Hiiiiiiiiii, my beloved writer! I have a new obsession: Pierrot from The Freak Circus! And I'd love for you to write me something (smut too ç.ç) about him. I don't have a plot so anything is fine with me. PRETTY PLEASE?????????
🤡 𝑨 𝑪𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝑴𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒀𝒐𝒖 🎠
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🎪Fandom: The freak circus. 🌹Pairing: Pierrot x female Reader. 🤹🏻 Rating: explicit.
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🍿 Summary: Pierrot breaks into your home, drawn by his obsessive, all-consuming fixation for you. ❤ Surrounded by your presence, he goes mad, giving vent to his… depraved side.
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╔═══ ⟡ 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺 ⟡ ═══╗
♡ obsessive love/pathological fixation ♤ stalking ♧ home invasion ♢ voyeurism & non-consensual intimacy ♡ explicit sexual content ♤ masturbation/sexual obsession ♧ use of personal items for sexual acts ♢ possessiveness ♡ yandere behavior/instability ♤ moral decay & loss of control ♢ fantasy projection ♡ worship of the pictures ♤ intrusive thoughts & compulsions ♧ dark, unhealthy attachment ♢ disturbing / profane themes.
╚═══ ⟡ 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒌 ⟡ ═══╝
The window slid up with a cautious, fast, snap in the twilight of the day. A long, big, arm grabbed the windowsill. Then the other. A tall figure, clad in the familiar, mismatched motley of the circus clown red, black and gold, hauled itself up and over, landing on the floor with a heavy thump.
Pierrot stood there, near the window of your bedroom from which he had just entered, his chest rising and falling nervously.
It wasn’t the first time he had entered your apartment, but every time, it felt like the first...
He, who so desperately longed the have the ability to dream, so that he could dream of you, just to be close to you, settled instead for observing your home, your world.
To learn you. To know you. To have you and be near you. To… live you. As close and as much as possible. Without walls. Without rules. Without distances.
Perhaps, this was the only way.
The only intimacy he would ever have and share with you.
The only way to feel, even just a little, that you were his.
In his imagination, at least...
The mere illusion of possessing you was the only thing that kept him sane in this land of evil people.
He didn’t move for minutes. Just sniffed the air and listened: the buzzing of your on pc; the tick of a pastel pink with unicorns and glitters (how cute!) clock; the bulky, empty waiting silence of a house where you weren’t home. His painted smile, that permanent crescent of joy, or tragedy, felt tight on his own mask until it disappears. Your warmth and scent still filled the space, and that intoxicated his thoughts, made his heart swell with joy. Even if you weren’t there with him.
Okay.
He took a deep breath even though he didn’t have a nose, leastways on his mask.
Okay. You’re in. Just… look around. But don’t touch anything! Keep your hands to yourself.
His eyes, wide and dark on his white mask, darted around the bedroom: it was neat, tidy in its disorder, lived-in.
A black sweater with pearls tossed over the back of a chair. A single Converse shoe by the closet door, as if kicked off in a hurry. Perhaps it was indecision?
Pierrot had seen you leave the house shortly before, hastily as you fixed your jacket, watching you from afar. You were wearing different shoes. He wondered why. Did your feet hurt? Were you tired? Your job was physically demanding, requiring you to stay on your feet all day.
But… was someone taking care of you (and your feet)?
He wished he could have had that fortune. Not necessarily for some malicious reason, just to be able to massage you, ease your aches and pains.
If he could, he would have made your pain his own. He would have locked you in a soap bubble, a kind of glass ball, just to keep you away from suffering.
There was also a pair of heels tossed near the bed.
Pierrot approached and bent down, kneeling to floor to take them in his large hands. They were so small in them. The inner sole wasn’t warm anymore, but they still carried the scent of your skin, fresh and soap.
A spiral of thoughts clouded his mind: Were you going out with someone? With whom did you wear these shoes “too sexy” for him? Were you seeing someone? Dating, maybe?
Oh.
His expression darkened at the thought, his irises narrowing into tiny, intense yellow dots, lighting up furiously.
He caressed the sole of the shoe, imagining it was your warm, soft skin.
He envisioned tying the lace around your ankle, sensually and delicately.
Stop…
Then he placed the pair back exactly as he had found it, standing up again and beginning to wander around.
The room smelled like you. Not just perfume, but you. The scent of your shampoo, the strong, sweet trace of your body, your essence, the clean laundry smell of the sheets on your bed.
He swore he could touch you in the thick air of your absence.
He inhaled with a shaky sound.
Just a little thing. A… souvenir. Something she won’t miss or notice missing.
