I chugged a margarita and had a wine cooler chaser on an empty stomach. (Don't worry, I had a bomb ass Italian sub in between). Fun fact about me is that I get extremely affectionate and flirty when I'm drunk, so here's some NSFW headcanons about our favorite circus boys.
Y'all are not ready for the level of monster fucker I'm about to out myself for.
If you see any grammatical errors, nuh uh, we're letting the coochie type this one. I'm also doing this all in one sitting and letting auto correct light the way.
The Freak Circus is an 18+ Visual novel Themes include but are not limited to: dark elements, strong language, sensitive graphic content. My works can depict similar themes and are not intended for minors.
One extremely Spicy Order Up!
Pierrot
Your sweet Pierrot's shyness goes out the window once love making is on the table. He'll often ask you what type of love you'd want in the moment, whether it be sweet sensual love making, or a primal mating session. He's always willing to accommodate his darling the best he can for as long as he wants. (Best to set up a safe word with him beforehand, for your body's safety).
It's no surprise he has a raging body worship and breeding kink. It doesn't matter if it's gentle, rough, primal, he will always sing your praises and show his devotion to your temple of a body whenever there's oxygen in his lungs. He'll smother you in kisses and lick trails across every inch of your body if you'll let him. Your skin under attack from his sharp teeth that gently scrape and nip at your sensitive zones. He always asks to bite you however, starting off with complete pleas but eventually devolving to a desperate "please". But once you give him permission one too many times he loses his self control.
You'd have to use the jaws of life to pry his mouth off of your core, this man will eat, suck, and tongue fuck you to tears nearly every time, and then some. He loves holding you in place as you writhe under him, his tongue explores every nook and cranny in your sensitive hole. The sweet sounds you make egging him on to see just how far he could push you before your complete and utter ruin. Your body is a temple he swore to worship, but sometimes a little desecration gives him even more reason to rebuild his devotion.
Pierrot also has a deadly breeding kink and a knot to match. His primal instincts take hold once feels his knot start to inflate, gutteral growls and pants filling the void of his usual praises, his petnames transforming into a slurry of possessive "mine's".
He purrs into your neck once his knot finally slots itself inside you, his cock pulsing rhythmically as he shoots his cum deep inside you. Sometimes even chasing the pleasure for both of you by pulling his knot out just to ram it back inside you, knot-fucking you, sinful squelches only encouraging him to fill you to the brim again. He yearns to leave his mark on you in every sense, including watching his cum seeping out of your abused hole.
Harlequin
His usual flirty banter seemingly hits new highs as sex becomes a regular occurrence for you. Often accompanied by sarcastic remarks about how long it takes for you to warm up enough for his tastes. Foreplay for him mostly just includes a hunter/prey dynamic that gets both of your hearts racing. His usual petnames change to prey items, "bunny, rabbit, lamb, and fawn" being common ones. He loves the thrill of a chase and the accomplishment of an easy catch. "Run, little rabbit, let's see how far you make it this time."
Without a doubt his tendrils come into play routinely. Restricting your movement, snaking their way under your clothes, teasing the sensitive flesh underneath. All while he has his way marking what is rightfully his, sometimes to the point of blood play, his personal reward for a successful hunt. His ropes often stretching your hole thoroughly before he even reveals his cocks. Yes plural.
Just like Pierrot, he enjoys seeing you squirm and buck against his tendrils in a pitiful attempt for a break. You're a sopping wet mess around him and he always reminds you of it. "My my, such a sinful little disaster you can be, little fawn~. Keep crying out, maybe someone can bask in your misery~." His dirty talk works better than most vibrators ever could dream of.
Harlequin is quite proud of his cocks, stacked on top of each other with the top having a dramatic curve upwards and the bottom being girthy. Although his favorite thing is to take advantage of your spent state only to push both of his cocks in you at once, using his ropes to move your weakened body like his personal fleshlight. It takes him a while to cum so be sure to make yourself useful, little lamb.
If you show him genuine affection and love it honestly takes him aback. Sometimes completely stopping the encounter with an utter of your mutual save word from his trembling lips. After enough talks and bonding he'd be more inclined to allow you to take the lead and show him the true side of intimacy. Gentle caresses, loving kisses, and slow rolls of your hips sending him to a whole new plane of pleasure, one that only you hold the keys to, treat him gently and he might get addicted to this side of sex, just don't mention his choked whimpers and groans as he tries to hide his face into his arms.
