Savvy-Reader

The audiologist smiled kindly, signing as she spoke, “Okay. I’m going to activate it. You’ll hear something… maybe beeps, maybe static, maybe voices. It won’t be perfect at first. That’s normal.”

Stiles nodded.

His heart thudded fast enough that he could feel the tremors in his throat.

The audiologist clicked a button.

A crackle of something - electricity? fuzz? - spilled into Stiles’ skull. He jerked, breath halting. Everything felt too loud, too sharp, like someone had taken silence and snapped it in half.

He squeezed Derek’s hand, nails digging into his skin.

The audiologist spoke again - Stiles saw her mouth move, saw the signs, and also heard… noise. Garbled, messy shapes of sound that didn’t quite fit together. He flinched.

It’s okay, Derek signed with their joined hands. It’s okay. I’m right here.

Stiles turned to him and wondered: What does Derek sound like?

The audiologist gestured, encouraging Derek to try speaking.

Derek swallowed visibly. His thumb brushed Stiles’ wrist, grounding.

He leaned in, close enough for Stiles to see every fleck of green in his eyes, every tremor of emotion on his face.

His lips shaped the words slowly.

“I love you."

Three simple syllables.

But in Stiles’ newly awakened world, they landed like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

The sound was distorted - deeper, rougher, a little metallic - but underneath all the static, underneath all the unfamiliar sharpness, Stiles heard something warm. Something honest. Something Derek.

His breath shuddered out of him.

Derek’s eyes widened, worried, until Stiles let out a gasping laugh, a sound he had never heard himself make, a sound that startled him so much he laughed again.

He touched Derek’s face with shaking hands.

“You,” Stiles said, or tried to say, because he could hear the way his tongue hit the wrong place, the way his voice wobbled, but he saw Derek’s face soften, saw awe flicker across it.

Then Stiles signed it, just to be safe.

I love you.

And Derek, who had spent a lifetime losing people, who never expected to be anyone’s first choice, pulled Stiles into his arms, holding him tight.

Sound buzzed in Stiles’ skull, messy and overwhelming, but Derek’s heartbeat was solid against his chest, steady and somehow familiar. One thing he’d always known, even through the silence.

The first words Stiles ever heard were “I love you.”

And he couldn’t imagine better ones.

Sound didn’t become easy overnight. It came in waves. too much, then not enough, then too much again.

The world felt sharp in ways Stiles wasn’t prepared for. crinkling chip bags were like explosions, running water like a hurricane, the coffee machine like a dying robot screaming for mercy.

But Derek? Derek he wanted to learn.

The first week after activation, Stiles spent hours sitting with Derek on the couch, legs tangled, processor turned on, eyes fixed on Derek’s mouth as he spoke.

Derek would say simple things first, low and slow, giving Stiles time to put meaning to the sound.

“This is my voice,” he’d say, soft and patient.

And Stiles would listen, memorizing the rumble of it - deep, warm, like thunder muffled by distance.

He’d close his eyes sometimes and try to hear without reading lips, letting Derek repeat:

“Derek.”

“Hale.”

“Stiles."

“Baby.”

That last one always made Stiles flush, even when it came out warped and buzzing. Because it was Derek’s voice, saying it about him, and even if it didn’t yet sound the way Derek felt, Stiles was determined to learn it.

Some days were good. Some felt like torture.

A barking dog could send him spiraling. A dropped fork could make him rip the processor off so fast he nearly flung it across the room. And crowds? Crowds were the hardest. Too many voices layered on top of each other, all sharp edges and no clarity.

The first time Stiles broke down, it was in the middle of the grocery store.

He had lasted five minutes before the clatter of carts, the buzz of freezers, and the chatter of people crashed together into a storm he wasn’t ready for. His vision blurred. His hands shook.

He yanked the processor off his ear and pressed it to his chest, panting.

Derek appeared instantly, stepping into Stiles’ space like a shield.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t sign right away either.

He simply placed his hand over Stiles’ heart, applying gentle pressure, grounding him. Stiles leaned into him, forehead to Derek’s collarbone, breathing in the familiar cedar warm scent.

When Stiles finally lifted his hands, he signed with trembling fingers

Too much. Too loud. I can’t.

Derek nodded and signed back, Okay. Let’s go home. Silence is okay.

And that became the rhythm.

Some days Stiles woke up and kept the processor on for hours, learning the world piece by piece.

Some days he wore it only long enough to hear Derek say “good morning,” then turned it off again, retreating to the soft, safe quiet he’d known his whole life.

Derek never made him feel guilty.

He only ever signed, Your choice. Your pace. I’m here.

And Stiles loved him a little more every time.

••••••

Speech therapy was humbling.

Stiles had to learn how to shape sounds he’d never heard before, how to control volume, how to place his tongue and breath. He hated how clumsy he felt, how wrong his voice sometimes sounded, how he’d start speaking and immediately wince at the unfamiliar vibrations in his throat.

But Derek made it better.

Every night, Derek would sit cross legged on the bed, wearing the soft, too big t-shirt Stiles loved, and they’d practice.

Stiles would touch Derek’s throat as he spoke, feeling the vibration.

Derek would touch Stiles’ in return, guiding him gently.

They tried easy words first. “Hi.” “Okay.” “More.” “Home.”

Derek never corrected harshly. Never rushed him.

And always, always smiled when Stiles got frustrated, leaning forward to kiss the furrow between his brows until Stiles melted.

Still, there was one phrase Stiles saved. One he practiced in secret in the bathroom, whispering it to the mirror with the water running, trying to get every syllable right.

It needed to be perfect.

He needed it to be perfect.

It happened on a quiet night, four months after activation.

The two of them were curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over their legs, a dim lamp glowing warm beside them. Stiles had spent the whole day with his processor out, needing the silence after an especially overwhelming morning.

He only put it on now because he wanted to hear Derek read aloud a book Stiles had memorized years ago, but which sounded completely different when read in Derek’s steady, rumbling voice.

Derek’s hand stroked absently along Stiles’ back as he read. Stiles leaned into him, peaceful, content.

And then, during a quiet pause, Stiles shifted, sitting up a little straighter.

Derek blinked. “You okay?”

Stiles nodded.

He took Derek’s hand, lifted it, and placed it over his heart.

Then he mouthed the words first, the way he always had, just to steady himself.

Then he said them.

“I… love… you.”

The words were soft, a little unsteady, but unmistakable.

Derek froze.

His breath hitched hard enough that Stiles heard it, felt it, too, in the tremor of Derek’s chest. Derek’s eyes went glassy in a way Stiles had never seen. His mouth parted like he didn’t know how to speak anymore.

Then the tears came.

Silent, stunned tears sliding down Derek’s cheeks as he pulled Stiles into a crushing embrace, burying his face in Stiles’ neck.

Stiles smiled, trembled, and whispered it again, firmer this time, his lips brushing Derek’s ear.

“I love you.”

Derek shook with it.

He pulled back only enough to frame Stiles’ face in his hands, thumbs brushing tear tracks Stiles hadn’t realized were his own.

“You-” Derek’s voice broke. “God, Stiles. Your voice. Hearing you say that. I just-”

Stiles leaned in.

Kissed him slow.

When he pulled back, he signed…

It was worth learning for you.

And Derek, who had always been so careful, so gentle, so endlessly patient, held Stiles like he was something miraculous.

Dealing with a monster boyfriend was hard. Dealing with two was harder. Dealing with two who couldn’t stand each other was nearly impossible. 

The hardest part? Finding a way to involve both of them without one feeling left out or pissed off. Even things as simple as ordering takeout became a feud within minutes, Harlequin demanding something spicy while Pierrot begged for a little sweet treat, the whole ordeal ending with you making them pick up knocked over furniture and cleaning up anything they might have broken- and replacing it. Oh, and you still had to choose what to order. They’re lucky you loved them…

“Dear one, why don’t we just watch The Conjuring again? You seemed to enjoy that one!” Harlequin offered, trying to aid in the current crisis of not knowing what to watch. 

As much as you enjoyed movie nights with your two lovers, they were always a chore to get started. “Because, it’s Pierrot’s turn to choose a genre, and he’s not in the mood for horror tonight,” you grumbled, shooting the Harlequin a look. He scoffed. 

“That’s because he has terrible taste, dearest,” Harlequin responded, glancing at Pierrot in a way that could only be described as instigating. You heard Pierrot growl lowly next to you. You turned to him, placing a hand on his chest as you gazed up at him, trying to soothe him. 

“Don’t worry honey, it’s your turn tonight,” you assured him. Pierrot tore his gaze from the green monster, focusing his attention on you as he blushed softly at the contact. 

“Thank you, my dear,” Pierrot swooned softly, smiling as he looked down at you. “I was thinking we could watch a romantic comedy?” he suggested sweetly, his eyes lighting up as you clicked on the genre, pulling the list on the screen. 

“Ooh, that one looks raunchy,” Harlequin purred excitedly as you clicked through the options. You rolled your eyes, but decided to entertain him, clicking on it to read the summary. 

“That one doesn’t seem bad actually,” Pierrot murmured upon reading through the plot. Your eyes went wide with surprise. Were they actually getting along for once?

Always an opportunist, you hit play on the movie. “I think so too!” you chirped, more dramatically than you meant to. You didn’t even read over the plot; you were just excited that they weren’t immediately fighting like usual. Actually, you were pretty sure this was the first time they’d ever agreed on something. 

You laid your upper body against Harlequin, feeling his arms rest over your shoulders as Pierrot rested on his tummy, his face smushed against your thighs as he laid lax over your legs. You knew your lower half would likely go numb halfway through the movie, but your sweet Pierrot was comfortable, so you didn’t mind. 

The movie was ever so slightly boring, but Pierrot’s eyes were glued to the screen. You couldn’t speak for Harlequin, but he wasn’t instigating anything, so you assumed he was at least mildly entertained. Harlequin let one hand gently card through your hair in a rare gentle gesture, making you lean into his touch, closing your eyes at the warm feeling spreading through you. 

Your gaze returned to the TV at the sound of soft whimpers. Warmth spread across your face as you saw the two main characters grinding on each other, taking off their clothes in a hurried frenzy. Harlequin chuckled behind you as you stiffened slightly against him. You turned your gaze down to Pierrot, your eyes widening as you caught him glowering up at you, his mask a bright pink as he panted softly. 

