A companion is only as good as the way she talks, and SweetDream clearly cares about that. The replies feel written by someone who gets nuance, playful when it should be, tender when it counts, never flat.
That writing quality is the soul of the experience. It's what makes an AI girlfriend charming instead of mechanical. If conversation matters most to you, sweetdream.ai is where it actually feels good.
𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: oneshot · harlequin x gn! reader · forced proximity · lil angst · domestic fluff ↝ suggestive · risky · making out · dryhumping · established relationship? · biting kink · marking · possessive behavior · predator/prey dynamics · soft & needy harlequin (don't tell anyone) · (art from @omnipotentsnowboard)
𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: When you promised to take Pierrot and Harlequin on a simple shopping trip, you expected chaos, okay, just maybe not the kind that involves a sick clown, a surprisingly vulnerable predator, and a dressing room with very thin walls.
Turns out, shopping with a monster is one thing. Shopping with a monster who's caught feelings?
That's a whole different shopping issue.
𝓌𝒸: 11.8k
𝒶/𝓃: i created this inpso from the art [ 𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓁𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 ], harlequin needs justice for his complex character, and yeah, he's my favorite.
look dearie, i’m going to be real with you right now.
as a recap when you volunteered to take Harlequin on this “little date which his words, not yours, because he absolutely refuses to call it anything that might imply he wants to spend time with your—you thought you knew what you was getting into.
none of that prepared you for taking a 187 cm white-skinned monster with neon green tendrils to a shopping mall on a sunday afternoon.
none of it. so let me paint you a picture.
You walk into the Circus, which, by the way, is something you never get used to, no matter how many times you do it, and you're immediately hit with the smell of popcorn and something metallic that you've learned not to question.
Ticket Taker is at his post, hands clasped behind his back, watching you with that detached professional interest that makes you feel like you're being processed more than greeted.
"Ah, visitor,” he says, and his professional warmth is so performative you could bottle it and sell it as satire. "You've arrived for the... excursion."
You nod, trying to peek past him toward the tent area. "Is Pierrot and Harlequin ready? He wanted to come, right? I promised him we'd look at the kitchen supply store, maybe find some new spices—"
Ticket Taker's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture shifts. "I'm afraid Pierrot is... unavailable at present."
Your heart does that stupid lurch thing it always does when you hear about one of them being hurt. “Oh my god, what? Is he okay?"
"He's ill." Ticket Taker added, like mf couldn’ve said that eariler, “Doctor is attending to him. It's nothing fatal, if that's your concern. Merely... an emotional recalibration manifesting physically. He pushed himself too hard recreating a recipe from his childhood and forgot that his body no longer processes dairy the way it used to."
You blink. "Wait. He's... he's got food poisoning? From ‘nostalgia cheese?’”
Ticket Taker's silence is all the confirmation you need.
You tilt your head, preparing to ask if you can still catch a glimpse of him—Pierrot, sick and miserable, probably more in need of a check-in than anyone—but a green and black blur comes plummeting down from the rafters and lands directly in front of you.
“Finally!” Harlequin’s grin stretches so far it looks like it hurts, and he’s already in public disguise, his tendrils quivering with barely contained energy, his eyes sharp and hungry-looking, as if they’ve been waiting all week for something interesting to happen.
"I thought you'd forgotten. I thought you'd chicken out."
"Chicken out of what? It's shopping at the mall.”
He makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a purr. “Hehe, sure, little thing. Shopping." He says it like it's a code word for something infinitely more interesting. "Let's go. Now. Before the daylight burns out and the humans get boring."
He grabs your wrist, not hard, but with that careful pressure that lets you know he could absolutely break it if he wanted to—and starts dragging you toward the exit.
"Wait, wait, wait." You dig your heels in, which does absolutely nothing because he's stronger than you and also apparently has no brakes. "I wanted to check on Pierrot first—"
Harlequin stops so abruptly that you crash into his back. When he turns around, his expression has gone through about five different micro-emotions in under a second: irritation, something that might be guilt, more irritation, a flash of genuine feeling that he immediately smothers under that jagged grin.
"Pierrot's fine," he says, and his voice is doing that dual-toned thing that means he's working hard to sound casual. "Doctor's got him. He's in good hands." He tugs your wrist again. "You promised me a trip. You said—and I quote — 'Harlequin, I'll take you to the mall next time.' You can't take it back now. That's a contract. Ticket Taker probably filed it somewhere."
“I did," Ticket Taker confirms from behind you, and when you whip around to look at him, he's holding up a small slip of paper with what appears to be your exact words written on it in immaculate handwriting. "Verbal agreements are still subject to regulation."
You stare at him. “Wha… that's not— that's not how any of this works."
"At the Circus," Ticket Taker says, with the gentle condescension of someone explaining fire to a caveman, "it is. If anyone goes outside of the circus, I must document it in case anything happens…”
Harlequin is already pulling you toward the entrance, and you catch a glimpse of Ticket Taker, even Jester's massive silhouette in the shadows, watching you go with that heavy, evaluating gaze. He doesn't say anything, but you feel the weight of it all the way out the door.
And that's how you end up here.
Standing in the parking lot of the busiest mall in the city with a creature who has never experienced capitalism, has no concept of "personal space," and is currently staring at a vending machine like it personally offended his ancestors.
"What," Harlequin says slowly, pressing his face against the glass, "is this."
"It's a vending machine. You put money in, you get snacks out."
His tendrils curl with interest. "Money in. Snacks out." He taps the glass with one claw. "And if I just... take the snacks?"
"The machine will yell at you. And also you'll go to jail."
He looks at you like you've just told him the sky is made of cotton candy. "Jail? For snacks?" He straightens up, and there's something almost impressed in his expression. "Humans are so weird. You build these little glass prisons for your food and then you pay to visit them. It's like a zoo, but for things you eat."
"That's... not wrong, actually."
"I like it." He grins at you, and for a moment, just a moment—it almost looks genuine. "This is already better than I thought it would be. Show me more human weirdness."
And so it begins.
So, the first twenty minutes were actually... fine?
Okay, maybe not fine, but manageable enough for you to handle. Harlequin is on his best behavior, which for him means he's only mildly invasive instead of actively destabilizing.
You'd expected him to be completely oblivious to everything, like some kind of monster creature experiencing human society for the first time, but he's not. He's been to malls before, apparently. Just not often.
Most of their clothes are tailored by people who either don't ask questions or are paid enough not to, and their food shopping is usually quick, efficient, and done at odd hours when the stores are mostly empty.
But a mall, during the day, on a weekend? That's apparently a whole different beast.
He asks questions, like random, invasive, occasionally existential questions—about everything he sees.
Why is the floor so shiny? “Freshly waxed,” you tell him.
Why are the lights that bright? “Fluorescent bulbs, standard for commercial spaces.”
Why is everyone walking so fast like they're being hunted? You have no answer for that one. Saturday and Sunday shoppers are just like that.
He’s genuinely curious. You can tell by how his eyes take in every detail, how every twitching strand of his hair nuzzles towards interesting noises or smells emanating from under his hoodie. He’s like a cat entering a room full of laser dots, only this cat is six-foot-one and could probably benchpress a small car.
Which reminds you.
"Hey." You grab his sleeve, pulling him to a stop near a decorative planter. "The tendrils. You can't... you can't just have those out."
He looks down at where his neon green appendages are absolutely not hidden, curling and uncurling with visible curiosity toward a nearby pretzel stand. "What? Why?"
"Because humans don't have tendrils, Harlequin. That's kind of a dead giveaway."
He stares at you. You stare back.
"This is going to be a problem," he says flatly.
"Yes. Yes it is."
You spend the next five minutes attempting to wrangle his tendrils back under his hoodie while he complains, loudly about how uncomfortable it is and how you're "ruining his aesthetic" and why can't humans just accept that some people have extra limbs?
"Because we don't," you hiss, finally getting the last of them tucked away. "We really, really don't."
He lets out a sigh, adjusting his hood in irritation. His face mask remains in place, something you checked before leaving, ensuring it concealed the sharp edges of his grin and only revealed his eyes. You are now questioning your decisions.
He is not exceptionally tall. While 187 cm is tall, many people are this tall. It is the small details that will reveal him: the way he moves, almost twitchy if people notice; the way he looks at everyone; and those almost inhuman, whisper-thin strands you simply cannot ignore.
"You're staring," he says.
"You're conspicuous."
"I'm gorgeous."
"You're going to get us both arrested."
He grins behind his mask, something you can tell by the way his eyes crinkle and for a moment, it's almost playful. Almost normal. You reach up to adjust his hood, tugging it forward to better shadow his face, and that's when you notice it.
A small curl of hair, right at his temple, shaped almost like a heart.
You don't think. Your fingers just... reach for it.
He moves his head away so fast it's almost a blur. One second your hand is inches from his face, the next he's standing three feet away, shoulders rigid, expression unreadable behind the mask.
"Don't," he says. Just that. Just don't.
Your hand drops. "Sorry, I—there was a curl, I just—"
"I know." He won't look at you. His tendrils are twitching under the hoodie, betraying his agitation. "It's stupid. I can't get rid of it. It just... exists. Being annoying. Like me."
You open your mouth to apologize again, to explain that you weren't trying to invade his space, you just noticed and reacted without thinking—
But he's already moving, heading toward the food court like nothing happened.
You follow, because what else can you do?
Anyway, after this pretzel thing—yes, you are immediately thinking of it like that, because when Harlequin is involved, it seems like everything is a debacle of some sort.
Side not, you know you need a different plan.
Typically, you'd do some shoping to your favorite stores, and then pick up some food on your way out to avoid eating in public—because what if there's people watching you while you eat? Sure you shouldn't care but you don't know who's looking. And just walking around the mall with a pretzel-scented Harlequin, mind you, that has unpredictable actions?
Not an option. He actually needs to sit down.
It'll give you the benefit of you to think of future plans once y'all done eating. Plans to keep this little date, under wraps, not discovered. Plus you just know Ticket Taker and Jester are not going to let you live if anyone discover him.
And let’s be real, you don’t want to deal with that.
So you find a small Italian place tucked in the corner of the food court. The kind of place that does noodles in little takeout boxes, nothing fancy, just carbs and sauce and the bare minimum of vegetables. You order something simple, you know the usual noodles, some kind of cream sauce, maybe chicken if you're feeling optimistic and make sure Harlequin glued to your side the entire time.
He’s easy to work with, somehow.
Probably because he’s still chewing on the pretzel. Or because of the hair moment. Or both. You’re not going to question it.
When the food’s ready, you look around the food court and see a booth tucked into the corner of the food court. It’s light green, and the backs are high. It’s a little secluded, and you think it’ll work perfectly.
“Okay.” You nudge him over to the booth. “You sit there. The hidden part.” You sit down on the outside part of the booth, the part where everybody in the food court can see you. “I’ll sit here.” You gesture to the outside part of the booth, the part you’ve chosen because everybody will see you, a normal human being, eating by yourself, and they won’t see him, the not-normal creature, being conspicuous.
He raises an eyebrow above the mask. “So I’m your dirty secret?”
“You’re my liability.” You fold your arms and nod to the booth. “Now sit.”
