Requests: CLOSED
She/her | 20+ | ❗️MDNI 🔞❗️
A place to share my art of whatever this crustacean is into ✍︎
NSFW stuff (horror, gore, suggestive, cussing etc.)
Qualified shrimp 🦐
1.Incredible deep and detailed narrative themes. The parallels that seem to hit just right, the narrative foils that they can be to each other, the intricate dynamic that's both extremely complex and easily understood. The juxtaposition between something that's harsh and undoubtedly toxic, with the softer undertones, the parts where you read in-between the lines and find a mutual feeling of loneliness from both parts, their intrinsic understanding of each other comes from the mere fact that they're each others mirrored reflections and shadows. In the end both sides will be together forever, and you as an audience can clearly see their tragedy laid out before in a path that blurs pure anguish and tender romance
Oki so this piece is meant as fanart for @intermediatefanficenjoyer's fic "It's fine, it's ok, I'll die anyway (though not if Pierrot can help it)".
This is specifically related to my fave chapter. After reading it I immediately knew that I wanted to draw the scene that brought me so much comfort; especially during a trying time in my life.
So yeah, thanks for writing this gem, Inter. I would never have guessed, in my wildest dreams, that I could find the words I needed to hear in a fanfic about murderous clowns, but I guess life is funny like that.
Quick, before the week is over! Another chapter drop! o_o
This time, it's chapter 27, yippiee!!
Will MC succeed in his quest for eternal rest? Or will there be divine intervention (aka clowns getting in his way again)? Only one way to find out :]]]]]
Hi my power got cut during a storm a few nights ago and left me sweltering in my room for four and a half hours with no sleep. Sooooo as I was trying to sleep and snuggle with my cat, I got the idea of the TFC members all being yanderes.
Right now only Pierrot, Harlequin, and Doctor's sections are fully finished, but I have a rough draft of Jester and Ticket Taker. I should ideally be done with them pretty soon! I've got a bit on my plate lately, haha.
Tag/notes: gn!reader. Yandere/poly circus. General/miscellaneous headcanons. Dark themes. Unwilling!reader. Mentions of blood, kidnapping, murder, manipulation, attempts at grooming and forming stockholm syndrome, starving oneself, force feeding, drugging, needles, embalming, grieving, lots of noncon stuff (but not nsfw). Mildly edited, don't look at it too hard. I was very eepy while writing this at first(who's surprised) so hopefully this makes sense (^_^;) Lowkey might rewrite Harlequin's part one day. I don't hate it, but I think I could make a more unique and well-written segment.
You love them all, you really do, but not they way they need you to.
As much as you enjoy their shows and the kind things they've done to court you, you can't help but be scared of them. They're all intense and frightening in behaviors alone, but it's far worse when you learn about what they do behind the curtains. You've tried to ignore it, look past it, deny it, but you can't look away from the horrors that stare you right in the face.
So you pull away. For your safety and mental well-being, you begin to turn away from the circus members. The gifts that Pierrot give you are gently refused or returned. Any attempt at conversation from Harlequin is cut short and never returned to. The special treatment from Ticket Taker ends, yet you swear a human that carries his air is following you more often. Jester's sweet words don't pull you closer anymore, and the sight of Doctor's tent alone makes your stomach turn.
They all notice, and none of them like this. They know better than anyone else how to care for you, how to make you happy. Haven't they done that already? Don't you feel better with them around? You were so happy before, so why do you dare to leave them alone after all they've done for you?
Your behavior towards them changed, but that's okay. Patience is something comes well for creatures as old as they are. They'll take the time to correct you. Even if it means following you home, cornering you, covering your screams with their hand, and forcing a needle under your skin. You'll understand, you'll forgive. You always do.
The spare trailer will do nicely for you.
"Please, my love... Won't you look at me?"
Pierrot was beside himself with you. You wouldn't face him, didn't let him touch you, barely said a word to him, and resigned to curling up in the corner of your cot. Pierrot knew that you were unhappy with him, but you just needed time. He could be patient, he could wait for you to want his touch back, he could be soft with you. But... dear Lord, did he miss you.
He missed seeing your eyes and your beautiful smile. The warmth of your hands was beginning to feel like a distant memory, and seeing you all coiled in misery was tugging at his heart strings.
You were unhappy, and Pierrot, as delusional as he is, could understand why. Being plucked from your home and carted off with a circus to who-knows-where would shock anyone. But he's with you, his family is with you, so doesn't that make you feel better?
"... Jester says we're headed somewhere lovely. There's going to be warm weather, and lots of pretty views of the mountains. I could bring you some of the local treats, or maybe a magazine, or—"
"I want to go home, Pierrot."
"..."
Your voice is so devoid of joy these days that it makes Pierrot feel sick. You don't understand that you're already home, that your previous life is meaningless now. Everyone has seen your missing photos, but you don't need to know if they care or not. He hates seeing you so miserable, but there's only so much he can do to try and cheer you up.
But then comes the hunger strike. Ticket Taker had warned Pierrot of this potentially happening, but he didn't want to believe it. Why would his darling refuse to nourish themself? He understands not having the best appetite when you're upset, but it's been going on for days now.
"Stop—! Stop it!" You yell one day, pushing against Pierrot as he firmly holds your arm. He had made you a simple dish of porridge for you to eat, but you were still refusing, and Pierrot's patience was starting to slip.
"My dear, please, you have to eat something. This will be easy on your stomach, and you'll feel much better – I promise!" His grip on you was gentle yet unyielding. He didn't want to hurt you, but he couldn't let this go on for any longer.
"Don't touch me, let me go! Get away from me, get the hell away!" The porridge falls off the spoon as you writhe and kick at Pierrot, but he barely notices it staining the blankets when you're trying to kick him in the head while pressing yourself against the wall. "Get AWAY! I hate you; I hate you so damn much! I hate all of you—!"
Your words are gagged almost immediately as Pierrot nearly slaps you with how fast his hand covers your mouth. His eyes are crazed as his other hand slams into the wall, mere inches from your head. The terrible grate of claws against wood makes you flinch, though it's not nearly as frightening as Pierrot is now. His teeth, always so carefully shown without sharp points, were bared and gritted behind the mask.
"Stop. Talking. Don't say that don'tsaythat—"
His breath catches as he stares down at you, barely breathing as anger burns his skin.
"You don't mean that, you don't. You know you don't, right? I love you so much, don't you say that you hate me, my dear. You're scared and upset, that I understand, but you must understand you needn't be. We love you so much, all of us. We want you happy, safe, and the only way that can be is if you're with us."
His claws are then pulled free while his hand finally moves away from your mouth. You don't make a sound. Pierrot's smile has not returned.
"Don't say that again. Not to me, never to me. You're upset; you don't understand how you feel... but I do. I understand you better than anyone else can hope to. You'll see that eventually."
Slowly, Pierrot turns away for just long enough to gather another spoonful of porridge from the bedside table. When you turn your head away once more, Pierrot's hand darts out to grab your jaw. He forces your jaw to open before shoving the spoon in your mouth. The metal clicks against your teeth painfully, and when it retreats, a large, clawed hand holds your mouth closed too firmly.
"Swallow it. Be good and eat."
The Troupe may be traveling away from your home, but after a couple of weeks being stuck in the trailer, you're willing to get out in the middle of nowhere. The few times you ask to come out to bathe or use the restroom within the trailer are spent with Harlequin at your side. Anyone who isn't driving the trucks or otherwise busy is watching you too, of course, but Harlequin has become your main chaperone.
