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The air warped around him, and looking at him directly always made you lose composure. He could alter your mental state with his presence alone. So, you opted to keep scrubbing at the pink satin. Your eye twitched involuntarily.

"Do you not see me working?" You retorted. It was a dangerous game you were playing, defying Jester. His word was law in the circus, and technically you were now under his command. But his arrogance grated at your good sense, and you found no joy in being around him.

You felt the heat of his shadow behind you, keeping you between him and the sink.

He did not touch you, and yet you felt violated by the oppressive energy he sent out, held into place by his silent command.

"You can do better than that. Or has your capacity for defiance been clipped with your wings?" He mocked.

It was cruel. He had threatened to kill you when fights over you broke out between Pierrot and Harlequin. If the toy was broken, nobody would want it anymore. He miscalculated, however, when Pierrot and Harlequin both acceded with one another. A shocking turn of events. They turned their animosity towards him, instead. What power did you hold over them to turn them against their own family, he wondered.

And so, out of curiosity, and to better control the situation, he allowed them to keep you as a pet. You'd join the circus and be put to work, told you had one chance to prove yourself or have your life ended at tip of his claw.

Still, being the one to hold your life in suspense did not change your small acts of defiance. He enjoyed seeing the light behind your eyes flicker with rage. What joy it would be to snuff it out. All in due time.

At the moment, he could not do a thing to you without his own life being at risk. Although he was the leader, he was still subject to his family's judgement.

Even so, he decided long ago that he'd give you a head start. He would make your life in the circus difficult, enough so that you'd give up on Pierrot and Harlequin and all of them and run away. And when you did, he'd be ready for the hunt.

He could hear how fast your blood was pumping.

"I don't have the energy to fight with you, today."

Now that was an interesting response. Had you given up already? He grinned, baring his sharp teeth.

"Oh? And pray-tell, what could have exhausted you so?" He watched as you recoiled. He lowered his head to your ear to catch the scent of your fear.

You huffed and put the costume and brush down inside the sink and gripped the side of it to steady yourself. Your hands slid thanks to the residue of soap, and so you gripped until your knuckles turned white. You turned your head to glare at him, and immediately felt blood rise to your cheeks. You hoped he hadn't noticed. But apparently he did according to the way his eyes roved over your features like a hungry lion.

You glanced away at once, not wanting to risk being put in a trance.

"I need to finish this. If you have something else you need me to do, it will have to wait."

You felt the energy shift. Great. Your skill with words would certainly get you killed now.

"I do have something from you that I need."

Suddenly, you felt the impact of something against your mind. Your body refused to move, his voice echoed in your ears. You closed your lips and you stood at attention, still not looking at him, but feeling him in every corner of your head.

He brushed a knuckle against your cheek, trailing the path a tear would take if he made you cry. He humoured the thought.

He then gripped your throat. His claws played with the delicate skin, threatening to tear it.

"I need you to answer a question. I'll know if you lie to me, and I can make you tell the truth."

Your worst fears were coming true. It hadn't taken long for Jester to show you his true colors. You knew he was the most dangerous of them from the start, and that anything you said could and would get you killed. Your mind went to Pierrot. How would he react? You couldn't leave him, not after all the loss he's already endured. And Harlequin? What would happen to him? He had impeccable self control, despite what one would think, but all his anger pointed inwards and he'd destroy himself eventually.

Jester noticed your lack of attention and turned your head to face him. His eyes glowed with that intoxicating purple hue. Did he know you thought his eyes were beautiful, even though you cowered from them? You doubted it. How depraved were you to find beauty within something that could kill you. But all humans were that way, weren't they? They turned wolves into companions, after all.

Jester looked at you, appraising you. Whatever he saw, his eyes darkened, and the light around the two of you suffocated into blackness tinged with purple.

"Tell me. What is your objective here?" He asked, curling his fingertips into your jaw. His hand was loose enough to allow you to speak. His grip on your mind kept your body taught, but your speech free.

Cotton filled your throat. You felt every nerve fizzle.

"I... just was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now I'm in love."

How naive. How refreshing.

His dead heart experienced a small tremor when you looked into his eyes and confessed your love, albeit for Pierrot and Harlequin. Jester was not victim to fantasies. He knew what destruction humans were capable of in the name of love. He surmised you didn't know the true meaning of the word, just as you didn't truly know them.

He smiled, bemused, and it reached his eyes.

For a moment, you thought you were safe. Foolish mistake.

"And you think they love you back?" His saccharine voice taunted you.

He laughed and leaned in closer, gripping your throat and applying pressure.

Sirens blared in your mind, every fiber of your consciousness pushing back at his grip on it.

"Such honesty! It's true. You are truly unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oh, but don't delude yourself. As soon as those two realize you're a temporary diversion, one who'll no doubt fail them, you'll be discarded. And when that happens, I'll be waiting to rip you to shreds for your negligence."

He released you and you wanted to choke, to scream that he was wrong. Was he in the wrong? He was trying to protect his family, and you had inadvertently become the variable that disturbed their fragile peace. But was that quite right? Pierrot and Harlequin had gotten you involved in this mess in the first place, and relationships are never straightforward, least of all when one's family is less than perfect.

You began to see red. It bled into the violet tendrils at the corners of your sight and you realized Jester was walking away.

You caught his arm and held him there, the water and suds on your fingers bleeding into the fabric of his uniform. The violet turned black where you touched him and he grimaced.

Courage imbued you with the foolhardiness to speak your own warning.

"Jester," you glared at him. "I refuse to let you blame me for the dysfunction in your family. Even if I become part of it."

A promise and a threat. You would attempt to stay. How quaint. Jester wondered where your reserves for stupidity lie. You seemed to have a never-ending amount of it.

He wrested your hand from his arm by pulling away sharply.

"That, pet, will never happen."

And with that, he left. The door to the trailer banged loud enough to be heard across the circus.

Which landed you here, clutching your chest as anxiety and adrenaline overtook you and you fell to the floor, heaving big sobs as you grieved.

He took everything from you and still wanted more, wanted your life. You'd blame Jester for your current misery. Yet you expelled Pierrot and Harlequin from culpability, as they had been content to let you stay apart from the circus, even if they desired you to the point of obsession. You were more at fault than the two of them. The road went both ways. You knew the dangers, yet you persisted. They knew more of the dangers, and persisted more fervently. Perhaps you do blame them, a little.

Your tears broke past your lashes and fell to the floor. You were afraid.

A voice rang out through the room.

"My dear..?" Pierrot gasped when he found you curled on yourself.

He was staring at your forehead and you felt the side of it throb. Did you hit your head on the sink when you collapsed? It didn't matter. You needed Pierrot.

He held you like a wisp of cloud, careful not to squeeze too hard lest you dissipate entirely. The feeling in your limbs hadn't returned, and the ringing in your ears blocked out the sound of whatever he was saying.

Images of being torn to shreds, of Pierrot being devastated, and of failing him all played in your mind like a film reel. You were already living on borrowed time. Your head swung to the side and you passed out completely.

~

After fainting, Pierrot had taken you to the Doctor, who did everything in his knowledge to wake you. When you did awaken, only briefly, it was to the sight of them in conversation. Alas, none of what they said stuck in your mind. You gripped your head and the movement made the two of them look at you.

"They're awake," rang the doctor's voice.

Suddenly, you felt the rising of your stomach as nausea overwhelmed you. You rose to a seated position, heaving as you curled in on yourself.

"Their heart rate has quickened."

The diagnostic came with an empty bucket proffered below your face and a steady hand on your back. For someone who undoubtedly performed medical malpractice, the Doctor always treated you with care. All attempts to do anything to you in the past were merely to scare you, to get your adrenaline pumping. He never actually hurt you. So far, you could trust him.

A second hand appeared on your lower back as Pierrot took your other flank.

The dry heaving stopped and you were able to compose yourself. Your body was shaking. Your heart rate was dropping back to normal again.

The Doctor reached over to a table and grabbed a glass of water.

You took it into both hands and sipped. Although the water was clear, it had an unusual tang. You hesitated before taking another sip.

The chuckle to your right made you flush in embarrassment.

"It is not poisoned. It is water with a pinch of salt. To re-hydrate you."

You protested, "I wasn't worried about that. Just didn't know if it'd make my stomach upset."

You couldn't see the Doctor's bemused expression, but his pat on the back told you he didn't believe you, and that he didn't take it personally.

He stood up and crossed his arms. His thick accent poured from behind the mask.

"I will prescribe bed-rest for you for the duration of twenty-four hours. You are to get up only to do light activities, to clean yourself, or otherwise eat something. Beyond that, you are to sleep. If you cannot, I can provide a sedative to help."

He raised a vial with a pink liquid inside, one he had used on you before. The memory of the hangover from that sedative made you shudder, as did the thought of being stuck with a needle unannounced again.

"That won't be necessary," you waved a hand in the air in slight panic.

The Doctor smiled. He was delighted to make your adrenaline spike again, just a little. However, he thought, it'd be best to not have any more stressors that could compromise you. His own tent was neither familiar to you nor comfortable, and so he suggested to Pierrot that he take you to his tent instead.

Pierrot nodded at the Doctor and gave you a cursory glance, hands placed at your knees and back to pick you up.

"I'm okay. Go ahead," you gave him permission. He scooped you into his arms and you quickly returned the half drunk glass of water to the Doctor. You thanked him.

The latter gazed after you as Pierrot led you out of the cerulean tent and into the evening. The sun was just beginning to dip past the horizon, and soon, all would be covered in darkness.

He carried you to his tent without a word. You knew you had frightened him. If only you had better control over your mind, then you could have better control over your body. Although your response to the stress of everything was utterly human, it didn't help that it made you feel weak. How could you possibly keep up with these creatures?