He moved cautiously and shyly around the small room, nervous about causing any damage given his size. But he moved with a tightrope walker’s grace, and his hat jingled with every, timorous, step.
He went to the dresser first, where several objects you had touched were present. His gaze swept over the clutter: hair ties, peluches, books, a tube of cherry lip balm, perfumes. His hand, trembling slightly, reached out. He picked up a small, glass bottle of perfume. He brought it to his nose, closed his eyes, and pressed the sprayer.
Psssht.
The cloud of scent hit him: powdered sugar, fruit, vanilla…
It was so you.
It was the scent that lingered in the bar after you’d leaned over to wipe a table, the same scent he caught when you handed him your bandaid, your fingers brushing his.
A low, desperate sound crawled up his throat at the precious memory.
Mmmph.
He put the bottle back in its place, continuing his exploration.
Next, he noted a small jar of hand cream. He unscrewed the lid, dipped a gloved finger in. The cream was cool, doughy. He imagined your hands, smooth from this, touching his gifts for you, his sweets for you, touching… him… touching anything.
Would you ever touch him with those silky, delicate hands?
He put the jar back.
He eyed a thin silver bracelet lay coiled like a snake. He picked it up and slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Then he raised his face towards the mirror, where there were some photos of you.
They were set into the frame of the mirror. One of you laughing with your beloved mother, your head thrown back with pure happiness. It was spontaneous. A wave of sadness came over him as he remembered his mother, who was no longer alive. You also had this in common, because next to that important photo, there was a drawing dedicated to her, with a tear and a broken heart and a small “I miss you”.
The irony…
Weren’t those the symbols that haunted him and set his mask apart from the others?
Another of you holding a kitten, your expression in love.
Ah… you loved animals, he remembered. He stared at that one for a long time, his thumb tracing your smiling cheek on the glossy film.
So beautiful.
Yet so… lonely.
So not far away from the darkness that surrounded him, from his violent and murderous impulses and the screaming. But unlike him, you were not darkness. You were pure light.
He took that one, sliding it from the frame with careful fingers.
His eyes moved to the next photo and… he froze.
It was you. Just you.
On a bed, a playful, intimate smile on your lips.
And you were… you were… naked.
All… naked.
The photo was taken by someone.
Who? Who dared?!
From what he could tell, it wasn’t recent. In the picture, your hair was shorter and your facial features looked younger. Yet, the photo showed the tight curve of your shoulders, the soft swell of your ample breasts, and the tips of your nipples barely visible, the dark triangle between your thighs…
It was all there, exposed… for him.
He could feel the photo whispering to him: “take me, make me yours.”
A violent, hot flush erupted under his white mask, crawling up his neck, burning his throat, and flaming his cock between his legs.
.Oh.
Oh no.
Oh… fuck.
He looked around wildly, as if someone had caught him.
As if you had caught him.
As if you knew and were judging him for his impure thoughts about you.
His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs.
Buh-bum!
Buh-BUM!
BUH-BUM!!!
He knew it was wrong.
He knew he shouldn’t even be there, in your house, in your bedroom. But you were his obsession, his only thought.
You lived in his head.
You were planted there like a seed, and you blossomed inside him, like a poison.
Pierrot felt you coursing through his blood, and he would have torn his skin off rather than do anything that could, even remotely, hurt you or make you change your mind about him.
And he would never, ever, do anything to harm you.
Not even if his family asked him to.
He had promised himself that he would be different after what had happened with Columbina. That he would keep his distance from humans. But you... you were testing this oath, and Pierrot... couldn’t, wouldn’t, control himself.
But now, the shame coursed through his body like a forbidden, burning sin.
He couldn’t breathe.
Pant. PANT.
He snatched the photo, his fingers leaving smudges on the glossy surface. He couldn’t look away. His gaze devoured the image, piercing it with his heart-shaped eyes…
The large curve of your waist, your navel, your chubby thighs…
She’s so… she’s so perfect!
A pressure, instant and insistent, began to build in his groin. He shifted, trying to ease the sudden, painful tightness of his trousers.
He had promised to be different, sworn he could change and hide… his monstrous side. Pierrot had promised to be better, for you, to be DECENT, to be a good boy.
But…
But then… then he saw them.
Draped casually over the corner of the dresser, a small pile of laundry. On top, a pair of black panties. Little red hearts were scattered across them.
And they were… they were used.
He could see the faint, intimate white spot at the center, a lighter patch on the black cotton. The scent was musky, bittersweet and profoundly female and yours; it was the scent of your sleep, of your day, of you in your most private state.
