random blog???

“You look unhappy.”

You stare at him from across the room.

“Thank you.”

“It was an observation, not a criticism.”

“Well, observe less.”

Ticket Taker’s eyebrows rise, and you immediately feel guilty.

“Sorry.”

He sets his pen down.

That simple action makes something inside you loosen slightly. Ticket Taker is always busy. There is always another ledger to balance, another schedule to revise, another problem requiring his attention, but he has never made you compete with his work. The moment he realizes you genuinely need him, everything else seems to become secondary.

“Come here,” he says.

You sigh dramatically but obey, crossing the room with slow, reluctant steps. You expect him to point toward the chair beside his desk, the one you have occupied during countless evenings while he worked and you provided increasingly unnecessary commentary about his paperwork. Instead, the moment you’re close enough, his hand closes gently around your wrist.

You barely have time to make a confused sound before he pulls you toward him.

“Ticket—!”

Your complaint dissolves into startled silence when he guides you directly into his lap. For several seconds, you simply sit there, completely rigid with surprise.

Ticket Taker, apparently satisfied with this arrangement, slides one arm securely around your waist and uses his other hand to move the abandoned ledger farther away. He settles back into his chair as though pulling you into his lap in the middle of the workday is an entirely ordinary occurrence.

You turn your head to stare at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Holding you.”

“I noticed that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

You narrow your eyes.

Ticket Taker’s expression remains perfectly composed, but you catch the faintest hint of amusement in his gaze.

“I came here to hang out with you,” you mutter.

“And now you are.”

“In your lap.”

“Yes.”

“You’re being very strange about this.”

“I believe you are the one making it strange.”

You open your mouth to argue, but his hand begins moving slowly against your back, tracing gentle circles through the fabric of your clothes. The response is immediate and deeply inconvenient. Some of the tension leaves your shoulders before you can stop it, and Ticket Taker notices.

Of course he notices.

He notices everything about you.

“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”

“I’m still having a terrible day.”

“I’m aware.”

“And I’m still angry.”

“You may be angry here.”

Something about the simple statement nearly breaks you. Your expression crumples for half a second before you catch yourself, and Ticket Taker’s teasing disappears immediately. His arm tightens around your waist as he draws you closer, guiding your head beneath his chin until your cheek rests against his chest. He doesn’t ask you to explain. That is one of the things you love most about him. Ticket Taker understands that sometimes you want advice and sometimes you want solutions, but occasionally you simply need somewhere safe to be miserable for a while. Tonight, apparently, he has decided that place is his lap.

You let out a long, miserable sigh and slump against him. His hand continues its slow path up and down your back.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“Very well.”

“Everything was awful.”

“I gathered that.”

“I hate today.”

“That was also apparent.”

You lift your head enough to glare at him. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Never.”

The slight curve of his mouth says otherwise, and you pout. Actually pout.

Your lower lip pushes forward in a way that feels both childish and entirely involuntary as you stare at him with exaggerated betrayal. For the first time since you arrived, Ticket Taker’s composure visibly cracks. His gaze drops to your mouth for a brief second before returning to your eyes, and you watch with a strange satisfaction as the practiced neutrality of his expression gives way to something rawer, something that looks uncomfortably like hunger. The air between you shifts, charged with an energy that wasn't there moments ago. His fingers pause mid-circle on your back, the sudden stillness more telling than any movement could be. The faint scent of ink and parchment that always clings to him seems stronger now, mingling with the warmth radiating from his chest where you're pressed against him. In the dim lantern light of his tent, you can see the subtle tension that appears along his jawline, the slight darkening of his eyes that reminds you how rarely you see him without some barrier between his true feelings and the world.

The pout falters.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You looked at me strangely.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

His hand settles against your waist, warm and steady. “You are being argumentative.”

“I had a bad day. I’m allowed.”

“Apparently.”

You pout again, this time intentionally.

Ticket Taker stares.

You wait.

His eyes narrow slightly.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“You know precisely what.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You are pouting at me.”

“I am expressing my emotions.”

“You are weaponizing your face.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Ticket Taker smiles immediately. Not the small, restrained smile he gives customers or performers. This one is warm and unmistakably fond, transforming his entire expression in a way that makes your chest ache. He lifts a hand and gently cups your cheek, his thumb brushing beneath your eye.

“There you are,” he murmurs.

You lean into his palm despite yourself.

“Where?”

“Smiling.”

“Barely.”

“It still counts.”

You roll your eyes, but the movement lacks any real annoyance. Instead, it feels more like a reflex, an automatic response to his gentle teasing that has become second nature between you. His thumb continues tracing slowly over your cheek, following the curve of your cheekbone with a reverence that makes something in your chest flutter. The calloused tip of his thumb catches slightly on your skin, a subtle reminder of all the ledgers he balances, all the tickets he takes, all the work that usually occupies those hands—hands that are now devoted entirely to you. You become aware of just how close his face is to yours, closer than you've been in a while now that you think of it. The air between you has grown still and heavy, charged with something unspoken that makes your breath catch. Ticket Taker seems to realize it at the same moment. You watch as his gaze flickers briefly toward your mouth again, but this time he doesn't look away when you catch him. Instead, his eyes remain fixed on your lips, and you feel the intensity of his stare like a physical touch. A muscle in his jaw works as though he's fighting some instinct, and the arm around your waist tightens almost imperceptibly, pulling you closer still until there's barely a breath of space between your bodies. The scent of ink and parchment that always surrounds him seems to intensify, mingling with something warmer, something uniquely him that makes your head spin.

Your voice comes out quieter than intended. “What?”

He studies you for a moment. “You are very attractive.”

You blink.

The statement is delivered with such calm sincerity that it takes your brain several seconds to process it.

“What?”

“I believe I spoke clearly.”

“You can’t just say that out of nowhere.”

“Why not?”

“Because I look terrible.”

Ticket Taker’s brows pull together slightly.

“You do not.”

“I absolutely do. My hair is a mess, I’m exhausted, and I’ve been sitting here complaining for ten minutes.”

“Twelve.”

“That is not helping.”

“I wasn’t attempting to help. I was correcting the figure.” You groan and bury your face against his shoulder. Ticket Taker laughs quietly, the sound vibrating beneath your cheek, before gently coaxing you to look at him again.

“You are allowed to have bad days,” he says, his voice softer now. “They do not make you less appealing.”

“I’m literally pouting.”

“Yes.”

“And you still think I’m attractive?”

“Especially when you pout.”

Your mouth falls open, and Ticket Taker looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“That’s terrible.”

“I disagree.”

“You told me to stop doing it five minutes ago.”

“Because it was distracting.”

You stare at him. The tips of his ears turn pink. For once, Ticket Taker appears to realize he has said too much. You smile slowly.

“Distracting?”

He clears his throat. “That is what I said.”

“Interesting.”

“Do not start.”

“Start what?”

He gives you a warning look, but it has very little effect when his hand is still gently cradling your face, and his other arm remains securely around your waist. You pout at him again, deliberately. Ticket Taker closes his eyes for a moment.

“You are impossible.”

“And attractive?”

His eyes open. The expression on his face is so openly affectionate that your teasing falters.

“Very,” he says.

Then he kisses you. There is nothing rushed about it. His hand remains against your cheek as he closes the small distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a kiss so gentle that the last of your tension seems to dissolve beneath it. You melt against him, one hand curling into the front of his clothes as he kisses you again, just as softly, lingering this time as though he has nowhere else to be. When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours, and for a while neither of you says anything. Then you pout. Ticket Taker stares at your mouth. You grin.

“That was deliberate.”

“Maybe.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“You like me.”

“I do.”

The answer comes without hesitation, and your teasing expression softens. Ticket Taker brushes his nose lightly against yours before pressing a small kiss to the corner of your mouth. Unfortunately,” he continues, though the tenderness in his voice ruins the complaint entirely, “I appear to like you under every conceivable circumstance.”

“Even when I’m grumpy?”

“Yes.”

“Even when I complain?”

“Constantly.”

“Even when I pout?”

His gaze drops to your lips again. A faint smile appears. “That one may actually be a problem.”

A laugh escapes you, bright and sudden, and Ticket Taker’s smile widens. He leans in and kisses it directly off your lips. You respond immediately, wrapping your arms around his neck and shifting closer until there is no space left between you. His hands settle on your waist, holding you firmly in place, and the kiss deepens. This is the kind of kiss you know, the one that starts slow and sweet but quickly loses its composure. The kind that makes your toes curl in your boots and heat pool low in your stomach. The kind that makes you forget you were ever having a bad day at all.

“Ticket Taker,” you murmur against his mouth. It comes out breathless. He makes a low noise in response, not quite a word, and pulls you even tighter against him. One of his hands slides upward, fingers tangling in your hair as he tilts your head to the side, changing the angle of the kiss until you’re dizzy with it. You make a soft, needy sound, and he swallows it with another kiss. You’re suddenly, achingly aware of every point of contact between you—the solid warmth of his thighs beneath yours, the hard lines of his chest against your palms, the pressure of his hands gripping your waist. You shift your hips, seeking more friction, more of him, and the movement makes you both groan. He pulls back just enough to speak.

“What do you need?” His voice is rougher than usual. You love the sound. You love that you’re the one who makes it that way.

“You,” you say immediately. “Just you.” Something in your expression must reveal how much you mean it, because he looks at you with a tenderness that steals your breath. He says your name, soft and reverent, and the way he says it makes you feel cherished. Wanted. Seen. He kisses you again, a slow, deliberate kiss that feels like a promise. When he finally pulls away, he presses a line of soft kisses along your jaw, then down the column of your throat. Your head falls back, granting him easier access, and he takes full advantage. His lips are warm against your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You gasp when he reaches the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, and he pauses, pulling back just enough to look at you.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs, and you can hear the satisfaction in his tone. He likes that he can affect you this way. You like that he likes it. He leans back in, but instead of kissing you again, he gently bites down on the sensitive flesh of your shoulder. The sharp, unexpected pressure makes you cry out, your back arching. He soothes the mark with his tongue, a slow, deliberate lick that makes you shudder. He pulls back to admire his work.