Jester
"Come pet, entertain me." He purrs as he yanks your leash closer to him, his hand trailing from your jaw to your chin, it's sharp claw cutting your skin ever so gently. You were nothing but a means for stress relief to him, and you will serve your purpose. Before any stress relief takes place however, you both have an extended conversation on boundaries, safewords, terms and conditions, he even went as far as to compile a contract for you to initial, and he will enforce any violations.
One of his favorite bonding activities with you is shibari. Seeing you tied up is one thing but seeing what kind of intricate designs he can place on your beautiful figure is an art form to him. He always offers his pet the choice of color. Sometimes you two talk about anything that comes to mind, others however you must be in your best behavior. "Good pets don't bark unprompted. Try that again and we'll have to refresh your training."
His dirty talk is an intoxicating combination of degradation and praise that keeps your breath in your lungs. "Such a sad little creature, I haven't even done much to warrant this much of a reaction from you. And yet, look at the beautiful mess you've become." Your moans are his favorite symphony and he is but a humble composer. Often using toys to bring you pleasure, vibrators strapped to your tied form, always being pulled away if you get too close to cumming. Blindfolds to keep you guessing what would come next, gags if you get too lippy for his tastes.
He absolutely is just in it to watch you come undone under his touch. Edging you for hours to the brink of tears, seeing how far he can push you before you disobey and act out of line. Often avoiding your hole and opting to tease the rest of your body, featherlight touches dancing around your eager body. Being a greedy brat is often met with a fierce reminder to your sensitive skin. His often marks your skin with a riding crop, although if you've learned your lesson he might honor your skin with his handprint.
"I suppose you've been good enough to warrant release, my sweet pet, do you wish for me to take you now? To finally ravish you? To claim you as my own?" He eventually pities you enough to ravage your hole with his Eldritch cocks, although a collection of smaller tentacles, he has complete control over each of them, often twisting them into one cohesive appendage. Every single one of your sweet spots inside of you thoroughly ravaged as he expertly angles individual tentacles to mercilessly bring you release after release. He only officially marks you right at the pinnacle of his release, sinking his fangs into the crook of your neck as his cocks pulse deep inside of you, pumping fertile eggs into your warm body, a few of the cocks slithering out to coat your body in his essence, smearing his scent around your claimed body.
Ticket Taker
It's not surprising that Ticket Taker will train you and train you well. After all, good humans earn their place with obedience. He will Pavlov you into behaving with positive reinforcement. "Tell me what you want and it will be yours, but I will not stand for silence." It's surprisingly a good trust building activity between the two of you, a sense of intimate closeness and fully exploring each other's open boundaries, and a confidence builder for any insecurities you may have.
"I want you to look at nothing but my eyes, my dear." Your glazed eyes flicking up to his as his mirror form splits you open on its phantom fingers. The stretch filling your eyes with tears as you tried to concentrate on the simple order he gave you, only to give into your body and shut them only for a moment. "Ah ah ah, you know the rules," he tuts as the feeling of being full seemingly vanishes, a desperate whine escaping your pretty little throat.
If you have body image issues he's just the monster to fuck some sense into you. He'll position reflections of every sinful angle so you can watch his grooved cock sliding deep within you, your stomach bulging out at the overwhelming curves of his smooth ridges. "Your beauty is marvelous, my dear, look at yourself," he firmly grabs you by your chin moving it towards one of the mirrors, the sight of your disheveled body something out of a fantasy. "I want you to list off the qualities that you like about yourself as I take you to the edge of oblivion."
Some nights when he's especially pent up expect his mirror doppelgangers to join in on the night's indulgences. Spit roasting, Eiffel towers, double penetration, even him just allowing his mirror images to turn you into a breathtaking sight as he finishes up his work for the evening.
When he does reach his limit he opts to claim you from the inside out, his ribbed cock inflating into multiple knots as he pumps his cum into you, often seeping out from your opening. He rarely ever allows his knots to deflate before gingerly pulling from you, opting for immediate aftercare, always praising you for your performance, even going as far to highlight his favorite parts to boost your ego.
