#tfc x reader

Pierrot

Your sweet Pierrot's shyness goes out the window once love making is on the table. He'll often ask you what type of love you'd want in the moment, whether it be sweet sensual love making, or a primal mating session. He's always willing to accommodate his darling the best he can for as long as he wants. (Best to set up a safe word with him beforehand, for your body's safety).

It's no surprise he has a raging body worship and breeding kink. It doesn't matter if it's gentle, rough, primal, he will always sing your praises and show his devotion to your temple of a body whenever there's oxygen in his lungs. He'll smother you in kisses and lick trails across every inch of your body if you'll let him. Your skin under attack from his sharp teeth that gently scrape and nip at your sensitive zones. He always asks to bite you however, starting off with complete pleas but eventually devolving to a desperate "please". But once you give him permission one too many times he loses his self control.

You'd have to use the jaws of life to pry his mouth off of your core, this man will eat, suck, and tongue fuck you to tears nearly every time, and then some. He loves holding you in place as you writhe under him, his tongue explores every nook and cranny in your sensitive hole. The sweet sounds you make egging him on to see just how far he could push you before your complete and utter ruin. Your body is a temple he swore to worship, but sometimes a little desecration gives him even more reason to rebuild his devotion.

Pierrot also has a deadly breeding kink and a knot to match. His primal instincts take hold once feels his knot start to inflate, gutteral growls and pants filling the void of his usual praises, his petnames transforming into a slurry of possessive "mine's".

He purrs into your neck once his knot finally slots itself inside you, his cock pulsing rhythmically as he shoots his cum deep inside you. Sometimes even chasing the pleasure for both of you by pulling his knot out just to ram it back inside you, knot-fucking you, sinful squelches only encouraging him to fill you to the brim again. He yearns to leave his mark on you in every sense, including watching his cum seeping out of your abused hole.

Harlequin

His usual flirty banter seemingly hits new highs as sex becomes a regular occurrence for you. Often accompanied by sarcastic remarks about how long it takes for you to warm up enough for his tastes. Foreplay for him mostly just includes a hunter/prey dynamic that gets both of your hearts racing. His usual petnames change to prey items, "bunny, rabbit, lamb, and fawn" being common ones. He loves the thrill of a chase and the accomplishment of an easy catch. "Run, little rabbit, let's see how far you make it this time."

Without a doubt his tendrils come into play routinely. Restricting your movement, snaking their way under your clothes, teasing the sensitive flesh underneath. All while he has his way marking what is rightfully his, sometimes to the point of blood play, his personal reward for a successful hunt. His ropes often stretching your hole thoroughly before he even reveals his cocks. Yes plural.

Just like Pierrot, he enjoys seeing you squirm and buck against his tendrils in a pitiful attempt for a break. You're a sopping wet mess around him and he always reminds you of it. "My my, such a sinful little disaster you can be, little fawn~. Keep crying out, maybe someone can bask in your misery~." His dirty talk works better than most vibrators ever could dream of.

Harlequin is quite proud of his cocks, stacked on top of each other with the top having a dramatic curve upwards and the bottom being girthy. Although his favorite thing is to take advantage of your spent state only to push both of his cocks in you at once, using his ropes to move your weakened body like his personal fleshlight. It takes him a while to cum so be sure to make yourself useful, little lamb.

If you show him genuine affection and love it honestly takes him aback. Sometimes completely stopping the encounter with an utter of your mutual save word from his trembling lips. After enough talks and bonding he'd be more inclined to allow you to take the lead and show him the true side of intimacy. Gentle caresses, loving kisses, and slow rolls of your hips sending him to a whole new plane of pleasure, one that only you hold the keys to, treat him gently and he might get addicted to this side of sex, just don't mention his choked whimpers and groans as he tries to hide his face into his arms.

Jester

"Come pet, entertain me." He purrs as he yanks your leash closer to him, his hand trailing from your jaw to your chin, it's sharp claw cutting your skin ever so gently. You were nothing but a means for stress relief to him, and you will serve your purpose. Before any stress relief takes place however, you both have an extended conversation on boundaries, safewords, terms and conditions, he even went as far as to compile a contract for you to initial, and he will enforce any violations.

One of his favorite bonding activities with you is shibari. Seeing you tied up is one thing but seeing what kind of intricate designs he can place on your beautiful figure is an art form to him. He always offers his pet the choice of color. Sometimes you two talk about anything that comes to mind, others however you must be in your best behavior. "Good pets don't bark unprompted. Try that again and we'll have to refresh your training."

His dirty talk is an intoxicating combination of degradation and praise that keeps your breath in your lungs. "Such a sad little creature, I haven't even done much to warrant this much of a reaction from you. And yet, look at the beautiful mess you've become." Your moans are his favorite symphony and he is but a humble composer. Often using toys to bring you pleasure, vibrators strapped to your tied form, always being pulled away if you get too close to cumming. Blindfolds to keep you guessing what would come next, gags if you get too lippy for his tastes.

He absolutely is just in it to watch you come undone under his touch. Edging you for hours to the brink of tears, seeing how far he can push you before you disobey and act out of line. Often avoiding your hole and opting to tease the rest of your body, featherlight touches dancing around your eager body. Being a greedy brat is often met with a fierce reminder to your sensitive skin. His often marks your skin with a riding crop, although if you've learned your lesson he might honor your skin with his handprint.

"I suppose you've been good enough to warrant release, my sweet pet, do you wish for me to take you now? To finally ravish you? To claim you as my own?" He eventually pities you enough to ravage your hole with his Eldritch cocks, although a collection of smaller tentacles, he has complete control over each of them, often twisting them into one cohesive appendage. Every single one of your sweet spots inside of you thoroughly ravaged as he expertly angles individual tentacles to mercilessly bring you release after release. He only officially marks you right at the pinnacle of his release, sinking his fangs into the crook of your neck as his cocks pulse deep inside of you, pumping fertile eggs into your warm body, a few of the cocks slithering out to coat your body in his essence, smearing his scent around your claimed body.

Ticket Taker

It's not surprising that Ticket Taker will train you and train you well. After all, good humans earn their place with obedience. He will Pavlov you into behaving with positive reinforcement. "Tell me what you want and it will be yours, but I will not stand for silence." It's surprisingly a good trust building activity between the two of you, a sense of intimate closeness and fully exploring each other's open boundaries, and a confidence builder for any insecurities you may have.

"I want you to look at nothing but my eyes, my dear." Your glazed eyes flicking up to his as his mirror form splits you open on its phantom fingers. The stretch filling your eyes with tears as you tried to concentrate on the simple order he gave you, only to give into your body and shut them only for a moment. "Ah ah ah, you know the rules," he tuts as the feeling of being full seemingly vanishes, a desperate whine escaping your pretty little throat.

If you have body image issues he's just the monster to fuck some sense into you. He'll position reflections of every sinful angle so you can watch his grooved cock sliding deep within you, your stomach bulging out at the overwhelming curves of his smooth ridges. "Your beauty is marvelous, my dear, look at yourself," he firmly grabs you by your chin moving it towards one of the mirrors, the sight of your disheveled body something out of a fantasy. "I want you to list off the qualities that you like about yourself as I take you to the edge of oblivion."

Some nights when he's especially pent up expect his mirror doppelgangers to join in on the night's indulgences. Spit roasting, Eiffel towers, double penetration, even him just allowing his mirror images to turn you into a breathtaking sight as he finishes up his work for the evening.

