#jester x reader

A familiar voice pierced the room. You both turned to find Jester approaching the table. Eyes followed him inside the café, just like they did earlier with the Harlequin.

“Pierrot needs help with the flyers, go join him at his post.”

“Well, good evening to you too, Jester - And where would the red dog be, hm?”

“Near the bally.” The taller man instructed.

“Understood.” Harlequin faced you in a valedictory bow. “Well, my dear, seems like this is my cue to bid you farewell. Keep what I said in mind, will you?”

 He gave one lasting look to his coworker before taking his leave.

That left you and Jester alone.

He tilted his head curiously, seemingly intrigued by your previous exchange with his coworker. You looked at him with unsure eyes, and, admittedly, a guilty heart – you did try to stay away from his personal life as much as possible.

 You failed - and hoped it didn’t show on your face.

It certainly did.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my little acquaintance, the librarian.”

You froze. God, be normal.

“Good evening.” You greeted him steadily. Months of customer service prized you with the skill of being eloquent despite the situation. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Now, dear, there’s no need to look at me with those big, sorry eyes... you haven’t done anything wrong, or have you?” Jester chided.

 His talent for seeing through your façade was alarming, at best.

“If taking a short break from work counts as a crime... then I suppose I'm guilty.” You offered a small smile along with the joke, aiming to light up the conversation that started to sound like an interrogation too quickly.

That earned you a slight smirk from him, his mask magically shifting.

“You didn’t seem like the type to slack. But again – you can never truly trust. I imagine your boss will be immensely pleased.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Don’t tell me you never did that. Working at and advertising the Circus at the rate you are all doing must be exhausting.”

“What can I say? Some of us have work ethics! Besides, there are things only I can do for the circus, not that I expect you to understand.”

He was grating today, dear God.  You came here to calm your mind and get your spirits up, but the more you sat there, the more everything got on your nerves.

“If you say so.” You crossed your arms and looked out the window that gave you a wonderful view of the posh neighborhood, pretending to be fixed on a specifically very tall autumn tree- “You must be busy, then.”

The sound of metal scratching the ground made your head snap back to your unwelcomed company, just enough to dreadfully make sense that the clown was joining you at your table.

Slacking off work was a terrible idea after all.

Jester made himself comfortable in his chair; crossing his legs elegantly, just like he did at the library. It was strange to think in this manner, but you found the whole clown attire misleading for a man who sat with so much regality.

His white carnival mask was clearer now that you weren’t seeing it bathed in the library’s low lights. The illuminating bream of the day made the details of his intricate outfit more evident.

“I am not.” Jester simply said, looking out the window in the same stoic manner you did before.

Staring at the newfound angle of his mask revealed that it had many details, many of which you haven’t seen until now – especially those thin lines that traced the bottom of his mouth and his chin, resembling a ventriloquy’s marionette...

Jester’s smirk brought your exploration to a halt – reminding you it’s uncourteous to stare.

You soon found his eyes instead, and he looked back at you with an enigmatic grin:

 “And you also seem unoccupied. So why don’t we chat a little.”

Right - he’s set on persecuting you. You almost forgot about that.

“About...?” Your voice sounded more strangled than you preferred, the strange situation clearly getting to your head.

He tilted his head over his knuckle, pondering. “I thought you enjoyed our last talk. Ever merry in my presence, even asking so politely for my name.”

Talking to Jester is not enjoyable – on the contrary, it feels like the conversation runs on barbed wire. Something inside you grates away at the flow of his words.

Every time you meet the man he puts a brick in your house of wariness. Not because of the same motives that you suspect judging eyes follow his form whenever he goes. But because his chilling disinterest makes something burn inside you.

Now that you think of it, isn’t it strange? Deciding your fun would be dwelling in a field of thorns made of someone else’s sharp tongue.

It’s not only Jester that scares you – it’s yourself, for wanting this even so.

You can sense he wants nothing to do with you. Nothing good, at least. Yet, you stay yielding in his presence, and in his absence, you yearn. It’s wicked, honestly, and you know it. It is even, if you would confess – quite shameful.

It’s quite strange to lust for someone you barely know. Worse – that you don’t even see; he is covered from head to toe. You have only a voice and a false name – and for some reason your body deemed this enough.

He broke the silence.

“I must confess – I didn’t know you were acquaintance with the Harlequin.”

“Because I’m not – I just met him. He was here handing all those flyers.” You said as you motioned to the papers left on the nearby tables - with at least some contempt in your voice, because Jester laughed dryly at your irritation.

“Ha! I’m glad you two got along well. He’s always been one for strong first impressions. Evoking all manners of reactions out of visitors. It can be troublesome – when it’s not incredibly useful." He tapped his hanging feet in the air, jingling the bells of his boot, arms crossed at his front.

“I bet it’s more troublesome than useful.” You pondered.

“A diligent .... administrator knows how to twist flaws into qualities. It’s just a matter of timing – under the right conditions, everyone can be useful.” His feet keep tapering rhythmically. “You just have to know them well enough.”

Administrator?

“Are you...his boss?” you thought outloud.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” the clown said, “but you can name it however you like, I don’t mind.”

“His manager?”

“You can keep trying, dear.” Jester mused “I’m merely responsible for them. Your definitions of hierarchy don’t apply to us”

You weighed the information for a second, and then finally questioned the man, hoping you were reading the situation right:

 “Is that why you’re interrogating me?”  

After all, Jester, the person that would never entertain you in a million of years, and was decidedly at that, randomly had the urge to seat with you to engage in some table talk – but only after seeing you chatting with his subordinate, of course.

“Interrogating you? Isn’t that a bit harsh?” The tone in his voice betrayed him - you hit the nail on the head.

Your mind hasn’t decided yet what to do about the man. So, you fixed him with a pointed look, still wary.

“Tell me, dear librarian” he started slowly, voice soft as if not to startle you “During your quiet and lonely nights working at the store, have you ever stumbled upon a little book called The Art of War?”

(‘Or is it only the books I read that particularly interest you?’ - Jester thought, but didn’t ask. He doesn’t want to scare you off, at least not yet.)

Yet, he wondered...if he were to come back to the library – would that book now also have your scent etched in it? It was quite unbearable reading The Duino Elegies at this point.)

“I have, but not recently. I don’t remember any details.” You answered truthfully.

 “Then you must recall the core idea behind the book, which is that success comes from correctly predicting oneself, the enemy and the terrain. You remember that much, yes?”

 You nod, and he continues:

“If you know your strengths and limits, accurately understand your opponent, and adapt to conditions, you can win without unnecessary fighting.”

You went on in his stead, slowly grasping his point. “...Only that by knowing oneself, one also needs to know one’s army. Both their flaws and weaknesses, and potential aids to conquests.”

His pleased grin – that you interpreted as a silent praise - made wicked things twist in your core.

That’s why he wanted to know about Harlequin. A bit extreme, you’d might say -not that you’d add that thought out loud.

“I didn’t know the Circus scene was so competitive.” You concluded. “Never head of clows needing to read the Art of War to stay atop of their game”

He brushed you off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“It is not, dear, there is no Circus like ours – But alas! I appreciate some of the author’s reasoning, especially when solving my own issues. You can never know too much, after all.” He swept off an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder before getting his hand back into crossed arms. “On that note...care to tell what it was that you and the Harlequin were talking so assiduously about?”

You hate to admit it – but he is a smooth talker.

So terribly articulated that if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he wasn’t trying to interrogate you.

Which grates you even more, because it means all those times he didn’t choose to engage in courteous small talk with you at the library were simply because he didn’t want to.

“Didn’t know you were a talker. You always seemed so closed off at the shop.”

“It depends on the subject. People tend to be incredibly boring, don’t you agree?” He flexed his hands, looking at his nails – covered in thick, black and shiny fabric. “Specially nowadays.”

“Well, I get all my morning news just by talking to clients at the shop.” You countered.

The clown chuckled darkly. “And there I was, using the space to read...how odd you must have thought me.”

 “Clients usually take the book to read at home when they want some peace and quiet.”

Jester sighed. “It alarms me that you would regard a circus as a place like that. "

“You... live at the circus?”

“Excuse me.” A voice gathered your full attention – a waitress holding a tray with your order stopped by the table. She left the cup at the center, probably not knowing whose it was. You could tell she was in a hurry.

You don’t blame her, the cafeteria was as busy as ever, and you nearly stormed inside to secure a seat.

In truth, you don’t even remember ordering at all.

“Oh, thank you!” You exclaimed.

She looked at you - and then at Jester - with a pointed look.

“My apologies, sir. My manager instructed me to ask you to leave if you do not intend to order anything from the menu.”

The rudeness of the request startled you. There are many people currently at this café with nothing but a newspaper or a notepad, and you’re sure they didn’t receive the same treatment.

The waitress would seem embarrassed to most, but you could sense she delivered the notice alluding to a stifled retaliation. You wondered if Harlequin caused the café problems before your arrival...

“It’s fine, dear,” Jester readily answered, with a gentle politeness that puts the mechanical courtesy you use at the library to shame. “I will be leaving soon enough. Tell your manager she doesn’t have to worry about me or de others – and that I apologize for any inconvenience, at the behalf of the Circus.” He made a little bow gesture.

The woman nodded before having a last look at both of you and leaving.

Feeling awkward after the exchange, you leaned your body on the table to take your beverage - but Jester leaned in faster, a bolt that dismantled the pristine poise he had been maintaining since the beginning of the conversation. The fast, sudden movement, deliriously made you think of a spider. His white mask was only a breath away from your ear.

“Stop.”

You halted, bracing the table; your drink at a palm’ reach – forgotten.

Every atom in the room fragmented to its frivolous unimportance under the gravity of Jester’s amethyst eyes.

From afar you two would merely seem like close friends reaching for each other, struggling to talk at a busy and loud café. In fact, that’s exactly how you felt - warm and fuzzy inside; world reduced to that whatever violet bewitchery was crawling out of the ivory.

The man covered your whole vision with his hat and mask. He was so close, so very close. You could smell his scent – subtle and masculine.

“What do you know about us? Tell me everything. Everything you talked with the Harlequin, everything you know about the Circus.”

He was extremely close, if he weren’t wearing this mask you two would surely be exchanging breaths. It didn’t make you nervous, in fact, you felt comfortable as if you had known him for a long time.

So, you did as he said, how could you not? Explained that you knew nothing about the Circus but the rumors of a macabre and talent crew coming to town – all gathered from eavesdropping your costumers. (You wouldn’t admit to this, normally. But Jester’s eyes did strip all remaining restraints out of you; body softening – along with your mind.)

You almost felt like dreaming.

At least, here, the weren’t any nightmares.

“- and Harlequin was very insistent on me going. He promised me a ticket, even though I denied the offer multiple times. I don’t know how he will deliver it, honestly.”

(Jester knows. Knows that if you really did catch Harlequin’s attention, he will find where you work and bother you until you accept his gift, until you go to the Circus with it. And he knows you are a curious thing – to the point of eavesdropping your costumers! How outrageous...you will eventually yield, and the clown will sink his claws.)

Jester could almost feel pity towards you, a simple choice that could unknowingly cost your life...

Almost.

“And will you go? If he gives you a ticket, that is.” His hand brushed a strand of hair out of your eyesight, a simple caress meant to further wear down your guard.

“I didn’t plan to. I don’t want to pry into the personal life of my clients, and I’m also not a fan of the carnival. But I might consider. I’m curious.”

Jester felt a meaningless need to ask – ask whether it is the Circus or him that you’re so curious about.

But the question was just as self-indulgent as it was frivolous; your curiosity, just like Harlequins’ recklessness, is nothing but another tool in his toolbox for him to choose from.

It could serve him greatly just the same.

Besides –why ask a question you already know the answer to?

Even if he wanted to, patience was a virtue, one that he gained by surviving innumerous unfortunate circumstances; He decided it was better to be safe than sorry.

So, he removed himself from the table and swiftly stood from his seat, moving to your free side and cornering you to the wall, taking advantage of your hazy state.