“Oh my, so kinky, okay.” You roll your eyes at the remark and sit down on the outside part of the booth, your back to the majority of the food court. The booth faces Harlequin, but the high backs and your body block him from view.
Anyone walking by will see you, a person eating noodles, probably checking your phone, certainly not a six-foot-one monster hiding in the corner.
Perfect.
You've got it all set, ready to go. You crack open your box of takeout and dig in. The noodles are nothing special, not good, not bad, just something to chew on. You pick up your phone and start perusing your notifications, letting the white noise of the food court wash over you.
Harlequin seems to grow restless after four minutes.
He'd finished off his pretzel, devoured it, actually, with this kind of singular focus that makes you wonder if he’s even tried one before, and now he’s just... watching you. Staring, actually, with his arms folded on the table in front of him, his chin on those folded arms, following your every move.
You ignore him for a solid minute. Only a damn minute.
“Hey, you’re being rude,” he says after a while.
You look up from your phone, a bit startled. “Rude?"
“Rude,” Harlequin repeats, as if it’s obvious, as if he’s some kind of authority on the subject. “You've got someone to spend time with, someone you promised to spend time with, and you’re ignoring me, staring at your little rectangle instead of talking to me.”
You blink at him. "My... little rectangle?"
"Your phone," he says, waving a hand in disgust. "The thing. The tiny attention suck. Put it down. Talk to me. I'm interesting."
You can't help it. You laugh. You actually laugh—right there in the food court, just hearing Harlequin complaining that you're not paying enough attention to him is so ridiculous that your brain just short circuits.
He straightens up, looking vaguely offended. "What's so funny?”
"Nothing. Nothing, you're right." You lock your phone and set it face-up on the table. “I’m so sorry. I'll give you my undivided attention." You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand, and look at him expectantly. "So. What do you want to talk about?"
He sat there, frozen.
For a second. A fraction of a second. Just long enough to notice. He wasn’t expecting you to actually agree to talk to him. He thought you’d argue with him, play games with him, have some fun with him. But you didn’t.
You just... gave him what he wanted?
No negotiation, just your complete attention. “I—” He pauses, starts again. “You could ask me a question, right? That’s how this works? Question and answer and—”
“Well you tell me,” you say. “You’re the one who wanted to talk.”
He squints his eyes, trying to determine if you are teasing him or not. You aren’t...mostly.
“Fine.” He leans forward to match your posture. “Why do you put up with me?”
A random question intrudes before you can get your feet under you again. "What?"
"Me. Harlequin. The annoying freaky one, at least to some folks." He makes a vague gesture with his hand. "You complained about me before. Called me a liability. But you still brought me along. You got me a pretzel. You’re sitting here with me. Why?"
Your mouth opens, then hesitates, then tries again. "I... I don’t actually have a good answer to that."
"Try."
Okay. So, you take a moment to think about it.
Why do you allow him to be in your life?
Fair point. He invades your space and personal boundaries. He distorts things through his manipulation. He is emotionally closed off. He is reckless, annoying. He cannot receive affection without sidestepping it. He is always flirting. He is always sidestepping your affection.
He is dangerous. He is unpredictable. He is—
“Your heart-shaped curl," you say before you can stop yourself. His eyes go wide. Just for a moment. Then the mask slides back into place.
"That's not an answer."
“It’s a vague one. Maybe not perfect, but true.” You shrug, trying to stay cool even as your heart does something ridiculous in your chest. “There’s this softness to you, a detail that’s… surprising. And I think there’s more of it beneath all this,” you gesture toward him vaguely, “…this.”
"This being?"
“Predatory. Defensive. Chaotic.” You count them off on your fingers. “You act like you don’t care about anything, but you do. A lot. You just don’t know how to show it without turning it into a game.”
He’s silent for a long time, and then a smile erupts, and you can almost see it in his eyes, this jagged line of a smile, and he moves closer.
“Careful, little thing. Keep talking like that, and I might think you like me.”
You roll your eyes. “There it is.”
“What? I’m just saying—”
“You’re deflecting again.”
“I’m flirting with you,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
You sighed before adding, “Is there? With you?”
Ouch. You really got him there, he opens his mouth to say something probably completely infuriating, but you continue to focus on your noodles anyway. Like you just know that if you continue to look at him, you’ll end up saying something you’ll regret.
He huffs. “You’re eating again.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I want some.”
You stop, your plastic fork halfway to your mouth. “You want some of my noodles?”
“Yes. That’s what I said.”
“You just had a whole pretzel.”
“The pretzel is gone. The pretzel was a snack. This is—” He squints at your takeout box. “What even is that?”
“Noodles. Cream sauce. Chicken.”
“Mhm, that’s not a real name.”
“It’s a description, not the damn name. The name is on the menu.”
“Then why didn’t you say the name?”
“Because I forgot the name.”
“You forgot the name of the thing you’re eating?”
“It’s noodles, Harlequin. With stuff. The name doesn’t matter.”
He stares at you like you’ve committed a crime while eating, “Wow, Humans are so strange. You eat something without knowing the name. You just... eat it. Based on what? Based on how it feels? How it smells? How it tastes? Based on what?
“Based on hunger. Now do you want some or not?”
He thinks about it for a moment, pride or something weird about accepting food from you, but eventually nods shyly. “Just a tiny bite.”
You hold up a little morsel of food. He bends forward, lowering his black mask so that his mouth is visible.
Shit. You wasn’t ready for how intimate this would feel. Watching him eat from my chopsticks. The way his eyes met mine. The way his tongue darted out to catch a little of the sauce—
Before your brain can even register, you look away. Like hella fast. “Good?” You ask, voice shaking, just bit.
He chews thoughtfully. “Different from the pretzel. Softer. More...wet.”
“That’s the sauce. That's what that is.”
“I like it,” he says, pulling his mask back up. “More.”
You frowned at his face, genuine confusion by the sudden order, “You’re so demanding.”
“You’re taking me out,” he says. “Meaning I get what I want.”
“And a menace. A demeaning menace.”
Yet you keep giving him more, and more after that. In the process of giving him this absurd takeout box filled with noodles, you forget to maintain the caution you are supposed to maintain around him. You forget that he is dangerous. You forget that this is Harlequin, the one who makes Pierrot filled with pent-up anger. Like sharing food in a dim corner booth in the food court of the mall, like two normal people who have no shadow of trauma between them. It’s kind of nice.
It’s terrifying… and somehow sweet?
Somehow, you're both eating from the same noodle. You don't know how it happens, one of those stupid simultaneous-bite moments where you both go for the same strand at the same time but suddenly you're on one end and he's on the other and there's only so much noodle to go around.
Your eyes widen. His narrow.
You try to let go, to break the strand, to do literally anything that isn't this, but he just... keeps eating. Slowly. Carefully. His arms fold on the table, casual, confident, as he watches you over the shrinking distance between you.
You should pull away. You don't.
The noodle gets shorter. And shorter. And shorter—
Until his face is inches from yours. Until you can see the exact shade of his neon green eyes, the way they're half-lidded, the tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Until you can feel his breath, warm and steady, against your lips.
You stop breathing. He doesn't.
He just... watches. Waits. Lets the moment stretch until you think you might actually pass out from lack of oxygen. And then, which finally, the noodle disappears between his lips.
For one heart-stopping second, you think he's going to close the distance. You think he's going to kiss you. You think about that green fork tongue, about what that would feel like, about whether you'd even survive the experience—
His hand covers your eyes.
What the fuck. Yeah, Just like that. Palm flat against your face, blocking your vision, plunging you into darkness.
You can't see anything. Can't see his expression. Can't see what he's doing. Can't see if he's leaning closer or pulling away or just sitting there, watching you squirm.
Your heart is pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it.
"Is this—" Your voice comes out embarrassingly high. "What are you—"
"Shh." His voice is soft. Closer than you expected. Right in front of you. "Just wait."
Wait for what? You want to ask. You want to push his hand away and see what's happening. You want to run. You want to stay. You want—
Something touches your nose.
Just the tip. Barely there. A brush of warmth and... wetness? there and gone.
Then his hand drops.
You blink in the sudden light, vision swimming, and find him sitting back in his seat like nothing happened. Arms folded. Grin sharp. Eyes bright with something that might be mischief and might be something else entirely.
"We touched noses," he says casually. "That's a thing humans do, right? Eskimo kisses? I read about it somewhere."
You stare at him, mouth open, brain absolutely not functioning, like personally, you think he did something more than just a damn ‘Eskimo’ he most likely licked your nose.
"That's— you— we—"
"You're welcome." He sounds insufferably pleased with himself. “Now can we get more noodles? I’ve decided I like the wet kind.”
You don’t move. You can’t. Your brain’s gone into some sort of pause, replaying what’s just happened in a loop.
Like you can't just stop thinking what he JUST did.
Him leaning in close, both of y’all noses almost touching. Almost a lick, almost a kiss, but not quite. Just close enough to feel the electricity building up, the hand over your eyes, the pause before it all erupts into something else entirely. Your heart’s racing off into some crazy tempo, and to mention you're making the most weirdest expression across your face.
“Human?” he asks, tilting his head with a mock-innocence so pale it’s almost funny. “You okay? You look a little… flushed.”
“You—” You try to speak, your composure slipping through you, “You’re insufferable.”
"Probably." He shrugs. "But you're still here. Still sharing your noodles. Still looking at me like I'm something worth looking at." His grin softens, just a fraction, just enough to notice. "Like I said. Careful, little thing."
You’re still trying to get your head around what just happened, the whole nose part, your hand over your eyes, the relentless pounding of your heart in your chest.
Then Harlequin lets out a sigh.
Not a sneer. Not a snicker. Just... a sigh. Heavy. Real.
You raise your eyes.
His face has changed. The razor-sharp grin is nowhere to be found. The gleam in his eyes has cooled to something almost... intimate. He looks at you as if you’re a puzzle he’s been trying to figure out for weeks or maybe months and has finally figured out.
“You know,” he says softly, “you’re not very good at hiding it.”
“Hiding what?”
“What you want.” He tilts his head to one side, looking at you. “You think you’re being subtle. The way you look at me. The way you tolerate my crap. The way you bought me a pretzel and shared your noodles with me and didn’t bolt when I... when I did the... the nose thing.”
You want this. You want me.
Your lips part to protest, to deflect the truth of his words, to deflect the truth of his voice. But no sound comes out.
He mutters something under his breath. Something soft and low. Something that might have gone unnoticed. But he didn’t say anything that would have gone unnoticed. Not to me.
“Linda coisa.”
It’s Portuguese. You don’t know what the words mean. But the way he says them. The way he says them like they’re precious. Like they’re delicate. Like he’s afraid to say them out loud. It pulls at your chest, a aching feeling.
And he moves with such speed.
One moment, he’s seated across the table from you. The next, he’s close enough to invade your space, a large hand cradling your face with a surprising gentleness. His other hand moves to your lower back, pulling you closer, and you don’t pull away, like you can’t.
His eyes lock with yours, searching for permission, for consent, for the whispered yes—
You give it to him. In whatever way you’re able, you give it to him.
And then his mouth finds yours.