“There,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Now you’re marked, all mine. My pouty little love.” The possessive note in his tone sends a fresh wave of heat through you. He did that on purpose. He wanted to leave a claim on you, a visible reminder that you belong to him. The thought makes you whine, a high, needy sound you barely recognize as your own. He chuckles, a deep, pleased sound that vibrates through you. “So eager for me.” His hands move from your waist to your hips, gripping you firmly. “Let’s see how eager you can be.” He lifts you just enough to start fumbling with the fastenings of your trousers, his fingers working with an urgency that belies his calm demeanor. You help as best you can, lifting your hips and shoving your own pants down just enough.

Ticket Taker's hands are warm against your skin, his touch both sure and slightly trembling with restrained desire. His fingers trace patterns along your inner thighs, deliberately avoiding the places you most want them to touch. The anticipation coils tightly in your stomach, each brush of his knuckles against sensitive flesh sending sparks through your nervous system. You squirm in his lap, unable to remain still as he methodically builds your arousal. His breath catches when you shift your weight, pressing more firmly against his growing erection. "Patience," he murmurs, though there's a strained quality to his voice that betrays his own need. One hand moves higher, thumb brushing against the fabric of your underwear. You gasp at the contact, hips bucking involuntarily. His other hand steadies you, palm flat against your lower back.

"So responsive," he says again, this time with awe rather than satisfaction. "Always so beautifully responsive to me." He finally slides his fingers beneath the elastic, running his hand against you with deliberate slowness. The intimate contact makes your breath hitch. When his thumb finds your sensitive flesh, circling gently, you cry out softly. His name escapes your lips, half plea, half praise. Ticket Taker silences you with a kiss, swallowing your sounds as he continues his patient exploration. Fingers move with practiced expertise, learning your responses, adapting to your cues.

Ticket Taker's movements become more deliberate, his breathing slightly uneven as he withdraws his hand from you, swiping his fingers across what moisture you already produced. He brings those fingers to his own mouth, his gaze locked with yours as he slowly sucks them clean, his tongue swirling around each digit with deliberate slowness. You watch, transfixed, as his cheeks hollow slightly, the intimate act making your thighs tremble. "You taste so sweet," he murmurs against his fingers, the words vibrating through you. Then he's pressing those same fingers against your lips, already slick with his saliva and your arousal.

"Open for me," he commands softly, and you obey without hesitation, parting your lips to accept them. He slides two fingers past your teeth, deeper than you expected, until you're gagging slightly around them. The sensation is overwhelming—his knuckles pressing against your tongue, the taste of yourself mixed with him, the way he holds you steady with his other hand on the back of your neck. Your eyes water as he works his fingers in and out, coating them thoroughly in your saliva.

"That's it," he praises, his voice thick with desire. "Getting them nice and wet for you." When he finally withdraws, you gasp for air, a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips to his fingers for a moment before breaking. Without giving you time to recover, he's positioning himself between your thighs again. When he finally slides one digit inside you, your back arches violently, pressing your chest against his as a choked cry escapes your throat. The sudden intrusion is both a shock and a relief, the stretch making you clench around him instinctively. He's patient, letting you adjust before beginning to move, his finger curling slightly as he finds that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

"More," you demand, voice ragged. Ticket Taker complies, adding another finger, curling them just right until you see stars behind your closed eyelids. His mouth leaves yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, each press of his lips sending a jolt straight to your core. Your head falls against his shoulder, exposing the vulnerable line of your neck, and he takes full advantage, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin where your pulse beats erratically. When he reaches the hollow of your throat, his tongue darts out to taste your skin, leaving a wet path that cools in the lantern light of the tent. The air grows thick with the sounds of your breathing and the sound of his fingers inside you.

His fingers continue their torturous exploration inside you, stroking and curling in ways that make your thighs tremble where they're bracketing his hips. You can feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing insistently against you through his trousers, a constant, thrilling reminder of his desire. The fabric of his shirt has become twisted where you've been clutching at it, the fine linen crumpled in your fists as you struggle to maintain any semblance of composure.

"Ticket Taker," you gasp as his fingers press against that perfect spot inside you, making sparks dance behind your eyelids. His response is a low hum of satisfaction against your throat before he pulls back slightly, his fingers still buried within you as he watches your face. The lantern light catches the intense hunger in his eyes, the way his pupils have swallowed the warm amber of his irises, leaving them dark and fathomless.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with desire. You force your heavy eyelids open, meeting his gaze with hazy pleasure. What you see there nearly undoes you completely—pure, unadulterated worship mixed with a possessive gleam that makes your heart race even faster. His free hand comes up to brush sweat-damp strands of hair from your forehead, his touch surprisingly gentle considering the intensity of his expression.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving yours as his fingers begin to move again, this time with a purpose that makes your hips buck against his hand. His other hand gets to work, circling you with increasing pressure as his fingers curl inside you. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, sending pleasure cresting through you in waves. You can feel yourself approaching the edge, your body tensing as his movements become more deliberate. His name escapes your lips in a breathless plea, and his lips curve into a knowing smile.

"Not yet," he murmurs, slowing his movements deliberately, drawing out the exquisite torture. You whine in protest, squirming in his lap as he maintains a maddeningly gentle rhythm that keeps you hovering just on the precipice without letting you fall. His hand moves from circling you to your shoulder, fingers tracing the neckline of your shirt before slipping beneath the fabric to palm your chest. The calloused pad of his thumb brushes against your nipple, making it pebble instantly under his touch. He rolls the sensitive peak between thumb and forefinger, sending fresh sparks of pleasure through you that join the building tension in your core. His name becomes a chant on your lips as he continues his dual assault, fingers pumping steadily while his thumb works your nub with maddening precision.

Just when you think you can't take another moment of this exquisite torture, he leans in, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that's all heat and desperation. You kiss back with equal fervor, your hands tangling in his hair as you try to pull him impossibly closer. The angle changes as you shift against him, and his fingers hit that perfect spot inside you again. This time he doesn't pull back, instead increasing his pace as he feels your inner walls begin to clench around his fingers. "That's it," he murmurs against your lips, his voice strained with his own rising need. "Let go for me. I want to watch you fall apart. You're so beautiful like this."

His permission is all you need, and with a cry that's half his name, half an incoherent sound of pleasure, you tumble over the edge. Your back arches, pressing your chest into his palm as waves of pleasure wash over you. His fingers continue to work you through your orgasm, drawing out every last aftershock until you're left trembling and breathless in his arms. For a moment, you simply lean against him, boneless and sated, his fingers still buried within you as you struggle to catch your breath. The air in the tent feels charged with electricity, the silence between you heavy with unspoken words. When you finally open your eyes, you find him watching you with an expression that takes your breath away all over again—tenderness, pride, and a fierce possessiveness that makes you feel cherished and claimed all at once. He slowly withdraws his fingers, and you whimper at the loss of contact.

His hands move to your waist, steadying you as he shifts, lifting you effortlessly from his lap. For a moment, you're suspended in his arms, the world tilting as he places you on the polished surface of his desk. Ledgers and papers scatter beneath you, their crisp edges pressing against your back as you settle among his work. The intimacy of being spread across the very space where he spends his days sends a fresh thrill through you, a reminder that you are now the most important thing demanding his attention. Ticket Taker leans over you, his body creating a shadow that blocks the lantern light, plunging you both into a more private darkness. His hands are busy at the waistband of his trousers, fingers working with familiar efficiency to free himself from the constraints of fabric. The sound of buttons being undone seems impossibly loud in the quiet tent, each click marking a progression toward what you both crave.

You help with clumsy haste, pushing at your own remaining clothes until they join his on the floor of his tent, discarded in a pile of rumpled fabric. The air is cool against your heated skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and thighs, but you barely notice as Ticket Taker settles between your legs, his body heat chasing away any chill. The weight of him above you is both comforting and thrilling, a solid presence that anchors you even as your heart races with anticipation. His hands brace on either side of your head, fingers curling slightly against the wooden desk, and you can feel the slight tremble in them, the evidence of his own desire barely contained.

You can’t help but stare at his member. He’s already hard, flushed and leaking at the tip. But it’s the base of his cock that captures your attention. There, nestled among the dark curls, is a distinct swelling. A knot. You’ve seen it before, felt it inside you, but it never fails to make your breath catch. The sight of it, the promise of what it can do, makes you ache with a need so profound it’s almost painful.

“Please,” you beg, not even sure what you’re begging for. More? Everything? All of him, right now? He seems to understand anyway. He swipes his hand through your wentess, coating his cock, and positions himself at your entrance, the head nudging against you, teasing you. He doesn't push inside, not yet. He waits. You try to shift your hips, to take him in yourself, but his grip on your hips tightens, holding you still.

“Look at me,” he commands softly. Your eyes flutter open and meet his. His gaze is intense, full of an emotion that makes your chest ache. “Tell me what you want.” You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry.

“Inside me,” you whisper, the words barely audible. “Please, I want you inside me.” A slow smile spreads across his face, and he finally, finally, pushes forward. The initial stretch is a sweet, stinging pleasure that makes you gasp. He moves slowly, giving you time to adjust, sinking deeper inch by inch until he’s fully seated within you. You both groan at the sensation, a shared sound of relief and utter satisfaction. For a moment, he remains still, buried to the hilt, simply feeling you around him. You can feel the slight press of his knot against your entrance, not yet fully swollen, but a promise of what’s to come. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily in the sudden stillness. The only sounds in the tent are your ragged breaths and the distant sounds of the circus coming to life for the night.

Then he starts to move.