Your body grew tenser, that warm fuzzy feeling slowly dissipating - increasingly aware now of the man towering you, smirking down like a cat that got the cream.

He bent over, reaching for somewhere near your collarbone. You jerked back nervously, startled by his attempt to touch you.

Seconds ago, the spacing between you too seemed fine – but now you were hyper aware of your own body and the remaining distance to his.

He halted, but his hands remained nearby.

“I’m not going to hurt you, pet.”  He opened his palms like a magician would before a trick, as if to prove there’s nothing hidden in them. “Just stay still for a second.”

There was something shiny and small in Jester’s hand, and you stilled as he attached it to your shirt – a purple pin. Your body was still recovering from such an abrupt change of cognition, like a radio station tuning back in after a powerful signal overlap.

You did nothing but stare at his sharp purple gaze while it chilled the warmth out of your bones.

“There,” He stood back, analyzing you. “If you find yourself in inevitable need to visit the carnival, make sure to wear my gift.”

“A brooch?” You touched the cold metal. “Why?”

“It gives you front row seats.” Arms crossed behind the lithe man’s waist. “However, I would advise against venturing, specially alone, little mouse. The circus is not meant for sorry little creatures like you - it might spook you beyond repair.” Amethyst eyes failed to reflect on the glass of the window they stared out to, deep in thought.

“Besides,” Jester turned back at you, “I’m yet to finish that book, so you can expect a visit to that unruly stockroom soon.”

Your heart throbbed at the promise of seeing him again.

The tall man bowed courteously, signaling his farewell.

“You can wait, can’t you?” He added.  “And don’t forget to give a tip to our cherished waitress - for her remarkable patience.”          

You grimaced.

“I’m sorry about that. That’s no way to treat a costumer – I would know that.”

“I mean it.”. He said enigmatically.

Judging eyes followed Jester as he left. A uniformed person behind the counter, that you deduced was the manager – gave him a particular nasty stare. Was it because of the littering of flyers Harlequin left behind? Suspicion because of their style? Or just the plain human desire to judge and accuse? You know their acts are creepy, and that their theme is off-putting. But the way that waitress felt she was entitled to what she said – was beyond absurd. You know it wasn’t a one-time hostility – you saw it at the library, as well.

It disturbed you. The way we so quickly dehumanize the odd, the strange.

You didn’t leave a tip as you got up and ordered your beverage to be packaged to go.

It was still windy; the clouds covered a sky that shone with the serenity of a midafternoon sun. When you arrived at the shop after a short walk, you found the door unlocked – the closed sign remained in display. This usually means your boss is inside.

You leave your bag by the entrance before making your way upstairs, where your boss is already waiting. His head rests in one hand as he pores over something spread across the central table, so absorbed he scarcely seems to notice your arrival.

The room above the shop is his study - its towering shelves stretching even higher than those in the library below. The sloping ceiling frames the broad glass window of the repurposed attic, washing the room in pale light during the day.

His presence at the library is not out of the ordinary, but the circumstances are. Whenever he comes, he insists on having the shop to himself. He always warns you in advance of his arrival, giving you time to close the establishment and prepare it for his exclusive use.

Stepping into the study, you almost feel like an intruder.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir, I didn’t know you would come. I was just out for a while to grab some food...but I wasn’t out long, I promise.”

The white bearded man looked at you and sighed, lifting himself from the table with the aid of his arms.

“It’s fine, you know I don’t mind.” His voice came out rasped, and he cleared his throat. “In any case, I was waiting on you to ask something important” He treaded careful in his wording not to accuse, but you felt their stern regardless.”– do you think it’s possible you archived something, originally from here, downstairs? By mistake, of course.”

“No, sir. In fact, I’ve barely begun archiving anything in here.” You reminded him. “I only organized those two bookshelves, as you instructed—but that was quite some time ago.”

The last time you had set foot in his study had indeed been a long while ago. His question struck you as odd, and you couldn't shake the feeling that whatever had gone missing was something of real importance. You tried to further pacify the man:

“At the moment, I’m organizing the foreign literature section downstairs, along with the historical documents you asked me to sort.”

“Are you sure?” He interjected, voice growing harsh, hot temper baring fangs. “This is important.”

“Did anything happen? Is something missing?” You inquired to the distressed man.” You know how organized I am, tell me and we’ll find it.”

His throat bobbed at your suggestion. “A... parchment, is missing from where it was supposed to be.”  Your boss’s tone couldn’t hide his frustration any longer.

“And what is this parchment like? Where is it missing from?” you offered.

“It’s just a parchment,” Your boss seemed hesitant to share more, still incensed.

You hate being kept in the dark, especially when it came to matters you were qualified to solve. No matter what solutions you offered the man, his expressive aquamarine eyes still assessed you in doubt.

Your boss had never been so visibly undone.

He was shaking like a leaf, in anger -

“You’re not letting anyone else up in here, are you?”

The question – the disrespect – incensed you.

“I don't appreciate the implication, sir,” you said evenly, tracing your boundaries. “I've never been anything less than professional while working with you - and I’ve made it very clear in my both my interview and résumé that I’m qualified to work with personal collectors, and that means caring for their confidentiality and the archive’s security.”

You held his gaze without wavering, an anger in par with his.

“No one has entered your study without your permission.”

The man’s harshness wavered under your words, and he looked taken aback for a second.

His sight dropped in something that looked like remorse - like he broke from spell and came back to his senses.

A quiet minute passed.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken in that tone with you.” He corrected himself. “I haven’t been sleeping very well, that’s all – it’s been making me grumpier than usual, so excuse me.”

You assessed the man.

In truth, his frame seemed leaner, as though time had pared away what little softness remained, not toughened it, as you remembered.

His cheekbones were gaunt beneath sallow skin, deep crevices under his eyes, while his white beard had grown uneven, left untended in a way that sat strangely upon a man once so meticulously composed.

There was something in the sight of him that unsettled you—as if the years had found him all at once.

“It’s...alright sir. I beckon you don’t want my help finding it? I could take a look downstair but I’m sure I would’ve remembered a parchment.”

He turned around, returning to his desk.

“It’s fine, just... please reopen the shop - inform the patrons that we’ll close in a few hours. I’ll be here upstairs.”

“Understood.”

You went downstairs to do as you were told. Shifting the sign at the door, preparing for an end shift afternoon.

Your boss never leashed out at you like this. He was hot-tempered, not good with words - which always stuck you as ironic since he owns a library – but always treated you with respect and care.

This day was starting to feel like a dream fever. One of those days that you wake up wrong, and the only thing you can do about it is to lay down and sleep, hoping the passage of time would sooth the strangeness away.

 You don’t get that privilege, unfortunately, (but you hoped that the quiet voyage of the moon through the sky would do the trick).

After you’d done everything necessary to reopen the shop, your seat at the mahogany desk started to look particularly inviting. You took off your overshirt to rest it on top of the antique chair, eyes captured by the distracting gleam of the purple brooche. The mere sight of it brings you back to the situation at the coffee shop.

You’ve never seen any other place a pin on a client to give them front roll seats. Part of you know Jester can’t be fully trusted with the stories he tells.

Time passed quickly. And by dusk, when the windows stopped illuminating the shop, you went upstairs to check on your boss. He was in better shape, more composed – reminding you more of the man that decided to trust you. He kindly asked you to close the shop, and that you’d be released from work that night; he wished to have the library to himself.

You shifted the sign and informed the remaining patrons – there were only two or three people inside, and they readily left while you sorted scattered books and cleaned your desk.

You tried to get outside to collect the newspapers from the stand, but a person appeared at the door, blocking your view.

You were ready to tell them you were closed, but the person happened to be an unmistakable green clown with a tacky grin - and a ticket in his hand.

Your throat was immediately clogged with an overflow of questions and accusations, battling simultaneously to be the first one out - and you opened the door intending to unleash them over the imp – but Harlequin read your act as a cue to pass through the door, uninvited.

He welcomed himself into your workplace despite the thunder of “Wha-” s and “How-”s pouring in his ears, performance boots tapping obnoxiously at the wood floor of the deserted store, ignoring your stutters.

He made a dramatic half turn to face you – while you stood at the door, mouth agape.

“So... that’s where you work?” Harlequin taunted.

“Why are you here?!”

He merely held up the ticket with a mocking laugh at your question.

“Forget that! How do you know where I work? Did Jester tell you?”

“Oh! So, you two are close, hm.” He bit. “Funny, didn’t expect someone like you to get his attention at all.”

You scoffed.

“–And by that, you mean?”

He stood closer to you, a calculated step of his boots.

“I meant exactly what I said, dear one.” He moved his hands close to your face to show the ticked, black decorated with pink, The Freak Circus of Horrors framed by mirrored adorning wings.

You turned your head in a motion of disapproval. “I said I’m not going. Do I have to keep repeating myself?”

“If you truly didn’t want to – I wouldn’t be here at all!” He gesticulated theatrically. “I’m here because you are insincere; because your mouth says one thing while your body screams otherwise.”

(Your heartbeat didn’t scape him – oh, how deliciously your body wield to a mere implication.

What more could it do for him?)

You closed the door behind you lest a client hears you storming from the sidewalk. “Jester is your boss, isn’t that right?” The clow grimaced at your words.” I’m sure you didn’t even talk to him before showing up here, because he explicitly told me not to go!”

And out of all things, that fact preoccupied you the most: Jester was very insistent in warning you against going, meaning he didn’t tell Harlequin where to find you.

A shiver crept up your spine with the thought that Harlequin might have figured out by himself, searching for you around, or even following you back to your work from the café...

“He is not your boss thought, isn’t he?” The clow did a little chuckle at the mischievousness of his words. “Then why are you obeying him so blindly, pet? “

It was your turn to grimace at his words.

He had a point – you had no idea. Why did everything Jester said carried this much weight to you?

“We haven’t been here for long, a week and a few nights at most - and you’re already following a stranger’s words as it they were the law.” He walked towards you, another calculated step, cornering you at the door.

“It’s almost humiliating, don’t you agree? I’m sure Jester would think the same.”

Your heart stung at his degrading words – but you stood your ground.

“I’m merely respecting his privacy. He is my client.” You refuse to be bound in the Harlequin’s twisted logic.

“What a spectacle you’re performing to cover up a such a tiny lie, dear one!” Harlequin muses, waving his hands above your head as a symbolic height. “And such arrogance...dozens of guests visit us every night – we are public figures, at display, on a stage - at certain point all we see are tiny little ants. What makes you think your presence weighs that much to us?

He shifts the ticket so that it is directly in front of your face. “Do you think we could spot you between dozens of guests - and then blame you for giving in to humanity’s most base instinct – curiosity?”

For the first time today, you were left speechless. His words made too much sense – especially to a part of you you’d been suppressing insistently. Harlequin was coaxing it out, skillfully, like an instrument he played dozens of times before.

“You got something wrong about our leader,” the clown continues “He, like me, despises the cowards, especially the ones that pretends they don’t desire anything, that they have no monsters to let out.”

It was no use - Harlequin’s poisonous words slithered inside your bloodstream little by little, impossible to ignore. Every beat of your heart made them echo to find a home inside that vacant unwanted space inside your chest.

And whatever was coming out of his mouth decided to make it it’s den; feasting on whatever inadequate and uncomfortable feeling he brought out of you, while offering them a home, an outlet.

“What it is that you feel from my words?” He grew dangerously close. Another step in his tempo. “Shame – anger – perhaps, envy? Envy of the ones that let themselves crave?” You nearly gritted your teeth from the sight of his mocking smile.

“Fear not, for whatever it is -it has a space in our Circus of Horrors.”

Harlequin’s challenge damned you to a rattrap. There was no winning with him.

He played with the ticket with his fingers.

“Last chance, dear one.”

Fuck it.

You took the ticket from him, more violently than you intended to - nearly slapping the man’s hands.

His smile only grew wider and more predatory.

“Fine! Fine!” Your fumed, patience in rope’s end,” I’ll go! Just shut up for a second!”

