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"Your Soul Is Ours"

Character(s): Pierrot, Harlequin (The Freak Circus)

Pairing(s): Pierrot x Fem Reader, Harlequin x Fem Reader

‼️Warnings ‼️: Stalking, yandere behavior, dark romance, "bad ending", Mental deterioration an instability

Alternate Universe: Dark Soulmate AU (mostly canon compliant)

✨ Commission for @avokadouwu ✨

If you want to commission me, check out this post!

Summary: "Every night was the same frantic chase. You would run until your dream-lungs burned, the shadows always at your heels. For years, you managed. Medication dulled the edges, enough to let you sleep in exhausted, dreamless blocks. You covered your marks with long sleeves and thick makeup, trying to forget they existed. You were just a woman with a chronic sleep disorder. That’s what your doctors believed, and you told yourself you believed it too."

"Then, "The Freak Circus of Horrors" rolled into town..."

The hiss of the espresso machine is the metronome of your life. It’s a steady, familiar sound in a world that feels increasingly frayed at the edges. You move with an automatic grace born from years behind the counter grinding beans, steaming milk, and whipping up beautiful latte arts on each drink like an afterthought. It’s a simple life, a peaceful one, if you don’t count the nights.

The nights are where the peace shatters.

It started when you came of age, when the soulmarks bloomed on your skin like faint, unwelcome bruises. On your right wrist, a delicate yellow star. On the back of your left hand, a jaunty green heart. A rare and unfortunate duality, the doctors had said. Two soulmates. Most people spent their lives resigned to searching for one.

The nightmares began almost immediately after. Two shadows, formless but distinctly male, and yet still inhuman, hounding you through labyrinthine cityscapes of your own mind. One was unnervingly tall and slender, its presence a heavy, fixated and focused dread. From the void of its head, two points of brilliant gold light burned like dying suns forever burning into you. The other was shorter, more agile, a whirlwind of chaotic energy whose laughter echoed with endless sound. Its eyes were gleaming shards of emerald, glittering with a cruel mirth.

Every night was the same frantic chase. You would run until your dream-lungs burned, the shadows always at your heels. For years, you managed. Medication dulled the edges, enough to let you sleep in exhausted, dreamless blocks. You covered your marks with long sleeves and thick makeup, trying to forget they existed. You were just a woman with a chronic sleep disorder. That’s what your doctors believed, and you told yourself you believed it too.

Then, “The Freak Circus of Horrors” rolled into town, its garish tents rising like alien flora blooming on the city’s skyline. And while you didn’t realize right away that the circus’ arrival was linked to it, your carefully maintained peace imploded. The nightmares intensified. Now, when you dreamed, the shadows caught you. They would corner you in a dead-end alley of your subconscious, their shadowy limbs extending, and drag you into a screaming, silent darkness from which you’d wake up gasping, sheets soaked in sweat. The medication became useless. You sought out shamans, bought dreamcatchers that hung like spiders over your bed, and submerged yourself in herbal baths that only left your skin smelling of lavender and despair. Nothing worked for long.

They came into your coffee shop on a Tuesday.

The bell above the door chimed, and the two of them entered, sucking the air out of the room. They were a riot of color and stark contrast. The tall one was dressed in a motley of black and crimson, a sad, white mask painted on his face, tear tracks etched in black. This was Pierrot. He moved with a languid, almost mournful grace, his eyes, the only part of his true face visible, fixed on you with an unnerving intensity.

His companion was his opposite: a whirlwind of black and green motley, adorned with heart motifs. Harlequin. His face was also masked, but his was fixed in a wide, mischievous grin. He moved with a dancer’s confidence, all swagger and sharp angles, his gaze sweeping the shop before landing on you with a predatory gleam.

They became your regulars. Every day at the precise time as the day before, they’d take the two seats at the end of the bar, never speaking to anyone but you. Or rather, Harlequin would speak. He’d flirt and tease, his voice a smooth, eloquent purr. He’d ask about your day with a sincerity that felt both practiced and genuine somehow, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. Contradictions of mockery and sincerity seemed to come naturally to him.