More importantly, how could you survive Jester's threats? You figured the only way to protect yourself would be to tell Pierrot, and perhaps even Harlequin. Despite his mercurial nature, the green clad clown would at the very least listen to you.

You waited until you were in Pierrot's tent and settled into his bed before saying anything.

"Pierrot?" Your voice quivered.

As if he were a pup whose ears perked up at his name, he gave you his attention, kneeling at the side of the bed.

"Yes, my dear?"

You deliberated before finally deciding to tell Pierrot everything that happened between you and Jester. The tense conversation, the threats.

"He said that if I did something wrong or if... if you grew tired of me, that he wouldn't hesitate to—," you voice caught in your throat. The anxiety that put you in this state threatened to take over again.

"That won't happen!" He exclaimed. But even he could not be sure what Jester would do. Jester had never used his mind manipulation against them before, but Pierrot wouldn't put it past him. What was certain was that he'd use it to manipulate you.

"I'll protect you. Even Harlequin will..." Mentioning his rival's name felt like speaking a curse, but he knew that Harlequin was capable of protecting you too. It was difficult to trust him, but he hadn't shown any desire to hurt you beyond marking you as his own.

That rivalry would have to be put aside, now.

He continued, "I will not leave your side. I won't gro tired of you. I will not— I cannot stop loving you. I love you. I love you so much it hurts. If anyone dares threaten you, even—" he stopped as you cut him off.

"Don't. Do not hurt your family for my sake."

Pierrot's pupils had gone wide, a telltale sign that he was envisioning the worst, and preparing for it. His madness receded when you caressed his cheek, and he leaned into your touch.

"I want you to stay here," his voice cracked. He felt pathetic, unable to keep you from enemies both hidden and seen. He knew Jester hated humans, and rightfully so, but he had not loved a human, and did not know what bliss that could be. There was goodness in you, goodness that he had read about and seen in films. He never got close enough to a human to experience it until you came into his life and showed him that courage and kindness were one and the same.

If only he could get Jester to understand that you were not like those malicious circus attendees, and certainly not like that accursed ringleader. You had voluntarily given up your life outside of the circus to join their ranks. You worked hard to prove yourself to them.

Pierrot's hands trembled as he gripped the bedding.

"But how can we get Jester to accept you?" He pondered aloud. It was clear this question had been bothering him for quite some time.

You smiled and forced yourself to relax to diffuse the tension. You put on an expression of confidence that you hoped would quell his worry.

As you laid in the bed, languidly stretching your muscles from time to time, you answered Pierrot's question.

"Don't worry. He won't dislike me forever. I'll have him wrapped around my little finger in no time," you raised up a pinky and twirl it around. You hoped he would be assured by your bravado, as you had no belief in yourself.

"And who might you be referring to, little creature?"

A smooth voice startled you both from the entrance. You did not hear him knock as he entered.

Pierrot immediately grew tense, leaning over you territorially. You brushed your knuckles against his arm to calm him and slowly lifted yourself to be propped up against the pillows.

Your heart quickened, and you were sure Jester could hear it because he stalked toward the bed with a predatory grin.

Pierrot was moments from stepping in but your reassurance held him back. You knew nothing would happen to you without retaliation from Pierrot, and things had already escalated.

Like a cat considering an ant on the floor, Jester tilted his head at you.

"Well, go on. Who else did you think you'd possibly ensnare with your tricks?"

Despite being beneath him, you leveled him with a confident look, one bearing a slightly cocky smirk of your own. You're sure you looked foolish, and yet the thrill of teasing Jester when he couldn't do anything to you was too delicious. You did not hate the man. Only feared him.

"Do I really have to say his name, Jester?" You enunciated his name and watched as his expression shifted ever so slightly before it was back to his normal grinning facade.

Pierrot's eyes darted between the two of you, and for whatever reason, he opted to watch your silent duel instead of intervene. He kept his posture rigid as a warning to the other that you would not be harmed. But something in his mind clicked at seeing the cat corner the mouse, and the mouse smile back. No, you would not be in danger, not truly.

Jester may have finally met his match.

The realization brought on a wave of jealousy in Pierrot's fiery heart. It sunk like a cold stone, as cold as he felt when Harlequin started making his advances.

Yours was a soul he desired more than anything. A person whose love he could not live without. If your attention kept being drawn elsewhere, how could he ever get you to look at him, let alone love him back?

No.

That was too selfish.

He ought to have considered that he'd never be enough for you. He was the Beast, and you the Beauty. He recounted the old tale in his head. The Beauty was always unhappy with the Beast, or so he remembered. He could not recall the end of the story beyond the Beast undergoing a transformation that made him more desirable to humans. Would he have to change, too, in order to truly be with you? But then, why did you keep encouraging him and his kin? Were they not monsters?

He was pulled from his thoughts when Jester addressed him.

"Pierrot. Considering your pet still has enough vivacity to waggle their tongue, I'll remind you that you still have duties to perform. Including a performance itself."

Pierrot's brow furrowed at the thought of leaving you. He did not want you to be alone, least of all with Jester or Harlequin.

"This..." Jester continued, hesitating before finding a word to describe you, "creature, will survive a few hours without you constantly by their side. I will see to it that they are amply fed and watered."

You glowered at Jester for the insult to your dignity, which clearly brought him great pleasure. He glanced askance at you with a triumphant gleam in his eye. You'd make him pay for that later. Somehow.

Right now, you were too tired to fight it. If he threatened you again, you did not think you'd be able to defend yourself. Curtailing the tension by feigning defeat was by far the best option, and would afford you a few more hours of living. You hoped.

You placed your hand on Pierrot's arm, gently caressing the soft fabric of his sleeve as you spoke to him softly.

"You should go. Don't leave the audience waiting. I'll be fine for a while. I want to sleep, anyways."

His voice came out in a quiet and low dissent.

"But— my dear..." The words caught in his throat when you squeezed his arm and smiled.

"Go. I'll be here when you finish."

Jester watched with an impassioned expression as the two of you unwittingly enacted a cliché scene. He did not dare acknowledge the abscess of jealousy that niggled in his own heart. He hardly even recognized it for what it was. He would proclaim his disdain for you and your kind until the day he died.

Pierrot finally relented and stood up. Your fingers trailed down his arm to his waiting palm. He gave you a squeeze as a promise that he'd return as soon as he could before hesitantly leaving your bedside. When he passed Jester, he just barely brushed shoulders with him, all while giving him a look of warning.

Jester gave him a look of his own, one that Pierrot saw something in worth trusting, at least for a little while. The curtain opened and shut and the room was dark again.

You did not pay them much heed, far too tired to play Jester's little mind games, of which he would likely be subjecting you to right about now...

"Does it ever occur to you that your presence in this circus is reliant upon your usefulness to us?" Usefulness to me, he suggested.

Sinking into the bed again, you ignored his attempt to intimidate and rile you.

Sighing deeply, you felt a little pity for him. He was trying so hard to find reasons to dislike you, and although you were sure he had plenty, you could not help but think that it was a little forced. How could any one person, man or monster, have so much hatred in them? You never understood such prejudices, the ones that people cling to when they desperately need a conduit for their anger. Too bad for you that you became his punching bag.

"If that were true," you pulled the covers up higher but left your hands free, "then I would be dead right now."

Jester's sharp features fell to a sneer. The facade of pleasantness was replaced in an instant by impatience.

Suddenly, the sensation of thousands of needles began prickling your senses, and the world was awash in violet hues. Jester's doing, you guessed. He was playing with your mind. Although this time, it felt like he was searching it for something. He hadn't controlled your physical movements yet, and as a final act of defiance before the danger truly settled in, you flipped over on your side, pulling the covers up fully this time. Your back turned to him, you squeezed your eyes shut only to see purple flooding the darkness beneath your lids. Like a child pretending the monster under the bed won't get them, you asserted yourself.

"Go away, Jester! Go bully someone else!" You cried out. Within seconds, the world stopped spinning and you felt the pressure in your mind recede.

You waited in the silence listening to the sounds of the room. When nothing happened, you slowly turned over to find Jester gone, the room completely still.

Relaxing your posture, you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. So he had left. Well. At least you knew you'd have some quiet until Pierrot returned. But no peace would you have. Even if you did manage to sleep, you feared your dreams would be plagued by monsters in the night coming to feed on your vulnerable state.

You could only hope that it was one of the monsters who loved you.

~

Jester stood outside of the red tent with incredulity. You had dared to defy him twice today, and treated him as little more than a bully whose personality hinged upon degrading the people beneath him. Perhaps, in your mind, that was all that he was.

His efforts to drive you from the circus had not worked. You were too stubborn. And he commended you silently for your persistence, but that level of persistence is what would eventually get you killed. Being around monsters like them would only end one way.

He saw what he was doing as a mercy. You would eventually give in to the mockery and doubts he placed in your mind. He did not want to hurt Pierrot, to see his heart broken once more, but he had to get you to leave of your own accord. If he did something to you now, he'd have Pierrot's blade and Harlequin's teeth to answer to. Or worse. It seemed you'd endeared yourself the Doctor as well. At least Bil appeared to have some reservations about you, despite being the one to invite you to the circus initially.

Jester wondered in tart amusement if Bil knew what he was getting into with you. Troublesome you. And now you were his problem to deal with.

Jester decided that night that he'd tell a different story to his audience. Not the tragedy that haunted each of them like a storm cloud.

This new story would be ever more of a tragic tale.

fin

I release his finger but keep his hand held in front of me. “Having a snack.” I mumble with a small smile and move to his next finger, peppering it with kisses before nom-ing it and biting a little harder. I was moving around the finger to find the best, meatiest part to chew on.

I cycled through each finger and ended on his thumb, not staying long since there was no real good spot. I was surprised he didn’t have some snarky remark for me, so I assumed it was okay.