“That’s better, but I advise you be a little more polite with us, dear one.” Harlequin’s lecture failed to carry any weight behind it – not when he could barely manage his visible excitement by winning this maddening tug-of-war between you two. “I personally appreciate a pretty mouth like yours uttering profanities, but I’m afraid I might be an exception at our circus.”

Harlequin reached for the ticket in your hand, the air around you displaced by his motion, and you breathed... cologne? A powerful white flower’s fragrance, reminding you of Jasmine or Lady of the Night.

It caught you off guard.

 He noticed.

“Tonight. Not tomorrow, not the day after – tonight.” He whispered, pointing to the Circus’s pass. “I see you are closing for the day, so you have no excuses.”

(Harlequin was ecstatic – a pretty, delicious thing like you, full of strange reactions, curious to the bone, a mouth that bit back - with a pink ticket? Oh, how he will have his fun. It was almost enough to make stealing it from Ticket Taker worth it.)

You scoffed, distressed by the closeness of his body, the sensual undertones barely hidden in his speech, (and lightheaded by his sweet perfume).

“I can tell from your voice that you’re young, so can you please stop talking like an old creep?” You jabbed, but without the need to pierce. Your anger dissipated after it blew out on the man earlier.

Harlequin finally stepped out of your personal space.

“So... can you please leave now? You already got what you wanted, and I still need to close the shop.”

“Of course.” He bowed theatrically. A sight you’re unfortunally getting used to. “I’ll see you later, then.”

The clown left the shop, and you went back to your mahogany desk to put your coat back on to attempt to go outside again to gather those newspapers. It was getting windy. You looked at the brooch, still on it. And decided that if you’re really going tonight, there’s no need to take it off.

Harlequin stepped further outside to look at the façade of the library more carefully, eyeing you disappearing further into your rabbit den through the big window walls.

Invitingly transparent, just like you.

Windows these days open many opportunities for people like him. Just like when he saw you chatting with Jester inside the café. Thought that impractical big window you were sitting next to, he knew what was up with you immediately.

He couldn’t stare for long, you would probably never notice – but his leader would. And he’s not fond of him skipping work to stalk a meal.

So, he resigned to wait and follow you out until he knew where you worked.

After that, he helped Pierrot at the bally – he was having problems with humans, as usual. The Circus was in the city for almost a week and a half, and people were already starting to grow hostile, which is never a good sign.

The suspicion of the townspeople grew even though only two people went missing up until now: a couple of lovers, rumored to have run together.

(Their favorite alibi).

While he stole from Bil’s ticket stash, he mused with the idea of Jester entertaining you, even for a little bit. You were clearly enamored, but the purple clown looked just as unaffected than ever, being just like how he is with any other human.

It crossed his mind that maybe you were...useful, to Jester. But his leader didn’t say anything, didn’t warn or give instructions to any of them. And it’s not like he had the opportunity to ask him yet -

Still, the snake’s instinct to pry was stronger. Who knows? Maybe he is doing Jester a favor, by giving him an easy treat, sparing him the hunt.

Harlequin’s eyes reached the newspapers, noticing a withered, sad branch of flowers inside a tiny plastic cone at the stand. How depressing.

Your exchange, albeit very brief, was more than you expected. You were also surprised by yourself, most of all: how your lips revealed information you wouldn’t dare to tell anyone (Yet with him, softly coaxed to talk, those secrets leaked without a second thought).  Worse – he liked it. Your honest and truthful exchange bonded you two more than your previous polite attempts at small talk.

However, your hopes of knowing further are short lived. He will soon finish that book, and then...well...he probably won’t come to the store anymore. He will simply be a brief obsession of yours, a memorable stranger that crossed your life that you will soon forget all about.

Just a strange occurrence.

(He would muse to himself about how wicked is for you to feel miserable by dodging a bullet, of not being chosen for sacrifice. Humans are so complex, yet terrible predictable. They want what they can’t have.)

The man that insists on looking at you debauchedly finally decided to approach you. You saw him coming from the corner of your eyes while you pretended to keep assorting the books inside their respective categories on the shelves - yes, the foreign literary selection, since someone complained about how unruly the books were.

The man spoke, softly, as if he hadn’t a chance to speak in years:

“Excuse me,”

You turned to the stranger. Will he at least pretend to be professional? Or will he cross the line and make your day miserable?

“You are aware there is... something.... on your back, yes?” The man spoke.

“What? -  Where?” You asked, a little panicked with the thought of working all day with something glued to you, like a fool, while instinctively reaching around your body to touch your back.

But you didn’t find anything. You heard a wrapping sound from him.

As you turned back to the man you noticed he was holding a beautiful, single begonia flower.

“Oh, my apologies! It is, indeed, right here!” He said, cheerfully, handing over the flower - wrapped in a tight, plastic cone - to you.

You shook your hands, a denial.

“I’m sorry, I can’t accept gifts while at work.”

The man didn’t yield:

“So, you can accept it after work. Would that be okay, then?”

You sighed.

“No, I’m sorry. I can’t accept it.”

The man smiled softly, almost apologetic.

“Is it alright if I leave it somewhere else in the store, then?” Meeting your hesitant eyes, he explained himself “So someone else can bring home a lovely freshly picked flower? No?”

In truth, his idea seemed harmless - but his insistence wasn’t.

Still, you resigned.

“Well...leave it near the newspapers outside then, under the canopy, alright?”

The man shook his head, tilted his hat in a farewell, and left the store to presumably set the flower outside.

“People continue to go missing-” You heard the hushed whispers say beyond the bookshelf’s walls. The other voice answers: “It’s been some time now, maybe a week.”

You didn’t realize the shelves were this big inside the library. It crossed your mind that perhaps you shrank, as they were towering you so tall they almost closed you in. Looking up you saw a figure – and suddenly you felt like a doll inside a dollhouse.

Your body now had strings attached, as if you were a puppet. Idly, you noticed you didn’t fear them – instead, you felt relief. It was as if you were born with these strings, and you always felt that something was missing from your limbs without them.

You walked the maze made out of bookshelves that resembled your workplace, until you found yourself at a clearing. There was a huge forest beyond, and you looked up at the trees until they gave space to the night adorned with a bright, full moon. It was a scene so strikingly beautiful that made you have the hazy thought that the satellite above resembled a pearl shining underwater.

It was mythical, otherworldly.

You noticed flowers blooming in the middle of the clearing, on a patch of fresh grass - Begonias, you noticed, small and rounded, looking like pink and purple little fairies.

You suddenly felt the string push you further to the middle.

There, you saw a skull, no – dozen. Dozen skulls, skeletons and bones scattered at the central grassless patch. The flowers covered them, the frail roots hugging remains of life.

You picked one of the Begonias in your hand, one single violet flower. Brighter than the rest, a more saturated tone of purple, clinging to death and life, wrapped over a bone.

The flowers hid in decay, concealed under the skeleton of a rib larger than any human’s torso. The skulls had pointy teeth, sharp and dangerous. You idly wondered what kind of animal died in here.

Who would clear the forest to a clearing only to make a beast’s grave?

–who would mind giving a beast a proper burial?

Everything turned purple in a second, as if seeing the world with stained glasses. The flower in your hand turned black, rotted and fell horribly in a single second. It lays withed on the ground. You heard a beast’s grown, dangerous and low. You looked at your front to notice the skeletons were moving and rising from their grave, an unholy sound making you freeze to your own bone.

You run, as if something was following you, determined to bury you just like it was.

You ran and ran – until you could see a simple tent – a circus tent, between the trees.

You always had nightmares – vivid dreams and night terrors that made you wheeze and loose on your rest for most of your life. When you were little, your grandmother made you see many doctors – for illness of flesh and mind. She traveled with you to the city where they resided, and most of them wouldn’t pass a chance to study your case,

It got ever more curious as you aged.

Your dreams blurred reality and illusion, memories seemed to mingle and mix with the imaginary.

You hadn’t had a clue of what could be happening to you for the longest time – doctors couldn’t, despite being treated in cities with advanced science and technology – find the root of your strangeness.

Until a time where, in your teens, you went to a street fair with the few friends you could manage to maintain.  You set your eyes upon a small burgundy tent set up at a crossroads, slightly away from the buzz of the festivities, and you were certain you had seen it in your dreams before.

A few candles made shadows move as you approached the fortune teller inside the dark-red tent. The walls were draped in wet velvet cloth and scraps of dark cotton. The sun moon touched woman had an all-knowing smile, and the two of you didn’t spoke while you joined her.

The woman told you something unimaginable – something you wouldn’t believe coming from someone else’s mouth.

 The woman told you something so ancient, so illogical –

It was the first time you heard that what has been afflicting you could be a curse.

“What we call ‘Humans’, is but an illusion – the logical, rational man and their scientific conquest. Humans have always lived accompanied by beings beyond one’s imagination – just as you can’t separate us from nature, you can’t separate us from the realms we bathed in for all of our history.

What troubles you travels between realms-

It is a gift but also a curse. Double-edged as love is to hate, light is to darkness.

You were given the tools to travel through both. To understand the unfathomable. To see grace in monstrosity, and to spot the rot woven into beauty.”

The nightmares were getting intense. It was the second night you had surreal dreams; a type you fall victim to periodically. You used to think they were omens of some kind but have long given up on finding meaning to them. This night you remember your encounter with the fortune teller, and that in itself was odd – despite being an encounter that you still feel deep in your bones, it was quite unusual for you to dream of real events or memories.

Speaking of strangeness...

It was difficult not to think of Jester. There was something in him – almost made of the same materials of your dreams, like he stepped outside of it and strolled around, and you wanted him back inside, closer.

He belonged closer.

You don’t even know the man - You chastise yourself internally. But you were only human – and curiosity was a despicable trait of your kind.

It’s been a while since his last visit, and it was starting to make you anxious. You closed the store at midday to take a break of the dreaded paperwork, aiming to the coffee store to get a little liquid boost of motivation while your head kept turning gears for the man –

You only stopped thinking when one of the customers at the coffee store looked too familiar. Circus hat, full clothing, black, a sprinkle of color. Only it was not purple, as you expected – surprisingly, it was green.

He was obviously a Circus worker.

The clown went from table to table, insistently bothering people to take one of his flyers – the same one you were given a while ago. While you settled yourself on the back tables, curiosity took the best of you while you kept looking at him – and dreadfully, the clown noticed. You turned your eyes away, but it was too late. He approached you, standing directly at the side of your small table.

“Greeting my dear! I saw you looking...quite boldly at me. Could you, perhaps, be interested in the Circus?”

A lot passed through your head- your gears about the whole Jester situation weren’t done running yet, and you haven’t arrived at a verdict on an outcome how to deal with him –

Should you let it go? - Get a grip,

Or should you keep daydreaming like a hormonal adolescent with an unhealthy limerent crush? - As you were doing already.

Time was ticking and you needed to reply to the stranger without looking at him with panic and confusion in your eyes for too long.

(Harlequin tasted your conflict without a word said – not knowing the nature of it, of course; but he found such pretty eyes in such deep internal struggle, especially under his gaze, to be a particular amusing sight.

What could possibly make accepting a flyer such a difficult decision?

He didn’t know. But he would pry if given the chance, oh, he will pry.

Curiosity is not uniquely a human’s trait, after all.)

“Cat got your tongue?” His mask twisted to show a lopsided grin, clearly amused.

You noticed this clown was more upbeat – well, specially while compared to the other clown you knew.

Jester was quite saturnine for well...a Jester.

“Sorry, I just...didn’t know the circus had other clowns. I was just taken aback for a moment.”

“Oh! So, you haven’t met the entire cast yet, have you? We can fix that – come to the show this very night! I’m sure you will remember all of our names by the end of it” The greenish clown merrily proclaimed as he handed you one of the flyers “Make sure not to miss my tent ... “

As you made a move to take the flyer, he took it out of your reach; instead, he moved his head closer, leaning down slightly to speak closer to your face “Unless...something is keeping you from going, hm?”

Your eyes grew wide as you looked back at him.

