hi!! i love your writing so much!! it's so delicious
if you don't mind, may i ask for a pierrot nsfw alphabet :D
yesss, first nsfw on the terrifying sweetie!
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
꩜ Warning: filthy, absolutely filthy and sweetly intimate ! ── ᓭི༏ᓯྀ
as mentioned, let's get into our FIRST nsfw alphabet on the terrifying sweetie himself: pierrot! he's going first because he's the most easiest i can figure out (make sure to send request on who should go next). out of all of TFC grotesque he is the most affectionate~ and dare i say the most freakiness, honestly it's between him and harley on very different levels.
let's get into it dearies!
a = aftercare
starting off strong pierrot's aftercare is legendary.
honestly, it might be his favorite part. not because the act itself isn't meaningful, like it's everything to him but because after is when he gets to hold you, to preserve you, to bask in the proof that you're real and you're his and you're still here.
as soon as things settle, he becomes a whirlwind of gentle, trembling attention. he's up and moving before you can even catch your breath, fetching warm, damp cloths, a glass of water, the softest blanket from his collection.
he'll clean you with the same admiration he'd use to tend a shrine (ps: he has a shrine, little area of things you gave him, the the pink band-Aid, the pink ticket, the milkshake glass, etc), anyway, his long fingers careful and slow, pressing kisses to any spot that might be sore.
"did i hurt you?" he'll whisper, starry eyes searching your face with desperate sincerity. "tell me truly. i need to know. i couldn't bear it if i hurt you."
he'll wrap you in that blanket, pull you into his lap, and just... hold. rock you slowly, humming that same sad lullaby, pressing his cool cheek to your warm one. he'll whisper things into your hair, not grand praise, more like soft, awed observations:
"you're so warm." "you smell like us now." "i can feel your heartbeat. it's the most beautiful sound."
if you fall asleep, he won't move. won't even shift. he'll stay there all night, watching over you, occasionally pressing the lightest kisses to your forehead, your closed eyes, the corner of your mouth. in the morning, he'll have tea ready and a soft, wondering look in his eyes, like he still can't quite believe any of it happened.
for example:
you're barely conscious, floating in that perfect post-intimacy haze, when you feel him slip away. before you can even whimper at the loss of warmth, he's back—damp cloth in hand, expression so intensely focused it's almost comical.
"hold still, my dear,” he murmurs, and then he's cleaning you with such meticulous care you'd think he was handling ancient parchment. his touch is feather-light, apologetic almost, and he presses a kiss to your knee when he's done.
"i was too eager," he frets, settling behind you and pulling you against his chest. "i should have been more careful. your first time should have been perfect, and i—"
you cut him off with a sleepy murmur, pressing his hand tighter around your waist. he goes quiet instantly, then presses his lips to the back of your head.
"i love you," he breathes into your hair. "i love you so much it terrifies me. sleep now. i'll watch over you."
and he does. all night. you wake to find him exactly as you left him, still holding you, his starry eyes soft and damp with unshed tears of pure, overwhelming adoration.
b = body part (his own)
what he's most self-conscious about: his tongue.
it's long. much longer than a human's. he knows this. he's seen the rankings, heard harlequin's crude jokes. in everyday life, he keeps it carefully tucked away, speaking softly, never letting it slip. he's terrified it will freak you out, remind you that he's not human, make you see the monster instead of the man.
but there's a part of him, like a secret, desperate part, that hopes you might like it. that you might find it fascinating instead of frightening. that you might let him use it to worship every inch of you in ways no human ever could.
what he secretly loves: his hands.
with and without the gloves, they're long and elegant, with those impossibly gentle fingers. he loves watching them on you, the contrast of his cool, pale skin against your warmth. he loves that his hands can make you shiver, can hold you together when you're falling apart. he's proud of how carefully he uses them, how precisely he can touch.
for example:
the first time you notice his tongue as he's mid-sentence—he stops talking instantly. his mouth snaps shut, his eyes going wide and panicked. "i—" he starts, then stops, his ears flushing a deep pink. "it's... i know it's not... if it troubles you, i can—"
you reach up, touch his lower lip gently. "can i see it?"
his whole body trembles. slowly, hesitantly, he opens his mouth, lets that long, honey orange tongue slip out just a little. it's cool and slick and honestly? kind of beautiful.
"it's just part of you," you say softly. "and i like all of you."
the sound he makes is something between a sob and a laugh. he kisses you then, deep and desperate, and for the first time he doesn't hide.
he lets you feel it, lets you explore, and when you gasp against his mouth, not in fear, but in pleasure, he thinks his heart might actually burst.
c = cum
what it's like: pierrot's cum is... different.
not human. it's cool to the touch, it has a hue of the same honey orange color, slightly thicker than human semen, with a faint pearlescent sheen. it smells faintly of something sweet, powdered sugar, maybe, or the flowers from his childhood memories?
the taste is subtle, slightly sugary with an undertone of something almost metallic, like licking a silver spoon. he's incredibly self-conscious about it. the first time he finishes, he'll immediately try to clean it up, apologizing, worried it's strange or off-putting. he needs reassurance that you're not disgusted, that you don't find him monstrous.
quantity: moderate.
not overwhelming, but enough to be noticeable. he produces slightly more than a human would, and it takes him a little longer to be ready again, his body needs time to "recharge," as he puts it shyly.
for example:
the first time he finishes inside your mouth, after asking permission, of course, multiple times, needing to be absolutely sure, he freezes immediately afterward, eyes wide with sudden panic.
"i should—let me—" he's already reaching for a cloth, trying to clean your face, his hands trembling. "it's probably strange, isn't it? i'm sorry, i should have warned you, i know it's not—"
you catch his hand, press it to your chest. "pierrot. stop."
he does, looking at you with those huge, anxious eyes.
"i didn't say anything was wrong."