When he does reach his limit he opts to claim you from the inside out, his ribbed cock inflating into multiple knots as he pumps his cum into you, often seeping out from your opening. He rarely ever allows his knots to deflate before gingerly pulling from you, opting for immediate aftercare, always praising you for your performance, even going as far to highlight his favorite parts to boost your ego.

Doctor

Doctor is immensely curious about every single facet of your body. It's no surprise that he'd make every instance into an experiment after the first time you had vanilla sex. (His control for future intercourse). Anywhere from watching how you squirm away from hot wax dripping on your warm body, to your startled gasp when an ice cube was pressed to your nipples. But his favorite so far has to be using you as his personal anatomical model. Taking a marker and intricately drawing representations of your internal organs where they lie beneath your delicate skin, annotating terminology accordingly. Using your body's curves as guides for muscle groups, tracing your pulse points drawing snaking lines where your arteries and veins lie.

Although if you bring up the obvious roleplay with him he'll not only find it amusing but also indulge your wishes, if that's what his sweetie wishes. Your arousal is intoxicating to him regardless of what you decide on. The way your heart races, the change in blood pressure, the way your body screams out its desires in its silent language he would spend centuries to decipher. If you turn the tables on him and try to run your own diagnostics on him for a change you'll hear a genuine chuckle, "my sweetie wishes to be my personal nurse? How can I object to such a tempting mutual learning experience."

It's not uncommon for the Doctor to accidentally nick you with one of his claws, the smell of your blood sometimes sending him into a frenzy. Licking at the wound, throwing away any chances of a meaningful experiment he allows his impulses to take hold. Gutteral growls and snarls replace his usual mutters of hypotheses. His frantic movements sometimes cause more scratches and more blood to rise to the surface. His cock straining painfully for any form of friction. His hands frantically try to prepare you for him, using whatever control he has left to not wound you internally with his claws. "Sweetie, I fear I cannot hold back any longer. I must take you as you are."

Normally he prefers a few hours to your preparation if you agree to penetration. His cock is the most well endowed of the troupe, fitted with multiple ridges that increase in thickness, the curve dangerously similar to a hook. Every ridge accompanied by a metal ball of his jacob's ladder, and a prince albert to boot. He always lubes himself and your hole to avoid any potential tearing, but when he gets this worked up he just squeezes a sloppy amount in his hands and gives himself a few strokes before lining himself up at your entrance. "I know, I know, sweetie. Just a little more." he gently lies to you as his cock stutters inside you, each ridge popping inside you stretching you to your limit.

Once he's fully seated inside you he allows you to accommodate only for a moment before dragging his cock out of you, his thrusts starting off as gentle before escalating to a brutal pace once he was confident you could handle it. His cockhead pummeling against your sensitive walls causing him to growl at the sensation. His hand snakes down in between your bodies to bring you further pleasure as if his overwhelming body wasn't enough. He simply just wants to push you to your limits and see your reactions, feeling your body's reaction to his was intoxicating enough. He always cums deep and hard, thrusting roughly in between pulses to guarantee any chances of impregnation, biology be damned. After a moment he pulls out to watch your body spasm, making mental notes of how his cum seeps out of you. Next time if he angles your body just right, maybe more of his cum will remain inside you.

To recap again, Pierrot hasn’t been himself.

Not because of you. Never you. You’re still his sun, his star, his beautiful treasured human. You’re still that messy tangle of spark and static that he needs to keep his feet on the ground.

When you wander off into your own thoughts, Pierrot listens to you like you’re reading scripture. When you stim, Pierrot watches you like you’re performing just for him. When you snuggle into his lap after a bad day, Pierrot holds you like you’re made of spun glass and starlight, like you’re delicate and irreplaceable.

None of that has changed. It’s everything else that’s off.

He’s been quiet. And quiet says a lot with him. But this isn’t his quiet, the kind of quiet you wrap around yourself like a blanket, the kind of quiet that makes you feel safe.

This is different. This quiet has… sharp edges.

You see him staring off into nothing, those amber eyes dim and unfocused behind the mask. You see him not answering when you try to talk to him, not because he doesn’t hear you, but because he isn’t anywhere near you, not behind a wall you can’t see through, but behind a wall you can’t see at all.

Last week at dawn, you saw him in his wagon, still in his stage clothes from the night before. He hadn’t slept. Like at all. You asked him what he was doing, and he smiled at you with that intimate look and drew you onto his lap and buried his face in your hair. He held you for an hour, motionless and silent, his grasp almost desperate.

Yesterday, he gave you something—a usual paper flowers he always makes, intricate and delicate. His work. You could tell by the precision. 

But when you thanked him, excitedly turning it over in your hands, his eyes went distant again. He didn't seem to hear your questions about how long it took, what kind of wood, where he learned. He just watched you hold it, and for a moment, his expression looked almost... sad.

And his affection, when it comes, has a reckless edge to it now. He holds you too tight, too long, like he's memorizing the feel of you. Like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his grip. His kisses are deeper, hungrier, more desperate. 

When you’re together, he leans in close and implants thoughts in your mind—chanting “mine, mine, stay mine, always mine” with a fevered push that almost feels frantic. And when Pierrot falls silent like this, you’ve learned that silence means something.

So tonight, before his show, you arrived early to track him down. The applause from the big top is still echoing through the walls, a distant roar for whatever impossible feat Harlequin just pulled in his tent. 

You find Pierrot backstage, half-hidden in the shadows, still in his performance blacks. His long white hair is loose, falling over his shoulders in silver waves. His mask catches the dim light, expressionless as always, but you've learned to read the angles of his head, the set of his shoulders.

He's braced for something. Defensive. Walled off.

You step closer. "Hey."

He turns, and the amber eyes behind the mask warm instantly at the sight of you. But the dimness is still there underneath, like coals buried under ash.

"My star," he breathes into your mind, soft and warm. "You should be out there. The show—"

"I'm where I want to be." You don't let go of his arm. "You okay?"

He tilts his head and smiles. That soft, private smile he only gives you. It's real, as far as it goes. But it doesn't go far enough.

"Of course. Just... the usual. Pre-show nerves. You know."

"Pierrot."

He lets out a soft sigh, the kind where you can feel it before you can hear it, a sigh that seems to relax the air around him.

For a moment, the tent walls feels thinner, as if the space between us grows just enough to reveal how tired he is—his shoulders squaring off, his eyes drifting away from mine. He parts his lips, and I prepare myself for the truth I’ve been waiting for—

And then the smile reasserts itself. The soft, intimate smile, the one that never fully makes it to his eyes, as if there’s something just beyond it.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just... the weight of the show. You know how it is. Speaking of which…” He reaches out, and his hand finds mine, long and strong, and it changes the atmosphere with a smoothness that feels almost deceptive.

"Have you ever watched my act? Properly? From the audience, I mean."

You blink. "What? I mean, yeah always, a few times. Between helping out and—"

"No, no." He shakes his head, and there's something almost eager in the movement. "Not between things. Not distracted. I want you to watch. Really watch. I have a new piece. I've been working on it for weeks."

He pulls you gently toward the stage entrance, toward the muffled sounds of the crowd beyond.

"Come. Sit in the front. Let me perform for you. Just you."

You hesitate, your concern for him still buzzing under your skin. "Pierrot, we need to talk about—"

“After the show, my dear,” he says, squeezing your hand. “After it’s over, I promise… just watch me?" he asks, and there's something almost vulnerable in the question. "From the front. I'll know you're there."