Why on earth are these clowns so perceptive?!

“Thought so -” The greenish imp hummed, making up conclusions from your gaze alone.

“Maybe you can help me decide, then,” You were increasingly pissed with the fact you seemed almost transparent nowadays – words falling out of your mouth against your will, eyes betraying you. You may at least use this inconvenience to search a little bit more for some information that would calm your nerves. “What exactly do you guys do at the Circus? I overhead it is not of a regular kind.”

“Oh, dear one. Some things can’t be conveyed in mere words – “He chuckles. “Is that why you’re...hesitant? Did you let someone’s frightened story about the carnival get to you?”

“No,” you brushed him off. “that’s not it. I’m only curious to know what I could be getting into, is all. I would have to ask for an hour or two off work to go, so I’m just making sure the visit is worth the hassle.”

“That could almost hurt my feelings!” The clown theatrically motioned to his own chest with open palms, as if you just hurt his little heart...“- If, I didn’t know how worthy of a visit, we are! If you’re really set on denying humble me, the Harlequin, the pleasure to have you as a guest, then at least take the paper – you never know when you’ll get bored of your wariness.”

You didn’t really want to offend the clown – but their tickets were expensive, the Circus itself was a tiny trip away from your work and the hours they functioned were usually the hours you dedicated your shift to archiving. Besides, you wondered how damaging to your self-control it would be, to give in to your base impulses and satiate your burning curiosity that easily.

It would be like lighting fire on straw bales.

“It’s fine. I already got a flyer. Thank you, anyway.”

The clown tilted his head to the side and retracted the paper back to the pile he was holding.

“Oh, and where did you got it from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

 You definitely mind him asking.

“They’re everywhere -” the clown makes a small frown. “No offense. They’re just everywhere...so I don’t remember where I got mine from. But I still have it. You should save yours to another give to another potential client.”

(It was quite difficult talking to you. Harlequin, silver tongued Harlequin – usually so eloquent, joining clues to deliver whoever he was speaking to the most honeyed words he could muster, making sure their prey got caught – this very Harlequin didn’t know what to do with you.

Every time you spoke, at random times that said nothing about what you were hiding, your heart raced like a drum. He could tell you were lying as to where you got your flyer from, by analyzing vitals impossible for a mere human to notice. Maybe you didn’t notice it yourself.

The most astonishing part, for him, was how your body and mind conflicted violently.

A mere invitation to the circus, and your tongue escaped your pretty lips to nervously jut while your heart nearly jumped - before your eyes turned hard to convey a hash and, most uncalled for, he would say, denial.

This sad little human didn’t notice they were under a monster’s gaze. And that same clueless little human didn’t understand how literate they are when it comes to reading your kind.

Specially you – you were practically an open book. It astonished him.

Strong emotions are still strong, – to a Moster that just understand the heart racing, the body temperature changing and any fluid that comes out of your body, violent hate and violent hunger reads all the same.

Harlequin wanted to pry – oh how we wanted to pry. But he has a feeling that even if he could enter your mind right now or hold you down and force it out of you – he would see nothing but an uncertain little thing in war with itself.

What a pity – you don’t know what you want.)

“Do you realize you’re sweating?” The green imp says, and you instinctively reach your forehead in embarrassment, noticing that yes, you have a fine cover, almost imperceptible, of moisture above your brows. You look at him with a mix of embarrassment and despise. Was it because you dismissed him so harshly that he felt the need to humiliate you?

“You know – a heart beats faster when lying. The body temperature rises, and the throat runs dry.”

 At the mention of your throat, you gulp.

“I won’t pry it out of you, my dear Guest, but someday,”

“- Someday, someone will come to claim your will as theirs. There are many ever so monstrous that would be delighted to feast in such turmoil.”

The clown bowed slightly, a malicious grin etched in his white mask.

“Expect a ticket soon – dear one. I’m sure you’ll come out of our show knowing exactly what your heart truly desires.”

And yes, there are nights. Nights you spend swiftly archiving every piece of paper you can convey while thinking what it would be to have a different type of fun or distraction – everything but sleeping. Would it be that bad to go?

Fuck, is that…? Did Jester bite you so hard it left a mark?

What a…!

Pierrot circles your shoulders, leaning forward to look at each other through the mirror.

"Who?" He asks again, his tone slightly less innocent.

More impatient.

More on edge.

"No one we need to worry about." You sigh to yourself.

When you said you'd like to be claimed by Jester's bite, you did not think he'd bite so hard it would leave scars behind. What are you looking like now? You can't wear that cute top for your shift at the cafe now!

"It's not important." You grouse, mad again at the purple clown.

"I beg to differ. This is…" He starts before pausing, "Do you know what those marks mean?" He asks with a raised eyebrow like he had a doubt.

"A spoiled night of fun with a cunt. That's all." You almost slam your comb on your dressing table," What else do you want it to mean?"

Pierrot considers you in silence for a moment, gauging your reaction, licking his teeth behind his closed lips.

"Do those scars have a meaning?" You ask, suspicious now, "Should I be worried?"

Did Jester pulled a trick on you?

Pierrot finally smiles with amorous eyes.

"It simply means I need to have a discussion with the 'cunt' in question." He coos.

Huh ho.

For the first time you realize you made a mistake for more than yourself. That stupid night could have more consequences than a broken heart and shattered hopes. You don't think Jester would fight for you, obviously, but he would be forced to protect himself if Pierrot came after him…

But would Pierrot go after Jester? His Leader? His big brother?

You're not sure you want to take that risk, to be honest.

"Was it Harlequin?" He asks lowly, his golden gaze veiled with anger through the mirror.

"…Yes. It was Harlequin." You lie, but quickly had, "But it is Harlequin's style you know? To hit it and flee right after." You bitterly laugh, "I knew what I was going into with him. I just didn't like how he shooed me out, you know?"

"Do I?"

"He pushed me out without any care, like an idiot. It's Harlequin like we all know and love. I'm over it now, it's in the past."

"Sure." He hums, "I'll just discuss with him about certain… Boundaries." He parts from you to head to your balcony, opening the bay window

"Pierrot." You call him back sternly, "You won't do that. It's done, it's over. It was a one night stand, that's all. Don't waste your breath for that." You order, before relaxing your expression, "Okay, Pierrot?" You smile at him.

He looks at you, half turned toward you and half turned toward the window, irritation and contradiction on his expression. He is clearly questioning if he should listen to you.

"Pierrot." You insist, "It's not worth it."

Pierrot and Harlequin fighting and bickering is far less suspicious than Pierrot and Jester, but you can't have the red clown go after the green one for a lie. That would blew out your cover.

And Harlequin doesn't deserve to bare your mistake with the Jester. That's unfair.

You'll tell the truth to Pierrot, eventually.

Eventually…

Later. You will tell him later.

You see emotions fly on his face before it settles for mild-annoyance. If his Lady's orders him, what can he do?

"Fine." He grumbles, before turning his heels fully toward you to come back to you.

He leans forward again, kisses you cheek gently and flees the scene blushing.

You fixate the bay window where he just went trough, before facing yourself in your mirror.

You're a bitch, girl. A real one…

You sigh, resting your head on the cold wood.

"What am I even doing…?"

You'll need to speak to Ticket Taker too…

______

You arrive at the circus after your shift at the cafe tired out and tense. You actually have no clue what you will do if you cross paths with Jester. He, he would probably regally ignore you, but will you be able to give him the same attitude? Or will you explode in tears and anger at his face?

You sigh, holding on to your purse. You're in a mess. A real, deep mess.

You almost hit into a man but you snap out of it just in time.

"Oh…! Bil…"

"It is Ticket Taker to you, visitor. Do you have a ticket?"

You refrain from giving him an attitude, he must be disappointed enough in Jester and you for the other night.

Good question, do you have a ticket? Pierrot must have left one in your purse, for sure.

Yes. He did.

"A red one again? Interesting." The topper monster looks at it without moving, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Why?" You frown at him, stressing bullet.

"I expected a different color." He contemptibly answers.

Wonderful… You have to deal with Jester, Pierrot and Ticket Taker then.

"Yeah, about that, plea-"

"I do not intend to say anything, visitor." He cuts you, stamping your ticket.

"Why?" You can't help but ask.

"I do not want to embarrass Jester more than he already feels."

Yeah… Logical answer for them. You're not surprised, and too weary to be mad at this response.

"I see…" You readjust your purse on your shoulder, "Thank you… For whatever my gratitude is worth to you."

"I do not do it for you, visitor." He straightens his posture, looking down on you from his height, "Keep your distance with the Jester, or I will feel forced to act in his best interest."

You gulp, your hand gripping the strap of your bag tight.

"Dutifully noted… Can I pass?"

He theatrically steps aside, gesturing to the wide entrance with a false plastic smile.

"Welcome, Visitor. May your stay be a wonderful illusion."

You nod weakly, walking away quickly. You never thought too much about Ticket Taker, but when he wants it, he can give you real creeps. You sigh, head low despite the bright lights, the confectioneries stalls and the joyous music. You are clearly a stain on that happy canvas, surrounded by those wide smiles and the happy families.

And the couples…

You sit down in one of the dining area and take out your phone, pretending to be busy while observing others. You see a gay couple sitting on the other table, sharing some fries, laughing together. One has a stain of sauce on his cheek and his man gently wipes it with his thumb and a cheeky gaze, tilting his lover's head to share a kiss.

You look away before their lips meet, feeling like you should not spy on that moment.

Or is it just that it hurts you inside…?

You catch a woman in a vivid red pullover running into the arms of a man, bracing himself for the impact, spinning with her in his arms. They squeeze each other tight, almost bumping into other people, but nothing seems to matter more than their happiness right now.

You lower your gaze on your screen, your head resting on your palm.

You are pathetic. Simply pathetic.

What did you hope would happen with the Jester exactly? You sleep together once, then, magic, you discover you are meant for each other? You become inseparable and official? He presents your formally to his circus family as his girlfriend and you live in his tent from now on? Or he comes living with you in your apartment, leaving the circus life behind and moving on with you onto new life goals as a fresh new couple? Find a stable 9-to-5, get engaged, a kid and a dog?

Seriously? You are that deluded about yourself that you imagined, for just a second, that Jester would put his hate for human aside for you? That he would see this night as anything else than a mistake on his part?

Wow. Really?

You slouch on the wooden table with the longest exhale you had for months.

"Wake up, girl. That is not a thing…"

A notification makes you rise your head again. It's your period tracker, informing you that your period are estimated for next week.

Oh Great! So you are mourning a fantasized relationship, have to suffer through the most terrible humiliation you ever had to endure yet, and you are hormonal?

Just great!

Terrific, even.

You slam your head back onto the table with an agonizing rale.

You almost jump out of your skin when a hand grabs your shoulder gently.

"My Lady?"

"Ah…! Pierrot! You scared me…" You readjust your posture immediately, caressing a strand of hair behind your ear in embarrassment.

"Is everything alright?" He asks, concerned, lowering himself on one knee.

"Yes! Yes, everything is alright." Your laugh is too high to be genuine.

"Are you sure?" He insists softly, his thumb caressing your shoulder, "You can tell me anything."

Oh Pierrot.

Sweet, sweet Pierrot…

Why couldn't you fall for him instead?

"Nah, it's not worth your time. I'm just tired after work, you know how it is." You smile, praying for it to also reach your eyes.

He contemplates you silently, blinking once, before his mouth stretches in an affable smile.

"Do not exert yourself, my Lady."

"I won't, pinky promise."

"Did you come for a reason?" He tilts his head, sitting next to you.

Good question.

Why did you even came here for? TT and Doctor merely tolerate you, Harlequin gives you the creeps when he has ideas behind his eyes, and Jester… You don't want to see him.

The alternative was wallowing in self-pity and eating ice cream until you gain 5kg and a lot of pimples to perfect your disgraced image. What a perspective… Yet it was what you were going for until you realized your feet brought you to the Circus instinctively.

"I… Came for you, of course." You keep your smile despite your weariness, "For who else would I be here?"