It was all your fault.
Yours.
Yours alone!
You did it on purpose, didn’t you?
You wanted him to lose control, for you.
You wanted the… beast.
The animal he was miserably trying to hide and protect you from.
But you… maybe you knew he would come to your apartment.
That's why you left sinful photos and damp underwear lying around, right?
Oh God.
Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.
He swallowed, a thick, dry gulp in his throat. The saliva forming at the corner of his mouth, dripping like a pathetic dog in heat.
He tried to contain it, the insanity and the starving for you. He tried so hard to be good, to be the melancholy clown who just admired you from afar.
But the fight was over before it began.
The images, your scent, the idea of you… it was too much.
A temptation on earth to surrender to.
This was you to him: the famous apple; the forbidden fruit.
The thin lines of reason that contained him, were torn apart. His mind was corrupted and overtaken by you. You were like a mental illness to him, erasing his rationality.
His hand flew to the front of his pants. He palmed himself through the cloth, stroking and rubbing. A sharp hiss escaped his lips.
Fuh… uck, my Lady.
He was already hard; a thick, straining line against the rough material.
It was very… evident.
He rubbed harder, his hips giving involuntary little jerks.
I have to stop! All of this is wrong. She’s not even here. I can’t… disappoint her.
I can’t... do this to her. I... can’t... I can’t stop. I’m sorry, my Lady.
He fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, his fingers clumsy and shaking. The pop-pop-pop of them coming undone was obscenely loud. He shoved the fabric down, just enough.
His cock sprang free and it was colossal. Fully erect, flushed a deep, angry dark silver against the pallor of his stomach. It curved upwards, slightly to the side, the head already slick. He wrapped his fist around it.
Hnnnng!
The contact was pure, hot, shock. A jolt of wholesome sensation that made his knees buckle. He braced his other hand on the dresser, making the wood groan.
He started to stroke, a slow, tight pull from root to tip.
His eyes were locked on the picture. On you. He set it up against the perfume bottle of before, propping it so your smirking, naked image watched him. That was his undoing.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his voice already rough, broken. “Just… look at me.” He began to stroke himself in earnest, his fist gliding up and down his shaft, the glove that slid roughly over the iron-hard core beneath. The sound was wet, filthy, a rhythmic fap, fap, fap that began to fill your violated room.
But it wasn’t enough.
He needed more. He needed you.
His eyes ran wildly to your panties. He reached for them with his free hand. He rubbed them over his cheek, then, daringly, dragged the panties right under his nose, breathing you in until his head swam. The lace tickled deliciously his mask. He was panting now, short, sharp gasps. The pre-cum was flowing freely, slicking his strokes, making the glide extraordinarily fast.
“Ohhh, your smell. It’s everywhere. It’s in my head, in my lungs… my... Love.”
The scent was overwhelming. Sweet, musky, bitter, alive. It was the most intimate thing he’d ever experienced. Ever. With you. It went to his head like a drug, dizzying, obliterating.
He moaned into them, the sound muffled and broken, like him. His strokes became faster, more urgent. The dresser began to rock slightly with the rhythm of his big, strong body.
Creak. Creak. Thump. Creak. Creak. Thump.
He looked down at his cock, his hand… his fist pumping steadily. Pre-cum slicked down to floor.
Schlick. Fap.
Then, his gaze glued to the photo.
“You enjoy watching me? Watching me get so hard for you? Look what you do to me.” He angled his hips, showing his thick, straining cock to the image. “It’s so full… feels like it’s gonna burst just from smelling your pretty little panties.”
He was lost in the fantasy, the line between reality and his desperate imagining blurring into nothing. For him, you were there. You were smirking, watching him debase himself for you, enjoying it.
“Would you…” he whispered, his voice a raw, cracked thing. “Would you... touch me? Would you... help me?” He imagined his hand was yours, smaller, softer, guided by his. “Would you let me… aaahn! Put my mouth there? Where these… these panties… oh God… where they’ve been?” The hand on his cock wasn’t enough.
He needed to feel you.
He wrapped the soft, damp cotton around his cock. And it was as he was penetrating you. The little hearts brushed against his sensitive cock, a declaration of love for him. He gasped, his back arching and his hand struck the dresser repeatedly and rapidly, making it slam against the wall.
If only you knew…
He started to fuck the panties, his thrusts becoming fast, hard, delirious jerks. The dresser protested louder.
CREEEAK. BOOMPH. THUMP.
