the floor by the words “Pierrot day <3” written in red ink?

Of course you didn’t. That was alright. He could forgive you for not knowing how cruel you were. He crossed the room and stopped beside your bed. There you were. Sleeping.

Pierrot leaned down. He didn’t touch you, not tonight. He was capable of restraint, of course. People forgot that about him. They mistook hunger for carelessness, devotion for clumsiness, obsession for an inability to behave. But he could behave wonderfully. He could stand right here, with you close enough to ea—breathe in, and do nothing but look.

So he looked, a vow forming in his mind as he took in the earnest expression on your slumbering face. There was a pucker between your brow, even in sleep, and he knew you were anxious for tomorrow. You’d worked so hard to keep everything under a veil of canvas and secrets.

“Tomorrow,” he promised, barely loud enough for a dust mite to overhear, “I won’t know a thing.” You’d be happier that way. “I’ll be surprised,” he whispered, smiling down at you with his fingers twined together as if in prayer. “I’ll be so surprised for you.”

And he was.

By morning, Pierrot gasped at the creamery like he hadn’t already known. He clasped his hands beneath his chin when you suggested his exact favorite flavor combination, eyes shining like polished marbles.

“For me, my dear?” he asked.

“Of course. It’s your birthday.”

He was so happy he almost forgot to pretend.

In your kitchen, he sat on his hands while you made the brigadeiros. You shooed him away any time he tried to help. “These are my gift to you,” you insisted, and Pierrot nearly melted right through the chair. “You don’t get to help!”

At the park that night, beneath the stars, he stared at the picnic blanket. It was laden with juices of all kinds, finger sandwiches hearty enough for dinner, and neat slices of bolo de rolo. And the brigadeiros you’d made, of course. Not that very many were left, for Pierrot had gone into a rapture at the thought of eating something made by you, and had sampled them voraciously as soon as they were pronounced acceptable.

You had chosen a spot tucked just off the path, far enough for him to forgo his human disguise and from the light pollution that’d dim the stars up above. A trio of candles offered a cheerful glow across a blanket that you’d had since childhood. He assumed, at least, since it smelled so much like you. You fussed with the candles, apologizing that you hadn’t brought LED ones, since these might drip wax or catch fire or smoke up the air or any number of things that Pierrot, who was no stranger to torch performances at the Circus, barely registered.

He was looking at the paper plate you’d carefully drawn yellow stars into. And then, his eyes roved to the way your teeth bit your lip, as if you were nervous as to how he’d react to it all. As if there were any world where he wouldn’t love this.

Then he smiled. Widely. With all his teeth bared, from molar to incisor, bright and white and gleeful.

“My dear,” Pierrot breathed. “You really did all this for me.”

You looked away, embarrassed, and mumbled, “Well, yeah. It’s your birthday.”

His fingers curled in his lap. He wanted to laugh, to scream, to grab you by the waist and drag you close across the blanket and bury his face in your neck and inhale what he could of you and bite down until the throes of emotion waned and he wouldn’t scare you as much. But he only leaned closer to the candles, letting their golden flames get lost in his irises.

“I, I,” he said, “I don’t think anyone has ever been this kind to me.” Then, he brightened at once. “But it’s alright, my dear,” he added, beaming. “You can be my first and my last.”

You’re stunned by that, but then you laugh. Ruefully, you say, pouring him a glass of juice, “Happy birthday, Pierrot.”

His smile sharpened, and he wondered what it would be like to split open in sheer adoration right then, right there. He took a sip of the juice, richer only because you’d poured it. Sweeter because you’d swished it around in the glass. Poisoned because that was what you did to him, and he would be forever grateful.

Happy birthday to him, indeed.

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When you worked in a Circus, it wasn’t … it wasn’t hard to get a hold of the occult. Even if they didn’t have a dedicated tarot card reader and no tent for a crystal ball mistress—still. Pierrot could make do. He had the internet. A needle. Thread. He knew where you lived. Knew where his stash of things you had touched, had dropped, had discarded was hidden. 

And voodoo dolls were easy. 

Voodoo dolls were so, so easy. 

That was what made it worse, if he was being honest. 

All he needed were scraps of fabric—the nice kind, the costume kind. The scraps of the latest bolt needed to mend his hat.

Then, a strand of your hair caught on the shoulder of the jacket you’d hooked onto the stand when you clocked into work.

The receipt you’d crumpled and tossed into the trash, weak at the fold where you’d idly perforated it with your fingernail.

A strand of your hair that had been woven into the teeth of the comb that balanced at the edge of your bathroom sink. Just laid out. Like a gift for someone.

Pierrot’s hands tightened around the effigy in his palm. The needle flashed between his fingers.

No. Not “someone.”

Him.

It had been for him, even if you didn’t know it yet. Because it was fate. Like you forgetting to lock your balcony window. Like you neglecting to notice your silhouette had long-since intermingled with another’s.

“My dear,” he murmured, gently pushing the needle through the last unsewn centimeter, “you really should be more careful.”

He yanked the thread taut. Something in the air crackled.

(From across town, you may have felt a charge pulse through you.)

Pierrot froze.

His eyes widened, his irises forming concentric circles. A smile, too wide, began to bloom across his face like ink on a page. “Ah,” he cooed into the still air of his tent. “And so there you are.”

The doll sat in his hand, limp and stuffed with bits of cotton he’d found at a craft store and, well, you. The parts of you you’d left for him, that is. Its little cloth body was crude, stitched crookedly with hands too excited to be neat, though he had tried. He had tried so hard. He’d had to unpick the tiny yellow-threaded mouth he’d sewn twice, since he just couldn’t get the exact curve right.

You were difficult to capture, even in thread, even in flesh and bone, and that was what made him frantic.

How did other people survive you? They stood across from you and ordered black coffee, brushed elbows with you in your apartment’s lobby, and then continued on with their lives like they hadn’t been permanently altered. Pierrot didn’t understand them. How could anyone meet you and not immediately feel the world split itself into two categories: you, and everything else?

Pierrot bent his head over the doll and tattooed a kiss to its stitched mouth. It was soft, sweet, and would’ve looked almost innocent if it wasn’t for the way his fingers clenched around the doll’s waist afterward.

“There,” he whispered. “Did you feel that?”

He waited.

(Unbeknownst to him, across town, your fingers flew to your mouth, heart rattling your ribcage at the ghost of lips pressed to yours.)

Nothing happened.

His smile twitched.

“That’s alright,” he said quickly, even though he had received no audible response. “These things take time. New connections always do.”

He stroked a thumb over the doll’s cloth cheek. (There was something disconcertingly warm brushing your face.) It was delicate, even if the fabric was made to withstand acrobatics and contortions and knives thrown too close for it to be an act. You were delicate, too. Precious, even, and precious things needed keeping. Guarding.

