late night post woop woop woop v u v Stomach pain doing better BLESS so wanted to draw something sweet. marleen giving comfort to Pierrot. vuv
Pierrot (c) The freak circus @nekoboydreams
Hi guys, i wanted to inform that i won't be posting too frequently as before as ive gotten sick for the past few days and have been overload with school projects, i probably will be back soon! (／。＼)
𝒶/𝓃: for those about to read this, warning: this is kind of a remake/continuing to my first Harlequin fic with tiny lore changes. don’t worry, I'll write something more positive for him soon, he deserves it. this one’s just been sitting in my notes drafts, so I figured I’d finally share it.
𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: So like. you know that green one? the one with the tendrils and the terrible life choices?
Yeah he's watching you Been doing so for hours.
And he’s totally, completely obsessed with you. He just doesn’t show it. Most of the time. Until he’s within five feet of you. Then he turns into this tangled green mess, unsure what to do with his hands. And his feelings. Especially his feelings.
He doesn't get why you smile at pierrot and just tolerate him. doesn't get why you won't look at him the same way. doesn't get why he's always watching from doorways while someone else gets to touch you.
so he does what he always does:
He takes what he wants. Bon appétit.
𝓌𝒸: 12.8k
Okay so. It's late.
Like late late. The kind of late where 1am turned into 2am turned into "wait when did it become 3:47???" and you just sort of... accepted it. Accepted that sleep is a suggestion, not a rule. Accepted that future you will regret this, but future you is a problem for future you.
Your phone screen is dimmed to the lowest level, however it's still blindingly bright in the dark, a little square of light burning into your face.
You are pretty sure you should be asleep by now, like two hours ago. You are also pretty sure you are a grown adult and capable of making your own decisions, and your decision right now is that you want to watch one more video.
And so you are, comfortable in your bed.
It's a good bed, actually. It's nice and warm. The blanket situation is amazing, the perfect weight and temperature and the very specific "energy" of a blanket that makes getting out of bed in the morning a betrayal of the highest order.
Your phone is warm in your hands from all the tapping, and the battery level is running low, dropping from 14% to 12% and then to 9% as you watch, but you are carefully not paying attention to that. Not paying attention to anything, actually. Not the time, or the battery, or the fact that your eyes are starting to burn a little from staring at a screen for three straight hours.
And you are just. Doomscrolling.
Laughing at the dumb stuff: a dog squeezed into tiny sunglasses, someone tipping off a chair in slow motion, a familiar audio looping in the background of every fifth clip—those three words that you’ve heard a hundred times today, repeating until they lose all meaning, and yet you’re still nodding along, mouthing them without a second thought.
It’s a small, private corner. It’s yours. A little pocket of night where no one asks you to perform, where you don’t have to pretend to be anyone at all. Just you, your phone, the quiet, the warm blanket, and—
Something flickers.
Out of the corner of your eye. By the sliding glass door. At first you don’t react. That’s normal, right? Peripheral vision gets creaky when you’ve been staring at a screen too long. Shapes. Shadows. Tiny motions that aren’t really there. Your eyes are tired. Your mind is tired. It’s fine.
But it happens again.
A moves. A shape. Something tall, too tall, there and gone so fast you can't even tell if you actually saw it or just imagined seeing it.
You look up. Nothing.
Just the empty glass sliding patio door. Just your own tired reflection staring back at you, pale and hollow-eyed in the dark. Just the neighbor's stupid motion-activated porch light blinking on and off again, casting weird shadows across the window that almost—almost—look like something.
You stare for a second. Hold your breath without meaning to. Listen.
All is still. All is quiet.
You are an adult. Adults do not get spooked by their own peripheral vision at—you glance at your phone, the motion making the shadows shift again—3:52 AM??
You roll your eyes. At yourself. At your own stupid jumpy brain. "...the fuck was that," you mutter, barely above a whisper. Your own voice sounds too loud in the quiet. You don't like it. You don't say anything else.
You turn back to your phone. Force yourself to focus on the screen. There's a video of a cat knocking something off a table. Normal. Fine. Good. This is normal.
But something feels off now.
The room feels different. The air feels heavier. The dark corners feel darker than they did five minutes ago, and you're hyperaware of all of them—the space beside your dresser, the gap between your closet door and the wall, the ceiling above your bed where the shadows pool thickest.
You don't look at them.
You refuse to look at them.
Because if you look, you might see something. And if you see something, then it's real. And if it's real, then—
The cat video ends. Another one starts automatically. You don't process it.
You're listening. Waiting.
Telling yourself it's nothing. It's nothing. You're tired and your brain is playing tricks and there's no such thing as—
Something moves.
You don't see it this time. You feel it. That specific prickle on the back of your neck, the one you can't fake, the one that means someone is looking at you.
Your thumb freezes mid-scroll.
You stop breathing. Stop moving.
You think to yourself, "It’s nothing."
You think to yourself, "I’m just imagining this."
As if your own brain is offended by this little trick it’s playing on you. You were having a pretty good day, just living your life, minding your own business, scrolling through your phone because there was a duck wearing a hat on there. And you don’t need this. And you turn your attention back to your phone.
But the duck stays there. Because of course it does.
And then it happens again.
That tingle at the back of your neck. That feeling like someone is watching you. And you just can’t ignore it. Your thumbs pause in mid-air, your breath catches in your throat, and you have this instinctive feeling like you are indeed being watched.
Your eyes flick to the glass door.
There’s nothing there. Just the room. Quiet. But this feeling stays with you. Elusive, like a memory you just can’t shake. And your own wide-eyed reflection staring back at you, wondering what’s wrong with you.
"Okay," you say aloud, because apparently we're doing this now. "Okay. Cool. My brain is just making up shit. That's fine. That's totally normal. Maybe I should go to sleep at a reasonable hour for once in my goddamn life."
You stare at the window.
The window stares back once more. Nothing. Just glass. Just your own tired-ass reflection looking at you like you're the crazy one here. "...Right," you mutter. "Right. Okay. We're done. Bedtime. Actual bedtime. Not phone-bedtime, sleep-bedtime."
You grab your phone. 7% battery. You're ignoring that.
And then—because you're not stupid, and because your brain is already in the trenches anyway, and because there's a very specific pair of green eyes burned into the back of your eyelids every time you blink—
You open your messages.
Find his name. The little green heart emoji next to it.
Harlequin ꨄ︎.
You stare at it for a long moment. The little heart pulses faintly on your screen—some stupid feature you enabled ages ago and never turned off, but right now it feels careful. Intentional. Like he knows you're looking at it.
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Because here's the thing. Here's the thing.
Out of everybody in that little circus family you've somehow gotten tangled up with, there's really only two possibilities for who—or what—might be lurking in the shadows outside your window at damn-near 4AM.
Pierrot would never.
Well… no wait, you take that back—Pierrot did at the point of time when you respectfully ask him to stop doing that so so late at night. As he often show up at your door with food. With a worried expression and those big sad eyes and a gentle "I was thinking about you, my dear, and I wanted to make sure you ate something."
Nowdays, Pierrot would text you first, sweet little messages with too many heart emojis, asking how your day was, did you sleep well, can he make you breakfast. Pierrot is devotion made manifest, soft and smothering and safe in that velvet-cage way of his.
Pierrot wouldn't hide in the dark and watch.
Pierrot would knock now.
But Harlequin?
Dear lord… Harlequin is the type that would absolutely do this.
You think about the past few weeks. About all those times you hung out at the circus, laughing at the Jester's metaphoric comments, letting the Ticket Taker file you somewhere in his mental catalog, the doctor still trying to do the so-called ‘ethical’ experiments on you, letting… Inkyette whisper little secrets in your ear from her perch on your shoulder.
About all that time you spent with him—with Pierrot—letting him cook for you, letting him hover, letting him look at you with those eyes that shift into hearts whenever you pay him too much attention.
And Harlequin?
Harlequin was watching.
He's always watching. From the rafters. From the shadows. From wherever he perches when he's pretending not to care. You'd catch his eyes sometimes, glowing green in the dark, and he'd look away fast—too fast—like he didn't want you to know he'd been staring.
