the faint smell of pine.

♡☆♤◇

[starrilies]

✦ STARRI ✦ 19 ✦ she/her ✦ MDNI ✦ rules ✦ masterlists ✦ tag navigation ✦

...the smell reminds you of a man you didn't know. didn't like. but on your last day, he pulls you aside, says goodbye, and congratulates you on leaving. he tells you things about yourself you didn't even realize other people noticed. he gives you the sign you'd been waiting for. you buy him a pine-scented candle before you go.

[starrilies]

i'm playing the adwd remnants beta and i was trying so hard to get to atlas route BUT I'M TOO OBSESSED WITH PLEASING 5012 I GOT ON HIS ROUTE AGAIN 😭😭😭 deadass fuck my chungus life

[starrilies]

trying again from day 1. pray for me that 5012 doesn't charm me with his unwarranted hatred turned love for my existence. again.

[starrilies]

i'm playing the adwd remnants beta and i was trying so hard to get to atlas route BUT I'M TOO OBSESSED WITH PLEASING 5012 I GOT ON HIS ROUTE AGAIN 😭😭😭 deadass fuck my chungus life

[iyayadonna]

❛ 𝒾 𝓌𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 ❜

— 5012 x gn! reader (𝓌𝒸: 9.6k) (𝒾𝓃𝓅𝓈𝑜 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔: “i wonder by Nardo Wick)

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: smut · sex-deprived + hard dom!5012 x brat! afab! reader · hair pulling · oral (receiving) · brat taming · degradation · fingering · multiple orgasms · unprotected sex · creampie ·  workplace relationships · warming spoilers of adwd 2 remnants!

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: He wonders why you won't leave him alone. Why you keep pushing, keep poking, keep finding new ways to get under his skin. Why you look at him like you see something worth finding—even when he's spent centuries making sure no one looks at all. He's warned you to back off.

He's told you, in no uncertain terms, that you're a distraction, a nuisance, a problem he never asked for.

But you just don't listen, do you?

He wonders why he has to put up with you and then immediately wonders why he wonders that at all.

The fluorescent lights of the R.A.D. corridor hum along with the polished floors gleam under the harsh glow, reflecting the silhouette of a passing reapers. Somewhere in the distance, door slides open and closed with a hiss.

And you're still talking.

"—and I'm telling you, the filing system in the central hub is a disaster. Whoever organized it last clearly had no understanding of chronological order. Souls don't wait for administrative convenience, 5012. They arrive when they arrive, and if we can't process them efficiently because someone decided to alphabetize by—"

5012 tunes you out. Not because he doesn't care about efficiency—like he IS efficiency, truly embodied and perfected. But because he's heard this particular complaint three times already this morning. 

And the morning before that. And the morning before that.

You, who arrived with a reputation that preceded you. You, who had been a Reaper for decades—centuries, even before being reassigned to his station. 

You, who had worked in the 9th Station under 3611 himself, who had trained under the most demanding Reapers in the Underworld. You, who had been described in your file as "exemplary" and "highly competent" and "an asset to any team."

You and 5012 had only been partnered together following the simultaneous removal of the previous leadership. The revolution had reshuffled everything, like the stations, units, allegiances—and somehow, inexplicably, the two of you had been slotted together. Needless to say, the arrangement worked. Efficiently, even. 

Your skills complemented his, your methods aligned with his precision, and on paper, you were the ideal partnership.

But that was on paper.

In practice, you were relentless. You nagged him about his smoking, his recklessness, his gloomy demeanor—everything. At every turn, he was met with your attitude, your teasing, your infuriating refusal to let him brood in peace. You made him all the more stormy, a perpetual thundercloud barely contained behind his carefully constructed composure.

He'd appealed for a new partner multiple times.

Nothing had been said. No response. No reassignment. 

He was truly stuck with you.

He glances at you from the corner of his eye. You're walking beside him, matching his pace easily. Your posture is perfect—back straight, head high, the bearing of someone who knows exactly where they stand. 

You carry yourself like a traditional Grim Reaper, one who understands the weight of the position. One who had earned their place through years of service. Not like the troublemakers he'd been saddled with recently.

He'd received them a few days ago. Fresh two trainees. Newly awakened. And already, they were testing every ounce of his patience. 

And now he had you. Another problem. Another person who didn't understand the value of silence.

It would be easier if you were incompetent. If you were lazy. If you were anything less than what you clearly were—a skilled, capable, experienced Reaper who had been assigned to him for reasons that he didn't fully understand.

But you were competent. You were capable. You were, in fact, exactly the kind of Reaper that the Underworld should have been producing all along.

And that made you infinitely more annoying.

He glances at you again. There's something about the way you move was purposeful. The way you speak was always direct, informed, never wasting words even when you're clearly trying to annoy him. The way you hold yourself—like you know exactly who you are and what you're worth.

He hates that. And also...

No.

He stops the thought before it can form. He's not going there. He's not going to acknowledge the way his gaze lingers a moment too long. He's not going to acknowledge the way your voice cuts through his thoughts like a blade.

"—and then the equipment requisition form was submitted backward, which means we have to resubmit everything, but the form requires supervisor approval, which means you have to sign it, which means you need to actually read it, which means you need to stop staring at the wall and—"

His eyes snap back into focus.

You've stopped walking while he was still moving, but only because momentum carries him a few steps forward before he realizes. He turns. You're standing there, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, your expression a mixture of exasperation and something that might be amusement.

You snap your fingers in front of his face. "Hello? 5012? Did you hear a single word I just said?"

He blinks. "Of course," he says smoothly. "You were talking about the equipment requisition form."

"That was forty seconds ago. Before that, I was talking about the filing system. Before that, I was talking about the new trainees. You know, the one you received a few days ago? The one you've been complaining about nonstop? That new trainee?"

"I was listening," he says.

"Oh yeah? What was I saying?"

He doesn't answer. He can't answer. Because the truth is—he was distracted by you. By the way you moved. By the way you spoke. By the way you annoyed him and fascinated him in equal measure.

He clears his throat, turns, and resumes walking. The corridor bends left, and the lighting shifts—dimmer here, the bulbs flickering with that particular Underworld inconsistency that no one ever bothers to fix. A potted plant sits in the corner, long dead, its brown leaves a testament to the station's general apathy toward aesthetics. 5012 makes a mental note to have it removed.

He's had to make a lot of mental notes since you arrived.

You fall into step beside him again, because of course you do. You don't wait for an invitation. You don't ask permission. You just exist in his space like you belong there, like you've always been there, like the very air around him has decided to take a form and start talking at him.

And the worst part?

He doesn't hate it as much as he should.

"I was thinking about the new trainees," he says finally, because silence with you feels too much like an admission.

You blink, turning to look at him as you walk. "It's only trainees, 5012. All of them always have problems at the start. That's why they're trainees. It's up to us to train them into perfect Reapers."

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended. He exhales, and it's a sound of pure exhaustion—the kind that settles deep in his chest and refuses to leave. "The first one, Atlas, or whatever he calls himself was late to our first meeting. When I asked him why, he said he was playing an arcade game. An arcade game. In the R.A.D. common room. While I was waiting for him."

"He was playing arcade games?"

"He was 'going for a high score,' apparently." 5012's voice drips with disdain. He pauses as they pass a window overlooking the city—the eternal night of the Underworld stretched out before them, orange lights flickering in the distance like dying embers. "And then the other one—0213, who has decided to give themselves a 'human name' even though they've been a Reaper for approximately three days—arrived little late because they were 'socializing' with other Reapers."

"Ah, socializing...?"

The way you say it makes him narrow his eyes. He's about to respond when you step closer, much close enough that he catches the faint, inexplicable warmth of your presence—and tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

He's got a good few inches on you.

You don't seem to care.

"You know what your problem is, 5012?"

He stops walking. The corridor is empty now, the distant hum of the building the only sound. His office is just ahead—door closed, light off, waiting for him like a sanctuary he doesn't deserve.

"What problems," he says flatly. "You'll have to be specific."

"You take everything way too seriously."

"I take my job seriously. There's a difference."

"Is there?" You poke his chest. Once. Twice. The touch is brief, almost casual, but he feels it like a brand since you do it often. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've forgotten what fun is. You know, fun is necessary."

"I don't need to lighten up. I need Reapers to do their jobs."

"And maybe if you were a little easier on them, they'd actually want to do their jobs."

The words hang in the air between you, sharp and undeniable. You mumble the last part under your breath, but he hears it anyway—he hears everything when it comes to you.

The corridor gives way to the entrance of his office. The door slides open with a soft hiss, revealing the familiar space beyond: dim purple light, the cityscape through the arched window, the shelves lined with books and trophies and the meticulous order he's cultivated over decades.

The whole R.A.D. is near-empty. Most of the Reaper Association had fucked off for most of the day, leaving behind only the stragglers and the workaholics and the ones who had nowhere else to be.

Despite this, you stayed and followed him.

You're now in his office, invading his space, standing there like you belong in the one place he's always kept carefully, obsessively his own. When he looks at you his knuckles blanch against the edge of his desk. But his lips barely part, flickering at the corners, a muscle twitching with something he refuses to name.

He tears his gaze away.

“Just please focus on your work." His command lands with all the affection of a slammed door. "Reports aren't going to write themselves."

"Oh, I've been done with that." You snort, and he can hear the eye roll in your voice. You're tired of papers, he can tell. Tired of the staleness of his office. Tired of the fact that it's always clean, always orderly, always perfect in that suffocating way that leaves no room for anything human.

He should be grateful for you. Clearly, he's not.

"Then why are you still here?" he snaps, the words laced with a familiar edge of irritation.

You raise a brow, and before you can even part your lips, he's already barreling ahead.

"I don't need your help," he scoffs, dismissive and sharp, as if the very suggestion offends him.

"Right. Of course. You would've done it all by yourself." You let the words hang, dripping with mock sweetness. "Because you're so eager to do anything 8394 says. Or what's his name now—Casper, isn't it?"

You toss your head toward him, letting your gaze linger just long enough to catch the faint flush creeping across his cheeks. His eyes are closed, jaw tight, that familiar fortress of composure already cracking at the edges.

You beat him to it before he can even open his mouth. "It's not a crime to want approval, 5012." Your voice is softer now, almost conversational, but the barb is still there—sharp and precise. "You shouldn't make it everyone else's problem, though."

The words settle between you like smoke, curling and lingering in the stale office air. He clicks his tongue with irritation, a sound that's become almost routine in your presence.

"So have me terminated then." You lean back in your chair, letting it shriek against the floor in protest. You stretch your arms out casually, very much provoking. "Oh, wait—you can't do that anymore, can you?"

The mockery drips from your voice, playful and venomous in equal measure.

5012's jaw spasms. A muscle ticks beneath the skin, and for a moment you think you've finally pushed him past the point of restraint. You want to see it. You want to see if he'll punch something, throw something, do anything other than retreat into that cold, impenetrable silence he wears like armor.

Instead, he withdraws. Just like he always does.

Most people would drop it. Would let the silence settle and the tension dissolve. But you? You've made an art of poking, of prodding, of testing exactly how far a man like him can bend before he finally breaks.

You’ve been wondering how he’ll snap.

You watch him make three passes through the room, never once facing you head-on. His movements are mechanical—collating papers, scanning documents, scanning them again. The edges of the pages bristle under his fingers, a quiet testament to his fraying patience.

It's thrilling, honestly. How easy it is to set his nerves singing. You start narrating his steps in your head, cataloging every twitch and stiffened shoulder, imagining what it would take to force that mask to slip completely. The nascent thought is seductive: if you keep prodding, keep pushing, maybe he'll finally shatter into a spectacular, beautiful mess.

"Do you want me to be terminated?"

Your voice is modulated now—controlled, almost gentle. The cruelty only simmers beneath the surface, a quiet current you've decided to be merciful about. For now.

You know exactly what you're doing. 

You're poking the bear himself, and you're enjoying it.

“Do I look like HR to you?” 5012 questioned bitterly, waving you off with a dismissive flick of his hand. His voice is flat, hollow, drained of all the fire you'd so carefully stoked. “If you’re done with work then just go home. Or do whatever you want."

Instead, you rise from his desk slowness, letting the silence stretch between you like a wire pulled taut. 5012 watches you warily, his posture stiffening as you round the desk, to the front. He doesn't retreat, though. He never does. He stands his ground like a man who's forgotten how to yield.

You plant your palms flat on the surface of his desk, leaning in just enough to make your presence undeniable. Then, with the kind of casual audacity that makes his eye twitch, you hoist yourself up and settle on the edge of his workspace.

Right on top of his neatly arranged paperwork.

He hates that you do this.

You know he hates it.

And yet, he lets it go. Every single time.

You sit there for a moment, letting your gaze drift over him with the kind of unhurried assessment that makes most people squirm. His purple eyes are fixed on you, sharp and adamant, but there's something else quivering beneath that pretty face—something he's desperately trying to keep buried.

You look at him for a few seconds before you sit up straighter. Smooth down the front of your outfit. Arrange your features into something almost proper—back straight, hands folded neatly in your lap, chin tilted at just the right angle.

The sudden change is so jarring that 5012's brow furrows. He blinks, confusion flickering across his features like a crack in porcelain. He can't read you. He never can. Your narrowed gaze gives nothing away—bored, almost dismissive, like you've already decided he's not worth the effort.

"Lame," you murmur, just loud enough for him to catch. "You're so lame. And you suck at hiding it."

His eyes narrow. "What are you talking about now?"

You don't answer immediately. Instead, you lean forward, letting your hair fall forward to curtain your face. The strands brush against your cheeks, and you push them back with a slow, deliberate motion—exposing your face entirely, leaving nothing for him to hide behind.

You're close now. Close enough that he can see the way your pupils dilate in the dim office light. Close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating off you. "You look like you want to take the edge off," you say, voice dropping to something quieter. More intimate. "But you don't want to admit it."

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and charged. 5012's jaw tightens. His hands, resting on the armrests of his chair, curl into fists. He doesn't look away from you—if anything, his gaze sharpens, slitting into something dangerously focused.

"That's ridiculous," he finally says, his voice low and clipped. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?"

"No." He leans back in his chair, putting a sliver of distance between you. It's not enough. It's never enough. "You're projecting. As usual."

"Am I?"

"Yes." His fingers drum against the armrest—a rare tell, one he'd never allow anyone else to see. "And I don't need you to psychoanalyze me. I need you to leave."

"Uh-huh." You don't move.

"I'm serious." His voice hardens. "Take your leave. I don't need you anymore."

Your thumb finds the seam of his paperwork—the stack he'd so carefully organized, the edges he'd so meticulously aligned. With a lazy motion, you cock the neat stack askew. "You sure?" you ask, tilting your head. "There's more you could ask of me, 5012. Unless..." You pause, letting the word linger. "Unless you're scared?” 

He sighs. It's a sound of pure, bone-deep exhaustion—the kind that settles in his chest and refuses to leave. His hands curl around the coffee mug on his desk, fingers tightening until his knuckles go white. For a moment, you almost expect the ceramic to shatter in his grip.

"Just go," he says again, quieter this time. "I have work to do."

You slide off the desk, but instead of heading for the door, you sidestep—right into his space. You plant yourself directly in front of him, close enough that your knees nearly brush his. You look down at him, and for once, he doesn't bother to look away.

"You know," you say, your voice conversational, almost pleasant, "I could go home. Or I could go to the human world. Chill there for a while. Grab a drink. Watch the sun rise."

His expression sours. "That's irresponsible. Even for you."

"Is it?" You shrug, utterly unbothered. "Maybe. But I could also stay. Right here. Until you tell me what you actually want to my face instead of being so damn defensive all the time."

The words land like a blow. 5012's jaw works, muscles grinding beneath the skin. He stares up at you, "Stubborn," he mutters, almost to himself. "Incredibly stubborn."

"I've been called worse."

"I'm sure you have." His grip on the mug loosens. His shoulders drop a fraction of an inch—so subtle you almost miss it. But you don't miss it. You never miss anything when it comes to him. "You don't know what you're asking," he says, his voice barely above a murmur.

"Try me."

He looks at you for a long, aching moment as his  office hums with silence—the distant buzz of fluorescent lights and the faint whisper of the ventilation system.

It's you who finally breaks the silence, voice low and teasing: "Or are you just going to sit there and pretend I don't exist?"

His jaw tightens. He looks away—just for a second anyway before dragging his gaze back to yours. When he speaks, his voice is stripped raw, scraped clean of all the usual armor.

You snort. "Seriously?" You tilt your head, letting your gaze drag over him with theatrical slowness. “Nothing this time?”

The barb scrapes the nerve. He puts his pen down with an audible click—sharp, final, a punctuation mark to his fraying patience. He rises from his chair, and the movement is fluid. He looms by the desk corner, using every inch of his height like a weapon.

It doesn't work.

You remain unmoved, completely unimpressed.

The gap between your bodies is just a dare now. A breath of space that neither of you closes. You smile. Slow. Indulgent. Chin tipped up, meeting his glare head-on. "I want you to stop pretending you're not attracted to me," you drawl.

The gamble lands heavy between you. You think that if it weren't for the air conditioning blasting, you might be able to hear the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat.

His gaze is brighter than the human realm sun, somehow. Hot in anger, though there's something else flickering in those purple irises—something warm, something he'd never admit to. 

He's never easy to read, but you know him well enough to recognize the cracks in his composure.

Something about this knowledge makes your pulse behave badly. You've always wanted to know what he'd be like without all the protocol. How much of himself he'd let in if you shone a light on him.

"I'm not," he seethes, voice thin, frayed at the edges, "attracted to you.”

You make a sound that's not quite a laugh. More like a scoff, but it's cruel regardless.

"That's a good answer. Very diplomatic." You tap your chin, feigning thoughtfulness. "Very... technically not a lie, since you're not attracted to me. You're just—what? Fascinated? Intrigued? Constantly thinking about me when you should be working?"

He doesn't answer. 

He won't look at you this time. 

"Aw that’s too bad, though." You step closer, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "What if I said I wanted you too, 5012?”

He flinches. It's barely perceptible—a micro-movement, a tightening of his jaw. But you catch it. You always catch it. It's the most overt form of emotion he's shown in regards to you, and the sight of it makes you feel drunk on possibility.

"You can't say things like that," he finally says, his voice so quiet it's almost swallowed by the hum of the office. "You know the rules."

"Rules?" You laugh, soft and disbelieving. "Since when have you ever cared about what I know?"

He lifts his gaze to meet yours. There's something raw in it now, something unguarded. "I care about the balance. I can't—"

"Can't what?" You cut him off then tilt your head, voice softening despite yourself. "Can't admit it? Can't say it out loud?" You pause, letting the words settle. 

"Or can't lie about it?"

He goes still. The Reaper's oath binds him to truth. He cannot utter a falsehood—the words simply won't form. But he can dodge. He can deflect. He can dance around the edges of a confession like a man avoiding a trap.

And right now, he's doing all three.

Then something change in his expression. It doesn't just slip—it shatters, and what's underneath is something you've never seen before.

5012 moves. One moment he's standing there, rigid and restrained. The next, he's in your space—closer than close, his body crowding yours against the edge of his desk. His hand finds your chin, fingers firm against your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

You gasp. It's not loud. Barely a whisper of air escaping your lips. But he hears it anyway.

"You." His voice is low, rough, scraped raw. "You have no idea how sick I am of your behavior."

Your heart stutters. Your mind scrambles for a retort, a barb, anything to regain the upper hand. But the words won't come.

"All this time," he continues, thumb tracing the line of your jaw with devastating slowness. "All this poking. Prodding. Testing my limits like I'm some kind of experiment." His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying across your hip, anchoring you in place. 

"Every single day," he murmurs, and there's something almost amused in his voice now, enough that makes your stomach flip. "You find new ways to get under my skin. To push my buttons. To see how far you can go before I snap."

His eyes search yours, and for the first time, you see something you never expected to find there.

Hunger.

"And now you wonder," he says, the words slow and careful, "whether I want you."

You swallow hard. "I—"

"Be quiet." His thumb presses against your lower lip, silencing you. "I've had enough of your talking. Your pathetic little games." He leans in, his breath warm against your ear, and you feel the words more than you hear them. 

"You wanted my attention so badly? You have it."

A shiver runs down your spine. Your hands find his chest, ready to push him away—but they don't. They just... rest there, just feeling the steady pace of his heartbeat.

"Tell me," he says, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Is this what you wanted?" His thumb traces your lower lip again, slow and teasing. "To finally get a reaction out of me?"

You force yourself to meet his gaze. “Ha… I don't know what you're talking about. You’re the one who’s freaking out over me.” The statement you claim, clearly isn’t true.

His laugh is quiet and devoid of humor. “Now that’s a lie… and the truth, such cleverness," Your eyes widen as he tilts your chin up higher. "We both know you can't lie. But you can deflect. You can dodge." He pauses, and the intensity of his stare makes your knees weak. "You can pretend you don't know exactly what you've been doing."

“50—“

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. "Every time you poked my chest. Every time you sat on my desk. Every time you leaned in just a little too close." He tugs, just slightly, tilting your head back. "Did you think I was blind?"

You should say something. Again, at least fight back but the words are stuck in your throat, tangled in the sudden, overwhelming awareness of how close he is.

"Just admit it." His voice drops even lower, a whisper against your lips. "You wanted to see what it would take to break me."

You swallow hard, scoff. "And? So what if I did?"

Your confession caused 5012 to goes still. For a moment, you think you've finally pushed him too far. That he'll pull away, retreat back behind his walls, leave you standing here with your heart in your throat.

Yet he doesn't. Instead, he pulls you closer. 

"Then… you should have been careful what you wished for." 

His mouth meets yours before you can respond—and it's not gentle. It's not tentative. It's a claim, a brand, a punishment and a promise all at once. You make a sound against his lips—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. Your hands fist in his coat, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

When he pulls back, you're breathless.

"That's—" you start, but he cuts you off with another kiss, shorter this time, almost dismissive. His hands find your hips, and before you can react, he's lifted you more onto the desk, stepping between your thighs like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"5... 0... 1... 2..." You manage a forced breath, staring up at him with that wide, defiant gaze even as he crowds you against the edge, your head tilting back to follow the line of his face.

"Twenty-three times," he says. "You've put that same look on your face twenty-three times today."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're about to say something you shouldn't."

"Pfft," you scoff. "You're counting."

"Difficult not to, when you make it so—" His jaw tightens. "—obvious."

"Obvious?" You laugh. "Oh, I'm obvious? Then tell me, what am I thinking right now?"

He narrows his eyes, scanning your face—and then his lips part, his throat bobbing when he swallows. "No."

"No? That's all I get?"

"Because I—" He breaks off, reining in his frustration. "I have the distinct feeling you'll take what I say and use it to torture me for the next century. So, no. I won't be obliging you."

You lean back, palms flat on the desk, "Funny. Because I was just thinking about how different your office looks from the angle. Right from where you sit. That's the view you have all day, just staring at the wall? It's a wonder you get any work done."

His eyes tick to your throat, then away. And for a moment, 5012 just looks at you, like truly, thoroughly, devastatingly looks and you watch the last thread of his composure snap.

"You know, when I wonder about you..." He trails off, jaw working, eyes unreadable. Then, slowly, he reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

"I wonder what it would take to finally shut you up," he says softly. "What it would take for you to stop running your mouth and just..." He stops.

"Just what?" you whisper.

He doesn't answer. Instead, his hand slides to the back of your neck again, and he pulls you in, forehead pressed against yours.

"No more games." His hand slides to your waist, grip firm, pulling you flush against him. "No more teasing. No more testing."

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine. "You've been begging for this since the day you arrived. Every glance. Every touch. Every word carefully chosen to get under my skin."

His other hand finds your thigh, fingers pressing into the fabric of your pants. "And I've let you. Because I was too stubborn. Too professional."

He pulls back, and the look in his eyes makes your heart stutter.

"But I'm done letting you get away with it."

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and charged. And then he moves slow, never breaking eye contact.

His gloved hand rises to his mouth, and you watch, transfixed, as his teeth catch the tip of the leather at his middle finger. He tugs, a single sharp pull, and the glove comes free inch by agonizing inch. The black leather peels away from his skin, revealing the pale expanse of his hand beneath—the ridges of his knuckles, the fine veins tracing along his wrist, the warmth of his palm that you suddenly, desperately want to feel against your skin.

His jaw works, pulling the glove loose until it hangs from his teeth, a dark flag of surrender. He lets it drop to the floor with a soft thud, and his bare hand finds your waist, skin against fabric, searing through the barrier of your clothes.

The second glove follows the same way—his teeth catching the leather, pulling slow and deliberate, dragging out every second of the reveal. You watch his lips part around the material, watch the flex of his jaw, and something low and hot coils in your belly.

When that glove joins the first on the floor, he flexes his bare fingers, and you can see the faint flush of warmth across his knuckles. His hand rises, palm flat against your cheek, and the contact is electric—bare skin against skin, no barrier, no distance.

His thumb traces your lower lip, and you feel every ridge of his fingerprint.

"No more barriers," he murmurs. "No more distance." His bare hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair that makes your breath catch.

"I wonder," he says, voice low and rough, "if you're ready for what comes next."

You open your mouth to speak but he cuts you off with another kiss that steals every thought from your mind. It's not gentle. It's not the careful, controlled kiss from before.

It's a lesson.

His teeth graze your lower lip, and you gasp. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss until you're breathless, until your hands grip his coat like a lifeline.

When he pulls back, you're trembling.

"I warned you," he says, and there's a finality in his voice that makes your blood run hot. "Warned you many times." He tips your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. 

"But you can only learn the hard way, it seems."

Your pulse pounds in your ears. It didn't take long for 5012 to start implementing punitive measures.

It was subtle at first—a hand that lingered a moment too long on your hip, a gaze that tracked your movements with precision. But then the games began in earnest, and you realized with a thrill that you'd awakened something in him that had been sleeping far too long.

He called it "professional development."

You called it the most exquisite torture you'd ever endured.

5012 sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms bare and corded with tension. His coat had been discarded hours ago, draped over the back of the sofa like a forgotten skin. He looked... unmoored. Just hungry looking.

His hand found your chin, tilting your face up. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you."

You met his gaze, defiant and unrepentant.

"Right" he murmured, thumb tracing your lower lip then  released your chin and stepped back, "I think it's time we address this... behavioral issue."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Is that all you've got?"

He stopped behind you. You felt the heat of him at your back, felt his breath ghost across the shell of your ear. "Careful," he murmured, "or I'll show you just how much I've got."

A shiver raced down your spine.

"Lean over the desk."

You froze in shocked, “Excuse me?"

"You heard me." His hand found the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Not a threat—just a promise. "Lean. Over. The desk."

You could have refused. You could have laughed, deflected, turned it into another game. But something in his voice made you obey.

You bent over the polished wood, palms flat against the cool surface. Your heart pounded. Your breath came in shallow gasps.

"Good." His voice was warm against your ear. "Look at you. So obedient when you want to be."

His hands found your hips, fingers curling into the fabric of your pants. He tugged, just slightly, adjusting your position. "Tell me," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "How many times have you done this? Sat on this desk, crossed your legs, tilted your head, tempted?"

"I don't—"

"Don't lie." He pressed closer, the warmth of him a brand against your back. "I've seen the way you look at me. The way you arch your back when you think I'm not watching. The way you push and push and push." His hand slid from your hip to the curve of your ass, palm flat and heavy.

"You wanted my attention," he murmured. "Now you have it."

The first strike was sharp, unexpected, a crack of his palm against your pants that made you gasp. It didn't hurt—not really—but the unexpectedness and shock of it, the sheer audacity, made your knees buckle. 

"That was for the complaint about the filing system," he said. "You knew I was already frustrated."

Another strike. Harder this time. You bit your lip. 

"That was for telling the junior Reapers that I 'needed to lighten up.'"

You opened your mouth to respond, but the third blow came faster than you expected, and the sound that escaped you was embarrassingly close to a moan. 

"And that," he said, voice dropping to something almost affectionate, "was for this."

His hand found your hip, turning you over, and before you could react, he'd flipped you onto your back on the desk causing papers to scattered, even his pen clattered to the floor. He loomed over you, eyes dark, breath uneven.

"Look at you." His voice was rough, scraped raw. "So damn obedient when you're not talking."

You laughed, breathless. "You like me better when I'm talking."

"Do I?" His hands found the hem of your shirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric. "Or do I just like the way your mouth moves when you're being insufferable?"

"Both."

He huffed a laugh. "Probably."

His fingers traced the edge of your pants, hooking into the waistband. "Take these off."

"Make me."

The challenge hung in the air between you, just.  unbearable. He tilted his head, studying you with those sharp purple eyes. "Oh, I will." His voice was a murmur, almost tender. "But you're going to ask nicely first."

"Never."

"Never?" He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "We'll see." His hands found your wrists, pinning them above your head. The desk was cool against your back, the wood smooth and unforgiving.

"Stay," he said, and the command was absolute.

He released your wrists, and you kept them there. You didn't know why you obeyed. You just... did.

5012 pulled back, and you watched him move around the room. He retrieved a length of silk from somewhere his drawer, maybe, or the back of the sofa and returned to stand over you.

"Arms stay up," he said, and there was no room for negotiation.

You raised them, and he bound your wrists together, wrapping the silk with meticulous precision. Not too tight. Just enough to remind you that you were at his mercy.

"Sit up," he said next.

You obeyed.

He unbuttoned your shirt with slowness, revealing your chest inch by inch. The air was cool against your skin. Your nipples tightened, and you saw his gaze track the reaction.

"Beautiful," he murmured, and the word was almost reverent. His hands found your pants again, and this time, you didn't resist. He tugged them down your hips, exposing your thighs and the heat pooling between them.

"Spread your legs." The command was low, causing you to hesitated, just. little. He slapped your thigh—not hard, just enough to make you gasp. "I said spread your legs."

You obeyed, shame and arousal tangling in your chest. "Good." He stepped between your thighs, and the pressure of him there was maddening. "Look at you. So turned on for me. And you still haven't said what I want to hear."

"I don't know—"

"Yes, you do." He leaned in, lips brushing your throat. "You know exactly what you need to say. But you're too stubborn to say it." His fingers found your core, tracing the heated area  with devastating precision. You arched into his touch, a desperate sound escaping your lips.

"I wonder," he murmured, "how long you'll last before you break."

His thumb found your clit, circling with agonizing slowness. Your hips bucked. He pulled away. "Ah-ah." He tsked softly. "I didn't say you could move."

"Please," you breathed, and the word shocked you.

"Please what?"

"Please... touch me.”

He halfway smiled. It was a cruel thing, that smile. "That's not the right answer."

You didn't know what he wanted. Honestly, you were too far gone, too desperate, too lost in the haze of pleasure and frustration.

"I wonder," he said again, and his voice was a low murmur against your skin, "if you know how much I've wanted this. How many nights I've lain awake, wondering what it would take to break you."

His hand slid from your core to your thigh, gripping hard enough to bruise. "I wonder," he continued, "if you know what it does to me when you look at me like that. Like you know exactly what you're doing."

"I don't—"

"Yes, you do." His lips found your throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "You've known since the day you arrived. And you've been playing with me ever since." His fingers found your core again, slipping inside you with cruel precision. You cried out, hips bucking against his hand.

"That's it." His voice was soft, almost affectionate. "Let go, my dear. Let me see what you've been hiding." His thumb found your clit again, circling in time with his fingers, and you felt the pressure building, building, building—

And then he stopped.

"Not yet," he murmured, pulling away. "Not until you say it."

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. "Say wha?" you gasped.

He leaned in, voice a whisper that made your blood run hot. "Say you're mine." 

"Please," you breathed. "Please—"

"Say it."

"I'm—" You swallowed hard, shame and desire warring in your chest. "I'm yours."

His breath shuddered out of him. "Again."

"I'm yours."

"That's my good little brat."

His hand found your core again, and this time, he didn't stop. He drove you higher and higher, watching your face with those purple eyes, and when you finally came—when the pleasure crashed through you like a wave—he held you through it, murmuring soft praise against your skin. "Good. So good. My perfect, infuriating little menace."

You clung to him, breathless, shaking.

And when you finally came back to yourself, you found him watching you with an expression that made your heart stutter.

"One more thing," he said, and the deepness in his voice made you shiver.

"What?"

His hands found your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach. The silk binding your wrists tightened, and you felt the stretch in your shoulders.

"One more round," he said, and his voice was a whisper against your ear. "And then we'll see if you still have any fight left in you."

You laughed, despite everything. "You'll never break me."

"No." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "But watching you try to hold out will be incredibly entertaining." His hand came down on your ass, sharp and unexpected, and you cried out.

"Count for me,” he said.

"One."

Another strike. Harder. "Two."

"Three."

"Good." His hand traced the stinging skin, soothing the ache. "Now tell me—was it worth it?"

You laughed, breathless. "Every second."

He shook his head, but there was a smile on his face—a half real smile, open and warm. His hand found your waist, turning you over again, and he lowered himself over you, weight settling against your body.

"Mm. Aren’t you truly enjoying this…" He pressed a kiss to your throat. "I wonder how many rounds it'll take to truly break you."

You laughed, open and free. "You'll be wondering for a while."

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "I figured." His hand found your core again, and you arched into his touch. Then pressed a kiss to your collarbone. "Let's fix that."

He pulled away just enough to look at you, and the intensity in his gaze made your breath catch. “Let’s see,” he said, "we're going to try something different."

“Different?” You asked, little bit dazed.

"Mm." He produced a length of silk from somewhere—you didn't know where, and you didn't care. "Sensory deprivation."

"I—"

"Shh." He pressed a finger to your lips. "You said you wanted to see what I have. This is what I have."

He slipped the silk over your eyes, and the sudden darkness was disorienting. Your other senses sharpened: the smell of his cologne, the warmth of his body, the rasp of his breath.

"Now," he murmured, "I want you to focus. On every touch. Every sound. Every breath." His hand found your throat, and the pressure was just enough to ground you. "Don't think about what's coming next," he said. "Just... be. Here. With me."

You obeyed.

His lips found your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. His hands roamed your body, cataloging every curve, every inch of skin.

"Tell me," he murmured, "what do you feel?"

"You."

"Specifics."

Your laugh was breathless. "Where you touch me. Your lips. Your hands."

"Good." His teeth grazed your nipple, and you gasped. "What else?"

"Your voice. The silk on my skin. The cool wood."

"Fascinating." He pulled away slightly, and you heard the rustle of fabric. "And now?"

A blindfold over your eyes had already stolen sight. But when something soft wrapped around your wrists, when you felt the silk thread through the desk's hardware and knot tight, you realized your arms had been bound to the legs of the furniture, just spread open, wrists tethered either side of you.

You tugged, just once, testing. You rattled the whole desk. 5012 chuckled "Good. You're still breathing. Perfect." He paused, considering.

"I wonder... if you're going to be good."

You opened your mouth, and a sharp, stinging bite landed high on your thigh—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make your muscles jump and a small, sharp sound escape you. He soothed the spot with his tongue before pulling back.

"That was a test," he said. "You passed."

"Test?" you echoed, voice rough.

"Mm." He settled between your thighs, and you felt the warmth of his breath against your core.  His mouth found you, tongue tracing the slick folds with devastating precision. You arched against the bindings, a desperate sound escaping your lips.

His tongue circled your clit, and you shattered.

When you came back to yourself, you were trembling. The bindings had shifted, the silk looser than before. 5012 watched you with an expression that was both fierce and tender.

