Kissing Fictional Characters

He/They | 21 | Sfw + Nsfw (Minors beware)

[bohrhapsotea]

Welcome to my blog!

A quick introduction post but my name is Nim but I also go by Rhapsody! I'm a trans guy that really likes purple. 💜

Made this side blog dedicated to my self inserts and f/os I self ship with, as well as just my rambles abt em.

This account is mostly SFW but in the cases I do write NSFW stuff, I'll tag it appropriately and cesnor accordingly.

Enjoy your stay! 💜

[msriri030]

Painted Face, Bloodied hands

💬A/n: Simple sweet one-shot of Pierrot x Mobstar! reader because why not. I had writer block and this help me through it 😚

🦝Summary: You were a mobster who were being stalk by Pierrot after help him. You started wondering after get to know him more that starting to develop feeling.

☢️disclaimer: This is base on a 18+ game, The Freak Circus, belonging to @nekoboydreams ! It is amazing in its stroytelling and artwork! Please support them on Itch.io!

Masterlist

It never really mattered if you gained a stalker—came with the territory of being a mobster. But this one? This damn jester? He just wouldn’t stop following you.

It all started a few nights ago, when you spotted some loud-mouthed prick shoving a jester to the ground on the main street. The guy was barking insults, drunk on cheap liquor and inflated ego. Thought it was funny, throwing slurs at some poor worker.

Bad idea.

You never had patience for that kind of behavior—especially not when it was directed at the working class just trying to earn their keep. That circus employee wasn’t bothering anyone. And you? You didn’t like watching people get kicked when they were already on the ground.

The guy never even saw your fist coming.

One second, he was laughing like a jackal. The next, he was on the pavement, curled in on himself, blood leaking from his nose as he coughed out apologies through swollen lips.

“Please, man—please, I didn’t know!”

You were chuckled, low and lazy. Not cruel. Not kind. Just that middle tone that said you weren’t sorry, and you weren’t finished if he didn’t shut up and crawl off.

The circus employee had frozen nearby, wide-eyed, unsure. A faded ruffle collar limp from the scuffle. You turned to him with a small shrug.

“Here. Let me help you.” You extended a hand, casual, like offering aid after violence was part of your daily routine. Maybe it was.

Then, slowly, he took it. And when he stood—

“Damn,” you muttered, blinking up at him. “You’re tall.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, half-laughing as heat crept up your face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude. Just… be careful, alright? Not everyone’s a jackass, but I’d hate to see someone just trying to work get hurt.”

He nodded slowly, eyes studying you like you were something strange he didn’t quite know how to label. He didn’t speak. Just kept looking, unreadable behind the white mask, you assumed, and silence.

You tilted your head. “Cat got your tongue... or is that part of the act?”

Still no answer. But a small smile crept across his lips—just a twitch. And something about the way he looked at you made your gut twist. Not in fear. Not quite. But you knew the look.

It wasn’t gratitude.

It was fascination.

Since then, you’d learned a bit more about him—his name was Pierrot, and he worked for the new circus that had recently rolled into town: The Freak Circus of Horrors. On stage, he played his namesake role with eerie perfection—a silent, sorrow-eyed clown who moved like a ghost and danced like a dream as he threw knives at his assistant. Offstage, he wasn’t much different.

Most people never heard him speak. But you did.

Only when no one else was around would he lean in, his breath ghosting against your ear, and murmur a few careful words—low, soft, like secrets folded in velvet. You weren't sure if it was part of his act or something deeper, but he never raised his voice, never spoke publicly. You'd come to understand that his silence wasn’t shyness—it was control. Precision.

He was strange. Oddly elegant. And unsettlingly observant. 

You also picked up on the fact that he didn’t get along with everyone under the circus tent. In particular, he seemed to harbor a quiet disdain for one of the other performers—Harlequin. You’d seen it in the slight tension of his jaw when Harlequin’s name came up, the way Pierrot’s smile faltered beneath the painted white mask whenever he laughed too loud or got too close.

Whatever history they shared, it was buried under layers of stage lights, and tension thicker than smoke.

Still, he kept showing up—lingering just behind you like a shadow stitched to your heels. He never explained why. He didn’t have to. You were a mobster. You understood obsession when you saw it.

And for some reason… you let him follow.

Lately, though, you found yourself wondering if maybe—just maybe—you were starting to fall for him.

You leaned against the graffiti-tagged brick of an alley wall, the dull orange glow of a streetlamp casting long shadows. A cigarette burned slowly between your lips as the cold air kissed your cheeks. People passed by on the main street, their laughter muffled, distant. You watched a couple walking hand-in-hand—giggling, leaning into each other under a shared scarf.

