"Still haunting the dark, little mouse?" His voice, usually a melodious and commanding purr, was noticeably raspy, dragged down by hours of sharp-tongued 'diplomacy.'

"I was waiting for you," you spoke softly, staying right where you were; knowing better than to make any sudden moves when he was strung this tight. You could see the invisible armor he was wearing—the suffocating weight of a creature who had spent his life surviving by never letting his guard down. "Why don't you come sit down? You look like you've been waging a war all day..."

"A war of utter mediocrity, perhaps," Jester scoffed, though the bite in his tone lacked its usual sharpness. He crossed the room, every movement calculated, and paused at the edge of the wide bed. He looked down at you, searching your face with an analytical intensity—as if checking to ensure you hadn't been replaced by a cruel illusion of mere desires... That you were truly there in his space.

"You look exhausted, Jester. Let me take care of you tonight..."

A faintly mocking smirk touched his lips, though it softened around the edges. "Take care of me? A tempting proposition...”He reached down, a single clawed finger delicately catching the underside of your chin to tilt your head up.

"Careful, little mouse," he purred, a dark, playful glint dancing in his violet eyes. "I am a creature of a strict visual appetite. And I find I have very little interest in receiving favors from someone I cannot actively watch. If you intend to pamper your monster tonight, you will do so directly where I can keep those lovely eyes of yours entirely in my sight." The round-about way of saying that no one--not even his most treasured possession--had the luxury of resting in his blind spots. Life had been too cruel; bad habits died hard... if at all.

"Understood.” You offered him a reassuring smile.

Satisfied, Jester sank down onto the edge of the mattress; his movements were that of equal parts authority and unspoken need. Your lover patted the space on the bed directly between his parted legs. "Right here, on your knees or sitting comfortably—so long as your hands are where I can see them, and your focus remains entirely on me."

You moved without hesitation, settling onto the bed right in front of him, facing him head-on to meet his conditions. Following his command.

The first step was shedding the theatrical armor. You reached up, your fingers moving to the thick fabric of his gloves. Jester sat impeccably still, his breath catching slightly as you found the hems, slowly peeling the thick fabric from his deadly hands. Each piece of clothing removed was a layer of defense he was choosing to yield to you. A quiet surrender that he orchestrated; yet, fully allowed.

When the gloves were set aside, you reached for the small jar of scented salve resting on the nightstand—a rich mixture of sandalwood and sweet chamomile. You warmed a liberal amount between your palms before gently reaching for the dark, rougher skin of his right hand.

They were lethal instruments tipped with long, wicked dark claws that could tear through flesh as easily as paper. Yet as you took his wrist, he let his fingers go completely limp in your grasp.

"A massage?" he purred with great interest and pleasure, he moved to back slightly against the bedposts—interrupting you briefly to pull him with you—watching you through half-lidded eyes. "How decadent... Attempting to bribe your way into my good graces, or merely a display of unprompted devotion?"

"Consider it an investment in my own peace of mind," you threw wit back at him with a grin, using your thumbs to press deep, firm circles into the tight muscle at the base of his palm. "A stressed 'ringmaster' makes for a very demanding partner."

A low, rumbling hum escaped the back of his throat—a sound so rarely heard outside these canvas walls. "Careful, little mouse," Jester warned, his voice dropping an octave as your fingers worked out some tension near his wrist. "If you manage my physical form with such alarming efficiency, I may be forced to make this a more.... permanent addition to your daily lists."

"I wouldn't dream of arguing," you chuckled.

You moved up to his claws, tracing the sharp curves with delicate care, rubbing the soothing salve into the cuticles and the tense joints of his fingers. Glowing eyes watched your little human hands with a deeply intense fascination. To the rest of the world? Those claws were a threat. a reason to abuse, cower, or draw weapons. To you... ...they were just another part of him to hold gently.

You shifted closer to him, once his hands felt more relaxed from all your efforts, leaning in until your knees were brushed against his hips. You reached up with great caution, placing your fingertips against the hairline at his temples and down towards the sharp hinge of his jaw.

Jester flinched—just a fraction—the instinctual reaction of a creature unaccustomed to vulnerability. But as your thumbs began to slowly knead away the tension locked in his jaw from a day of gritted teeth and forced smiles—a long sigh parted his lips.

“...A surprisingly exquisite execution, little mouse.”

You raised your brows at him in surprise. “Wowww. Awfully high praise, coming from you."

"Do not let it go to your head," Jester teased, though he didn't pull away. Instead, he allowed his head to tilt forward, resting his forehead lightly against your shoulder. Silky purple hair slipped over his shoulders, tickling the bits of your skin they managed to touch. The sudden weight of him was intoxicating. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the steady slower pulse of his heart a most relaxing sound.

“I'm grabbing the comb now,” you politely alerted; never wanting to break the foundation of trust and affections that'd taken so long to build with your lover. True to your word, you grabbed the polished wooden comb from the side table, and began to work through his hair. As best you could, given his leaned position. You started from the front areas, brushing the purple locks back away from his face in long and sweeping strokes.