It’s not what you thought you’d get. It’s not cruel, or grasping, or intrusive. It’s warm. It’s rich. It’s got a carefulness to it, like it’s costing him something. His forked tongue brushes against yours, and yeah, that’s weird. And yet, it’s not wrong. It’s just him. Harlequin, for all intents and purposes.
This crazy, frustrating, secretly sweet him, who kisses like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to tell him it’s safe to try.
Your arms come up around his shoulders. His hand slides from your face into your hair, tilting your head just so. The hand on your lower back presses closer, closer, until there's no space left between you.
You could stay like that forever.
You ache to stay like that.
But that is exactly why you cannot.
You push him away. Not harsh, only enough to break contact, to create distance, to breathe. Your hand comes up to wipe your mouth, and you hate that you're doing it, hate the way his eyes looked with something hurt before he masks it.
You can't look at him.
Can't meet those eyes that were just looking at you like you mattered.
"We—" Your voice comes out rough. You clear your throat. "We can't sit here forever. We should... we should just do the shopping. Get a few things. Then head back."
You stand up. Grab your half-eaten noodles. Throw them away without looking back.
You're already walking when you hear him slide out of the booth and follow.
Somehow, the keeps quiet as you walk through the mall. He doesn’t touch or prod you, merely maintains a space a little closer than necessary and looks at you with those eyes that you can’t interpret. The only thing he was thinking of:
Why did you pushed me away?
You go into a few stores. Some you genuinely need to explore, while others you wander through just to alleviate the silence, as you can’t abide the silence but aren’t quite sure how to interrupt it. You notice that he’s looking at various things—a green and black scarf here, a quirky little mannequin there, but he doesn’t ask for anything.
He doesn’t even glance at you.
You end up buying the statue anyway.
It’s a dumb little thing, some carved bird with too-big eyes, and he’s holding it like he doesn’t care about it, like he doesn’t care about anything, and yet he’s radiating this desperate need.
Sometimes you question he either has a great taste and close accessories or the most questionable there's like no in between it just he picks whatever looks interesting.
Anyway, when you give it to him at the cash register, he stares at it, and then at you, and then back at the statue.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know.”
“But I didn’t even—”
“I know.”
He holds it as though it will break at the touch. Finally, he asks in a whisper that only you can hear, “Why are you so confusing?”
You don’t have the answer for that.
You end up at one of your favorite stores—places with nice lighting, nice music, and clothing that fits the way you want it to fit. You pick up a few things, nothing too fancy, just things you've been meaning to try out, and turn to find Harlequin standing by the entrance like some kind of large, suspicious security guard.
"I'm going to try these on," you tell him. "Stay. Don't mess with anyone."
"Can I come?" he asks.
"To the dressing room? No," you tell him.
"Not in the dressing room," he says. "Just... nearby. To watch your stuff." He holds up your shopping bag as if it's evidence of his capabilities as a bodyguard. "I'm very good at watching things."
"You're very good at talking and being nosy," you tell him.
"That too," he says. "But mostly watching."
You don't get a chance to continue the conversation before a sales associate comes over. Young, friendly, and with that look that says they want to help you with anything you need and apologize for your very existence.
"Hi there! Finding everything okay?" They glance at Harlequin, from his height, his hoodie, the mask covering most of his face, yet their smile doesn't waver. "We actually have private dressing rooms if you’d like some space. Perfect for couples who want to shop together."
Harlequin’s eyes lock on you.
Waiting for you to correct him. Waiting for you to tell him you’re not his, you’re not together, any of the million true things you could say to him.
You don’t.
You just smile at the attendant—a bit tight, a bit strained, but a smile all the same—and you say, "That would be great, actually. Thank you."
Harlequin's eyebrows shoot up. But he doesn't say anything. Just follows you and the attendant toward the back of the store.
The dressing room is surprisingly nice, though.
It’s a small room, maybe eight by eight, but it’s nicely lit with soft, adjustable lighting, and it’s lined with warm wood. A full-length mirror takes up one side, with hooks along the edge for hanging things. A plush, deep green velvet bench is on the other side, plenty large for two if you're snuggled up together, and there’s a table with a vase of fresh flowers on it.
The attendant points at the bench. “Your... Boyfriend can wait here. There’s a button if you need anything. Take your time.”
They left, leaving the curtain to fall behind you. Thick, heavy fabric, truly blocking out sound and sight, rather than just pretending to.
And then it’s just you and Harlequin.
In a small, private room, wonder what can happen…
He plopped himself on the bench as if the space is his. Arm draped over the back, he fixes his gaze on the reflection, on you, on himself.
“Well,” he says, and his voice splits, half a purr, half something gentler. “This is cozy.”
You ignore him. You hang your chosen clothes on the hooks, one by one, as if this could slow your heartbeat.
Try to pretend your heart isn't trying to break through your ribs.
"The bench is very green," he continues. "Matches my aesthetic. Did you plan that?"
“Please stop.”
"You've mentioned…” there was little pause. “…You also just called me your boyfriend. To a stranger. Voluntarily."
“I didn’t call you anything,” you say. “I simply didn’t correct him.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not.”
He’s silent for a second, and when you catch him in the mirror, he’s staring at you again, that expression on his face, the one that makes you feel like a bug under a microscope, or just… prey.
Anyway, that doesn't matter.
Let's just go along with trying on the outfits!
There is something about clothes shopping that makes you want to try on something and show it off.
First off, keep it simple. A simple outfit, which is casual. A sweater that falls off your shoulders just so, and some pants that fit for a change. You come out from behind the side curtain, which is a good thing for small favors, there is a little changing room in the corner of the store.
You turn to face the mirror.
Harlequin's eyes find you immediately.
"So?" You gesture at your reflection. “wWhat’s the verdict?"
He takes his time. Lets his gaze drag from your shoulders to your waist to your ankles and back up again. When he finally speaks, his voice is doing that low, rumbling thing that makes your stomach flip. "You look like you're about to steal someone's heart and also their coffee order. It's a good look."
You blink. "That's... oddly specific."
"I'm an oddly specific creature." He grins. "Next."
Outfit two is a put togther, more elevated look. Clean lines, tailored fabric, you know, the kind of look that says you've got your act together, even when you're wobbling on the inside. You pose, hand on hip, chin up, a wry, slightly bored expression.
“Well?”
Harlequin’s tendrils of color quiver beneath his hoodie. “You look like you could run a corporation into the ground and make it look like you meant to do it. Very powerful. Very ‘I should be compensated for existing.’”
A smile wants to creep up on your lips, against your will. “That’s… actually really nice.”
“Don’t get used to it.” But Harlequin’s expression, his eyes were soft. “Next.”
Behind the curtain, your hands press to your feverish cheeks.
What the hell? When did Harlequin, like Harlequin, start serving up compliments like that? Real ones, sincere ones, not-mocking ones? You thought you’d get snarky comments, boundary-pushing jokes, maybe a comment on how the material fit your hips.
Not... that. Not that.
You take a breath. You reach for the next outfit. You try to get your act together.
Outfit three is like a warm hug from a lazy Sunday afternoon. A comfortable sweater, comfortable pants—worn when the only plan is to do absolutely nothing.
You step out, already preparing to defend against a lame joke about being boring.
Harlequin's face changes in a way that is difficult to read. It is as though his face is melting slightly around the edges.
“You look,” he begins slowly, “like someplace safe. Like if I saw you in that outfit, I would want to… stay around.” He glances away, almost embarrassed. “That is a good thing. Just so you know.”
You have no idea what to say to that. You nod, go back behind the curtain, and try to stop thinking about what it must say about you that Harlequin thinks of you as a safe place.
Meanwhile, right on the other side of the curtain, Harlequin is losing his shit.
Safe? You called them safe?
Like what kind of compliment is that? That's not even a compliment, that's just—that's just true, but he weren't supposed to say it out loud. He weren't supposed to let you know that you make him… feel things?
That the way you look at him, that look of patient, amused, fond, makes him want to curl up and purr like some kind of needy cat.
Poor Harlequin, the one who practice tongue twisters for fun. He can mess with the entire circus with nothing but words. He made Pierrot irritating, many of times.
But one human in a cozy sweater has reduced him into being such a sweeite.
This is a wreck for him. Or maybe… not?
Outfit four now, this one is bold. Dark colors. Crisper cuts. The kind of outfit that makes you feel invincible. Like nothing can touch you. Like you could take on the world. Deadass, you strike a dramatic pose in front of the mirror.
“Thoughts?” you asked.
Harlequin is leaning in, his elbows on his knees. He's got his eyes locked on you. You look dangerous. In a good way. Like if anyone tries anything with you, they’re going to have to answer to you. “I like it. A lot.”
You puff out a little, satisfied. “Yeah?”
“Yeah….” he edges on, “Makes me want to see what else you can do~”
You try to keep the grin inside as you head behind the curtain. However behind the curtain once more, you squat down and press your forehead to your knees.
I didn't know it could be like this.
What does that mean? What does any of this mean?
He's Harlequin. He's supposed to be sharp and mocking and emotionally constipated. He's not supposed to say things that make your chest ache and your heart race and your brain short-circuit with feelings.
You need to get a grip.
You grab the next outfit.
Outfit five looks like a playful match up, full of bright colors and bold patterns that make you feel like a walking work of art.
You make a silly pose just to see how he reacts.
He snorts, but it’s a warm sound. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
The words hang there a moment too long.
“I do,” he says quietly. “I really do.”
You duck behind the curtain before either of you has to say more.
Outfit six looks sleek and monochromatic, the kind of sharp that could cut you with a glance. You step out as if you’re strutting a catwalk, turn on your heel, and pose.
Harlequin actually applauds, “Alright, that’s my favorite one,” He declares. “You look like you could take someone down and then discuss philosophy with them afterwards. Very intimidating. Very sexy. Ten out of ten.”
Your face splits open with a grin that hurts. “That’s some top-shelf praise.”
“I’m a connoisseur of taste.” Harlequin waves his hand dismissively. “Go on. I want to see all of them~”
Sadly, the last fit you have was Outfit seven. Something you reach for it without looking, still flustered from his last comment, and pull it out.
Oh. Holy shit.
This is... this is a lot. More revealing than you usually go for. Sexier. The kind of outfit that says “I know what I'm doing and I want you to know it too’ type shit.
You should probably skip it. End this little fashion show to be on the safer side, avoid the outfit that won't make things even more complicated. But like, you can hear him out there, waiting.
And some reckless part of you wants to see his reaction.
You change quickly, not letting yourself think too hard about it. When you step out from behind the curtain, you keep your eyes on the mirror instead of on him.
"So," you say, sticking your head out the curtain, trying to hide the outfit first, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "This one's maybe a little... much?"
Just straight silence.
Like, you risk a glance at him in the mirror.
He's staring. Not in the usual predatory way he usually does. Just... staring. Like he's forgotten how to do anything else, which mind you, ODD. His hands are gripping the edge of the bench, knuckles white—which how how is he gripping his pants last time you checked his hands were the color black, and his expression is completely, very much unreadable.
"You know," he says softly, and his voice is rougher than before, lower, "you still haven't explained why you pushed me away."
Oh, you should've figured he was still on that.
“That kiss," he continues. "It was good. The best one I have ever pulled off. You clearly liked it. I could tell." His voice drops. "I can always tell. So why?"