“You ok, Pierrot?” you asked, voice high and timid. He nodded, raking his gaze over you as his hands shook lightly at their place on your hips. 

Harlequin chuckled behind you. “Puppy’s first boner, huh? Really, dearest, you can’t rely on this one knowing how to please you if he gets this worked up over a simple movie,” he teased, running his hands down your torso, pawing at your waist as he spoke against your ear. Pierrot’s gaze snapped to Harlequin, shooting daggers as he glared at him. 

“Be nice,” you grumbled, sighing. You knew the peace could only last for so long. 

Both men ignored you. Harlequin laughed mockingly as Pierrot crawled forward, arms caging you in as he put his face close to Harlequins. 

“I know my dear better than you do. I could make them feel better than you ever could,” Pierrot seethed lowly. You placed a hand on his chest, attempting to softly push him away. It didn’t work. 

“Oh, sure you could. Tell me, do you even know where their clit is?” Harlequin asked. Pierrot blinked dumbly up at him. 

“Um. Yes,” he responded simply. God, he was a terrible liar. 

“Where?” Harlequin grinned, leaning forward to put his face right against Pierrot’s, attempting to intimidate him. You looked up, struggling to see Pierrot’s face to gauge his reaction. You didn’t need to, his growl sounding through the room as his claws dug into the couch beneath you. “Down, boy,” Harlequin chuckled. “You know, I’ve been thinking. Neither of us have had the chance to take our little angel yet, have we? I’ve been dying to hear how pretty they moan for us. Haven’t you?” he said lowly. Your eyes went wide. 

“Don’t I get a say in this-” you started, being rudely silenced by Harlequin shoving one of his tentacles in your mouth. You huffed. 

“O-of course I have,” Pierrot stammered. His gaze turned to you, looking down with dilated pupils. “I dream of making you feel good, my love. I want to make you feel so much pleasure you can’t take it anymore. I yearn to please you,” he sighed out, his pupils slowly morphing into hearts the longer he spoke. 

“How romantic~” Harlequin cooed out. “Y’know, for once we have the same goal in mind! I think we could have some fun with that, don’t you?” he asked Pierrot. Pierrot was silent for a moment, clearly torn. Harlequin noticed his hesitation. You moaned softly as you felt the tentacle in your mouth roll against your tongue in a languid motion, your breath catching in your throat as it toyed just at the cusp of your gag reflex. The sound made Pierrot stiffen, drool beginning to trek down his mask as he panted. 

“If it means bringing them pleasure…” Pierrot said. You gawked at him. 

What the fuck was happening?

Pierrot slid off of you, and you squeaked as you felt yourself being picked up by Harlequin, who began to carry you to your room. You turned your head to the side, barely managing to spit out the appendage in your mouth. “Wh-what are we doing, guys?” you asked, instinctively arching away from a stray tentacle that wormed its way beneath your shirt. 

“Just sit there and look pretty, dearest,” Harlequin cooed, sitting on the bed as he pulled you into his lap. “Now, Pierrot, I’ll teach you where they’re most sensitive. You just focus on making them feel good,” Harlequin called as Pierrot kneeled in front of you, his face hovering close to yours thanks to the height difference. 

Pierrot scowled at him. “How would you know if you’ve never laid with them?” Pierrot asked skeptically. Harlequin snickered. 

“Oh, so innocent, Pierrot. Humans tend to be much more similar to one another than monsters are, it’s not rocket science,” he teased, a tendril curling itself around the plush of your chest, making you shiver slightly. 

Shooting Harlequin a doubting look, Pierrot leaned closer, drawing his gaze to yours as he gently cupped your face, pressing his forehead against yours. “So pretty, my love,” he whispered out, before pressing his lips against yours. You moaned softly, nipping softly at his lip to make him shiver. His tongue lolled inside, slowly rubbing against your own before wrapping around it. You whined, arching against Harlequin as Pierrot’s inhuman tongue filled your mouth. 

“Aww, so sensitive, dear one. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were just as much of a virgin as Pierrot is!” Harlequin murmured against your ear, nibbling the shell of it as another moan tore through your throat. “Though, I suppose that wouldn’t be too far fetched, you’re always timid when I touch you~”

Pierrot growled as Harlequin kept talking. You opened your eyes, seeing his glaring at the green monster behind you. Harlequin just hummed, sliding a tendril under the waistband of your sleep pants, wrapping it around your thigh teasingly. Your head spun as you tried to focus on the actions of both monsters. Sure, you’d made out with both of them separately, but feeling the both of them pawing at you made you dizzy with the combined pleasure. 

“Have you ever thought about tasting them, Pierrot?” Harlequin seethed out dangerously. Your stomach dropped as Pierrot’s eyes dilated, his gold pupils covering nearly all of the black in his eyes. 

“Tasting them where?” He asked shakily, his hands gripping your thighs. 

You felt the tendril slowly remove itself from your sleep pants, choosing instead to coil over your sopping cunt from over the fabric. It ground against you lightly, making you rock your hips against it with a soft whine. “You can figure it out, I’m sure,” Harlequin teased. Pierrot whimpered, drool dripping down his mask as he shakily lowered himself, nuzzling his face against the appendage separating him and your cunt. 

“Let me have it, please. You smell so good, dear one. Please, let me bring you pleasure,” Pierrot moaned, drooling all over Harlequin’s tentacle. 

Harlequin gave a soft moan as Pierrot looked up at the two of you, hands gripping at your thighs and pushing them apart. Harlequin moved his appendage to give Pierrot room, letting him lap at your pussy through the fabric of your pants. You groaned softly, arching your hips towards him. 

“Pierrot, won’t you take off their clothes? I’ll guide you on how to touch them~” Harlequin purred enticingly, making the other monster whimper softly. Pierrot looked up at you as he sat up to be eye level, pouting at you needily. 

“Is that alright, my love?” he whispered softly. You bit your lip, nodding. He wasted no time in pulling your shirt off of you, sucking soft marks into your collarbone as you moaned. 

“Aww, such a good boy, Pierrot!” Harlequin praised mockingly. Pierrot growled softly. 

“Not for you. Only for them,” he reminded softly, before tugging your sleep pants off of you. Once you were fully bare, Pierrot spread your thighs softly, Harlequin nipping the back of your neck as he watched the two of you. 

“H-hey-!” you called out, feeling two tendrils loop under your knees, pulling your legs wide and keeping them there. Two more pulled at your arms, keeping them firmly by your sides and out of the way. 

“Hush, dear one~” Harlequin purred, shoving a fifth tentacle in your mouth. You shuddered at the rough treatment, heat pooling in your lower tummy. “Now, Pierrot, don’t you see how pretty they look? All wet and needy?” he purred. 

“I-is that good?” Pierrot asked. Harlequin hummed. 

“Very good, it means they like when we fight over them,” he chuckled. Harlequin spoke in a low tone, pressing his mouth against your ear. “Isn’t that right, my sweet thing? You like having two big, bad monsters fight over you like you’re a toy?”

You moaned softly in response, sucking at the tendril in your mouth as you rolled your tongue against it, arching your hips closer to Pierrot’s waiting mouth. Harlequin chuckled knowingly. 

He spread your cunt wide with two fingers, making you shiver. “Mm, you see where they’re twitching, Pierrot? Why don’t you try giving that some attention? I bet they’re awful pent up,” he teased. Pierrot nodded, leaning forward before licking a stripe up your cunt. He froze slightly, the taste of you making his brain short circuit. His grip on your thighs tightened as he pulled you closer, as far as Harlequin’s grip would allow. Pierrot licked and sucked at your entrance, tearing a moan from your throat as he lapped up your arousal. 

Harlequin tutted softly, pushing Pierrot away by the forehead. Pierrot growled louder than he had before, this time threateningly. “Don’t,” he warned, moving closer to you to continue. You stiffened in slight fear as Harlequin pushed him away again. 

“Such a mutt, Pierrot, thinking you can bark and scare me,” Harlequin scoffed. “If you want to continue and only think about yourself, go ahead. But if you really want to make our darling sing, I’d suggest you listen to me,” he said, trailing his hand down your torso. Pierrot looked torn between hating the other’s guts and listening to bring you pleasure. Overall, his need to make you feel good won out. 

You moaned softly as Harlequin pressed two fingers to your clit, toying with it lightly as he spoke. “Focus right here. It’s where they’re most sensitive,” he advised, moving his hand to give Pierrot room. Pierrot nodded, before rolling his tongue around the sensitive bud, moaning as he felt you twitch against him in response. “Good boy! If only you always listened this well for me,” he teased, making Pierrot glare up at him. He suckled softly on your clit, making your eyes roll back at the stimulation. He took notice, sucking harder at the bud as you whined. “Not too hard now~” Harlequin advised. 

You groaned as Pierrot softened his approach just a bit, the stimulation damn near perfect as he indulged in you. You felt dizzy at everything that was happening. The two monsters that were normally at each other’s throat were suddenly cooperating, as much as they could at least. More than that, Harlequin seemed to be encouraged by Pierrot’s attention. Even Pierrot seemed to be at the very least motivated by the green monster’s banter. That, mixed with Pierrot’s sinful mouth- you were losing your mind. 

You let out a garbled moan around the tentacle in your mouth as Pierrot’s attention moved lower, his tongue pushing into your entrance. You ground down onto his eager mouth, your head lolling back as he filled you. 

“Pierrot,” Harlequin warned, his tone disapproving. “So selfish, you know,” he chastised. Harlequin gripped Pierrot’s horn through his hat, tugging him back as Pierrot whined softly, gazing at your cunt with desperation. 

“I want more-” Pierrot rasped, drool and slick covering his mask. 

“We’ll get there in a moment. Focus on their clit for now, or I won’t let you make them cum,” Harlequin threatened. You whined in disapproval, trying to turn your head to Harley to voice your disapproval. He kept you still though, grinning against your neck. 

Pierrot glowered up at him at the threat, but he latched back on to your clit, his expression softening just a bit as you shuddered against him. Harlequin gave him space, allowing him to suck your clit, smothering his face against you and your scent. Your eyes rolled back as your hips bucked against his mouth, making Pierrot moan around you.

Pierrot kept his attention at your clit for a while, the stimulation driving you up a wall. It didn’t take long for your first orgasm to slowly build, your tummy tying in knots as your thighs began to shake. Pierrot whined against you, sensing your impending release. 