"but it's... i'm not..." he trails off, swallowing hard. "you're not... disgusted?"
you pull him down for a kiss, slow and reassuring. when you pull back, his eyes are full of stars again, shining with unshed tears. "oh," he whispers. "oh, my love. you're so good to me. you're so impossibly good." he curls around you then, holding you tight, and doesn't let go for a long, long time.
d = dirty secret
pierrot secretly, desperately wants to be worshipped the way he worships you.
not in a dominant way, (if you do so, he’ll love it either way) he couldn't be dominant if he tried.
but he dreams, sometimes, of you touching him with the same affection he touches you. of you exploring his body like it's something precious instead of something strange. of you wanting him so badly that you can't think straight, that you reach for him without hesitation, that you make him feel like the most beautiful creature in existence.
he would never, ever ask for this. it feels too selfish, too demanding. but if you initiate, like if you show him that you desire him, truly desire him, not just tolerate his touch, he falls apart completely.
what he's never told anyone, is that sometimes, alone in his wagon at night, he practices. touches himself the way he wishes you would touch him. he has a piece of your clothing in his free hand, something that you accidentally left and he hasn't returned yet.
whispers your name into the dark, smelling your clothing. imagines what it would be like to be wanted, truly wanted, instead of simply tolerated by a world that finds him sad and strange.
for example:
you've been together for a while now. comfortable. trusting. one night, you're lying together in his narrow bed, and you realize he's just... watching you. with that soft, wondering expression he gets sometimes.
"what?" you ask.
"nothing." he shakes his head, ears pinking. "i just... you're so beautiful. i can't believe you're here."
something in his voice makes you bold. you roll over, half-covering him, and start pressing kisses down his chest. his breath catches.
"what are you—"
"shh." you look up at him. "let me take care of you for once."
his eyes go impossibly wide. "you don't have to—i don't expect—"
"i know." you kiss his stomach, feel the muscles jump. "but i want to. let me?"
he nods, speechless, and when you continue—when you touch him with the same reverence he always shows you, he starts to cry. silent, overwhelmed tears of joy, because for the first time in his existence, someone wants him the way he wants them.
e = experience
how experienced is he?
as well all know, pierrot is a virgin. completely, totally, unequivocally inexperienced.
not from lack of opportunity, in the circus, things happen. but from a deep, almost spiritual conviction that intimacy is sacred, that it should only happen with someone he loves completely, someone who sees past the monster to the man beneath.
he's waited. for decades, maybe. preserving himself like a pressed flower, hoping someday someone would want to unfold him.
he knows theoretically what happens. he's read things, seen things. but the reality? the warmth, the scent, the overwhelming closeness? nothing prepared him for that.
how he handles it, by with a combination of devastating awkwardness, heartbreaking earnestness and hella freakiness. he'll still apologize for not knowing what to do, for being clumsy, for not being better at this. but he'll also ask questions—whispered, shy questions about what you like, what feels good, how he can make you happy.
and he'll learn. quickly. because nothing motivates pierrot like the desire to please you.
foor example:
the first time you're both naked together, he's shaking. actually shaking, his long hands trembling as they hover near your skin, afraid to touch.
"i don't... i'm not sure how to..." he swallows hard, stars in his eyes flickering with anxiety. "i've never done this before. what if i'm bad at it? what if i hurt you? what if you're disappointed?"
you take his hands, press them to your cheeks. "then we figure it out together. okay?"
he nods, almost mumbled to himself. "okay. okay. i can do that. i can learn. just... tell me? tell me what you like, and i'll do it. i'll do anything. i just want you to feel good. i want to be good for you."
and he means it. every clumsy, earnest, overwhelming word.
f = favorite position
pierrot's absolute favorite position is face-to-face.
he needs to see you. needs to watch your expressions, your eyes, the way your mouth falls open when he does something right. he needs to be close enough to kiss, to whisper, to press his forehead to yours and breathe the same air.
specifically, he loves having you in his lap, like sitting on the edge of the bed, you straddling him, his arms wrapped around your waist, your faces inches apart. it lets him hold you close, bury his face in your neck, watch every micro-expression. it's intimate. it's overwhelming. it's perfect.
why it works: "i need to see you," he'll whisper, guiding you onto his lap. "i need to watch. i need to know you're real, you're here, you're mine. please. let me see you."
for example:
he's got you settled on his lap, his back against the headboard, your legs wrapped around his waist. his hands are everywhere—your hips, your back, your face—and his eyes never leave yours.
"you're so beautiful," he breathes, thrusting up slowly, watching your face contort with pleasure. "look at you. look at what i get to see. i'm the luckiest creature in existence."
when you climax, he watches like it's the most miraculous thing he's ever witnessed, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"again," he whispers. "please. let me see that again. i'll never get tired of watching you fall apart."
g = goofy
is he serious during intimacy, or can he be playful?
pierrot is, by nature, devastatingly sincere. but he has moments of clumsy, accidental humor that are genuinely adorable. he'll get so overwhelmed that he forgets how limbs work. he'll bump his head on the headboard while trying to kiss you and apologize for seventeen minutes straight.
he'll try to say something romantic and get so flustered the words come out backwards. he'll knock over a glass of water, or get tangled in the sheets, or try to shift position and almost roll off the bed.
each time, he turns absolutely scarlet, stammering apologies, until you start laughing, and then, slowly, hesitantly, he laughs too. a small, surprised sound, like he'd forgotten he was capable of it.
the sweet part that he loves making you laugh, even accidentally. your laugh is one of his favorite sounds. so while he's embarrassed by his clumsiness, part of him treasures these moments, clear proof that intimacy doesn't have to be perfect to be beautiful.
for example:
he's trying to arrange you both more comfortably, shifting positions, when his elbow catches the bedside table. a lamp wobbles. a book falls. he freezes, horror-struck.
