☆lice

as soon as things settle, he becomes a whirlwind of gentle, trembling attention. he's up and moving before you can even catch your breath, fetching warm, damp cloths, a glass of water, the softest blanket from his collection. 

he'll clean you with the same admiration he'd use to tend a shrine (ps: he has a shrine, little area of things you gave him, the the pink band-Aid, the pink ticket, the milkshake glass, etc), anyway, his long fingers careful and slow, pressing kisses to any spot that might be sore.

"did i hurt you?" he'll whisper, starry eyes searching your face with desperate sincerity. "tell me truly. i need to know. i couldn't bear it if i hurt you."

he'll wrap you in that blanket, pull you into his lap, and just... hold. rock you slowly, humming that same sad lullaby, pressing his cool cheek to your warm one. he'll whisper things into your hair, not grand praise, more like soft, awed observations: 

"you're so warm." "you smell like us now." "i can feel your heartbeat. it's the most beautiful sound."

if you fall asleep, he won't move. won't even shift. he'll stay there all night, watching over you, occasionally pressing the lightest kisses to your forehead, your closed eyes, the corner of your mouth. in the morning, he'll have tea ready and a soft, wondering look in his eyes, like he still can't quite believe any of it happened.

for example:

you're barely conscious, floating in that perfect post-intimacy haze, when you feel him slip away. before you can even whimper at the loss of warmth, he's back—damp cloth in hand, expression so intensely focused it's almost comical.

"hold still, my dear,” he murmurs, and then he's cleaning you with such meticulous care you'd think he was handling ancient parchment. his touch is feather-light, apologetic almost, and he presses a kiss to your knee when he's done.

"i was too eager," he frets, settling behind you and pulling you against his chest. "i should have been more careful. your first time should have been perfect, and i—"

you cut him off with a sleepy murmur, pressing his hand tighter around your waist. he goes quiet instantly, then presses his lips to the back of your head.

"i love you," he breathes into your hair. "i love you so much it terrifies me. sleep now. i'll watch over you."

and he does. all night. you wake to find him exactly as you left him, still holding you, his starry eyes soft and damp with unshed tears of pure, overwhelming adoration.

b = body part (his own)

what he's most self-conscious about: his tongue.

it's long. much longer than a human's. he knows this. he's seen the rankings, heard harlequin's crude jokes. in everyday life, he keeps it carefully tucked away, speaking softly, never letting it slip. he's terrified it will freak you out, remind you that he's not human, make you see the monster instead of the man.

but there's a part of him, like a secret, desperate part, that hopes you might like it. that you might find it fascinating instead of frightening. that you might let him use it to worship every inch of you in ways no human ever could.

what he secretly loves: his hands.

with and without the gloves, they're long and elegant, with those impossibly gentle fingers. he loves watching them on you, the contrast of his cool, pale skin against your warmth. he loves that his hands can make you shiver, can hold you together when you're falling apart. he's proud of how carefully he uses them, how precisely he can touch.

for example:

the first time you notice his tongue as he's mid-sentence—he stops talking instantly. his mouth snaps shut, his eyes going wide and panicked. "i—" he starts, then stops, his ears flushing a deep pink. "it's... i know it's not... if it troubles you, i can—"

you reach up, touch his lower lip gently. "can i see it?"

his whole body trembles. slowly, hesitantly, he opens his mouth, lets that long, honey orange tongue slip out just a little. it's cool and slick and honestly? kind of beautiful.

"it's just part of you," you say softly. "and i like all of you."

the sound he makes is something between a sob and a laugh. he kisses you then, deep and desperate, and for the first time he doesn't hide. 

he lets you feel it, lets you explore, and when you gasp against his mouth, not in fear, but in pleasure, he thinks his heart might actually burst.

c = cum

what it's like: pierrot's cum is... different. 

not human. it's cool to the touch, it has a hue of the same honey orange color, slightly thicker than human semen, with a faint pearlescent sheen. it smells faintly of something sweet, powdered sugar, maybe, or the flowers from his childhood memories?

the taste is subtle, slightly sugary with an undertone of something almost metallic, like licking a silver spoon. he's incredibly self-conscious about it. the first time he finishes, he'll immediately try to clean it up, apologizing, worried it's strange or off-putting. he needs reassurance that you're not disgusted, that you don't find him monstrous.

quantity: moderate. 

not overwhelming, but enough to be noticeable. he produces slightly more than a human would, and it takes him a little longer to be ready again, his body needs time to "recharge," as he puts it shyly.

for example:

the first time he finishes inside your mouth, after asking permission, of course, multiple times, needing to be absolutely sure, he freezes immediately afterward, eyes wide with sudden panic.

"i should—let me—" he's already reaching for a cloth, trying to clean your face, his hands trembling. "it's probably strange, isn't it? i'm sorry, i should have warned you, i know it's not—"

you catch his hand, press it to your chest. "pierrot. stop."

he does, looking at you with those huge, anxious eyes.

"i didn't say anything was wrong."

"but it's... i'm not..." he trails off, swallowing hard. "you're not... disgusted?"

you pull him down for a kiss, slow and reassuring. when you pull back, his eyes are full of stars again, shining with unshed tears. "oh," he whispers. "oh, my love. you're so good to me. you're so impossibly good."  he curls around you then, holding you tight, and doesn't let go for a long, long time.

d = dirty secret

pierrot secretly, desperately wants to be worshipped the way he worships you.

not in a dominant way, (if you do so, he’ll love it either way) he couldn't be dominant if he tried. 

but he dreams, sometimes, of you touching him with the same affection he touches you. of you exploring his body like it's something precious instead of something strange. of you wanting him so badly that you can't think straight, that you reach for him without hesitation, that you make him feel like the most beautiful creature in existence.

he would never, ever ask for this. it feels too selfish, too demanding. but if you initiate, like if you show him that you desire him, truly desire him, not just tolerate his touch, he falls apart completely.

what he's never told anyone, is that sometimes, alone in his wagon at night, he practices. touches himself the way he wishes you would touch him. he has a piece of your clothing in his free hand, something that you accidentally left and he hasn't returned yet.

whispers your name into the dark, smelling your clothing. imagines what it would be like to be wanted, truly wanted, instead of simply tolerated by a world that finds him sad and strange.

for example:

you've been together for a while now. comfortable. trusting. one night, you're lying together in his narrow bed, and you realize he's just... watching you. with that soft, wondering expression he gets sometimes.

"what?" you ask.

"nothing." he shakes his head, ears pinking. "i just... you're so beautiful. i can't believe you're here."

something in his voice makes you bold. you roll over, half-covering him, and start pressing kisses down his chest. his breath catches.

"what are you—"

"shh." you look up at him. "let me take care of you for once."

his eyes go impossibly wide. "you don't have to—i don't expect—"

"i know." you kiss his stomach, feel the muscles jump. "but i want to. let me?"

he nods, speechless, and when you continue—when you touch him with the same reverence he always shows you, he starts to cry. silent, overwhelmed tears of joy, because for the first time in his existence, someone wants him the way he wants them.

e = experience

how experienced is he?

as well all know, pierrot is a virgin. completely, totally, unequivocally inexperienced.

not from lack of opportunity, in the circus, things happen. but from a deep, almost spiritual conviction that intimacy is sacred, that it should only happen with someone he loves completely, someone who sees past the monster to the man beneath. 

he's waited. for decades, maybe. preserving himself like a pressed flower, hoping someday someone would want to unfold him.

he knows theoretically what happens. he's read things, seen things. but the reality? the warmth, the scent, the overwhelming closeness? nothing prepared him for that.

how he handles it, by with a combination of devastating awkwardness, heartbreaking earnestness and hella freakiness. he'll still apologize for not knowing what to do, for being clumsy, for not being better at this. but he'll also ask questions—whispered, shy questions about what you like, what feels good, how he can make you happy. 

and he'll learn. quickly. because nothing motivates pierrot like the desire to please you.

foor example:

the first time you're both naked together, he's shaking. actually shaking, his long hands trembling as they hover near your skin, afraid to touch.

"i don't... i'm not sure how to..." he swallows hard, stars in his eyes flickering with anxiety. "i've never done this before. what if i'm bad at it? what if i hurt you? what if you're disappointed?"

you take his hands, press them to your cheeks. "then we figure it out together. okay?"

he nods, almost mumbled to himself. "okay. okay. i can do that. i can learn. just... tell me? tell me what you like, and i'll do it. i'll do anything. i just want you to feel good. i want to be good for you."

and he means it. every clumsy, earnest, overwhelming word.

f = favorite position

pierrot's absolute favorite position is face-to-face. 

he needs to see you. needs to watch your expressions, your eyes, the way your mouth falls open when he does something right. he needs to be close enough to kiss, to whisper, to press his forehead to yours and breathe the same air.

specifically, he loves having you in his lap, like sitting on the edge of the bed, you straddling him, his arms wrapped around your waist, your faces inches apart. it lets him hold you close, bury his face in your neck, watch every micro-expression. it's intimate. it's overwhelming. it's perfect.

why it works: "i need to see you," he'll whisper, guiding you onto his lap. "i need to watch. i need to know you're real, you're here, you're mine. please. let me see you."

for example:

he's got you settled on his lap, his back against the headboard, your legs wrapped around his waist. his hands are everywhere—your hips, your back, your face—and his eyes never leave yours.

"you're so beautiful," he breathes, thrusting up slowly, watching your face contort with pleasure. "look at you. look at what i get to see. i'm the luckiest creature in existence."

when you climax, he watches like it's the most miraculous thing he's ever witnessed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"again," he whispers. "please. let me see that again. i'll never get tired of watching you fall apart."

g = goofy

is he serious during intimacy, or can he be playful?

pierrot is, by nature, devastatingly sincere. but he has moments of clumsy, accidental humor that are genuinely adorable. he'll get so overwhelmed that he forgets how limbs work. he'll bump his head on the headboard while trying to kiss you and apologize for seventeen minutes straight.  

he'll try to say something romantic and get so flustered the words come out backwards.  he'll knock over a glass of water, or get tangled in the sheets, or try to shift position and almost roll off the bed.

each time, he turns absolutely scarlet, stammering apologies, until you start laughing, and then, slowly, hesitantly, he laughs too. a small, surprised sound, like he'd forgotten he was capable of it.

the sweet part that he loves making you laugh, even accidentally. your laugh is one of his favorite sounds. so while he's embarrassed by his clumsiness, part of him treasures these moments, clear proof that intimacy doesn't have to be perfect to be beautiful.

for example:

he's trying to arrange you both more comfortably, shifting positions, when his elbow catches the bedside table. a lamp wobbles. a book falls. he freezes, horror-struck.

"i'm so sorry—i didn't mean—i'm so clumsy, i've ruined the moment, i—"

you start giggling. just a little at first, then more, until you're properly laughing, pressed against his chest.

he stares at you, confused. then, slowly, a tiny smile touches his lips.

"you're... you're laughing at me?"