The word “please” hangs there, a small and fragile thing. And yet despite all of it—the quiet, the distance between you, the tension—you find yourself nodding. 

You can’t say no to him. Not when he looks at you like that, like you are the only light left in his dark sky.

He leads you toward the audience, and you let him. But you make a mental note: after the show, there will be answers.

There have to be.

He disappears toward the stage, and you make your way through the maze of curtains and equipment to the audience. You slip into an empty seat in the front row, close enough to see every detail.

The lights dim. A single spotlight hits the center of the stage.

And Pierrot begins.

He moves differently here, under the lights. His posture moves—shoulders back, spine elongated, every line of him sharp and careful. His usual soft, sorrowful presence hardens into something else. Something performed. His smile, that private gift he gives only you, transforms into something wider, more fixed. It's not quite sinister, but it's off—a grin that doesn't reach his eyes, that seems painted on rather than felt.

The music starts, low and hypnotic, a repetitive drone that seems to vibrate in your chest. The lights shift with it, cycling through deep purples, blood reds, sickly greens. They wash over him in waves, changing his pale form into something almost inhuman.

It's a dance, but not like any you've seen. His body seems to ripples and flows, serpentine and graceful, each movement bleeding into the next. 

His long limbs extend and retract, his spine arches and curls, his head tilts at angles that seem almost wrong. The hypnotic quality of it is undeniable—your eyes track him without your permission, following the curve of his arm, the tilt of his mask, the way his bells chime softly with each precise movement.

Then he move into acrobatics, display a slow and careful handstand. A back bend that appears to defy human anatomy. He folds and unfolds like a ribbon, like water, like something not quite connected to the human form. The audience sits in rapt attention. You look around the room for gasps of amazement, cheers of approval. 

And there’s nothing. 

The faces around you are vacant. Perhaps polite. But not engaged. Not moved. A woman in the second row looks down at her phone. A man next to her speaks to his companion, who shrugs. They are paying attention, yes. But they are not really seeing him.

Pierrot doesn’t seem to know. Or he might know and just won’t let it show. He continues with his routine, each gesture sharper and more precise, as if desperation has perfected itself. The grin never varies. The hypnotic dance continues. The lights shine on him with cold, colored light.

And then a small pain in your chest, and you understand: he is performing for an audience not necessarily there to watch. The silence is not full of reverence. It is empty. His art, this quiet beauty of sadness, is not meeting anything.

No wonder he's been dimming.

The music rises to its final breath, building to the finale. Pierrot, in an almost impossible pose—back arched, leg extended, arms stretched outwards—freezes in this position as the lights fade to black.

And then a few scattered, obligatory claps—courtesy, fading away almost as quickly as they began.

The house lights come up for intermission. People stretch, chat, wander toward the lobby. 

No one mentions Pierrot.

You stay in your seat, frozen, your heart aching for him, who just gave everything to a room full of people who didn't care.

You wait until the house lights dim again, until the audience's attention is fixed on whatever act follows Pierrot's. Then you move.

Sneaking backstage at the Freak Circus is not just an act of trespass—it's an act in itself, an act that's like trying to navigate a puzzle that changes shape before you even blink.

You slip past a stagehand carrying an armload of silk scarves, flatten against the wall as Ticket Taker glides past you, his white eye scanning the room for any sign of you, and almost trip over the rope that seems to materialize out of thin air.

By the time you reach the backstage area near Pierrot's dressing corner, your heart is hammering and you're pretty sure you've earned a medal.

He’s there, sitting on a trunk with his long white hair flowing over his shoulders. He’s taken off his performance mask, the one with the fixed, sinister grin. He’s put it aside. 

Without it, he looks smaller. Gentler. More like the Pierrot you know.

He senses you before he sees you. His head lifts,  eyes finding you instantly in the dim light.

"You cannot be back here," he says, but his psychic voice is warm, almost amused. "Jester is keeping a close eye on performances tonight. If he catches you—"

You wave a hand dismissively, crossing the space to stand in front of him. "Jester can wait. I need to talk to you."

He reaches for you, his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, tugging you closer. Despite his warning words, he doesn't seem to want you to leave.

"Bold of you to assume the Jester waits for anyone," he murmurs, but there's a hint of a smile in his voice now. "If he finds you back here, I cannot protect you from his... judgement."

"You'll think of something." You squeeze his hand. "Now. About that performance..." you lead off before saying, "What's wrong?" you ask, direct as always. 

He smiles. That soft, private smile he only gives you. And he deflects. "Nothing, my dear. Just the usual. The weight of the show. You know."

You’re clueless, but you know it’s a lie.

His smile isn’t right, snappy, casual. He’s already turning away, grabbing for something, anything, to avoid your gaze. I narrow my eyes, studying him as he fusses over a velvet cloth on a table nearby. He’s not even looking at it. His hands just move, doing something, anything, to evade the gaze. I let the silence stretch, then shift my approach.

"Hmh... when will it be time for you to go back out there?"

He pauses, his shoulders relaxing slightly at the neutral question. "In thirty minutes, dear. Why do you ask?"

"Thirty minutes," you repeat, crossing your arms. "Great. That's plenty of time."

You step closer, and he tenses again, sensing the shift in your tone.

"So. Let's try this again." You tilt your head, fixing him with your best no-nonsense look. "What's actually going on with you? Because I've been keeping a list, and it's getting long."

He blinks behind the mask. "A... list?"

"Yep. Mental list. Want to hear it?" You don't wait for an answer. "Item one: You've been staring at walls. Like, a lot. I caught you zoning out at your wagon for a full twenty minutes last week. You didn't even blink."

"I was... thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

A pause. "...Walls?" What…?

You snort. "Nice try. Item two: You forgot to respond to me three times in one conversation on Tuesday. Not ignoring me—genuinely forgot I was talking. I had to wave my hand in front of your face."

"I was... distracted."

"By what?"

Another pause. “…The way the light was hitting your hair?"

You squint at him. "That's sweet, but also definitely a deflection. Item three: You gave me that carved bird—which, by the way, gorgeous, I love it, it's on my nightstand—but when I asked you questions about it, you went all distant again. Like you weren't even there."

He opens his mouth, probably to offer another flimsy excuse, but you keep going.

"Item four: You held me for an hour at dawn without saying anything. An hour, Pierrot. Not that I'm complaining about the cuddles, but you were gripping me like I was about to evaporate. Item five: You've been kissing me like it's the last time every single time. Which, again, not complaining about the kissing, but it's... intense. 

Even for you."

You take a breath, watching him carefully.

"So. Spill. What's going on?"

He says nothing for a long time, then laughs, the sound breathless, more air than sound.

You comment, "You really notice everything, don't you?"

"That's kind of my thing," you say. "Now go on… if you want to."

He shifts slightly, his gloved fingers fidgeting. His words, in your mind, are thinner, more delicate, fragments of something he’s kept hidden for so long.

"It's... the show. All of it. The way they look at me out there." He gestures vaguely toward the stage, toward the muffled sounds of the crowd beyond. "Or, rather, the way they don't look at me. Not really. I perform. I give them everything. And they..."

He trails off, but you know. You saw it. The blank faces. The checked phones. The polite, empty applause that died before it started.

"Thirty minutes," he murmurs. "Thirty minutes before I have to walk back out there, under those lights, and do it again. Thirty minutes before I have to smile for the crowd, to be the silent, sorrowful Pierrot, pretending that nothing ever hurts me."

