Quick little paint doodle of Pierrot, the original was a sketch I doodled in my notebook :3
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Quick little paint doodle of Pierrot, the original was a sketch I doodled in my notebook :3
Refurbished/ Repaired Eclipse! Look at the happy boi!
#Inktober Day 9 was #Screech, or a spooky ghost surprise! Lil' Sebastian got a shock from Eli's antics! #inktober2017 #ghosts #digimon #bakemon #soulmon #metaldigighost #metalphantomon #chisai236 (at San Francisco, California)
Tamersona comission for @chisai236 !!
She’s such a great artist, and Sebastion sure as heck lets her know constantly!!!!
"Your Heart's Desire" - Harlequin
Character(s): Harlequin (The Freak Circus)
Pairing(s): Harlequin x GN Reader
Rating: General Audiences
Summary: You have a stressful day at work that breaks into a panic attack. You rush home after to try and calm down, only to find out someone you hadn't invited was already there waiting for you...
Work was… once again work. You might think that working at a coffee shop would be a relatively easy sort of job. Just make drinks you already have memorized and take the customers’ money as payment, simple. And yet, there always seemed to be something that happened each day that made you question that relative simplicity. A regular who was an older woman, always one of the first into the shop at opening, had grumpily sent back her oat milk latte for tasting “too much like milk.” Insisting you must have made it wrong and being condescending all the while staring at you pointedly as you remade it.
And then, there was the rat. A big, brazen one, which decided to skitter across the floor at your feet just as you were pouring a latte art of a heart into the remade coffee. Seeing it made you shriek in fear, drop the froth pitcher of milk, and douse yourself in it as it fell and clattered to the floor loudly. Scaring the rat, which tore through an open cabinet to escape, caused a huge mess. A bag of coffee beans stored there spilled onto the floor. You didn’t know what to do, you froze entirely. And to make matters, somehow, worse the older woman immediately started into complaining about your inability to do your job, while you were wincing in pain from a surface burn and unsure what you should do now between that, the spilled milk, the beans on the floor, the drink that needed to be remade, and the rat that you knew was somewhere in the shop now.
Of course this all had to happen when you were one of the only employees working now, what with Carol’s position still being open and unfilled…
Your nerves were already shot from a week of late shifts and city life’s constant haste. So this was not doing you any favors at all. By the time you locked the coffee shop door, the sunset painting the brick buildings in spooky orange, that familiar tightness had started coiling in your chest. The walk home usually helped you decompress, but tonight, every shadow felt heavier, every distant siren drilled into your skull. The rat incident replayed on a loop, joined by the older lady’s sneer and the sticky oat milk on your jeans. Your breath started catching, like a frantic butterfly stuck in your throat, beating as fast as your poor heart. You wanted to cry, but you held it in, bottling what was already close to exploding for the sake of not causing a scene out in public.
You fumbled with your apartment keys when you finally made it home, hands shaking so bad with pent up stress and emotion you nearly dropped them. Your small, cramped space usually felt safe, but tonight it just felt like a cage. You shoved the door open. The air was thick, your own frantic heart thudding in your ears. You kicked off your shoes, tossed your bag onto a worn table by the door, and automatically reached for the light switch.
Just as your fingers brushed the cool plastic, a voice, low and laced with infuriating amusement, purred from the darkness.
“Rough day, my dear?”
You shrieked, a high-pitched, totally undignified sound. Your hands flew up, one clutching your chest, causing your hand to dig into the green heart pinned there with the force, while your other hand slapped uselessly at the air. That frantic butterfly in your chest? It just escalated to a full-blown flock of panicked vultures. It felt like your nerves were screaming.
The chuckle that followed your dramatic reaction clued you into who it was.
“Harlequin! What the–? What are you doing in my apartment! How did you even get in?” Your voice was already climbing, ragged with fright and a new, sharp panic.
A figure stepped out of the deeper shadows by your window, a splash of green and black motley decorated with golds, the familiar heart motifs stark even in the dim light. He moved with the inhuman grace of a ghost, perfectly at ease, like he owned the place and didn’t feel the slightest bit unwelcome.
“Oh, the usual methods.” He purred, completely unconcerned by your near cardiac arrest. “A dash of charm, a hint of persuasion, and a significant instance of disappointment in a flimsy lock. You should bring that up to your landlord, by the way. Wouldn’t want some unsavory intruder getting in.”