He'd make comments. Sharp little things.
"Spending a lot of time with him lately."
"He cook for you again? Must be nice."
"Don't let him get too attached. He gets... weird."
You thought he was just being an asshole. His usual vibe. Predatory and mocking and pretending he's above all the sentimental bullshit.
But maybe—
Maybe he was jealous.
The thought lands weird in your chest.
Uncomfortable. Because Harlequin doesn't get jealous. Harlequin doesn't want things like that. He wants reactions, sure. He wants to push your buttons and watch you squirm and feel like he's the one holding the power. But he doesn't want you.
Does he?
Your phone buzzes. You nearly drop it.
Harlequin ꨄ︎: You typing or just staring at my name
Harlequin ꨄ︎: I can tell btw
Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. Annoyance. Relief. You type anyway.
You: Did you come to my home or something like that?
You stare at it. Read it three times. It sounds accusatory. It sounds paranoid. It sounds exactly like what a person who is absolutely not being stalked by a green eldritch creature would text at three in the morning.
Send.
Three dots appear. Instantly. Like he was already holding his phone. Like he was waiting.
Harlequin ꨄ︎: Nope
A pause. The dots disappear. Reappear.
Harlequin ꨄ︎: Why? Are u seeing things :3c.
You stare at the little cat face. The little winky cat face. He didn't even put effort into it, it's literally just characters, and yet you can hear the smugness radiating through your screen.
You: Do you think I'm stupid?
Harlequin ꨄ︎: ...
Harlequin ꨄ︎: i mean
Harlequin ꨄ︎: You're texting me at late at night asking if i'm in your house
Harlequin ꨄ︎: So, maybe a little? cute though
Cute though.
Your thumb hovers. You don't know what to say to that. You don't know what to do with the way your stomach flipped at that single word. You're about to respond—something scathing, something devastating, you're gonna destroy this man with words—when a new message pops up.
t's a meme. It's the worst meme you've ever seen. It's that one picture of a weird little guy shrugging with his arms out, all grainy and low-res like it's been screenshotted seventeen times, and someone—him, presumably—has badly photoshopped neon green tendrils onto it.
"...What the fuck?” you whisper.
Your phone buzzes again.
Harlequin ꨄ︎: Anyway
Harlequin ꨄ︎: You should sleep
Harlequin ꨄ︎: You look tired
You read that five times. Like, wait—you look tired. He's not even here. He just said he's not here. You texted him, he didn't text you first, there's no way he knows what you look like right now unless—
You look at the window. Nothing. You look at the ceiling. Nothing.
You look at the dark corner by your closet where the shadows are a little too thick. Something green pulses, faintly, and then goes still.
"...Fuck this," you say.
You turn off your phone. Shove it under your pillow. Yank your blanket up to your chin like it's armor.
Harlequin ꨄ︎: goodnight little human
Harlequin ꨄ︎: sweet dreams
Harlequin ꨄ︎: try not to think about me too much
Harlequin ꨄ︎: (jk think about me a lot) <3
The phone buzzes against your chest. You don't look at it.
You definitely don't smile. You definitely don't think about neon green eyes and a jagged grin and a voice like static and warmth.
It's 4:13 AM. You're going to sleep. There's a soft sound from somewhere above you—a shift, a breath, the quiet creak of something settling into the rafters you do not have—and you pull the blanket over your head.
Tomorrow... yeah, you'll deal with this tomorrow.
Sleep comes slow. The stubborn kind. The kind where you're aware of every breath, every movement of the blanket, every tiny sound in the room that definitely wasn't there before.
It's just you. Only the dark, when the world seems to be pausing, holding its breath. You examine the wall, then the ceiling, then the inside of your eyes when you can finally manage to keep them closed.
Thoughts drift. That weird shape in the corner. The glow you could've sworn you saw. The way his voice sounded through your phone—sharp and amused and somehow warm despite everything.
Stupid, you think. This is so stupid.
Your breathing becomes easier. The tension in your shoulders eases slightly. The grip on the blanket relaxes. And in the pause between one thought and the next, you fall asleep.
Click.
The sliding glass door does not slide. It glides. Quietly, smoothly, as if it never really stayed shut, as if it has been waiting for permission to open. A breath of cold air comes in, just enough to disturb the curtain. The curtain moves up, drifts, and comes back down.
And with that breath comes something else.
The room is empty of sound, of footprints, of creaks and rustling. Just the presence of weight, of something that wasn’t there before. The air thickens, sharpens, full of something that sends the hairs on the back of your neck up, even as you succumb to sleep.
From the darkness near the window, a shape emerges. Tall, lean, moving with a fluidity that is completely, utterly wrong for a human space. No wasted motion, no hesitation. Just smooth, fluid motion. Every step is precisely where it’s meant to be: deep in the shadows.
He doesn’t walk into the room. He sort of... oozes. Spills. Moves with an absence of need for permission that’s almost palpable.
The grey skin glints with a faint sliver of moonlight. Not a dull grey, but alive. Breathing. Shifting. Adorned with markings that seem almost purposeful, until you try to examine them, and they degenerate into chaos.
And then the green. Oh, the green.
It glows softly in the dark, like a neon pulse that throbs like a visible heartbeat. Delicate, living tendrils sprout from his shoulders and spine, moving with a life of their own. They seem to be drawn to the warmth of the room, to the bed, to you.
They don't touch. Not yet. They just... test.
Curious. Hungry.
His face is sharp angles and sharper grins even in repose. A mouth that seems designed to smile—wide, jagged, full of teeth that catch the light. Eyes that reflect like an animal's when he tilts his head just right.
He stops at the foot of the bed.
He observes your breathing.
His tendrils drift closer—one loops lazily around the bedpost, another curls toward the edge of the blanket, a third hovers inches from your ankle, feeling the warmth without making contact.
For a long time, he just stands there.
Observing. Cataloguing. Memorizing.
The way your face relaxes in sleep. The way your fingers twitch sometimes, chasing dreams. The way your chest rises and falls with that stupid human rhythm that means you're alive and soft and breakable and his to watch, apparently, because he's here, isn't he? At 4AM. In your room. Like an idiot.
His grin softens. Just a fraction. Just enough that if you were awake, you'd probably choke on your own tongue trying to process it.
One of his tendrils—the bold one—finally touches.
Just your ankle. Just the barest brush of cool, smooth something against your skin.
You move, just a bit. Mumble something unintelligible.
He freezes.
The tendril retreats as though burned.
And then—because he is what he is, because he cannot help himself, because the night is quiet and you are sleeping and no one sees him in his weakness—
He leans down. Inches, and a little more. His mouth is close to your ear, his breath a chill against your skin. His voice is the same two-toned static as before, but lower, softer.
"You really didn't think I'd come, did you?"
A pause. His tendrils pulse brighter. "Stupid little thing.”
Not cruel. Not mocking. Just... fond. Reluctantly, impossibly fond. He straightens. Looks at you one more time—commit you to memory, every detail, every breath. He straightens. Looks at you one more time—commit you to memory, every detail, every breath.
And then he just... stays there.
Standing at the foot of your bed like an idiot. Like he doesn't have places to be. Like he isn't a predator who should be hunting or lurking or doing literally anything other than staring at a sleeping person like a creep.His tendrils drift aimlessly. Uncertain. They don't know what to do either.
What are you doing, he thinks.
What is this. What is wrong with you.
You move in your sleep. Mumble something. Your hand moves—reaching for something, maybe—and lands on the empty space beside you. His tendrils all twitch at once.
That space. That empty space. Right there. Next to you. Warm.
No. Absolutely not. He's not doing that. He's not that pathetic.
He's already leaning forward. His body moves before his brain catches up—one knee on the bed, then the other, weight pressing down on the mattress, dipping it just slightly. He hovers over you for a moment, arms braced on either side of your sleeping form, tendrils curling inward like they're trying to hold something.
Stop, he tells himself. What are you doing. Stop.
He doesn't stop.