He is slow at first, a gentle rocking that builds a steady rhythm. Each thrust is deliberate, designed to hit that perfect spot inside you that makes your toes curl. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he finds a pace that has you seeing stars. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, silently begging for more. He gives it to you, increasing his speed until the desk is creaking beneath you, the sound of skin against skin filling the tent. The scattered papers beneath you crinkle with each powerful thrust, a reminder of where you are, of how utterly you’ve disrupted his world. The thought sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

“You feel so good,” he rasps, his voice thick with desire. “Tight around me, taking me so well.” His praise sends a fresh jolt of arousal through you, making you clench around him. He groans in response, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he redoubles his efforts. “So good, always so perfect for me.” His words are a litany of praise that stokes the fire building in your core. One of his hands leaves your hip, moving between your bodies to find you again. His fingers circle you with practiced ease, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The dual stimulation is almost too much, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

You can feel his knot beginning to swell, stretching you further with each pass of his hips. The added pressure is exquisite, a delicious ache that has you babbling incoherently, a string of pleas and praises that you're barely aware you're speaking. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as you try to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure. The desk beneath you groans in protest with each powerful thrust, the sound mixing with your cries and his ragged breathing.

"Please," you beg, not sure what you're asking for. More? Faster? Harder? All of it. "Ticket Taker, please…"

"Tell me," he demands, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Tell me what you need, my love. Use your words."

"You," you gasp, your hips rising to meet his thrusts. "All of you. Please, I need all of you." You feel the swell of his knot against your entrance, a promise of the fullness you crave. He shifts slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts, and you cry out as he hits that perfect spot inside you with renewed precision. His hand continues its relentless circling, pushing you closer and closer to the precipice. Just as you feel yourself beginning to tighten, the familiar coil of pleasure winding in your stomach, he stills.

A desperate whine escapes your lips as the pleasure recedes slightly, leaving you hanging on the edge. You try to move, to chase the sensation, but his grip on your hips tightens, holding you immobile. His other hand moves to cover your own where it's clutching at his shoulder, his fingers lacing through yours in a gesture that's both grounding and infuriatingly controlling.

"Not yet," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Not until I say so. I want to feel you come around me when I'm buried so deep you can't tell where you end and I begin." His words wash over you, a wave of heat and frustration that leaves you trembling. The denial makes the ache between your legs almost unbearable, a desperate, hollow need that demands to be filled. You can feel how close he is, how the muscles in his back are tense beneath your hands, how he's fighting for control, and the knowledge that he's denying himself as well as you is both maddening and deeply touching. He waits for your breathing to even out slightly, for the tension in your body to ease, before he starts to move again.

This time, his thrusts are slower. He's drawing out every sensation, pushing you higher and higher with each pass of his hips. The desk creaks in protest beneath you, the sound mixing with your choked-off sobs and the slick sounds of your bodies joining. His knot, now fully swollen, presses insistently against you with each thrust, stretching you further, pushing you to your limits. You're so close, the pleasure so intense it's almost painful, and you're terrified he's going to stop again. "Please," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please, let me come. I can't… I can't take it…"

"Almost," he promises, his voice strained. "Just a little longer for me, love. Be good, now." The term of endearment, delivered in that deep, commanding tone, is your undoing. You're fighting it, trying to hold back as he asks, but the combination of his words, the fullness of him inside you, and the relentless stimulation of his hand is too much. You feel yourself beginning to tip over the edge, the tension coiling impossibly tight in your stomach.

He must feel it too, because he finally, finally gives you what you want. "Now," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Come for me now." The command is all it takes. With a cry that's half his name, half an incoherent sound of pure ecstasy, you shatter. Your back arches, pressing your chest against his as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. Your inner walls clamp down around him, and you can feel him following you over the edge with a groan of your name. His hips jerk once, twice, and then he's pushing forward, seating the swollen base of his cock inside you as he buries himself to the hilt. The sensation of being stretched further, of being locked together, triggers another, smaller orgasm that leaves you gasping and shaking. His warmth spreads inside you, a feeling of completeness, of being utterly and completely claimed, that brings tears to your eyes.

For a long moment, you both remain still, connected in the most intimate way possible. The only sounds in the tent are your ragged breaths slowly evening out, and the distant, faint music of the circus. You can feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest, a steady rhythm that gradually slows as you both come down from the high. His weight is a comforting, grounding presence, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you bask in the afterglow. You press your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent of ink and parchment, now mingled with the unmistakable scent of your combined releases.

"You took me so well," he murmurs against your hair, his voice thick with satisfaction. He shifts slightly, adjusting to the new reality of being knotted together, and the movement makes you both moan. "So perfectly. Look at you, taking all of me." One of his hands comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin. "Are you alright?"

You nod, unable to form words just yet. He seems to understand, because he simply holds you, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temples, your closed eyelids. His other hand traces idle patterns on your hip, a soothing, repetitive motion that helps ground you in the present. You can feel the last vestiges of your terrible day melting away, replaced by a warm, sated glow that settles deep in your bones. The anger and frustration you carried into his tent are gone, replaced by a feeling of peace, of being right where you belong.

After a while, when your breathing has returned to normal and you've stopped trembling, you finally find your voice. "Wow," you whisper, the word barely audible. He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through you.

"Wow indeed," he agrees, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You turn your head, capturing his lips in a slow, lazy kiss that's less about passion and more about connection. When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his.

"I love you," you say, the words coming out softer than you intended, but no less true for it. He stills, and for a moment, you worry you've said the wrong thing, that it's too soon, too much. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.

"I love you too," he says, his voice clear and unwavering. "More than I thought possible." He leans in, kissing you again, a soft, reverent press of lips that speaks volumes. When he pulls back, he's smiling, a genuine, unreserved smile that transforms his face, making him look years younger, carefree in a way you rarely see.

"You know," you say, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you trace the line of his jaw, "for a terrible day, this is turning out pretty well." His smile widens, and he laughs, a bright, happy sound that fills the tent.

"I aim to please," he says, his tone light and teasing. You shift slightly, testing the connection between you, and the movement makes you both gasp as his knot presses against your sensitive walls. "Careful," he warns, though there's no real heat in his words. "We're going to be like this for a while."

You hum in contentment, snuggling closer. "I can think of worse things," you murmur, your fingers tracing patterns on his back.

“i think i’ll collect my payment first then~”

harlequin’s hand holds your chin, guiding your face to the side to lean closer to your neck. his breath against your skin makes you arch your neck farther to the side on instinct, and you feel the way his lips grow into a grin against your pulse. "that's good, i like that reaction, meu bem."

his tongue drags across your neck until he finds the spot that makes you shiver, hand flying out to hold his, looking for something to clutch. he laughs, pulling away to look at you. “is that where you’re sensitive? hm?” he leans back in, pressing a kiss to the same spot, and your legs close together on instinct. against your better judgment, your mouth betrays you as you make a small noise when his tongue darts out to press against the spot again. “found it~” he hums, satisfied. he lets go of your chin but remains where he is, buried in your neck.

your scent is driving him crazy; he wants to claim you, press against you until you only smell like him. he can barely make out the words before he acts, “i’m going to leave my mark, little thing. i’m going to ruin you for anyone else.”

“ah– harlequin!” your hands make their way into his hair when his teeth sink into your flesh, right on that sensitive spot he sought out on your neck. but your fingers don’t try to pull him away. they only push him closer, deeper into your neck. god, you’re so obedient for him, so perfect in every way it’s making him insane. the way you react makes it almost impossible for him to stop. you make him want to see just how deep he can bite.

one of his hands has slid down to palm himself through his pants, trying to relieve some pressure. his groan is muffled by your neck as he finally lets up, moving to lick the bleeding bite he’s left on you. he sucks from the incisions he left on your neck that bleed the most, trying to taste as much of you as he can. you’re caged beneath his body, only able to claw at his chest and whine as he keeps attacking your neck, making your stomach flutter.

when he finally stops, the majority of your neck is a flushed red, similar to how pink your cheeks are, but at least a quarter of it is also beginning to turn a dark purple. it’s not enough for him. he wants to bite more, but your clothes are in the way, and the floor’s beginning to get a little uncomfortable. 

he moves onto the couch, and your eyes follow him as soon as he moves, turning towards him when he pats his thigh. “come here, pretty thing,” he beckons.

but you surprise him when you kneel between his legs instead, reaching for the string that keeps the bottom of his uniform together. he catches your wrist before you can get any closer, clicking his tongue, “you eager little thing~ are you sure you want to do that? or are you going to listen to me?”

your lips press into a thin line, seeming to debate his options, but he was never giving you a choice. he pulls you up by your wrist onto his lap, forcing you to straddle him. “that’s a good kitten,” he praises, letting go of your wrist to hold onto your hips. your hands wrap around the back of his neck before he can move, and he waits, anticipating what you're going to do.

“wanna kiss you,” you're on his lap, saying such sweet things, the perfect mix of sultry and naivety. you lean closer to him, until your foreheads are almost touching, “'s that okay?”

he laughs at the question. you should know by now, he’s yours. you made him like this. in your own devotion to him, he seems to be just as obsessed with you. he feels like a fool, knowing just how much he would let you do to him, if you asked. “i’m yours, gatinha. do whatever you want,” he answers, letting his head fall back to rest on your hands behind him.

you close the gap, unsure of where this burst of confidence is coming, but you let it control you while it lasts, guiding you to tilt your head, trying to kiss him deeper. when his hands squeeze your hips, reminding you of where they are, you lift them up for a split second before bringing them back down on him, and he breaks the kiss, groaning as he looks down at where you're meeting him. “fuck, do that again,” he breathes. but before you even have a chance to obey, he’s lifting you up again, pressing you down on him. 

it feels so much better when he does it, you're almost embarrassed you tried to take the lead, even if it was just for a moment. from his clawed hands and broad shoulders to his towering height, he's impossibly bigger than you, so when he grabs you, you let him. he's already been able to map out your body better than you could yourself in a matter of seconds; he knows exactly where to move you, force your hips to roll, and the exact amount of pressure to use that has you both moaning.

you followed his gaze after he broke the kiss, both of you watching the way your bodies meet and grind against each other, but you use a gentle hand to make him look up at you again, leaning in to kiss him again. he kisses you back with just as much fervor, moving one of his hands up to your head, pulling you closer to him.

when your hands reach, this time for his shirt, he catches your wrist again before you can see what’s under. “do you.. want to go farther than this, little thing? if you say yes, i won’t be able to stop, gatinha.”

you blink, looking him in the eyes, and he’s waiting, truly waiting for your answer. his grip on your wrist is hard. he wants to keep going, wants to so badly, but he’s barely holding himself back until you give him an answer. you move your hand to intertwine with his gloved one, wanting desperately to feel his skin. “yes,” you breathe. “please, i want to go farther. with you.” 

his mouth grows back into the smile you’re used to, his hand giving yours a small squeeze before both of his hands are wrapping underneath your legs. "grab onto me, little thing." you barely have time to react before he’s standing up, carrying you in the direction of your bedroom, squeezing any part of your body he can reach.

he leaves the lights off as he lowers you to the mattress, "this is much better, yeah?"

you can only nod, lips slightly trembling. he just looks so good like this, hovering above you. you can't stop staring.

you blink, trying to adjust your eyes better to the dark. you can still barely see him, but you can hear his hands removing his clothes.

you reach up, starting to take off your own shirt, when your hands are suddenly pinned above your head. he holds both of your hands with one while his other continues to work off his attire. "hum~ no moving unless I tell you so. did you hear me, pretty thing?"

