꧁𝒫𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓀𝓎𝓃꧂

Close-up render.

Nicknames are not everyone’s thing. Some find them childish, others find them cringe, whereas some even consider them to be downright ridiculous. You, though? You love them. Short or long, common or convoluted; bestowing a personalised nickname upon someone you care for is pretty much a love language at this point. 

As such, after a few weeks of encounters with the Christmas clowns (something you had called the two once because of the red-green colour pairing and kept using just to piss Harlequin off), you felt it necessary to think of something decent to call them. After all, ‘Harlequin’ is so many syllables (3), and ‘Pierrot’ just made you think of the sad Commedia dell'arte character, which didn’t at all suit the cheery, romantic clown you’d come to know. The task would’ve been easier if you at least knew what the pair was actually called, but the Christmas clowns insisted on keeping their real names secret - commitment to the role or whatever. Not that you needed them to think of something: you are a professional.

It was easy enough to come up with several nicknames for Harlequin, each of which you tested repeatedly to see what stuck. First, there was ‘beanstalk’, then ‘’peño’ (from the jalapeños he so loves), which you quickly scrapped after the subsequent innuendos. You tried ‘Harley’ but he insisted you ride him like the motorcycle, so that went straight out of the window. Eventually, you stuck with ‘Quin’: not your best work, maybe, but at least it didn’t immediately elicit an invite for the devil’s tango.

Pierrot proved to be more difficult. You’d been thinking of different things you could call him for days, yet nothing seemed to stick for whatever reason. So, you thought. And thought. And thought a little more.

Nothing. Zero. Nada.

You’re still mulling it over while Pierrot is at your flat with you, sitting politely next to your squishmallows as you brew yourself some tea. He told you he has some time before his evening performances so, seeing as you finished your shift early, you invited him to your place to hang out before the sun sets. He looks so damn cute where he rests, those wide eyes of his taking in the entirety of the room as if he were seeing it for the first time in daylight.

Carefully so as not to burn yourself, you pour the boiling water into the cup, watching how the dried fruit in the teabag turns it a beautiful, deep red, not so different from that on the performer’s costume.

“So, Pierrot,” you say, taking the few steps required to sit by him on the bed, setting the cup down on your cluttered bedside table. “What do you think of my humble little abode?”

His smile widens as he notices your thigh resting beside his upon your bedsheets, eyes flitting from the bare skin under your shorts to your eyes, which are fixed on his. You catch every tremor of his hand, every half-caught breath, every blink that takes a little too long to come.

“It is beautiful, my dearest,” he says, bells jingling as he nods. “Truly fitting for one such as yourself.”

“Aw, you flatter me,” you laugh, taking in how his mask grows rosier at the words. For a moment, you just look at him, enamoured with his expression and little mannerisms and how he swallows upon noticing your eyes fixed on him.

He really is sweet. You've always had a thing for cute guys: not necessarily inexperienced but ones who treat every touch like it's their first time, ones who stammer over words and make little gifts that some would find pathetic but are anything but. Well, sometimes they are pathetic, but that makes it better. Sure, such people often come with the task of teaching them that ‘hey, you gotta learn to not let everyone walk all over you’, but honestly? The reward you get outweighs it.

It's as you're thinking this over that you remember one of those little gifts he'd given you: a freshly-baked strawberry and blueberry tart, adorned with pastry stars and a dusting of icing sugar. The thing was gone within a day, delicious as it was, and though you don't want to force him, you really hope he'll make you another someday. Pierrot and his pies are equally, tooth-rottingly sweet, after all.

Huh. Pierrot and his pies. Pierrot, pie. PIErot. Maybe that's a nickname that'd work. A little corny, yeah, but when has that ever stopped you?

“Dearest?” the clown in question asks with a half laugh, face almost as red as his costume. “You have been staring. Is something the matter?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” you laugh in response, shuffling a little closer to him on the bed. “Was just lost in thought, pie.”

He stiffens so suddenly you'd think someone thrust a stick up his ass and penetrated his vertebrae. His head snaps to you, face losing its rosy hue as he takes hold of your shoulders. “W-what did you call me?”

You blink. That was not quite the reaction you were expecting. “Pie. I thought-”

If he didn't seem distressed earlier, he absolutely does now. Pierrot rises to his feet, eyes flitting over your form as his mind seems to short circuit. “I don't understand, my dearest, I-” His hand goes to his hat, bells ringing as his other gestures vaguely. “I care for you, yes, but it was supposed to be as a gesture of courting, not something familial!” As suddenly as he stood, he drops to his knees before you, wide-and-teary-eyed as he takes hold of your hands, desperately, as if fearing something you have no idea about. “You cannot truly see me in such a way, can you, my dear? Have I failed so with my displays of affection? Was Harlequin-”

“Pierrot,” you say firmly, opting to use his normal name as you sandwich his distressed little face between your hands. “In the kindest way possible: what the fuck are you talking about? I just called you a nickname.”

He pushes his cheek into your hand, his own coming to rest beside your thighs. “You have done no wrong, I know that, but-”

“What did we say about idolising?” you interrupt.

