🎪Fandom: The freak circus.
🌹Pairing: Pierrot x female Reader.
🤹🏻 Rating: very explicit.
🍿 Summary: Pierrot loves you. But he doesn't love you the way you imagine. He loves you with his claws and his teeth.
🔞 Warnings: extremely graphic sexual content, violence mixed with intimacy, bloodplay, CNC, obsessive love, yandere Pierrot, possessive and dehumanizing language, sadistic behavior, cannibalistic undertones, emotional and physical domination, horror.
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Author’s Note: I was inspired by the song "The red means I love you".
You know when you love someone so much that you feel the need to hurt them?
Exactly this.
I'm a toxic person with dark thoughts, and I really resonate with characters like Pierrot. The metaphors of violence/cannibalism and romance really suit him.
This story is told from Pierrot's POV.
Key: when you read the text in italics and yellow, you' find yourself're in Pierrot's head.
When you read the text in italics, I am referring to the lyrics of the song.
I hope everything's clear, happy reading!
Ah...
I’ve finally found her.
She’s finally alone.
She’s finally mine, and I can taste her, savor her flesh.
Her body.
You’re here, in your big sized, empty bed.
A thin, white nightgown—almost sheer—clings to your delicate curves, accentuating your soft shape.
I move closer, unable to hold myself back.
I want her.
I want... you... too much.
I want to make you mine.
To push so deep inside you that you’d be only mine, forever.
My body feels wrapped in flames.
I can hear my heart pounding.
Proud.
Wild.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Thump.
Thump—thump.
Thump.
Thump—thump.
It beats and beats, carving out a void only you can fill.
Because you’re mine, aren’t you, Y/N?
It feels like it wants to pull out of my chest, tearing through my flesh just to be with you.
Ah...
My thoughts scream, they confuse me, they claw at my mind.
I can’t think.
You... you don’t let me think.
You’re so beautiful.
Your gentle face, your soft skin…
I want to wear it.
I want to be hers.
I love you.
I love you so much.
I’m drooling.
How careless of me.
That’s the effect you have on me, my Love.
I love you.
I need to hold you.
To feel your warm breath brushing against my skin.
Please… you don’t know what you do to me.
You don’t know how much I burn, always—but especially now, seeing you on that bed, alone… one hand pressing gently between your thighs. Were you thinking of me?
Were you touching yourself because of me?
Do you want me that much?
I do too, if only you knew how much… my Lady.
Ah… just the thought of being able to smell her skin drives me insane.
Your scent… damn… I’m hungry.
Hungry for you.
I move closer to your bed, climbing onto it—one knee, then the other.
I try to be quiet, but the bells on my hat are loud, tinkling melodically in the silent night—alive only by the sweet sound of your breathing.
You draw me in so effortlessly, as if I were under a spell.
I’m holding my face in my gloved hands; I didn’t even realize it.
They’re warm, because I’m burning… for you.
You’re beneath me, now.
A mess of (your color) skin and (your color) hair spread across your flushy pillow, and I can’t decide if I want to (fuck) LOVE you or eat you… alive.
Probably both.
Or... on the contrary… definitely, not just probably.
Damn it, you’re making me lose my train of thought too.
See?
You drive me mad.
Unable to think.
I only think of you. In so many ways… it almost embarrasses me...
I think about you dressed, while you work, while you bite your nails, your lip, while you smile.
I think of you even when you’re unconscious, like now.
Unconscious.
Beautiful.
I don’t want to scare you, but it’s easier this way.
The things I would do to you…
I want to sink my claws into your lovely flesh.
Dig deep, down to the bone.
And it still wouldn’t be enough...
I want you.
I want you… Y/N.
I wish I could open you up, make space for myself in your chest after removing everything in the way.
Be your heart.
You don’t need anything, just me.
I love you.
I need to feel you as mine so completely that I no longer know where you end and I begin.
Am I mad?
Can you understand this silly desire of mine?
I love you.
I would never want to hurt you, but I can’t help it.
Your body… your skin… you’re so soft.
I could use you as a pillow.
Caress you.
Lick every inch of you, savoring your flavor, testing it on my tongue that wants nothing more than to savor you.
My taste buds ache at the thought of having your flavor on my palate.
My hands are shaking.
They always shake when I see you—when the mania starts clawing up from my gut, wrapping itself around my ribs like a second skeleton.
You look so innocent, so trusting, so stupidly willing, and it makes my cock ache so bad that I can break just by looking at you.
Unusual. They say strange fascination, infatuation.
A lunatic.
I’m so close to your face now, moving slowly.
Gods, how much effort it takes not to devour you like a beast.
Which I am…
I press my lips to your throat, tasting.
My tongue moves from your collarbone over your pulse point, feeling the frantic thrum of your heart beneath the skin.
Ah…
Do you sense me?
Can you hear me?
Are you awake? Or are you just pretending to sleep?
Is it so you’ll let me do whatever I want?
I hear you gasping; a small, little sound escaping your plump lips.
I feel your fingers twisting into my hair, and I bite down, just enough to feel the give of your flesh between my teeth, to hear the little high-pitched whimper you let out.
Call me what suits your taste. I just wanna taste.
“You’re so soft,” I mumble against your neck, my voice ruined, scraping out of a throat too tight, burning with need.
Need of you.
My hips grind down against yours, my cock sliding through your thighs.
Just there.
Teasing.
Waiting.
Can you feel it?
Can you feel how much it pulls?
How fucking hard is it?
How fucking big it is? For you?
She’s so soft.
Gonna ruin her.
You whine, trying to arch up into me, trying to take me, and I smile gasping on your throat; a breathless sound that spills out of me like I’m losing my goddamn mind.
And I am... for you.
And I’ve always heard it’s what’s inside that counts.
I can’t resist…
My claws drag harshly over your chest, right across your sternum, while watching you open your eyes.
Watching your pupils dilate.
Are you scared?
Are you afraid of me?
Do you know my intentions?
Or maybe… you like it?
And it’s exactly what you want?
To die for me.
To die for the man you love, deep down.
Isn’t that right?
There’s nothing more poetic.
Nothing more tragic.
This is the story of my sad, little comedy.
You know I don’t want to hurt you, right?
But my love for you blinds me!
How can I survive it?!
You’re my obsession, my Little One…
Stupid me, I’m tracing your breastbone with my fingers, pressing harder, penetrating your flesh, leaving behind a shimmering red mark: mine.
I want to bathe in your blood.
Live there.
Live in you.
I pull back just enough to look at you better.
Your lips are parted, flushed.
Your eyes open wide with that look of fear that makes my blood sing.
You want this.
You want me.
Even the parts that scare the rest of the circus into crossing themselves when I walk by.
‘Cause my insides are red, and yours are too.
And the red on my face is matching you.
“You’re gonna let me mark you up so deep no one ever forgets who you belong to. Right?”
You nod, finally awake and conscious.
Your lips trembling, thighs spreading wider in invitation, for me.
She’s my precious, good girl.
I don’t make you wait.
I’m not that cruel…
I take my turgid cock out of my pants, in my hand.
I slam into you in one brutal thrust, burying myself to the hilt in your already wet, heat-soaked cunt.
Ah… she’s a dirty girl. Isn’t she?
Your back bows off the mattress, a desperate cry ripping from your throat, and I don’t slow down.
I can’t.
I need this—you—need the drag of your walls gripping me, the slick sound of my hips slapping against yours, the way your nails rake down my back, my shoulders, hard.
And goodness, you’re bleeding…
I press harder my claws on your chest.
They sinks in, more deep, just enough that wells up with bright red blood, beading on your skin like fucking rubies, its little drops splashing on my mask.
You scream, but it’s not only pain; it’s shock, it’s pleasure.
It’s love.
Right?
Ah… I can feel her cunt clenching around me so hard I see stars.
… what a wonderful feeling!
I remove my sharp nails from the wound they have branded, your moans lost in the sound of our ragged breathing, in our messed up thoughts.
My mouth is on the wound before I can think, my tongue lapping at the hot, sweet blood, groaning against your skin like I’ve just tasted the best thing I’ll ever have.
You’re down and you’re pleading…
“Please,” you finally sob, and I don’t know if you’re begging me to leave you or to never fucking stop eating you.
Your legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my ass, pulling me deeper.
And I comply.
I always comply when you get like this.
When I get you... and when I get you like this.
… my head is just reeling.
I fuck you harder.
Messier.
My hand finds your throat and squeezes, just shy of cutting off your air, just enough to feel your pulse flutter under my palm like a trapped bird. My hips slam into yours, relentless, punishing, chasing our freedom.
I bite your lip hard enough to split it.
It bleeds.
What a feeling… what a taste…
The red means I love you!
I lick the blood off your mouth, sharing it then between us, kissing you with my tongue, braiding it and tying it to yours, moving it in your mouth.
Tasting your blood means I love you!
My pace turns sloppy, desperate.
I’m not making love to you, even if my intentions were these, I swear they were from the heart.
Instead...
I’m consuming you.
With my love for you.
Every thrust drives my cock deeper into that tight, sopping heat, and every time I pull back I chase the feeling with my hips, trying to get impossibly closer, trying to crawl inside your skin.
The red means I love you!
The red means I love you...
Your body is trembling, your head thrown back, your throat exposed and painted in bloody handprints.
You look like a sacrifice.
You look like mine.
Unfortunate. They say such a shame, I turned out this way.
A maniac.
“I am a maniac, when it comes to you,” I hiss into your ear, punctuating the words with particularly brutal thrusts.
“But you love me! Don’t you? You love the way my heart-shaped irises circle fast for you when I see you! When I’m inside you! You love this!”
Well, yeah, I get manic when I cause a panic.
Your nails dig into my shoulders again, scratching my costume.
I groan, fucking into you harder, faster, my rhythm completely gone—just raw, grinding need.
And of course, I’m excited when I see you around.
I pull out just long enough to flip you onto your stomach.
You don’t resist.
You just let me manhandle you, your body pliant and eager, your ass lifted for me like an offering.
What a good pet she is...
I spit on your cunt, spreading it, watching it drip down your folds.
But what kind of man would I be if I didn’t taste you?
I want my mouth all over you.
Every inch.
Do you understand?
I slowly approach your pussy.
It smells good.
I feel its heat enveloping me and gently burning my face.
My mouth kisses it.
Savors it.
My lips move around yours.
I can’t resist.
I want more...
My tongue slips out of my mouth, pushing its way into your pussy.
Penetrating.
Sliding in, working its way all the way in.
It’s very long; it manages to reach your rubbery uterine walls.
Oh, fuck, it feels so good.
I need to bite you.
I fucking need it.
As my hands move to cup the junction of your ass and thighs, I show my teeth.
I grab your clit between them and... bite it.
Your reactions are… everything I need.
You’re driving me crazy.
I suck, and suck again.
And you cum on my face.
You cum in my mouth.
You, on my tongue.
You’re on my tongue.
A little essence of you.
I’m blessed.
But I want more. I want to be wrapped in you.
I slide two of my fingers inside you.
I need to feel you everywhere.
I push them all the way in, again and again, while my lips greedily suck your clitoris and my thick tongue fucks you.
That’s not enough.
I need to be inside you.
And then... I am.
My cock is completely accommodated by your pussy, so deep I feel your body shudder around me.
‘Cause my insides are red, and yours are too.
I lean over your back, my hands gripping your hips, my teeth sinking into the curve of your shoulder.
Blood wells up, hot and red, and I suck it like I’m drinking from a fountain.
It all spills over my face, staining my visage of—my mask—the color of your living blood.
And the red on my face is matching you.
I pull back, leaving a ring of teeth marks.
And goodness, you’re bleeding, what a wonderful feeling!
You’re down and you’re pleading, my head is just reeling!
“Please, Pierrot— please—I’m—!”