I switched to holding his pointer to my mouth, “This one’s my favorite,” and looked over at him to see a blushing mess.

I’ve never seen harlequin blush like this.

I returned my attention to his pointer again and pulled on it after sinking my teeth into it, almost like a puppy with a toy and making content little noises.

After having my fill of biting up his finger, I pepper it with more kisses and pull the rest of his arm close to me, so I was leaning and tucked right into his side.

I looked up at him, him still profusely blushing, and spoke softly. “Was.. that okay..?” I ask hesitantly, now worried I crossed some invisible boundary.

His eyes shot down to mine with something new: Hunger.

He slowly brought his other hand to me and stuck out his pointer close to my mouth. I suddenly felt like a stupid little fish taking the bait on a line.

I quickly bite down and he shivered. I kept readjusting my bite since I wasn’t holding his hand this time but it was my turn to freeze when his voice finally broke free.

“You have no idea what you do to me, darling.”

He pulled his hand away but I following it and pulled back, gripping it harder with my teeth. He slowly pulled this time, making me move to follow his finger and half crawl on his lap.

I finally pull away, embarrassed that I let myself basically be dragged onto his lap. How did I let myself let go that much?

Starting to shy away and back off of his lap, I was met with his hand squeezing my cheeks, “Oh no you don’t. Sit up.” He turned my face to see his, still pink but more controlled now.

My eyes wandered for a moment and I knew what I wanted to bite next.

I listened and now straddled him, leaning in to kiss the cold cheek of his mask and trail down to his neck, warm and soft. I found the approximate spot he first bit me in and peppered it with kisses before opening my mouth wide and closing around it, biting gently, testing the waters.

Harlequin couldn’t help the small sound that left at a reaction. It fueled me, but not as much as his words, “Bite harder.”

I hum in agreement into his neck and reposition to bite harder, sinking deeper and deeper until it feels like I might hurt him. I hesitate at that moment and try not to push farther.

“Don’t be scared. It won’t hurt even if you made me bleed.” One of his hands snaked around my waist, and another stroked my back.

I reposition my bite again so I’m not pinching his skin with my teeth, and bite harder, only holding back a little this time.

It was hard to concentrate when his breathing was staggering and right in my ear.

I pull back and kiss the little mark in between little licks before it became more degenerate and I was desperately sucking, kissing, and biting at his skin to leave a mark.

He’s marked me so many times, it’s only fair.

I was by no means done with my work before I was quickly thrown onto the couch and pinned down. He was hovering over me, hands holding each wrist against the plush cushions as his animalistic side creeped through.

He wasted no time and dragged his sharp teeth against my neck. I scrunched up in sensitivity, but his hand pulled my head to the side to expose my neck whether I liked it or not. I hadn’t noticed how he replaced that hand on my wrist with one of his tentacles, but now felt more creeping around my body tentatively.

His teeth returned to graze down my neck and I was tensed up, mentally preparing for the sting of the bite.

“Aw, what’s wrong? Scared to be mine?” He teases against my neck, his breath making me shiver.

“Your teeth are sharper..! It hurts a lot..”

“Then bite me harder next time, mmkay?” He taunted one more time before biting down on a spot between my neck and shoulder, making me yelp and cry out in pain. I struggled against him and his extra slithering appendages that felt me up.

He pulled away slowly and licked at the spot. It radiated pain and I was almost sure he made me bleed again. My face was contorted in discomfort and I was breathing hard, trying hard not to wince.

He kissed the spot over and over and licked it as if he was soothing it, something he didn’t do. “You didn’t answer my question.” He growled against my neck as he peppered little kisses along it.

Soft moans escaped me and I realized his lips were warm rather than cold like before. I quickly picked my head up but was immediately pulled down and something wrapped around my eyes.

“No peeking~” he whispered in a singsong voice, dragging his teeth again and making me tense up in fear.

“P-please don’t bite again..”

“Then answer. Are you scared to be mine?”

I blushed hard and realized what a compromising position I was in. I tried to shake my head but couldn’t since he was holding it.

“Use those sweet words of yours won’t you?”

“No.. im… I’m not scare-“ I half scream and pull on my restraints as he bites down again next to the first one, more on my shoulder.

“H-harlequin!!” I scream and fail at pulling away.

As he pulled away from the bite, I winced and hissed in pain, tears forming at the corners of my eyes, still covered by probably one of his tentacles. He now hovered above my face and let me see him finally, small traces of my blood on his lips as he smiled big but with his mask on.

“Hurts..” I managed out and saw a flash of concern across his face for only a moment.

He leans back down and I tensed up, breathing hard in dizzying fear. He licked all around the two bites and kissed them tenderly and cold again, releasing my wrists as he did so.

My arms slowly moved around his neck, but was accompanied by winces. One of his hands found my hair and scratched gently at my scalp as he soothed the bites as best he could and whispered things in my ear.

“Mine.”

“You’re all mine.”

“Marking me like that, hm? Wanting everyone to know I’m yours?”

“Such a good pet, aren’t you?”

My mind was going dizzy with praise and when he finally pulled away to look at me, I was the one blushing and a mess.

He only smirks and helps me up wordlessly, pulling me into his lap- my back flush against his chest- so he can wrap his arms around me like I was his favorite plushie. I rested my head against one of his arms and looked down at his forearm, too tempted.

I hold it with my hands and bring it up to my mouth quickly to bite softly, biting over and over to find a good spot.

“Didn’t get enough, greedy pet?”

I half flinch at his words in my ear and fingers trailing the other side of my neck. I quickly released his arm and hugged it instead, all while shaking my head ‘no’.

“Mm.. not convincing.” He tilts my head the other way, exposing the un-abused side.

He licks up it once before his teeth drag down it.

“Please don’t..!” I shiver with my plead. “It-“

“‘Will hurt’? Darling, I know. It’s a shame you don’t get a choice in the matter… but I guess I could be nice just this once.”

His words on my neck transformed into many kisses that made me sigh out in relief and melt into it. My nerves were on high alert and the kisses felt surreal and only made me moan out softly. His words haunted my thoughts about not having a choice, fueling my excitement. But right now, I was happy to be gently kissed by this Harlequin.

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Hello lovelies <3

I was going to continue this as a nsfw but thought it was good as is. Leave a comment if you want to pick up right where you left off with our favorite Harlequin so he can mark you… elsewhere.

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If you happen to like a sort of master dynamic, please consider checking out the first chapter of my original story Behind You! (Pretty please?) Comments and suggestions are also always welcome and keep me motivated <3

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**********|| Masterlist ||***********

First year.

Just first year. You had barely started.

And then you had woken up here.

The tent flap rustled. A gust of wind? No. You had learned to tell the difference. The wind made the canvas shudder all at once, a collective shiver. This was different. A single point of movement, deliberate, almost silent.

Then, a weight settled across your shoulders.

A thick blanket, heavy wool, smelling faintly of smoke and something sweet like caramel, was draped around you so suddenly that your heart slammed against your ribs. Your pen clattered to the ground. Your notebook slipped from your lap, pages fluttering open against the dirt floor.

You spun around, already knowing who you would find.

"My lady."

Pierrot stood behind you, still close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. The mask’s smile was radiant tonight. Broad, blocky teeth gleaming faintly in the dim light of the single oil lamp that he kept burning. The black slits over his upturned eyes seemed softer than usual, the right one ending in that familiar black tear.

He was beautiful, in the way a cobra was beautiful. In the way a flame was beautiful right before it burned you.

You briefly considered sewing more bells onto him. Bells that actually made noise when he moved. But you knew, deep down, that even bells wouldn't help. He was too graceful for sound to stick to him.

He bent down with that slow, fluid motion of his, the three liripipes of his cap swaying gently. He picked up your pen first, then your notebook, dusting off the cover with a black-clawed glove before straightening to his full height.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, huddling into its warmth. You were on his bed. No, your bed, he had corrected you once, because everything he owned belonged to you now, he had said. But you still thought of it as his. The furs beneath you, the pillows stacked against the canvas wall, the faint scent of him clinging to every thread.

It was still cold in his tent. But the blanket made it better.

He sat down beside you. Not across from you, not at a polite distance. Beside you, close enough that his coat sleeve brushed your arm. His golden eyes, visible through the slits of his mask, shifted. They had been pinpricks a moment ago, sharp and focused. Now they softened into rings, like tiny eclipses.

“You should not sit in the dark ♪” he said. His voice was soft, warm, slightly melodic. The kind of voice that might have been comforting if you didn't know what lurked beneath the surface. “You will strain your eyes. And then who will tend to you?”

You almost laughed at that. Who indeed? You were the one who was supposed to tend to others. Before.

You didn't say this.

Pierrot had never once raised his voice at you. He had never struck you, never threatened you with anything worse than his absence. Every morning, he brought you breakfast in bed: fresh bread, fruit cut into little stars, a cup of tea at the exact temperature you liked. Every night, he sat beside you while you pretended to sleep, and you felt his gloved fingers brush your hair back from your forehead, so gentle that it made your chest ache.

He treated you too well. That was the problem. That was why you were still talking instead of screaming.

“My exams start in two weeks,” you murmured, extending your hand toward him. A silent request for your notebook. He tilted his head, the mask's smile unchanging, but he made no move to return it. Instead, he held it just slightly out of reach. Innocently. Deliberately.

You wrinkled your nose.

“When will you let me go back?”

You had asked this before. Many times.

Pierrot reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. The black claws, sharp enough to draw blood, barely grazed your skin.

“You ask such difficult questions, my lady,” he said. The mask’s eye slits seemed to narrow, just slightly, as if he were smiling more genuinely underneath. “You know I don't like to think of you leaving.”

“I have to take my exams.”