"i'm so sorry—i didn't mean—i'm so clumsy, i've ruined the moment, i—"
you start giggling. just a little at first, then more, until you're properly laughing, pressed against his chest.
he stares at you, confused. then, slowly, a tiny smile touches his lips.
"you're... you're laughing at me?"
"i'm laughing with you," you correct, still giggling. "pierrot, it's fine. it's just a lamp."
he relaxes, a real smile blooming on his face—rare and beautiful. "oh. oh, i see. well. i suppose i am rather clumsy." he pauses, then adds, very seriously, "i'll buy you a new lamp. several lamps. a lifetime supply of lamps."
you laugh harder, and he watches you with wonder, storing this moment away in his heart forever.
h = hair
how important is hair to him? does he like having his touched?
pierrot's long white hair is surprisingly soft, fine and silky, falling in gentle waves around his pale face. he keeps it carefully maintained, brushing it every night, because it's one of the few parts of his appearance he actually likes.
having it touched, well, it makes him melt. completely, totally, helplessly melt.
if you run your fingers through his hair, his eyes flutter closed, a soft sigh escaping him. if you tug gently—just a little, just enough to feel.
he makes this quiet, desperate sound that goes straight to your core. it's one of his most sensitive spots, not erogenous exactly, but deeply intimate. having his hair touched makes him feel cherished, cared for, human.
what he loves is you playing with it while he rests his head in your lap. you petting it soothingly after intimacy. you grabbing it—gently—when you're both lost in the moment, using it to guide his mouth where you want it.
for example:
you're lying together, post-intimacy, both still catching your breath. absently, you start running your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. he goes completely boneless. a long, shuddering sigh escapes him, and he presses closer, nuzzling against your neck.
"that feels..." he trails off, voice thick. "i don't have words. please don't stop."
you don't. you keep petting him, slow and soothing, and he drifts in and out of consciousness, utterly content. when you finally do stop, he whines softly, like actually whines, and looks up at you with pleading eyes.
"more?" he whispers. "please? just a little more?"
and honestly? how could you say no to that face?
i = intimacy
how important is emotional connection during sex?
for pierrot, emotional connection is the sex.
without it, the physical act is meaningless and quite terrifying depending how you view it. worse than meaningless, actually painful. he needs to feel loved, cherished, seen. he needs to know you want him, not just his body, not just the sensation, but the whole messy, broken, devoted creature that he is.
he talks during intimacy. whispers constant endearments, confessions, promises. "i love you." "you're so beautiful." "i can't believe you're mine." "thank you, thank you, thank you." it's overwhelming, but it's also the most intense emotional experience you'll ever have.
what it feels like, being intimate with pierrot isn't just physical. it's like being consumed, not gonna say in a scary way, but in the way a fire consumes oxygen.
he wraps around you, surrounds you, fills every sense until there's nothing left but him and you and the overwhelming love between you.
for example:
he's inside you, moving slowly, reverently, and his eyes never leave your face. his hands frame your jaw, thumbs stroking your cheeks, and he's whispering—constant, endless whispering.
"you're everything. everything. i never knew i could feel this. i never knew i could be this close to anyone. i love you. i love you. please don't ever leave me. please stay. stay forever. i'll be so good to you. i'll spend eternity making you happy. just stay. stay with me. i love you. i love you. i love you."
you come undone to the pace of his desperate, beautiful confessions, and he follows right after, shaking apart in your arms, still whispering love against your skin.
j = jack off
does he masturbate? how often? what does he think about?
pierrot does masturbate, but with a tremendous amount of guilt and embarrassment about it.
frequency: irregular.
sometimes weeks pass without him even thinking about it—he's too focused on you, on caring for you, on the thousand small tasks of devotion. other times, when you've been particularly affectionate or he's seen you in a way that haunts him, he'll give in to need.
what he thinks about: you. always you.
specifically, you wanting him. his fantasies aren't graphic—they're emotional. you reaching for him first. you telling him you need him. you looking at him with desire instead of pity. sometimes he imagines your hands on him, your mouth, your warmth surrounding him. but the core of every fantasy is the same: being wanted.
the guilt: afterward, he always feels a little ashamed.
not because he thinks masturbation is wrong, but because he wishes it was you. he wishes he didn't have to imagine, that he could have the real thing. sometimes he cries afterward, quietly, overwhelmed by longing.
for example:
you've been busy working at the cafe, like everyday, away from the circus for a week. pierrot misses you with an ache that never fades. one night, alone in his wagon, he gives in.
he touches himself slowly, eyes closed, pretending it's your hands on him. he whispers your name into the dark, imagining you here, with him, wanting him. when he finishes, it's with a broken sob—not from pleasure, but from the crushing weight of missing you. he cleans up, curls into a ball, and doesn't sleep for hours.
when you return, he holds you tighter than ever, pressing his face into your neck and breathing you in.
"don't leave again," he whispers. "please. i can't... i need you too much."
k = kink
what unusual turn-ons does he have?
pierrot's kinks are less about specific acts and more about emotional dynamics. sooo here’s a few that can fit for him:
1. being needed.
his biggest turn-on is you needing him. not wanting—needing. if you're vulnerable, seeking comfort, reaching for him in the night, it makes him feel useful, valued, essential. he'll do anything for you in those moments, and the intensity of his devotion often leads to intimacy.
example: you've had a terrible day. you crawl into his lap, bury your face in his neck, and just... hold on. his whole body responds. not just physically, but emotionally. he's hard within minutes, but he won't act on it until you're ready. when you finally kiss him, it's explosive.
2. worship (giving and receiving)
he loves worshipping your body, just pressing kisses to every inch, whispering praise, treating you like something holy. but he also secretly, desperately loves being worshipped in return. having you touch him with reverence, call him beautiful, want him like he wants you, it undoes him completely.
for example:
you spend an hour just exploring his body. kissing his scars, tracing his features, telling him everything you love about him. by the end, he's a trembling, tearful mess, so overwhelmed by being wanted that he can barely function.