You don't turn around. Absolutely can’t, because if you look at him, you'll… break. "Because," you say carefully, still thinking, "if I let myself have that, you know, have you, don't think I'd be able to let go. And we both know how this ends."
"How does it end?"
“Whatever the circus decides type of end." You finally turn, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "I'm not stupid, Harlequin. I know what you are. What you've done. What you're capable of. I know that Jester watches me like I'm a pet that might bite. I know Ticket Taker has a file on me somewhere. I know that whatever this is…” you gesture between you, “…like it exists inside their rules. Their tolerance. And if that tolerance runs out—"
He cuts you off.
Not with words… yet with laughter?
Like actual, genuine, can't-help-it type of laughter that spills out of him like he's been holding it in for hours. He's sitting forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, and he's laughing at you…
It didn’t sound like cruelly, not mockingly, just... straight laughing. Like you've said something so sily that he can't process it any other way.
You turn fully now, facing him without the mirror between you. Just watching him laugh, confusion must be written all over your face because he just keeps going, shaking his head, muttering something in Portuguese that you don't catch.
"Você tem que estar brincando comigo," he gasps out. "Você— você realmente—" He breaks off, laughing again.
"What?" You cross your arms. "What's so funny?"
He finally gets himself under control, but his eyes are still bright with amusement. "You. This. All of it." He gestures between you. "You're standing here, in a dressing room, wearing that—" his eyes looked down and back up, "—talking about the circus like they're the reason I'd let you go, and you don't even realize."
"Realize what?"
He finally stands up. In non-threatening way, just moving, pacing the small space… close like a caged animal. His tendrils, simply twitching under his hoodie.
"You think I'm like Pierrot," he says. "You think I'm going to just... accept whatever they decide. Let them take things away from me because it's 'efficient' or 'necessary' or whatever logic Jester wants to use." He laughs again, but it's sharper now. "Pierrot's the one who lets things happen. Pierrot's the one who watches and mourns and accepts. I'm the one who makes things happen. I'm the one who decides."
You stare at him. "I... know that. That's not what I—"
"Do you?" He stops pacing, turns to face you fully.
"Because it sounds like you're waiting for someone else to write the ending of this. Like you're just... bracing for impact. Waiting for them to take this away from you." His voice drops. "From us."
"I'm being realistic."
"You're being tremendo paspalhão,” He says it almost gently. "Desculpa, but you are. You're standing here, looking like—" He stops. Swallows. Fixing his words. "You're staning here, and you're not even asking me what I want."
You frowned and then cross your arms looking up at him, “What do you want then?”
Your question hangs between the both of you.
Harlequin tries to say something, but then he stops, his mouth opening and then closing quickly. “I...“ he tries again, but his words get jumbled, fumbled, and his jaw clenches in annoyance. He runs his hand through his hair, pushing his hoodie off his head, and beanie, even though the same heart-shaped curl that nobody is allowed to touch, and sighs.
“I don’t— you can’t just—“
"You're the one who said I should ask."
His eyes glanced away, "Not like that." There was hints of pinkness across his face; he's flustered.
It would’ve been funny and cute to tease if it wasn't so revealing.
"You know," you say slowly, "for someone who flirts constantly, you're really bad at this."
"Bad at what?"
"You know, being open and stuff. Being honest. Being—" You gesture vaguely. "Real for once."
He stiffens, cross his arms. “Pfff, what, I’m real."
“Hmm real enough. That’s the problem.” You stepped closer. “Like you’re saying all these things that make me think you actually care—and then you dodge the moment I take you seriously.”
“I don’t dodge from anything.”
"You already did it, few times today to be exact, like you literally just changed the subject from 'what do you want' to 'you can't ask me that.' That's deflecting."
He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. His face goes through a series of rather embarrassed expressions in the space of a second. "That's—that's different."
"How?" you asked.
"Because—" He stops, pressing his palms to his face. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled. "Because I don't know how to answer that. Okay? I don't know what I want. I've never—" He drops his hands, and his eyes are raw in a way you've never seen. "I've never had anyone ask. Not like they wanted the actual answer."
You kept listened, generally curious.
"Everything I've ever wanted, I've had to take. Fight for. Earn through fear or… freakiness. Wanting something—just wanting it, openly, vulnerably—that's how you lose it. That's how they take it away." His jaw tightens. "That's how we lost… her."
Columbina.
He doesn't say the name, but you hear it anyway.
"Harley—“
“Don't." He holds up a hand. "Don't— I'm not—" He laughs showing off that sharpened smile, yet… there's no humor in any of it.
"You want to know what I want? Fine. I want this. I want you. I want to keep having moments like this, where you look at me like I'm not a monster. Where you touch my hair without even thinking about it. Where you share your food and roll your eyes at my jokes and stay even when I'm being insufferable." His voice cracks a little. "But I don't know how to have that. I don't know how to just... let myself be happy without assuming it's a trap."
You stood there for a few seconds.
Is that how he always viewed himself as?
Just a monster?
Regardless, you cross the distance between the both of you. Slow enough for him noicted and to stop you if he so pleases. Close enough to see the dilation of his pupils and the hitch in his breathing of your body suddenly being close to his, looking up at him with the kindness eyes he has ever seen.
A pair that he haven’t seen in the longest of time.
"Can I touch you?" you randomly ask.
He blinks for a few seconds, then says, "Qué?"
"Your hair. The curl. May I touch it?"
He continued stares at you, lost and confuse, “That’s—that’s what you’re asking? Now? After everything I just—”
"Yeah." You sighed, softly. "That's what I'm asking."
For once, Harlequin, mind you who always has something to say, always has a quip or a deflection or a boundary type pushing comment, is like completely silent.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he nods.
He sits back down on the the bench, allowing you freely to reach. You lead over, lucky this time he didn’t pull away, your fingers find the heart-shaped curl near the temple of his forhead. It was soft, softer than you expected, like it's the one part of him that never learned to be hard. You brush it gently, watching the way the light catches the strands.
He shudders, a full-body tremor that he can't quite hide, can't mask behind his usual sharp edges. His eyes flutter closed for just a second before snapping open again, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he stops watching.
"See?" you murmur. "Now does that seem like a trap? At the end of the day, it just... me. Just us."
His eyes are wide, shocked in a way that makes your chest ache. "Ah..." He blinks rapidly, trying to hide... something. Perhaps his vulnerability? Maybe, his want.
The thing he's spent so long pretending he doesn't need.
You keep touching his hair. Gentle strokes, working through the strands, letting your fingers trail down to the nape of his neck—completely ignoring the black discoloration underneath his chin, well under his mask. He makes a tiny sound, one that’s so quiet you almost miss it, still leans into your touch without seeming to realize he's doing it.
"Você va a arruinar, meu bem…" he whispers, more mumbling to himself than to you.
Still, you don't make comment. Just keep touching him, slow and careful, like he's something precious. Your thumb traces the line of his jaw, feather-light. His eyes flutter again. He stares at you for another long moment. Then, slowly, carefully, like he's afraid you'll bolt, terrified of wanting this much that cause him to he reaches out and pulls you into his arms.
The hug alone was desperate and clinging, his face pressed into your hair, his arms wrapped around you like you're the only solid thing in a world that keeps shifting beneath his feet. He's trembling, just slightly.
You let him. You wrap your arms around him too, one hand finding its way back to his hair, stroking gently. He shudders again, presses closer.
"I've got you," you murmur. "I'm here."
He doesn't respond. Just breathes, slow and shaky, against your hair.
Eventually, you pull back just enough to look at him, again allowing you hand moves from his hair to his cheek. Cupping it gently. Thumb tracing the sharp line of his mask cheekbone.
He leans into it. Just a fraction. Probably doesn't even notice he's doing it.
"You look peaceful,” you whisper.
He snorts, a weak attempt at his usual crude playfulness. “That's what happened you're always chaotic. Comes with the whole 'being a monster' thing. Very demanding act, sabe? Doesn't leave much time for self-care."
You don't laugh. Don't even smile. Just keep looking at him, soft and steady, your thumb still tracing gentle patterns on his cheek.
His voice falters. "What?" he asks, and his voice is smaller than you've ever heard it. "Why are you looking at me like—"
He freezes, completely, like if he moves, the words will stop being true. "You don't have to say that," he says quietly. "I know what I am. I know what I've done. You don't have to—"
"Harley." You cut him off gently. "I'm not saying it because I have to. I'm saying it because it's true."
He stares at you. His expression is doing something complicated, mix of disbelief and hope and fear all tangled together in a way that makes him look softer, more human than you've ever seen him.
"That's—" He laughs, but it's shaky. "That's really stupid, you know. Believing that. Trusting that."
"Probably." You smile. "But I'm here anyway."
And that moment comes, and you took your chance.
And while he is off guard, soft and looking at you like you’re something he’s afraid to blink away from, you lean in and you kiss him.
Soft and gentle. Unlike the first kiss, which was desperate and hungry and full of wanting. Unlike this one, which is going at a gentle pace and like you have all the time in the world and like there is nowhere else you’d rather be.
Your hand is on his cheek, holding him gently.
He makes a sound against your mouth. Something broken and surprised and desperately.
When you pull back, his eyes are wet again. "Qué..." he whispers. "Qué você fez comigo."
You don't know what it means. But the way he says it close like a prayer, a confession, like he's not sure whether he's been saved or destroyed. That alone makes your heart clench.
"Whatever it is," you say softly, "I'd do it again."
He stares at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, carefully, he leans forward and rests his forehead against yours.
"You're going to be the death of me," he whispers.
"Probably." You brush your thumb across his cheek again. "But I think you're worth the risk."
He laughs, a real laugh, surprised and warm and a little bit wet and you feel it against your lips because you're still right there, still close enough to breathe the same air.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "Yeah, I guess you are too."
And then you're kissing him again.
This time it's different. This time there's no hesitation, no careful slowness. This time it's want, just pure and simple and burning between you like a thing that's been waiting to catch fire.
You climb into his lap without thinking about it. One leg, then the other, settling over his thighs, your knees pressing into the velvet bench on either side of him. His hands find your waist immediately, just grabbing, holding, pulling you closer like he's afraid you'll change your mind.
You won't.
You cup his face in your hands and kiss him deep. Your fingers tangle in his hair, even that stupid heart-shaped curl, the soft parts, all of it, and he makes a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a whimper. "Fuck," he breathes against your mouth. "You can't just— you can't do that—"
"Do what?"
"That. This." His hands tighten on your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of that ridiculous sexy outfit you're still wearing. "Climb into my lap like you own the place. Kiss me like you've been thinking about it all day. Touch my hair like—" He stops, swallows. "Like it's yours."
You pull back just enough to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen, his expression caught somewhere between desperate and wondering.
"It is mine,” you say. "If you want it to be."
He stares at you. "That's— you can't just say things like that—"
"Why not?"
"Because—" He laughs, shaky. "Because I'll believe you. Because I'll want it to be true. Because I'll—" His voice cracks. "I'll let myself have it. And if it gets taken away—"
"It won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." You brush your thumb across his lower lip. "I know you'll fight for it. For me. You said so yourself."
He groans, dropping his head forward to rest against your chest. "I hate that you remember that."