"yes..." your answer seems to satisfy him, and you can see the glint of his teeth as he smiles, but he doesn't let go of the grip on your hands.

"good kitty," his smile only grows at the way your thighs clench when he praises you. "let me show you something new, since you're always so eager to know more about me, gatinha."

your breath hitches when you feel something move past the waistband of your shorts, just the feeling of it grazing your skin sending shivers down your spine. but you know where both of his hands are, so what's touching you? it doesn't feel like his hand, either. it's something smoother, thinner than his hands. "h-harlequin? what's—"

"what's touching you? it's me, dear. these are all parts of me, sweet thing." your mind is spinning, your fingers graze the hand that's keeping yours above your head in an attempt to grab onto something. you feel something wind around your ankles, too, keeping your legs open. his knees were already between your thighs to begin with, you're not sure you could've closed them if you tried.

it feels like ropes coiling around your body, near your stomach, and one is around your neck. they're everywhere, but they're not rough. they feel alive and warm. one reaches up to your hands, basically winding itself into your palms for you to hold. it's hard to tell if he willingly moved one up as something for you to grab as some sort of comfort or if the rope, tentacle—whatever it was—moved on its own, but you're thankful for it. you hold it gently, careful not to squeeze too hard, scared to hurt him.

"hmm, your skin feels so nice, dear," he murmurs, leaning close to your neck as his sharp fingers wander up your shirt, tracing along your ribs. your neck still feels sensitive from his bites in your living room just moments ago, and you can only whimper in response.

his tendrils have slid your shorts and undergarments down your legs and off your ankles, leaving you bare besides your shirt, which he's almost completely pulled off.

when you grinded against him earlier, the fabric separating you from him made it hard to gauge anything accurately, but now that you're both bare and he's pressed against the inside of your thigh, your stomach twists in anticipation. he had felt big when you grinded on him, but now you're starting to think he's too big. will it hurt, or even fit, for that matter? you begin to worry.

he seems to read your mind, chuckling against the curve of your shoulder, where he's littered too many love bites to count from your neck down to your chest. "don't worry that pretty head of yours, gatinha. i like to take my time with my prey. i'll make sure you're ready, i promise." you squeeze the tendril you've been holding onto gently, looking up at him as he pushes himself back up to hover above you. you watch the way his green eyes wander everywhere, and your legs weakly press against his knees that keep you open in a pathetic attempt to hide from his gaze.

he laughs at the feeling of your thighs squeezing his. "you might not be able to see anything, meu bem, but i can see everything," he let's go of your wrists, tracing down your body, leaving goosebumps in his wake. "you look beautiful like this."

the way he says that last part is oddly intimate, more intimate than you already physically are, completely bare for him, under his gaze. no pet name or tease, just the compliment. it has your face a little redder than before, and you shyly avert your eyes to nothing, "thank you..."

"always," he laughs again at your reaction, "you know i mean everything i say, don't you, gatinha?" you nod weakly, and your eyes quickly snap back to him when you feel him move, and he's lowering himself to your mattress, right between your legs.

your hands fly to his head on instinct, feeling his warm breath against your thighs, "harlequin—! are you—" a moan escapes your mouth before you can even process it when he takes the first lick.

he can't even help but rut against your bed at your sound, almost making a noise himself. he said he'd take his time, but you're making it damn near impossible with how much you're affecting him. a lick up to your clit is where he stays, pressing against it with his tongue. he'll keep going, he won't rush it; not when you look so good like this, when you're gripping his hair like this, when you're making those noises, when you taste like this.

"fuck," he murmurs against you, the vibrations it sends through your body making you shake, "you're better than i could have ever imagined— what are you doing to me, gatinha?" as if he hasn't been utterly obsessed with you from the start. but then again, weren't you? wasn't that what got you in this situation in the first place?

his words aren't an insult or attempt at degradation at all; simply nothing he's ever had or done compares to you. nothing could ever be as perfect as you. anything in his corrupted mind and imagination could never amount to actually having you in his hands right now, in this moment.

he's grinding against the mattress again, without even meaning to. his tentacles wind against you tighter in pleasure. he moans, lost between his own movements and having the taste of you on his tongue. but the way you moan right after almost covers up his own sound.

you're loud, and one of your hands flies to your mouth to cover it. you didn’t mean to be so noisy. it was a mix of hearing his moan and the way it felt against your most sensitive part. but your efforts don't last long before a tentacle wraps around your arm and pulls it back down to harlequin's head, as if urging you to run your hand back through his hair.

“keep making those noises for me, will you? you sound heavenly like that, it’s really turning me on~” he’s blunt, and somehow that makes his words several times more effective on you, and it's humiliating. you're dripping, and it's only getting worse with every flirt. he notices the effect he has on you, his tongue moving from your clit back to your entrance.

his tongue, you’ve maybe only seen it once or twice before, but that doesn’t matter. you’ve imagined it many more times than that, a poisonous green and impossibly long, split at the end like a snake’s– just the image of it in your mind makes you throb. harlequin responds by wrapping his arms around your thighs, bracing himself right against you, pressing his tongue inside you.

the warmth that’s been pooling in your lower stomach gets infinitely more intense, and there are tears suddenly pricking your eyes with how overwhelming it feels. “harlequin–!!”

the way you say his name reduces him to a level of patheticness he didn’t even know he could reach. how many times has he touched himself to that same noise in the past? his name on your tongue—not anyone else's—his. even now, he can’t help himself, rutting your mattress as if you’re not right in front of him. you’d be that easy to enter right now, instead of grinding against your mattress. but he hasn't stretched you out at all– he really needs to speed this up.

“‘m right here, dear,” he answers, moving back up to your clit before something else is at your entrance. he pushes two fingers in, not even letting you start with just one. the cry you let out almost makes him lose control completely, and the way your nails dig into his skull, pressing him harder against your bud isn’t helping.

he’s careful not to hurt you, he knows his claws are sharp, and it doesn’t really matter, anyway– they were only to stretch you out a little so that he could–

“oh my god–”

the feeling changes again as something else replaces his fingers inside you. it’s one of his tendrils, sliding inside you. it's unlike anything you've ever felt, flexible inside you, bending and dragging along your walls, continuing to reach impossibly deep.

you’re impossibly tight around him, and you’re only getting tighter as you get closer to your climax. you feel so so good– so warm, so wet he almost thinks he could cum right now, but he wants to– needs to ruin you. ruin you for anyone else, including yourself. he can’t decide if he wants you to start out cumming on his dick or like this. he'll be nice, he decides, and let you get used to his pace first.

his tendril retracts out of you the slightest bit at an agonizing pace, you’re worried for a second– but when it immediately thrusts back into you– “ah!~ harlequin, i’m– i can’t–”

“you’re gonna cum already and i haven’t even started fucking you? you’re so good for me, doll. it’s alright, you can cum, dear.” he sits back up as you shut your eyes, one final moan escaping your lips as the coil in your stomach snaps. he keeps his tentacle pushing in and out of you, letting you gently ride out your high, watching every way your body twitches, how you pull on your bottom lip with your teeth, and your nails dig into his thighs.

it’s an overwhelming kind of orgasm you’ve never had before, a few tears run down your face from the sheer extremity of it, and your breathing is ragged. it gets caught in your throat when you feel a hand on your head. he rubs the top of your head slowly and gently, immediately calming your racing heart, and his other hand caresses your face, catching your stray tears.

when you open your eyes, you’re met with his green ones again, looking straight into yours. “you’re adorable, gatinha,” he chuckles, wiping away the last of your tears. when his tendril slips out of you, it leaves you feeling empty, clenching around nothing as you try to gather yourself again. 

you’re exhausted, you think you could fall asleep right now, but looking in his eyes, you know he’s not done. with any other person, you might’ve asked to stop, but deep down, you know you want to keep going, too. you want to experience everything with him.

“you’re not tired already, are you, dear thing?” he teases, leaning closer to you.

you shake your head from side to side, denying any exhaustion. “no! i’m not, i swear. please…” but the words are harder to get out than you thought.

“please what?” and he won’t let up, his grin widening. he’ll never get tired of playing with you. "you were so loud just a second ago. what's got you shy now?"

“please… harlequin,” you hope saying his name will be enough, but when he waits for you to continue, the glint in his eyes as merciless as his smile, you shut your eyes, taking a deep breath. “i want you… please, harlequin.” you’re quiet, but he still hums in satisfaction, looking down on you.

“good kitten,” he praises, and your heart almost stops at the feeling of him at your entrance. you’re not sure any of the previous play has prepared you enough for this, and your hands reach for his shoulders, hoping for some kind of relief as he pushes in.