Your chest aches. You step closer, reaching for his hand. "Pierrot…"

He startles slightly at your touch, then relaxes into it—but something shifts behind his eyes. A look. A catch in his breath that you feel more than hear.

He looks at you for a long time, and then the words come, but not the words you might think he'd use, no, something honest, something real.

"Do you… know what it's like?" he asks quietly. "To stand under those lights and feel... nothing? To watch their faces blur together until all you can see are mouths—open, judging, ready to tear apart anything that isn't perfect?"

His grip on your hand tightens.

"The first time I tried to perform alone... it was for a small crowd. Ticket Taker said it was too early, everyone else agreed… But Jester—he pushed. He always pushes. Not because he's cruel, but because he's terrified. Terrified that without the structure, without the show, we'll fall apart. Like before."

You frown. "Before?"

He's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is distant. Haunted.

"There was a… Boss before the Jester. He... he didn't care about us. Not as beings. Only as tools. He starved us, pushed us, watched us break for profit. And the crowds—" He stops, swallows. "The crowds were worse. They reached out. Grabbed. Pulled. Laughed when we flinched."

His free hand comes up, trembling, to touch his own hair. The gesture is small, unconscious.

"They used to pull my hair. Did you know that? Reach up from the front row and just... yank. Like I was a curiosity. A thing to be poked."

Your stomach turns. You squeeze his hand tighter.

"When the starvation got bad enough... when we were all going to die... then…” He can't finish. 

He doesn't have to. You've heard whispers. 

"I tried to perform after that," he continues, his voice barely a whisper now. "A knife-throwing act. Simple. Something I'd done before for practice. But the moment I stepped on stage, I felt... alone. Completely alone. Their faces blurred. Became just mouths and eyes. All judging. All the same."

You see it in your mind—him on that stage, isolated, terrified, the weight of a thousand gazes pressing down.

"I missed. Of course I missed. And they—" He stops, his breath hitching. "They laughed. Called me horrible. A loser. A freak. And I realized... they were all the same. The ones in the crowd now. The ones who watched and harm… us. The ones who pulled my hair. All the same."

His hands are shaking. Yours too, maybe.

"Something snapped. I don't remember all of it. Just... shadows. Screaming. And then Harlequin was there, covered in red, telling me it suited me. Dragging me back. Saving my life, even though I didn't want to be saved."

He looks at you, and there's something shattered in his gaze.

"After that, the Jester changed everything. New rules. New outfits. And Harlequin—he suggested the silence. Said if I couldn't speak, I couldn't break. Couldn't lose control again. The Jester agreed. For the safety of the group."

His thumb traces circles on your skin.

"So now I stand under those lights, mute and smiling, performing for people who don't see me. Who will never see me. And every time, a part of me waits for it to happen again. For their faces to blur. For the panic to rise. For the shatter point to come."

He laughs again, but there's no humor in it.

"Jester calls them.. ‘strays' now, if they cause harm. Says we deal with them instead of performing for them. Keeps us safe by keeping us separate. But I still have to go out there. I still have to pretend, to thoes that are… mean. And every night, I wonder if this will be the night I break again."

He looks at you, really looks, and there's something devastating in his amber eyes.

"So yes, my dear. I suppose I'm a bit nervous. A bit... frayed. But then you're here, touching me, worrying about me, looking at me like I matter, and I don't know what to do with that. I don't know how to be seen without falling apart."

He leans his forehead against yours, a gesture of surrender.

"So that's what's going on. That's the weight of the show. That's why I've been quiet. That's why I hold you too tight. Because you're the only one who sees me—really sees me—and I'm terrified that one day, you'll look at me and see only mouths and eyes too."

You're quiet for a long time, taking all of this in, the honesty and emotion poured out between you like something heavy and real. And then you do what feels like the only thing to do.

You move closer, your arms going to his waist, your face going to the softness of his chest, right over where his heart would be, if monsters had hearts, which monsters don’t, but this one feels like he might, its beat going quick and steady beneath your cheek.

"Pierrot," you whisper against the stuff of his costume, "I'm not going anywhere. I see you. All of you—the bright bits, the broken bits, the bits that think they're too much for anyone to handle, and I'm seeing those too, and I'm still here."

He goes perfectly still, and for a moment, you're terrified you've destroyed him, that you've said something that's shattered something inside of him.

And then his arms go around you, carefully, as if you might shatter, one hand going to the back of your head, his fingers going through your hair, the other hand going to your spine, holding you steady against him, a gentle pressure, and he's shuddering, small shivers running through his body.

“‘You…’” His voice, inside your head, is a whisper, fragile and surprised. “‘You can’t just say things like that. You can’t just… hold me like this and expect me to stay whole.’”

You pull back enough to meet his gaze. “Who said I wanted you to stay whole?”

The air between you thickens at that line. His eyes, his amber eyes, go wide. His pupils grow larger in reaction.

“A-Ah, I… I am… not used to this.”

“To what?”

“To being seen.” His voice trembles. “To someone looking at me and asking if I’m alright. The Jester watches my every move. The others tolerate my presence. But you…”

He lifts his other hand, hesitates, then runs his hand over the soft curve of your jaw. It’s a light touch, almost reverent, as if he’s asking permission without words.

“You look at me and you see past the mask. Past the silence. You see… me. The one who would keep every spark of you alive if he could.”

His thumb brushes against your lower lip, and a tremor runs through him at the touch.

“…Do you know what that does to me?” His tone lowers, becoming deeper.

"To have you here, to have you worried about me, to have you touching me, looking at me, and knowing you think I matter? It does something. Something inside me, something that wants to keep you, protect you, have you in a way that isn't..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't look away either. Not really. His eyes are wide, vulnerable, and beneath those, something else. Something more. Something hungrier.

You hold his hand more tightly. "Hey. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

He makes a noise, not quite a breath, not quite a moan. His body is stiff, and then he shudders.

"You cannot say things like that to me."

"Why not?"

"Because I will believe them." His forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath coming faster. "Because I will want more. Because I will want to keep you so close you forget there was ever a world without me in it."

His hands move to your waist, drawing you closer as if he is desperate, almost out of control. It seems like he can't help himself as he reaches for you again.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers against your neck. “I'm sorry. I know it's too much. I know I am too much. But you... you look at me as if I am worth something, and I don't know how to...”

His words cut deep as he utters them with so much honesty. His grip on your hand tightens as if he is afraid that if he doesn't hold on to you, he will lose control completely. You can feel the slight tremble in his hands as he holds onto yours.

“Pierrot?”

He looks up at you as if he really sees you for the first time. The dimness disappears completely as he looks at you. What is left is a stark, hungry look that makes your breath catch in your throat. 

It disappears as he blinks it away again, covered by the gentle gaze that you know so well. You saw it though. You saw the truth behind those eyes as they looked at you with a stark longing.

“Like... no one...” He stops as if he can't continue. He starts again. “No one asks me if I am all right. The Jester makes sure that I perform. The others make sure that I don't interfere. But no one...”

He lifts your joined hands, presses his masked forehead to your knuckles.

"You see me. You always see me. Even when I try to hide. Even when I dim myself down to nothing." His voice in your mind drops, becomes something almost private. “Truly, do you know what that does to me? To have someone who sees?" You open your mouth to respond, but he's not done.