Jester remained tucked against you. His breathing became deeper and more syncopated with every pass of the comb. Every now and then, if you caught a particularly sensitive spot at the base of his skull, a soft, contented sigh would brush against the skin of your neck and make you shiver.

Outside, a heavy piece of circus equipment dropped with a loud metallic thud that echoed through the midnight air. It was followed by the hissed, muffled cursing of Harlequin—likely something he was setting up as a prank for tomorrow... but still—

Instantly, Jester went rigid. His hands shot forward, his claws instantly clamping around your waist—not to harm you, but to pull you flush against him as his head snapped up, his violet eyes glowing with sudden, dangerous sharpness.

You didn't flinch. Instead of shrinking back or trying to soothe him like a startled animal: you slowly moved your hands to sit flat against his chest and felt the sharp thud of his heart. Your voice dropped to a low confidence that matched his own.

"It's just Harlequin—let him deal with his mess...” You kept your gaze locked onto his glowing purple eyes. "The perimeters were all checked, the permits are dealt with, the town is asleep, and not a soul on these grounds is going to walk into this tent right now. The work for today is finished, Jester... The night belongs to you—and so do I."

He held your gaze for three tense beats; that wild, paranoid fire in his eyes slowly sharpening into something far more dangerous—and intensely satisfied.

He didn't need to be cradled; he needed to be acknowledged. The bitter reactive edge in his mind dissolved—not because he was being comforted, but because you so willingly validated his complete command over the space. You knew your place, you knew his power, and you were offering him the absolute quiet he'd more than earned.

A smirk curled the edge of his lips.

"A flawless assessment, my clever little mouse." Jester's grip around your waist tightened until there wasn't a breath of air between you. "Of course they wouldn't," Jester mused, his usual composure slipping back into place. "I would flay anyone foolish enough to interrupt us."

Despite his sharp words, he didn't let go of your waist. Jester lifted you up onto his lap, maneuvering you with effortless strength until you were wrapped around him, entirely contained within his arms.

"I believe..." Jester's tone dripped with a quiet and absolute authority as he leaned back, dragging you down onto the plush pillows with him. "...that you have performed adequately, little mouse. But I am revoking your duties for the remainder of the night."

You gave a soft laugh as he pulled the heavy quilted blankets over the both of you, trapping you firmly against his body. His clawed hand rested heavily over your hip; a solid, possessive weight that anchored you to him.

"Are you satisfied, my lord?" you teased sleepily through a yawn, resting your cheek against his chest.

Jester leaned down to press a heavy kiss to the crown of your head, his breath warm in your hair.

He came like this every night—your home, or his tent. It was an addiction, a quiet ritual carved out of the hours when the rest of the world—and the circus—was blind. Here, while you slept, he was allowed to be untamed. He was allowed to look; mouth watering. He was allowed to spill the breathless, dark poetry that tightened his throat during the sunlit hours.

Tonight, however, the stage had been set by you before the curtains of Pierrot's nighttime routine ever rose.

You'd genuinely fallen asleep, lulled by the gentle sounds of wind against the canvas tent and the hum of nature at night. But under the heavy patchwork quilt, the setup was entirely calculated. Before slipping off into a slumber you deliberately adjusted the silk of your nightgown—easing one smooth strap far down your shoulder, letting the loose fabric pool around your ribs to expose the soft, bare pale curve of your breast. You concealed this tactical secret under the warmth of his blankets, a silent trap laid for the monster who loved you from the shadows.

Pierrot reached the side of the bed, his tall frame bending forward with great care to remain silent. All of his heightened senses reassured him that you were out cold, and would not be waking any time soon... He opened his mouth, preparing to spill tonight’s opening soliloquy—some grand sweeping declaration of how your breathing was the only rhythm his heart understood—when his gloved claws delicately hooked the edge of the quilt to pull it higher over your chin.

He pulled. The blanket shifted, a gift from the heavens, which allowed a brief view of your gift beneath once it'd been raised.

And Pierrot stopped dead.

The words died in his throat, dissolving into a quiet, sharp intake of air. Your lover's confident posture melted in an instant; to be replaced with a rigid, stunned stillness.

In the dim moonlight filtering through the woven canvas of the tent, the warm expanse of your skin was completely unveiled. The silk strap clung uselessly to your arm, revealing the delicate swell of your breast, rising and falling with every peaceful breath you took.

Pierrot stared; golden eyes mere slits.

His mind, usually so quick to speak grand metaphors and sexy carnal prose, ground to a halt. Sensory inputs bled together in a chaotic tangle. The sight of you didn't just feel like seeing; it felt like a physical weight on his chest. A copper taste on his tongue. A ringing bell in his ears. He wanted to drown in the sight of you. He wanted to drop to his knees and press his forehead to the floor of his tent in absolute, humbled worship. He wanted to spring forward like his instincts burned for him to, to tear away the rest of that useless silk, to sink his teeth into the soft swell of your skin—just hard enough to mark you... just soft enough to hear you sigh in your sleep.

Adore you. Devour you. Hold you like a delicate glass bird. Bite you until you bled sweetness.