“hm?~ you gonna scratch me, little gatinha? mark me as yours? i don’t mind~” he teases, but he’s not exaggerating. your nails dig into his back as he keeps pushing inside you, stretching you impossibly wider. he even lowers himself closer to you, giving you better access to his back.

his forehead presses to your shoulder, and he lets out a small groan. even with how much he could feel with his tendrils, it feels infinitely better actually being inside you, and he’s still only halfway there. it feels even better, the way you’re scratching him, leaving marks that’ll make his mouth water every time he looks in a mirror and sees them in the coming days. he’s already so close to your chest that he can’t help but take one of your perked nipples into his mouth, flicking it with his pronged tongue.

your back arches into him at the feeling, and it helps distract you from the burn of how far he is inside you, how wide he’s stretching you. “oh god, harlequin–” you breathe when he switches to your other breast, one of your hands reaching to run through his curls while the other stays on his shoulder.

he hums in response, keeping his mouth busy until his pelvis is finally pressed against yours, fully hilted inside you. he leaves your breast with a kiss, looking at you, “wasn’t so terrible, was it? such a good pet, taking all of me.”

you’ve never felt so full in your life, and when your eyes flick down to where your bodies meet, in the shadowed dark, you can see the slight bulge pressing out of your stomach. his eyes follow yours, his grin widening when he sees how far he is inside you. his hand presses onto your stomach, his fingers cold to the touch. when he presses down, you arch your back again. the noise you make is half a cry and half a moan. “if you move, i think you might split me in half–” you murmur and he laughs.

“would that be such a bad thing, gatinha?” he asks, head dropping to your ear, giving it the tiniest bite. “look at me,” he demands, using a hand to help guide your face to his. he leans down, capturing your lips with his, and you moan at the sensation— how intimate the kiss is when you're connected; when he's inside you, pulsing, begging to move.

he takes the opportunity while his mouth is covering yours to pull out almost completely before slamming into you, your cry dying in your throat as he keeps his lips against yours. he groans into your mouth, green tongue slipping past your lips to push and wrap around your tongue, deepening the kiss.

he maintains a brutal pace but begins to push your legs up onto his shoulders, pressing your knees to your shoulders, letting him hit even deeper inside you.

you didn’t think deeper was possible, but here he was proving you wrong, and you think you’ve completely lost your mind and grasp on reality and any sensibility. your moans are so loud, harlequin pushes two fingers into your mouth to try and quiet you, “hah~ fuck, you’re so loud, dear. i love it. we’re gonna wake up your neighbors, yeah? but i’m gonna keep fucking you when they come banging on the door. i’ll keep fucking you until i’m done with you. doesn't matter who hears us, i'm not stopping 'til you're dripping with me.” you tighten so hard around him he almost stops moving, and he moans loud into your neck, the sound making you dig your nails back into his shoulders again. “you like when i talk to you like this, little thing? fuck! you’re squeezing me so tight, doll. it's like you want to keep me inside— is that what you want? want me to cum inside you, pretty thing?”

“yes, please,” you beg as best as you can with his fingers in your mouth, and he chuckles before removing his fingers, bringing them down to your clit instead, mixing your saliva with how wet you already are. “mmph~ harlequin– if you do that, i’m gonna–” your words make him still inside you, and although you did warn him, the loss of friction almost makes you tear up again, feeling yourself lose how close you were to your high. “wait–”

“be good and turn around for me, then i’ll let you cum,” he hushes you, and before you even finish turning onto your stomach, he’s already back inside you, using his hands on your hips to slam into you even harder.

the way he presses over you, your back against his chest, pushing you into the mattress, lets him thrust into you so deep you see stars. you moan into your sheets, slightly muffling the noise, and one of his hands comes up to run through your hair, grabbing it at the base to lift your head up. not enough to really hurt you, just enough that he can hear you loud and clearly.

“that’s it, sweet thing, come apart on my dick, fuck! been thinking about this for a while, you have no idea, meu bem. fucking you just like this— seeing you like this,” you can’t see him, but you know he’s near from how close he sounds to you. when he bites down on your shoulder next, you clench down on him again, almost fully sending him over the edge.

“you’ll make me cum if you keep doing that, gatinha,” he warns, a hand reaching down between your legs back to your clit as he keeps fucking into you, hitting the same spot over and over again.

“want it,” you mumble dazedly, head going limp, only held up by his hand in your hair.

he laughs, “want what, sweet thing? my cum, or you want to cum? or are you too fucked out to think?” you can only manage a weak nod and he laughs again, the sound making your stomach flutter in the midst of how it’s being fucked into. “how about both, since you’ve been so good for me, little gatinha. yeah? you’d like that?”

you nod eagerly and he lets your head gently come back down to the mattress, his hand returning to your hip to fuck into you as hard as he can. he’s close, but he won’t let himself go until you cum again, and from how your hands are grabbing onto the sheets, and now you're clamping down onto his dick, you’re close. you just need one final push.

he licks a hot strip up your neck, biting just behind your ear before kissing the spot right after, “cum for me, gatinha.” 

his words, rasped so close to your ear that they make you shiver, are what send you over the edge, and you cry out. it's even more intense than the first time, and he feels it. the way your walls spasm and clamp down on him has him groaning, too, immediately spilling into you. he keeps fucking you through both of your highs until it hurts. only then does he pull out, watching moments later when your mixed orgasms begin to spill out of you, and he pushes it back inside of you with his thumb. the intrusion makes you instinctively try to close your thighs again, and he chuckles at the attempt.

you flip over onto your back, still trying to catch your breath. the movement has him interested. what could possibly have you moving around so irrationally and quickly? he crawls to hover back over you again, his arms on either side of you as he watches your face, curious. he reminds you of a cat, ready to go to bed, but waiting for you to get comfortable before they curl up.

“harlequin?” you breathe, and he tilts his head, green slits following your every move.

“what is it, gatinha?” he responds, sounding only slightly out of breath compared to you. "you want round two already?"

you shake your head, lips trembling as he watches you, waiting for you to speak. you’re a little hesitant to ask, worried of how he might respond if the answer is no. the time you’ve just spent with him was far too intimate for you to take any kind of tease or joke. “will you… are you– are you going to stay the night over?” you stutter, trying to find the best way to put your words. when he doesn’t respond immediately, only blinks, you only get more nervous. “you don’t… have to. but it would be nice— um. i just don’t want to sleep alone tonight– it would be nice to sleep with you— is what i’m trying to say. sorry.”

he’s always left immediately after fucking. what point was there to stick around, sleep with a stranger just to go in the morning? he never wanted to spend more time in the presence of someone than he had to. he had no connection to them; he only used them, there was nothing more to it, nothing to stay for.

but none of that applied to you; you weren’t a stranger, and this wasn't an offhand hookup. he'd never had sex like this, not until you. he did have a connection to you, and this night had only strengthened that. just the mark on your neck made that obvious. your explanation, surprisingly, resonated with something inside him. he feels hesitant to leave, to go back to his own tent just to sleep in a cold bed. especially when he was already with you, asking him to come to bed, why would he ever want to leave?

but he’d never done this before. never had to take care of someone after his actions.

but he’d already learned a lot with you, hadn’t he? and you never demanded, just asked. never expected anything of him, just guided, as if you already knew he didn't know what to do. how cruel of you to keep putting him in these situations, where he was blind and inexperienced, despite how much he'd gone through.

the point was, no matter how scared he could be about messing up something new, even if it was as simple as sleeping with or taking care of you, he wanted it, weirdly enough. wanted to learn how, for once in his existence. you drive me crazy. he thinks, looking at you. it’s not an insult, he would say it to you affectionately, describe to you just how much you’re on his mind, which was all the time. he wonders if you’ve noticed, the same way he noticed it in you, how much you changed him. 

he doesn’t respond immediately, just falls on top of you, resting his chin over your shoulder, closing his eyes. when he opens them, you’re looking at him, eyes gentle and soft like they always are when you see him. he likes that. when he visits you at work, before you notice him, your voice is sterner, and your eyes are sharper, more lidded. but then you see him, and he’s fairly confident you don’t even notice– your voice gets softer and a little higher, adorably. your eyes widen, and they look a little brighter. he’s not sure what he did to garner that kind of reaction from you, but he loves it. loves being the only one you’ll change for.

you have a hand hovering over his head, and when he meets your eyes, you hesitantly place it down between his horns, petting his head softly. he hasn't explained them yet, nor has he told you what exactly was holding you during the night, but that's a discussion for tomorrow morning. when he closes his eyes again, turning his head to give you better access to it, you take it as a sign to continue and smile softly.

“i’ll stay,” he finally answers, making your heart skip a beat in excitement, “but we’re not waking up until i say so. if you say you need to go to work, or do anything else, i’m going to keep you in bed all day.”

“deal,” you laugh. "i wouldn't dream of it." but you are always dreaming— of him. during the day, always at night. but now he's in your arms, not a dream, a truth. "i'm all yours," you promise.

✮ PIERROT

cw: broken glass, blood, injuries, established relationship-ish, mc has a vague understanding of the circus and who they really are

the moment he notices the first tear dropping, pierrot is at your side apologizing immediately. his comfort comes in the form of promising to love you, serve you, and take care of your every need until you feel better.

it's hard to imagine a scenario for pierrot; his entire existence is dedicated to pleasing you, acting as whatever version of himself you like best so that you will love him as much as he loves you. so how would he ever let himself make you cry?

he really should have just waited for you to be done with work. he could’ve texted you, or just met you outside, but the sight of you through the window had him feeling like he had to be with you immediately— he couldn’t wait any longer.

but when he’s fidgeting with the back door, trying to get it unlocked, and he pulls a wire he knows he shouldn't have, he freezes.

you’d been on edge all day after customers wouldn’t stop talking to you about everything going on in the news. more and more were disappearing, and while some did blame the travelling circus in town, you were under the assumption that it was something else.

if it was just people blaming the circus, you could have cared less about what they had to say. no one knew anything about the circus, and that's precisely what they didn't like about the vibrantly dressed masked performers on the streets. humans don't like to be left in the dark— to be made a fool of. before anything stronger or smarter than them can overthrow their position at the top of the food chain, humans suppress and destroy. as a result, everyone in town was blaming the circus for even the slightest mishaps.

but in your mind, that gave any criminal the perfect scapegoat for their plans. whether they steal something or make someone disappear, no matter what they do, they can say, “it was those circus freaks!” and the town will take their side. crowd hysteria thrived nowhere better than situations like this. 