Sometimes, yes, restraining—not because they were weak, but because the world was greedy. Because people looked and touched and breathed. His thoughts drifted toward your manager, and his eyes narrowed. Just another example of people who stood too close and made you laugh in ways that belonged under his tent, in his keeping, where he could cup the sound in both hands and never let it spill anywhere else.

He ran a claw across the doll’s pliant rag body. No pins, for now, but it was a fresh canvas. He could make you turn your head. Maybe not fully. Maybe not yet. But a nudge. Or he could promote a thought—a sudden ache in the middle of your day that had no name until it found his. You would be walking somewhere ordinary, somewhere undeserving of you, and then your hand would drift to your chest. Your pulse would stumble.

Pierrot.

You wouldn’t know why.

But you would think of him.

Was that so terrible?

He frowned, his smile melting like wax. “You leave me,” he told the doll, voice barely above a whisper. “Every night, you leave me.” Naturally, the doll said nothing, inanimate thing that it was. “You don’t even know you’re doing it.” He laughed. “You smile at strangers,” he whispered. “You let them hear your voice. You let them stand close enough to catch your scent. And you don’t even realize you’re wasting yourself on them.”

The point of his claw caught against the fabric. (Something itched.) “You don’t know my name yet,” he said, softer still. As if caught by marionette strings, a grin curled again along his jaw. “But you will.” He sighed a dreamy sigh, since he could already envision the moment, the day. “Because I’ll soon tire of waiting for you to understand that you were already chosen.” His teeth glinted in the night like knives.“Because you were, my dear. You must have been.”

It didn’t matter that you hadn’t received a ticket yet. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t perused the stalls and bought a simple maçã do amor. Or ever watched his performance.

Those were details.

You had passed The Freak Circus of Horrors posters every morning for weeks. Your hand had brushed one once when the wind fluttered it against a lampost. You had glanced at his face when he’d been silently handing them out one day. There had barely been enough time for recognition.

But a glance was enough.

A glance had to be enough.

You had seen him.

That was the truth.

He lifted the doll until its eyes—twin “X”s in the color of your irises—met his. “I found you,” he said. “I found you first, so it’s alright. And, my dear, you don’t have to do anything yet.” His thumb stroked the doll’s head tenderly, as his voice softened. (It’s the breeze. It has to be the breeze.) “You don’t even have to know.” For a heartbeat, he looked almost gentle. Then he reached for a pin. He’d fashioned it himself. It was long and silver and topped with a tiny yellow star.

Pierrot turned it between his fingers. He allowed the pin to hover right above the doll’s chest, right where its heart would be if he had made it one. He hesitated.

No.

Not yet.

Instead, he slid the pin through the fabric just beside it. There. Now you were anchored.

He took a shaky inhale. “My dear,” he breathed. “Isn’t that better?”

The doll wouldn’t answer, but he could sound the refrain himself: it was better. Because the doll could not run (and one day, neither would you). The doll could not wander (and one day, neither would you). The doll could not smile at strangers or forget him or go home to a place where his name might not cross its mind for hours (and one day, neither would you). Not that it knew his name anyway.

Pierrot stared at it until his vision blurred. He leaned close to the doll again, close enough that his mouth brushed the rough cloth where an ear should have been. (You melted against your headboard, and you did not know why.)

“Sleep well tonight, my dear,” he whispered. “Dream of me.”

Then he kissed the doll’s head.

Lovingly.

Adoringly.

Worshipfully.

(You felt it.)

“And if you wake up feeling something,” Pierrot murmured, curling his fingers around the pin, “don’t worry.” He grinned wide enough that each end clipped his ears, and he cocked his head. “I’ll make sure it’s a nice one.”

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You know it’s not fair. He knows you know it’s not fair. You know what you do to him—what you are doing to him. 

And that’s what makes you a tease.

You walk around like that, all microshorts and tops so cropped they toe the line of indecent, half of them missing as you leave, done and dusted, from Pierrot’s tent. And he watches you go. His mouth curves into a goofy, besotted grin, and his yellow eyes are big and watery and so obviously obsessed that Harlequin’s surprised you don’t have a third shadow. 

Hum, hum, who’d most likely stab him thrice in the shoulder again if he knew who the second was. 

And when a six-foot-five clown with a worshipful tongue isn’t enough, you’re in the teal tent. Then the purple one, slaking your thirst with every freak in this Circus, because it isn’t enough that you’re delicious—you have to be ravishing, as well. 

Heh. Ravishing and stuffed with cream until you’re overflowing.

It’s almost fun, when you slither into his tent, to lick the traces of everyone else from your skin. It’s a game. You’re winning on his tongue before he’s even halfway done. 

And when you do, Harlequin revels at the taste of you—hot and warm and not cloyingly sweet—but his mind also wanders … to the fact that Pierrot won’t do this. He won’t allow it. You’re all cleaned up when you visit him, because he’s already frenzied when he smells someone else on you, and you’re not trying to turn this into The Freak Circus of Homicides. 

But to Harlequin, you’ll come like this. With someone else streaming down your thigh. With someone else’s teeth having branded your neck. 

Bem. 

It’s more than fine, actually. 

Because this way, he can remind you of what you’re missing during your dalliances. If you must stray, he can at least ensure that the memory that lasts is his. That he can make you burn with a few words and exploratory tentacles. Can make you choke on so many things at once: him, your inhibitions, the ruined sound of his name.

He tells himself he enjoys this—receiving you spoiled, half-claimed, full of evidence. It shouldn—doesn’t bother him, the way you’ll still clamber onto the next freak who looks at you funny.

You’ll always come back.

Eventually.

Eventually.

Blissed out from someone else, but you do return.

Tonight, you’re in his tent, and he spies a smear of color around the column of your neck. The afterimage of Jester’s collar, silky soft when used with restraint, no doubt. 

Que fofo. 

He runs a claw down the mark. Your skin is soft, tender. Delightfully abused. Jester must’ve been quite rough with you. When you feel the sharp prod, you flinch slightly under him. 

Harlequin smirks, his acid eyes glowing in the darkness of his tent. “Feel that? Don’t pretend—you had to have asked for this, kitten.” He leans in close, breathing the dregs of your scent that hasn’t been tainted by others. You smell like sin and trace spice. There’s a whiff of him there, too. It’s faint. Too faint. Repulsively faint. He can’t stop the way his jaw ticks. His tongue, long, thick, and forked, slides out from between his teeth, and he drags it along the injured skin. You shiver like the sensation is new. Hum. He presses his mouth down, savoring the fresh iron trickle and the raspy mewl you make. “You know you did.” 

Harlequin lingers there a moment longer than necessary, mouth still near the raw place at your throat, as though his breath could mask the offense. (It can’t.) You squirm when one of his tentacles teases the torn elastic of your waistband, and he can feel your eagerness as you pull the vinelike appendage closer.

“You certainly make a spectacle of yourself, don’t you, kitten?” he murmurs. “Perhaps we should assign you a tent of your own. Would we come to you, then?” A tentacle tightens around your waist. “Or would you still make your rounds ♪?”