He lowers himself, just a little. Not enough to touch—just enough to feel. The warmth radiating off you. The slow, steady rhythm of your breathing. The way your face is so relaxed, so unguarded, so completely unaware that there's a monster in your bed.
Why are you like this, he asks you silently.
Why do you make me like this.
You don't answer. Obviously. You're asleep. How Rude.
You're so warm. And he's—he's always cold. White greyish-skin and cool to the touch, like something that shouldn't exist in sunlight. He can feel the difference where your body heat seeps into the air between you, can feel it aching in a way he doesn't have words for.
He wants to curl into it.
He wants to hate that he wants to curl into it.
How come, he thinks, watching your face, cataloguing the way your lips part slightly when you breathe, how come you never want to pay attention to me?
It's not fair.
He's right here. He's been right here since you stumbled into the circus, since you first looked at Pierrot with those stupid soft eyes, since you started treating that mournful bastard like he was something special. Like he was worth your time. Like he deserved your warmth.
Pierrot.
That loyal guard dog. That walking tragedy. That sentimental mess who can't go five minutes without mentioning you or cooking you something or looking at you like you're the answer to prayers he stopped believing in.
What does he have that Harlequin doesn't?
Faithfulness? Please. Harlequin could be faithful. He could be so faithful. He'd tear apart anyone who looked at you wrong. He'd—he'd learn to cook, maybe. Probably not. But he'd consider it.
Unexpected energy? He's made of unexpected energy. He's in your ceiling. He's in your bedroom. He's literally pressing down on your mattress right now like an absolute fool. If that's not unexpected energy, what is?
And his aesthetic—his green—is objectively superior. Neon and glowing and alive. Not whatever depressing washed-out red Pierrot has going on. Not that mournful pink that Columbina left behind like a curse.
Green is better. Green is him.
So why don't you look at me like that?
He's not jealous. He's not jealous. That's ridiculous. He doesn't get jealous. He's Harlequin. He's the predator, the one who takes what he wants.
He doesn't wait to be chosen.
(He's been waiting his whole life.)
His face scrunches up. A pout. An actual, genuine pout—lips pushing out, brow furrowing, the whole thing. If anyone from the circus saw him right now, he'd never live it down. The Doctor would study this expression. The Jester would’ve scolded him like always. Pierrot would try to stab him
Stupid, he thinks at you. Stupid human.
Stupid warm human with your stupid face and your stupid kindness and your stupid way of looking at everyone except me.
One of his tendrils has wrapped around your wrist while he wasn't paying attention.
He doesn't move it. He leans down. Slow. Careful. His face hovers over yours for a moment—close enough that if you opened your eyes, you'd be nose-to-nose with him. Close enough that he can count your eyelashes if he wants to.
It's not like a human tongue. It's longer. Forked. Green, That weird dual quality that matches his voice, split at the tip and moving like it has its own curiosity. He drags it across your neck. Just above your pulse point. Just below your jaw. A wet, slow glide that leaves a cool trail on your warm skin.
You stir. Mumble. Your brow furrows for just a second.
He freezes. You settle.
And he—he grins. That sharp, jagged, terrible grin that never reaches his eyes except—except right now, maybe it does. Just a little.
"Stop thinking about me," he whispers against your skin, voice low and teasing and fond in a way he'll deny until his last breath. "I can hear it, you know. All that brain noise. 'Oh, Harlequin this, Harlequin that, why won't he leave me alone—'" He flicks his tongue against your pulse point again. Quicker this time. Playful.
"I'm not leaving you alone. Get used to it."
You move. Roll slightly onto your side.
His tendrils rearrange themselves around you like they've done this a thousand times. Like they belong here.
He doesn't correct them. Because the warmth of you—goddamn, the warmth—sinks into him through every point of contact. Your wrist where a tendril's wrapped. Your ankle against his knee. The air between you thick with your scent, your sleep-soft presence, your you-ness.
His mouth waters. Literally. Physically. He has to swallow because suddenly there's too much saliva and not enough control and why does this keep happening around you.
You look tasty, he thinks, and then immediately tries to un-think it.
Too late.
Because now he's looking. Really looking. At the curve of your shoulder where your shirt slipped down. At the soft skin of your neck where he just—where his tongue just—where he can still taste you if he focuses hard enough.
He focuses too hard. Tasty, his brain supplies again, unhelpfully. So tasty. That little bit of skin right there, the place where your pulse is, imagine just—
No. Stop…. please.
His eyes drag over you like a meal. And maybe that's what you are, in some primal part of his brain that doesn't understand wanting versus hungering. They've been the same thing for so long. For his whole existence. Wanting meant consuming. Wanting meant having, completely and totally, until there was nothing left to want.
You shift again. Your shirt rides up just a little. A strip of skin at your waist, soft and—
He can imagine biting it.
Just a little. Just enough to taste. Just enough to leave a mark that says mine in a language older than words. The curve of your hip, he thinks, and his tendrils tighten. The softness of your thigh. The way your neck curves into your shoulder, that spot right there where you'd arch if someone—
He swallows again.
His mouth is dry now. How is his mouth dry. He was just salivating. Make up your mind, body.
You'd be so warm inside, the thought comes, unbidden. So soft. So—
He cuts it off violently.
No. No no no. That's not—he's not that.... Not anymore.
He's not the famine version of himself. He's not the monster who made decisions based on hunger. He's better now. He has control now.
Remember the kitchen, he tells himself. Remember watching. Remember how that felt. It's a unnecessary memory to pull up right now. But it's also—it's something. Something that isn't just raw, consuming want.
Like It was just a random day.
You came over to the circus—not even to see him, obviously, never to see him—because you found some recipe in an old book and you thought Pierrot would love to help you make it.
Harlequin watched from the doorway.
Hidden. Always hidden. That's where he belongs when you're with him.
You and Pierrot in the kitchen. You laughing at something. Pierrot with that soft, mournful smile that somehow looks happy when he's around you. His hands guiding yours as you chop something. His voice low and gentle as he explains some technique.
Look how well they work together, Harlequin thought bitterly. Look how natural this is. Look how much you like him.
He's banned from the kitchen. Permanently.
All from one mistake. One tiny mistake involving a grease fire and a curtain and okay, maybe it wasn't tiny, maybe the Ticket Taker still brings it up sometimes, whatever. The point is: Harlequin can't cook. Can't be in the kitchen. Can't do this with you.
So he watched.
And he learned.
The way Pierrot stood behind you. Close. Chest almost to your back, arms reaching around to show you something on the counter. The way you leaned into him without even noticing. The way his head dipped to speak near your ear, voice soft, breath warm.
Harlequin remembers all of it.
I could do that, he thought. I could be that close. I could—
Now, in your bedroom, with you asleep and warm and right there—
He moves.
Slowly. Carefully. He shifts his weight until he's behind you on the bed, chest to your back, mirroring that kitchen position exactly. His tendrils keep their places—around your wrist, your waist, your ankle—but now his arms are free.
He wraps them around you.
Pulls you back against his chest.
Your body fits against his like it was made for this. Your warmth seeps into his cool skin. Your breathing continues, steady and unaware, while his heart—if he had one, if it worked the same way—would be pounding. He dips his head. Lets his mouth hover near your ear.
Just like Pierrot did. Just like he watched.
"See?" he whispers, so quiet it's barely sound. "I can do this too."
But it's not the same.
He knows it's not the same.
Because when Pierrot touches you in the kitchen, you smile. That bright, genuine, full-faced smile that makes your eyes crinkle and your whole face light up. You lean into him. You trust him.
When Harlequin touches you—
He's tried. God, he's tried. Those moments when you're both in the same room and he accidentally brushes against you, or when he "needs to get past" and his hand lands on your lower back, or when he's just curious about how you’ll react if he touch your sleeve—
Your reaction is different.
You look back at him. That's the same. But your expression?
Not bright. Not genuine. Your smile is smaller, tighter, careful. Your cheeks puff out sometimes—just a little—like you're annoyed. Like you're tolerating him instead of enjoying him. Like he's something you have to deal with instead of someone you want.