"i'm laughing with you," you correct, still giggling. "pierrot, it's fine. it's just a lamp."

he relaxes, a real smile blooming on his face—rare and beautiful. "oh. oh, i see. well. i suppose i am rather clumsy." he pauses, then adds, very seriously, "i'll buy you a new lamp. several lamps. a lifetime supply of lamps."

you laugh harder, and he watches you with wonder, storing this moment away in his heart forever.

h = hair

how important is hair to him? does he like having his touched?

pierrot's long white hair is surprisingly soft, fine and silky, falling in gentle waves around his pale face. he keeps it carefully maintained, brushing it every night, because it's one of the few parts of his appearance he actually likes.

having it touched, well, it makes him melt. completely, totally, helplessly melt.

if you run your fingers through his hair, his eyes flutter closed, a soft sigh escaping him. if you tug gently—just a little, just enough to feel. 

he makes this quiet, desperate sound that goes straight to your core. it's one of his most sensitive spots, not erogenous exactly, but deeply intimate. having his hair touched makes him feel cherished, cared for, human.

what he loves is you playing with it while he rests his head in your lap. you petting it soothingly after intimacy. you grabbing it—gently—when you're both lost in the moment, using it to guide his mouth where you want it.

for example:

you're lying together, post-intimacy, both still catching your breath. absently, you start running your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. he goes completely boneless. a long, shuddering sigh escapes him, and he presses closer, nuzzling against your neck.

"that feels..." he trails off, voice thick. "i don't have words. please don't stop."

you don't. you keep petting him, slow and soothing, and he drifts in and out of consciousness, utterly content. when you finally do stop, he whines softly, like actually whines, and looks up at you with pleading eyes.

"more?" he whispers. "please? just a little more?"

and honestly? how could you say no to that face?

i = intimacy

how important is emotional connection during sex?

for pierrot, emotional connection is the sex. 

without it, the physical act is meaningless and quite terrifying depending how you view it. worse than meaningless, actually painful. he needs to feel loved, cherished, seen. he needs to know you want him, not just his body, not just the sensation, but the whole messy, broken, devoted creature that he is.

he talks during intimacy. whispers constant endearments, confessions, promises. "i love you." "you're so beautiful." "i can't believe you're mine." "thank you, thank you, thank you." it's overwhelming, but it's also the most intense emotional experience you'll ever have.

what it feels like, being intimate with pierrot isn't just physical. it's like being consumed, not gonna say in a scary way, but in the way a fire consumes oxygen.

he wraps around you, surrounds you, fills every sense until there's nothing left but him and you and the overwhelming love between you.

for example:

he's inside you, moving slowly, reverently, and his eyes never leave your face. his hands frame your jaw, thumbs stroking your cheeks, and he's whispering—constant, endless whispering.

"you're everything. everything. i never knew i could feel this. i never knew i could be this close to anyone. i love you. i love you. please don't ever leave me. please stay. stay forever. i'll be so good to you. i'll spend eternity making you happy. just stay. stay with me. i love you. i love you. i love you."

you come undone to the pace of his desperate, beautiful confessions, and he follows right after, shaking apart in your arms, still whispering love against your skin.

j = jack off

does he masturbate? how often? what does he think about?

pierrot does masturbate, but with a tremendous amount of guilt and embarrassment about it.

frequency: irregular. 

sometimes weeks pass without him even thinking about it—he's too focused on you, on caring for you, on the thousand small tasks of devotion. other times, when you've been particularly affectionate or he's seen you in a way that haunts him, he'll give in to need.

what he thinks about: you. always you. 

specifically, you wanting him. his fantasies aren't graphic—they're emotional. you reaching for him first. you telling him you need him. you looking at him with desire instead of pity. sometimes he imagines your hands on him, your mouth, your warmth surrounding him. but the core of every fantasy is the same: being wanted.

the guilt: afterward, he always feels a little ashamed. 

not because he thinks masturbation is wrong, but because he wishes it was you. he wishes he didn't have to imagine, that he could have the real thing. sometimes he cries afterward, quietly, overwhelmed by longing.

for example:

you've been busy working at the cafe, like everyday, away from the circus for a week. pierrot misses you with an ache that never fades. one night, alone in his wagon, he gives in.

he touches himself slowly, eyes closed, pretending it's your hands on him. he whispers your name into the dark, imagining you here, with him, wanting him. when he finishes, it's with a broken sob—not from pleasure, but from the crushing weight of missing you. he cleans up, curls into a ball, and doesn't sleep for hours.

when you return, he holds you tighter than ever, pressing his face into your neck and breathing you in.

"don't leave again," he whispers. "please. i can't... i need you too much."

k = kink

what unusual turn-ons does he have?

pierrot's kinks are less about specific acts and more about emotional dynamics. sooo here’s a few that can fit for him:

1. being needed.

his biggest turn-on is you needing him. not wanting—needing. if you're vulnerable, seeking comfort, reaching for him in the night, it makes him feel useful, valued, essential. he'll do anything for you in those moments, and the intensity of his devotion often leads to intimacy.

example: you've had a terrible day. you crawl into his lap, bury your face in his neck, and just... hold on. his whole body responds. not just physically, but emotionally. he's hard within minutes, but he won't act on it until you're ready. when you finally kiss him, it's explosive.

2. worship (giving and receiving)

he loves worshipping your body, just pressing kisses to every inch, whispering praise, treating you like something holy. but he also secretly, desperately loves being worshipped in return. having you touch him with reverence, call him beautiful, want him like he wants you, it undoes him completely.

for example:

you spend an hour just exploring his body. kissing his scars, tracing his features, telling him everything you love about him. by the end, he's a trembling, tearful mess, so overwhelmed by being wanted that he can barely function.

3. preservation.

this one's darker. sometimes, when he's particularly anxious about losing you, he wants to keep you so close, so surrounded by him, that you couldn't leave even if you wanted to. not in a violent way, more in a soft, smothering way. holding you until you fall asleep. keeping you in his lap all day. making love so slowly, so thoroughly, that you forget there's a world outside his arms.

for example:

he's had a nightmare about losing you. he wakes shaking, pulls you close, and doesn't let go. when you finally make love, it's desperate and clinging, him whispering "stay, stay, stay" with every movement.

l = location

favorite places to do it?

1. his wagon.

private, safe, full of his scent and his things. he feels most comfortable here, most able to let go. the bed is narrow but soft, piled with blankets and pillows. he's made it a nest, a sanctuary, and sharing it with you is the ultimate intimacy.

2. a garden (at night).

secretly, he loves the idea of being surrounded by growing things (in doctors garden mind you…), under the stars, with you. it's romantic, almost poetic. but only at night, when no one else is around. the thought of being watched terrifies him.

3. anywhere you feel safe.

honestly, pierrot doesn't care about location as long as you're comfortable. he'll make love to you in a closet if that's where you feel secure. your comfort matters more than any fantasy.

what he won't do is anywhere public. anywhere the others might walk in. anywhere that feels exposed or unsafe. he needs privacy to be vulnerable.

for example:

you're in the garden at night, hidden by flowering bushes, lying on a blanket he spread earlier. the stars are out, and he keeps looking up at them, then back at you, wonder in his eyes.

"this is perfect," he whispers, kissing your shoulder. "you, and the stars, and the quiet. i never thought i'd have this. i never thought anyone would want this with me."

he makes love to you slowly, reverently, pausing occasionally just to look at you, to press his forehead to yours and breathe. when it's over, he wraps you in the blanket and holds you, watching the stars wheel overhead until you both fall asleep.

m = motivation

what gets him in the mood?

1. vulnerability.

if you're sad, scared, or hurting, his protective instincts kick into overdrive. he wants to hold you, comfort you, fix you. sometimes that comfort turns into something more, such as a desperate need to connect, to remind you both that you're alive and together.

2. affection.

simple, sincere affection can overwhelm him. you playing with his hair. you kissing his cheek for no reason. you falling asleep against his shoulder. these small moments build and build until he's trembling with the need to be closer.

3. seeing you want someone else.

this one hurts him, but it's honest. if he sees someone else, harlequin, especially, making you laugh or touching you, jealousy flares hot and immediate. later, alone with you, he'll need to reclaim you, to remind you (and himself) who you belong to. it's possessive and a little unhealthy, but it's real.

4. the thought of losing you.

any reminder of mortality, of impermanence, makes him desperate to hold you close, to merge with you, to leave no space between your bodies. after nightmares, after near-misses, after anything that threatens his fragile peace.

for example:

you had a close call today, almost fell from a height, almost got hurt. pierrot was there, caught you, held you for an hour while he shook. that night, he can't stop touching you. can't stop pressing close, kissing you, whispering how scared he was.

"i need you," he breathes, pulling you into his lap. "i need to feel you. need to know you're real and alive and mine. please. let me feel you."

n = no

what would make him stop immediately?

1. you saying stop.

any version of no, stop, wait, or even hesitation. he knows can be overwhelming or too needy at sometimes so it's up to you to communicate clearly and not just hold your feelings back if he acts this way. if you tense up, if your breathing changes in a way he doesn't recognize, if you don't respond to a kiss, he's stopping. immediately. no questions asked.

2. signs of pain.

pierrot would rather die than hurt you. if you wince, if you cry out in a way that isn't pleasure, if he even suspects he's causing discomfort, he’ll freezes, pulls back, starts apologizing.

3. emotional disconnection.

if you seem distant, checked out, not present with him, he can't continue. he needs you there, emotionally, or the whole thing feels hollow and wrong.

4. being called a monster or mean names

in the heat of the moment, if you said something like that, even as a joke, even in a playful context, he'd shatter. his worst fear, realized. he'd stop, withdraw, and it would take hours of reassurance to bring him back.

for example:

you're both caught up, moving together, when you shift wrong and a sharp pain shoots through your hip. you gasp, not sexy, just surprised.

he stops instantly. literally frozen mid-motion, eyes wide with horror. "what? what happened? did i hurt you? where? tell me where, i'll fix it, i'm sorry, i'm so sorry—"

he's already pulling away, reaching for the light, tears starting to form. it takes ten minutes of reassurance to convince him you're okay, and even then, he wants to stop for the night. just holds you instead, trembling, apologizing every few minutes until you fall asleep.

o = oral

giving vs receiving?

giving: pierrot lovesssssssss giving oral. 

like, genuinely loves it. it's worship, pure, simple, holy worship. having you spread out before him, letting him taste you, letting him make you feel good with nothing but his mouth? it's his favorite thing.

he's good at it, too. his tongue is long and flexible, and he's intensely focused on your reactions, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you clutch the sheets, what makes you fall apart. he'll stay down there for as long as you'll let him, only surfacing to ask, "more? like that? tell me what you need."

receiving:

this is harder for him. receiving pleasure feels... selfish. he's not used to being the focus, to having someone want him that way. if you go down on him, he'll be overwhelmed, trembling, trying to pull you up because "you don't have to—i don't expect—"

but if you insist—if you show him you want to—he falls apart completely. tears, gasps, desperate little sounds. it's intensely vulnerable for him, and intensely beautiful.

example (giving):

you're on his bed, naked, and he's between your thighs like it's the only place he belongs. his tongue traces slow, careful patterns, watching your face the whole time.

"like that?" he murmurs against you, the vibration making you gasp. "tell me. i need to know. i need to make it perfect for you."

when you come, he keeps going, gentler now, drawing it out until you're pushing him away, oversensitive. he surfaces with a dazed, blissful expression, mouth slick, eyes full of stars.

"beautiful," he whispers. "you're so beautiful when you let go. can i do it again? please? just once more?"

example (receiving):

you push him back on the bed, kiss down his chest, his stomach. he realizes what you're doing and panics slightly.

"you don't—you really don't have to—i mean, if you want to, but you don't have to, i just—oh."

your mouth closes over him and his brain stops working entirely. his head falls back, a broken moan escaping, his hands flying to your hair—not pushing, just holding, just feeling.

"oh," he breathes again, voice cracking. "oh, my dear. oh, that's... that's..."

he doesn't last long. he's too overwhelmed, too unused to being wanted. when he comes, it's with a sob, and he pulls you up immediately, clutching you to his chest, crying and laughing at the same time.