He smiles like the thought amuses him. And it should. There’s something almost charming in the way you drift from tent to tent. The way you stay charming enough to laugh and mock as you beg for him to touch you, just as they all have. Charming enough to keep him from dwelling on the ugly little twist in his chest.

His gaze drops to your throat again, to that darkening mark Jester left behind. Before that, Pierrot’s mouth. Before that, someone else, of course. The Doctor. Ticket Taker. A Fool, maybe. Harlequin exhales slowly against your prickled skin. Still, one of his tentacles roams. Still, his hands have locked the arm that’s not looped over his shoulders down onto the cold, metal table.

“Tell me, my dear~,” he sings lightly, “do you keep count? Or is that beneath you?” You’re pulling at his hair, desperate for him to draw nearer. You’re already so, so close. He can feel the heat where your nether regions press against his pulse. “I suppose it must be. Everyone else is doing the counting for you, no?”

You make people wait. That’s your real talent, and what draws your audience. Not simply siphoning want from them, but turning them into creatures of anticipation who are rapt in their seats for your glance, your laughter, your return. Who buy tickets to your show just to catch a glimpse of you from the back row.

Harlequin despises this kind of waiting.

He finally gives you what you want, and a tentacle dips into your pants. When it grazes your aching sex, hot and pliant, you gasp out his name: “H—Harlequin …”

The word should’ve been the cue for his humor to spike. It was such a pretty sound. You, crying for him. The gods drank nectar. He drank in the broken measures of your voice. Or usually, he did. Now, though, his pupils are poisonous, narrow slits, and your reaction is half-consumed, half-filed-away-for-later.

“You’re such a generous little treat,” he muses, fingers twisting your wrist roughly. “You let everyone have a taste and let them leave their crumbs.”

Fine, because he likes you best like this: flushed with recent attention, carrying the evidence openly, giving him something to sneer at and supplant. That’s what he tells himself. There’s no humiliating wish to be enough before you ever got restless—enough that you wouldn’t go wandering in the first place.

Harlequin laughs. “Olhe para mim,” he whispers, as his tentacles continue their wanderings under all the fabric that touches your skin. His mouth presses to the curve of your neck, warm and damp, and, for one dangerous beat, his eyes fall shut, like he could stay there forever. Then they snap open, emerald pupils shrinking to wavering pinpricks at the unbidden thought. “Making you seem worse than you are, even though you are so, so worse.” He hardly knows what he’s saying.

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, and he jerks your face toward him. “Hum, because why do that when I can just say that you do return, kitten?” he asks. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Because if you were just infiel, you’d be less vile. But you come back.” He bites back a groan as one of his tentacles, slick from its own secretion, prods your entrance. Testing. “Like being one of your favorites should soothe the insult of not being the only one.”

He eases his tentacle into you slowly at first. You choke when you feel its initial prod. The fit’s been tested a thousand times, to the point where he wonders if the shape of your insides has permanently been molded into its supple surface. But still, he’s careful. He fills you an inch. Then draws back. Then forces himself in two inches, and keeps going, savoring the delicacy that is your gasps and the way your fingernails dig deep crescents into his back. To think … the noises you make are a common refrain. It almost turns the moment sour.

“Maybe, my dear, I could let you live in your delusion,” he offers. There’s a pause as he picks up his pace. He can feel it—the way your walls are clenching around him, the way whatever you’re trying to say dissolves into garbled moans. There’s a taunt on his lips, but it’s lost in other things, least of all the way you come undone around him, your hips bucking against the table. His teeth glint white in pure satisfaction as you ride your high, until you’re limp and spent. There you are. “Maybe I could let you believe that I’d be content to feast on your eventually, so long as you come back warm.”

For a moment, he only stares, eyes unblinking as he takes in the sight of you. Then, without ever looking away, he drags his tentacle through your messy release and raises it, dripping, to his mouth. He laps up what you’ve offered him, his tongue making wide, languid strokes. You taste exactly as you smell, and the rest of his tentacles creep tighter around you.

“But I’m not,” he whispers into the darkness. There’s a rawness in his voice that he’s hoping you’ll mistake for theatrics. “Please, kitten. Be mine alone.”

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You hadn’t expected Pierrot to want to come clothes shopping with you. And you certainly hadn’t expected him to trail after you like a silent, overly-enthusiastic sentinel as you flitted between racks and shelves. But you guess you’re silly like that. 

What actually should’ve surprised you is that Pierrot has … a lot of opinions? On what you should wear? He’s not as familiar with current trends, even though he sees Circus patrons rocking them every day, but he does seem to consider himself an authority as to what looks good on you.

Well, not an authority, maybe. He’s more like a president. A mayor. 

Or at least an active member of the city council to your wardrobe.

It’s kind of fun. The two of you pore over all kinds of styles—you’re down to experiment, and he’s above shoehorning you into just one look, apparently. 

“My lady,” he scolds (scolds!) when you insist that you’re not sure you can pull something off. He bends low to meet your face and furrows his brows in concern. “Your beauty supersedes that which even your eyes can behold. I implore you to try it on, and together we can judge whether or not it will be taken to the register.”

It’s like having your own six-foot-five stylist.

With an armful of clothes, you duck into a fitting room. Pierrot’s thisclose to following you, but you swish the curtain back before he can bow his head and try to squeeze himself through the narrow opening. You wouldn’t be opposed to him watching you change, necessarily—he’s very polite until he isn’t—but these fitting rooms are so cramped, you’re not sure you’d be able to move your arms. 

Instead, you poke the place on his mask where his nose would be, heart twinging at his crestfallen expression. His eyeballs look like gleaming, wet, black marbles, and you wonder whointhatCircustaughthimtomakepuppydogeyes. Ugh, he really is just too cute. “No peeking!”

The sigh he breathes out is so loud that it seems as if you’ve asked him for something load-bearing. “Alright, my lady, I’ll let you have your privacy.” With the curtain between you, you barely hear him mutter under his breath, “For now.”

That sends a shiver up your spine, which you try to ignore as you take in your present haul. The first outfit is a simple affair. It’s a short, ruffled, black skirt that doesn’t totally fit you; the size that hugs your waist is so short that bending down even a tiny bit will have you on some list. You’re going to have to size up and tailor it so that it’ll actually fit. Or wear sheer tights, but you don’t have those right now. 

Accompanying the shirt is a soft, maroon, long-sleeved button-down shirt that’s cut so that its faintly-ruffled hem hits right above the skirt’s waistband. It’s very tight (but stretchy) and clings to every one of your curves, but owing to pearl buttons and a plunging neckline, it remains very girly. Combined with the skirt, it gives you a cutesy look. Your pendant—a dichroic glass heart—hits at the perfect spot, and your black low-heeled booties finish everything off.

