Toms/Samuel/Henry @henryisscared - Tumblr Blog

BREAKING POINT PART 1

pierrot x fem!reader

FANDOM: The Freak Circus PAIRING: Pierrot / Female Reader GENRE: Dark Romance, Psychological Horror, Yandere, Romance RATING: Explicit / 18+

CONTENT WARNINGS: obsessive behavior, stalking, manipulation, unhealthy attachment, toxic dynamics, possessiveness, somnophilia, non-consensual themes, explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, emotional dependency, dead dove: do not eat

A traveling circus has appeared in your city, and through a third-party contract, you’re hired as technical support to help maintain quality standards behind the scenes. The work itself is surprisingly easy, even with the strange performers lingering around every corner. Yet somehow, with each passing day, your body feels more sore than ever before.

reader discretion is advised.

"As mentioned prior," your boss starts, skimming through the large amounts of paper tacked onto the wooden clipboard, “you all will be the behind the scenes for the circus’ needed operations, obviously that is to aid with technical support as well as even providing customer support.”

The last part regarding “customer support” earns a couple of groans from the small crowd of employees, even an internal groan from yourself, but you made sure to keep your discontent showing on your face - you would say its due to upholding professionalism, but it is only because you are the first row, facing the boss directly.

“Don’t groan at me, that is required for all events,” he says and tucks the clipboard under his arm, “however, it shouldn’t be as prevalent for this event as the clients stated they would manage all customers themselves.”

The boss begins to ramble on about the separation of tents, where we will be quite far from the circus due to the requests from the circus owners. In fact, we are only really to leave our tents when pinged in from the walkie-talkies if a machine is broken, a tent falls, and many more.

“We will be splitting up shifts; some shifts you will be alone, and some shifts you will have one to two people with you - those are only for high volume days such as weekends, so don’t get too comfortable hanging out with buddies. Understood?”

The meeting completes with an unanimous confirmation, the scraping of chairs fills the room which follows with growing conversations about shifts or the circus entirely.

You immediately check the board containing your shifts for the next few periods where the circus will be in town. You’re annoyed at the fact that you have rarely any days that fall along that “high volume” shifts people, in fact, you’re alone for most of the days you work. Obviously, this is since you are one of the few out of school with completely open availability, while the rest of your coworkers are still in university.

This is so stupid, you internally groan, especially when you’re seeing the groups of full-time university kids obviously smiling when they see they are scheduled with someone else. You run your hands through your hair to calm your annoyance, taking a picture of the schedule and job duties.

The walkie-talkie abruptly fills the small tent with static, causing you to jump in your spot.

“One of the speakers are malfunctioning in one of the tents, is there anyone available to fix it?” a deep voice inquires over the small device. It fills your stomach with dread immediately.

It was your third shift since the meeting. On the first day you expected all kinds of technical issues to sing over the black walkie-talkie. Yet, to your surprise, it was completely silent. So silent that you nearly fell asleep before your shift ended. The second day you expected something to be relayed, and yet again, nothing.

Having not touched the circus at all in terms of equipment or even beyond the ticket gates, you dread what is waiting for you.

Despite wanting to ignore the obvious job duty appearing in front of you, you grab the walkie-talkie while pulling on a thin jacket.

“I’ll be down in just a second. Which tent is it?”

It’s silent for a few seconds before the deep voice responds again: “the red tent. We will have one of the performers show you where the issue is.”

You glance over at the map that displays a simple layout of the circus through color coding. You spot the red tent, somewhat in the middle of the circus, but not too far from your tent. That, again, resides outside of the circus layout entirely.

“Understood, thank you.”

You grab a mini bag of tools to operate on all equipment as well as your lanyard that displays “EVENT STAFF” in big red letters.

You unhook the flaps of your tent as you step outside, immediately meeting the flashing carnival lights that seem to fill the night sky with color.

Dim carnival lights flicker against the damp ground, casting warped colors over empty pathways and silent game stalls. Music hums somewhere in the distance, muffled and distorted enough to sound almost dreamlike. You can’t tell whether the smell lingering in the air is popcorn or something burnt.

You pull your jacket tighter as you begin your trek towards the circus, passing through a small opening between the metal gates surrounding the perimeter of the circus.

As you get closer to the red tent you take notice of the instantaneous rumble of music and chatter that vibrates from your shoes to the tip of your head, some laughter here and there occasionally fills your ears.

You can feel your lanyard tapping against your beating chest with every step, the small plastic clinking against your zipper fold of your jacket. You don’t know why you’re scared; you were never scared of clowns when you were younger, and yet, an unknown rush of adrenaline overcomes your body when the red tent comes into view, your stomach already twisting itself into knots.