Why? He's the fastest on foot and can see well in the dark, and with those "ropes" of his it's damn near impossible to escape him, and God knows you've tried. You've tried busting out through every window and door, and Harlequin has always caught you. He's gotten used to you fighting against his grip, and while he claims to adore the way you squirm, he can't ignore the sting in his chest.
"If you keep this up, you're going to make us think that you don't want to be here."
"I don't." The words are spat out as you bend this way and that to fight against Harlequin, but he's too strong. His arms pin yours against your chest tight enough to make you wheeze for a moment. Whether this was intentional or not, you can't tell.
"Hmn, don't be so sure, dear one. We can change your mind."
Your escape attempts were beginning to get you into trouble. The more you tried, the quicker Harlequin was to catch you, even if you tried to switch up your strategy. What made it worse was the light scolding and teasing that your got from him, which felt more and more condescending each time you were caught. But then you went a bit too far.
In a desperate yet planned attempt, you had played along for once when Pierrot had entered your room to try and get you to eat. You smiled at the boy, accepted the dinner with thankfulness, and dared to even let him touch you. You had finally come to your senses, you said. You finally understood that they all loved you, and he drank in every word with the most joy you've seen from him in weeks. Knowing he'd tell the others of your realization and therefore distract them, you asked him to fetch you seconds. The fooled boy couldn't be happier to do so, and in his overwhelming excitement, your door was left unlocked.
The night air bit at your skin as you ran for your life. The clothes on your back did little to warm you as trees flew past you, but the burning of your lungs and legs were enough for now. They had to be until you found something, anything, to hide away from those monsters. You saw that the trailers had passed a town a few hours ago, if you just hid among the trees for long enough, you might have a chance.
But of course, you can't dare to be that lucky, can you? Not when you feel hands and claws digging into your shoulders only minutes after sprinting into the trees. Loose twigs and rocks press into your chest and face as you fall to the ground, winded.
"Caught you, dearest."
You were gasping and choking on dirt while Harlequin pinned down your shoulders, having not a single labored breath escape him. You expected laughter, snide remarks, or the usual relentless teasing, but none of it came. His use of your petname even sounded flat.
"This is getting old, you know."
Harlequin sounds strangely calm as you feel him get off of you and stand up. You're still gasping for air, but you manage a wheeze of protest when you feel Harlequin pick you up beneath your back and knees. You reach up and hit his chest, kick as best you can in your stunned state, and squirm. When you bash your knuckles into his face once and then twice, a tendril wraps tightly around your wrist. In a flash, you feel your limbs being twisted roughly until your bound by your wrists and knees painfully. You can feel your pulse in your skin from how hard the pressure is, and you can almost feel your hands and legs grow tingly with the loss of proper circulation.
"Dearest," Harlequin doesn't look at you as he walks calmly back to the trucks. He is not smiling. "You knew this was going to happen, didn't you? You run, and I catch you, and while it is a fun game... I'm bored of it."
The tendril around your knees tightens imperceivably as they begin to wind down your shins and calves.
"While I'm always up for tricking that mutt, I don't like all of us being tricked, dear one. You give us hope and joy, then run away from us? From me? And you call us cruel."
Your breathing starts to even out again as you watch Harlequin's face. His mask is lightly reddened from where you punched him, but his pointed grin had finally returned.
"Though I must admit, you've gotten me excited. You've made things so much livelier, but perhaps not in the way you'd like them to be. Oh, I wonder what Jester will say when I bring you back, or what expression will be on Bil's face. Hmhm... I almost want to stall, keep you here for a while, and just listen to your blood rush. After all, you seem so impatient for fresh air and green grass; perhaps I should let you enjoy it by crawling back like a kitten."
It turns out that your most recent escape attempt had worn down Jester's patience. Ticket Taker was nearly chomping at the bit to correct you, yet he held himself back under Jester direction. They were all angry, and while punishment was surely in order, discussion was needed. But amidst the debate on how to punish a frail human who was still so scared of them, Doctor had an idea.
During the early days of your travels, the ones where your tears were unstoppable, you had wailed about wanting your friends and family back.
"I have a life back home!' You yelled one day, recoiling from Jester's featherlight touch. "They're everything to me, and you took me from them!"
You were so alike the troupe with keeping your loved ones close, but Doctor found it a bit silly. Yes, your parents, siblings, and friends brought you joy, but how could you not see how they all paled in comparison? Five lovers who would protect you with their lives, would worship your every breath, would tear apart all that dared to snuff out your flame... Was that less than a mere parent or friend?
At first Doctor thought that your want for them would pass. The need for their comfort would wane as you got more used to your new, rightful life, yet it was taking longer than he expected. He heard you crying most nights, whispering their names and praying that someone, anyone, would come and save you —how silly a want, to be "saved" from your partners— from this hell. It seemed that their presence alone brought you comfort, and if it were given, perhaps you'd be calm enough to come to reasoning.
So, while Jester and Ticket Taker spoke about how to handle your behavior, Doctor went to work. After getting the addresses of your family members from your missing posters, Doctor was quick to send a few letters. He mimicked your handwriting as best he could, writing out lines detailing that you were lost and needed them to come and find you. One might think it impossible for your family to run for you when you were nearly days away, but once the forged letters reached their homes, complete with a vague description of where the troupe you were, they flocked like moths to a flame.
The hunt was quick and effortless. The humans couldn't stand a chance against Doctor's claws and needles, yet he was careful. Your parents and a couple of your supposed friends were tied and brought back to Doctor's trailer where he quickly got to work. While away from your hateful gaze, and under the noses of the others, Doctor studied your loved ones.
Your family was weaker than he expected and completely unfit to protect you, their love for you seemed to diminish when they begged to be set free, and they were awful loud. So loud that he, regrettably, had to gag them with cloth so tightly that it cut into their cheeks. Every weakness they showed him only made Doctor wonder more about why you loved them. Of course, he can understand loving someone despite their faults, he has a family himself, but these humans were so... subpar in comparison.
"What a shame. I thought you would be more interesting." Doctor mumbled one night, flicking away bubbles from a syringe as your closest friend lay bound in horror. "But at least you will bring my sweetie some joy. I would love to see them smile again, and they seem to hold you all dear." The usual cyan flickered to crimson as Doctor held the head back of your friend while they writhed against their restraints. His grin could be heard in his voice as the needle pierced their skin.
"You'll bring me joy, too. I've always wanted to try embalming..."
_____
Your reaction to Doctor's gift was expected, yet greatly disappointing.
He had spent so much time getting it right, to make each of your friends and your parents to look lifelike and healthy despite their death, and you were hysterical. He knew that you would be shocked and disturbed at first, but even after you were shocked into complete silence, you didn't seem to understand his explanation.
"Sweetie, I thought that this is what you wanted. You cried so much for your friends and family, so I brought them to you. Of course, they couldn't be kept alive here, so I did the next best thing and made sure they would always be with you."
Your knees ached when you fell to the floor in anguish, too heartbroken and terrified to look away from the lifeless bodies of your loved ones. Their eyes were like glass while their lips were subtly stitched into smiles that used to comfort you. Color had lingered in their skin to leave them looking perfectly healthy, but they didn't move. They didn't breathe. They were nothing more than unblinking dolls.
Doctor sighed and knelt down beside you, brushing away your tears when devastation kept you still. "I am disappointed to see that you are so unhappy, but I think you'll come around to them. Look at it this way; you'll never be wanting your family back, because they will always be right here for you. As will I."
※•●🌙●•※
{//||--18+ Writing
Minors do NOT interact
Pierrot x AFAB Reader
Theme: stuck together inside a small space.
This was completely self-serving, but I hope you enjoy it.
There's also a 'bonus' scene at the end from poor Ticket Taker's perspective haha!