Doctor
Doctor is immensely curious about every single facet of your body. It's no surprise that he'd make every instance into an experiment after the first time you had vanilla sex. (His control for future intercourse). Anywhere from watching how you squirm away from hot wax dripping on your warm body, to your startled gasp when an ice cube was pressed to your nipples. But his favorite so far has to be using you as his personal anatomical model. Taking a marker and intricately drawing representations of your internal organs where they lie beneath your delicate skin, annotating terminology accordingly. Using your body's curves as guides for muscle groups, tracing your pulse points drawing snaking lines where your arteries and veins lie.
Although if you bring up the obvious roleplay with him he'll not only find it amusing but also indulge your wishes, if that's what his sweetie wishes. Your arousal is intoxicating to him regardless of what you decide on. The way your heart races, the change in blood pressure, the way your body screams out its desires in its silent language he would spend centuries to decipher. If you turn the tables on him and try to run your own diagnostics on him for a change you'll hear a genuine chuckle, "my sweetie wishes to be my personal nurse? How can I object to such a tempting mutual learning experience."
It's not uncommon for the Doctor to accidentally nick you with one of his claws, the smell of your blood sometimes sending him into a frenzy. Licking at the wound, throwing away any chances of a meaningful experiment he allows his impulses to take hold. Gutteral growls and snarls replace his usual mutters of hypotheses. His frantic movements sometimes cause more scratches and more blood to rise to the surface. His cock straining painfully for any form of friction. His hands frantically try to prepare you for him, using whatever control he has left to not wound you internally with his claws. "Sweetie, I fear I cannot hold back any longer. I must take you as you are."
Normally he prefers a few hours to your preparation if you agree to penetration. His cock is the most well endowed of the troupe, fitted with multiple ridges that increase in thickness, the curve dangerously similar to a hook. Every ridge accompanied by a metal ball of his jacob's ladder, and a prince albert to boot. He always lubes himself and your hole to avoid any potential tearing, but when he gets this worked up he just squeezes a sloppy amount in his hands and gives himself a few strokes before lining himself up at your entrance. "I know, I know, sweetie. Just a little more." he gently lies to you as his cock stutters inside you, each ridge popping inside you stretching you to your limit.
Once he's fully seated inside you he allows you to accommodate only for a moment before dragging his cock out of you, his thrusts starting off as gentle before escalating to a brutal pace once he was confident you could handle it. His cockhead pummeling against your sensitive walls causing him to growl at the sensation. His hand snakes down in between your bodies to bring you further pleasure as if his overwhelming body wasn't enough. He simply just wants to push you to your limits and see your reactions, feeling your body's reaction to his was intoxicating enough. He always cums deep and hard, thrusting roughly in between pulses to guarantee any chances of impregnation, biology be damned. After a moment he pulls out to watch your body spasm, making mental notes of how his cum seeps out of you. Next time if he angles your body just right, maybe more of his cum will remain inside you.
𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Lately, Pierrot hasn’t been himself. Not because of you. Never you. However the usual stars behind the mask feels dimmer. He’s all quiet... more quiet than usual and reckless affection, so when he goes that quiet, it means something.
You catch him backstage during intermission, applause still rumbling through the walls. You ask what’s wrong. He just smiles and deflects. Anything to sidestep it.
There are thirty minutes before the curtain goes up again, before he’s back out there, under the lights, with a smile on his face, pretending that nothing ever hurts him.
The stage can wait, as you fully intend to improve his mood.
𝓌𝒸: 9.4k
𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: anon… you’re bold for this request. a little unhinged in the best way. fun fact: the more unfiltered and chaotic the energy, the faster it grabs my attention. i respect the commitment.
To recap again, Pierrot hasn’t been himself.
Not because of you. Never you. You’re still his sun, his star, his beautiful treasured human. You’re still that messy tangle of spark and static that he needs to keep his feet on the ground.
When you wander off into your own thoughts, Pierrot listens to you like you’re reading scripture. When you stim, Pierrot watches you like you’re performing just for him. When you snuggle into his lap after a bad day, Pierrot holds you like you’re made of spun glass and starlight, like you’re delicate and irreplaceable.
None of that has changed. It’s everything else that’s off.