"I remember everything you say to me."
"That's creepy."
"You love it."
He lifts his head, and there's something raw in his eyes. "Yeah," he whispers. "I really, really do."
You kiss him again. Slower this time, but no less intense. Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his ear, the soft skin behind it that makes him shiver. His hands slide up your waist, your ribs, stopping just below your chest like he's asking permission without words.
You press closer in answer. "Harley," you murmur against his mouth.
"Mm?"
"We're in a dressing room."
“I’ve noticed."
"People can probably hear us."
"Don't care."
"You might care when Ticket Taker finds out, files a report about it."
He laughs, bright and surprised and pulls back to look at you. “Aw, you're thinking about Ticket Taker right now? While you're sitting in my lap? While you're wearing that? How naughty~”
"I'm thinking about consequences. One of us has to."
"Boring." He nips at your lower lip, just sharp enough to make you gasp. "Consequences are future-us's problem. Current-us has more important things to focus on."
"Like what?"
"Like—" He kisses you, deep and slow. "—making sure you remember—" Another kiss. "—exactly why you climbed into my lap—" Another. "—in the first place."
You're breathless. "Pretty sure I remember."
"Yeah?" His hands squeeze your waist. "Prove it."
So you do.
You kiss him like you mean it. Like you've been waiting for this all day—well really he kissed you first, but think of it as pay back. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. His hands grip your waist, holding you steady, holding you close, like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his hold.
You don't want to dissolve. You want to stay right here, in this ridiculous dressing room, on this velvet bench, in the lap of a monster who kisses like he's been starving for centuries.
"You're so—" He breaks off, kissing your throat. "So much. So warm. So real." He huffs a laugh against your skin. "I'm literally the least real thing in this room."
"You're real to me."
He stops. Pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are doing that thing again, a vulnerable thing that makes you want to wrap him up and keep him safe from everything, including himself.
"Você vai me matar," he whispers. "Você vai me matar com sua boca doce e suas mãos gentis."
Again, you don't know what it means. But the way he says it, more in a breathless, wrecked, like you've already destroyed him, enough to make something hot curl in your stomach.
“Then I guess you'll just have to die happy."
He laughs quielty and then you're kissing again and this time, there's nothing soft about it.
His mouth crashes into yours, his forked tongue slides against yours, dual and warm and different, and you make a sound you've never heard yourself make before. He swallows it greedily, pulling you closer, closer, until there's no space left between your bodies.
Your hips shift without permission. Just a small movement, a tiny roll against his lap, yet he feels it. His whole body goes tense beneath you, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Do that again."
So you do, just more slower this time, rolling your hips against his, feeling the heat of him through layers of clothing, watching his eyes go dark and hungry.
His teeth find your lower lip, which are sharp, pointed, tugging at you. Just enough to sting. Just enough to make you gasp. "Harley—"
"Shh." He soothes the sting with his tongue, that forked thing tracing over the spot he just bit. “We have to be quiet now, my dear~”
His hands slide down from your waist to your hips, gripping, guiding. Moving you against him in a pace that makes stars burst behind your eyes. You can feel him, all of him—hard and wanting beneath you, and the knowledge that you did that, you made Harlequin fall apart, is almost too much to handle.
You kiss him harder. Deeper. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just right, and the sound he makes goes straight to your core.
"Teeth," he warns against your mouth. "Gonna use them. Tell me if it's too much."
And then his mouth is on your neck.
Sharp teeth graze your pulse point, just grazing, just teasing, before his tongue follows, wet and warm and forked. The sensation makes you jolt, makes your hips grind down harder, makes you forget your own name.
He bites.
Not hard enough to draw blood but close enough that you feel the pressure, the danger, the want behind it. You cry out, and he shushes you again, kissing the spot, licking over it, soothing the ache even as his hips rock up to meet yours.
"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "That's it, little thing. Feel so good. Feel so right."
You can't form words. Can only hold onto him, ride the pace, let him devour you in the best possible way.
His hands are everywhere, your hips, your back, your thighs. Hooking under your knees, spreading you wider over his lap, changing the angle so that every grind hits perfect. You're both still fully clothed, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except this moment, the desperate sounds he keeps making against your skin.
"Harley—" His name breaks on a moan. "I'm—if we keep going—"
"I know." He sounds wrecked. "I know. Me too. Foda…”
He bites your shoulder this time, sharp and claiming and you grind down hard, chasing that edge, chasing him—
And then someone's phone buzzes.
Both of you freeze.
It's yours. Your phone, still in your bag, reminding you that the real world exists and time has apparently been passing and you've been in this dressing room for way, way too long.
Harlequin drops his forehead to your shoulder and groans.
"I hate technology," he mutters.
You laugh, a bit of breathless, shaky, completely unhinged. "We should... we should probably go. Before someone comes looking."
"Let them look."
"Harley."
He lifts his head. His eyes are still dark, his I'm curly hair a bite messy. There are fresh bite marks on his neck too—which you don't remember doing that, but you must have and he looks ruined in the best possible way.
"Fine," he sighs. "But we're finishing this later."
"That a promise?"
His grin sharpens. "Absolutamente."
Somehow, you both manage to pull yourselves together.
You change back into your original clothes — the sexy outfit going back on its hanger, destined to be purchased because there's no way you're leaving it here after that.
Harlequin fixes his hoodie, adjusts his mask, tries to tame his hair with limited success. You do your best to cover the bite marks on your neck, but your best isn't very good. They're everywhere. Visible. Obvious. A map of exactly what you were doing for the past hour.
"Maybe they won't notice," you mutter.
Harlequin snorts. "They're monsters, little thing. They notice everything."
"Great. Fantastic. Love that for us."
He sighs, genuine, and grabs your hand. “Vá lá."
The walk back to the circus is quiet and relaxed. His hand remains intertwined with yours the entire way, and no one ever mentions it. However, as you pass beyond the gates, it is not Ticket Taker who waits for you.
It is Jester.
His silhouette alone stood in the doorway, a purple light at his feet, and his eyes are locked on the two of you. His face is just as inscrutable as ever, but his eyes seem to shift ever so slightly.
You and Harlequin stand next to each other,
Harlequin—first of all, has a real whole ass smile across his face, like he’s forgotten to pretend that he’s got something to hide. You, on the other hand, look like you’ve been through war itself. Your hair is bit messy, your clothes are creased and askew, and the bite marks... well, the bite marks are just waiting to shout.
Jester’s eyes look between you and Harlequin, who is a much neater, identical counterpart, then back to you.
There is a long, heavy pause between the three of you.
"Welcome back," he says finally. His voice, controled, resonant, that maternal-authority thing he does so well. "I trust your outing was... productive?”
Harlequin's smile somehow gets wider. "Very."
"Mm." Jester's eyes linger on your neck. "I can see that."
You want to die. Right there.
Just sink into the concrete and never resurface.
"Harlequin." Jester's tone is gentle but firm, “Control yourself. At least a little."
Harlequin's grin doesn't falter. "Tá."
Just that. Just a single word, casual and unbothered, like Jester just reminded him to pick up milk on the way home.
Jester’s eyes crinkle, and for an instant, there’s the promise of a smile. Almost, but not quite. He looks at you again, and the expression relaxes slightly. Just enough for you to see the change.
“Thanks for bringing him back,” Jester says. “In one piece, mostly.” He looks at the marks again, “At least, I think that’s true. Although it looks like he didn’t do the same for you.”
“Jester—”
“I was kidding.” His tone is warm, and that’s surprising, considering everything that’s happened. “Mostly. You did well today. He…” Jester looks over at Harlequin, who’s still grinning from ear to ear, still radiating an uncharacteristic buoyancy. “He’s different around you. And that’s good. That’s very good, considering that you're human.”
You don't know what to say to that.
Jester reaches out and rests a massive hand on your shoulder. Only for a moment. Just long enough to feel the weight of it. "Rest," he says. "You've earned it. Both of you." He looks at Harlequin. "Try not to leave more marks where the guest can see them."
Harlequin snorts. "No promises."
"Somehow, I believed that." Jester's hand drops. He turns, already moving toward the shadows. "Good night, little human. Try to keep up with him. He's faster than he looks."
And then he's gone, purple glow fading right behind him.
You stand there for a moment, processing. "He's... nice, most of the time, still a bit terrifying. you say finally. "For a terrifying ancient monster."
Harlequin laughs, pulling you close. "He approves of you. He doesn't like any human.”
"What, really?"
"Really." He pats your head, rather awkwardly, completely at odds with the bite marks he left on your neck, then he added, "You're special, little thing. Now come let's finish what we started~” He begins pulling you towards the green tent.
Ah shit.
bonus part! + pierrot and doctor.
Pierrot was still a disaster.
And not in the fun, chaotic way Harlequin is a disaster. In the sad, pathetic, "I accidentally gave myself food poisoning from old cheese and now I'm dying" kind of way. He's been filling the symptoms since weekend, it been pass over. He's curled up in his nest of blankets, like deadass, it's like eight layers deep with his void eyes doing that sad look thing they do when he's miserable.
Doctor hovers nearby, occasionally checking his pulse with clinical detachment and making notes on a little note pad. "You're going to be okay," he said in a calm tone, "I know this with absolute certainty" tone. "Dairy. You'll live."
Pierrot makes a sound like a dying whale. Doctor sighs.
Then suddenly, the curtain rustles, and you peek your head in. "Hey. I heard you were—"
Pierrot's head snaps up, suddenly waking up. His blank stare flashes with a sudden shine of honey-amber color, as if a switch has flipped and a constellation of stars has awakened within him.
"You came," he whispers. "You came. You visited me. You—" He stops, noicted you limping towards him and was hit by a sudden smell/ His face shows a confusing expression for a second. Then his eyes move to your neck.
His eyes grow wide, "You..." He sits up, his blankets wrapped tightly around him. "You were with Harlequin."
You stop, surprised by how quickly he has picked up on it. “I can explain—”
“Yesterday and Today.” Pierrot's voice cracks. "You were with him. While I was sick. While I was dying." First of all He's not dying. He just has an upset stomach.
"Pierrot—"
“You smell like him.” His eyes lock on you, his expression frightening, his eyes darkening and churning. “You’re marked by him. In my room. He was everywhere on you and I wasn’t there and I—”
He starts to rise from the bed almost off the mattress, but the Doctor’s hand shoots out and holds him fast against the bed with unexpected strength. “No,” Doctor says. “Stay in bed.”
“But he— she— they— Harlequin—”
“I know.” Doctor doesn’t budge. “Calm down.”
“He stole them—”
“You don’t know that.”
“I can smell and see it—”
“That’s enough.” The Doctor’s voice is steady, but a cutting edge creeps in. “You’re sick. You’re emotional. You’re not thinking clearly.”
Pierrot struggles weakly against the Doctor’s grip. He is pathetic, a little touching and frightening all at once.
"You let him have them—" Pierrot wails.
"I didn't let anyone do anything," you say, finding your voice even though you're clearly lying. "I chose to hang out with him. He didn't steal me. I went willingly."
Pierrot lay there, a look hurt and confusion. He looks at you, and what happens in his eyes is not simple—pain, questions, surrender, and then, as he looks at you, a glimmer of acceptance.