Immediately, you spot the entrance of the tent. Not because there are obnoxious signs or lights singing above it, but because of the figure in front of it.

Tall.

Nearing six feet tall, maybe even more, if you didn’t think any better you would’ve thought they were hiring basketball players as performers.

His outfit is designed, albeit, modestly, but still reflects themes of a circus. Loose ivory fabric draped neatly over his frame, accented with deep crimson ribbons and dark diamond patterns stitched along the sleeved. A ruffled collar rests beneath his jaw, slightly wrinkled as if worn far too often, while the pale sheen of his mask displays the dark paint making up his eyes and smile – that were on you the whole time you were looking at him.

“I am so sorry,” you scramble, walking over faster, “I was just surprised how tall you were.” You give a nervous laugh at the end, staring at his masked face.

He doesn’t say anything which immediately tightens the knots in your stomach, a bloom of red reaching your face and ears from an obvious silent treatment.

The bells, you now notice that are attached to the ends of his hat, jingle as his head tilts. The movement is so small, but it does little to appease your nerves that were growing by the minute.

“I am here to help with the broken speaker?” you say in a questioning tone. “Did they tell you I was coming?”

Another few moments of silence where the rumbling of the circus fills.

The performer, you think at least is a performer, nods. The bells jingle with movement.

Without a word, he turns.

For a moment you simply stare, unsure whether the interaction is over or if he expects you to follow. But after a few slow steps, he pauses near the entrance of the tent and glances back toward you.

Waiting.

“Oh, right.”

You quickly adjust the strap of your tool bag before hurrying after him.

The inside of the red tent is much darker than expected. The air smells faintly of dust, old fabric, and something strangely sweet underneath it all. Dim bulbs hang overhead, casting uneven shadows across stacked props and metal rigging. Only after do you notice that the color palette of this tent resembles the performers colors.

Near the center of the tent, surrounded by rows of benches for an audience, sits a large speaker tipped onto its side. They must have tried to fix it themselves, either DIY or through technical experience, but it is obvious from the low static crackling from it every few seconds that it is having issues.

You kneel beside the speaker, setting your bag down and pulling out a screwdriver. The casing looks old — older than you expected for equipment still in use. Your fingers brush against loose wiring near the back panel while the static briefly squeals. It sputters out what must be the intended music to play at high volume, causing you to let out a small gasp of air.

Great, not like that was a little embarrassing. However, hearing how the performer says nothing, you try not to overthink.

As you unplug and move wiring around the back panel, you hear the bells attached to his hat softly chime behind you as a reminder.

You can practically feel him staring down onto your body.

Trying to ignore the growing discomfort crawling beneath your skin, you glance back over your shoulder with an awkward smile. “You don’t have to stand there, you know. I can probably fix this in ten minutes.”

Hopefully ten minutes.

For a second, he says nothing and you assume that this guy is mute or intentionally giving you the silent treatment.

Then, almost too soft to hear:

“I know.”

The voice is timid and soft. The response, while annoying, helps settle some of your nerves.

You muster up some courage, deciding to make a joke you hope lands correctly.

“Oh, so you can talk?” you say lightly with a chuckle, “I thought you were ignoring me.”

You turn around to meet his masked eyes. However, you notice the obvious glow of gold in the eye sockets of the mask. You assume it must be some “aesthetic” touch with the mask.

He immediately shakes his head, the bells jingling violently.

“No,” he says quickly, almost sounding distressed by the accusation. “I can’t speak freely.”

The answer catches you slightly off guard before realizing that you were operating in a circus, and a circus probably entails all sorts of acts and performers, like mimes.

“Oh.” You let out another small laugh, more genuine this time. “Sorry. Your staring was just making me nervous.”

Your attention drifts back toward the speaker, fingers working carefully along the loosened panel. The static crackles again before cutting out completely once you disconnect one of the wires.

You let out a relieved sigh; thankful it wasn’t a permanent issue you’d have to bring up to more people.

“There,” you murmur, before wiping your dust-covered hands onto your pants. “That should fix the - ”

“You are new.”

His voice interrupts so suddenly that your screwdriver nearly slips from your hand.

You glance back at him again. He’s still standing exactly where he was before, hands draped along his side with a slight hunch to his back.

“Uh, yeah,” you answer. “This is my third shift.”

The bells softly chime as his head tilts once more.

“I have not seen you before.”

Something about the statement makes heat crawl up the back of your neck. Not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it, careful and observant.

You force out a lighthearted smile.