You imagined, just for a second, if it were the two of you instead.

A mobster and a circus freak. You snorted softly at the ridiculous image. You, in your dark coat and blood on your knuckles. Him, in painted sorrow and silent smiles. Holding hands. Laughing.

It was stupid. Sweet. Dangerous.

Especially now. Your boss was already fuming over the circus refusing to pay the protection fee, and you? You were supposed to be the one keeping them in line. Pierrot’s shadowing you didn’t go unnoticed. The questions were starting to come—about loyalty, about your judgment.

You inhaled deeply and let out a sharp puff of smoke, trying to bury your doubts in the taste of tobacco and ash.

“Smoking isn’t good for you, my dear.”

The words came like a velvet thread, brushing against the shell of your ear.

You stiffened.

Pierrot stood behind you, close enough to feel his breath against your skin. His voice was soft—tender, even—but it sank into your spine like a chill. Before you could turn, he reached forward, plucked the cigarette from your lips, and crushed it against the alley wall with two elegant fingers.

Then he held your chins a beat longer than necessary. His gloved thumb ghosted across your lips, watching you.

Your breath caught. You didn’t look into his eyes right away. You couldn’t.  Because if you did…you weren’t sure what your eyes would give away.

Not yet.  You still wanted to protect him—from your world, from your sins, from the sharp edges of the life you lived. From the parts of you that had long forgotten how to be soft.

“Sorry,” you murmured, stepping back with a tired sigh. “It’s just... stress.”

The lie tasted bitter in your mouth, but it was the only shield you had.

You turned and stepped out into the main street, neon lights flickering above as rain from earlier glistened on the asphalt. Pierrot followed silently, his presence a gentle pulse behind you—never intrusive, always near. His shoes made barely a sound, except the sound of his bells ringing, gliding with the poise of someone who'd made the stage his home.

He watched you. His golden eyes flicked down to your hand more than once, lingering. Hoping. Not demanding.

He wanted to hold it. To intertwine your fingers with his and anchor himself there. He didn’t need grand gestures—just that quiet connection, that little proof that you saw him, too. That you cared.

But he didn’t ask. He knew your world didn’t forgive softness. And yet, in his silence, he screamed devotion.

You glanced back at him just once—just enough to catch the faint blush under his white mask, the longing in the corners of his smile. The way he tilted his head at you like you were the only thing worth watching in the entire city.

Your heart squeezed.

He wanted to claim you. Not in the crude way others might. No—Pierrot wanted to show you off the way a painter unveils his masterpiece. With reverence. With you trembling under him, wide eyes begging. He wanted to belong to you, fully, proudly. And he wanted you to be his.

His partner. His obsession.

You stopped walking. You let the silence stretch. Then—very slowly—you reached behind you.

His breath hitched.You didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. But your fingers opened, waiting.

And like a prayer answered, his hand slid into yours.

Warm. Steady. A perfect fit.

Your thumb brushed over the back of his hand, slow and deliberate. He squeezed once. You felt the shiver run through him.

The city blurred. The noise dulled. The world, for a fragile second, felt safe.

“You shouldn’t follow me,” you whispered.

Pierrot leaned in, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath brushing your skin. His lips ghosted just beside your ear, voice barely audible—like a prayer or a curse wrapped in silk.

“But I’d follow you into Hell,” he murmured.

Your resolve cracked.

It happened before you realized it. A soft, startled sound escaped your throat—a quiet moan that wasn’t meant to be heard. Your chest tightened as heat surged through you, burning under your skin like the flick of a match against paper.

You turned away too late to hide your face. The flush that rose to your cheeks was unmistakable—deep, warm, like the blood-red on Pierrot’s costume.

Pierrot caught it. Of course he did. His expression shifted—no longer playfully sweet, but darkly enamored. He took your hand with a gentle urgency, his gloved fingers trembling just slightly.

Without a word, he guided you around the corner and into a nearby alley. The narrow space between brick walls smelled faintly of old rain and secrets. The kind of place made for things that weren’t meant to be seen.

You opened your mouth to say something—warn him, stop him, lie to him—but before you could speak, he was pressing you gently against the wall. His arms caged you in—not to trap you, but to hold you steady, to keep you from drifting away.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

His breath was uneven, his lips parted, his entire body shaking with restraint. One hand brushed your waist with aching slowness, fingertips barely grazing the hem of your shirt, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch something he so clearly worshiped.

You exhaled sharply, your voice a whisper, “Pierrot…”

He leaned forward—not kissing you. Just hovering. Just waiting. His forehead touched yours, and your breaths mingled in the space between.