It's not fair, he thinks, holding you now, feeling you not react because you're asleep and can't pull away. It's not fair that he gets the smiles and I get the—the puff. The annoyed face. The tolerance.
He wants your brightness.
He wants your faithfulness… your tastefulness…
He wants you to look at him the way you look at Pierrot—like he's something good. Something worth being soft for.
His lips touch your neck, not with his tongue but with a soft pressure, almost ceremonial in its tenderness. He straightens back enough to look at the place where he just kissed you, already beginning to show color, to show pink. Possessiveness stirs inside of him.
He does it again, moving higher this time—just under your ear, and then lower, where your neck meets your shoulder. And then—because he can’t help it, and you’re right there and you’re warm and you smell like everything good in the world—
He bites.
Not hard enough to wake you. Not hard enough to break skin. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to leave a mark. His teeth sink in for a second, maybe two, and then he releases, and—
There.
A bruise. A hickey. A little purple-green mark that says I was here.
He presses his lips to it immediately. Soothes it. Kisses it like an apology he doesn't mean. Then he does it again. On the other side of your neck. On your collarbone where your shirt slipped. On your shoulder, your pulse point, that spot behind your ear that makes people shiver.
By the time he stops, there's a trail of them. Small and dark against your skin. Hidden mostly, where clothes will cover, but there. Present. His.
He breathes you in.
God, you smell good. Not like anything he can name—not flowers or food or whatever humans usually describe. Just... you. Warm and soft and alive. Your skin has a scent underneath whatever soap you use, something base and human and intoxicating.
He buries his face in your hair. Inhales deeply. Makes a sound—low and pathetic and needy—that he would never, ever admit to.
This is perfect, he thinks. This is so perfect. You're so perfect. Why won't you look at me like this when you're awake? Why won't you—
His arms tighten around you.
His tendrils pulse brighter, faster, responding to emotions he can't name. He feels pathetic. He feels desperate. He feels like some lovesick idiot pressed against the back of a sleeping person, leaving marks like a territorial animal, begging in a language he doesn't speak for something he can't articulate.
"Just—" he whispers against your hair, voice cracking slightly. "Just look at me. When you wake up. Just—once. Like you look at… him."
The words hang in the air.
Pathetic. Needy. Wrong.
He should leave. He knows he should leave. But you're so warm and you smell so good and his body is doing something stupid that he absolutely did not sign up for.
He feels it happening before he can stop it. That familiar ache. That pull. The way his body responds to proximity, to warmth, to you pressed against him like you belong there. It's not his fault. It's biology. Or whatever passes for biology in a body like his.
But shit, the timing.
He's hard.
Painfully, obviously, stupidly hard, and you're right there, and he's pressed against your back, and if you woke up right now you'd feel it, and he doesn't know if he'd be mortified or if he'd just—if he'd just take—
He pulls back slowly. Carefully. Every movement deliberate, controlled, quiet. His tendrils untangle from you one by one, reluctant, lingering. He watches your face the whole time—checking for any sign of waking, any look of awareness.
Nothing. You're still out. Still soft. Still oblivious to the effect you have on him.
He sits up. Swings his legs off the bed. His breathing is shallow, controlled, frustrated.
This is your fault. This is entirely your fault.
There's a chair next to your bed. Old thing, wooden, piled with clothes you haven't folded yet. He moves it just slightly—just enough to face the bed—and lowers himself into it.
His eyes stay on you. Always on you.
His hands move to his uniform. The fastenings are familiar—he's done this a thousand times alone, in the dark, thinking about nothing. Thinking about no one.
This is different.
His face is flushed. He can feel it. The heat creeping up his white-grey cheeks, displaying over his mask, spreading up his face, making him look almost—almost human in the dim pre-dawn light.
He unfastens his pants. Pulls himself out.
His cock is—fine. It's fine. It's him. Long and flushed darker at the tip, already leaking because of course it is, because he's been pressed against you for hours and his body has been screaming the whole time. He wraps a hand around himself. Pumps once. Twice. His eyes drag over your sleeping form—the curve of your hip, the marks on your neck, the way your lips part just slightly when you breathe.
This is wrong. He knows this is wrong.
His jaw tightens. His hand speeds up.
He's not like Pierrot.
Pierrot would did the same, same setting difference scenario—yet Pierrot shows he’s gentle. Pierrot would court you properly, bring you breakfast, wait for you to come to him. Pierrot is the type to do things the right way, the soft way, the way that makes you smile at him.
Harlequin is in a chair next to your bed the earliest of mornings, jerking off while you sleep, trying to be quiet and failing.
The thought makes him irritated. The irritation makes him harder.
Such a vicious cycle.
His hand moves faster. Rough. Impatient. He's not doing this to enjoy it—he's doing this so it ends. So he can leave. So he can stop feeling like this—like some desperate, pathetic creature who can't control himself around you.
But god, you're right there. Your neck. Your marks. Your warmth. The way you curled toward him even in sleep, like some part of you knew he was there, like some part of you wanted—
No. Stop. He's not doing this.
(He's doing this.)
His breathing gets uneven. Little huffs through his nose. His jaw is clenched so tight it aches. His hand is a blur, and he's leaking, pre-cum slicking the way, making everything wet and messy and wrong.
A sound escapes him.
Giving… quiet, high and embarrassing.
He freezes for half a second—checking, always checking, making sure you didn't hear—but you're still asleep. Still soft. Still completely unaware that he's falling apart three feet away from you.
He keeps going.
More sounds escape. Little moans, bitten off. Whines he can't quite suppress. His tendrils are pulsing erratically, bright in the darkness, responding to sensations he can't control.
Just cum, he tells himself. Just cum so you can leave. So you can stop being like this. So you can—
A thought cuts through.
I'm going to have to watch you choose him.
The thought hits him like a physical blow. His hand stutters. His pace breaks. He has to stop for a second, just breathe, because—
Because it's true, isn't it?
You're going to choose... Pierrot.
You already have chosen Pierrot. The smiles. The kitchen. The way you look at him like he's something precious. The way you never look at Harlequin like that.
He's going to have to watch.
Every day. Every interaction. Every instant of time spent with that melancholy, loyal, perfect guard dog who loves you just as much as he loves his patrol. He’ll watch you find happiness with somebody else. With his brother. With the one person he cannot even begin to hate properly because hating Pierrot means admitting the real reason for his anger.
And he’ll have to pretend that everything is fine. He’ll have to let his own emotions loom over him, night and day.
Pretend he doesn't care.
Pretend he isn't sitting in a chair, hard and desperate and pathetic, jerking off to the thought of you while you sleep three feet away, marked with his bites, smelling like him even though you'll never be his.
His hand moves again. Faster. Rougher. Angrier.
The sounds he makes are pathetic—little moans, broken whines, his breath hitching in ways that would destroy him if anyone heard. His hips thrust up into his own fist like he can pretend it's you, like he can pretend you'd ever touch him like this, like he can pretend you'd ever want to.
But it's not enough. It's never enough.
His hand works himself—grey skin flushed darker, that same neon-green pulsing everywhere, tendrils writhing against the mattress—but his eyes are on you. Always on you. Sleeping so peacefully, so unaware, your chest rising and falling in that rhythm he's memorized.
I could, he thinks. I could just—
One of his tendrils moves before he tells it to.
It drifts toward you. Curious. Testing. It slides under the blanket—just the edge, just a little—and touches your calf.
You don't move.
The tendril wraps around your leg. Gently. Just holding. Another one follows. Then another. They're so careful, these parts of him that can't lie, that don't know how to be cruel when it comes to you. They slide under the blanket like they're asking permission, like they're hoping you'll wake up and tell them to stop.
You don't wake up. And then they lift.
Your body rises off the mattress. Slow and smooth, like you're floating. The blanket falls away, pooling around your waist, then your hips, then—
Oh. No shorts. No pajama pants.
Nothing but—Is that a shirt? An oversized shirt? It's bunched up around your stomach from the movement, leaving everything below completely bare. Your legs. Your hips. The soft space between them that he's imagined a thousand times but never seen.
His breath stops. His hand stops. Everything stops.