“Well, hopefully that means I’m doing my job right.”

You tuck the screwdriver back into the pocket of your bag.

“You will probably be seeing a lot more people like me, to be honest.”

His bells jingle, implying he’s moving.

You look up expecting him to still be standing across the tent, motionless and distant, yet somehow, he is nearly right in front of you. Looking down with glowing gold eyes that seem brighter than before. The movement was so silent without the jingling of the bells notifying you, it causes you to jolt backwards slightly.

“Oh,” you gasp out, clutching the opened ends of your jacket. “Jesus, you scared me.”

The bells sway softly as he tilts his head downward.

Up close, the mask looks pristine, too pristine. The smooth lines of the mask align with what may be his natural face shape, the black paint is unchipped and still vibrant. However, you can still recognize the subtle rise and fall of his breathing beneath it – labored in a way.

“I did not mean to,” he says quietly.

Despite the apology, he doesn’t step away.

Not even a little.

You swallow awkwardly, the gulp was almost comical in noise, reminding you of how dry your mouth was. Suddenly, you are very aware of how much taller he is than you, even slightly bent over.

“Well…” You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look back down at your tools or the props around the stage. “The speaker should be fixed now. Unless you guys break it again tomorrow.”

A small pause follows.

Then:

“You will come back tomorrow?”

The question is soft. Hopeful, almost.

But something about it still makes your stomach twist.

This whole situation is weird, the red alarms ringing along your head remind you exactly how weird this is.

“Sure, if it breaks again,” you exhale, “but us, event staff, aren’t really allowed near the circus otherwise.”

You add the last part in hopes to deplete that hopeful tone in his voice, hoisting the tool bag strap onto your shoulder before meeting his “eyes” once more. The glowing gold stares back at you unblinking.

These costume effects are getting more advanced, you think.

“You are allowed now.”

Your stomach drops slightly.

The statement is simple enough, yet something about the certainty in his voice makes it sound less like reassurance and more like a decision already made for you.

You let out an awkward laugh, attempting to shake off the sudden tension curling around your spine.

“Pretty sure my supervisor would disagree with that.”

The bells jingle softly as he leans down ever so slightly.

“I would not.”

The response comes immediately.

Too immediately.

A nervous smile pulls at your lips as you take a careful step backward toward the tent entrance. “Right… well, luckily you’re not my supervisor.”

For the first time since entering the tent, the performer finally moves aside enough to give you room to pass.

But his glowing gaze never leaves you.

Not for a second.

The apartment is silent aside from the hum of your refrigerator.

Safe.

Normal.

Just how you like it.

You kick off your shoes near the entrance, hanging up your jacket on a nearby hook. You let out a lengthy and heavy yawn, followed by a full body stretch.

Maybe circus performers were supposed to act strange. Maybe the staring was part of the persona. Maybe the glowing eyes in the mask had simply caught the light strangely.

“Maybe, I need another job,” you mutter, rubbing at the nape of your neck.

And yet, for some reason, you still find yourself thinking about glowing golden eyes hidden behind porcelain.

The apartment remains still in the dead of night.

Soft moonlight leaks through the curtains, faintly illuminating the outline of your bedroom. The digital clock beside your bed blinks lazily in the darkness while the rest of the apartment sits undisturbed.

Then, somewhere near the window a quiet metallic jingle resonates through the silent room, yet unheard to your sleeping form.

The unlocked window slowly creaks upward.

Cold night air spills into the room first, followed by the silhouette of a tall figure climbing silently inside. White fabric catches dim traces of moonlight while crimson ribbons sway gently with each careful movement.

The bells attached to the ends of his hat barely make a sound now, muffled as though intentionally restrained.

He closes the window behind him with practiced care.

Golden eyes immediately find you asleep beneath the mountains of blankets enveloping your body. The blankets hide so much it bothers him, yet his heart swells at the image of you sleeping so peacefully. Blissfully unaware of his presence that caused you so much stiffness before. He recalls your tiny form cowering under his eyes that his heart is pounding against his chest at an imaginable rate.

His gloved fingers twitch faintly at his side as he is overcome with a rush of something, he is not too sure of himself.

He wants to touch. The urge is overwhelming to the point where he feels as though he may die.

Slowly, his hands make their way to the ends of the main comforter atop you, slowly pulling that the minutes are grueling to him. Yet, slowly, your skin is exposed to the cold air – to his wandering eyes.

“My lady,” he quietly rasps, huffing hot air as his body looms over your figure.

Very quickly after pulling the covers all the way down to the floor he notices you’re sleeping in nothing but a loose shirt and underwear.