3. preservation.
this one's darker. sometimes, when he's particularly anxious about losing you, he wants to keep you so close, so surrounded by him, that you couldn't leave even if you wanted to. not in a violent way, more in a soft, smothering way. holding you until you fall asleep. keeping you in his lap all day. making love so slowly, so thoroughly, that you forget there's a world outside his arms.
for example:
he's had a nightmare about losing you. he wakes shaking, pulls you close, and doesn't let go. when you finally make love, it's desperate and clinging, him whispering "stay, stay, stay" with every movement.
l = location
favorite places to do it?
1. his wagon.
private, safe, full of his scent and his things. he feels most comfortable here, most able to let go. the bed is narrow but soft, piled with blankets and pillows. he's made it a nest, a sanctuary, and sharing it with you is the ultimate intimacy.
2. a garden (at night).
secretly, he loves the idea of being surrounded by growing things (in doctors garden mind you…), under the stars, with you. it's romantic, almost poetic. but only at night, when no one else is around. the thought of being watched terrifies him.
3. anywhere you feel safe.
honestly, pierrot doesn't care about location as long as you're comfortable. he'll make love to you in a closet if that's where you feel secure. your comfort matters more than any fantasy.
what he won't do is anywhere public. anywhere the others might walk in. anywhere that feels exposed or unsafe. he needs privacy to be vulnerable.
for example:
you're in the garden at night, hidden by flowering bushes, lying on a blanket he spread earlier. the stars are out, and he keeps looking up at them, then back at you, wonder in his eyes.
"this is perfect," he whispers, kissing your shoulder. "you, and the stars, and the quiet. i never thought i'd have this. i never thought anyone would want this with me."
he makes love to you slowly, reverently, pausing occasionally just to look at you, to press his forehead to yours and breathe. when it's over, he wraps you in the blanket and holds you, watching the stars wheel overhead until you both fall asleep.
m = motivation
what gets him in the mood?
1. vulnerability.
if you're sad, scared, or hurting, his protective instincts kick into overdrive. he wants to hold you, comfort you, fix you. sometimes that comfort turns into something more, such as a desperate need to connect, to remind you both that you're alive and together.
2. affection.
simple, sincere affection can overwhelm him. you playing with his hair. you kissing his cheek for no reason. you falling asleep against his shoulder. these small moments build and build until he's trembling with the need to be closer.
3. seeing you want someone else.
this one hurts him, but it's honest. if he sees someone else, harlequin, especially, making you laugh or touching you, jealousy flares hot and immediate. later, alone with you, he'll need to reclaim you, to remind you (and himself) who you belong to. it's possessive and a little unhealthy, but it's real.
4. the thought of losing you.
any reminder of mortality, of impermanence, makes him desperate to hold you close, to merge with you, to leave no space between your bodies. after nightmares, after near-misses, after anything that threatens his fragile peace.
for example:
you had a close call today, almost fell from a height, almost got hurt. pierrot was there, caught you, held you for an hour while he shook. that night, he can't stop touching you. can't stop pressing close, kissing you, whispering how scared he was.
"i need you," he breathes, pulling you into his lap. "i need to feel you. need to know you're real and alive and mine. please. let me feel you."
n = no
what would make him stop immediately?
1. you saying stop.
any version of no, stop, wait, or even hesitation. he knows can be overwhelming or too needy at sometimes so it's up to you to communicate clearly and not just hold your feelings back if he acts this way. if you tense up, if your breathing changes in a way he doesn't recognize, if you don't respond to a kiss, he's stopping. immediately. no questions asked.
2. signs of pain.
pierrot would rather die than hurt you. if you wince, if you cry out in a way that isn't pleasure, if he even suspects he's causing discomfort, he’ll freezes, pulls back, starts apologizing.
3. emotional disconnection.
if you seem distant, checked out, not present with him, he can't continue. he needs you there, emotionally, or the whole thing feels hollow and wrong.
4. being called a monster or mean names
in the heat of the moment, if you said something like that, even as a joke, even in a playful context, he'd shatter. his worst fear, realized. he'd stop, withdraw, and it would take hours of reassurance to bring him back.
for example:
you're both caught up, moving together, when you shift wrong and a sharp pain shoots through your hip. you gasp, not sexy, just surprised.
he stops instantly. literally frozen mid-motion, eyes wide with horror. "what? what happened? did i hurt you? where? tell me where, i'll fix it, i'm sorry, i'm so sorry—"
he's already pulling away, reaching for the light, tears starting to form. it takes ten minutes of reassurance to convince him you're okay, and even then, he wants to stop for the night. just holds you instead, trembling, apologizing every few minutes until you fall asleep.
o = oral
giving vs receiving?
giving: pierrot lovesssssssss giving oral.
like, genuinely loves it. it's worship, pure, simple, holy worship. having you spread out before him, letting him taste you, letting him make you feel good with nothing but his mouth? it's his favorite thing.
he's good at it, too. his tongue is long and flexible, and he's intensely focused on your reactions, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you clutch the sheets, what makes you fall apart. he'll stay down there for as long as you'll let him, only surfacing to ask, "more? like that? tell me what you need."
receiving:
this is harder for him. receiving pleasure feels... selfish. he's not used to being the focus, to having someone want him that way. if you go down on him, he'll be overwhelmed, trembling, trying to pull you up because "you don't have to—i don't expect—"
but if you insist—if you show him you want to—he falls apart completely. tears, gasps, desperate little sounds. it's intensely vulnerable for him, and intensely beautiful.
example (giving):
you're on his bed, naked, and he's between your thighs like it's the only place he belongs. his tongue traces slow, careful patterns, watching your face the whole time.