Pierrot remained silent. It was part of his act, Harlequin explained with a wave of his gloved hand. The silent pierrot of their little troupe. But his silence was louder than any words. He watched you. He watched the way you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the way your fingers drummed on the counter when you were bored, the faintest hint of the yellow star peeking from under your sleeve. You were kind to him, treating his silence not as a flaw but as a fact, always smiling and asking if he wanted his usual milkshake, or trying something new today. He would excitedly nod, his gaze so heavy it felt like a physical touch. Sometimes he’d write on a napkin and pass it to you, and if the coffee shop wasn’t too busy, you’d pause to read them.

The true downward spiral began with the pins.

It was a month after they first appeared. They sat at their usual spot, and as you delivered their coffees, Harlequin caught your hand. “A token of our esteem, darling,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand, right over the hidden heart. A jolt, cold and electric, shot up your arm. He pressed a small, enamel pin into your palm. It was a perfect green heart.

At the same time, Pierrot reached out, his movements slow and deliberate. He gently took your other hand, his gloved fingers tracing the line of your wrist, directly over the star. Another shock, this one deeper, warmer, resonating in your bones. He placed a matching pin beside the first: a bright yellow star.

The moment their gloved hands touched your soulmarks, the world fractured. For a split second, you weren't in the coffee shop. You were in the alley you saw so many times in your nightmares, the petrichor and decay thick in the air. Two pairs of glowing eyes stared at you from the darkness, one gold, one green. You saw claws and teeth, heard your own echoing scream as you cried in vain within the depths of your nightmares.

You snatched your hands back as if burned, the pins clattering to the counter. You stared down at them, then up at the two figures before you. The harlequin, the pierrot. The shadows. The source of every sleepless night, every ounce of terror that had poisoned your adult life.

They knew. You could see it in the sudden stillness of their bodies. Harlequin’s smirk faltered. Pierrot’s head tilted, a silent question in his posture.

From that day on, you tried to avoid them. You’d busy yourself in the back when they came in, asking your coworker to take their order. But it was useless. They would wait, silent and patient, until you were forced to emerge. Their presence became a suffocating blanket. Harlequin’s witty remarks now held a knowing edge. Pierrot’s silence felt possessive, his gaze a chain linking you to him.

One evening, he followed you to the stock room. You turned, startled, to find him blocking the door. Then he spoke, and the sound sent a shiver of pure dread down your spine. His voice was a low, raspy whisper, like stones grinding together, yet the words were poetic, achingly beautiful.

“My star,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “You shine so brightly, yet you try to hide your light from us. Do we displease you so?”

You couldn’t answer, your throat locked in terror. You just shook your head and fled past him, the yellow star pin he’d given you, which you’d attached to your apron along with the heart pin in a silent hope of placating them, feeling like a lead weight threatening to hold you down.

They made an effort, you could admit that. They never pushed too hard. They brought you small, thoughtful gifts: a raven’s feather because you mentioned loving birds, a perfectly preserved lily in full bloom because it was your favorite flower, your favorite sweets from the candy shop a dozen blocks up. They were trying to court you, to win you over and get you to let your guard down. But all you could see were the glowing eyes in the dark, all you could feel was the phantom grip of claws on your arms. They didn’t understand that their very existence was your personal horror story.

Then came the night your coworker called in sick with the flu. Your boss asked you to close up, offering you time-and-a-half. The money was too good to refuse, even as a knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. It meant walking home alone, in the dark, through the city’s notoriously dangerous streets.

The walk was tense. The streetlights cast long, dancing shadows that looked all too familiar. Every rustle of trash in the wind was the scrape of a claw, every distant siren a precursor to a chase. You clutched your keys in your fist, the metal biting into your palm.

He came out of nowhere. A man, gaunt and desperate looking, stepped out from an alley, blocking your path. He brandished a knife, its edge catching the sickly orange glow of the streetlamp.

“The bag. Your phone. Now,” he snarled, his eyes darting around nervously.

Your blood ran cold. You were frozen, your mind screaming but your body refusing to move. Locked in terror as you stared at the gleaming edge of the weapon.

“I believe,” a smooth voice purred from the alley’s entrance, “that the lady is not interested in your proposition.”

Harlequin stepped into the light, his usual grin looking utterly terrifying in the gloom.

From the other end of the street, a tall figure emerged from the shadows. Pierrot.