"Oh," he says quietly. "Yeah. Oh."
He flops down into the blankets, exhausted. The Doctor releases him a little at a time, wary of sudden movement. I’m going to make you soup, Pierrot murmurs, "I'm going to make you soup, when I'm better. The best soup. Soup so good you'll forget he ever—"
"Pierrot."
"—touched you. Soup that says 'I'm sorry I wasn't there but also I'm better than him.' Soup with meaning."
The Doctor looks at you, his eyes tilting down towards you, and his expression is enough to tell you that this is your life stylel now. You take a breath, a long breath that you didn’t know you were holding.
“I look forward to it,” you say.
Pierrot’s eyes glint, a small, brief flash of life, and he snuggles down into his blankets, a small, satisfied smile playing around his lips.
Pierrot’s eyes sparkle for a brief moment, a small glimmer that chases away the weariness from his face. He settles back into the bed, a small smile of contentment appearing on his lips.
“Nice,” he murmurs to himself. “Nice. Soup. I’ll make soup.”
The doctor moves closer as you leaving, his voice low enough that you can only hear him. “He’s going to be all right.” He pauses, his words measured, as if he’s carefully balancing them in a teacup. “The soup threat is a good sign. He’s processing it.”
“The soup threat?”
“To him, it’s a declaration of war.” Doctor’s mouth twitches at the corners, almost a smile. “Last time he was really mad at Harlequin, he threw a hot pot of soup at him. So when you see it happen, make sure you’re not in the middle of it.”
You stare at him. He stares back at you.
“Okay, yeah, um,” I say, the words turning over in my mind. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll stay out of it.”
“Wise choice, sweeite.”
And you leave Pierrot and his soup scheming and the Doctor and his notes, and you make a point not to think too much about the fact that you’ve just started a war.
At least you enojyed yourself that night~
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
❝ harlequin? ❞ her eyes narrowed, filled with disbelieving.
❝plaything. plaything. i need you to understand something. of all the monsters in this circus you picked the most annoying one, harlequin is the one who gets under my stitches the most. ❞ she presses a stitched hand to her chest, dramatic.
❝ and yet... somehow everyone wants... him in the TFC grotesque. everyone. because he's the freakiest one. the most unpredictable. the one who'll say the things no one else will say. do the things no one else will do. but here's the thing, plaything. ❞
❝ no one actually knows him. not really. however that isn't the place to share ❞ she sighs softy then waves a stitched hand. ❝ fine. fine i'll tell you. i'll help you. ❞
❝ just don't say i didn't warn you ❞
a = aftercare
now starting off, harlequin's aftercare is... unexpected.
you'd think, given his whole thing teasing, taunting, and that predatory energy he always give, you know that he'd be dismissive afterwards. that he'd roll over, crack a joke, and leave you to deal with the aftermath on your own.
which he in fact does, with all his other… well experiences.
but he doesn't with you. instead, he stays. he lingers around, close like a cat with his neon eyes track your face, watching for any sign of discomfort, any look of regret. think about the history he’s has been through.
he isn’t the type to forcely hurt or neglect you.
"you okay?" he'll ask, and his voice is softer than usual. not gentle because harlequin doesn't do gentle but he at least careful what he does. like he's testing the waters.
if you say yes, he'll grin, all sharp and knowing and say something like "good. because i'm not done with you yet." very much giving corny
if you say no, or if you flinch or pull away or shake—he'll go still. his tendrils will curl at his back, and his eyes will flicker just a bit—worried, maybe, or guilty.
"what do you need?" he'll ask. and he'll mean it.
he'll get you water. a blanket. space if you need it. and he'll stay, again not hovering, not smothering but present. close enough that you know he's there.
and you're lying there, catching your breath. harlequin is beside you, propped up on one elbow, his neon eyes fixed on your face.
"you're staring," you say.
"don't overthink it," he'll mutter, when you thank him. "i'm not nice. i just—" he pauses. "—i don't want you to regret this."
he won't say why. but you'll know.
b = body part
his favorite body part of his own? his tendrils.
which that alone should’ve been obvious, not because he's vain—well, maybe a little vain but because they're useful. they can touch, grab, hold. they can wrap around your wrists, waist, and throat, just tight enough to remind you who's in charge.
"they're mine," he'll say, watching them curl around you. "and they like you." (he means he loves you. but he won't say it.)
his favorite body part of yours? your mouth.
not just for the obvious reasons though, yes, those too. but because you talk. maybe you’ll challenge him. and he loves it.
you never shut up. always asking questions, always pushing back, always poking at him like you're not afraid of what he might do.
and that? that drives him crazy.
"you never shut up," he'll say, his thumb brushing your lower lip, his neon eyes fixed on your mouth like he's studying it. "always asking questions. always pushing."
you open your mouth to respond and he presses his thumb against your tongue. just enough to silence you.
"keep going," he murmurs, his voice low and hungry. "say anything. i want to hear your voice." he leans closer, his breath warm against your lips.
"especially when you're begging."
he loves the way you talk back. loves the way you challenge him like you're not afraid of the monster he pretends to be. "you're so brave," he'll purr, his tendrils curling around your wrists. "i love it. i hate it. i want to ruin you for it."
and he will.
he'll kiss you until you can't breathe. until your legs give out. until you're clinging to him like he's the only thing keeping you upright. and then he'll pull back, just enough to look at you and he'll grin. "there it is," he'll say. "that look. the one that says you want more."
he'll give you more. but he'll make you ask for it.
because your mouth? your voice? it's his favorite thing about you.
and he'll never get tired of hearing it.
c = cum
harlequin is messy. carefully messy?
he doesn't care about containment or control—not the way ticket taker does. he wants to see it. wants to watch it pool on your stomach, your thighs, your tongue.
"look at that," he'll purr, his neon eyes tracking every drop. "you're covered in me." and he'll leave it there. for a while, anyway. he likes the visual proof.
"don't clean up yet," he'll say, when you reach for a towel. "i want to look at you."
he'll trace patterns in it with his fingers, just all lazy, possessive and he'll grin.
like you could be on your on your knees in front of him. his hand is tangled in your hair, his hips twitching, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. when he finishes, it's everywhere—your lips, your chin, your throat. "perfect," he breathes as he reaches down and drags his thumb through it. brings it to your lips.
"open." you do. and he watches you swallow.
"good," he murmurs. "such a good little thing~”
d = dirty secret
hm… let’s say harlequin's dirty secret is that he needs you to stay.
not in the desperate, clinging way pierrot does but in a quieter and deeper way. after all, he's spent so long being the predator. the one who taunts, who teases, who pushes people away before they can leave him—that he doesn't know how to ask for what he wants.
so he hides it. behind the grin. behind the jokes. behind the sharp, knowing comments that make you want to strangle him.
but when you're not looking—when you're asleep, or distracted, or gone—he lets the mask slip. "don't leave," he'll whisper, when he thinks you can't hear. "please. i —"
he never finishes the sentence.
because harlequin doesn't do vulnerability.
but he feels it. every day. like you could be asleep in his bed. he's propped up on one elbow, watching you—neon green eyes soft, tendrils curled around your waist. "i don't know how to do this," he murmurs. "i don't know how to—"
he stops then swallows, "just... stay. please."
he'll never say it when you're awake.
e = experience
as well all know, harlequin is experienced. very experienced.
he's been around. a lot. so he knows what he's doing—knows how to touch, how to tease, how to make you fall apart before he's even inside you.
"i've had practice," he'll say, with that sharp grin. "lots of practice~” but here's the thing—experience doesn't mean intimacy. he's good at sex. he knows the mechanics. the technique. but being close to someone? being vulnerable?
that's new and he's terrified of it.
that’s why he’s definitely a type of run away from aftercare or like just run straight out of the door, he's more into tune with one night stand than anything.
so he hides behind the experience. the performance. the sharp, knowing comments that make you forget he's just as scared as you are.
like his hands are on your hips, his mouth on your neck—hiding his face, his body pressed against yours. he knows exactly what he's doing. "don't overthink it," he'll say, when you ask. "just feel it."
plaything, he's talking to himself as much as he's talking to you.
f = favorite position
harlequin's all-time favorite position is face-off.
not because he's lazy but because he likes the control. the view. the way he can watch you fall apart right in front of him.
you sit on a chair, a couch, or the edge of the bed — and then you climb into his lap, facing him. his legs are wider, allowing you to straddle him, to sink onto him at your own pace.
and that? that is what he loves most.
"you set the pace," he'll purr, his hands finding your hips, his neon eyes fixed on your face. "you decide how deep. how fast. how much."
he loves watching you take control. loves the way your breath catches when you sink down onto him. loves the way your eyes flutter closed when you find the right angle.
"look at me," he'll command, his grip tightening. "i want to see your face." because face-off keeps everyone's hands free, so free to wander, to explore, to touch every inch of each other.
and harlequin? harlequin loves touching you.
his hands roam your back, your thighs, your throat. his tendrils curl around your waist, wrists, and hips— guiding you, encouraging you. "faster," he'll murmur, when you find a rhythm. "or slower. whatever you want."
"you're so weak like this," he'll breathe, his neon eyes tracking every flutter of your lashes, every parted-lip gasp, every moment of your unraveling. "you're taking what you want. using me." his voice drops to a low growl. "keep going."
he loves the intimacy of it, the way you're close, chest to chest, face to face. he can feel your heartbeat. can taste your breath. can see the exact moment you break.
"there," he'll purr, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "i can see it. you're close." he won't let you look away. won't let you hide. "look at me," he'll command, his voice low and hungry. then he leans forward, his lips brushing your ear.
"keep going, plaything. i want to watch you fall."
g = goofy
harlequin pretends he's never goofy.
he puts on this whole performance, all sharp, sarcastic, mean in a way that makes you want to strangle him. he wants you to think he's all edge and hunger and predatory energy.
but here's the thing, plaything.
he's a damn troll. an absolute menace.
he loves getting a rise out of you. loves pushing your buttons just to see what happens. loves making you flustered and annoyed and so ready to murder him.
"you're so easy," he'll say, grinning that sharp, knowing grin. "i barely have to try."
and he doesn't. because being goofy or just being stright up annoying, all this comes naturally to him.
he'll do things like: make inappropriate noises at the worst possible moments especially during intimacy—just to see you break and it makes things less awkward.
like tell the worst puns you've ever heard. "what do you call a monster who's always late? a harle-quin." (he laughs at his own joke. you do not as he’s literally quite inside you, just denying your pleasure) and don’t let it be a a noise. a cramp. the way your stomach growls at an inopportune moment.
and he'll pause. tilt his head. his neon eyes will flicker up, all amused. "...did you just —"
"shut up."
he laughs, all surprised and genuine. "you're adorable," he says. "i'm going to ruin you." and he will. but he'll also hold you afterwards. because harlequin is soft. under all that trolling. he cares.
he just doesn't want you to know it.
h = hair
harlequin is well-groomed. obviously.
he's a performer. everything about him is a performance, the grin, the energy, the damn chaos. and a performer? a performer has to look good. you can't see him just letting it grow wild and unkempt. that's not his style. he's giving diva energy—though, admittedly, jester clearly takes first place in that category.
but harlequin? he's a close second.
his white-grey-scaled body is smooth and short black hair. "it's part of the aesthetic," he'll say, running a hand through it with practiced ease. like he has a routine, products, even tools.
he spends hours on it. he'll never admit it.
i = intimacy
harlequin doesn't do romance. again, not the way pierrot does with all tears and desperate clinging.
harlequin's intimacy is sharp, unexpected and dangerous in the best way. he shows he cares by staying. by listening even when he pretends not to. by remembering the small random things such as your favorite food, your least favorite color, the way you breathe when you're about to cry.