It’s certainly an outfit, and you don’t totally hate it, but your fingers bunch nervously around a handful of curtain all the same. You know Pierrot will be on the other side, eagerly awaiting your appearance. He’ll be nice, you’re sure. His irises will start pulsating in those concentric hearts, and he’ll smile so wide that you’ll be worried that his head will split open.  

It’s just … he’d do the same if you’d walked out with a potato sack. 

You’re practically a god to him, and, even though he’s opinionated when selecting, he’s unable to not worship you no matter what you’re wearing. (You know this because sometimes you’re wearing nothing at all. See: Tee. Also: Hee.) 

You sigh. Guess you’re gonna have to just face the music. You’ve kept your puppy waiting long enough.

With less ceremony than you would’ve liked, you peel back the curtain. Lo and behold, Pierrot is … two inches away from the fitting room. He’s leaned in so impossibly close, and out of the corner of your eye, you can see the way his claws dig into the wall on either side of the doorframe. There’s an expectant, but still utterly lovesick, grin plastered across his face.

When he sees you, he once again stymies you because his reaction isn’t the one you’d expected. There are no gleefully dripping smiles, no pupils blown wide. Instead, his eyes narrow, and his mouth curves into something that shows off the glint of his teeth. His gaze drops at once to the hem of your skirt, anchored by the minimal fabric and by the way your thighs swell beneath it.

In hindsight, you were remiss to think he wouldn’t stare. The length of the skirt makes your legs look unfairly long, and the heat of his attention is so pointed that your face burns. For a heartbeat, you think of tugging the skirt down, but, under the intensity of his stare, the fitting room already feels far too warm for fumbling modesty.

You wring one of your hands just to give it something to do as you avoid his eyes and ask, “Um … thoughts?” Anything more than monosyllables seems like a task fit for someone who isn’t flustered by their ginormous clown boyfriend staring at them like they’re straight-up ambrosial.  

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he tentatively reaches down. You watch as the point of a single claw prods your bare upper thigh. The tender flesh there gives under his touch, and you swallow hard as you feel your skin prickle with goosebumps. The rest of his long fingers hang uselessly before he uses them to partially wrap the circumference of your thigh. 

“My … my lady …” His voice teeters between breathy and dangerous. Suddenly, his eyebrows upturn, his hand jerks away in the portrait of self-control, and his entire demeanor turns sheepish. What was once wolfish is now limpsome. “I—I didn’t realize that this was something we had chosen. Somehow it must’ve gotten mixed in. Forgive me, but I find I am … unwilling to let so many eyes linger where mine already ache to remain.”

One hand clutches his chest as his irises contract into yellow pinpricks. “I—If someone else were to see you like this, so open, so bare,” he begins to shake, like he’s barely suppressing himself, but his voice as he continues is dead serious, “the others would cheer me for bringing home a feast. While I …” His gaze turns heated again as it skims your thighs. “Trust me, my lady, when I say I would devour you right here.”

Ah.

You can’t help feeling a little (okay, a lot) flattered by how strongly he reacts, and his dramatics are enough to make your heart skip and your head buzz. For a moment, you’re tempted to indulge him, tempted to tease him and see just how much further this can go, but you force yourself to remember the actual point of this outing.

Right.

Shopping.

It’s hard to turn away, though, when he’s looking at you like that. “Fine, fine,” you say, your voice quivering a fraction, “I get it. I’ll go try something else.”

He almost purrs at your words, which causes your cheeks to warm as you turn back into the fitting room. Slowly, you undress until all you’re wearing is your bra—balconette with removable straps to maximize the necklines you can try on—and cheeky-style panties.

From there onward, you circulate through a myriad of outfits, and Pierrot, more composed, is enraptured by each one. 

To your minimalist outfit with a white, fitted, square-neck top, straight-leg jeans, and a leather jacket (you ditch your pendant for this look but imagine wearing small gold hoops), Pierrot smiles in that helpless way and tells you that you look devastatingly exquisite. “So sleek,” he hums, “so self-possessed.” When you switch the leather jacket for a warm, brown knit cardigan with big, woven daisies and the straight-leg jeans for wide-leg ones, he says the ensemble makes you seem even sweeter, somehow, and that he could stare at you all day.

Your office siren—because even a coffee shop needs one—attire of a tight, blue-pinstriped button-down with slim black trousers and the charcoal pumps you asked him to fetch for you earns you an awestruck smile. “My lady,” he says in admiration, “you look so beautiful like this. You’re so neat and composed, and your silhouette is even more pleasing. To think that it’d be you from whom I’d order coffee. I can imagine no greater honor. Although … if aquela criatura …” he grits his teeth, and you know he’s referring to Harlequin, “is suddenly inspired to visit you while you’re working, I hope you’ll understand when I take it rather personally.”

Trying on a more streetwear-ier style and wearing a dark, cropped bomber jacket, tank top, and low-rise cargoes receives a murmured “Oh, look at you, dear. How adorable. How effortlessly cool. The shape of that suits you especially well.” There’s a dagger in Pierrot’s hands as he adds, “Many would do well to admire you from afar.” You agree, but you’ve got bigger things to worry about. Like how you gotta wear sneakers with this. Gotta. 

Then you slip into a delicate, navy, oversized sweater layered over a collared shirt and a long, drapey skirt that hangs past your ankles. Pierrot’s whole demeanor softens at once. “Is there anything lovelier?” His eyes dart away from yours for a second as his face flashes with a violently-red blush. “With how charming that skirt makes you look, it’s so easy to imagine stealing you away to some quiet place, where no one else might look at you and get … foolish ideas.”

You cycle through many more outfits—from Y2K’s baby tees and low-rise jeans to getting tangled in a pair of very goth fishnet stockings—before, finally, the stool in your fitting room piles high with worn clothes that you’ll need to hang up before you leave. But, hm … you have one more outfit to try.

It’s definitely not as stylish as the others, considering you’ve opted for comfort this time. You feel your shoulders slump in relaxation as the buttery-soft fabric pools over your skin. It’s so cozy. Like all the troubles of the day have melted away, and all you’re left with is cloudlike happiness and a future of delightful bedrotting. 

You whisk the fitting room curtain away dramatically to unveil yourself in all your loungewear-y glory to Pierrot. Like the first outfit, Pierrot doesn’t immediately say anything.  

He only stares.

You can’t tell what he’s thinking—only that, this time, his yellow irises have widened into great yellow rings against his black sclera. He cocks his head to the right like he’s drinking you in. Before you can say anything, he pushes the curtain aside and takes a step. Then another. Soon he’s inside the dressing room with you, crowded and hunched beneath the low ceiling because he’s freaking huge.

“My lady,” he says at last, voice rough, “you are so very pretty.”

That … wasn’t what you were expecting. You laugh, suddenly shy. “It’s just loungewear. It’s not really supposed to be pretty. It’s supposed to be comfortable.”