You're suspended in the air, held by his tendrils—wrapped so carefully around your thighs, your waist, your ankles—and you're just there.
Open. Exposed. Perfect.
The green of his tendrils glows against your skin. Pulses faster. Responding to him, to this, to the sight of you like this. His mouth is dry. His hand is still wrapped around himself, but he's not moving. Can't move. Can't do anything except stare. Just one taste, something whispers. Just one. To see. To know. To have.
He's on his knees before he realizes he's moved.
Between your legs. Kneeling on the mattress like some kind of supplicant, like someone praying. His tendrils hold you steady—keep you exactly where he wants you—and he just... looks.
You're right there. Warm. Soft. Yours, if only he could figure out how to make you see it.
One of his tendrils moves your legs wider. Just a little. Just enough.
He leans in.
His tongue—that long, forked, curious thing—darts out and touches your thigh. Right near where you're hottest. Right near where he wants to be.
You shiver. Just a little. Just a twitch of muscle, a soft sound in your sleep. Not waking. Not quite.
He freezes. Waits.
You settle. And he goes back in.
One lick becomes two. Two becomes more.
He starts on your thigh—just tasting, just testing, leaving little marks with his teeth that match the ones on your neck. Each bite is gentle. Reverent. His tongue soothes over them immediately, like he can't stand the thought of hurting you even a little.
But he keeps going. Closer. Closer.
His tongue finally—finally—touches where you're hottest. Where you're wettest. And god, you are wet. For him? Because of him? He doesn't know. He doesn't care. You're wet and you're right here and he can taste you.
The sound he makes is embarrassing.
Full-on moan. Face buried against you. Tongue pressing in, tasting everything, devouring in a way that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with want.
You taste like—he doesn't have words. Like warmth. Like you. Like something he'd burn the world down to have again. His tongue works you open. Forked tip exploring, pressing, learning every part of you. He licks long stripes from entrance to that little spot that makes your hips twitch, then focuses there, then goes back, then—
He can't stop. He won't stop.
His nose presses against you. His mouth is everywhere. He licks and sucks and leaves tiny bite marks on your inner thighs, your hips, the softest parts of you. His tendrils tighten—not enough to hurt, just enough to hold—and he moans against you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.
Which, right now. You are. You are.
You're so wet. From him, from yourself, from the way your body responds even in sleep. He can feel it on his tongue, on his chin, on his face. He doesn't care. He wants more. He wants all of it.
His hips are grinding against the mattress now, still jerking himself off—pathetic, desperate, needy—because he can't stop touching you long enough to touch himself. Can't stop tasting you long enough to do anything except be here, exactly like this, exactly where he's always wanted to be.
This, he thinks, drunk on you. This is what I wanted. This is what I needed. This is—
"...Harlequin?"
His face snaps up. You're looking at him.
Half-asleep. Confused. Hair a mess, eyes barely open, body still suspended in the air by his tendrils like some kind of dream you haven't fully processed yet.
But looking at him. Right at him.
And your expression—
It's not angry. It's not annoyed. It's not that little puff of tolerance he's used to. You just look... confused. Sleepy. Soft. His face is covered. In you. In evidence of exactly what he was doing. His chin is wet. His lips are shiny. His eyes are wide and panicked and desperate in a way he can't hide.
For one long, horrible, wonderful moment—
Neither of you moves.
Oh no. Oh no. He's been caught.
You're looking at him like you don't even understand what's happening yet, and he has approximately 0.5 seconds to decide whether to:
A) bolt out the window and never speak to you again
B) pretend this is normal
C) lean back in and see what happens
His tendrils haven't let you go. They're still holding you open. Right where he can see everything. Your eyes are getting less confused and more aware.
"..." He opens his mouth to say something—he doesn't know what, maybe 'this isn't what it looks like' even though it's exactly what it looks like—and your voice, still rough with sleep, cuts him off:
"Did you just—were you—"
You look down at yourself. at him. at the mess on his face. back at yourself.
"Oh my god."
He should say something. He really should say something. instead, one of his tendrils—the absolute traitor—gives a little wave, like a hello. At this exact moment.
He wants to die. Like actually. Actually wants to die. Wants the mattress to open up and swallow him whole. Wants to dissolve into green mist and never face another living being again. His face is covered in you. His tendrils are still holding you open. You're looking at him with those sleepy, confused eyes that are slowly, terribly becoming aware—
He opens his mouth. To say what? He doesn't know. An excuse? A joke? A really, really creative lie?
"I can explain—"
"Keep going."
His brain stops. Literally. No thoughts. Empty. Void.
You're looking at him—face flushed even in the dim light, cheeks pink, eyes barely open—and you just... you just...
"...What?"
It comes out strangled. Confused. Absolutely not smooth or predatory or any of the things he's supposed to be.
You move in his tendrils' grip. Open your legs wider. Wider. An invitation… wel more like a demand. Your hand reaches down—trembling, sleepy, desperate—and tangles in his hair. Black curls slipping through your fingers. Pulling him closer. "Keep going," you say again, voice rough with sleep and want. "Please. Just—please. Don't stop."
Please. You said please.
You begged. For him.
It takes a second to register. A full, stupid second where his brain just... buffers. Trying to process that you—you, who always looks at him with that annoyed little puff, who tolerates him instead of wanting him, who smiles at Pierrot like he's sunlight—
You want this. You want him.
The smirk comes automatically. Defense mechanism. Cover-up for the fact that his heart—if he had one—would be exploding right now. "Ohhh," he says, dragging the sound out, voice sliding back into that teasing, predatory purr. "Look at you. So desperate. Couldn't even let me finish explaining before you started begging—"
You tug his hair. Hard. He groans.
"Less talking," you mumble. "More—that."
His grin widens. Jagged and sharp and genuine in a way he can't help. "Bossy little thing."
He goes back down.
His mouth finds you immediately—like he never left, like he's been dreaming of this exact moment, like every taste before was just practice for now.
He licks into you like he's starving.
Because he is. He's always been starving for you. For this. For the way your breath catches when his tongue presses deep, the way your hips try to move even though his tendrils hold you still, the way your fingers tighten in his hair and hold on.
You taste even better now that you're awake. Better because you want it. Because the sounds you're making are for him, because of him, because he's finally doing something right.
His tongue works you open—forked tip exploring every part of you, learning what makes you twitch, what makes you gasp, what makes your whole body shake.
And you are shaking. God, you're shaking.
Your legs tremble around his head. Your stomach clenches. Your hand in his hair pulls him closer, harder, like you're afraid he'll stop.
He won't stop. He'll never stop.
He can die here. This is fine. This is how he goes—between your thighs, tasting you, finally having you—and he'll consider it a good death.
"Fuck," you breathe. "Fuck, Harlequin, your tongue—"
He moans against you at the sound of his name. Actually moans. Vibrations running through you, making you shake harder.
Your hips press up. Trying to get more. Deeper. Everything. "I need—" you start, then cut off with a gasp when he does something particularly cruel with the tip of his tongue. "I need you to—"
He pulls back just enough to speak. His chin is soaked. His lips are glistening. His eyes are wild.
"Need me to what, little thing? Use your words."
You glare at him. It's less effective when your face is that flushed and your eyes keep trying to roll back.
"Fuck me," you say. "With your tongue. Just—fuck me already."
His eyes widen. Genuine surprise. He wasn't expecting that. He wasn't expecting any of this, but especially not that, especially not you begging for it, especially not—
He shakes it off. Quick. Cover it with a smirk.
"Was gonna do that anyway," he says, like he's not internally screaming. "Keep up, little thing."
And then he's back.
His tongue fucks into you like it was made for this. Maybe it was. Maybe he was. Maybe every part of him—the sharp edges, the jagged grin, the desperate hunger—was designed specifically for you.
It's not the longest tongue in the circus. He knows that. Pierrot's is longer. The Jester's too, probably. But his is experienced. His has spent years learning, watching, cataloguing. His knows exactly where to press, how to curl, when to pull back and when to push.
He uses all of it.