“Do you want to make their pretty hole feel good now, Pierrot?” Harlequin asked. Pierrot nodded, letting Harlequin push him back. You cried out against the tentacle in your mouth, whining at the loss. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, my love!” Pierrot chirped, moving to latch onto your pussy again. Harlequin kept him away though, chuckling softly. 

“Won’t you trust me here, Pierrot? A little denial goes a long way,” Harlequin teased. You whined, thrashing fruitlessly against your binds. Pierrot looked conflicted, but he knew Harlequin was much more versed in this than he was. He knew he was forced to trust him. “Hehe~ now, you wanna put that long tongue of yours to use?” Harlequin teased. Pierrot nodded. 

“Please. My love tastes so good, I need to taste you, I need to make you feel good-” he rasped. 

“Go ahead,” Harlequin instructed. Pierrot lurched forward, his tongue filling you in one smooth motion, making your back arch with the sudden pleasure. He thrusted his tongue in and out of your walls, making you rock against him as best as you could. “You feel that spongy spot right near their entrance? Try focusing on that,” Harlequin said. Pierrot listened, rubbing firmly against it with each thrust. You cried out, biting down on the tendril in your mouth, making Harlequin moan at the pain. He rocked his hips against your ass, relieving some of his arousal as Pierrot continued eating you out. He let his tongue bully your gspot with each movement he made, your head spinning at each thrust. Harley brought his hand down again, rolling tight circles around your clit in time with Pierrot’s ministrations. 

You couldn’t help the tears that sprung to your eyes as your orgasm returned, more intense this time as it threatened to tip you over the edge. You clutched at the fabric of Harlequin’s pants, desperately trying to ground yourself against the waves of pleasure crashing over you. “Aww, is someone close? Why don’t you cum for us, dear one,” Harlequin cooed out, keeping a steady pace over your clit. 

White filled your vision at Harlequin’s words, your legs shaking hard. Pierrot moaned into you, the taste of your orgasm coating his tongue. He lapped your cum up hungrily, growling and moaning against your cunt as you rode out your orgasm. Even once you were past it though, Pierrot kept lapping against you, making you jerk back in overstimulation. 

“Please, too much-” you whined sharply as Harley removed his tendril from your mouth. Pierrot whimpered softly but relented, pulling away from your cunt with a heartbroken look. You felt Harlequin pick you up with his tentacles, pushing you onto your hands and knees on the bed. 

“Pierrot, won’t you go in front of them?” Harlequin asked, his hips pressing against yours as he ground against you, your overstimulated cunt throbbing in response. 

“I want to claim them first,” Pierrot said, glowering at Harlequin, who simply scoffed. 

“You got to taste them first. It’s only fair I get to be the first to fuck their pretty little hole~” Harlequin cooed, this clearly being his plan all along. Bastard…

Pierrot kneeled in front of you, pulling you up to nip along your neck, biting down hard. You whined at the pain, moaning softly. It felt nice, until he bit harder, and harder, teetering the line between marking and eating. You batted him away quickly. 

“Pierrot, not so hard!” You chastised, making him whimper. 

“I-I’m sorry, my love, I need to mark you,” he panted out. You groaned feeling Harlequin lean down to mark the other side of your neck, biting almost as hard as Pierrot did. 

“If you want to get pissy and bite something, be my guest, but bite each other, not me,” you snapped, sighing in relief as Harlequin let you go. The two monsters stared at each other tensely for a moment, knowing they were both in trouble this time. Finally, Pierrot spoke. 

“I am not marking him,” he growled out. Harlequin laughed. 

“Come on now, you can’t tell me you aren’t itching to sink your teeth into me~” he teased. You looked up, watching Pierrot grab Harlequin by the collar, tugging him in and glaring at him, shaking with silent rage. 

“Stop,” you ordered, making Pierrot drop Harley immediately. You sighed. As hard as you had just cum, you were aching to feel them inside of you, and their fighting was getting you nowhere close to that goal. “Harley, you fuck me. Pierrot, you fuck my mouth,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument. Harlequin stuck his tongue out at Pierrot mockingly. 

“If you wanted my cocks so bad, you could’ve just asked, dear one~” Harlequin teased. You paused, your brow furrowing. 

“Cocks? Plural?” you asked. You heard him push the pants of his costume down, paling as you felt two tips press against your entrance, his cocks tapered at the end like his tentacles were. 

You looked up at Pierrot, a helpless look on your face. “Is this a bad time to mention my knot?” he asked sheepishly. You watched as he pulled his cock out, the base flared, ready for his knot to pop as soon as he came. You took a shuddering breath. 

You were so fucked. 

You cried out as Harlequin took advantage of your shock, slowly pushing into you so as to not hurt you. On their own, each of his lengths were impressive, but together? You gripped your comforter tight, struggling to take him, the stretch making your mind fuzzy. 

“Ngh- so tight, dear one~” Harlequin grunted out once he was finally seated all the way to the base inside of you. “C’mon, open that pretty mouth for Pierrot~” he called, reaching forward to cup his hand around your jaw, digging his fingers into your cheeks to make you open your mouth. You obeyed with a pathetic whine, looking up at Pierrot with a needy expression. 

Pierrot moaned softly as he rut the tip of his cock against your tongue, one hand cupping your face softly after Harlequin let go in favor of gripping your hips. The monster behind you ground into your hole, the stimulation making you twitch. You lapped at Pierrot’s cock before sucking just the tip into your mouth, looking up at him wide needy doe eyes. 

“You look divine, my love,” Pierrot hissed, shallowly fucking your mouth, ever conscious about hurting you. You moaned around him. Behind you, Harlequin slowly pulled out of your cunt, leaving just the tips in as he massaged the plush of your hips, making you squirm slightly. 

You cried out as your body lurched forward, Harlequin driving into you hard before setting a rough pace. Pierrot’s cock hit the back of your throat, nearly making you gag in surprise. “Such a needy slut, dear one!” Harlequin cooed, fucking you hard as he set a quick, deep pace. You whined around Pierrot’s cock, unable to focus thanks to the pleasure wracking through your body. 

Pierrot gently tangled his free hand in your hair, holding your head as still as he could as he thrusted into your mouth, just shy of hitting the back of your throat. What a gentleman. 

“Your- hah- mouth feels s-so good, my love,” Pierrot panted out, fucking your mouth shallowly. You moaned around him, your eyelids fluttering at the sweet praise. 

You jolted as you felt one of Harlequin’s hands trail down your stomach, rubbing two fingers against your throbbing clit in time with his thrusts. You went lax against the two monsters, letting them use you as pleasure tore through you. 

Pierrot let out a pitiful, muffled moan above you. You tried to look up, but he was leaned forward, his pretty face just out of your view. 

Unbeknownst to you, Harlequin had lifted his mask up, pulling Pierrot in by the collar before crashing his lips into Pierrot's, making him whine as he kissed the other monster back. The kiss was all teeth, full of raw anger and need as they kept fucking you. Harlequin moaned as Pierrot nipped at his tongue, the sting making his cocks throb inside of you. Harlequin bit back, purring against Pierrot as the metallic taste of blood registered against his tongue from the small wound. Pierrot shuddered, letting his eyes flutter shut as he leaned in to all of the stimulation rolling over his body, short circuiting his mind. Harlequin snickered against his mouth. Oh, how he loved virgins. 

Once they finally parted, Harlequin chuckled. “Mm, I can still taste them on you, Pierrot~” Harlequin teased, making you gasp around Pierrot's cock. Neither of them gave you time to think about what had just happened though, the both of them focusing their efforts on you. Harlequin angled his hips down, bruising against your gspot with every hard thrust as Pierrot fucked your mouth just a bit harder, the tip of his cock brushing the back of your throat. You drooled around him, eyes crossed as you tried to look at his knot, which was already beginning to inflate. 

“Ngh- m-my love, don’t- don’t make that face, I’ll-” Pierrot warned, his breaths becoming shaky. You moaned around him, bringing one unsteady hand up to wrap around his cock, squeezing his inflating knot. “Please, I-I’m-!” he stammered, unable to finish before he pulled your face close, his knot inflating in your hand as his cum shot down your throat. You whined, his orgasm triggering your own. Stars popped in your vision as Harlequin kept drilling into you, the unrelenting pleasure drawing out your second orgasm. 

Harlequin groaned softly as he watched the two of you come undone, feeling his own cocks twitch within you. “C-close, dear one. You want it inside?” he asked teasingly. You barely registered his words in the midst of your own pleasure, nodding dumbly as best you could with the cock in your mouth. Harlequin groaned, chasing his own release as his hips smacked into yours. 

You whined as you felt his cocks throb inside of you, shooting load after load of hot cum directly against your womb. You squealed softly, your legs shaking as your body begged for a break from the overstimulation, having already cum twice. 

Finally, when all three of you had come down from your highs, both monsters stopped. Harlequin slowly pulled out of you, trying to be careful to not further stimulate your overstimulated cunt. Pierrot softly pulled out of your mouth, wiping up a stray bit of cum that had dribbled out with his thumb, only to push it past your lips a second later. You suckled on his thumb, licking up the last bit of cum as Pierrot looked down at you with big heart eyes. He kept your hand squeezed tight around his knot, though he let your sore jaw have a break. 

You went lax against the bed, utterly exhausted. Harlequin snickered, as if he, too, wasn’t out of breath. “You alright, my dear?” Harlequin asked, patting your thigh softly. You grunted softly, not caring enough to even nod. 

Pierrot sighed softly as his knot finally began to deflate. He let your hand go, gently placing it down on the bed beside your other hand. “I’ll go grab a cloth,” he said, a dumb, wide grin on his face. God, he’s so cute… 

Harlequin watched the other monster leave to the bathroom before silently turning his gaze to you. He watched your limp body for a moment, a conflicted look on his face. Finally, he smirked, standing up off the bed. 

“Well, since Pierrot’s got you covered-” he started. 

“Stay,” you grumbled out, not giving him an option. Harlequin scoffed, despite the warmth blooming in his chest. He rested atop the covers beside you, lazily waiting for Pierrot to return. The other monster returned from the bathroom, washcloth in hand as he beamed at you. 