"i love you," he whispers frantically. "i love you so much. i don't deserve you. i don't deserve this. thank you. thank you."

p = pace

fast and rough, or slow and gentle?

pierrot is, at his core, slow and gentle. that's his default, his comfort zone, his preferred way of connecting.

he moves like he's afraid you'll break, not because you're fragile, but because you're precious. every thrust is deliberate, every touch measured. he wants to feel everything, savor everything, draw it out until you're both trembling on the edge.

but, when he's scared—when he's had a nightmare, when he's jealous, when he's terrified of losing you—the pace changes. it becomes desperate. still gentle, but urgent. clinging. needing to be as close as physically possible, to feel you around him, to remind himself you're real.

for example (gentle):

he's inside you, moving slowly, so slowly you can feel every inch of him. his forehead is pressed to yours, eyes open, watching your face.

"i love you," he whispers with each thrust. "i love you. i love you. i love you."

it's less about the destination and more about the journey….? (that sounded hella corny… ugh) the closeness, the connection, the overwhelming intimacy of being this near to someone.

for example (desperate):

he had a nightmare about losing you. he woke shaking, pulled you close, and now he's inside you with an urgency that borders on frantic. not rough—never rough—but deep, clinging, his whole body pressed against yours.

"stay," he begs, over and over. "stay, stay, stay. don't leave me. please don't leave me. i need you. i need you so much."

he comes apart quickly, overwhelmed by emotion, and holds you even tighter afterward, still whispering pleas into your skin.

q = quickie

does he like quick, spontaneous encounters?

uhh, pierrot... doesn't really understand quickies.

as funny as it sounds, for him, intimacy is supposed to be a… ceremony? most definitely a private one. slow, careful, and meaningful. the idea of rushing through it feels wrong.

however, if you initiate, like if you need him, right now, can't wait, he won't refuse. he can't refuse you anything. but afterward, he'll want to hold you, to make it last, to turn it into something more than just friction and release.

what works:

a quiet moment backstage, you pulling him into a shadowed corner, kissing him desperately. he'll respond, hands trembling as they find your waist, but he'll keep listening for footsteps, nervous about being caught. he wants to give you what you need, but he also needs to feel safe.

for example:

you've been watching him all day—the way his hands move when he sews, the soft sound of his voice, the longing in his eyes when he looks at you. by evening, you can't wait anymore.

you find him in his wagon, push him back on the bed, kiss him breathless. he gasps against your mouth.

"now?" he whispers, surprised. "you want... now?"

"now."

he nods, already hard, already pulling at your clothes. it's faster than usual, still gentle, but urgent, driven by your need. when it's over, you're both breathless, and he pulls you close with a soft, wondering laugh.

"that was... different," he murmurs. "but wonderful. you're wonderful. can we do it again? slower this time? i want to make it last."

r = risk

is he willing to take risks? (public, being caught, etc.)

absolutely not.

look, pierrot's worst fear, beyond losing you, is being seen. seen in vulnerable moments, seen being intimate, seen as a creature of desire instead of just a sad, safe clown. the thought of someone, especially harlequin, watching him with you makes him physically ill.

he needs privacy. needs to know it's just the two of you, safe and hidden, before he can let go.

the one exception:

let’s say if you're both somewhere that feels private but technically isn’t, a secluded doctor’s garden at night, a hidden alcove, a place he's confirmed is empty—he might relax enough to take the risk. but he'll be anxious the whole time, ears pricked for any sound, ready to cover you both at a moment's notice.

example:

you've found a hidden spot behind the big top, surrounded by crates and shadows. it's late, the circus is quiet, and you're both feeling brave.

he's inside you, moving slowly, but his eyes keep darting toward the path, his breath catching at every distant sound.

"we should—" he starts, but you kiss him quiet.

"no one's coming. just feel. just be here with me."

he tries. he really does. but he can't fully let go, can't stop monitoring, and when a distant voice calls out, he freezes completely, pulling away and covering you both with his coat before you can even react.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, already guiding you back toward his wagon. "i can't. not here. please. let's go somewhere safe. i need to know it's just us."

s = stamina

how long can he last?

hahahaha, pierrot's stamina is just… inconsistent.

starting with round one:

the first time, especially if it's been a while, he doesn't last long. he's too overwhelmed, by your warmth, your scent, the reality of being inside you. he'll apologize profusely afterward, embarrassed, but you'll learn to expect it.

for multiple rounds, give him twenty minutes to recover, and he's ready again. and this time, he lasts longer. more controlled. more able to focus on you, to draw things out, to make sure you're satisfied before he lets himself go.

then the marathon, if you spend a whole night together, if you keep him close, keep touching him, keep reassuring him, his stamina builds. by the third or fourth time, he can go for hours, slow and steady, only stopping when you're  exhausted.

for example:

the first time ends embarrassingly fast. he's flushed, apologetic, hiding his face in your neck. 

"i'm sorry," he mumbles. "i just... you feel so good. i couldn't help it."

you stroke his hair, reassuring him. "it's okay. we have all night." and you do. an hour later, he's inside you again, moving slowly, deliberately, watching your face with intense focus.

"better?" he whispers. "i can go longer now. i want to make it good for you. i want to make you feel as good as you make me feel."

he does. over and over, until you're both wrecked and satisfied and clinging to each other in

t = toys

do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?

lolololo, pierrot does not own toys sadly.

the concept never occurred to him. there's been a moment of time where harlequin gifted him something similar, where he just threw it out the window. (or shove the shit up his ass lol)

his relationship with his own body has always been one of quiet discomfort, why would he seek out objects to enhance an experience he's only just learning to want? his hands, his mouth, his desperate devotion—that's always felt like enough. 

more than enough. okay, maybe too much.

but you? you change things.

the first time he sees you owning a toy, left out accidentally, maybe something you introduce intentionally, he freezes. his starry eyes go wide, swirling with confusion and curiosity and that familiar, flickering embarrassment.

"what... what is that for?" he whispers, voice barely audible. his long fingers reach out, then snatch back, like he's afraid it might bite. "it's... for pleasure? for inside you?"

when you explain, when you show him, his whole face flushes that beautiful, dusty pink. he covers his mouth with one hand, eyes darting between you and the object like he's watching something forbidden.

"i... i could never..." he starts, then stops. swallows. tries again. "i mean, i wouldn't know how to—i wouldn't want to hurt you with—"

but here's the thing about pierrot: his embarrassment is real, but his desire to please you is stronger.

for example:

you're lying together in his wagon, wrapped in that heavy, velvet quiet he creates. the toy is between you which you've assured him is safe. he's been staring at it for five minutes, working up to something.

"may i... may i try?" he finally whispers, not meeting your eyes. "using it on you. i want to see. i want to know what makes you feel that way. but you have to... you have to guide me. please. i'm so afraid of doing it wrong."

his hands tremble as he picks it up. his fingers—those long, elegant, terrifyingly gentle fingers—hold it like it's made of spun glass. when you show him where, how, he listens with that terrifying focus of his, cataloging every instruction.

"here? like this? oh—" your reaction makes him gasp. his stars flare bright. "did i—was that good? tell me. please. i need to hear you."

he's intensely focused on your responses. every hitch of breath, every twitch of muscle, every small sound—he notices, remembers, adjusts. 

the toy becomes an extension of his desire to learn you, to map you, to make you fall apart under his careful attention.

afterward, when you're breathless and trembling, he sets the toy aside carefully, fast as fuck, and curls around you, pressing his face into your hair.

"that was..." he swallows. "that was watching you. feeling you. knowing i helped cause that. i think... i think i understand now. why people want these. it's not about the thing. it's about what the thing does to you."

he's quiet for a moment. then, even softer. “can we... can we do that again? sometime? when you're ready? i want to get better at it. i want to be the best at making you feel good. even if i need... help."

he never uses toys on himself.

the idea makes him too self-conscious, too aware of his own strange body. but on you? with you? he'll use anything, learn anything, try anything. 

as long as you're there, guiding him, wanting him.

(there was a part of me that wanted to write pegging him, but I feel like that's a separate... post.)

u = unfair

how much do they like to tease?

awww, pierrot doesn't understand teasing.

poor baby, not really. not in the way harlequin does—sharp and mocking, designed to destabilize. pierrot's entire existence has been about not being teased, about being the target of cruelty rather than its source. the idea of deliberately provoking someone, even in pleasure, feels almost cruel to him.

so he doesn't tease. not intentionally.

but he's unfair in ways he doesn't understand.

his natural state, like that soft, trembling vulnerability, those wide starry eyes, that voice like dust settling on velvet—is devastatingly effective without him trying. 

he'll whisper "i love you" in the middle of something intense, his voice breaking with sincerity, and you'll completely lose your composure. 

he'll press his cool lips to your pulse point and murmur "you're so beautiful when you feel good" and it hits like a shockwave because he means it. he's not performing. he's not strategizing. he's just... overwhelmed by you, and saying so.

the unfair part is that he has no idea he's doing it.

for example:

you're in his lap, facing him, his long arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll dissolve. things have progressed, slowly, always slowly with him, because he needs to check and recheck that you're okay, and he's inside you, finally, both of you trembling with the intensity of it.

he's murmuring. he does that. little broken confessions against your skin.

"you feel like... like coming home. like the first warm day after a long winter. i didn't know anything could feel like this. i didn't know i could feel like this."

you're already close, his words pushing you higher, and he has no idea. he keeps going, voice hitching with his own building pleasure, "i love you. i love you so much it scares me. you're everything. you're my whole world. please don't ever leave. please let me do this forever. please—"

and you're gone. completely undone. because his sincerity, his desperate, unguarded devotion, is the most unfairly effective thing you've ever experienced.

he freezes when you come apart around him, stars flaring wide.

"did i—was that—did i do that? with just my... my words?" his voice is awed, disbelieving. "i can... i can make you feel that way by talking?"

after that, he starts to understand. not to tease—he could never be cruel like that—but to offer. to give you those soft, broken confessions because he's learned they affect you. 

he'll whisper "you're mine" in that trembling voice and watch your pupils blow wide. he'll murmur "i need you so much it hurts" and feel you clench around him.

it's not teasing. it's truth-telling. and somehow… infinitely more unfair. 

v = volume 

how loud are they? what sounds do they make?

pierrot has spent his whole life being quiet.

part of it is his act, the mute clown, the silent mourner, the figure who communicates through gesture and expression because his voice was deemed "too strange" for the crowds. part of it is survival, when you're other, when you're different, you learn to take up less space. to be seen but not heard.

so in the beginning, he's agonizingly quiet.

when you touch him, he gasps, but it's barely audible, a sharp intake of breath that he immediately tries to stifle. when you find a spot that makes his hips stutter, he bites his lip hard enough to bruise, holding back whatever sound wants to escape. 

his whole body trembles with the effort of silence, of not being too much, of not scaring you away with the strangeness of his pleasure.

but you don't want silence. you want him.

for example:

the first time you make him moan, like really moan, not that stifled, choked-off thing he's been allowing—it's an accident.

you're learning his body, finally, after weeks of him focusing entirely on you. you find a spot, some sensitive place where his inhuman biology makes pleasure sharper, and before he can stop it, a sound escapes.

it's beautiful, just low and melodic, like the saddest cello you've ever heard, but threaded through with something raw and desperate. it vibrates through his chest, through yours, through the very air of the wagon. his eyes go wide, hands flying to his mouth.