You could feel it in him: the war, the ache, the fear of going too far. But you could also feel the pull—the same one tearing at you.

The kind that said: I shouldn’t… but I already have.

And when you finally looked into his eyes—dark, desperate, beautiful—you knew you were already his.

You let out a shaky breath and reached up, fingers brushing along the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. His painted expression softened beneath your touch. He leaned into it without hesitation, like he’d been waiting forever to be held by you.

Your heart raced. Your hand trembled as it slid around the back of his neck, drawing him in. Slowly, deliberately, you tilted your face up, your lips brushing his with agonizing gentleness.

The first kiss was tender—more breath than contact. But the second… the second stole the air from your lungs.

Your mouths met in a fervent clash, hungry and unrestrained. His hands, once so careful, now gripped your hips with a quiet desperation, thumbs stroking the curve just beneath your shirt. He pulled you flush against him, and the heat between you sparked like fire on dry leaves.

You gasped softly when his gloved fingers slid up your spine, pressing into the space between your shoulder blades to keep you close. His tongue traced the seam of your mouth, and you parted your lips for him without hesitation—tasting him, surrendering to the want you’d tried so hard to bury.

Your back hit the alley wall, but you barely noticed. All you could feel was his chest against yours, the slow grind of his body seeking more friction, more closeness. His breath was ragged, panting against your lips as he whispered your name like a prayer between kisses.

You clutched the front of his clothes, anchoring yourself to him as your legs weakened. You could feel the tremor in his frame, the restraint he fought to keep. A low, needy sound escaped you when his mouth found the curve of your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Tell me I’m not dreaming of you, my Dear (y/n).”

You didn’t answer with words. You guided his hand beneath the hem of your shirt, over the warmth of your bare skin. His fingers stilled there, reverent, until you kissed him again—deeper, breathless.

You were both trembling.

“Pierrot…” you whispered, breath trembling as you rested your forehead against his. “You aren’t dreaming... hold me, please.”

Something inside him broke. Or bloomed. You couldn’t tell.

He wrapped his arms around you—tight, desperate, protective—like he could shield you from every horrible thing in the world with the strength of that one embrace. His gloved fingers gripped your back, pulling you into him so tightly you could feel the erratic rhythm of his heart pounding against your chest.

You let yourself melt into him, your hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt. He was solid and warm, but more than that—he felt real. And that terrified you almost as much as it comforted you.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then hovered just beside your mouth. You felt him hesitate—so close, so wanting—but still waiting for you to close the distance again.

And you did.

The kiss you gave him this time was slower, more tender. Not the desperate fire of a few moments ago—but something deeper. Something that felt dangerously close to love.

Your fingers slid into his hair, stroking it gently as he kissed you like you were something sacred. His breath hitched when your hips brushed, and you could feel the tremble in his body again. He was holding back—barely.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he needed the scent of you to survive. “My Dear…” he whispered, voice so soft it barely reached your ears. “I’ve waited so long to be this close.”

You smiled faintly, your hands stroking down his back, fingertips gliding along the subtle lines of his spine. “Then don’t let go,” you murmured. “Not yet.”

And he didn’t.

He held you like you were the only truth he’d ever known in a world full of masks and illusions.

You stayed like that, tangled together in the quiet hush of the alleyway—far from the eyes of the city, far from the masks you both wore in the daylight.

His heartbeat gradually slowed beneath your touch, though he still held you like letting go might break him. You didn’t mind. You needed him just as much—just like this. Steady. Warm. Real.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. His face was flushed, eyes wide and full of a devotion so pure it made your chest ache.

You offered him a small smile, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “We should go before someone sees.”

He nodded reluctantly, his fingers lingering on your wrist like he hated the thought of you slipping away again.

You took his hand. Just for a moment.

It was enough.

And as you led him out of the shadows and back into the cold glow of the streetlights, you knew things had shifted. Whatever this was between you and Pierrot—it wasn’t just an act anymore.

It was the beginning of something dangerous. Something beautiful. Something real.

[melisahoxha009]

Welcome back! Any headcanons for the whole freak show circus with a male reader who's a tailor/fashion designer and loves making clothes for them because it's his way of saying he cares a lot about them? I just find it cute

Sure, let’s do that ❤️

The freak circus x male fashion designer reader

Pierrot

He absolutely loves that his Lord would spend his time making clothes for him, you best believe he keeps every piece of clothing you make for him like it is a national treasure

He stays the most still out of all the boys when you are measuring him many times you have even seen that he has stopped breathing and you need to remind him not to suffocate himself

Literally in war with himself whether he should wear the outfits you make him on stage or not because he loves them, but he also does not want them to get dirty or ruined… and he cannot be held responsible for his action in blind rage when someone ruins something you make

Harlequin

Oh, his dearest is making things for him well isn’t this lovely~ but you’re not doing this for others right? He’s the only one right ? you love him the most right ? You would not want him to be jealous now would you?