I wrap one of my huge hands in your hair, yanking your head back as I fuck into you, my rhythm completely shattered, my whole body trembling with the effort of holding back my orgasm.
But I don’t want to come yet.
I want to stay here, in this feverish delirium of blood and your little broken moans.
Admiring your ruin at my hands.
The red means I love you.
The red means I love you.
Your hand reaches back, touching my muscular abdomen, grasping blindly for mine.
I take it, lacing our fingers together, smearing blood between our palms.
You leave me high and dry.
A rush comes to my mind.
At the drops of blood you leave behind.
I feel you start to come undone.
Your walls flutter, clench, grip—and I know you’re close, again.
I reach around, my hand on your hip moves on your pussy, my fingers finding your clit, slick and swollen, and I press down hard, rubbing it as I keep fucking you.
Run as you might...
My love will never...
Ever...
Stop.
“Cum for me, my Love. Please,” I growl, my teeth grazing the shell of your ear.
“Cum all over my cock, soak me in it. In you.”
And you do.
You do…
Your orgasm rips through you like a speeding train: loud, violent, your whole body seizing as you scream my name.
WHAT A WONDERFUL FEELING!
Your cunt milks me, pulsing, pulling, and I can’t hold back anymore.
I bury myself as deep as I can go, my balls pressed flush against your blood-smeared skin, and I cum.
Hard.
So much.
Hot, thick, endless jets of cum flood into you, mixing with the blood and the sweat, until I’m empty and shaking, collapsed over your back.
After a while, I roll off you, pulling you into my arms, not caring about the mess.
I press a kiss to the wound on your shoulder, licking away the excess blood.
And the red on my face is matching you.
And goodness, you’re bleeding, what a wonderful feeling!!!
My hand rests over the fresh stab mark on your chest, feeling the warmth of your blood seep between my fingers.
The red means I love you!
Tasting your blood means I love you!!!
The red means I love you!!!!!!
I press my lips to your ear, my voice a hoarse, breathless whisper.
“I love you,” I murmur. “Forever.”
Even if I have to devour you… precisely because I love you.
And I mean
every
fucking
word.
Author’s Note: thank you for taking the time to read this story! ♡
Hope you liked it! I probably went out of character but I'm a toxic person with dark thoughts, and I really resonate with characters like Pierrot. The metaphors of violence/cannibalism and romance really suit him.
All banners featured in this work are created by me.
Please do not take, repost, edit, or use them without my permission.
It's finally time! The moment y'all have been waiting for!!!
Let's torment these boys with our lovely lumps! I'll dedicate the last bullet to a reader who's insecure about their bitties but remember, all titties are good titties!! I feel as if regardless of your body type the boys will love every inch of you, and honestly you should too!
(I'm going to default to a Gender Neutral reader due to the overwhelming majority of asks being non-gendered. Next time I open up my requests, I'll add some more clarifications for gender preferences!)
Your body is your own temple, you can decorate it however you wish, polish the pillars you find appealing, and leave yourself offers at your altars, but if you don't upkeep your temple it can cause lasting damage that will just take time to mend. As someone who is learning self love, there's going to be days where you don't feel adequate, and that's perfectly fine! Healing isn't always straightforward. Even if you scrub one tile of your temple it'll make what's left to polish a bit easier, so treat yourself with the same level of kindness you show others, hunt for the things you like about yourself and take baby steps into your own self devotion! Life is too short to be worrying about how others perceive you, all that matters is learning to love the temple that is you!
Tags: NSFW, highly suggestive, GN reader with smaller tits!, no smut, reader occasionally has bare titties out
The Freak Circus is an 18+ Visual novel Themes include but are not limited to: dark elements, strong language, sensitive graphic content. My works can depict similar themes and are not intended for minors.
Pierrot
No matter what you wear around him his eyes are constantly scanning your figure, of course when he thinks you're not looking at him eyeing you like a piece of meat. He feels so incredibly blessed that his darling is so alluring, especially if you flaunt your beauty so openly. It takes him some time to realize that you specifically wear certain clothes around him, or how you'll use his height to your advantage and wear a wide neck shirt with a stunning view from above. Wearing cute bras or sometimes even no bra at all, making him acutely aware of any chilly breeze that kisses your skin.
He tries to hide his excitement when a new bra peeks through your shirt or when he catches a glimpse of a particularly free breast through a low cut top. His mask unintentionally selling him out by putting his fanged grin on full display as his thoughts race a mile a second. Primal hormones occasionally override his loving persona however, and sometimes he cuts activities short to properly show you his admiration.
If you bring up feeling self conscious about the size of your breasts though... He has no choice but to show you just how perfect they are, right? Delicate touches trail up and down your sides as he purrs all of your features that drive him crazy with lust. His hands dwarfing your sensitive mounds as he kneads them, being mindful of his sharp claws as he rolls your nipples in between them, muttering prayers to your divinity under every shaky pant.
His overall favorite part about your breasts however is how they frame your heart. Providing him with easy access to the thrumming in your ribcage when you share a bed. Often finding himself lulled into a sense of peace when he drapes his hand in between your breasts, feeling your heart throb against the back of his hand.
Your new bra was definitely pretty and comfortable, when you could actually manage to put it on properly. Every time you decided to accept the challenge of dueling with the eyelets you were placing bets on just how long you would struggle for before throwing in the towel and submitting to a slip on bra, or even just going braless to spite the fabric's entire species.
You strain against the confines of your frame as you urge the hooks to marry the eyelets in unholy frustration, you glance down at the outfit you laid out, pleading for it to give you a reason to stop this battle of the week. A deep huff and-
"M-my love, can I help?"
You're suddenly acutely aware of the towering carmine clown behind you, his face seemingly reflecting the hue of his costume as drool creeps out of the corner of his faux grin.
You error code, your duel with the lace quickly thwarted as you try to conceal yourself from his prying eyes.
"I'm sorry, my dear, I could not help but offer my help after watching you struggle for so long." He sheepishly pans his heart eyes around your room, finding the mundane suddenly immensely interesting. "Although I also would not be opposed to you not wearing a bra at all, if it makes things easier." His grin sharpens at the thought.
He leans over your shoulder, his head brushing against the curve of your neck, a subtle purr vibrating your sensitive skin. He traces your prude display, being mindful of his claws as he teases the delicate flesh you hold from him.
"Your body is a thing of beauty regardless of what you drape over it. Anything you adorn simply enhances your ethereal figure and adds kindle to my flames of passion, my love."
Harlequin
Just like Pierrot, Harlequin's eyes are always glued to your figure, he's just not the type to be shy about it. He's not above making direct comments about your tits, especially when you wear such revealing bra and shirt combos, or even just shirts. Even if you try to ignore his obvious attention to your chest, he always finds a way to get some form of reaction out of you, whether it be an obvious glance down, a cheesy pickup line, and in some drastic attempts, even going as far as to tease your nipples through your shirts, (it was an accident, he swears). If you decide to wear no bra however, prepare for a very touchy day filled with him ghosting his claws over your skin, forming not only goosebumps, but other tantalizing effects.
He absolutely commits each one of your bras to memory, often making connections to your mood based on which one you decide to put on, subconsciously or not. Although it's always a welcome surprise for him to see you wearing a new bra he hasn't catalogued yet. Often teasing you about "not having to buy new lingerie just for him", and how "not to worry, the spark hasn't died out just yet". That being said, he is the sole reason for you buying new bras, since he gets too impatient with the art of unclasping the barrier to your bosom.
Some of his jokes do tend to dance along the line of bullying sometimes when it comes to the size of your breasts, and if you already struggle with your body image, it can lead to some issues later on. Luckily though he can pick up on when his 'jokes' don't land how they're supposed to. Often halting his advances and toning down any teasing until you start believing his indirect apologies.
Much like Pierrot, his favorite part about your smaller chest is being able to hear your heartbeat clearer, although on a more intimately closer sense. He eventually finds himself only able to get a restful sleep with the thrumming of your heart beating against the coolness of his mask, your heart a soothing symphony to his racing thoughts in the dead of night. Of course he never admits the comfort you provide and always gives you a pervy reason as to why he has to nestle into your sternum every night you spend together.
"You know I didn't mean it, predileto," he huffs out, grabbing you by the shoulder firmly, stopping you from turning away from him, "c'mon, don't be like that."
You don't even remember what underhanded joke he tried to make, your mind buried it as it snowballed through your familiar insecurities about your chest size. Tears began threatening to creep out of the corners of your eyes as you refused to meet his concerned gaze.
"Merda..." His grip softened at the pitiful sight before him. "You could've told me how much it bothered you, my dear," he hesitates slightly, trying to find the words to disarm the hair trigger trap he made for himself.
He takes a deep breath before adverting his own eyes from your potential gaze. "We all have our own insecurities, and it's wrong of me to poke fun at yours." His fingers leave your shoulder to card through his hair, "out of all the insecurities humans have, your chest size being one is sort of laughable, though." His cocky grin grounds you momentarily at the shock.
"Oh, don't act so surprised, dear one. Have you seen yourself in the mirror? The clothes you wear? The way strangers whip their heads just to see you one more time?" A light chuckle follows his honeyed words. You habitually brace for the other shoe to drop, but it never does, at least not this time. You glance up at him and see him nervously fidgeting with his curls.
"I see how they look at you, how he looks at you, and I can't help but feel jealous in a way. It makes me want to claim you as mine." His eyes flick dangerously back to yours, his nervousness instantly leaving the air as he finally catches you in his trap.
You feel tentacles coil up your torso, writhing and slithering under the hem of your shirt as they continue their journey towards that siren's song of a heartbeat. You struggle slightly against him, willing yourself to at the very least be mad at him for putting you in such a depressive state, but the coldness of the smooth scales of his tentacles take you by surprise.
"Your body reacts so deliciously, I might have no choice but to claim you as mine, would you like that? My sweet, little, titmouse?"
There it was. That was the stupid joke that caused your insecure spiral to reap it's dues on an otherwise beautiful day. You shoot him an irritated glare as you feel one rope coil around a bare breast and another toy with your now hardened nipple.
He laughs at your realization, and internally breathes a sigh of relief from his brief moment of vulnerability. His eyes hold a deeper feeling however, one he refuses to acknowledge even with himself. The tentacle wrapped around your breast shifts slightly, opting to rest comfortably curled in his favorite part of your appetizing body.
Right above where your heart races against the coldness of his scales.
Jester
Although you can never catch him, he does steal many glances at your figure, more than he cares to admit. His mind often takes the much needed time to properly admire your outfits and let his imagination wander as he dresses you in more appealing attire. He knows your games, however. He knows how you purposefully don't wear a bra on especially chilly days, as a feeble attempt to grab his attention. You would never be able to tell how much your charms actually affect him behind closed doors though. A new bra causing ink to pool on an invoice. A new shirt causing him to reread the same line four times. A revealing angle causing him to lose his train of thought. Such a troublesome pet you are.
Any complaints you air about any bras you wear are duly noted to him despite his annoyed huffs. It isn't until you find new bras waiting for you in your closet that you piece it together. Often with new styles and materials you never even considered let alone affording in some aspects. Various colors allowing you to properly coordinate your outfits, and the support/framing up to model standards. Of course if you bring this up to him expect him to congratulate you in a sarcastic tone for finally figuring it out.... Finally...?
He's far from naive when it comes to "conventional" beauty standards in the human society, and sure his kind has some standards, but none as asinine and genetic based as humans. Hearing you berate your body for not being in a cookie cutter shape or seeing you shy away from his touch fills him with a new level of loathing for your kind.
Although he doesn't have a specific favorite thing about your chest, he does have the same interest in your heart being so bare to him, so ripe for the harvest, so rightfully his. One of his interests is dressing you in flattering outfits, after all, pets are a reflection of their owners, right? A common theme of his outfits however is your chest, mainly how exposed or adorned it is with accents of stars, his claiming on what belongs to him and him alone.