"i'm sorry," he gasps, muffled behind his fingers. "i'm sorry, i didn't mean to—it was too loud, i know it was too loud, people used to—they always said—"

you pull his hands away. you kiss him. you tell him, firmly, that you want to hear him. that his sounds are beautiful. that they're yours. it takes time. so much time. but eventually, he starts to let go.

when he does, the range is devastating.

fisrt, soft, breathy gasps when you kiss along his neck, his collarbone, that spot below his ear he can't guard, trembling whimpers when you touch him, when you look at him, when you whisper his name like a prayer

low, melodic moans that seem to come from somewhere deep in his chest, vibrating through both of you when he's close, jsut broken, desperate pleas—"please, please, i need you, don't stop, i'm yours, i'm yours"—that build and build until he can barely form words

and finally, when he comes, a sound that's almost like crying. a raw, beautiful, heart-wrenching cry of your name, his voice cracking with the intensity of it, tears streaming down his cheeks as pleasure and love and terror all collide at once

example of full progression:

you're beneath him, his long body curved over yours like a shelter. he's moving slowly, always slowly, because he's terrified of hurting you, but building, always building. 

his face is buried in your neck, and you can feel every sound vibrating against your skin. first, the gasps. hot against your throat. "ah—ah—" then the whimpers, higher, more desperate. his hips stutter. his fingers grip the sheets.

then the words start. broken, spilled against your pulse. "so good. you feel so good. i can't—i'm not going to last—you feel like—like heaven. like everything. i love you. i love—"

his voice climbs. loses control. becomes something raw and pleading. "please. please. i'm close. can i—can i—please let me—i need—"

when you nod, when you give permission, when you pull him deeper with your heels, he breaks.

your name, torn from somewhere primal. a cry that's half moan, half sob. his whole body locks up, trembling violently, and the sound goes on and on, melodic and desperate and so purely him that you feel it in your bones.

afterward, he collapses against you, shaking, crying, apologizing between heaving breaths. 

"too loud. i was too loud. i'm sorry. i couldn't—i tried to be quiet, i tried—"

but he's not too sorry. not really.  because when you hold him tighter, when you whisper "never be quiet, not with me, never again," he goes still. looks up at you with those starry, tear-filled eyes.

"you... you liked it? my sounds? they don't... bother you?"

when you kiss him, when you show him, something in his chest unknots. the next time, he's still shy. 

still hesitant. but when the pleasure builds, when the sounds start to escape, he doesn't fight them.

he lets you hear him. lets you have that part of him too.

w = wild 

what's the wildest thing they're willing to do? where are their limits?

pierrot is, counterintuitively, very willing to explore. 

not because he's naturally adventurous, but because he wants so desperately to please you. if you want something, he wants to give it. 

if you have a fantasy, he wants to fulfill it. his only real limit is anything that might actually hurt you—emotionally or physically.

but here's the thing: he's also a romantic idealist. so his "wild" tends to manifest in theatrical, almost poetic ways. elaborate scenarios. extended sessions that feel more like performance art than sex. he wants it to be meaningful. he wants it to be beautiful.

for example:

you mention once, casually, that you've always been curious about doing it somewhere... unexpected. somewhere semi-public, maybe. with the risk of getting caught.

he thinks about this for three days. you can see him turning it over in his mind, his starry eyes distant, his long fingers drumming thoughtfully on surfaces.

then, one night, he leads you to the main tent after hours. the big top is empty, silent, lit only by moonlight filtering through the canvas. 

he's set up something—blankets and pillows in the center ring, surrounded by the empty seats, the silent trapezes hanging overhead.

"here," he whispers, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "we're surrounded by ghosts of performances past. but tonight... tonight we're the only show. and the only audience is each other."

it's thrilling. it's terrifying. it's him—transforming your casual desire into something mythic, something that feels like it belongs in a story.

afterward, wrapped in blankets in the center of the empty ring, he holds you close and murmurs:

"anywhere you want, my love. any way you want. i will make it beautiful. i will make it ours."

his limits are simple: no cruelty, no humiliation, nothing that would make you feel anything less than cherished. but beyond that? he's yours. completely. creatively. eternally.

(again, I wanted to go more in detail about a threesome with harlequin, however, that situation would not end well, it's like a 50/50 chance and lotssssss of convincing on both sides)

x = x-ray 

what's going on inside their head during intimacy?

holy shit, peirrot is... a lot.

look his mind during intimacy is a chaotic swirl of sensation, emotion, and desperate internal monologue. he's not one of those people who can just be in the moment, his brain is always running, always processing, always feeling.

not kidding, there's layers to this shit, five of them.

layer one: sensation. oh god, this is what you feel like. this is what you sound like. this is what it means to be this close. it's overwhelming. it's too much. it's not enough.

layer two: worship. you're so beautiful. you're so real. how is this real? how is this happening? i don't deserve this. but you're here. you chose me. you're here.

layer three: anxiety. am i doing this right? is this good for you? should i move differently? slower? faster? are you okay? you'd tell me if you weren't okay, right? please be okay. please like this. please don't leave.

layer four: devotion. i love you. i love you. i love you. the words are just repeating, a mantra, a prayer, the only thing that makes sense in this moment of complete sensory overload.

layer five: preservation. i need to remember this. every second. every sound. every expression. i need to keep this forever. in case it never happens again. in case you realize you could do better. in case i wake up.

for example:

let’s say, you're close, like really close and he can tell, based on your breathing, your sounds, the way you're gripping him. and his brain just... short-circuits.

inside his head: they’re going to, they almost, that sound they just made, i need to remember that sound, that was for me, that was because of me—

please let this be good for them, please let this be what they wants, i would die if this wasn't what they wanted—they’re so beautiful like this, so open, so trusting, how did i get so lucky, how is this my life, how is she mine—

i love them i love them i love them i love them i love them— don't forget this don't forget this don't forget this— 

and then you come apart beneath him, and his brain just... stops. there's only you. only this moment. only the feeling of being trusted enough to witness you like this. 

afterward, when you're both catching your breath, he's already cataloging. filing away. preserving. because in his mind, this moment is already 

becoming a memory—a treasure he'll hold onto forever, just in case.

y = yearning 

how much do they crave intimacy? how often do they think about it?

pierrot craves intimacy like a drowning man craves air. it's not just desire—it's need. a deep, fundamental hunger for connection that's been starving for longer than he can remember.

he thinks about it constantly. not in a crude way—he's not imagining specific acts all day. but the idea of you? the memory of your skin? the thought of being close to you again? it's always there, humming under everything he does.

example:

you'll catch him looking at you across the room, his starry eyes soft and distant, a small smile playing at his lips. when you ask what he's thinking about, he blushes, looks away, mumbles something about "nothing."

but later, when you're alone, he'll admit it.

"i was thinking about last night," he whispers, face buried in your hair. "the way you... the sounds you made. the way you held onto me. i think about it all the time. i can't help it. you're just—being with you is the only time i feel real. the only time the noise in my head goes quiet."

he's not demanding, he'd never pressure you. but his need for you is palpable, a constant undercurrent in everything he does. when you're apart, he counts the hours until he can see you again. when you're together, he's always touching, your hand, your hair, your shoulder, reassuring himself that you're still there.

again, if you initiate? if you're the one who wants him? he practically melts. the yearning in his eyes becomes overwhelming, desperate, grateful.

"you want me?" he'll breathe, like it's the most incredible thing he's ever heard. "right now? you want me?"

and he'll give himself to you completely, utterly, without reservation. because your desire is the greatest gift he could ever receive.

z = zone

what are their erogenous zones? where do they love to be touched?

pierrot's body is, in many ways, a mystery even to himself.

he's spent so long feeling other that he's never really explored his own capacity for pleasure. so discovering his sensitive spots with you is like exploring a new country, exciting, surprising, occasionally overwhelming.

his primary zones:

his neck, especially the sides. this is his most sensitive area. a kiss there—just a soft press of lips—can make him shiver. a bite? even gentle? he'll gasp, his whole body arching toward you, stars flaring bright in his eyes. "there," he'll whisper, voice breaking. "please. there."

his wrists, the underside. that place where his non-human blood flows slow and steady. when you kiss it, or lick it, or just hold your thumb there, feeling his pulse, he goes still. completely, utterly still. it's like you've touched something sacred. "you're not afraid," he'll murmur, wonder in his voice. "you're not afraid of what i am."

the small of his back. he's ticklish there, but in a way that makes him press closer, not pull away. your hand resting there, fingers tracing lazy circles, makes him feel held. protected. wanted.

his hips, the jut of bone. when you grip him there, so during, before, after, he makes this sound. this desperate, keening little sound that's half pleasure, half relief. because your hands on his hips means you're holding on. means you don't want him to leave.

his ears. not the lobe, the points. the slight elven curve. they're incredibly sensitive. a breath there makes him shiver. a kiss makes him whimper. a nip? he'll cry out, hands flying to your shoulders, stars exploding in his eyes.

oh, yeah! like mention, he also loves having his hair touched. 

such as being stroked. pulled, gently. it makes him feel cared for in a way that transcends the physical. when you run your fingers through his hair, he leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth, his eyes fluttering closed, a soft sound escaping his throat.

and his hands. he loves when you kiss his hands. each finger, one by one. the palm. the sensitive spot between his long fingers. it makes him feel cherished—like every part of him is worthy of your attention.

for example:

you discover the neck thing by accident. you're kissing him, slow and sweet, and your mouth drifts to the side of his neck. just a soft press. nothing intense.

his whole body freezes. 

a sound punches out of him, high, surprised, needy. his hands come up to cup your face, holding you there, keeping your mouth against that spot.

"again," he begs, voice wrecked. "please. please. i didn't know. i never knew it could feel like, please."

and when you oblige, when you kiss that spot again, harder this time, he melts. becomes liquid in your arms. surrenders completely.

afterward, he touches the spot with wonder in his eyes. "i've had this neck my whole existence," he murmurs. "and i never knew. you found something i didn't even know i had. you keep finding me. over and over. how do you keep finding me?"

sooo, in summarized about pierrot!

he's embarrassed by everything, just his inexperience, his body, his voice, his desperate need. 

but underneath that embarrassment is a core of pure, unwavering devotion. he wants to learn. wants to please. wants to give you every part of himself, even the parts he's spent his whole life hiding.

he doesn't tease, but his sincerity is devastating. he's quiet until he can't be, and then he's the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. he'll use anything, try anything, be anything, as long as you're there, guiding him, wanting him, loving him.

and afterward, when he curls around you and whispers "thank you" against your skin like you've given him the world? 

you'll realize you have. you've given him yourself. 

and for pierrot, that's everything.

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ

Your thighs cradle his hips, soft and trembling just like his. He’s been hard for what feels like hours, since you first tugged his hoodie over your head and let him see every inch of skin he’s only dared imagine lately. He’s leaking against your stomach, slick and insistent, but he hasn’t moved to push inside yet.

He can’t.

Not yet.

Because the second he does, this becomes permanent. Proof he finally got you back. Proof he’s allowed to have this.

“Xav,” you whisper, fingers threading through his hair, tugging just enough to make him look at you instead of staring at where your bodies almost touch. “Hey. Breathe.”

He tries. The inhale is ragged. His eyes are glassy, too bright, too wet. He blinks fast so he can force the tears back inside.

“I-” His voice cracks on the single syllable. He swallows, tries again. “I dreamed this so many times. Every version ended with me waking up alone.”

Your thumbs brush the corners of his eyes before the tears can fall.

“You’re not dreaming.”

He lets out a broken little laugh that sounds more like a sob.

“I know. That’s the terrifying part.”