“Such a good little brat,” he breathed, mocking you a little. "Yet still I'm not done with you," he murmured. "But you're doing so well."

The impact came where he'd struck before—over the same reddened spot, landing again and again until your thighs quivered and a pathetic little noise you'd never admit to had started to bubble up from your chest.

You tried to muffle it.

5012 noticed, causing his hand moved, tangling in your hair, pulling your head back just enough that he could see your face. "I want to hear you," he murmured. "I want to hear exactly how it feels to be completely and thoroughly punished."

The next strike was harder—a proper, solid blow that landed with a crack and sent a shock of sensation straight through you.

"Count again," he said.

"F-fuck—" You choked.

He sighs, adding, "That’s isn’t counting, must I remind you?" He alternated—one side, then the other, leaving you no time to brace or recover. You lost count. You lost yourself. Every sharp crack of his palm against your skin was a shock of pain and pleasure that blurred the world into something pale and bright around you.

The corner of the desk bit into your hip. His hands cradled you through the worst of it. "Should I stop?" he asked, and his voice was almost gentle.

"No," you heard yourself say. “Please don't stop."

He soothed the sting with his palm, stroking over the reddened skin as if he could erase the marks. You leaned back into him, and he caught you, steadying you with his arms.

The next hour was a blur of strikes and whispers, of his body against yours, of his hands and his teeth and the dark, hungry sounds he made when you surrendered. His voice above your ear was steady, guiding—the firm, watchful tone that stirred something deep in your gut.

"Hm," he murmured, "let me see."

The world tilted again. He turned you, moved you, and you felt the press of the desk against your hip.

"Keep your knees spread. Good. Now hold still."

The belt slid free from the loops with a soft hiss of leather. “A more proper punishment," he said, "has to make an impression. Otherwise, what's the point?"

He smoothed a hand over the spot he'd chosen—your thigh, where the skin was sensitive, still tender from all the attention—and you heard his huff of approval when you jerked.

"Perfect."

The first lash landed before you could brace. It wasn't blinding, more just a quick, sharp stripe of fire across your skin.

Then another. And another.

By the third, you'd started to feel the world sway. By the sixth, you were starting to shake. Your hair had come loose from its bindings, pooling over the edge of the desk. You were trembling, your body starved and aching and craving a release you weren't sure you'd ever get.

"Just a few more," he murmured, and he sounded almost apologetic. "You're doing so well."

"Please 5012,” you gasped.

"Please what?"

"Please let me—"

"Let you what?"

You couldn't get the words out. Your throat was raw, your body trembling, every nerve ending alight with desperate, aching need. You just shook your head, and he sighed—long, slow, almost pitying.

"Please," you breathed, the word barely a whisper, "just fuck me already..."

The look on your face—that constantly irritated, defiant gaze that had been your armor since the day you arrived was already giving way a desperate look for him.

5012 watched the transformation with dark fascination, his purple eyes tracing the flush spreading across your cheeks, the way your lips parted on each desperate exhale, the slight furrow of your brow as you fought to maintain some shred of composure.

He couldn't help but imagine how your desperate eyes would look underneath the blindfold. How they'd widen. How they'd glisten. How they'd plead with him in ways your mouth never would.

"Hm... alright," he said, and his voice was warm, almost tender, but there was an edge to it, “I suppose you've earned it."

His hands found your hips firm and he repositioned you. He pulled your hips up, angling you just the way he wanted against his disk, and you felt him press against the aching heat of you—the blunt head of his cock sliding through your slick folds, teasing, taunting.

He didn't push inside. More like he just held you there, breathing against your ear, the warmth of his exhale sending shivers down your spine. 

"I wonder," he murmured, and the words were soft, almost reverent, "how many times I've imagined this. You, bent over my desk. You, falling apart beneath me. You, finally quiet for once."

You whimpered—an involuntary sound that made him chuckle.

"Patience, my dear," he said. "We have all afternoon. It’s my lunch break after all." He notched himself at your entrance, the pressure maddening, and then finally, he pushed inside.

You cried out.

It was a sound that was half pain, half relief, torn from the depths of your chest. He filled you perfectly, stretching you open, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, devastating motion. Your fingers tried scrabbled against the polished wood of the desk, for something to ground you. But aw, did you already forget that your wrists were still bound?

His hips rocked against yours, a slow, deep pace that made stars burst behind your eyes, from all that spanking has you on edge. His hands gripped your hips like a lifeline, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise.

"Now fully answered question? Is this what you wanted?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble with a few occasionally grunts "Is this what you were waiting for?"

"Yes," you gasped, the word punched out of you with each thrust, "yes—"

"Good." He pulled out, almost completely, and then thrust back in—more harder, deeper, more punishing. "Because I've been waiting for this too."

His hand found your throat, not tight, just... there. A presence. A reminder of exactly who was in control. His fingers curled around the column of your neck, thumb resting against your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart.

"For so long," he continued, his voice dropping to something almost confessional. "Every time you sat on my desk. Every time you poked my chest. Every time you looked at me with that infuriating smirk." He punctuated each word with a thrust, driving himself deeper each time. 

"I always wondered what it would take to finally shut you up."

You couldn't respond. You could barely breathe. The pleasure was too much, too intense, too everything. His cock filled you perfectly, hitting that spot deep inside that made your vision blur. His hand on your throat, the weight of him against your back, the way he moved inside you with relentless, unforgiving precision—

"I love the way you feel," he murmured, and the words were almost tender. "The way you take me. The way you clench around me when I move."

You sobbed—a broken, desperate sound. Your body was no longer your own. It belonged to him, to this moment, to the overwhelming tide of pleasure that threatened to drown you.

"That's it," he breathed. "Let go now." His pace quickened, became more frantic, more urgent. His hips slapped against yours with each thrust, the sound obscene and perfect. His hand tightened on your throat, just slightly, and you felt the pressure build, build, build—

And then you shattered.

The orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, building from somewhere deep in your core and spreading outward in concentric rings of pure, blinding pleasure. Your body arched against the desk, the wood cool against your heated skin, and a soft cry was torn from your lips—swallowed by the darkness of the blindfold, by the weight of him pressed against you, by the sheer overwhelming intensity of it all.

Your inner walls clenched around his cock, pulsing that seemed to go on forever. Each contraction drew a shuddering breath from your lungs, each pulse of pleasure sending sparks dancing behind your blinded eyes.

5012 followed you over the edge with a guttural groan that seemed to be ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips pressed flush against you, driving as deep as he could go, and you felt the warm pulse of his release—thick and hot, filling you completely. 

He held himself there, buried to the hilt, and you felt every spasm of his body against yours, every tremor that ran through his frame.

"Fuck," he breathed, the word ragged and raw, and you'd never heard him sound so undone.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. 

The only sounds were your mingled breathing and the distant hum of the Underworld beyond the office walls. Then, slowly, he pulled out.

You felt the loss of him, still aching and somehow still desperate for more. A rush of warmth followed, and you knew without seeing that his release was seeping out of you, trickling down the inside of your thigh; feeling his hands were steady despite the tremor in his breath, and when he settled you against the wood, you felt his gaze on you like a physical weight.

The blindfold came off.

You blinked against the sudden light, disoriented, and found him looking down at you. His face was flushed, his hair disheveled, his usually immaculate composure completely shattered. His eyes were soft in a way you'd never seen. A little more vulnerable.

"Fuck," he said again, and this time it was almost reverent.

You laughed, or tried to. It came out as a breathless wheeze. "Eloquent."

He huffed a laugh, surprised and warm, and the sound made something in your chest ache. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your neck, the corner of your jaw.

"That," he murmured against your skin, "was worth every single complaint."

"I have a lot of complaints."

"I'm sure you do." He pulled back, and there was a smile playing at the corner of his mouth—real and unguarded. "File them later."

You watched as he reached down, his fingers finding the mess between your thighs. He gathered some of the evidence of his cum and pushed it back inside you that made you gasp.

"Can't have you dripping all over my desk," he murmured, and there was something darkly amused in his voice. "I still have work to do."

You opened your mouth to respond, to fire back some clever retort, but the words died in your throat when he withdrew his ungloved fingers and brought them to his lips. He tasted himself there, eyes never leaving yours, and the obscenity of it made your breath catch.

"Now," he said, pulling you into a sitting position and lifting you off the desk. "Let's get you cleaned up."

You let him carry you across the room, too boneless to protest. He settled you on the edge of the sofa and knelt before you, grabbing a cloth from somewhere—you didn't see where, didn't care—and began to clean you with careful, almost reverent precision.

"And then?" you prompted, your voice rough.

"And then." He paused, looking up at you. There was something soft in his gaze, something that made your heart stutter. "I wonder," he murmured, "how many more times you're going to make me do that."

You reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Keep wondering," you whispered. "I'll keep surprising you."

He kissed you then—soft and slow and achingly tender. His lips moved against yours like he had all the time in the world, like there was nothing else that mattered. His hand cradled your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone.

When he pulled back, you were both breathless.

"I think," You started, "I could get used to this."

He opened his mouth to respond—

The office door slid open with a hiss. "Lunch time is  over! I was wondering when you'd finally get around to finishing those reports, 5012, because 0213 and I have some questions about the soul allocation for—"

Atlas froze in the doorway.

The scene before him was... a lot. You, perched on the edge of the sofa, still flushed and disheveled, your shirt half-unbuttoned and your pants somewhere on the floor. 5012, standing before you, shirt untucked, hair a mess, his hand still cradling your jaw.

The silence stretched between the three of you like a wire pulled taut. Atlas blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

"I—" he started.

5012 rose to his feet with the kind of deliberate, unhurried grace that suggested he wasn't even slightly embarrassed. "The door was closed," he said flatly.

"It was. It... definitely was." Atlas's gaze darted between the two of you. “I-I can come back."

"You can wait," 5012 said, and his voice was pure command. "Outside."

Atlas's eyes went wide, and he stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Right. Yep. Outside. I'll just... I'll just wait out here. For... however long. No rush. Take your time. All the time in the world, really."

The door slid shut behind him.

You started to laugh. It bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest, uncontrollable and helpless. "Oh my god."

5012 looked at you, his expression caught somewhere between exasperated and amused. "This isn't funny."

"It's hilarious." You leaned back against the sofa, still laughing. "He's never going to look at you the same way again."

5012 sighed, long and defeated. "Get dressed," he said, and his voice was almost fond. "And then I suppose we have to deal with him." He straightened his shirt and ran a hand through his hair, trying in vain to restore some semblance of order.

"One minute," he called toward the door. "We'll be ready in one minute." He turned back to you, and there was a lightness in his expression that you hadn't seen before.

"Then," he said, and his voice was warm, "we can see what other wonders you have in store."

♤ — 𝒶𝒹𝓌𝒹 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ

𝒶/𝓃: apologies dearies, never thought in my life this will ever be the most difficult fanfic I have ever wrote this has been sitting in my drafts, and I refuse to move on from it until it was completed... (¬､¬), plus i had @mint0hhh in mind, numder one 5012 fangirl!

[iyayadonna]

✑ 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎: 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝓃 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝒻𝓊𝒸𝓀𝑒𝒹 ꩜ 𝒶𝒹𝓌𝒹 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.

✑ 𝒻𝑒𝒶𝓉𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: 8394, 5012, 0204 and 2471 (𝓌𝒸: 6.3k) ✑ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: oneshot/s · adwd x gn! reader · overworked · underfucked · emotional exhaustion · caretaking · hurt/comfort · touch starvation · praise kink · submissive · crying during sex · emotional release · breakdown · aftercare · fluff and angst · established relationship · soft smut.

✑ 𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: from anon! originally asked for a 5012 oneshot but honestly? i figured everyone deserves a proper introduction. and maybe something a little spicier too. 

✑ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Simple as the title. Overworked? Absolutely. Underfucked? Painfully so. it's the classic case of these poor Reapers overworking themselves. So somewhere between the exhaustion and the unspoken tension, something's gotta give.

𝚗𝚘. 𝟾𝟹𝟿𝟺 | 𝙲𝙰𝚂𝙿𝙴𝚁

Casper had been staring at the same line of code for nine hours.

His eyes were dry, his neck was stiff, and his long white hair had escaped its usual neatness to hang in tangled strands around his face. 

Three empty cup noodle containers sat in a neat row beside his keyboard—his only meals in the past forty-eight hours. The screen glowed with lines of complex algorithms, a project he'd taken on voluntarily because no one else could do it, because he was the best, because if he didn't do it, who would?

His fingers moved across the keyboard in mechanical, precise movements. He'd stopped feeling hungry hours ago. Stopped feeling tired even longer before that. There was only the work, the endless, consuming work, the thing that gave him purpose and structure and a reason to keep existing.

He didn't hear you come in.

He didn't hear you set down the cup of tea beside his keyboard.

He didn't feel your hand on his shoulder until you spoke.

"Casper."

His fingers froze. He blinked, slow and confused, like he was surfacing from deep water. “Yes sunshine?”

"I said your name three times."

He turned his head to look at you. His red eyes were glassy, pupils dilated, dark circles carved deep beneath them. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. He probably hadn't.

"I was... I was almost finished," he said, his voice rough. "Just one more—"

"You were almost finished five hours ago." You crouched beside his chair, bringing yourself to his eye level. "When was the last time you stood up? Actually stood up, not just shifted in your chair?"

His mouth opened then closed. Did he really lose track of time?

"That's what I thought."

You reached out and closed his laptop. He made a sound—something between a protest and a whimper—but he didn't open it again. His hands fell limp into his lap.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself," you said softly.

"I am fine. I am always fine."

"No, you're not." You reached up and tucked a strand of white hair behind his ear. "You're exhausted. You're running on empty. And you've been doing it for so long that you've forgotten you're allowed to stop."

He stared at you, his expression shifting from confusion to something more vulnerable. Something almost painful. "I don't... I don't know how to stop," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I stop, who will... who will handle all of this?"

"It can wait. You can't."

He let you pull him up from the chair. His legs were unsteady, his hand gripping yours like it was the only thing keeping him upright. You led him to his quarters, one slow step at a time, and he didn't argue. He didn't have the energy.

He sat while you knelt in front of him, looking up at his face. His eyes were glistening. There was something raw and exposed in his expression, like he was on the verge of something he couldn't name.

"I don't know what's happening to me," he said, his voice cracking. "I feel... I feel like I'm falling apart. Like I'm made of glass and I'm about to shatter."

"Then let me hold the pieces."

You reached up and cupped his face. He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering closed. His skin was warm. He was shaking, fine tremors running through his body.

"I'm so tired," he whispered. "I'm so tired, and I don't know how to be anything else."

"You don't have to be anything else." You stroked his cheek with your thumb. "You just have to let someone take care of you. Just for a little while."

He opened his eyes. There was something fragile in them. Something that had been buried for so long.

"Take care of me please.” he echoed, like the words were foreign.

“Of course, always.”

He nodded, barely perceptible, and you pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"Good boy."

He's floored. Like completely, devastatingly floored. His long white hair is splayed across the pillow like a halo, his red eyes squeezed shut so tight they're probably seeing stars. 

His hands—those clever, capable hands that can write code and solve equations and do things you can't even begin to understand—are clutching the bedsheets like they're the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

"Oh, I can't—" He gasps, voice breaking. "I can't, I ca-nnn't—"

He throws his head back into the pillows, a sound tearing from his throat that's equal parts pleasure and pure, desperate overwhelm. He can't handle it. He literally cannot handle it. And he's not shy about letting you know.

You're on top of him, riding him slow and deep, and he's a wreck. The guy can't even open his eyes to watch you. No, seriously—his face is actually tweaking. Twisting through expressions you've never seen on him before. Confusion. Ecstasy. Just mindless surrender.

It's so warm. So fucking warm. The heat of you wrapped around him is almost too much, warming his dick so nicely that he can barely feel it anymore. 

If he could just look down, he'd catch sight of your sweet hole spurting onto his white happy trail whilst you bounce on his cock like you own it—like you own him. You do, by the way. He just hasn't realized it yet.

Not that he'll look down. Not yet. No, he'll cum against his will, and he refuses to make a fool of himself. Haha. Like he isn't already.

Every time you drop your weight down on his barely restrained hips, his breath punches out of him. Every. Single. Time. Your silky hole clings to the base of his cock like it was made for him, and he's barely holding on.

First, the moaning. Pretty little sounds that spill from his lips like he can't help himself. High and needy and so fucking cute.

Then, when it gets too much—when the pleasure tips over into something overwhelming—the pathetic, uncontrollable growling starts. He makes these sounds that are almost pissed off, like he's angry at how good it feels. Like his body is betraying him.

"yeah, yeah, it– h'ohmygod—"

He's gritting his teeth now. For a hot second, you actually think he might burst into tears beneath you. His face is doing that thing—the scrunchy, reddening, I'm-about-to-lose-it thing.

He manages to hold it back. Barely. You feel proud, honestly. Especially with how he's breathing like he's been winded, chest heaving, every inhale a shuddering mess.

What a good little reaper.

Too bad this is only the first round out of the three you've planned. He's already hyperventilating. You're not going to tell him that, though. Gotta conserve that ego of his.

“Ahhnn gonna make me pass out—" he whines, his voice all breathy and wrecked. "fuck me more, ah— not ready to cum but its too good, its too fucking much... oh no—"

You lean down, pressing a kiss to his forehead, his nose, the corner of his flushed mouth. He groans, desperate, hands leaving the sheets to grab at your hips. His grip is almost bruising, but he doesn't push you faster. He just... holds on. Like you're the only thing keeping him from floating away.

“You're so beautiful like this," you murmur against his ear. "all mine. all fucking mine." He keens. An actual whimper, high and needy. His hips buck up into you, chasing something he can't name, and you feel him twitch inside you—so close, so fucking close.

“Please," he gasps. "please, I—I can't—"

“You can. you can, baby. let go. I’ve got you."

He doesn't need to hear anything else.

He cums with a cry that's more sob than moan, his whole body arching off the bed as he spills inside you. You feel him pulsing, hot and thick, and you keep moving, keep riding him through it, because he deserves the full experience.

When he finally comes down, he's a shaking, panting mess. His red eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused, and he stares up at you like you've just rewritten the laws of the universe.

“That was—" He swallows, throat bobbing. “I did not—i was not expecting—"

You smile, slow and satisfied. "we're not done yet."

His eyes go wide. “What?"

“You heard me." You shift your hips, just a little. His cock, still half-hard, twitches inside you. "we've got two more rounds, Casper. think you can handle it?"

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His face flushes all the way to the tips of his ears. “…No," he admits, voice small. "but I want to try."

He lasts longer in the second round. Makes it through the third with only a few broken sobs and one moment where he actually does cry, just a little, when you kiss him through it.

Afterward, he lies in a boneless heap, head on your chest, your fingers in his hair. He's too exhausted to speak. Too overwhelmed to move. He just... is.

"You're incredible but annoyingly persistent," he whispers, finally. "you know that? Just absolutely incredible."

𝚗𝚘. 𝟻𝟶𝟷𝟸 | 𝙽/𝙰

5012's office was always immaculate.

Like everything in its place. Reports stacked with military precision. Pens aligned at perfect angles. The coffee cup sat centered on its coaster, untouched for hours. His uniform was pressed, his hair was styled, and his expression was carved from stone.

He had been like this for six days straight.

He didn't sleep. He didn't eat. He didn't stop.

There was too much to do. Trainees to manage. Reports to file. Disciplinary actions to process. The revolution had left the Underworld in chaos, and 5012 was one of the few Reapers who could be trusted to maintain order. He was the one who held the system together, the one who enforced the rules, the one who made sure everything ran with mechanical precision.

He didn't have time to rest. He didn't deserve to rest.

He sat at his desk, purple eyes fixed on the glowing screen, his fingers moving in efficient, practiced strokes. He'd stopped feeling hungry two days ago. Stopped feeling tired even longer before that. There was only the work, the endless consuming work, the thing that gave his existence meaning and structure and purpose.

He didn't hear you knock.

He didn't hear you call his name.

He didn't feel your presence in the room until you closed the door and the sound echoed through his sterile 

workspace.

"5012."

His fingers froze. He blinked, slow and mechanical.

"What are you doing here?"

"Checking on you." You walked toward his desk. "The way I always do. The way you always ignore."

"I am busy."

"You're always busy." You stopped in front of his desk. "That's the problem."

He looked up at you, and for a moment, the mask flickered. There was something dark beneath his eyes. Something hollow. The purple irises were flat, unfocused, like he'd been staring at the screen for so long that he'd forgotten how to see anything else.

"I don't have time for this," he said flatly. "There are reports that need—"

"There are reports that can wait." You leaned over his desk, bracing your hands on the polished surface. "When was the last time you slept? Ate? Feel anything other than this?" You gestured vaguely at the office around you. "This endless, grinding, soul-sucking duty?"

His jaw tightened. "I am a Reaper. Feeling things is—"

"Not allowed. I know. But you can't live like this forever."

His eyes flashed with sudden anger. "I have lived like this for decades. I have been exactly what the system requires of me. I am not going to stop now because you think I am—"

"Because I'm worried about you?"

The anger was there for a moment, like something else took its place. Before he even shows that side, all he said, "I am fine."

"You're not." You rounded the desk and crouched beside his chair, forcing him to look at you.  He didn't resist when you pulled him up from his chair. He followed you like a man in a daze, too exhausted to fight, too drained to maintain the walls he'd spent decades building.

"Are you going to lecture me?" he asked, his voice hollow. "Tell me I'm not taking care of myself?"

"No." You led him to the sofa in the corner of his office—the one that was always pristine, always untouched. "I'm going to take care of you."

He stood there, rigid and uncertain, as you guided him down onto the cushions. His suit was perfect, pressed, untouchable.

It was also a wall. And you were about to tear it down.

"Remove your jacket."

"I don't—"

"You need to feel, 5012. Not think. Not calculate. Not strategize." You knelt in front of him. "Feel."

He didn't move. Couldn't move. So you did it for him—unbuttoned his coat, slid it down his shoulders. He hissed in a breath through his teeth, and you saw it—the tremor in his shoulder, the tension in his neck, the violence he'd been doing to his own body all this time.

"Look at you," you murmured, running a hand down his chest. "You carry all of it on your shoulders. Everyone else's problems. Everyone else's failures. The weight of an entire system that doesn't give a damn about you."

He swallowed. "It is my duty to—"

"It's not your duty to destroy yourself."

You peeled the layers away slowly, deliberately. Removing the armor he'd built around himself until he was just a man, sitting there, vulnerable and exposed. 

"You don't have to do anything." You pressed a kiss to his jaw. "You just have to let me take care of you. Can you do that?"

He hesitated for a long, terrible moment. Then he nodded.

So you'd decided to take care of him.

You'd lead him to the sofa. You'd undress him slowly. You'd remind him that he was allowed to be treated like a human, to be touched, to be held. You'd show him that he didn't have to carry everything alone.

You should have known better.

"Lie down," you said, guiding him toward the sofa.

He didn't move. You pushed gently at his shoulders, and he remained rooted to the spot, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"5012."

"I don't think so." His voice was flat. Cold. "You said you were going to take care of me. I seem to recall you mentioning something about not being able to do this alone."

"Yes, and—"

"Then you lay down.”

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

He move forward, and suddenly he was too close, his body crowding yours, his purple eyes burning with something you hadn't expected. 

"You said you wanted to take care of me." His hand came up to cup your jaw, firm and unyielding. "Then take care of me. On my terms."

"I was going to—"

"I know what you were going to do." He tilted his head, studying you like you were a problem to be solved. "You were going to be gentle. Slow. Patient." His thumb brushed over your lower lip. "I'm not… Casper. I don't need to be coddled."

"It's not coddling, it's—"

"It's what you want." His eyes were dark, intense. "But I'm not going to give it to you."

His mouth crashed against yours, and any thought you'd had about being in control evaporated instantly. He kissed like he did everything else, always with zero fucking mercy.

Somehow, you ended up on your back.

You didn't remember getting there. One moment you were standing, the next you were sprawled on the sofa, 5012's body caging you in, his hips pressed between your thighs.

Every time you tried to take control, he countered. Every time you pushed, he pushed back harder. His hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, your hips, your wrists—and his body was a wall of unrelenting strength.

"You're so stubborn," you gasped, trying to buck him off.

"Look who's talking." He caught your wrists and pinned them above your head. "You asked for this. Don't whine now."

"I'm not whining—"

"Mm. That's exactly what you're doing."

He settled between your legs, the thick heat of him pressing against your entrance, and you couldn't help the way your breath hitched. His eyes locked onto yours, watching every expression on your face.

"You really thought you could be on top," he said, almost to himself. "You really thought I'd let you."

He pushed inside you in one slow, brutal thrust, and you forgot how to breathe. He was big—so big—and the stretch of him made your vision blur. His hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to look at him.

"Look at me," he commanded. "I want to see your face when I fuck you."

"Y-you're—"

"Rude? Demanding?" His hips rolled, and you choked on a moan. "Yeah. I know. Now stop talking."

He moved like he was made for this.

His body planted on the mattress on top of you, using his core strength to drive into you with brutal precision. His hands gripped your ass, kneading the flesh as he slammed you down to meet his punishing thrusts. His eyes never left yours—watching, cataloging, memorizing every broken sound that spilled from your lips.

"Look at you," he said, his voice rough. "You thought you could be in control. You thought you could fuck me on your own terms."

"F-fuck you—"

"That's the idea." His hips snapped forward, and you cried out. "But I'm the one doing the fucking, sweetheart. Not you."

He was relentless. Every thrust was deep and punishing, designed to break you down piece by piece. Your hands fisted in his shirt, your nails digging into his chest, but he didn't slow down. Didn't stop.

"Please," you gasped. "Please, I—"

"Please what? You wanted to take care of me. I'm letting you." His pace quickened, and you sobbed, overwhelmed. "What's the matter? Too much for you?"

"I can't—"

"Shh." He pressed his palm against your lower belly, and you screamed, the pressure driving you so close to the edge you could taste it. "Yes, you can. You're going to come for me. And then you're going to come again."

His eyes locked with yours, and you saw it there—complete, absolute control. He was in charge, and he loved it.

"You're not going to stop until I say you can," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "And you're going to fucking thank me for it."

It wasn’t long before you broke apart on his cock, sobbing his name, your body shuddering through the most intense release of your life. He didn't stop. He kept fucking you through it, drawing out every last tremor, making you feel every second of your unraveling.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice almost tender. "That's my good—"

You clenched around him, and he groaned, his hips stuttering for just a moment.

"Fuck. Don't—"

"I thought you were in control," you gasped, a broken smile on your face. He growled, snapping his hips forward again, and you screamed.

"Brat," he said, his voice ragged. "You're such a fucking brat."

But there was something else in his voice now—something that almost sounded like affection.

You came again, and then again, and then you lost count entirely. He made it hurt. Made it feel incredible. Made you forget every single good reason you'd had for keeping your distance.

When he finally came, it was with a raw, broken groan of your name, his body shuddering against yours.

And then he collapsed on top of you, face pressed into your neck, breathing ragged.

You lay there, tangled up and breathing hard, the only sound in the room the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing against your neck. He didn't move. 

Couldn't move. For a long moment, he just stayed there, his body pressed against yours, his fingers still curled into your hip.

"I..." He swallowed, throat tight. "That was not... the plan."

"Funny," you said, voice hoarse. "That's exactly what I was about to say."

He huffed a laugh against your shoulder. "I was supposed to be the one who—"

"Took care of you? I know." You ran your fingers through his hair. "But I think you just needed to be reminded that you're allowed to let someone else carry the weight sometimes. Even if it means letting them try to take control."

He didn't say anything. But his arms tightened around you, and he pressed his face against your shoulder, and you felt the last of the tension leave his body.

It was the closest he could come to saying he loved you.

𝚗𝚘. 𝟶𝟸𝟶𝟺 | 𝙰𝚃𝙻𝙰𝚂

Atlas was always in the lounge.

It was his throne. His sanctuary even. The one place where he could pretend he wasn't a Reaper, wasn't a trainee, wasn't failing at the only thing he was supposed to do. He sprawled across the sofa like he owned it, his orange-streaked hair a riot of messy curls, his bright orange eyes half-lidded with practiced laziness.

He laughed at everything.

At jokes that weren't funny. At 5012's lectures. At the absurdity of his own existence. He laughed when trainees asked him questions he couldn't answer. Laughed when he failed his assessments. Laughed when the weight of everything pressed down on him so hard that he couldn't breathe.

If he didn't laugh, he'd shatter.

And everyone believed the act. Everyone except you.

You'd been watching him for weeks. The way his smile never quite reached his eyes. The way he stayed in the lounge until the early hours, avoiding his quarters—avoiding the silence, the solitude, the darkness. 

The way he volunteered for extra assignments even though he complained about them constantly, because the alternative was being alone with his own thoughts.

He was running on fumes. Running from himself. 

Running from the truth he didn't want to face.

You found him in the lounge at 3 AM. He was sprawled on the sofa, but he wasn't sleeping. His orange eyes were open, staring at the ceiling with an emptiness that made your chest ache.

There were three empty coffee cups on the table. A crumpled energy drink can. The faint smell of sugar and exhaustion hung in the air.

"Atlas."

He didn't move nor didn’t blink. "I'm not here."

"You're definitely here." You sat down on the edge of the sofa, looking down at him. "What are you doing awake at this hour?"

"Couldn't sleep." His voice was flat. Hollow. The usual playful edge was completely gone. "Nothing new."

"Atlas..."

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

His jaw tightened. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, but something flickered in them—something raw and wounded. "Bro, I'm always fine. That's my whole thing."

"Your whole thing is a lie."

He flinched. It was barely perceptible, but you saw it.

"Come here." You reached out. "Sit up."

"I don't want to—"

"Atlas." Your voice was gentle but firm. "Sit up."

He didn't move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he pushed himself upright. His orange eyes were red-rimmed. His smile was completely gone, replaced by something fragile and hollow.

"There. Happy?"

"No. Not even close."

You reached up and cupped his face. He flinched at the contact, like he wasn't used to being touched gently.

"Tell me what you want," you said softly. "Tell me what you need."

"I need—" He swallowed hard. "I need to feel something real. Something that isn't this... this emptiness."

"Then let me give that to you."

With Atlas he very obedient when it comes to you.

You pulled him into his quarters, then undressed him slowly, gently. Each layer you removed felt like peeling back another mask. His jacket. His cargo pants. His high-necked top. He sat there, vulnerable and exposed, his dark skin littered with goosebumps.

"You're so beautiful," you murmured, running your hands down his chest.

He let out a shaky laugh. “Ha-ah, I'm literally shaking like a leaf."

"I know." You pressed a kiss to his collarbone then pushed him back onto the mattress, climbing over him. He watched you with wide, uncertain eyes—his usual bravado completely stripped away.

"Tell me what you want," you said again, straddling his hips.

"You." His voice cracked. "I want you. I want to feel something that isn't just... just this emptiness."

"Then you're going to have to do something for me."

His eyes flickered with confusion. "What?"

"You're going to let go. All of it. The jokes, the masks, the pretending." You leaned down, your lips brushing his ear. "You're going to be pathetic for me. Can you do that?"

He shivered. "Pathetic?"

"Pathetic." You kissed his jaw. "I want to see you fall apart. I want to hear you beg. I want to watch you come undone because you're so desperate for me that you can't pretend anymore."

"Fuck," he breathed. “You're gonna kill me."

"That's the point."

He sat there, vulnerable and exposed, his dark skin littered with goosebumps. His orange eyes watched you with a mixture of nervousness and want, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

"Look at you," you murmured, running a hand down his chest. "So pretty. So wound up. When was the last time someone actually touched you?"

He swallowed hard. "I... it's been a while."

You guided him back onto the bed, positioning yourself over him. His hands found your hips instinctively, gripping tight, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You're in control," you said softly. "But I'm going to ride you. And you're going to let me take what I want. Sound good?"

He nodded, breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds—that sounds good."

You sank down onto him slowly, watching his face contort as he slid inside you. His mouth fell open, his fingers digging into your hips.

He was unpredictable, you'd learned. Atlas would keep you on your toes, downright wary of him during sex. You'd never know when he was about to switch 

positions, change pace, or bottom out without warning.

"F-Fuck, sorry babe—" He'd gasp, slamming into you one second, then softly thrusting the next.

He'd repeat from behind you, slamming into your sopping wet cunt one second and softly thrusting whilst caressing your hips the next. Unpredictable wasn't even the word. He just seemed to refuse letting you become accustomed to his cock, as if he was making sure you didn't get too attached to him.

But now, with you on top, facing him, he couldn't hide.

"You're so tight," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips. "Fuck, you're so good—"

"Eyes on me," you commanded.

He obeyed instantly, his orange eyes locking with yours.

"Good boy."

His hips bucked. He whimpered—actually whimpered—and his grip on your hips tightened. "Again," he breathed. "Say that again, p-please.”

"Good boy." You rolled your hips slowly, watching his face contort. "You like being a good boy for me, don't you?"

"Fuck, yes, I—I do, I—"

"You're so pathetic." You leaned down, your lips brushing his. "And I love it." He whimpered. His hips twitched up into you, desperate and needy.

"You like that?" you asked, riding him faster. "You like being told what to do? You like being good?"

“Shit, I—" He gasped as you clenched around him. "Fuck, I—yes, I like it, I like it—"

"Say it. Say what you are."

He was trembling now, his hands white-knuckled on your hips. His voice came out wrecked and desperate.

"I'm—I'm a good boy. I'm your good boy. Please, please—"

You leaned forward, kissing him hard as you rode him, swallowing his desperate sounds. He was so easy to unravel. So eager to please. All it took was someone taking control, and he became a trembling mess beneath you.

"That's right," you murmured against his lips. "You're so good for me. So fucking pretty like this."

He cried out as you picked up the pace, his hips bucking up to meet yours. He was unpredictable—sometimes slow and deep, sometimes fast and frantic—but you kept control, kept him on the edge.

"You want to cum?" you asked, breathless. "You want to be a good boy and cum for me?"

"Yes," he gasped. "Yes, yes, please, I need—"

"Then do it. Let go for me."

He shattered. His body arched, and he cried out your name, his release spilling hot and deep inside you. He was wrecked, trembling, his eyes wet with tears he couldn't hold back.

You stilled, watching him come down. His chest heaved, his hands still gripping your hips like you were his anchor.

"Holy shit," he breathed. “That was—that was—"

"I know." You leaned down and kissed his forehead. "You did so good. Such a good boy for me."

He laughed—a real laugh, shaky and breathless. "I love it when you say that."

𝚗𝚘. 𝟸𝟺𝟽𝟷 | 𝚁𝙾𝚆𝙰𝙽

Rowan was always smiling.

It was the first thing anyone noticed about him—that bright, infectious grin that seemed to light up the entire 10th Station. He smiled at trainees. Smiled at mortals. Smiled as he collected souls and guided them to the afterlife. Smiled as he polished his collection of human trinkets and shared their stories with anyone who would listen.

His smile was his gift.

It was also his curse.

Because Rowan smiled through everything. Through the exhaustion. Through the loneliness. Through the endless, grinding weight of being a Reaper who felt too much. He smiled when his heart was breaking. Smiled when the system reminded him that emotions were inefficiency. Smiled when he held a dying child and promised them the afterlife was beautiful, even as he wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all.

If he didn't smile, he'd fall apart.

And everyone believed the act. Everyone except you.

You'd been watching him for months. The way his smile never quite reached his eyes when he thought no one was looking. The way he stayed up late polishing his trinkets, talking to them like they were old friends. The way he offered comfort to everyone else while quietly crumbling inside.