You were just scrolling on your phone when yet another seemingly targeted ad interrupted your night of calm. Sharing space with Jester while the two of you did your own things was a quality he appreciated and a time you cherished. But this was now the third ad for the same bras you couldn't fit in. Every ad had a busty pretty thing showcasing the overpriced lingerie in a borderline suggestive tone as an effort to boost sales, but you couldn't shake the feeling of envy for what lay past the fabric. You attempted to ground yourself, shifting slightly in your loungewear, longing to feel what it meant to be like the person in the screen.
"Your self depreciating thoughts are distracting me from this predictable plot twist, pet." He adjusts his book in his hand before resting the cheek of his mask on the other.
"Your kinds' beauty standards are truly pitiful," Jester's words hit you like a lightning bolt back to the present moment. His amethyst eyes pinpricked at your screen, a twinge of disgust laced his words, "valuing such a shallow thing as looks it fitting for humans, I suppose."
You pause the advertisement only to be redirected to the items listing, even the mannequin had a bigger set of tits than you. You could feel the familiar gloom creeping in despite the double edged comment.
You could feel your heart grow heavy with the self consciousness weighing your mood down, and Jester must've felt it too.
The sudden page turn caused you to tense.
"You are more beautiful than any of the humans that come across your phone, o predileto." His eyes paused in his printed lines, dilated and half lidded. "True beauty lies in actions over appearance, and I don't take in mutts."
It takes you a second to figure out he was complimenting you, and a pretty big one at that. He flicked his eyes towards yours and you saw a sense of tenderness you rarely witnessed before his pupils sharpened to their regular diamond shape.
He presented his opened palm towards you.
"Let me see if I can tailor something similar for you, my perfect pet."
Ticket Taker
The only one in the troupe to feel a little guilty for glancing at your chest. He falls victim to your antics too easily for his own liking, although his poker face saves him almost every time, often coming up with a clever reason or excuse to take his attention away from your cleavage. Although the image still hangs on the back of his mind for the remainder of the day. His ultimate weakness however is whenever your nipples harden through your shirt. The way your bra sometimes sneaks past the neckline of your shirts has been the reason for a few papers to leave his desk with a suspicious pool of ink at the signature line. It's just the bargain pens though... Yeah... Cheap pens...
You end up learning that different bras affect him in different degrees. Of course, the skimpy ones have an effect on him, but not nearly as much as a traditional solid colored one. The simplicity and domestic nature of a basic bra is something that can't be beat in his eyes. (Lace bras are a close second to him). He's a gentleman of tradition after all, so accidental cleavage is the one way to get him to possibly break his persona.
If you bring up feeling like your chest is inadequate all lewd thoughts dissipate and are replaced with reassurance that you have nothing to feel insecure over. Depending on the time of day and overall mood between the two of you it can get into a hands on explanation on just how hard it is to focus around you. If you're in need of authentic real reassurance he's not opposed to let down his walls slightly to share some of his own insecurities, although vague and left up to interpretation or a later discussion.
Much like the rest of the troupe however, he has an affinity towards your heart, mostly over the physical drum when he ghosts the back of his hand over your chest. The silent reassurance that you're here and alive is enough to chip away at the mountainous stress of everyday life. Although he always asks you before extending his gloved hand out and never presses it into you, allowing you to control how much pressure you allow him to claim.
You try another pose in the mirror and your faux smile falters. Your eyes scan up and down your body like a critical judge, knit picking every small flaw and blemish. You pan up to your breasts and sigh. The shirt you bought probably would've looked better if you had more to give the fabric. You paw at the slack threads, angling your chest in different ways to see if you could lay them in an appealing way, to seemingly no avail.
A blur catches your eye in the top corner of the mirror, a distortion, a distraction from your harsh judgement.
"Everyone has insecurities, dear one."
He clicks the pen closed and sets it next to the pile of papers before leaning back in his chair, his back popping in relief.
"It's entirely normal to have insecurities about one's body. It's part of life." He rolls his neck earning him another satisfying pop and groan. "I, for one, despise my need to complete things to perfection." His voice trails off slightly, debating on speaking his thoughts. "As well as my own figure."
He stands from his desk and joins you in front of the mirror, only his focus is on himself for once. His eyes hallow as he meets his own gaze, "the key is to learn to accept the truths before you and overcome the urge to become something you're not."
His eyes flick towards yours and the softness returns. His hand grazes your chin, gently urging it to tilt towards him. He exhales a breath he didn't realize he was holding before coaxing a strand of hair behind your ear.
"You are perfect to me because you are yourself."
Doctor
Is still the King of Unbothered-town. No amount of flaunting or teasing seems to affect him, although the attempts to end up interrupting his research when he allows his mind to wander. He's forever thankful whenever you decide to not wear a bra. The tease of being able to see your nipples harden in biological reaction is more tantalizing than any flirty sexual attempts. The subtle jiggle of your breasts a whisper to his desire to study you further. The thrumming of your heart a beautiful song he can change the tempo of at his beck and call. Your teasing attempts ultimately turn against you in exponential time.
If he had it his way you would wear nothing but gowns or nothing at all around him. Your body itself is a thing of biological beauty and deserves to be displayed in it's full natural glory. It takes some time but he eventually grows to like lace. The intricate designs highlight your skin and provide him with a teasing veil to remove when his curiosity piques. The thin material also allows your nipples to still announce the chilly air of his lab free of any padding.
Insecurities confuse him. Being a logic driven being the idea of being insecure or shameful of a body part of all things is nearly incomprehensible. You would have to explain your feelings and issues in painful detail, followed by references of course. Once he eventually gets a grasp on the idea of your self consciousness he attempts to reassure you in the only way he knows how. Education. Painfully blunt education.
Your entire chest is one of his favorite parts of your miraculous body. The delicate skin that provides blood to your perfect mounds, to your ribcage that act as a platter to said mounds, and a barrier to your four chambered heart. Your atrium and ventricles sending your personal melody throughout your body in bursts of breathtakingly gorgeous blood. Give him the chance and he'll map out your major arteries and veins in marker, starting with a surprisingly detailed sketch of your heart. Although this activity tends to get out of hand as he begins to map out more of your body's systems with more markers.
You take a ragged breath, exhausted from trying to reword your explanation of beauty standards and how you don't fit in a few of them, mostly the chest department. Explaining the societal structures for thirty minutes turned you from a gloomy husk, to a frustrated complainer, to a desperate teacher.
Doctor crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, the reinforced legs still creaking at his size. A small grumble slips out into the tension.
"Beauty standards sound nothing like regular standards. Why compare yourself to something that constantly changes and isn't concrete?" He adjusts his mask slightly before curling his hand under his chin in thought.
His leg begins to bounce as he tries to compile the information you gave him into something that made sense. The fidgeting becoming more erratic the more he tried to piece it together.
"Hip dips, hiplets, muffin tops, thinspo, fitspo, apron belly, love handles, thunder thighs, butterface..." He mumbles to himself, increasingly becoming agitated, his boot now making an audible noise as his leg bounce increases.
"All of these 'beauty standards' when the only one that matters is the beauty of anatomy and biology." He huffs in frustration and his leg rests. "If you're body is healthy why does it matter what it looks like. You feel this way about your breasts, sweetie?" He tilts his head to the side.
You flinch at his bluntness before nodding slightly, your arms crossing in front of the topic of conversation.
He focuses on your body language and rises from his chair, the legs screeching behind him. He stands over you but his energy shifts from frustration to a towering gentleness. He palms your shoulder, his touch a bit heavy handed but well intended.
"Your body should be the beauty standard because it is yours. It is miracle of biological machinery that is both the weakest engine yet the strongest marvel I have ever set my eyes upon."
You might have to explain it for thirty more minutes.
I'm still working on the café scene! A lot happens here, so you'll probably be seeing this background until you're tired of it.
A few other characters will likely need new sprites, along with some additional backgrounds. I'm still experimenting with these scenes to see what works best.
I think I've mentioned this before, but I like testing unfinished backgrounds and sprites first to see if they fit the scene I'm imagining. A lot of the time I end up discarding them, which saves me from spending hours finishing artwork that might never be used.
That said... I have a feeling many of you are going to love the café scenes ouo
---
Ainda trabalhando na cena do café! Muita coisa acontece aqui, então você provavelmente verá esse fundo até se cansar.
Alguns outros personagens provavelmente precisarão de novos sprites, juntamente com alguns planos de fundo adicionais. Ainda estou experimentando essas cenas para ver o que funciona melhor.
Acho que já mencionei isso antes, mas gosto de testar fundos e sprites inacabados primeiro para ver se eles se encaixam na cena que estou imaginando. Muitas vezes acabo descartando-os, o que me poupa tempo ao inves de perder muito tempo em algo que não de pra usar no final.
Bom... Tenho a sensação de que muitos de vocês vão adorar as cenas do café ouo
Can't help but wonder how Jester probably cringes inside every time Pierrot has one of his “episodes”. History is repeating itself yet again, only this time it's infinitely worse, because it's about a human.
I mean, how was Pierrot even planning to keep something like that a secret from everyone else?
divider by: @sinisterexaggerator & @enchanthings
word count: 5k
synopsis: After killing the Bad blood who hunted you, you gain the attention of another hunter.
a/n: Y'all don't judge me for my hear me out. I did not intend for this to end the way it did, but clearly I got carried away. For those apart of the Predator franchise, I'm new here and still learning the lore so I hope I got most of it correct.
warning: 18+, yautja smut, biting kink, size kink, more plot than porn, etc.
The jungle was unnervingly quiet in the wake of the slaughter. Smoke curled lazily from the scorched wreckage of gear, bodies strewn like broken dolls among shredded foliage. The metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of burnt flesh.
Above, smoke still clung to the treetops, drifting from where your unit had been ambushed. Twelve soldiers—half gone in less than ten minutes, the other half having slowly been hunted down over the course of the day. You were the only one left, though “standing” felt generous. Your breath came hard and uneven, weight braced on your rifle, every muscle screaming from hours of evasion and bursts of return fire.
You hadn’t seen the thing kill your squad, but you’d heard them die. One by one, their voices had crackled over comms—panicked screams cut short, the sound of erratic gunfire halting as you heard pleading cries dissolving into wet, choking gurgles that left no doubt about their fate.
A sharp crack broke the stillness to your right. Your head snapped toward the sound, rifle coming up in reflex, finger tight on the trigger.
What stepped—or rather, crashed—into the clearing was massive. Armour hung on its frame in mismatched plates, rusted and scored from old battles, the surface stained with rot and dried blood. The helmet was jagged, clearly scavenged, its targeting system flickering with an unstable red glow.
It let out a feral snarl, the reminded you of battle cry before it charged. That was your only warning before the hulking shape bore down on you.
You didn’t think—you reacted. Ducking under its wild swing, you drove your combat knife deep into the unarmored joint beneath its shoulder plate. It roared, claws lashing for your throat. You ducked, but its other hand shot out, fingers closing around the front of your vest. It hurled you into a tree with bone-jarring force, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. You hit the ground hard, vision going white at the edges.
The creature lunged for you again. This time, you rolled, mud slick beneath your palms, and your hand closed around a fallen sidearm half-buried in the muck. You brought it up and fired point-blank into the gaps of its helmet until sparks spat from the damaged metal.
It staggered.
You surged forward, using the opening, and drove your blade into its throat. Hot, alien blood fountained over your hands, thick and bright green. You twisted hard, feeling resistance give way, and ripped the knife free. The creature gurgled once before collapsing in a final, heavy thud that sent leaves shivering from the canopy above.
Panting, you stood over the body, blood and sweat running into your eyes, staring down at the corpse. Only then did you sense another presence.
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward.
It was another of the same kind of alien you had just killed—but this one was different. Taller. Broader. His armour was etched with intricate markings that caught the fractured light filtering through the canopy. Every step he took set the small skulls, teeth, and bones hanging from his loincloth clattering together in a grim rattle.