You pull him down until his forehead rests against yours. Your noses bump. Your breaths mingle. His cock twitches against your folds, hot, slippery from how long he’s spent kissing down your body, licking into you until you were shaking and pleading.

When he finally notches himself at your entrance, he freezes again.

You feel the tremor travel through him, feel the way his arms cage you tighter like he’s bracing for impact.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “I’ll stop. I swear.”

You cup his face. “Don’t you dare.”

One slow, careful roll of his hips.

The head slips inside.

He chokes on air.

His whole body locks up; muscles jumping, breath punched out of him in a sound that’s half moan, half broken whimper. His eyes squeeze shut. Forehead drops to your shoulder. He’s shaking so hard the bed creaks.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You’re- so warm. So- tight-”

He doesn’t thrust yet. Just stays there, barely inside, letting himself feel it. Feel you clenching around him like your body remembers him even if your mind spent years apart.

Tears prick at his lashes again. He blinks them away, but one slips free, tracing down his cheek to land on your lips.

You lick it away without thinking.

That undoes him.

You feel him throb inside you. Feel the way he’s fighting not to move, not to chase the heat too fast, like he’s scared it’ll disappear if he’s greedy.

“I missed you,” he chokes out against your skin. “I missed you so much I-I thought I’d die from it some nights.”

His hips give one helpless little rock. Then another. Shallow. Shaky.

You wrap your legs around him, pull him closer.

“I’m here now.”

That breaks something.

The next thrust is deeper, harder. Still careful, but desperate. His mouth finds yours, messy, wet, tasting like salt and relief. He’s whimpering into the kiss every time he bottoms out, every time your walls flutter around him.

He doesn’t last long.

How could he?

Years of wanting crashes down all at once.

He comes with a broken “-love you-” muffled against your lips, hips jerking erratically as he spills inside you, hot, too much, pulsing so deep you feel it in your stomach. His whole body shudders through it, arms trembling where they hold him up.

When it’s over he doesn’t pull out.

He collapses onto you, careful not to crush, but heavy enough that you feel every inch of him still buried inside, still twitching with aftershocks.

His face stays pressed to your neck.

You can feel the goosebumps on his skin.

You stroke his hair. Feel the way his breathing slowly evens out.

“Stay,” he whispers, voice raw. “Please don’t go again.”

You kiss the top of his head.

“Never.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for half a decade.

And for the first time in a lifetime, he falls asleep inside you, warm, safe, finally home.

RAFAYEL

He's not gentle.

Not at first.

Years of waiting, watching, wanting. Of painting your face from memory until the canvases blurred with his frustration. Of waking from dreams where he could almost taste your skin, only to find empty sheets and the echo of your name on his lips.

And now you're here. In his studio. On his bed that's more nest than mattress, surrounded by half finished sketches of you that he never quite got right.

You're naked under him, finally, and he's staring like he'll memorize every freckle, every curve, before fate rips you away again.

His hands tremble when they trace your sides, not from nerves, but from the sheer effort of holding back. He wants to devour you. Claim you so thoroughly that no other lifetime could erase it.

"Raf," you breathe, reaching for him, but he catches your wrists. Pins them above your head with one hand. His grip is bruising. Desperate.

"Don't," he warns, voice low and ragged. Lilac eyes dark with something ancient and hungry. "Don't touch me yet. I won't last if you do."

You arch under him anyway, teasing, always teasing and he groans, leaning down to sink his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp, enough to leave a mark that'll bloom purple by morning.

Mine, it says. Finally mine.

He's hard against your thigh, leaking already, the tip flushed and slick. He's been like this since you stripped for him, whispering promises he half believed were lies.

When he finally spreads your thighs wider, positioning himself at your entrance, he pauses. Just the head pressing in, hot and insistent and his free hand digs into your hip like an anchor.

"Look at me," he demands. His voice cracks. Just a little.

You do.

And that's when the dam breaks.

He thrusts in, slow at first, inch by torturous inch, feeling you stretch around him, warm and wet and perfect. His eyes flutter shut. A shudder runs through him, violent enough that the bedframe protests.

"Gods- " He chokes on the word. Forehead drops to yours. "You feel like every fucking prayer I never thought would be answered."

Before you knew it, you felt a small pearl roll over your collarbone, one, then two, they started gathering around your shoulders.

You look up and search for Rafayel’s gaze.

Your eyes widen as you see his lips pressed together tightly and his lashes wet.

Before you can say anything, he moves again.

The next thrust is harder. Deeper. He releases your wrists to wrap both arms around you, clinging, pulling you flush against him as his hips snap forward again and again. The rhythm is uneven. Frantic. Like he's afraid if he slows down, you'll disappear.

"Rafayel-" Your nails rake down his back, leaving red lines he'll wear like badges.

He hisses at the sting. Buries his face in your neck. "Say it again. My name. Say you're mine this time."

You do. Over and over, gasping it into his ear as he fucks into you with everything he's held back for years. His hand slips between you, fingers circling your clit, possessive and skilled from all those lonely nights imagining this.

You come first, clenching around him so tight he nearly blacks out. Your cry echoes off the studio walls, mingling with the wet sounds of skin on skin.

He follows seconds later.

Spilling inside you with a broken moan, hot pulses that seem to go on forever, marking you from the inside out. His hips stutter. Grind deeper like he can fuse you together.

When it's over, he doesn't pull out.

Doesn't let go.

Just holds you there, still buried deep, as his breathing slows. Tears turning into pearls streak down his face now, silent and unashamed. He brushes them away from your cheeks too, thumb gentle for the first time tonight.

"I waited so long," he whispers, voice hoarse. "Don't make me do it again."

You pull him down for a kiss, soft, salty with shared tears.

"I won't."

He exhales against your mouth. Finally relaxes into your arms.

That night, he finally sleeps without dreaming of loss.

ZAYNE

He insists on the lights low.

Not off, just dim enough that the warm glow from the bedside lamp paints long shadows across your bodies, but bright enough that he can see every detail. Every flutter of your lashes. Every inch of skin he’s finally allowed to touch without layers of restraint between you.

You’re both bare now. He’s kneeling between your thighs, palms braced on either side of your ribs, and the first real press of his chest to yours makes something in his throat click shut.

Skin.

Actual skin on skin.

His skin on your skin.

His heartbeat is loud enough you can feel it thudding against your sternum like it’s trying to climb inside you.

“Tell me if I-” He stops. Swallows. Tries again, quieter. “If anything feels wrong. Or too much.”

His voice is steady on the surface but you hear the faint tremor underneath, the way his breath hitches when your fingers trail down his spine.

He’s nervous.

Not the fumbling, boyish kind. The kind that comes from someone who’s spent years perfecting control, who’s terrified that if he lets go even a fraction, the whole carefully constructed wall will come down.

You cup his face. Thumb along the sharp line of his jaw.

“I want this. I want you.”

His eyes close for a second. When they open again, the green is darker, pupils blown wide.

He lowers himself slowly. Until every inch of his front is pressed to yours, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, thighs slotted together. His cock rests heavy and hot against your folds, not pushing in yet, just letting you both feel the contact. The heat. The slide of skin on skin.

A low sound escapes him, almost inaudible. Not a moan. More like relief so sharp it hurts.

He stays like that for long moments. Just breathing you in. Memorizing the way your nipples drag against his chest with every inhale. The way your heartbeat syncs with his the longer he stays pressed close.

When he finally shifts, reaches between you to guide himself, the movement is careful. Except his hand trembles.

The head breaches you.

He freezes.

Every muscle in his arms locks. His forehead drops to your shoulder. You feel the exhale against your collarbone, long, shaky, controlled.

“Warm,” he murmurs. So quiet you almost miss it. “You’re… so warm.”

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t chase. Just sinks in bit by bit, like he’s cataloging every sensation. The stretch. The slick heat. The way your walls flutter and grip him involuntarily.

When he’s fully seated, hips flush, buried to the hilt, he stops again.

Doesn’t move.

Just holds himself there, arms caging you, face tucked against your neck. You can feel the fine tremor running through him now. Not from effort. From the sheer overwhelming reality of it.

No distance left.

No more barriers.

He exhales again, longer this time. His lips brush your pulse point.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he says, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “I didn’t know… how much it would feel like surrender.”

You wrap your legs around his waist. Pull him impossibly closer.

He groans, low and broken, at the shift in angle. His hips give one instinctive, helpless roll before he catches himself.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I-I need a moment.”

You don’t let him retreat.

Instead you slide your hands up his back, nails grazing lightly, then press your palms flat. Skin to skin. Everywhere.

“Move when you’re ready,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Something shifts in his breathing. Not tears, Zayne doesn’t cry, not like that but the tension in his shoulders finally, finally starts to melt.

The first real thrust is slow. Measured. Deep enough to make you both gasp.

He keeps the rhythm controlled at first, long, rolling strokes that let him feel every drag, every clench. But the longer he stays buried in you, the more the control frays.

His mouth finds yours. Kisses turn open mouthed, messy, desperate. One hand slides under your lower back, arching you into him so there’s not a single inch of space left between your bodies.

Skin. Heat. Friction.

He starts to lose the measured pace.

Thrusts get deeper, harder and edged with something raw.

“You feel-” His voice cracks. He tries again. “Perfect. You feel perfect.”

He buries his face against your throat when he comesx hips grinding in tight, stuttering circles as he spills inside you. The quiet, shuddering release of years of restraint finally giving way.

He stays inside after.

Doesn’t speak for a long minute.

Just holds you. Chest to chest. Breathing in time.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are clear. Calm again. But softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Fingers threading through yours. Squeezing once. “For letting me… have this.”

You kiss his palm.

“Always.”

He exhales. Settles his weight more fully over you.

And for once, Dr. Li lets himself rest. Completely

SYLUS

He doesn’t pounce.

He could. Gods know he wants to, has wanted to since the first time you looked at him. But the second your clothes hit the floor and you’re bare beneath him on silk sheets that cost more than most people’s rent, something in his chest locks up.

Not fear. Not exactly.

It’s the weight of knowing you’re choosing this. Choosing him. After everything. After blood and betrayal and nights where he thought he’d lost you forever.

So he stays kneeling at the edge of the bed, red eyes locked on yours, waiting for permission even though you already gave it with the way you reached for him.

“Sylus,” you whisper, soft. A little shaky.

His name in your mouth still undoes him every time.

He exhales through his nose. Control slowly slipping away. Then he lowers himself over you, careful, so careful, bracing his forearms on either side of your head instead of caging you like he normally would. His body is a furnace but he keeps most of his weight off you, like you’re made of glass he’s afraid he’ll crack.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. One large hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “Tell me if you need me to stop. At any point. I mean it.”

You shake your head. Reach up. Thread your fingers through silver hair and pull him down until his lips brush yours.

“I want you,” you say against his mouth. “All of you.”

That’s when the last thread of restraint frays.

He kisses you like he’s starving, deep, slow, devouring but still measured. Still careful. His tongue slides against yours in lazy strokes while one hand trails down your side, memorizing every dip and curve like he’s mapping territory he’s only been allowed to dream of.

When he breaks the kiss, he doesn’t go for your neck or your breasts first.

He slides lower.

Broad shoulders push your thighs apart. He settles between them like he belongs there, because he does now. Because you’re letting him.

His first lick is tentative. Testing. Flat tongue dragging from entrance to clit in one long, slow stripe.

You arch. Gasp.

He groans, guttural, against your core. The sound vibrates through you.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You taste better than I imagined. And I imagined a lot.”

Then he stops holding back on the oral.