He’s been quiet. And quiet says a lot with him. But this isn’t his quiet, the kind of quiet you wrap around yourself like a blanket, the kind of quiet that makes you feel safe.
This is different. This quiet has… sharp edges.
You see him staring off into nothing, those amber eyes dim and unfocused behind the mask. You see him not answering when you try to talk to him, not because he doesn’t hear you, but because he isn’t anywhere near you, not behind a wall you can’t see through, but behind a wall you can’t see at all.
Last week at dawn, you saw him in his wagon, still in his stage clothes from the night before. He hadn’t slept. Like at all. You asked him what he was doing, and he smiled at you with that intimate look and drew you onto his lap and buried his face in your hair. He held you for an hour, motionless and silent, his grasp almost desperate.
Yesterday, he gave you something—a usual paper flowers he always makes, intricate and delicate. His work. You could tell by the precision.
But when you thanked him, excitedly turning it over in your hands, his eyes went distant again. He didn't seem to hear your questions about how long it took, what kind of wood, where he learned. He just watched you hold it, and for a moment, his expression looked almost... sad.
And his affection, when it comes, has a reckless edge to it now. He holds you too tight, too long, like he's memorizing the feel of you. Like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his grip. His kisses are deeper, hungrier, more desperate.
When you’re together, he leans in close and implants thoughts in your mind—chanting “mine, mine, stay mine, always mine” with a fevered push that almost feels frantic. And when Pierrot falls silent like this, you’ve learned that silence means something.
So tonight, before his show, you arrived early to track him down. The applause from the big top is still echoing through the walls, a distant roar for whatever impossible feat Harlequin just pulled in his tent.
You find Pierrot backstage, half-hidden in the shadows, still in his performance blacks. His long white hair is loose, falling over his shoulders in silver waves. His mask catches the dim light, expressionless as always, but you've learned to read the angles of his head, the set of his shoulders.
He's braced for something. Defensive. Walled off.
You step closer. "Hey."
He turns, and the amber eyes behind the mask warm instantly at the sight of you. But the dimness is still there underneath, like coals buried under ash.
"My star," he breathes into your mind, soft and warm. "You should be out there. The show—"
"I'm where I want to be." You don't let go of his arm. "You okay?"
He tilts his head and smiles. That soft, private smile he only gives you. It's real, as far as it goes. But it doesn't go far enough.
"Of course. Just... the usual. Pre-show nerves. You know."
"Pierrot."
He lets out a soft sigh, the kind where you can feel it before you can hear it, a sigh that seems to relax the air around him.
For a moment, the tent walls feels thinner, as if the space between us grows just enough to reveal how tired he is—his shoulders squaring off, his eyes drifting away from mine. He parts his lips, and I prepare myself for the truth I’ve been waiting for—
And then the smile reasserts itself. The soft, intimate smile, the one that never fully makes it to his eyes, as if there’s something just beyond it.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Just... the weight of the show. You know how it is. Speaking of which…” He reaches out, and his hand finds mine, long and strong, and it changes the atmosphere with a smoothness that feels almost deceptive.
"Have you ever watched my act? Properly? From the audience, I mean."
You blink. "What? I mean, yeah always, a few times. Between helping out and—"
"No, no." He shakes his head, and there's something almost eager in the movement. "Not between things. Not distracted. I want you to watch. Really watch. I have a new piece. I've been working on it for weeks."
He pulls you gently toward the stage entrance, toward the muffled sounds of the crowd beyond.
"Come. Sit in the front. Let me perform for you. Just you."
You hesitate, your concern for him still buzzing under your skin. "Pierrot, we need to talk about—"
“After the show, my dear,” he says, squeezing your hand. “After it’s over, I promise… just watch me?" he asks, and there's something almost vulnerable in the question. "From the front. I'll know you're there."
The word “please” hangs there, a small and fragile thing. And yet despite all of it—the quiet, the distance between you, the tension—you find yourself nodding.
You can’t say no to him. Not when he looks at you like that, like you are the only light left in his dark sky.
He leads you toward the audience, and you let him. But you make a mental note: after the show, there will be answers.
There have to be.
He disappears toward the stage, and you make your way through the maze of curtains and equipment to the audience. You slip into an empty seat in the front row, close enough to see every detail.
The lights dim. A single spotlight hits the center of the stage.