You swallowed hard, forcing back the instinctive prickle of fear. Everything about him screamed superiority—the easy way he moved, the measured weight of his presence. This was no frenzied brute like the one before. This was a true seasoned hunter.
The realization struck like ice: he had been here the entire time. Watching the battled you had with his partner.
His mask turned toward the body at your feet, then back to you. Slowly, he extended one massive arm and the twin wrist-blades slid free from his gauntlet with a metallic hiss.
You were already bleeding from the ribs, every muscle aching from the last fight, but your grip tightened on your knife all the same. There was no way in hell you were going down without a fight.
A low, almost amused sound rumbled from his chest—but beneath it was something else. Interest.
Then he moved.
The world narrowed to motion—your blade flashing, his gauntleted arm swiping out a strike that would have struck a normal human. But you weren’t normal. You were one of the best, forged through years of elite military training. You were ducking the backhand before your mind could even catch up with your body, pivoting and delivering a sharp kick into his abdomen hard enough to make him grunt. Pain flared white-hot through your side from your sharp movement, but you stayed upright, refusing to back down.
Steel found flesh once—your knife slicing across his upper arm. It wasn’t deep, but it made him pause. His head tilted slightly, as though you had just passed some silent, unspoken test. Then he shifted, fast as lightning, and sent your knife spinning into the dirt.
Even weaponless, you swung at him, but his palm slammed into your sternum—not hard enough to break bone, but enough to knock the breath clean from your lungs. The jungle tilted around you. You stumbled, vision tunneling, before a massive hand caught your shoulder to keep you from collapsing entirely.
The edges of the world blurred. The last thing you saw before darkness claimed you was the tilt of his mask, as he studied you.
When awareness returned, it did so in fragments—heat against your skin, the slow rhythm of your own breathing, the faint hum of something mechanical in the distance.
You pushed yourself upright with a groan, every muscle protesting, and realized immediately that this wasn’t Earth.
The air was thick and humid, smelling of strange herbs and cured hides. You lay upon furs softer than any wool, beneath a ceiling worked in patterns you could not read. Through a latticed wall, the light was amber and alien, casting long shadows over weapons mounted like trophies.
The fight came back to you in shards—Your murdered team, the berserking alien, the fighting. And then… him.
Your gaze flicked to the doorway as a shadow fell across it.
Your alien captor stepped inside, filling the space with his presence. Without the chaos of battle to blur the details, you could take him in more clearly now—the well-maintained armour marked with intricate etchings, the heavy, mid-length dreadlocks falling over his shoulders, and the steady, assured confidence in every movement.
In his hands he carried a carved slab piled with thick cuts of red, raw meat and a horn flask filled with water. Crossing the room, he set them on the floor within your reach, then straightened without a word. The bones and charms hanging from his armour gave a faint clatter as he shifted, his mask angled toward you, watching.
You didn’t touch the offering—not at first. Your eyes stayed locked on him, waiting for the trick, the catch. Instead of closing the distance like you might've expected, he lowered himself onto a seat across the room. Then his hands rose to the sides of his helmet, claws working the clasps with practiced ease.
A hiss of released pressure filled the air as the mask came free.
Your breath caught. This was the first time you’d seen his face—alien in every sense. The ridges along his crown swept back in bold, clean lines, their mottled patterns catching the light. A scattering of scars marked his hide—evidence of battles survived. His mandibles flexed subtly as though testing the air between you.
What struck you most were his eyes—molten gold, sharp and unyielding, fixed on you with a predator’s unwavering focus. There was a confidence there, the quiet certainty of one who knew his own skill and strength and had proven it time and again. Everything about him was so distinctly inhuman and yet, to your own surprise, you didn’t recoil in fear or disgust.
You were… intrigued. But instead of embracing your curiousity, you looked away. You still didn't trust him. He had tried to kill you, and then abducted you. You had no idea what the hell he wanted with you.
The first week passed in that tense rhythm. Each day, he returned with food—slabs of raw meat still warm from the kill. The second day, you’d shifted closer for a better look before instinct made you recoil. He’d only grunted, as though your refusal was of no consequence. By the third day, hunger gnawed deep enough that you carved off a strip and held it over the flames, certain by now it wasn’t poisoned.
At the sight, he’d grunted again, eyes narrowing as he tore into his own portion raw. All the while, he watched you, gaze following the slow chew of your jaw as you struggled to bite through the cooked meat with your ooman teeth.
Neither of you spoke—not for lack of trying on his part. He didn’t fully understand your tongue, and whatever sounds came from him were low, clicking growls and deep-chested trills you couldn’t begin to match.
But there was no mistaking the way he studied you—the way your steps carried you through his home, how your gaze lingered on the carved trophies along his walls, the way you instinctively stiffened whenever his shadow fell across you.
Just as he watched you, you watched him. You noticed the smooth, predatory ease in the roll of his shoulders when he moved through the dwelling. The way his hands—large enough to encompass your skull—handled his weapons with a quiet reverence. You took note of the small ritual before each meal, the careful sharpening of his blades, the pause at the doorway each dawn as he scented the air like a wolf testing the wind.
He never closed the door completely when he left. You noticed that too. You weren’t sure if it was meant as a test or as bait. Without your weapons, you weren’t confident enough to risk finding out.
Yet, by the seventh day, the walls of his home as if they were closing in, even your own skin felt too tight. When he stepped toward the door with a spear slung over his back, you followed him.
“I’m coming with you,” you said.
He paused, turning his mask toward you. A long silence stretched between you. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he beckoned you forward—and held out your knife. The sight of it made your pulse quicken. You hadn’t even realized he’d taken it, you thought it had been left back on Earth.
The terrain outside his home was like nothing on Earth—mountains formed from jagged black stone, plains broken by thick forests of emerald-leafed trees. The air carried the distant roars and shrieks of unseen things.
That day’s quarry was a thresk—if you managed to understand his guttural growl correctly—a six-legged, deer-like creature with thick, scaled hide and wide antlers that shed once a season. It was fast and skittish, grazing in small herds on broad-leafed plants. Not harmless as you soon learned—it could gore you if startled—but it was food. He moved like the forest was an extension of him. You followed his lead, scanning the ground as he did—reading the bend of crushed stems, the imprint of heavy claws, the faint sway of disturbed foliage, caused by the passing of the herd.
When the kill came, it was sudden and brutal—your knife in the creature’s throat while his spear pinned it in place. He let you take the final strike, then showed you something strange. From his belt he drew a narrow, curved blade and cut free one of the creature’s fangs—long, polished by wear. He pressed it into your palm and curled your fingers around it. A mark of the hunt. A piece to keep even if the meat was the true prize.
You didn’t realize until later how much that small gesture shifted something between you both.
Days later, the second hunt changed everything.
You’d just brought down a gar’shun—a thick-bodied, tusked boar with spiny ridges along its back—when the air split with a scream. The sound was sharp enough to cut through the pounding of your pulse. Out of the undergrowth burst something you hadn’t seen before—a varik, all coiled muscle and hooked claws, its mottled hide blending perfectly with the ferns until the moment it struck.
You didn’t spot it until it was too close.
He did.
He slammed into you, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs, shoving you clear just as the varik’s claws tore across his chest. The sound of rending armour was followed by the wet, ugly rip of skin beneath. The fight that followed was brief but brutal—two predators colliding in a flurry of snapping mandibles, slashing claws, and spear strikes. He drove the weapon deep into its side, twisting until the creature let out a final, guttural shriek and collapsed.
When the beast hit the ground, he was already staggering.
You could have run. You could have vanished into the terrain, taken your chances finding your way home. But you didn’t.
Instead, you dropped to your knees beside him, your hand already reaching for the small pouch of emergency supplies still strapped to your belt. You cleaned the wound with what little you had, tearing strips from your undershirt to bind it tight. The alien blood was shockingly bright green, slick and hot against your fingers.
His mask tilted down at you, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and gravel-edged. “Why?”
It was the first time you’d heard him speak your language. The words were rough, growled, thick with an alien accent that rolled strangely over familiar sounds.
You didn’t stop working as you answered. “You saved my life. Now I’m saving yours.”
After the varik attack, that shift became more apparent.
It was subtle at first. He lingered closer when you moved through the forest—more protective. His gaze, though still sharp and assessing, had lost the hard edge of suspicion. When you worked together over the thresk carcass, he wordlessly passed you the choicest cuts—something you didn’t even notice until later.
One evening, as you sat beside the low-burning heat pit, he placed a strip of raw meat into your palm and gestured toward his own mouth.
You gave him a look. “It’s raw. Human's don't tend to eat meat raw.”
A low rumble sounded in his chest—amusement, maybe—and he tilted his head, urging. His massive hand came up, the tips of his claws nudging the meat closer to your face.
You eyed it warily, sighing when he gave your hand another insistent push. Finally, you lifted it to your mouth and took a small bite. The taste surprised you—sweet and tender, almost buttery, with a freshness that made Earth’s cooked rations seem dry and lifeless by comparison, and every time you’d been cooking it, the meat’s subtle flavour had been vanishing, becoming tough and leathery, but raw it was tender and flavourful.
After that, you stopped bothering with the fire.
Days passed, and you began to notice something about his speech. His helmet’s built-in translator let him understand you perfectly, yet when he spoke, it was almost always in his own language. The sounds were a mix of deep-chested trills, low growls, and the sharp clicks of his mandibles.
One evening, curiosity got the better of you.
“You can understand me,” you said, tearing off another strip of meat. “But you don’t speak my language.”
His mask tilted slightly, as though your observation amused him.
“You could,” you pressed. “I could teach you.”
He let out a low click, then gestured for you to continue. And so you did—pointing to objects, naming them in English, repeating the words until the alien syllables began to form on his tongue. The consonants were difficult for him, vowels stretching oddly in his deep voice, but you could hear the improvement with each attempt. Sometimes you corrected him, sometimes you laughed at how adorable he was trying to say the correct word, and sometimes he repeated a word so carefully with that rumbling growl it sent a shiver down your spine.
You fared no better when it was your turn. Listening to him rumble the Yautja equivalent of whatever English word you were trying to teach, you tripped over the sharp clicks and guttural rolls. He was patient in a way you hadn’t expected, correcting you with a low growl or the faintest click of his mandibles when you mangled a syllable.
Slowly but surely, you were both learning. The exchanges were broken, imperfect, but the gaps between you were closing. Bit by bit, you were beginning to communicate.
It wasn’t until a week into your growing truce that you finally asked the question that had been nagging at you.
“Why did you take me?” you asked, curiosity edging your voice.
He clicked his mandibles, as if weighing his answer, then spoke slowly, choosing his words. “You kill bad blood. Bad blood leader come. He take you. You fight… until die.”
You frowned. “Bad blood?”
“Me. Yautja,” he said, tapping a closed fist against his chest before pointing to a helmet resting on a shelf—one you hadn’t realized was there until now. Recognition jolted through you. It belonged to the Predator you’d killed. “Him. No honour Yautja.”
“So… me killing the bad blood would’ve had his leader take me and make me fight until I died?” you clarified.
He nodded once.
“But why save me from them?” you pressed.
He hesitated, mandibles clicking once before he spoke. “I don’t. I bring you to heal… and hunt. No honour to hunt broken. Only strong.” His head tilted slightly, his voice dropping into something almost gentle. “But no more. You now… friend.”
You blinked, the words settling heavily between you. “You brought me here to heal, and then you were going to finish your hunt?”
A part of you didn’t know how to feel about that revelation. Another part wasn’t surprised—that explanation fit more with the creature you’d first met than the one you’d begun to know.
“No more hunt,” he said firmly. “You. Friend.”
Your lips twitched despite yourself. “You know, I just realized—if we’re friends, I still don’t even know your name.”