Every trick. Every technique. Everything he's ever imagined doing to you, he does now. He licks into you rough and deep and hungry, moaning against you like you're the only thing sustaining him.
One of his hands—when did he start using his hands?—reaches down to jerk himself off. He can't help it. Can't stop touching himself while he's touching you, while he's in you, while you're shaking and gasping and saying his name like a prayer.
His movements are desperate. Sloppy. His fist works himself in time with his tongue—in, out, in, out—and he's making sounds he'll never admit to, broken little moans against your skin.
But he can't stop watching you.
Your face. You're ruined.
That's the only word for it. Completely, utterly ruined. Your eyes are hazy—half-lidded, unfocused, rolling back every time he does something right. Your mouth is open, little gasps and moans falling out like you can't help it. Your whole body is flushed, warm, twitching under his touch.
He can see it building. The way your stomach tenses. The way your thighs try to close even though his tendrils won't let them. The way your hand in his hair goes from pulling to clinging, like you need something to hold onto.
This is me, he thinks, drunk on the sight of you. I'm doing this. Me. Not Pierrot. Not anyone else. Me.
You're so warm. So perfect. So his, in this moment, in a way he never thought he'd have. He can feel himself getting close. Too close. But he can't stop—won't stop—not until you—
"Harlequin—"
Your voice breaks on his name.
"I'm—I'm gonna—"
He doubles down. Tongue pressing deeper, curling, relentless. His hand moves faster on himself. His eyes stay locked on your face, on the way your expression shatters—
You come with a sound that's half-moan, half-sob.
Your body wrings around his tongue, shaking, twitching, perfect. He can taste it—all of it—and the sound he makes is absolutely pathetic, absolutely ruined, absolutely—
A moan escapes. Louder than he meant.
He doesn't care anymore. He's so close. So close. His whole body is trembling, his tendrils are glowing like neon signs, his hand is relentless—
And then he thinks of you.
Just... you.
The way you laughed at that stupid meme he sent. The way you looked at him once—once—when you thought he wasn't paying attention. The way you said his name. Just his name. Like it was normal. Like he was normal. Like he was someone worth knowing.
That's what does it. That's what breaks him.
He comes hard. Unexpected. Spilling over his own fist, onto the mattress, everywhere. His whole body tenses, tendrils pulsing bright, face pressed against you like he's praying—
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
He pulls back slowly. Reluctantly. His face is a mess—your mess, his mess, everything mixed together and dripping down his chin.
He looks at you. You look at him.
Your chest is heaving. Your eyes are still hazy. Your body is still being held open by his tendrils, still twitching with little aftershocks.
And you're looking at him.
Not with annoyance. Not with tolerance.
Filled with want.
"...Holy shit," you whisper.
He doesn't have a clever response to that.
He just stares at you—at this impossible, incredible, warm person who just let him do that, who asked him to do that, who came apart on his tongue like he was something worth falling apart for—
And for the first time in a very, very long time—
Harlequin has no idea what to say.
He comes with a sound he'll deny forever—high and broken and desperate, his whole body seizing, his hand working through it, his eyes locked on your sleeping face like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
It keeps going. Wave after wave. More than he expected, more than he wanted, because now he has to deal with this, now he has to clean up, now he has to—
He slumps back against the mattress—no, not the mattress, he's not in the bed anymore, he moved at some point, he's on the floor now, back against the wall, knees drawn up like a child. Like something small and pathetic instead of what he is.
His breath comes hard. Shallow. Wrong.
His face is still wet. He can still taste you. He can still feel you, the warmth of you, the way you responded even in sleep, the way his name sounded on your lips—half-asleep, confused, but his name.
His. You said his name. Not Pierrot's. His.
He scrubs a hand over his face. It doesn't help. Just smears everything around. Makes him feel more messy, more wrong, more like the monster he keeps trying to pretend he isn't.
His tendrils are limp. Dull. Curled against his spine like they're ashamed of themselves.
For a long moment, he just... sits there. Staring at you. Trying to remember how to be the person he was before tonight. The person who mocked. Who taunted. Who kept everyone at arm's length and called it strength.
He's not sure that person exists anymore. He's not sure what's left.
❝Well.❞
The voice comes from the corner. Soft. Scholarly. Amused. Harlequin's head snaps up.
Inkyette sits on your dresser, legs dangling, void-like eyes with their tiny pin-prick lights fixed on him. Her poppet body is perfectly still—no jerky movements, no tells—but there's something in her expression that makes his stomach drop.
❝This is... a lot, even for you❞
"What—how long have you been—"
❝Long enough.❞ She tilts her head. One tiny hand gestures vaguely at... everything. Him. You. The state of the room. ❝Long enough to know that you have absolutely no idea what you're doing❞
He should be angry. Should snap at her, threaten her, do something that reasserts who he's supposed to be.
He's too tired. Too raw.
"...How did you know?" His voice is hoarse. Cracked. "That I was going to—"
❝Do something stupid?❞ Inkyette's lips curve. ❝I know you, Harlequin. I know that look. The one you get when you want something you can't have.❞ She pauses. ❝I also may have... helped. A little.❞
His eyes narrow. "Helped?”
❝A touch of ink magic.” She waves her hand. ❝Nothing permanent. Just... encouraged the human to stay asleep. Through certain... events."
The realization hits him like a physical blow.
You didn't wake up naturally.
You should have woken up sooner. You should have—
"You drugged them?"
❝Ah ah, no, I protected them.❞ Her voice sharpens. ❝From you. From themselves. From the absolute mess you would have made if they'd woken up while you were—❞ She gestures at his face, still shiny with evidence. ❝That.❞
He has no response to that. Because she's right.
If you'd woken up even a minute earlier—if you'd seen him like that, doing that, with his face buried between your legs and his whole existence reduced to wanting you—
He doesn't know what would have happened.
But it wouldn't have been good.
❝Here's the thing,❞ Inkyette's voice softens. Just a little. Just enough to notice. ❝Pierrot is still attached to that human. Very attached. Dangerously attached. Vice versa. And I need you to think about something for me.❞
She leans forward.
❝How would he feel if he found out about this? Not the— ❞ she gestures vaguely— ❝the physical part. The feeling part. How would Pierrot feel, knowing that his human—the one he's been cooking for, protecting, loving in that smothering way of his—how would he feel knowing they were... wanted. By someone else.❞
Harlequin goes quiet.
❝How would he feel,❞ Inkyette continues, ❝watching his human go after someone who isn't him? Watching them choose someone else? Watching them look at you the way he's been praying they'll look at him?❞
The silence stretches.
"...I don't know," Harlequin whispers.
And it's the truth. He doesn't know how Pierrot would feel. He doesn't know if Pierrot would shatter, or rage, or simply... mourn. Like he mourns everything else.
❝I do,❞ Inkyette says quietly. ❝It would destroy him. Again. And I don't think any of us survive would though a second time.❞
Harlequin moves.
Not toward you—never toward you again, well not for tonight—but around the room. Gathering. Fixing. Cleaning.
He finds clothes in your pile—a shirt, some shorts, he doesn't look too closely, just grabs something—and pulls them on you. Gently. His tendrils help, lifting your limp limbs, sliding fabric over your marked skin. Sorry, he thinks at you.
You'll find them later. You'll wonder. You'll probably blame yourself, because that's what you do, because you're stupid and soft and—
He refastens his own uniform. Wipes his face with the back of his hand. Tries to look like someone who didn't just fall apart in your bedroom.
Stands at the foot of your bed. Looks at you one more time.
"It's not fair," he says. Quiet. To himself. To Inkyette. To whatever who might be listening.
❝What isn't?❞ she asks.
"Him." His jaw tightens. "Pierrot. He gets—he gets everything. Their attention. Their smiles. Their faithfulness. And I get—" he gestures at himself, at the mess he still feels caked on his skin, at the marks he left that she'll see in the morning and blame on mosquitoes—"this. I get to want and want and want and never—"
His voice breaks. He doesn't finish.
Inkyette is quiet for a long moment.
Then she slides off the dresser. Lands lightly on the floor. Crosses the room until she's standing beside him—no longer in tiny, doll-sized, however somehow present in a way that demands attention.