And Pierrot begins.
He moves differently here, under the lights. His posture moves—shoulders back, spine elongated, every line of him sharp and careful. His usual soft, sorrowful presence hardens into something else. Something performed. His smile, that private gift he gives only you, transforms into something wider, more fixed. It's not quite sinister, but it's off—a grin that doesn't reach his eyes, that seems painted on rather than felt.
The music starts, low and hypnotic, a repetitive drone that seems to vibrate in your chest. The lights shift with it, cycling through deep purples, blood reds, sickly greens. They wash over him in waves, changing his pale form into something almost inhuman.
It's a dance, but not like any you've seen. His body seems to ripples and flows, serpentine and graceful, each movement bleeding into the next.
His long limbs extend and retract, his spine arches and curls, his head tilts at angles that seem almost wrong. The hypnotic quality of it is undeniable—your eyes track him without your permission, following the curve of his arm, the tilt of his mask, the way his bells chime softly with each precise movement.
Then he move into acrobatics, display a slow and careful handstand. A back bend that appears to defy human anatomy. He folds and unfolds like a ribbon, like water, like something not quite connected to the human form. The audience sits in rapt attention. You look around the room for gasps of amazement, cheers of approval.
And there’s nothing.
The faces around you are vacant. Perhaps polite. But not engaged. Not moved. A woman in the second row looks down at her phone. A man next to her speaks to his companion, who shrugs. They are paying attention, yes. But they are not really seeing him.
Pierrot doesn’t seem to know. Or he might know and just won’t let it show. He continues with his routine, each gesture sharper and more precise, as if desperation has perfected itself. The grin never varies. The hypnotic dance continues. The lights shine on him with cold, colored light.
And then a small pain in your chest, and you understand: he is performing for an audience not necessarily there to watch. The silence is not full of reverence. It is empty. His art, this quiet beauty of sadness, is not meeting anything.
No wonder he's been dimming.
The music rises to its final breath, building to the finale. Pierrot, in an almost impossible pose—back arched, leg extended, arms stretched outwards—freezes in this position as the lights fade to black.
And then a few scattered, obligatory claps—courtesy, fading away almost as quickly as they began.
The house lights come up for intermission. People stretch, chat, wander toward the lobby.
No one mentions Pierrot.
You stay in your seat, frozen, your heart aching for him, who just gave everything to a room full of people who didn't care.
You wait until the house lights dim again, until the audience's attention is fixed on whatever act follows Pierrot's. Then you move.
Sneaking backstage at the Freak Circus is not just an act of trespass—it's an act in itself, an act that's like trying to navigate a puzzle that changes shape before you even blink.
You slip past a stagehand carrying an armload of silk scarves, flatten against the wall as Ticket Taker glides past you, his white eye scanning the room for any sign of you, and almost trip over the rope that seems to materialize out of thin air.
By the time you reach the backstage area near Pierrot's dressing corner, your heart is hammering and you're pretty sure you've earned a medal.
He’s there, sitting on a trunk with his long white hair flowing over his shoulders. He’s taken off his performance mask, the one with the fixed, sinister grin. He’s put it aside.
Without it, he looks smaller. Gentler. More like the Pierrot you know.
He senses you before he sees you. His head lifts, eyes finding you instantly in the dim light.
"You cannot be back here," he says, but his psychic voice is warm, almost amused. "Jester is keeping a close eye on performances tonight. If he catches you—"
You wave a hand dismissively, crossing the space to stand in front of him. "Jester can wait. I need to talk to you."
He reaches for you, his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, tugging you closer. Despite his warning words, he doesn't seem to want you to leave.
"Bold of you to assume the Jester waits for anyone," he murmurs, but there's a hint of a smile in his voice now. "If he finds you back here, I cannot protect you from his... judgement."
"You'll think of something." You squeeze his hand. "Now. About that performance..." you lead off before saying, "What's wrong?" you ask, direct as always.
He smiles. That soft, private smile he only gives you. And he deflects. "Nothing, my dear. Just the usual. The weight of the show. You know."
You’re clueless, but you know it’s a lie.
His smile isn’t right, snappy, casual. He’s already turning away, grabbing for something, anything, to avoid your gaze. I narrow my eyes, studying him as he fusses over a velvet cloth on a table nearby. He’s not even looking at it. His hands just move, doing something, anything, to evade the gaze. I let the silence stretch, then shift my approach.