"I watch you sometimes. When you don't know. When you're rambling about your birds, your facts, your beautiful, wonderful thoughts. I watch the way your hands move, the way your eyes light up, the way you exist so fully in a world that doesn't deserve you." His thumb traces slow circles on your skin. "And I think: this. This is what I would keep. This is what I would preserve. Forever, if I could."

The words should be sweet. They sound sweet. But underneath them is something else—a current so deep and strong it might pull you under if you're not careful.

"When you worry about me," he continues, quieter now, "when you touch me like this, when you look at me like I matter... it stirs something. Something that wants to keep you. Protect you. Have you in ways that aren't..."

He stops. Shakes his head slightly. ”Again, Forgive me. I'm not... I'm not used to this." He looks up at you, amber eyes wide and unguarded.

"No one has ever cared if I'm alright. And now you do. The one person I would burn the world for. The one person I would—"

He catches himself, but the words hang there anyway. Heavy. Full of implication.

"You should probably go. Before I say something that truly frightens you." He's still holding your hand. He hasn't let go.

You think for a moment. 

There are thirty minutes before the curtain goes up again. Thirty minutes before he has to walk back out there, under those cruel lights, and perform. Thirty minutes before he has to smile for the crowd, to be the silent, sorrowful Pierrot, pretending that nothing ever hurts him.

Thirty minutes is plenty of time.

"You said you only have thirty minutes..."

You step closer, and he instinctively steps back, surprise flickering across what you can see of his face.

"Yes dear, is there a reason why…?”

"I think I may have something to help cheer you up."

You step into his space, blocking his escape, your eyes cataloging every tiny tell—the tension in his shoulders, the way his gloved fingers twitch, while he backs away step by step until the back of his head hits the edge of a nearby wooden table cluttered with props and costume pieces. His gloved hands are on the edge, knuckles tight.

"O-Oh, really? Uhh... my dear, what are you—“

You place your hands on his chest and feel the rapid beating of his heart beneath the uniform. He’s tall that you have to tilt your head back to look up to meet his eyes, even like this. The angle seems to change something in his gaze, though—filed with hunger and puzzlement mixed.

"Thirty minutes is plenty of time to make you feel better." You tilt your head, letting a small smile play at your lips. 

"Wouldn't you want that?"

You reach up and gently touch the edge of his mask. Not to remove it—never that—but to claim his attention fully. Your fingers trace the smooth curve where bone meets his skin, a deliberate, claiming gesture.

Pierrot doesn't say anything. He can't. His eyes widen behind the mask, the amber irises blowing tiny dots as his face floods with color—that beautiful pinkish blush spreading across his mask. His breath catches, stutters, stops altogether—even his mouth disappeared…?

Anyway, your eyes drift downward, following the line of his body, and…

There's a noticeable bulge in his uniform. 

He's hard. Obviously, unmistakably hard, pressing against the dark fabric like it's physically painful.

He notices you noticing. A strangled sound escapes him, half-gasp, half-whimper. "I—that is—I didn't mean to—you just—when you touched me like that, I—"

He stumbles over his words, tripping and fumbling in a way you've never seen. Pierrot, always so composed, so still, is falling apart in front of you. His hands flutter uselessly at his sides, wanting to touch you but clearly terrified of overstepping.

"My dear, I apologize, I don't know why my body is reacting this way, it's just—you're so close, and you smell like—and your hands are so warm, and when you look at me like that, I—"

"Pierrot." Your voice is soft, steady. Your fingers trail from his mask down his chest, slow and deliberate. “Talk carefully to me. Or don't. But you're not deflecting your way out of this one."

He shudders under your touch, his head falling back slightly, exposing the long line of his throat. You can see the pulse there, fluttering like a trapped bird.

"I don't know what you want me to say, my dear…” he breathes, desperate and wondering. "I don't know what you're doing. I don't know what this is. I just know that when you're near me, I—I feel like I'm burning. Like every nerve is alight. Like I would do anything—anything—to keep you looking at me like this."

Your fingers continue their slow journey downward, tracing the ridges of his costume, the dip of his stomach, the trembling tension in every muscle. His hips twitch involuntarily toward your hand.

"Please," he whispers, and he doesn't even know what he's begging for. "Please, I need—I need you to—if you're going to—"

Your fingers ghost over the bulge in his uniform, barely a touch, just enough pressure to make him gasp. His hands finally move, gripping your shoulders like you're the only solid thing in a tilting world.

"My dear," he chokes out, his voice cracking. “My star. My everything. If you keep doing that, I won't be responsible for what I—"

You press harder, a slow, careful stroke through the fabric, and he cuts off with a sound that's pure need. His hips rock into your hand, helpless, involuntary.

"Thirty minutes," you murmur, echoing his earlier words. "Is that still enough time?"

Pierrot's breathing is ragged now, each exhale a shuddering tremor that vibrates through his entire frame. His chest rises and falls beneath your hand, rapid and uneven.

Behind his eyes, thoughts race. 

As said, It’s true, he's been struggling lately. The performances have been harder. The demands heavier. Some nights even days, the guests would get too bold—test his patience. He endures it because he must. 

Because the show goes on. 

But you. You're here. In his space. Touching him. Worrying about him.

Offering yourself to him. To make him feel better.

"Ha... haa..."

The sound escapes him, broken and wondering. His hands, still gripping your shoulders, tremble violently.

"My dear..." His voice in your mind is fraying at the edges. "My star... my love..."

The words tumble out, escalating without his control. His mask tilts, and his mouth—you see it now, beneath the bone-white curve—opens slightly. Just a crack. Just enough.

Sharp white teeth gleam in the dim light. Dozens of them, more than any human mouth should hold, rows of perfect, needle-sharp points. A string of saliva stretches between them, thick and glistening, dripping slowly down his chin.

"You come to me like this," he breathes, and his voice has changed—darker, hungrier, threaded with something ancient and possessive. "You touch me. You worry about me. You offer yourself to make me feel better."

His tongue, ridiculously long, warped in color like dried honey, snaps out to catch the drool as it begins to fall. It's both repellent and mesmerizing.

"Do you know what you've started?" He leans closer, his masked face inches from yours. “You truly have no idea what it does to me, to have you here, wanting me, giving yourself to me?"

You look up at him, and for the first time tonight, you feel it—of genuine uncertainty. A whisper of fear.

What the fuck did you just start?

"But very well." His tone is soft, almost polite, even though the hunger remains. "If you still desire me—if you still want this—I am yours. For those thirty minutes you claimed. I will give myself to you completely."

He's begging now. You can hear it in his voice, see it in the way his whole body leans toward you like a flower toward the sun.

"Let me show you what my tent looks like from every angle. Let me fit you into every space I can find. I cannot deny you. I could never deny you. Not when you look at me like that. Not when you touch me like I matter."

A shudder runs through him. "Thank you," he whispers, and the gratitude in his voice is almost worse than the hunger. "Thank you for this. For choosing me. For giving me this chance. It will be quick—thirty minutes is so short—but I will make you feel it. I will make you feel how much I love you. How much I have always loved you."

His face changes, his head lolling as he tips into delirium, his perception of reality overwhelmed by the image in his mind. 

“And once it’s finished—once you walk out of here—everyone will know. They’ll see it in you. The marks. The scent. The way you walk. They’ll know you’re mine. Wherever you tread in this circus, they’ll know.”

He leans in closer, and for a second, you can see his eyes, really see them, through the mask. His pupils have distorted into heart-shaped pinpoints, faintly pulsing, surrounded by two rings of light. They're beautiful, distorted, completely obsessed with you.