“That,” he murmurs, still advancing until your back meets the wall, “may be what makes it so ravishing.” Your breath hitches as his gaze lingers on the soft fabric around you. His voice is pitched even lower when he speaks again. “Out of everything you’ve shown me today, this one is my favorite. Not for any reason … except because you look comfortable.” One hand braces beside your head, caging you in. “You look like home.”

“Home?”

His lips part into a dazed, besotted smile, a bead of saliva shining at one corner. His pupils begin to pulse into those familiar concentric hearts. “Yes, home. Where it’s quiet,” he says. “Warm. Private. Where I might hold you close and peel these lovely things from you slowly, with no one,” his eyes narrow again slightly, “to interrupt me.”

His eyes never leaving yours, he bends down and kisses you. You melt into it, and one clawed hand slips beneath the hem of your loungewear top to rest against the naked warmth of your skin. The tiny dressing room seems to dissolve as he gathers you closer, closer, closer, until your chest is flush against his. Then, without ever breaking the kiss, he reaches back and swishes the fitting room curtain closed.

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You don’t know him, of course. But you’d still taken the neat white box of homemade cake he’d secretly left at your doorstep. Still had eaten a slice—he’d studied your preferences so well—and fallen asleep at your dining table before you could even think to question it. At the back of his mind, he’s decided that that proves something. That this is meant to be. That you’re meant to be his, and his alone.

Pierrot had managed to control himself this time.

When your body had gone slack, he’d stepped inside. He’d scooped you up in his arms, the cake he’d laced with just enough of something the Doctor promised would keep you fast, fast asleep for a few hours, slipping from your grasp and hitting the floor, forgotten. He’d greedily pressed you close to his chest—had buried his face deep in the crook of your neck and breathed you in like you were incense, and he’s the addled mind you’re meant to soothe.

And that’s where his initial self-discipline had shown.

Because this time, he does not linger. Does not dote. Does not let himself unravel in the open.

“Oh, my poor lady,” he soothes your unconscious body, still warm and pliant in his arms. He’s trembling, he knows, and he can’t stop. The sheer ecstasy of holding you like this leaves his control fraying with every passing second. “You’re too trusting. But it’s alright.” His claws adjust at your waist, sharp but barely grazing you. “I’m here now.”

After ensuring that your apartment door is closed—if anyone, anyone were to see you like this, so soft and pliant—his right eye twitched. He’d bring home a feast.

Instead, he looks down at you. Sweet, sleeping you. Your bottom lip drops slightly in slumber, and your cheek is flush against him. He can feel his own burn. How is it that even unconscious you manage to tease him like this? You can’t know what you’re doing to him, can’t possibly know that his heart leaps, and searing heat pools across his skin at being this close to you. The self-discipline he’d barely exhibited crumbles as he stamps a kiss on your forehead. It takes everything in him not to let it linger and travel down the bridge of your nose and onto your lips.

At least, not yet, anyway.

He knows your apartment well and finds your bedroom quickly. Its walls are familiar, as is the balcony window that spills moonlight across your bed like silvery ink. He glances at you again, drawing you close for another half second. Does he … does he really have to put you down? You’re his this way. Safe in his arms.

Like you’d always be.

Hishishis.

Resentfully, he cedes to the fact that human spines were supported best by mattresses. He breathes you in one last time, almost hating how delicious you smell. It’s intoxicating, more than whatever he mixed adoringly into your cake.

The mattress creaks slightly as he gingerly lays you down atop it. Even though he knows you won’t truly awake, your body still reacts to the new position, and you snuffle quietly into the night as you shift on your bed. Pierrot watches, trusting the Doctor’s concoction. Still, it doesn’t hurt to be a little wary.

Especially not when he has no intention of leaving your room tonight.

No, instead, he sits at the edge of your bed like a sentinel. The moonlight casts your face in a glow that is only second to his own as he stares, his irises pulsating in concentric hearts. His lady … so perfect, so beautiful, so docile here. Is it wrong for him to want to steal another kiss? He’d rather have you awake and reciprocate the gesture, but he feels that if he doesn’t attempt to quell the raging fire of desire that’s billowing up inside him, he’ll just combust.

If you’d been awake, you’d maybe giggle at the way his long bangs tickle your nose as he leans over you. His silhouette eclipses the light from the window as he lowers his face down down down, until he’s breathing warm air centimeters above your lips.

It’s almost too close for him to be able to rein himself in. Shaking even harder, Pierrot murmurs across your mouth: “My lady … it pains me to know you won’t remember this, but please know it’s nothing you could have stopped, and I hope you don’t want it to. But you’re simply too delectable, and I’m simply too yours.” With those words, his lips meet yours.

He kisses you slowly at first, re-learning the taste he’s sampled so many nights just like this one, only more carefully. Your lips fit like a lock and key with his, and he has to bite back a groan at the thought. This was it—the love for you made manifest by the sheer perfection of it all. One arm reaches out to brace himself at your side, his fingers digging into the mattress, while the other cups your cheek. Your supple skin gives under his claws, but he’s careful as he angles your jaw just enough to exploratorially slip his tongue between your lips. You taste sweet. Like cake.

Long and sinuous, he allows his tongue to roam about your mouth, grazing the wetness of your cheek and savoring every inch it can reach. At his ministrations, a dreamy moan ekes out of you. He pauses. Mouth still on you, he thinks, shocked and then ravenous, my lady, I had no idea you could make those darling sounds in this state. You’ll have to forgive him. He has to hear more. Has to swallow them whole.

He moves rapaciously now, tongue darting in and out of your mouth, teeth nipping at your bottom lip, before his kisses drool down the side of your chin as he greedily laps at whatever flesh he can find. Caution is abandoned as a clumsy line of bruises appears down the column of your neck. He’s so careful not to bite down, but you’re so enticing, and he’s all gone. There are more than one impression of his teeth on your skin now, blood pooling out of the tiny constellations of injuries. It’s a taste that could undo him, but he holds himself back because he can feel his cock, ever-hard when you’re involved, strain so hard against his pants that he worries that he’ll split the front seam. The damp, damp front seam.

He cannot bear the distance any longer. With a shaky, reverent sort of desperation, Pierrot climbs fully onto the bed and settles over you on his knees, one arm braced at either side of your head. The mattress dips beneath his weight, caging you in a way that he’d be willing to do forever. For a moment, he only stares. Adoration burns through him so fiercely it hurts—it makes his breath catch, makes his hands quiver where they press into the sheets. You look so helpless like this. So dear.

A desperate noise leaks out of him as he paws at your nightshirt—loose over your breasts—before he slips one gloved hand underneath the thin fabric. His impossibly sharp teeth are at your neck again, leaving loving little bites and sucks while the hand at your breasts drags over one, reveling in the softness of it. He squeezes once, the plump flesh bulging in his hand, and you gasp. Oh, the noises you make. He could listen to your voice for eternity, could let it be the score to his entire existence, but these. These sounds.

His lips are on yours again. His cock twitches, and he whines into your mouth. If being near you causes him to go full-mast, then touching you does something even worse. He needs relief. He needs to feel you in all your sweet, defenseless submission. You’d yield to him, wouldn’t you? Only to him?