Enjoy~!
The chaotic symphony of the carnival—the screech of carnival ride mechanics, the echoing screams, and the manic, surprised laughter—was finally bleeding into the quiet of the midnight hour. Pierrot had taken his final bow in his main tent nearly an hour ago, leaving the remaining crowd to filter toward the exits, clutching their half-eaten treats and whispering about the chilling marvels they’d just witnessed.
But your mind wasn't on the show.
As the overhead lights flickered off around the perimeter, casting the red and black canvas into deep, looming shadows, Pierrot was asking sweet, attentive questions. He wanted to know which part of his act was your favorite this evening, his gentle-monster persona on full display as he prepared to guide you back to the privacy of his quarters.
You had other plans.
Driven by a sudden, intoxicating impulse that clouded all better judgment, you wrapped your fingers into the heavy fabric of his costume and yanked him to the side. You dragged your monster boyfriend right into the narrow, pitch-black gap where the main tent’s heavy fabric converged with the side of Pierrot's living quarters.
A shadowed little pocket of the grounds.
Pierrot’s golden eyes widened, his breath hitching as he looked down at your knuckled grip on his chest. A deep, vivid blush crept up beneath his face paint, entirely hyper-focused on the friction of your palms against him.
“M-My dear? Are you alright? Do you feel... dizzy?” His voice faltered, but his golden gaze instantly darkened as the sweet, potent scent of your arousal bloomed into the cool night air. He tracked the sudden, erratic spike of your pulse, his eyes dropping to the frantic rise and fall of your chest.
Gods, you looked delicious. Hungry heat flared within his eyes—a predatory craving that had absolutely nothing to do with food.
“Kiss me,” you demanded, biting your lip as the thrill of near-exposure spiked through your veins. Even though the park was clearing out, the danger of the open air made your skin tingle.
The command, paired with the other sensual signs of your desire, sent a visible shockwave through Pierrot. He became instantly love-drunk, his posture growing heavy and rigid. You wanted him; now. You couldn't even wait the short trek it would take to reach his bed. The sheer desperation of your hunger had his length awakening beneath his trousers, his mind reeling from a simple demand that somehow felt so beautifully unhinged.
A low, rumbling growl vibrated in his chest as he tilted his masked face down to yours. “Y-yes, my lady... I would very much like to taste you,” he rasped, his pitch dropping into a distorted, gravelly register. It was the dangerous, thrilling edge where the man ended and the unleashed monster began.
His long, wet yellow tongue darted out, tasting the air between your lips before plunging into the heat of your mouth. He possessed a terrifying strength, yet he held back with a agonizingly polite restraint, tilting your head to drink you in without completely overwhelming your senses.
It was the exact kind of calculated control he used right before he completely lost his mind.
Your soft, needy sighs melted into his low, rumbling moans. Pierrot’s large hands clamped onto your shoulders, tethering himself to the last shred of his sanity—a restraint that shattered the moment your fingers dug into his hair, your other hand sliding up to grip the nape of his neck. Fingers becoming more gentle as they came into contact with scars.
The contrast from when the injury had been made, to the gentle touch of the angel before him...
His eyes rolled back, lids fluttering shut as you hooked your leg high around his hip, pulling his heavy pelvis flush against your aching core. That eager, desperate friction earned you a deep, approving vibration from his throat. When he finally tore his mouth away to breathe, it was with a heavy reluctance.
You leaned against the canvas, cheeks flushed and panting for air.
“You look—,” Pierrot choked out, completely entranced. His lips curled back, exposing the wicked gleam of his razored teeth as his thoughts took a sharp turn into the depraved. “Absolutely breathtaking, my dear. And you taste...” He tilted his head back, inhaling sharply as if memorizing your flavor into the depths of his soul to remember in every future reincarnation. When his gaze snapped back down, the predatory glow in his irises pinned you in place like a deer caught in a pair of oncoming headlights. “Heavenly. I could ruin you like this for hours, if you'd let me.”
A violent shiver racked your body at the mental images.
He didn't miss it.
A low, dark chuckle vibrated through his chest, pressing directly against your own breasts. The sheer perversity in his tone made your core ache, a heavy dampness soaking through your underwear. The grounds had gone completely silent around you, making his deep voice feel overwhelmingly loud.
“Your body tells me you want exactly that.” Pierrot breathed, completely intoxicated by your reaction. “You want me, heavy on top of you—tasting every inch of your skin. Marking you. Taking you over, and over—I'll take whatever piece of you that you're willing to give me, dear one. I need it... I need you like air. Please...”
Your lips parted, slick and wanting, but your voice caught in your throat.
“Please, say you'll let me. Say you'll—“
Suddenly, Pierrot froze. His pupils contracted into razor-thin slits, his head snapping violently to the right. The grip on your shoulders tightened until it bordered on painful, his entire body locking up as he strained to listen to...something.
But the only sound you could catch were the distant, rhythmic thrums of the diesel generators and the ambient chirp of crickets. Yet, he was hyper-vigilant, every muscle in his towering frame coiled like a spring.
“Pierrot...? Are you okay? What's wron—?!”
Before you could finish, his large hand clamped firmly over your mouth, cutting your questions short. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a freight train. Pierrot let out a strained, agonizing groan at this symphony of your bodily panic, his clawed fingers flexing hard against your cheek.
Without a word of explanation, he began to haul you toward his quarters, but as his eyes swept the path, a sudden flash of panic crossed his features. He looked left, then right, his gaze locking onto a massive, heavy wooden wardrobe used for external prop storage just a few feet away.
Whatever was coming, you weren't going to make it to his tent in time.
Before the panic could fully seize you, you were swept inside. Pierrot guided you into the cramped wooden wardrobe with a desperate, surprising gentleness, slipping in right behind you just as the distant, unmistakable clink-clink-clink of jingling keys cut through the quiet. Then, the heavy door clicked shut, plunging you both into an ear-shattering, suffocating silence.
Fuck. Fuck.
It was one thing to lose track of time in the privacy of Pierrot’s tent, but it was another entirely to be caught fooling around on the open circus grounds. You still hadn't exactly won over the rest of the troupe. In spite of Pierrot's adorably oblivious perspective, the Ticket Taker and the Jester were not your biggest fans.
According to your naive monster-boyfriend, you were doing great with his found family. “They love having you here, my dear! They're glad to see me so happy!”
They showed that love through silent, unblinking glares that could melt lead. Right. Going swimmingly.
What a sweet creature you were falling for. Naive, but sweet as the day was long... Speaking of long—you blinked into the pitch black, acutely aware of the crushing proximity of your bodies. Beneath the heavy layers of his costume, the rigid, lengthy thickness of his arousal pressed hard against your lower belly.
Your chest rose and fell rapidly against his torso, delicious friction against your nipples. You bit your lip—hard—your heart hammering so violently you wondered if the pounding muscle would simply give out. Would it be from the sheer, illicit thrill of being pinned in the dark, or was it the sound of heavy footsteps drawing closer?
Who the fuck knew.
Your eyes couldn't make out a single thing in the absolute dark of the prop closet. Pierrot, possessing the vision of a nocturnal predator, didn't share your blindness. You could hear the ragged catch in his throat, feel his normally sluggish heartbeat kicking into a more frantic rhythm (for a monster, at least), and track the way his sharp claws trembled against the small of your back.
It was the specific way they shook whenever he was warring with himself—teetering on the edge of being gentle or taking you roughly. It was always your call; he was a gentleman to a fault and never pushed. But damn, it was intoxicating to think about him completely snapping. Who knew you had such a masochistic streak?