He seems to tense up, fidgeting his fingers as the white of his face gets a deep shade of red.

"R-really, my Lady?" He asks with a wide grin, "If I knew, I would have organized my best act for tonight."

"Ah ah. All your acts are great, Pierrot, worry not." You tell him, without feeling the need to lie.

He squeals on his sit.

"Really? You think so, my Lady?"

"Yes. At least the one or two I saw where entertaining." An image of the woman, chained to the plank, a knife prop at her head with the false blood flashes into your mind, disturbing you for a second "At least I… I think they were?"

He hops up and down on his seat, blushing madly.

At least he likes you.

At least…

"Do you want to eat something? It's on me, we didn't spik- I mean, it is our specialties tonight!" He asks.

"Oh… Why not? You don't have another act tonight?" You worry.

You can' have Pierrot cancel his show for you, or Jester or Bil will definitely come for you…

"This is my shortest night. My last performance just ended, worry not! I have all the night for you!" He explains, elated.

This is wrong.

This is bad. Very bad. But… But you could use a pick me up, tonight.

"Thank you, Pierrot. It would be with great pleasure."

His smiles widens and he grabs your hand, escorting you the nearest stall for you to pick a snack.

________________

"And then, I smashed his face into the pie!" He finish his retelling with great bravado.

You hold your rib, laughing.

You spent the entire night together, eating snacks, talking, joking, laughing. You sneaked out of the circus to watch the stars on a rooftop, soaked your feet in the sea nearby, lost your breath with stupid games. You just returned before his absence becomes suspicious, sharing a soft-serve each on an outside stage.

It was a pleasant evening. Relaxing and relieving.

You needed a night or simple fun and bounding, and Pierrot proved himself pretty… Laid back, comparing to his usual self. He was smiling madly, giggling, but kept himself in check, like he couldn't believe it was true.

Or that's what you assume, at last. You know he is besotted with you or something, but its crazy for you to think that you have this type of effect on other.

Especially after last night, if that's not proof enough.

But for now, you are willing to take what you can.

"Jesus, you are awful to each other!" You wipe a tear off the corner of your eye.

"This how we are…" Pierrot licks his ice cream, his feet dangling in the void of the stage, "It's… Complicated. Harlequin and I, we… Have history together. Things that neither of us can took back. Things that are here to stay…" He sighs, his smile diminishing.

Your laugh dies down.

"You regret?"

"I regret a lot of things. Things that could have gone better. Or could have been." He admits, "Words where thrown, and mistakes where made and now... Now we have to learn to live together again, with our regrets."

You look at him silently, how he gazes up at the moon. His expression is saddened, but also strangely… Peaceful.

"I… am sorry, Pierrot."

"What for?" He turns to you with a hint of pain in the eyes, mixed with tenderness, "None of this is your fault."

Your mouth stretches in a thin line, embarrassed and out of place.

You're disgusting, using him like that. To ease your own pain. To forget your own crushed hopes.

"I am just sorry, that's all." You look away to the ground, "What you must have gone through must not have been fun, and yet… Yet you keep hope. You try to go forward, not like some I won't name."

Not like you.

Not like Jester…

"Thank you, (M/C). I appreciate the thought." He grins.

He grins softly. Not like one of those mad grin he used to give you at the beginning, this is so much more… Genuine and gentle.

Too genuine…

"Woawoawow! Hold on! You use my name, now?" You playfully mock, "We are official or something?"

His smiles stretches ever so slightly.

"No. But maybe we are heading to that, slowly." He whispers with surprising little teasing or eagerness like he usually do.

He is calm and at peace, under the star with his soft-serve and you. His hand barely brushes yours, his pinky sneakily coming to lock with yours.

Like a little secret.

You gulp, trying to appear focused on your melting ice cream to not let appear your turmoil on your face.

Because you were absolutely correct earlier. Why did you not fall for Pierrot, instead of Jester?

Pierrot is here and willing, he helped you when you needed, and even if you think he was a bit suffocating in his advances, at least he cares for you. Since the beginning.

Not like the Jester.

Your relationship start with Pierrot was… Well, it was shaky at best, but it is build on genuine interest on his part, and contempt on yours.

Contempt for something you did not realize the true value of. Instead you focused on the ring leader. The puppeteer of the show. The brain-washer who in turns, only showed contempt to you in return.

And you could not help but run after him like a mad dog after a car.

You huff out a chuckle.

"I'm really a pushover…" You finally admit out loud, "And I am blind to what matters."

"Maybe we are more alike than we first imagined, my Lady." He muses, unhooking his pinky to sneakily cover your hand with his.

So slowly and gently, you can't refuse him.

Do you even want to?

"Maybe you are more correct than what I wanted to admit, Pierrot…" You raise your gaze to the moon.

You both remain silent, sitting next to each other, eyes on the star, hand in hand, shoulders brushing.

It is time to be more like Pierrot, mourn what could have been, but was never true, and focus on what is real. So you lay your head on his shoulder. He gasps, tensing up, but leaves you be.

"My-my Lady?" He asks with a trembling voice, full of contradicting emotion.

"Shhhhhhh… Let's enjoy the night. Together." You murmur back.

He intertwine your fingers together, making sure his claws don't slash your skin and keep you close to him. Soon enough, a low purr starts, rumbling all the way up his throat.

"I am happy, my Lady." He says, "Like I wasn't for a long time."

"Good. I am too." You realize as you say it.

Maybe this is the start of something sweet. Of something healthy, at last… And not you idolizing your partner like a psycho and a maso. Maybe with sweet Pierrot, things will be better for everyone.

He has quite a lot of things you usually likes in a man.

Why not, after all?

You hear him gulp.

"Could I… Bite you too?" He asks out of the blue.

"What?" You frown at him.

"I want to cover the bite you received… If you allow me, my Lady."

You look at him without blinking.

And snort.

What is it with this circus and biting?

"Is that foreplay for monsters?" You tease.

He flushes deeply.

"It's, huh… Is it not foreplay for humans too?" He counters.

"Touché." You shrug admittedly, "Maybe. It's still a bit painful."

Your laugh dies as he growl out loud.

"Pierrot?"

He raises his hands up in panic.

"It was not directed at…! I didn't mean to…!" He apologizes profusely, fidgeting his hands in the air, before sighing, defeated, "I'm sorry, my Lady, I did not want to scare you… It was not against you."

You grin, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you do that in bed too?" You ask.

He chokes on his breath.

"My Lady?!" He panics, not knowing where to stand with you.

You chuckle.

"Sorry. I'm teasing."Or not, "I'll let you bite me when that one is healed. I can't serve in the cafe with bite marks on both shoulders at the same time, what the patrons would say?" You snort.

He gulps, pursing his lips like he words were burning his tongue but he silences them.

"You are right, my Lady. That would be inappropriate to wear the love marks of both males at the same time." He nods, grinning with his sharp teeth, "Let's wait for the true one to take its place and shine."

"Yeah.Let's be civilized people, for fuck sakes. Who are we? Freaks?" You both laugh, your hands finding each other again.

You wouldn't have guessed that biting was a kink shared between the cold Jester and the sweet Pierrot.

"My Lady?" He coos, "May I… Kiss you?"

You pretend to think about it, but you feel fire on your cheek exploding at his question.

You look up at him.

You consider his face as a whole. You let your gaze caress his bangs, meeting his golden eyes melting with fire, traces the line of his absent nose before landing on his lips. You let your gaze lingers purposefully, licking your lips teasingly, making him skip a breath.

And decide you tortured him enough. You close you eyes, leaning closer but you wait from him to cross the gap.

You feel his breath on your lips, guessing his own a mere inch away, ready to claim your mouth and-A growl resonates behind you.

You yelp when Pierrot violently pivots his bust throwing a blade in the dark, his expression so terrible your heart almost skips a beat.

"Leave, Harlequin!" He orders. "Or God helps me…!"

You look behind you. You can't see a thing, yet you did hear a growl. You perk up your ear, and can hear a hitched breath and then steps walking away.

"Was that..?"

"Harlequin, for sure." Pierrot keeps his eyes fixed on the shadows, "He turned around you for so long, and now he can't accept he lost."

"It's … Not a competition, Pierrot. My affection is not a prize to be won." You grab his sleeve gently, inviting the red clown to calm down.

He squints at the blackness before facing you again.

"I am sorry, my Lady. I will make sure he will not bother you ever again."

Sorry, Harlequin, for dragging you into that mess...

"Leave him be, Pierrot." You ease his nerves, "He learned his lesson, I am sure."

He winces, unconvinced. You look at each other, not knowing what to do with yourself anymore.

"It killed the mood, no?" He drops, a hand on the back of his neck.

"Lets just look at the stars together. We will have plenty of occasion to kiss later." You decide, replacing your head on his shoulder.

His purr resumes as he lays his head on yours.

____________________

Ticket Taker makes his round, finding the last lost visitors and indicating them the exit politely, but sternly, before stopping dead in his tracks.

He silently looks at you heading toward the back entrance, at Pierrot's arm, a blissful smile on both of your faces, fingers intertwined.

Without boasting himself, Ticket Taker thinks of himself as a respectful gentleman toward womankind, especially the monstrous one, but also the human kind when the circumstances allows it.

But.

Being naked on Jester's lap one night and leaving hand in hand with Pierrot, 24h hours apart down to the second? He doesn't know if it is impressive or wildly inappropriate.

Either way, he doesn't like that. He doesn't like you.

He invites you to not mingle with one and he founds you with another 5 hours later. This is a whole new type of insolence he might need to work out of you, or you will bring disarray into their close circle.

Seducing 2 of them is too much of a risk for them, even if it was a laps of judgment on Jester's part.

Jester needs to know about that development. They must come up with a plan to get rid of you, before it is too late.

Ticket Taker remains in the shadows, hands clasped in his back, fixated on you both, strolling away.

Isn't it so adorable?

Isn't it absolutely revolting?

Like you could feel his burning gaze on the back of your neck, you stop to look around you, unsure. Pierrot releases your hand to circle your shoulders, kissing your hair softly, inviting you to keep going.

You walk away without noticing the blue clown.

He sniffs with disdain and spins on his heels, direction Jester's tent.

This is the most sensitive case he has to deal with yet. They can't survive another Columbina situation, especially not a human one, and certainly not between Pierrot and Jester.

He walks swiftly, orientating himself in the dark like he was born here. And in a minute, he is at his destination. Anyone else would knock on a iron pole nearby to announce their presence, but him and Jester are far past those courtesies, and he enters immediately. He heads toward the bedroom space of the large tent, behind the office space, hidden behind a large curtain when he stops to smell the air, a familiar scent alerting him.

Blood.

Jester's blood.

Moans of pain.

He hurries to the bedroom space, slamming the curtain out of his way with a shout.

"Jester, are you alright?"

He discovers books ravaged on the ground, sheets torn apart, pillows gutted, furniture clawed…

And the corpses of two fools, laying there, inert.

Bil snaps his head toward another whimper and discovers the Jester, slouching on the ground, bare chested and panting, holding his bloody arm.

"Jester…" He hurries to his friend's bedside, kneeling to exanimate the damages, "Did the fools…?"

He looks at his friend, he is panting, sweating heavily and obviously in pain. His breath is short and whistling, and his eyes are veiled like he was running a fever.

"No." Jester winces, "Worse."

And he throws one of Pierrot's blades to the ground with a hiss.

Bil looks at the shining blade soiled with blood like it was taunting him, flabbergasted.

And then it downs on him. The prior sexual encounter, the aggressive behaviors, the destructive urges, the territorial instincts, the need to hunt… And the signs of degrading health.

"You claimed her…" He lets escape, astonished, facing his leader once more, "You claimed her, and she tries to move on from you."

Jester sniggers painfully.

"Say that with more enthusiasm, would you, Bil? I do not feel humiliated enough yet."

"Jester, this is no joking matter." He berates him harshly, "Do you know what that means? This is incredibly dangerous!"

"I am keenly aware, thank you very much." the purple monster hisses again, "I regretted my foolery when my teeth released her flesh. I should have broke her neck, instead."