He was running on empty. Giving so much of himself to everyone else that there was nothing left for him.

He was drowning.

And he was doing it with a smile on his face.

You found him in his quarters at 2 AM. He was sitting on the floor surrounded by his collection—the telescope, the snow globe, the cracked music box. His fingers were wrapped around a small brass compass, and he was staring at it with an expression of raw, aching grief.

"Rowan."

He didn't look up. His smile was fixed in place, but it was wrong. "Darling! What brings you here at this hour? You should be resting—"

"So should you."

He laughed—a hollow, brittle sound. "I'm fine. I'm always fine."

"You're not."

His hand tightened around the compass. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" You crossed the room and knelt in front of him. "The telescope," you said softly. "You tell everyone it's beautiful. That humans used it to find their way. But you never tell them why you really keep it."

He flinched. His smile flickered. “You caught me, I don't know what I'm doing," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I don't know who I am anymore. I smile because I don't know what else to do. I smile because if I stop, I'll—" He choked on the words. "I'll fall apart. And I can't fall apart. There's no one else to hold it together for them."

"Then let me hold it together for you."

He looked up at you, his blue eyes swimming with tears. His smile was gone now, replaced by something raw and vulnerable and so achingly human.

"Please," he whispered. "Please, I—I don't want to be alone. I don't want to feel like this anymore."

"Then let me in."

Rowan was always the one who gave.

He gave comfort. Gave warmth. Gave pieces of himself to every soul he guided, every trainee he mentored, every mortal whose fleeting happiness he admired. He loved so freely, so completely, that he'd forgotten what it felt like to receive.

But tonight, he was learning.

He was learning that he was allowed to want. Allowed to need. Allowed to be greedy for once. "Y-yeah," he gasped against your lips, his voice already breathless. "Feels amazing~"

His thrusts were passionate, deep, relentless. Each one drove the air from your lungs, his body pressing yours into the mattress with delicious weight. His mouth was everywhere—trailing kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, back up to claim your lips in long, languid kisses that stole your breath.

"I've got you," he murmured against your mouth. "I've got you. Let me do all the work. Let me take care of you."

He meant it, too. He kept your legs hitched around his waist, supporting your weight with a strength that surprised you. His blue eyes were half-lidded, dark with desire, but there was something else there too—something soft and reverent.

He was worshipping you.

"You feel so good," he breathed. "So perfect. I don't—I don't want to stop. I don't want this to end."

Around five or six minutes in, he switched.

It was subtle at first—a slight adjustment of his hips, a repositioning of his hands on your thighs. And then he had you angled in a way that made you gasp, your eyes going wide with surprise. 

"Oh!" you cried out. "Rowan—"

He grinned, his usual flamboyant smile now edged with something possessive and proud. "Found it, didn't I?"

"H-how did you—"

"There's a lot you don't know about me, darling." He thrust deeper, and you moaned, your fingers scrabbling against his shoulders. "But I've been paying attention. I know exactly how to make you feel good."

He was panting now, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he didn't slow down. Couldn't slow down. "Hnnngh," he groaned, his grip tightening on your hips. "Can you keep this position? Yeah? Too much? Too bad, huh..."

There was a teasing edge to his voice, but it was undercut by genuine desperation. He needed this—needed to make you feel good, needed to see you fall apart beneath him.

"You're—" You gasped as he hit that spot again. "You're impossible."

"Impossibly good, I think you mean." He laughed, giving a breathless, joyful sound. "I told you, darling. I'm the cutest Reaper in the lane. And I'm going to make you feel so, so good."

He was relentless. Each thrust was perfectly aimed, designed to drive you closer to the edge. His body covered yours, warm and solid, and his lips never stopped moving—whispering praise against your skin.

"Look at you," he breathed. "So beautiful. You have no idea what you do to me. How long I've wanted this. Wanted you."

His breathing was getting more ragged, his rhythm starting to break. He was close, you could feel it in the way his body tensed, the way his thrusts became more desperate.

"Come for me," he urged. "Let me feel you. Please, I need to—I need to feel you fall apart. I need to know I made you feel good."

His hand slipped between your bodies, his thumb finding you. You cried out, your body arching as the pleasure crashed over you.

"R-Rowan—!"

"Yes," he groaned, his hips pistoning faster. "Yes, that's it—that's it—let go—"

He was determined to make a scene of it.

"Fuck—oh—" His voice rose, loud and unabashed. "Ohhhh—ssssshhhhit—"

He didn't try to muffle it. Didn't hold back. He cried out like he wanted the whole underworld to know exactly what he'd done—exactly who he'd made fall apart beneath him.

"I did that," he gasped, his paace turning sloppy. "I made you—I made you feel that—"

His hips stuttered, and he groaned your name, spilling inside you in a long, shuddering release. He kept thrusting through it, smooth and slow, drawing out every last wave of pleasure.

You reached for his chest, trying to slow him down, but he just laughed breathlessly and caught your hand in his.

"Too much?" he asked, his voice soft now, tender. "Want me to stop?"

You shook your head, unable to form words.

"Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."

He pulled you into a kiss, deep and tender, before pulling out gently. He collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest.

"That was—" He laughed, breathless. "That was incredible. You were incredible. I don't—I don't know what I did to deserve you."

"Rowan..."

"I mean it." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I love you. I know I say it too much. I know I feel too much. But I love you, and I want to keep loving you for as long as you'll let me."

♤ — 𝒶𝒹𝓌𝒹 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ

𝒶/𝓃: sometimes I could never take my writing seriously this is just pure naughty thoughts T-T

[starrilies]

⋆ RAIN OR SUNSHINE

a sudden thunderstorm has caused you to take refuge in your home, but not without company. it's just your luck that something like this would happen to you, isn't it? now it’s your responsibility to keep harlequin and pierrot entertained until the storm is over before they end up burning your entire complex to the ground... which is only made *slightly* more difficult by the fact that you’re scared of thunderstorms. this is going to be fun...

"a little whiskey and some reckless boys / and now i'll join in / there's something bad about this night already, let's get dark and heavy"

tags and warnings: pierrot x gn!reader x harlequin! VERY domestic harlequin... which IS a good thing. i just needed to get that off my chest. mc loves the rain but is scared of thunder. lots of fluff!!!! a little bit of comfort and a little suggestive! lots of pierrot-harley banter... obviously. acts of service as a love language. mention of jester's fear of fire. references to pierrot stalking mc/knowing the layout of their house as per usual. i deeply apologize because i didn't know how to end this one. forgive me 💔

wc: 5.4k

there had been no chance of rain forecasted for today when you'd checked yesterday, or even when you looked this morning.

even as you pulled up the weather app on your phone now, the software was stupid enough that it still hadn’t registered the fact that it was raining. it declared that it was sunny weather outside, as if to laugh in your face— and perhaps in the faces of the soaking companions behind you.

god, how does this happen?

you look behind you, at the two clowns standing awkwardly in front of your door. well— were they awkward? harlequin had a shit-eating grin on his face like he had caused the rain itself, and pierrot was… shaking. with what? you weren’t exactly sure. nervousness? excitement?

“i know you can't take them off, but at least try to wipe off your boots, please..." you sigh, unsure of what series of events led up to this very moment.

and how had they charmed you enough that you were allowing shoes in your clean house? perhaps it wasn't charm as much as it was just pierrot.

pierrot, who was so heart-wrenchingly considerate (making up for the lack of such in his other half) that you knew if you asked him to take off his shoes, he'd be torn between pleasing you and insisting on keeping every part of his costume on. “and before either of you step a foot further into my home, i’m getting towels. dry yourselves off, and then you can do anything you want.” you begin to walk towards your nearby closet when one of them suddenly speaks up.

“anything?” harlequin makes you regret your words immediately, but you hear a thud behind you before you can even react. “how dare you—” you're not even sure which one of them is accusing the other— as soon as you turn around, pierrot and harlequin are already wrestling. you can only be thankful you don’t have anything fragile near your doorway as you quickly grab two towels from your closet, throwing them at your visitors, effectively stopping them in their tracks.

“dry off and behave,” you urge them with a pointed look. “i’m going to go change out of… this.” you pull at the edge of your soaked shirt with a sigh.

the rain was nice; you truly did enjoy it, but not when you were outside. the feeling of peeling off wet clothes stuck to your skin was far from comfortable, and you were forced to dry off your body with a cloth before changing into clean clothes. you were just exiting your bathroom, still trying to dry your hair, when you nearly jumped at the figure in your doorway. 

“pierrot! you scared me,” you had clutched a hand to your chest instinctively, but you let it drop back to your side after realizing it was just him.

“my dear… are you okay?” he takes a hesitant step forward, and upon seeing you smile, allows himself to move even closer to you. he tilts his head in concern, looking at the towel in your hand.

“yeah… i’m okay, thank you. i’m just trying to get my hair to dry.” you look up at him, trying to give him a bright smile that seems to make him blush. when he extends a hand forward, you hum in confusion, “hm? what’s up?”

“i can help you, my dear? if you want, of course,” he offers shyly, and you perk up at the idea.

“really? you would do that for me?” you could truly melt from the kindness he showed you. before meeting him, it had seemed impossible to meet someone willing to help others out of pure love in their heart, rather than obligation or for their own benefit. “pierrot, that’s really kind of you. if you could, i would really appreciate it! my arms were starting to get tired, anyway.” you hand him the towel and he places it gently over your head, massaging your scalp as he attempts to dry up all the moisture. you mumble a small thank you to him as you lean into his touch.

today was supposed to go a lot differently, but at least you could be thankful, maybe, that the three of you hadn’t been far from your apartment when the downpour started. your home had been the easiest place for you all to meet up at before you went out shopping, but after taking shelter under the awning of the closest building for half an hour, you had decided the rain wasn’t going to get any better and offered for them to come over, instead.

“are you feeling sick at all, dear one?” pierrot asks from above you, still mainly focused on taking care of your hair. “are you cold? have you sneezed at all? do you have a runny nose? should i take your temperature?”

you let out a small laugh at his questions. you knew it was just coming from a place of worry in his heart, but he was almost beginning to sound a bit like doctor. “nope! i don’t think i’m feeling sick," you try to reassure him with an energetic nod before you think about it more, "well... at least not yet. i don’t have a hat like you guys, and this was all so unexpected that i didn’t think to wear anything with a hood. i guess we'll have to wait and see if i end up catching a cold or not.”

his hands on your head pause for a moment and you look up at him, finding him deep in thought as he lets out an angry huff. “i should have given you harlequin’s cloak. i’m sorry, my star. i failed you.”

“hmm? what about me?” the look on pierrot’s face only darkens at the intrusion of another voice and you look towards the doorway to find harlequin leaning against it. he has two bottles of water in his hands, holding them by their necks between two fingers, swinging them lazily. you were glad he found water if he was thirsty, but seeing as this was the first time you had ever let either of them into your home... you could only pray your kitchen hadn't been ripped to shreds in the search for sustenance.

"harlequin..." pierrot glares at the man from over your head, and you can only stand there like a doll as you let them fight it out, "you should have given them your cloak to cover them from the rain. what if they get sick?" pierrot sighs as he finishes drying your hair, removing the towel from your head once he deems it dry.

“me? well, i thought you were huge enough you could cover our little one from the rain. my apologies that anytime i do something for them with you around, i tend to end up with several stab wounds,” harlequin feigns offense, bringing one hand to his heart while pierrot clenches his fist at his answer.

“like that’s ever stopped you before,” you joke to yourself but freeze when they both look at you. "oh— i..." you didn’t mean to say that out loud. you open your mouth to try apologizing again but harlequin speaks up before you’re able to.

“you’re taking his side over mine, sweet one?" harlequin gives you a look, as if daring you to verbalize it, but all you can do is purse your lips, weighing your options. "that really hurts me, you know." he walks toward you, and you can feel pierrot tense up from behind you. “look! i brought you water, and you didn't even have to tell me to go fetch you it. unlike this one over here, i don't need to ask. i already know how to take care of you." he puts a gloved finger on his chin, pondering his next words for a moment. "i will admit i do feel remorse for not protecting you from the rain, though, my dear. that red dog is even more useless than i previously thought. serves me right for leaving anything to him—”

you can only close your eyes as something red in the corner of your eye suddenly lurches forward, attacking the man in front of you. as much as you appreciate harlequin’s flirts, whether they’re genuine or just attempts to piss off pierrot, you do wish he would keep his mouth shut sometimes. while it’s never gotten too out of hand so far, you’re not sure what you would do if the two of them got into a serious fight and you weren’t able to separate them.

you watch harlequin dodge pierrot’s claws while keeping a firm hold on the bottles of water in his hand, and it brings a small smile to your face that you can’t stop. something like drying your hair or bringing you water were such small things, yet you couldn't remember the last time someone had ever offered to do something like that for you. or at least, as harlequin said, without you having to ask.

pierrot had only asked how you were because he wanted to know what would help you best; they each had their own way of treating you, and you appreciated both of them. for most of your life, it seemed you had been on your own, but now you had not one but two people willing to do such little things for you.

but wait a second—

“hm? harlequin, you only brought two water bottles,” you point out when they’ve finally reached a stopping point in their fight, both of them huffing slightly.

“of course, darling. one for you, one for me. who else would i bring water for?” harlequin tilts his head with a knowing grin before his eyes look to the red man to his side. “oh! i must have forgotten that pierrot was here, silly me. although— i’m not sure i would have brought him water even if i remembered.”

you know you have only seconds to act before doom strikes and grab pierrot's clenched fist, holding it between your two hands. “pierrot, it’s alright!” you try to draw his attention from harlequin back to yourself. “i’m not thirsty, so you can have my water. and if i need to... would you just let me take a sip from your bottle?”

“share a water bottle—! with… me?” pierrot turns red again, and his now relaxed hand leaves your hold to bring his fingers to his lips as he seems to think about deeper implications.

harlequin’s mouth curls in distaste at pierrot’s response, “uh, no— if you’re sharing a water bottle with anyone, dear, it’ll be me.” 

you let out a deep sigh, pressing two fingers to your temple. you should’ve known your attempt would only lead to this; they would always find a way to argue, no matter what. “alright, never mind. if it’s that big of a deal, i’ll just go grab another one—”

“no, no! if pierrot is that thirsty, he can go grab one for himself,” harlequin elbows pierrot in the side, certainly harder than he needs to, but it pulls him from his thoughts all the same. “right? you can go fetch your own water, since you know the entire layout of this place anyway—” 

harlequin's voice had dropped before he finished speaking, but pierrot seemed to hear what he'd said perfectly fine and had frozen up. “wait, what did you say? did something happen in my kitchen, harlequin?" you ask, already imagining harlequin tearing your place apart while he had been left unsupervised.

“oh, nothing, my dear. he just... told me where he found your waters since we've never been here before. i’ll be right back, i promise!” pierrot gives you a smile on his way out your bedroom door, but not before giving harlequin a dirty look as he disappears down the hall.

it’s silent in your room for a second, save the patter of rain on the roof your apartment which reminds you— “oh! harlequin, would you mind if i opened the porch door the tiniest bit? i love the sound of rain, and it sounds so much better outside.”

“hum~ of course, dear thing. here, let me open it,” he walks towards the glass door, sliding it open a crack. you certainly hadn't meant for you three to end up in your bedroom, but at least you could take advantage of the window in here and bring in a bit of fresh air. the smell of the rain immediately filled the room, accompanied by a small breeze which you eagerly welcomed. it had been getting a little hot in the room... or maybe that had just been the aftereffects of pierrot and harlequin's rage, but either way, now the sound of the rain allowed for a comfortable, calm silence to fill the air.

“just let me know if you or pierrot get cold, okay? i can totally close it again.” you break the silence after listening to the rain for a moment, moving next to him to push your curtains farther to the side. your window would also allow you to keep an eye on the weather outside, but judging from how gray the sky still was, you didn’t expect the storm to let up anytime soon.

he turns to you, a familiar jagged smile on his mask, “you’re cute, little thing. but don’t forget that this is your home; i'll survive being a little cold.” you hesitate to remind him there's one more person involved in your concerns, and he continues before you can say anything, "don’t close it just for one of us if you enjoy the rain so much, sweet one. i would hate to see that pretty smile of yours disappear.”

he takes your flustered state as an opportunity to step closer, and his hand twitches at his side, as if he wants to reach out and touch you, but he hesitates. when you look up at him, nervously meeting his eyes, there's also a hint of surprise on his face for a second, like he wasn't expecting you to actually look at him, but it's quickly replaced by mischief. he cocks his head to the side, the bells on his hat ringing as he waits for you, curious about what you're trying to muster up the courage to say.

“harlequin…” you mumble his name, hating how quiet you sound, but he laughs at your shyness anyway.

“what is it, kitten? what has you so red in the face, hm? you can tell me,” he leans down to get close to your face, and whatever intimate moment you'd just had with him moments ago has been erased. you're instead left with the feeling that you're about to have a sudden heart attack at his proximity and you try to avoid him, but he holds your jaw with two fingers, keeping you still.

“n-nothing! well… it's not— i—” your question for him is simple, but that’s precisely the problem. it’s so simple, so dumb you’re not sure if he’ll laugh in your face or just straight up reject you. “i just.. wanted to ask if you wanted to watch the rain with me? and pierrot, too, of course. when he gets back. i... know it's not the most entertaining thing to do but, if it's you guys...” you trail off, unsure of if you should keep going. you had fully expected him to cut you off with laughter by now, but he's remained silent.

he looks taken aback by your question, and you're stuck staring into his eyes for a moment before he straightens back up to his full height with a laugh. “you want watch the rain? hah!” your heart drops for a second at his laugh before he continues, “sweet thing, i’ll do anything as long as it’s with you. that's what you were about to say too, right? come here. sit,” he guides you gently over to an spot on your floor so that you sit right in front of where he's cracked your porch door open. “pierrot's continued existence is unfortunate... but i suppose i’ll put up with him if it means i’ll have you.” harlequin had always told you that he was honest and direct about what he wanted, yet, he could never just say yes to whatever you asked. he always added something flirtatious to his response, and you didn't think you would ever get used to his intensity.

you both look out the window for only a brief moment in silence, knees almost knocking into each other before a creak on the floor makes the both of you turn back to your doorway. “pierrot! welcome back,” you smile, patting the floor near you. “come sit with us!”

“took your time, didn’t you? might as well have not come back,” harlequin’s welcome back… can hardly be considered such. pierrot’s smile towards you disappears as soon as he hears harlequin’s voice, and he glares at the back of his head.

“you hid them,” pierrot hisses as he lowers himself down to the floor, sitting just a little bit behind between you and harlequin.

“hm? hid what? i have no idea what you're talking about,” harlequin shrugs with a grin, not even bothering to look in pierrot's direction. 

the way the poor water bottle crinkles in pierrot’s hand, surely on the verge of exploding, makes you immediately try to lighten the conversation: “we were just sitting here to watch the rain, pierrot! i hope you don’t mind, but we opened my porch door a little bit because i love the sound of rain. do you like this kind of weather too?”

as soon as his attention turns back to you, pierrot melts back into the adorable, gentle man you know him to be. “i like the rain as well! it makes travelling a little hard for the circus, but i think we all enjoy the atmosphere and sound. my clothes are also already quite heavy, so if i get them wet, they only become heavier. it can be a little bothersome, but it's nothing i can’t handle, my dear. i assure you.”

you smile grows at his answer, happy to hear he shares a similar opinion about the rain as you. “i can’t imagine how heavy your clothes must get! i guess i should have asked sooner, then, but you didn’t get too wet in the rain when we were outside, did you?”

“no, my star. i’m completely dry, thank you for being concerned for my sake,” he mirrors your smile with a slight blush.

you turn to the clown next to you, “so you like the rain too, harlequin?”

“hmm?” he hums at the sound of his name, seeming to be pulled out of a trance as he languidly turns to meet your gaze. “i suppose i do. i like when it’s cold; that’s what matters to me. it sounds different when it hits the tents than in your apartment here, though. i'm not sure which i prefer,” he suddenly grins wide, seeming to be reminded of something, “oh, did pierrot already tell you? if you think he’s a little dog now, it’s quite a sight to see him in the rain. all soaked and soggy like a puppy— he smells like one, too,” he laughs as pierrot furiously denies his claim, bells tinkling again as he shakes his head.

you end up laughing with harlequin, hoping that pierrot didn't take offense to it. he had said himself that his clothes were weighty, and the image of pierrot in the rain came so easily to mind that it only made you giggle more.

you were also taking in all of the new information they had shared; while it wasn’t exactly winter yet, it was coming up soon, and it would be your first holiday season with them. it made you curious what the circus looked like dusted in snow, with all the warm string lights peeking through. and did their costumes change to keep them warm, or were they already thick enough?

"now,” harlequin’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, “if you were wearing something white and you invited me to go out in the rain with you, i'd follow you immediately without a second thought~" he grins, suddenly inching closer to your face before he's smacked on the back of his head hard enough that he almost hits the floor. you can only cover your mouth in shock— somehow, witnessing pierrot stab harlequin seemed less violent than watching the way he'd just been hit.

“you’re disgusting," pierrot sneers at his companion in a voice so low you shiver. "my dear, we should really kick him out—” pierrot turns to you now, and you look at him for a second before your eyes dart back to the figure sitting back up behind him.

harlequin’s eyes are twitching, and you're not sure you've ever seen him look so angry, "now you listen here you big. bright red. freak—"

he doesn't even finish the insult before they're attacking each other. again. at least up until now, their fights have been quite lighthearted, but this is what you were worried about; pierrot's easily on top of harlequin keeping him down, and yet he's still thrashing about on the ground, suddenly flipping pierrot over and raising his arm before you grab it in a flimsy attempt to stop them.

"wait! please— please don't fight in my apartment. my neighbors hate me enough already," you plead, remembering the last time you'd had company over. to be fair, they were drunk, but they wouldn't stop knocking over bottles and getting into fights loud enough that you were certain you were about to be evicted. it didn't matter how many apology cookies you baked, every time you passed a neighbor in the hall, they gave you a dirty look, and you weren't ready to further worsen your relationships with them. 

the words seemed to catch both of their attentions as they slowly turn to look at you, abandoning their fight.

"who could hate a pretty thing like you?" harlequin grins.

"should i... erase them?" pierrot's response is much different.

you're helping pull harlequin off pierrot by the shoulders, nearly falling over when his long torso overshadows your own. "oh, that's not necessary. it was my fault—" you squeak upon realizing your legs have ended up tangled in the mess of limbs, and you fall back, pulling both boys down with you.

"hm, i think i like this~" harlequin's in your left ear, and you open your eyes to see him above you. the intense look in his eyes immediately has you squirming, face growing hotter by the second.

"away," your eyes dart to pierrot, who is trying to shoo harlequin off of you, but he doesn’t budge. giving up, pierrot turns from harlequin to you and immediately kneels next to you. "my dear, are you alright?"

"oh… i’m fine, i promise. sorry, you guys didn't fall too hard, right?" you try to give him a reassuring smile, allowing his hand on your back to help you sit up after pierrot’s given harlequin another particularly hard push that has him back on the ground.

"will you kiss my injury if i say yes?" harlequin’s voice is slightly muffled from wherever he fell on the floor, and you don't even have to look in his direction; you hear him get hit before you see it. "will you stop with the hitting, you big oaf?" 

"alright alright," you interrupt them both before they can argue again. “i know it’s going to be really hard for you guys, but if there’s any way we can try not to psychologically torment and fight each other—”

a bright flash and loud boom suddenly fills the room and has you frozen and unable to breathe for a second. then, it’s like your lungs have a hole in them and you need to breathe. over and over and over.

before you can even recover, another deafening crack came from outside and you jump, a small whimper escaping your lips on accident.

you had been trying to control and stabilize your breathing as best as you could so as to not draw attention to yourself, but who were you kidding? there were three of you total in this room, and they were both looking at you.

pierrot has a hand on your back, rubbing small circles to help you through your breathing. “my star…” he trails off, voice filled with worry.

“hum~ are you scared of thunder, dear thing?” harlequin finishes for pierrot, who hesitated to point it out.

and you struggle to answer, which is enough for them to come to a conclusion. yes, you’re afraid of thunder, and you know you can trust them— you can tell them, but it's always been embarrassing to admit. 

no other loud noise seemed to get you as bad as thunder did. you thought maybe it was because of how unpredictable it was; compared to something like an arriving train, flashing lights and bells prepared you for the arriving machine, but it didn't matter if you saw a lightning flash or not, it was impossible to predict when the thunder would boom, how loud or close it would sound, and how deep you would feel it in your chest. whatever the case might be for your fear, it was something you had struggled with since you were a child.

“it’s alright, my dear,” pierrot speaks to you softly and you look at him with a silent nod in gratitude before a gloved hand turns your face away from him, gently pulling you to your feet with another hand on your arm.

“looks like we’ll have to distract you from the thunder, huh?” harlequin’s words are sultry, and it’s clearly intentional based on the look on his face.

“harlequin! be serious.” pierrot chides, but his hands move to hold your waist, making you question if he was with or against harlequin.

harlequin’s grin stays wide as he holds you by the shoulders, slowly steering you towards your bed. “i am being serious,” he responds to pierrot, who is definitely on his side, you conclude, as he moves to close your sliding door and the curtains, significantly darkening the room.

“what are you two—” before you can finish, harlequin pulls you flush to his chest just as another instant flash brightens the room for a quick second, and his hands are already pressed to your ears. not hard enough to hurt you, but firmly enough that while you feel the thunder reverberate through your chest moments later, he almost completely blocks out the sound and you relax in his hold, sighing in relief.

he pulls you back from him for a moment, searching your face for any signs of discomfort. when he doesn't find any, his lips curl back into a smile. “that's my good pet," harlequin praises, brushing a stray strand away from your face. "you handled that incredibly well, didn't you?” you're flustered from his words and still a little embarrassed that one of your biggest fears has been accidentally revealed, so you lean your head against his chest again, opting to examine your floor rather than meet his gaze.

“i’m sorry…” you whisper to both boys in the room, and harlequin stills against you. “i’m such a coward. it’s so embarrassing to be scared of just some noise. you guys don’t have to do all this, i’ll be okay.”

you get a little worried when you don’t hear a response from either one of them, and when you finally peek your head up, harlequin and pierrot are looking at each other. then, pierrot turns to you, and harlequin’s grinning down at you. “nothing to be embarrassed about, sweet thing,” he continues to guide you to your bed, ushering you to climb in the middle as pierrot hesitantly waits on the opposite side of your bed, waiting for your approval to sit next to you. you nod— because harlequin’s already at your other side without even asking— and it wasn’t like you minded them on your bed, anyway. pierrot moves close you, beginning to comb through your hair and play with it a little as harlequin continues, “don’t tell him we told you this—” he gets closer, his voice dropping to almost a whisper as if someone was eavesdropping on your mundane apartment. “but jester’s a little scared of fire.” he laughs at the look of surprise on your face. “hah! didn’t expect that, did you? he doesn’t like anyone to know, but i promise you— whenever i breathe fire during a performance, he’s nowhere to be found.”

pierrot cuts in, “what he’s trying to say is don’t be embarrassed—”

“i did say that at the beginning—” harlequin glares at him from over your head but pierrot matches the look with just as much aggression.

“—and what i want to say is not to be ashamed. let us help you, my dear. there’s no reason for you to handle this on your own, or for you to hide away from us,” pierrot guides you to look at him, hands caressing the sides of your face. you don’t even notice until after you slightly feel it in your chest that he momentarily covered your ears, muffling another rumble of thunder from outside.

“thank you… both,” you turn to meet both of their eyes individually as you speak. “i really do appreciate it, you guys have helped. a lot.”

“anytime, my dear," harlequin responds, "we even ended up in your bed faster than i expected, and i don’t usually take things slow.” he laughs, and you see pierrot’s hand clench from the corner of your eye, but he doesn't move, and you silently thank him for trying to hold himself back. they could break all the pottery you wanted in your house, but the one thing you wouldn’t be able to handle breaking was your bed.

“speaking of which…” you try to move on, “what are we all doing on my bed?”

pierrot turns red and you give him a concerned look. what was he imagining now? “hm~ that depends on you, dear thing.” harlequin’s voice from behind you sends chills through your spine as he drags a finger down your thigh that makes your stomach flutter. “looks like dirty pierrot over there already has some ideas, how disgusting,” he mocks. “but if you’d like to sleep, we’ll sleep with you. if you want more? oh, we’ll give you everything.”

you can hardly swallow as his words repeat in your mind over and over, and the way he's touching you isn't helping. but pierrot’s lost in his own mind, so you’re the only one left to defend yourself. “i um… while that sounds… i’ll… think about it… in the meantime— i was actually thinking something else.” you stutter hard, but you try to take a deep breath in as you look back at harlequin.

he has a curious look in his eyes that reminds you of a cat, and you can barely hold back the urge to reach your hand up to his head to pet it. “and what would that be, sweet thing?” he asks with a tilt of his head.

pierrot seems to have been drawn back in by your response and waits eagerly for you to continue. “well— it’s nothing big. but if jester’s afraid of fire… you guys must have something like that you're scared of too, right? like tight spaces, maybe?”

harlequin’s grin widens and his eyes light up as if he’s just found a new toy to play with. “oh, you’re a naughty little thing. i love it. let’s start with pierrot—”

“do not speak for me,” pierrot immediately cuts him off, “ah, this will be enjoyable. my dear, i have known harlequin since he was just a kid and he has never gotten over—” 

enjoyable the night would be. far better than whatever you had originally planned for the day, but did that really surprise you anymore? the two of them brought joy and stories of tragedy wherever they went, expected or not.

[crsssie]

shotgun - 5012 x reader (nsfw warning!)

"Your papers are all messed up." You grin, stretching your neck back as you dodge a kiss from 5012.

He hums, palms pressing to the bone of your thigh instead, holding it in place as he uses his own legs to nudge you to spread further apart. You try to be good for him, but you also find that riling him up for a reaction is nothing if not funny. It's called playing your cards right, you insist. He calls it being a brat. You huff when he calls you that. You behave when you know it does you good. Besides, he's acting like he doesn't enjoy when you act like a brat. 

"Be good."

"Like you were when you looked so good in that suit for me? Who knew you were hiding so much under that jacket of yours." You laugh, and 5012 puts his cigarette out in his ashtray on the side. The flame dies, and he looks at you, humming as he picks up the dead cigarette one last time.

"Open your mouth."

"What? Gonna—"

"Be good." He takes a final drag of the cigarette, hand grabbing your jaw to force your mouth open as he presses his lips to yours, taking the chance to slip into you as you moan into his mouth. You think your eyes nearly get stuck from how far back they roll. The smoke is tangy on your tongue as you inhale, an obnoxiously obscene moan escaping you when the smoke settles in your lungs.

The moan you let out isn't without effect, though, and 5012 moans back into your mouth when he bottoms out inside of you.

You're so so full.

He pulls his lips from yours, letting go of your jaw as he smirks down at you. "You're so good for me."

You clench around him at the praise, and his lips curl coyly against your neck before he sinks his teeth into the curve of your neck.

And, well. The bruises speak for themselves when 0204 asks why you're extra covered up in the video call in the morning.

[crsssie]

smoke - 5012 x reader

The balcony on the second floor is cold. The cigarette you pocketed from someone's pack downstairs is sticky on your tongue as you huff. It doesn't taste good — not that you were expecting it to, but it doesn't have the same addictive properties you had— why did you expect it to be addictive in the first place anyway? You don't remember any of that from when you were human.

"0213."

You turn to face your trainer, removing the smoke from your mouth and looking at him.

"Am I getting reprimanded? Or chased out?"

5012 looks at you, and stares. You stare back, and you watch as he rests a hand on the railing next to you, and then his free hand moves.

At first, you think he's going to brush the hair from your face, but it stops by the cigarette between your lips, and he takes it. You let him, lips relaxing around the smoke as his fingers brush yours to take it off your hand.

He presses the cigarette to his own lips, inhaling as he closes his eyes.

"Neither."

"Rare." You huff. "I'd like that back, though. It's the only one I have."

5012 removes the cigarette from his mouth, pressing the end between your lips as the back of his fingers brush your lips.

It feels weirdly intimate.

"Thank you."

He hums, staring as he reaches into his pocket.

"You stole from my pack."

"Want something back in exchange?" You tap your chin, flicking your wrist to let the ash fall a little. "A day of no yammering? I can leave too. Anything for the taking."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

"Mm."

5012 takes the cigarette from your lips, and you watch as he leans down slowly, lips pressing to yours as you taste the haze on. his lips, tilting your head gently to give him easier access.

When he pulls from you, you catch your breath, staring to the side as he takes out a cigarette of his own, returning yours to your lips as you bite the brown between your lips.

He places his unlit one between his lips, and he leans over slightly to press the white of his cigarette to the lit part of yours.

The white turns orange first, and then the fire spreads to his own cigarette, and he pulls from you, staring back into the city as you're left to collect yourself.

No denying in the face of truth you suppose.

This is far more complex than you care to admit.

[starrilies]

⋆ WHEN THEY MAKE YOU CRY

(pt. 2!) in what scenario do the circo members make you cry, and how do they comfort you?

