Hello hello! This is where Iâm going to be putting some of my writing! Eventually thisâll turn into a full master post but Iâm still practicing the coding.
You can also find these works over on my AO3 account, Poker! Iâm currently working on expanding our current retinue of The Freak Circus fics, haha. So much love to @nekoboydreams who created these amazing characters and universe! The Freak Circus is amazing.
Let me know what you think, and I may occasionally take requests, so feel free to drop an idea in my asks! Want to support me? Stop by my Kofi!
Hellooo! I recently played your game and goodness it was a experience! Honestly the whole circus genre isnât a favorite of mine but your visual novel just charmed me!
If you have time or want to answer my questions, I hope my ramblings arenât too much đ€§
Harlequinâs story intrigued me greatly! The poor angel though. Speaking of which, how would Pierrot or Harlequin react to the MCâs name being literally Angel? Unsure if the title of the Angel is symbolic or not. Or even better, if MCâs name is literally Columbina? MC must have some weird backstory for why their parents named them that.
How would the cast react to MC being neurodivergent? Like having autism or ADHD(Attentive or inattentive)? I know the circus has been around for a long time and have adapted to modern society and technology. But I imagine they still have a bit of old souls in them, so would they be unsure how to respond to MCâs neurodivergence? Ex. MC avoiding eye contact or not picking up any social ques, overlay express or not expressive enough, unintentionally getting distracted in conversations, or MC passionately infodumping to Pierrot about their hyperfixation?
What if the MC had a sexuality thatâs impossible for them to fall for Pierrot or Harlequin? Like theyâre AroAce or lesbian. Would that change any of their minds?
Kinda a sensitive topic, and it may be uncomfortable to answer, if you donât want to answer thatâs alright! But what if the MC had some bad experiences/trauma in the past that relates to anything sexual, and anything sexual or too intimately seductive may disgust them or make them uncomfortable in the present? Once Pierrot or Harlequin figure that out(somehow) would they straight up abandon that behavior to make MC more comfortable or hold back a bit?
Reaction to deaf or mute MC?
Is it possible to get the Harlequin himself jealous?
Questions for YOU! Who is your favorite character in this dating sim? Demo and/or future characters? And who is most fun to write? And the most important question of all, favorite carnival snack?
Thank you so much!
I'm glad to know that even if you're not into the theme, my game still managed to catch your attention!
They wouldn't be bothered by the word angel. But Columbina would be something too specific theyâd find it strange and would become very curious and intrigued by it.
Yes, they are a bit old-fashioned, but they're incredibly observant. Pierrot would notice certain things very quickly and would soon understand the situation enough to keep interacting with MC in the best way possible.
Pierrot wouldnât be able to stop feeling, even if MC didnât reciprocate.
He would learn to hold back maybe avoiding too much physical contact if he started to lose control, so as not to scare MC.
Arlequim would have a harder time with that. Heâd insist a bit more, but if that didnât work, heâd change his approach.
Pierrot would learn sign language. Just seeing MC using it would be enough for him to pick up a lot in a short time.
Thatâs an unusual question! Yes, he does feel jealous though heâs very good at hiding it most of the time.
Oh! This is the first time the question is actually directed at me! haha.
Iâm honestly unable to pick a favorite at this point. I get too involved with each of their stories and end up loving all of them.
Pierrot and Arlequim are really fun to write when they interact with each other itâs like the atmosphere around them is about to explode! Though Jester and the Ticket Takerâs dynamic is also quite interesting.
Iâd definitely go for the candy apple! Now Iâm curious, what would you choose, anon?
Notes: Reader is written as gender-neutral other than having the name Columbina.
Summary: Most of the time, when you used your real name, it got people to do a double take and maybe an awkward compliment. Sometimes a backhanded one on it being unique.
Pierrotâs reaction is wholly new.
(If you guys like, I can try a full Pierrot POV and Harlequin reaction! I think it would be fun)
âHoly cow, twins.â
You nearly stumble over your words, scrambling as Pierrotâs mask split into something like confusion. âNot- not in that way! My nameâs not Pierrot but like- gah.â You perch yourself on the counter, legs swinging. âMy actual name is similar, I guess? Iâve just never met someone with anything close to it.â
You were practically vibrating, any lingering fear disappearing under a pure lightness. An intense surge of curiosity and excitement. Never before had you ever gotten this close! A strange fascination was blooming, a wondering at this connection.
Even at this height, you were nowhere near as tall as the Pierrot. âI never thought I would meet someone else with a name from that.â
The Pierrotâs head tilted to the side, and this close, you could almost see reddish flecks in their golden eyes. âI thought your name was that.â There was the small clink of metal and you glanced down to see his claws tapping on your name tag.
You honestly forgot you were still wearing that thing. The sticker was beginning to wear away from months of splashes, brushes, and probably getting accidentally thrown in the washer once or twice. Maybe the dryer too. You could barely even see your handwriting anymore.
âThatâs a nickname.â You said, tapping it yourself. You almost brush against his hand when you pull away, and you see his hand waver a moment. âHalf because I donât like some of the customers to know my real name, the other halfâŠâ
You winced, a little bit. Unseeing of how it made Pierrot stiffen, reaching out to you as if trying to ward away what caused you grief.
âThe other half is that my name is pretty uncommon.â You said. âItâs not so bad now as an adult, but I used to get a lot of weird looks.â
You lucked out that it wasnât easy to turn into a taunt, but kids had a way of turning any peculiarity into something to tease over. Anything uncommon or out of the norm could become fodder, and that was definitely uncommon.
âWhat were their names?â Pierrot said, oddly still. You barked a laugh.
âHonestly, not that much more normal than mine!â You said, tilting your head to the side. âI donât even remember them at this point. I just got used to the nickname.â
How to defuse this⊠You lean in, winking. âOnly my favorite customers get to know it, I guess!â
When you were dealing with a real Karen, it was honestly so much nicer not to have to worry about them getting overzealous after finding your name. To live, secure and safe, behind your nickname.
Red spilled over Pierrotâs face. âI would be honored to know it.â They said, leaning forward as if hanging onto your every word.
âMy name is actually Columbina.â You said, bouncing a little as you checked over another mug, trying to pull your eyes away so you werenât blatantly staring at their reaction. A laugh bubbles up out of your chest. âIâve never found anyone even close to it!â
You had looked, when you were younger. The secret little thrill had lingered, at having such a rare name. Never had you had to worry about using a nickname for a class because the teacher needed to tell you apart with a word, or jumping when your name got yelled across the store but it wasnât for you.
But that didnât completely smother the curiosity. The little bit of loneliness. It was funny, how people craved connection over the littlest things. And maybe Pierrot wasnât Colombina, but the connection was so close you found yourself excited.
You look up and your breath stutters in your chest, a knot formed in your lungs.
Pierrot looks stricken.
You could have murdered his childhood pet in front of his eyes. Done a strip teased on his motherâs grave. Danced a conga over his dying body. Every example jumped to your head, but none would you see this level of pure, open vulnerability. You nearly flinch back under the weight of it.
The mug slips from your hands, flatting against the counter, and you curse as you scooped it up. No cracks, thank goodness. Your boss wouldnât care, but you always felt awful when you accidentally broke one of the mugs.
Pierrot didnât even move.
He stared at you like he wanted to peel any distance away, hands twitching. His pupils had blown wide, curiosity writ large on his face.
And something below it that makes you wonder.
âH-how? Were you named that?â The words comes out rasped, in a way that you almost winced because it just sounded painful.
âYeah, it was⊠a whole thing.â You said, eyes sliding away. Trying to fill air that suddenly felt too empty. Turning the mug over in your hands. âMom was fascinated by the art form and the history in college, she did a whole thesis on it. Came out of it swearing to never touch Italian theater again, and changed majors, but she decided she might as well name the kid with a name she liked. Better than Harlequin I guess?â
ââŠI would agree. Better than to be named like that fool.â Pierrot said, words dripping with disgust. But the words sound oddly choked still, and when you look up, his eyes look suspiciously shiny. And still intrigued, oddly.
âDid you know a Columbina?â You said. Pierrot, the masks, and there had to be a Harlequin judging by that very personal aggravation⊠there should be a Columbina, right?
Okay, maybe not a perfect line connection. You had gathered enough from your motherâs rants to know that it wasnât quite the same as a play and more of a complicated mix of traditions and archetypes and- anyways, it seemed like a pretty small circus. But you knew enough to know that Columbina was pretty tied in to Pierrot and Harlequin. When two archetypes appear, why not the third?