"Maybe you should have, yes." Ticket Taker agrees reluctantly, "Yet here we are…"

Jester finally turns to his lifelong friend, and if his face is stern, even cold, only his purple eyes communicates his true distress.

"You look at me like waste on the side of the road." He grouses, combing his purple mane of his back with a sweaty hand.

"I look at you like a friend in need of assistance. Get up, I will stitch your arm, and then…" He pauses, like he is regretting everything that led to that instant, before helping his friend stand up, "Then we will need to discuss our options."

“Gloomy, isn’t it?” You playfully commented to the clown sitting in the armchair. He has been reading this book for at least an hour now, and it is by far the most he ever spent there, quite assured. The library is small, so you’re always aware of every customer – especially the excentric ones.

The tall man came for the first time at the beginning of the week, in the middle of the afternoon. The vicinity stands at a crossroad, moderately busy at the brisk of the day, but essentially deserted by night. Most of your costumers are students or the elderly – sometimes a couple enters to spend some time at the loveseat by the big window walls that frame the facade of the small bookstore.

The owner- a generous but hot-tempered man – offered you this job to work odd hours. Are you closed for the day? Open? Do you shift at night, noon, morning? It’s a mystery.

“I need someone with a very flexible schedule.” Said the gray-headed man during your interview. And apparently, he takes being volatile very seriously, because ever since you started working here, there was never a day where worked two days straight at the same shift hours.

 You assumed this “business” is his just his love project. Since he justified it by saying he ‘doesn’t have any more space at home for books” and needs “someone to sort the books for when I happen to need them,”. He warned you he may sometimes need to come to the bookstore to stay there, alone. When he is not using it – he wants it working as any other bookstore.

Well, who are you to question that? You both want and need this job. Even if you are actually maintaining a personal archive, not exactly working as a librarian, which is officially your job description. You greet customers, help them find books for consultation and manage the ones on sale and the ones people can borrow during the day. At night, you archive all of the books, magazines and journals in topics, year of publication, and so on. And when you feel a little brave and it is quiet and you are alone – you play a few tunes at the grand piano near the entrance.

Your desk is set at the back, mahogany and antique – a normal size, but big comparing to the cramped bookstore, currently overflowing with notes, articles, and every literary item yet to be sorted. On top of it sits a vintage lamp, which glows in a beautiful greenish tinted light when on.

The store itself full of antique items – exotic decorations, porcelain miniatures, wooden items and sculptures, beautiful yet uncanny painting hanged on the walls, (merely scenery paintings from afar, but a closer look at the details would tell stories of places impossible to exist).

Nevertheless, in this workplace that finds itself at a cross of a strange antique store , a private and excentric library and a comfortable and secluded bookshop, you got used to seeing all the recurrent faces, helping students in need of old and heavy philosophy books, or simply watching as couples and friends walk in and stroll around.

That’s why that afternoon etched itself in your mind with clarity.

 An impossibly tall man, wearing gold and purple – adorned with black accessories, pointed boots and a circus hat. The man entered through the door silently. Despite being covered in bells, the only thing that announced his entrance was the door chime, and his purple form immediately set a violent contradiction to the wooden, neutral decoration of the background.

The dissimilarity was hypnotic, and you kept an eye out for this new presence from afar, already tending to leave costumers alone to wander in peace (and you sensed the stares he was getting from the other customers made him company enough).

The enigmatic person made his way to the back of the store as silently as he entered, carefully mapping out some of the sessions. You admittedly were curiosity about what a person dressed like that could probably be looking for in the shop. Magazines? Vintage Comics? But he strolled through those sections without batting them an eye.

Instead, he stopped in front of the bookshelf that signaled on its higher point the word “European Literature.”

His fingers carefully strolled its subsections, like a snake crossing elegantly over the hills of book spines assorted into their sub-categories –- Absurdism-- Modernism – Existentialism –

Covered by his carnival mask, you couldn’t see his eyes, but you were sure they were moving in tandem with his movements, scanning every title.

--Gothic Fiction - Psychological Realism -- his motions continued, and you watched attentively as his hand moved a little faster now.

-Surrealism --Baroque Literature --

...German Romanticism. Skilled fingers came to a halt and nudged a book out of the rack by its top - the Duino Elegies.

You would be lying if that didn’t shock you a bit. It’s not even that you thought a person with such tastes wouldn’t enjoy obscure German literature, but that was quite the unpopular book. No one have ever taken that book out its shelf – hell, not even yourself. It was already there when you arrived, and it was one of those sections you still haven’t sorted correctly.

The clown opened the book to bring it closer to his mask, white on white.

You hear the door chime once again, and you left the curious scene to attend to the front of the store as you make out someone’s voice uttering a timid ‘Hello?’. That client in specific wanted some books on Gardening, and that led you to a whole different section.

After a while, you heard the door chime again, and for some unknown reason, you intuited that the person in the carnival mask just left. Turns out you were right, and the literature section was deserted once again.

Yet, the next day he was back, searching for the same book, and reading it for only a short period of time. He wouldn’t overstay, not even take a seat on some of the chairs near the end of the section, assured of privacy.

That night you decided to spy on the book while archiving – you haven’t read it yet. It made you dreadfully curious as to why a person in a circus costume was reading such a tragic and melancholic novel.

Yet, by the looks of it, you were sure he was not just some ordinary circus worker. Even his clothing that draped beautifully over his admirable height was intricate and tasteful; you’ve never seen a circus where the clown’s uniform adorns gold and leather gloves instead of plain white, red or blue.

You wondered if maybe he was an acrobat or an aerialist– those spectacles more akin to display flashy, intricate outfits. It would explain his features as well – his perfect upright posture, like his spine was being pulled by an invisible string. Or the way his fingers moved on the pages, elegantly, and the way he strolled with such a strong presence but without a sound.

Something in him felt otherworldly.

Bet it his height, how he towered over everything in that store. Be it his flashy, yet intricate and tasteful outfit, contrasting his absolute silence. You were just unable to divert your eyes off him, unable to shake him off of your mind. You grabbed his book to sooth the aching curiosity.

The Duino Elegies, you read quietly, a book written by the poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Written while a guest at the Duino Castle, a fortress at a cliff by the Adriatic Sea, and gifted at its publication to the Princess.

You kept drinking in the prologue until you opened the first chapter - “The Fist Elegy”.

So now, some days later, when that same strange person finally sits to read the book, you have an idea of what the contents are.

“Gloomy, isn’t it?” You ask the clown.

He didn’t come by afternoon, today. Instead, he came at night – and very late. There isn’t a single customer left beside him. You even started archiving already but forgot to turn the hanging sign from “Open” to “Closed” - you didn’t notice until you heard the door chime and the strange, tall man, come in.

You discreetly drink in his figure with stolen glimpses while he is reading; his form now gracefully sat in the library’s armchair. Sat as if it was always his - so different from the tense and composed version you saw during the day all week. His knuckles holding his slightly tilted head, elbow on the armchair, eyes and porcelain mask fixed on the pages like a hawk...he is at the half at the book already

And you were looking. Observing. But tonight something in you got embolden by your secret attempt to try to bring your realities closer together. His head turns to you just briefly, a tip of his chin upwards, his eyes locking and leaving you just as fast.

“It is.” Delivered a silvery voice, hinting at a promise of further elaboration that never came.

Despite his friendly intonation, the figure coldly pretended you were not there, utterly fixed in the object in his hand. Surprised the man wouldn’t even spare you a second glance at your attempt of conversation, you let your voice pierce the inviolable silence between you two once again:

“What made you like it so much?”

“Have I ever said that I like it?”  That melodic voice bit back, coming somewhere from his body.

His mouth didn’t move when he spoke, and it made it all creepier. A slight sense of dread came rushing to your spine behind your neck – but it dissipated as you shook from a shiver.

You couldn’t help a slight frown of your browns, a slight irritation growing. There was a slight ghost of a smile from him, amused, probably a reaction to your visible discomfort (even if he didn’t find you worthy enough to move a single muscle for).

Maybe you overstepped. You believe he knew you were there - watching him read, with your puzzled eyes, all week. His mocking grin gave a hint of it, of something you both knew.

All week, you respected your end of an unspeakable truce - leaving him to his book, not questioning what such a strange person was doing at the bookstore, while he didn’t bother you and any customer despise his strange presence.

All week, you spent your working hours tortuously feigning a lack of interest.

And tonight, without those other nosy and judging eyes – he chose to also deliberately feign to let his guard down enough sit down to read (he wouldn’t, not normally; not over a presence so anxious under itself he wondered when you would finally succumb over your need for prying).

After all, unbeknownst to you, nothing escapes him.

No wondering eyes, no lingering looks. He notices every expression and every visage – a habit born out of survival, out of a predator’s instinct of predicting its prey’s next movements…

or is the other way around?

You looked at him incredulously for a moment as you processed his response, mind racing, until you remembered that he was still a client, and you were supposed to be polite with him. A client, yes. Just a client.

“Feel free to look at other books, then.” You noted in the most impassive and polite voice you could muster. “We have plenty, maybe one of them will be to your liking.”

“I doubt it.” said his melodic voice. Simple, as if not acknowledging his belittlement of both you and the extensive library,

Of course, the guy that comes to read obscure vintage literature dressed as a clown is actually weird. Were you expecting him to talk to you like a normal person?

“If you don’t mind me asking…what’s with the costume?” You choose to address the elephant in the room. He couldn’t keep talking to you all seriously and snarky while dressed as a clown.

He closed the book and rested it over his crossed knees under one of his hands. His chin again tilted enough for his gaze to lock into yours – his irises were purple and seemed to glow amidst the darkness that made up the openings of his eyes.

Those were some seriously good special effects for what looked like a simple mask.

“It was better when you didn’t speak.” Immediately, that shiver ran to the back of your neck again and dissipated under a goosebump. While you were busy looking at the windows to check if you forgot to close them, the clown shifted slightly and took a folded pamphlet and handed it to you.

The Freak Circus of Horrors.  Written in bold letters, featuring the drawing of a tent.

That may explain things a little.

You heard of a Circus in town but didn’t have the time to give it much thought yet. Amidst everything coming about, it’s as if you forgot a day existed where you woke up not busy…or preoccupied…or without having to shake off the nightmares first thing in the morning. You haven’t properly listened to the news lately.

But you heard some customers talk here and there about ‘the circus’, the show’... so, he is an employer.

The clown had his eyes fixed at your frown- you didn’t notice the expression you were displaying until you remembered you had to answer – cordially. But he was faster, and interrupted whatever answer you were elaborating inside your head.

“What a pitiful face. Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy the Circus?” His mask – mouth- stretched with a weird sound, and his smile widened unnaturally.

“That’s not it,” You were quick to correct him. “I was just thinking about how busy I am to properly enjoy the attractions of the city, that’s all.’

“Busy? Oh, but this place is quite a mess.” His mockery was everything but funny to you – but it seemed to gratify him immensely, “Yes… I could have believed this little excuse… if any of these sections were assorted properly, that is.” He tilted his head further, like a child, eyeing the sections at the back of the store, including the one he got his book from.

“That’s not my only job- “You started but interrupted yourself, remembering you don’t have to overexpose your life to make idle chat with a stranger, especially a difficult client, “and it was worse before I came in here. You don’t even want to know the state I found this place in.”

“Hmm.” He hummed, seeming to finally grow tired of the awkward exchange between you two.

Actually, it was awkward for you, but he seemed unfazed.

His attention was back on the book now, and you resumed archiving some of the papers behind your desk, leaving him in peace.

There is something wrong with this city – something wrong with every city you visit. Is it something within you? Dormant. Knowing. Waiting.

You dream you’re a lamb running from a knife - paws desperately trying to move but caving under the deep snow.

There is blood flooding cities coming from the rain. The thunder screech with desperate screams of the forgotten and slain. A horned beast – a devil – rises up from ashes and dust. And it is the most beautiful and frightening sight you have ever seen.

Every Angel is Terrifying.