that’s what scares you. humans have always been the real monsters. in the few weeks that you've known him, even if pierrot won’t tell you much about his family, you’re more confident that no one in the circus would hurt you than you are that you'll make it home safely tonight.

pierrot's nature gave you a sense of peace and safety you'd never felt around anyone else before; he'd held your hands and promised he would protect you multiple times, and he's kept true to his promise in every situation you've wound up in since.

but you're sure he has a performance tonight, so you’ve rushed to close the café, attempting to get home as early in the night as possible. you're closing alone, and you hope that fact alone will make your boss cut you some slack. you’ll be sure to text him a small apology anyway.

by the end of your shift, you’ve distracted yourself enough from the paranoia that you’re not dreading the walk home as much anymore. maybe, you think, if he isn't busy, you’ll call pierrot to keep you company over the phone once you’re outside. 

you only have a few dishes left to put away when the lights suddenly go out. the glass you had been drying slips from your grip, shattering into glittering pieces across the floor. between the noise piercing your ears, being left blind in the dark, and the frantic beating of your heart, any semblance of peace you had quickly vanishes.

you can barely swallow with the anxiety growing in your throat, your eyes darting around the darkness, but everything looks the same. you close your eyes, and it still looks the same. your breathing is only getting more erratic, and you place a hand over your heart to try to calm yourself. “it’s okay, it’s okay… i just… have to find the breaker,” you whisper to yourself, trying to silence your racing mind. 

you shuffle your feet, trying to kick away any broken glass rather than stepping on it. there's a lamppost outside that's reflecting the slightest bit of light through the store windows, and you use it to navigate over to the walls, running your hands along them until you eventually feel the ridges of a metal box. you sigh in relief, tears pricking your eyes—but whether that's from happiness or the pit in your stomach telling you something's lurking in the dark, you're not sure.

you try to take another step closer to the breaker box, but in a moment of weakness, a curved object beneath your foot snaps, sending pain shooting through your heel. you can only bite down on your lip, a small whimper still escaping your throat as you work through the pain to flip the right breaker. you can barely see, and the hot tears that slide down your face only make it harder.

when the lights turn back on, the first thing you do is look around. while nothing immediately catches your attention, that hardly makes you feel better. there are too many blind spots, too many places to hide. the café wasn't built to be empty like this, so when it's finally devoid of bustling customers and noise, and the windows outside are nearly pitch-black, it always feels like something’s off. 

next, you look at your shoe. there's a tiny piece of glistening glass poking out of the sole of it; the rest of the glass had surely pierced through the entire bottom of your shoe and probably into your foot. you blink back more tears at the sight, placing your shoe back on the ground without putting any weight on where the glass is.

it doesn't hurt as much as you just feel hopeless. you’re not sure what to do with yourself— part of you wants to just ball up on the floor and wait until the morning for someone to find you, but then you're just wallowing in your own misery. you could call someone, but you're not sure how long you’ve stayed past closing time. would your boss be awake? he has to be up early tomorrow morning, anyway. you’d rather try to fix this on your own. the best idea would be to clean up the glass and go home. 

you crouch down, one arm holding your knees close to your chest while you begin to pick up shards of glass with your other hand. you should go find the dustpan, but between your injury and exhaustion, you can't find it in you to care. all you want to do is go home, so you keep picking up and dropping the pieces of glass into your other hand. they’re big pieces, anyway. it shouldn't be too dangerous. but a door slamming closed behind you makes you jump, and suddenly beads of red are spilling out of your fingers.

there’s a strange ache of pain going down your neck and shoulders, a physical manifestation of the weight of despair and dread you’re feeling. as if your night hadn't been worse enough before, now someone was breaking in. but a ring of a bell follows the sound of the door closing, and you’re not sure if you start crying more at the sound of it or at the sight of the source moments later.

“my dear? where—” pierrot’s standing in the doorway of your backroom, and when his eyes find you crouched on the ground, tears running down your face with red staining your hand, he’s immediately at your side. “oh, my sweet, what are you doing?” he’s moving his hands frantically, unsure of where to go first, take the glass out of your hand? wipe your tears? hug you? find bandages?

“pierrot? what are you doing here?” your voice cracks, and his face seems to drop even more at the sight, as if he's about to start crying with you.

“my star, i'm so sorry. please, tell me how to help you.” he's not sure why he asks; he’s already started to pick the glass out of your hand, placing it in a pile on the ground where it won’t touch either of you. he can’t help but wish doctor was here, or jester. he knows how to take care of himself; he had to know when he was alone and just a kid. but he needs guidance right now because his beloved is bleeding— they are the ones who need help, and it’s his fault.

the doctor would handle this more calmly than him. he would probably lift you immediately and take care of your wounds. pierrot’s barely said a thing to comfort you, and he’s only just finished taking the glass out of your hand.

jester would know how to admit fault without making you more upset; how to rationally calm you, listen to what was hurting you, and what to do immediately. he's still scrambling to figure out what to do next.

he’s neither of them. he’s pierrot. and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. he doesn’t usually make these mistakes; that’s what harlequin does, and then ticket taker chides him, and pierrot cleans up.

right, he needs to clean up.

“my dear, please come here. i’m sorry,” he’s reaching his arms towards you, wrapping them around you and helping you stand up. you’re not responding to his apologies, and it’s making him feel worse. he wants to say sorry again—maybe you didn't hear him just now—but what point is there when you don't even know what he's apologizing for, and he’s scared to say more? “do you know where you keep… an aid kit? in the back?” he asks, and you nod quietly, pointing towards the door he came through.

he almost runs into the doorway on his way through, scrambling to find what he needs. he’s quick to return to your side as soon as he finds the bag, gently bringing your hand up to rest in the palm of his gloves. he wipes away the blood on your hand as carefully as he possibly can, but his hands are so big compared to yours it’s almost impossible to see what he’s doing. every time you wince his eyes flick up to yours, your face making him more and more dejected.

“my dear, i’m almost done. i’m so sorry this happened. please, forgive me,” he speaks to you again, not sure if he'll get a response, but he can't help but try anyway. his heart hurts at the sight of your pain; he just wants to hear that you're okay. it’s been a while since he was the one talking, not the one who was always silent.

“pierrot…how did you get in here?” you ask, and when he meets your eyes, his heart drops. he’s not sure how to answer, what will you think? his gaze drops back down, trying to focus on bandaging your hand.

“i wanted to see you, my star... i came through the back door, and the power shut off as i opened it. i didn’t mean for it to happen. i know i should have waited, i'm sorry, my dear. please forgive me, i don’t know what i would do without you.” he finishes the bandage with a small knot, pressing a gentle kiss to it afterwards. his stomach is twisted into its own bundle of anxiety and worry. he looks at you, waiting for your response, a reaction, anything.

despite your best attempts to choke it back, a small sob escapes you after hearing his answer. your forehead drops to his shoulder, hiding your face from him. he watches your body tremble, a hand hovering over your back, unsure that you would accept his touch. he wants to believe that you leaning on him is a good sign, but he’s so scared of what he’s done.

and you’re not angry, you think. yes, he did cause this; he put you through this fear and pain, but you don’t have it in you to be angry at him because he just wants to be at your side. you know that. he didn’t mean for this to happen, and there’s a small part of you that’s relieved that you’re not alone anymore. not just in this moment— he's proved it multiple times, he will always come for you. even if he caused your pain, he's also the only person you know who would come to soothe it. when you're alone in bed, unable to fall asleep, or too stuck in your own head, he's shown up and kept you company. even when you think you're alone, he comes. always.

you see pierrot’s right hand out of the corner of your eye, twitching, flexing open and closed. he’s unsure of what to do, where to move, how to exist in this moment. you reach for it, intertwining your fingers with his, as you take a deep breath in. “it’s okay, pierrot. i forgive you,” you exhale, closing your eyes. pierrot stares at the top of your head, waiting for you to continue. “but please, next time, just text me. i’ll let you in anytime, pierrot. i promise. i like your company.”

your words send a wave of relief and happiness over him that he's extremely grateful for. he knows he has no right to worry about preserving himself in this moment, yet you still take the time to reassure him. that was one of the first things he noticed about you from the start that made him fall for you, after all: your willingness to put others before yourself, to help them even if you had something more urgent going on. you needed to get to work, yet you still stopped to help him when he was just a stranger. 

“thank you…my dear,” he squeezes your hand back, looking at the way your fingers intertwine with his. his are abnormally long and pointed compared to yours, yet you don’t seem to find touching him repelling. “your kindness is too good to me.”

you both sit in silence for a moment, your tears starting to dry as you rest on him for a few minutes, and he lets you. he bides the time by admiring your features—something he could do all day for the rest of his life. “...my dear, i want to take you home. i think you need to rest in bed… is that okay?” he gently breaks the silence, taking care to not startle you.

you nod, pausing for a moment before you speak, “we just need to sweep up the glass, and we can go. i think there’s some glass in my shoe, too. so i might need some help walking home, if that’s alright.”

his eyes widen at your words, “my dear! how could you not tell me? you must be in so much pain–”

his exclaim makes you laugh, and the sound hushes him immediately as he listens to the sound that sends chills down his spine. “it’s– it’s okay. it… hurts, but being with you distracted me, pierrot. thank you for being here. we can take out the glass at home, i’ll have better tools there anyway.”

your words bring a small smile to his face, a slight red dusting part of his mask. he smooths the top of your hair, placing a small kiss to it that makes your heart flutter before he responds, “of course, my dear. i will take care of the glass, and i will carry you home– you will not walk a step. i will cook for you and clean everything; i will take care of your every need. i promise you.”

“oh, that’s not necessary— you really don't need to—"

“i insist, my star.”