Suddenly, the crunching steps of boots ground to a halt just a few feet from the wooden door.
Pierrot’s golden eyes widened in the dark. Before you could even inhale to whisper, his palm slapped flat over your mouth, shoving your head back against the wooden wall. His other hand clamped tightly around your waist, ruthlessly dragging your hips flush against his. He was entirely motionless, a painted statue, but beneath his trousers, his cock throbbed suddenly against you.
Your eyes rolled back, a phantom memory of how it felt when he filled you flashing through your mind, causing his breath to hitch. You panted heavily through your nose, chest heaving, and looking up at his direction helplessly. The absolute undertone of filthiness with this situation was becoming unbearable. Paired with adrenaline? Gods you were wet and twitching already with many thoughts. So many thoughts of what the two of you could be doing. It took everything the poor monster had to choke back the possessive, rattling growl building in his chest.
A heavy, exhausted sigh resounded from the other side of the wood. The Ticket Taker’s steps started up again, continuing his nightly route to ensure all guests were in their proper places outside of the grounds before the final lights-out.
The moment the footsteps faded, a shaky sigh of relief escaped against your lover’s palm. But Pierrot didn't move. If anything, he pressed his weight further into you, anchoring you against the wall as your heel caught on an old prop.
When he spoke, his voice was a pitch-black rasp, the vibrations rattling through your own ribs. "You're trembling, my lady. Is it because you're scared we'll be caught... or... is it because of how much you want me to touch you right now? How much you want me inside of you..."
You were at a loss for words, wondering what a needy, ruined mess you must look like to his enhanced vision. Those golden irises burned into you, his chest heaving with a nearly silent, dark chuckle.
“You want me to claim you, dearest? ...Even here?”
His long, wet tongue slithered up the sensitive line of your neck, resting over your pulsing artery. A shiver racked his massive frame. He ground his clothed cock against your soaking center, a desperate, rolling friction.
“Th-the idea that you want me so badly... so badly that you can't wait for my bed... it makes my blood feel like fire. Is that what you feel? Are you burning with me...?”
His whispers tickled your ear before his tongue took over again, tracing a wet path to your collarbone. You gasped, your hips automatically hitching upward when you felt the blunt edge of his sharp teeth scrape against your sensitive skin.
“Y-yes,” you whined whimpering against his hand, unable to hold back the pathetic, needy tones in your voice.
Your voice in the moment broke his restraint. Pierrot pushed flatly against you, desperate for maximum contact, his own low, needy moans mingling with your shallow breaths as the closet grew unbearably hot.
The final thread snapped. Any remaining pretense of monster-gentlemanly restraint dissolved right into the humid air of the storage closet.
Hands clawed desperately at fabric in the dark. It was a frantic, clumsy scramble of tearing at the fastenings of his costume and shoving your clothes out of the way just enough to bare the essential skin for sweet, desperate lovers' plans. You couldn't wait, and from the ragged, desperate sounds tearing from Pierrot’s throat—neither could he.
He pinned you back against the wooden wall, one of his thighs wedging between yours to force you open. When his bare length finally popped free, thick and pulsing with a terrifying heat, he pressed the blunt, wet tip of his cock directly against your entrance.
A wave of instinctual panic flared in his chest—he hadn’t prepped you, hadn't stretched you for the sheer stretching size of him. But the moment he rubbed against your folds, sinking into the slick, overflowing cream pooling at your thighs, all guilt vanished. You were drowning in your own arousal. You were ready to take him.
All of him.
He let out an animalistic growl, a raw, rumbling sound that shook his entire frame. Before you could even brace yourself, Pierrot hooked his large hands under your thighs and hoisted you off your feet, driving his hips forward.
You cried out, the sound swallowed by the darkness as he buried himself inside you to the hilt.
The initial stretch was overwhelming, a tight, burning fullness that made your toes curl. He gave you a short time to adjust; always thinking of you. Until the heel of one of your feet seemed to spurred him to get going.
As you wish.
Back pinned against the vibrating wooden wall of the prop closet, Pierrot began to rut into you with a wild, unhinged ferocity. It was fast, heated, and heavy. Every slam of his hips sent shockwaves through your core, his heavy chest heaving against your breasts as his claws dug into your skin to keep you lifted.
For a few torturous, ecstatic moments, it was pure, unadulterated friction. You felt you were losing your mind to the sensation, your fingers reaching under the back seam of his belled-hat and knotting into his long hair, pulling him closer as the pleasure began to coil tight in your gut.
"More," you panted against his neck, your teeth scraping over his painted skin. Smearing and revealing dark, rough skin. "Pierrot, more."
He let out a choked whine of his own at the demand. To your absolute dismay, he suddenly pulled completely out of you. You let out a pathetic, high-pitched whine at the sudden loss of his heat, your hips twitching in abandonment—his heart ached at the sound with a tang of pity.
But he wasn't done. Sloppily, his large hands gripped at your hips, spinning you around in the cramped space until your front was now pressed flat against the closet wall.
Before you could even fully process the change in position in absolute darkness, he leaned his massive weight over your back and drove back into you from behind.
The angle was lethal. He hit your deepest spot instantly, and a loud, piercing cry started to tear from your throat. Knowing the sound would echo right across the quiet circus grounds, Pierrot reacted on pure instinct. He shoved his gloved hand over your mouth, his fingers gripping your jaw.
"Sshh, sshh, please, my lady," he pleaded into your ear, his voice a frantic followed by a few grunted moans as he resumed a brutal, pounding rhythm. "Bite me. Bite my hand, dearest, but please... keep it inside. If they hear us..."
You didn't need to be told twice. As he slammed into you, driving you ruthlessly against the worn textured wood, you clamped your teeth down into the thick fabric of his gloved hand.
The reaction from him was instantaneous. Pierrot let out a low, distorted moan, his hips hitching into a faster, completely uncontrolled pace. He loved it. The feeling of your teeth sinking into him, your muffled, vibrating moans pressing directly into his palm as he wrecked you from behind, drove him over the edge. He was completely unleashed now, his chest heaving, his sharp teeth nipping at the nape of your neck as he chased his release.
Pearly, menacing teeth twitched over the nape of your neck; wanting nothing more than to sink into the skin and mark you. His, his, his. For everyone to see. A shiver started at the top of his spine, fully driving deepened possessive thrusts.
The friction was blinding. The tight, slick heat of your walls gripping his length was too much to bear. Your climax hit first, a sudden, violent clamping around his cock that had you throwing your head back against his shoulder, your muffled screams biting deeper into his glove.
That ruined him. With a final possessive growl, Pierrot buried himself as deep as he could go and sparked into his own climax, his body shuddering as he filled you with a thick, burning rush of heat. He pulsed inside you again and again, holding you tightly against the wall until the last of the tremors faded.
For a long minute, the only sound in the closet was the synchronized, ragged panting of two lovers desperately trying not to collapse.
Slowly, Pierrot pulled away, his breathing still shallow. He gently helped you rearrange your thoroughly rumpled clothes, his hands trembling with a sweet, familiar reverence that felt entirely at odds with the absolute filth he had just subjected you to.
As he carefully cracked the closet door open to ensure the coast was clear, a sliver of moonlight caught his face. His mask was flushed with a deep blush, his hair was a wild, sexed-up mess, and his heavy costume was hilariously askew.
He looked down at you, his golden eyes wide and blinking with that familiar, love-drunk innocence.
"Well," you spoke shakily, offering him a tired, loving smile as he blushed harder and adjusted his ruffled collar. "I didn't answer you earlier, but I think that was my absolute favorite performance of the evening."