“You will!” He said it with absolute certainty, as if he could will it into truth by tone alone. “When the time is right. When the roads are safe. When the world outside is worthy of my lady’s footsteps.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. There was no arguing with him when he spoke like this. When his words wrapped around you like the blanket, soft and suffocating all at once. You had learned, over the weeks, that patience was your only weapon. Patience, and the quiet disappointment that seemed to cut him deeper than any scream.

So you said nothing. You simply pulled your knees higher, tucked the blanket under your chin, and stared at the flickering oil lamp.

He shifted closer.

“Is my lady angry with me?” he asked. The bells on his cap remained still. No nervous jingling. He was calm. He was always calm, except when Harlequin was mentioned, except when someone threatened to take you away.

“I’m not angry,” you said. And it was true. There was only a dull ache, a homesickness that had settled into your bones like the cold. “I’m just… tired.”

Pierrot reached out and took your hand. The one that was clutching the edge of the blanket. He turned it over gently, palm up, and traced the lines there with the soft pad of his thumb. He had learned that after the first time he had drawn a thin line of blood from your wrist. He had apologized for an hour, holding your hand over a basin of warm water, dabbing at the cut with a cloth. You had never seen someone so apologetic for something so small.

“My lady’s hands are cold,” he observed.

“It’s freezing in here.”

“I will bring more blankets ♪”

He said it like a promise. Like an oath.

You let him hold your hand for a moment longer, then pulled it back. Not harshly. Just a gentle retreat, the way you might pull a flower out of reach of a child who didn't know his own strength.

“You have... gentle hands,” he said softly, watching your hand disappear beneath the blanket.

You looked down at your own hands. At the nails you kept short and clean, at the faint calluses from holding pens too tightly during all-night study sessions. These were hands that were supposed to heal. Hands that had earned their place in medical school through sleepless nights.

"My lady?"

Hands that were capable, but were being wasted here.

“I can’t heal anyone if I’m trapped here,” you said.

The mask’s smile didn’t change. It almost never did. Not really. But you had learned to read him in other ways. The way his shoulders went rigid. The way his claws flexed against his own thighs. The way the bells on his cap remained deathly still, as if even they were holding their breath.

“Trapped,” he repeated. The word came out slower than the others, as if he were tasting it. “My lady feels trapped?”

You knew better than to nod.

Instead, you pulled the blanket higher and tilted your head in that way he liked, the way that made you look smaller, softer, more in need of protection.

“I feel… cold,” you said carefully. “And far from home. But the blanket helps.”

The stiffness in his shoulders eased. He reached out again, and this time he didn't stop at your hand. His arm slid around your waist, pulling you against his side.

“My lady does not need to return to that place,” he murmured against your hair. The mask brushed your temple. “I will keep you warm. I will keep you safe. You will never be cold again.”

You closed your eyes.

You were patient with him because he had never given you a reason to be impatient.

And that, you knew, was exactly how he wanted it.

“Tell me about your studies ♪” he said, breaking the silence. His hand was rubbing slow circles on your back, just below your shoulder blades. “You were looking at your notebook for a long time before I came in..."

You almost smiled. Before I came in. As if he hadn't been standing outside the tent for the last twenty minutes, watching you through a gap in the canvas. As if you hadn't seen the shadow of his cap moving in the lamplight.

“I was reviewing the brachial plexus,” you said. “It's a network of nerves in the shoulder. It controls movement and sensation in the arm.”

“Ah ♪” He sounded genuinely interested, or at least genuinely interested in anything that came out of your mouth. “And do you find it difficult, my lady?"

“It's... complicated. Five roots, three trunks, six divisions, three cords, five branches. It's easy to mix them up.”

“But you will not mix them up,” he said confidently. “My lady, you are very intelligent. You passed the... entrance exam, did you not?”

You stiffened slightly. He knew that. He knew everything about you. Your schedule, your habits, the names of your professors. He had been watching you for weeks before he took you. You had seen him in the shadows outside the library, outside the coffee shop where you worked, outside your apartment building. You had thought you were imagining it.

You hadn't been.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Whatever. I passed.”

“Then you will pass your exams as well, my lady. I am certain of it!”

He didn't ask when the exams were. He didn't ask if you needed to study more. He had stopped asking those questions around the second week, when your answers had started sounding like accusations. Now he simply accepted that you studied, just as he accepted that you ate and slept and breathed. It was simply something you did.

You leaned against him, just slightly. His arm tightened around you in response.

“I miss the library,” you whispered.

“I will build my lady a library,” he said immediately. “Here! In the circus. You can have all the books you want.”

“That's not…”

"Shh. I just... I just need to talk to Jester about it first... But I'm sure I can convince him!"

"Just let me go back," you tried one last time. "Just for the exams. I'll come back after. I promise.”

The lie tasted bitter on your tongue, and from the way his head tilted, he tasted it too.

“What a very kind liar you are, my lady." There was no accusation in his voice. Only a sad kind of certainty.

“Pierrot—"

You stopped.

What was the point?

His other hand came up to cup your chin, tilting your face toward his. The mask's eyeholes stared down at you, those golden eyes behind them shifting shape, the pupils contracting into slits, then expanding into wide rings again. He was studying you, cataloging every micro-expression, every flicker of emotion.

“My lady is sad,” he observed. “I do not like it when my lady is sad.”

“I'm not sad. I'm just—”

He kissed you.

It started gently, a soft press of masked lips against yours, the porcelain smooth and cool. But then his hand slid to the back of your head, tangling in your hair, and you felt the edge of the mask lift just enough for his actual mouth to meet yours.

And then his tongue was in your mouth.

It was sudden. It was too much. His tongue was warm and insistent, pushing past your lips before you had time to react, tasting faintly of the brigadeiros he had made that afternoon. You made a small sound, surprise, maybe, or discomfort, but he didn't pull back. His claws tightened in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to hold you in place.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were breathless.

You sat there for a moment, staring at him, your mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened. The mask had settled back into place, the smile as radiant as ever. The black tear on the right eyehole seemed to glisten in the lamplight.

“Unhygienic,” you whispered.

Slowly, deliberately, you raised your hand to your mouth. Your fingers came away wet. You wiped the excess saliva from your chin first, then from your lips, your movements mechanical, automatic. Your face was blank.

Pierrot simply watched you.

“My lady,” he began.

You didn't answer.

You turned away from him, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders, and lay down on the bed with your back facing him. You curled into a small ball, knees to chest, and stared at the canvas wall.

“My lady?” His voice was softer now. Uncertain. “Are you… are you displeased?”

Nothing.

“I only wanted to show my affection. My lady knows I would never hurt her. I w—would never—”

Silence.

You didn't speak. You didn't move. You simply lay there, breathing slowly, your heart eventually returning to its normal rhythm.

Behind you, you heard him shift. The bed dipped as he moved closer. His hand hovered over your shoulder, hesitated, then withdrew. A soft sound escaped him, something between a sigh and a whimper.

“My lady is punishing me,” he said.

And he was right.

You were punishing him. Not with anger, anger he could handle, anger he could redirect, anger he could soothe with gentle words and warmer blankets. No, you were punishing him with silence. With absence. With the one thing he feared most. Your retreat into a place he could not follow.

The lamp flickered. Outside, the wind picked up, making the canvas walls shiver.

“I... I will wait,” he said finally. His voice was quiet, almost childlike. “My lady, you may take all the time you need. I will be here when you are ready to speak again.”

The bed shifted again as he lay down beside you, not touching, just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. The bells on his cap jingled once, softly, as he settled into place.

You closed your eyes.

Either way, you did not pull away.

Sleep had worn away the edge of your resentment, leaving only a dull tiredness. You simply lay there, breathing slowly, listening to the distant clink of chains somewhere across the circus grounds. The tent walls breathed with the wind, but inside the cocoon of blankets and his body heat, you were warm.

"You're awake, my lady."

His voice was barely a whisper, a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and into your ear. There was no surprise in it, only gentle observation. He had likely been aware of your every shift in breathing, every flutter of your lashes against his sleeve.

"Mm." You did not trust your voice yet. Your throat was dry, your tongue thick with sleep.

One of his hands began to move. The one at your waist. Black-clawed fingers spread over the small of your back, tracing idle circles through the wool of the blanket, then through the thinner fabric of your clothes beneath.

"What time is it?" you mumbled.

"I don't know. The lamp burned out some hours ago. It's very late. Or very early." He paused, and you felt his chin tilt down, the edge of his porcelain mask brushing your forehead. "But my lady need not worry. I will watch over her until morning ♪"

You blinked into the darkness. His eyes were glowing faintly. They always did, just enough to be visible when all other light had fled. The golden irises shifting shape, contracting into slits, expanding into rings, soft and luminous and utterly focused on you.

"Are you cold? I can fetch another blanket."

"No." The word came out more softly than you intended. "This is enough."

A gentle hum of acknowledgement. His hand continued its slow, hypnotic circles on your back. "My lady slept deeply. I'm glad. You were so very… tired, earlier."

Earlier.

The word called back the memory. You remembered the weight of his grief behind you, the soft whimper he had tried to swallow, the way he had lain down without touching you and simply waited. He was good at waiting. He had waited weeks outside your library, your coffee shop, your apartment, learning your habits, cataloging your smiles. One evening of silence was nothing to him.

You should have held onto your indignation.

Instead, you felt only a muted acceptance, a tired willingness to let the hurt settle into the past.

"I'm not cross anymore," you said, before you could think better of it.

His hand stilled. The bells on his cap, which had been perfectly motionless, gave a tiny, involuntary jingle as he turned his head slightly.

"My lady is not cross?" He sounded almost breathless with relief. "Ah, I'm very happy to hear that! I couldn't bear your displeasure… It was like— like a blade in my chest, my lady, to see you turn away from me…"

You swallowed. "You surprised me, that's all."