“I’d be so gentle,” he panted, fucking the black cloth. “At first. I’d just… ahhhn! Just taste you. I’d use my tongue, like this…” He licked his lips, his yellow, large tongue darting out to trace the line of his lips. “I’d make you moan. I’d make you scream my name… Pierrot! Pierrot! Ahn! Ahng!”
His pace became punishing.
“I want to be inside you,” he whined, a sound of pure, torturous need. “I want to feel you gripping me. I want to feel you cumming, because of me. Stretch you open with… me. You’d feel so full, wouldn’t you? You’d scream for me. You’d tell me how deep I am, how you can’t take it all, but you’ll try, you’ll try for me… my good Lady, my Darling, my Love."
He was slamming himself into the cotton now, his balls tightening, the coil in his gut winding to an impossible pitch.
“Then… then I’d ask you,” he whimpered, his voice rising, losing its sweet edge, becoming pure, hopeless urgency. “I’d beg you. Please. Please, Y/N... my Love, would you let me… would you let me cum inside you???” The question wasn’t a question at all, but a raw and substantial crave. “I’d fill you up, marking you, forever. I’d be inside of you. I would feel you tightening around me, getting wet, cumming on my big hard cock. I’d make you feel it… oh fuck, I’m gonna… I’d make you feel so full of me. Me claiming you… my cock... it’s yours, it’s all yours… I am yours, my Lady.”
He was babbling, lost in the fantasy. He saw it. Your head on that pillow like in the picture, your hair splayed, your mouth open in a LOUD cry, your legs wrapped around his hips, locking in reesponse, pulling him deeper as he emptied himself into your hot, cumming, spasming pussy.
“Yes!” he screamed, the word tearing from his throat, crude and unfiltered. “Cumming! I’m cumming for you!”
His body kept thrusting as he climaxed. A guttural, monstruos groan ripped out of him—AAARHHHGGG!—as the orgasm blows up. Thick, voluminous ropes of warm cum shot out, splattering across the black cotton of the panties, soaking the little red hearts. Pulse after pulse after pulse, it seemed endless, a hot, wet flood of his obsession only just for you. It painted the panties white, dripped onto the floor with disgusting pat-pat-pat sounds. His hips kept jerking, milking out the last drops, his cock throbbing violently in his grip.
He collapsed forward over the dresser, hitting it. He was panting, shuddering, spent. He tried to breathe, calm down and collect himself.
Slowly, carefully, unwrapped the panties from his softening cock. They were soaked, warm, ruined (as you should be). He stared at them, at the physical proof of his violation and his worship.
Reality came soon after, crashing back in. The silence of the house. The stolen items in his pockets. The stolen photo in his hand. The stolen intimacy on the cloth he held.
What would you have thought of him? That he was a monster, like everyone else thinked? Would you have felt violated? Would you have forgiven him? Would you have felt a strange pleasure knowing that you lived in his darkest thoughts as well as his most innocent ones?
A wave of shame, hot and corrosive, washed over him. He looked at the mess on the floor. His cum, a white creamy big pool. He’d defiled your space, contaminating it. He was a monster. A pathetic, creeping monster.
With trembling hands, he used the clean part of the panties to wipe up the worst of it.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
He stuffed the soiled panties into his deepest pocket. He would keep them. He would always keep them. With him.
He tucked himself away, buttoned his trousers with graceless fingers.
He straightened the photos he hadn’t taken, trying to make everything look normal. It was useless. The room felt changed, transgressed. He had violated it. He had desecrated you.
He turned toward the bed, climbing onto it to lie down and roll in your scent. The tears came then, hot and sudden, carving tracks through the white mask on his true face. He cried silently, his shoulders shaking, his painted smile disappeared.
He pulled the two photos from his pocket. The one of you smiling. The one of you bare. He held them to his chest, over the bracelet that lay against his heart.
“I love you,” he whispered, the words choked and wet. “I’m so… I’m so sorry. I love you. I want you to be mine. But… truly. Just us, you and me, together.” He traced your smiling face in the photo with a trembling, gloved finger. “I want you to look at me… and love me. Please. Please, my Lady. Love me. LOVE ME! Why can’t you love me?!”
He stayed there, curled on your bed, crying softly, clutching his stolen treasures and caressing and speaking to your photos about what your life together as a couple would be like, until the light began to fade, hoping and praying to whatever God there was that you would come to his circus show tonight after work.
Author’s Note: thank you for taking the time to read this story! ♡ Hope you liked it! I probably went out of character, but I don’t know this game/character very well. Though I have to admit... it’s really cool!All banners featured in this work are created by me. Please do not take, repost, edit, or use them without my permission.