Pierrot's eyes widened at your cleverness—words sinking in more and more. He blushed harder, completely covering his face with both his hands as you guided him back to his quarters for round two with a giggle.
{BONUS Perspective}
Ticket Taker had traced the muffled commotion back to the perimeter of Pierrot’s main tent, thoroughly annoyed that lingering guests were delaying his tight schedule. He despised any disruption to the nightly routine; to Bil, protocol and consistency were the closest things to godliness on these grounds.
Unfortunately for him, he didn't find a lost local.
The moment he stepped into the narrow gap between the canvases, the thick, cloying scent of Pierrot mixed with the unmistakable, musky heat of his human lover slammed into his senses like a brick wall. Bil’s features instantly twisted from minor annoyance into profound, unfiltered disgust.
Stopping a mere six feet from the weathered wooden storage for old props, Ticket Taker sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. If the overwhelming stench of their mutual arousal wasn't already a giant neon sign, their frantically slamming heartbeats might as well have been broadcasted through a megaphone.
Bil tilted his head back, staring up at the dark sky in silent prayer for patience.
Jester hadn't given any orders to liquidate the human—well... not yet, anyway. That bureaucratic oversight was the only reason your pesky, stubborn existence was still tolerated on the circus grounds. Pierrot’s bizarre, codependent hold on you was continuing to unexpectedly derail Bil's meticulous timetable in ways he genuinely wished he could lobotomize from his memory.
He could hear the wood of the closet groaning under their shifting weight. It was pathetic.
With a slow, judgmental shake of his head paired with a deeply tired sigh, Ticket Taker turned on his heel and continued his route. He still had a closing checklist to complete, and he—quite frankly—refused to be an unwilling audience to the inevitable, degenerate rutting that was bound to commence any second.
His expression remained entirely deadpan, his nose scrunching in sheer revulsion at the thought of his fellow performer continuing to, as he and Jester so eloquently put it, play with his food.
I dont know if you still accept writing requests but if you are:
Pierrot who goes to MC's place like on day 2 but MC has a depression room and the MC is more embarrassed about the room rather being angry that Pierrot broke in and is self aware about that
Spring cleaning
Your room is a mess. The fact no one will ever see it keeps you sane. Pierrot has different plans
OR Pierrot climbs into your depression room and you find your brain has weird priorities
Tags: MINORS DNI!!!, fluff?, gender-neutral reader, Pierrot being Pierrot, mentions of derealization ig, joint cleaning, generally quite absurd
WC: 2.6k
Note: I wasn't sure how to incorporate this into day 2 so I wrote it a little differently, please let me know if that's an issue and I'll rewrite it. Sorry these asks are taking so long to come out, I'm being forced to have a life outside of writing, but I will get round to them all
You never intend for your room to get this bad. Whenever you get the motivation to clean the damn place (which is usually only when someone is meant to come visit), you always tell yourself that this is the last time. You swear that, from now on, you will actually keep it presentable, tidy, maybe not organised exactly but definitely not the mess that keeps accumulating. This resolve lasts for a few days, a week if you’re lucky, but it inevitably gets… out of hand. It’s not like it is ever dirty, per se, but the chaos creeps up on you: clothes on your chair that you can’t make yourself put away; dishes in the sink that you rinse but never actually wash; dust that accumulates in growing layers because to start cleaning it would mean having to clean it all and, really, there is no point. Sure, when someone is meant to come over, you have enough pride to force yourself to tidy, but when you’re alone? Well, you’re hardly someone worth keeping it presentable for.
What was that one Will Wood lyric? ‘I am quantum physics, my witness brings me to existence’? That pretty much sums up the cleanliness of your humble abode: it only exists when someone is there to perceive it.
Luckily, or unluckily, for you, no one ever really visits you anymore. Yeah, you have one friend in another city, but they have a job. They have a life. So, most of the time, you are alone within your four walls, sitting before a blank Word document and trying to stave off the hunger pains with handfuls of popcorn, doing your best not to acknowledge the state of your place of living.
Well, there is technically one other person you’ve been interacting with, if you can call the few meetings you’ve had that. You scared away some people getting physical with the red clown, sure, but for whatever reason it’s caused him to start appearing in your life more and more often. At first, you chalked it up to coincidence, saying you were only noticing him now because you had spoken and gotten acquainted, but even you know that’s a pretty poor explanation. Pierrot, as he calls himself, is not exactly subtle, the blood-red of his costume hardly helping him blend into a crowd. He’s the type of guy you take notice of.
Not that any of this matters. He’s a magnificent performer that comes to get a coffee sometimes; you’re just the worker that happens to take his orders, and make conversation with him, and is the recipient of his little gifts. Anything more is delusion on your part. Maybe you’re guilty of occasionally letting yourself fantasise about getting closer to the man, but you’re fairly certain he has someone of his own - how could he not with that tall build, sweet smile and alluring cadence of voice? Admiring him feels like scrolling through house listings you could never afford: so out of your reach that it doesn’t even make you feel bad.
And so, you brush off all your interactions with the man over the past month as chance. Your piss-poor self-esteem doesn’t even give you the option of thinking otherwise, even if you should have taken notice of how much the guy has been going out of his way to spend time with you. It’s for this reason that you could never see coming what is about to happen, but then again, it’s unlikely anyone could.
You get home from work tonight, exhausted and covered in sweat, your only wish being to shower and get in front of your laptop to rot. You were supposed to visit the circus today, given Pierrot’s insistence and the ticket he gave you yet again (for what reason, you have no idea - you hardly have anyone to promote the attraction to, which you told him the first time he insisted on giving you free entry), but you’re so exhausted it completely slips your mind. The first part of your plan is executed without any major difficulties, the discomfort of the warm day being enough of a motivator to stop you sitting in your work clothes all night. The rest does not go so smoothly.
The moment you step out of your shower, you see something that makes your heart stop and your stomach drop to the pit of your abdominal cavity.
There is someone on your balcony. Someone clad in red and black, eyes golden, grinning sheepishly as he moves to open the glass door. Someone uninvited.
See, a person with unimpaired cognitive functioning would have been terrified because the random stranger/acquaintance standing in their place of living is a pretty good sign they’re about to be kidnapped, or murdered, or trafficked, or God knows what else. You, though? No, that’s nowhere near your first concern.
Your immediate panic is caused by the fact that someone is here and your room is a mess.
As fast as your legs can carry you, you run across the small space, the clown’s smile falling at your distress. Imagine his surprise, then, when all you do is throw the curtains shut, blocking all but a sliver of space where you peer past the black-out fabric.
“What is the matter, my dear?” he asks, the angled-open window allowing you to hear every note of the confusion in his voice.
“Why are you here?” you immediately respond, moving your body to block his view every time he tries to peer past you. Now this worries him. He had come to make sure you were all right, seeing how you didn’t come to visit him today, but what on earth are you doing? What are you hiding? Is there another in your room? A partner, perhaps- no, he needn’t concern himself so. He has been following you long enough to know there is no such person, and even if there is, he can easily get rid of anyone foolish enough to believe they are the right one for you. That is not an issue, but he had hoped to finish courting you properly before showing the extent of his love, even if it has been slow progress-
You interrupt him as you continue rambling, panic clear in your voice. “I didn’t know you were coming- You can’t be here, my place is a mess!- I’m not prepared for guests-”
Oh, so that is the cause of your concern, Pierrot thinks to himself. How utterly adorable. As if such a thing would be enough to repel him. With newfound confidence, he turns the handle and pushes against the door only to meet resistance. That is odd - he knows this is a push door from his little visits to your flat these past weeks.