Pierrotâs nails clicked against the counter, oddly unmuffled by his gloves. At this angle, his face almost seemed hidden in the shadows of the room. âNo. Columbina is not part of the show.â Pierrot said. Your eyes flicked up to his, nearly reeling at the barely hidden vulnerability.
They pasted over the cracks, but the edges could be seen. How they stared at you like they were seeing something else.
âDid you⊠know a Columbina?â You asked. Pierrot pauses. A single moment, their head tilted to the side.
It feels like the moment stretches into eternity.
âA very long time ago.â They said, hollow. You forced yourself to nod, to set down the mug by its stack. You can almost hear the words as a door, closing on the conversation.
You could keep pressing, keep pushing, but it felt like more harm then good. Your previous excitement had died now, replaced with an odd churning feeling.
âYou should probably head out.â You said, eyes sliding to the side.
âDearest-â They skip over the nickname like they werenât sure which one to say anymore.
âItâs not about the name, itâs just that itâs almost time to close.â You excused, pulling the keys from your apron pocket. âIâm off early tonight but thereâs still things to handle at home.â
For one, you would kill for a shower right now. And dinner. As tasty as they were, stale pastries would not replace good food.
You circle around the counter, about to head to the door, when a hand encircles your arm, tugging you back.
âYour name is beautiful.â Pierrot said, staring down at you. âIt suits you. I- was just a little surprised to hear it.â
Suddenly, horrifyingly, you were extremely aware of the heat that was spreading across your face. You try to fight it back, think of awful, horrible things, because blushing after giving a clown a barely hidden panic attack felt incredibly wrong. But your traitorous blood was not cooperating. âThank you.â You squeaked. âAnd Pierrot- itâs, itâs nice as well!â
Not even a lie or something for a compliment. Pierrot was truly a delightful stage name, evoking mystery and history.
Pierrot beamed at you, so bright and hungry that you nearly forgot the look on his face. Still, it stuck with you. Through the walk home, through your shower, leaned against the cold tiles.
You chewed your lip. Pierrot mustâve known another Columbina, another one carrying the rare name.
What had happened to them, to make him look like that?
To make him look at you like that?
My dearest⊠Is it fate I wonder? That placed you in my path? How cruel of fate, how tempting. Itâs like we are chained together even before we met. Maybe itâs a sign. It has to be a sign. That you were meant to be mine.
Authorâs Note:
Imagine falling in deep love at first sight with someone after your first relationship goes down in flames, and then finding out your dearest has the EXACT SAME UNIQUE NAME as your previous lover which from the little we know, ended extremely badly, Iâd bite someone. This might be a three parter, with a longer Pierrot POV and a Harlequin one.
Warning(s): If you have thalassophobja, be careful
Summary: The sea is dangerous, even for one that knows it as well as you do. You never know how dangerous, until a visit to a cove has you find something that shouldnât be real.
Itâs far too easy to plunge into waters over your head.
It was halfway back to your house that your feet turned down the cliff path instead.
It was weird, leaving the cafe so early. Normally you headed out around nightfall, with only lamps to light your way. Being out, even with the sky promising night soon, felt odd.
But odder still was the news that you were still mulling over, turning over in your head as you walked down the cliff path to the sea, boots scraping over chipped away stone.
Carol didnât show up, your boss had said. You shoved your hands in your pockets, turning the words over. It was a blustery day, the sun battling against the wind coming from the sea. Your jacket did its best but it was the kind of day where you never truly felt dry and warm.
Maybe it was a bad sign when you woke up in the mornings. Maybe if you woke up earlier, you wouldâve seen red skies and taken warning.
You took a deep breath, the air feeling far too cold in your lungs, a burn beginning to spread up your chest.
It wasnât as if any of you were a stranger to loss, especially during the winter. The seas could be both cradle and grave, and the difference between could be a matter of seconds.
Come winter, and the tides grew more tricky. Most boats stayed on shore, taking the trade off of winter fishing in return for safety from the winter storms. Youâve heard of hail the size of a manâs fist and sleet so cold it cut to the bone.
Granted, that was from fishing captains chugging down burning black coffee as if to expedite it into their veins as quickly as possible. You were pretty sure that if your boss turned hot black coffee into a injected shot, youâd make millions. Everyday, someone in town waited for someone who might not come back.
But the potential was never with someone you knew well.
You passed along what money you could when Mr. Fernsby lost his wife on his fishing trip, helped with catering when the Samson twins both went down. But those were vaguer, just shadows of faces passed in the street.
Your worn boots scraped over the tidal rock, careful hops over where it had been worn sharp. And despite it, you canât help but notice the sharpness more than before.
It was normal, you told yourself. To feel anxious when a friend goes missing. But Carol is fine! Yeah, a few were lost every year but those were tourists who got in over their heads or boats that never made it to shore again.
Carol would be fine. Definitely fine. It was definitely just joy for an early day off that had to racing the tide to make it to your cove, feverish energy driving your limbs.
It wasnât your cove, not officially anyways. No one owned the land, and you werenât the only one who came here.
It wasnât even much of a cove. Just a place where the cliffs had broken away, long before bones even existed. The slab must have crashed down just right, settling it into the notch it created. Eventually a tiny strip of sand formed, washed in by crashing waves until it grew out of their reach.
It was beautiful. Pure black sand from the basalt worn from the cliffs, like stepping into another world.
But nobody told the tourists.
The locals knew the water might look fun, with churning waves, and a reassuringly solid surface under your feet, leaving you up to your knees. It was an enchanting idea, to wade out, into this rare shallow spot along the cliffs where the depths plunged into an abyss.
Your eyes slid to the black water just a few feet away. You were tempted, when you were first taken out there and stood on the edge of the beach. You had taken the first few steps out into icy water, only to be tugged back by a hold of iron around your arm.
A few steps too far and youâll plunge right down. They had told you.
The water murky, it was impossible to see where the shelf ended until you were plunging into water that took you straight down, the current pulling you away like its new favorite toy.
Even when they told you, you already felt like you knew why. There was an⊠weirdness to the water. A promise. The call of the void, you heard it named. Like approaching too close to the edge of a cliff and feeling the urge to take one more step.
You still loved it. Even if it was too dangerous to swim, it was peaceful. A few people risked sinking crab pots or net traps over the side of the shelf, but the danger of the shelf meant nobody brought children out. And the route was only open during rare snatches of the day when most couldnât come.
Just you and the little notch.
It was wrong yet, but it was a safe kind of weird, right? You stayed in the beach, away from the water.
But it was a perfect distraction right now. You wanted the burn of the rock, the dart down the side of the cliff, a path that nobody marked, but anyone local knew of. The stumble over rocks revealed when the tide receded. You could probably walk the path in your sleep at this point, you prided yourself on it.
âIâll have to be quick today though.â You mumbled to yourself, eyeing the rocks behind you. The water was already beginning to lap at the edges again, hungrily seeking.
Normally you don't go out on this day of the week. Carol took an early shift so you took a late shift and slept in. With the storms rolling through, and nightfall coming so fast, the trip got a little too risky in the winter to head out so close to evening.
But most of all, the alien world you felt when you stepped through, onto that black beach. Tucked among the cliffs, it felt like nothing else existed. No angry customers, no too quiet home, just you and the beach.
And no persistent thoughts about what happened to Carol.
Theyâll find her, you told yourself. Your boss was already going with the search boats, checking the edges of the island. All of them were good sailors, but even he had seemed unsure she would have gone out. He told you to close up, to head home before dark.
You⊠would probably be home before dark. Youâd see how things would go.
It was fine. All fine. You forced yourself to slow down as you inched down a narrow section of rock.
Maybe youâd be lucky enough to find a sand dollar today! You werenât much of a collector, but it was fun to mark things off a little mental list. A piece of coral bleached white, a massive shell the size of your spread hand, a perfectly round hole in the center. The tooth of a shark you had found resting inches from the white, white against sand.
It worked out a fair enough trade in your opinion. You kept the beach clean and occasionally nabbed something interesting that washed up. And it just so happened that right after a storm was the perfect time to do both.