"like that?" he murmurs against you, the vibration making you gasp. "tell me. i need to know. i need to make it perfect for you."
when you come, he keeps going, gentler now, drawing it out until you're pushing him away, oversensitive. he surfaces with a dazed, blissful expression, mouth slick, eyes full of stars.
"beautiful," he whispers. "you're so beautiful when you let go. can i do it again? please? just once more?"
example (receiving):
you push him back on the bed, kiss down his chest, his stomach. he realizes what you're doing and panics slightly.
"you don't—you really don't have to—i mean, if you want to, but you don't have to, i just—oh."
your mouth closes over him and his brain stops working entirely. his head falls back, a broken moan escaping, his hands flying to your hair—not pushing, just holding, just feeling.
"oh," he breathes again, voice cracking. "oh, my dear. oh, that's... that's..."
he doesn't last long. he's too overwhelmed, too unused to being wanted. when he comes, it's with a sob, and he pulls you up immediately, clutching you to his chest, crying and laughing at the same time.
"i love you," he whispers frantically. "i love you so much. i don't deserve you. i don't deserve this. thank you. thank you."
p = pace
fast and rough, or slow and gentle?
pierrot is, at his core, slow and gentle. that's his default, his comfort zone, his preferred way of connecting.
he moves like he's afraid you'll break, not because you're fragile, but because you're precious. every thrust is deliberate, every touch measured. he wants to feel everything, savor everything, draw it out until you're both trembling on the edge.
but, when he's scared—when he's had a nightmare, when he's jealous, when he's terrified of losing you—the pace changes. it becomes desperate. still gentle, but urgent. clinging. needing to be as close as physically possible, to feel you around him, to remind himself you're real.
for example (gentle):
he's inside you, moving slowly, so slowly you can feel every inch of him. his forehead is pressed to yours, eyes open, watching your face.
"i love you," he whispers with each thrust. "i love you. i love you. i love you."
it's less about the destination and more about the journey….? (that sounded hella corny… ugh) the closeness, the connection, the overwhelming intimacy of being this near to someone.
for example (desperate):
he had a nightmare about losing you. he woke shaking, pulled you close, and now he's inside you with an urgency that borders on frantic. not rough—never rough—but deep, clinging, his whole body pressed against yours.
"stay," he begs, over and over. "stay, stay, stay. don't leave me. please don't leave me. i need you. i need you so much."
he comes apart quickly, overwhelmed by emotion, and holds you even tighter afterward, still whispering pleas into your skin.
q = quickie
does he like quick, spontaneous encounters?
uhh, pierrot... doesn't really understand quickies.
as funny as it sounds, for him, intimacy is supposed to be a… ceremony? most definitely a private one. slow, careful, and meaningful. the idea of rushing through it feels wrong.
however, if you initiate, like if you need him, right now, can't wait, he won't refuse. he can't refuse you anything. but afterward, he'll want to hold you, to make it last, to turn it into something more than just friction and release.
what works:
a quiet moment backstage, you pulling him into a shadowed corner, kissing him desperately. he'll respond, hands trembling as they find your waist, but he'll keep listening for footsteps, nervous about being caught. he wants to give you what you need, but he also needs to feel safe.
for example:
you've been watching him all day—the way his hands move when he sews, the soft sound of his voice, the longing in his eyes when he looks at you. by evening, you can't wait anymore.
you find him in his wagon, push him back on the bed, kiss him breathless. he gasps against your mouth.
"now?" he whispers, surprised. "you want... now?"
"now."
he nods, already hard, already pulling at your clothes. it's faster than usual, still gentle, but urgent, driven by your need. when it's over, you're both breathless, and he pulls you close with a soft, wondering laugh.
"that was... different," he murmurs. "but wonderful. you're wonderful. can we do it again? slower this time? i want to make it last."
r = risk
is he willing to take risks? (public, being caught, etc.)
absolutely not.
look, pierrot's worst fear, beyond losing you, is being seen. seen in vulnerable moments, seen being intimate, seen as a creature of desire instead of just a sad, safe clown. the thought of someone, especially harlequin, watching him with you makes him physically ill.
he needs privacy. needs to know it's just the two of you, safe and hidden, before he can let go.
the one exception:
let’s say if you're both somewhere that feels private but technically isn’t, a secluded doctor’s garden at night, a hidden alcove, a place he's confirmed is empty—he might relax enough to take the risk. but he'll be anxious the whole time, ears pricked for any sound, ready to cover you both at a moment's notice.
example:
you've found a hidden spot behind the big top, surrounded by crates and shadows. it's late, the circus is quiet, and you're both feeling brave.
he's inside you, moving slowly, but his eyes keep darting toward the path, his breath catching at every distant sound.
"we should—" he starts, but you kiss him quiet.
"no one's coming. just feel. just be here with me."
he tries. he really does. but he can't fully let go, can't stop monitoring, and when a distant voice calls out, he freezes completely, pulling away and covering you both with his coat before you can even react.
"i'm sorry," he whispers, already guiding you back toward his wagon. "i can't. not here. please. let's go somewhere safe. i need to know it's just us."
s = stamina
how long can he last?
hahahaha, pierrot's stamina is just… inconsistent.
starting with round one:
the first time, especially if it's been a while, he doesn't last long. he's too overwhelmed, by your warmth, your scent, the reality of being inside you. he'll apologize profusely afterward, embarrassed, but you'll learn to expect it.
for multiple rounds, give him twenty minutes to recover, and he's ready again. and this time, he lasts longer. more controlled. more able to focus on you, to draw things out, to make sure you're satisfied before he lets himself go.
then the marathon, if you spend a whole night together, if you keep him close, keep touching him, keep reassuring him, his stamina builds. by the third or fourth time, he can go for hours, slow and steady, only stopping when you're exhausted.
for example:
the first time ends embarrassingly fast. he's flushed, apologetic, hiding his face in your neck.