“Don’t come in-” you strain, the effort in your voice quickly giving away the fact that you are trying to block his entry with your body weight. Full of amusement at your little game, he pushes the door open with ease, stepping past your curtain and into your bedroom.
To say that you are embarrassed is an understatement. No, you are completely and utterly mortified as Pierrot enters the space, eyes fixed on you instead of the piles of clothing and dirty dishes and dusty surfaces. Your face heats uncomfortably with shame as he steps closer, and your survival instincts finally decide to rear their head.
This guy somehow got onto your balcony and inside your house. Someone you only just met a month ago. You should be screaming.
Why, then, do you still find the embarrassment stronger than the fear? How fucked do you have to be that you want you potential murderer to find your place spick and span? What the hell is wrong with you?
“Why are you so red, my dearest?” the clown asks, taking a tentative step closer, eyes wide as discs. “Is it for me?”
“What? I-” Before you can even think about what you’re doing, you rise and turn the clown so that he faces the corner of the room, as if he were a disobedient child you were punishing. “Don’t look. I’ll make the place presentable, then you can-” You catch the absurdity of your statement as you say it, hand rubbing your face as your shoulders drop. “Then you can what, kill me? What the fuck am I even doing?”
He, despite your behest, turns his head, smile gone completely from his face. “Kill you? Whyever would I do that?”
You blink. This isn’t happening, right? “Sell me, then.”
“I would never do that either,” he insists.
“Kidnap me?”
At that, his cheeks go pinker, lithe finger twirling a lock of pale hair around it. “Oh, I’d never.”
For a moment, you just stand there, completely befuddled. None of your thought patterns, maladaptive or other, give you any sort of indication as to what you are meant to do. He is evidently a threat, but also not. He is here against your will, but he is seeming to follow your command. He is someone you tell yourself you don’t know yet has occupied much of your free time and thoughts these past few weeks. Given that your brain has stopped functioning, it resorts to taking care of the one thing it does know how to do - getting rid of the shame.
“Ok, uh, you just stand there, I’ll tidy up and then we can talk, or something,” you stammer out, walking in a half-stupor to the pile of clothes on your chair. You wrap your arms around the bundle, attempting to lift it, when you hear the water in your kitchenette begin to run. Your head whips around to find Pierrot absent from where you told him to stay and instead standing by your dirty dishes, soaping up a sponge.
“No, drop it,” you instruct, opening your wardrobe with your foot and shoving the clothes inside. When he doesn’t, you pull the door shut, making a beeline over to the sink to take the sponge, only for him to block you with his back. “Give me that-”
“And why should I do that, my light?” he answers, his tone almost giddy and voice turning breathless the more you press against him to get the damn washing utensil.
“It’s my flat and my mess-” you protest, face heating as embarrassment overwhelms you. “Please-”
He turns his head to you, then, looking at you with a concerning level of fondness given the situation. “Oh, if you knew the things I’d do for you,” he sighs, a flash of some darker expression appearing as quickly as it leaves, “then you would know this is no problem for me. It is an honour to assist you, my dearest.”
“You shouldn’t-” Your sentence is cut off by the sudden feeling of hands around your waist, lifting you as if you weigh nothing, the movement stunning you into silence. Pierrot, on the other hand, seems positively pleased with himself, stepping over an empty water bottle to sit you on your bed.
“Stay here,” he commands, humming happily to himself as he returns to the sink, leaving you blinking in shock.
“Fuck no,” you mutter under your breath, still mortified. If he isn’t staying in his place then you sure as hell are not going to either. The absurdity of the situation almost hits you as you take your duster to attempt and wrangle the biohazard that are your shelves, but it doesn’t. How could it? There’s no reality in which you could fully process having found yourself cleaning your depression room with a clown other than yourself, one that pretty much broke in, no less. So, instead, your brain focuses on dusting, wiping down each shelf until you manage to leave them all mostly clean. You straighten, drying your brow with your pyjama sleeve, just as the sink water finishes running.
When you turn, you find yourself face to face with a pair of wide, unblinking, golden eyes only a few centimetres away. A screech leaves you and you stumble back, the only thing stopping your fall being the arms that sweep you off your feet. The clown carries you against his chest, his pleased hum reverberating through your body as he sits himself on your bed, body pressing against your stuffed animals.
There’s a beat of silence. Two.
“Is this the part where you kill me?” you ask, watching how his smile softens.
“No, dearest, I already told you I have no interest in such a thing,” he hums in gentle amusement, thumb wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead. You don’t know why it’s this action that throws you out of your daze, but everything suddenly seems very, very real. The warmth of him pressed against you; the cool, night air blowing in from the door he came in through; the gentle scent of vanilla that seems to envelop you and him. The nights you imagined exactly this, albeit under different circumstances.
“You should sleep, hm?” he asks, though the tone makes it sound more like a soft order than a suggestion.
“I still don’t know you,” you say, traitorous heart refusing to cooperate when his thumb traces a circle on your forearm. Your touch starvation is about to get you killed.
Then again, do you really care? It would be nice to die in someone’s arms rather than alone in your room.
“But I know you,” he answers, voice quieter. “And you will come to know me.”
“You broke into my apartment.”
“I came to visit. That is normal of one courting you.”
Now this catches you off guard. “Courting me?”
He giggles, eyes of his mask narrowing. “Oh, how oblivious you are. How adorable.”
Nevermind, this definitely isn’t real. If the clown breaking into your flat didn’t make it obvious then someone flirting with you absolutely does. This does not happen. Not to you.
“But-” How do you even argue with someone seemingly so unaware of how odd all of this is? “This place was a mess. Why did you even stay?”
He laughs softly, shifting you in his arms. “Why would I not?”
“It was horrible. It was horrible and embarrassing and if I could just get myself together it wouldn’t-”
“It was yours,” he says just as surely. “Nothing that is yours could ever be anything but beautiful in my eyes.”
Maybe it's the sleepless nights, maybe it’s his warmth, but you feel yourself growing drowsy in his hold, sleep tugging on your eyelids.
It’s not like any of this is real, you think to yourself. When I wake up, it’ll all be as it should be. I’ll be alone again. Why shouldn’t I let myself enjoy this, just for a little while?
And so, you let your eyes drift shut, quietly relishing in the blissful feeling of someone against you. Someone warm. Someone breathing. How long has it been since you last felt this, since you last let yourself feel it? If you were not so completely convinced none of this is happening, you would have pushed him away, saved yourself the pain of remembering how pleasant this is, which only makes the absence worse. But it isn’t happening. Tomorrow, you’ll wake up to find your room still a mess, your dishes still unwashed, and your bed still empty.
It’s as you said - this isn’t real.
And if by some miracle he’s still here by morning? You’ll just call the police.
Hello! I have a writing suggestion out of curiosity on what the interaction between jester and Mc at a museum / art museum or maybe at a theater would be like : 0
Something quiet, something real
You never expected to find yourself outside the circus with the Jester, just the two of you. It was all because of a silly mistake on your part, something you never could have predicted.
At least, you're certain that's the reason. There was no way for you to know otherwise.
OR you visit an art gallery and theatre with the Jester
Tags: MINORS DNI!!!, Jester is glamorous and I love him, gender neutral reader, emotional repression, nothing particularly angsty just a nice day out, I hope he's not ooc-
WC: ~3.5k
It is quite the interesting series of events that land you and the Jester in this particular situation.
See, it all started because you thought yourself smart. The circus has a ‘no accepting gifts’ rule, which you had no intention of breaking, but you really wanted to show your gratitude to the charismatic head of the troupe. After all, you had caused him quite a bit of stress with your sudden insertion into the lives of his fellow performers all those months ago (even if technically it was Pierrot and Harlequin’s fault, but you digress). As such, it was only proper that you thank him for not eating you alive, having you beaten up, or scolding you with anything more than a few intelligent, pointed insults.