The mugger scoffed, unnerved but trying to maintain his bravado. “Get lost, clowns. This ain’t your business.”

Harlequin chuckled, a low, discordant sound. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong. You see, you’re bothering someone very, very important to us.”

And then they changed.

It wasn't a puff of smoke or a magical shimmer. It was a grotesque, biological horror. Their limbs elongated with sickening cracks. Their painted smiles and tears seemed to melt away as their jaws unhinged, revealing rows upon rows of needle-sharp teeth. Their gloved hands ripped at the seams as black claws burst forth. They grew, their forms twisting into the very shape of the shadows from your nightmares, hunched and monstrous.

The mugger screamed, a high, thin sound that was cut unnaturally short.

You watched, paralyzed with a horror so profound it transcended what your mind could comprehend. Harlequin was a blur of black, his eyes a streaking blaze of green, his laughter now a guttural shriek as his claws tore through the man’s chest. Pierrot moved with a terrifying, silent finality, his talons closing around the man’s head with a sound like a melon cracking open.

Blood sprayed across the pavement, painting the concrete in glistening patterns. The air filled with the coppery stench of it, thick and nauseating. It was over in seconds. They stood over the mangled remains, their monstrous forms silhouetted against the streetlight, chests heaving.

Then, their glowing eyes turned to you.

The spell broke. You didn't scream. The sound was trapped in your throat. You just turned and ran. You ran harder than you had ever run in your life, your feet pounding the pavement, your lungs burning, the horrific scene replaying behind your eyes. This was the nightmare made real. The chase was real. They were real.

You didn’t look back, but you could hear them following. Could hear the scrape of claws on asphalt, their heavy, inhuman footfalls. You fumbled with your keys at your apartment door, your hands shaking so badly you could barely fit the key in the lock. You burst inside, slammed the heavy door shut, and threw every bolt and chain you had tight. Rushing around the corner, you yanked a heavy wooden chair and your coatrack over to the door as extra reinforcement.

You collapsed against the door, sliding to the floor, panting and sobbing, your body trembling uncontrollably.

Silence. Blessed, terrifying silence.

Then, a soft, hesitant knock on the door. Just the faintest little tap.

“Darling?” It was Harlequin’s voice, the smooth eloquence returned, but laced with a frantic, desperate edge. “Please. We didn’t mean for you to see that. We didn’t mean to scare you.”

A floorboard creaked and then came Pierrot’s voice, the raspy whisper raw with anguish.

“My star… he was going to hurt you,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “We only… we only wanted to protect you. Please… open the door. Don’t be afraid of us.”

Another knock, gentler this time.

“We love you,” Harlequin whispered, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn’t, wouldn’t, name. “You’re ours, you know it’s true. Please, just let us in.”

Pressed against the cold wood of the door, you squeezed your eyes shut, tears tracking paths through the grime on your face. The yellow star and green heart pins on your coat felt like they were burning through the fabric, searing your very skin. They were monsters. They were murderers. They were protectors. They were your soulmates.

Outside, they continued to beg, their monstrous love a terrifying, patient siege against the flimsy barrier of your door. And you, their terrified prize, could only sit in the dark and weep. You didn’t let them in.

Days bled into a week. Time had lost its crisp edges, blurring into a smear of sleepless nights and terror-filled days. You hadn’t been to work in days, giving the excuse to your boss that you were horribly ill, and given that you’d hardly eaten and slept, it wasn’t really a lie. You didn't leave your apartment. You couldn't. They were always there.

Sometimes, they were silent, a heavy, oppressive presence just beyond the door that made the air in your apartment feel thick and hard to breathe. Other times, they would talk. Their voices, once charming and intriguing, were now instruments of torture. They never shouted, never threatened to break the door down. Their assault was softer, more insidious.

“We brought you your favorite, darling,” Harlequin’s voice would sing through the wood, impossibly clear. “A mocha latte with extra whipped cream. It’s getting cold.” You’d press your ear against the door, stomach churning, and hear the gentle clink of a ceramic mug being set on the welcome mat. “And a croissant. You haven’t eaten. We’re worried, do you have food in there, my lady?”