His tongue comes out, long and supple, curving slightly at the end.

“Just be patient with me,” he whispers, and there is something sad, something pitiful, about the words, this old, powerful being asking for your touch.

“I’ve never… I’ve never done this before, not with anyone, not with anyone who mattered, not with anyone I loved. I might be clumsy, might be too much for you, but I will try, I will try so hard to be what you need.”

He is helpless, completely, utterly yours.

“So tell me, my love, my star, my reason for being… he whispers, his tongue tracing your cheek, leaving a trail of moisture.

“…do you still want those thirty minutes?”

You stood there, silent, watching him fall apart in slow motion. The heart-shaped pupils, the slick tongue, that frantic, fevered look—everything centered on you as if you were the sole tether holding him back from shattering.

The silence continued. His breathing caught.

"...My dear?"

You didn’t reply, only grabbing the front of his uniform and pulled him down into a kiss—or as close to a kiss as you could manage with his mask in the way. Your mouth found the edge of his mouth, the corner where skin met porcelain, and you pressed hard, demanding.

He made a sound like he'd been struck. 

Then his hands were on you, clumsy and desperate, fumbling at your waist, your hips, your face. He kissed back with zero finesse— sharp teeth clicking against yours, tongue too eager, too wet, too everywhere at once.

"Sorry—sorry—I don't—I've never—" he gasped against your mouth, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

You walked him backward, using his own desperate momentum against him, until his spine hit the edge of the wooden table. Props clattered to the floor, which nobody cared. In one motion, you broke the kiss, grabbed his shoulders, and pushed.

He went down hard, flat on his back among the scattered costume pieces, staring up at you with those ridiculous, beautiful heart eyes. Before he could move, you were on him, straddling his hips, pinning him to the table.

"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, yes. Yes. Please."

You kissed him again, deeper this time, your tongue finding his. He moaned into your mouth, his whole body arching up into yours. His hands roamed your back, your sides, your thighs—anywhere he could reach, greedy and reverent all at once.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you started counting. 

Five minutes gone. Twenty-five left.

You pulled back just long enough to gasp, "Time—"

"You'll..." he interrupted, his voice wrecked. "You'll know when time is up. Trust me, I'm watching...."

Then he kissed you again, and you forgot what you were going to say.

His long tongue filled your mouth, wrapping around yours, exploring every corner like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside. At the same time, he started moving—a desperate, grinding motion, his hips pushing up against you. 

He was dry humping your thigh like a rabbit, like he couldn't help himself, like the friction was the only thing keeping him conscious. 

"I love you," he babbled against your mouth. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I'm sorry, I know it's too much, I know I'm too much, but I love you, I love you, please—"

Your hands found the front of his uniform, working at the ties and closures with increasing impatience. Beneath your fingers, the bulge in his pants was unmistakable—and growing. Larger. Thicker. Pushing against the fabric like it might tear through.

You glanced down. Swallowed.

Okay. That’s… a lot.

But you didn't have time to be intimidated. 

Fifteen minutes left, maybe? You weren't sure anymore. Time had gone fuzzy. 

Yet, you were determined to make him feel better!

You tugged harder at his clothes, and he helped—desperate, clumsy hands working alongside yours until finally, finally, his uniform fell open and you could see him.

See all of him.

His cock was... as mention, a lot. Large, obviously—monster large—thick and long and slightly curved, the color of pale flesh, faded honey-yellow with darker veins tracing along the shaft. It twitched under your gaze, a bead of moisture forming at the tip.

"I know," he whispered, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure. "I know it's—I know I'm—if you don't want to—"

You wrapped your hand around him.

He moaned. Loudly moaned—a broken, desperate sound that cut off halfway as he clapped his own hand over his mouth.

"Sorry—sorry—I'll be quiet—I'll be so quiet—please don't stop—"

You stroked him slowly, experimentally, learning the weight and heat of him in your hand. He was silky smooth, hot to the touch, so hard he was practically vibrating and may you add he barely fit in your hand? 

Regardless, his hips jerked up into your fist with every movement, helpless and wanting. "Please," he begged. "Please, I need—I want—can I—will you let me—"

You lean in and kiss him.

You tilt in close, kiss him, not hurried, not casual. A real kiss, deep, slow, thoughtful, your lips warm against his, and it’s like it softens something inside of him. His hands, still holding you, lock in without thought. A soft, surprised noise escapes, but is muffled by the kiss.

It’s a minute, maybe two, or more, all of it running together in one big blur.

When you finally pull back, a thin string of saliva connects your lips to his. It stretches, catches the dim light, then breaks. His eyes are daze wide, pupils swallowed by want, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

"I... that..." He touches his own lips, trembling. "What was—why did you—"

You cup his cheek, thumb brushing away the moisture at the corner of his mouth. Your touch is gentle, grounding.

"Not today, Pierrot."

He freezes. The warmth in his eyes flickers, replaced by something panicked. "I—what—did I do something wrong—I'm sorry—I'll be better—I'll—"

"Hey. Hey." You shush him softly, your thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone. "You didn't do anything wrong. Listen to me."

He goes quiet, but his whole body is coiled tight, waiting for the blow.

You lean in, press your forehead to his mask. "I don't want your first time to be a quickie backstage with thirty minutes on the clock. That's not how this should happen."

"But—"

"No buts." You pull back, meeting his eyes. "This—right now—is about making you feel better. About getting you out of your head. About reminding you that you're loved and seen and wanted. But your first time? When I finally have you properly?" You smile. "I want time. I want space. I want to take you apart so slowly you forget your own name."

His breath hitches. A visible shiver runs through him.

"You... you can't just say things like that."

"I just did." Your hand slides from his cheek down to his chest, feeling the frantic pace of his heart. "And I meant every word. But for now? For the next however many minutes we have?" You tilt your head, considering. "Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good. Not everything—not yet—but enough."

"Enough?" He sounds dazed. "What do you mean, enough?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, you move, sliding down until you're kneeling before him. His eyes go impossibly wider.

"Wait—you don't have to—I never expected—"

"I know." you continue, “But I want to. And you're going to let me, because you deserve to feel good, and I'm going to make sure you do."

He's was still hard, aching and so beautifully vulnerable. You wrap one hand around him—it didn’t fully cover him, feel the heat, the weight, the way he jerks at your touch.

"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, that's—that's—"

"Shh." You lean in, let your breath ghost over the tip. "Just feel."

You start slow. A few experimental licks, tracing the shape of him, learning what makes him gasp. His hands fly to your hair, gripping but not pulling, holding on like you're the only thing keeping him upright.

"Please," he begs, voice cracking. "Please, more, I need—I need—"

You oblige, taking him deeper. Your hands wrap around what doesn't fit, working in tandem with your mouth, building a pace that has him trembling apart above you.

"That's—I can't—you're so—" Words fail him, dissolving into broken sounds that would be embarrassing if they weren't so honest.

You look up at him through your lashes, still working, and the sight of him, just ruined, desperate, sends a thrill through you.

"More," he gasps. "Please, more, I need more, I need—"

You pull off with a wet sound, and he whines at the loss.

"Turn around," you say, voice rough.

He blinks, uncomprehending. "What?"

"Turn. Around." You give him a little push. "I want to try something."

He obeys immediately, clumsy with want, presenting himself to you. You press against his back, your mouth finding his neck, your hands sliding around to finish what you started.