He straightened slightly, then spoke—clicks and rolling syllables that resonated low in your bones. “Drak’ven.”
You tried it, mangling the guttural tones until his mandibles finally flared in what you guessed was approval.
“Y/n,” you replied, pressing your hand to your chest.
He repeated it slowly, tasting the human sounds, and for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, hearing your name in his voice made something tighten in your chest.
A few days later, you decided to test the luck of your new-found friendship.
“I need a shower,” you announced one morning. It had been weeks since your arrival, and you could take an educated guess that his kind didn’t share the same hygiene habits as humans. Still, your skin itched with the need to be properly clean, more than the small basin and a cloth you'd been using and you silently prayed he had something to help.
His head tilted, mandibles shifting slightly.
You mimed scrubbing your hair, letting your hands trail water down your arms. He watched, still as stone, for a long moment. Then his mandibles twitched in thought, and he turned, gesturing for you to follow.
The walk took you into the denser part of the forest, where the air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and the calls of unseen creatures. Eventually, the trees opened into a secluded clearing, revealing a hot spring cupped by jagged stone and draped in thick vines. Steam curled lazily upward into the shafts of golden light breaking through the canopy.
You nearly gasped. The place was beautiful, untouched. You were still taking it in when you heard Drak’ven shift behind you. Excitement to wash away days of dirt and grime overrode any hesitation; you stepped to the edge and tugged at your clothes.
His gaze followed—steady, unflinching—as you stripped and slid into the water. Heat enveloped you instantly, seeping deep into your muscles and drawing a low sigh from your lips.
When you looked back, he was removing his armour. Piece by piece, it revealed the thick cords of muscle beneath, the mottled pattern of his skin, the faint sheen of condensation forming where steam met flesh. Broad shoulders, sculpted arms, the ripple of strength across his chest.
You caught yourself staring, pulse quickening in ways you hadn’t felt in a long while. And when his gaze met yours again, you knew he’d been doing the same.
The water rippled as Drak’ven stepped in, steam curling around the edges of his broad frame.
You swallowed, your body moving before you had the sense to stop it, wading toward him as if drawn by something you couldn’t name. When you reached him, your hand rose—hesitant at first—until your palm met the solid heat of his chest. Your fingers traced the ridges of muscle, skimming over old scars that told stories you could only imagine, then followed the curve of his shoulder to the powerful line of his arm.
A low, resonant sound rolled from his chest—something almost like a purr, but with the underlying edge of a predator’s growl. Before you could pull away, his hand closed around your hip, claws pressing lightly into your skin as he hauled you through the water until you were flush against him.
Your breath caught. The heat of him was unmistakable, the hard, unyielding press of his body against yours impossible to ignore. Instinct tugged your gaze downward—just for a moment.
And gods help you, you looked.
Your eyes widened fractionally, and his mandibles flexed in what might have been amusement… or a warning.
You’d never cared much for human men—always finding them lacking in ways you could never quite explain—but standing this close to him, feeling the hardened length that was now pressing against your stomach, something inside you tightened. The want came sharp and sudden, curling deep in your loins like a spark catching flame.
It had been too long since you’d last touched yourself, too long since anyone had stirred your interest—and now, despite the gulf between your species, Drak’ven was the first male in years to make that spark flare.
His head tilted slightly, mandibles shifting as he scented the air. You realized, with a jolt, that he could smell the change in you—the growing arousal sweetening your already sweet scent. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his gaze was not. It was filled with growing hunger.
Yet, despite his own desires he slowly shook his head. When he spoke, his deep voice rumbled low with warning. “Me too big. You too little… to mate.”
No human man had ever come close to him in scale or presence. Not even close. You should have been intimidated by his sheer size, should have let his words cool the moment—but they didn’t.
Instead, you pressed closer, your breath hitching. “I can take you.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
His kind mated only for reproduction, never for pleasure, and among the Yautja, it was the females who dominated. Mating was a brutal contest—if the male wasn’t strong enough, he could be killed in the process. This was different. He wanted you despite knowing his seed would not take.
You felt so soft in his arms, pliant where his kind were unyielding. He knew you could be a vicious little thing when you wanted. Like when he’d seen you take down the bad blood, it was why he had marked you as his next hunt recognizing the predator you were. He’d intended to bring you here, let you heal, and then face you in an honourable fight. But then you had hunted with him, fought alongside him, saved him, and something in him had shifted.
He was still considered young by the standards of his people, and the elders would sneer at the idea of taking an ooman as a mate. But the more time Drak’ven spent with you, the more he found himself seeking your presence. There was strength in you, fierceness in the way you moved, in the way you met his gaze without flinching.
Still, your body was smaller, more fragile than his own. In his grip, you felt delicate—breakable—and that unsettled him. Gentleness was not something bred into his kind. He did not know how to wield it.
He let out a low, frustrated growl, hauling you up with sudden, effortless strength until your legs locked around his waist. The water lapping at his waist. Your faces were inches apart and the weight of his stare held you in place as surely as his hands.
Your gaze flicked to his mouth—not quite a mouth, not as you knew it. The mandibles were powerful, edged with faint ridges, twitching slightly as he studied you. You didn’t overthink it; you simply leaned in, closing the distance until your lips brushed lightly against the outside edge of one mandible.
His entire frame went still.
For a heartbeat, you thought you’d crossed some unspoken line—until that low, resonant sound rumbled from his chest again, the one you were beginning to recognize as approval. His head dipped, and one mandible shifted, grazing along your cheek in a deliberate, unhurried sweep.
It wasn’t a kiss, not exactly. But it felt like his version of one.
Your breath caught, the heat of him sinking through you. In that moment, it didn’t matter that you were two different species from two different worlds—you understood him. This was his way of returning what you’d offered, of saying I accept you too.
His hand tightened on your hip, pulling you imperceptibly closer as he began to move through the water toward the rocky edge. You soon realized what he was doing when he sat down at the ledge, shifting you higher on his lap. He was leaving you in control and giving you the choice to continue with what you both wanted or not.
You stared down at him, heart pounding. Everything about this was strange, and quite literally alien… and yet, you didn’t want to pull away.
Your body was already primed and aching, heat pooling deep inside you. It was almost embarrassing how wet you were and how much of it had nothing to do with your swim in the springs. His low growl vibrated through you as your hand slid lower, feeling the firm, heated weight of him resting against your thigh. You could barely encircle him, your fingers mapping the unfamiliar texture along his length.
A deep, purring sound rumbled from his chest as you explored, tracing those ridges with tentative strokes. The warmth between you grew until every nerve felt alive, and you took your time, ensuring you were both ready and his cock was throughly slick with both your fluids before lining him up with your enterance and slowly sinking down.
You gasped as his head pushed into you, the stretch of him burning. A deep snarl tore from his throat, his entire body tensing as he did everything he could to hold back and let you adjust to his sheer size. You were so tight, so warm and soft—softer than any Yautja female—that all he wanted was to bury himself fully inside you and savour the sensation of your walls gripping him. But he held back.
As much as it drove him crazy, he let you set the pace with shallow movements, your body gradually allowing him to sink deeper inside you. Slowly, the burn faded into pure pleasure as those ridges brushed against every sensitive nerve ending within you. Soft, breathless moans slipped past your lips, your hands bracing against his hard chest as you rocked against him. His hands found your hips, steadying and guiding you until, eventually, you were taking all of him—and he was practically taking over for you, lifting you on and off his length like you were a doll for his pleasure.
Moans spilled past your lips as your nails dug into his chest in pleasure. The moment he felt the sharp pinpricks of pain, the last thread of his control snapped. In an instant, you were on your back, and he was rutting into you without restraint. Broken moans escaped you, your eyes fluttering as your head fell back against the soft moss in rapture, baring your neck. Drak’ven’s mandibles came down, pressing against your skin in a primal stake of your submission, keeping you exactly where he wanted as he claimed your body.
His claws dug into your soft skin, blending pleasure with the slightest bite of pain. Tears stung your eyes—the sensations were almost too much, yet you craved more. You urged him on, digging your nails into his shoulder and tugging him closer, earning a low growl as he snapped his hips faster, driving you steadily toward your peak. Finally, you when you were all but sobbing, that tightening coil inside of you finally snapped and your vision went white, eyes rolling back in ecstasy. Your entire body shuddered as utter bliss ricocheted through you.
You barely felt it when his teeth sank into the junction where your shoulder met your neck, marking you as his mate before he pulled back with a mighty roar, releasing himself inside you.
For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the low, purring growls rumbling from his chest. Gradually, your awareness returned, each heartbeat pulling you further from the haze.
You slowly became aware of his touch again, his tongue lapping over the tender spot where his teeth had sunk into you. The sensation was strangely soothing despite the sting, a primal mix of comfort and possession that sent a shiver racing down your spine.
“Mate,” he growled, the word deep and certain, resonating through you as much as it did in the air.
He pulled back, eyes molten and unreadable, before rolling to your side. One massive arm hooked around your waist, hauling you effortlessly against him as he curled around your smaller form.
You only sighed in contentment, snuggling closer. “Yours.”
𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Lately, Pierrot hasn’t been himself. Not because of you. Never you. However the usual stars behind the mask feels dimmer. He’s all quiet... more quiet than usual and reckless affection, so when he goes that quiet, it means something.
You catch him backstage during intermission, applause still rumbling through the walls. You ask what’s wrong. He just smiles and deflects. Anything to sidestep it.
There are thirty minutes before the curtain goes up again, before he’s back out there, under the lights, with a smile on his face, pretending that nothing ever hurts him.
The stage can wait, as you fully intend to improve his mood.
𝓌𝒸: 9.4k
𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: anon… you’re bold for this request. a little unhinged in the best way. fun fact: the more unfiltered and chaotic the energy, the faster it grabs my attention. i respect the commitment.
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
↳「ʙᴀʙʏ ᴅᴀᴅᴅʏ」║ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ʙᴀʙʏᴏɴᴇꜱʜᴏᴛ ➠ 18+ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
ɴᴀᴍᴇ║Kisame Hoshigaki
ᴀɴɪᴍᴇ/ᴍᴀɴɢᴀ║Naruto/Naruto Shippuden
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ║6,320
꧁𓊈𒆜 ━━━━━━━━━ 𒆜𓊉꧂
"ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ."
꧁𓊈𒆜 ━━━━━━━━━ 𒆜𓊉꧂
There was no way you could forget him, no way in h*ll. How could you when those white animalistic orbs of his stared down at your bleeding face with a coy grin?
One of his large hands grasping your neck, squeezing, refusing to let you breathe comfortably. Your feet dangled above the ocean, his sharks swirling around in the darkened water.
They waited impatiently for their master to deliver them their next course. Your blood was already dripping from your wounds into the sea, tinting it crimson that only appeared darker in the moonlight.
"Come on, Guppy. All you have to do is relay a bit of information for me." He mused, cocking his head slightly while maintaining his intense gaze on your face. "I might even let you live since you put up a pretty good fight."
"And betray the Raikage? I'd rather be fed to the fish!" You hissed in return only to choke when he tightened his grip.
With no effort he brought your face to his, his busted lip still oozing blood with a trail dripping down his chin. The coy grin vanished and now was replaced with a tight-lipped expression.
Surprisingly, you wanted that grin back. The unamused almost lack of emotion face was more terrifying than the one with his simple smile.
"It's very easy to betray someone." He suddenly announced. "All you gotta do is think about how badly you want something-" Kisame rose one of his bloody hands to the night sky and waved it down to simulate something falling. "-and everything doesn't matter after that."
You swung your legs at him and attempted to get a cheap shot but he quickly snatched your ankle and decided to change your position.
The Akatsuki member held you upside down by your ankles, your face in front of his, and all the liquid from your wounds starting to trickle down to your neck.
Barely managing to focus you spoke. "That only works for sh*t heads with cheap priorities. I know what'll happen if I tell you and my one life isn't worth thousands of my village."