"Hmh... when will it be time for you to go back out there?"
He pauses, his shoulders relaxing slightly at the neutral question. "In thirty minutes, dear. Why do you ask?"
"Thirty minutes," you repeat, crossing your arms. "Great. That's plenty of time."
You step closer, and he tenses again, sensing the shift in your tone.
"So. Let's try this again." You tilt your head, fixing him with your best no-nonsense look. "What's actually going on with you? Because I've been keeping a list, and it's getting long."
He blinks behind the mask. "A... list?"
"Yep. Mental list. Want to hear it?" You don't wait for an answer. "Item one: You've been staring at walls. Like, a lot. I caught you zoning out at your wagon for a full twenty minutes last week. You didn't even blink."
"I was... thinking."
"Thinking about what?"
A pause. "...Walls?" What…?
You snort. "Nice try. Item two: You forgot to respond to me three times in one conversation on Tuesday. Not ignoring me—genuinely forgot I was talking. I had to wave my hand in front of your face."
"I was... distracted."
"By what?"
Another pause. “…The way the light was hitting your hair?"
You squint at him. "That's sweet, but also definitely a deflection. Item three: You gave me that carved bird—which, by the way, gorgeous, I love it, it's on my nightstand—but when I asked you questions about it, you went all distant again. Like you weren't even there."
He opens his mouth, probably to offer another flimsy excuse, but you keep going.
"Item four: You held me for an hour at dawn without saying anything. An hour, Pierrot. Not that I'm complaining about the cuddles, but you were gripping me like I was about to evaporate. Item five: You've been kissing me like it's the last time every single time. Which, again, not complaining about the kissing, but it's... intense.
Even for you."
You take a breath, watching him carefully.
"So. Spill. What's going on?"
He says nothing for a long time, then laughs, the sound breathless, more air than sound.
You comment, "You really notice everything, don't you?"
"That's kind of my thing," you say. "Now go on… if you want to."
He shifts slightly, his gloved fingers fidgeting. His words, in your mind, are thinner, more delicate, fragments of something he’s kept hidden for so long.
"It's... the show. All of it. The way they look at me out there." He gestures vaguely toward the stage, toward the muffled sounds of the crowd beyond. "Or, rather, the way they don't look at me. Not really. I perform. I give them everything. And they..."
He trails off, but you know. You saw it. The blank faces. The checked phones. The polite, empty applause that died before it started.
"Thirty minutes," he murmurs. "Thirty minutes before I have to walk back out there, under those lights, and do it again. Thirty minutes before I have to smile for the crowd, to be the silent, sorrowful Pierrot, pretending that nothing ever hurts me."
Your chest aches. You step closer, reaching for his hand. "Pierrot…"
He startles slightly at your touch, then relaxes into it—but something shifts behind his eyes. A look. A catch in his breath that you feel more than hear.
He looks at you for a long time, and then the words come, but not the words you might think he'd use, no, something honest, something real.
"Do you… know what it's like?" he asks quietly. "To stand under those lights and feel... nothing? To watch their faces blur together until all you can see are mouths—open, judging, ready to tear apart anything that isn't perfect?"
His grip on your hand tightens.
"The first time I tried to perform alone... it was for a small crowd. Ticket Taker said it was too early, everyone else agreed… But Jester—he pushed. He always pushes. Not because he's cruel, but because he's terrified. Terrified that without the structure, without the show, we'll fall apart. Like before."
You frown. "Before?"
He's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is distant. Haunted.
"There was a… Boss before the Jester. He... he didn't care about us. Not as beings. Only as tools. He starved us, pushed us, watched us break for profit. And the crowds—" He stops, swallows. "The crowds were worse. They reached out. Grabbed. Pulled. Laughed when we flinched."
His free hand comes up, trembling, to touch his own hair. The gesture is small, unconscious.
"They used to pull my hair. Did you know that? Reach up from the front row and just... yank. Like I was a curiosity. A thing to be poked."
Your stomach turns. You squeeze his hand tighter.
"When the starvation got bad enough... when we were all going to die... then…” He can't finish.
He doesn't have to. You've heard whispers.