You had sat before your laptop, scrolling through lists of gifts and lamenting your Herculean (self-imposed) task of what to give someone you cannot actually give anything to, when you came across a particularly interesting idea, typed out in a garish font on the second page of Google - ‘gift your lover the experience of a lifetime!’
That’s when it clicked in your head. Maybe you cannot give him anything physical, but no one said anything about giving him access to something he might enjoy. So, with renewed vigour, you scoured website after website of events, galas and days out. Eventually, after briefly considering gifting him a bungee-jumping holiday just to see how Harlequin would react, you ended up purchasing two tickets to an art exhibition at a nearby event hall and a performance of Macbeth at your local theatre. You printed them out, folding them neatly into an envelope, and headed over to the circus the next day with a spring in your step.
To say Jester was surprised by the present would be a stretch, seeing how well he can mask the emotions he feels, but you’re pretty sure he wasn’t completely ambivalent to the sight of you handing him the envelope, explaining how you hope this is an acceptable alternative to a physical gift. When you told him you purchased tickets for two, you noticed his brow raise a fraction (whether in amusement or surprise at the audacity of the implication, you could not say), which prompted you to quickly devolve into rapid clarification that it is meant for himself and another of his choosing, Ticket Taker perhaps, and is in no way an attempt on your part to go somewhere with him in order to suck up to him or gain favours. He had tucked away the envelope into his costume, thanking you for the present, even if it sounded like one would thank their child for a less-than-flattering pasta art portrait, and left for his own performance. Your plan hadn’t gone spectacularly, but neither had it ended with you being served up on a platter, so you considered it a success and went on your way to bother Pierrot. That was supposed to be the last you heard of the tickets.
Such was not the case.
About a week later, you are sitting with Harlequin on some crates, trying to balance a blade on your fingertip the way you saw Pierrot do earlier, when the leader himself materialises at your side, scaring you out of your skin. He asks the green clown to leave, which he does reluctantly and with more than a few syllables of protest, and then turns to face you where you sit, eyeing you in a way that makes your breath stutter (out of nerves. That’s what it is).
“Do you work tomorrow?” he asks, tone giving no indication as to what the question is really meant to ask, and you immediately straighten at the interrogation.
“Uh, no, I have the day off. Why? Did something happen?” you answer, finger tapping a nervous rhythm against the wood of the crate. For all the comments you make with Harlequin about how glamorous he is, the Jester is very intimidating when he wants to be.
“Yes, something did happen.” Jester crosses his arms, allowing for a moment of pause to take in the blooming panic on your face. “The tickets that you bought for that little outing just so happen to be booked for the 19th, which just so happens to be one of the busiest days for accounting work. Ticket Taker has no time at all to spare, Harlequin cannot be trusted to stay silent in a theatre, Pierrot cannot be trusted not to cry during a performance and the Doctor has no interest in such arts. It seems you have left me with no one to attend this event with.” His smile widens, taking in your nervous expression with hidden satisfaction. “As such, since this was a mistake on your part, you shall have to rectify it by being the one to make use of the second set of tickets.” He pauses. “Unless this is exactly what you planned, little visitor? Did you specifically book it like this so as to manipulate me in such a manner?”
“What? No- It was an accident-” you start, trying to explain away the misunderstanding, when the Jester chuckles.
“Oh, I jest. I know you could never think of such a thing.” Before you can even comprehend the insult, he continues. “Meet me by the circus entrance tomorrow at 3pm sharp. Do not make me wait, visitor.” With that, he turns and walks out, magnificent hair swaying as he pulls open the tent flap and disappears from view. You’re left there, alone, to process your surprise, confusion, and the smallest hint of excitement that blooms in your chest despite your best attempts to quell it.
Well, alone for all of 5 seconds. Then, Harlequin barges in, making some stupid comment about Jester ‘finally getting the stick out of his ass and going somewhere on a date’, which you vehemently deny. You were never even meant to be the one going with him! This was something that came about completely by accident! Of all the things you could call this, a date is absolutely not one of them.
If you knew how amused the Jester was eavesdropping on this conversation, perhaps you would have made the fluster in your tone a little less obvious.
—----------------------
For all your insistence that this was not a date, you certainly dressed up as if it were one. You told yourself that the Jester is a very elegant man, so you need to dress accordingly to not make a fool of yourself, but that probably isn’t good enough an explanation to justify pulling out some fancy garments that you hadn’t worn for at least a year. You paid extra attention to your hair, ironed all your clothing until not a single crease could be found (and ironed it again for good measure), and polished your jewellery nervously as the minutes passed. You leave your apartment exactly at the time you’re supposed to, yet the nervous briskness of your pace means you arrive at the circus entrance ten minutes too early. You glance at your watch, deciding whether to hide somewhere until it is exactly three, when something touches your shoulder and you flinch violently.
“Are you always this easy to startle, little mouse?” the Jester asks, hint of laughter in his voice, as he takes in your appearance. You do the same, admiring his impeccable outfit: the flowy, black trousers and gloves; the purple turtleneck, not a bobble in sight; the suit jacket thrown over his shoulders; the length of fabric wrapped around his head in a makeshift hood to cover his horns; and the black mask that sits under his eyes, hiding that charismatic grin of his. You have never seen the man outside of his costume, in which he is impressive enough, but something about how his choice in outfit flatters his form has your throat go dry. If Jester notices your approval, he does not comment on it.
“It seems you are able to make yourself look presentable, visitor,” he hums, eyes unreadable, and extends an elbow for you to take.
You look between his eyes and arm, feeling your body heat despite yourself. “Are you sure-”
“I would not have offered if I was not. I am not so unassertive.” At your hesitance, his gaze seems to soften ever so slightly, and he sighs theatrically. “Where I am from, such is the custom when walking with another. You needn’t fret so.”
At that, you nod, looping your arm around his elbow, and the two of you begin to walk down the street towards the town. You do so in silence, which leaves you to think of how sturdy his arm is, how sure his gait is even when not on stage. Really, this man exudes nothing but confidence, and you wish you could borrow one of the Doctor’s vials and bottle up even a drop of it for yourself.
The Jester takes notice of each time your eyes flit to him, though he pretends not to. He finds the wrinkle of your brow as you steal glances at him to be somewhat endearing, even if you are human. Truth be told, he had not expected one of your kind to be capable of such a thing, especially after learning who they are and what they eat. And yet, here you are, looking up at him as if you were some smitten teenager and not walking arm-in-arm with someone who could consume you at a whim.
How terribly endearing. How beautifully naive.
You reach the art gallery at half past three. To Jester’s surprise, there is almost no one standing in the queue, the only people there being an elderly couple with comically large glasses and a very eccentrically dressed teenager.
“It’s the work week, and this exhibition opened at the start of the month,” you explain. “I thought you’d want to bring Ticket Taker, so I picked a time that wouldn’t have a crowd.”
“How thoughtful,” he muses, though it isn't as nonchalant as he had wanted it to be.
Before long, you stand before the ticket collector. You had been worried that they would ask Jester to remove his mask, but thankfully the elderly man seems far more interested in the legitimacy of your tickets and the amount of sugar he is adding to his tea than the appearance of those entering.
The event hall is a huge, pristine thing, a massive building of white and grey with glass ceilings that let in the afternoon sun. Each wall is lined with paintings - replicas, portraying women and men from what you think is the renaissance, smiling and crying and frolicking. You glance up at the Jester, waiting for him to decide where to go.