Blood rushed to your head, a nauseating migraine starting to persist but you simply spat on his face. In a disgusting turn of events, he licked it and even leaned closer to you.
"Want a taste?"
When you simply lashed a kunai at his face he hummed, his emotion still unclear. "So." He started and nodded his head. "I've changed my mind. I'm not gonna feed ya to the fish. You're going to have a nice slow death as I take my time ripping out every bone in your body till you can't handle it anymore."
Your (e/c)'s widened, every muscle tensing with you beginning to thrash around in his hold. "Let me go!" You screeched, fist flying out and ready to strike his face but you lacked strength due to your earlier fight.
"Ho~. You start singing a different tune now when you know it's not going to be quick. I should do it slower then." Kisame flung your body to the dirt terrain on that hill and bent down so he was squatting.
He pressed one of his shins down on your stomach while a hand reached for your face, gripping your lower jaw and forcing you to look at his face.
"I want you to look at me as I break you." He hummed, lips pulling into a coy grin. The male's other hand reached down to your thigh, a sharp object slicing easily through the fabric so your skin could meet the cool night air.
His fingers pressed into your leg, the rough pads of his fingertips starting to dig into your flesh and send bouts of discomfort through your veins.
It wasn't until he pressed harder, the sudden sensation of your own skin ripping off of your body caused a petrified scream to resonate out from your lips.
You wanted to look away, scrunch your eyes closed as he tore through your muscles, but his grip on your face was ever so tight. You had to watch his expression clearly, the sadistic grin growing, his white optics gleaming brighter from your pain, and his knee almost shaking from yielding such nauseating sensations to you.
When his fingers grazed against your femur you lost it. Ballistic screaming, every possible limb flailing as the undeniable pain took over every nerve.
Tears streamed down from your eyes, mixing with the blood that made your appearance look all the more pathetic.
"You had your chance." He crooned, pressing his fingers against the bone again, which compelled your back to arch as you attempted to form into a fetal position, but his grip ceased any movement.
"I admire your loyalty..." You didn't even know what he did next; you couldn't tell because all of your senses suddenly shut down. Your vision was fading in and out, and so was your hearing.
But like a sadistic joke, your own body allowed you to hear his last words before you ultimately fell unconscious.
"But I'm saving you the trouble of being betrayed by your own comrade. At least now your death won't be so meaningless."
꧁𓊈𒆜 ━━━━━━━━━ 𒆜𓊉꧂
To say you were surprised when you had awoken in the hospital was an understatement. You thought you were dead, you had to be with all the wounds Kisame inflicted on your body, but you were wrong.
You were alive and breathing, and although heavily damaged, you still could move your limbs. Well, most of them. The injury to your left femur was so significant, the medical nin's couldn't do anything about it.
Now your leg had a permanent lip, unable to bear the full weight of your body at some points. You swore one day you'd get your revenge.
Disable him as he did to you, or maybe you should give him a slow death, letting every nerve inside of his body ignite in flames and allow for him to burn slowly from the inside.
Who knows, you'll decide when you catch him.
꧁𓊈𒆜 ━━━━━━━━━ 𒆜𓊉꧂
When you finally caught up to him, you could never forget how genuinely surprised he was to see you. And even more when he found himself snagged in your trap.
You squatted down, grasping his chin and forcing him to face you directly. There was no expression playing across your face; you looked somewhat disappointed.
"You were much scarier on that cliff." You stated, observing his tinted lips curving into a frown. "Maybe I should have fought you like last time when I was dealing with insomnia."
Kisame narrowed his animalistic white orbs and grunted. "You caught me on a bad time, Guppy." He stated, referring to the fist-sized wound on the left side of his abdomen from his fight with a group of jonin. "And most of all I didn't expect for you even to be alive."
"Surprise." You sang, faking enthusiasm before sending a swift kick to his side and sending him flying through a multitude of trees.
The Akatsuki member grunted aloud, his sounds of pain mixing with the breaking of trees echoed out in that forest. Slowly you strode towards him, limping slightly from your fragmented leg.
It had to be menacing, the slow, almost sinister nearing of your frame to the male who hunched over and wheezed from the pain. His feeble attempts at moving were all but halted from the chakra chains around his torso and legs.
When you approached him, you pushed him over onto his back and squatted down again. Your left shin pressing down onto his stomach with your left hand grasping his face.
"I want you to look at me and see how you'd react if I did the same thing you did to me."
Kisame appeared genuinely shocked by the turn of events and even more so by how quickly he was overpowered. Just like he had done those months ago, you cut his pants on his thigh and gripped tightly onto his blue-greyish tinted skin.
He stiffened, breathing heavily and even baring his sharp triangular teeth. A sharp punch to his jaw was enough to almost knock the wind out of him.
The man wheezed as his leg attempted to jerk out of your hold. "No, we don't do that here." You mused, tightening your hold on his thigh.
Before you could reciprocate the actions he had done to you a couple of months ago, an interruption had occurred. You were thrown over Kisame's frame, landing on your stomach, and grunting from the impact.
You had to blink off your surprise before spin kicking yourself to your feet with a kunai and chakra chain ready for this surprise guest.
Another man appeared, dressed in the ebony-hued Akatsuki cloak with red cloud patterns. His raven-colored hair shimmered in the sunlight before he turned to face you.
Eye's that were almost like pools of blood met yours and your breath hitched, fear spreading through your limbs and stiffening your body like stone.
"Come on Itachi, let's get back to the hideout," Kisame murmured, using his brute strength to demolish the chains and stand to his feet. "Just leave this weakling."
Itachi didn't move for a moment before slowly pivoting on the balls of his feet. The two were ready to leave, but you quickly stopped them.
"Hey! You're not leaving until I get my revenge." You snarled.
The midnight blue-haired male gave you a toothy grin and grasped Samehada, which his partner then handed to him.
"We'll have to save that for next time, Guppy."
You grimaced and watched the two Akatsuki members disappear in a gust of wind, their chakra presence all but immediately becoming undetectable.
꧁𓊈𒆜 ━━━━━━━━━ 𒆜𓊉꧂
You'll always remember the night that changed everything. It was the night you both showed your vulnerability to each other, which led to one thing after another.
When your consciousness began to emerge and disperse you from your dreams, you let out an audible groan from your raspy throat.
Muffled pounding, like fists pounding from heaven upon the earth, echoed all around you. Sitting up, you held your ailing head in your hand and attempted to open your eyes.
"Did you ever learn to swim?"
Your gaze flung to the voice, and immediately, Kisame's figure came into view. His body was notably bare, and his legs were slightly angled to shield his modesty.
His muscular chest was on display. His back was pressing up against the cave walls, and he extended one leg and brought the other to his chest.
A fire in front of you caught your attention, the way it hauntingly danced its shadows across your figures and threatened you with how close its licks came to your body.
It wasn't until a chill breeze blowing across your skin did you realize you were nude, stripped of all your clothes, and only protected by the ebony-hued cloak.
For a moment you were frozen before wheezing aloud and curling into a ball, forcing the coat to hide your entire frame.
"You f*cking pervert!" You bellowed, cheeks singeing hotter than the makeshift fire. The man simply laughed at you and broke the small twig in half that he was playing with.
"I think you should be calling me your savior, Guppy. You would have drowned if it wasn't for me hauling your a** out of the river." He responded, animalistic white optics diverting towards the front of the cave. "I would have left you there but I got caught up in the storm and the sun had just set."
You followed his gaze and could barely make out what was outside. The rain poured forcefully, just shimmering almost grey streams that masked anything from view. Just darkness lay before it.
Your cheeks puffed out from the sight and you glowered at your situation.
"Anyways," He suddenly started to catch your attention. "I'd much prefer you to be awake as I strip you of any clothing-" You threw a rock at his head.
"Pervert!"
Kisame grumbled, rubbing the smallish growing bump on his head. "You've got an arm like a man!" You hurled another rock and struck him in the exact same spot.
"Shut up! I'm already as insecure about my arms as it is!"
He didn't say anything for a minute, just observing your frame that hid behind his cloak and even held up another small rock in case he were to spew any more comments.
The naked man shook his head, shielding his optics behind his eyelids while rubbing at the back of his neck.
"You shouldn't be." He stated under his breath. "You punch like a damn beast, knocks the wind outta me."
Biting the inside of your cheek you slowly lowered the rock in your dominant hand. "I need to be if I want to kill you."
The Akatsuki member nodded his head, the left side of his lips quirking up into a grin. "Yeah, that's right."
It became silent in the cave, other than the pounding of the storm and wailing of the wind. Wood splintered almost melodically as the two of you kept your distance and gaze away from each other.
Sleep was something you couldn't reach, already fulfilled by your deep unconsciousness after you fell off that waterfall. You didn't think it would be such a far fall or the pound be so deep.
You couldn't help but think how ironic the situation was. After the fight by the cliff, you vowed to take your revenge for your fallen comrades and injury to your leg.
You've been tracking him down alongside completing your missions, clashing with him every chance you got. But you could never win against him.
And here the both of you are, sitting on opposite sides of the dingy cave with a silent agreement of mutual peace for the moment.
Another cold breeze kissed your skin, smothering you in its chill, which resulted in you shivering aloud. Your teeth chattered, and even your jaw ached because of how you clenched it subconsciously.
You pulled his cloak tighter against your body and huddled yourself close under it. There wasn't a word to describe how much you despised the cold.
Its chill was only desirable in the comforts of your home when you had access to warm clothes and thick blankets. Here you had nothing but the enemy's recognizable cloak.
Although a fire rested just a few feet from your body, you wouldn't dare step any closer in fear of him suddenly attacking. You couldn't trust that sadistic killer, not after everything he had done.
Your hair still felt slightly damp and the small trickle of water down the back of your neck was disfavored. Across from you, Kisame appeared utterly unfazed.
His skin, as well as his hair, appeared completely dry. There were no signs of goosebumps or any indication that the cold was a bother.
"If you want to stare just ask. I'm more than happy to put myself on display for you."
Your eyes widened from his words. "You freak!" You snapped, throwing another rock at his head. "As if anyone would want to see you like that!"
His grin immediately dropped and instead of letting the rock connect with his head he seized it and crushed the stone in his hand.
It turned into a powder that trickled onto the ground, dusting it with its remnants. His aloof, almost careless facade had broken as he leaned back, resting his head against the cave walls and staring almost too fiercely into your eyes.
"Ah, it's unfortunate how much I have to agree with you." He stated with such a callous voice that it rivaled the wind.
The sudden change of his attitude and words caused you to recoil back and break eye contact with him. There was a bit of guilt from your words forming in your chest.
Kisame may have been an almost crazed sadistic missing-nin with a high drive to fight, but it also appeared he was actually a bit self-conscious.
You were sure it was because of his skin color and the gills on his face and shoulders. You've never met anyone with such explicit, inhuman characteristics; nobody you knew had the same features as him.
He must feel very alone because of it.
Clearing your throat, you glanced down at his coat and spoke. "Don't be a baby." You grumbled aloud and puckered your lips, feeling quite embarrassed. "I think... I think you're kind of hot."
Kisame chuckled in his throat, and you could almost see a toothy grin on his lips. "Oh really?" He sought.
Your cheeks must have been burning as hot as the fire. "Don't let it get to your head!" He laughed louder this time and you had to conceal your face with his coat. "You're still a psychotic killer!"
"You know...you're kind of cute when you're not gunning for my neck."
His words caught you off guard, and the most you could do was stay silent and obscure your face from his gaze. Again neither of you spoke but this time a much more comfortable silence overtook the inside of that cave.
You attempted to use this opportunity to rest, laying down on the floor and wrapping yourself in the coat. It was still freshly nighttime and you didn't know how much longer you could sit in his presence and be sane.