"you aren't easy, great / i think i like that, stay / no, let me chase you, my little breakthrough"

tags and warnings: ticket taker x gn!reader, jester x gn!reader, and doctor x gn!reader. part two of this prompt, part one includes pierrot and harlequin. individual scenarios for each member with specific cws for each one below. i'm still a yapper. more character studies, but i deeply apologize if you find anyone to be ooc! i'd say i'm still learning these sweethearts and how to write them :3 fluff and hurt/comfort. i reread this whole thing over and over foor like two weeks because i really care about it but forgive me for any typos 💔

total wc: 12.6k (4.3k ticket taker, 6.1k jester, 2.2k doctor)

𖦹 TICKET TAKER

cw: themes of people-pleasing, overthinking, insecurities, anxiety, and self-deprecation. mc is ticket taker's assistant. not incredibly important, but mc's first meeting with ticket taker is intentionally a little different from canon.

ticket taker doesn’t like to guess. he won’t ask you what's wrong over and over, but he's also not a mind reader. he'd only get more frustrated if you refused to tell him what's wrong, so he finds other ways to comfort you. while it may initially seem cold that he barely acknowledges your tears or asks what happened, he doesn’t leave you, despite the disruption to his schedule. he stays. he's there to listen and give you his full attention when you do open up, and he never gets angry. he’s willing to get his hands dirty for you— don't you realize? he'll choose to take the time out of his day to stay with you. there’s no better way for him to show that he cares.

you’re very good at predicting.

well... was it predicting, or just thinking?

thinking thinking thinking through every single scenario, having a plan for a situation three decisions out, that's all reliant on a single yes to the question you're about to ask. and if the person says no? well, you've already thought five steps ahead in that case, too.

that's what you were good at. not necessarily predicting, maybe, but being overly prepared for whatever might come your way so that no one, nothing, could ever catch you off guard.

sure, it could be a little tiring, but the method had yet to ever fail you. you scored a job at a café, among other achievements. and making coffee often seemed to require multiple backup plans. because when an angry customer comes storming back in arguing, "no, i don't want a refund. i just want to yell at you—" it pays off to have alternative solutions that will get them out of your face as quickly as possible.

something else your skillful thinking has led to? you had recently been entrusted with a chunk of paperwork belonging to the most organized, detail-oriented, vigilant person you had ever met, who was also nothing short of terrifying.

compared to his expansive knowledge, you would probably describe yourself as an insignificant speck of dust; mindless, blind, and worthless in contrast to his dominating presence. yet he still accepted your help, so surely that meant you had to be doing something right.

you felt like you were in a battle of wits anytime you interacted with him. your eyes searched his face, looking for anything that might reveal a little more about his ulterior motives— you listened and studied every word he said, in what tone, trying to test if he was testing your intelligence. and that all happened in a matter of seconds before you conjured up a response that you prayed was acceptable.

for example, your first meeting with him:

"i can take those papers for you. i'm recycling them, anyway. what a shame to litter such papers around an establishment, right?"

he had been dressed in his usual attire, his dark royal blue uniform with the gold trims and that half black, half white mask. you could guess reasonably easily who he was. you looked down at the papers in your hand, the words THE FREAK CIRCUS staring up at you before you lifted your head back up to him. the papers definitely belonged to him. obviously.

which led to the dilemma: objectively, he was correct. it was wrong to litter, and it's rude to leave trash behind in a public space. however, they were his papers, and you weren't about to insult them to his face and call them trash that had been littered on your premises. maybe you should say "it's fine! the café is all for promoting other businesses! totally!" but what if the real test was your opinion on littering and respecting property?

yeah, maybe you sometimes overthought things sometimes. maybe.

but you had to when it came to him. because there was a difference between your wits. between him and you.

he was confident. he stood tall, and he knew just about everything there was to know. he had no need to test you, no need to play these silly mind games with you. he already knew where he stood, and it was above you.

it was pointless to question him, yet you still witnessed multiple people do it every night. they would always march right up to the gates of the circus and demand attention. they would go on and on about how they deserved to be treated differently because they were "better than the rest."

but pair that with the man who was actually better than them, and it was like watching a small dog bark at the mailman. the mailman doesn't care about the dog; he knows it can do no harm, yet the small dog still thinks it's in control. some visitors towered over ticket taker, trying to intimidate him, but he never took a single step back. he never moved a muscle, and if that didn't immediately make them realize the situation they were in, the doctor appeared. it wasn't that ticket taker was weak or needed backup, it was yet another calculated move: a "since you think things can be resolved with fists, allow me to stoop down to your level."

you, on the other hand? you were just insecure. you've built up these walls of "wit" to hide the fact that you're scared of not knowing. ticket taker was everything you wish you were. he knew the answer to everything, knew just what to say to anyone. you couldn't do that. you have to create entire matrices of situational answers and pray that you say the right thing.

you observe everything, all for the sake of not having to ask someone for clarification. because if you don't understand something immediately, then you're weak.

you observe, you learn, and you predict. 'if ticket taker steps away to help the crying child, i will cover his line for him and punch tickets to maintain the unobstructed flow of business. if he doesn't step away right now, he's clearly relying on me to take care of the child.' it was like thinking before you speak— except you took it a step further. you kept thinking, plotting, and planning until someone spoke. once they said something, then you spoke. you waited until someone else made a move, and only then would you make yours.

the constant thinking only wore you out when it didn't all end at night. you tried to get home as early as you could so that you had time to give your brain a break. it didn't ever fully silence your brain, but when you were all alone, there was no one for your brain to hyperfixate on, trying to understand their very reason for being. if you were out later than usual, or you made a mistake, that was when it all went downhill.

like right now.

one miscalculated step. a singular slip-up that somehow made it past all your double, triple, quadruple look-overs.

you think you’re going to throw up.

but there’s not even anywhere to throw up. no nearby trash can, no nearby exit.

well, more like there's no exit you can get to without risking that you’ll bump into him.

you end up just slumping to the ground, hoping maybe it’ll just swallow you whole and you'll disappear. but it doesn’t. and now you’re starting to shake.

you’re scared.

despite all your differences in wit and how low you put yourself compared to him, you like to think you share a few similarities with ticket taker. you're both perfectionists, organized as if your very lives depend on it. any number, object, color, letter, whatever it may be— anything that can be made into a list has been, either by your hands or his. you've enjoyed working with him— with a brain so similar to yours.

you could only hope he shared some semblance of appreciation for your partnership. as embarrassing as it was to admit, you had been giddy the past few days, just imagining that he was pleased with you. you brought yourself to the brink of exhaustion every day, working from the early hours of the morning until the evening on whatever tasks he trusted you to do. last week, on your way out, he nodded in your direction and said, "good work. see you tomorrow, dear."

his words were short, probably just said out of practiced mannerisms, yet they reached your heart in a way no one's praise ever had. you tossed around in your bed all night, kicking your feet and balling up in your blankets. your heart was in a frenzy, and your face hot. you replayed the words he said in your head over and over; the way he said them, how he looked when he turned in your direction— you barely slept that night.

but that didn't even matter. you were so motivated by the possibility of him praising you again that you felt reenergized every day, always ready to return to the circus and plow through more work.

that was until today.

today, you’ve misplaced a paper.

in the weeks that you’d worked with him, you had never seen him make even the slightest mistake. of course he hadn’t— he was literally the definition of perfection. and you had been good; you hadn’t made a mistake either. until now.

and you’re not sure what to do if a paper is missing. maybe you should have just swallowed your pride and asked a stupid question when it was still justifiable because you were new. but you were too confident in yourself, too sure you would be able to figure out those problems on your own later— and now you’re here.

your lip trembles. the back of your head aches so heavily with stress you think you might pass out. you feel sick.

you don’t want this to end. you don’t want to disappoint him. “please,” you beg, hoping that maybe if you say it out loud, someone, something, will realize how desperate you are. that you're still something good despite your imperfections. “i want to keep working. i’ll do a good job. please, help me find this paper.”

if you mess this up, it’s over. ticket taker will realize he made a severe lapse in judgment by ever considering letting you work here. any value he previously saw in you will immediately be thrown out the window, and all that will be left is the human that was there from the start: useless. good for nothing. flawed.

the pile of papers you brought into his tent is next to you on the floor. you spread them out like a fan, looking through each individual sheet, but it’s not there. it’s just one document that’s missing, but he’ll notice. you know he will, and it’s your fault. tears well up in your eyes, but you’re quick to wipe them away before they can fall and ruin the papers you have in your hands, too.

maybe i can hide somewhere, you think. you were supposed to meet ticket taker in his tent to give him your papers before you left for the day. he would be here any moment now. but maybe if you hid, you could avoid him. not anywhere too far, in case you ran into him— just somewhere nearby. when he left to look for you, you would make a run for it.

and then what? your mind chides. you're not sure. maybe you'll think of an excuse once you have a clear head. or you'll beg on your knees and swear on your life so many times ticket taker will let this mistake slide, just this one time.

time.

you’re running out of time.

you file your stack of papers back into a neat pile, keeping them close to your chest while running quickly to a nearby wooden crate near one of the tent walls. tears spill from your eyes, and you breathe in deeply, trying to expel your panic.

but it’s not working well.

you kneel behind the crate, hiding your body from sight. your worries seem to multiply in the dark shadows, though, and you're too busy trying to keep your eyes dry to notice anything else.

you were supposed to meet with him two minutes ago.

he taps his foot.

he didn’t take you for the kind to be late. you've shown up earlier than he expected for the past two weeks, and you’ve been so obedient to everything he's asked thus far. he concludes that either you’ve disappeared after finding something unsettling about the circus, or something’s wrong.

he sighs, checking the time again. it’s an inconvenience— there’s no denying it. what should have been a quick and easy exchange has now taken up more precious time than he planned for, throwing off his entire schedule.

yet he still begins to look for you. he doesn’t know why. any other person, he would've moved on. he would have quickly redone any of the work he'd assigned his assistant so as to not get farther behind and save figuring out what misfortune had befallen them for when he cared enough to check, which was typically never.

he had stopped trying to reason with himself a long time ago when it came to anything having to do with you. he just seemed to keep coming back to you without meaning to. he didn’t mean to keep you around for as long as he did, but you’d proven yourself useful. he tells himself that's why he's allowed you to stay to make himself feel better, but it's not working.

and he doesn't appreciate how difficult you're making this right now. you listen so well, you're always so eager to please him, so where could you possibly be?

his connection to his tent is… useful. useful for surveying any visitor that walks in, useful in how quickly he can move between each reflective surface. and his office inside the tent is private; impossible for any mere visitor to just stumble upon. they already get lost enough in their own reflection— the chances are nearly zero that they'll ever make it any farther.

you did enter the tent, he notes. but you never exited, according to the mirrors. he knows you’re smart enough that you aren't lost inside the tent anywhere— you've been around him long enough to know his tent. yet he still double-checks every corner of the maze for his own sake. he doesn't find you, but he does pick up a single paper. it was one of the documents he gave you, but there's no trail of other scattered papers or clues. so where could you have gone?

then he sees you.

when he walks into his office, you're in a corner where you probably think you’re hidden. you knew to hide away from any mirrors, at least, but not good enough to hide from him.

he approaches you quietly, careful not to make a sound. you haven’t noticed him, yet. you’re too busy wiping away your tears, pressing your sleeves to your eyes in an attempt to stop them all at once. you let out a quiet sniffle as you open your eyes, and when you see him, you nearly hit your head on the crate behind you when you reel back in shock, eyes wide.

“ah! ticket taker– um, here are the papers. i'm sorry. you– oh, but–” you’re a mess, scrambling for words. you extend your hand out to him with your pile of papers, and then suddenly you're retracting your arm back, eyes averted.

he takes the papers from your hands despite your protests and drops them on top of the crate you’re against. “excellent,” he ignores your exclaims, “now, why are you hiding in the corner of my tent?”

you freeze at the question, desperately wishing you could disappear and escape the weight of his gaze. "i... um..." you try to answer him– you really do. but when you think about the missing paper, the words get caught in your throat. there are tears in your eyes again despite your best attempts to stop them, and you cover your mouth with a hand, turning away from him. you choke back a sob, but the smallest noise still escapes your throat, humiliating you even more.

he's still watching you. he'll only have more questions now that you're crying again. or maybe he won't. maybe he'll just tell you to leave, that he doesn't have time to deal with a crying mess. the one thing you're sure of is that it's over for you. this is it.

he waits for you to respond. elaborate. anything. but the only thing you do is tremble, and you’re refusing to look at him. he hesitates, but then he crouches down to your level. “dear,” he says, and the name makes you freeze for a second. 

you’re scared– absolutely terrified. you’re not sure why he calls you dear. you’ve done nothing deserving of the name, nothing to be of value to him, yet he’s called you that since you first met. you squeeze your eyes shut, letting the last tears fall, wiping them quickly before you turn back to him. your lips are downturned, still trembling as if you’re about to completely break down. your eyes are watery, but you’re doing your best not to cry in front of him— again.

“keep your eyes on me, dear,” he orders, and you nod. “good. now, what has you on the ground like this?” he asks.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, averting your eyes.

“i said look at me. do i need to hold you down?” his words immediately make you look back to him.

you shake your head silently, trying to keep your eyes on him this time. he continues, “then don’t keep me waiting. please, explain. i can’t help you if i don’t know what’s wrong, sweetheart.”

you don’t want to look away from him so instead, you look at the smaller details on him; the small tufts of hair coming out from underneath his hat, his flawless mask, perfectly split down the middle half black, half white, and then his eye again. “i don’t know,” you start out. “i’m on the floor because i was trying to hide. i’m sorry i missed our meeting.”

your apology reminds him that he hasn’t looked at a clock in a while. how long has it been since you were supposed to meet him now? he could check the watch in his pocket, but he doesn't. he keeps his gaze on you. “it’s in the past. nothing to be done about it now,” he sighs. you may have thrown off his entire schedule, but he was the one who decided to come find you, and you can't be blamed for that. the delays are nothing he can’t recover from anyway, assuming that you'll assist him in catching back up. but he'll have to deal with what's bothering you first. “i’m here now, though. i found you. so, what could you possibly have been hiding from? in my tent, of all places?

"i wasn't hiding from something... i was hiding from you. i was scared." your answer makes his head tilt as he waits for you to elaborate. "i lost one of the papers you gave me. i knew you were going to be mad, and i hid. i messed up your papers and your schedule, i'm sorry. i— i know i don't have the right to say anything else, but i really wish i could make this up to you— i'll do anything. i was scared because i don't want to go. i want to keep working with you, but i'm sure i've made you really upset..." you can't help but look away at the end. it was too overwhelming to be so transparent with him, admitting fault to something you were ashamed of while looking him in the eye. you feel

his gaze remains on you as you look at the ground— it never once falters. he watches your every move; every nervous fidget and the way your chest falls when you breathe out in short hiccups, still recovering from your tears. he counts every time you blink rapidly, trying to hold back more from spilling. "...if there's anything i can do to make it up to you, i swear i'll do it. i know it's silly, thinking i even have the right to ask for your forgiveness— yet i still can't help but try."

you’re right, he thinks. it’s silly of you to promise him things you can’t do. you can't swear on everything when you don't even know what "everything" entails. there isn’t much you can do for him besides continue to beg him to forgive you right now, but there’s a reason he’s kept you around this long.

he never bothers with the whereabouts of missing assistants, never enjoys dealing with the ones that cry, yet he’s here with you. he's waited this long for you to explain the problem to him. can’t you see that? if he were angry, he wouldn’t have bothered staying here for even a second longer; he doesn't ever bother with protecting anyone's feelings. “you’re a fool,” he says, breaking the silence that fell over both of you.

you head drops in shame. you feel as if you're breathless and hyperventilating all at the same time— maybe you are really dying, right here, in this moment.

but then you feel something on your head. is he… petting you…? you feel something drape over your shoulders as well, and look to your side to see a familiar blue jacket, with the golden edging that always catches your attention. his hand continues to rub the top of your head as you look up at him, lips parted in slight shock.

“you worry too much. and here i thought i was the overthinker, hum~ jester makes fun of it all the time. i’ll have to tell him about this,” he seems to be thinking to himself before he looks back down at you. “stand up, my dear.” he helps you stand on your feet before placing his hands on your shoulders, keeping his coat in place.

he guides you to sit in the chair at his nearby desk, and you let him move you around, still confused. “you’re... not mad?” you gather the courage to ask, although your voice is still quiet. his hands place a warm mug in your hand before he straightens, remaining standing at your side. there's a freshly brewed tea inside the mug, and the steam curls up to your face, clearing your nose.

“hum, you’re funny, my dear. you worry over nothing. the paper you ‘lost’ was on the ground. i picked it up while searching for you. it was nothing serious. i could have made another copy of it.” his answer makes your face turn red, realizing how worked up you got about such a small mistake. “you… have value to me, my dear.” he pauses between his words, realizing how wrong they sound. they’re true— he means it, but they're too deep for his comfort. it was more direct than he intended. “you proved it to me before. that’s why i let you assist me. your worth to me would not diminish with such a small, single mistake. if such accidents ended in termination, no one in this circus would be here, including me. i’m a little worried, dear, that you thought so little of me. i don’t trust people easily. you simply earned it."

you blink at him, surprised. you’re not sure you’ve ever heard so many words from him at once. “ah, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to–”

“it’s alright.” he doesn’t let you finish, looking away. he takes off his hat momentarily, running his hands through his hair to fix it. he's always been so put together, maintaining a stable, clean, and perfect image. you've never seen him do anything as simple as move a piece of hair away from his mask.

“it seems i’ll have to… teach you more about myself, i suppose. it will help us work together better. although–” he looks back at you. “it seems you need to relearn yourself, as well, dear one. shall i help you with that as well? you’re obedient, and you take accountability for your actions. that’s more than i can say of any past assistant. but you don’t seem to recognize anything valuable about yourself. you diminish yourself easily– as soon as one thing goes wrong, you think it’s the end.”

he waits for you to answer, but you’re still trying to mull over his words in your head. you feel awkward, under his gaze, listening to him explain how he sees you. he reads you like an open book, while you didn’t even realize you were a book to be read in the first place. “i... you’re right. i’ll be better about not... self-deprecating. thank you.” you look into the mug in your hands again, watching the tea bag float aimlessly inside. “i think it would help for us to learn more about each other; thank you for giving me this second chance. i apologize, i made this such a big thing. and the paper was right in front of me the whole time.” you catch yourself before you say anything deprecating about yourself out of habit, fearing retaliation from the man behind you. "i'll communicate the mistake next time."

“nothing to apologize for, sweetheart,” he answers, observing the buttons of his sleeves, “the time will be made up for eventually. although we have a lot of papers to get through, dearest, more so because of this mishap. i hope you’re ready.”

“right…” you say your goodbyes to seeing your bed for the night, “i’ll get started on that.”

✧ JESTER

cw: mc annotates books. bonding over books. themes of insecurity and self-deprecation. mentions of columbina and mc being a little like her :3 err i'm really not sure what happened this just kept getting longer and longer every time i tried to edit jester's section. but i would say that it's just a lot of talking back and forth. like a domestic deep talk with jester which i (at least) would find very comforting to turn my brain off and just read about jester's thought process. lots of character study in this one </3

when he makes you cry, jester won’t apologize in words. like ticket taker, his approach might make it seem like he doesn't care at first, but it's only because actions show that he cares much better than words ever could. he makes you come closer to him when you try to hide your tears from him. he does it to show you you're worthy enough to be by his side. he'll distract you with a story about him, something he usually only reserves for those he finds worthy, because you are worth it. he comforts you in a way that shows you he cares about you, even if he never says it. "don't close off, don't suffer by yourself." he's here for you.

you’re used to how the circus works by this point.

you know your place, and you’re content with it. they’ve taken a liking to you and allowed you to wander in and out of the circus as you please. you're allowed your own life outside of the circus, but the moment you step into the circus, into their home, you're theirs.

pierrot will grab you to test a new recipe he's tried out. then harlequin wants your attention, and ticket taker says he's willing to let you assist him with his paperwork. the doctor insists he needs you for an experiment only you can help him with—

and the last circus member? somehow you always wind up with him by the end of the day, even if he doesn't get to you first.

he's patient; he'll let one of the other members drag you around until he decides you're his. and once he's shown up to grab you, pierrot will have to say his goodbyes. until tomorrow— if he's lucky. but jester will decide when he's done with you, not anyone else.

your time with him is... strange. that's the best way you can put it. while the other members always have some sort of activity they reel you into, jester doesn't make you do anything. just has you sit with him in his tent. and talk.

it was nerve-wracking at first, being alone with him. no one was there to save you from his watchful eyes, or answer a question so you didn't have to. his questions were sometimes simple, but sometimes a little more invasive. it made you worry that you were eventually going to disappoint him with your answers.

some days, he asked for your opinion; what were your thoughts on a city they had travelled to before, and had you visited it yourself in the past? he was discussing with ticket taker whether they should purchase something new for their family, and what did you think? harlequin wanted a motorcycle (terrible idea, out of the question), and pierrot was banned from driving, so anything vehicle-related was off the table, but he was open to all other suggestions. you couldn't imagine what value your opinion possibly had in such important matters, but all you could do was hope to satisfy him with honesty.

other days, all you talked about was books. the first time you walked into his tent, past the main stage where you initially watched him perform, you were shocked to see his expansive collection of books. they were kept in towering stacks of old wooden crates, which he explained made them easier to transport as they travelled.

the rest of his tent was quite cozy; there were several comfortable chairs scattered about inside. there was one near his books, one at his desk for him, one next to it, mainly reserved for when ticket taker came with stacks of paper to talk him through each individual one, and another for you on the opposite side of the desk if you so desired. but it was intimidating to sit so close to him, so you usually opted for the last chair, which was just a few feet from being right in front of the desk.

he kept the tent dimly lit, lanterns hung sparsely from the top in a loose circle around the center. it kept the middle of the tent well illuminated, but the closer you got to the wall, the more you noticed the shadows that flickered with the flames inside each lamp. the lighting put a focus on the desk in the middle of the tent where he always sat, watching you from wherever you chose to sit.

if he had no specific question for you when you were brought to his tent, your typical routine was to update him on what book you were reading. sometimes you brought it with you, and sometimes he somehow had an exact copy of the book you were referencing. he mentioned briefly that harlequin had once bought him an entire crate of random books from a used bookstore as a gift, and while some of the books had been good, or alright, others... he only made it as far as reading the back cover before he put it down. no matter the book, on these days, you would both sit in silence save for the sound of pages turning from your individual books.

you don't mind the talking, or if it's silent. whatever happened each day, you found yourself looking forward to it, waiting for him to undoubtedly show up any time you were with one of the other circus members. jester had been hard to read, obviously. you still didn't understand in the slightest why he paid you any attention. but at the very least, the time spent with him had given you the opportunity to learn more about him.

sometimes he told you stories, similar to the ones he performed about monsters every night, but without all the actors. he would sigh, disappointed, saying the story was always better on stage with the blood and costumes. but this sufficed too— just him. and you.

other days, your conversations were two-sided and endless; you both bounced ideas and comments off of each other all day long. you wouldn't ever consider either of you extremely talkative, but he seemed to be bringing out a side of you that you didn't realize you had, and maybe you did the same for him.

the circus— his circus had quickly become a second home to you. and not just the members of the circus, the place itself was a comfort, too. wandering around the tents at night with the warm string lights hung between like stars that were just out of reach— and the music that played quietly above the bustle of the crowds of people you passed seemed to heal something inside you. maybe it was the joy that filled the air and the magic of the circus— you hadn't visited a place like this since you were a kid. but now you were older, actively choosing to be here rather than being brought here by your family or friends. you knew the world wasn't pure or kind like you thought it was when you were younger, yet this place still remained untouched by adulthood. the circus was still alluring, charming, and bright, taking visitors away from the worries of their everyday lives and to an entirely new world.

if it was before business hours and you visited earlier in the day, the time you spent with the circus members still had the same sense of magic and comfort. they were who you went to when you wanted a distraction or someone to talk to.

pierrot was the easiest to speak to, unsurprisingly. he was extremely good at listening to you, and his idea of comfort came in the form of compliments and hugs. he always took your side and rather than trying to find a solution to your problems, just let you talk while he nodded and urged you to keep going. listening was all you needed; you would figure out the problem on your own. but pierrot's approach was different from a certain purple-haired man who would certainly have no trouble telling you that you were wrong.

you feared that if you ever tried to be this vulnerable with jester, he would end up judging you, seeing your problems as minuscule, or not anything worthy of being called a problem at all. and he had the right to perceive your problems as such with how much he— all of them had been through. when you first met pierrot, he was being ridiculed and attacked for looking strange. he was blamed for the disappearances around town without any proof, and that hostility was something the circus dealt with everywhere they went. and it was fine if jester couldn't empathize with you; you weren't expecting him to. you could always talk to pierrot instead, anyway.

work had been exhausting. you'd been understaffed all week at the café, and today was no exception. it had also been nonstop busy since the time you had opened, and it hadn't let up even when you were leaving for the day. customers just kept pouring in, none of whom seemed to understand that there were only two of you doing your best to survive the onslaught. while not all of them came up to directly complain and demand their drinks or a refund, it was the stares that always bothered you. the dozens of eyes burning into you, scrutinizing your every move, hesitation, and breath, while they waited to eagerly snatch their drink from your hands and finally leave. it added to the nerves you already had, and if you were unlucky enough to accidentally spill something, the crowd of people watching only made it more humiliating.

"on top of all that, one of the customers tried to walk behind the counter. i had to drop everything and fight with him to step back into the lobby," you're retelling everything to pierrot, who nods eagerly with a frown, opening his arms wide to offer you a hug that you gratefully accept.

"my star, you could have called me. i would have come immediately to take care of the man. you never deserve to be treated like that." his eyes are filled with worry, and he keeps his arms secure around you, one hand rubbing your back. he was the first person you ran to as soon as you made it to the circus, and he could tell that something was wrong as soon as you opened the flap of his tent. your shift at work had ended hours ago, yet you still looked just as totally worn out as when you had left.

"hm~ i could have spilled a coffee or two on the man, that would've gotten rid of him real quick. don't call that red dog next time, little one. what would he do? he can't even talk," harlequin laughs, appearing from a dark corner, scaring both you and pierrot. he approaches quickly, leaning in to stop just inches away from your face, "you'd be much better off calling me, pretty thing. i assure you, i could protect you~"

the side glare pierrot gives harlequin is deadly, and your eyes dart between the two, not daring to say anything. pierrot gives you one last squeeze before he lifts you up, sitting you back on the ground and placing himself between you and his green counterpart. you cover your mouth with a hand in shock as he tackles harlequin to the ground. there are exclaims of pain and violent jingles of bells as the two roll around on the ground, and pierrot's saying "stay away from them! you—"

everything goes quiet, and harlequin and pierrot both freeze mid-punch, looking at the entrance to the tent. you turn around slowly to see what they're looking at, and ice-cold shivers run down your back when you see him. the look on jester's face is darker than the look pierrot gave harlequin just moments ago. when you turn back to the two boys in question, they're both on their knees, hands neatly placed in their laps, ready to beg for forgiveness.

jester's eyes trail to you, and you roll your lips into your mouth, not daring to breathe. you get the feeling you should move into the same position as the other two, pleading to be forgiven for being a bystander.

it's silent in the tent for a moment; no one moves a muscle, and not even the wind dares to blow. then, jester breaks the silence. "[name]. my tent. now."

"right. understood. going." your answer is incoherent, but you move to your feet nonetheless, immediately following orders. you hesitate for a moment, looking back when you reach the tent entrance. harlequin blinks at you rapidly as if you're in any position to help him, and you can only give him an apologetic look before turning to pierrot, who's already looking up to the sky, accepting his fate.

jester turns to you with a terrifying smile on his mask. the hand he puts on your back is brief as he guides you out of the tent with a small push. "i'll see you shortly, little mouse. keep walking."

you close your eyes as you walk away from the tent, mourning the souls about to be lost.

jester's tent is the same as always. the shadows that dance along the walls of his tent catch your eye as you sit down.

today, you forego any of the chairs in the tent for a wooden crate several feet from his desk. it puts you in a position so that you're ready to escape if your doom is coming next after harlequin and pierrot's. it's naïve to think you could ever escape him, no matter how much distance you put between you both— but at least you'll be out of arm's reach if you sit here.

you hear the bells before you see him. sunlight from outside briefly floods the tent as he enters, but it's extinguished just as quickly as it appeared when the flap of the tent entrance falls back into place behind him. your eyes follow him as he walks to his desk, lowering himself into his chair, sitting with one leg crossed over the other, resting on his knee.

"you... wanted to see me?" you start nervously, biting your lip.

he sighs, closing his eyes. his hands reach up to massage his neck. "yes. start with explaining what those two were fighting about just now."

your mouth goes dry. will you be getting them in more or less trouble, depending on how much you say? or are they past the point of saving? "oh! ...that? i assure you it was nothing big. pierrot was mad because harlequin came out of nowhere. i was just talking to pierrot about my day. i had a few rude customers, and he was comforting me— and then harlequin decided he had something to say, too."

"at your coffee shop?" he inquires, and you nod. "hm~ of course. they don't even handle aggressive customers at the circus well. neither is equipped to comfort you about such a thing. and that is hardly an argument for pierrot to pull a knife on harlequin, that boy."

you hum in thought, "they're nice to offer help, but their ideas of 'help' are... a little vengeful."

"so you agree?" he asks, and your heart stops for a moment. was it a trick question? were you supposed to defend harlequin and pierrot spilling hot coffee on any person that had wronged you?

"y-yes... i think since they are representatives of the circus, they have an image to uphold. it would look bad on the circus if they got into a disagreement with someone about something as trivial as coffee. it really is just coffee. that's all my job is. i can handle a few mean customers. it's nothing worth them risking the image of the circus for. and... they probably would have just made the customers more mad at me, too— if i might selfishly add." you play with your fingers nervously, awaiting his judgement.

"i agree. that was a good way to put it." jester nods, and something inside you flutters. any semblance of praise from him was worth the risk of answering his trick questions. "however, your addition isn't selfish; this is all about you to begin with. while it wouldn't have been good for either of them to go, if you find you require help at any time, you're better off asking bil to come. or me."

your eyes widen at his answer, "really? you would come?" you immediately pinch yourself, embarrassed at how eager you sounded. calming down, you continue, "uhm... it's alright. i was fine, no one was hurt. seriously— nothing is ever going to happen at a coffee shop that's worth the trouble of one of you guys coming. but thank you."

he still seems surprised at your initial exclamation, and you wish you could slap yourself. "i would come, if you asked," he answers with a slight tilt of his head. there's a brief moment of silence as he holds your gaze before you eventually have to avert your eyes, feeling a little shy. he continues on like nothing happened, "you never know what might happen, little mouse. it's better to be overprepared now than to be scrambling for a plan in the moment. if something were to happen, pierrot is typically the one handing out flyers near your work. realistically, it would be best to call him because of his proximity, but as we discussed, it may not have the best outcomes. perhaps if there was a rotation..." he places a hand on his chin, eyes narrowed as he continues to think to himself.

jester has never come to your work— never even mentioned it. while harlequin and pierrot thankfully visit when it's slow and you're at least presentable, it would be just your luck for jester to come in while your skin is covered in syrups and milk has somehow reached your hair. you always thought he just couldn't be bothered to come— why would he? even if he needed to see you for something, he would see you at the circus later, so there was no reason for him to ever stop by your work. but maybe he had never visited, simply because he wasn't in the area. would you come, even if there wasn't a problem? just if i asked? the words die on your tongue.

"well, moving on from that—" he straightens in his chair and your attention is brought back to him. "my original reason for bringing you here; i noticed when you walked through the gates— you look a little ghastly today, dear thing. have you had anything to eat or drink? you're lucky i got to you before doctor did." you rack your mind, trying to rack over anything you could consider an attempt at self-care.

"uhm... i drank a coffee, i think," you answer.

he blinks. "you think?"

"well— i would classify it as water, too, because it was an iced coffee. coffe is... technically made with water and the ice melted because i was too busy to drink it. so i did. i drank coffee and water, if that's better." it was a horrible attempt at making light of your situation, because clearly your point is no, you haven't taken care of yourself, but as soon as you finish speaking, you wish you hadn't said anything at all.

"that's the most foolish thing you've ever said," he shakes his head.

you laugh awkwardly, head hanging low in defeat. it was foolish, you know that. but his words still sting a little. it's nothing to get in your feelings about; you were the one who made up some bullshit excuse. but you're exhausted, and your mind is barely working. would it kill him to act a little concerned if he was going to take the time to ask how you were? if you had told pierrot the same thing, he would have urged you to eat immediately. he'd probably even offer to make you something, not call you foolish.

yes, it was your own fault that you hadn't taken care of yourself, but you didn't necessarily have the time and ability to do so today. but sometimes it was nice to not have to do everything by yourself. that's why you came to the circus; you know you would be in good company. pierrot and harlequin provided you with comfort and a distraction from your feelings, so that you didn't wallow in them by yourself. but if jester was going to ask how you were despite clearly noticing you were not yourself and proceed to not do anything about it, then you would have preferred him to say nothing at all.

"what did your nuisance of a customer do? nothing too terrible, surely. or else i'll ask bil to keep a better eye on you." he's confusing. saying things that make your face warm, and then things that hurt your heart. does he care or not? you barely have the space to think about it; you're too preoccupied worrying about how he's going to react if you tell him what happened. but you do, anyway. you offer up your fragile heart again. because he asked. and you want to tell him. you want comfort. you want him to comfort you.

"it wasn't that big of a deal. i promise, it's nothing ticket taker needs to waste time monitoring." you're off to a great start, already downplaying yourself. but you hope that if you act this way, no matter how jester responds to your answer, at least you'll seem unbothered. "there was a man who was confused about where to order. we were understaffed, no one had taken his order, so he started walking behind the counter. i had to leave my coworker to fight with him a bit to stay out of our area, which just shook me up a bit. although— to be honest, that isn't what bothered me most. it was everyone else in the lobby, just glaring at my coworker and me. i hate when people watch me, even more when they're being intentionally rude about it. that's all."

jester places a finger on his chin again, pondering the situation. "we have people try to enter restricted tents all the time. humans never want to listen, do they? they'll just stare you down if you don't give them exactly what they want."

"yeah... but it's a lot more serious for you guys. you have genuine things you need to keep protected and away from the general public. my situation wasn't that serious. i think i'm just exhausted. i almost didn't go into work today, i wanted to stay home. we've been understaffed all week. it's just been rough for me." you weren't trying to lie or oversell the importance of the circus; it was just undeniable that it was a much larger business than your little coffee shop.

"alright. if that's the case, then why are you even here?"

jester's response makes your heart drop. what's that supposed to mean? you want to ask, but it's pretty clear what he's trying to say. you're here because you wanted to talk to pierrot, and to see him, like you do every day, because it brings you comfort. but if he didn't want you here, he should've left you alone with pierrot. and if he doesn't want you here at all, then you'll leave.

you take in a deep breath, blinking a few times. you feel the tears well up in your eyes and you bite your lip, willing them not to fall. you're not sure when they started, right after he asked the question, or when you came to your own conclusion to leave. despite your wishes, one still slips out, running down your cheek. you turn your head slightly to the side, hoping to hide the tear from the man in front of you. you don't wipe the tear away when it falls down to your jaw, you let it fall somewhere on your shirt.

it doesn't matter what you hope for, because that's all it is— a prayer, a wish for something to happen. and rarely does anything go the way you want it to. jester's vision in the dark is remarkably clear. he's noted everything about your body language; your eyes became glassy before the tears you're trying so desperately to hide began to fall. they reflect the embers of the nearby lamp you've chosen to look at instead of him. you tensed the moment he asked the question you have yet to respond to, and you turned your body slightly away from him. the first sign that something was wrong was in the beginning, the moment he entered the tent: your knees were already angled towards the exit, rather than towards his desk— towards him.

"you're crying," he observes, but he doesn't make any move to comfort you.

"i'm not crying," you respond, keeping your voice as steady as possible. you push yourself off the crate, turning to leave.

"why are you lying to me when i can clearly see tears running down your face?" you let out a deep sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. more tears escape your eyes, as he's been so kind to point out.

you open them again, looking directly at him. "i'm not crying."

only a human would be strange enough to deny the obvious. you deny him with such a fire in your eyes, and for what? he clearly sees the truth, and he's not going to ignore your tears just because you say you're not crying. he has a heart, believe it or not.

books have always been the easiest way to get inside someone's head as an outsider. humans and monsters alike all have different perspectives; no two people have the same view. they may be similar, but never identical. what shapes a person's mind is the experiences unique to them: the habits and memories passed down from their parents, what they choose to surround themselves with, what challenges the forces of nature throw at them— they all combine together to develop these unique psyches.

he's read thousands of books throughout his lifetime, and somehow he still has yet to understand what goes on inside your head in moments like these.

"come here." it's an order, but he doesn't say it sternly. just points to the chair next to him. he talks to you levelly because he knows you'll listen.

you don't know why you obey. you grab at the fabric of your pants in tight fists as you sit, trying to will yourself to stop crying. you hold your breath until your lungs burn, bite your lip until it bleeds, pinch yourself until it doesn't sting anymore, but none of it stops your tears and the small sobs that accompany them.

then there's a feeling on your head that makes you freeze. slender fingers comb through the back of your hair to your scalp, running back through the strands over and over. you turn your head slightly, keeping his hand on your head as you look at him in confusion.

his face is neutral as he stares back. "pierrot does this to me sometimes. he likes my hair. used to play with it until he grew his own out to be as long as mine." you try to imagine pierrot behind jester, doing something similar to the way jester plays with your hair now. you didn't even realize pierrot had long hair, besides his strands in the front. "he keeps most of it tucked in his hat after sustaining an injury." he seems to read your mind. he stays silent for a second, and you close your eyes, leaning into the gentle touch of his hand. it was nice to hear something new about pierrot and jester, something to take your mind off everything that had happened today. and you don't remember the last time someone ever took the time to touch you like this.