He eats you like it’s the only thing that matters. Like your pleasure is the only currency he cares about tonight. Lips seal around your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder when your hips buck. Tongue circles, flicks, dips inside, relentless but never rough. Two thick fingers slide in when you’re dripping, curling slowly, stroking that spot that makes your thighs tremble around his head.

He doesn’t stop until you come, shaking, crying his name, nails digging into his scalp.

Only then does he lift his head. Lips shiny. Eyes blown black with want. But he’s still careful.

He crawls back up your body. Kisses you so you can taste yourself on his tongue. Lets you feel how hard he is, thick, leaking, throbbing against your thigh but doesn’t push for more.

“Not yet,” he rasps when you try to reach for him. “I need you ready. I need you soaked. I’m not small, kitten. And I’m not risking hurting you. Not tonight.”

So he works you open again. Fingers. Tongue. Whispered praise against your skin, “So good for me,” “Look at you taking it,” “That’s it, let me hear you”, until you’re trembling on the edge a second time.

Only then does he line himself up.

The head nudges your entrance. He pauses. Forehead pressed to yours. Breathing ragged.

“I’ve wanted this,” he admits, voice cracking just enough to betray him. “For so long I stopped believing I’d ever have it. And now that I do…”

He swallows hard.

“I’m terrified I’ll ruin it.”

You cup his face. Pull him closer.

“You won’t.”

He pushes in, slow. So slow. Inch by torturous inch. Every time you tense, he freezes. Murmurs against your lips. Kisses the corner of your eye. Waits until you relax before moving again.

When he’s finally seated, deep, stretching you full, he stops. Completely still. Arms shaking where they hold him up. Face buried in your collarbone.

His voice is wrecked. “You’re everything I’ve ever been missing.”

He doesn’t thrust right away. Just rocks. Tiny, shallow movements that let you adjust. That let him feel every flutter, every clench. Skin to skin. Heat to heat.

When he finally starts moving, long, rolling strokes, it’s reverent. Worshipful. Every thrust angled to hit that spot inside you. One hand slips between your bodies to circle your clit in time with his hips.

He wants you to come again. Needs it. Needs to feel you fall apart around him before he lets himself go.

You do, clenching so tight he chokes on a groan. Your orgasm drags his out of him like a confession.

He comes with a broken sound, half growl, half plea, burying himself as deep as he can. Spilling hot and thick inside you, hips grinding in helpless little circles like he can’t bear to leave even an inch.

He doesn’t pull out after.

Just gathers you close. Rolls so you’re draped over his chest. One arm locked around your waist. The other hand stroking your hair.

His heartbeat thunders under your ear, fast, unsteady.

“I love you,” he whispers into the dark. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

You press a kiss to his collarbone.

“Never.”

He exhales. Long. Shaky. Finally lets himself relax beneath you.

Oh, Casper! Of course. You wonder whether he’s feeling any better now. As adorable as he is with a flushed nose and wrapped up in his pyjamas, you’d rather have him healthy than sick. You rise out of bed, yawning, and that’s when you feel it.

The waterfall. 

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter. First a cold, and now this—you can’t catch a break, can you? With a frustrated sigh, you swiftly waddle over to the bathroom to inspect the damage. Thankfully, it’s not too bad, but that’s not your only problem. Your cramps tend to be the worst during the first few days, and lucky you, you just ran out of painkillers. You can already feel the accursed sensation beginning to build in your abdomen. It’s only an uncomfortable tingle at the moment, but you know well that this is but an omen of what is to come. 

Whatever. You’ll survive. Hey, maybe it’s the universe’s way of making you appreciate being alive?

…Yeah, right. If that’s the case, maybe you would rather have had Casper take your soul last night. This sucks. 

Well, not like you can do much about it. Worse things happen at sea, as they say. It’s about time you started getting ready; you’ve spent long enough in the bathroom. You slap on a pad, rush through your morning routine, and settle into the day-opening ritual which has now become habit: which is to say, texting Casper to fill the lonely void in your heart. You open the texting app and type, 

Seeing as I’ve lived through the night, I’d say the cold didn’t snuff you out. My big strong boy <3 Are you feeling any better? Ah, damn… I missed my chance to send you a ‘get well soon’ card and chocolates. Next time, for sure.

A few moments later, his reply pops up on the screen. He’s changed his profile picture again: another selfie, this time with a red flower tucked in his hair. A little smile spreads across your face. He took your suggestion, then.

hello to you as well.  i’m ever so sorry to disappoint, but i have no intention on ever experiencing that again. but, chocolates, hmm. curious. that need not be limited to a time when i am sick.

Oh? That’s new. You add ‘Casper likes chocolate’ to your mental list of things you know about him, which is growing by the day. 

A sweet tooth? Unexpected. 

even i can admit that mortals have brought some excellent things into existence.  chocolate being one of them. it is relatively high up the list. much like the computer i use now, or cup noodles. fantastic inventions. 

The talk of chocolate flips some sort of switch in your brain, and you feel suddenly like a starved animal. God, you could commit some atrocities for a chocolate bar right now. 

You know what, that’s fair. I’m having a chocolate craving right now myself.

you also have a sweet tooth?

Not usually, no. But it’s that time of the month again, so…

??? what time of the month? the twentieth?

You smile to yourself. 

Never mind. 

okay… so, as for your question… did you spend your entire night worrying about me?  do i consume that much of your thoughts?

Sounds like you were thinking about me, buddy. You’re sitting there, imagining me imagining you. Do you like me that much?

…….… i do not know what you are talking about.

You liiiike me.

Your conversation continues along a similar vein, with you teasing him mercilessly and him trying (and failing) not to fluster before returning to the topic of his recovery. He says he’s feeling better. That makes one of us, at least, you think drily. The pain is building steadily, and you’re having to shift in your chair to keep comfortable. Not that it’s working. 

anyways. sunshine, what do you know about birthdays?

You blink. That’s certainly a change of topic. 

Birthdays? That is ‘the day of one’s birth’, Casper.

ah! i forgot i was talking to the monarch of sarcasm.

I think we can both have that title.

if it is you, i suppose i do not mind sharing…. but, birthdays… what kind of things do people do on the days of their birth? live sacrifices? feasts?

The first proper wave of pain hits you. You clench your teeth, the lower half of your body seizing up against the unfair assault. You type,

Fuck.

A few seconds of silence on Casper’s end. Then,

people WHAT??

Briefly, you’re puzzled by his reaction. Then you read back over your conversation and realise how he must have understood your text. You can’t help but cackle.  

Oh. My bad. I didn’t mean it like that, lmao. I mean, some people do, of course. But not everyone. Anyway ignore me lol Why the question? Do you have any plans to conduct human sacrifices? Or… to do something else, perhaps…?

… ahem. to answer your first question. i was walking amongst the halls of my workplace last night…

While you were sick???

there is not enough time to worry about that. i had to find out more. about our strange… connection. the link beyond the one i created between us. it was late. i happened to overhear some superiors talking quietly… for context, i am of the 13th station, grim reaper number 8394. …they said that… those numbered 8100-8400 of the 13th station were created on this day, many decades ago.

Your mouth falls open.

You’re telling me… TODAY IS YOUR BIRTHDAY??????

Cue a discussion about Casper’s preferred birthday activities, the fleeting nature of love,  and a debate about whether or not imps would appreciate having a tail pinned into their backside. Just as you finish gaslighting him, a familiar notification flashes across your screen, taking you by surprise.

[Incoming call. Accept?]

Your mouse hovers over the two options, Yes and Yes. After some careful deliberation, you select the bottom option. You can’t help but think of that meme about the illusion of free choice—except here there isn’t even the illusion. It’s not as if you mind it, though. 

Casper’s red-lit room fills your screen, along with the man himself, who is lounging as usual in his chair with his cheek resting on his hand. He’s back in his normal attire, with the hair clips and Azrael absent (to your dismay). Nevertheless, the sight of him makes you feel fuzzy inside, and for a moment you aren’t thinking about the cramps.

“Wow, way to call out of the blue!” you remark. 

“I grow sick of typing, and I longed to see your face,” Casper replies, his tongue poking out from between his lips. 

“Oh.” You feel your face warm. “That is… awfully honest of you, Grimmy.”

“I am always honest,” he says with an air of self-satisfied pride. 

“No, you’re always truthful. Definitely not always honest,” you correct. “They're different things.”

He smiles. “You know me so well, Sunshine.”

You readjust your position in your own chair again to alleviate the discomfort. “Somehow. It really does feel like we’ve known each other forever.”

“Strangely, I feel the same way,” he remarks, raising his eyebrows. “Perhaps an aftereffect of our souls being linked.”

The conversation about birthdays is still lingering in your mind, and your thoughts wander to the flier you saw yesterday for that festival. “Hey, Casper?” you say. “Have you ever seen fireworks?”

“Fireworks?” Casper frowns. “I cannot say I have. They're usually used in celebrations. Not a lot of overlap with my line of work. Why?”

“I was just thinking that it’d be perfect for your birthday. It’s fleeting, it’s beautiful, it’s… human.”

“Huh… Then I would like to see these fireworks, sometime.”

You begin to reply, but before you can say anything, your abdomen gives another spasm and you fold over, pressing your forehead into your palm with a muttered, “Ugh, shit.”

Casper frowns, leaning forward in his chair. “Sunshine? What’s the matter?”

“I’m dying,” you croak out. It doesn’t feel like a lie. 

“You—what?” Panic sounds in his voice. His eyes scan over you for a few seconds before his eyebrows pinch together sharply. “Wait. Surely that cannot be the case. Our souls are linked, so if you were truly dying, I would be dying as well, yet I am not.” He pauses. “But still, something is evidently causing you pain. What is it?”

Despite the discomfort, you manage to crack a smirk. Depending on how Casper replies to your next question, this might be so fun—and considering he didn’t know what you meant by ‘that time of the month’, your money is on the ‘fun’ option. “Say, Casper,” you begin, crooning out his name, “do you know what a period is?”

Casper gives you a dead stare through the screen. He looks both supremely unimpressed and supremely perplexed. “A period?” He scoffs. “What a daft question. Of course I know what that is. A period is a designated amount of time, such as a particular period in history. Although, I fail to see what this has to do with your current pain.”

You were hoping he would say something like this. A laugh slips forth from you at his confusion. “Oh, Grim, you really are too funny sometimes, you know.”

In response, he pouts and crosses his arms, as if trying to protect his integrity from your merciless teases. “What? You think my definition was unsatisfactory?”

“Well, not necessarily, but it’s not quite what I was getting at.”

“What are you getting at, then?”

“Do you know how babies are made?”

“Ba—!” He flushes, bright red. You snap a hasty screenshot before his expression can fade. Priceless. “Of course I know how mortal infants are… conceived. But why should that affect—” Just as quickly as the colour came to his face, it drains out completely, leaving his skin white as a sheet. (Admittedly, this is not much paler than usual.) “You do not mean to say that you are…” Casper can’t seem to stomach the words. At last he manages to squeeze out in a hoarse whisper, “...with child?”

You double over again—this time not from pain, but from laughter. Oh, my god, this is too good. You laugh so hard, in fact, that it makes the cramps worse, and you have to force yourself back into a state of composure lest your abdomen literally falls off onto the floor. Wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of your eye, you reply, “No. I am most definitely not with child.” This seems to relieve him somewhat. “But it is related.”

Casper pinches his brow and sighs. “Just explain what is going on, mortal.”

“Alright, alright.” You sigh out, long and slow, letting your face settle into a comfortable deadpan. 

It’s time to educate the Grim Reaper on some biology. 