"you always do that," he'll say, mid-act. "when you're close. you hold your breath."
"i do not—" "you do." he'll prove it. and you'll hate how right he is.
(and you'll love him for noticing.)
j = jack off
harlequin jacks off frequently.
he has a high sex drive, like very high and he's not shy about it. he'll do it whenever the mood strikes: in his tent, in the shower, in the middle of the day when he's supposed to be working.
"don't judge me," he'll say, when you catch him. "i have needs."
he thinks about you when he does it. almost always. the way you sound. the way you feel. the way you look at him like he's not a monster.
"fuck," he'll gasp, his hand moving faster. "i can't—i can't—" his green fork tounge sticking out of his mouth. and then it's over. and he's breathless.
and he's thinking about you again.
god forbid, when you push open his tent flap, all unannounced, because you never speak up about coming in and there he is.
harlequin, sprawled across his bed, his hand wrapped around cock, his neon eyes wide with surprise. his tendrils are curled at his back, his chest is heaving, and he's so close.
"harlequin—"
"don't." his voice is strained. desperate. "don’t—stop —"
you don't stop. you watch. your eyes trace the way his hand moves, the way his hips twitch, the way his breath catches.
he finishes with a groan. his tendrils curl. his body shudders.
and then he's just... lying there. breathless. staring at you. he gives a weak laugh, breathless sound and reaches for you.
"come here," he says, his voice low. "you watch me. you see me like that. and now you think you can just leave?"
his tendrils curl around your wrist, pulling you closer.
"no," he murmurs, his neon eyes hungry. "now you take care of me, plaything." he guides your hand to his still-sensitive length, and his breath catches.
"slow now,” he breathes. “i’m—i’m still sensitive."
k = kink
holy shit, where to even start because harlequin has a lot of kinks. very much long list, almost every kink that existed is on that list, so let's just list the top favorites.
1. praise.
he loves being told he's doing well. "good," you'll murmur, and his hips will stutter. "you're doing so well." his neon eyes will go wide, and he'll come undone.
2. degradation.
he loves being used. "you're mine," you'll say, and he'll whimper. "my toy. my plaything." he'll nod—desperate, needy.
3. overstimulation.
he'll push you past your limits, then past them again, just to see how you react. "one more," he'll say, his voice low. "you can give me one more."
4. marking.
he loves leaving marks on you — bites, bruises, scratches. "i want everyone to see," he'll growl, his teeth grazing your shoulder. "i want them to know you're mine."
5. being watched.
againhe's a performer. he loves an audience. "watch me," he'll command, his hand moving faster. "don't look away."
6. power play.
he loves the exchange, sometimes he's in control, sometimes he's not. "i'm in charge," he'll growl. (and then: "please, i need—")
l = location
harlequin's favorite location is anywhere in the circus.
because the circus is his domain. his territory. every tent, every corner, every shadow belongs to him. and he wants you in all of it.
As disrespectful as it sounds because it is; harlequin is everywhere and he wants you everywhere with him.
"the circus is my home,” he'll say, his neon eyes gleaming. "and that means you're mine. wherever i want you." and he means it.
1. his tent
this is his primary spot. his bed is huge, big enough for both of you to sprawl across, to tangle together, to lose yourselves in. his tendrils are everywhere, so curling around your body, holding you close.
"this is my space," he'll murmur, pressing you into the mattress. "my territory. and you're in it."
he loves the privacy. the freedom. he can be as loud as he wants, as messy as he wants, as intense as he wants. no one bothers him here. no one interrupts.
"scream," he'll command, his voice low. "i want to hear you."
and you will. because no one's listening.
2. the rafters
this one is adventurous. risky. entirely harlequin.
he'll lead you up, like the way into the rafters above the main tent. the beams are wide enough to hold you, the shadows are deep enough to hide you, and the view? spectacular.
"no one looks up," he'll whisper, his voice low. "no one sees us."
he'll press you against the beam, his tendrils wrapped around you, his hips moving in a slow, teasing rhythm. and below the circus continues. guests laugh. music plays. no one knows.
"you're so quiet," he'll murmur, his lips brushing your ear. "try to stay that way."
3. the ticket booth
this one is impulsive. spontaneous. and so so wrong.
the circus is closed. the gates are locked. the ticket booth is empty and ticket taker went to lock up for the night.
that’s enough time for harlequin, he'll push you inside—shove you, really and lock the door behind him.
"five minutes," he'll say, his voice low. "that's all i need." and he means it. but he'll also take ten. or fifteen. because he can't help himself.
"you're so hard to resist," he'll say, his hips moving fast. "i can't stop."
4. the alley between tents
this one is quick. desperate. risky in the best way.
he'll pull you aside between the red tent and the purple, in the narrow space where the shadows are deepest and he'll press you against the fabric. "quiet," he'll breathe, his hand over your mouth. "don't make a sound."
his hips will move fast, urgent and you'll clutch at him, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "harlequin—"
"shh." he'll finish with a groan, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged.
"fuck," he'll gasp. "you're perfect."
and then he'll pull away, grinning and act like nothing happened.
5. your apartment
Of course, always your apartment is an option special. it’s more sentimental in a way he'll never admit.
he'll show up at your door, unannounced, uninvitedand he'll push his way inside. "i missed you today,” he'll say, his voice low. "don't make it weird." he'll kiss you and he'll take you on your couch, your bed, your kitchen counter.
"this is yours," he'll murmur, his lips brushing your ear. "and you're mine."
m = motivation
harlequin is motivated by attention.
he needs to be seen. needs to be noticed. needs to know that he's the one you're thinking about. "look at me," he'll command, his voice low. "don't look at anyone else. just me."
he's also motivated by challenge. if you push back. talk back he'll be obsessed.
"you're so difficult," he'll say, grinning. "i love it." and trust. when you trust him—when you let him see you, really see you—he'll do anything. "you're not afraid of me," he'll observe, his neon eyes soft. "why?"
"because i trust you."
his eyes flicker and his tendrils curl. "...dangerous." but he loves it.
n = no
harlequin has hard limits. things he will not do.
1. being ignored.
he needs attention. all of it. if you zone out — if you look away — he'll stop. "look at me," he'll command, his voice sharp. "i need to see your eyes."
2. loss of control (with anyone else).
he'll give up control to you. but only you. if anyone else tries — jester, ticket taker, anyone — he'll shut down.
3. being called "sir" or "master".
it's not his thing. "just my name," he'll say. "that's all i need."
4. silence.
he hates silence. "say something," he'll beg. "anything. i need to hear your voice."
o = oral
harlequin is very skilled at giving oral.
he loves it. loves the way you react. the way your breath catches. the way you fall apart.
"you're so responsive tody,” he'll murmur, his tongue tracing a line up your thigh. "i love it. i love it."
he'll take his time. study you. figure out exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you beg, what makes you shatter.
"there," he'll say, his voice low. "that's the spot."
receiving? he loves it. but he won't ask for it. won't beg. he'll just position himself in front of you, his hand tangled in your hair, and wait.
"you know what i want," he'll say. "don't make me say it."
and you won't. because you do know.
p = pace
harlequin's pace is unpredictable. deliberately so.
he'll start slow, just all teasing building a pace that's lazy and deliberate. he wants to draw it out. wants to feel every moment.
"patience," he'll murmur, when you try to rush him. "we have time."
but then when he's close, his pace changes. faster. harder. more desperate. "just—" he'll gasp, his hips stuttering. "just stay—" and then he's cums.
and you're left breathless beneath him.
q = quickie
harlequin LOVES quickies.
he's always ready. always hungry and down for one at any time. and if there's a spare moment, he'll take it. "five minutes," he'll say, pushing you against the nearest surface. "that's all i need."
and he means it. but he'll also take ten. or fifteen. because he can't help himself. "you're so hard to resist," he'll say, his voice low. "i can't stop."
like the both you are in the ticket booth—accidentally let’s pray that ticket taker doesn’t catch you two and he's got you pressed against the wall, his hand over your mouth, his hips moving fast.
"quiet," he breathes. "don't make a sound."
you don't. but you want to.
r = risk
harlequin ALSO LOVES taking risks
again HE’s a performer. a thrill-seeker. the danger, the possibility of being caught—it makes him feral. "what's life without a little risk?" he'll say, his neon eyes gleaming. "boring. that's what."
he'll take you in places where you could be caught—the ticket booth, the supply closet, the middle of the circus grounds when everyone else is asleep. there's honestly no fucks given.
"quiet," he'll whisper, his hand over your mouth, his hips pressing against yours. "if you make a sound —"
he grins. "—i'll just have to make you."
and he will. he'll push you past every limit, dare you to break, challenge you to stay quiet. "you're trembling," he'll observe, his voice low. "good. i love it."
he'll experiment with everything—new positions, new places, new kinks. he's always looking for the next thrill. "what if we —" he'll start, and you'll know it's going to be wild.
"whatever you want," you'll say.
and he'll grin. "that's what i like to hear."
s = stamina
harlequin has insane stamina.
he can go for hours. literally hours. he's relentless— always pushing, always wanting more. "one more," he'll say, his voice low. "you can give me one more."
and you can. because he won't let you stop.
he can go for four rounds. five. six—if you're lucky because just for you to know, these rounds are very long about 2 to 3 hours, so all day activity!
"i'm not done with you," he'll growl, his tendrils wrapping around your waist, pulling you back to him.
he means it.
t = toys
hmm… harlequin doesn't need toys.
funny enough, he's creative enough on his own. he uses his hands, his tendrils, his mouth, so anything he can reach.
"why use toys," he'll say, his voice low, "when i can use you?" his tendrils are his favorite tool. they're everywhere, wrapping around your wrists, ankles, and throat. they can hold you down, lift you up, spread you open.
"you're so beautiful like this," he'll say, his voice low, his tendrils curling around your thighs. "all mine."
he'll tie you up with them, just tight enough that you can't move, loose enough that you can feel them sliding against your skin.
he'll blindfold you with his hands, his tendrils exploring every inch of you while you squirm.
"where are you touching me?" he'll purr, his voice low and teasing. "you don't know, do you? that's the point." he'll tease you until you're begging until you're sobbing his name.
"please," you'll gasp. "please, harlequin—"
"please what?"
"please—touch me—"
he'll grin, triumphant. "that's what i wanted to hear."
but sometimes when he's feeling extra, he'll use your things. he loves your blindfold. the one you use when you sleep. the one he steals from your bag when you're not looking.
"this is mine now," he'll say, holding it up with a grin.
then he'll tie it around your face, tight enough that you can't see anything. just darkness and the sound of his voice. "you're so trusting," he'll murmur, his voice low. "i love it."
he'll even use your clothes, so a shirt, a tie, even your underwear to bind you, to gag you, to blind you.