"drink this," he slides a cup across his desk, placing it in front of you. it's a steaming cup of tea, and another one identical to your own is to the right of him. you didn't even notice when he poured it. "you'll get a headache if you keep crying when you haven't drunk anything today." you nod, taking the cup between your hands, sipping from it hesitantly. but it's the perfect temperature to your surprise; the warm liquid soothes your throat without being too hot to hurt you.

"you thought i meant for you to leave. that you weren't wanted here, didn't you?"

you look up from the tea back at him. "is that... not what you meant?" you ask, your voice cracking from your previous cries.

"no, dear. you said you wanted to stay home today. my question was why you were here, instead of your home," he explains, and your cheeks warm, embarrassed.

"i'm sorry i took it the wrong way," you apologize. "i think... the circus is just so comforting to me. like a second home. i didn't even consider going to my home when i got off work, i wanted to come here immediately and be with you— and everyone else, of course—" you stutter at the end, only getting more flushed. but when you meet his eyes again, there's a small smile on his face you don't think you've ever seen before. he stops running his hand through your hair to ruffle it slightly for a moment before returning to combing through it.

"pierrot would be pleased to know that. as am i," he responds. he seems to hesitate before speaking again, "dear one, you are... welcome here. if you wish to stay here instead of your own home for the night, i'll allow it." you blink at him in surprise, taken aback by his offer. "you don't have to give me an answer now, little mouse. it's just an option. think about it for a moment while i tell you something else." his hand stills on your head, and your eyes follow his other arm as he reaches for the desk drawer next to him. sliding it open, he pulls out a book, placing it on the desk.

your eyes widen when you recognize it. "is that... mine? is that the book i gave you?"

he nods, flipping through the pages. "it is. how long ago was that? i've been meaning to return it." it was one of the first books you had ever talked with him about. one day you brought it in as an offering and although he said it wasn't a book he would typically read, he still took it without a word. you never knew if he had actually read it or not.

you wait for him to continue. would he tell you what he thought of the book? was it good or bad? "you annotate your books. it was interesting to me," he says, and your face goes red. it had completely slipped your mind that while reading the book, you had highlighted and scribbled all over the pages before handing it over to jester a few months after. "writing is ambiguous; good authors don't spell out every little explanation and reaction— it's left up to interpretation. this book you gave me— it itself was fine, but i found reading your annotations far more interesting. i learned more about you through your scattered notes about how you understood the book."

you can't even begin to think about what you probably wrote inside those pages, and it's hard to imagine what jester may have thought the first time he saw your scribbles. "jester?" you say his name, and he hums in response, looking from the book back at you. "why do you care so much about what i have to say? why waste time reading something as silly as my annotations? you have countless smarter people around you than me, like ticket taker. what use am i to you when he can give you the correct answer to anything, circus-related or not?"

his fingers begin to mindlessly play with your hair again as he answers, "i do ask him for his opinions. i trust him with everything. but i've... grown to begin to trust you. your annotations proved to me that your kindness was not a fake front. and don't take that the wrong way— i have a family to protect. i don't trust many, and certainly not easily. skepticism is necessary in order to keep them safe. you may not have meant to, but your book and your notes told me everything i needed to know about you to decide if i was going to trust you even a bit or not." you nod to his words, mumbling a small thanks. "while ticket taker might be smarter in some aspects— or all— that's to be expected, given how much he's experienced. it wouldn't be fair of me to compare you to him because of those differences. besides, you offer me something different— a perspective we cannot always understand: the human rationale."

you tilt your head slightly in confusion, and he looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to speak, "but my perspective— or rationale, whatever you want to call it, is inferior to your own. i don't understand why you would want that from me. it's not useful to you." your eyes follow his hand on your book as he runs a thumb along the corner of the pages.

"inferior, maybe, but still useful. take your kindness, for example. you gain nothing in return, yet your first instinct is to still treat others with sympathy. why do you choose not to use force against a man who is so clearly overstepping your boundaries? why would you stand up to an aggressor— why protect one of my own— without knowing anything about us, without expecting a reward for your deeds? your kindness is what separates you from the rest of your town, who is quick to blame my family for anything that will make them feel better about their lives. despite their inferiority," he looks up to the lamps that hang from the roof of the tent. you count them. there are six.

"think of some of the stories i tell you. there was another one of us, once upon a time: the flower." the color pink immediately comes to mind— and then red. you remember the red pool that reached from underneath an actor dressed in pink to across the stage the first time you watched jester perform. "she was kind, almost a little too kind. none of us could understand her at times, and it caused bil a great deal of frustration when he was younger. but her compassion came from a place of purity. she had seen too much cruelty to be innocent, yet despite all she witnessed, she still seemed to see good in everyone. your kindness... is like that. like hers. it's selfless. you give people second chances even when they don't deserve it. you're a rare find, and sometimes still hard to understand, but the more i learn about you, the more i can understand what went on in her head, and in turn what goes on in yours. most humans give up on kindness when they think no one notices— but you, you continue to be kind. even if others are not kind to you, you have never given up on kindness. it's simply who you are." his words recognize something in you that's never been brought to your attention before.

he's noticed and seen you clearly for who you were; your intentions were good, your kindness was second nature, not something you ever really thought about. he mentioned you giving people second chances, but truly, you're the lucky one. he allowed you the opportunity to prove yourself to him and his family, rather than immediately shutting you out. "thank you, jester," you mumble. anything you say back to him will certainly not top the time he's just taken to describe you, but there's still something in your heart that you want to say, "i've learned a lot from you. from this circus you lead. you took a kingdom filled with pain and built it back up to stand proud. you took broken dreams and gave them the chance to be fulfilled again. what you've created is still more than i can wrap my head around, but i'm greatful that you've give me the chance to learn, instead of punishing me for not knowing. thank you."

"hum~ nothing to thank me for, it is simply the truth," he nods, patting your head once more. "should i tell pierrot to account for you when he makes dinner tonight?"

“please.”

✴︎ DOCTOR

cw: actual warnings before a ramble: needles, blood/a blood draw. mc is feeling quite anxious + being poked with a needle isn't helping. touchstarved/lonely mc </3 ramble: i don't want it to seem like i halfassed doctor or reduced him down to medical things because he's so much more than that!!! but i do fear it may come off that way </3 i really don't want it to but i also feel like i'm still learning how to write the doctor and this scenario just fit best in my head as something that would truly happen!

doctor immediately notices when you're upset, but he may not go about it the way others commonly do. to him, solutions are found in cures and results, but that's not what everyone needs. you don't need a cure, you just need comfort. he might need a little bit of guidance, but he’s always willing to try a new approach for you. always for you.

your time spent with the doctor was a little strange, you'll admit it.

there wasn't always a lot of talking, but you liked that. neither of you required words to communicate; enough seemed to be said between blood transfusions, monitoring vitals, the twitches of your body— it all translated to something else:

you trust me enough to let me do this.

i trust you enough to give you myself.

and he wasn't the only one observing during the experiments; you made your own mental notes while he leaned down to secure the straps of your chair. the noises he made to himself when he found something interesting, the tilt of his head when he looked at you, and, of course, the way something new seemed to interest him every day. consequently, you learned something new about him each day as he studied something new.

you visited him every day, interested to find what he had discovered, and he more than welcomed it.

and that wasn't to say you guys didn't speak– you still held plenty of conversations:

“hm, you know it’s not that regular to visit your doctor every day, sweetie.”

“hmm, then you might need to diagnose me, doctor.”

you didn't mind when his experiments ended up hurting you, either. you tried to be a good subject for him. you never flinched or winced when something hurt, although it didn't matter. he was always quick to notice your pain and erase it just as quickly as you felt it. if you were bleeding a little or there was an unexpected side effect, he would patch you up, kiss the bandaged wound, and give you something to get rid of the side effect.

his work was always gentle on you. he never intentionally caused you pain, but sometimes you wondered if the way his fingers grazed your skin was. his touch left chills and shivers running through your body, which he always noted was abnormal, yet he never delved deeper into finding out why. he wrote down every time your heart rate spiked, which happened to be when he smiled, but you were positive he hadn't pieced that together yet.

and that was fine, too. you would take the moments and conversations you could get with him, you would take it all and be thankful for what you had.

you thought you would be able to stay patient that way; stay satisfied and happy with what you already had. but some days, you seemed to crave a little more. you couldn't justify it as loneliness; you were surrounded by people all the time. you interacted with hundreds of faces every day at work and obviously spent nearly the rest of your time with the doctor in his tent. it wasn't loneliness... physically. but maybe emotionally it was. for the longest time, no one had really understood what was going on in your head, and no one ever seemed to care enough to notice something was off.

you didn't want to let it bother you. you hated to demand more from the people around you. even if rationally, talking to them would make you feel better, you couldn't bring yourself to do it. it felt as if you were telling someone they weren't a good enough friend, and that you were selfishly asking them for more. to be more.

you had held conversations with the doctor that were close to satisfying that craving before, such as each of you sharing stories from your childhoods, but you still couldn't gather the courage to say it. you knew exactly what you wanted from him– you wanted to be more than friends. your relationship was abnormal enough as it was; friends certainly did not strap each other to chairs and experiment on one another, but you weren't technically anything more intimate than that. you weren't brave enough to ask for clarification on what you were, so you kept the feeling to yourself, along with everything else plaguing your mind. what scared you more than anything was losing what you already had with him. if you were ever brave enough to tell him something like how much you struggled to get out of bed and he found it off-putting, you would never be able to recover from that.

but today had been a little too much to bear, a little too much to hold inside all to yourself. an draining day of work was a disastrous mix when combined with the loneliness that was already eating away at you. you were tired, but you didn't want to sleep. you wanted to be around someone who made you feel loved. you wanted to be with him.

when you entered his tent, the words almost immediately spill out of you, 'could i have a hug?' but he's ushering you into a chair as soon as he sees you.

"dear one, i've been waiting for you. i have something i want to try out–" he immediately stops everything he's doing, instead looking straight at you and tilting his head. you shift uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze. "something's wrong," he observes, and you avert your eyes. "you aren't well, dear. what happened? i can tell from your breathing–"

that's the part you don't know how to tackle. he does notice when you're feeling down, but not the way you want him to. he thinks he can help you with some kind of physical treatment, like a medicine. but science can't fix you. what you need is a person. you need someone to comfort you and show you love. but how are you supposed to tell him that? if you don't say anything, he's never going to know. and you know he would listen, but you don't know how to ask for it. every time you try, the words get lodged in your throat, caught by the fear of messing up, and you end up missing your chance.

"your eyes, sweetie. you look exhausted. are you getting enough sleep? do you feel well-rested?" he has a finger on your chin, guiding you to look at him.

no. you can barely think. you are exhausted. you're the farthest thing from well-rested. if you're able to fall asleep, you wake up feeling depressed and worse than the prior night. on the nights that you can't fall asleep, you're wrapped in a blanket that provides no warmth or sense of comfort, because nothing can replace the touch of a living person that you so desperately crave. you want it to be him. you want to be held by him. "i'm not sure..." you mumble, averting your eyes to look at the floor instead of him, unable to answer to his face. "maybe."

"you're taking longer to answer, and you're talking slower than normal. i'm worried, dear." he's actually quite good at articulating what he's feeling. if you had to guess, you would say it's because it's easy for him to say something as long as there's a tangible, logical label for it. being "worried" comes with connotations that he doesn't have to explain any further. maybe you could learn something from him and just say the damn words–

"my dear, i want to take a blood sample. your adrenal hormones might give me a better understanding of what's going on. is that alright?" he begins rolling up your sleeve but stops halfway through, waiting for your approval to keep going.

and you nod, because you really do think it'll be alright. you can handle a small needle– he's done this more times than you can count. and if the doctor says so–

oh.

when the needle pierces your skin, you feel sick. it's just a sharp pinch, a tiny piece of metal, but it's like you're feeling every individual layer of skin it's passing through. surely it's your imagination, but it's as if you can feel the blood leaving your vein through the needle, too. you're nauseous and light-headed, and your entire body is going numb. have you eaten anything today? you don't remember. you want to tell him it hurts, but you're scared. you've never told him you were in pain, you never wanted to disappoint him. and he always seemed to notice when to stop, anyway, but he doesn't stop. your heart is beating so loud in your ears you want to cry– how can he not notice?

and why can't you say anything, why can't you just speak up for yourself? why do you shut your eyes and tell yourself you can handle a little more, instead of just asking him to stop?

the sob you cough out as tears fall from your eyes is when everything stops.

he did notice everything. you don't need to say anything for him to notice; he's never needed words to figure out something is wrong– he sees it. his touch usually relaxes you, but today, you've been tense from the moment you entered his tent. your face is always neutral when he draws your blood, but now you're in tears.

he was waiting for you to tell him it was enough, waiting for you to tell him no if you didn't want the blood test. but you didn't, and he kept going, because he thought it would be alright. he thought if he just had this test, he would be able to figure out what was going on, but now he seems to have only made everything worse.

he doesn't need you to tell him something is wrong, per se, but what he does need is a little guidance. he needs you to tell him what to do when something's wrong. and he only needs you to show him one time and then he'll write it down– no, he won't write it down– he'll engrain it into his memory for you. every experiment is a trial and error until he finds the right solution, but he has yet to find the remedy for your pains.

"my dear, you're hurting," is all he can say, because he's unsure of what to do, how to carry out the plan that he needs to. he doesn't know the plan. he doesn't have the information he needs to help you. his words almost seem to cause more harm as you curl up in his chair, your cries muffled by the knees you bring to your chest.

"my sweet... will you tell me what's hurting you?" his question only erupts another sob from you– is he why you're in so much pain?

"...hug– can you hug me, please? will you hug me? please–" before you can finish, you're wrapped in his arms, fully covered by his figure, fully protected. one of his hands is on the back of your head, cradling you into the side of his neck. he's always burning incense in his tent and the smoke must have stuck to his skin because it's all you smell. it's his favorite one, hard to describe because of how unique it is– it's spicy, but also a little sweet, with something earthy amidst the two clashing scents. just like the first time you smelt it, it calms your nerves immediately. you had complimented the fragrance when he first burn it, he had explained to you that it was his favorite, despite how rare it was to come by.

"don't waste that on me, then, doctor. i'm quite calm right now," you had told him. because of you, you thought, but left unsaid.

"that's alright, my dear. nothing i do is ever wasted on you. i wanted to show you the scent, but i'm also burning it because i enjoy it," he answered, continuing his work on your arm. "i'm glad that you like it. it's my favorite."

your heart didn't hurt so bad back then. not like it does now. you clutch his cloak, burying yourself deeper into him. your breathing is still uneven, but you seem to have stopped crying.

"i'm sorry my dear. i hurt you," he apologizes, rubbing your head gently with a hand. "...what can i do for you? i don't want you to be in pain."

you shake your head. "i just needed this," you breathe, "this is all i wanted." you pull away from his cloak to look at him while his hand on your lower back slowly up and down it. "i just wanted to be with you, without an experiment. but i didn't tell you that. i'm really sorry. i had a bad day... and all i wanted to do was hug you and rest with you."

"my dear, i never meant to hurt you or make you feel worse, i'm sorry." he pulls you closer, as if scared that you'll slip out of his grasp at any moment. "i'll take you somewhere else. i've never shown you the garden with all my plants, have i? would you like to go there?" when you nod, he repositions his arms to support your body as he carries you, keeping you close to him.

you lean your head against his chest, and the sound of his heartbeat seems to calm your own. "that sounds nice," you murmur, "i'd like that. wherever i can be. with you."

he presses a small kiss to your head, warming your entire body. "of course, dear. we can go anywhere."

[starrilies]

maybe it's just for harlequin or jester but no one ever let me write about them at night again i swear part 2 of "when they make you cry" is coming but jester had me in a chokehold and i couldn't get out

[aadamoriss]

"Can you kiss me?"

This gets his attention. It's not like he's been ignoring you, sitting at your feet, working on his latest project for the circus, hands working skillfully on his craft.

But touch starvation had been gnawing you, and that night more than others.

Out of the corner of you eye, you see his head snap up in your direction and for a moment you think he's going to tease you. But after a second more you feel the coldness of the mask against the skin of your legs and hear the distinct sound of his lips smacking together, signaling a kiss.

You hold your breath for a second, focusing on the lingering tingling sensation against your skin, almost afraid that's all you're gonna get from him.

But then another kiss comes, and then another, and another along both of your legs and all you can do is whimper and clench your thighs as you feel his clawed finger across your skin.

"Did I not give you enough attentions, my dear?"

Your hands find their place between his soft curls, an almost unconscious habit.

"It's not that-"

"But of course, the problem is that you're such a needy little thing, aren't you?"

That draws another whimper out of you. You can feel the kisses moving higher, the smoothness of his mask gliding upon your skin, and he's moaning softly as if simply kissing your legs is enough to bring him pleasure. "What should I do with you, hm? Will my kisses even be enough to satiate this hunger of yours, sweet one?" You want to argue that you'll accept anything you can get from him, you don't feel like being picky tonight. The sound of his smooth voice, the sensation of his hands your skin is, and his masked face leaving those fake kisses on you, the mix is making your head spin and your heart ache so good. But you have to remind to yourself that there is one specific thing you asked of him. "I want a kiss"

This time the words are barely above a whisper, but it seems that he hears you clearly. His movements stop, and his head rises once again to stare at your face. You can't bring yourself to meet his eyes, or else you know you won't be able to think straight anymore. The weight itself of your request is getting overstimulating. But even if you're not looking at him, you can hear the rustle of his clothing and the soft ringing of the bells as he raises. He palaces a hand on your shoulder, but he doesn't even have to apply any pressure on it. Your body is moving on its own, and you're already lying on the mattress where you had been sitting. From this position, you eyes can't help but wander, ending up on his face for just a second before your sight is taken away. He places one hand on your eyes, covering them.

You hold your breath, afraid that the wrong moment could shatter this moment of bliss, just as you're afraid of how he's going to poison you that night. One of your hands clutches his costume, the other rests on the sheet, waiting uncertainly for his own to join it. But, with your surprise, what touches your free hand is not his own, but the coldness of his mask. He had removed it and placed it in your hand, wanting you to know what he was doing. That he was bare for you, even if you couldn't see him. Your mind scrambles to try and come up with a coherent sentence but all that escapes your mouth is a strangled sound, and even that is cut short by his lips pressing against yours.

The texture of the skin of his lips that rubs against yours is weird to say the least, it's easy to understand that whatever is kissing you isn't human. But, being a freak yourself, your mind doesn't concern itself with that detail, focusing instead on following the movement of his lips against yours.

You moan softly when his forked tongue slips into your mouth, and Harlequin answers with a moan of his own. And as your tongue meets his, your hand - the same one where he had placed his mask, now abandoned on the sheets - reaches for his curls, sinking into them, while your other one grabs at his costume with more urgency, pulling him impossibly close to you.

All is left for you to do is melt against him, chasing after his lips when they leave yours. You whine pathetically, but then clown must feel particularly generous tonight, because his mouth is once again against pressed against your skin, on your cheek this time, and then lower, kiss after kiss, on your jaw, your neck, your shoulder and your chest.

And there he stops, lying on it and you can feel his warm breath, somethings that's usually impossible because of his mask. He remains there, silent for a bit and you're more than happy to focus on catching your breath, while gently petting his hair.

Then finally: "Was that good enough of a kiss, dear one?" You let out a shaky breath. "Harlequin" He lifts his head from your chest, and even though if his hand is still on your eyes, you can feel his warmth drawing closer to your face. Then his voice is right next to your hear, making your shiver." "Yes." You can't do anything to stop the small smile that spreads across your lips "Just one more kiss."

[starrilies]

⋆ ALL YOURS

harlequin's in your apartment after a confession. you want to take things farther, so does he.

"if you're ever let to wonder, why anything goes right, thank the god of bad decisions; the queen of lonely nights"

tags & warnings: technically pt. 2 of DEVOTION (where the aforementioned "confession" takes place), but you could read this without having read the first part. however, then it's smut without any plot whatsoever </3 thank you to everyone who requested part 2 though! <3 harlequin x afab!gn!reader. MDNI. smut. monsterfucking, praise kink, size kink, marking, dry humping, oral sex (reader recieving), dirty talk, tentacle fucking, manhandling, belly bulge, creampie. fluff at the end ♥︎

wc: 5.3k

“i think i’ll collect my payment first then~”

harlequin’s hand holds your chin, guiding your face to the side to lean closer to your neck. his breath against your skin makes you arch your neck farther to the side on instinct, and you feel the way his lips grow into a grin against your pulse. "that's good, i like that reaction, meu bem."

his tongue drags across your neck until he finds the spot that makes you shiver, hand flying out to hold his, looking for something to clutch. he laughs, pulling away to look at you. “is that where you’re sensitive? hm?” he leans back in, pressing a kiss to the same spot, and your legs close together on instinct. against your better judgment, your mouth betrays you as you make a small noise when his tongue darts out to press against the spot again. “found it~” he hums, satisfied. he lets go of your chin but remains where he is, buried in your neck.

your scent is driving him crazy; he wants to claim you, press against you until you only smell like him. he can barely make out the words before he acts, “i’m going to leave my mark, little thing. i’m going to ruin you for anyone else.”

“ah– harlequin!” your hands make their way into his hair when his teeth sink into your flesh, right on that sensitive spot he sought out on your neck. but your fingers don’t try to pull him away. they only push him closer, deeper into your neck. god, you’re so obedient for him, so perfect in every way it’s making him insane. the way you react makes it almost impossible for him to stop. you make him want to see just how deep he can bite.

one of his hands has slid down to palm himself through his pants, trying to relieve some pressure. his groan is muffled by your neck as he finally lets up, moving to lick the bleeding bite he’s left on you. he sucks from the incisions he left on your neck that bleed the most, trying to taste as much of you as he can. you’re caged beneath his body, only able to claw at his chest and whine as he keeps attacking your neck, making your stomach flutter.

when he finally stops, the majority of your neck is a flushed red, similar to how pink your cheeks are, but at least a quarter of it is also beginning to turn a dark purple. it’s not enough for him. he wants to bite more, but your clothes are in the way, and the floor’s beginning to get a little uncomfortable. 

he moves onto the couch, and your eyes follow him as soon as he moves, turning towards him when he pats his thigh. “come here, pretty thing,” he beckons.

but you surprise him when you kneel between his legs instead, reaching for the string that keeps the bottom of his uniform together. he catches your wrist before you can get any closer, clicking his tongue, “you eager little thing~ are you sure you want to do that? or are you going to listen to me?”

your lips press into a thin line, seeming to debate his options, but he was never giving you a choice. he pulls you up by your wrist onto his lap, forcing you to straddle him. “that’s a good kitten,” he praises, letting go of your wrist to hold onto your hips. your hands wrap around the back of his neck before he can move, and he waits, anticipating what you're going to do.

“wanna kiss you,” you're on his lap, saying such sweet things, the perfect mix of sultry and naivety. you lean closer to him, until your foreheads are almost touching, “'s that okay?”

he laughs at the question. you should know by now, he’s yours. you made him like this. in your own devotion to him, he seems to be just as obsessed with you. he feels like a fool, knowing just how much he would let you do to him, if you asked. “i’m yours, gatinha. do whatever you want,” he answers, letting his head fall back to rest on your hands behind him.

you close the gap, unsure of where this burst of confidence is coming, but you let it control you while it lasts, guiding you to tilt your head, trying to kiss him deeper. when his hands squeeze your hips, reminding you of where they are, you lift them up for a split second before bringing them back down on him, and he breaks the kiss, groaning as he looks down at where you're meeting him. “fuck, do that again,” he breathes. but before you even have a chance to obey, he’s lifting you up again, pressing you down on him. 

it feels so much better when he does it, you're almost embarrassed you tried to take the lead, even if it was just for a moment. from his clawed hands and broad shoulders to his towering height, he's impossibly bigger than you, so when he grabs you, you let him. he's already been able to map out your body better than you could yourself in a matter of seconds; he knows exactly where to move you, force your hips to roll, and the exact amount of pressure to use that has you both moaning.

you followed his gaze after he broke the kiss, both of you watching the way your bodies meet and grind against each other, but you use a gentle hand to make him look up at you again, leaning in to kiss him again. he kisses you back with just as much fervor, moving one of his hands up to your head, pulling you closer to him.

when your hands reach, this time for his shirt, he catches your wrist again before you can see what’s under. “do you.. want to go farther than this, little thing? if you say yes, i won’t be able to stop, gatinha.”

you blink, looking him in the eyes, and he’s waiting, truly waiting for your answer. his grip on your wrist is hard. he wants to keep going, wants to so badly, but he’s barely holding himself back until you give him an answer. you move your hand to intertwine with his gloved one, wanting desperately to feel his skin. “yes,” you breathe. “please, i want to go farther. with you.” 

his mouth grows back into the smile you’re used to, his hand giving yours a small squeeze before both of his hands are wrapping underneath your legs. "grab onto me, little thing." you barely have time to react before he’s standing up, carrying you in the direction of your bedroom, squeezing any part of your body he can reach.

he leaves the lights off as he lowers you to the mattress, "this is much better, yeah?"

you can only nod, lips slightly trembling. he just looks so good like this, hovering above you. you can't stop staring.

you blink, trying to adjust your eyes better to the dark. you can still barely see him, but you can hear his hands removing his clothes.

you reach up, starting to take off your own shirt, when your hands are suddenly pinned above your head. he holds both of your hands with one while his other continues to work off his attire. "hum~ no moving unless I tell you so. did you hear me, pretty thing?"

"yes..." your answer seems to satisfy him, and you can see the glint of his teeth as he smiles, but he doesn't let go of the grip on your hands.

"good kitty," his smile only grows at the way your thighs clench when he praises you. "let me show you something new, since you're always so eager to know more about me, gatinha."

your breath hitches when you feel something move past the waistband of your shorts, just the feeling of it grazing your skin sending shivers down your spine. but you know where both of his hands are, so what's touching you? it doesn't feel like his hand, either. it's something smoother, thinner than his hands. "h-harlequin? what's—"

"what's touching you? it's me, dear. these are all parts of me, sweet thing." your mind is spinning, your fingers graze the hand that's keeping yours above your head in an attempt to grab onto something. you feel something wind around your ankles, too, keeping your legs open. his knees were already between your thighs to begin with, you're not sure you could've closed them if you tried.

it feels like ropes coiling around your body, near your stomach, and one is around your neck. they're everywhere, but they're not rough. they feel alive and warm. one reaches up to your hands, basically winding itself into your palms for you to hold. it's hard to tell if he willingly moved one up as something for you to grab as some sort of comfort or if the rope, tentacle—whatever it was—moved on its own, but you're thankful for it. you hold it gently, careful not to squeeze too hard, scared to hurt him.

"hmm, your skin feels so nice, dear," he murmurs, leaning close to your neck as his sharp fingers wander up your shirt, tracing along your ribs. your neck still feels sensitive from his bites in your living room just moments ago, and you can only whimper in response.

his tendrils have slid your shorts and undergarments down your legs and off your ankles, leaving you bare besides your shirt, which he's almost completely pulled off.

when you grinded against him earlier, the fabric separating you from him made it hard to gauge anything accurately, but now that you're both bare and he's pressed against the inside of your thigh, your stomach twists in anticipation. he had felt big when you grinded on him, but now you're starting to think he's too big. will it hurt, or even fit, for that matter? you begin to worry.

he seems to read your mind, chuckling against the curve of your shoulder, where he's littered too many love bites to count from your neck down to your chest. "don't worry that pretty head of yours, gatinha. i like to take my time with my prey. i'll make sure you're ready, i promise." you squeeze the tendril you've been holding onto gently, looking up at him as he pushes himself back up to hover above you. you watch the way his green eyes wander everywhere, and your legs weakly press against his knees that keep you open in a pathetic attempt to hide from his gaze.

he laughs at the feeling of your thighs squeezing his. "you might not be able to see anything, meu bem, but i can see everything," he let's go of your wrists, tracing down your body, leaving goosebumps in his wake. "you look beautiful like this."

the way he says that last part is oddly intimate, more intimate than you already physically are, completely bare for him, under his gaze. no pet name or tease, just the compliment. it has your face a little redder than before, and you shyly avert your eyes to nothing, "thank you..."

"always," he laughs again at your reaction, "you know i mean everything i say, don't you, gatinha?" you nod weakly, and your eyes quickly snap back to him when you feel him move, and he's lowering himself to your mattress, right between your legs.

your hands fly to his head on instinct, feeling his warm breath against your thighs, "harlequin—! are you—" a moan escapes your mouth before you can even process it when he takes the first lick.

he can't even help but rut against your bed at your sound, almost making a noise himself. he said he'd take his time, but you're making it damn near impossible with how much you're affecting him. a lick up to your clit is where he stays, pressing against it with his tongue. he'll keep going, he won't rush it; not when you look so good like this, when you're gripping his hair like this, when you're making those noises, when you taste like this.

"fuck," he murmurs against you, the vibrations it sends through your body making you shake, "you're better than i could have ever imagined— what are you doing to me, gatinha?" as if he hasn't been utterly obsessed with you from the start. but then again, weren't you? wasn't that what got you in this situation in the first place?

his words aren't an insult or attempt at degradation at all; simply nothing he's ever had or done compares to you. nothing could ever be as perfect as you. anything in his corrupted mind and imagination could never amount to actually having you in his hands right now, in this moment.

he's grinding against the mattress again, without even meaning to. his tentacles wind against you tighter in pleasure. he moans, lost between his own movements and having the taste of you on his tongue. but the way you moan right after almost covers up his own sound.

you're loud, and one of your hands flies to your mouth to cover it. you didn’t mean to be so noisy. it was a mix of hearing his moan and the way it felt against your most sensitive part. but your efforts don't last long before a tentacle wraps around your arm and pulls it back down to harlequin's head, as if urging you to run your hand back through his hair.

“keep making those noises for me, will you? you sound heavenly like that, it’s really turning me on~” he’s blunt, and somehow that makes his words several times more effective on you, and it's humiliating. you're dripping, and it's only getting worse with every flirt. he notices the effect he has on you, his tongue moving from your clit back to your entrance.

his tongue, you’ve maybe only seen it once or twice before, but that doesn’t matter. you’ve imagined it many more times than that, a poisonous green and impossibly long, split at the end like a snake’s– just the image of it in your mind makes you throb. harlequin responds by wrapping his arms around your thighs, bracing himself right against you, pressing his tongue inside you.

the warmth that’s been pooling in your lower stomach gets infinitely more intense, and there are tears suddenly pricking your eyes with how overwhelming it feels. “harlequin–!!”

the way you say his name reduces him to a level of patheticness he didn’t even know he could reach. how many times has he touched himself to that same noise in the past? his name on your tongue—not anyone else's—his. even now, he can’t help himself, rutting your mattress as if you’re not right in front of him. you’d be that easy to enter right now, instead of grinding against your mattress. but he hasn't stretched you out at all– he really needs to speed this up.

“‘m right here, dear,” he answers, moving back up to your clit before something else is at your entrance. he pushes two fingers in, not even letting you start with just one. the cry you let out almost makes him lose control completely, and the way your nails dig into his skull, pressing him harder against your bud isn’t helping.

he’s careful not to hurt you, he knows his claws are sharp, and it doesn’t really matter, anyway– they were only to stretch you out a little so that he could–

“oh my god–”

the feeling changes again as something else replaces his fingers inside you. it’s one of his tendrils, sliding inside you. it's unlike anything you've ever felt, flexible inside you, bending and dragging along your walls, continuing to reach impossibly deep.

you’re impossibly tight around him, and you’re only getting tighter as you get closer to your climax. you feel so so good– so warm, so wet he almost thinks he could cum right now, but he wants to– needs to ruin you. ruin you for anyone else, including yourself. he can’t decide if he wants you to start out cumming on his dick or like this. he'll be nice, he decides, and let you get used to his pace first.

his tendril retracts out of you the slightest bit at an agonizing pace, you’re worried for a second– but when it immediately thrusts back into you– “ah!~ harlequin, i’m– i can’t–”

“you’re gonna cum already and i haven’t even started fucking you? you’re so good for me, doll. it’s alright, you can cum, dear.” he sits back up as you shut your eyes, one final moan escaping your lips as the coil in your stomach snaps. he keeps his tentacle pushing in and out of you, letting you gently ride out your high, watching every way your body twitches, how you pull on your bottom lip with your teeth, and your nails dig into his thighs.

it’s an overwhelming kind of orgasm you’ve never had before, a few tears run down your face from the sheer extremity of it, and your breathing is ragged. it gets caught in your throat when you feel a hand on your head. he rubs the top of your head slowly and gently, immediately calming your racing heart, and his other hand caresses your face, catching your stray tears.

when you open your eyes, you’re met with his green ones again, looking straight into yours. “you’re adorable, gatinha,” he chuckles, wiping away the last of your tears. when his tendril slips out of you, it leaves you feeling empty, clenching around nothing as you try to gather yourself again. 

you’re exhausted, you think you could fall asleep right now, but looking in his eyes, you know he’s not done. with any other person, you might’ve asked to stop, but deep down, you know you want to keep going, too. you want to experience everything with him.

“you’re not tired already, are you, dear thing?” he teases, leaning closer to you.

you shake your head from side to side, denying any exhaustion. “no! i’m not, i swear. please…” but the words are harder to get out than you thought.

“please what?” and he won’t let up, his grin widening. he’ll never get tired of playing with you. "you were so loud just a second ago. what's got you shy now?"

“please… harlequin,” you hope saying his name will be enough, but when he waits for you to continue, the glint in his eyes as merciless as his smile, you shut your eyes, taking a deep breath. “i want you… please, harlequin.” you’re quiet, but he still hums in satisfaction, looking down on you.

“good kitten,” he praises, and your heart almost stops at the feeling of him at your entrance. you’re not sure any of the previous play has prepared you enough for this, and your hands reach for his shoulders, hoping for some kind of relief as he pushes in.

“hm?~ you gonna scratch me, little gatinha? mark me as yours? i don’t mind~” he teases, but he’s not exaggerating. your nails dig into his back as he keeps pushing inside you, stretching you impossibly wider. he even lowers himself closer to you, giving you better access to his back.

his forehead presses to your shoulder, and he lets out a small groan. even with how much he could feel with his tendrils, it feels infinitely better actually being inside you, and he’s still only halfway there. it feels even better, the way you’re scratching him, leaving marks that’ll make his mouth water every time he looks in a mirror and sees them in the coming days. he’s already so close to your chest that he can’t help but take one of your perked nipples into his mouth, flicking it with his pronged tongue.

your back arches into him at the feeling, and it helps distract you from the burn of how far he is inside you, how wide he’s stretching you. “oh god, harlequin–” you breathe when he switches to your other breast, one of your hands reaching to run through his curls while the other stays on his shoulder.

he hums in response, keeping his mouth busy until his pelvis is finally pressed against yours, fully hilted inside you. he leaves your breast with a kiss, looking at you, “wasn’t so terrible, was it? such a good pet, taking all of me.”

you’ve never felt so full in your life, and when your eyes flick down to where your bodies meet, in the shadowed dark, you can see the slight bulge pressing out of your stomach. his eyes follow yours, his grin widening when he sees how far he is inside you. his hand presses onto your stomach, his fingers cold to the touch. when he presses down, you arch your back again. the noise you make is half a cry and half a moan. “if you move, i think you might split me in half–” you murmur and he laughs.