He chuckled, a soft, bubbling sound that usually made you smile in spite, or at the very least playfully pout, but tonight, every sound grated. Every unplanned incident adding to the mountain of stress, mercilessly crushing you in your own mind and body. The air in the room felt impossibly thin in your constricting lungs, your chest was tightening further, a vise clamped around your ribs. Your vision blurred around the edges, Harlequin’s colors bleeding into the encroaching darkness.
“You–! you broke in!” You gasped, your voice reedy. The rat, the old lady, the mess, the blaring sirens, Harlequin’s uninvited presence when you hadn’t expected it, it all slammed into you.
Harlequin, meanwhile, was entirely oblivious to the spiraling chaos inside you. He took a step closer, gloved hands clasped loosely behind his back. “Such a dramatic assessment. I merely… facilitated my entry.” The green of his eyes rolled in the black pools surrounding them. “You seemed rather distressed on your walk home, I thought you might be grateful to have someone come to check on you? I know you do so love witty banter.” He paused, his smile seeming to shine knowingly. “Was I wrong? Oh silly me…”
He grin stretched further somehow. It was that smug self-satisfied look he often wore, had you been less terrified, it might have made you smile, or prompt you to give a witty retort like usual. But all you could register was the complete lack of concern. Couldn’t he see that something was very wrong with you?
“I… I can't… Harlequin… Not right now.” You pressed the hand on your chest in tighter, feeling the frantic thunder of your heart. It was too much, it ached. The panic attack, the storm that had been brewing in the background all day, was whipping up into a hurricane in your body, wreaking devastation, and there was no stopping it now. Your breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. The room began to spin.
Harlequin tilted his head, his toothy smile faltering slightly, replaced by a look of mild confusion. “Are you alright, my dear? You're quite red. And… have been making peculiar noises.”
You choked, a desperate, shuddering intake of breath doing nothing. “I'm having a… a panic attack!” The words were forced out between gasps, sharp and desperate.
A beat of silence. Harlequin blinked. His suave, unshakeable facade wavered, just for a flicker. He clearly had absolutely no idea what to do.
“A… panic attack?” He repeated slowly, as if learning an entirely new concept. He took another step closer, his brow furrowed in something akin to bewilderment. “Well. Don't do that then.”
Tears blurred your vision, half from terror of what was happening to you, half from frustration over how useless he was. “Don't... don't do that?” you choked, voice wavering. “Harlequin, I can't breathe!”
Harlequin dipped his head, leaning in closer, his intense peridot gaze cutting right through your panic. “Hmm,” a low hum rumbled in his chest, “Breathing, my dear, is pretty essential. Perhaps... more of it? Deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth, and all that.” He showed you with an exaggerated, easy inhale and exhale, totally unfazed by your distress.
Yeah, no. It offered zero comfort. Not one single breath eased the crushing weight on your chest, the spinning vortex in your vision, or the prickling numbness in your limbs. You were just too far gone, your mind a swirling mess of forgotten fears and screw-ups, every mistake from forever ago slamming into you at once. And then it hit you, cold and clear: Harlequin, with his infuriating calm, might be the last face you saw before you suffocated, choked by this random, unbidden terror.
“I... I can't...!” A ragged gasp tore from your throat, “Can't breathe, can't think—! Can't...” you sobbed, hot tears streaming down your dusty red cheeks.
Harlequin, seeing his perfectly logical advice totally flop, showed a flicker of something unfamiliar, a rare confusion, across his sharp features. He lifted a long, gloved finger, tapping thoughtfully against his chin, his composure still solid. “Right. So that isn't working... not enough. Maybe... a change of focus?” His head tilted. “Hmm, what would help pull you back to me?” His finger kept up its soft, absent rhythm.
You could only shake your head, a quiet no, air catching rough in your throat. Talking was just beyond you at this point.
Your gaze was blurry, distant, lost in the swirling chaos. Then, a touch. The cool, silky brush of his gloved fingers, feather-light against your tear-streaked cheek. Your eyes, glazed with panic, snapped upward, catching on the green brilliance of his.
“Shhhh...” A soft, resonant purr vibrated from his lips, a thrilling sound that seemed to chase away the noise in your mind, unflinchingly calm amidst your storm. “Look at me, my dearest,” he murmured, his smile a gentle, knowing curve as your gaze, though a struggle, centered on his. “Good.”