"i'm sorry," he mumbles. "i just... you feel so good. i couldn't help it."
you stroke his hair, reassuring him. "it's okay. we have all night." and you do. an hour later, he's inside you again, moving slowly, deliberately, watching your face with intense focus.
"better?" he whispers. "i can go longer now. i want to make it good for you. i want to make you feel as good as you make me feel."
he does. over and over, until you're both wrecked and satisfied and clinging to each other in
t = toys
do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?
lolololo, pierrot does not own toys sadly.
the concept never occurred to him. there's been a moment of time where harlequin gifted him something similar, where he just threw it out the window. (or shove the shit up his ass lol)
his relationship with his own body has always been one of quiet discomfort, why would he seek out objects to enhance an experience he's only just learning to want? his hands, his mouth, his desperate devotion—that's always felt like enough.
more than enough. okay, maybe too much.
but you? you change things.
the first time he sees you owning a toy, left out accidentally, maybe something you introduce intentionally, he freezes. his starry eyes go wide, swirling with confusion and curiosity and that familiar, flickering embarrassment.
"what... what is that for?" he whispers, voice barely audible. his long fingers reach out, then snatch back, like he's afraid it might bite. "it's... for pleasure? for inside you?"
when you explain, when you show him, his whole face flushes that beautiful, dusty pink. he covers his mouth with one hand, eyes darting between you and the object like he's watching something forbidden.
"i... i could never..." he starts, then stops. swallows. tries again. "i mean, i wouldn't know how to—i wouldn't want to hurt you with—"
but here's the thing about pierrot: his embarrassment is real, but his desire to please you is stronger.
for example:
you're lying together in his wagon, wrapped in that heavy, velvet quiet he creates. the toy is between you which you've assured him is safe. he's been staring at it for five minutes, working up to something.
"may i... may i try?" he finally whispers, not meeting your eyes. "using it on you. i want to see. i want to know what makes you feel that way. but you have to... you have to guide me. please. i'm so afraid of doing it wrong."
his hands tremble as he picks it up. his fingers—those long, elegant, terrifyingly gentle fingers—hold it like it's made of spun glass. when you show him where, how, he listens with that terrifying focus of his, cataloging every instruction.
"here? like this? oh—" your reaction makes him gasp. his stars flare bright. "did i—was that good? tell me. please. i need to hear you."
he's intensely focused on your responses. every hitch of breath, every twitch of muscle, every small sound—he notices, remembers, adjusts.
the toy becomes an extension of his desire to learn you, to map you, to make you fall apart under his careful attention.
afterward, when you're breathless and trembling, he sets the toy aside carefully, fast as fuck, and curls around you, pressing his face into your hair.
"that was..." he swallows. "that was watching you. feeling you. knowing i helped cause that. i think... i think i understand now. why people want these. it's not about the thing. it's about what the thing does to you."
he's quiet for a moment. then, even softer. “can we... can we do that again? sometime? when you're ready? i want to get better at it. i want to be the best at making you feel good. even if i need... help."
he never uses toys on himself.
the idea makes him too self-conscious, too aware of his own strange body. but on you? with you? he'll use anything, learn anything, try anything.
as long as you're there, guiding him, wanting him.
(there was a part of me that wanted to write pegging him, but I feel like that's a separate... post.)
u = unfair
how much do they like to tease?
awww, pierrot doesn't understand teasing.
poor baby, not really. not in the way harlequin does—sharp and mocking, designed to destabilize. pierrot's entire existence has been about not being teased, about being the target of cruelty rather than its source. the idea of deliberately provoking someone, even in pleasure, feels almost cruel to him.
so he doesn't tease. not intentionally.
but he's unfair in ways he doesn't understand.
his natural state, like that soft, trembling vulnerability, those wide starry eyes, that voice like dust settling on velvet—is devastatingly effective without him trying.
he'll whisper "i love you" in the middle of something intense, his voice breaking with sincerity, and you'll completely lose your composure.
he'll press his cool lips to your pulse point and murmur "you're so beautiful when you feel good" and it hits like a shockwave because he means it. he's not performing. he's not strategizing. he's just... overwhelmed by you, and saying so.
the unfair part is that he has no idea he's doing it.
for example:
you're in his lap, facing him, his long arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll dissolve. things have progressed, slowly, always slowly with him, because he needs to check and recheck that you're okay, and he's inside you, finally, both of you trembling with the intensity of it.
he's murmuring. he does that. little broken confessions against your skin.
"you feel like... like coming home. like the first warm day after a long winter. i didn't know anything could feel like this. i didn't know i could feel like this."
you're already close, his words pushing you higher, and he has no idea. he keeps going, voice hitching with his own building pleasure, "i love you. i love you so much it scares me. you're everything. you're my whole world. please don't ever leave. please let me do this forever. please—"
and you're gone. completely undone. because his sincerity, his desperate, unguarded devotion, is the most unfairly effective thing you've ever experienced.
he freezes when you come apart around him, stars flaring wide.