“I’ll clean you up, my love!” he chirped excitedly, gently maneuvering your body to wipe at the cum staining your inner thighs. You sighed softly, the warm water feeling nice. Once he was done, he looked to Harlequin, a blank expression on his face. He held a second washcloth out to him, his face giving no indication of his emotions. 

Harlequin hesitated for a moment, an odd emotion churning in his gut. Finally, he decided to take it, not saying anything in response. He quickly cleaned himself, tossing the cloth back to Pierrot, who rolled his eyes. He placed the soiled washcloths in the hamper before sliding into bed next to you, covering the three of you with the comforter. 

“Thank you for letting me make you feel good, my love. I think I’m addicted to making you fall apart now,” Pierrot grinned, nuzzling his face against yours. You let out a breathy laugh, kissing his cheek softly. 

“Thank you, honey,” you mumbled, your eyes fluttering shut. Just before sleep took you over though, you reached an arm back, grabbing for Harlequin. You made contact with his shirt, tugging him close as best you could. “Thank you, baby,” you hummed to Harlequin, practically forcing him to spoon you. You let yourself fall lax feeling his arms wrap around your waist. It didn’t take long before your breathing evened out, sleeping soundly in your lovers’ arms.

Pierrot and Harlequin made eye contact after you fell asleep, emotions neither could explain burning in their eyes. After what felt like an eternity of silence, Harlequin spoke, breaking the tension. 

“Never speak of this,” he whispered. Pierrot nodded quickly in agreement. 

“Never,” he agreed quietly. The two settled in, cuddling close to you, knowing there would be hell to pay if you woke up without both of them there. 

Despite their decision to not bring this up again, both monsters fell asleep with the same thought on their minds. 

Your whole life, people have called you annoying.

Which is funny, considering you were never cruel or mean—just curious. Too curious. The kind of kid who noticed everything: the way people moved their hands when they talked, the tiny scars on their knuckles, the way their voices changed when they were excited. You asked questions because you genuinely wanted to know. You talked because silence felt itchy. You listened hard, then harder.

People didn’t read it that way.

Blunt questions became “invasive.” Excitement became “too much.” Distraction became “rude.” Somewhere along the line, you learned that curiosity—especially yours—made people uncomfortable. 

So you learned to mask. 

Smile less. Ask less. Hold everything in until it pressed against your ribs.Which is probably why you kind of set a guy on fire at work today.

Not on fire. Just… adjacent to fire. His sleeve. The counter. The little “Have a Nice Day!” sign.

It was the whistling. He was ordering some upside-down, half-something monstrosity and whistling—off-key, wet, relentless. The kind of sound that digs straight into your brain and rattles around like loose change.

You tried your coping tricks. You really did. You locked onto the wood grain of the counter. Counted the espresso hisses. Rubbed the seam in your apron pocket—the good texture.Didn’t matter. The whistle kept peeling the world apart.

Then—spark. Silence. Screaming. Oops.

And that’s why, as soon as your shift ends, all you can think about is the circus.

Because your job is a masterclass in sensory punishment. The fluorescent lights buzz and glare, exposing every fingerprint, every pore, every mistake. The sounds are constant and aggressive—machines screaming on schedules you don’t control, voices stacking on top of each other until they blur into noise without meaning.

The circus is nothing like that.

The light there is warm. Forgiving. Gold and shadow instead of surgical white. The sounds don’t fight each other—they belong. Every creak, every murmur, every strange note has intention. Purpose.

At the circus, the chaos makes sense.

Like, for example, Harlequin’s laughter is exaggerated on purpose, a performance you can anticipate. Even the quiet in Pierrot’s tent has weight to it, a kind of hush you can lean against instead of fighting.

At work, it’s the people that make everything volatile. 

They arrive pre-fractured—angry at traffic, at bosses, at their own lives—and you’re simply the nearest safe place to unload it. 

A man in a suit slams his loyalty card on the counter because it doesn’t scan, like you personally betrayed him. 

A woman sighs dramatically when you ask her to repeat her order, your flat tone translating in her head to disrespect.

“You could smile,” they tell you, sharp and entitled, as if your face is a public amenity. They want a cheerful doll, endless warmth on demand. Your neutral focus reads as rudeness. Your concentration looks like attitude. You follow the script anyway—Hi, what can I get for you?—but they hear something wrong in it. Not enough inflection. Not enough fake ease. It’s a test you were never given the rules for, and you keep failing it in real time.

So you cling to the routine. Handle out. Forty-five degrees. Three pumps. No foam. Precision as armor. But it never lasts. A coworker “fixes” your neatly stacked cups. The manager swaps your predictable synthwave for chaotic pop. The oat milk runs out with no warning. Control slips. Again.

The pay is miserable. The tips are worse. 

You leave with pennies and a head full of… noise.

And through the glare, the noise, the sudden shriek of the steamer, you hold onto one thought, over and over—

You can go to the circus after this.

Even if, when you get there… you’re still an outsider.

To Harlequin, you’re a reactive chemical—fun to poke, fascinating to watch erupt, but ultimately a temporary amusement. He reads your tension like a script and finds your attachment to Pierrot hilariously predictable.

To The Jester, you’re a pebble on his sand—a curious, temporary guest. He allows your presence because you stay contained, nested in Pierrot’s orbit where you’re less likely to cause a mess.

To The Ticket Taker, you’re a procedural error. A disruption to his perfect order. Your meltdowns are unscheduled noise, but as long as Pierrot files you away in his corner, you’re tolerated. Barely.

To The Doctor, you’re a live specimen. A symphony of misfiring nerves. Your bond with Pierrot is a clinical curiosity—a trauma clinging to a trauma. Sentimental, but efficient.

They all see it. They know you’re Pierrot’s.

To them, you’re exhausting. A liability. 

A human puzzle with too many sharp edges. You see it in the way they glance past you, the slight tension when you walk in. You’re a lit fuse in a tent full of gunpowder.

Except for Pierrot.

For a little context, Pierrot meets you by accident. Or maybe inevitability—he’s never quite decided which as he stood up for him against other people for hurting him. 

He doesn’t come inside your workplace. The lights are cruel, the music tinny and sharp, an insult to everything he is as well. Instead, he lingers just outside the wide front window, a tall, unmoving silhouette stitched into the chaos of the street. 

Inside, you’re at the register during a rare lull, body wound tight. One hand rubs slow circles into your own arm without you noticing. Your eyes flick everywhere at once, inventorying tasks, sounds, people, exits. You wear the customer-service smile out of habit, but it’s strained—misaligned, like it was glued on wrong.

To anyone else, you look stressed. Maybe overwhelmed. Maybe a little lost.

To Pierrot, you look like a clockwork doll wound too tight—beautiful, delicate, trying so hard to function in a world that refuses to slow down.

Then you notice him.

It’s subtle. A hitch in your breath. A pause no one else would catch. Your face changes. The public smile drops away entirely, replaced by something smaller and softer—confused, relieved, unmistakably real.

It’s just for him. 

No performance. No effort.

Pierrot treasures that smile like a secret pressed between pages. He memorizes the way you lift your hand in that tiny, fluttering wave near your hip—half-shy, half-excited—before you’re pulled back into the grind. To him, it’s sacred. Proof that beneath the mask you wear for the world, there’s something warm and unguarded trying to breathe.

You overwhelm him later. Thoroughly.

At the circus, you’re affectionate without realizing it—talking with your hands, touching his sleeve when you get excited, eyes lighting up as you tumble through ideas. 

You are a free spirit in the purest sense: endlessly curious, delighted by the strange, desperate to understand and share. You like knowing things—not to hoard them, not to boast—but because explaining them feels like a gift you’re dying to give.

You ramble like a kindergartner with a favorite fact. Your joy is loud, unfiltered, infectious.

Yet alone with Pierrot, something happens.

Like when you with him, you soften. You’re still bright—still buzzing—but gentler, like you’re handling something fragile. You explain things slowly, carefully, watching his reactions with earnest focus. You want him to understand you. Desperately. And you want, just as badly, to be understood in return.

The problem is… you’re never entirely sure he does.

He doesn’t recoil from your intensity. He doesn’t shut you down or look overwhelmed. He simply absorbs it—quiet, attentive, unreadable behind that mask. And sometimes you can’t tell if he’s following every word… or if he’s interpreting you in a way that belongs only to him.

When you shattered the vintage teacups over the misplaced sugar, you froze—apologizing too fast, spiraling, bracing for correction. Pierrot didn’t see a mistake. He knelt among the porcelain, lifted the single unbroken saucer, and offered it to you like a truth you were meant to hold.

“I don’t see the mess. I see what survived.”

It sounded beautiful. It also made absolutely no sense.

That’s the thing with Pierrot—his words confuse you as often as they comfort you. He barely speaks at all, after all. He’s not allowed to. So you fill the silence instead, rambling, explaining, laughing nervously, hoping meaning lands somewhere between you.

And when it doesn’t—when you feel too loud or too unsure—you retreat with him to his wagon.

His wagon. God. His wagon.

It’s all deep reds and golds and blacks, like someone trapped a very elegant, very melancholy sunset and decided to live inside it. Dark red velvet everywhere—curtains thick enough to swallow sound, pillows scattered across the floor in soft, indulgent excess. 

Sooo many pillows. On purpose. One corner is arranged just right, clearly intentional, clearly claimed—for when there’s no show. His quiet time.

Which, somehow, has become yours too.

The light is nothing like the coffee shop. No buzzing fluorescents, no blue-white glare scraping at your skull. Here, it comes from small amber lamps, low and warm, turning everything into something old and gentle, like a painting that’s been loved too much. 

The light pools over shelves lined with objects he’s collected—things that feel important without explaining why. A broken music box. A single white glove. A dried rose sealed under glass. The wagon smells like old books, chamomile, and something cool and clean, like stone. A smell that doesn’t argue with your brain.

And the silence—God. It isn’t empty. It’s full. Heavy in the best way. It settles over you like a weighted blanket, pressing the static down until your thoughts finally line up instead of colliding.

Once, the thoughts still won.

You short-circuited right there on the floor—lungs stuttering, body locked, words spilling out without permission. You started reciting the molecular structure of caffeine to the wall like it was a spell that might save you. C8H10N4O2. Over and over. Fast. Desperate.

Pierrot didn’t stop you. Didn’t hush you. Didn’t touch you.