His hand, with easy grace, turned, no longer just wiping tears but cupping your face, his long, elegant fingers, tipped with those striking claws, spreading out delicately along your jawline and the tender curve of your neck. A tremor, totally distinct from fear, shot through you, a jolt that stole your breath for an entirely new, electrifying reason.
“Now, let’s try again. Breathe with me now, love, a slow, deep breath, just as I do.” His free hand lifted, thumb and forefinger subtly nudging your chin, making sure you were looking only at him. His pale, exquisite face filled your entire world, and whatever tattered bit of focus you had left in you managed to latch onto his words with an almost desperate obedience, as though his presence had cast a spell.
Despite the anchoring force of his gaze, the breath you tried to draw seized, burning in your lungs, erupting in a violent, rattling cough. Yet, he held you steady, his grip unwavering even as a low, almost animalistic growl rumbled in his chest, a sound not of anger, but of deep frustration. This was a challenge he hadn't expected, a vulnerability he wasn't used to facing, and a situation beyond his usual, easy command.
He leaned closer still, his presence enveloping you, like a shield against the storm, though there was always that undercurrent of danger. “Listen to me,” he breathed, his voice a low, gravelly murmur devoid of all his customary playful mirth that cut right through the haze of your fear. “My heart,” he whispered, his grip tightening ever so slightly, “I promise you anything. Tell me how to make this go away.” His peridot eyes, wide and luminous, were fixed on yours, a mesmerizing, flickering green flame, pulling you deeper into their radiant depths until they were the only truth left in the world.
His words, simple as they were, combined with that low, desperate tone, hit you like a punch. The heat in your face went from an exhausted heat to an embarrassing flush. The sudden closeness, his hands on your face, the total lack of his usual indifferent flippancy… It all snapped something into place. A realization that stunned you into a whole other emotion apart from the fear and overwhelming anxiety you were feeling just moments ago.
The chaotic thrumming in your chest faltered, then began a slow descent. Your blurred vision sharpened, focusing on the firm and focused intensity in his eyes.
My heart… I promise you anything…
The words lingered in the air, weighed and suggestive. Somehow, it was utterly and absurdly distracting. Just moments ago, your mind had been convinced you were suffocating, but now it latched onto this unexpected, wildly out-of-place development. It sounded almost like a risqué joke or an intimate promise. Completely inappropriate for the moment, and yet...
The tightness in your chest began to melt away. Your breaths, once ragged and broken, grew steadier. The frantic storm of thoughts in your head quieted, replaced by one startling realization: he sounded... incredibly alluring. To your own shock, you found comfort in his close, sincere declaration. Without even realizing it, he had managed to chase away your panic with nothing more than a softly spoken, deeply personal promise.
You blinked, dazed. The terror was gone, the embarrassing flush inching up your neck flashing full force across your face.
Harlequin watched your eyes widen, your breathing even out, color returning to your face so strongly it seemed to swing into the other direction of having too much color. Your face now decorated with a blush instead of a pallor. He tilted his head, a slow, predatory smile spreading as realization dawned. His green eyes glinted with a trickster’s mischief.
Oh no.
“Well, well!” He sighed with contentment and glee dripping from every word. He took his hands from your face, but you found the sensation of them lingered. “Looks like I have a hidden talent for calming people down! And here I thought it took silly breathing exercises.” He grinned sideways in a way that suggested he was joking, but you were too out of it to even acknowledge it.
Harlequin straightened to his full height, his usual suave self back once more, his ego clearly fluffed by his unexpected win. He winked to you, a flash of unsettling charm only Harlequin could make look so appealing. “I think I see what happened just then. It seems you just needed someone to promise you the moon! Give you whatever your little heart desires...” His grin could only be described as devilish while he reached up with a claw to tap the little green heart pin secured to your shirt.
It was only then you realized your hand had dropped from your chest, both arms hung limply at your sides as you stared up at him dumbfounded and awestricken. You'd been suffocating only moments ago, genuinely thinking you were about to collapse, and he'd accidentally seduced you out of a panic attack. It was absurd, and yet you felt warm all the same.
“You… you just… how did you…?” You trailed off, your voice still shaky, but much clearer.