Although the rainstorm was rather soothing and melodic, the cold was just so bothersome. You tried to ignore it; that's what you were trained to do, but the bareness of your body and still slightly damp hair were of no help.
"You good over there? I can practically hear your teeth chattering from here." Kisame questioned and you could basically see his grin in your head.
You grit your teeth and stared at the dim wall with dancing shadows. "I'm perfect." You hissed.
"fix your anger issues and you just might be."
"I'm gonna throw another rock at you."
He didn't respond, letting the ambient silence return. You don't know how long you lay there, attempting to fall back into a deep slumber but were ultimately denied by the chill that rose up your body.
A sudden huff from Kisame caught your attention. It sounded as if he stood up, and his footsteps grew louder the closer he approached.
"What do you think you're doing? Stay on your side!" You snarled.
"There is no side." He snapped back causing you to shut up and glower under the apparel immediately.
To your surprise, you felt the cloak lift and the sudden heat of his skin waft onto yours. You froze in your spot as his muscular arms wrapped around your torso and pressed your back firmly against his chest.
"Relax, " he muttered, his voice so close to your ears that you practically shivered. I'm not going to do anything, well—" he chuckled in his throat, "—unless you want me to."
"I'm going to kill you now." You muttered.
Kisame hummed before nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck. "Only if your a** is the last thing I get to see."
"Where's my rock?"
His lips quirked into a grin along your smooth skin. You hated to admit it, but he was much warmer than you thought. Any spots your skin grazed against his, it felt as if they were kindled in flames.
The frown fell from your lips, and you found your face and body relaxing.
"That's better." The male mumbled, his thumb caressing your hip and rubbing soothing circles that were rather stimulating.
You didn't say anything, just holding your arms tightly against your chest and hugging yourself. "You know you don't need to touch me like that." You informed him.
"I know." He replied in a low, almost whisper-like voice. "I just couldn't help myself."
Your fingers twitched, extending before you wrapped them around your forearms. "You should stop. It's...distracting."
His thumb ceased its movements before his hand trailed down your leg, his fingertips ghosting over your skin, which resulted in a shiver from you.
"How distracting?" He questioned, warm breath fanning your ear.
You swallowed laboriously. "It makes me a bit...scared." Your words almost couldn't be heard above the storm. "You might hurt me again like that night."
Immediately his actions ceased and his hand lifted from your skin. You didn't expect him to remove his other arm as well and shift your bodies so he rests above you.
The cloak fell from his shoulders and revealed your body. You were quick to shield your private areas with your hands.
"Kisame!"
He didn't say anything as he crawled down so his face reached your legs. He grasped your fragmented thigh and brought his front to it.
His tinted lips pressed against your scarred flesh, glancing up to meet your gaze. Kisame's expression appeared rather serious, and almost daunting.
Your skin ignited under his touch and how close he was to your lower region had you stiffen.
"You know..." His gravelly voice overtook the sound of your thumping heart. "I regret doing this to you." His tongue swept across the skin before kissing the area he licked. "I stopped you from progressing in the ranks." He then sucked lightly on your skin, his grip on your leg tightening as one of his hands reached for your hip to hold firmly. "And scarred your flawless skin."
Tingles surged through your nerves, flaring your skin and exciting your body. Your breathing began to grow low but audible.
Your leg twitched in his hold, which gained his attention. His gaze returned to yours and his intense white optics were almost enchanting.
"Allow me to make it up to you." With careful movements, he set your leg down and returned to hovering above you, hands pressing into the coat behind you. "Let me help the pain go away."
Kisame leaned forward, grazing his sharp teeth along the curve of your throat. "I want to make you forget about it." His lips formed around your collarbone and sucked softly, its tingling pressure causing you to grip onto his shoulders and lightly stroke the gill marks.
"Just tell me what you want, (Y/n)."
You swallowed strenuously.
"Just think of me, (Y/n)."
Your heart thumped audibly in your ears.
"Just say yes, (Y/n)."
Steadily you lifted your hands to reach his face, your thumbs caressed his gill marks as he focused so intensely on your face.
"Yes, Kisame. Touch me, please."
That was all it took for him to do everything he wanted. He kissed you profoundly, wrapping his arms around the small of your back and pushing your body against his.
Careful of his triangular teeth, he attempted to maintain care, but slowly began to lose himself. His lips moved against yours fervently, as if he had been longing for your touch like this for years.
True to his words, Kisame had diverted any thoughts of your fragmented leg away. On that cold stormy night, he decorated every inch of your skin with a reminder of him.
Wet kisses and love bites, all of them adorning your body as if he was jealous of the natural markings that got to stay on you forever.
That mouth soon traveled to other areas, and those calloused large hands caressed other parts of your body.
He was becoming like a starving man that never grew full. More and more, he wanted to connect your bodies together, so you could never forget how his touch drove you wild.
The sounds that he made you reverberate out were music more divine than anything he had ever heard. There was nothing more he wanted to do than to make your moans and mewls a never-ending track.
The man couldn't get enough of your reaction when you reached your climax, gripping onto him like he was your greatest desire you were too afraid to let go of.
His name that fell out of your mouth drove him into an almost primal state, making him mad with lust and passion. More and more, he wanted more, he wanted to give you more.
Kisame didn't stop until he saw the tears falling from the overstimulation and you were begging for him. He didn't need to be persuaded but your broken voice pleading for him to be inside, to be one with you was something he never knew he needed to hear.
You'll never forget how he guided your legs around his hips and leaned forward so his lips pressed against your ear.
He asked again if you wanted him. He asked again if what he was doing was good enough. He asked if you wanted to stop, whispering it in your ear in a breathless tone.
Your mind was already so hazy from everything he had done before, but you knew what you wanted.
You wanted him, you wanted Kisame and nothing else.
His motions were slow, cautious as he finally entered inside your body and conjoined your souls together.
He was caring, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as one hand stroked your hair in a manner to distract you.
And when you finally adjusted, he made sure to keep his promise then.
He was going to be all you could think about: his touch, his smell, his body, his voice, just him.
Nothing else filled your head but the man that drove himself deep inside and skimmed against every sensitive spot in you.
He made you barely able to speak, quivering from his powerful strokes that sent jolts of delight all through your body.
Kisame was extremely attentive as he praised you highly in your ear. Everything you made him feel, he made sure you knew it.
You weren't scared of him anymore.
Not with the way he intimately caressed your skin. Not with the way he pleaded for you to look him in the eyes and let him see how you turned to puddy under him.
The way he touched you, f*cked you, it wasn't about his own enjoyment. Everything was for you and your pleasure.
He didn't just pound inside to reach his high, he started slow and grazed against spots that had you twitch beneath him. His pace only grew when you begged for more, pleaded for him to go harder.
He did exactly as he was told, increasing his speed but stroking inside so deeply. There was nothing the two of you wanted more than just being closer.
But there wasn't any closer the two of you could get with your legs clutching onto his hips tightly, your chest pressing against his.
One of your arms wrapping around his broad torso, nails raking into his tinted flesh and breaking past the skin. His face in the crook of your neck and inhaling your scent with one hand burrowing into the ground to hold his body up.
The other clutching your hand securely in a tight hold, as if he even so much as relaxed, you would fade away.
What were the two of you even talking about again before this happened? You couldn't remember.
Your name was being moaned like a desperate prayer, thanking you for your touch, for your gaze, for your support.
The man above you had your insides fluttering. Butterflies must have been dancing inside your tummy as his pelvis met yours.
You don't even remember how long it was all going on. How many climaxes had you already encountered? How many times had you cried his name?
You don't recall.
That night finally ended with bodies shimmering in a coat of sweat. Kisame's back was riddled with scratches, bleeding from your nails digging into his skin.
His may have looked like he fought a battle but you looked as if you lost one. Shrouded in contusions ranging from all shades of color.
Some from love bites, others from how desperately he held onto your body with such a firm hold.
Kisame made sure all you could think about that night... was him.
꧁𓊈𒆜 ━━━━━━━━━ 𒆜𓊉꧂
That night may have forever been engraved not only into your mind but your body as well. It was something you considered that changed you forever.
Until one day your reality all came crashing down.
"(Y/n)!"
You held out a hand to cease your comrade's movement and covered your mouth. Your whole body hunched over as you forced yourself to hold back the contents of your stomach.
Your head pounded, like thrashing waves against the wall of a cliff. You swayed, unable to put one foot in front of the other.
Difficult to even see, it halted your vision from noticing the crack in the ground, which made you tumble down. You don't know who caught you, you couldn't tell as the deep darkness of your mind took over and you fell into unconsciousness.
Waking up at the hospital that night, you expected to be informed of an illness. Maybe from the storm, you were caught in a few months ago. Or it could just be caused by you overexerting yourself during training.
You weren't particularly nervous about your diagnosis until the doctor revealed the results.
You were pregnant.
If you weren't lying down, you were sure you would have collapsed.
Why are you shocked, that night in the cave, after everything, there should be no surprise, you were with child.
Letting everything settle, you had two major thoughts, you were pregnant, and your child's father was an Akatsuki member.
You hadn't seen him since the night at the cave when you gave up on revenge and started focusing on ranking up from jonin.
Everything made you feel unsettled and overwhelmed. You don't even remember the walk home; you didn't even realize you had arrived until you almost banged into your front door.
You didn't know what to think, how to feel. It all was just jumbled into a big ball of a mess.
Did you even want a kid? Could you provide for them properly? Would the absence of a father be a huge issue?
How infuriating. There were just so many thoughts and so much responsibility that it made you sick. All you knew was that you needed to tell Kisame.
A decision needed to be made and it had to involve the father of your unborn child.
The best way you knew you could possibly get ahold of him was by messenger bird. There was no guarantee that he would even respond.
There had been no contact between the two of you for months. That night in the cave was probably just a one-night thing, something he wished to forget afterward.
Sighing deeply from your thoughts, you sent one out and hopefully, you'll hear back soon.
...
That night a presence was felt in your home, immediately waking you from a deep slumber. Your hands grasped a kuna as you slowly lifted from the sheets of your bed and inched towards your door.
The chakra signature was strong. Sweat dripped down the back of your neck as you swallowed strenuously. Rushing out, the kunai almost struck the person, but they grasped your wrist, spun you around, and pressed your front against the wall of your hallway.
"Calm it down, Guppy."
When you recognized that voice, you relaxed and took a deep breath. Kisame released your body and stepped back so you could turn around to face him.
"What are you doing here?" You questioned and reached for the light switch. The both of you flinched slightly from the sudden bright light appearing above.
"Whatcha' mean?" He questioned back. "You said there was an emergency!"
You raised an eyebrow before glancing at the clock on the wall. "That was only four hours ago! I didn't expect for you to what, drop everything and rush here."
Kisame clicked his tongue and directed his gaze elsewhere, the lightest shade of color dusting his cheeks. "Well, I—" he huffed and placed Samehada against the wall. "I was worried. You wouldn't literally ask for me unless you desperately needed to."
Your shoulders deflated and your heart fluttered slightly. Warmth spread across your face and you had to shift your gaze away.
"Okay." You murmured softly. "We need to talk, follow me."
Leading the 6'3 (195 cm) male to your living room, you could hear your heart thumping in your ears. Your palms became clammy and your knees would have buckled if you hadn't reached the couch.
Kisame didn't sit; he appeared too anxious to move after he stopped in front of your frame. "So—" His fingers twitched by his side. "What is it?"
Swallowing thickly you nodded your head before taking a deep breath. "Kisame," He immediately knew it was about something serious if you said his name.
"I'm pregnant."
At first, it seemed as if the male had no reaction, just standing there as stiff as a rock. But after a minute or two of processing, you watched his animalistic white optics glaze over and become glossy with tears.
"M-My Guppy is gonna have my little guppy's?"
He dropped to his knees in front of you and grasped your wrist in a tight hold. "Please, (Y/n)." He had to take a deep breath to stop the sob that wanted to arise. "Please tell me you're not lying."