You watch him realise that fact, eyes narrowing in what must be a grin. “Hm. Good.” Without letting your arm free, he leads you from painting to painting, the two of you having ample time to take in each work before moving on to the next. At one point, though, the silence gets to you, and you find yourself commenting.
“I like the hands,” you say, quickly realising how silly it sounds out loud. “How they’re painted, I mean.”
“Hm,” Jester hums. “Explain.”
“In a lot of paintings, the fingers are grouped, if that makes sense,” you explain, gesturing to the portrait of a stern woman before you. “Three fingers follow one arc and one sticks out or bends differently. It’s for visual interest.”
You watch as his gaze fixes on the art, nerves rising in your stomach. Why are you even telling him this? You’re here as a replacement, he didn’t ask for your stupid commentary, he-
“Interesting observation,” he muses, glancing at you before pulling you along to the next display. “You speak as if you know of such things.”
“I used to draw,” you tell him, surprised by his seeming curiosity. “Wasn’t all that great at it, but I learnt some things.”
“I see.”
As the two of you keep walking, you find the courage to comment on more things you notice - colour contrast, reflected light that you always found so difficult to render, even composition formats. He does not add much of his own input, simply listening and nodding occasionally. You interpret it as him finding your words only just interesting enough to let you keep speaking.
He tells himself the same. He won’t admit to himself that he finds the cadence and tone of your voice far from unpleasant.
By the time you finish perusing the gallery, the shadows have lengthened and covered the pavement you had entered on. The moment you step out of the building, you shiver instinctively, and immediately the taller one pulls away. You look to him in confusion at the sudden loss of touch only to find him draping his jacket over your shoulders, raising a brow in amusement at your expression.
“It would not do well to have you get ill,” he simply says. “Pierrot would worry himself into sickness.”
Ah, right. It's just for Pierrot's sake.
You say little as you both make your way down the street, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. It's not like you're upset at the loss of contact - no, that'd be stupid. He is the Jester, the leader, the one pulling all the strings. He isn't Pierrot, always vying for your attention and affection, or Harlequin looking to get a rise out of you. He tolerates you, and the touch was merely out of custom, nothing more.
Why do you find yourself craving it so much, then?
“Your thoughts are drifting, visitor,” Jester hums. “Does my company bore you so?”
“No,” you answer instantly. “No, it's not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing. Just… Just being delusional, that's all.”
Under his mask, his smile falls slightly, though that sight is hidden from you.
Delusion, you say? He knows a thing or two about that.
Once you are both at the theatre, you navigate to the performance hall and find your seats - a booth in the back, secluded, one you paid extra for so that Jester and Ticket Taker would be able to relax and not have to worry about curious eyes. You sit, the taller man settling besides you, and you find yourself uncomfortable with the awkwardness of silence. You don't want to break it, but your thoughts grow loud as it drags on and on and on.
“Why did you invite me?” you ask, fiddling with the button of his jacket, now neatly folded in your lap.
He sighs in exasperation, crossing his legs. “I told you already: you left me with no choice. Is your memory truly so poor?”
“You could have gone alone, or not gone at all,” you say, refusing to look at him. “It's not like I would have known.”
He pauses for a moment, a heartbeat. “I am not Harlequin: I do not engage with people for no reason. If you are here then it means I intended it to be so. That is all you need to know.”
You laugh under your breath, shifting in your seat, though there is little mirth in the sound. “Yeah, I know. I'm guessing this is another test or something. That's all it is.”
You don't find out if there is anything more he wanted to say because the lights go dim, whispers in the theatre dying down as the spotlight turns on and the performance begins.
The Jester does not watch the play, not really. Though you could not have known, he has seen each of Shakespeare's plays on stage at least once, even the original back when the playwright was still alive. Instead, he finds himself observing you, darkness hiding his gaze.
He is not foolish like Pierrot. Though he had certain delusions as a child, he has long accepted the fact that certain things are not for him to experience, to live, to feel anywhere but on the paper that holds his scripts. He is a storyteller, a playwright himself, and he is masterful in his craft. That, and looking after those he travels with, is his goal. His purpose. Yearning has no place in it.
That's not to say that he has never felt such a thing. Near the start of his journey, he had occasionally found his foolish heart hoping for connection, for touch, for the type of things he wrote about. Such feelings were easily thwarted, though. Whenever they arose, he would remind himself of why such things were not for him, why opening his heart could only lead to misery, and why even thinking of engaging in such endeavours was fruitless, meaningless and frankly pathetic. Soon enough, the want mixed with the guilt, the shame, and they became inseparable. And so the man freed himself from the fickle, stupid craving for love that so many are shackled by.
Or, at least, he thought he had. As the performance continues and Macbeth spirals into insanity, so do his thoughts fall to places he has not seen for a very long time.
Why is it that you undo him so? He ponders this as the play goes on, watching your reactions and your furrowed brow and how your body seems to unconsciously lean towards him. You are not particularly special in any way, and yet…
And yet something in him stirs, in the darkness of the theatre and the sliver of space between you.
There is something different about you, he supposes. Not something grand and loud and performative, but quieter, more real. How you help Pierrot, laugh with Harlequin, theorise with the Doctor and sip tea with the Ticket Taker. How you respected him and his family when you thought they were human and after you found out they are not. How you recognise his authority and don't try to earn his trust through underhanded means, having shown visible, genuine distress at the mere idea.
Jester does not yearn. He does not feel such fickle emotions. He does not love anyone outside his troupe. Then again, with every week that you stay entangled with the circus, with every week that you have stayed despite knowing what they are, he has more often caught himself thinking of you as one of his own.
When the curtain falls and the crowd explodes in thunderous applause, you find yourself rising to your feet, smile wide as the dark of the hall fades. Eyes bright, turning to him for his reaction, only to find him watching you with a smile of his own, soft enough to catch you completely off guard.
Then he pulls his mask up and the moment is over, but something lingers as the two of you leave, as he insists on walking you home - another custom, he says. You discuss the play, telling him about certain connections you made regarding the story back when you were still in school and he listens in what almost seems like genuine interest, the attention making the cold of night seem a little less so.
Jester leads you right to your door and the two of you stand in silence for a moment, the humming of the overhead light doing little to ease your nerves.
“Thank you for today,” you finally say, handing him back his suit jacket as he pulls down his facemask. “I know I’m no replacement for Ticket Taker but I hope it was at least a little nice for you too.”
At this, he laughs, bringing a hand to his chest. “Ah, he would not have enjoyed any of this. The man has more of an appreciation for spreadsheets than for the beauty of the arts.”
You blink, confused. “Wait, so the moment I gave you those tickets, you-”
“I told you, pet,” he hums, “I do not engage with people for no reason.”
Before you can do something stupid, you hold out your hand for a handshake, willing away the heat rising in your face. “Thank you. Again.”
He takes your hand, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and shakes it once, firmly, before bringing the back of your palm to his lips. You short-circuit, something that evidently amuses him, and wishes you a good evening, turning down the corridor to leave.
He does not go immediately. He lingers by the entrance, listening to you closing the door, then leaves the building to observe your balcony from the outside, silhouette shifting with your movement like a dance only he is privy to.
No, the Jester does not yearn - that is something he has long beaten out of himself. There is, however, a certain curiosity to be sated here, a warmth in his chest he cannot quite describe. Not yet.
It is foolish to hope you will arrange another such meeting, that he knows. Then again, it does not bother him so much as he strides back to the circus, thoughts returning to your comments and smiles and unconscious gestures. After all, even if you do not, he is more than capable of making it happen anyway.
Maybe he can entertain such a foolish, fickle notion.
amandla
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