Harlequin laughed at your confusion, a rich, dark sound that filled the space of your apartment. He threw his head back, his motley shimmering as it fluttered with the shake of his shoulders. It was pure glee, the sound of someone who'd pulled off the most unexpected, delightful prank. And you, still a bit unsteady, felt a strange pull towards him because of it. You might be humorously concerned over his behavior and actions most days, but you were never bored around Harlequin. Which was something.
“Like I said.” He murmured, leaning in until the space between you hummed with charged possibility. His breath was warm against your ear as he whispered. “All you needed was for someone to give you whatever your little heart desires.” A mischievous glint danced in his eyes as he boldly let his teeth graze your earlobe, a wicked punctuation that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “Well then, my heart? Tell me, what do you desire most right now?”
That utterly unraveled you.
With a flustered scramble, you darted away from him, retreating into the kitchenette, flicking the light as you went, as if the brightness could ward off the spell he’d cast. You yanked open a cupboard, hands trembling, and ripped out a glass, barely managing to fill it at the sink. “O-okay! Thank you for… Whatever you did, Harlequin! That was very helpful!” Your voice quivered, torn between gratitude and disbelief. “But don’t you need to head back to the Circus? It’s getting late!”
Harlequin drifted after you, a silhouette of cunning satisfaction, his grin spreading with the confidence of a victorious fox. “Trying to send me off so soon?” He teased. “Mm, but you’re right. I should make my exit, shouldn’t I? After all, I rather like you this way, delightfully undone, flushed and flustered. If I leave now, I can be sure of seeing you unravel all over again next time.”
You took a sip of water that went down heavily. “…Next time?”
“Next time.” There was an assurance in his tone, another promise. Then he turned round on his heel and made for the front door. “I will see you later then, my dear. Don’t forget to alert your landlord of your faulty lock!”
You took deep breaths, staring at the sink as you listened to his footsteps lead to the door, it open, then shut behind him. And like that you were alone again. Completely and utterly bewildered over the events, and somewhat concerned, and excited, over what Harlequin might do ‘next time’.
Author Note: I had so much fun writing this, almost too much fun. It's longer than the Pierrot one, sorry if it ended up being too long, sometimes words get away from me when I write XD
If you like the story, and you're able, please consider sending a tip: ko-fi.com/chisai236/tip
The heart page break used here was made by me, so if you'd like to use it, feel free! 💚
Hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading! All the replies I got on the last one made me so happy. Thank you for all your kind comments! Hopefully you like this one too!
Little Harlequin :3
"Mutual Obsession"
Character(s): Pierrot
Pairing(s): Pierrot x Gen Reader
‼️Warnings ‼️: Yandere behavior, dark romance, canon typical violence, mutual obsessive behavior
✨ Commission for @nikkuitah ✨
If you want to commission me, check out this post!
Summary: What if you were just as obsessed with Pierrot as he is with you when you met?
Rain flooded with the refuse, oil, and grime of the city bled into cracked sidewalks littered with soggy newspaper scraps and discarded cigarette butts. You stood out in the gloom like a neon sign with your rainbow umbrella in hand as you hurried down the familiar streets to your distant sanctuary of the coffee shop you worked. Your step so brisk on your hurried way that you nearly missed the commotion on the other side of the street. A large, burly man, words slurred and posture unsteady, had a much taller figure backed against a sodden brick wall. The taller figure, though dressed in dark colors, was strikingly out of place in the monochrome gray of the city dressed in red and black motley as he was. Undoubtedly a member of the horror-themed circus that had settled into the city’s forgotten fringes a month or so ago.
You don’t quite remember the name at that moment, but the circus fliers were all over the place. It took only one side glance at a mangled telephone poll punctured with staples and patched up with pamphlets to remind you of its eerie epithet: “The Freak Circus of Horrors”.
“Freak!” the brute spat, shoving the tall performer’s chest with sudden force. “Where the hell are they, huh? I know it’s you all who took ‘em! People started going missing when you monsters got here! Where the hell are they?”
Another shove from the man sent the clown onto the drenched ground, his long, silver-gray hair fell around his pale, masked face. He offered no resistance despite his larger stature, only a silent, accepting submission of the brutality being inflicted that ignited something fierce in your chest. You didn’t know the performer, but it didn’t matter. Your anger was ignited and stoked by the principle and injustice of what you were seeing alone.
“Hey!” Your voice cut through the wet air sharper than you intended, the people walking by barely reacted to you or the circus performer in distress. It was just another day in this hellish city, nothing new to a native born into this cradle of crime, and yet there you stood in stark contrast to the apathy and numbness of soul the rest of them showed. “Leave him alone!”