You wake up sweating profusely; violent heaving substitutes for your breathing and an erratic drumbeat thrash inside your chest, threatening to break out. Your head aches as for now you are cursed with the intense, unsolicited, obscure and dreadful knowledge your dreams gift you.

The Angel is a sacrifice.

“What is your name?” You caved again. Another night of silence between the both of you – another chapter read from his book, another try of bridging the gap of your realities. Armed with new information about both the book and the circus - which is all the information you’ll possibly have about him.

He, who took some days to come back to the bookstore – you guessed the circus is in high-demand during weekends – and didn’t overstay at the library this time (as if your encounter last time made to further alienate him rather than appease) – paused next to the windows near the door, interrupting his departure.

You wouldn’t say anything – you promised yourself that. But there was no denying the effects this stranger had on you. It’s like his presence alone put you on a chokehold – as if he made all the air around him denser, heavier. He was a banquet full of delicious contradictions for your brain to decipher, just out of reach, purposely starving you.

He puts you into a rhythm, a dance, a silent game with quiet rules. And yet you felt the urge to break all of them, to contradict his implied dominance, his scorn, his belittlement.

Your communication tonight relied on quiet sights, stollen glances to his side and the stubborn keeping of absolute silence. Yet, his bells unusually rang every time he moved, startling you amongst the calm.

Tonight, his mask was the closest as it ever was to his book. He read it without even moving a single muscle away from the front of the old bookshelf he retrieved the book from, standing tall and proud while his eyes remained obscured by the pages.

It’s been only a little more than a week since he first came to your workplace, and you could already tell he’s finishing the novel. The book is quite thin, yes, but Its pages are full of meaning. No wonder it took a while, even for a fast reader like him.

Does he pounder its meanings? The significance behind the author’s analogies? Does he argue with them inside his head?

He said he didn’t like the novel– but why would someone come back each night to read a piece of literature that doesn’t make you feel or, think, anything?

And now that he is finishing it…what will happen?

The man turned around just enough for you to see the side of his carnival mask, grinning statically.  You heard something similar to a sight, but you weren’t sure.

He may be judging his options inside his head – between entertaining you or leaving you dry. Part of you felt a little bad about being so nosy with a client - a pang of shame growing inside your chest. You were never one to bother anyone that came to the store. People searching for a library usually want to be left alone, and he is probably coming between his work breaks to read – and you are trying to make small talk despite his obvious disinterest.

He’s probably used to people invading his personal space because of his costume - since he looks always too ready to entertain – and probably comes here to take a break for himself.

You suddenly feel like a creep.

 “...I’m sorry.”  The apology escaped your lips, reason finally taking control of you. “Sorry to bother you, have a good night.”

“Tell me, dear,” His voice pierced your thoughts, surprising you. His tone was different tonight, as if he was testing waters, throwing stones to see how it would reverberate. “Did you ever read that book?”

“The Duino Elegies?” You had to make sure you two were talking about the same book, even though there weren’t any other books. You know that it’s the only novel he reads, and you’ve also read it every night since it picked his interest. You were not as fast as a reader as him, so you’re nowhere near finishing it.

However...he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know you only picked that book to read because of him. He doesn’t know that you notice, among all clients, if he ever tries any other books, if he is reading something different. The thought of it really makes you cringe inside this time – you really feel like a creep.

“You know the answer to that,” – and It’s like he sees right through you - “Which other one could I be talking about?”

He chooses to entertain - so wouldn't it be better if you dropped the act already?

“I wanted to know why you were so invested in it...such odd and old book; So, I read it, but I’m not done with it yet.” The words come out of you easily, easier than you expected while talking to someone that made up all of your current thoughts.

You notice he has turned to fully face you. There’s some distance between you two, and his figure being that close to the door makes you ache a little. You want to know him further.

“Honesty – that’s better.” He was pleased by your chosen approach to the topic, it seems. “Such a shame I have to practically force it out of you.”

His lithe body curved a little to the side while he considers you with a hand to his chin.

Force it out? - Well, he was just asking. And you felt the urge to be honest,

(Maybe, if you had been more observant, you would have noticed the strange glow in his eyes;

If you hadn’t let your guard down, you would have half a mind to ask yourself the deeper meaning of his words.

And if you weren’t so desperate – your desire wouldn’t overshadow your fear,

but you were, and his instincts wouldn’t let him miss a good meal. To ambush such an easy prey.

He was ready to decide if you were worth him baring his fangs for.)

“And tell me...what did you think of it?”

It all comes back to you – your dreams - the rain, the blood, the lamb, the knife. You wouldn’t tell anyone your dreams, surely, the nightmares-

“The angel is a devil.” You mindless say. “It is terrifying because it shows how incomplete we are, as humans.” You continue. “We sacrificed the angel to exist in imperfect forms.”

He grows quiet, his smile falters just a tiny bit. You worry if he you did anything wrong. But how could you, if you were being oh, so very honest?

“Surprisingly,” He seems serious, a bittersweet tone scaping him, “I agree. Although, I wouldn’t phrase it exactly this way;” He pounders, averting his eyes. “Humans created an Angel to both justify their wicked and ignorant nature, and to pretend to aspire to be anything above it.”

His grin was back and his eyes went to yours again.

“And tell me, dove, what led you to that conclusion?”

“I had a dream.” You answered him, trying your best to remember all of your nightmare -as painful as it was. “I dreamt of a magnificent devil, and the earth quaked with spilled blood under it – blood of a lamb running from slaughter, blood of a prey, of an Angel.”

“That’s quite the vivid imagination.” He muses.

Jester. His name is Jester. He introduced himself after the brief conversation.

Your frantic pulse had already alerted your monster to the pattern unfolding in the dark; he sat up in bed, a shadow catching the pale moonlight filtering through the canvas. You needed rest. So he remained still, analyzing the exact mechanics of your distress as you began to whimper, your legs thrashing beneath the sheets before your arms followed.

Jester caught your wrists with firm, calculated care. He pulled you flush against his chest, locking you within the unyielding cage of his embrace as a means to arrest the fit before you could compromise his routine medical handiwork from earlier. In the quiet theater of his personal tent, he let out a low, melodic purr—a series of soothing words designed to guide your drifting towards consciousness. He smoothly turned your frame, ensuring that the absolute center of your awakening world would be his luminous violet gaze.

An intentional axis; exactly how he dictated his performances.

You drew short, frantic breaths through your nose, your chest heaving in erratic rhythms until your eyes snapped wide. It displeased him that, unlike how you listened to his word, your nervous system refused to settle at his command. Leaning down, Jester pressed the cool side of his masked face against yours, murmuring calming nothings directly into your ear until he felt the physical surrender he required.

The metallic tang of fresh blood bloomed in the air, but the showman remained strictly disciplined handling one complication at a time. Shifting your weight, you buried your face into the crook of his neck, sobbing out a string of redundant, unnecessary apologies that threatened to unravel the progress of his care.

“Shh,” he sighed, keeping his hold on your wrists absolute. Left to your own devices, you would undoubtedly attempt some clumsy, sentimental embrace, rubbing the freshly agitated wounds of your forearms against his attire. “Little mouse, we had nearly reached the next step in your healing process, and yet you insist on stumbling back to the starting line. How dreadfully inefficient...”

An unfamiliar, tight sensation bloomed in his chest—a localized friction that did not suit his calculated nature—as the heat of your tears soaked into the white paint on his throat. “Breathe.”

It had been over a week since your absurd, defiant display of protective bravado, yet Jester still required more time to process just how entirely you had disrupted his methodology. He permitted this... annoying psychological metamorphosis only here, in the absolute seclusion of his quarters. To the rest of the world? His tyrannical disdain for your species remained entirely intact.

He had not yet mapped the architecture of this new terrain. You had single-handedly thrown acid to the historical charts of his malice toward humanity. It was infuriating.

Yet you remained, pulling back to look at him, instinctively trying to use your night-shirt sleeves to dry your face by craning your neck right... then left. He refused to slacken his grip on your wrists.

“I'm sorry. I keep waking you... especially after having relocating so abruptly,” you whispered, your heart resuming that telltale, frantic rhythm.

Before that physical stress could manifest, the puppeteer disrupted your cognitive tracks entirely. He leaned down and captured your lips, steering you into a deep, consuming distraction. It began with an almost traditional cadence, savoring the familiar boundaries of a traditional human kiss before shifting into something starkly monstrous. His violet tongue, elegant and deceptively long, moved to conquer yours—a deliberate, physical manifestation of his need to dictate the parameters of your environment. It was possessive, yet tempered with a distinct, meticulous gentleness that had characterized your recent interactions.

The thick tension and anxiety that'd held your muscles hostage dissolved entirely, a soft moan escaping your throat into his mouth. Jester pulled back a mere fraction, his eyes open and tracking your expression to verify the efficacy of his distraction. Lowering his head, he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss against the white gauze binding each of your forearms.

“Do not squander your remaining energy on such things. Sentiments devoid of utility are hardly worth the breath required to form them,” he practically sung, his lips brushing the fabric over your wounds. “Let me tend to these. You have agitated your stitches.”

Before you could offer a counter-argument, the showman vanished from your immediate space. Turning his back, he crossed the tent toward the dark timber of his make-shift vanity—the very space where he meticulously applied the white stage makeup before facing his audience. He could practically taste your stubbornness lingering in the air; an irritation, certainly, but one that pulled the corner of his mouth into a sharp, faint smile.

“Don't waste your breath on more... redundant protests,” he commanded, his elongated claws retrieving the fresh medical supplies provided by the Doctor. He returned to the bedside, movements fluid and silent. “Sit at the edge, little mouse.”

You swallowed thickly, still adjusting to the authoritative rhythm of his care. Jester remained entirely dictatorial—organizing your day, showing sharp displeasure at any signs of stubbornness from you, and routinely surrendering you to Pierrot or the Doctor when you really did a number on his patience. He still referred to you as his little pest, a rodent in his domain. Yet this nocturnal, unyielding tenderness was a variable you hadn't anticipated.

His left eye twitched with impatience. “You're not moving.”

Avoiding his gaze, you quickly shifted your position on the bed to comply, holding out your arm in accordance with the routine that had defined your past week.

Jester let out a sharp, indignant huff, yet he dropped to his knees before you at the edge of the mattress without further complaint. He choked down the sharp reprimand rising in his throat as the rich scent of your blood grew heavier with the removal of the first layer of linen. His fingers moved with practiced muscle memory at this point, his mind drifted backward reviewing the internal recording of the night your blood had been spilt. Parts of your arms mauled to shreds.

It had occurred with a terrifying, preventable velocity that infuriated the circus leader each time he reviewed the sequence. His main performance had concluded, and the custom weapon—the framework of long, razor-sharp steel claws—had been deposited backstage by one of the Fools who'd worn them for the show, left exposed due to a rare lapse in their security protocols. His own managerial error.

He ground his sharp teeth together at the memory.

You had been playing your part perfectly that evening, clearing the debris from the rows of the black-and-purple tent. Jester had stepped away for a mere handful of minutes to consult with Ticket Taker, relaying that tomorrow they would try your suggestions regarding the use of 'social media' to secure a larger audience for the circus' current location as a test. He had scoffed at the human notion of being 'environmentally friendly' with fewer flyers, yet the economic reality of reducing print costs was undeniable...

During that brief window, a local—a wretched specimen Jester had already completed a slow, meticulously gruesome dismantling behind closed doors—had infiltrated the backstage canvas. The vermin had noticed certain individuals missing from town and, suspecting the circus of foul play, had snuck inside to investigate, his hands finding the steel claws left upon the prop table. The intruder had been waiting in the shadows with nothing but violent, opportunistic intent, looking to ambush the circus master himself. The concept of a human hunting him would have been dark comedy.

Except you had intervened.

Stubborn, foolish creature. You had caught the silhouette of the intruder while collecting trash left from the previous show. Instead of executing the rational maneuver—instead of alerting any of your monstrous keepers who possessed accelerated cellular regeneration—you had confronted the man directly.