"I know. I know I did." His voice grew softer, laced with a careful, self-recriminating sadness. "I was too eager. I saw you sad, and… and I wished only to comfort you, to show my affection in the way I know best! But I was… clumsy. I caused you displeasure, and for that, I'm deeply sorry."

He was sorry for your displeasure. Not for the kiss itself.

The distinction was clear.

"I didn't mean to make you recoil from me," he continued, his claws resuming their gentle tracing. "Your touch is all I crave, my lady. Your presence is the sun to my endless night… If I could find a way to express my love without ever causing you to pull away, I would do so in a heartbeat. But I'm still learning. You're the first to make me feel such things." A pause. The tent breathed. "I want so badly to be gentle. To be what you need."

You could have argued.

You could have pointed out that what you needed was your freedom, your exams, your tiny drafty apartment. But the words felt heavy in your mouth, too heavy to lift. So you said nothing.

"If only," he murmured, as if speaking to himself, "my lady could grow accustomed to them. To my affections. Then she would never have to suffer my foolish mistakes again..."

His overwhelming, suffocating, all-consuming love. He wished you could grow accustomed, as if acclimation were the natural solution, as if your body could learn to accept him the way skin learned to accept a new climate. You did not want to. Deep down, in the part of you that still belonged to yourself, you did not want to.

But you did not say that either.

He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. The blanket slipped, and a sliver of cold air kissed your shoulder before he caught it and tucked it back into place with solicitous care. Through the dark, you could almost make out the silhouette of his jester’s cap. He loomed over you, large and formless in the blackness, and you felt very small beneath him.

"My lady," he said, his voice taking on a new note, something hesitant and hopeful all at once. "May I ask you something? A… small request. A favour."

Your heart gave a slow, heavy thud. "What?"

He took your hand. His long fingers wrapped around yours, gentle as ever, and lifted your palm to his masked face. You felt the cool porcelain of his smile, the smooth ridge of the black tear beneath one eyehole. He pressed your hand there, holding it against the mask as if in supplication.

"If I'm to learn how to love you properly... if I'm to shape myself to fit the image you hold of me, as I once promised... then I must understand what pleases you." His thumb stroked the back of your hand. "Would you allow me to practice, my lady? Let me learn the way you like to be kissed. Let me discover what makes you sigh with contentment rather than stiffen with displeasure. So that I may never cause you to turn away from me again."

Every rational synapse in your brain, that mini medical student who still existed somewhere beneath the furs and the captivity and the creeping Stockholm fog, screamed that this was manipulation, that he was weaving a net of soft words and sad eyes and gentle hands. But his voice was so earnest. So humble. So full of a desperate, aching love that it made your chest tighten with something that felt dangerously like pity.

"I will stop the moment my lady says," he added, as if sensing your hesitation. "I swear! I swear it on my love for you. I would rather cut out my own tongue than cause you true distress."

You had never heard him swear on anything before. The weight of the oath pressed against you, heavy and sweet and laced with a sincerity you could not doubt. He would stop.

He always did, eventually, when you truly insisted.

"All right," you heard yourself say.

The words felt like someone else's.

A soft, musical hum vibrated in his throat. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you. You're so very kind to this foolish clown. I shall endeavor to be a diligent student ♪"

He shifted closer, and you felt him reach up to adjust his mask. There was a faint click, the sound of porcelain being carefully displaced, and then the lower half of his face was exposed to the dark. You still could not see him; the blackness was absolute, a curtain drawn over every detail. But you felt the warmth of his breath, sweet with lingering sugar and something else, something faintly metallic, like old coins or fresh rain on iron, and the brush of his lips against your cheek. They were soft. Too soft. Unnaturally smooth, lacking the faint texture of human skin.

"My lady," he breathed, and then his mouth found yours.

The first kiss was gentle. Almost chaste. A simple press of lips, warm and dry. He held it for a long moment, motionless, as if giving you time to adjust, to remember that this was something you had permitted. Then he pulled back a fraction, his breath still mingling with yours.

"Was that agreeable, my lady?"

You could not find your voice.

"Good. Then we shall continue ♪"

The second kiss was deeper. His lips parted, and the tip of his tongue, warmer and slicker than his lips had been, traced the seam of your mouth. An inquiry. A request. Your jaw loosened without conscious thought, too drowsy, too conditioned by his tenderness to deny him entry. His tongue slipped inside, gentle and curious, tasting faintly of that metallic undertone you could not identify.

Your medical training stirred in the back of your mind, a distant, clinical voice that refused to be entirely silenced. Unhygienic. The thought drifted up, murky and unwelcome. So unhygienic. Oral microbiomes were unique to each individual. Even human-to-human contact transmitted colonies of bacteria.

And Pierrot was not human.

But the thought grew hazy, smeared at the edges, as his tongue curled against your own. He tasted sweet, too. Dangerously sweet. And his hand was so warm on the back of your head, claws threading through your hair, tilting your face to a better angle. A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat.

"There," he murmured against your lips, and you felt his smile, the curve of his actual mouth beneath the absent mask. "That's a lovely sound. Hah, I shall try to earn it again… and…"

He kissed you a third time. A fourth. A fifth. Each kiss was slightly different, a variation in pressure, in angle, in duration. Gentle, then firmer. Quick, then lingering. His tongue stroked yours, then swept the roof of your mouth, then traced the inner line of your teeth with an obsessive, methodical precision. He was practicing. Truly practicing. Cataloguing your every reaction, the hitch of your breath, the flutter of your pulse against his palm, the way your fingers curled against his chest.

You felt the saliva begin to pool. It was inevitable. A trickle slid down your chin, warm and viscous. You were dimly aware of it soaking into the furs beneath you, wetting the bedding, but the awareness was distant, almost muted.

His thumb brushed your chin, wiping away the excess with a tender, almost reverent stroke. "Don't worry, my lady. I will clean you up. You need not lift a finger."

Then his mouth returned to yours, and this time he sucked gently on your tongue, drawing it further into the warm, alien cavern of his mouth. The sensation was strange, invasive, intimate beyond anything you had ever experienced. Your eyes, which had been half-closed, fluttered fully shut. A film of moisture gathered across your corneas, blurring the already invisible world. You were not crying. But your body was responding in ways you could not control, tears of sensation rather than sorrow, welling up and spilling over.

Unhygienic. The word echoed again, fainter now. You did not know what bacteria inhabited the mouth of this being. You did not know if it was safe for them to be inside you, to coat your teeth and gums, to slide down your esophagus in the thin stream of mixed saliva that you could not help but swallow. You did not know anything anymore, except that his mouth was warm and his claws were gentle and his other arm had wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, and you could not escape, could not move, could not think beyond the wet, rhythmic slide of his tongue against yours.

"Shall I try something new?" he asked, breaking the kiss for just long enough to speak. His voice was thick with affection, with a possessive, adoring joy that wrapped around you like another blanket. "I think my lady might enjoy this one."

He did not wait for an answer. His mouth covered yours again, and this time he angled his head differently, deepening the kiss until you felt him everywhere, his tongue filling your mouth, his lips sealed around yours, his breath mingling with your own. The liquid continued to seep from the corners of your lips, down your chin, onto the bed. He lapped at it once, a soft, reverent sound, before resuming the kiss with undiminished devotion.

You realized, somewhere in the thickening fog, that he had not asked if you wanted to continue. He had not stopped. His oath echoed in your memory, I will stop the moment my lady says, but you could not speak. Your mouth was occupied. Your thoughts were scattered, too smeared to form words. He was giving you no opportunity to refuse, and you were not fighting, and you did not know if that was his fault or yours.

His hand roamed your back, your side, your hip, never grasping, never hurting, just touching. Always touching. He could not seem to get enough of the feel of you beneath his claws, the shape of your shoulder blade, the curve of your waist, the flutter of your diaphragm as you struggled to breathe through your nose. He traced the ridge of your spine one vertebra at a time, counting them, memorizing them. His touch was obsessive in its gentleness, a constant, unwavering pressure that reminded you with every passing second that you were his, completely his, held in the arms of a creature who had crushed a steering wheel and could crush you just as easily if he ever forgot to be careful.

"Dear one," he whispered into the corner of your mouth. "My precious heart. How I have longed for this. For you… to permit me so close… I shall practice until it is perfect. Until my lady never wishes to pull away again ♪ Until the very thought of… recoiling from me… feels… impossible…"

His mouth returned. His tongue curled under your tongue, then traced the sensitive inner lining of your cheeks with an intimacy that made your stomach clench again. He was learning. Mapping every ridge and hollow, noting every place. The warm, slick river continued to flow. He did not seem to mind. If anything, he seemed to welcome it, as if the mingling of your fluids were some kind of communion, some tangible proof of your union.

Through the slits of the mask, his golden eyes still glowed faintly, and you saw, with a distant, dreamlike clarity, that the pupils had shifted into the shape of hearts. Two perfect, luminous hearts, glowing in the dark.

He was so happy.

You could feel it radiating from him, a joy so intense it bordered on pain. And you were the cause of it. Your passive acceptance, your open mouth, your silent surrender, these were the gifts you were giving him, and he received them with a fervent, almost reverent gratitude.

Time lost meaning. Minutes, hours, it was all the same. There was only the wet sound of his mouth on yours, the quiet hum of his satisfaction, the occasional whisper of praise that he breathed into the spaces between kisses.

"You're doing so well, my lady. So beautifully well."

"Just a little longer. You taste so sweet ♪"

"I shall learn every way to kiss you. Every way that makes you sigh."