The man turned, a sneer creasing his features like the crumpled paper that cluttered and clogged the streets. “Mind your own damn business!” But you were already crossing the street towards him. Your umbrella became an impromptu weapon gripped in both hands like a bat you would not hesitate to use.
“Take your own advice,” you spit back, your voice firm despite the tremor settling in your knees as the back of your mind became aware of how outclassed you were in size and strength here. “What, you think just because you’re meaner and drunker than everyone else at 10am on a weekday you can just yell at whoever sticks out in your path? Get lost!”
The brute hesitated, looking up and down at you through the haze of his inebriation. Then at last he grunted slurred obscenities and went stumbling down the street. As he retreated, you turned to look down at the figure on the ground. The clown in red and black was watching you, entirely and unnaturally still. You could see where his outfit was getting soaked with water, so you stepped closer, rationalizing that the reason he was so still and silent had to do with the fact that he’d been knocked to the ground.
You dropped your umbrella to the side and reached out with both hands to help him straighten up to his full, impressive height. He was easily over six feet. Which really caught you off guard now that you were standing beside him. It wasn't just the height, but the strange, almost fragile vulnerability in how he held it. His face was mostly obscured by a white mask, streaked with black markings, but you could see golden eyes peering at you from the darkness within. His head tilted to the side. It should have been unsettling. It was unsettling, and he still wasn’t talking. Yet, coupled with the hesitant, almost childlike tilt of his head and the tentative quirk of his permanently smiling mouth, it crossed a line into a sort of creepy-cute overlap. Adorable, in a way that made your breath catch and your pulse jump unexpectedly. Something you imagine you’d feel encountering a young wolf in a forest; both wanting to pet its adorable head and run away for fear of the danger.
You saw the scrape on him then, high on his temple, just out of reach of his mask, where he’d hit the wall. It oozed a thin line of crimson. Nothing serious, but he was hurt.
“You're bleeding,” you murmured, rummaging in your satchel bag. Your fingers fished out a small, hand-sized tin containing adhesive bandages. Coincidently, your photography hobby had you often gaining minor scrapes from crawling and shimmying into all sorts of odd positions, so you always had bandages on hand. You pulled out a bright pink one stamped with the face of a cartoon cat. Hoping that the brightness might cheer him up.
“Here, this should help you.” Tentatively, mindful of any movement that would suggest he didn’t want you to come closer, you gently pressed the bandage over the scrape. He didn’t flinch. Moreso, he looked at you with a kind of awe, his golden eyes chased your movements with evident intensity. When you finished, smoothing the edges down meticulously, a slow, wide smile stretched across his face. It was a wide smile, too wide, revealing the triangular, glistening sharpness of his teeth. Razor points all throughout, taking the place of variation a normal mouth would have. Hinting at an unnatural nature you couldn’t quite comprehend, and dismissed as part of his costume.
You felt undeniably interested and attracted to his odd nature though, even if you thought it all to be parlor tricks and little more. You’d never seen or met someone so instantly fascinating as this man. “There, does that feel any better?”
He didn’t speak, but his smile remained true. The quiet mystique of him only added to the level of charm you felt. He dipped his head once, a silent, graceful nod. Then, with the fluid, almost aethereal grace you’d later become more acquainted, he melted away into the alley's gloom without a sound.
And just like that, your life snapped back into its usual monotony.
Work blurred in its typical, semi-stressful sameness. Surrounding you in a symphony of cranky morning commuters demanding quadruple-shot espressos, the repetitive hiss of the steaming wand, the froth of the milk foam, and the clatter of ceramic cups.
By mid-afternoon, the day had taken to its usual rhythm, until a sudden burst of color interrupted the monotony. A familiar, lanky figure dressed in motley appeared outside the rain-drizzled front windows, his presence impossible to miss. It was the same man you had helped, had he followed you here? He stood so unnaturally still, seeming to watch you with an unwavering, fierce intensity. Not once did he even blink. The sight filled you with a giddy energy, a mix of awe and excitement that made your pulse race.
Without thinking, you gave him a small wave before turning back to your work of tamping down espresso grounds. Even though you wanted nothing more than to stare back and lose yourself in that moment, you forced yourself to focus, you didn’t want to fall behind in your work and suffer the ire of your impatient customers.