“would that be such a bad thing, gatinha?” he asks, head dropping to your ear, giving it the tiniest bite. “look at me,” he demands, using a hand to help guide your face to his. he leans down, capturing your lips with his, and you moan at the sensation— how intimate the kiss is when you're connected; when he's inside you, pulsing, begging to move.

he takes the opportunity while his mouth is covering yours to pull out almost completely before slamming into you, your cry dying in your throat as he keeps his lips against yours. he groans into your mouth, green tongue slipping past your lips to push and wrap around your tongue, deepening the kiss.

he maintains a brutal pace but begins to push your legs up onto his shoulders, pressing your knees to your shoulders, letting him hit even deeper inside you.

you didn’t think deeper was possible, but here he was proving you wrong, and you think you’ve completely lost your mind and grasp on reality and any sensibility. your moans are so loud, harlequin pushes two fingers into your mouth to try and quiet you, “hah~ fuck, you’re so loud, dear. i love it. we’re gonna wake up your neighbors, yeah? but i’m gonna keep fucking you when they come banging on the door. i’ll keep fucking you until i’m done with you. doesn't matter who hears us, i'm not stopping 'til you're dripping with me.” you tighten so hard around him he almost stops moving, and he moans loud into your neck, the sound making you dig your nails back into his shoulders again. “you like when i talk to you like this, little thing? fuck! you’re squeezing me so tight, doll. it's like you want to keep me inside— is that what you want? want me to cum inside you, pretty thing?”

“yes, please,” you beg as best as you can with his fingers in your mouth, and he chuckles before removing his fingers, bringing them down to your clit instead, mixing your saliva with how wet you already are. “mmph~ harlequin– if you do that, i’m gonna–” your words make him still inside you, and although you did warn him, the loss of friction almost makes you tear up again, feeling yourself lose how close you were to your high. “wait–”

“be good and turn around for me, then i’ll let you cum,” he hushes you, and before you even finish turning onto your stomach, he’s already back inside you, using his hands on your hips to slam into you even harder.

the way he presses over you, your back against his chest, pushing you into the mattress, lets him thrust into you so deep you see stars. you moan into your sheets, slightly muffling the noise, and one of his hands comes up to run through your hair, grabbing it at the base to lift your head up. not enough to really hurt you, just enough that he can hear you loud and clearly.

“that’s it, sweet thing, come apart on my dick, fuck! been thinking about this for a while, you have no idea, meu bem. fucking you just like this— seeing you like this,” you can’t see him, but you know he’s near from how close he sounds to you. when he bites down on your shoulder next, you clench down on him again, almost fully sending him over the edge.

“you’ll make me cum if you keep doing that, gatinha,” he warns, a hand reaching down between your legs back to your clit as he keeps fucking into you, hitting the same spot over and over again.

“want it,” you mumble dazedly, head going limp, only held up by his hand in your hair.

he laughs, “want what, sweet thing? my cum, or you want to cum? or are you too fucked out to think?” you can only manage a weak nod and he laughs again, the sound making your stomach flutter in the midst of how it’s being fucked into. “how about both, since you’ve been so good for me, little gatinha. yeah? you’d like that?”

you nod eagerly and he lets your head gently come back down to the mattress, his hand returning to your hip to fuck into you as hard as he can. he’s close, but he won’t let himself go until you cum again, and from how your hands are grabbing onto the sheets, and now you're clamping down onto his dick, you’re close. you just need one final push.

he licks a hot strip up your neck, biting just behind your ear before kissing the spot right after, “cum for me, gatinha.” 

his words, rasped so close to your ear that they make you shiver, are what send you over the edge, and you cry out. it's even more intense than the first time, and he feels it. the way your walls spasm and clamp down on him has him groaning, too, immediately spilling into you. he keeps fucking you through both of your highs until it hurts. only then does he pull out, watching moments later when your mixed orgasms begin to spill out of you, and he pushes it back inside of you with his thumb. the intrusion makes you instinctively try to close your thighs again, and he chuckles at the attempt.

you flip over onto your back, still trying to catch your breath. the movement has him interested. what could possibly have you moving around so irrationally and quickly? he crawls to hover back over you again, his arms on either side of you as he watches your face, curious. he reminds you of a cat, ready to go to bed, but waiting for you to get comfortable before they curl up.

“harlequin?” you breathe, and he tilts his head, green slits following your every move.

“what is it, gatinha?” he responds, sounding only slightly out of breath compared to you. "you want round two already?"

you shake your head, lips trembling as he watches you, waiting for you to speak. you’re a little hesitant to ask, worried of how he might respond if the answer is no. the time you’ve just spent with him was far too intimate for you to take any kind of tease or joke. “will you… are you– are you going to stay the night over?” you stutter, trying to find the best way to put your words. when he doesn’t respond immediately, only blinks, you only get more nervous. “you don’t… have to. but it would be nice— um. i just don’t want to sleep alone tonight– it would be nice to sleep with you— is what i’m trying to say. sorry.”

he’s always left immediately after fucking. what point was there to stick around, sleep with a stranger just to go in the morning? he never wanted to spend more time in the presence of someone than he had to. he had no connection to them; he only used them, there was nothing more to it, nothing to stay for.

but none of that applied to you; you weren’t a stranger, and this wasn't an offhand hookup. he'd never had sex like this, not until you. he did have a connection to you, and this night had only strengthened that. just the mark on your neck made that obvious. your explanation, surprisingly, resonated with something inside him. he feels hesitant to leave, to go back to his own tent just to sleep in a cold bed. especially when he was already with you, asking him to come to bed, why would he ever want to leave?

but he’d never done this before. never had to take care of someone after his actions.

but he’d already learned a lot with you, hadn’t he? and you never demanded, just asked. never expected anything of him, just guided, as if you already knew he didn't know what to do. how cruel of you to keep putting him in these situations, where he was blind and inexperienced, despite how much he'd gone through.

the point was, no matter how scared he could be about messing up something new, even if it was as simple as sleeping with or taking care of you, he wanted it, weirdly enough. wanted to learn how, for once in his existence. you drive me crazy. he thinks, looking at you. it’s not an insult, he would say it to you affectionately, describe to you just how much you’re on his mind, which was all the time. he wonders if you’ve noticed, the same way he noticed it in you, how much you changed him. 

he doesn’t respond immediately, just falls on top of you, resting his chin over your shoulder, closing his eyes. when he opens them, you’re looking at him, eyes gentle and soft like they always are when you see him. he likes that. when he visits you at work, before you notice him, your voice is sterner, and your eyes are sharper, more lidded. but then you see him, and he’s fairly confident you don’t even notice– your voice gets softer and a little higher, adorably. your eyes widen, and they look a little brighter. he’s not sure what he did to garner that kind of reaction from you, but he loves it. loves being the only one you’ll change for.

you have a hand hovering over his head, and when he meets your eyes, you hesitantly place it down between his horns, petting his head softly. he hasn't explained them yet, nor has he told you what exactly was holding you during the night, but that's a discussion for tomorrow morning. when he closes his eyes again, turning his head to give you better access to it, you take it as a sign to continue and smile softly.

“i’ll stay,” he finally answers, making your heart skip a beat in excitement, “but we’re not waking up until i say so. if you say you need to go to work, or do anything else, i’m going to keep you in bed all day.”

“deal,” you laugh. "i wouldn't dream of it." but you are always dreaming— of him. during the day, always at night. but now he's in your arms, not a dream, a truth. "i'm all yours," you promise.

his arms wrap around you even tighter, holding you closer to him. it was the only thing he needed to hear you say.

[starrilies]

⋆ DEVOTION

an interest in harlequin is starting to influence you in the smallest ways. choosing green items over your usual preference for neutral colors, trying to figure out just what exactly tastes so good about black coffee to him, and you'll never admit the reason to yourself, but you've gathered books to start studying portuguese. you just hope he won't notice.

"baby, put your hands around my ribcage. i know you wanna see what's under."

tags & warnings: harlequin x gn!reader, fluff, mutual pining, references/allusions to reader sort of revering/worshipping harlequin, little suggestive, reader wears a necklace, lots of harlequin causing mc lighthearted psychological warfare, MDNI, mama hasn't written in a long time and she spent two days reworking and rewriting this so give her some grace and a ciggy please ( ;´꒳`;)

wc: 4.4k

when he called the color of that heart-shaped pin on your collar an “intoxicating” and “poisonous” green, you hadn’t taken it literally.

that was, until, you couldn’t get him out of your head.

when you woke in the morning, despite barely having a grasp on consciousness, the small, subliminal thoughts started: will i see him today? what will i say? and, unfortunately, a question that was starting to bother you more and more, how will i keep him interested?

you didn’t want to admit that you were liking the attention he was giving you, but that was the simplest way to put it.

it was poisoning you. time that used to be spent wondering about responsibilities and needs actually pertaining to you had now been overtaken by thoughts of him. you weren't even sure what you had done to catch his attention in the first place, but ever since, you’ve desperately been trying to grasp onto whatever you can think of that makes you interesting to be around.

in your mind, that means whatever similarities you can imagine having in common with a six-foot masked creature; and you still hadn't managed to find a single one.

you’re embarrassed to notice the changes in yourself– it's reminiscent of a teenager experiencing an identity crisis and the biggest crush on a person they’ve barely held one conversation with all over again. anytime you’re out shopping, you find yourself gravitating towards green clothes and items over any other color you normally choose.

you’ve been working as a barista for a while now, and while you enjoy coffee drinks just as much as the next person, you hadn’t put any real thought into the history and flavor profiles of different coffee blends since you’d been hired. but with harlequin visiting you almost everyday at work, you were trying to learn more about his interests and preferences. did he care about the tiniest hint of chocolate you were trying to gaslight yourself into tasting in the cold brew, or did he just like that it was bitter?

to anyone else, these were small changes, but they could never understand what was going on in your head; purchasing a gold necklace as someone who’d stuck to silver jewelry their entire life, you realized you had never put this much effort into an interest in someone. and it didn’t feel like pretending to be someone you weren’t, or a phase that would only last a few weeks–, you were actively trying to like black coffee because of harlequin. you drank it on days when he visited and on the days that he didn’t. you could say with confidence that you were slowly starting to enjoy the taste of it. your attraction to green and gold items felt innate rather than forced, and you didn’t think you looked terrible in the colors. maybe you had been a gold person all along, but you had never been confident enough to try it out until now. 

but signing up for a library membership was what made you realize how serious this interest was getting. you hadn't attempted to learn another language since high school, but next thing you knew, you were scouring the shelves of the language section for beginner portuguese vocabulary books, all because harlequin had offered you a few dishes from his home country and whispered things you couldn’t understand and he refused to elaborate on– you decided it was time to take it into your own hands. 

the books were still waiting on your coffee table at home, untouched. you were nervous about where to start; was it best to start with introductions? but you faintly recalled starting with expressing your mood when you took a class in school. that was something you’d have to push onto future you.

all you could pray for was that harlequin wouldn’t notice, the way you noticed everything about him. from exactly how many strides it took him to make his way from the café door to the stool he now claimed as "his spot." he chose that same stool every day, where he’d lean over the counter to grin in your face. even before he arrived, you would place a glass or plate in his spot to keep it unoccupied.

it’d been slow this morning, you didn’t see a point in putting anything out to save his spot. instead, you spent your time doodling on spare coffee sleeves, but you had already covered several of them while practicing round, symmetrical hearts. harlequin's costume had always interested you, from the detailing to what exactly kept his hat so puffed up all the time. you'd moved onto a rough sketch of harlequin’s hat, thinking it would be cute to draw some circus-themed sleeves. although your boss expected any circus fliers inside or on the windows to be torn down, you didn't see the harm in cute doodles.

you’ve just finished shading one of the hearts black when a breath on your neck immediately has you whipping around out of reflex.

“morning, little thing. no greeting today? what has you bent over the counter like this?~” harlequin's choice of words only add to the growing sense of shame and fear you're feeling. while you technically hadn't done anything wrong, you weren't intending to get so fixated on your doodles that you tuned everything out. speaking of your drawings, what should you do? cover the sleeve first? throw it across the lobby and hope he doesn’t go looking for it? act like you weren’t drawing him at all?

too late.

his eyes have already slowly raked down from your face to the flimsy piece of cardboard your fingers are doing a half-assed job of covering. he lets out a small “oh” that’s halfway between flattery and shock, and is it just you, or is it getting really hot in here?

something has been off about you for the past few weeks. when harlequin first met you on the streets, because he would be a fool not to remember everything about your first meeting, you had adorably refused to meet his eyes no matter how hard he tried. you had occupied yourself by fidgeting nervously with a silver necklace instead. 

but now, you've worn only gold for the past week. there are green clips in your hair, whereas before, you stuck to black pins that were barely noticeable. that made the abrupt changes from black to neon all the more prominent, and when he sees your little doodle on the coffee sleeve, everything clicks.

oh.

is this what it’s like to be worshipped?

you've put so much effort into being a little more like him. you’ve gone out of your way to wear his colors. you’re drawing him. you save a spot for him at your counter everyday, and you’re trying your best to learn even more about him– which is adorable in it’s own right. you refuse to ask him anything about himself directly, you're always trying to figure it out on your own.

he's reached into every corner of your mind and embedded himself there, spreading his poison throughout your mind. the realization of his success makes something in his own head buzz, especially with the look on your face.

you’re terrified.

you’re not changing yourself for him. you know he’s already interested. you’re just hopelessly falling for him, and the closer you're orbiting to him, the more you're becoming like him. and now that he’s caught onto what you're doing, you’re terrified of what happens next.

he’s had humans infatuated with him before. like a lovesick pierrot, they obsess over him, stalk him, try to manipulate him, even though they’re the one playing his game. it all ends the same, with their protests and justifications of “love” and admiration.

but you?

for you, it was pure reverence. 

you admired him. respected him. your innocent eyes told him more about how you felt than you could ever articulate. he wagered that if he asked, you'd get on your knees for him.

and he only wants more of it. he wants more of you until he doesn’t have to come out and find you at home or at your job. he wants to take you back to his tent and keep you at his side forever. he wants you at every hour, every minute, every second of the day. maybe he’s the one obsessed, this time. but no, it’s more than just obsession. it’s not infatuation, either. 

he might be on your mind, but you’ve weaseled your way into his head, too. he can’t seem to stay away from you even if he tries.

you’re different from any human he’s ever met, and it’s only right that you belong to him. special goes with special. if you were bound to someone like pierrot, it would only be a waste. a shining star dimmed, tied down to a pole.

and he wants you to want him. wants to hear you say it, yourself.

“my dear, what’s this?” his grin is wide, one slender finger pointing lazily to your drawing of him. 

“nothing! it’s nothing… oh, how do i explain–”

“no need, dear one. you were thinking about me,” he cuts you off before you could spiral, “it’s pretty obvious, you know. and i’m not talking about just your little drawing.”

your mouth opens, and then closes again, silent. you desperately wish you had a mask like him, something to cover your face and take the edge off the intensity of his stare. it burns into you, and he’s waiting, ready for any meek response you give him, which he'll immediately shut down. and what is there left to say? he already knows everything. “i…”

“how cute, little one~” he teases with a chuckle, the sound reverberates through your skull. you wish you could listen to his laugh forever. “it’s alright, my dear. your obsession with me is adorable. i love it.” he’s so close to you, but you sober up the tiniest bit at the realization of where you both are. you lift a hand, stopping him in his tracks, your palm just barely brushing against his chest.

“harlequin,” you hiss, but all he does is poke his forked tongue out. the sound of his name in your mouth is only exciting him more. “you’re behind the counter, you need to sit down before my boss comes out. people are already staring,” you whisper, ignoring the glint in his eyes, which is clearly telling you then let’s just walk out of here.

he obliges silently, only a small huff, and when he drops into one of the bar counter stools, you let out a sigh of relief. you can still feel the weight of a few customers staring at you, but at the very least, if your boss came out, harlequin wouldn’t be banned from the store and fire you. you mindlessly reach for a glass and a dry rag to polish a glass, preparing it for when he inevitably orders a coffee.

“well?” he starts, but doesn’t finish his question. he always talks like this, waiting for you to play along, or maybe he just likes to make you beg for it. you always obey, don't you?

“well, what?” you cock your head to the side in confusion.

“is there more?” he continues, still refusing to give you context until the very end, “i bet you’re so in love with me you have more drawings of me at home, don’t you? may i come over and see?”

just the idea of harlequin seeing your home has your heart in your throat. “what? no, i don’t have more drawings. this was just…” you trail off, unsure of what excuse to give. oh, i don’t know, harlequin. you occupy every thought in my head and every single second of my day and every breath i breathe is dedicated to you, and the best i could do was try to draw you on a stupid sleeve that protects your hand from getting burned. nothing special. “do you want something?” you change the subject.

“do you even have to ask?” he fires back, and you roll your eyes, turning your back to him.

when you place his drink in front of him, he’s resting his head in the palm of his hand. you shift from one foot to the other, feeling trapped in his gaze. “when did you start wearing gold jewelry?” he’s not looking for an answer to the question; he just wants to see your reaction. he already knows, after all.

you're fidgeting with the gold necklace in question as you spin up a lie on the spot, “oh, this? i always wear gold, well– not always- but i switch between gold and silver jewelry. you must have just never seen me wearing gold yet… why? does it matter?”

“it doesn’t,” he shrugs, watching the way your fingers continuously roll the gold chain back and forth, “except for that it’s one of my colors. but i guess you’re right, i must have never noticed until now.” he grins at the way you completely freeze up, your eyes widen a little more, and he truly does wish he could take it further. the amount of places he could just graze his fingers over that he knows would elicit this same reaction from you is running through his head, but he knows you wouldn’t let him. at least not here.

and you’re so frustrated because you know he’s teasing you, yet you still can’t help but give him every reaction and jump he wants. he’s like a predator, just playing with his food before he devours it.

"have you considered maybe not everything revolves around you?" his face doesn't change in the slightest despite your attempt to bite back.

"sure," he plays along, "but it's a little coincidental after i caught you drawing me, no?"

you bite your lip and his eyes follow your every movement, daring you to talk back. but you don't have an answer, and you're not sure why you even started this banter in the first place. but when you hear his laugh as you admit defeat, maybe your humiliation was worth the sound that makes your heart flutter.

when you look down at the coffee sleeve in question, you can't think of what to do. you're not ready to try to explain to him how you feel, but you don't want to pretend your feelings don't exist, either. a silence falls over the two of you, and it's calm, but out of character for harlequin.

“can i come over tonight?" he sure has a way of ruining peaceful environments, doesn't he? the question is out of the blue, yet he says it casually, as if he regularly comes over to your apartment. which is certainly not the case.

“don’t you have a performance tonight?” you quirk a brow, defensively placing your hands on your sides.

he shrugs, “i can come after i preform. i’ll start early and end early so i can come sooner. yes?” 

“no,” you answer quickly. “are you even allowed to do that? wouldn’t people be upset if they missed your performance?”

“if you’re not coming to see me, it doesn’t matter,” he answers passively, swirling the coffee in his hand. you wish you could tell him not to say those kinds of things or else you'll really start to get delusional. “i can do what i want. i’ll make up an excuse. so, i’ll see you tonight?”

“what if i come see to the circus tomorrow night instead?”

“then i’ll see you tonight and tomorrow night, too. just more for me~” his answers are childish at best, and he’s clearly not taking no for an answer. but before you can give him another response, he’s standing up, straightening his tunic. “well, i’ll see you tonight then, my dear,” he grins, placing a bill and a wrapped candy on the counter.

the bell of the cafe door chimes with his exit, leaving you alone, back with the same lifeless coffee sleeves you began with.

and wait–

where was the one with harlequin’s hat?

you search the pile of sleeves, scattering them everywhere and flipping them over.

“he took it when i wasn’t looking! how annoying,” you sigh to no one but yourself, rubbing your temple to try to alleviate some of the pressure in your head.

it wasn't from his teasing words, but rather the twinge of pain that came with being left alone again.

that he left, and you couldn’t follow.

you didn’t trust yourself to go to the circus tonight, worried about working early at the café tomorrow. instead, you began your language studies. your coffee table was covered in books, all open and scattered around your journal in the center where you were jotting down notes. 

you were certain you were near your breaking point. you were constantly losing your reading place, and now you seemed to have lost your pen. running a hand through your hair, you begin to clean up the mess of books scattered across the table, stacking them back into a neat pile for whenever you next decided to challenge yourself. 

intent on returning your journal to your desk, you reach for the handle of your bedroom door when you hear a sound on the other side of it. you freeze, heart dropping to your stomach in fear. maybe something fell over? but it sounded a little like something had been dragged, which wasn't comforting to think about.

but if someone was inside your home, you needed to catch them in the act before they took something or hid somewhere.

the door creaks open, and you hold your breath, trying to survey your room. the sight of a green and gold figure catches your eyes, and a wave of relief and fear simultaneously wash over you.

“...harlequin?” you say his name hesitantly, and a little quietly, unsure if he heard you until he snaps around to meet your eyes.

you’re still standing in the doorway of your bedroom, yet the distance between you and the man in front of you does nothing to dull the intensity of his stare. it makes it worse that your lights are off; only the sharp shape of his green eyes, black slits completely focused on you, stand out, the rest of him barely visible. his gaze actually has you wanting to step back even further, feeling a little bit like a rabbit caught in the teeth of a fox. his mouth curls into a wide grin as he turns to fully face you. “gatinha, there you are,” the tone of his voice sends chills throughout your body. all that studying tonight and you still have no idea what he’s said to you, you feel like a fool.

still, you take a few hesitant steps forward into your room, trying to regain your sense of composure. he’s the one in your house, you can’t be the one shying away. “how did you get in here?” you turn on the lights as you step into your room, and he barely reacts to the sudden change in brightness. if anything, his eyes seem to narrow down on you even more.

“your sliding door,” he answers simply, which seems to remind him to turn around and flip the lock on it.

you close your eyes for a brief second, trying to process the situation, “you– you can’t just come through my sliding door, harlequin. that’s breaking and entering. and how did you even get up this high? my apartment’s on the third level–” he hushes you, and when you open your eyes, he’s completely closed the distance between you two, causing you to squeak and step back reflexively.

“does that really matter?” he scoffs, “i told you i’d see you tonight, didn’t i?” 

while he’s technically right, he also walked out before you could answer. you shake your head in a small attempt to avoid looking in his eyes. at this point, you're starting to accept your unexpected company for the night. you can't think of a single instance you've ever won an argument against this man, it's futile to even try. 

and then the thought comes to you, what would you have said if he had given you the time to answer?

your mind is only making your heart beat faster, and you turn from harlequin, walking back to your living room to try to cool down. you can tell he’s trailing behind you from the second pair of footsteps you hear, almost silent, but still audible. you throw your notebook back onto the coffee table near the pile of books already on it and sit on the floor, trying to focus on calming yourself.

harlequin’s eyes follow your movements, but he stays standing for a beat longer before he sits as well. strangely enough, it feels the slightest bit domestic, this lanky man dressed in circus attire sitting cross-legged in your own home, silently staring at you with what seems to be curiosity rather than his usual playfulness that never lets up. he's looking at you as if you're a new species he's never seen, but truthfully, you're just in sweats.

but for him, this is an entirely new side of you he's seeing. watching through a window can only tell him so much. whenever you're in public settings, like the café or circus, you treat the place with a certain level of respect, knowing that you don't own the place, you're just occupying the space. but in your loungewear, in your own home, there's a different air around you. you're more comfortable throwing things around, plopping down wherever you feel like, he wants you to treat him with that same kind of casual trust. he wants you to be rough, but in your own personal way that still retains the kindness he will never understand that you extend to everyone, including him, even if he doesn't deserve it.

harlequin seems to try to mimic your respectful demeanor as he observes the walls of your apartment, small decorations and personal items of yours littered about here and there. you didn’t expect that behavior or his silence to last long, and it ends when his eyes dart back to the books on your coffee table. “what are these?” he asks.

your eyes widen a little, hands shooting out to try to turn the spines of the books away from his line of sight to hide the title of the books, “that's nothing! i’ve just been studying…a language. i thought maybe it would help me connect to more people at the cafe. we have a lot of foreigners, you know.”

“so you’re studying portuguese?” he calls your bluff immediately and your throat seems to close up. “hah! don’t make me laugh, gatinha. portuguese is my language, you know that. why are you trying to lie to me?” he inches the slightest bit closer to you, and your hands reach up to cover your face, unable to handle the weight of his stare anymore. “sweet thing, your devotion to me is adorable, don’t shy away– or i might just to pin you down.”

you can barely handle how this domestic, quiet moment flipped completely upside down into something sexual, and covering your face has hidden you from his sight, but now you can’t see either, which is only heightening your other senses and it sounds like he’s getting closer.

“gatinha, do you know what i’m saying to you? answer me,” he demands in a voice that makes you worried you did that's seriously offended him. your breath hitches as you try to recall reading any kind of term like that, but you come up blank, whether that’s because you're short-circuiting or from your lack of knowledge, god only knows.

“no…” you answer quietly and he laughs loudly again, mockingly. he sounds like he’s a breath away from brushing your shoulder. 

“sweet thing,” he murmurs, the rasp in his voice making you shiver as you peek through some of your fingers to try to see him, “these silly books aren’t teaching you anything. you don’t need them.” you gasp when you see his arm swipes the stack of books off the table, sending them tumbling to the ground in a flutter of aged pages and worn spines.

you've removed your hands from your face, looking at the mess on the ground. “harlequin, i have to return those…” you try to chide him, but your words fall on deaf ears, and suddenly, he’s in your face.

“why wouldn’t you just ask me to teach you?~” his grin grows wide as you try to shrink back into the edge of your couch to no avail. “i’ll teach you my language if you want, little thing. but in return, i want something.”

he’s barely talking about teaching your portuguese anymore, you know that. you’ve completely lost whatever game you two were playing. ever since that coffee sleeve at work earlier, he’s known everything. 

tonight, all he had to do was catch the little mouse, and he caught you the moment you’d opened the bedroom door.

“...what did you have in mind?” you avert your eyes, trying to look anywhere but him, but it’s difficult to do when he’s basically on top of you at this point. he’s all you see, hear, and smell– your head is spinning.

the chuckle that escapes his mouth makes you look back at him, and then you’re shamelessly watching the green tongue that pokes out of his mouth. he sounds pleased, like he knows you’ve realized the situation, too. he’s caught his prey, now you’re his.

“to start, maybe a kiss,” he hums, eyes looking down on you mercilessly, “then, i’ll mark you as mine. after that, i’ll take your clothes. i’ll decide from there what’s next, or maybe you already know, dear one?~”

you still avoid his eyes, but you give him a hesitant nod in agreement, and he chuckles, a gloved hand guiding your chin to look back up at him. "so good and obedient for me, aren't you?" he praises, and your lip trembles. then, he’s guiding your head to the side, exposing your neck to him. “i think i’ll collect my payment first then~”

[starrilies]

almost finished part 2 thanks to everyone's support 👉👈 but out of curiosity, was everyone expecting part 2 to be nsfw or did i read the room wrong 😭

[starrilies]

⋆ WHEN THEY MAKE YOU CRY

in what scenario do the circo members make you cry, and how do they comfort you?

"ahora entrégate / si lloro o tiemblo es por ti, amor / siénteme, soy el hombre que muere contigo, amor / now give yourself / if i cry or tremble, it's because of you / feel me, i am the man that dies for you"

tags & warnings: pierrot x gn!reader and harlequin x gn!reader, part one of two (second half includes ticket taker, jester, and doctor), individual scenarios with specific cw for each one below. my bad for being a yapper. character studies, fluff and hurt/comfort, the mc and the circus members are making genuine mistakes, but it’s teaching them more about each other

total wc: 7.2k (2.5k pierrot, 4.7k harlequin...)

✮ PIERROT

cw: broken glass, blood, injuries, established relationship-ish, mc has a vague understanding of the circus and who they really are

the moment he notices the first tear dropping, pierrot is at your side apologizing immediately. his comfort comes in the form of promising to love you, serve you, and take care of your every need until you feel better.

it's hard to imagine a scenario for pierrot; his entire existence is dedicated to pleasing you, acting as whatever version of himself you like best so that you will love him as much as he loves you. so how would he ever let himself make you cry?

he really should have just waited for you to be done with work. he could’ve texted you, or just met you outside, but the sight of you through the window had him feeling like he had to be with you immediately— he couldn’t wait any longer.

but when he’s fidgeting with the back door, trying to get it unlocked, and he pulls a wire he knows he shouldn't have, he freezes.

you’d been on edge all day after customers wouldn’t stop talking to you about everything going on in the news. more and more were disappearing, and while some did blame the travelling circus in town, you were under the assumption that it was something else.

if it was just people blaming the circus, you could have cared less about what they had to say. no one knew anything about the circus, and that's precisely what they didn't like about the vibrantly dressed masked performers on the streets. humans don't like to be left in the dark— to be made a fool of. before anything stronger or smarter than them can overthrow their position at the top of the food chain, humans suppress and destroy. as a result, everyone in town was blaming the circus for even the slightest mishaps.

but in your mind, that gave any criminal the perfect scapegoat for their plans. whether they steal something or make someone disappear, no matter what they do, they can say, “it was those circus freaks!” and the town will take their side. crowd hysteria thrived nowhere better than situations like this. 

that’s what scares you. humans have always been the real monsters. in the few weeks that you've known him, even if pierrot won’t tell you much about his family, you’re more confident that no one in the circus would hurt you than you are that you'll make it home safely tonight.

pierrot's nature gave you a sense of peace and safety you'd never felt around anyone else before; he'd held your hands and promised he would protect you multiple times, and he's kept true to his promise in every situation you've wound up in since.

but you're sure he has a performance tonight, so you’ve rushed to close the café, attempting to get home as early in the night as possible. you're closing alone, and you hope that fact alone will make your boss cut you some slack. you’ll be sure to text him a small apology anyway.

by the end of your shift, you’ve distracted yourself enough from the paranoia that you’re not dreading the walk home as much anymore. maybe, you think, if he isn't busy, you’ll call pierrot to keep you company over the phone once you’re outside. 

you only have a few dishes left to put away when the lights suddenly go out. the glass you had been drying slips from your grip, shattering into glittering pieces across the floor. between the noise piercing your ears, being left blind in the dark, and the frantic beating of your heart, any semblance of peace you had quickly vanishes.

you can barely swallow with the anxiety growing in your throat, your eyes darting around the darkness, but everything looks the same. you close your eyes, and it still looks the same. your breathing is only getting more erratic, and you place a hand over your heart to try to calm yourself. “it’s okay, it’s okay… i just… have to find the breaker,” you whisper to yourself, trying to silence your racing mind. 

you shuffle your feet, trying to kick away any broken glass rather than stepping on it. there's a lamppost outside that's reflecting the slightest bit of light through the store windows, and you use it to navigate over to the walls, running your hands along them until you eventually feel the ridges of a metal box. you sigh in relief, tears pricking your eyes—but whether that's from happiness or the pit in your stomach telling you something's lurking in the dark, you're not sure.

you try to take another step closer to the breaker box, but in a moment of weakness, a curved object beneath your foot snaps, sending pain shooting through your heel. you can only bite down on your lip, a small whimper still escaping your throat as you work through the pain to flip the right breaker. you can barely see, and the hot tears that slide down your face only make it harder.

when the lights turn back on, the first thing you do is look around. while nothing immediately catches your attention, that hardly makes you feel better. there are too many blind spots, too many places to hide. the café wasn't built to be empty like this, so when it's finally devoid of bustling customers and noise, and the windows outside are nearly pitch-black, it always feels like something’s off. 

next, you look at your shoe. there's a tiny piece of glistening glass poking out of the sole of it; the rest of the glass had surely pierced through the entire bottom of your shoe and probably into your foot. you blink back more tears at the sight, placing your shoe back on the ground without putting any weight on where the glass is.

it doesn't hurt as much as you just feel hopeless. you’re not sure what to do with yourself— part of you wants to just ball up on the floor and wait until the morning for someone to find you, but then you're just wallowing in your own misery. you could call someone, but you're not sure how long you’ve stayed past closing time. would your boss be awake? he has to be up early tomorrow morning, anyway. you’d rather try to fix this on your own. the best idea would be to clean up the glass and go home. 

you crouch down, one arm holding your knees close to your chest while you begin to pick up shards of glass with your other hand. you should go find the dustpan, but between your injury and exhaustion, you can't find it in you to care. all you want to do is go home, so you keep picking up and dropping the pieces of glass into your other hand. they’re big pieces, anyway. it shouldn't be too dangerous. but a door slamming closed behind you makes you jump, and suddenly beads of red are spilling out of your fingers.

there’s a strange ache of pain going down your neck and shoulders, a physical manifestation of the weight of despair and dread you’re feeling. as if your night hadn't been worse enough before, now someone was breaking in. but a ring of a bell follows the sound of the door closing, and you’re not sure if you start crying more at the sound of it or at the sight of the source moments later.

“my dear? where—” pierrot’s standing in the doorway of your backroom, and when his eyes find you crouched on the ground, tears running down your face with red staining your hand, he’s immediately at your side. “oh, my sweet, what are you doing?” he’s moving his hands frantically, unsure of where to go first, take the glass out of your hand? wipe your tears? hug you? find bandages?

“pierrot? what are you doing here?” your voice cracks, and his face seems to drop even more at the sight, as if he's about to start crying with you.

“my star, i'm so sorry. please, tell me how to help you.” he's not sure why he asks; he’s already started to pick the glass out of your hand, placing it in a pile on the ground where it won’t touch either of you. he can’t help but wish doctor was here, or jester. he knows how to take care of himself; he had to know when he was alone and just a kid. but he needs guidance right now because his beloved is bleeding— they are the ones who need help, and it’s his fault.

the doctor would handle this more calmly than him. he would probably lift you immediately and take care of your wounds. pierrot’s barely said a thing to comfort you, and he’s only just finished taking the glass out of your hand.

jester would know how to admit fault without making you more upset; how to rationally calm you, listen to what was hurting you, and what to do immediately. he's still scrambling to figure out what to do next.

he’s neither of them. he’s pierrot. and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. he doesn’t usually make these mistakes; that’s what harlequin does, and then ticket taker chides him, and pierrot cleans up.

right, he needs to clean up.

“my dear, please come here. i’m sorry,” he’s reaching his arms towards you, wrapping them around you and helping you stand up. you’re not responding to his apologies, and it’s making him feel worse. he wants to say sorry again—maybe you didn't hear him just now—but what point is there when you don't even know what he's apologizing for, and he’s scared to say more? “do you know where you keep… an aid kit? in the back?” he asks, and you nod quietly, pointing towards the door he came through.

he almost runs into the doorway on his way through, scrambling to find what he needs. he’s quick to return to your side as soon as he finds the bag, gently bringing your hand up to rest in the palm of his gloves. he wipes away the blood on your hand as carefully as he possibly can, but his hands are so big compared to yours it’s almost impossible to see what he’s doing. every time you wince his eyes flick up to yours, your face making him more and more dejected.

“my dear, i’m almost done. i’m so sorry this happened. please, forgive me,” he speaks to you again, not sure if he'll get a response, but he can't help but try anyway. his heart hurts at the sight of your pain; he just wants to hear that you're okay. it’s been a while since he was the one talking, not the one who was always silent.