❝I know,❞ she says softly. ❝I know it's not fair. I know you want. I know it hurts. I've been watching you, Harlequin. I've been annotating you. And I know.❞ She reaches up. Touches his hand. Her fingers are cool against his skin.
❝But until that human willfully admits they want you—until they choose you with open eyes and open heart—you have to wait. Things have to stay...❞ she searches for the word.
❝...unrequited.❞
His hand turns. Catches hers. Holds it like a lifeline.
"I hate waiting," he whispers.
❝I know.❞
"I hate him."
❝You don't.❞
"...I know."
They stand there for a moment. Two broken things. Thier eyes on you, watching you sleep, unaware of anything except whatever dreams are carrying you away from them.
Inkyette's thumb brushes over his knuckles.
❝You're not alone in this,❞ she says. ❝You know that, right? In wanting something you can't have?❞
He looks down at them.
Her void-like eyes. Her pin-prick lights. Her perfect face that hides so much want of her own.
“Yeah,” he says. "I know.”
The marks on your neck are darker now. More obvious. He can see them even in the dim light—little bruises in the shape of his mouth, his teeth, his want. He moves to the window. Pauses with his hand on the frame. Looks back one last time—at you, at Inkyette, at the room that held more of himself than he's ever given anyone.
"...I'm sorry," he whispers. "For... this. For all of it. For—"
He doesn't finish. Can't finish.
There aren't words for what he's sorry for. For wanting you. For touching you. For leaving marks. For being him, when who you really want is someone softer. Someone who cooks. Someone who mourns prettily instead of biting.
He slips out into the grey pre-dawn light.
"Sweet dreams, little thing."
The door slides shut. The room goes still.
Inkyette watches him go, then turns to look at you. Sleeping peacefully. Marked and warm and completely unaware of the war you've started just by existing.
❝You have no idea what you've done,❞ she murmurs. ❝Do you… dearie…❞
You don't answer. You're asleep. Probably better that way.
She hops back onto the dresser, settles into a corner, and waits for morning. For you to wake. For the questions you'll ask and the lies she'll tell and the want that fills this room.
Morning comes slow.
The kind of slow where light creeps through your curtains like it's apologizing for being there. Pale and golden and early, ugh, except—wait. You check the mental calendar. It's your day off. You could sleep forever if you wanted.
Except you're awake now. And something feels... off.
You're warm. Too warm. Blanket tangled around your legs in ways that suggest you moved a lot during the night. Pillow flat in that specific way that means you were really asleep.
You stretch. Every muscle complains. Your neck. Your thighs. Your—everything, actually. Like you went to the gym and then forgot you went to the gym. Like you did something last night that your body remembers even if your brain doesn't.
Weird, you think. Really weird.
You push yourself up. Rub your eyes. Blink at the room. Everything looks normal. Sunlight. Clothes on the chair. Phone on the nightstand. Wait. Clothes on the chair. You look down at yourself.
You're wearing—
That's not what you wore to bed.
You're in different clothes. Soft short. A different shirt. Things you definitely don't remember putting on. Things you definitely didn't take out of your dresser last night.
You stare at your own body like it's betrayed you. What the fuck.
You get up. Too fast. Your thighs scream at you, that deep ache like you've been... like someone... like something... You stumble to the bathroom. Flip on the light. Look in the mirror.
And—
Your neck. Your neck is covered. Little marks. Dark against your skin. Some faded, some fresh, some in places you can't possibly reach yourself. They trail down your collarbone, disappearing under the clean shirt you don't remember putting on.
You pull the collar down. They keep going.
Your shoulders. The top of your chest. And your thighs—you check, you have to check—your thighs are marked. Bite marks. Love bites. Hickeys, your brain supplies unhelpfully, like you didn't already know what they were.
Mosquitoes, you think, and then laugh out loud because that's ridiculous. That's so ridiculous. Mosquitoes don't do this. Mosquitoes don't leave—you count—fourteen marks on one thigh alone.
You lean closer to the mirror. There's a spot behind your ear that's especially dark. A bruise in the shape of someone's mouth.
"...What the hell happened last night," you whisper to your reflection.
Your reflection doesn't answer. It just looks back at you with wide eyes and marked skin and the dawning realization that something happened. Something you can't remember. Something your body clearly does.
You stumble back to the bedroom. Stand in the middle of the room. Turn in a slow circle like the answer might be written on the walls. Nothing. Just your room. Just morning. Just the faintest ghost of a smell in the air—something cool and electric and almost familiar.
You shake your head. "Inkyette?"
She appears instantly.
There’s nothing for a moment, and then she’s there—sitting on your dresser, not as a small doll but in a new form, with swirling eyes that seem to focus on you with an instant intent. Her voice is bright and warm, with a lilt that is both scholarly and academic.
❝Good morning, dearie! You slept quite late. I was beginning to wonder if you'd turned into a hibernation creature overnight.❞
She pauses. Tilts her head. Those little lights in her eyes shift.
❝...You look confused.❞
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.
❝Did something happen last night?"
"Something?"
❝Like. Something.❞ You gesture vaguely at yourself. At your neck. At everything. Inkyette's expression doesn't change. She's good at that—maintaining that pleasant, helpful mask. But you've known her long enough to notice when something flickers behind those spiral eyes.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, dearie. I was... elsewhere."
"Elsewhere."
"Mm. The Jester needed me for something. Archival work." She waves a tiny hand. "Very boring. Very purple. You wouldn't have wanted to be there."
You stare at her. She stares back.
"...Okay," you say slowly. "Okay. Sure. Fine."
You grab your phone. Just various of messages—wait a damn minute—multiple?? All from the same person... him. All from Harlequin. All timestamped throughout the night—3AM, 4AM, 5AM, even one at 6:47AM like he couldn't stop thinking about you long enough to sleep.
Harlequin ꨄ︎: morning :3 you look really peaceful when you sleep btw
Harlequin ꨄ︎: not that i would know, obviously...
Harlequin ꨄ︎: anyway, hope you're okay for real like actually okay, i'm not good at this, just be okay. please.
The last message has a little green heart. Just one.
You stare at it for a long time. "Inkyette."
❝Yes, dearie?❞
"What does this mean?"
You turn the phone toward her. Let her read. Her void-eyes scan the messages—flickering across each line, each timestamp, each desperate little plea hidden behind casual words.
She's quiet for a moment.
❝...I have no idea what's going on.❞
Her voice is perfectly pleasant. Perfectly helpful. The same tone she always uses.
You don't believe her for a second. "Inkyette."
"Mm?"
❝You're a terrible liar.❞
Her expression flickers—just for an instant, just enough to confirm everything—before settling back into that scholarly calm. ❝I'm sure I don't know what you mean, dearie. Now, did you need something? Breakfast, perhaps? It's quite late in the morning and you really should eat something.❞
Breakfast….?
Right. Breakfast is still a thing humans to do. You should do that. Eat something. Pretend you're normal and not covered in bite marks from a night you can't remember.
❝Inkyette, what do you want to do for breakfast?❞
She perks up—genuinely this time. Food is one of her favorite topics, even if she can't eat it herself. She loves watching people eat. Calls it "observing the consumption ritual" like it's anthropology.
"Oh! Well, we could order in. There's that lovely place with the pastries—you know the one, they do those little folded things with the fruit inside? Or we could cook! Cooking is always an option, though it does require more effort and—"
"Let's cook.”
❝...Really?❞
"Yeah. Why not." You're already moving toward the kitchen. "It's my day off. I have time. And cooking is—it's nice. Distracting."
Inkyette floats alongside you, her little poppet form bobbing in the air. ❝Distracting from what, dearie?❞
You don't answer. She doesn't push.
You're halfway to the kitchen when the thought hits you. It's not even a thought, really. More of an impulse. A suggestion that rises up from somewhere in your chest and leaves your mouth before your brain can catch it.
"Maybe I should invite Pierrot."
Inkyette stops. Not floating. Not moving. Just... still. Frozen in mid-air like someone paused her.
You turn to look at her.