âMaybe Iâll cut it early and come back in the morning. Should've packed a lunch.â The drink you made yourself in the cafe was already fading fast, your stomach reminding you that it needed proper, solid food. And hopefully quickly. âIâll just keep it quick. In and out.â
Rounding the corner, you reached up, tugging on the trash bag you had half crammed into your jacket pocket. You swiped it from the cafe but you were pretty sure your boss was fine with you picking up the beach so really was it actually steal-
And suddenly you feel as if you have plunged into the crashing waves, breath choking in your chest. Your hand fell away.
Blood. For a moment, the scene blurs. On the black sand, a lump lies sprawled, red glimmering under the fading light. Broken up by cruel black lines, like slash marks.
You stumbled the last distance onto the beach, unheeding of your stumbles into rock as you drew closer. Your eyes overlaid hair, a smile, Carolâs clothes-
The red isnât blood.
The thought hits you like a piece of driftwood to the skull. What you thought was blood, was actually scales.
âHoly-â Your voice canât finish the word, unsure what to say. You had braced for a murder scene, the murder scene of someone you knew. Something right out of a dreary Victorian novel backdropped by the sea.
But this was no murder scene.
Brilliant crimson scales, shining softly in the fading sunlight. Those are too big for a regular fic, you thought, wires refusing to connect. Nothing that big was red, and this didnât look like the giant grouper you were familiar with.
Somehow, you dodged the obvious conclusion. Until it looked you in the eyes.
The tail shifted, netting twisted and shock kept you rooted in face at what was so obviously an arm stung around, twisting their head up to look at you, and you saw a face. Not quite human and yet too human all the same.
Your eyes trailed down over the creature, and distantly you were pretty sure you could probably catch a watermelon in your teeth with how your jaw had dropped.
Dark eyes, pinpricked with gold watching you, just as you were watching it. They tilted their head, baring razor sharp fangs, thinner and longer than a sharkâs, interlocking in terrifying synchrony. Black lines trailed below its eyes, combining with the pale face, to make an effect almost looked oddly like circus make up. Or maybe that was your brain drawing a line between the red and black covering its head, only a few locks of white hair escaping.
No, not a red and black covering. You couldnât tell if it was a crest, or fins, or simply fabric, creating three spikes that looked, combined with the circus make up like markings? Like a jester hat.
Now you knew you were going insane. You choked back a hysterical giggle at the comparison of the mermaid to a clown. A scary one.
Somehow, the analogy of circus make up shocks your slow brain into functioning and you jerk back up, looking between it and the water. It had sunk down over a dozen feet away, the sand churned up around it. Your eyes traced it back, until it disappeared in the shallow cave at the back of the notch.
And then you turned back to it.
Her. Or him? It gave you a sense of him but you didnât want to assume the gender of aâŠ
Holy cow.
Thatâs a mermaid.
A sense of giddiness rose up in bubbles in your chest. An actual mermaid. Your childhood self would be over the moon right now. And then it bared its teeth, free arm clawing at the sand and leaving deep rents. The moment popped like a bubble.
Okay. Stuff it back into a box. What now?
Okay. Okay. You tugged on the edges of your sleeve, chewing your bottom lip. You should probably call somebody, right? Who did you even call for this? How did you even call for this? Animal control? The police? Maybe a paramedic?
Itâs- gosh, their arm didnât look good. Your foot pressed against the sand, not fully falling. The net had yanked it across their body, a position that looked pretty painful. The more they moved, the tighter the net grew, their clawing arm growing more jerky. They were in rough shape. A scrape along one cheek, crusted over with red blood (red blood! Like a human! How did that work? Was the circulatory system the same? Were they a mammal?)
It was clear additional cuts had been worn into their skin by the netting, red scales lining the sand like drops of blood, frozen in time.
Eerily, the entire time, the mermaid was silent. You were used to the bark of seals, the scream of the gulls. But the ways those eyes fixed on you spoke of far more intelligence than both.
Your eyes darted back. âI should probably-â call who? You werenât super close to most people in this town, being the weird hermit who lived by the sea. Maybe your boss, he had the air of someone who could wrangle a mermaid.
âŠyour boss who was currently searching for your missing coworker. And who might not even believe you if you called, because who would.
You could leave it. But the moment your weight shifted, its eyes darted away, looking back to the water with a look you could almost call longing. Scared. Braced for something to come.
You were the only one out here. They were calling for another storm tomorrow, which would keep anyone sane from making the trip out. Even if a search boat came down along the cliffs, they wouldnât detour up the notch, not when the shelf made it too dangerous to approach without running aground.
The waters below were littered with bones, both wooden and human.
They would just be left here. Even if they made it to the water, would they even be able to swim with one free arm, their tail pinned and tripped. Maybe that was why they hadnât clawed the last dozen feet. How long could they last without water?
You could leave them.
âŠgah.
âAw, me and my heart will get me killed one day.â You mumbled. You paced away from the mermaid, far too aware of its eyes on you as you traced up the cliffs, looking for a sand hollow you knew well.
You never took all the neat bits that washed up. Some you stashed for the occasional teenager who snuck down here, a cache of oceanic treasure. It got washed out more times than that, but you had dug a little hollow along one side of the notch, tossing in interesting bits there.
The contents you knew off the top of your head. A few clam shells, both sides still attached. A rock worn almost perfectly smooth. A molted crab shell, missing all but one claw.
You whistled at the glint in the sand, reaching up and picking it up gingerly. Seaglass. This bit was clear, so you werenât much interested. But the swipe was impressive, a jagged strip the size of your hand.
You pulled off the trash bag from your pocket, juggling the seaglass and cursing with a hop back as it fell at your feet. âJust attack me, why donât you.â You mumbled, picking it up and wrapping the folded bag around one end. There. A good way to make sure you donât just shred your palm.
âJust think of it like a seal.â You braced yourself. You had helped free seals before that got tangled in nets, the byproduct of the fishing industry. Just⊠a bigger seal. Really big. With the tail, they were much much taller than you, maybe half again or even twice as tall, and you werenât sure if that was affected by their awkward position.
Now for the harder part. You swallowed, nearly jumped when a turn had your eyes meet those golden pinpricks. âOkay, Iâm going to be approaching slowly.â You said, strangely hoping the mermaid hadnât seen your fumble with the seaglass.
It was a mermaid! Sue you! You wanted to be cool.
You took it a step at the time, crouching just outside of range. The mermaid drew itself up, mouth opening in a silent hiss. Its free arm tugged it an inch back.
This close, you could see how its chest rose and fell, quick breaths like it was hyperventilating. You lingered a moment.
âPlease donât hurt me. We can hang here a sec, let you look me over. Commit my face to memory so you can lob dead jellyfish at my house or something.â You said, raising both hands. Its eyes flicked to the seaglass than back to you.
Up close, it was even more beautiful, you thought. In a terrifying way.
The black lines werenât just netting, but also a pattern on the scales. Golden scales winked between the netting, forming an odd geometric pattern that drew your eyes in more than you cared to admit. You were pretty sure some of those golden marks hid gills, when you saw the area near one twitch.
The pattern continued on its belly, along its back where scales gave way to a large sail fin, striped red and black and tipped with gold. It matched the same pattern on the pinned down frills under its arms, unfurling almost like wings.
The frill twisted, the other resting the clawed hand on the sand close to you. The red and gold disappeared down their arm, fading to a solid black, but you could still make out the claws.
Those. Were some very sharp teeth. And very sharp claws. You cast a look up the beach, slowly crouching.
âItâs okay. I donât want to hurt you.â You said, inching closer. You should probably stop staring and start doing. This close, the netting looked even crueler than before. It had wrapped around one arm, the other arm caked in sand from they had dragged themself towards the water. Under those scary claws, you could see smears of blood from cuts.
âAll good.â You whispered, reaching for a bit of netting. You aimed for a looser bit along the back where he couldnât reach you. But it didnât stop the tail smacking into the side of your leg as he thrashed.
Only to still as netting fell away.
You wriggled the shard of sea glass under another swath, humming as more fell away. It was oddly satisfying. Reach. Cut. Reach. Cut.
Or maybe it would be if you werenât constantly eyeing him, waiting for the hammer to drop. (You were just going to go with switching between him and her right now. It just felt wrong to call them an it. Huh. They/them maybe?)
But the more the netting fell away, the slower the other became. Their tail swept the sand, and you let yourself admire it.
It must be truly beautiful in the water, you thought. Fish scales always were, with the refraction of light and the backdrop of water. It was clear that the other was built for speed and power. It almost reminded you of a tail you might see on a mako, with more delicate frills. You could almost imagine how they would billow under the waves, enchanting.