For a moment, he simply stares.

The golden glow behind the mask brightens faintly, almost feverish now, drinking in every exposed inch of skin like a starving man finally allowed a glimpse of something sacred. His breathing becomes shakier with every passing moment, taking in every noticeable feature of your body: every curve, every blemish, every line, or mole sits there for him to see and revel in the moment.

“My lady, you are so beautiful,” he whispers. The words barely sound human, filled with immense amount of want.

For a slight moment your body shuffles into an open position, unfurling from the fetal position you had before. Your hands reaching for something around you – your blanket most likely.

His breath stops with the movement; afraid you’ll awake and witness an unruly side of him.

He knows he shouldn’t be here, that he should take it slow – humans are fragile, after all.

However, all reasoning is quickly going out the window as he takes in your brazen form, almost inviting for someone to touch you.

Your legs are spread, allowing a view of the cute pair of panties barely covering your bottom half. Your loose top does nothing to hide the obvious perks of your nipples.

Your body must be inviting him. That is the only reasoning he can come up with before his hands immediately find placement next to your hips on the bed. His face inches away from your clothed pussy.

His breath ghosts over the thin fabric of your panties, warm and ragged, as if he's been holding it in anticipation for this very moment. His golden eyes glow feverishly, flickering up to meet your peacefully sleeping face.

His lips part slightly, a long, inhuman tongue unfurling from his mouth with saliva pooling from the end. His tongue darts out to trace the outline of your pussy through the cloth, teasing the edges where the fabric meets your slick skin.

Your body responds despite sleeping soundly, a soft gasp fills his ears, yet still not awake. He takes it as confirmation.

The sensation is electric, a slow burn that builds as he presses his entire mouth fully against your clothed pussy, the wet heat of his breath seeping through the barrier, licking feverishly.

Your body slightly twitches to the new sensation; he hopes that whatever dream that has taken hold of you is of him. His hands grip your hips firm yet softly, holding you in places as if you were delicate, something precious he won’t let slip away. His tongue works in delicate circles, the fabric growing soaked and pliant under his insistent pressure.

You let out another small gasp of air, your body squirming slightly more, as if urging him on. He responds with a low growl, the gold hues watching your face contort with every lick. He finally pulls your panties aside. The cool air hits your exposed flesh for a brief second before his tongue delves in without second thought like a ravenous monster.

He knows this is bad, he knows he shouldn’t be doing this. But you taste better than he could ever imagine, lapping with hunger at your folds, feeling your body trembling with unknown pleasure.

His movements grow more fervent, alternating between gentle flicks against your clit and broader strokes along the inner folds of your pussy. He can tell your body is on the brink of something, your body is quivering and your hands are mindlessly fisting for something in your sleep. He doesn’t let up, instead, he delves deeper. His tongue is longer than any human, sinuous and agile, and he wastes no time pressing it forward, sliding it inside you with a slow, deliberate thrust that stretches and fills you. His tongue curls and flexes as he pulls back to only plunge in again, feeling your inner walls clench around him greedily for something more.

His arousal is evident in the way his hips grinding harshly against the bed, the tip of his cock beading with precum.

He can’t stop himself, lost within your scent and taste, and the idea of you trembling beneath him, taking him so well yet barely being able to take in the full length of his cock. He would praise you – worship you, tell you how beautiful and amazing you are.

The wet, slurping sounds of his movements fill the room, a raw symphony that heightens the intimacy, blending with your breathless moans and the occasional growl from his throat, as if devouring you is both a necessity and a revelation.

Your walls begin to tighten unbearably, shuddering with the rest of your body, but it only makes him continue with newfound hunger. The rhythm becomes relentless now, his tongue plunging deeper with each thrust, curling against that sweet, swollen spot deep within your pussy that sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your core. Your hips buck involuntarily which earns a small groan from him.

His hands slide up to cradle your ass, pulling you even harder against his face, his painted lips sealed around your folds as if he's savoring every drop of your arousal, his breath hot and erratic against your sensitive skin.

Your body convulses in release, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his invading tongue as the orgasm rips through you. He notes the liquid heat spilling from you, soaking his mouth and chin, and he groans in response, lapping it up greedily.

As the tremors subside, your body seems to collapse back into its peaceful deep slumber once more, your chest heaving and body twitching with aftershocks.

His own breath is heavy and fast, following the rise and fall of your stomach.

Everything is telling him to do more – taste more.

However, he decides against it, the obvious tent in his pants giving rise to his predicament, and your alarm clock flashing dangerously close to sunrise.

end of part one!

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Toms/Samuel/Henry