He just sat down beside you.

Folded himself carefully onto the floor, long limbs tucked in, hands resting in his lap, palms open. And he listened. Fully. Like you were reciting something sacred. Like every word mattered.

Sometimes—when the static in your head was a screaming hive—he let you hold onto him. Not in a clingy way. Just… enough. 

You’d fidget with his hands, tracing the long, elegant lines of his palms, counting the subtle joints in his fingers, lacing yours between his just to feel something real and cool and steady. 

Or your hands would wander up, finding his hair—that shock of white silk—carding through it, twisting the strands, marveling at the texture. It gave your frantic energy a job. A quiet, repetitive task to focus on until the world stopped spinning.

He never moved. Never flinched. Never rushed you. He became an anchor. A paperweight for your soul.

And for a while, it worked.

But in the calmer moments, your curiosity would bubble back up. It was your default setting. You couldn’t help it.

You’d poke his arm. “Hey. Do you have, like… bones? Or is it all… monster stuff in there?” You’d squint at the draconic curves of his mask. “Are there horns under your hair? Can I feel?” You’d gesture broadly at his serpentine form.

The questions were endless, tumbling out in a cheerful, nonsensical stream. You asked about the color of his eyes behind the mask—amber, you knew, but was it like honey? or like a warning light?, or about how his tail moved—was it prehensile? could he pick things up with it?, or about whether he got cold in the winter.

One time, mid-ramble about the aerodynamic efficiency of his jester’s cap bells, you’d abruptly switched tracks.

“Wait, what do you eat?”

The air in the wagon had gone very still, very fast. The gentle, listening presence you’d grown used to tightened imperceptibly. He didn’t pull away, but the silence that followed was different. Heavier. It wasn’t a comfortable silence; it was a locked door.

“...That is not a question for you, my dear,” his psychic voice had finally brushed your mind, soft but final, the endearment feeling less like a caress and more like a period at the end of a sentence.

You’d blinked, shrugged. “Okay! Sorry. Anyway, about the bells—”

He’d relaxed again, the strange tension melting as you happily veered onto a new, safer topic. You didn’t press it. You had a million other things to wonder about.

That was you. Naturally gifted at asking the one question that could pause the universe, and then instantly, blissfully distracted by the next shiny thought. Your tantrums when overwhelmed were volcanic, but your curiosity in the quiet was a sunbeam—persistent, warm, and landing on absolutely everything, especially him.

He adored it. Every random question was a piece of you he could collect, a glimpse into the brilliant, scattered mosaic of your mind.

But lately…

Pierrot had started to notice your behavior changing.

The way your shoulders creep up toward your ears when you leave the coffee shop, like you’re still bracing for those stupid blue lights to buzz back on. The way you move smaller, tighter. Like you’re trying not to spill yourself anywhere. That spark he adores—that sharp, curious, shining you—hasn’t gone out, but it’s gone brittle. Taut. One wrong touch from snapping.

It worries him. Deeply.

And then there was that night at the Circus.

The one you don’t talk about. Everything was too much all at once. The laughter from the big top didn’t sound joyful anymore—it drilled straight through your skull. Your skin felt wrong, stretched too thin, humming with leftover stress from work, from people, from the endless demand to be. You didn’t want comfort. You didn’t want explanations.

You just needed quiet. Real quiet.

So you went to him. To his wagon.

He was already there, sitting impossibly still. That focus of his isn’t just attention—it has weight. It presses. His amber eyes locked onto you like the rest of the world had politely ceased to exist. And in his hands—those long, black hands—he held another gift.

A flower. Again.

You’ve lost count of how many he’s given you.

But this one was different. Paper-thin strips cut from something old—his poetry, maybe. Centuries of sorrow and devotion sliced into delicate ribbons, each edge dipped in gold. Molten. Permanent. It glittered softly in the low light, all that anguish and beauty preserved forever.

And all you could think was—

I don’t have room for this.

Not on your shelf. Not in your hands. Not in your chest. The texture was wrong. The paper was dry and whisper-fragile, but the gold edges bit back—microscopic sharpness, catching on your skin. It wasn’t something meant to be held casually.

And Pierrot just… waited.

Silent. Expectant. Waiting for you to understand. To feel the right thing. To offer the right response. Your mind was already fraying. Tangled. Loud with a single thought you couldn’t swallow down—

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

The pressure built until it had nowhere left to go.

You didn’t drop the flower—you recoiled, like it burned. The word ripped out of you before you could soften it, ugly and sharp and wrong.

“Die.” You hurled the fragile, priceless thing across the wagon. It struck a tapestry with a soft, humiliating rustle and slid down the dark wood.

Then the energy had to escape somewhere else. You turned away from him, hands flying up into your hair, gripping hard enough to hurt.

“You know what’s actually interesting?” you snapped, words spilling too fast, voice trembling with that wired, frantic edge that means you’re already lost inside your own head—and this time, you don’t notice that Pierrot moved.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t sigh. He doesn’t even look wounded.

He simply moves. Slowly. Carefully. Like every motion has already been decided. He crosses the wagon to where the flower fell and kneels—not in apology, not in submission, but with reverence. He gathers it up, smooths one curled paper petal with his thumb, and places it on a small, empty stand as though it were always meant to be there. Preserved. Safe.

Then he turns back to you.

You’re still vibrating, still pacing, your words unraveling into something about thermoclines and surface tension, your back to him as if motion alone might keep you from splitting apart.

Pierrot kneels again—this time directly in your path.

You almost collide with him.

The blank bone of his mask tilts upward, catching the low light. When he speaks, it isn’t quite sound. It slips past your ears and presses gently into the center of your chest instead—warm, steady, startlingly calm.

“The differentness inside you…” he says, soft as gravity, “…it must land somewhere.”

You freeze. The lecture dies mid-thought, caught behind your teeth.

“Let it land on me.”

His hands rises—not to stop you, not to restrain—just open. Waiting. An invitation shaped like trust. “I am your relief.” A pause. Absolute, unshakable certainty. “I will not break.”

The words don’t soothe you. They unsettle you.

Because you don’t know how someone can offer themselves like that. You don’t know how you’re supposed to land on another person at all. 

You sank into it, the plush fabric a predictable pressure against your skin. He didn’t sit beside you. He settled on the floor at your feet, a respectful distance away, his back against the divan, his mask turned toward the quiet room. Giving you space, but not leaving.

Slowly, haltingly, you started to talk again. 

It was about the coffee shop. The man who’d whistled. The woman who’d snapped her fingers in your face. The clatter of dishes, the sour milk smell, the crushing weight of a line of impatient faces. It was a jumbled, frustrated dump of sensory grievances and social misunderstandings.

As you spoke, you grabbed the pillow beside you—a sturdy, embroidered thing he’d given you for exactly this purpose. You dug your fingers into the fabric, twisting it, punching it softly, kneading your overwhelm into its helpless form.

“The one who snapped,” Pierrot’s voice brushed against your mind, soft as a moth’s wing. “The sound was an aggression. Would you like me to find her? To ensure her hands are… quiet?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d offered. Last week it was about the whistling man. “I could steal the breath from his lips. He would not whistle again.” He said these things not with malice, but with the serene practicality of a gardener removing a thorn.

You let out a wet, half-hysterical laugh into the pillow. “No. No, Pierrot. It’s… it’s fine. It’s just… people. They’re just like that.”

“They are poorly made,” he responded, simple as fact. “Loud. And sharp. You are not.”

You weren’t sure about that. 

You felt pretty sharp. But you also felt the tight coil in your chest beginning, slowly, to unwind. Your rant tapered off into silence, broken only by the faint plink of a distant bell and the sound of your own breathing. He had watched you reject his soul-gift, rant about random, and then violently stress-squeeze a pillow. And he was still here. Not just here, but settled. Present. 

It wasn't just the loud noises or the bright lights anymore. It was a deeper, quieter ache that had started to settle in your bones.

It was the social static. The white noise of existing near people.

It kept happening. A few days after the thrown flower, after the strange peace that followed, the little things began to pile up again. A misplaced key that ruined your morning routine. The neighbor’s bass, thumping through the floor at a rhythm that didn't match the beat of your own heart.

But worse than the sensory sandpaper was the quiet question that had begun to echo in the down moments, in the silence after the espresso machine shut off, on the walk to the circus:

Why does everybody stray away from me?

You’d replay interactions like a forensic detective looking for the fatal flaw.

You’d been polite to the new barista. You’d explained the cleaning protocol for the steam wand with careful, thorough detail because you wanted to help. She’d smiled tightly and said, “Thanks…,” then turned and never asked you a question again.

You’d shared a genuinely cool fact about the history of public fountains with a regular. He’d nodded, said “Huh,” and the next day, he took his order to the other register.

You weren't mean. You weren't cruel. 

You were just… you. 

You asked direct questions because you wanted direct answers. You shared enthusiasms because you thought joy was meant to be given away. You listened to the words people said, but you kept missing the invisible script running underneath.

And the verdict, you were starting to believe, was unanimous.

You were the weirdo. The person who talked to themselves at the register. The one who would be startled if someone came up behind them too quietly. The one whose smile never quite reached their eyes because they were too busy counting inventory in their head. The one who could tell you about the tensile strength of spider silk but couldn't navigate the simple, smiling choreography of “How’s your day going?”

It made you feel like a ghost. Solid enough to do the work, to be seen, but somehow immaterial in the ways that built connections. People drifted past you, around you, away from you. Your differentness wasn't a loud, sparking tantrum anymore. It had turned inward, becoming a silent, sorrowful distance.

It was this heavy, hollow feeling you carried with you when you went to him, days later. Not in a raging meltdown, but in a simmering, quiet fury. 

You weren't crying; you were analyzing, picking apart the flawed social contract of humanity with icy, clipped precision, as if by understanding the broken rules, you could fix whatever was broken in you.

Pierrot listened, a statue of attentive sorrow. Then he spoke, his psychic voice a gentle stroke against your aching mind.

“They are not worthy of your analysis, my dear. Your mind is a pristine blade. They are rotten wood.”

And that’s when it snapped. Not the old, sparking overload, but a new, cold fracture.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice flat and foreign. “Don’t call me that. Don’t talk about my mind like it’s… like it’s some sacred artifact. It’s just a brain. A faulty, sparking one that scares people away.”