âPlease donât cut me.â You mumbled, reaching for a higher up section. âI really donât want to explain to my boss Iâm calling out because a mermaid mauled me because I scared it.â
You look up, eyeing the next piece. Only to freeze as you met golden eyes watching you, their gaze lingering on your face. No longer pinpricks, you could catch the vividly gold eyes, little flecks of black like reverse stars.
âBeautiful.â You breathed. And it might be just your imagination, but you could almost swear the otherâs cheeks flushed. âJust a bit longer, okay? I promise, Iâm almost done. No calling out due to mauling.â
The next bit scared you more. No matter how much you looked at it. The netting trapping their other arm. They hadnât clawed you yet, but there was something terrifying about freeing another arm, at being so close to those claws.
Just think of it like a seal, you told yourself. Youâve freed seals before and theyâre ornery, unappreciative suckers. Youâve dodged bites before, and angry blubbery flopping.
You blinked as the mermaid suddenly leaned closer to you, offering more of the netting. âOh! Thank you.â You shot it a close lipped smile, wondering if teeth would be seen as threatening. Considering they smiled at you with their shark like teeth, you were pretty sure it might not be.
Or maybe the smile was a threat.
The last of the netting fell away and you fell back onto the sand as the mermaid suddenly shifted. But unlike what you thought, they didnât bolt straight into the water. Instead, they tilted their head, a fresh drop of blood welling up from the scrape on their cheek.
âWait, I might-â you scrabble in your pocket with your free hand, pulling out the little slip triumphantly. âHere! You can use this!â
Even as you offer it, embarrassment curls. A tiny pink band aid? How was that even supposed to be helpful? You pull your hand back but a clawed hand reaches out, gently plucking the band aid from your hand. The mermaid smiles again, so big their eyes scrunch shut. You gape uselessly, scrabbling for a change of subject, to distract you from your embarrassment.
âDo you need some help getting back?â You said, eyeing the waterline. Had they exhausted themself trying to get back to the sea? It couldnât be easily dragging their entangled body through the sand.
The mermaid paused for a moment before nodding enthusiastically. You hesitated for a moment before reaching forward, hauling the mermaid in your arms. It was awkward, with how long their body was and-
Oh gods.
You nearly staggered with the weight, gritting your teeth as you called upon every ounce of strength to get them up. You couldnât manage lifting them, but eventually you managed to awkwardly haul them on your back, tail dragging in the sand.
The weight made you stagger, but you soldiered forward, far too aware of the mermaidâs face resting on your shoulder. âNormally I donât come to the beach at this time.â You told it, finding the silence awkward.
Maybe it was from working customer service where you chatted everyday with brick walls to seem friendly.
Or maybe because you were suddenly eerily aware, much like that moment that drew you out onto the shelf, that you were standing a place of great danger. How you had waltzed right into carrying a dangerous creature, that your boss knew about your hobbies, but out on the search for Carol, no one would think to look for you for a while.
But the mermaid was still holding the bandaid, pinned between claws like a precious thing. Maybe that was a good sign.
âI got off of work early today.â You confided. âOne of my coworkers didnât come in, and the boss had an errand to run. He doesnât like only one person in the shop for too long, so we ended up closing early and I decided to swing by. Glad I did!â
âThere was this one customer today, that demanded a hot cocoa with no milk, but they hated water too! Iâm like, maâam, as much as I would like to drink bourbon, I am in no way allowed to do that. Of course I didnât say that, but you know! I wanted to. Itâs not like the boss would let me have bourbon even if I got some for some reason.â You winced as your boot landed on a sharp rock, one that sent a dull pain rocketing up your leg. Weighed down, any practiced grace you had was gone now. âI ended up just giving them a cup of hot cocoa powder and whip cream. And she ate it! The whole thing. Just mixed it up and chowed down. Honestly, Iâm kinda wondering if it was good.â
Your voice cut off, trailing away weakly as water lapped at your boots. âI think you can probably do the rest of the way here.â You said, lowering the mermaid to the ground. It was an awkward transition, as you tried not to drop them, but thankfully the mermaid helped out, bracing their arms on the ground so they didnât fall the last bit. âBest of luck out there! Be careful of nets.â
And after that.
After all that.
A flick of water was your undoing.
You jerked back with a yelp as a little tiny wave washed over your boots. Not even kicked up by the mermaid! Or finned up?
But it still sent you stumbling up the beach, you trying to play it off as a victorious saunter away but you were pretty sure it was obvious you had been scared by a wave. A wave. âCongrats.â You told yourself. âWhy did we crawl out the ocean? Who needs legs, just return to the soup. Embarrassing, zero for effort.â
Your nervous system didnât respond. Good. You had a bone to pick with it. You forced yourself up the beach, trying to play it off.
You kept looking back behind you, at the mermaid lingering by the waterâs edge. It had settled at where the black waters lapped the shore, golden eyes following your route back up the sand.
A quick detour, and you snatched the trash bag, stuffing it and the seaglass in your pocket. The netting, you dragged further up the beach, where it wouldnât get washed back out to entangle some poor sea creature again.
Up by the cave were massive rocks, and you braced, pulling it over the net with a grunt. That would keep it from blowing away.
Tonight was just going to be a wash, you decided. You saved a mermaid. No picking up trash was going to beat that. Anxiety be gone, right there. You deserved a hot drink and a warm meal, and a blanket on the couch when you inevitably broke into a spiral wondering if it was a hallucination.
âŠthe mermaid was still there when you looked back to the water. It didnât feel like a hallucination. You waved, feeling a little foolish at the immediate facepalm realization it might not know what that meant. âLeast Iâm not rude.â You told yourself. You just wanted a good grade in meeting mermaids, something that was reasonable to want and possible to achieve.
The mermaid blinked. A flicker of black lined eyelids. Before raising its hand and waving back.
âOkay, that is so freaking cool.â You whispered. A giddy warmth flushed your face, protecting you against the wind as you began the path back along the rocks. âSo cool.â
Youâd hold this memory for your trip home, playing it over and over again in your mind until the edges wore smooth and you began to wonder if it was just a dream.
Lost in the haze of your thoughts, you didnât notice the ripples that followed you until you finally ascended up the cliff.
Bubbles drifted to the surface of the water.
And then faded away into the waves.
Authorâs Note:
Iâve already got designs for the rest of the circus and Iâm so excited to share them! Pierrot I based a little on a mix between a mako and a betta- though more will be described later as the story develops. If nobody has done mermaid au, Iâm gonna do it myself.
Not Friends, Not Enemies, But A Secret Third Thing (they want to hunt each other for sport)
Character(s): Pierrot (The Freak Circus), Harlequin (The Freak Circus), Reader (Gender-Neutral), Jester (The Freak Circus), mentions of Ticket Taker and Fifth
Pairing(s): Pierrot/Reader, hints of Pierrot/Harlequin and Harlequin/Reader
Warnings: Harlequin
Summary: Harlequinâs POV of the first day.
Clink
The bell clapper landed into the trash can, quickly followed by a second.
Harlequin sauntered past without even missing a beat, curling a smile at the passerby who had turned their head to follow the source of the sound. Crimson consumed their face, a rush to turn their head. More tasty was that flash of immediate humiliation and regret when they realized what had made them blush.
Ah, fun, but no matter- it was a different source of crimson he was interested in now.
The Pierrot was never so easy to track as they haunted the streets like a ghost. Unable to speak, they relied on staying quiet and invisible, a mere presence handing out flyers. It didnât deter the flies, but ah. Could Pierrot be Pierrot without inspiring those rising feelings of disgust in Harlequin?
If Pierrot got the merest whisper Harlequin had turned his way, heâd ghost to another street. Jester allowed it, preferring it over the alternative when they didnât see it suitable for the two to go out together.
Harlequin found it boring.
But the trick was to do it ever so carefully. A flyer here, a flyer tossed carefully there. Slowly working his way down. A quick chat with a passerby, trailing behind them as they rushed to work, trying to pretend like they didnât care about the circus performer in their heels.
Step after step, a flawless mask of excuses. He could feel his grin sharpen, making the man approaching him with a scowl suddenly change their mind and turn the other way.
Harlequin watched them idly go, wondering if he should raise that one for a pink ticket. They had the look of someone who could be an aggravation, the kind who might push things too far before the group was ready to move.