"did i—was that—did i do that? with just my... my words?" his voice is awed, disbelieving. "i can... i can make you feel that way by talking?"
after that, he starts to understand. not to tease—he could never be cruel like that—but to offer. to give you those soft, broken confessions because he's learned they affect you.
he'll whisper "you're mine" in that trembling voice and watch your pupils blow wide. he'll murmur "i need you so much it hurts" and feel you clench around him.
it's not teasing. it's truth-telling. and somehow… infinitely more unfair.
v = volume
how loud are they? what sounds do they make?
pierrot has spent his whole life being quiet.
part of it is his act, the mute clown, the silent mourner, the figure who communicates through gesture and expression because his voice was deemed "too strange" for the crowds. part of it is survival, when you're other, when you're different, you learn to take up less space. to be seen but not heard.
so in the beginning, he's agonizingly quiet.
when you touch him, he gasps, but it's barely audible, a sharp intake of breath that he immediately tries to stifle. when you find a spot that makes his hips stutter, he bites his lip hard enough to bruise, holding back whatever sound wants to escape.
his whole body trembles with the effort of silence, of not being too much, of not scaring you away with the strangeness of his pleasure.
but you don't want silence. you want him.
for example:
the first time you make him moan, like really moan, not that stifled, choked-off thing he's been allowing—it's an accident.
you're learning his body, finally, after weeks of him focusing entirely on you. you find a spot, some sensitive place where his inhuman biology makes pleasure sharper, and before he can stop it, a sound escapes.
it's beautiful, just low and melodic, like the saddest cello you've ever heard, but threaded through with something raw and desperate. it vibrates through his chest, through yours, through the very air of the wagon. his eyes go wide, hands flying to his mouth.
"i'm sorry," he gasps, muffled behind his fingers. "i'm sorry, i didn't mean to—it was too loud, i know it was too loud, people used to—they always said—"
you pull his hands away. you kiss him. you tell him, firmly, that you want to hear him. that his sounds are beautiful. that they're yours. it takes time. so much time. but eventually, he starts to let go.
when he does, the range is devastating.
fisrt, soft, breathy gasps when you kiss along his neck, his collarbone, that spot below his ear he can't guard, trembling whimpers when you touch him, when you look at him, when you whisper his name like a prayer
low, melodic moans that seem to come from somewhere deep in his chest, vibrating through both of you when he's close, jsut broken, desperate pleas—"please, please, i need you, don't stop, i'm yours, i'm yours"—that build and build until he can barely form words
and finally, when he comes, a sound that's almost like crying. a raw, beautiful, heart-wrenching cry of your name, his voice cracking with the intensity of it, tears streaming down his cheeks as pleasure and love and terror all collide at once
example of full progression:
you're beneath him, his long body curved over yours like a shelter. he's moving slowly, always slowly, because he's terrified of hurting you, but building, always building.
his face is buried in your neck, and you can feel every sound vibrating against your skin. first, the gasps. hot against your throat. "ah—ah—" then the whimpers, higher, more desperate. his hips stutter. his fingers grip the sheets.
then the words start. broken, spilled against your pulse. "so good. you feel so good. i can't—i'm not going to last—you feel like—like heaven. like everything. i love you. i love—"
his voice climbs. loses control. becomes something raw and pleading. "please. please. i'm close. can i—can i—please let me—i need—"
when you nod, when you give permission, when you pull him deeper with your heels, he breaks.
your name, torn from somewhere primal. a cry that's half moan, half sob. his whole body locks up, trembling violently, and the sound goes on and on, melodic and desperate and so purely him that you feel it in your bones.
afterward, he collapses against you, shaking, crying, apologizing between heaving breaths.
"too loud. i was too loud. i'm sorry. i couldn't—i tried to be quiet, i tried—"
but he's not too sorry. not really. because when you hold him tighter, when you whisper "never be quiet, not with me, never again," he goes still. looks up at you with those starry, tear-filled eyes.
"you... you liked it? my sounds? they don't... bother you?"
when you kiss him, when you show him, something in his chest unknots. the next time, he's still shy.
still hesitant. but when the pleasure builds, when the sounds start to escape, he doesn't fight them.
he lets you hear him. lets you have that part of him too.
w = wild
what's the wildest thing they're willing to do? where are their limits?
pierrot is, counterintuitively, very willing to explore.
not because he's naturally adventurous, but because he wants so desperately to please you. if you want something, he wants to give it.
if you have a fantasy, he wants to fulfill it. his only real limit is anything that might actually hurt you—emotionally or physically.
but here's the thing: he's also a romantic idealist. so his "wild" tends to manifest in theatrical, almost poetic ways. elaborate scenarios. extended sessions that feel more like performance art than sex. he wants it to be meaningful. he wants it to be beautiful.
for example:
you mention once, casually, that you've always been curious about doing it somewhere... unexpected. somewhere semi-public, maybe. with the risk of getting caught.
he thinks about this for three days. you can see him turning it over in his mind, his starry eyes distant, his long fingers drumming thoughtfully on surfaces.
then, one night, he leads you to the main tent after hours. the big top is empty, silent, lit only by moonlight filtering through the canvas.
he's set up something—blankets and pillows in the center ring, surrounded by the empty seats, the silent trapezes hanging overhead.
"here," he whispers, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "we're surrounded by ghosts of performances past. but tonight... tonight we're the only show. and the only audience is each other."
it's thrilling. it's terrifying. it's him—transforming your casual desire into something mythic, something that feels like it belongs in a story.
afterward, wrapped in blankets in the center of the empty ring, he holds you close and murmurs:
"anywhere you want, my love. any way you want. i will make it beautiful. i will make it ours."
his limits are simple: no cruelty, no humiliation, nothing that would make you feel anything less than cherished. but beyond that? he's yours. completely. creatively. eternally.