"Oh," he breathes, understanding dawning. "Oh, yes, please, yes—"

You work him faster now, your mouth on his skin, your whispered praise in his ear. "You're doing so well. Taking this so well. My good, perfect Pierrot."

But then you stop. Completely. He makes a desperate, questioning sound, but you're already moving—stepping back, your hands finding your own waistband. His eyes go impossibly wide as he watches you push down your bottoms, your underwear following in one smooth motion. The fabric pools at your ankles, and you step out of it, completely bare from the waist down.

"You... what are you—"

You turn, presenting him with the full view—your back to him, your hands braced against the wooden table. You look over your shoulder, meeting his stunned gaze.

"Use me," you say, voice low and steady. "Use me to get yourself off. Your cock—rub it on me. Between my thighs. I want to feel you against me."

He makes a sound that's barely human. A broken, reverent whimper.

"I—you—I can't—that's—"

"You can." You shift your stance, spreading your legs slightly, offering him access. "I want to feel you, Pierrot. All of you. Want you to use my body to make yourself feel good. Please."

The word please breaks something in him. He steps forward, his long frame folding over yours, one hand gripping the table beside yours, the other finding your hip. His cock, still slick from your mouth, presses against the soft skin of your inner thigh.

"Like this?" he breathes, and the first tentative thrust has him gasping. "I—like this—against you—"

"Yes." Your voice is thick. "Just like that. Use me."

He does.

His hips find a pace, slow at first, experimental. His cock slides between your thighs, the sensitive skin there gripping him, wetting him with every pass. You can feel him against you, the heat, the weight, the desperate need in every movement. His forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin.

"You feel—" He chokes on the thought. "You feel incredible. So soft. So warm. I can't—I never imagined—"

You push back against him, meeting his thrusts, and he moans—a broken, beautiful sound. His grip on your hip tightens, fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks.

"More," he begs. "Please, more, I need—"

You give him more. You roll your hips, grind back against him, let your body move with his. His cock slides against you, catching on your slickness, the tip occasionally nudging against your entrance, so close, so achingly close, but you shift just enough that he doesn't slip inside. Not yet. Not tonight.

He notices. A desperate, frustrated sound escapes him. "You're… you're teasing me, you're being mean—"

You laugh, breathless. "Maybe. But you like it."

"I do," he admits, voice wrecked. "I like everything you do. Everything you are. I like—ha—I like watching you—watching my cock between your thighs—seeing your face when you—"

He trails off, lost in the sight of you. Your body is so small compared to his, curved and bent over the table, your expression dazed and wanton. 

The contrast undoes something in him.

He pushes harder against you, his pace growing desperate. The table creaks beneath you both. His cock is soaked now—from your mouth, from your thighs, from the evidence of his own pre cum. Every slide is wet and obscene, the sound of it filling the small space.

"I'm close," he warns, voice strained. "I'm—I can't—where should I—"

"Between my thighs," you remind him, reaching back to grip his hip. "Right there. Let me feel it."

He nods frantically, too far gone for words. His thrusts turn erratic, desperate, and then he's coming—hot and wet against your skin, spilling between your thighs, marking you as thoroughly as if he'd been inside you. 

He groans your name, the sound muffled against your shoulder, his entire body shuddering through wave after wave. When he finally stills, he's trembling, breathless, just utterly spent. He stays slumped against you, trembling and spent, his forehead on your shoulder and softening cock still nestled between your thighs.

"I..." He can't find words. "I... you..."

You tilt your head and press a gentle kiss to the side of his temple. “Yeah. Me too. Do you at least feel better?”

He laughs, a fragile, incredulous laugh that barely makes it out of his throat. It’s soft, almost nothing more than breath, but it’s real. It’s him.

“Better,” he says, almost to himself. “So much better. I didn’t know—I never imagined—”

“Plenty of time to imagine later.” You pull him close, letting the last of the tension seep out of his body. The guy who usually sits so tight with unspoken sorrow now softens, pliant against you. “For now? Rest. You’ve got a show to do.”

“The show,” he murmurs, almost amused. “I’d… forgotten about the show.”

See? Mission accomplished.

He move in your embrace, cupping your face in his hands, and kisses you—soft, reverent, full of promise. When he pulls back, his amber eyes are warm, glowing with something that looks a lot like peace.

"After the show," he whispers against your lips. "You and me. Time and space. Taking me apart."

You smile. "After the show."

A quiet hush falls between you, comfortable and warm as you both catch your breath, still riding the high of what just occurred. Your hand makes lazy, sleepy scribbles on his chest; his hand makes slow, contented circles on your back. It’s safe, it’s warm, it’s wonderful, it’s perfect.

And then you remember.

“Hey.” You raise your chin to look up to his face. “How much time do we actually have left?”

He pauses for a moment, thinking it through, then bursts out with a slow, gleeful grin that illuminates what you can see of his face.

“Five minutes,” he says, his voice holding a hint of something wickedly gleeful.

Your eyes go wide. “That’s—”

“Plenty of time,” he says, already moving you beneath him with easy strength. “More than plenty. I can do so much with twenty-three minutes.”

“Pierrot—”

“I want to… leave marks,” he says, his voice a warm, hot whisper against your skin. “Everywhere. So many that you forget where one ends and another starts. So that when I’m on stage, when I’m performing, I look out into that audience, I look out for you, and I remember that you’re mine.”

His teeth brush your pulse point, careful but hungry.

“Is that alright? Can I mark you? Claim you? Just a little?”

You laugh, your breath catching in your throat. “A little?”

“A lot,” he says, his hunger returning but tempered with warmth. “I want a lot. But only if you want it too.”

You pull him closer by his hair.

“Then stop asking and start marking.”

After the Show

The applause is different this time.

Pierrot, in the center, stands up to the audience, his chest heaving, his performance smile firmly in place, as if to hide the true smile that wants to escape. The glare of the lights is just the same, unkind and unforgiving, but tonight it does not hurt; tonight, it seems to reveal something true.

And that is because, in the front row, you are there.

You are branded by him. Bite marks show through the collar, down the back of the neck, and into the hairline. Some are hidden by clothing, but some can be seen by an inquisitive eye, and for him, they are always in view, every time he glances in your direction during the performance, and he glances in your direction often.

The crowd is up, really up—standing, clapping with real heat. Faces that had been flat and quiet during his previous show now glow with thanks. Cheers rise, whistles cut through the air, people begging for another round.

Pierrot doesn’t seem to notice any of it.

He’s looking at you. At the marks. At that smile you give him, the one that says you’re proud, protective, completely his. And something in his chest shifts, not with pain but with a joy so fierce it almost hurts.

Backstage, the others are waiting.

Harlequin smirks, arms crossed, twitching with amusement. "Well, well. Someone finally figured out how to perform."

Ticket Taker nods once, a rare gesture of approval. "Efficient. Focused. No errors."

Doctor hums thoughtfully. "Fascinating. The physiological response to genuine emotional engagement appears to have enhanced his precision by approximately forty-three percent."

And then the Jester steps forward.

His massive, horned form looms in the dim light, but his voice—when it comes—is warm. Surprised. 

Almost... proud. "Pierrot."

Pierrot tenses, waiting for critique. For redirection. For the familiar weight of expectation.

"That was your best performance yet."

Pierrot's head snaps up, eyes wide.

"I mean it." The Jester's low purple glow seems to pulse with sincerity. "I've watched you perform a hundred times. A thousand. I've seen you go through the motions, seen you fade into the background, seen you disappear beneath the weight of it all. But tonight?" He pauses. "Tonight, you were present. Every movement had purpose. Every gesture meant something. The audience felt it. I felt it."