The air in the wagon stilled. 

You had finally said the quiet part loud. 

Pierrot went utterly still, then his head cocked with a sharp, avian distress. You rarely spoke so directly about your own mechanics, and never been this cold dismissal. He took a step forward, a long hand rising—not to grab, but to bridge the sudden, terrifying distance.

“Please, do not say such things. Do not—”

You backed up, a quick, panicked step, hitting the edge of his writing desk. The retreat was a physical rejection, and it struck him like a blow. You saw his shoulders tense, his amber eyes behind the mask widening fractionally.

“My sweet angel, do not pull away,” his voice rushed into your mind, softer now, layered with a desperate, pleading texture you’d never heard before. “Your words, any words, even the sharp ones, let me have them. Do not leave. Do not silence yourself. You are the only true sound in this hollow world. My dear, my only light, please…”

He was rambling, the endearments spilling like overripe fruit, sweet and cloying and suffocating.

It was too much. Overwhelming, like always.

It’s like the emotions were a thick syrup you couldn’t swim through. This was his pattern: overwhelm, then soothe with a saccharine offering. 

As if on cue, his hand went to a small, mother-of-pearl box on the shelf. It clicked open with a sound like a settling bone. He produced a single, perfect piece of candy, held it out on his pale palm.

“Here,” his mental voice gentled. “The sweetness will ground you.”

It was always pink. A soft, floral pink, dusted in sparkling sugar. It looked innocent. Delicate. Like a tiny, sugared heart.

“Here,” his voice brushed your mind, softer now, layered with a coaxing tenderness. “The sweetness will ground you, my dear. It will help the world feel… softer.”

Oh, thoes candies… 

Everything you eat one, a memory, thick and syrupy, pushed its way to the front of your mind. The lethargic, fuzzy calm that always followed. The way your sharp edges would blur, your frantic thoughts slowing to a gentle drip. 

The way the noise of the world would mute, replaced by a warm, humming static. It felt like being wrapped in layers of pink cotton wool, safe and separate from everything that could cut you. But it was a trap—a submission to a quiet you never chose, a loss of control dressed up as care.

It always made you feel rather… stuck.

Revulsion, clean and sharp, cut through the fog of your distress. “I don’t want to bite on something sweet,” you hissed, and before you could think, your hand swatted out, knocking the delicate candy from his palm. It skittered across the floorboards.

The silence was absolute.

Pierrot stared at his empty hand, then at the lost candy. The stillness was worse than any outburst. Slowly, he curled his fingers into a fist. When he looked back at you, his voice was a whisper of pure, unadulterated need.

“Then bite on me.”

You froze. “What?”

“If you need to sink,” he continued, stepping closer. He slowly, carefully, pulled the black glove from his right hand, exposing the pale skin of his wrist. “Sink into me. The candy is a gentle lie. This is a true anchor. Let your turmoil rest here. Let me hold the weight of your wakefulness.”

Your heart hammered. “Are you mocking me?”

He flinched. “Never.” A vow. A prayer. “You are the only truth. Is it not you and me against this world? So come. Rest on me.”

He sank to his knees, his offered wrist a pale skin.

“You need calm. I can give it to you,” he murmured, his tone moving into something dangerously gentle. “With kindness. With patience.” A pause, heavy. “Or with another dose. The pink calm is still here. I only want to help you slip into something softer.”

He gestured faintly toward the mother-of-pearl box.

“You need the quiet, my sweet angel. You need it. And I need to give it to you.” His voice dropped to a tender, horrific whisper. “Let me take care of you. I promise. I promise and promise and promise.”

The word promise fell like a stone into a well, echoing with the emptiness of all the promises before. Promises to be gentle. Promises to only use the candies when you were “too far gone.”

He reached to tuck your hair behind your ear, his touch chillingly affectionate. “Don’t make me devour you, too. It would be so much easier to just be sweet for me.”

You just stared, terrified. 

The sheer vulnerability in your wide eyes—“oh, it makes my body tremble in so many ways. I-I mean,” Pierrot froze. The warm amber glow of his eyes behind the mask vanished, leaving only deep, black voids. He couldn’t help but put a hand to his face, a pinkish blush blooming beneath the bone-white surface. His large, black-gloved hand pressed against his cheek as he twirled a strand of his white hair with the other.

“You must feel it,” he breathed, his psychic voice a shiver of awe. “After all, didn’t you? Such a perceptive thing. So light. So yielding.”

You didn’t answer. You just looked… terrified.

Pierrot sighed, a sound of infinite sorrow. “All I want… all I want… is to keep you safe from the world. They treat you so mean. It’ll drive me mad. It will. So the candy helps. The quiet helps. You see?”

He was terrifying. He said such sweet things with this dark, hungry tone.

He leaned closer, his black-void gaze holding yours. “If you need to bite… then bite on me,” he repeated, the offer curdling into a demand. He pulled his hair aside, exposing the elegant column of his neck. “Bite here then. The sweetness is a lie. This pain is real. I am real. Pour your differentness into my flesh. Let me hold the shape of your teeth.”

He sank lower, abasing himself completely.

“If you are going to save me from the silence,” he begged, his voice trembling with raw, unfiltered ache—

“Just come kiss me. And bite me.”

Well… you didn’t choose the candy.

You took a slow, shuddering step forward. Then another. The terror was still there, a cold wire in your chest, but beneath it was a current of something else—a desperate, furious need for something real. Something that wasn’t sugar-coated silence.

Pierrot watched you come, the black voids of his mask unblinking, his blush a faint, persistent glow. You reached him, and with a push that was more a collapse than a show of force, you shoved him backward onto the deep pile of pillows and blankets in his corner. He let himself fall, a cascade of red and black fabric and gold trim, yielding completely.

You climbed into his lap, settling against him. You sometimes forgot how large he was, all coiled, serpentine grace beneath the lavish robes. Dressed in his sorrowful regalia of red, black, and gold, he was a monument. 

But to you, he was just… your space.

Your safe, quiet place in a screaming world.

You nuzzled your face into the cool skin of his neck, where he’d offered it. You could feel the slow, heavy pulse of him beneath your lips. You took a gentle bite.

He was a bit sweet. Metallic, like rain on old copper, but with an subtle sweetness. At least he was telling the truth about that.

A sharp, stifled sound escaped him—not a gasp, but a resonant, shuddering hum you felt vibrate through his chest into yours. You didn’t see it, but behind the mask, his amber eyes shattered and reformed, the pupils blooming into perfect, pulsing heart-shapes.

Ahh.

Pierrot was shocked. He had convinced you. 

The feeling was an avalanche in his still, silent world. If he could recall the memory in his veins, trace it like a genealogy… how long had his cells screamed in search of you? Eons. Now he knew what he had to be. Your anchor. Your restraint. Your sole source of truth. After all, hadn’t Fate discovered the two of you once again?

You kept going. The gentle bite became more purposeful. Not enough to break skin, but enough to press, to test, to claim. 

It got Pierrot bad. Bad. Bad. Torturing him in the most exquisite way. A low, ragged noise tore from him, and his large hands came up to cradle your body, his touch reverent and trembling. The cool leather of his remaining glove brushed the small of your back, then slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it ever so slightly. The shock of skin-on-skin contact—his cool, smooth fingertips against the warm, vulnerable plane of your lower back—made you jolt.

Oh, my, oh, my God

His blood was pumping crazy, a wild, frantic rhythm against your mouth.

Oh, my, oh, my God

‘Cause he knew you’d save him. You had to.

Before he could dissolve completely, before he could lose the last shred of his carefully maintained control, you pulled back from his neck. You looked at his mask, at the place where his mouth would be. Then you kissed him.

It was deep, and searching, and filled with all the frustration, the loneliness, the static, and the strange, terrifying trust you had in him.

His eyes widened behind the mask, the heart-shaped pupils blowing even wider. For a second, he was perfectly, utterly still—a statue shocked to life.

Then he groaned, a raw, unfiltered sound that seemed to shake the wagon, and he kissed you back. He pressed deeper, returning the kiss with a centuries-starved hunger, his hands tightening on you, one buried in your hair, the other splayed possessively against the bare skin of your back, holding you to him as if you were the only thing keeping him from flying apart into a thousand desperate pieces.

Then a thought, hot and clear, cut through the fog in your mind. 

You could take all of your frustrations out on him. 

Not by throwing things, not by screaming into the void, but like this. By pouring all that coiled, sparking energy into the space between your body and his. And you did feel a bit calmer.

Your fingers, which had been fisting in the fabric of his red-and-black tunic, slid to the intricate golden lacing that cinched his corset-like vest. You began to slowly, methodically, unpick the knots. One. Then another.

Pierrot noticed. His kiss broke with a soft, wet sound. He caught your wrist, his grip not tight, but questioning. A tremor ran through him. “What… what are you doing, my angel?” His psychic voice was ragged, breathless.

You looked up, meeting the black voids of his mask. Your voice, when it came, was low, a bit rough, and absolutely certain. 

“You said you own me. With your candies, with your poems, with your silence. You said it. So,” you gave another purposeful tug on the gold lace, loosening it further, exposing a sliver of the pale, smooth skin beneath—

“hold still and be owned.”

His gasp was a real, audible thing. As you never such naughty things before—well right in front of him. The hand on your wrist went slack, not in release, but in utter surrender.

You leaned down again, but not to his mouth. You brought his own bare wrist to your lips—the one he’d offered—and bit down on the soft, fleshy part of his palm. Not hard enough to wound, but hard enough to make him jolt, a sharp, sweet whine escaping him.

“Yes—”

You didn’t stop. You moved, a slow slide in his lap that made him groan, the friction of fabric between you igniting a new, urgent rhythm. Dry, desperate, and perfect. 

You were taking your frustration out, and he was yielding to every bit of it. You traveled up his arm, over the corded muscle of his forearm, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses and gentle nips, until you found the place you’d bitten before—the tender, vulnerable junction of his neck and shoulder.

You sank your teeth in there, deeper this time.

Pierrot cried out. His head fell back against the pillows, a stark picture of blissful agony. His large hands flew to your hips, not to stop you, but to guide you, to grind you down against him in time with the desperate, rolling thrusts of his own hips meeting yours.

“More—please, more,” he pleaded, his voice a broken chant in your mind. “Claim me. Mark me. It is the only seal that will hold. The only bond that is real. Bite until your teeth meet my soul. I give it. I give it all.”