Hours later, Pierrot’s raspy whisper would call much the same. “The sky is beautiful tonight, my star. I can see the moon from here. I wish you would come see it with me.”

They left gifts. Flowers, books, pastries from the bakery down the street. Each one was a testament to how well they knew you, how closely they had been watching. Each one was a gilded brick in the walls of your prison. You never touched them. Through the peephole, you’d watch the offerings pile up, wilting and growing stale in the hallway, eventually getting thrown away or replaced, a morbid shrine to their relentless affection.

The nightmares were crueler than ever. The medication was beyond useless now, plaguing you with its side effects with no return of relief from the onslaught. There was no escape in sleep. You no longer dreamt of shadows chasing you; you dreamt of them as they were. Harlequin’s charming smile splitting open to reveal that impossible maw, whispering your name with a voice that was both his and the shriek of a predator. Pierrot’s sad, painted tears on his mask becoming a trail of black ichor as his golden eyes burned into yours, his clawed hand reaching out not to harm, but to caress your face with terrifying tenderness.

You’d wake up gasping, the phantom sensation of claws on your skin, the soulmarks on your wrist and hand burning with a feverish intensity. You tried to claw them off once, in a fit of panicked desperation, your nails digging into your skin until you drew blood. But the marks remained, pristine and mocking, a permanent claim staked on your very flesh.

One evening, the begging stopped. The silence that fell was profound, a vacuum that sucked all the air from your lungs. It was worse than the whispers, worse than the pleading. You crept to the peephole, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. The hallway was empty. The gifts were gone. The welcome mat was bare.

For a single, dizzying moment, hope flared in your chest. Had they given up? Had they finally understood?

Then came a gentle tap… tap… tapping on your bedroom window.

You lived on the fourth floor.

Slowly, as if moving through water, you turned. The curtains were drawn, but a sliver of moonlight cut through, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The tapping came again, a delicate, rhythmic sound, like a bird’s beak against the glass. It was a sound that had no right to be there.

You backed away, your hand flying to your mouth to stifle a scream. A silhouette blotted out the moonlight. Then another. They were perched on the narrow ledge outside your window, their monstrous forms folded with an unnatural grace, their glowing eyes, a pair of gold and a pair of green, peering directly at you, right through the fabric of the curtains.

“We grew tired of the door,” Harlequin’s voice murmured, the sound warped and muffled by the glass, yet clear as a bell in your mind.

Let us in, Pierrot’s voice echoed in your head, a deep, mournful plea. “It’s cold out here. We miss you. You’re hurting us, my star. You’re hurting yourself. We are a part of you. Why do you deny us?”

You could feel their emotions bleeding into you through the soulmarks. A torrent of desperate love, possessive obsession, and a profound, aching loneliness that was so sharp it almost brought you to your knees. It was their pain, but it felt like your own. This was their true weapon: not their claws or their teeth, but the bond itself. They could make you feel what they felt, could use your own empathy to break you down.

Tears streamed down your face, hot and silent. You were trapped. The door was a barrier, but the windows were a vulnerability. Your own mind was a conduit. There was no escape.

With a shuddering breath, you looked from the locked bedroom door to the haunted window. The city outside, once your home, was now just a larger cage, one they could easily navigate. Running was pointless. Hiding was impossible.

The tapping on the glass became more insistent. A thin, hairline crack spiderwebbed out from the point of impact. They weren't asking anymore.

You thought of the mugger, of the spray of blood and the sound of cracking bone. They had done that to protect you. They had unleashed that cosmic horror for you. Their love was a ravenous, world-destroying thing, and it was focused entirely on you.

You looked down at your hands, at the green heart and the yellow star. They were your murderers. Your protectors. Your soulmates. Your curse. Slowly, deliberately, you began to walk towards the window. You didn't know if you were going to open it or throw yourself through it. In the terrifying stillness of the room, with those glowing eyes watching your every move, both options felt like the same kind of surrender.

------

Author note: Thank you for reading! And thank you again to @avokadouwu for yet another wonderful commission!

Writing commissions are still open and extremely helpful to me right now in affording therapy and other necessities while I’m trying to find a job, if you’re interested, check out this post!

You can also leave me a tip on Ko-fi!

Thank you again for reading! Have a great day! ✨

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