(again, I wanted to go more in detail about a threesome with harlequin, however, that situation would not end well, it's like a 50/50 chance and lotssssss of convincing on both sides)
x = x-ray
what's going on inside their head during intimacy?
holy shit, peirrot is... a lot.
look his mind during intimacy is a chaotic swirl of sensation, emotion, and desperate internal monologue. he's not one of those people who can just be in the moment, his brain is always running, always processing, always feeling.
not kidding, there's layers to this shit, five of them.
layer one: sensation. oh god, this is what you feel like. this is what you sound like. this is what it means to be this close. it's overwhelming. it's too much. it's not enough.
layer two: worship. you're so beautiful. you're so real. how is this real? how is this happening? i don't deserve this. but you're here. you chose me. you're here.
layer three: anxiety. am i doing this right? is this good for you? should i move differently? slower? faster? are you okay? you'd tell me if you weren't okay, right? please be okay. please like this. please don't leave.
layer four: devotion. i love you. i love you. i love you. the words are just repeating, a mantra, a prayer, the only thing that makes sense in this moment of complete sensory overload.
layer five: preservation. i need to remember this. every second. every sound. every expression. i need to keep this forever. in case it never happens again. in case you realize you could do better. in case i wake up.
for example:
let’s say, you're close, like really close and he can tell, based on your breathing, your sounds, the way you're gripping him. and his brain just... short-circuits.
inside his head: they’re going to, they almost, that sound they just made, i need to remember that sound, that was for me, that was because of me—
please let this be good for them, please let this be what they wants, i would die if this wasn't what they wanted—they’re so beautiful like this, so open, so trusting, how did i get so lucky, how is this my life, how is she mine—
i love them i love them i love them i love them i love them— don't forget this don't forget this don't forget this—
and then you come apart beneath him, and his brain just... stops. there's only you. only this moment. only the feeling of being trusted enough to witness you like this.
afterward, when you're both catching your breath, he's already cataloging. filing away. preserving. because in his mind, this moment is already
becoming a memory—a treasure he'll hold onto forever, just in case.
y = yearning
how much do they crave intimacy? how often do they think about it?
pierrot craves intimacy like a drowning man craves air. it's not just desire—it's need. a deep, fundamental hunger for connection that's been starving for longer than he can remember.
he thinks about it constantly. not in a crude way—he's not imagining specific acts all day. but the idea of you? the memory of your skin? the thought of being close to you again? it's always there, humming under everything he does.
example:
you'll catch him looking at you across the room, his starry eyes soft and distant, a small smile playing at his lips. when you ask what he's thinking about, he blushes, looks away, mumbles something about "nothing."
but later, when you're alone, he'll admit it.
"i was thinking about last night," he whispers, face buried in your hair. "the way you... the sounds you made. the way you held onto me. i think about it all the time. i can't help it. you're just—being with you is the only time i feel real. the only time the noise in my head goes quiet."
he's not demanding, he'd never pressure you. but his need for you is palpable, a constant undercurrent in everything he does. when you're apart, he counts the hours until he can see you again. when you're together, he's always touching, your hand, your hair, your shoulder, reassuring himself that you're still there.
again, if you initiate? if you're the one who wants him? he practically melts. the yearning in his eyes becomes overwhelming, desperate, grateful.
"you want me?" he'll breathe, like it's the most incredible thing he's ever heard. "right now? you want me?"
and he'll give himself to you completely, utterly, without reservation. because your desire is the greatest gift he could ever receive.
z = zone
what are their erogenous zones? where do they love to be touched?
pierrot's body is, in many ways, a mystery even to himself.
he's spent so long feeling other that he's never really explored his own capacity for pleasure. so discovering his sensitive spots with you is like exploring a new country, exciting, surprising, occasionally overwhelming.
his primary zones:
his neck, especially the sides. this is his most sensitive area. a kiss there—just a soft press of lips—can make him shiver. a bite? even gentle? he'll gasp, his whole body arching toward you, stars flaring bright in his eyes. "there," he'll whisper, voice breaking. "please. there."
his wrists, the underside. that place where his non-human blood flows slow and steady. when you kiss it, or lick it, or just hold your thumb there, feeling his pulse, he goes still. completely, utterly still. it's like you've touched something sacred. "you're not afraid," he'll murmur, wonder in his voice. "you're not afraid of what i am."
the small of his back. he's ticklish there, but in a way that makes him press closer, not pull away. your hand resting there, fingers tracing lazy circles, makes him feel held. protected. wanted.
his hips, the jut of bone. when you grip him there, so during, before, after, he makes this sound. this desperate, keening little sound that's half pleasure, half relief. because your hands on his hips means you're holding on. means you don't want him to leave.
his ears. not the lobe, the points. the slight elven curve. they're incredibly sensitive. a breath there makes him shiver. a kiss makes him whimper. a nip? he'll cry out, hands flying to your shoulders, stars exploding in his eyes.
oh, yeah! like mention, he also loves having his hair touched.
such as being stroked. pulled, gently. it makes him feel cared for in a way that transcends the physical. when you run your fingers through his hair, he leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth, his eyes fluttering closed, a soft sound escaping his throat.
and his hands. he loves when you kiss his hands. each finger, one by one. the palm. the sensitive spot between his long fingers. it makes him feel cherished—like every part of him is worthy of your attention.
for example:
you discover the neck thing by accident. you're kissing him, slow and sweet, and your mouth drifts to the side of his neck. just a soft press. nothing intense.
his whole body freezes.
a sound punches out of him, high, surprised, needy. his hands come up to cup your face, holding you there, keeping your mouth against that spot.
"again," he begs, voice wrecked. "please. please. i didn't know. i never knew it could feel like, please."
and when you oblige, when you kiss that spot again, harder this time, he melts. becomes liquid in your arms. surrenders completely.
afterward, he touches the spot with wonder in his eyes. "i've had this neck my whole existence," he murmurs. "and i never knew. you found something i didn't even know i had. you keep finding me. over and over. how do you keep finding me?"
sooo, in summarized about pierrot!
he's embarrassed by everything, just his inexperience, his body, his voice, his desperate need.
but underneath that embarrassment is a core of pure, unwavering devotion. he wants to learn. wants to please. wants to give you every part of himself, even the parts he's spent his whole life hiding.
he doesn't tease, but his sincerity is devastating. he's quiet until he can't be, and then he's the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. he'll use anything, try anything, be anything, as long as you're there, guiding him, wanting him, loving him.
and afterward, when he curls around you and whispers "thank you" against your skin like you've given him the world?
you'll realize you have. you've given him yourself.
and for pierrot, that's everything.
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