“pierrot…how did you get in here?” you ask, and when he meets your eyes, his heart drops. he’s not sure how to answer, what will you think? his gaze drops back down, trying to focus on bandaging your hand.

“i wanted to see you, my star... i came through the back door, and the power shut off as i opened it. i didn’t mean for it to happen. i know i should have waited, i'm sorry, my dear. please forgive me, i don’t know what i would do without you.” he finishes the bandage with a small knot, pressing a gentle kiss to it afterwards. his stomach is twisted into its own bundle of anxiety and worry. he looks at you, waiting for your response, a reaction, anything.

despite your best attempts to choke it back, a small sob escapes you after hearing his answer. your forehead drops to his shoulder, hiding your face from him. he watches your body tremble, a hand hovering over your back, unsure that you would accept his touch. he wants to believe that you leaning on him is a good sign, but he’s so scared of what he’s done.

and you’re not angry, you think. yes, he did cause this; he put you through this fear and pain, but you don’t have it in you to be angry at him because he just wants to be at your side. you know that. he didn’t mean for this to happen, and there’s a small part of you that’s relieved that you’re not alone anymore. not just in this moment— he's proved it multiple times, he will always come for you. even if he caused your pain, he's also the only person you know who would come to soothe it. when you're alone in bed, unable to fall asleep, or too stuck in your own head, he's shown up and kept you company. even when you think you're alone, he comes. always.

you see pierrot’s right hand out of the corner of your eye, twitching, flexing open and closed. he’s unsure of what to do, where to move, how to exist in this moment. you reach for it, intertwining your fingers with his, as you take a deep breath in. “it’s okay, pierrot. i forgive you,” you exhale, closing your eyes. pierrot stares at the top of your head, waiting for you to continue. “but please, next time, just text me. i’ll let you in anytime, pierrot. i promise. i like your company.”

your words send a wave of relief and happiness over him that he's extremely grateful for. he knows he has no right to worry about preserving himself in this moment, yet you still take the time to reassure him. that was one of the first things he noticed about you from the start that made him fall for you, after all: your willingness to put others before yourself, to help them even if you had something more urgent going on. you needed to get to work, yet you still stopped to help him when he was just a stranger. 

“thank you…my dear,” he squeezes your hand back, looking at the way your fingers intertwine with his. his are abnormally long and pointed compared to yours, yet you don’t seem to find touching him repelling. “your kindness is too good to me.”

you both sit in silence for a moment, your tears starting to dry as you rest on him for a few minutes, and he lets you. he bides the time by admiring your features—something he could do all day for the rest of his life. “...my dear, i want to take you home. i think you need to rest in bed… is that okay?” he gently breaks the silence, taking care to not startle you.

you nod, pausing for a moment before you speak, “we just need to sweep up the glass, and we can go. i think there’s some glass in my shoe, too. so i might need some help walking home, if that’s alright.”

his eyes widen at your words, “my dear! how could you not tell me? you must be in so much pain–”

his exclaim makes you laugh, and the sound hushes him immediately as he listens to the sound that sends chills down his spine. “it’s– it’s okay. it… hurts, but being with you distracted me, pierrot. thank you for being here. we can take out the glass at home, i’ll have better tools there anyway.”

your words bring a small smile to his face, a slight red dusting part of his mask. he smooths the top of your hair, placing a small kiss to it that makes your heart flutter before he responds, “of course, my dear. i will take care of the glass, and i will carry you home– you will not walk a step. i will cook for you and clean everything; i will take care of your every need. i promise you.”

“oh, that’s not necessary— you really don't need to—"

“i insist, my star.”

𑣲 HARLEQUIN

cw: half of this is a sap yap and domestic fluff, i got distracted, i'm sorry. mc and harlequin argue, but no raised voices or anything of the sort. harlequin is simultaneously unsure and sure that mc will eventually leave him, mc is anxious about expressing their intentions to stay around him, aka they're in that part of a relationship when you're telling a person things like "i want to be around you forever" and it's more intimate than something a friend would say but you haven't exactly answered the "what are we?" question. ending is also a little bit of comforting harlequin more than him comforting mc

harlequin is a little awkward when he sees tears. he always knows when he's pushed too far. he stops right before that breaking point to avoid tears, because he's not good at fixing broken things. so when he finds you crying despite how careful he is, he knows he’s messed up. he keeps you company, although he can be a little distant until you tell him what you need to comfort you. tell him what you want and he’ll do it immediately.

harlequin has a list in his hand. 

he’s not exactly sure what makes him the optimal grocery shopper, but he’s not complaining.

well— if he thinks about it, ticket taker’s too busy making the lists and time schedules for whatever jester is thinking up; halloween being the only time doctor can walk outside and not immediately turn every head says enough for the poor man, and pierrot– well, harlequin’s factually better than pierrot in every sense, so that one’s easy. 

but he enjoys being sent out to explore every time the circus travels, so he doesn't mind when the list is placed in his hand and he's told to go. he wanders into more places than he needs to because he never sticks to instructions, and in the end, he always comes back with everything he was asked to get, so does it really matter, anyway?

today, he feels like he'll need a little company while he's out fighting old ladies in the produce section for the exact variant of apple pierrot demands.

company from someone he enjoys.

the clear choice is you, obviously. 

and it’s his lucky day, because you have the day off, which means you have no excuse not to be with him. 

although he's traded his normal attire for something more mundane to fit in with the crowds, he's still just as much of a menace banging on your window until you finally unlock the porch door for him, and it really makes you consider if keeping your door unlocked would be the better alternative. yes, it would give harlequin the freedom to enter your place whenever he pleased, which was a danger of its own, but in that sleep-deprived moment, it was truly starting to sound quite rational. at least then, he could let himself in instead of begging to be let inside like a dog left outside in the rain.

once he’d dragged you out of bed, the adventures had started. it didn't take much for him to convince you; it was rare for him to talk to you about something other than the circus, much less seem so excited about something as casual as grocery shopping. he still threw around dirty remarks as he always did, as if trying to convince you it wasn't just grocery shopping, but underneath his talk was a genuine invite to hang out with him.

you wished you could find a way to make him sit still for one second and explain he didn't have to disguise his words with promises of it'll be interesting or flirts and teases. you know it'll be interesting, because its him. and you're not interested in him just because he flirts with you. what interests you are moments like these, when he reveals more of his true self to you than normal, invites you seemingly to learn more about who he truly is without seeming to realize it. but it would take a truth serum and tying him down to a post to make him directly answer you a question as simple as "what did you eat for breakfast today?" so, you'll settle for what you have now. just being the one at his side, for him to drag along wherever he pleases.

somehow, harlequin’s list had ended up in your hands, and the first store you followed him into was definitely not going to have anything the circus needed. you had been trying to decipher if the neat handwriting was more likely to be ticket taker’s or pierrot’s when you looked up to see him wandering into a glassware art store, quickly trying to catch up to him.

“harlequin, i'm not sure we need anything here,” you warn as you enter through the door behind him, an aged bell alarming others of your presence, although no one else seems to be in the store. 

“i know, i just wanted to see,” he answers simply, continuing his walk forward. his voice has something in it similar to childlike wonder, or an inner child being healed. this wasn't the kind of store you would expect harlequin to want to go into, but you can only pray ticket taker didn’t give harlequin a curfew.

you’re careful not to bump into anything on the shelves as you follow behind harlequin who, despite how tall he is, seems to be easily navigating the narrow wooden shelves, littered with small painted glass figurines ranging from birds and other animals to seasonal festive motifs. 

your eyes never leave his back, and something inside your heart strains as your brain works to process the emotion you’re feeling. your brain finally discerns it as your throat barely choking back the words “i like this. i like when we hang out like this.” you ignore the feeling because you don’t want to ruin this casual moment with something serious, but at the same time, you’re scared that if you don’t say something, a moment like this will never happen again. 

harlequin isn’t worried about anything. he’s observing the glasswork on a shelf against a wall, two fingers holding his chin as he thinks. despite how cozy and local the place feels, funnily enough, he always seems to end up in places just like this. humans have a weird way of separating cultures, yet sharing so many similarities without knowing it. there’s only small differences, like the way this creator’s hands molded the glass, compared to the hands of an artisan in brazil. here, most glass birds are painted blue, while in the last town he visited, in a store just like this, he could barely find a bird figurine that wasn’t red. compared to the doctor, harlequin was able to venture out much more freely. he knows the doctor is fine keeping to himself in his tent, but harlequin stills visits these gift stores when he can, trying to make up for the doctor's restrictions by bringing him back stories and figurines.

harlequin isn’t worried, because he knows that if and when he turns around, you’ll be there. he likes when you’re at his side, and the way your presence feels when you trail behind him obediently. he likes that you seem to like him, at least enough to stick around and humor him whenever he asks you to do something for him. he likes that when he enters a place and all the eyes turn to see whose walked in, you’re at his side, like his prized possession– and they can stare at you all they want, the moment they see him, they know you’re already taken.

“mm, i’m bored now, let’s move on to the next store,” he decides, immediately heading for the exit, but not before grabbing your arm to drag you along with him.

“are you sure? you were looking at the little cat figure for a bit. i can buy it for you, if you’d like.” the words sound stupid coming out of your mouth as you follow behind, only the slightest bit hesitant to leave the store. you’re talking to a man who is part of a mysterious travelling circus, who probably has more money alone than you've made in your entire life, but you offer anyway.

he laughs, the grin that spreads across his face is inevitable as he looks back at you, “you’re funny, dear one. save your money for something that's actually important. not on me. although, if you’re that eager to give me something i know something else i want~”

you roll your eyes at more than just his flirt. he’s hit you with his double toxic approach of avoiding your question by turning it into something dirty while simultaneously sneaking in a self-deprecating statement. “no, not that," you reject him immediately, "but i will buy you anything if it’s out of your budget, whatever ticket taker allocates that to be. just tell me.” 

the look on his face bares semblance to a frown, as best as it can with his mask. your answer is a little harder to deflect now that you’ve stubbornly doubled down on your insistence to buy him something, and why do you care so much, anyway? 

“yeah, sure,” he shrugs as you continue walking together. you’re a half step behind him, but his gloved hand is still holding loosely onto your bicep, not letting you fall behind. “i doubt i’ll want anything, but you can try, pretty thing. what i want isn’t an object.”

you wait for him to expand on his words but when he doesn’t say anything else, your eyes flick to look at him, only to find him already staring back. he practically cackles as your quickly avert your eyes, face growing red, but his hand that was on your arm slides up to your other shoulder, pulling you closer to him. 

it’s going to be a long day.

–

you don’t know much about the circus business, but you don’t think it’s normal for a shopping list to be this extensive and… specific.

you have to imagine the brunt of the list was written by ticket taker, having in mind what they routinely get for the circus. the more detailed items have to be pierrot, or one of the other members, who apparently needs a new blender. someone also wants a 24-pack of mason jars, and you spend an extensive amount of time in the makeup aisle, piling all kinds of different products into a basket. 

several people pass by, and you can't blame them for looking. it's surely a strange sight—you're with a 6-foot man crouched on the ground, a basket full of makeup on the ground between you. he won't stop making unhelpful comments, either.

“do you think this is pierrot’s shade?” and it’s foundation powder in the shade "elephant’s breath."

“i think we should get this for pierrot, his lips have been looking a little pale, and this name is really speaking to me.” he’s holding a box of lipstick. said name is “lobster burp.”

“please, harlequin. put it back.” 

while you’re in the aisle, on the list is also a specific brand of shampoo. you learn from harlequin it’s jester’s, but pierrot and ticket taker decide his hair products. when you think about it, everyone in the circus does have quite healthy looking hair, but it never occurred to you they might have a hair care routine. it’s even sillier to think that jester, in all of his intelligence and dominance, doesn’t choose his own shampoo.

“and you? what shampoo do you use, harlequin?” you ask, placing jester’s shampoo in the cart. the basket got too full, you had to move to something bigger.

the question seems to offset him, his head is turned away, and is he blushing? “...what does it matter? no comment.”

you sigh, crossing shampoo off the list. “it doesn’t, i was just curious. your curls are nice, that’s all.”

he looks at you, and something feels wrong in his chest. “what’s with you today?” he doesn’t mean for his words to come off so accusatory, but they’ve left his mouth before he can fix it.

your eyes flick up to his, “what’s that supposed to mean? i didn’t realize haircare products was such a touchy subject for you, just tell me next time. there’s no need for you to be rude about it.”

“it’s not that. you just keep… saying those kinds of things to me.” he’s trying to maintain a delicate balance of answering you without revealing too much, but he's failing.

"what things?" you tilt your head, unable to follow him.

"...you keep saying nice things to me. like a compliment. like you care." now you're forcing the truth out of him, and he's not sure he likes that, or how you respond to what he just said.

“what? i’m always nice to you. and i do care. i like hanging around you.” you furrow your brows at the conversation you’re having as you look up, trying to find which aisle has what you need next.

“see? you keep saying things like that. it’s weird. i’m the one who usually says stuff like that. are you messing with me? do you want something from me?” he tries to meet your eyes, but you keep looking around.

what could you possibly gain from saying he has nice hair? you thought he was trying to tease you at first, but now it feels like he's accusing you. “no, you say things like ‘spend the night with me’ and ‘come to my tent and you’ll find out.’ i say things like ‘i appreciate that you exist.’ there’s a difference. you’re flirting and teasing me. you're messing with me." maybe, you ponder, if you say what you've been wanting to say all day, it'll finally get through his thick head that you're here, right now, in a grocery store with him, because you like him. not because you're trying to get anything out of him. "i’m just trying to tell you i think that you’re a good person... and i enjoy being around you. i don’t want anything from you, just for you to be who you are.” you start pushing the cart, and he follows after you.

“but i’m not a good person,” he seems to sneer at the words like you’ve insulted him, “and i’m not just teasing you, i mean everything that i say. so what are you getting at?”

you might just be getting defensive, but his tone hurts a little. you have to blink back the sudden tears that burn your eyes. “i’m not getting at anything, harlequin. just forget i said anything.” this is what you were afraid of, and it's left a sick feeling in your stomach now that you can't take back what you've said. the moment you tried to express any kind of appreciation for him, he accused you of having bad intentions.

maybe that’s what hurts a little. you’re getting a little tired of everything you’re saying being deflected. you've been trying to show your gratitude for him in not just your words, but your actions, too; you're lucky to have a friendship with him, and you wanted to express that. you wanted to hold just one conversation with him that doesn’t feel like you’re only seeing the tip of the iceberg, like you’re talking to someone who's not really all there, because they won't show you their whole self, but he doesn't seem to care about this the way you do. you’re not sick of him, hell, you want him in your life for however long the rest of it might be, but maintaining a relationship is difficult without some bit of vulnerability. what hurts is that you want to think that harlequin and you are getting close, why else would he invite you out today? but now, it feels like he's just been trying to get something out of you. maybe he never felt anything for you. it was all in your head.

“no, i don’t understand why you’re saying these things. are you just playing with me? you can tell me the truth, you know.” people are manipulative; they say things to gain favor, and they give gifts expecting something in return. that is the currency, the cultural laws of exchange and humanity that harlequin is used to. but you go against all of that for some inexplicable reason; it's why he was drawn into your orbit. you don’t seem to share those same human qualities, you've never asked anything of him, you're just there. you hang around him without looking at him like he's something to be used, and anytime he asks you for something, you say yes without even seeming to question or judge him. but if you’re not being selfish, he doesn’t understand your selflessness. and of all people, why would you be selfless around someone like him? it’s written all over in the color green. he is envy. he’s selfish. he’s a liar. you’ve humored him and continued to hang around him, and he really can’t understand why.

your lips press into a thin line; you don’t have it in you to answer. you've never argued with him like this, and he’s twisting everything you say and using it against you. what is there left to say? “i am telling you the truth—” is all you can manage to say, but your voice cracks a little at the end. you pray he doesn’t notice. your eyes keep burning even if you don’t want them to, and every time you look at harlequin now, it hurts something in your chest, threatening to send you over the threshold into a mess of tears. “there’s something on this list i can’t find. i’m going to ask an employee. if you want, here’s the list. just go find everything else. i’ve already crossed off everything we have in the cart.” you force the list into his hands before he has the chance to respond, walking away calmly until you’re out of his sight. 

then, you’re running, feeling like something is about to erupt from your chest if you don’t get outside now. you find a nearby bench to sit on, and a humiliating sound still escapes your throat before you can cover your mouth. you hate how exposed you feel when you cry in public, but at the same time, no one cares enough to bat an eye in your direction. yet the thought doesn't comfort you— it makes you feel worse. to go from the attention harlequin showers you with back to feeling like an apathetic underachiever who has no purpose, compared to everyone on the streets in iron-pressed clothes, on the phone with people who matter– it only adds to your pain.

you playing him? you would like to consider yourself a kind person. you don’t manipulate people and drop them as soon as you get what you need from them. if anything, you can probably list a few times that you've been used like that. for your kindness to be accused as something akin to that cruelty hurts more than anything, because if that’s how harlequin sees you, you’re not sure who you are.

you can’t stop the flow of tears escaping your eyes despite your best attempts to dry them on your sleeves. you need to go back inside before harlequin comes looking for you once you’ve been gone for too long, but you can’t pull yourself together. 

“...hey. where have you been?”

if you hadn’t embarrassed yourself enough already, your lip seems to quiver at his voice, and you can’t meet his eyes. you’re completely bent over yourself, feet planted on the ground, head turned to the side and resting on your knees. 

you feel the shift in presence as he sits next to you, and it’s uncharacteristically silent for a moment. your tears are just falling sideways now, running over the bridge of your nose and into your hair. it’s too late for you to run again; he’s already found you, and you still haven’t stopped crying.

and he won’t let you out of his sight again. he's always been good at knowing when to stop before he pushes someone too far. he’s good at teasing people, not comforting them, so he’s learned how to avoid it. but maybe he got a little too heated— a little too personal in the store, he realizes, looking at you now. he knows he needs to apologize, but he’s not too sure what to say. 

“...hey, i’m… sorry. i pushed too far, didn’t i?” it’s awkward. he doesn’t know what to say. he’s not trying to force you any farther, but he’s not sure what to do if you won’t talk to him.

you let out a deep breath, giving him the tiniest nod as an answer, but you still won’t turn to face him. he feels like he should do something with his hands. but where do they go? does he put his hands somewhere to try to comfort you, try to get you to turn to him, or just keep his hands to himself?

he settles for a hand on your head. he's a little hesitant, like he's about to retract his touch at any moment, especially when he feels you freeze under his touch, but when you make no sign to escape his touch, he relaxes a little bit. "please don't cry," he murmurs, rubbing your head ever so slightly.

the way he says it, it's not in a way like your crying is bothersome to him, surprisingly. but he pleads it, because he doesn't like seeing you turned away from him like this. he wants to see your face again. he's not used to you ever hiding it, he's used to being able to admire it and tease it whenever he wants. he didn't mean to fight with you like this, bring you to the brink of tears like this.

fights with pierrot are much easier, and maybe harlequin's taken that for granted. despite his “no talking” rule, pierrot’s quite expressive, even without words, about how he’s feeling. he matches harlequin’s pettiness and anger, and there’s some sort of reassurance in their fights that they’ll still come back together the next day no matter what's said or done. they’ll wake up and still be enemies—that will never change—but they’re also family. harlequin will still bring back everything from the store pierrot asks for, pierrot will still cook for him.

but fighting with family is different from whatever he has with you, he knows that. if he wants you, he has to say it. he’s good at saying those kinds of things. he's great at telling people what they want to hear—what makes them feel special—so why is it so hard right now?

because it’s hard to be genuine. it’s hard for him to be honest. it's much easier to say mindless flirts he doesn't mean, or twist words and conversations away from anything he doesn’t want to think about. but you’re always on his mind. he can’t avoid mending this fight even if he wanted to. he knows he’d just come straight back to your home later if he left now.

and you don't get angry the way pierrot does— you don't seem angry at all, even if he hurt you. that's something else that he can't understand. why are you so forgiving towards him? so patient? even in the past, when he hadn't done anything wrong, one look at him and anyone can tell he's an easy person to blame. he looks like a monster, and with time, he learned how to act like one— it was the only way to fight back when that's all anyone sees. but it's like you don't see that, so what do you see when you look at him?

“i’m.. sorry. i shouldn’t have questioned you or talked to you like that. i’m just not used to people… showing me kindness without wanting something in return. and you've never done that— you’re nice to me. you don't ask me to do anything. and you tell me you’ll stay around. but i keep thinking you’ll… leave. you’re going to find me boring, eventually. or unkind. or see one of my hundreds of other flaws. you’re going to change your mind.” he pauses ever so often between his words, forcing the thoughts out of his mouth as soon as he forms them. there’s a feeling in his chest, maybe something like panic, that’s rising. he doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this honest. when he’s last revealed this much about himself to someone. his hand remains on your head, fingers playing with a few strands of your hair— a nervous habit he'd never admit to on his own.

his voice and touch soothes something in you as he talks, you stop crying almost immediately, while on your own, you couldn't stop the tears no matter how hard you tried. you want to look at him. you want to see what he looks like when he talks about himself. you need to tell him it's okay. he told you all you needed to hear. you wipe away any remaining tears from your face and slowly sit back up, orienting your knees towards him. his hand falls back to his side as you sit up, and you meet eyes with him for a beat. his hand reaches up again, he feels a pull to hold the side of your face, to wipe away the stray tear that escapes your eyes, running down your cheek. but then he looks away, ashamed.

he looks a little grim. you’re not used to seeing him without a grin on his face, but it's nice to see this new side of him, underneath the facades he’s usually wearing. no one's ever always happy. “thank you,” you start. it’s a general thanks, for everything he’s said, everything he’s just revealed to you, for trusting you enough to give you a little taste of what goes on in his head. “all i was trying to do was reassure you i am going to stay, but i wasn’t saying it fully, i was scared of coming off as sappy or emotional. and despite all my promises to stay around, i left you in the store. i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay,” the words are automatic, coming out of his mouth, before he’s even processed what you’ve said. it's not, really. he realizes. but he tells himself it's okay, because it's you.

but you don’t take his words as some sort of excuse for your guilt. “it’s not,” you deny.

“you got upset. you left. it makes sense,” he tries to double down on his words, because why are you suddenly flipping the apology onto him? why do you seem to notice so much about him?

“and you had to come find me, even though i should have been the one to come back to you. i’m sorry. but thank you for being kind enough to come find me. for giving me a second chance." you’re looking at him, but now he won’t look at you. he seems to be staring at his hands in his lap, or something unperceivable to you.

he’s not sure what to say. "kind" has never been a word used to describe him. when you left abruptly in the store, he wasn’t sure what to do. wasn’t sure where to look, where you would be, if you were even around. he doesn't feel kind, he made you cry. he didn't give you any kind of second chance, you're just smart enough as you are, somehow reading his mind before he's even processed what's happened.

when he doesn’t respond, you continue: “i won’t do it again, i promise.” you try to test the waters, moving the slightest bit closer to him, until your knees almost knock into his. he doesn’t move away.

“okay,” is the only thing that makes it out of his mouth. when you reach for his hand, he freezes. you feel the way he tenses underneath you, but he doesn't move, and another second later, his hand relaxes again, letting you hold it.

“i’m never expecting perfection from you, harlequin. and i’m not going to get bored of you. you’re the most interesting person i’ve ever met, and i still have so much more to learn about you, whatever you decide to share with me. you’re not a bad person. you make me feel comfortable and safe. i think that makes you a good person– the fact that you can make someone feel that way. i like to be around you. i want to be around you forever, if you’ll let me.” you lean your head to rest on his shoulder next, eliciting the same reaction from him as when you touched his hand, but he doesn't push you off or lean away.

he’s not used to this kind of physical contact, not used to taking things so slow or normally. but something about your touch makes him realize how much of his past is artificial, because he never let anyone come the slightest bit close to him. your touch is nice, the same way your words are. they soothe him. you’re telling him things about how he somehow comforts you, but you have no idea what you’ve done for him. he’s not sure he can even articulate what you’re making him feel right now. but he says what he is confident in, what he does want: “yeah, you can stay. i’d like that.” he adds on the last part after thinking about it for half a beat: “please do.”

[starrilies]

⋆ DEVOTION

an interest in harlequin is starting to influence you in the smallest ways. choosing green items over your usual preference for neutral colors, trying to figure out just what exactly tastes so good about black coffee to him, and you'll never admit the reason to yourself, but you've gathered books to start studying portuguese. you just hope he won't notice.

"baby, put your hands around my ribcage. i know you wanna see what's under."

tags & warnings: harlequin x gn!reader, fluff, mutual pining, references/allusions to reader sort of revering/worshipping harlequin, little suggestive, reader wears a necklace, lots of harlequin causing mc lighthearted psychological warfare, MDNI, mama hasn't written in a long time and she spent two days reworking and rewriting this so give her some grace and a ciggy please ( ;´꒳`;)

wc: 4.4k

when he called the color of that heart-shaped pin on your collar an “intoxicating” and “poisonous” green, you hadn’t taken it literally.

that was, until, you couldn’t get him out of your head.

when you woke in the morning, despite barely having a grasp on consciousness, the small, subliminal thoughts started: will i see him today? what will i say? and, unfortunately, a question that was starting to bother you more and more, how will i keep him interested?

you didn’t want to admit that you were liking the attention he was giving you, but that was the simplest way to put it.

it was poisoning you. time that used to be spent wondering about responsibilities and needs actually pertaining to you had now been overtaken by thoughts of him. you weren't even sure what you had done to catch his attention in the first place, but ever since, you’ve desperately been trying to grasp onto whatever you can think of that makes you interesting to be around.

in your mind, that means whatever similarities you can imagine having in common with a six-foot masked creature; and you still hadn't managed to find a single one.

you’re embarrassed to notice the changes in yourself– it's reminiscent of a teenager experiencing an identity crisis and the biggest crush on a person they’ve barely held one conversation with all over again. anytime you’re out shopping, you find yourself gravitating towards green clothes and items over any other color you normally choose.

you’ve been working as a barista for a while now, and while you enjoy coffee drinks just as much as the next person, you hadn’t put any real thought into the history and flavor profiles of different coffee blends since you’d been hired. but with harlequin visiting you almost everyday at work, you were trying to learn more about his interests and preferences. did he care about the tiniest hint of chocolate you were trying to gaslight yourself into tasting in the cold brew, or did he just like that it was bitter?

to anyone else, these were small changes, but they could never understand what was going on in your head; purchasing a gold necklace as someone who’d stuck to silver jewelry their entire life, you realized you had never put this much effort into an interest in someone. and it didn’t feel like pretending to be someone you weren’t, or a phase that would only last a few weeks–, you were actively trying to like black coffee because of harlequin. you drank it on days when he visited and on the days that he didn’t. you could say with confidence that you were slowly starting to enjoy the taste of it. your attraction to green and gold items felt innate rather than forced, and you didn’t think you looked terrible in the colors. maybe you had been a gold person all along, but you had never been confident enough to try it out until now. 

but signing up for a library membership was what made you realize how serious this interest was getting. you hadn't attempted to learn another language since high school, but next thing you knew, you were scouring the shelves of the language section for beginner portuguese vocabulary books, all because harlequin had offered you a few dishes from his home country and whispered things you couldn’t understand and he refused to elaborate on– you decided it was time to take it into your own hands. 

the books were still waiting on your coffee table at home, untouched. you were nervous about where to start; was it best to start with introductions? but you faintly recalled starting with expressing your mood when you took a class in school. that was something you’d have to push onto future you.

all you could pray for was that harlequin wouldn’t notice, the way you noticed everything about him. from exactly how many strides it took him to make his way from the café door to the stool he now claimed as "his spot." he chose that same stool every day, where he’d lean over the counter to grin in your face. even before he arrived, you would place a glass or plate in his spot to keep it unoccupied.

it’d been slow this morning, you didn’t see a point in putting anything out to save his spot. instead, you spent your time doodling on spare coffee sleeves, but you had already covered several of them while practicing round, symmetrical hearts. harlequin's costume had always interested you, from the detailing to what exactly kept his hat so puffed up all the time. you'd moved onto a rough sketch of harlequin’s hat, thinking it would be cute to draw some circus-themed sleeves. although your boss expected any circus fliers inside or on the windows to be torn down, you didn't see the harm in cute doodles.

you’ve just finished shading one of the hearts black when a breath on your neck immediately has you whipping around out of reflex.

“morning, little thing. no greeting today? what has you bent over the counter like this?~” harlequin's choice of words only add to the growing sense of shame and fear you're feeling. while you technically hadn't done anything wrong, you weren't intending to get so fixated on your doodles that you tuned everything out. speaking of your drawings, what should you do? cover the sleeve first? throw it across the lobby and hope he doesn’t go looking for it? act like you weren’t drawing him at all?

too late.

his eyes have already slowly raked down from your face to the flimsy piece of cardboard your fingers are doing a half-assed job of covering. he lets out a small “oh” that’s halfway between flattery and shock, and is it just you, or is it getting really hot in here?

something has been off about you for the past few weeks. when harlequin first met you on the streets, because he would be a fool not to remember everything about your first meeting, you had adorably refused to meet his eyes no matter how hard he tried. you had occupied yourself by fidgeting nervously with a silver necklace instead. 

but now, you've worn only gold for the past week. there are green clips in your hair, whereas before, you stuck to black pins that were barely noticeable. that made the abrupt changes from black to neon all the more prominent, and when he sees your little doodle on the coffee sleeve, everything clicks.

oh.

is this what it’s like to be worshipped?

you've put so much effort into being a little more like him. you’ve gone out of your way to wear his colors. you’re drawing him. you save a spot for him at your counter everyday, and you’re trying your best to learn even more about him– which is adorable in it’s own right. you refuse to ask him anything about himself directly, you're always trying to figure it out on your own.

he's reached into every corner of your mind and embedded himself there, spreading his poison throughout your mind. the realization of his success makes something in his own head buzz, especially with the look on your face.

you’re terrified.

you’re not changing yourself for him. you know he’s already interested. you’re just hopelessly falling for him, and the closer you're orbiting to him, the more you're becoming like him. and now that he’s caught onto what you're doing, you’re terrified of what happens next.

he’s had humans infatuated with him before. like a lovesick pierrot, they obsess over him, stalk him, try to manipulate him, even though they’re the one playing his game. it all ends the same, with their protests and justifications of “love” and admiration.

but you?

for you, it was pure reverence. 

you admired him. respected him. your innocent eyes told him more about how you felt than you could ever articulate. he wagered that if he asked, you'd get on your knees for him.

and he only wants more of it. he wants more of you until he doesn’t have to come out and find you at home or at your job. he wants to take you back to his tent and keep you at his side forever. he wants you at every hour, every minute, every second of the day. maybe he’s the one obsessed, this time. but no, it’s more than just obsession. it’s not infatuation, either. 

he might be on your mind, but you’ve weaseled your way into his head, too. he can’t seem to stay away from you even if he tries.

you’re different from any human he’s ever met, and it’s only right that you belong to him. special goes with special. if you were bound to someone like pierrot, it would only be a waste. a shining star dimmed, tied down to a pole.

and he wants you to want him. wants to hear you say it, yourself.

“my dear, what’s this?” his grin is wide, one slender finger pointing lazily to your drawing of him. 

“nothing! it’s nothing… oh, how do i explain–”

“no need, dear one. you were thinking about me,” he cuts you off before you could spiral, “it’s pretty obvious, you know. and i’m not talking about just your little drawing.”

your mouth opens, and then closes again, silent. you desperately wish you had a mask like him, something to cover your face and take the edge off the intensity of his stare. it burns into you, and he’s waiting, ready for any meek response you give him, which he'll immediately shut down. and what is there left to say? he already knows everything. “i…”

“how cute, little one~” he teases with a chuckle, the sound reverberates through your skull. you wish you could listen to his laugh forever. “it’s alright, my dear. your obsession with me is adorable. i love it.” he’s so close to you, but you sober up the tiniest bit at the realization of where you both are. you lift a hand, stopping him in his tracks, your palm just barely brushing against his chest.

“harlequin,” you hiss, but all he does is poke his forked tongue out. the sound of his name in your mouth is only exciting him more. “you’re behind the counter, you need to sit down before my boss comes out. people are already staring,” you whisper, ignoring the glint in his eyes, which is clearly telling you then let’s just walk out of here.

he obliges silently, only a small huff, and when he drops into one of the bar counter stools, you let out a sigh of relief. you can still feel the weight of a few customers staring at you, but at the very least, if your boss came out, harlequin wouldn’t be banned from the store and fire you. you mindlessly reach for a glass and a dry rag to polish a glass, preparing it for when he inevitably orders a coffee.

“well?” he starts, but doesn’t finish his question. he always talks like this, waiting for you to play along, or maybe he just likes to make you beg for it. you always obey, don't you?

“well, what?” you cock your head to the side in confusion.

“is there more?” he continues, still refusing to give you context until the very end, “i bet you’re so in love with me you have more drawings of me at home, don’t you? may i come over and see?”

just the idea of harlequin seeing your home has your heart in your throat. “what? no, i don’t have more drawings. this was just…” you trail off, unsure of what excuse to give. oh, i don’t know, harlequin. you occupy every thought in my head and every single second of my day and every breath i breathe is dedicated to you, and the best i could do was try to draw you on a stupid sleeve that protects your hand from getting burned. nothing special. “do you want something?” you change the subject.

“do you even have to ask?” he fires back, and you roll your eyes, turning your back to him.

when you place his drink in front of him, he’s resting his head in the palm of his hand. you shift from one foot to the other, feeling trapped in his gaze. “when did you start wearing gold jewelry?” he’s not looking for an answer to the question; he just wants to see your reaction. he already knows, after all.

you're fidgeting with the gold necklace in question as you spin up a lie on the spot, “oh, this? i always wear gold, well– not always- but i switch between gold and silver jewelry. you must have just never seen me wearing gold yet… why? does it matter?”

“it doesn’t,” he shrugs, watching the way your fingers continuously roll the gold chain back and forth, “except for that it’s one of my colors. but i guess you’re right, i must have never noticed until now.” he grins at the way you completely freeze up, your eyes widen a little more, and he truly does wish he could take it further. the amount of places he could just graze his fingers over that he knows would elicit this same reaction from you is running through his head, but he knows you wouldn’t let him. at least not here.

and you’re so frustrated because you know he’s teasing you, yet you still can’t help but give him every reaction and jump he wants. he’s like a predator, just playing with his food before he devours it.

"have you considered maybe not everything revolves around you?" his face doesn't change in the slightest despite your attempt to bite back.

"sure," he plays along, "but it's a little coincidental after i caught you drawing me, no?"

you bite your lip and his eyes follow your every movement, daring you to talk back. but you don't have an answer, and you're not sure why you even started this banter in the first place. but when you hear his laugh as you admit defeat, maybe your humiliation was worth the sound that makes your heart flutter.

when you look down at the coffee sleeve in question, you can't think of what to do. you're not ready to try to explain to him how you feel, but you don't want to pretend your feelings don't exist, either. a silence falls over the two of you, and it's calm, but out of character for harlequin.

“can i come over tonight?" he sure has a way of ruining peaceful environments, doesn't he? the question is out of the blue, yet he says it casually, as if he regularly comes over to your apartment. which is certainly not the case.

“don’t you have a performance tonight?” you quirk a brow, defensively placing your hands on your sides.

he shrugs, “i can come after i preform. i’ll start early and end early so i can come sooner. yes?” 

“no,” you answer quickly. “are you even allowed to do that? wouldn’t people be upset if they missed your performance?”