Pierrot's hands tremble at his sides.

"Whatever you did differently tonight"—Jester's gaze flicks briefly toward the stage entrance, toward where you're probably still sitting in the front row—"keep doing it. This is the Pierrot I always knew you could be."

The praise hits him like a physical blow—but a good one. A healing one. His face, what little is visible beneath the mask, flushes with color. His eyes glisten.

"I... thank you. I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything." The Jester turns to go, but pauses at the edge of the light. "Just keep performing like that. For yourself. Not for… them."

He disappears into the shadows, and Pierrot is left standing there, overwhelmed, vibrating with an emotion he can't quite name.

Harlequin saunters closer, dropping his voice to a murmur.

"So. The human."

Pierrot stiffens.

"Relax." Harlequin's grin is sharp but not unkind. "I'm not going to interfere. Just... interesting, is all. The way you looked at them tonight. The way thwy looked at you." He tilts his head. "Jester noticed too. He won't say anything—not directly—but he noticed."

Pierrot's heart hammers.

"Good for you," Harlequin says simply, and there's something almost genuine in it. “Really. You deserve something that isn't complicated by trauma and survival." He pauses. "Well. Something less complicated, anyway, still stay on your toes before I take them away from you~”

He claps Pierrot on the shoulder and saunters off, leaving Pierrot alone with his thoughts, unable to react quick enough to his comment.

And then you're there.

You navigate through the backstage chaos, dodging people and wires until you stand before him. He looks flushed and his eyes shine. You can feel the quiver in his body, the tremble of emotion just beneath the surface.

“Hey,” you breathe softly. “You were amazing.”

He opens up before you, not in tears exactly, but in a way that feels softer and more vulnerable. He wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your hair. He holds you as if you’re the only thing holding him up.

“I saw you,” he breathes, and you feel his words through more than just your ears. “Every time I looked out there and saw all those people, I saw you. Covered in me. Watching me. Believing in me. And I—I couldn’t fail. Not with you there. Not after everything.”

You wrap your arms around him, holding him as tightly as he holds you.

“You didn’t fail. You soared.”

He looks up at you, his face open and vulnerable and somehow utterly beautiful in its happiness. “This is the best day of my entire life,” he says, and means it. "Not because of the applause. Not because of the Jester's praise. Because of you. Because you're here. Because you're mine."

You reach up, touch his cheek.

"I'm yours. And you're mine. And we've got time."

He tilts his head, a slow smile spreading. "Speaking of time..."

You laugh. "How much do we have?"

He checks—mentally calculating—and his smile widens, tilting his head to the side. "Thirty minutes."

Your eyebrows shoot up. "Thirty minutes until what?"

"Until the next show." He leans in, his forehead against yours. "Thirty minutes until I have to perform again. Thirty minutes of you and me and that private space you promised."

You grin. "Thirty minutes is plenty of time."

"My thoughts exactly, my dear..." He takes your hand, and together you slip away from the backstage chaos, toward the quiet sanctuary of his wagon, where thirty minutes stretches before you like an eternity.

And somewhere in the shadows, the Jester watches you go. A low, thoughtful hum escapes him. "Interesting human,” he murmurs to himself. "Very interesting." He turns away, but not before a small, almost imperceptible smile crosses his massive features.

"Satisfactory pet for him."

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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

because what could possibly be more interesting than his reaction? you never ever touched his horns. it wasn’t like you were prohibited from doing so, more likely you didn’t dwell on this detail. you took it for granted, you knew they were there, but that was all. that was in the past, by the way, your present self doesn’t think so.

would he like it? would he stare at you with his usual lovesick expression? would he be mad? ah, it doesn’t matter. the worst reaction is him hurting you, but pierrot would never do this, you know he wouldn’t.

so, as confident in yourself as ever, you slowly but surely run your hand down his hair. pierror doesn’t flinch – he used to this kind of intimacy between you two, he adores when you get all touchy and gentle with him. that works in your favor. your lovely boyfriend doesn’t suspect anything, his body language is relaxed, but his grip on your waist is still tight.

then, after a few seconds of distracting his attention, you move your hand a little higher. the moment of truth arrives. carefully, with your fingertip, you trace from the tip of the horn to its base, as pierrot raises his head and looks at you in astonishment.

his eyes show no anger, no pain, no discomfort. surprise. that's the best word to describe the emotions floating from his gaze. and there’s something else, something you can’t put your finger on. yet.

“my lady,” he stutters – actually stutters, as he tries to regain his composure and doesn’t show you what you shouldn’t see. “what are you doing?”

“ah, nothing, my dear,” you say, your face is adorned with a lovely smile. “is there something wrong?”

somewhat pleased by the lack of any annoyance or irritation from his side, you wrap your slender fingers around one of his horns, and poor pierrot jolts. he drops his head back on your chest, his heart is beating like crazy, he’s ready to explord from the sheer sensation of your soft hand caressing that part of his body.

he feels illegally good. he melts from the tenderness with which your skilled fingers treat his rough but sensitive horns.

“n-no, there’s nothing… ah, my lady,” he says, the way his voice hitches make his answer sound like something between a moan and whine. “just… stop, please…”

pierrot fidgets on the bed, his grip on your waist becomes almost painful. he doesn't show his face, but you can hear how hard he's breathing when you grab his second horn. you do the same. you wrap your hand around it, move it up and down, up and down...

“do you want me to stop, pierrot?” you ask teasingly, but the underlying softness and fondness in your voice is unmistakable. “doesn’t it feel good?”

he fidgets yet again. he doesn’t want you to feel what this little situation does to his body. he doesn’t want you to feel his throbbing desire, but it’s obvious, isn’t it? pierrot is practically shaking with the efforts to hold back another groan.

and if this monster had a tail, he would be wagging it like a little puppy right now.

“it does, my lady, it feels so good, but…” he murmurs and suddenly raises his head to look at you.

his pale cheeks are nothing but redness. his eyes, which used to look at you with love and affection, now burn with passion and intense desire. he loves every moment of this, but there’s a problem. if you keep this up, he won’t be able to control himself.

“but… i’m afraid i’ll lose my mind, my lady,” he admits sheepishly. “horns are the most sensitive part of my body, which why… ah…”

judging by the look on your face, you see what your caresses are doing with him. you already know he’s especially sensitive there even before he could say it, but you clearly underestimate the influence of your actions. but as long as you can make him feel good, you’ll play this game.

“then lose control, my dear,” you whisper sweetly.

then you scratch the horn with your nails, trying a different approach. after all, there’s a lot of things you can possibly do with his lovely horns, you can’t miss such an interesting opportunity. pierrot hisses through his teeth; sensations borderline on painful, but it still makes the fire of desire burn brighter and brighter in his chest… and in other parts of his body as well.

but he got your permission. which means there’s no point of return now, and he can be as wild as you let him to be.

“promise me you won’t stop,” pierrot says when his long, wet tongue touches your neck, and this gesture already predicts a hot, sleepless night for you.

he always gets particularly aroused when he's with you. he could always get aroused even from a simple touch on his hand. but now you've done much more. you're doing much more. because your other hand is touching his horn too. because you're still caressing them slowly, and pierrot lets out a low, plaintive moan.

“i promise,” you manage to say before he presses his lips against yours in gentle yet demanding kiss.