It was a sacrifice. An offering of his very substance. And in biting him, in taking this violent, intimate piece of him, you were accepting it. 

You were sealing the fate he’d always believed in. 

You bit down again, and he shuddered violently beneath you, a sob of pure ecstasy tearing from his throat. His costume was coming undone under your hands, revealing more of him to your teeth, your lips, your claiming touch.

He was somewhat bare below you, the elaborate red and black fabric pushed open, though his mask and jester's hat remained perfectly, eerily in place, and his black pants were still fastened.

Your eyes went wide. You’d never seen him like this. His chest was pale white, like marble veined with the faintest hints of blue, the skin stretched taut over a surprisingly elegant, long frame. 

You hadn’t considered the anatomy of it.

“Whoa,” you breathed, the scientist in you momentarily overriding everything else. Your fingers, almost of their own accord, reached out and touched his collarbone. It was cool, smooth. “You’re so… long. Do you, like, have extra ribs? Is your spine different? How does your… everything… work?”

The questions tumbled out, a slow, dazed return to your usual self—using curiosity as a compass in uncharted territory. You traced a line down his sternum, fascinated.

Pierrot lay perfectly still beneath your exploration, his breath catching at each touch. The heart-shaped pupils in his amber eyes were wide, consuming.

“You may map me later, my dear,” his voice brushed your mind, strained with a patience hanging by a thread. “Every inch. But first…”

He moves, rolling you gently until you were nestled beside him in the pillows, facing each other. His gloved hand came up to cradle your cheek.

“May I… leave my bite on you?” he asked, his psychic tone devastatingly polite. “I promise. I will be gentle. So gentle.”

You nodded, a slow, mesmerized dip of your chin.

His hands, which could be so frighteningly strong, became impossibly soft. 

He undressed you with slowness, each button, each brush of fabric away from your skin. His breath hitched as more of you was revealed. When you were finally bare before him, he went utterly still for a long moment, just looking.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, the words echoing with genuine, awe-struck reverence. The pupils in his amber eyes had softened from hearts back to wide, circular pools of molten gold, drinking you in. “All this warmth… I had forgotten how it feels.”

His cool hands skimmed over your shoulders, down your arms, as if memorizing you by touch. Then he bent his head, his mask brushing your skin as he placed a kiss on the hollow of your throat. Then another. A trail of cool, worshipping lips followed the line of your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder.

He was true to his word. He was gentle. 

But the intent behind each touch was overwhelming. When his mouth finally settled on the soft skin where your shoulder met your neck, he didn’t bite down hard. 

He closed his teeth over the flesh with a careful, persistent pressure—a claiming that was more seal than wound. It was a slow, deep sensation that made you arch against him, a gasp trapped in your throat.

He held the bite for a long moment, a low, resonant hum of satisfaction vibrating through him and into you. When he finally released, he soothed the spot with his faded orange, gold-tinged long tongue, then pressed his masked forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.

He was marked by you. 

And now, in his own silent, devoted way, you were marked by him.

Your eyes watched his long body caging you in against the pillows. You could feel the heat of him, the surprising strength in the slender frame. And you couldn’t miss the obvious, heavy bulge straining against the black fabric of his trousers, right where your foot had brushed against it. 

A bright, vivid red blush bloomed across the pale skin of his chest and throat, visible even in the low light.

Out of pure, dizzying curiosity, you whispered, “Can I… see it?”

Pierrot went still.

 The amber eyes behind the mask flickered with a mix of shock and sheer, vulnerable want. He was hesitant, a tremor running through him. But to deny you, to displease you… that was unthinkable.

“If… if my angel wishes,” his voice was a strained, mental rasp. “Only if you wish.”

You changed positions, gently urging him to lie back. With careful, slightly trembling fingers, you undid the fastenings of his pants. He lifted his hips to help you, a silent, surrendering motion.

And then it was unveiled.

His cock was… monumental.

The hue was the same faded, sun-bleached orange of his hair, darkening to a rich, burnt umber at the base—a technicality utterly lost in the sheer, awe-inspiring presence of it. It was thick, a heavy, beautiful weight that filled your hands when you dared to touch it. The girth was substantial, requiring both hands to circle it fully.

It arched upwards with a slight, perfect curve, designed to reach deep. The tip was broad, a smooth, flared crown, and beneath the skin, thick, roping veins pulsed slow.

Holy shit, you thought, your mind briefly blank.

It’s as big as my face.

“You don’t… have to,” Pierrot’s voice shuddered into your mind. He was propped on his elbows, watching you, his entire body taut with restraint. “Even this… you looking… you touching… it is more than enough. I could just hold you. Just hold you tight.”

But you were already committed. 

Driven by a mix of wonder, affection, and a daring edge of your own. You leaned forward and bit his inner thigh—not hard, but a sharp, playful claim—then kissed the same spot. 

“I want to keep going,” you murmured against his skin, the words vibrating into him.

You blew a soft, warm breath across the broad tip, watching him jolt. Then you gave him a long, slow, experimental lick from the very base of his balls, up the thick underside vein, all the way to the flared crown. The taste was clean, salty, uniquely him.

Emboldened, you opened your mouth and took the head of him inside, just the tip, as your hands worked the massive base.

Shit, he’s a lot bigger than expected, you thought, the stretch immediate. But it didn’t matter. 

You were fascinated.

Above you, Pierrot’s hands flew to his own face, his fingers pressing against his masked temples as he watched you try to take more of him. The sight—your curious, determined expression, your lips stretched around him—was unraveling him completely.

“So cute… so… curious…” he breathed, the words fractured.

He was breathing in ragged, heaving gasps. One of his large pale hands tentatively reached out and settled on the crown of your head, not pushing, just resting. A question. A plea.

You met his gaze and gave a tiny nod.

His hand gently applied the lightest pressure, guiding you to take him deeper. You relaxed your throat as much as you could, letting him slide further in until the head nudged the back of your throat. The feeling of being filled, stretched by him, was overwhelming, a hot, claiming fullness.

It was all too much for his centuries of pent-up, devoted longing. The combination of your willingness, your curiosity, your warmth—it shattered his control.

“I’m—!“

A broken, silent cry echoed in your mind as his hips gave a shallow, helpless thrust. He came suddenly, intensely, with a force that made his whole body arch off the pillows. Thick, hot streaks of cum shot somewhat in you mouth then into the air, some landing across your cheek, your forehead, with shocking warmth. 

There was so much of it.

The sensation seemed to shock him back to himself. He pulled out of your mouth with a wet sound, his hands flying to your face, his thumbs frantically, tenderly wiping the mess from your skin.

“I apologize—I’m so sorry—it was too fast, I couldn’t—forgive me, my angel, I—“ he babbled, his psychic voice a torrent of embarrassed, worshipful distress.

You looked up at him, catching his frantic hands in yours. Your face was flushed, your eyes wide not with disgust, but with awe and wonder.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. Then, with a spark of your old, blunt curiosity cutting through the sensual haze, you asked, “How many times… can you do that?”

Pierrot went completely still beneath you. 

More still than his usual silence. The quiet from him felt… stunned. Speechless in a way that had nothing to do with his vow.

You blinked, realizing; you were doing it again.

Dissecting the moment with questions when the moment just was. A flush of self-consciousness burned through the haze of warmth. “Sorry, I’m— I’m doing it again, I’ll just—” You began to pull back, to retreat into the safer space of your own head.

But his hands—one gloved, one bare—flew up to cradle your hips, holding you firmly in place on his lap.

“No,” his mental voice was a soft, desperate command. “Do not pull away. Ask. Always ask.” He took a shaky breath, his thumbs stroking your skin. “As many times as you want me to. A thousand. Until my jaw aches. As many times as you… want me.”

His words trailed off, significance shifting. You followed his eyeline, glancing down between your bodies.

Oh.

You’d been aware of the firm pressure beneath you, of course. But now you looked. His cock, thick and long, curving slightly against his stomach. The sight didn’t spark a cascade of analytical thoughts for once. Instead, it sparked a feeling—a deep, visceral, wanting pull low in your belly. 

This was something you could feel your way through, not think your way through.

And the vibe… the vibe was right. 

The lighting was warm and low, not distracting. The wagon smelled of old velvet and him—that clean, stone-like scent. No sudden noises. No demands. 

Just Pierrot, watching you with those wide, golden eyes, his hands steady on you, willing to follow your lead, willing to be as silly or as serious as you needed.

Emboldened, you moved your hips, a slow, experimental grind against him. The smooth, hot slide of your wetness against his skin drew a shattered gasp from him. His head fell back against the pillows, the bells on his hat giving a soft, frantic chime.

“You’re… you’re so big,” you murmured, not with fear, but with fascinated delight. You were practically sitting on him, your own arousal making a slick, messing path between you. The sensation was incredible—so much so it was toeing the line of too much, a pleasure so sharp it threatened to tip into overload. 

But you didn’t want to stop. 

You wanted him.

“Pierrot… please,” you begged, your voice trembling not with panic, but with need. You lifted yourself up slightly, guiding him with a clumsy, eager hand. “Can you… put it inside? Please?”

He tensed, his hands tightening on your waist. “I do not wish to hurt you,” he whispered, the words strained. “You are so small. So warm. I could… break you.”

“You won’t,” you breathed, leaning down to kiss the cool plane of his mask where his cheek would be. “I can take it. I want to. I want you.” The words felt like a truth deeper than any fact. “Please. I need… I need to feel you.”

Everything about him was so pleasing—the contrast of his cool skin against your heat, the absolute focus of his attention, the way he let you set the pace. 

You wanted him so, so badly, even if certain touches, certain intensities of feeling, could sometimes short-circuit your system. 

This felt worth the risk of overload.

Hesitantly, agonizingly slowly, he guided you as you sank down. The stretch was immense, immediate, a breathtaking fullness that made you cry out. It was a lot. Almost too much. You froze, panting, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Pierrot went statue-still beneath you, every muscle in his long body locked with the effort of control. “Tell me,” he begged, his voice a ragged thread in your mind. “Tell me what you need. Do you need to stop? Do you need… the candy?”

“No candy,” you gasped out, shaking your head. The intensity was overwhelming, but it wasn’t wrong. It was him. “Just… just stay still. Let me… let me get used to you.”