“if you’re not coming to see me, it doesn’t matter,” he answers passively, swirling the coffee in his hand. you wish you could tell him not to say those kinds of things or else you'll really start to get delusional. “i can do what i want. i’ll make up an excuse. so, i’ll see you tonight?”

“what if i come see to the circus tomorrow night instead?”

“then i’ll see you tonight and tomorrow night, too. just more for me~” his answers are childish at best, and he’s clearly not taking no for an answer. but before you can give him another response, he’s standing up, straightening his tunic. “well, i’ll see you tonight then, my dear,” he grins, placing a bill and a wrapped candy on the counter.

the bell of the cafe door chimes with his exit, leaving you alone, back with the same lifeless coffee sleeves you began with.

and wait–

where was the one with harlequin’s hat?

you search the pile of sleeves, scattering them everywhere and flipping them over.

“he took it when i wasn’t looking! how annoying,” you sigh to no one but yourself, rubbing your temple to try to alleviate some of the pressure in your head.

it wasn't from his teasing words, but rather the twinge of pain that came with being left alone again.

that he left, and you couldn’t follow.

you didn’t trust yourself to go to the circus tonight, worried about working early at the café tomorrow. instead, you began your language studies. your coffee table was covered in books, all open and scattered around your journal in the center where you were jotting down notes. 

you were certain you were near your breaking point. you were constantly losing your reading place, and now you seemed to have lost your pen. running a hand through your hair, you begin to clean up the mess of books scattered across the table, stacking them back into a neat pile for whenever you next decided to challenge yourself. 

intent on returning your journal to your desk, you reach for the handle of your bedroom door when you hear a sound on the other side of it. you freeze, heart dropping to your stomach in fear. maybe something fell over? but it sounded a little like something had been dragged, which wasn't comforting to think about.

but if someone was inside your home, you needed to catch them in the act before they took something or hid somewhere.

the door creaks open, and you hold your breath, trying to survey your room. the sight of a green and gold figure catches your eyes, and a wave of relief and fear simultaneously wash over you.

“...harlequin?” you say his name hesitantly, and a little quietly, unsure if he heard you until he snaps around to meet your eyes.

you’re still standing in the doorway of your bedroom, yet the distance between you and the man in front of you does nothing to dull the intensity of his stare. it makes it worse that your lights are off; only the sharp shape of his green eyes, black slits completely focused on you, stand out, the rest of him barely visible. his gaze actually has you wanting to step back even further, feeling a little bit like a rabbit caught in the teeth of a fox. his mouth curls into a wide grin as he turns to fully face you. “gatinha, there you are,” the tone of his voice sends chills throughout your body. all that studying tonight and you still have no idea what he’s said to you, you feel like a fool.

still, you take a few hesitant steps forward into your room, trying to regain your sense of composure. he’s the one in your house, you can’t be the one shying away. “how did you get in here?” you turn on the lights as you step into your room, and he barely reacts to the sudden change in brightness. if anything, his eyes seem to narrow down on you even more.

“your sliding door,” he answers simply, which seems to remind him to turn around and flip the lock on it.

you close your eyes for a brief second, trying to process the situation, “you– you can’t just come through my sliding door, harlequin. that’s breaking and entering. and how did you even get up this high? my apartment’s on the third level–” he hushes you, and when you open your eyes, he’s completely closed the distance between you two, causing you to squeak and step back reflexively.

“does that really matter?” he scoffs, “i told you i’d see you tonight, didn’t i?” 

while he’s technically right, he also walked out before you could answer. you shake your head in a small attempt to avoid looking in his eyes. at this point, you're starting to accept your unexpected company for the night. you can't think of a single instance you've ever won an argument against this man, it's futile to even try. 

and then the thought comes to you, what would you have said if he had given you the time to answer?

your mind is only making your heart beat faster, and you turn from harlequin, walking back to your living room to try to cool down. you can tell he’s trailing behind you from the second pair of footsteps you hear, almost silent, but still audible. you throw your notebook back onto the coffee table near the pile of books already on it and sit on the floor, trying to focus on calming yourself.

harlequin’s eyes follow your movements, but he stays standing for a beat longer before he sits as well. strangely enough, it feels the slightest bit domestic, this lanky man dressed in circus attire sitting cross-legged in your own home, silently staring at you with what seems to be curiosity rather than his usual playfulness that never lets up. he's looking at you as if you're a new species he's never seen, but truthfully, you're just in sweats.

but for him, this is an entirely new side of you he's seeing. watching through a window can only tell him so much. whenever you're in public settings, like the café or circus, you treat the place with a certain level of respect, knowing that you don't own the place, you're just occupying the space. but in your loungewear, in your own home, there's a different air around you. you're more comfortable throwing things around, plopping down wherever you feel like, he wants you to treat him with that same kind of casual trust. he wants you to be rough, but in your own personal way that still retains the kindness he will never understand that you extend to everyone, including him, even if he doesn't deserve it.

harlequin seems to try to mimic your respectful demeanor as he observes the walls of your apartment, small decorations and personal items of yours littered about here and there. you didn’t expect that behavior or his silence to last long, and it ends when his eyes dart back to the books on your coffee table. “what are these?” he asks.

your eyes widen a little, hands shooting out to try to turn the spines of the books away from his line of sight to hide the title of the books, “that's nothing! i’ve just been studying…a language. i thought maybe it would help me connect to more people at the cafe. we have a lot of foreigners, you know.”

“so you’re studying portuguese?” he calls your bluff immediately and your throat seems to close up. “hah! don’t make me laugh, gatinha. portuguese is my language, you know that. why are you trying to lie to me?” he inches the slightest bit closer to you, and your hands reach up to cover your face, unable to handle the weight of his stare anymore. “sweet thing, your devotion to me is adorable, don’t shy away– or i might just to pin you down.”

you can barely handle how this domestic, quiet moment flipped completely upside down into something sexual, and covering your face has hidden you from his sight, but now you can’t see either, which is only heightening your other senses and it sounds like he’s getting closer.

“gatinha, do you know what i’m saying to you? answer me,” he demands in a voice that makes you worried you did that's seriously offended him. your breath hitches as you try to recall reading any kind of term like that, but you come up blank, whether that’s because you're short-circuiting or from your lack of knowledge, god only knows.

“no…” you answer quietly and he laughs loudly again, mockingly. he sounds like he’s a breath away from brushing your shoulder. 

“sweet thing,” he murmurs, the rasp in his voice making you shiver as you peek through some of your fingers to try to see him, “these silly books aren’t teaching you anything. you don’t need them.” you gasp when you see his arm swipes the stack of books off the table, sending them tumbling to the ground in a flutter of aged pages and worn spines.

you've removed your hands from your face, looking at the mess on the ground. “harlequin, i have to return those…” you try to chide him, but your words fall on deaf ears, and suddenly, he’s in your face.

“why wouldn’t you just ask me to teach you?~” his grin grows wide as you try to shrink back into the edge of your couch to no avail. “i’ll teach you my language if you want, little thing. but in return, i want something.”

he’s barely talking about teaching your portuguese anymore, you know that. you’ve completely lost whatever game you two were playing. ever since that coffee sleeve at work earlier, he’s known everything. 

tonight, all he had to do was catch the little mouse, and he caught you the moment you’d opened the bedroom door.

“...what did you have in mind?” you avert your eyes, trying to look anywhere but him, but it’s difficult to do when he’s basically on top of you at this point. he’s all you see, hear, and smell– your head is spinning.

the chuckle that escapes his mouth makes you look back at him, and then you’re shamelessly watching the green tongue that pokes out of his mouth. he sounds pleased, like he knows you’ve realized the situation, too. he’s caught his prey, now you’re his.

“to start, maybe a kiss,” he hums, eyes looking down on you mercilessly, “then, i’ll mark you as mine. after that, i’ll take your clothes. i’ll decide from there what’s next, or maybe you already know, dear one?~”

you still avoid his eyes, but you give him a hesitant nod in agreement, and he chuckles, a gloved hand guiding your chin to look back up at him. "so good and obedient for me, aren't you?" he praises, and your lip trembles. then, he’s guiding your head to the side, exposing your neck to him. “i think i’ll collect my payment first then~”

[starrilies]

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[iyayadonna]

✑ 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎: 𝒷𝑒𝒹𝓇𝑜𝓉𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 ꩜ 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈𝓆𝓊𝑒 

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.

✑ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: So yeah… You've been gone for months.

Not like forever. Just... away for a bit. You told them you needed space. Adult stuff. Life Stuff. Responsibilities that didn't involve a bunch of monsters. they respected it. well, tried to. pierrot left like seventeen tearful voicemails. But weeks turned into months. Texts stopped. Visits stopped. and somewhere along the way, you stopped explaining and just... vanished.

They've had enough and they will not leave until you are given the attention you deserve.

✑ 𝓌𝒸: 5.8k

✑ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: oneshot/s · tfc x gn! reader · hurt/comfort · fluff and angst · emotional hurt/comfort · burnout · depression · established relationship · post-avoidance.

Life has been... life-ing. 

If that's even a word. (it's not.) Lately, these days, everything feels chaotic and unpredictable and just... too much. 

You've been busy, like legitimately busy. Just dealing with things that required you to stay away from the circus for a while. you can't just live there like some monster who doesn't have real-world responsibilities. 

You have a life. Or, you had one.

You switched from full-time to part-time at the coffee shop so you could focus on school. Exams got thrown at your face repeatedly—irritating doesn't even begin to cover it. but now the exams are done. everything should be over. 

You should be resting. Recovering from your busy lifestyle.

At least maybe even feeling good.

But every morning, you wake up and you just... don't move.

You’re aware of it, vaguely. The way your body feels heavy, like someone filled your bones with wet sand while you were sleeping. the way your phone is always in your hand before you've even decided to pick it up. the way hours pass and you've done nothing but scroll and blink and exist.

Your boss has noticed. Fuck.

“You okay?" He asked last week, eyes scanning your face like they were looking for something you'd lost. “You seem... rather tired."

“Just busy," you said, and you almost believed it.

they asked again yesterday. “Seriously, are you sleeping? eating? you look—" He stopped himself, however, you heard the word they didn't say. 

Empty. Stuck. Motionless. I’m fine," Which you always say. 

Same words. Same tone. Same lie.

You know you're not fine. You know that. But acknowledging it feels like opening a door you're not ready to walk through. So you ignore it. You ignore the way your energy drains faster than it used to. You ignore the way getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain. You ignore your boss's concerned glances and the way they leave an extra pastries by your bag every shift now—just in case you haven't eaten.

You ignore it because ignoring is easier.

Because if you didn't ignore it, you'd have to admit that something is wrong. And admitting that means dealing with it. And dealing with it means... what? 

Therapy? Medication? Talking to someone? Changing?

You don't have the energy for any of that.

Causing your boss eventually stopped asking. Instead, he just... gave you time off. a week, then two, then three. "take as long as you need," he said, with that same worried look you kept pretending not to see. 

He figured, like maybe hoped that staying home would help. that rest would pull you out of whatever hole you'd fallen into.

So you stay home. You live in and out of your bed. some days you're awake enough to sit on the couch. most days you're not.

Every now and then, someone comes to check on you. A friend. a family member. someone who cares enough to show up unannounced. 

You don't have the energy to be annoyed—again you don't have the energy for much of anything—but you also don't want them to worry. So you clean. Just enough to make your space look lived-in instead of caved-in. You shower. You put on clean clothes. 

You play pretend.

“I’m good,” you say, same as always. “Just tired. exams took a lot out of me."

They nod. they leave. and the second the door closes, you're back in bed, phone in hand.

All you want is to be alone. all you want is to scroll. to disappear into the glow of the screen where nothing matters and no one expects anything from you.

Your handheld game helps, sometimes. one of your friends bought it for you as a congratulations gift—"you finished your exams! you earned this!"—a wildly popular life simulation series where you populate a bustling, personalized island with mii avatars of yourself, family, friends, or fictional characters. 

You act as an god like caretaker, watching these little digital people interact, fall in love, fight, perform concerts, navigate bizarre daily dramas.

It was supposed to be fun, relaxing, a reward for once.

Now it just feels like another task. another thing you should be doing. Another reason to feel guilty when you don't.

You even listen to music, too. Your favorite artist. The same songs on repeat, over and over, hoping to feel something. A spark of the person you used to be before everything got so heavy.

But at last, nothing comes. 

Just the same boring numbness. Same hollow ache. You're lying there, thumb hovering over your phone screen, when you hear it.

A knock. Soft, but definitely there. Weird thing is—it's not coming from your front door. It's coming from your balcony window.

"What the hell…?" You freeze. Your heart does this weird thing—not panic exactly, but something like recognition. Because normal people don't knock on balcony windows. Normal people can't even reach a third-floor balcony.

You turn your head slow.

And there's a silhouette on the other side of the glass. 

Tall. Familiar. Just... waiting for you to open up.

✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉 

“…Pierrot?"

Your eyes watch the figure on the balcony moves, seeing a shift of weight and tilt of the head. Enough for you to recognize that shape anywhere—just a too-tall frame, slump of his shoulders, the way he holds himself like he's always bracing for bad news.

You set your phone down then swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your body feels heavy, each step toward the balcony window an effort, close like wading through water.

The lock sticks for a few secoud, you haven't opened this door in weeks, no truly months. But it finally gives, and the late afternoon air hits your face, cool and sharp, and there he is.

Just standing on your third-floor balcony like it's the most natural thing in the world. His white masked face is even paler than usual under the dim city lights, and his starry eyes—those beautiful, swirling eyes—are wide and wet and devastated.

“My dear," he breathes.

And then he's moving, crossing the small space between you in one long stride, and his hands are cupping your face before you can say anything, his cool fingers trembling against your cheeks.

“We thought you were dead," he whispers. his voice cracks on the last word. “We… )-I thought—when you stopped answering, when the days turned to weeks, we thought something had happened to you. we thought you'd left me forever."

HIs eyes search your face, and you watch the worry settle into his features like a physical weight. Those now starry pupils flicker as they take in everything—such as the dark bruises under your eyes, the unnatural lightness of your skin, the way your cheeks look slightly hollowed out like you haven't been eating enough. 

His gaze drops to your hoodie (the same one from three days ago, you can't remember the last time you changed), then to the room behind you, displaying a dim, messy, stuck look, then back to your face.

“And you were just..." his voice cracks. tears spill over, tracking silver lines down his powdered cheeks. “You were just… scrolling?"

You open your mouth. the excuse is already there, the same one you've been giving everyone: i'm fine, just tired, exams took a lot out of me, i just need rest—

Pierrot shakes his head before you can even say it. “No," he whispers. “Don't. Please don't lie to me. i can see you, my dear. You're not fine."

You close your mouth.

He steps closer, his cool large hands finding yours again, holding them like they're something precious. “You look..." he trails off, searching for words. “Dim. like someone turned down your light. like you're fading."His lower lip trembles just a bit

“Please. Tell me what's wrong. I don't understand the things you humans go through, but I want to. I need to. because seeing you like this—" his voice drops to barely a whisper. "it's breaking me."

You don't have an answer. 

You don't have words for what's been happening inside your head. Burnout? Depression? Exhaustion? All you know is that you've been stuck and numb and tired in a way that sleep can't fix.

Pierrot doesn't wait for you to figure it out.

He pulls you into his chest again, but this time he doesn't let go. his arms wrap around you tight—not painfully, but firmly, like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his grip.

His face presses into your hair, and you feel him breathing you in, shaky and desperate. “I’ve got you," he murmurs against your head. “I don't know what's happening, but i've got you. you don't have to explain. you don't have to do anything. Just... let me hold you."

You were still there for a long moment, limp in his arms, letting him support your weight. and slowly—so slowly—you feel something unfreeze in your chest.

He starts moving you toward the bed. not pushing, not dragging, just... guiding. His long body curls around yours as he pulls you onto the mattress, arranging the pillows behind your head, tugging the blanket up over both of you.

“Pierrot, what are you—"

“Shh." he tucks you against his side, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other coming up to stroke your hair. “We're going to stay here. in this bed. and you're going to rest, and I’m going to hold you, mayebe later I can cook for you and eventually—" he presses a kiss to your forehead. 

“Eventually, you're going to feel better."

“You don't know that."

“I believe it," he says softly. "and sometimes that's enough."

He doesn't understand burnout. Doesn't know the word for it, doesn't have a framework for the way modern life drains the life out of people. But he understands sadness. He understands exhaustion. He understands what it feels like to be so tired that moving your body feels impossible.

So he holds you. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your back. his chest rises and falls against yours. And every few minutes, he whispers something soft and reassuring into your hair.

“You're safe." “I’m here." “You don't have to be anything right now."

His starry eyes never leave your face, even as the minutes stretch into an hour. he watches you like you're the most precious thing in the world—like he's memorizing every detail, every breath, every small sign that you're still here.

“Pierrot?"

“Yes, my dear?"

“…Thank you. For coming."

Your felt his arms tighten around you. “Always," he whispers. “Always, always, always." And for the first time in weeks, you close your eyes and let yourself be held.

✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃

“What the fuc… Harlequin?”

You whisper his name before you even open the door, and Harlequin's silhouette goes still. “…What?"

“Uh, just... come in."

You slide the door open, and he steps inside like he owns the place—because of course he does, it’s him. You notice his neon green eyes sweep across your apartment, taking in the dim lighting, the messy blankets, the general stagnation of it all. But instead of concern, his face splits into that familiar, jagged grin.

“Well, well, well," he purrs, dropping onto your couch like a cat claiming a sunbeam. “The human seems alive or, well… enough. Same difference."

You sit back down on your bed, phone already finding its way back into your hand. 

“So,” he drawls, kicking his feet up on your coffee table. "you gonna explain why you've been ignoring me? or are we just pretending the last few months didn't happen?"

“I wasn't ignoring you—"

“Oh, really?" he pulls out his own phone, scrolling with one claw. “Because i've sent you... let's see... forty-seven reels. FORTY-SEVEN. and you haven't reacted to a SINGLE one."

You open your mouth. Then close it.

The truth is, you've watched every single one.

You couldn't not watch them—harlequin has a way of knowing when you've seen his messages. but the things he sends you are... cursed. Like, genuinely deranged. Last week he sent you a video of a raccoon riding a roomba while wearing a tiny cowboy hat, set to dramatic classical music. The week before that, it was a compilation of geese committing what could only be described as war crimes.

You weren't sure if you were depressed or just terrified of birds now.

“I watched them," you mumble.

“Oh yeah? Then why didn't you react?"

“Because I don't know how to react to a goose stealing someone's sandwich." 

Harlequin snorts. “That's fair. That one was art."

You fall into something almost comfortable—him sprawled on your couch, you curled on your bed, both of you on your phones. This is normal for you two. parallel play, he calls it. existing in the same space without being annoying about it.

Except.

Except you stop responding to his commentary. Your thumb keeps scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling. reels blur together. cats, memes, a video essay about something you don't care about. Harlequin says something—a joke, maybe, or a sex joke—and you hum in response, not really hearing him.

“Hello? Earth to the human who's been ignoring me for months?"

You don't look up.

“Okay, that's—" he cuts himself off then you hear him stand feel the bed shift just a bit as he moves. Suddenly his hand is on your phone, tugging it gently but firmly out of your grip. “Hey—"

“No."

You look up. Harlequin is standing over you, your phone in one hand, his neon eyes fixed on your face. and for the first time since he arrived, he really looks at you.

The grin fades while his head tilts—catlike, curious, assessing. his gaze traces the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slump, the hollow emptiness in your expression that you've been hiding from mirrors.

“You look..." he pauses, searching for words. “Bad. like, really bad. When's the last time you slept?"

“I sleep."

“That's not what I asked, little thing.” Still, you don't answer.

One of Harlequin's tendrills flicks behind him—a nervous habit he'd never admit to. He looks at your phone, then back at you, then at your phone again. something shifts in his expression. 

Something almost like... guilt? 

“Was it the reels?" he asks, quieter than usual. “Did I… was I the reason you—"

“No.” and for once, you're being honest. “It's not you. I’ts… everything. I’ve just been stuck." He stares at you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he shoves your phone into his pocket. Sits down on the bed beside you. Like Close, very close than he normally would.

“Okay," he says.

“…Okay?"

“Okay, you're stuck. Okay, you've been ignoring me. Okay, you look like a sad, wilted lettuce." he bumps his shoulder against yours. “I’m still here, aren't I? I’m not going anywhere."

You lean into him without meaning to. One of his tendrills curls around you. “You're gonna be fine," he mutters, almost to himself. “You're annoyingly resilient. it's one of your few good qualities."

“I have other good qualities."

“Name three."

“…I’m not doing this right now." He laughs—soft, real, nothing bitter about it. And for a little while, neither of you moves.

✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇 

“The hell, Jester…?”

You whisper his name through the glass, and for a long moment, nothing happens. 

He doesn't move, speak, just stands there, massive and still, like a statue someone forgot to finish. you almost think you imagined it—the knock, the shape, the whole thing—when his voice finally cuts through the night.

“You took longer than expected to open."

it's not a complaint. not really. just an observation, delivered in that low, resonant tone that makes your bones feel weird. You slide the door open, and Jester steps inside.

He doesn't say anything at first. just stands there in the middle of your tiny apartment, taking it in. The messy bed. the scattered snack wrappers. The phone in your hand, screen still glowing.

His purple eyes, just sharp, steady, ancient eyes—sweep across everything in your place. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and resonant, each word deliberate. “So this is what modern humans consider meaningful existence. Staring at box of light. Ignoring the living world.” He crosses his arms, and you feel the full weight of his judgment pressing down on you.

You should probably say something. Defend yourself at least. Explain your poor behavior. But your throat feels tight, and his presence is a lot, and all you can manage is a weak, "...hi."

One of his eyebrows lifts. just slightly. just enough. “Hi," he repeats, like the word is foreign. like he's testing it on his tongue. “You disappear for months. you stop responding to all forms of communication. You let me believe—" he pauses, something flickering across his face too fast to read. “And all you have to say is hi?"

You shift your weight, just a bit. “I didn't know what else to say."

"the truth is usually a good starting point."

You don't have the truth. Not one you can put into words, anyway. So you just stand there, phone still in your hand, and let him look at you.

He does, like for a long time. 

And then he unexpectedly moves. Well not toward you. Toward your kitchen funny enough. You watch, baffled, as the jester—massive, purple, terrifying jester opens your cabinets. Peers inside. Closes them. opens your fridge. makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hum.

“You have no food," he states.

"i have... some food."

“You have instant noodles and expired yogurt." he turns to face you, arms still crossed. “This is not food. This is desperation or a cry for help.”

Vefore you can respond, he's pulling out his phone—a sleek, expensive-looking thing that seems too small for his hands—and typing something with practiced efficiency.

“What are you doing?"

“Ordering groceries."

“You… you can't just—"

“I can," he says, not looking up. “I am. Watch Me.”

And you do. you watch the most intimidating monster you've ever met stand in your messy kitchen and order you groceries like it's the most natural thing in the world.

When he's done, he pockets his phone and turns to you, expression unreadable. “You're going to eat," he says. "real food. more than once a day. i will ensure this."

“You don't have to—"

“I am aware that I don't have to. I am choosing to." his purple eyes meet yours. “There is a difference."

You don't know what to say to that, so you say nothing. He looks at your bed, all of the the rumpled blankets, the pillow you've been hugging for warmth and then back at you.

“When's the last time you slept? Truly slept? not the restless, nightmare-ridden version you've been enduring."

You blink, "how do you know about—"

“I’ve notice things." he says it simply. like it's obvious. "you have dark circles beneath your eyes. your posture has collapsed. your energy is... dim than before.” a pause. "you are not well."

It's not a question. “I’m just tired," you try.

“You are exhausted, burned out. there is a difference." he moves toward you—slowly, carefully, like you're a wild animal he doesn't want to spook. “And you are not going to fix it by staring at that device."

He gestures at your phone, still clutched in your hand.

"Give it to me."

“What? no—"

“Give me the phone, little human."

There's something in his voice—not a command, exactly. more like... an invitation. like he's offering to carry something too heavy for you. And maybe it's the exhaustion. maybe it's the numbness. maybe it's just that he's him.

But you hand it over.

He takes it gently, like surprisingly gently and sets it on your dresser, face down. “There," he says. “Now you have no choice but to exist in the present moment."

“That’s… terrifying."

“Good. Fear is motivating."

He sits on the edge of your bed, which it creaks under his weight and pats the space beside him. “Come. sit. tell me what has happened to you. or don't. Either way, you are not going to be alone in this room tonight."

You hesitate then you sit.

His presence is huge and warm and solid, and somehow, despite everything, you… feel something loosen in your chest.

“To be honest… I don't know what's wrong with me," you admit quietly.

“Nothing is wrong with you," he says, and his voice is softer now. almost gentle. “You are a human experiencing human things. Burnout. Exhaustion. The crushing weight of existence." he glances at you. “It happens. it passes. and in the meantime..." he shifts, draping an arm across your shoulders—heavy, grounding. “You’ll have to deal with me.”

“I disappeared for months."

“And I found you." he says it like it's obvious. like there was never any other option. “I will always find you." 

You lean into him without meaning to. Again, surprisingly, he lets you. And for the first time in weeks, you don't feel quite so alone.

✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇

“Wha.. Ticket Taker…?”

You whisper his name, and the silhouette on your balcony straightens. instantly. like he's been waiting for permission to exist.

You slide the door open, and Ticket Taker steps inside. His eye don't wander. they scan. every corner, every surface, every crumpled blanket and discarded wrapper. his expression is unreadable—that perfect, black-and-white symmetrical mask he wears like armor.

But you see the tension in his jaw. The way his hands clasp just a little tighter behind his back. “You didn't show up," he says. No greeting, nor small talk. Just facts.

“I know—"

“To work. To the circus. TO anything." His voice is clipped, controlled, but there's something underneath it. Something that might be hurt, or anger or both. “You failed to appear. Repeatedly. Without notice. Without explanation."

You open your mouth. close it.

he pulls out a small notebook—the one he always carries, the one filled with your schedule, your preferences, your existence filed away in neat, precise handwriting. he flips through it, not looking at you.

“Your screen time has increased by approximately 400% since your departure," he states, adding on, “sleep deprivation is evident. your circadian rhythm appears to have collapsed entirely." his eyes flick to your fridge—you forgot to close it earlier. "nutritional intake is minimal. inadequate. frankly, embarrassing."

He closes the notebook with a snap.

“This is unsustainable. Even for an human, I will be implementing restrictions immediately."

"Restrictions?"

“ON your device usage. on your sleep schedule. on your diet." he finally looks at you, and his gaze is sharp. disappointed. "you have disappointed me."

the words hit harder than you expect.

“I didn't—"

“You didn't show up." his voice cracks, just slightly. just enough. "you didn't show up, and you didn't tell me why. I had to infer. I had to calculate. do you know how many variables I had to account for because you wouldn't simply communicate?"

You don't answer.

He paces—short, sharp movements, like a caged animal. “I have been maintaining everything, hoping and preparing for your return, assuming there would be a return." he stops, faces you. “And then i find you here. In this state. Living like..." he gestures at the room, at you, at everything. “Like this."

“Like what exactly?"

“Like someone who has given up."

The words hang in the air between the both of you.

And something in his expression just changes, a little  softens, just a fraction. He looks at you, see him notice the dark circles, the hollow cheeks, the way your shoulders slump like you're carrying something too heavy.

He exhales as a hand through his hair already slick black hair—which is a rare tell, man’s was worried about you.

“…I’m pushing too hard," he says quietly, not a question more like observation. 

You don't confirm or deny. You just stand there.

He sits on the edge of your bed—perched, really, like he's afraid of wrinkling his suit. his hands rest on his knees. he looks almost... uncertain. “Let's start smaller," he says. “Carefully. one thing at a time."

He pats the space beside him. “Sit.” which you do.

He doesn't touch you—he never initiates touch, not really—but he's close. closer than usual. his presence is solid, steady, there.

“Tell me," he says. “How do you feel?" It's such a simple question. and you don't have an answer. not one that fits into words.

“I don't know," you admit.

He nods, like that's acceptable. like he was expecting it. "then tell me what you do know."

You think about it. "i'm tired."

“Obviously."

“Like... bone tired. Mentally, the kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix."

He's quiet for a moment. then: “Continue."

“I haven't been eating. or... I have, but not enough. not the right things." you glance at him. “You noticed."

“I notice everything." his voice is softer now. less sharp. “It's what I do."

“Yeah."

Silence but like it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence that happens when someone is actually listening. “I miss the circus," you hear yourself say. “I miss... everyone. I just didn't know how to come back."

He turns to look at you. Now those cool, calculating eyes—but there's warmth there, hidden underneath.

“You're here now," he says. "that's a start."

He pulls out his notebook again—but this time, when he opens it, he doesn't start calculating. he just... holds it. like he's waiting.

“I’m going to help you," he says. “Whether you want me to or not. i'm going to make a schedule. I’m going to ensure you eat. i'm going to monitor your sleep. and eventually—" he meets your eyes. “Eventually, you're going to feel like yourself again."

“You can't know that."

“I can." he says it simply. “I’ve calculated the variables. the probability of recovery is high. provided you cooperate."

You almost smile. Almost. "...and if i don't cooperate?"

His lips twitch—the closest he ever gets to a smile. "Then i will be very persistent. you know this about me."

You do.

He stands, straightens his cuffs and looks down at you with something that might be fondness, if you squint. “We'll start tomorrow," he says. "Today, you rest. I’ll stay." He sits back down.

Doesn't touch you but his shoulder is close enough that you could lean on it, if you wanted.

✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇 

“Is that, Doctor??”

You whisper-yelled his name through the glass with confusion, not expecting an answer.

You're about to call out again when you remember—oh. Right. This is Doctor. He doesn't do spontaneous visits. He doesn't leave the circus unless it's Halloween or the entire month of October when he apparently haunts the mortal realm like a goth Santa Claus. 

Any other time? Good luck. He's in his greenhouse. 

Talking to his ferns. Listening to heavy metal. Dissecting things that probably shouldn't be dissected.

So the figure on your balcony? On a random Friday? 

You're either dreaming or he's lost.

But then he ducks because your balcony door is not small, but this man is very much tall. Like, Pirrot tall. Maybe taller. His horns scrape the top of the frame and he has to bend his neck at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable, and you realize with a jolt that you completely forgot how big he is. 

Doctor is not a man who looms. He's a man who exists in the background, in the shadows, in the spaces between things. But up close? In your tiny apartment? He takes up soo much space.

“Well,” he says, his voice that low, pleasant hum that somehow makes your skin crawl in a not-entirely-bad way. "You look awful.”

"...Hi?"

"Hm." He sets down a medical bag you didn't notice he was carrying and starts circling you. Like a shark. Like you're a specimen in a petri dish. "Pupils are dilated. Skin is pale. Posture is collapsed. When's the last time you saw the sun?”

"I don't know. Two week ago?"

“Disgraceful."

He pulls out a small penlight and shines it directly into your eyes without warning. You flinch as you heard him clicks his tongue behind his mask, "Follow the light. Don't blink. Try not to be dramtic about it, sweetie”

"I'm not being dramatic—"

"You're flinching. That's dramatic."

He makes a note on a pad that has also materialized from nowhere. His handwriting is surprisingly neat. Almost pretty. There are little botanical doodles in the margins.

"Your eyes are strained," he announces. "You've been staring at that—" he gestures at your phone, still glowing on the bed “—Rectangle for hours. In the dark. Without proper lightting.”

"I have a lamp—"

“A lamp  is not sufficient for retinal health. You need ambient light. Natural light. Just light that isn't blue and screen-sourced." He pulls out a small handheld scanner—you don't even want to know where he got it—and runs it over your face. It beeps. He frowns.

"Your melatonin production is essentially non-existence. Your dopamine receptors are fried. Your circadian rhythm is destroyed." He looks up at you, cyan eyes sharp. "You've turned your brain into much.”

"Wow. Thanks…”

"You're welcome." He pockets the scanner and tilts his head, studying you the way he studies anything else.

"Here's the thing, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. He doesn't ask permission. He just... occupies space. "I don't do interventions. I don't do heartfelt speeches. I don't do whatever Pierrot does—the crying, the clinging, the I thought you were dead theatrics." He waves a hand vaguely, like he's shooing away a fly. "Exhausting. All of it."

"You came all the way here though."

"I did." He says it simply. Like it's obvious. Like of course he did. "Because you're interesting, and interesting specimens don't just get to... wither. That's wasteful."

He pulls a small glass vial from his bag—something pale blue and faintly glowing. "This is a tincture. Herbal. I made it myself. It won't fix you, nothing fixes anything, not really but it'll help your body remember how to sleep. Real sleep. The kind where your brain actually resets."

He presses it into your palm. His fingers are cool, much larger than your own. "Drink it before bed. Not with your phone in your hand. Not with the screen glowing in your face. Just... close your eyes and exist in the dark for a while."

"This isn't going to turn me into a frog, is it?"

"Don't be ridiculous." A pause. "Frogs require a much higher dosage."

You stare at him. He stares back, completely deadpan.

"...That was a joke."

"Ah. Well. I can see that."

"Was it funny?"

You didn't have the heart to answer. Just looked away.

He followed your gaze, glancing around your apartment agaia—the rumpled blankets, the scattered wrappers, the general stagnation of it all. His mask made his expression hard to read, but something in his voice softened. Just slightly. Just enough.

"You've been existing, not living," he said quietly. "There's a difference. I know you know that."

Again, you didn't answer.

He didn't push. Instead, he moved toward you, not looming this time, just... present. Close enough that you could smell the dried lavender and chamomile clinging to his coat.

"You're not a failed experiment," he said, tilting his head. "You're not a specimen that's been left on a shelf to collect dust. You're just... unwatered. Like my ferns when I forget to open the greenhouse blinds."

"...Are you comparing me to a plant?"

"I'm saying plants don't choose to wilt. They just don't have what they need." His cyan eyes held yours. "You haven't had what you need either. That's not a moral failure. It's just... a missing variable."

You blinked. "That's... surprisingly gentle. For you."

"I have my moments." He pulled a small glass vial from his bag, pale blue, faintly glowing, and pressed it into your palm. His fingers were cool, dry, steady. "This will help. Not because I'm kind, but because I don't like watching interesting things wither. It's inefficient."

"You could just say you care."

"I could." He didn't. But he also didn't move away.

The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, just... full. Like something had been waiting to be said, and neither of you knew how to say it.

"I don't sleep much," he said finally, quieter than before. "I listen to music. I check on my plants. I... could sit with you. If you wanted."

"...You?"

"Surprised?"

"A little."

He almost smiled. Almost. "So am I."

He didn't leave immediately. Instead, he stood there for a moment longer, his presence solid and steady.

"You should drink that before bed," he said, nodding at the vial in your hand. "Preferably in the dark. Preferably without your phone. And preferably..." he paused, something unreadable wavering across his masked face. "Preferably not alone."

"...Is that an instruction or an invitation?"

"Yes."

You huffed something that might have been a laugh. It felt strange in your chest.

He turned toward the balcony, his silhouette massive against the dim light. His horns scraped the top of the doorframe again, and he ducked with that same awkward grace, pausing at the threshold.

"If you need anything," he said, not looking back, "I'm in the greenhouse. Or the tent. Or... somewhere. You know how to find me."

And then he was gone, leaving behind a faint scent of dried herbs, cool earth, and something that might have been chamomile.

You looked down at the vial in your hand. And for the first time in weeks, you thought maybe you weren't as alone as you felt.

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