He didn't wave back. Instead, his long, leather clad fingers rose as he slowly leaned forwards. He exhaled softly onto the cold glass pane, fogging it. Then, with one sharp, black-taloned fingertip, he began to draw. A heart. And then another and another. A whole parade of misshapen, wobbly-but-still-endearing hearts emerged on the clouded glass.
Your boss looked on at the entire exchange between you and the odd circus performer and huffed. “Those circus freaks give me the creeps. Like that one’s possessed or somethin',” his eyes fix on you with the cautious look a father would give one of his own.
“He’s harmless,” you murmured, your eyes lifted to steal another look at him in the window. He was now tapping the glass softly where the largest heart bloomed, directly opposite your position. When you looked, he then deliberately placed one black-gloved hand over his chest, over his own heart. Your boss shook his head, turning away to assist a customer who’d just walked in.
Your instant camera, always close at hand and currently tucked beneath the counter, suddenly became an essential tool. With hasty movement, you retrieved it and snapped a picture. The satisfyingly familiar whir-click signaled that the moment had been captured successfully.
Surprised, the man blinked rapidly, the golden glow of his eyes flickering in and out of view with the flutter.
Then he preened. His chin tucked down into his chest, making his wavy collar flare around him like a lion’s mane. The glee and exuberance of his joy mirrored your own giddy excitement. Tilting his head, he offered a shy, fluttering wave, followed by that dazzling, sharp-toothed smile. Until, in an instant, he backed away from the light of the window and vanished into the gloom of the city again.
The photograph slipped out the front of the camera, and it developed quickly. The details bleeding from black nothingness to the sharp and vivid image of the man. For now, you placed it on a shelf beneath the register, where you could stare at the captured scene. Later, when you return home, the image will decorate your wall. Where it will remain to nurture the sweet weight of a budding obsession to grow and settle deep within your bones.
Your boss had to leave early for an appointment, and since you were the only staff member who came in today, you’d need to close the shop. You sighed, knowing the reality of closing solo was never fun, but at least you’d get to go home early. The shop emptied slowly as the rain returned, heavier outside now and loud enough to be heard on the roof.
Upon finding yourself alone in the empty coffee shop, he appeared outside once again. Water collected on his attire, causing strands of his silver-gray bangs to cling to his sleek mask. He held a thin object in his gloved fingers, tucked close to his chest to keep it dry. His expression was hopeful, and his golden eyes burned into you like a welcoming fire.
You opened the door, practically coaxing him as if he were no more threatening than a stray cat. He entered quietly, carrying with him the scent of cool rain. Without speaking, he presented the object to you: a single paper flower, carefully crafted and painted a deep red. The flower’s scent was immediately noticeable as metallic and coppery, strongly reminiscent of wet iron or blood.
Your gaze snapped from the flower to his hairline. The pink cat bandage you’d given was gone. In its place, just under his silver fringe, was a raw, jagged cut, freshly reopened, trickling a slow, viscous line of dark red down his temple. Understanding clicked cold and sharp. The flower wasn’t painted with something as simple as paint.
You’d never felt so exhilarated that a slow, dizzying warmth spread through you. It wasn't horror tightening your chest, it was something joyful and adrenaline-charged. He made this. For you. With part of himself. You didn’t even know his name yet, and you were hooked by this man’s odd nature already.
A smile, wide and utterly genuine, curved the edges of your lips. “It's beautiful,” you breathed, your voice soft and genuine. You accepted the flower, the paper cool and slightly stiff. The coppery tang intensified as it was brought closer. Without breaking eye contact, you pulled your instant camera up from your apron. “Actually, could I have a picture of you with it? Please?”
A spark ignited in his eyes, like oil splashed in fire. He took the flower back, holding it with reverent care near his painted cheek. Your camera clicked, then flashed. The image developed: his pale face, streaked with rain and blood, the crimson flower and his happy smile a shocking counterpoint to the more visceral details. It was perfect, he was perfect.
“Right,” you murmured, pocketing the picture like a hoarded treasure. “Now, you come with me. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
You guided him toward the coffee counter, your hand gestured to one of the stools at the bar. He settled onto the seat, his posture attentive and vigilant, eyes tracking your every movement with the still intensity of a gargoyle perched high above the city. Turning to the sink, you took a clean cloth and dampened it with warm water.