It was all too much. It flooded his veins like lava. His pulse hammeredd against his ribs—a clumsy rhythm that betrayed the sheer terrified innocence hiding beneath his persona. For all his detailed carnal speeches whispered into the dark, for all the breathless vows of what he would do to you once you fully accepted his truest self—Pierrot was, at his core, a novice standing before an altar. He had never touched a woman like this. He had only dreamed, obsessed, and burned—for you.

Slowly... painfully... he remembered how to breathe. A low, raspy sound escaped his throat.

"M-my dear... You...” Razored teeth consumed his grin; his voice a low, roughened velvet. “...terrible... exquisite thing.”

He didn't rush. The shock was passing and giving way to the intoxicating realization that this was... no accident. The faint triumphant curve of your sleeping lips, the deliberate way the silk was tucked so strategically—he knew. You had set this trap for him. You had offered him a feast: knowing he was starving.

Pairing with his dark Cheshire grin, golden eyes gleamed with a mixture of reverent awe and a dangerously playful intent. Pierrot's ability to think was slowly returning to the stage; even if his hands were still trembling.

He sank down to his knees beside the bed, bringing himself level with you. The cool air of the room vanished and was replaced by the dense heat of his proximity.

"A trap..." he breathed, leaning in until his shadow swallowed your sleeping form completely. "Th-this silent spectacle... prepared just for me... D-did you could fool me, my dear? Did you think my heart wouldn't burst right out of my chest at the sight of you? That I..."

He reached out. His gloved hand hovered an inch above your deliciously exposed skin, claws trembling violently. The contrast was agonizing—the dark, rough leather of his glove against the luminous, soft warmth of your bare chest.

He lowered his hand, a ghost of a touch at the gentle curve of your breast. So light it was almost a whisper of wind. The softness of your flesh there, the full unfiltered warmth of it should your monster shed that piece of costume that filtered him from you...

Pierrot shuddered, eyes fluttering shut for a overwhelmed second as the contact sent a shockwave straight through him. The sheer warmth of you was dizzying; even if his glove dulled the full experience of you. When he opened his eyes again, they were dark, swimming with an obsessive and heavy devotion.

"To offer yourself like this, sweet one..." he rasped, his gloved fingers tracing a slow, agonizingly delicate circle around the curve of your skin, dangerously close to the center, yet teasingly far. "It isn't fair... It is deeply, wickedly unfair to someone who already spends every waking second burning for you."

He leaned down further. The cool tip of his masked nose just above the crook of your neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of you. He permitted his lips to rest against your collarbone—not a kiss yet, just the warm press of his mouth against your softer flesh.

"I should wake you for this," he whispered against your skin, his voice dropping into that deep carnal register that usually belonged only to his secrets in the dark. “...drag you out of your dreams, my dear... I could sink my teeth.. mark you right here..."

Pierrot nipped at the soft skin at the base of your throat—a tiny, sharp little bite, barely enough to sting, followed instantly by the wet soothing of his tongue.

"... swallow every gasp you gift me," he finished, his breath hot against your neck.

Pierrot moved his head down, white hair brushing against your cheek, until his face was hovering directly over your exposed breast. The sight of heaven being so close made his breath hitch again, the sheer virgin panic flaring back up through his veins, warring wildly with his hunger and an underlying eagerness. He wanted to do everything at once. Wanted to wrap his mouth around you, to feel the heat of you on his tongue, to mark you, and even to protect you from the very air in the room. Consuming you until all your understood in your pleasured stupor was him.

Instead, he brought his gloved hand up and, in the slowest most treasured of movements, used two fingers to hook the edge of the fallen strap. He didn't pull it up. He dragged it a fraction of an inch lower to expose a tiny bit more skin; claiming the ground you had surrendered to him.

"Such a dangerous game, dear one," Pierrot murmured, his lips lingering a hair's breadth above your bare chest, his voice vibrating right against your skin. "You tempt me... when I don't even know if I could hold myself back... to give your the gentleness I want to; that you'd want me to... but oh, how eagerly I would learn."

He finally pressed his lips to the swell of your breast—a deep, reverent kiss that seemed to pour his entire soul straight onto the canvas of your skin. He lingered there, his heart a desperate cadence against his ribs, completely surrendered to the trap you had set.

This woman’s sundress was up and she wasn’t moving—nobody batted a fucking eye. Some assholes just assumed she was drunk and were talking about it, and continued staring. My employee and I rushed over to help, I got her situated and upright after verifying she was okay/not injured, while my employee went inside and bought water & a snack for her.

Come to find out: she has vertigo and fell over on the concrete. When I tell you not a single person, even the cop, was phased or came over to offer help once the situation was pretty obvious… I’m not kidding; they all stared like hypnotized fucking turkeys. Even when we were in the process of helping her.

If anything comes from TFC for the fandom to take away from the game (outside of awesome characters and stories). I sincerely hope it challenges us to help others, stand up for them when we see wrongdoings, and show some kindness out in this world. Life can be beautiful, but fuck it can also be so cruel and ugly—those in the position to do something /should/.