“My dear, this love, this love would scare you if you were awake,” he says, his hot breath warming the corners of your mouth. “So consider it a blessing that you’re asleep. After all,” one finger creeps at the waistband of your sleep shorts, “it’ll let me love you more fully.”

With that, his words dissolve into a needy whimper as he removes his hand from your breasts. It’s an agonizing parting, but he needs to rid himself of these costume pants that are causing so much friction against his leaking cock. Not to mention, let the other hand begin to peel back your shorts and underwear. They’re soaked. Your cunt is drooling from his kisses and sucking, and he’s pleased by just how much has managed to collect on the fabric. His lady was a reactive thing, wasn’t she?

And he, ugh, him. His pants removed, Pierrot’s cock is flushed red at the tip, and precum dribbles down the side like a leaky faucet, and it’s so sensitive that even freeing it from its fabric entrapments causes him to shudder. “D—darling, I—” but he can’t finish the thought because it all but drops out of his head as he slides your underwear down your leg. Your beautiful cunt is completely exposed to him now, and he, already red before, turns a shade even deeper. To think he is able to see this—to take in the most intimate part of you.

You’re so pretty.

Lying like this, legs spread wide just for him.

Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to ignore his cock for a moment, even as it throbs insistently, demanding attention. No, not yet. You come first. You always would. Even like this, even now, he has to try to exercise some restraint because this is you. You. His. They’re one and the same, and he’s determined to make this exhibition of love as perfect as you are. “L—let me make you feel good, my lady. Please relax.”

He kisses you again, fondles your breast again, attempts to ignore his twitching cock again to let a hand dip down the plane of your stomach. He slides his fingers, long and clawed, along your folds. They’re so wet and covered with the slick of your arousal. Somehow, he knows what to do, almost like the ghost of you guides him, as his fingers drift over your clit. You moan again, and this time he successfully devours it. Your lips vibrate against, and he smiles with all his teeth.

“You make that sound so well,” he praises. If he could have it dragged through his ears forever, he’d be more than content.

Light as a feather, he slides his middle and ring fingers down. They ghost along your folds before he fully plunges them inward, the tips curling as he adjusts his wrist, bringing it up and then back again. He pumps his fingers in and out, slowly, languidly, watching the way your adorable face furrows in pleasure. But once his built up a torturous rhythm—the wet squelches of your slick keeping time—he speeds up. Not as fast as he imagines his hips bucking and pistoning into you, but just fast enough that that perfect spot inside of you is delightfully abused by his fingers.

As your back arches into him, even in sleep, he observes, a dribble of saliva beading at his lip, “My lady, ha … you’re so eager.” Tentatively, he presses one palm against your lower stomach. Will it actually hold you down? Or will you give in to the excruciating pressure and render his gloves utterly sodden with your cunt? He receives his answer as something like an ecstatic cry leaves your mouth. At that, he grunts, leaning even deeper into your neck as his thumb again circles your clit.

He knows you’re close now, what with the way you’re beginning to clench around him. He almost loses himself in it—almost wastes his bloated cock’s load rutting against your mattress at the sight of you unraveling beneath him—but he forces himself to hold back, savoring it instead. And finally, the noise sweet, sweet you, trembling, make when you cum against his hand is like a mewl.

His lady … on his hand. His cheeks are ruby as his tongue darts out to taste what’s formed a creamy web between his fingers. And then they redden even further as he dares to try it from the source. He can’t help but notice how at home his head feels between your legs, his lungs greedily taking in your scent, and his tongue gluttonously licking what it can. You taste so good … so sweet … so perfect …

Next time, he thinks as he begrudgingly lifts his neck, his face won’t leave that sweet, sweet place. He’ll ravage your cunt with his mouth until there’s nothing left for him to lick off his lips.

And as he marvels at the way you lie spent against your mattress, trails of cum weeping down your thigh, his hands idly wander to his needy cock again. Right. He’s still … he’s still hard, and looking at you like this hasn’t caused the feeling to subside even an iota.

“If you were even half as ravishing,” his breath is heated, and his voice is husky, “I could be the ringmaster to my self-control.” He runs a cum-veiled hand along your stomach, almost hypnotized at the lewd squiggles he’s able to paint and smear along your skin. You don’t stir, still out cold. “But seeing as you’re determined to undo me …” His hips falter as the tip of his cock—long, apparently, as Harlequin (but don’t think about him now, because he wants you and only you and only you and only you and only you) once teased him, and thick—presses against your entrance, a broken sound escaping his throat. He lets out a soft, strained whine as he draws back slightly, one hand moving down to guide himself into place. “I’ll play along. Though next time,” his pupils narrow to pinpricks as he cups your chin and strokes your jaw, “I want your eyes on me.”

Next time is certain, he knows, but his mind is a fog right now, because all he wants, no, needs, is his cock to be buried you inside so deep that he’s not sure where he ends, and you begin. Restraint for whether you will wake or not is thrown out your balcony window as he, carefully lest he tear you open due to sheer size, he begins to press in inch by aching inch. You gasp, and he shudders. With each inch that your warm, wet cunt swallows of him, he can feel his smile widen until it stretches out from ear to ear. You’re so wet from what he’s already done that the only thing hard about this maneuver is him.

His breaths come out in shaky rasps, and his eyelids flutter, as he forces himself to fit inside you, deeper, deeper. When his hips are finally flush against yours, his body heats up in a way he’s never felt it do before. You below him like this, him sheathed inside you, it’s so … intimate. He reaches out to clasp one of your limp hands. There.

He murmurs into the darkness, only inches from your face, “If there were any doubts that you were meant to be mine, see how well you fit? How well you take me, my lady? It’s like my cock was made for you alone.”

Hesitantly at first, he thrusts his hips into you, rocking your body ever so slightly. A strangled choke slips from his lips. “F—my lady … I …” He won’t last. He can’t. He has to. He can’t. Another exploratory thrust and a sharp gasp from you have him picking up his pace. Gleefully, he rams himself harder into you this time. Your moan has him going faster, more fervently, because you’re so amenable in your sleep and he’s so hopeless for you. As he drives closer to his release, his pace falters, easing into more measured thrusts as he fixates on the languid drag of his dripping cock along your walls—on the way your body, even slack with unconsciousness, still tightens around him, drawing him deeper.

“I’m yours, my lady,” he pants, moving faster as he angles himself to drive into your cervix. He pinches one of your nipples. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m—” He cuts himself off with a breathless whimper as his hips stutter, then snap forward in one final, forceful thrust. His back arches as he cums inside you, his claws biting into your skin. Not words, just pure, soft sound slips past his lips as he rides it out, the quiet, slick rhythm of skin meeting skin filling the otherwise still room.