Her expression is—like just a moment, it's wrong. That pleasant helpful mask slips, and underneath is something complicated. Something sharp. Something that looks almost like—
But then it's gone.
❝Pierrot!❞ she says, and her voice is bright again, perfectly cheerful, perfectly supportive. ❝What a—what a fantastic idea, dearie. Yes. Pierrot would love that. He's always going on about cooking with you. About those lovely moments in the kitchen. About how wonderful it is when you two work together.❞
She's smiling. It's the right smile.
But there's something in her void-eyes—those little lights—that wasn't there before.
You stare at her. She stares back.
❝…I’ll just,❞ she says, floating toward the door, ❝go ahead and—make sure the kitchen is ready. Yes. You text him. Take your time. I'll be—❞
She's gone. Through the door. Into the kitchen. Away.
You stand there in the hallway, alone, with your marked skin and your confused brain and your phone full of desperate messages from someone who definitely shouldn't have been in your room last night.
What, you think, the actual fuck.
Your phone buzzes.
Harlequin ꨄ︎: hey so ...
Harlequin ꨄ︎: can we talk?
The little dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Harlequin ꨄ︎: i'm really sorry
Harlequin ꨄ︎: i don't even know what i'm sorry for
Harlequin ꨄ︎: but i'm sorry just... please don't hate me
You keep scrolling, reading the messages.
Filled with nothing but urgent begs, and please don’t hate me, cascading on the screen like confetti from a party you have no memory of attending.
Your gaze wanders over to the door Inkyette disappeared through.
Then your own skin, mottled with marks in the hallway mirror: the bruises, the bites, the evidence of a night your brain refuses to reveal. So you wonder again:
what the hell happened last night?
In the kitchen, Inkyette waits. Her form sits perfectly still on the counter. Void-eyes fixed on nothing. Those tiny pin-prick lights dimmer than usual—almost extinguished, like she's deliberately dimming herself. She hears you move. Hears you sigh. Hears the soft tap-tap-tap of your thumbs against your phone screen.
His messages, she thinks. Chances for you to piece it together.
She closes her eyes. Not because she needs to.
Because she can't bear to watch herself do this. Her hand lifts. Tiny. Precise. The air around her fingers shimmers—just slightly, just enough to notice if you were looking, which you aren't, because you're in the hallway staring at your phone with confusion creasing your brow.
I'm sorry, she thinks. Not to you. To him. To the green monster who finally, finally let himself be vulnerable, who finally sent words that meant something, who finally—
The shimmer extends. Your phone buzzes. Then again. Then again.
You look down.
Harlequin ꨄ︎: hey
Harlequin ꨄ︎: so about last night
Harlequin ꨄ︎: can we—
Message deleted.
The words vanish mid-sentence. Like they were never there. Like he never reached for you at all.
Harlequin ꨄ︎: i'm really sorry i just—
Message deleted.
His apology. His vulnerability. His truth. Gone.
Harlequin ꨄ︎: please don't—
Message deleted. One by one, they disappear.
The green hearts. The desperate pleas. The little crumbs of evidence that something—someone—was in your room last night. That something happened. That someone wanted you badly enough to send seventeen messages and still not feel like it was enough.
You stare at the empty chat.
Your thumb scrolls up. Nothing. Scrolls down. Nothing. Just a blank screen where minutes ago there was proof—proof that he'd been thinking about you, reaching for you, terrified of losing you.
"...What the..." Not all the words come out, sounding confused. You refresh the app. Nothing. You close it and reopen it. Nothing.
You had messages. You know you had messages.
You saw them. Read them. The one about you looking peaceful when you sleep—not that I would know, obviously—the one with the stupid shrug meme, the one that just said be okay. please. with a single green heart—
All gone. Like they never existed. Like he never existed.
You blink. For a moment—just a moment—something tugs at the edge of your memory. A feeling. A warmth. The ghost of a green heart pulsing on your screen. Then it's gone. You blink again. Look at your phone. At the empty chat with his name at the top. Harlequin ꨄ︎.
Cute little heart. You wonder why you haven't texted him in a while.
...Have you ever texted him?
You scroll up. Nothing. Just the blank screen of a conversation that never happened.
Huh.
In the kitchen, Inkyette's hand lowers. The shimmer fades from the air around her—that faint, ink-dark ripple that humans can never quite see. Her void-eyes are fixed on the space between here and there, on you, on the exact moment when confusion became... peace.
She felt it happen. The moment your brain let go.
The moment those messages—and all the feeling attached to them—dissolved into nothing.
You won't remember the warmth in your chest when you saw his name.
You won't remember the curiosity about what he might have said.
You won't remember the tiny, treacherous part of you that wanted to know what he was sorry for.
All gone.
You shake your head. Toss your phone onto the bed.
"Whatever," you mutter. "Probably just imagined it."
You don't know why you said that. Don't know why it feels true. Don't know why the thought of Harlequin texting you suddenly seems... unlikely. Silly, even. Why would he text you?
You stretch. Roll your shoulders. The marks on your neck pull slightly—mosquito bites, probably, you should really get that screen fixed—but you don't think about them.
You're thinking about breakfast.
About Pierrot. About the recipe he mentioned. About the way his face lights up when you let him cook for you.
That's nice. That's good. That's something to look forward to.
Back in the kitchen, Inkyette listens you through the wall. She doesn't need eyes to see. Doesn't need physical presence to feel the shift—the way your emotional landscape just... smoothed over. The way the confused, aching, wanting parts of you settled into something simpler.
You're happy now.
Or you will be, soon. Once Pierrot arrives. Once he feeds you. Once he fills that empty space with warmth and devotion and the kind of love that doesn't ask questions.
She did that. She made that happen. ❝...Good,❞ she whispers. It doesn't feel good. It feels like swallowing glass.
❝I'm sorry,❞ she whispers. To no one. To herself. To the green monster who's probably still lurking somewhere, agonizing over messages that no longer exist.
She didn't want this.
Didn't want to be the one who erases evidence. Didn't want to follow orders that leave you confused and marked and unknowing. Didn't want to watch this play out the way it's playing out.
But… the Jester's orders are clear.
Protect the circus. Protect the peace. Some truths are more trouble than they're worth. She chose this role. Chose to be the Archivist. Chose to curate what is and isn't known.
Doesn't mean she has to like it.
Soon Footsteps in the hallway came to her Direction. Inkyette's mask slides back into place—cheerful, helpful, perfectly normal. You pad into the kitchen, barefoot and stretching, already reaching for a glass of water. "Inkyette! Hey. Did I tell you Pierrot's coming over? For breakfast?" You show her what’s one your phone.
Pierrot ☆: on my way, my dear ♡
Pierrot ☆: i found the most beautiful strawberries
Pierrot ☆: they reminded me of you
She's on the counter. Perfectly still. Perfectly composed. That cheerful smile firmly in place.
❝You did mention it, dearie. I think it's a wonderful idea.❞
"Yeah?" You grin. "Me too. He's so—I don't know. He just gets it, you know? Cooking together. Being together. It's easy with him."
❝Easy,❞ she repeats. ❝Yes. That's... important.❞
You nod, already pulling out ingredients, already planning, already warm with anticipation.
You don't think about green eyes.
You don't think about thoes messages.
You don't think about the way your body still aches in places you can't explain.
You think about Pierrot. About strawberries. About the easy kind of love that doesn't make you confused or scared or wanting in ways you don't understand.
You laugh. Shake your head. Type back something soft and warm and full of that trust you don't even think about anymore.
Inkyette watches, like watches the way your whole face changes when you talk to him. The way your shoulders relax. The way you glow in a way you never do when his name comes up. Like, no matter how many times she think of it—It's for the best, she tells herself.
He's not good for you anyway.
He doesn't know how to be good for anyone.
He's not allowed to make the same mistake again.
You look up from your phone. Smile at her—that warm, unguarded smile you give to people you trust. "He's almost here. Said he's bringing everything. We're gonna cook all morning."
Inkyette smiles back. It's perfect. It's hollow.
❝Bon appétit, dearie.❞
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
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