His arms never loosened. His mouth never truly left yours for more than a few heartbeats. He would pull back to nuzzle your cheek, to lap at the saliva that had dripped onto your jaw, to murmur endearments against your temple, and then he would return, his lips sealing over yours with the same gentle, inexorable pressure. You were not being held down. But his grip was absolute, an encircling warmth that left no room for retreat, and you knew, with a certainty that settled deep into your bones, that Pierrot was not going to let you go.

Harlequin is going to be more of a pressuring type, as the actual game insists, but like pressuring on max level prestige.

When I say max level prestige, I mean like he will corner the poor reader to where their only choice is to stay with him.

Harlequin would be the one stroking your hair while your body trembles under his piercing gaze, telling you about how they are searching for you outside his tent, and that if you leave they’ll eat you without hesitation. He’s the only one good for you, he will practically burn that into your head to keep you pliant and obedient.

Sure, he’ll let you try to do your own things and return back to society like the human you are. But he’s really good at being annoying.

He’ll make sure everyone you talk to has some sort of run-in with him, sometimes ending in disappearances. After enough close people around you end up hurt or missing, no one will want to get near you, let alone hire you.

Even if you try to become a shut-in, he’ll fill your home with him, ignoring all your objections. He won’t let you leave a door unlocked if he is in the vicinity. And, if you do happen to get a door locked, you quickly learn it’s wise not to as he has no issue tearing a door down to see your face.

Additionally, the guy has some huge insecurities, often comparing himself to Pierrot who manages to find you in Harlequin’s tent.

He knows Pierrot is nice. A lot nicer and softer than Harlequin will ever act around you; seeing how every time Pierrot talks to you your gaze softens and your shoulders relax, but Harlequin notices that all he receives is shivers and timid responses. You’ll even refuse to meet his eyes some days, and that makes him more mad.

“What?” He’ll question, feverishly thrusting in and out of you while his tendrils curl around your arms and legs to hold you down. Your pleas to stop or slow down falls upon deaf ears. “Would you rather it be Pierrot right now? Is that it?”

The thought of you even holding Pierrot makes him see red. He’ll pound you relentlessly for hours without end until you’re a babbling mess, incoherent, yet able to pronounce his name with each thrust.

He’ll opt for cockwarming when he decides you’ve received enough, holding your twitching yet lax body that still struggles to take most of his cock. Even when you are pushed fully down, your pussy flushed against his lap, you can’t help but cry helplessly in his arms.

It reminds him of how small you are in comparison to him. Filling him with “love” all the more.

You’re often littered with bites head to toe, hickeys here and there, but bite marks are a requirement. Otherwise he feels as though he has no control over you, or that you’re seen as free to the other performers.

However, there will be a time where his control on you won’t weaken, but his love will get softer. It’ll happen at a random point where he notices you’re enjoying the rough sex rather than pushing it away.

You’re bent over, knees are shaking and about to buckle, yet you’re pushing against him. You’re forcing his cock to push deeper within you, scraping your walls that pulse and tighten around him greedily.

You’ll say things like “more”, and even telling him how good he feels.

It’ll stun him for a moment, and if you were able to see his face you’d probably be stunned as well. A dark red blooming around his face and neck before resuming his usual prideful smirk.

However, he can’t stop his voice from showing the sudden crack in his pride — in fact, he’ll start to stutter every time he speaks that he becomes more embarrassed.

He doesn’t even know what to do with his hands as he has to stop himself from nearly filling you to the brim with his seed.

He becomes more softer when he speaks to you, albeit not as soft as Pierrot, but he’ll opt to cup your face when he kisses you rather than having to forcefully hold you in place. He’ll lay kisses all over you, and even asking if it’s okay to bite. He’ll let you out of his tent on rare occasions or even listen to you talk about meaningless things for hours on end without it leading to immediate rough sex.

However, during this time it is best to shower Harlequin with love and attention as most as you can. As it is easy for him to revert back into his cynical nature the moment he sees you enjoying a conversation with Pierrot for too long.

Jester was a monster — a powerful one — but that didn't mean he was immune to pain or the eventual touch of death. Creatures like him could heal and endure suffering in ways humans never could, thriving after incidents that would destroy ordinary bodies. Still, that failure in the circus had truly left him breathless this time. He cursed the world — and himself — for his own helplessness as he leaned his anguished head against the vanity.

He closed his eyes, grinding his teeth at the nagging sensation that seemed to spread with every breath. He didn't notice the moment the door unlocked, nor the slow, precise footsteps approaching him.

His purple garments were stained red, spotted with dark, dried blood that indicated he had been left untended for far too long. You frowned as you took in the scene, quickly kneeling and reaching out to him.

"You are terribly hurt," your voice escaped as a murmur, trembling with shock.

You carefully touched the fabric stiffened by blood, investigating the brownish blur.

"Heavens… why did you wait so long and not call Doctor immediately? This is a nasty wound."

He nodded with difficulty, shaking his head before slowly lifting it.

When he finally did, the details became clear: the small curves and moles on his face, the shifting color of his lips, the long lashes, and the thick eyebrows framing those purple eyes, now weary.

Yet, the spark wasn't entirely defeated. Deep within his gaze, a flicker persisted: pride, possessiveness, and a blatant need for the exclusivity of your attention, even if dimmed by pain.

His true face bore only a thin layer of white makeup, a light powder applied with care. His two violet eyes bore the same pattern the mask replicated. Under the dim, yellowed light of the dressing room, one could swear the expression lines around his lips — marks of a constant habit of laughing at others — remained visible.

You caught your breath as your hand reached the side of his jaw. No matter how hidden and mysterious his true face seemed — and despite the gash in his flank and the vulnerability exposed in that rare moment — he remained beautiful.

Even when, from time to time, his face contorted into less-than-noble grimaces.

"You still haven't answered me. Why didn't you reach for Doctor?" you insisted, cupping his face gently.

Jester huffed lightly, averting his gaze.

"Why would I want to be under Doctor's care like some helpless lab rat, laid out on a cold inspection table, when I can have your undisputed attention taking care of me?" he grumbled, his lips twitching in a brief, stubborn pout. "I figured this was better. Besides, Doctor is busy."

"Busy?" you repeated, incredulous.

"Yes." He rolled his eyes, a glimpse of his habitual arrogance returning to his features. "He’s preoccupied trying to stitch Harlequin’s pieces back together in his office. To no one's surprise, he and Pierrot got into a fight again."

Jester massaged his temple, visibly dazed.

"This time, I couldn't do anything. After all, I’m cast aside here, aching all over."

You watched his face with slight suspicion but nodded slowly.

It was then that he reached for your wrist, his eyes shimmering with focus — and something strangely close to doubt.

"Will you take care of me, my dear?" he asked in a low voice. "You are all I have left now."

You swallowed hard, pulling back slightly.

"Take care of you? Jester, you know I would do that gladly. But I can't do much, and you know it," you reminded him, absentmindedly touching the ruined fabric again. "We need to clean this wound carefully. And in the end, you will have to see Doctor. If this needs stitches, only he can do it."

He nodded, reluctant.

Jester then pulled your wrist to his mouth with an almost sinister restlessness. His cold lips touched the pulsing area in a soft kiss. He inhaled the natural scent of your skin as if it were the only medicine capable of stanching the bleed in his side. The deliberate brush of his nose against the spot was slow and possessive — so noticeable that you furrowed your brows in confusion.

"First, wipe this off my face," he whispered, referring to the makeup, gesturing languidly toward the shelf above you. "You already know where everything is. I just want to rest while you tend to me."

Jester hesitated for a few seconds until the final word escaped his lips. It sounded strange, almost acidic on his tongue, as if he were learning a new, humiliating language just to keep you there.

"Please."

Please.

Please?

Good God. Had you heard him correctly? Jester asking for something — and politely, no less?

You wondered if the blow to his side had affected his head. He never liked asking for anything.

Things were always handed to him with a snap of his fingers. Fear and respect were usually enough.

When you first met him, he was a selfish man, hard-hearted and suspicious to the bone — an inhospitable creature for humans like you.

And yet, somehow, you had managed to fascinate him. He admired you in his own distorted way.

You were his cherished pet.

You stood up for a moment, your heart hammering against your ribs. The weight of that request seemed to float in the dressing room like dense smoke.

Your fingers reached the upper shelf, grabbing the vintage bottle of makeup remover and a piece of soft linen.

As you knelt again, you slotted yourself between Jester's long legs, which were sprawled haphazardly in front of him.

He didn't move. He simply remained there, head tilted slightly back against the table, his violet eyes following your every move with a predatory, yet exhausted, fixation.

"I can't believe I'm doing this. You're so stubborn," you scolded him lightly.

He shrugged, deliberately ignoring the comment.

You moistened the cloth and, with your free hand, held his chin, forcing him to face the yellow light.

When the first touch of the linen hit his cheek, Jester shivered. His claws scratched the wooden floor in an involuntary reflex — the instinctive gesture of someone unaccustomed to being handled.

"It's cold," he grumbled, lacking any real authority. Instead of pulling away, he leaned his face into your hand, seeking the warmth of your palm.

You removed the thin layer of white powder with care, revealing the pale skin beneath. Up close, his expression lines seemed even more evident: fine lines around his eyes, traces of cruel laughter accumulated over time.

There, under your care, he didn't look like a pitiless monster, but a creature who, for a brief moment, had forgotten how to bite.

"You know, my dear..." he began, his voice vibrating against your fingers as you cleaned the contour of his lips. "The Fools tremble when they touch me. They fear I’ll break them if they get too close. But you..."

He opened one eye and captured your gaze with disconcerting clarity.

"You touch me as if I were something that could break. It’s a curious concept. It almost makes me forget that my side is trying to remind me I’m mortal."

He let out a heavy sigh when you finished cleaning his forehead, revealing his face entirely bare. Without the makeup, Jester looked vulnerable — something he clearly loathed, but tolerated exclusively for you.