Panting, he watches again as thick streams of him, his cum, out of you, filled to overflowing and mixing with your own juices. Your cunt is still wrapped around him—he hasn’t pulled out yet, and if he’s being serious with himself, he doesn’t think he will. Or at least, he’s loath to. He could make himself at home here, in your cunt. He could fill it again and again until you drip so much of his cum that it’ll be weeks before it all drains out.

Hopefully, through it all, you won’t be so asleep.

Tonight, however … he reaches out to brush a lock of hair from your face … and his monstrous cock hardens again inside you. His eyes are pinpricks once more at the sensation.

Tonight … tonight you can sleep.

His cock twitches.

But he won’t.

He has no control, after all.

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He hears you. He hears you from outside. Pierrot’s boots are planted at the threshold just outside your apartment—like he’s simply a shadowed specter who quivers with unsuppressed ecstasy at knowing that just on the other side of the wall is you, you.

And even though he hasn’t stolen past the door, he can still hear it. Your heartbeat. Its cadence is steady, dependable—the metronome  to which he can pace his entire existence.

You’re not expecting anyone, not planning to go anywhere, he knows, else the tempo would have quickened half a beat. Your steadiness means no one has touched your evening. It’s still waiting there, pristine. For him.

Pierrot tilts his head, listening harder. Each muffled beat reaches him like a prayer to a saint.

There you are.

There you are.

There you are.

It tells him more than you know. That you are seated now in your living room. That your breathing is even. That no smile pulls at your mouth. Ambient noise notwithstanding, there’s only that soft, steadfast rhythm.

His fingers spasm at his side. Pierrot imagines pressing his palm flat to your sternum and feeling the cadence that roars beneath it; imagines lowering himself to you and letting the sound travel through him until he cannot tell where your body ends and his begins.

Or maybe he’ll settle onto your couch, and you’ll crawl onto him, and he’ll yank you so close that the score of your heartbeat will be what echoes in his own chest. And he’ll make it speed up—it always does when he’s close. The anchored thrum of it crescendos into a delectable pitter-patter that makes his mind go fuzzy.

He barely registers it: someone else’s footsteps far down the hall. Another apartment, another life. A door hinge groans. Laughter follows. Pierrot’s pupils contract into pinpricks as the imagination enters his mind, unbidden. Someone else … someone else being the source of your heartbeats. The slow ones, the measured ones, the frantic ones.

The door to your apartment slams open in a deafening fortissimo. A photograph, hooked on a single nail in the wall, wobbles from the impact. He doesn’t notice. You startle on your couch, limbs folded together in the tableau of comfort. The corners of his smile creep higher at the way your heartbeat rattles your ribcage in surprise.

“Pierrot!” you gasp, hand clutching your chest as if that would dampen the sound that spills out of it. “What’re you doing here?”

Your words are crisp, clear. And drowned by the thunder in his ears.

Pierrot takes a step forward. Then another. Then, too many to count until he looms over you. You don’t shrink back, though, nor does your heart quell. You simply look up at him, head cocked, inquisitive and curious. Because you have no idea. You have no idea what you’re doing to him. You have no idea that whatever beast you had awoken in him long ago has never once yielded to a tranquilizer.

Not that he’d ever offered it one.

He couldn’t, not when your pulse is sweet and submissive and not when the way it tingles through his bloodstream catapults him into the throes of something that supersedes ecstasy.

Reason is a barbaric taskmaster; beads of sweat cling to his brow as he manages through shallow breath: “My dear … I …” As one leg buckles forward, he lurches nearer still. The plush upholstery of your couch swells between his fingers where he braces himself. “I can hear you.”

You furrow your brow. “What?”

Your expression, so open, so innocent, so impossibly unknowing of your effect, it almost—no, it does—untether the last of his restraints. Legs completely at gravity’s mercy, he, all six, monstrous feet and five, monstrous inches, topples down onto you. You shift in surprise but say nothing as his arms lace around your waist. Yes, yes, there it is, even louder, now. Your heartbeat reverberates against the ear he has just pressed against your chest.

Its volume causes the smile already splitting his face to twitch upward still.

And its speed causes it to sharpen.

“Pierrot? Are you—are you trying to listen to my heartbeat?” you wonder, shock threading through your voice.

His fingers tighten. Trying to? It’s the only music he wants to hear. “That melody … indeed. I could hear each note from the hall, but it wasn’t—” he grips you so tight, he worries you’ll break. He wouldn’t allow it, of course, but it’d be all right if it did … he could hold you together. And, and … your ribcage was only the instrument’s casing; so long as the heartbeat inside it still played for him, he would be content. “—it wasn’t enough.” The words come out jagged, like logic forgot to smooth them.

“You can hear my heartbeat from outside?” You sound like you’re trying to decide whether to be awed or bewildered. The roar in your chest tells him the emotions orbit each other fiercely.

He may have scared you, but there was a part of him that knew he’d do that from the moment he’d laid eyes on you. This love … it grows and grows and grows, pulsing through him until every part of him aches with it and until it’s leaking out of every pore. It’s like his own heartbeat. And he needs yours, more than he already has it. His hand slides at the hem of your shirt as he murmurs, barely a whisper, “Yes.”

Your breath hitches, and your heart skips a beat. The lack of sound causes his pupils to still for half a second, but its return has his fingers working again. Closer. He needs to be closer. This isn’t enough. His fist wrings a handful of fabric.

“That’s … good to know?” You open your mouth to say more, but he’s forced your shirt up. What’s underneath would interest him—should interest him. It’s intoxicated him before, but today, he has one mission.

Closer.

Thump-thump.

Your skin is warm, his mask is cold.

Thump-thumpthump-thump.

He can feel your heart vibrate against his head.

Thump-thumpthump-thumpthump-thump.

The beats seem to crash into each other in a frenzy that tells him he might be too close now. He’s practically buried into your sternum. The bone below almost seems to give. If he pressed any harder, he thinks he might slip beneath it altogether. He might put himself where the sound lives and never, ever leave.

Closer.

You gasp. “P—Pierrot, you’re hurting me.”

There’s a flash of regret, but only a flash as intention bows to desire. He drags himself back a fraction, no more than that, trembling even as he does. One beat. Two. Three. Four. He counts them in the silence that follows, and each one only makes him worse—more feverish, more frantic. They are proof. Proof that you are alive. Proof that you are here. Proof that you are his, his, his.

Your heart is racing now. Thump-thumpthump-thump. It’s delicious.

“Still too far,” he breathes, voice shaking. “It is beating right there,” he taps your chest as if he’s accusing biology itself, ”and still I am kept from it.” His grip is like a vise now, he knows, and the chill of his mask must be so sharp it nearly burns. “I, I need to be closer. Closer to where it lives. Closer to you.”

You stutter at that, and so does your heartbeat. The micro change in pace nearly undoes him. He lets out something that sounds like a shudder. Then he cocks his head again, the bells on his hat scarcely making a sound.