His expression appeared hopeful and the crack in his voice indicated he was clearly emotional.
Why were you even worried in the first place?
"It's true, Kisame. We're going to have a child."
Under his breath, you could hear him thanking God. The sight brought a smile to your lips, which grew when he leaned forward, placed his forehead against your tummy, and shut his eyes.
His arms wrapped around your midsection, keeping you close.
"I never had a place in life, never fitting in or knowing what my purpose was. The guilt of betraying those around me, killing my comrades just made me think of myself as worthless and a horrible person." His voice was soft, just barely above a whisper.
You stroked a hand through his midnight blue hair while the other rubbed soothing circles on his muscular back through his cloak.
The man was attempting to hold back tears, but you could feel a few of them dampening your sleeping shirt.
"After everything I've done, I know I'm destined to die a meaningless death. With nobody close to me out of fear I'll have to kill them soon."
You didn't say anything; you were just the support the man needed. He hiccuped slightly before inhaling a deep breath to collect himself.
"Do I..." His voice cracked and he swallowed thickly. "Do I even deserve this, a child, a family?"
"Of course." You replied.
"I don't need to be lied to, (Y/n)."
Playfully you tugged on a lock of his hair before resuming your tender strokes.
"It's kind of hard to lie to the man I love." The words came out smooth and unfiltered.
You heard his breath hitch and felt his arms tighten their hold around your body. "(Y/n)." He murmured and rose his gaze to meet yours.
"I really don't deserve to be loved by you. Not after what I did, not after how I hurt you."
Lightly, you flicked his forehead protector and shook your head. "Don't be ungrateful now. The chance of having meaning in your life is right here, so don't blow it." You stated, lips quirking into a grin.
He let out a bout of boisterous laughter and shielded his wide toothy grin with the back of his hand. His eyes were still glossy so you leaned forward and placed small smooches on his eyelids.
"You know... you're kinda cute when you cry." You told him, sticking out your tongue and holding an eyelid down.
Kisame cocked his head to the side before shooting to his feet, your body in his arms as he slammed you down on the cushion.
His hands burrowed in the cushion by your head, a knee in between your legs as he loomed over. He grinned at you and you reciprocated that smile.
"God, I'm in love with you." He breathed while one of his hands migrated to your face, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.
You raised your arms to wrap around his neck and pulled him closer to you. "If you're going to say such cute things then you really should kiss me."
His grin grew almost ear to ear. "Don't mind if I do."
That hand that graciously touched your face reached down under your shirt to your tummy, and his lips connected with yours. Tenderly, he stroked it. The heat of his hand wafted onto your skin and sent little tingling sensations across your body.
You hummed joyously, running your nails along his back. "I think you'd be a great father," you said between the kisses.
Kisame pulled back just enough so he could gaze upon your face. "You're gonna be an amazing mother, just don't forget about me when the baby comes."
Grinning cheekily you replied in a light tone. "Never. Now kiss me again... please?"
"Continue to act like this and I'm getting you pregnant again after our first child comes."
꧁𓊈𒆜 ━━━━━━━━━ 𒆜𓊉꧂
Welcome to the first baby daddy Oneshot. I hope you all really enjoyed this.
I had planned to make this rally wholesome and you know me, I unconsciously wrote some softcore smut in the middle.
Please show some support by liking/commenting so I can know if you're enjoying it.
If you'd like to request, please do that on the first page under the request arrow, so I don't lose your request in the comments.
꧁𓊈𒆜 ━━━━━━━━━ 𒆜𓊉꧂
↳If you'd like to support me or read 5+ drafts of BD, or my other stories, please consider buying me Kofi. Thank you :)
feat. Bo Sinclair
ᯓ★ Bo likes to leave you out as bait for his next victims. He also finds it sexy seeing you in your role as the helpless, tied-up victim.
Being blindfolded, gagged, and tied to the radiator was a common occurrence for you. Knowing you weren’t really in danger sometimes actually made it fun for you.
Your senses of hearing of smell were all that you could rely on in these moments, and usually they painted you a pretty clear picture of what was happening. Screams echo out in the isolated town, and then the unmistakable iron-like scent of blood fills your nostrils, signaling a death.
It’s quiet for a couple of minutes before you hear heavy boots stomping into the room you’re tied up in, and a wolf whistle sounds from in front of you.
“Shit, darlin’, you look hotter every time I come in here to get you.”
You squint as light fills your eyes, Bo having just removed your blindfold. He steps back, hands on his hips as he eyes you up and down. Your gaze shoots downward and back up at him to signal to him to take the gag out of your mouth.
“Hold on, I just wanna get a good look at you.” He chuckles, licking his lips.
You sigh, letting your head fall back against the wall. You’re not entirely sure what Bo sees in you being covered in filth and left to roast in a sweltering room for hours on end, but to each their own.
As he hums approvingly, his eyes scanning your restrained body, you notice him adjusting himself in his pants. They begin to tent and you try to say something to him but your words are muffled from the gag.
“Alright, alright, let’s hear what that filthy mouth has to say.” Bo concedes, kneeling to remove the gag from your mouth and hand it around your neck.
You glare up at him. “Do you seriously have a fucking boner right now?”
He grins cheekily. “I just can’t help myself around you darlin’.”
You roll your eyes, ignoring the feeling of your cheeks heating up and the arousal pooling in your stomach. Bo could be abrasive, and annoying, and many other not so positive things, but he sure had a way with words that always was a reminder why you subjected yourself as bait for his killings.
“Really though,” he continues, “seeing you all tied up is getting me going.” His calloused hands run up and down your thighs, palming at the flesh and sending a shiver up your spine. You glance up at Bo and see the desire in his eyes, evident in the way that his stare darkens as his pupils expand.
The rusty handcuffs strapped around your wrists bang against the radiator as you try to adjust your position. “Uncuff me so we can fuck, then.”
“Nah,” Bo pulls down your shorts, smirking at the sight of your pussy soaking through your panties. “I think I’ll keep you like this a little longer.”
He buries his face between your thighs and takes in a big whiff of your essence.
Your body jerks up at the suddenness of his actions. His nose bumps into your clit, and you moan. You wish you could reach down and pull him closer, but your arms remain stuck above your head, bound by the handcuffs.
“Shit,” he whispers, using two fingers to rub on your wet slit. “Can’t get enough of this pretty pussy.”
He pulls back his fingers to admire the way they glisten with your wetness, and you practically whimper when he sticks them in his mouth. Your toes curl and you try to pull your body closer to him, but the handcuffs prevent you from moving too far from your spot against the wall.
Bo grins, and returns his attention to your pussy. He tongues your clothed slit and a gasp escapes your lips as you jolt. The fabric is completely soaked thanks to your arousal, sticking to your puffy lips as Bo continues his teasing.
“Nice and wet for me,” he coos against your pussy, the vibrations of his deep drawl causing your walls to flutter around emptiness.
He doesn’t leave you hanging any longer as he detaches your soaked panties from your pussy, pushing them to the side as he dives into you, coating his tongue in your juices.
“Oh, fuck!” you cry out. Your arms instinctively go to move down so that you can grab onto his hair, but the handcuffs and stop you and you sob in frustration. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Your hips buck helpless into his mouth and your hands ball into fists, desperate for relief.
You can feel the way Bo smirks into your pussy, pushing his tongue deeper inside of you. He uses his thumb to play with your swollen clit and you jerk at the touch.
The light stubble on his cheeks scratches into your thighs, but you revel in the roughness, enjoying the light pain it brings you.
Bo hums, the sound muffled against your pussy. “Messy girl,” he teases. His thumb on your clit starts increasing in pace, and you feel your walls contract as your peak reaches closer and closer with his touch.
Bo takes notice of it quickly. “Gonna cum for me already?”
“Yes, yes!” Your restrained hands flex as you buck up into him wildly. “Oh God, yes, please, let me cum!” you babble, tears welling up in your eyes from the stimulation.
“Well, when you’re that desperate,” he murmurs, glancing up at your already fucked out form, “who am I to deny you?”
He pumps his tongue deeper into you, fingers expertly pulling out all kinds of sounds from your lips.
Your orgasm hits you suddenly, your entire body shaking with the force of it. Your breath comes out in broken gasps and your eyes roll back as you allow yourself to bask in the feeling. You squeeze your legs together as your body squirms, pleasure completely washing over you.
In your state of bliss, you barely notice how Bo pulls himself back and furiously tugs down his pants and underwear, his hard cock springing out of its confines.
“Look at you,” he teases, shoving his hand between your thighs and scooping up your arousal. He uses it to lube himself up, fisting his cock, slowly as it begins to glisten with your slick. “All tied up and helpless to stop me.”
His eyes trail over your body like a man starved, breath ragged and cheeks flushed with need. “I can do whatever I want with you and you wouldn’t even be able to stop me.”
You bite your lip. “But I wouldn’t want to stop you.” You slowly spread your legs back open to him, a silent offering of your sopping wet pussy.
Bo’s grin widens and he pounces on you like an animal in heat. His cock pulses with desire, the head red and angry.
“Fuck,” he growls, “Look at what you do to me.” His cock throbs against you, the aching member resting on the pouch above your pussy. He rocks himself against you, the motion wetting your skin.
He holds his cock in his hands and guides it lower, pressing it against your slit. You whimper as he rubs it against your wetness, the head teasingly pushing through your folds but missing your entrance.
“Need you inside,” you beg, making a feeble attempt to wrap your legs around him to pull him closer.
He slaps his cock against your entrance. “Yeah? You need it?”
You nod furiously, tugging on the handcuffs. “Please!”
You yelp as Bo pushes himself inside of you and immediately begins to piston his hips. The loud squelching from your pussy causes your face to heat up, revealing how aroused you are.
He groans, grabbing onto your hips and fucking you into him, fighting against the tug of the restraints that pulls your body taut. “Atta girl, making a mess on my cock. Looks like you were born to do this.”
“Oh God!” you let out with a cry, your head thrown back against the wall, pulse racing as Bo thrusts into you.
“No God here,” he drawls, tightening his grip on you, “only me.”
As he thrusts into you, Bo admires the creamy white ring that envelops his cock, the culmination of your essence and his arousal. The sight gets him even more worked up, his hips rutting into you even rougher than before.
“Can’t do anything but lay there and take it,” he rambles, his cock hitting places so deep it makes you see stars. “You like being all helpless while I fuck you?”
It felt as though he was drilling a hole into you, opening you up wide with his cock. You can barely register his comments as body goes limp, only being held up by his hands. Drool escapes from the corner of your lips as you pant, chest heaving as Bo buries himself deep into your pussy.
“Shit,” he exhales, gritting his teeth, “gonna fucking cum.”
His hips stutter and his fingers press into your skin, no doubt leaving bruises in their wake. You bask in the way his cock pulses inside of you, and you can feel yourself flutter around his member.
“Feel so good, squeezing around me.” Bo’s eyes are squeezed shut and he swallows hard, clenching his jaw as he gets closer to his orgasm. “Gonna cum inside you.”
Your pussy tightens in anticipation at his declaration and it acts as his trigger, Bo letting out a low groan as he spills inside of you.
His thick cum fills you up completely as it shoots out in streams, the heat pooling in your stomach. His cock twitches as he rolls his hips to empty himself inside of you just as your entrance spasms with your second orgasm hitting you.
Bo pulls himself out of you and rests his now semi-hard cock on your stomach. He allows himself to fall forward, his large body covering your own as you both recover from your releases, panting in sync as your breaths mingle with the closeness.
After a minute, you rattle the handcuffs and get Bo’s attention, his eyes shifting up to the restraints. “Can you let me out now?” you ask, voice scratchy from your cries.
He smirks. “Gotta find the key first.”
You try to kick him, but he dodges your foot at the last second, sitting up and chuckling.
“Asshole!”
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