Jester snorted softly, carefully lifting the bloodied gauze to inspect the underlying thread-work of stitches and the wounds they held tight.

That night, he'd returned just in time to witness the climax of the altercation having heard it after re-entering his show tent. He paused for a fraction of a second to ensure the grand tent was clear of other witnesses, securing the canvas doors to preserve their isolation before even thinking of attempting to eliminate the intruder. He had to protect their secrets.

In that single, suspended second, the townsperson had initially dismissed you as a negligible threat. But you had lunged forward, yanking back on his arm to prevent him from leaving your sights and moving on to whatever murderous plan he had. The man towered over your slight frame, yet you stood entirely unyielding, a fierce, desperate fire burning in your eyes. You had stood your ground as if your fragile body alone could act as a shield for Jester and his entire family.

The image of your face—the sheer, defiant certainty that you would keep the monsters safe from the world outside—had fractured the foundational premise of Jester's psychological worldview. He had hesitated, caught in a rare moment of absolute awe at your new levels of absurdity.

That single second of hesitation carried a heavy cost. The man, panicked and cornered, shoved you back with brutal force, swinging the steel framework of the claws in a frantic, sweeping arcs to clear his path. Jester launched himself across the stage layout, his own claws extended to inflict maximum, lethal trauma, but the iron had already done its work. In one breath, the intruder was reduced to a mangled carcass destined for the troupe's next meal; in the next, you were bleeding out on the floorboards.

Your soft, perfect skin—the skin Jester preferred to color with his own dominant, calculated affections—had been horribly torn, destined to bear the permanent calligraphy of mountainous scars. A permanent monument to your devotion to a family of monsters.

He could have laughed at the irony if the reality didn't create such an uncomfortable pressure within his own chest.

The entire itinerary had been disrupted: their scheduled arrival at the next town coming far too soon, the meticulously balanced budget ruined, your utility around the grounds—everything shattered because you refused to be selfish and protect yourself first. Humans were supposed to be cruel, manipulative creatures who bartered the lives of others to preserve their own skin.

Yet you had broken that rule, adding your own broken body to the list of logistical inconveniences on his plate.

For the initial days following the incident, he had withdrawn into his duties executing the daily checklists with frozen precision, directing his crew with going-through-the-motions authority, and taking it upon himself to dress your wounds multiple times a day as Doctor instructed. He sacrificed his own time to manage your fits, a reality that deeply irritated his sense of order. Or perhaps what truly enraged him was the realization that the long-held metrics he used to judge your kind were turning to ash. He was actively making an exception for a human.

Then again, your interference had successfully contained a potential public exposure. Jester let out a slow exhale, releasing the memory as an unhelpful loop. They were here now, and the paradigm had shifted.

You kept your chin down, memorizing the floor in silence while Jester worked through the motions of your care. Once the soiled linen was entirely removed from both forearms, he evaluated the many rows of stitches. You had once attempted to compare your appearance to that of a reanimated monster; the jest had been met with absolute silence. Jester possessed less than zero humor in regards to your current state.

His touch was agonizingly slow and meticulous, tracking every stitch with the same absolute focus he applied to his ledgers. His long, black claws traced the margins of the inflamed skin, lingering briefly on the areas showing signs of improvement. Unbeknownst to you, he found a grim satisfaction in the pattern; these would become beautifully brutal markers signifying that his family had been protected from exposure. It, at the very least, had allowed the circus to dismantle their camp and depart the previous town at an orderly, calculated pace rather than fleeing an angry, reactive mob.

The application of the antiseptic stung sharply, but you remained entirely still, accustomed to the burning sensation. He applied the medicated salve provided by the Doctor, his fingers beginning the rhythmic, final task of binding the flesh in fresh, clean linen.

Every contact of his hand was a tactile lesson in ownership; your body was part of his circus now. These scars would not be viewed as hideous blemishes, but as a permanent brand of loyalty to his name. A dark, possessive heat ignited behind his eyes at the thought.

How tedious, then, that your gaze remained fixed on the floorboards.

“Eyes on me, little mouse.” The shift in his cadence—dropping into a remarkably warm, grounded tone—snapped your attention upward instantly. The residual guilt vanished from your expression, replaced by pure surprise at the unexpected softness of his voice.

You didn't dare even think the concept of affection, lest some cosmic anomaly grant him insight into your thoughts. Looking down at him as he knelt before the mattress, a faint pang of sorrow touched your mind; you despised seeing the brilliant ruler of the circus in a posture that resembled submission to a human, even if the reality of the present was entirely different from his past.

Jester took your hand with delicate precision, catching your fingers between his thumb and forefinger with an elegant, old-world courtliness. His opposite hand cradled your elbow, supporting the weight of your arm as he leaned in. That razor-sharp grin hovered mere inches from your skin, causing a deep flush to paint your cheeks.

Of all the depraved, wicked things you'd done together with your monster: this made you fiercely red? His purpled eyes danced in delight at such a thing.

“Do you understand how troublesome and weak you are...?” Mentally he kicked himself at this set-up for his poetic wording, seeing how guilt guided you to bite your lower lip as you nodded. Lips pressed to your knuckles within his grip before he'd let go to move on...

Jester's clawed fingers caught your chin, holding you to tunnel-vision only him. The sharp, mocking edge of his grin softened into something far more dangerous—something heavy and consuming.

“Quiet, sweet pet. I did not give you permission to bleed on my bed..,” he recalled, his voice dropping into a low, theatrical purr that warmed against your skin. Your newest—kindest—nickname from him had your thoughts spinning.

He rose upward, his breath brushing your ear as his fingers trailed from your chin down to the freshly wrapped linen on your right forearm. “You strained some of the stitches. A clumsy, frantic performance for an audience of one. Tell me… what terrors are you running from in your sleep that make you fight your own skin?”

You swallowed hard, unable to find the words, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Jester watched the frantic pulse in your throat, a low hum of satisfaction escaping him. He didn’t press for the answer; he already knew the psychological toll the event had taken on you. Instead, he shifted his weight upward and onto the bed before guiding you onto your back. His large frame casted a shadow in the moonlight that shown through the material of the tent; a shadow that completely caged you against the pillows.

“Look at me,” he commanded once more, softly. When your eyes locked onto his bright purple gaze, the faint, violet luminescence of his eyes seemed to steady the frantic rhythm of your mind. “You offered your flesh to shield my home. You spilt your precious blood to keep my secrets. You gave up your humanity to play among the monsters… and yet, you still tremble at my touch.”

It was the first time he'd addressed what happened to you.

He brought his hands to your wrists, pinning them to the bed with a delicate, yet entirely unyielding pressure. He didn’t press hard enough to hurt (in fact you wondered how he could possibly be holding his own weight up with a touch like this), but the absolute lack of slack made it clear: you were entirely at his mercy.

“If you must bleed, sweet pet, you will do so under my direction. If you must cry out, it will be my name that slips from your lips,” Jester whispered as he leaned into your world, his lips tracing a agonizingly slow path down your jawline to the sensitive skin of your neck. “You are a terrible, exhausting complication, my lovely little thing. But you are my complication now. Let me show you how a monster heals what humans broke.”

His touch remained fluid, slow, and meticulously careful of your bindings, but the sheer, suffocating weight of his presence left no room for doubt. He was stepping into your space not to break you, but to completely possess you, rewriting your pain into a masterpiece of his own design.

The shift was seamless, a piece of silent choreography executed with the precision of a stage director. Jester didn't pull you down; instead, he eased his own long, lean frame backward until he was flat on his back beneath you, his vivid hair spilling across the dark fabric of the pillows.

Even from below, he dominated the space. He lay there looking entirely at ease, yet his posture carried the absolute gravity of a king sitting upon his throne. His eyes tracked the rise and fall of your chest, drinking in the flush that crept up from your collarbone.

“Up,” he murmured, the command smooth and melodic, a quiet vibration in the heavy silence of the room. “Carefully. Do not make me regret my leniency.”

Guided by the undertones of authority in his voice, you shifted, straddling his hips. A sharp breath caught in your throat as the friction of the movements pulled slightly at the raw, healing skin of your forearms.

Instantly, Jester’s hands were there. He didn’t grab you; his clawed fingers merely hovered a fraction of an inch away from your waist, anchoring you with the sheer threat of his touch. His gaze narrowed, analyzing the micro-expressions on your face, reading the exact threshold of your discomfort like lines in a familiar script.

“Slowly,” he chided softly, his voice a low purr. “I have spent far too much time mending your fragile body to have you ruin it through sheer impatience. Balance yourself on me. Leave your arms out of it.”

You swallowed hard, resting your weight fully against him. The contrast was dizzying—the cool, structured fabrics of his attire beneath you, and the burning, intense heat of his gaze locking you in place. Jester reached up, his gloved hand moving with agonizing slowness until his fingers curled gently around your right wrist, just below the fresh binding. He lifted your hand, his eyes never leaving yours, and pressed his lips to the center of your palm.

The gesture was shockingly tender, yet the possessiveness behind it was absolute. It was the kiss of a master marking a prize, a slow, deliberate claiming of the hand that had bled for him and his family.

“You are a thoroughly ridiculous creature,” he whispered against your skin, his breath warm. “To think a human could possess a mind stubborn enough to survive my circus. To survive me.”

He let your hand rest gently in the space between you, careful not to let any weight press into your injured forearms. With great care he maneuvered your garments to allow for his next, most absurd plans with you. He then arched his hips slightly, a subtle, deliberate tilt that forced a soft gasp from your lips as he slipped inside of you with great care.

The sensation was overwhelming, a cautiously slow, deep filling that made your head swim. You instinctively wanted to lean forward, to put your hands on his chest to steady yourself, but his voice stopped you before your palms could touch the fabric.

"Uh-uh-uh. Keep your hands out of it. Balance,” he reminded, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, delighted amusement. “Look at what you are doing. Watch how perfectly you fit over a monster.”

Jester often took a dark, sadistic pleasure in your vulnerability, but right now, that sadism was entirely channeled into a fiercely protective restraint. He stayed completely still on his back, allowing you to set the rhythm, but his gaze was a physical weight holding you captive. He watched every twitch of your lips, the flush spreading down your neck, the way your eyes clouded with pleasure. He was cataloging your reactions, steering your pleasure through the sheer force of his presence.

When the pace became a bit too frantic for your current state, when your breath hitched and you began to lose balance, his hands would lightly touch your waist—never gripping hard enough to bruise, but firmly enough to dictate exactly how you moved. He topped you from the bottom, turning your submission into an art form.

“Lean down to me,” Jester purred, his voice dropping into a rough, velvet cadence as the friction began to pull a low hum of satisfaction from his own throat. “Bring that pretty mouth of yours here, sweet mouse, and give your master his due.”

You bent forward, keeping your forearms suspended with the support of his hands, your hair falling around the two of you like a curtain, shutting out the rest of the twisted world outside his door. When your lips met his, the kiss wasn’t soft—it was deep, demanding, and all consuming of your being. He drank the sounds of your whimpers directly from your mouth, holding every one as his own prize, his tongue sweeping inside to claim you entirely.

The rhythm built, a slow, agonizingly beautiful torment of friction and heat. Jester’s eyes stayed open, watching the spectacle of you unraveling above him, his eyes glowing brightly. He met every tilt of your hips with a precise, grounding counter-pressure. Jester curled the movement to hit exactly where it made your body sing for him, guiding you to the very edge until the tension snapped, and you collapsed against his chest, a breathless, trembling mess.

He let out a long, ragged exhale, his arms finally coming up to wrap around you, pinning you securely against him. He was careful to avoid the fresh bandages on your arms, instead locking his large hands over the small of your back.

For a long time, you both soaked in the synchronized, heavy thud of your heartbeats against one another.

Jester’s fingers began to trace idle, intricate patterns along your spine, a stark contrast to the violence of the circus world he both created and ruled over. He leaned up just enough to press a final, lingering kiss to the crown of your head, his teeth lightly grazing your skin in a quiet, predatory show of affection.