“Do you not see, my dear?” he whispers in a tone that wobbles along a tightrope bridging worship and need. “Every beat of your heart calls for me. And I must—I must answer it.” And before sense can redirect him like a desperate ringmaster, he surges into you once more—careful for a single heartbeat, and then … not careful at all.

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Harlequin notices things others don’t. That’s the nature of a monster, truth be told. Monsters survived by watching. By learning which creatures flinch, which freeze, which run.

You’re very easy to read. Not that you know that.

You stand near Pierrot now, fingers curled loosely around his black claws. The two of you aren’t doing anything particularly interesting. Pierrot is waxing poetic about something—you, probably—and you’re nodding along with that indulgent smile that implies his adoration is entirely reciprocal.

In the shadows, Harlequin leans against a tentpole, his spine pressed flush against the wood. He looks … bored. One of his feet is hooked over the other, and his arms are loosely crossed over his chest. A curl dangles, devilishly tousled, down his brow. His eyes are half-lidded, narrow slits. Anyone glancing his way would assume he’s barely paying attention.

And he is.

… Except to the way Pierrot’s hand brushes your shoulder.

You don’t flinch. Of course you don’t. Why would you? You’ve gotten used to him. Used to the way he hovers over you like a shadow and buckles in ecstasy that you even exist at all.  Your gaze turns soft as your eyes catch where his hand is.

Harlequin’s mouth curves slightly.

Que fofo.

Actually, maybe it’s not cute. Maybe it’s fascinating. Fascinating because that’s not how you used to look.

At least, not when Harlequin touched you.

—

You’d been standing in the streets, taking in the Fools and trying not to breathe too hard as he loomed behind you. His breath had ghosted along the shell of your ear, like he’d been skimming the waters to see which parts of you sparked first.

He’d wanted to take you from Pierrot, it’s true. Wanted to steal you away from the obsessive circus freak who lapped you up like water. It’d be a fun way to pass the time, especially since watching silent Pierrot’s eyes twitch in irritation caused the corners of his own mouth to peel upward in a smirk.

And that afternoon, when you’d followed him in the direction of his tent, your heart hammered deliciously. Harlequin had rested his face in the crook of your neck. He’d stepped so close that, when he’d tucked his hand onto your throat, your back grazed his chest. You’d watched him in your peripheral vision the whole time, eyes tracking him with a cocktail of curiosity and caution that he found extremely entertaining.

And when he’d lilted, “ … let’s play ♪,” you hadn’t stepped back. That had been the first invitation.

The second had been when you’d lifted your chin slightly, like you’d been daring him.

So he’d stolen you away into his tent, into the pitch darkness where your heartbeat rattled in his ears and where your eyes could only follow the glowing acid green of his irises.

You’d protested something about it being way too dark. And then about not being able to see. But your feet hadn’t retreated. Not even an inch.

And Harlequin, delighted, had savored it. The tremor in your voice. The quick rhythm of your pulse. The way fear made you corruscate under his gaze.

You’d been terrified. And you hadn’t run.

He’d bottled that moment like wine, sealing it as something to sip on later. And something intoxicating to get drunk on right then and there.

—

But now you’re laughing at something Pierrot says. 

Harlequin watches how you duck your head into your chest when you do, even though the sound leaves you without restraint. Pierrot reaches out and brushes a speck from your sleeve.

Harlequin snorts under his breath.

Look at him. Doting on you like you’re an idol whose shrine he’s sworn to protect. Like he’s barely stopping himself from clutching you to his chest. His fingers convulse at his side with suppressed desire.

Harlequin had never seen the appeal of that approach. When he touched you, it wasn’t gentle. 

You remember that.

He knows you do.

—

You had tasted sweet.

That’s the word Harlequin always comes back to.

Sweet.

He hates sweet things. Cloying and saccharine, they burn on his forked tongue like holy water on a demon’s. But he doesn’t mean “sweet” like that. He doesn’t even mean “sweet” like “innocent,” either. He’s not stupid enough to believe in innocence. You can’t accept a ticket to the Freak Circus of Horrors and feign that.

But there had been something dangerously soft about the way you reacted when he dragged his mouth down your throat. You had gasped. Had been incredulous.

But you hadn’t pushed him away.

—

Harlequin glances again toward the two of you.

Pierrot is still talking. He shouldn’t be, technically. His performances are usually wordless. Language is replaced with sinuous dances and throwing knives. But when he’s with you, he doesn’t perform. 

He must be thankful the Jester can’t see him.

But apart from that: Harlequin notices that you look comfortable at his side.

Safe, even.

…

Do you know how dull that is?

He moves when you do. It’s not because he’s following you; he’s not. But when you and Pierrot begin walking toward the Circus gate, Harlequin’s shadow drifts alongside in the same direction, his boots soundless despite the bells that cap them.

Pierrot pauses near the entrance, and you stop with him. Neither of you notices Harlequin’s eyes smoldering acid in the twilight. For a beat, you two are silent. Then Pierrot reaches down and tentatively nudges a stray piece of hair away from your face.

It’s such a small gesture. Small, and so terribly, terribly gentle.

You lean into the touch.

Harlequin’s smile sharpens.

Oh.

Hum.

That’s new.

—

He had touched you like that, once, too.

But his fingers had tangled in your hair instead, pulling your head back so he could see your throat properly in the dark.

You hadn’t complained. Your pulse had jumped beneath his mouth. Harlequin had felt it. The way your body reacted to him. The way you allowed him to do things.

That’s the amusing part.

You were curious. And a little reckless. You let him kiss you. You let him bite you. You let his tentacles roam your body.

And yet …

—

Pierrot stamps—no, tattoos—a kiss against your temple. Your eyelids flutter closed.

Harlequin feels something flicker briefly at his sternum. He ignores it, because the feeling isn’t important. What’s important is the obvious conclusion: Pierrot finally managed it.

How charming.

The tragic clown wins the sweetheart.

Harlequin idly taps his mask with one green-cloaked claw and observes the two of you for another moment.

Pierrot murmurs something that causes his irises to pulsate into twin hearts. Like those aren’t Harlequin’s thing.

You laugh again. Your hand goes from lightly grasping his to fully wrapping around it. It’s so easy. So natural. Like that was always the way things were heading.

Harlequin has ducked into a new tent this time, has leaned against a new tentpole, but, just then, he pushes away from it.

He isn’t bitter. That isn’t in his nature.

After all, he never wanted you. Not really. You were just interesting. A novelty. A new act in a place full of the same performances. A different flavor of Fool in the entrée of existence. He’d had his fun. That’s it.

Still. There’s something mildly perplexing about the whole situation.

You had liked him, that much was obvious.

You let him press you against a table.

Let him leave his mark.

Let him do things Pierrot simply didn’t have the anatomy to do.

And yet you chose the desperate hands.

The worshipful voice.

The drowning affection.

Harlequin chuckles to himself as he disappears into the black tent visitors were never allowed to enter.

Estranho.

He could have sworn you liked the taste of him better.

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