𑣲 HARLEQUIN

cw: half of this is a sap yap and domestic fluff, i got distracted, i'm sorry. mc and harlequin argue, but no raised voices or anything of the sort. harlequin is simultaneously unsure and sure that mc will eventually leave him, mc is anxious about expressing their intentions to stay around him, aka they're in that part of a relationship when you're telling a person things like "i want to be around you forever" and it's more intimate than something a friend would say but you haven't exactly answered the "what are we?" question. ending is also a little bit of comforting harlequin more than him comforting mc

harlequin is a little awkward when he sees tears. he always knows when he's pushed too far. he stops right before that breaking point to avoid tears, because he's not good at fixing broken things. so when he finds you crying despite how careful he is, he knows he’s messed up. he keeps you company, although he can be a little distant until you tell him what you need to comfort you. tell him what you want and he’ll do it immediately.

harlequin has a list in his hand. 

he’s not exactly sure what makes him the optimal grocery shopper, but he’s not complaining.

well— if he thinks about it, ticket taker’s too busy making the lists and time schedules for whatever jester is thinking up; halloween being the only time doctor can walk outside and not immediately turn every head says enough for the poor man, and pierrot– well, harlequin’s factually better than pierrot in every sense, so that one’s easy. 

but he enjoys being sent out to explore every time the circus travels, so he doesn't mind when the list is placed in his hand and he's told to go. he wanders into more places than he needs to because he never sticks to instructions, and in the end, he always comes back with everything he was asked to get, so does it really matter, anyway?

today, he feels like he'll need a little company while he's out fighting old ladies in the produce section for the exact variant of apple pierrot demands.

company from someone he enjoys.

the clear choice is you, obviously. 

and it’s his lucky day, because you have the day off, which means you have no excuse not to be with him. 

although he's traded his normal attire for something more mundane to fit in with the crowds, he's still just as much of a menace banging on your window until you finally unlock the porch door for him, and it really makes you consider if keeping your door unlocked would be the better alternative. yes, it would give harlequin the freedom to enter your place whenever he pleased, which was a danger of its own, but in that sleep-deprived moment, it was truly starting to sound quite rational. at least then, he could let himself in instead of begging to be let inside like a dog left outside in the rain.

once he’d dragged you out of bed, the adventures had started. it didn't take much for him to convince you; it was rare for him to talk to you about something other than the circus, much less seem so excited about something as casual as grocery shopping. he still threw around dirty remarks as he always did, as if trying to convince you it wasn't just grocery shopping, but underneath his talk was a genuine invite to hang out with him.

you wished you could find a way to make him sit still for one second and explain he didn't have to disguise his words with promises of it'll be interesting or flirts and teases. you know it'll be interesting, because its him. and you're not interested in him just because he flirts with you. what interests you are moments like these, when he reveals more of his true self to you than normal, invites you seemingly to learn more about who he truly is without seeming to realize it. but it would take a truth serum and tying him down to a post to make him directly answer you a question as simple as "what did you eat for breakfast today?" so, you'll settle for what you have now. just being the one at his side, for him to drag along wherever he pleases.

somehow, harlequin’s list had ended up in your hands, and the first store you followed him into was definitely not going to have anything the circus needed. you had been trying to decipher if the neat handwriting was more likely to be ticket taker’s or pierrot’s when you looked up to see him wandering into a glassware art store, quickly trying to catch up to him.

“harlequin, i'm not sure we need anything here,” you warn as you enter through the door behind him, an aged bell alarming others of your presence, although no one else seems to be in the store. 

“i know, i just wanted to see,” he answers simply, continuing his walk forward. his voice has something in it similar to childlike wonder, or an inner child being healed. this wasn't the kind of store you would expect harlequin to want to go into, but you can only pray ticket taker didn’t give harlequin a curfew.

you’re careful not to bump into anything on the shelves as you follow behind harlequin who, despite how tall he is, seems to be easily navigating the narrow wooden shelves, littered with small painted glass figurines ranging from birds and other animals to seasonal festive motifs. 

your eyes never leave his back, and something inside your heart strains as your brain works to process the emotion you’re feeling. your brain finally discerns it as your throat barely choking back the words “i like this. i like when we hang out like this.” you ignore the feeling because you don’t want to ruin this casual moment with something serious, but at the same time, you’re scared that if you don’t say something, a moment like this will never happen again. 

harlequin isn’t worried about anything. he’s observing the glasswork on a shelf against a wall, two fingers holding his chin as he thinks. despite how cozy and local the place feels, funnily enough, he always seems to end up in places just like this. humans have a weird way of separating cultures, yet sharing so many similarities without knowing it. there’s only small differences, like the way this creator’s hands molded the glass, compared to the hands of an artisan in brazil. here, most glass birds are painted blue, while in the last town he visited, in a store just like this, he could barely find a bird figurine that wasn’t red. compared to the doctor, harlequin was able to venture out much more freely. he knows the doctor is fine keeping to himself in his tent, but harlequin stills visits these gift stores when he can, trying to make up for the doctor's restrictions by bringing him back stories and figurines.

harlequin isn’t worried, because he knows that if and when he turns around, you’ll be there. he likes when you’re at his side, and the way your presence feels when you trail behind him obediently. he likes that you seem to like him, at least enough to stick around and humor him whenever he asks you to do something for him. he likes that when he enters a place and all the eyes turn to see whose walked in, you’re at his side, like his prized possession– and they can stare at you all they want, the moment they see him, they know you’re already taken.

“mm, i’m bored now, let’s move on to the next store,” he decides, immediately heading for the exit, but not before grabbing your arm to drag you along with him.

“are you sure? you were looking at the little cat figure for a bit. i can buy it for you, if you’d like.” the words sound stupid coming out of your mouth as you follow behind, only the slightest bit hesitant to leave the store. you’re talking to a man who is part of a mysterious travelling circus, who probably has more money alone than you've made in your entire life, but you offer anyway.

he laughs, the grin that spreads across his face is inevitable as he looks back at you, “you’re funny, dear one. save your money for something that's actually important. not on me. although, if you’re that eager to give me something i know something else i want~”

you roll your eyes at more than just his flirt. he’s hit you with his double toxic approach of avoiding your question by turning it into something dirty while simultaneously sneaking in a self-deprecating statement. “no, not that," you reject him immediately, "but i will buy you anything if it’s out of your budget, whatever ticket taker allocates that to be. just tell me.” 

the look on his face bares semblance to a frown, as best as it can with his mask. your answer is a little harder to deflect now that you’ve stubbornly doubled down on your insistence to buy him something, and why do you care so much, anyway? 

“yeah, sure,” he shrugs as you continue walking together. you’re a half step behind him, but his gloved hand is still holding loosely onto your bicep, not letting you fall behind. “i doubt i’ll want anything, but you can try, pretty thing. what i want isn’t an object.”

you wait for him to expand on his words but when he doesn’t say anything else, your eyes flick to look at him, only to find him already staring back. he practically cackles as your quickly avert your eyes, face growing red, but his hand that was on your arm slides up to your other shoulder, pulling you closer to him. 

it’s going to be a long day.

–

you don’t know much about the circus business, but you don’t think it’s normal for a shopping list to be this extensive and… specific.

you have to imagine the brunt of the list was written by ticket taker, having in mind what they routinely get for the circus. the more detailed items have to be pierrot, or one of the other members, who apparently needs a new blender. someone also wants a 24-pack of mason jars, and you spend an extensive amount of time in the makeup aisle, piling all kinds of different products into a basket. 

several people pass by, and you can't blame them for looking. it's surely a strange sight—you're with a 6-foot man crouched on the ground, a basket full of makeup on the ground between you. he won't stop making unhelpful comments, either.

“do you think this is pierrot’s shade?” and it’s foundation powder in the shade "elephant’s breath."

“i think we should get this for pierrot, his lips have been looking a little pale, and this name is really speaking to me.” he’s holding a box of lipstick. said name is “lobster burp.”

“please, harlequin. put it back.” 

while you’re in the aisle, on the list is also a specific brand of shampoo. you learn from harlequin it’s jester’s, but pierrot and ticket taker decide his hair products. when you think about it, everyone in the circus does have quite healthy looking hair, but it never occurred to you they might have a hair care routine. it’s even sillier to think that jester, in all of his intelligence and dominance, doesn’t choose his own shampoo.

“and you? what shampoo do you use, harlequin?” you ask, placing jester’s shampoo in the cart. the basket got too full, you had to move to something bigger.

the question seems to offset him, his head is turned away, and is he blushing? “...what does it matter? no comment.”

you sigh, crossing shampoo off the list. “it doesn’t, i was just curious. your curls are nice, that’s all.”

he looks at you, and something feels wrong in his chest. “what’s with you today?” he doesn’t mean for his words to come off so accusatory, but they’ve left his mouth before he can fix it.

your eyes flick up to his, “what’s that supposed to mean? i didn’t realize haircare products was such a touchy subject for you, just tell me next time. there’s no need for you to be rude about it.”

“it’s not that. you just keep… saying those kinds of things to me.” he’s trying to maintain a delicate balance of answering you without revealing too much, but he's failing.

"what things?" you tilt your head, unable to follow him.

"...you keep saying nice things to me. like a compliment. like you care." now you're forcing the truth out of him, and he's not sure he likes that, or how you respond to what he just said.

“what? i’m always nice to you. and i do care. i like hanging around you.” you furrow your brows at the conversation you’re having as you look up, trying to find which aisle has what you need next.

“see? you keep saying things like that. it’s weird. i’m the one who usually says stuff like that. are you messing with me? do you want something from me?” he tries to meet your eyes, but you keep looking around.

what could you possibly gain from saying he has nice hair? you thought he was trying to tease you at first, but now it feels like he's accusing you. “no, you say things like ‘spend the night with me’ and ‘come to my tent and you’ll find out.’ i say things like ‘i appreciate that you exist.’ there’s a difference. you’re flirting and teasing me. you're messing with me." maybe, you ponder, if you say what you've been wanting to say all day, it'll finally get through his thick head that you're here, right now, in a grocery store with him, because you like him. not because you're trying to get anything out of him. "i’m just trying to tell you i think that you’re a good person... and i enjoy being around you. i don’t want anything from you, just for you to be who you are.” you start pushing the cart, and he follows after you.