“Lean down a bit.” He obeyed instantly, both slouching and tilting his head. His proximity was overwhelming with how tall he was, how unique he looked. You gently wiped away the blood and rainwater, careful around the wound. His breath hitched slightly as you dabbed the cut, a low, involuntary sound escaping his lips that sounded too deep and gravely to be natural.
You weren’t the least bit concerned. “Does it hurt?” You asked softly.
He shook his head minutely, his eyes never leaving your face. When the blood was cleared, the wound looked deeper than you'd realized. You walked away from Pierrot long enough to retrieve the first aid kit from a cabinet and bring it over to him. As you applied antiseptic tenderly, he finally spoke.
“No one touches me,” the words were thick with feeling, and laced with awe. “Not gently. Like you.”
The proximity, the intimate whisper, the stark vulnerability beneath the mask and mystery. You were drowning in him. Anyone else in this situation would be off-put, disturbed even, but you were fascinated and fixated. Everything about him felt interesting and wonderful, from the dangerous edge to the overwhelming sweetness.
As you finished up by smoothing a bandage over his wound, your voice came out husky, wrapped in the tenderness of the moment. “You never told me your name, you know.”
His response was immediate, almost gleeful. “I am the Pierrot, dear one.” The grin behind his mask seemed to stretch even wider, conveying how much joy he took in his chosen moniker.
You repeated it softly, trying the name on your tongue. “Pierrot.” It was not an ordinary name, but it fit him perfectly. Pierrot, the mysterious performer, both whimsical and unsettling. “It’s nice to meet you, again, my name is—”
Before you could finish, Pierrot leaned closer, the distance between you dwindling to nothing. A low, cat-like hum vibrated deep in his chest like a purr. “I know, dear one. I already know.” His words resonated with a quiet certainty, as if he had known you long before that night.
Your heart leaped and raced; you had to distract yourself by returning the first aid supplies to the box so you could look away and hide your warm embarrassment. “There, all better.”
His golden eyes glowed with an intensity that stole your breath, and it wasn’t the only thing. The iron scent of the blood-flower mingled with the sharp, bitter tang of coffee grounds, the fading scent of antiseptic, and the dampness of warm rain clinging to him. It was a perfume so unique to this moment you’d never forget it.
“You’re going to make me love getting hurt, my lovely dear.” His voice was laced with a devious giggle, as if he were hoping you’d do just that. “Just so I can be tended again by your gentle touch. So I can have more bandages for my new collection.”
You took a deep breath. All the excitement of the night was going to make you faint if you didn’t keep your breathing under control. “I’ll give you plenty,” and you meant it. “Just promise me you won’t get so hurt you can’t see me again.”
You had to see him again, there was no question. You'd follow this mysterious man anywhere for another photo and another moment together.
Pierrot’s bright eyes said it all, your words were exactly what he hoped for. “So I may see you again?”
You nodded with a smile. “Absolutely!”
Pierrot flashed a wide grin and, reaching into an inner pocket of his motley, produced a red and black ticket. A pass to the very horror-themed circus he performed. “Take this,” he offered, “for when you choose to visit my home. And when you come to see me, dear one, I will surely make you smile.”
With reverence and care, Pierrot placed the ticket into your hands before stepping back. “Until next time, my dear, my star, I shall leave you for the night.” He bowed deeply, his movement brimming with theatrical grace and heartfelt sincerity as he stood before you.
With a gentle smile, you held the ticket close, pressing it to your chest, feeling its shape against you. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Your words were not a question, but a promise spoken with unwavering certainty.
Pierrot acknowledged your vow with a swift nod, causing his hat’s bells to jingle. Excitement and yearning shone in his golden eyes. Then, without another word, he slipped out the door, disappearing into the shadowy depths of the city. He was gone, leaving behind only the lingering impression of his presence, a strange, exhilarating figure in a world shaped by concrete and crime.
As you stood in the quiet aftermath, clutching the ticket, anticipation drummed in your veins. You could hardly wait for the moment you would see him again.
------
Autor Note: This was very fun to do, I love the idea of an MC that is just as strange and obsessed with Pierrot as he is for them. To the point that both their obsessive tendencies start to overlap. I like to think that when they both realize this, they'd each become absolutely shameless in their expressions of love for one another 😄
Thank you again to @nikkuitah for the commission! ✨
If you want to commission me, check out this post!
"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!
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Thank you again for reading! Have a great day! ✨