Believe me he moves around when you are trying to measure him just so you can continue to stay close to him longer, but we’ll stop if you get too annoyed and might leave… we can’t have that now dearest~

He will absolutely wear an entire outfit with only the clothes you have made for him and show them off to literally anybody willing to look, has pretty much completely discarded his old circus clothes and every time they get damaged he’ll go to you to mend them and stay close to you

Jester

His dear light is spending his precious time making things for him ? Well, isn’t this a delightful surprise~…. You are actually quite talented darling, he means that even if he loves you, he wouldn’t wear something he didn’t like

His dear light really does have a way with his hands… but so does he~ would you like him to show you ? He can promise you will not be disappointed, he could never not satisfy you, dear~

He doesn’t really wear clothes you make for him, but always make sure to wear them in times and settings when he knows they won’t get dirty or damaged, so now you can tell what kind of performance he is going to do simply by what he’s wearing

Ticket Taker

It seems his favourite visitor enjoy putting him in other types of clothing, and he does like the things you make for him they are truly style just prettier… but most importantly made by you~

He will come over and let you measure him any time you want he does enjoy your hands on his body no matter what he may say, you always make sure to include his colours and account for his mask…well aren’t you a dear~

Will probably mostly wear accessories you make for him with his usual clothing even if he loves them he has an image to maintain… and other visitors aren’t exactly as sweet as you so knowing he might not have full control of how those clothing are preserved and gets under his skin

Doctor

It seems his favourite patient enjoys making new scrubs for him, and he does enjoy wearing them. They are certainly very comfortable and beautiful…. So he truly regretted it when he can’t because he doesn’t want them to be stained with the blood of other patients

You don’t have to take his measurements though he knows all of his measurements down to the millimetre… though he will not refuse if you still want to do it, he does enjoy your reaction to his size~

He will wear the clothing you make for him when he is not working with patients and wants to look good, but not really when he is taking care of them… unless it’s you of course~ he wants to make sure you know he appreciates what you make for him

Here it is I hope you enjoy it ❤️

[crisferloid3]

Stargazing ✨

Spanish:

Observando las estrellas ✨

[bohrhapsotea]

Oh yeah, you're getting a polycule ✍️

[likamezz]

as if they were holding your hand

Harlequin

The grip is confident, almost possessive, with fingers clasped tightly together as if they have no intention of letting go. There is energy and impulsiveness in this gesture, as if to say, “I'm holding you, so you're with me.”

Jester

This is not a rough grasp, but a playful intertwining—a light, almost dance-like touch. The fingers are bent gently, as if the gesture is accompanied by a binary smile or bow.

Doctor

The grip is calm and supportive, not squeezing, but holding. The fingers gently wrap around yours, as if checking your pulse or simply letting you feel his beloved patient nearby.

Ticket Taker

Here, the gesture is more formal and gentle. The fingers are not intertwined, but touch each other lightly. It resembles a gallant touch or a polite gesture of accompaniment.

Pierrot

The grip is firm and emotional. You can see the tension in his fingers. The gesture speaks of passion and strong attachment, trying to stay with you longer like this, alone with your touch, as if you might disappear.

[killl-ka]

A freshly painted rose.

[freakcircusofhorrors]

@de-lirio-arts: To pierrot, do you have any cherished memories with harlequin?

Ah, yes, my dear. We used to invent games and find new ways to hunt. It took us quite some time to become good at it.

@margiux-otaku-blog: To pierrot: if you could sleep with MC, would you prefer to sleep on them or have them sleep on you? (Happy birthday TFC and thank you Neko for your work <3)

S-Sleep...w-with...? Are you certain I can? Is this true? May I--? Oh...what a privilege, to be so close. My dearest, I would be more than happy to lay on your bed however you'd like me to~

@reiibleehh: For Pierrot <3 <3 Can you tell us more about how you and Harlequin survived before you met the other members?

Harlequin and I? Ahn, we used to hunt at night, and we were very good at hiding. Once, we were almost caught by a… rather frightening creature! Harlequin went completely pale, and his hands would not stop trembling.

@satire-please: To Pierrot and/or Harlequin: When Pierrot wanted us to come back that night, he mentioned rides. What kind of rides are at the circus?

Would you like to see the rides? That depends greatly on where we are. We have had Ferris wheels, carousels, and even a Viking ship ride before! Most of the time, however, it is the game stalls and prize booths.