He continues anyway. “-but I simply do not understand why you perceive me as such. I am not a paternal figure.”

You blink again, then again, then once more for good measure. “I'm still not following.”

“You called me pai,” he says, tilting his head slightly as if confusion was starting to join his still lingering distress. There's something about the way he says that last word that has you pause. He's pronouncing it differently, almost as if…

Your eyes widen as you connect the dots. “Please tell me that doesn't mean something in a language I don't speak.”

Now it's his turn to blink. “Ah- so you–”

“I meant to call you ‘pie’,” you explain, nervous anticipation building as you wait to find out the extent of your fuck up. “‘Pie’ like the dessert. Cause you made it for me, and you're very sweet, and you'd melt in my-.”

He seems completely caught up on the ‘sweet’ comment, the pink colour returning to his cheeks as he cuts you off. “It pleases me to hear you find me sweet, my dear,” he says, smiling once more. “What a misunderstanding. And here I thought-”

“What did you think I called you?” you ask, watching how he laughs awkwardly.

“Well, you see,” Pierrot begins, averting his eyes, “I was under the impression you called me ‘pai’.”

“And that means….?”

“That, my dear,” he explains, a sheepish smile forming on his face, “is the Portuguese word for ‘father’.”

It takes your brain about 3.14 seconds to process it. Then, you burst out into laughter, doubling over and resting your forehead against Pierrot’s in the process, your body shaking as you devolve into a fit of giggles.

“There’s no fucking way,” you laugh, unsure whether from amusement or embarrassment. “So- so what you’re telling me is that I called you ‘daddy’, right? I can’t-” You wheeze, straightening again to take in just how red Pierrot has gotten while kneeling before you, eyes like discs.

“Yes,” he confirms, breathless as if he had just run a marathon when all you did was have your face against his for a few moments.

“Well fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” you mutter under your breath, still incredulous. When Pierrot shoots you a confused look, you grin. “Just quoting something, don’t mind me.”

He shifts on his knees, swallowing hard. “Ah, of course. Quite- quite the bold statement, is it not?”

The sight of him like this, kneeling before you, red and out of breath, makes a completely different type of feeling rise within you. Fuck, he is really cute.

You sigh deeply, crossing your legs, watching how his pupils dilate with the movement of your calves before him. “Well, it seems I’m back at square one. What a shame.”

His brows furrow in concern, head cocking slightly to the side. “What is it you mean?”

“I don’t know what I should call you,” you sigh again, looking down at him while trying to keep a straight face. “I simply cannot think of a nickname that would do you justice. Perhaps a pet name will do.”

Pierrot is about to say something when you cut him off, taking his chin in your hand, mask warm under your touch. “Whatever shall I call the romantic that names me such adorable things, hm?” You hum to yourself, turning his face this way and that, watching him redden under your careful examination. “‘Babe’? No, no that won't do. ‘Babygirl’? No, Harlequin wouldn't let you live it down.” You pretend to ponder a little longer, reveling in the sweet anticipation on his face. “And how about ‘darling’?’

At those two little syllables, his breath visibly catches. 

You decide to push it, letting the letters roll off your tongue just right. “Or better yet: ‘my darling’?’

Bingo. Immediately, his gloves pierce your mattress by your thighs, whole frame stiffening. “My dear, you– you would have me-’ His grip tightens as he struggles to restrain himself, breaths turning deep and unsteady. And as a certain different affliction seems to plague him.

“Damn,” you start, eyes going to his groin. “I know you're a clown and all, but I didn't expect a tent like that.”

Immediately, his gaze drops, legs closing on instinct. You don't let him, instead using your feet to force his thighs back open, letting your eyes linger on what you've exposed.

“My dear-” Pierrot stammers, voice cracking. “What are you–?”

“If you want me to stop,” you drawl, “then just say the word. But I’m not so sure you do, do you?”

He shakes his head almost violently at that. “No, no I just- there are some things you do not yet know about me-”

“Like what, my darling?” you ask with a grin. “Like the little nightly visits? Or the glowing eyes that I'm pretty sure aren't special effects?” His smile drops and he opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off with a finger to the lips. “Oh come on. I'm no Bigfoot believer but I'm pretty sure none of you at the circus are human.”

His eyes flit over your face, searching for any sign of fear, of rejection, before taking hold of your hand and moving it back to his cheek.“You do not find it unsettling?”

“On the contrary,” you announce. “I find it hot.” 

He blinks, jaw going slack before quickly turning into a wide, wide grin. “You do?”

“Absolutely.” Your thumb brushes over his cheekbone (maskbone?), delighting in how he seems to melt at the touch. “Now, my darling," you purr, tilting up his chin, “why don’t you lie back on the bed, hm? Then you’ll find out everything else I can call you.”

Pierrot does so eagerly, climbing up and laying back with the sort of grace you’d expect from a performer such as him. You were planning to hold back with this particular pet name until a little later, make him really work for it, but fuck does the way he looks at you from where he rests against your squishmallows spark something in your heart and between your legs.

“Is this alright?” he asks, nervous and excited alike as you settle between his thighs.

You suppose thinking of nicknames can wait.