Mm. A thought for another time. He enjoyed the look he always got when he made his way onto the street. Such a deep revulsion from the other
Bells silenced, path varied, quiet as the hush that fell over the audience. But the Pierrotâs eyes always found him. To see that rising aggravation, knowing all the nasty, nasty words that the other had to bite back and keep locked away?
Oh, truly the highlight of his day. Harlequin enters the scene, stage right. Or, rather, enter the scene from the top of the greet, guiding his stalk as a tossed flyer-
Pierrot wasnât looking at him.
Harlequin led his gaze slide sideways, keeping up the charade of animation as he passed his flyer off to a human. âI hope you see you there.â He murmurs words he doesnât care about. âOh, what a show youâll see.â
âPerhaps you can show me around?â They stutter, and he smiles but still, his gaze slides to the side.
Pierrot always looks at him when their path intersects. Like a hound after a bone, the moment Harlequin turns down the street, the otherâs gaze will find him. Observing. Waiting.
Itâs delicious. In public, all the nasty little words Pierrot wants to say are held back, kept inside by the rule they follow. Harlequin delights in it, revels in it. In pushing and prodding, watching as Pierrot holds back their rage.
His littlest game the last few towns is simply⊠finding the other. Sauntering down the streets, passing the flyers out to people before Pierrot can.
Never has it failed to have Pierrotâs eyes on him. It annoys Jester to no end, managing them both, but if the flyers are passed out and Harlequin maintains the mask of respectability, where could he be impinged? It was usually good for a short bit of fun before one of the others drifted through and Harlequin departed, knowing to press further may draw a potential scene. Or ire from Jester.
And yet. Harlequin murmurs a half hearted reply to the stranger, wishing they would take the hint and depart.
Pierrotâs eyes were away from him.
Instead they stared down at their hand, eyes wide and almost giddy. A crimson flush to their face that wasnât there before as they clutched it like the item was priceless, something fragile, their body hunched in like they half expected the object to be plucked from their hand or scattered to the winds. As if Harlequin doesnât exist.
âPerhaps you should go see for yourself.â Harlequinâs words come out sharper now, and he sighs as he watches the stranger scramble away, suddenly deciding maybe it was for the better to not speak to the clown.
Harlequin tucked the posters under his arm with a flourish, handing an extra to yet another passerby, closer this time. No sharpness can hide his charm for long, potential audience members approaching like moths to a lantern. But for Harlequin, it was all a means to draw closer.
Closer that he can just make out what Pierrot was holding.
Harlequin tilted his head.
A bandaid.
How would the Pierrot have a bandaid? The circus never kept those on hand. With their healing, an injury small enough for a band aid would be healed in a matter of hours, if not less. Anything more severe Fifth had full bandages for, or stitches in very rare cases.
Something light and tiny as that would be practically useless, and anything useless tended to get pared away over the process of moving from place to place.
And yet, he watches as Pierrot carefully peels open the bandaid as if working on defusing a bomb, slowly sticking it to the ever so light scrape on his cheek. Even the pink wrapper is carefully tucked away in a hidden pocket, a gloved hand patting down the outside as if assuring it was there.
They even leaned into the window of the nearby cafe, staring into the glass, admiring their reflection.
Harlequin has carved rents in his skin. Blood has spilled across the floor. Theyâve been sent staggering by violence. Even to a lesser extent is the violence wreaked on Pierrot by outsiders.
Thatâs where the scrape likely came from. Yet another passerby, and Pierrotâs pretended muteness- perhaps Jester would be making them walk together again.
Theyâd torn hair out.
And yet, the Pierrot carries on with their little bandage. Every moment or so, they reach up to trace around it. They keep glancing into the cafe window, claws reaching out to trace something on it.
Even as Harlequin orbits around him, the other never once looks toward him.
His teeth ache. His tongue presses against the back of them, and true effort keeps his claws from pressing through the flyers in his grip as heâs stopped by yet another interested passerby during his prowl.
Before he can draw closer, a flicker of purple crosses the opening of the street. Jesterâs eyes are narrowed and the other jerks his head to the side, indicating up the street.
Harlequin sighs.
Time to continue on his route then, with his plausible deniability gone. When Pierrot returns to the circus tonight, Harlequin will take his pound of flesh then.
Tonight, the lights are dark. In the beginning, when lights were added, they had discussed whether to leave them bright or turned off on nights with no shows, and settled on turned off.
Turned off, and less annoyances crept in, lured by the bright lights. Turned off, and what did it matter? They could see just fine anyways. It certainly didnât slow Harlequin from reaching an empty booth by the main entrance, settling himself on the counter with one leg slung up, the other tapping on the ground.
Another night, and he could see the spectral forms of crowds, the beat of music and voices. He shifted his weight, careful not to press too hard on certain areas that would collapse the stand down, making it ready for packing.
He spreads out his supplies, selecting the paper before he begins working at it. A tracery reveals no flaws, and the shape is in his mind before he begins working.
Clumsy little silhouettes, just cute little shadow puppets. Art, and yet, simple. Heâs made these dozens of times, cut the same lines over and over. But, ah, itâs tradition by now! And there is a delight in presenting a truth as a story, twisting the details, silhouetting the characters and presenting them to an unsuspecting audience. Watching them ooh and ahh, unaware that the story was alive. And hungry.
But a tradition meant requirements, and Harlequin is naught but a perfectionist when it came to his show. When the old puppets wear thin, he makes them anew. A cycle of return.
By now, he could likely cut these during his resting periods. The shapes have been perfected over the years, and soon, he finds eyes looking back at him, ready for poisonous green.
The circus grounds are dreadfully quiet. Bilheteiro was managing the pink tent, the Fifth in their own tent. Jester himself had left a short time ago, a womanâs bag slung over his shoulder.
The Pierrot had never returned for the casting call.
Worse is the energy that teases along his limbs, teeth idly snapping at the air with nowhere to aim it. Tonight there will be no performance, no puppet show to burn off the edge or pink ticket to handle. They didnât perform every night, needing time off to make the necessary arrangements for their⊠props.
And with Jester wound up over the hurried case of one of their newest pink tickets, tonightâs show had been put towards tomorrow.
Click. Harlequin adjusted his scissors again. That had been quite the event. Hurried and rushed, and hopefully dismissed by any⊠concerned members of the community. They had never confirmed the performance after all, even if it was teetering towards being realized.
His bells were rattling again this morning, despite the clappers being removed the day before, the other must be really out of sorts, Harlequin mused. The other hadnât seemed concerned at the removal of the tongues from his bells before yesterday night, but when he awoke from his resting period in the morning, they had returned again.
No matter. They were gone now, plucked away and buried in trash. What interested Harlequin more was the why.
A scrape.
Harlequinâs eyes flickered back to the gates, only to be met by violet eyes. Jester tilted his head as he swung the gate shut, the bag missing from over his shoulder. They stare at Harlequin, eyes assessing for one long moment.
âWrong person.â He said, stepping away. Violet flickered to the bells over Harlequinâs shoulder and Harlequin rolled his shoulders, smiling disarmingly. There was no clink from the bells and he saw Jester bite back a sigh.
âOh, but perhaps the right person? Jester, do you consider yourself so lowly in my thoughts? Perhaps I could be more interested in you tonight.â Harlequin purred, leaning forward to prop his head on his chin. The puppet abandoned, his scissors hanging in his free hand. In true comical fashion, it shapes what could be Jester, if one squinted, lacking a few more cuts to be free. âOh, the tragedy!â
âInteresting attempt.â Jester said, unrising to the bait. Simply, no fun at all. Harlequinâs eyes narrowed. More brusque than usual. âKeep things between you and Pierrot contained tonight.â
Ah. How very fascinating. Did Jester not know where Pierrot went either?
âAnd already assuming Iâll get into trouble?â Harlequin said, his tongue tasting the air. No blood. Only the scent of the maçã do amor this booth sold, the candied sweetness ingrained in the wood. âI simply rise to the occasion.â
âThat you provoke. It may not be a show night, but after things with the last batch...â Jesterâs claws tapped against the ornate metal before pulling away from the gate. âKeep it quiet tonight. No more attention for now, and I donât want blood splattered against our props again. VocĂȘ entende?â
Harlequinâs eyes darkened at the jab, the reminder of a fight that went rather badly for him. It had even brought the Fifth out intervening in later fights, after having to bandage them both up.
âTalvez. Weâll see.â He says. Jester takes that as agreement, sauntering into the night. Violet eyes flicker to his bells when he passes, and Harlequin knows in a few days, heâll be picking out bell clappers again. Maybe even as quickly as tomorrow, should he rest tonight.