“Well, basically, every month, most people with a uterus go through this cycle,” you explain. “It’s called the menstrual cycle, despite the majority of those who experience it not being men, but that’s what you get when the history of science has been dictated by old guys for the last few millenia. Anyway, you see, your uterus doesn’t have the intelligence to know when you’re actually planning to have a baby, if you plan on having one at all, so every month it spends time and effort building up a lovely little blood-nest for the egg to grow in once it’s released and fertilised. However, if you haven’t, let’s say, undergone the necessary procedures for fertilising an egg, your body gets the memo a little bit too late. So by the time you’ve made it clear that no, I am not birthing a creature this time around, it’s already prepared everything. Once your uterus realises its work was in vain, it all goes to waste and gets thrown out via the, ah, what would otherwise be the child’s exit.”

Casper looks mortified. Any cringe you may have suffered by phrasing your explanation in such a way is absolutely worth it. “And this occurs every month?” he asks, almost in a state of disbelief.

“Every month,” you confirm, very solemn.

“That sounds terrible.”

You grin maliciously. “Oh, and that’s not even the best bit. Because leaking out your insides each month obviously isn’t enough, Mother Nature, in all her kindness and generosity, sometimes gives you cramps while it happens as well. Which is how we arrive at my present situation.”

He considers this new information for a few seconds, no doubt to work through the trauma you have just given him, before he narrows his eyes. “...Surely there was a more straightforward way of getting to your point,” he says.

“Well, yeah.” You shrug. “But it’s very important that you know how periods work. There are too many men out there who are ignorant about this kind of thing.”

“I suppose that is true,” he concedes. “And I cannot be comparable to those other men.”

“Obviously not,” you agree. 

“Are there any ways to stop it?”

“Well, that depends on what you mean,” you reply. “For stopping your periods altogether, not really. You can take contraceptive hormone tablets which prevent you from building up your endometrium, but once the bleeding has actually started, it’s too late for that. Painkillers are also an option, but…”

“But?” he prompts. 

You raise your chin and proclaim with dignity, “Painkillers are for the weak.” (Yes, you do recognise that this is a counterproductive and baseless view to hold. No, that will not stop you from milking it for humour.)

Casper raises an eyebrow. “‘For the weak’?” he repeats, sounding sceptical.

“...And I’ve also run out,” you admit. “Anyway, then there are other things you can use for comfort, like hot water bottles, but…” You sigh, dropping your joking for a moment, and rub your eyes. You can feel a migraine starting to set in. “Honestly, I just can’t be bothered to get mine right now. Too much pain and too much effort.”

A look of hard determination settles onto Casper’s face. “I understand. Stay where you are, Sunshine, and do not go anywhere.” 

And before you can say anything more, the call disconnects.

“As if I would be going anywhere right now anyway…” you mutter to the dark screen, though the grumbling contains no real bite. You have an inkling of what he’s planning to do—actually, no, who are you kidding. You know with ninety-nine percent certainty he’s on his way over to you right now, probably with a shopping trolley’s worth of ibuprofen in tow. It’s sweet of him. You don’t know how you can even begin to thank him. 

You push the window open for Casper in advance, then lean back in your chair and scrunch your eyes shut, trying to tune out the cramps—but goddammit, it really hurts. It’s like needles are driving constantly into your midsection before your guts are wrung out like a wet towel. You shift position a few times in the hope of settling in a more comfortable position, to no avail. There’s no helping it when the problem is inside you. 

A couple odd minutes go by in which nothing much happens, and you start wondering whether you jumped to your conclusion about Casper too soon. He’s already troubled himself once to come over and look after you, and that was only a couple of days ago. Twice might be pushing it. 

Nope. Right on cue, you hear a knock on your window, and the Grim Reaper slides into your room. You have to swerve sideways so that he doesn’t barrel into you as he sails over your desk onto the floor. Somebody was in a hurry, then.

“Welcome, welcome,” you say as he picks himself back up and brushes off his shoulders. “As ever, feel free to remember that my door does in fact exist.”

He breezes right past you without acknowledging your quip. “Sit,” he says flatly. 

“I am literally sitting right now.”

He rolls his eyes. “On your bed, mortal. It is more comfortable than your chair.”

“And you would know that how?” 

You find yourself on the receiving end of a thoroughly unimpressed look. With a sigh, you throw your hands above your head in surrender and do as you are told, trudging across the room with the grave sufferance of a war veteran and settling yourself between the cushions on your bed. It is, admittedly, more comfortable than your chair. 

“I have researched how to manage these cramps of yours,” Casper explains. “Painkillers do indeed seem to be the main suggested solution. I forgot to ask which are your preferred type, so I decided it was best to cover all bases.”

He passes a stream of little packaged boxes into your hands as he talks—ibuprofen, paracetamol, naproxen, tablets, capsules… even the orange-flavoured bottles of liquid your parents would give you as a kid. You end up with a little mountain on your lap of more painkillers than you would ever need. 

“This is… a lot,” you say, picking your words with care, “but thank you for getting them.” He tried, which is what matters. You place the boxes aside except for one—a pack of ibuprofen tablets similar to the ones you usually use—and, along with a swig of water from the glass next to your bed, toss it down your throat. A thought occurs to you then, concerning Casper’s lack of human money and readiness to run away with an old lady’s flowers. You turn to look at him. “By the way, please tell me you paid for all these.”

Casper is silent. You face-palm.

“Oh, my god. One of these days you’re actually going to get caught.”

“Do not worry. I was very discrete.” He sounds pleased with himself. It is an improvement from last time, in a way. 

“That’s not really what I’m worried about. Just…” You rub your temples. “Look, I’m very grateful for the painkillers, but please try not to steal anything else for me in the future, okay? Twice is more than enough.”

“So how shall I get things for you?” he questions.

“Well, I can lend you some cash in advance if you need to buy something,” you suggest.

“I have no need for mortal currency.”

“…You do realise that is precisely why we’re having this conversation?”

“Then let me rephrase,” he says with a huff. “If not for you and your strange needs, I would have no need for mortal currency.”

“I never said you had to get me painkillers,” you point out. “I’m very grateful for it, but that choice was ultimately on you.” 

A look of helpless dismay crosses his face. “I cannot stand by and watch as you suffer.”

The moment he says this, the pain intensifies. You clench your eyes shut and mutter a curse beneath your breath. Sickness twists in your gut. In less than a blink Casper’s hand is on your shoulder and he’s peering across at you with concern swimming in the red pools of his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” you protest, but your voice is strained. 

“I don’t think I need to point out how obviously that is a lie.” His expression softens by a touch as you recover yourself a little, but his hand still lingers on your shoulder. This is when a pink, rotund entity nestled beneath Casper’s other arm catches your attention. 

“You brought Azrael?” 

“...I thought he may be of assistance to you,” he admits. A faint dusting of red settles over his cheeks. “Azrael also… ahem, does not enjoy seeing you suffer.”

“Aw. Tell him I say thanks.”

Casper nods, very seriously, and hands the axolotl plush over to you. You pull it—him—into your chest and bury your face in the soft fur. It smells like Casper, you can’t help but notice. Ever so slightly floral, with a hint of incense and myrrh. It’s… nice.

“Where is your hot water bottle?” His voice rouses your drifting mind and pulls you back into the present moment. “I will bring it to you.”

“It should be in one of the drawers in the hallway.” You nod your chin in the general direction. As he begins to walk over, you are struck with an epiphany. “Wait,” you blurt. “I have a better idea.” You pat the space directly beside you on the bed and put on a dazzling smile. “You could be my hot water bottle.”

Casper’s eyebrows pull together in an expression of pure affrontedness. “Me, your hot water bottle? What a ludicrous suggestion. I am a gri—”

“—grim reaper, not a hot water bottle, I know, I know, yada yada.” You fix him with the most pitiful, puppy-eyed look you can muster, pushing your lips into a pout. “Make an exception just this once? For me? Poor, little me?”

For a moment, Casper looks torn. Then his shoulders slump in surrender, and you hear him muttering something under his breath about ‘troublesome humans’ as he sidles up to you—not next to you, but behind you, so that his legs are on either side of your hips and your back is pulled flush against his torso. His arms snake around your waist to tug you a fraction closer, and he rests his hands—ungloved, you notice—on your front, roughly above the area of pain. Like last time, your skin buzzes at the contact, almost magnetic, as if it wants to be closer, closer, until there is nothing separating your souls from twining together for eternity. 

…Thoughts of eternal soul-twining aside, you realise your mistake too late: you forgot how fricking cold Casper’s hands are. It makes no sense. The rest of him is warm, and very comforting, actually, but his hands may as well have just been pulled from an ice bucket. You shudder despite yourself when he lays them on top of you. 

He begins, “Is something—”

“It’s nothing,” you hasten to reply. “It’s just… your hands are a bit colder than I expected.”

“Oh.” Casper rubs his hands together before placing them back on your abdomen. “Is that any better?”

No, it’s not better at all, but you don’t have the heart to tell him that. You really don’t want him to move away from you right now, either. You reason that maybe physically things haven’t changed, but emotionally speaking, seeing the lengths he’s going to for your sake… “Yes, much better. Thanks, Grim.” 

“Don’t call me that,” he mutters, at which you can’t help but chuckle. 

“Alright, then, Steve.”

You feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back as he heaves a sigh. That’s one victory for you.

You close your eyes and lean back into his embrace. The position is comfortable, but you can’t relax as much as you would like to: the subzero temperatures of his hands are too great to ignore. You try to shift as little as possible, not wanting him to realise that anything is wrong, but you can’t stop yourself. In fact, you’re pretty sure this is actually making the pain worse.

After a few minutes, you hear Casper sigh again. “Clearly, Sunshine, you are not comfortable. My hands are still too cold, aren’t they?”

“No,” you lie slowly. 

“I can feel you shivering.” 

“Okay, maybe a little,” you concede. “It’s possible I’m still a bit sick, too.”

“You should have told me earlier.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said it felt better. Just… that wasn’t necessarily physically.”

He clicks his tongue. “You and your mortal word games. Wait here. I will get you an actual hot water bottle.” He lifts his arms from around you and you are struck at once by how much you don’t want him to go. 

“Wait,” you’ve said, before you know what you’re doing.

He hesitates. “Yes?

…But you also really want that hot water bottle. What a palaver. With deep regret, you suppose it is probably best to sacrifice his presence for a few moments and acquire the bottle, and resume cuddling afterwards. That doesn’t mean you are too keen on it, though. “Nothing,” you say, shaking your head. “Just… don’t be too long, okay?”

A stupidly smug smirk crosses his stupidly beautiful face. “Afraid you will miss me so quickly, are you, Sunshine?”

You sigh. “Something like that, I suppose. Don’t let it get to your head.”

Too late. Judging by his facial expression, it has most certainly got to his head, right down to the very atomic structure of his neurones. He’s such a poophead sometimes. 

Casper leans over and presses a brief, tender kiss to your brow. “I will be swift,” he vows, a red flush settling over his cheeks as he turns his face away. With butterflies in your ribcage, you watch him go. 

The few minutes that he’s away seem to drag on forever. You cuddle Azrael as you wait, rocking back and forth on your mattress. This whole situation is still surreal to you, even after a week. The Grim Reaper—the literal Grim Reaper—is in your house for a second time, coddling you for a second time. If you had a nickel for every time you were coddled by the Grim Reaper, you would have two nickels, which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice. And awesome as hell. This definitely wins you bragging rights over, like, every other human out there. 