“but i’m not a good person,” he seems to sneer at the words like you’ve insulted him, “and i’m not just teasing you, i mean everything that i say. so what are you getting at?”

you might just be getting defensive, but his tone hurts a little. you have to blink back the sudden tears that burn your eyes. “i’m not getting at anything, harlequin. just forget i said anything.” this is what you were afraid of, and it's left a sick feeling in your stomach now that you can't take back what you've said. the moment you tried to express any kind of appreciation for him, he accused you of having bad intentions.

maybe that’s what hurts a little. you’re getting a little tired of everything you’re saying being deflected. you've been trying to show your gratitude for him in not just your words, but your actions, too; you're lucky to have a friendship with him, and you wanted to express that. you wanted to hold just one conversation with him that doesn’t feel like you’re only seeing the tip of the iceberg, like you’re talking to someone who's not really all there, because they won't show you their whole self, but he doesn't seem to care about this the way you do. you’re not sick of him, hell, you want him in your life for however long the rest of it might be, but maintaining a relationship is difficult without some bit of vulnerability. what hurts is that you want to think that harlequin and you are getting close, why else would he invite you out today? but now, it feels like he's just been trying to get something out of you. maybe he never felt anything for you. it was all in your head.

“no, i don’t understand why you’re saying these things. are you just playing with me? you can tell me the truth, you know.” people are manipulative; they say things to gain favor, and they give gifts expecting something in return. that is the currency, the cultural laws of exchange and humanity that harlequin is used to. but you go against all of that for some inexplicable reason; it's why he was drawn into your orbit. you don’t seem to share those same human qualities, you've never asked anything of him, you're just there. you hang around him without looking at him like he's something to be used, and anytime he asks you for something, you say yes without even seeming to question or judge him. but if you’re not being selfish, he doesn’t understand your selflessness. and of all people, why would you be selfless around someone like him? it’s written all over in the color green. he is envy. he’s selfish. he’s a liar. you’ve humored him and continued to hang around him, and he really can’t understand why.

your lips press into a thin line; you don’t have it in you to answer. you've never argued with him like this, and he’s twisting everything you say and using it against you. what is there left to say? “i am telling you the truth—” is all you can manage to say, but your voice cracks a little at the end. you pray he doesn’t notice. your eyes keep burning even if you don’t want them to, and every time you look at harlequin now, it hurts something in your chest, threatening to send you over the threshold into a mess of tears. “there’s something on this list i can’t find. i’m going to ask an employee. if you want, here’s the list. just go find everything else. i’ve already crossed off everything we have in the cart.” you force the list into his hands before he has the chance to respond, walking away calmly until you’re out of his sight. 

then, you’re running, feeling like something is about to erupt from your chest if you don’t get outside now. you find a nearby bench to sit on, and a humiliating sound still escapes your throat before you can cover your mouth. you hate how exposed you feel when you cry in public, but at the same time, no one cares enough to bat an eye in your direction. yet the thought doesn't comfort you— it makes you feel worse. to go from the attention harlequin showers you with back to feeling like an apathetic underachiever who has no purpose, compared to everyone on the streets in iron-pressed clothes, on the phone with people who matter– it only adds to your pain.

you playing him? you would like to consider yourself a kind person. you don’t manipulate people and drop them as soon as you get what you need from them. if anything, you can probably list a few times that you've been used like that. for your kindness to be accused as something akin to that cruelty hurts more than anything, because if that’s how harlequin sees you, you’re not sure who you are.

you can’t stop the flow of tears escaping your eyes despite your best attempts to dry them on your sleeves. you need to go back inside before harlequin comes looking for you once you’ve been gone for too long, but you can’t pull yourself together. 

“...hey. where have you been?”

if you hadn’t embarrassed yourself enough already, your lip seems to quiver at his voice, and you can’t meet his eyes. you’re completely bent over yourself, feet planted on the ground, head turned to the side and resting on your knees. 

you feel the shift in presence as he sits next to you, and it’s uncharacteristically silent for a moment. your tears are just falling sideways now, running over the bridge of your nose and into your hair. it’s too late for you to run again; he’s already found you, and you still haven’t stopped crying.

and he won’t let you out of his sight again. he's always been good at knowing when to stop before he pushes someone too far. he’s good at teasing people, not comforting them, so he’s learned how to avoid it. but maybe he got a little too heated— a little too personal in the store, he realizes, looking at you now. he knows he needs to apologize, but he’s not too sure what to say. 

“...hey, i’m… sorry. i pushed too far, didn’t i?” it’s awkward. he doesn’t know what to say. he’s not trying to force you any farther, but he’s not sure what to do if you won’t talk to him.

you let out a deep breath, giving him the tiniest nod as an answer, but you still won’t turn to face him. he feels like he should do something with his hands. but where do they go? does he put his hands somewhere to try to comfort you, try to get you to turn to him, or just keep his hands to himself?

he settles for a hand on your head. he's a little hesitant, like he's about to retract his touch at any moment, especially when he feels you freeze under his touch, but when you make no sign to escape his touch, he relaxes a little bit. "please don't cry," he murmurs, rubbing your head ever so slightly.

the way he says it, it's not in a way like your crying is bothersome to him, surprisingly. but he pleads it, because he doesn't like seeing you turned away from him like this. he wants to see your face again. he's not used to you ever hiding it, he's used to being able to admire it and tease it whenever he wants. he didn't mean to fight with you like this, bring you to the brink of tears like this.

fights with pierrot are much easier, and maybe harlequin's taken that for granted. despite his “no talking” rule, pierrot’s quite expressive, even without words, about how he’s feeling. he matches harlequin’s pettiness and anger, and there’s some sort of reassurance in their fights that they’ll still come back together the next day no matter what's said or done. they’ll wake up and still be enemies—that will never change—but they’re also family. harlequin will still bring back everything from the store pierrot asks for, pierrot will still cook for him.

but fighting with family is different from whatever he has with you, he knows that. if he wants you, he has to say it. he’s good at saying those kinds of things. he's great at telling people what they want to hear—what makes them feel special—so why is it so hard right now?

because it’s hard to be genuine. it’s hard for him to be honest. it's much easier to say mindless flirts he doesn't mean, or twist words and conversations away from anything he doesn’t want to think about. but you’re always on his mind. he can’t avoid mending this fight even if he wanted to. he knows he’d just come straight back to your home later if he left now.

and you don't get angry the way pierrot does— you don't seem angry at all, even if he hurt you. that's something else that he can't understand. why are you so forgiving towards him? so patient? even in the past, when he hadn't done anything wrong, one look at him and anyone can tell he's an easy person to blame. he looks like a monster, and with time, he learned how to act like one— it was the only way to fight back when that's all anyone sees. but it's like you don't see that, so what do you see when you look at him?

“i’m.. sorry. i shouldn’t have questioned you or talked to you like that. i’m just not used to people… showing me kindness without wanting something in return. and you've never done that— you’re nice to me. you don't ask me to do anything. and you tell me you’ll stay around. but i keep thinking you’ll… leave. you’re going to find me boring, eventually. or unkind. or see one of my hundreds of other flaws. you’re going to change your mind.” he pauses ever so often between his words, forcing the thoughts out of his mouth as soon as he forms them. there’s a feeling in his chest, maybe something like panic, that’s rising. he doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this honest. when he’s last revealed this much about himself to someone. his hand remains on your head, fingers playing with a few strands of your hair— a nervous habit he'd never admit to on his own.

his voice and touch soothes something in you as he talks, you stop crying almost immediately, while on your own, you couldn't stop the tears no matter how hard you tried. you want to look at him. you want to see what he looks like when he talks about himself. you need to tell him it's okay. he told you all you needed to hear. you wipe away any remaining tears from your face and slowly sit back up, orienting your knees towards him. his hand falls back to his side as you sit up, and you meet eyes with him for a beat. his hand reaches up again, he feels a pull to hold the side of your face, to wipe away the stray tear that escapes your eyes, running down your cheek. but then he looks away, ashamed.

he looks a little grim. you’re not used to seeing him without a grin on his face, but it's nice to see this new side of him, underneath the facades he’s usually wearing. no one's ever always happy. “thank you,” you start. it’s a general thanks, for everything he’s said, everything he’s just revealed to you, for trusting you enough to give you a little taste of what goes on in his head. “all i was trying to do was reassure you i am going to stay, but i wasn’t saying it fully, i was scared of coming off as sappy or emotional. and despite all my promises to stay around, i left you in the store. i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay,” the words are automatic, coming out of his mouth, before he’s even processed what you’ve said. it's not, really. he realizes. but he tells himself it's okay, because it's you.

but you don’t take his words as some sort of excuse for your guilt. “it’s not,” you deny.

“you got upset. you left. it makes sense,” he tries to double down on his words, because why are you suddenly flipping the apology onto him? why do you seem to notice so much about him?

“and you had to come find me, even though i should have been the one to come back to you. i’m sorry. but thank you for being kind enough to come find me. for giving me a second chance." you’re looking at him, but now he won’t look at you. he seems to be staring at his hands in his lap, or something unperceivable to you.

he’s not sure what to say. "kind" has never been a word used to describe him. when you left abruptly in the store, he wasn’t sure what to do. wasn’t sure where to look, where you would be, if you were even around. he doesn't feel kind, he made you cry. he didn't give you any kind of second chance, you're just smart enough as you are, somehow reading his mind before he's even processed what's happened.

when he doesn’t respond, you continue: “i won’t do it again, i promise.” you try to test the waters, moving the slightest bit closer to him, until your knees almost knock into his. he doesn’t move away.

“okay,” is the only thing that makes it out of his mouth. when you reach for his hand, he freezes. you feel the way he tenses underneath you, but he doesn't move, and another second later, his hand relaxes again, letting you hold it.

“i’m never expecting perfection from you, harlequin. and i’m not going to get bored of you. you’re the most interesting person i’ve ever met, and i still have so much more to learn about you, whatever you decide to share with me. you’re not a bad person. you make me feel comfortable and safe. i think that makes you a good person– the fact that you can make someone feel that way. i like to be around you. i want to be around you forever, if you’ll let me.” you lean your head to rest on his shoulder next, eliciting the same reaction from him as when you touched his hand, but he doesn't push you off or lean away.