"Tell me, Jester… how did this happen?" you asked, concerned, as you soaked the cloth again.

He sighed deeply, looking away.

"A sudden set failure," he murmured, his irritation filtered through pain. "One of the Fools didn't properly secure one of the stage pulleys. When the structure was triggered, the weight gave way unevenly. A metal beam came down out of control and struck me sideways, pinning my left flank against the lower frame."

He paused shortly, breathing with caution. "It wasn't enough to crush me, but it tore the fabric, the flesh… and it stole my breath for long seconds before I could pull free. The rest," he waved vaguely at his side, "is written there clearly enough."

You swallowed in silence. The pang that shot through your chest was too sharp to ignore. It had a specific name: pure unrest.

The cloth remained almost still in your hands, though your fingers trembled slightly — whether from anger or dread, you couldn't tell. Perhaps both.

"Then why on earth did you let the Doctor tend to Harlequin first, Jester?" your voice escaped before you could contain it, indignation cutting through every syllable. "Have you lost your mind? This could have ended terribly. Do you have any idea what you're saying?"

Jester clicked his tongue at your tone, casting you a weak look. It was more defensive than defiant. He tried to move, seeking a less painful position, but failed, tensing his jaw before giving up.

"Harlequin was also injured," he replied, lower than intended. "As the leader, it is my duty to ensure he, or any other representative of the circus, receives the necessary care..."

The sentence lost momentum before the end.

"Even if it means..." he made an awkward pause, "...putting myself second."

The final comment came late, almost automatic:

"You would never understand."

There was no real conviction there. Only a fragile echo of something he used to say when he was still certain of his place.

"My God, you are far too headstrong. It’s truly maddening..." You shook your head in disapproval, standing up to grab another clean cloth.

He followed the movement with vigilant — yet almost uncertain — violet eyes.

"Where are you going?" His voice sounded troubled, nearly hurt, as if you were about to leave him there.

You stopped halfway, the clean cloth still in hand, and looked at him over your shoulder. Jester kept his eyes fixed on you, his pupils dilated in a way that wasn't just physical pain.

There was panic there. The raw fear of being left alone with his own silence and the metallic scent of his own blood.

"Jester, I'm just getting a clean cloth," you replied calmly, despite your previous indignation. "I can't reuse a cloth covered in makeup on your wound. Besides… maybe I can find those vials Doctor leaves for emergencies. There must be some around here."

You bit your lower lip by reflex, your eyes scanning his body with critical attention. Perhaps, with the right vial, you could truly help him. Common human medicines likely wouldn't work. Jester wasn't human, after all. That detail mattered.

He, however, seemed little interested in logic.

What he wanted was you there. Close. Kneeling beside him, touching him with those hands that were far too warm for a creature like him.

Jester clicked his tongue impatiently, demanding your attention.

"Don't waste time looking for that specific vial," he murmured, touching the side of the wound with calculated care. "It hurts, darling. Use whatever sterilizer you find. And… water. I need some water."

You sighed, yielding to the chaotic magnetism he exerted.

You grabbed the nearest sterilizing bottle and a pewter mug of water, returning to his side on the floor.

Jester drank urgently, noisily. A few drops escaped the corner of his mouth and slid down his pale neck. When he finished, he set the mug aside and looked up at you.

"Now," he hissed, his voice lower, huskier. "Finish what you started."

You poured the sterilizing liquid onto the clean cloth.

As soon as the fabric touched the open flesh of his side, Jester’s body suffered a violent spasm. He didn't scream — but the claws of his right hand dug into your thigh, gripping the fabric of your clothes with desperate strength.

His face, now pratically clean and exposed, contorted. His teeth ground together as he fought not to pull away.

"Heavens, Jester… I'm so sorry," you whispered, instinctively leaning closer, your breath hitting his feverish skin.

"Don't feel sorry for me," he gasped, opening his violet eyes, now shining with a dangerous mixture of pain and delirium. "You know I hate it when you look at me like that."

He loosened the grip on your thigh — only to slide his hand to the nape of your neck.

The touch wasn't rough. It was firm. Needy. He pulled you until your foreheads touched.

The smell of blood, dust, and the warm scent of your skin mingled. For a moment, you didn't pull away. The proximity was excessive, the silence too dense.

You were the first to move. Not an immediate kiss, just a slow brush of your lips against his, too brief to be comfort, too long to be accidental.

A silent warning.

Jester shivered softly. The second touch came with more intent. Still soft, still contained.

He responded almost without thinking, his lips moving carefully, as if any excess might make you vanish. There was no hunger there yet, just necessity.

When you pulled back a few inches, he still followed you, breathing heavily.

"It hurts so much, my love," he murmured, his voice broken. "Why don't you distract me from this cursed burning… from this gash that insists on reminding me I am made of flesh?"

His fingers rose slowly, tracing your jawline until they brushed your lips. "Drown out my pain with something stronger," he whispered. "An anesthesia all your own."

You blinked once, twice, not understanding. You took his hands and pressed a brief, affectionate kiss to them. Jester let out an almost inaudible sigh.

"Anesthesia? Jester… what are you talking about?" you asked, nervous, with a trembling smile.

"I want you to use me."

His voice came out firm, without remorse. His pupils shimmered as they sought yours.

"Distract me from this pain. Even if it's in another way. I don't care."

You nearly paled. You parted your lips to protest, but he gave you no room.

"Mount me. Be careful, if you wish. If the cut scares you, go slow." His voice cracked into a husky thread. "Let me feel you. Please, my dear."

He was serious. My God. Jester was completely insane.

"Jester, have you lost your mind?" you tried to argue, your voice visibly shaken. "You’ve seen the severity of this. Any intimacy now is dangerous. I won't be the person who breaks you in half over a whim."

He let out an undefined sound — somewhere between a laugh and a groan — and then did something that dismantled your resistance: he rubbed his cheek against the curve of your neck, a gesture of almost childlike sweetness, like a wounded cat begging for contact.

"Don't be so dramatic, my silly little mouse," he murmured. "I am not human. I can handle you. I need to handle you." He lifted his face. There was no more defiance there — only plea.

"Please, be my anesthesia. Use me."

The words echoed in your mind, falling like seeds on long-prepared soil. He had never asked for something like this, so raw, so desperate. Perhaps it was your only real chance to touch the core of Jester.

And all thanks to a Fool's nearly fatal mistake. What a cruel irony.

The weight of his gaze — pain and hunger entwined — made your resistance crumble.

"Alright," you sighed, defeated. "But carefully. If you strain this wound out of stubbornness, I will leave you bleeding alone in this dressing room. Do you understand?"

The relief that escaped him sounded almost like a whimper.

"Yes… whatever. As you wish," he murmured. "Just come here."

He pulled you with unexpected delicacy, tilting your face up to look at him. His fingers tangled in your hair as you leaned in, cautious.

Your touch found his neck; your mouth, almost by instinct, sought his soft lips. Jester moaned low, leaning into you as if he needed that contact to remain whole.

You smiled against the kiss — familiar, dear, even in that chaos. You slid your hand slowly down his pale torso, and he shivered, anticipating pain. You silenced him with a light kiss on his tense jaw.

"If we're going to do this, we need to get these dirty clothes off," you murmured. "Stay still."

You removed every piece of his costume: the stained purple, the gloves, the boots with bells that jingled as they hit the floor. The metallic sound felt like the end of a show — and the beginning of a more intimate ritual, finally shared.

Naked, Jester was a paradox. Imposing and fragile. Long-limbed, white as moonlight, marked by the violence of the stage.

When the last garment fell, only silence remained. Well, and the gash in his side, pulsing in cruel contrast to his alabaster skin.

"You should take yours off too," he grumbled, his voice nearly muffled.

You nodded and undressed quickly, shedding your shirt and trousers. He watched in contained ecstasy, his eyes roaming every curve of your body — familiar, right, yet still thrilling, as it had always been between you.

When you looked back at him, Jester didn't try to hide the wound. He spread his legs just enough for you to kneel between them.

His hands gripped the vanity tightly, his shoulders tense. As you reached toward the injured flank, he denied you with a slow shake of his head.

His pupils were dark, feverish.

"Lick it," he requested, hoarse. "I promise I can take it. Use your lips."

You hesitated. It was insane. Still, the desire to please him won out. You leaned in and, with enough delicacy to draw a sob from him, kissed the intact skin just above the cut.

Curiosity bested caution. Your tongue touched the irritated edge, and then the center of the tear.

The metallic, salty taste of inhuman blood mingled with feverish sweat. Jester let out a strange sound, a short yelp that died in a sigh. He hissed, and you pulled back by instinct, stunned.

He remained motionless, but his tension betrayed him: his claws buried themselves in the floor, the harsh scratch echoing in the room.

You continued, your lips brushing the raw flesh with a tenderness that bordered on cruelty. With every movement of your tongue, his body reacted in small spasms. He wasn't just enduring it. He was surrendering.

"Heavens… it burns, but it’s good," he gasped, his head falling back. "Please, keep going."

You looked up and found those sharp amethysts. Jester's eyes were glistening, discreetly tearful. The sight nearly made you choke. Without a word, you captured his lips again, now with more fervor.

Your tongue slid against his in a slow, wet movement, a deliberate exchange.

You hummed softly, acknowledging the symbolic gesture: you were giving him back his own metallic taste, making him curse and tremble.

Jester moaned, the sound strangely tearful, and his kisses gained momentum, trailing down your nose, over your cheeks, and into the curve of your neck. In a hurried, almost thoughtless movement, he cupped your breasts, pulling them together before lowering his head.

He was beside himself. His hands squeezed with febrile urgency while his tongue traced damp paths across your sternum. There was no gentleness there — only desire. He let saliva pool and then drip slowly between the valley of your breasts, watching with a sickly pleasure as the viscous sheen mingled with your sweat. He spread the moisture with his palms, like a craftsman working living clay.