@godblessdoppo: To dear Pierrot: What are your fears? Don't say losing me!!!

My… fear? I… I am afraid that you may not like who I truly am.

@zelysia: Yay! Happy anniversary to The Freak Circus! My question for Pierrot: If you hadn't become a circus clown, what would you do for a living to support your daily life? And what is the reason behind that choice? Thank you, I love you so much mwah <3

Working as a baker, making bread and cakes, sounds rather enjoyable. Perhaps I would own a bakery or a small restaurant. I do enjoy cooking and experimenting with new recipes, my dear.

@scneqx: for pierrot, if you could change one thing about your costume what would it be?

In truth, I am quite fond of my outfit. It is comfortable and soft. I might have chosen a different color, but… red suits me best.

@xiny1234: To Pierrot: What's one small comfort item you carry everywhere with you?

I do not believe I have a comfort object, my dear. We moved so many times, and often in great haste due to… accidents. My family has become my source of comfort now. T-That said, I would be delighted to have something from you, should you wish to give me a gift!

@kouwritter: For Pierrot: Hope you have a wonderful day. Can you please tell us a memory with the other circus members (your family) that made you feel so happy and warm knowing you aren't alone?

It was a long time ago, when I was still gradually growing accustomed to the other four. Harlequin and I went hunting, but we were unable to find any food. We returned exhausted and hungry. Yet when we arrived back at our little refuge, the others were waiting for us with food to share. It was such a warm and comforting feeling.

@dandewiondweams: Dearest Pierrot I am a bit curious of your favorite fairytail is and why? Mine is beauty and the best, there's many variations I've stumbled upon and fallen enamored by each one! Perhaps one day we can read and exchange our favorites together!

My favorite? I believe it is called... "The Moon Monster" Ah! I think it may be a story from where I came from. But why do you like Beauty and the Beast, my dear? Does the Beast not frighten you? Being confined to a cage against your will, left alone with a frightening monster…

[skeletons-can-draw-too]

Possessive tenna

[miroimirage]

I kind of want to make an ask Tenna/on a date with Tenna gimmick account here or on twitter, because I love making these sorts of Tenna drawings for people over on Discord...... I might fly too close to the sun and get burnt out though mmmhhhh

What do you think?

[azuzatori]

It's white day soon 🤫

[pipispaints]

Possessive Tenna

He won’t ever let you go again. From now on, you’re his… only his... (Following up on that)

[nervigg]

So nice to see you❤️

[skeletons-can-draw-too]

Tenna and Spamton neo butting heads

(Warning for slightly suggestive?)

[chiwibara]

Mhmm, monster wateroyd

[no1blacksapphirefan]

CRK Self-Aware AU but it's just them being so confused why you constantly tap them in the their cookie profile.

(Can be seen as romantic or platonic, do as you will) ((Reader is unaware that they are aware))

Now I don't know if this is a common thing among CRK players but I love tapping the hell out of my favourite cookies lovingly <33 Imagine the cookies like feeling it and being so confused why, I don't think it'll hurt (At least I hope not) and watching you giggle as they like struggle to say their programmed lines as intended.

Me thinks Burning Spice would kinda like it/enjoy it. I cannot explain why. It's almost like a punch but of course not physically, like an affectionate one. If he ever finds a way out, he'll return the favour and poke you many times to your cheek.

Some cookies like Shadow Milk may take it personally first, he's trying to tell you things!! Who cares if you've heard them all already, what if he decides to say a new one to completely shock you? He eventually grows accustomed to it and learns it's your way to show how much you love him, so he'll let you get away with it for now.

Maybe Black Forest cookie quickly sees it as a loving gesture and gets all giddy knowing that she's one of your favourites out of the array of cookies you have. She's so happy. She may brag to others about it.

Black Sapphire I feel quickly understands it, it makes him more interested in you. His microphone is fixated at you constantly as you do this loving gesture. He finds it almost endearing, even though you believe that they're still some code, unaware of what you're doing and only following programming. The fact you still try to show affection like this is quite entertaining.

Pure Vanilla probably has knows what you're doing as soon as you do it, or finds out quickly as well. He's honoured to be this loved by you he can't help but chuckle as you leave to do other stuff. It's almost like a comfort to him, perhaps you did it when you finished his beast-yeast episode in means to comfort him, he appreciates it a lot.

================

These were just random thoughts based on what I do a lot haha. Feel free to leave your own thoughts in my inbox <33

-#1 Black Sapphire Fan/Listener Out!!

[makotafi]

The world needs more royd content ....

A wip ig