After what feels like hours but was probably no longer than a couple minutes, Casper returns with your fuzzy green triceratops hot water bottle in hand.

“A dinosaur?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Well, yeah,” you grumble, “I was obsessed with dinosaurs as a kid. Everyone goes through that phase. And you’re hardly one to talk, Mr Pink Axolotl.” You pat Azrael’s head. “Which is not to insult Azrael, of course. He is immaculate and beautiful.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. But what does that mean you are implying about me…?”

You shrug. “No comment.” Casper shakes his head, sighing, and hands the hot water bottle to you. “Thanks,” you say, pressing it against your midsection. The warmth radiates right through you and you can’t help but sigh out in satisfaction. Casper stands beside the bed, looking a little awkward as it becomes overwhelmingly apparent that his previous efforts were useless. Noticing his hovering, you smile and wave him over. “I have my physical comfort, and now I need my emotional one. C’mere.” With a mischievous wriggle of your fingers, you add, “I’m not done tormenting you yet.”

“That much was obvious,” he responds, shifting back into place behind you on the bed. 

“How so?”

“You are always tormenting me. There is no end to it.” The weariness in his voice is at odds with the way his arms come around your sides to cradle you close. 

You frown. “Damn. If I’m that predictable already, I’m going to have to up my game.”

“Please, for both of our sakes, do not.” You can’t help but chuckle at how pained he sounds. “I shudder to think what that would look like.” 

As you talk, Casper sets his hands lightly upon your waist. His hands are still cold, of course, but now that you have the hot water bottle to balance things out more, it’s not too bad. You assume he’s just going to hold you—which in itself would be more than enough to satisfy you—but after a moment, you feel his fingers begin to press circles into your skin. He must notice the way you suck in a breath, because he clears his throat and says, “I read multiple sources that said massages can help with cramps. Is this…?”

“Okay?” You relax into his touch, smiling to yourself, and say quietly, “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

Casper smirks. “Obviously. I am the one doing it, after all.” 

Oh my god, you think, I am in love with a complete idiot. 

“Oh. Wait,” he says. “I almost forgot that I brought this for you, too.” He pulls one arm away from you to reach into his pocket and draws out a little heart-shaped item wrapped in shiny metal foil. One whiff and you know what it is. 

Your heart melts at the sight. “Casper… You’re spoiling me way too much here.”

“There is no need to be so dramatic about it,” he replies as he hands it to you. “It is just chocolate.”

“Even so. You really didn’t have to go to such lengths.” You lift it to your mouth and are about to unwrap it when a thought strikes you, making you hesitate. You lower the chocolate heart and turn to Casper. “Hey, you said you like chocolate, too. How about we share it?”

This suggestion appears to catch him off-guard. “Share it?”

“Yeah, share it. I’ll take one bite, you take another.”

“I…” He flushes again, deeper this time, his mouth open and closing soundlessly and his eyes darting from your hand to the floor. 

You weren’t expecting quite as much buffering as this when you made the suggestion. “…You don’t want to?” you ask, a tad disappointed. “I mean, we don’t have to, of course. I just thought it might be fun.”

“N-no!” he hastens to reply. “No, I… ahem. I would like to, very much. It’s just that…” Casper stares at the chocolate in your hand, his expression torn. Warily, he asks, “Your ‘period’ is not… contagious, is it?”

You’re stunned into silence. Casper stares at you with evident concern. You collapse into another bout of laughter. “No,” you wheeze out. “No, it’s not. Or it shouldn’t be, at least. Who knows, given our soul connection. In any case, you won’t catch it from eating the chocolate.”

He still looks hesitant—no doubt his little joust with a cold yesterday was enough to traumatise him for life—but your reply is reassuring enough for him to assent. “Very well,” he says, still blushing from head to toe. “We can share it.”

“Great. Who’s feeding who?”

Maybe you were wrong about him blushing head-to-toe, because somehow, if possible, he becomes an even deeper shade of red. “F-feeding?” he all but chokes out.

“Well, yeah. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy that.”

“…I could not say so even if I wanted to. That would be a lie.” He looks physically pained as he speaks. He is way too cute.

“Exactly. So, once again, who feeds who?”

Silence.

“You want me to feed you, don’t you?” you say knowingly.

“Actually, I was going to…” He clears his throat, eyes darting away. “...Propose the opposite…”

You can’t help the smile which spreads across your face. “You’re so sweet. But I kind of want to feed you, too. Especially because it’s your birthday and all that.”

“We can feed each other?” he suggests. 

You shrug. “Sounds good to me. Open up, Grimmy.”

This seems to shock him. “I’m going first?”

“Well, unless you have any reservations…?”

For the briefest of moments, he seems to hesitate, before he draws up his shoulders and steels himself. Against what, you don’t know. “No. Nevermind. I will do it. Bring it on, mortal.”

The look of determination in his eyes is too funny, and you chuckle as you unwrap the chocolate heart and raise it to Casper’s mouth. His resolve crumbles the moment your little finger brushes by accident against his lower lip. His gaze darts wildly around the room, and you can feel the heat radiating from his skin as he takes a tentative bite. With some degree of effort, he swallows, raising his fist in front of his mouth as if that were enough to hide the vibrant colour of his skin.

“Not so bad, is it?” you tease. 

“It was terrible,” he replies quietly. 

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes,” he insists. “Having you so close… I cannot function properly. You do things to me that are… ugh, I cannot even think, much less speak like this.”

Ah, so that’s what he meant. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” you grin. “Alright, my turn.”

You pass the remaining half of the chocolate to him. He pinches it carefully between his thumb and index finger, like he is handling some priceless artefact. You wait with a patient smile as he brings it to your lips and pushes it gently between them. The rich, sweet flavour floods your taste buds, but all you can think of is his proximity and the coolness of his fingertips brushing against your lips as you take what’s left of the chocolate into your mouth. Your throat at once grows dry and you struggle to get the bite down. 

So, you fell for exactly the same things that he did. How embarrassing.

A victorious smirk flashes across Casper’s face. “Heh. And you act as though you are less prone to flustering than I.”

“Well, I am, most of the time,” you protest. “It’s just that… well, it’s kind of like we’re kissing.” At the mention of k-word, his cheeks flare red. A realisation dawns upon you. “Wait. That’s why you wanted to go first, isn’t it?”

“...Shut up.”

“Hahaha. Okay, as you wish.”

You sit in silence for a while, content to bask in each other’s wordless presence. Thanks to Casper’s various efforts, your cramps are becoming somewhat manageable, and the warmth of his body against your back and feeling of his arms around you brings you a sense of comfort you cannot put into words. It feels like home—like belonging. Like a safe, secret hiding hole from the world where you could bury yourself if you wished. For a moment you wonder whether you’ve ever been happier. 

Casper’s hair tickles your shoulder as he leans forward and nestles his face in the crook of your neck, close enough that you can feel his lips just barely brushing your skin. Your heart gives a dangerous stutter and heat, not from the water bottle, rushes through you. You expect him to tease you over your reaction—there’s no way he hasn’t noticed your pulse skyrocket—but Casper does not remark on it. Instead, it is a moment until he speaks.  

“I wish,” he says, slowly, carefully, as if voicing a prayer, “that I could take away your pain. It is not fair. You do not deserve to suffer.”

The simplicity of the statement, spoken with such straightforward sincerity, gives you pause. Warm, tender fondness buds inside you for this reaper’s kind heart and, in some ways, his pitiable naivety. “Lots of people don’t deserve to suffer,” you reply in a small voice, “but it happens anyway. It’s just a part of life.”

“It should not be.”

“Maybe not.” You twine your fingers together in front of you and give his hands a light squeeze. “But it is.”

He squeezes back and presses his nose into the junction between your shoulder and your neck. Having him so close… you almost can’t believe it. 

“Thank you for coming over, Casper,” you say after a pause, putting your heart into every word. “You really didn’t have to, but I appreciate it. So, so much—especially considering it’s your birthday and there are definitely better ways of spending it. The cramps still hurt like hell, of course, but having you around makes it more bearable somehow.”

His voice is quiet, words muffled slightly against your skin. “I would always come. For you.”

The fondness from before blossoms and opens up inside you; a flower unfurling its petals, a fuzzy warmth pooling in your stomach. Words well on the tip of your tongue, but you keep them there. There is no need for speech. Not with him. Somehow, you are certain Casper already knows everything you would say and more; because that’s how it is when two people understand each other. 

You understand each other. The notion is consoling; it’s right, somehow. Despite it only being a week since you met—something you are still struggling to wrap your head around—it feels true as you think it. Life is so bizarre in the way that you can spend your whole life surrounded by people and never truly know them, and then one day somebody walks in out of the blue and sees right into the heart of you. 

The silence stretches onwards, enveloping you both in its arms of unspoken reassurance. You could stay like this forever and be perfectly happy. Casper, too, appears to have no intention of moving: he seems content just holding you and pressing the occasional kiss to your nape. You’re struck with the sense that time has ground to a standstill, and that all that matters (or ever has or ever will) is the present moment and the gentle tug of your souls towards one another, railing against separation. It doesn’t feel like so far of a stretch to suppose that, right now, you and him are the only two souls in the world. Oh, and Azrael, of course. Everything else—the pain, the future, responsibilities, the human race—is a pretty illusion trying to distract you from this fact.

Your wandering mind falls back into place when your roaming eyes rest on the clock hanging above your door. It’s been—two hours? 

You take it upon yourself to disturb the quiet. “I hate to be the one to say this, but you probably have to go at some point, don’t you?” Your own voice sounds foreign to you; intrusive, like it shouldn’t be there. “Surely you have reaper work to do.”

“Well, yes, I do,” Casper confesses, “but if you want me here, I can stay.”

“You know what my answer will be, Casper.”

“Do I?” Given the audible smirk in his voice, he absolutely does. He just wants to hear it from you, the smug bastard. 

Still, you decide you’ve caused him enough trouble for a day or two, and so choose to humour him just this once. “I always want you here,” you reply honestly. “But I also don’t want you getting in trouble because of me.”

“It doesn’t count as trouble if it is for your sake.” He says it with such simple conviction. “Technically, considering my main assignment is still to collect your soul, I am in the process of completing it.”

You place a hand over your heart in mock offence. “Wow. That’s cold. Even colder than your hands, in fact. And here I thought you came because you cared about me, Cas.”

He scowls. “Of course I came here for you. You know that.”

“Yep, I do.” You smile. “I was teasing you.”

Casper clicks his tongue. “You are so incorrigible sometimes.”

“I think you’ll find that I’m incorrigible all of the time, actually,” you rectify, “but you love it, don’t you?”

“...I will not answer that.”

“I’m afraid you already have.”

“I literally have not.”

“In avoiding the question, you literally have.”

“That is quite literally not what ‘literally’ means, sunshine. Do you need me to pull out a dictionary, too?”

“If you’re offering to read it to me, I won’t say no,” you reply with a mischievous wink. “But anyway, I think you just don’t want to admit it.” 

There’s a note of amusement in his response. “Admit what?”

“That you secretly love all of my personality traits with all of your soft, sappy heart.”

You can’t see Casper’s face, but you hear the fond smile leaking into his voice. “There is no secret in it, Sunshine. But yes, I do.”

With that, you soak up the last few precious moments of peace, before—

“Oh, shit.”

“...Casper? All good?”

“This sudden pain… w-what…”

“Ah. You know, I was starting to think that you might not get them, because no uterus and all that, but, uh… at least we’re not short on painkillers?”

“Sunshine… I truly think I am dying here. How can anything be worse than a cold? How?”