For a moment, Harlequin considers his next lines. How perfectly placed an idle comment would be here. Jester already knew Pierrot was gone, he had no doubt about that. The other always kept tabs on where they were. But did they know about the bandage? The odd look in Pierrotâs eyes?
Instead, he swallows the words back, relishing in their taste. Another day, maybe two. Peel back the secret before Jester knew. Or already knew, and refused to say, sadistic as they could be.
Snip. Another puppet took shape under his scissors. Bilheitero this time.
Columb The Angel will be last. He always saves her that puppet for last.
An oddity, Harlequin mused. It was not as if the circus crew did not roam on the nights they didnât perform. Pink tickets must be distributed, Jester enjoyed his exploration, and occasionally Harlequin desired a little entertainment. Even on a night as tense as this, with the scrap of that pink ticket, they could still drift free. No curfew existed unless declared.
But the PierrotâŠ
A fourth puppet. Three spikes rising like a twisted crown, eyes awaiting their golden marks. Shorter, but not quite the shortest puppet still. Harlequin eyed it, and spitefully chose to trim it a little shorter than before, savoring the potential look on Pierrotâs face when they saw how Harlequin made him shorter than his own puppet.
Personally, Harlequin found his height to be suitable for him. But still, he enjoyed aggravating Pierrot more.
A forked tongue swiped out, tasting the air and finding it lacking that disgustingly sugary sweetness that always drifted off of the other, something light and saccharine. Only the sweetness of the apples, obscuring any hint of the other.
The Pierrot rarely left the circus tents all night.
Clack.
Harlequin watched as the puppetâs head drifted to the ground with hooded eyes. After a moment, he reached forward, plucking another piece of paper and beginning again.
Where, oh, where could Pierrot have disappeared to?
The mystery follows him the next day. Puppets made and back in his tent, he found himself with a fresh sheaf of flyers prowling the streets. Jester had practically thrown them in his arms, eyes amused and watchful.
His bells were jingling again.
Part of him presumes the mystery would be solved tonight, after the circus. With the curfew command at play, Pierrot would return and Harlequin always knows what buttons to push. The cracks he could wriggle his claws into, pry and push and twist until the ugly ugly face hidden under that smiling mask roared out.
The Pierrot could keep no secrets from him. He always knew how to make him dance on a string. The other may be physically stronger but in this, Harlequin excels.
Instead, itâs rather innocuous. Perhaps thatâs just how the story goes. Itâs never the grand adventure that overturns the stone hiding the answer, but the lightest kick on the path of life.
Planning to take out his frustration and inconvenience another, knowing that his charm can twist any snap at him into public embarrassment for the other, he picks a smaller target. One of the residents, clearly rushing down the street for work, eyes fixed on the cafe ahead. A cafe Harlequin still remembered from Pierrotâs admiring of their reflection. A face that said that any bite would be mitigated by so-called societal politeness.
And truly, he made his pick well. Even as their answers come short and clipped, they canât quite shake him off.
âI already have a ticket, actually.â
Harlequin pivots, curiosity flaring. âOh? Wonderful! You got one? Was it a pink one then?â There was something delicious about finding a pink ticket out in the wild. Of seeing it in the hands of someone unknowing of their fate.
Already, he finds himself turning the idea of following the other over in his mind. Pushing and prodding, pacing along their path, seeing if this one is interesting enough to keep. Or perhaps aggravating enough to provide additional savor to their flesh-
âIt was red, actually.â They drop the information so innocuously, so casually. Like it wasnât a stone thrown into the mirror, glass shattering.
Harlequin freezes, his saunter missing a beat. One eye widens, his mask cracking. Just for the briefest of moments before he schools it into something artful. And fake.
Pierrot has found someone?
Harlequin examines the other, and finds not a trace of a silvery tongue. No lie drips from their face. Interesting. But not surprising. The only way theyâd know a ticket could be red was if they held one.
It wasnât as if any of the performers revealed their own tickets. As far as most were concerned, the only tickets in circulation were yellow, pink and black being more covert.
The bandage. Maybe even the interest in the cafe. The disappearance at night. Each wrapped into a thread tangled around the other. What would happen if Harlequin pulled on the knot? He could feel eagerness clawing at his throat, beginning him to try.
âA red one, huh? So that Pierrot gave it to you? Interesting.â Harlequin said. He leans in closer, watching the way their step hitched, their breathing catching for a singular moment as he stared at their throat. His gaze flickered up to their face, catching tired but wide eyes.
âIâm the Harlequin, dear one.â At the sound of his name, their eyes flicker, crease at the corners. Recognizing it. Had they heard about him in town? Or, vanishingly small, did it drop off Pierrotâs voice into their ear?
The idea filled Harlequin with repulsion and a spiteful sort of fascination. The Pierrot breaking the one rule he had to talk to another? How⊠interesting.
âAh! Iâve got an idea. How about we trade?â He suggests, a half step blocking them in and stopping their quaint little attempt to flee past him. âI give you mine⊠and you give me that red one.â
A snap of his fingers and heâs holding his own ticket, the same green of his clothes. The edges are curled slightly, aged from how rarely he passed them out to others, instead hidden away.
âWhatâs the difference?â They asked, eyeing the ticket in evident confusion. Harlequin smiles, unwilling to explain. To ruin the game.
You. He wondered. How did you get Pierrotâs attention? What brought the otherâs eyes onto you? What could he find under your skin? What would I find if I keep taking you apart?
But alas, his scene is cut short. He can feel the other even before they appear, shoving him to the side with strength that could be called accidental, if it wasnât for the way Harlequin had to dodge a subtle swipe that would have shredded his flyers. And likely part of his arm.
No, not quite a dodge. Pierrot pulled back just at the last moment, something staying his claws even as Harlequin bares a sharp smile at eyes firelit with rage.
A warning.
Poor Pierrot.
Now Harlequin is only more interested in this darling that Pierrot is so nervous as to reveal themself to harm him, to warn him off.
âOh my. Speak of the devil.â Harlequin purrs, and he can see the minute tense of Pierrotâs shoulders, the barely hidden flexing of their claws. No flyers- had they not even returned to the tents yet to retrieve more?
Were they in the tents, blood would already be spilled, infecting the air with its tang. Those golden eyes promising maiming, flesh rent under knives. Pierrot rips the ticket from his hands like a promise, green against black and red.
And Harlequin breaths with the glee of knowing.
Oh, this is not Pierrotâs attention that this one held.
This is his love.
You think he would know better. Love could not survive between the Pierrot and a fool. Not with the Harlequin in the wings, ready to step onto the stage.
Pierrot narrows his eyes, telling Harlequin to step away this time.
Instead, Harlequin luxuriates. Tilts his head back, and smiles, knowing how the morning light casts a glow onto him, the glow of stage lights.
Both of them have their eyes on him.
Authorâs Note:
This can be read as Harlequin x Pierrot because like⊠look. It can be read platonic, romantic, or seething hatred. Thatâs just the side effect of having a deep rooted arch nemesis who you donât actually want dead. And we do have confirmation Harlequin would hate smooch Pierrot (which I hinted at but decided to leave open to interpretation, especially because the world and lore is still in flux)
I find Harlequin fascinating. Now, admittedly, this is Nekoâs lore stitched together with my interpretation of certain things. But like- Harlequin hates Pierrot. But wants his eyes on him. Calls him disgusting, but doesnât actually want him dead no matter how much they brawl.
Warning(s): Just some hurt/comfort, hold on to your hearts
Summary: Sometimes Pierrot makes you so angry.
He loves you no matter what you look like. Why canât he understand that you love him, monster and all?
âDo you want to know why Iâm mad?â You say. âBecause I donât think you actually get it.â
âBecause Iâm a monster.â Pierrot said, and you can feel your heart break at the note of pain in their voice. Old, dulled pain, the kind that comes from leaving a wound to heal over with the blade still trapped inside. Festering and teeming with loss.
A quick puff of air escapes your lips, the ember of anger in your chest burning low. Annoyance surges instead, at the fact you can never stay mad at him. âOh Pierrot.â You said, blowing out through your nose. âThatâs not why Iâm angry.â
Honestly, you wished that being angry was something simple and clean, and not an uneasy mix of sadness and anger that churned in your chest.
Pierrot pulls away as you reach closer, and the crack in your heart becomes a break when you see him flinch. As if instead of seeing an open palm reaching forward out of care, he only sees an open palm ready to smack.