"you're so creative," you'll say, breathless.
"i know," he'll say. "that's why you love me."
u = unfair
harlequin is masterful at teasing.
it's his favorite thing. bringing you right to the edge and then stopping. "not yet," he'll say, his voice low. "you're not ready." and he'll keep you there. for hours. watching you squirm. needing.
"please," you'll beg. "please, i need—"
"i know," he'll say. "that's the point." he'll edge you until you're crying. until you're sobbing his name. "you're so pretty like this," he'll say, his voice low.
"all desperate for me."
v = volume
harlequin is loud. obnoxiously loud.
he wants you to hear him. wants everyone to hear him.
"yes," he'll groan, his voice echoing off the tent walls. "just like that—don't stop—" he'll moan. whimper. growl. he's not shy about it. "fuck," he'll gasp, his hips stuttering. "i can’t—fuck—"
and he doesn't hold back. ever.
"you love the way i sound," he'll say, his voice low. "don't you?"
you do. because harlequin is auditory. and he knows it.
w = wild card
harlequin has a thing for your voice.
not just what you say, more how you say it. the pitch. the rhythm. the way you breathe when you're close.
"say my name," he'll command, his voice low. "i want to hear you say it."
and when you do—when you moan it, when you gasp it, when you whisper it like a prayer—he comes undone.
"again," he'll breathe. "say it again."
he'll record it, sometimes. on his phone. just to listen to it later. "don't judge me," he'll say, when you catch him. "i have needs."
(he's lying. he loves it. he'll never admit it.)
x = x-ray
harlequin is lean. wiry. made for movement.
his body movement is close like a snake, under his clothes, he's all muscle—long, corded muscle that flexes when he moves. his white grey-scaled skin is smooth, flawless, markless.
except for the scars. majority of them are stab wounds from pierrot and he has a few pale, faint lines that cross his ribs, his hips, his thighs. "don't ask," he'll say, when you trace them. "it's not a story i want to tell."
(he'll tell you. eventually. when he trusts you enough.)
he’s cold-blooded or ectothermic being cold-blooded, so he take in heat. Unlike mumans or the other monsters on the other hand would be classified as endothermic. so he loves being near you, taking all the heat inside
and down there? impressive. proportional. elegant in a way that shouldn't be elegant. he's pale down there, greyish and his length curves slightly, always having pre-cum leaking from the tip.
"like what you see?" he'll ask, grinning. "are you going to look or touch?"
y = yearning
fharlequin's sex drive is very high.
extremely high. insatiably high. he thinks about it constantly—about you constantly. the way you sound and feel. Like all he wants secretly it's just retention of course he's not gonna voice that out loud but he's going to use every chance just to get your own attention.
"you're distracting," he'll say, his voice low. "i can't think. i can't focus. all i can do is—" he'll push you against the nearest surface. his mouth on your neck. his hands on your hips. "—this."
he's always ready. always hungry.
"again," he'll say, after rounds. "i need more."
z = zone
harlequin is sensitive. more than he lets on.
his body is a map of places that make him shiver, and he's spent years pretending they don't exist. ignoring them. suppressing them.
but with you? with you? he can't hide.
there are three areas that are especially sensitive, places that make him break if you touch them just right. and if you pay attention, if you watch him closely—it's very easy to tell.
1. his tendrils
harlequin's tendrils are incredibly sensitive—achingly so. they're extensions of him—nerves and muscle and want. they're not just appendages; they're part of him. intimately part of him.
when you touch them—when you stroke them, when you pull them, when you wrap them around your fingers—his breath catches.
"again," he breathes. "do that again." and when you do when you bite one, just lightly, he falls apart.
"fuck," he gasps. "fuck, i can't—"
he can. and he will. the tendrils twitch at your touch. they curl around your fingers, your wrists, your throat—not to restrain you, but to feel you. "you're torturing me," he says, his voice strained.
"is it working?"
his neon eyes are wide. his chest is heaving. his tendrils are writhing. "yes."
he'll beg you to touch them. to stroke them, to pull them, to bite them. he'll whimper when you do.
"please," he'll gasp. "please, i need —"
he'll come undone. completely.
because his tendrils are part of him. and when you touch them, so when you really touch them—you're touching him.
2. his throat
harlequin's throat is achingly sensitive. the column of it, long and pale, where his pulse beats just beneath the surface.
he loves having it touched. loves the feeling of your lips against his skin, your teeth grazing his jugular.
when you kiss him there, when you drag your lips down the side of his neck, when you bite just hard enough to leave a mark, his breath catches. his hands tighten on your hips. his neon eyes flutter closed.
"again," he breathes. "do that again."
and when you do, so when you suck a bruise into the space just below his jaw—he makes a sound. all quiet strangled. desperate. "fuck," he murmurs, his voice shaking. "i didn't know i could—"
he doesn't finish the sentence. he's too busy pulling you closer. he loves it when you bite him. hard enough to leave marks. hard enough that he can feel it for days.
"i want everyone to see," he'll growl, his voice low. "i want them to know you're mine." he'll press your mouth against his throat—guiding you, encouraging you.
"harder," he'll command. "bite me."
and you will. because he asked.
3. his hair
this one is cruel. and you know it. harlequin's hair is wild. messy. unintentional. (like he can never get rid of that heart curl) but underneath all that chaos underneath the carefully styled mess his scalp is incredibly sensitive.
when you run your fingers through his hair, when you scratch his scalp, when you pull just hard enough, he melts. "fuck," he'll gasp, his head falling back. "fuck, that's —"
he shivers. actually shivers. "don't stop," he'll beg. "please—don't stop—" he'll lean into your touch. push against your hand like a cat starved for affection. and when you pull his hair, so hard enough that his head snaps back, his eyes roll.
"yes," he'll gasp. "yes—fuck—" he loves it. craves it.
and he'll never admit it.
"you're so easy," you'll say.
"shut up." but he won't pull away.
regardless, in summarized about harlequin's!
so there you have it, plaything. harlequin. the one who never shuts up. he's annoying. infuriating. he gets under my stitches like no one else in this circus.
❝ i hate him, ❞ poppet says, her voice flat, little annoyed. ❝ he's insufferable. ❞ a pause. ❝ ...but he's also hot. ❞ she looks away, her lavender eyes flickering.
❝ not that i'd ever tell him that. ❞ she's about to say something else— something sharp, maybe dismissive—when the tent flap rustles.
and there he is.
harlequin leaning against the entrance, his neon eyes green gleaming, his sharp grin already in place. "talking about me, poppet?" he purrs. "i'm flattered."
she freezes. her eye go wide. ❝ i was not— ❞
"you were." he steps closer, his tendrils curling at his back. "i could hear you from outside. something about me being hot?"
❝ i said insufferable. ❞
"you said both."
she opens her mouth. closes it, looking away. ❝ ...you're imagining things. ❞
he laughs, low and warm and reaches out to flick one of her pigtails. "sure, poppet." his neon eyes are soft. "sure." he doesn't push further. just grins at her, all sharp, knowing and slips back out of the tent.
she stares at the flap for a long moment.
good luck putting up with him. you'll gonna need it...
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
"Suddenly curious...What do you love most about me, Harlequin?"
"Hmm...I love it most when you spread your legs wide and open for me~."
"I should of expected that answer from you." You give a half forced smile as you glance away, used to this nature of his now.
Harlequin's grin shrinks as he notices you looking away now. He's quiet for a moment as he turns away before speaking. "...Your heart sounds beautiful when I make you laugh...Guess you could say I love that most about you too..."
Your face turns pink with a blush as you stare at him.
He looks over at you, noticing you staring. "S-stop looking at me like that. You asked, so I gave you a answer...Your gawking reminds me of how Pierrot used to look at her..." Harlequin looks away again, blushing lightly himself now.
It was near 1am and you were struggling to fall asleep.
You kept tossing and turning in your bed, as frustration grew.
Once you accepted you weren't going to sleep any time soon, you decided to grab your phone and text someone just for the hell of it.
First person that came to mind was Harlequin. So you sent a quick "Can't sleep" message and left it like that. Not expecting him to respond back.
You put your phone back down and sighed. Hoping by some miracle you'll fall asleep soon if you just closed your eyes. Then you heard your phone go off, notifying you of a received message.
You grabbed your phone again and looked at the message sent to you. It was a response from Harlequin. "Pick up."
"Pick up? Wha--!?!" You were startled by the sound of your phone ringing and quickly answered it to silence it, not realizing what you done until it was too late. "Fu--" You put the phone to your ear, as you tried to speak but sounded nervous. "H-Hello?"
Harlequin chuckled on the other end. "You sound scared. Did I frighten you?~"
"You shocked me is all." You said with a annoyed frown.
"Whoops~." He chuckled more, but you could hear something going on from his side. Sounded like movement...You wondered what he was doing. Possibly working on something you guessed.
"Sorry for messaging you so late by the way...I just...I didn't know what else to do right now."
"No need to apologize. If anything. I was hoping you'd reach out to me right now~." You heard more movement and he let out a small groan.
"Uh...You okay over there?"
"Y-Yes...Just fine...Keep talking."
"Um...So I guess you can't sleep either?"
"Mmm...You could say that..." He let out a soft short sigh. As if he was trying to calm himself.
You paused for a moment, feeling bothered from this situation now. "A--are you sure you're alright? You sound...weird...and more quiet than usual."
"Do you want me to scream your name? Is that what you want?"
"W-what?"
He chuckled again, it sounded more lower this time, it made your heart skip a beat. "You have no idea the effect you have on me...You tease me...Make me feel even more less than a Fool--"
You start to hear something else from the other end, it was getting louder by the passing seconds. "So much so--It's hard to take you off my mind...Especially after that day...Mmm...If Pierrot didn't show up--I would of ruined you, and already have you by my side keeping me company than myself..."
"H-Harlequin?"
"F-fuck~...Say my name again~."
Your eyes widened at the realization of what was going on now. Your face heating up with a blush, feeling both uncomfortable and embarrassed.
"O-oh god...I--I'm going to just hang up no--"
"DON'T." You frozen at his response. "Don't tempt me to go over there...After all...You know you like hearing me like this...Yet unable to see what is truly going...What I'm doing...Letting your pretty imagination grow and wonder~."
You bit down at your bottom lip, staying quiet, as his words started to take affect on you.
"Your silence speaks volumes~...Why don't you join me?~"
"W-what?"
"You know you'll love it~...Just do as I say, and it'll almost be like I'm there with you...Touching you in ways only I can make you feel~."
"H-Harlequin I--"
"Or do I need to go over there and do it myself? Would you prefer that instead?~"
You were quiet, but you couldn't deny he was right...Once you learned what he was doing. Your mind did start to wonder, as the heat between your legs formed and grew.
"Well dear one? I'm waiting for a response...Or do I need to finish off alone with you listening on the other end like the naughty little thing you are?~"
You nervously swallowed, opening your mouth to speak, letting out a light trembled breath before you finally spoke. "...W-what do I have to do?"
You couldn't see it but Harlequin grinned widely at your response.
"Close your eyes and let your hand wonder slowly down to your aching spot...And then I'll tell you exactly what to do to get you singing for me~."