"Look at what you do to me, love..." he murmured, his voice cracking as he licked his own saliva from your skin. "You leave me raw. Inside and out."

The silent recognition of his desperation made your own eyes shimmer.

You couldn't stand the distance anymore. With an agile movement, you positioned yourself over his lap. Jester grimaced in pain, a look quickly replaced by a sigh that left his lips parted. You slid your body against his, slowly, never quite settling.

The gesture drew a sharp, irritated hiss from him, followed by a firm tug on your wrists that made you startle.

The grip was a clear reminder that, despite his surrender, his submission was not eternal — only circumstantial.

"You like this, don't you?" he hissed, his voice failing as he fought the sting of pain the sudden movement caused in his side. "You must be loving this... seeing your Master reduced to babbles... like a beaten dog, crying and begging for touch."

There was a brief pause. His hand hovered silently over your neck, his voice dropping to a whisper, yet heavy with the weight of a chilling promise.

"Once I am healed, none of this will happen again."

You swallowed hard and nodded immediately, not daring to cross him. You didn't want to waste this rare opportunity. Carefully, you reached for him, stroking him languidly before finally seating yourself fully upon his lap.

The fit was deep, nearly absolute. You both groaned in near-perfect synchrony — the stretch always wide for you, the pain deliciously intense for him in that instant. Jester let out a muffled cry against your neck as his hands snaked up to your shoulders, pinning you in a discreet embrace.

The mixture of sensations — the agony of the wound and the pleasure of penetration — collided destabilizingly in his nervous system. It was the source of that beautiful, pathetic surrender that followed the first contact.

You finally found a steady rhythm, riding him with contained pride. It was then that Jester began to whimper more openly, his face buried in the crook of your shoulder, his mouth seeking your skin in damp, desperate kisses. The saliva mixed with the sweat dripping from his forehead created a slippery trail between you.

With every movement, you noticed the skin around the gash stretching dangerously, the inhuman tissue fighting to hold together under the pressure. The blood trickling down was enough to cause alarm — but his constitution remained firm, as if Jester’s very body fed on the torture.

He let go of your thighs, bringing his hands to his own face as he arched his body. He tried to cover his mouth with his palm, but he couldn't drown out the sounds of pained satisfaction escaping his throat.

They were sounds you never imagined hearing from such an arrogant creature. High-pitched, sharp, almost melodic moans; a vulnerability in timbre that was almost feminine.

The sight of his ecstatic expression and the sound of his voice made you moan too, your head spinning as you fought to maintain your balance. Seeing him so drunk on pleasure meant that any break in that perfect rhythm would be punished. With complaints, with harshness. And you didn't want that.

Not when he seemed so dear, almost tender. Almost obedient.

"Ah, damn it... harder. Harder!" he whimpered, arching his hips weakly against yours.

You smiled nervously, lowering your head to watch the movement between you. One of your hands distractedly reached for your own body, touching yourself sloppily while maintaining the pace, feeling him writhe beneath you.

Jester no longer seemed interested in commanding. Not completely — at least, not in this moment.

Your mind was already buzzing with desire, nearly falling — in a way that made you almost forget you were having sex with a wounded man.

Jester’s expressions were a delight, in ways that weren't exactly visible when he was the one taking the reins and assuming control. You couldn't deny that you liked the contrast.

Seeing him this way was pushing you closer to the edge — faster than you intended. You couldn't help but wonder: was this how he felt when he did as he pleased with you in normal circumstances? Deeply affected, savoring every reaction and sigh as if they were a relic, a precious prize.

If that was the case, you finally understood the appeal.

Then, in an impulse of dominance, you brought two fingers to his mouth. Where you expected a reprimand, there was surprising consent.

Jester received the audacious gesture with a nearly feverish voracity, practically biting the tips of your digits as your hips collided in a nervous but synchronized rhythm.

He closed his lips around your phalanges and sucked them with a force that made his pale cheeks hollow and his lashes knit together in a subtle, almost candid movement. The sound of the suction was wet and obscene, mingling with the sharp moans he still let out through his nose.

He used his tongue to map every inch of your fingers, cleaning the remnants of sweat and blood with a hungry devotion, his violet eyes fixed on yours, overflowing with a liquid submission.

"Liking the view?" Jester crooned provocatively.

You took a deep breath, a small nod and an intense blush betraying you. You huffed out of pure stubbornness before making an impetuous decision. Your answer didn't come through words, but with a firmer grip around his throat. His provocation was the trigger — and now you wanted to choke that petulant voice of his with his own pleasure.

The moment your hands encircled Jester’s neck, his eyes widened in unlikely shock. But the body didn't lie: the fit of your hand against his windpipe was all it took for his entire frame to have an electric spasm.

His air supply was cut off abruptly, and the shock of interrupted oxygen sent the blood — and what little remained of his sobriety — fleeing from his head. His violet eyes, previously fixed on you with mockery, rolled back, leaving only the whites showing for an eternal second.

You gave a gasp of surprise, laughing breathlessly at the sight.

He stopped sucking your fingers to bite the air, his jaw locking as he emitted a dull, stifled sound that vibrated against the palm of your hand. The pressure on his trachea had transformed his usual mockery into melodic agony.

When his eyes returned from white to violet, they no longer held the glint of arrogance, but only the liquid of adoration. He released your fingers, his mouth open, seeking the air you denied him, and he sobbed low — a sharp, unprotected sound that hummed beneath your palm.

Jester’s hands then rose, not to remove yours, but to seek your wrist and hold your hand in place, a silent plea for you not to let go. He was at the limit, his pale face slightly flushed from the lack of air and the effort.

"Tell me..." he groaned painfully, his voice coming out as a broken wheeze, the tears of pleasure finally overflowing and washing away the almost imperceptible traces of white makeup on his cheeks that resisted previous cleansing. "Tell me you love me anyway... even hurt, even broken... tell me, please."

He didn't just want the sex. He wanted to regain control, however distorted and contradictory it seemed in that moment, knowing he was your object of desire.

He needed confirmation that, even in all his weakness and vulnerability, he was still the center of your universe. Such irony. The usual sadist begging for an emotional collar.

"I love you, Jester," you replied, your voice thick with a nearly cruel tenderness. "I love the monster you are."

The sound of those words was the fuse. Jester let out a piercing scream, muffled by your hand, his body arching in a spasm so strong that the wound in his side finally protested with one last pang of agony. He came with a force that made him shudder from head to toe, his eyes rolling back as he surrendered to the oblivion of exhaustion.

His warmth flooded you, and the shock of that total surrender was the final push for your own peak. You felt his muscles tighten around you, and with a long moan, you collapsed against his chest, your body trembling in perfect sync with his.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by Jester’s erratic breathing intertwined with your own. He let out a low sigh as he attempted to move, withdrawing from you.

Noticing his slight struggle, you helped him, anchoring him with care. His long limbs remained sprawled beneath the vanity, marked by a mixture of fluids: the vivid red of the wound in his flank, the viscous sheen of saliva, and the subtle marks left by your fingers around his throat.

You, on the other hand, felt the warm stickiness of his seed staining your thighs. Slowly, you dismounted and sat beside him with a long, weary sigh.

You both remained like that for a moment. You, with your lips parted — he, with his eyes closed, almost at peace.

Perhaps he was thinking. Perhaps not. Your hand reached out to caress his face. At your gentle touch, he let out a low, almost involuntary purr.

After a few seconds, you finally stood up. Jester’s violet eyes followed your movement, still hazy from the dopaminergic crash, trying to readjust to the weight of reality.

"Don't go far…" he pleaded, his voice lazy.

His hands reached out to catch your arm in a weak gesture, his trembling fingers seeking your skin as if he feared that, without physical touch, he might simply vanish into the shadows of the circus.

"I’m just getting water, Jester. And to clean you up," you replied in a low voice, feeling a pang of compassion that he would surely hate if he were fully conscious.

"Of course. But come back quickly…" he continued, sighing deeply as his hand came to rest, motionless, over his wound.

You returned with a basin of warm water and a clean cloth. You knelt between his legs once more, but this time there was no lust — only the solemn ritual of care. You began with his face.

With light strokes, you wiped away the traces of tears and the saliva that had pooled at the corners of his mouth. Jester closed his eyes, letting out a long breath, tilting his head into your touch in a way that made your chest tighten.

He looked like a broken child and, at the same time, a fallen angel. A creature whose power had momentarily ceased.

"You said you loved me…" he broke the silence, his eyes opening to find yours in a sharp, quiet gaze. "It wasn't just because of the adrenaline, was it? You wouldn't lie to a monster just to make him come, would you, little pet?"

"I didn't lie," you answered almost immediately.

You ran the cloth over his neck, cleaning the reddish marks left by your own hand.

Jester let out a weak laugh — more of a performance than true irony.

His free hand rose to your cheeks, slowly lifting your face.

"So, now I know what keeps you here," he murmured. "And don't worry… I won't let that go to waste."

The threat sounded empty, devoid of true venom. It was almost a distorted promise of comfort.

You reached the wound.

The bleeding had stopped, but the skin around it remained irritated and vulnerable. With patience, you cleaned the area with diligent care, ensuring that no remnant of your indulgence would aggravate the injury further.

When you finished, you helped him lean back against some old cushions on the dressing room floor.

Jester immediately pulled you down, forcing you to lie with your head resting against his uninjured chest. His heart was still beating fast, a frantic rhythm echoing against your ear.

"Stay. Sleep against my heart," he hissed, possessive, wrapping his arm around your waist in a jealous embrace. "You can drag me to Doctor's tent later."

You thought about protesting, but your gaze only softened. You settled carefully against his chest, not wanting to disturb him further.

✮ 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.