You pull away, fold your hands against your knees.
âPierrot.â You said, almost whispering. âYou said once that it never mattered how I looked, only my soul.â
It had taken you a long time to believe it. To believe that someone could fall for you on such a- a different level. You had slowly fallen in love with yourself over the years, learned appreciation for every feature and to enjoy the view in the mirror. Because it was you, truly and wholly you, and didnât being alive deserve love for yourself?
But even love for yourself, didnât mean you expected others to look past appearance because it just felt⊠off. To find someone so devoted.
But, Pierrot had a way of making you blush and stammer with their total and whole hearted devotion. Every word and action constantly reaffirming that it never mattered how you looked, only that they had fallen in love with your soul instead.
They had whispered it to you once, back in the beginning. One of his quieter statements, a habit you realized he had soon after you met. A tendency to simply speak quickly and not repeat, as a way to express himself without you knowing.
A moment of kindness. Learning all your quirks. Never getting scared away. Pierrot was determined to know you from the inside out.
Pierrot nods. They arenât speaking much still, and you bite your lip, biting back angry words you know Pierrot would take in pain lashing out at him instead of anger at what drove him to this point.
Harlequinâs story. That they werenât truly real to those people, just freak show acts.
âWhat hurts.â You said, your hand lowering without a touch from where it had been frozen. âIs that despite knowing me, you think Iâm incapable of being the same.â
Pierrot jerks. Golden eyes finally, finally, look up to meet yours.
âThat despite⊠everything.â And thereâs a whole lot in that word. You would still be grappling a bit with the stalking issue. It was flattering and terrifying in equal measures. âYou think that Iâm incapable of looking past appearances. That I would be cruel or vain or, or- whatever.â
âDearest, no. I would never think low of you.â Pierrot insists. âMy true form-â
âIs Pierrot.â You said firmly. âStill Pierrot. No change of form can hide that gushy, mushy interior. I can see you, jingling away there still. I can see your love of sweets and how you always relax by sharpening your knives and the way you pouted when Harlequin gave you those sour candies and the angry face you make when you fight and all the little tiny things Iâve learned about you.â
This time, pressing forward. You reach out, pulling the changed face of your Pierrot forward. Pressing your forehead to theirs.
âWhy canât you believe that I love you all the same?â You whispered. Your heart still shook with the sting, the lack of trust, and you understood and despised it in equal measures.
The rational side of you cried about the reasons behind it. The wilder side only felt the pain of having someone you loved believe you would throw it all away.
Claws. Settling in on your cheek, and you leaned into the warm touch of Pierrotâs hand. Itâs shaking. They hold you like theyâre afraid youâll shatter under the touch.
âAre you not afraid?â
âI suppose I could be.â You said. It was the natural, instinctive reaction to be afraid of such a creature. You would be surprised to discover that your genetics didnât have tons of little flashing signs engineered through years of pressure to flee such a creature. âBut Iâve been afraid of humans too, and I know you would never hurt me.â
If it was one thing that had carried your relationship through all the revelations, it was that knowledge, etched into your bones. Pierrot would never hurt you.
Not unless you wanted him to.
âBut can you believe that I wonât hurt you too?â You said. Half challenge and half hope. Asking for trust that hadnât needed to be verbally asked for before.
Some might find this symbolic, a human asking for the trust of a monster. You only found it to be a prayer. A plea.
A moment passed.
A second.
Unbidden, thoughts rose to your mind. What to do if the answer was no. Cry? Leave? Pretend that the circus was in the past, pretend like you knew nothing again, and your heart wasnât left at the foot of the bed?
All of those options sounded awful. But more awful would be realizing that you lost him forever. That you would walk down the street with no shadow at your side, have to pass by the flyers and pretend like you didnât want so badly to run back to him-
Warmth. On the other side of your face. Pierrot pulled you in closer, and you opened your eyes into pure gold.
âOh, dearest, you donât know what you do to me.â Pierrot said, and your heart swoops a little at seeing their smile. Different now, but their smile all the same. Sharp teeth and loving, a pink blush spreading over their face. âYou- oh you are perfect.â
âAnd you are too.â You whispered back. They didnât believe you quite yet, you could see it easily.
But thatâs okay.
Youâd just keep saying it until they did.
Authorâs Note:
Also, great way to 100% a Pierrot kidnapping speedrun, Reader is about to unlock an achievement for fastest run to the altar.
Summary: Most people take up embroidery or underwater basket weaving as hobbies. You stumbled into killing as a way to blow off steam. You pick your victims well- and the guy screaming at one of the circus performers feels gift wrapped to you on a platter.
But when an interruption happens in your smooth execution, you find a new interruption in your routine.
Â
As the bell jangled, you leaned forward, pressing your face into your arms. This close, you can smell the lingering trace of disinfectant, any sugary sweetness from spilled drinks wiped away.
Oddly, you could swear that despite that, a sweetness still lingered. The same one you caught when you tended Pierrotâs head.
You groaned into your hands.
Tenseness slunk up your spine. The talk with Pierrot had helped, it really did. But between customers, and the jerk, and just⊠everything. The lights going off earlier. The feeling even now of being watched.
Not to mention the sheer embarrassment of pulling a knife on Pierrot. What did the poor guy think of you now? He probably thought you were a psycho.
You had hit your limit.
âRight then.â You said, standing back up and shaking out your hands. âLetâs do something about it.â
You cracked your neck, reaching for the side of the cash register. The knife, set there when you saw Pierrotâs surprised look, was still there.
Checking the blade, you nodded in satisfaction before slipping it into your pocket. This one was the one you used most, both inside the cafe and out of it. Inside the cafe, it was the knife you reached for when you needed something on hand to defend yourself.
Outside of the cafe? Well.
However, at neither point was it ever used for cooking. You leaned on the counter for a moment to gather your thoughts now that your mind was set, poring over the details you needed to get into order.
Today had been⊠a day. Between dealing with the rude man and the lights suddenly going out, you were feeling jittery. In need of a release.
Some people bought decadent treats. Others went on vacation. Some people bought video games, or new clothes, or went to dinner.
You?
You killed someone.
And luckily, you knew exactly where to find that release. You drummed your fingers on the counter before nodding to yourself. It had been a few weeks since you had done it, but luckily, you even had the perfect target.
Normally, you went after people who were rude to you, Carol, or the boss. It worked out perfectly for you. See, you had read once that where most serial killers got caught was that they werenât truly random killings.
You, well, yours werenât random. But they were subtle, no one really thought about the service worker who got yelled at. It was like yelling at a table. At most? You maybe got a pitying glance.
But when the police came around, nobody jumped to the cafe worker who got yelled at.
And as a plus, it fit your reasoning well enough. You tried not to kill parents, sole providers, go for the people who were well and truly awful. After a little bit of checking to make sure it was not the product of an awful day, well, you found that you tend to find what you were looking for. It wasnât always a guarantee but it took a certain kind of person to scream at someone just doing their job.
âŠpoor rationalization perhaps, but you were pretty sure that wasnât the worst part of your hobby.
And the guy you found screaming at that poor performer earlier would definitely do.
You reached into your hoodie pocket, well worn handle landing in your hand. Mugging gone wrong, that would work, you decided, grabbing the keys from their spot on the counter. It took more staging than you would like, but with everything going on, it would be nothing but background noise.
You flicked the lights off, ignoring the shiver up your spine as you pulled the door close and turned the lock with a satisfying clunk.
The streets were dim, but not yet fully dark. On another day, you would already be heading home for an early night in. Luckily, you had managed to persuade your boss to have multiple sets of keys, so you didnât have to worry about getting in at the crack of dawn when your boss did.
Honestly, you think he enjoys those early mornings way too much. Whoâs the actual crazy person here?
âŠprobably still you.
It doesnât take long to track the man down. On your break earlier, you had stepped aside to check your phone, googling what details you remembered. The bright side of living in a small town was how easy it was to find someone once you narrowed down the area.
You rubbed your chin, careful not to let your hand drop to your pocket in case anyone was watching. You probably shouldâve known then that it was going to be that kind of night.
But luckily, you found perfection. Dude was even more raving crazy online, constantly hurling insults, threats, and some stuff that made you feel downright slimy just reading it.
Even better, he was an out of towner, here on business, but no one to particularly care about him going missing. The only one who might have been was his poor wife he had beaten into divorce.
Your lip curled. You hated people like that.