You focused on your breathing, on the feeling of being utterly filled and stretched by him. Slowly, the sharp edge of too much softened into a deep, resonant ache of enough. More than enough. He was stretching you so good, so perfectly, you had to remember to breathe.

Tentatively, you began to move. A slow, rocking grind of your hips.

And the world outside—the blue lights, the screaming customers, the confusing social scripts—dissolved into static and then into nothing. There was only this: the warm, amber glow of the lamp catching the gold on his mask, the scent of old paper and cold stone and him, the incredible, silencing sensation of being connected to the one thing in the universe that made your chaotic heart feel still.

You moved up, then sank back down with a soft cry. Pierrot’s large hands flew to your hips, his cool grip guiding you, helping you find a pace. His thumbs pressed into the dip of your waist.

“Fuck,” you breathed out, the word shattering the last of the quiet. “You feel so good.”

The noise between you became a symphony—your shuddering gasps, the wet, slick sound of your joining, the rustle of velvet pillows, the soft, choked sounds he made behind his mask, half-moan, half-reverent prayer.

“Yes,” his voice scraped against your mind, raw and awed. “Just like that. You are… perfection. A vision. You take me so beautifully.”

He watched you with those heart-shaped pupils, his breathing a ragged, open-mouthed rhythm beneath the fixed porcelain smile. His hat was slightly askew, a lock of white hair stuck to his damp temple.

“Shit,” you moaned, leaning forward to brace your hands on his chest. “If I keep this up, I might not be able to walk tomorrow.”

“Then don’t walk,” he growled, the thought laced with a possessive thrill. “Stay. Always stay.”

Fuck it. 

The thought was a spark that lit a fuse. 

You let go. You rode him aggressively, getting wild, chasing the coil of heat tightening low in your belly. 

You fucked him with a desperate, claiming energy, your nails scraping lightly over the pale skin of his chest. You were going to ride him until you were satisfied, until this fire burned out the last of the day’s cold static.

“I… I should focus on pleasing you,” he gasped against your neck, the words fragmented, apologetic, as if he’d been selfish. “Let me… let me make you feel…”

You cupped his masked face in your hands, pulling him up to look at you. “You are,” you breathed, and then you kissed him, deep and sure. He moaned into your mouth, his long tongue tangling with yours, a shock of cool, slick. You pressed yourself closer, wanting him, all of him.

“You’re so good to me,” you murmured against his lips, between kisses. “You take such good care of me.”

The words hit him like a physical blow of bliss. 

A soft, shattered sound escaped him, and when he pulled back just enough to look at you, the expression on what you could see of his face—the slight part of his lips, the devastating softness in his amber eyes—was one of pure, unguarded love. It was a look that promised forever, promised devotion, promised a thousand more quiet wagon nights.

Emboldened, drunk on him and your own power, you pushed at his shoulders.

He understood instantly, letting you guide him onto his back once more. You straddled him, sinking down onto his length with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips that made you both cry out. 

This time, you set the pace. 

You fucked him with a desperate, claiming energy, your nails scraping lightly over the pale marble of his chest, leaving faint, pink trails. You were going to ride him until you were satisfied, until this fire burned out the last of the day’s cold static and the memory of every judging stare.

He met your frenzy with a worshipful hunger, his hands flying to your hips not to guide, but to feel you move. His own hips arched up to meet your every downward stroke, driving him deeper. The praise in your mind never stopped, a constant, psychic stream of devotion that wrapped around you both.

“You are everything. You are all. The way you move… angel… my sweet, demanding angel… you ruin me, you save me, you are mine, you are mine, you are—”

His voice broke off into a silent cry as his climax took him again. It hit him harder than the first, a seismic wave that made his body bow up under you, a sound like a shattering bell choked behind his mask. 

He spilled deep inside you, his hands clutching you to him with a possessiveness that bordered on pain, as if he could fuse you together through will alone.

Yet you didn’t stop.

The feeling of him inside you, so deep and present, was the only clear thing in the universe. You slowed, your hips making small, small circles, grinding against him, dragging him through the aftershocks and back into a fresh, aching hardness.

He gasped, a ragged, sobbing sound—but it was edged with gratitude, with worship. He was putty in your hands, a sacred instrument you were learning to play.

How many times did he come? The number blurred. Twice? Three times? You lost count in the glorious haze, your own focus narrowing to the single-minded purpose of chasing the feeling, chasing the perfect silence only he could give you. 

You were overwhelming him, and he was letting you, welcoming the overstimulation as his due, his reward for being yours.

But even the most devoted saint has his limits.

Eventually, the balance changes. With a low, possessive growl that vibrated from his chest directly into yours, he moved. It was effortless, startling—one moment you were riding him, and the next the world spun. 

You were pinned deep into the mountain of pillows and blankets, the air knocked from your lungs. One of your legs was hooked over his shoulder, the other wrapped tight around his narrow waist, opening you to him completely.

The new angle was devastating. He didn’t just enter you; he claimed the space. He drove into you with a deep, relentless, piston-like rhythm that stole your breath and your thoughts.

“Mine.”

The word fissured through your mind, not a gentle endearment now, but a fundamental truth. He hammered it into you with every deep, perfect thrust.

“Mine to cherish. Mine to keep. Mine to fill.”

He fucked you like he was trying to memorize the very shape of your soul from the inside out. Like if he moved with enough devotion, enough desperation, he could stitch his essence directly into the fabric of your being. 

The stark, unchanging bone of his mask was a surreal contrast to the living, sweating, shuddering reality of his body moving above you, the corded tension in his arms, the desperate arch of his back.

You came with a cry that felt like it tore something free inside you. The world dissolved into white and gold, your body convulsing around him, milking him, pulling one final, broken release from his very core. He followed you over the edge with a choked, reverent sound, spilling into you as if he could anchor himself there forever.

He collapsed over you, a trembling, beautiful weight of silk, bone, and cooling skin. His masked face was buried in the crook of your neck, his entire long frame shaking with the aftershocks. 

The only sounds in the velvet-dark wagon were the frantic, slowing drumbeat of your hearts, and his soft, whispered mantra against your sweat-damp skin.

“Beautiful… perfect… my home… my love… my love… my love…”

You woke feeling strangely… refreshed. Clean. The usual morning fog was absent, replaced by a soft, golden clarity. You turned your head on the pillow.

And holy shit.

There was Pierrot, doing a long, sinuous stretch. The man was long of elegant, pale limb, still decently naked, thankfully covered from the waist down by a tangled blanket. 

The lamplight caught every detail—and every mark. His neck, his collarbones, the flat plane of his chest… they were a canvas of faint, love-bitten blooms. Purpling teeth marks. Your teeth marks.

A flush of heat shot through you, part awe, part horror. You tried to slip out of the pillowed nest quietly, yet before you could get far, a long, cool hand circled your wrist.

“Are you alright, my heart?” His voice was a sleep-roughened murmur in your mind, thick with concern.

Instead of answering, you turned and buried your face against his lower chest, wrapping your arms around his narrow waist. You rubbed your cheek against his cool skin, a wordless, grounding gesture filled with a tenderness that surprised you both.

He went very still, then his arms came around you, one hand cradling the back of your head. “Good morning,” he breathed, the words imbued with a reverence usually reserved for prayers.

“Good morning,” you mumbled into his skin, your voice muffled. You pulled back just enough to gesture vaguely at the marks. “I’m… sorry. For all of that.”

A soft, huffing sound—his version of a laugh. He took your hand and guided your fingertips to trail over the bites on his collarbone. A full-body shiver went through him. “Do not apologize for scripture. I adore it. I adore you.”

The moment was so perfectly, quietly domestic it almost hurt. Then your phone, half-buried in a blanket, lit up with a notification. 

A reminder for your shift.

The real world, with its blue lights and sharp voices, came crashing back in. “I have to go,” you said, the words tasting like ash.

The change in him was instant. The softness vanished, replaced by a wire-tight tension. “No.” His arms tightened. “Stay. Please. I was going to make you food. You just woke up. You need to eat. Stay with me.”

He gently, implacably, pushed you back down into the pillows, then settled his head on your chest, his mask cool against your skin. He was a heavy, pleading weight. “Oh, please, don’t leave me. Not yet. The world is so cruel out there. Stay in our quiet. Just a little longer.”

“I have to,” you whispered, your fingers threading into his hair, even as your heart rebelled. “I don’t want to, but I have to.”

You felt him go still. 

Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries of loneliness, he untangled himself and stood. “Then… at least let me send you off properly. One cup of tea. For the road.”

He moved to the small, ornate stove in the corner of the wagon. You watched his back, the play of muscle under pale skin, the way he moved with a silent, focused grace. You heard him whisper to himself, a low, frantic murmur you weren’t supposed to catch.

“Just a little longer. Just a few more hours. They’re so tired. They hates it there. They’ll only break them again. I’m not being cruel. I’m being kind. This is kindness. Keeping them safe is kindness. They’re mine to protect. Mine to keep safe. My sweet angel, my chaotic heart… they’ll see. they’ll understand it’s better here…”

He returned with a delicate china cup, steam curling with the scent of chamomile and something else… something faintly floral, sweet. Pierrot. He helped you sit up, his touch infinitely tender, and held the cup to your lips.

“For strength,” he whispered aloud, his real voice a rare, rasping gift.

You drank. It was warm. Sweet. Soothing. 

The tension of the impending shift began to feel… distant. Muffled. Like a bad dream you were slowly waking from. A heavy, pleasant lassitude seeped into your limbs. Your head felt fuzzy, warm.

“You know,” you slurred softly, leaning back into the pillows, your eyes struggling to stay open. “I never really liked that place anyway…”

A profound, victorious stillness settled over him. He took the cup, set it aside, and gathered you back into his arms, tucking your head under his chin. A wave of pure, unadulterated peace washed through the psychic space between you.

You are his salvation through your chaos. 

He is your sanctuary through his stillness. You own him with your rage; he owns you with his unconditional, obsessive acceptance. It’s a fated, destructive, perfect bond.

He wouldn’t have you any other way.

And as the drugged tea pulled you back under, nestled safe in the tomb of his devotion, your final, mumbling sigh was a vow and a request all in one, breathed against the skin of his throat where your marks still bloomed:

“Bite me, please.”

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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