A little snooping told you he got off the office late, not late enough for you on a regular night, but if you dashed, your mugging plan wasnât doomed.
And apparently, the stars were aligning for you, because you caught up to the man just as he stepped off the road to head into a darker alleyway.
You slowed, footsteps silently as you clung to the shadows, following him in, maybe something was smiling after you, that tonight was aligning so perfectly.
It was the work of seconds.
Step up.
Slash.
Dodge the blood.
You resisted the urge to flick the knife, instead starting to wrap it in a dishrag. Youâd need to get gloves on in a second, grab a wallet and stage the scene-
A clatter.
Your heart jumps into your throat, mind working on over time just fast enough to tell you there was no way to run in time as the lady rounds the corner,
Oh, this was bad.
The ladyâs lip pulls back as they stagger. âYou bitch!â
They didnât even try to run, stepping up to take a swing at you. A swing that was definitely going to hurt.
You swore to yourself, palming your knife as the otherâs face twisted in fury. How did you miss this? You had kept such a close eye on them, gotten ready to strike so particularly. And here was a sudden bystander-
A silver blur flashed by your head.
A hollow squelch.
The person in front of you teetered. For just a moment. Before they slumped to the ground, a silent moat of blood spilling.
You followed the trajectory, eyes widening as it was met with the very familiar form of Pierrot. Here in the alley way, you could almost swear that was something hollow about their eyes, before they flicked down to-
And they werenât looking at the body, instead staring at you. You met them with wide eyes, suddenly very aware of how much blood was covering you.
âThis isnât what it looks like.â You blurted out. At the confusion on their masked face, you glanced down at the bodies. âOkay, maybe it is what it looks like.â
Well. This night was going somewhere in a handbasket. Murphyâs law and you shouldâve expected it. And now they were looking at the body, their eyes going a bit wide, and suddenly very still.
âWhy are you even here?â You asked, looking back up. The last you saw Pierrot, they were in the cafe saying goodbye before they had disappeared outside.
Pierrot tore their eyes away from the body, staring at you with a gaze that almost felt hungry. âI wanted to walk you home. When you ran, I got worried for you.â They said, voice a bit raspy in a way that made them want to offer some ginger honey citron tea jam.
It was a mouthful to say, but man, was it good.
You opened your mouth, not quite sure what to say. That was oddly⊠kind of them, perhaps? âI guess I did look a bit of a mess after the lights turned off on me.â You mumbled. And suddenly running into the night didnât help. You had planned for camera blind spots and off the main road paths, not for a concerned guy who just wanted to walk you home.
Man, standing over a dead body with the circus performer who had stumbled in on you killing them.
âŠgranted, Pierrot had killed someone too.
âYou looked beautiful in the dark.â
âIâm sorry?â You said, looking back up from the body. Pierrot smiled at you, golden eyes seeming to glow behind their mask. You shove the mumbled sentence out of your mind. âItâs- right. Iâm getting sidetracked.â
You could just bolt now, but what was the point? He had seen you already. Technically, he was now as embroiled in this as you were.
Part of you, the more ruthless part, told you to push him under the bus. People already thought the circus performers made people disappear. It was just another rumor for the mill.
But then you looked back up into those strangely hopeful eyes, and noticed how despite his overall calm, Pierrot was shaking, hands clasped together.
You bite your lip, turning the idea over in your mind before making a decision. âRight. Come back to my house with me, and Iâll get you cleaned up first. And an alibi.â
Pierrot stiffened for a moment, and you couldnât help but tense as well, worried that the answer would be a dismissal. But instead, the other padded past you and kneeled by the body they had killed, throwing knife disappearing as they palmed it and stood again.
He turned, holding an awaiting hand out to you. And feeling oddly out of place, you took it.
It would be good for an alibi, you told yourself. Right now, what made sense was him maybe escorting you home.
And maybe the sudden adrenaline crash that left you cold and a tiny bit loopy, and that made holding onto a hand much nicer. You could lie to yourself too sometimes. Pierrot tugs you forward, turning down the street- luckily in the direction of your house.
Neither of you spoke till you reach it. You were pretty sure Pierrot wanted to, with how they jittered, constantly. Glancing towards you, free hand fidgeting, occasionally looking like they were about to say something but always just cutting it off.
And on your part, you were busy thinking. How much you could trust them, how much trouble you could get into if they flipped.
But with the door closed, you find yourself speaking first. âThanks. For dealing with them.â You might have been able to manage it, but⊠not easily. It wouldâve been dangerously for you, and more dangerous if it got somebodyâs attention.
âI wouldnât allow them to hurt you.â Pierrot said, his voice still raspy. He was looking around your home as if it was the most fascinating place he had ever seen. âDid you⊠kill them because of me?â
You paused, rubbing the back of your head, feeling suddenly a bit embarrassed. âDonât blame yourself for it.â You told them. âI donât like rudeness like that. So yes, but it was still my choice. Nothing you could control.â
You expected revulsion. Even if he had just killed someone to protect you, most donât take casual admittance of murder well. It was not like you could put it into words the rage you felt at the manâs rudeness and later when you saw the other atrocities he dealt.
But contrary to your expectations, Pierrot doesnât shrink in guilt or fear. He blooms, settling his chin on his hands and bouncing on his feet back and forth, scruffing the floor. The grin on his face had turned oddly sweet.
How much had the poor guy been forced to put up with, you wondered, that the idea of even one of them being removed was such a joy?
It sent an odd stab of protectiveness through you, call it defensiveness for your fellow customer service worker. Maybe a little commiseration after going through the awfulness that was retail.
âIf anyone else gives you problems, let me know.â You hear yourself offering. Running through the calculations. âI canât kill all of them, itâll be too risky for the both of us. But some⊠are doable.â
Too many, and people would start asking questions. The circus already had a negative reputation, more would be adding fuel to the fire.
But⊠you might be able to make a few work.
You looked back up at him, wincing at the darkness of his pupils. Ah, you probably pushed it too far with that. Pierrot stared at you, completely silent, his pupils so wide that the gold of his eyes was only a faint ring.
You tear your gaze away. âThatâs probably a weird thing to offer, so-â
Instead, something cold is pressed into your hands. âYou can use this, from now on.â Pierrot said, eyes staring into your own. You stare down with wide eyes, feeling something tacky smear your hands.
You can still feel him watching you.
The throwing knife. Still smeared with blood, but with an edge and a heft that made your eyes widen a bit.
âI can⊠teach you how to throw?â Pierrot said, seeing you silent.
âThat would be cool.â You agreed, hand closing gently around the hilt. It would perhaps be nice to change blades, instead of constantly maneuvering to hide your own at the cafe. âWhat you pulled off there was seriously impressive.â
And this was a gesture of trust, wasnât it? He was handing you evidence, telling you that you were in this together. That was probably behind the excitement shaking his voice.
Pierrot mustâve been well trained, to throw in such a deadly manner! You presumed it shouldâve been harder, to sink a blade into the skull so precisely instead of wood. But, you supposed, being a circus performer certainly added to training.
You tore your eyes away with some effort, the throwing knife, still bloodstained.
âHop up on the counter.â You said, tugging the knife away in your apron that hung on the door. It was going to be a late night- lucky you had a spare hoodie, but you were going to need to get this one prepped before the blood set in. âIâll get the blood off of you.â
Slowly, Pierrot obeys, following you into the kitchen and settling on the counter. Theyâre looking away, staring at each part of your house as if committing them to memory, when you return carrying your cleaning kit.
âYou just walked me home.â You said quietly. âYou doubled back, saw me there, we wandered a bit around town as we talked. If anyone asks, we heard the sound of an argument, but assumed it was between lovers.â
The moment lingers, hushed, as you gently take Pierrotâs hand and he lets you. His gloves were impressive, the claws so realistic that you found yourself admiring them. Beautiful, really.
Ever so gently, you began to wipe the blood away.
Pierrot swallowed hard, maybe realizing the den of the predator he had stumbled into.
âMaybe we should walk together more often after this.â He said, voice shaking. âWhere I can stay with you. Together. However you want.â
Nobody reports a body, much less two in the morning. When you walk by the alley way later, itâs as clean as if nothing happened.
You set it aside. You had other plans.
Authorâs Note:
You: Wow, guess Iâm stuck in an awkward spot, bound to this guy who mutually murdered people with me-
Pierrot: I would say it would be a spring wedding, but itâs winter now, and I refuse to wait)