"I tried to perform after that," he continues, his voice barely a whisper now. "A knife-throwing act. Simple. Something I'd done before for practice. But the moment I stepped on stage, I felt... alone. Completely alone. Their faces blurred. Became just mouths and eyes. All judging. All the same."
You see it in your mind—him on that stage, isolated, terrified, the weight of a thousand gazes pressing down.
"I missed. Of course I missed. And they—" He stops, his breath hitching. "They laughed. Called me horrible. A loser. A freak. And I realized... they were all the same. The ones in the crowd now. The ones who watched and harm… us. The ones who pulled my hair. All the same."
His hands are shaking. Yours too, maybe.
"Something snapped. I don't remember all of it. Just... shadows. Screaming. And then Harlequin was there, covered in red, telling me it suited me. Dragging me back. Saving my life, even though I didn't want to be saved."
He looks at you, and there's something shattered in his gaze.
"After that, the Jester changed everything. New rules. New outfits. And Harlequin—he suggested the silence. Said if I couldn't speak, I couldn't break. Couldn't lose control again. The Jester agreed. For the safety of the group."
His thumb traces circles on your skin.
"So now I stand under those lights, mute and smiling, performing for people who don't see me. Who will never see me. And every time, a part of me waits for it to happen again. For their faces to blur. For the panic to rise. For the shatter point to come."
He laughs again, but there's no humor in it.
"Jester calls them.. ‘strays' now, if they cause harm. Says we deal with them instead of performing for them. Keeps us safe by keeping us separate. But I still have to go out there. I still have to pretend, to thoes that are… mean. And every night, I wonder if this will be the night I break again."
He looks at you, really looks, and there's something devastating in his amber eyes.
"So yes, my dear. I suppose I'm a bit nervous. A bit... frayed. But then you're here, touching me, worrying about me, looking at me like I matter, and I don't know what to do with that. I don't know how to be seen without falling apart."
He leans his forehead against yours, a gesture of surrender.
"So that's what's going on. That's the weight of the show. That's why I've been quiet. That's why I hold you too tight. Because you're the only one who sees me—really sees me—and I'm terrified that one day, you'll look at me and see only mouths and eyes too."
You're quiet for a long time, taking all of this in, the honesty and emotion poured out between you like something heavy and real. And then you do what feels like the only thing to do.
You move closer, your arms going to his waist, your face going to the softness of his chest, right over where his heart would be, if monsters had hearts, which monsters don’t, but this one feels like he might, its beat going quick and steady beneath your cheek.
"Pierrot," you whisper against the stuff of his costume, "I'm not going anywhere. I see you. All of you—the bright bits, the broken bits, the bits that think they're too much for anyone to handle, and I'm seeing those too, and I'm still here."
He goes perfectly still, and for a moment, you're terrified you've destroyed him, that you've said something that's shattered something inside of him.
And then his arms go around you, carefully, as if you might shatter, one hand going to the back of your head, his fingers going through your hair, the other hand going to your spine, holding you steady against him, a gentle pressure, and he's shuddering, small shivers running through his body.
“‘You…’” His voice, inside your head, is a whisper, fragile and surprised. “‘You can’t just say things like that. You can’t just… hold me like this and expect me to stay whole.’”
You pull back enough to meet his gaze. “Who said I wanted you to stay whole?”
The air between you thickens at that line. His eyes, his amber eyes, go wide. His pupils grow larger in reaction.
“A-Ah, I… I am… not used to this.”
“To what?”
“To being seen.” His voice trembles. “To someone looking at me and asking if I’m alright. The Jester watches my every move. The others tolerate my presence. But you…”
He lifts his other hand, hesitates, then runs his hand over the soft curve of your jaw. It’s a light touch, almost reverent, as if he’s asking permission without words.
“You look at me and you see past the mask. Past the silence. You see… me. The one who would keep every spark of you alive if he could.”
His thumb brushes against your lower lip, and a tremor runs through him at the touch.
“…Do you know what that does to me?” His tone lowers, becoming deeper.
"To have you here, to have you worried about me, to have you touching me, looking at me, and knowing you think I matter? It does something. Something inside me, something that wants to keep you, protect you, have you in a way that isn't..."
He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't look away either. Not really. His eyes are wide, vulnerable, and beneath those, something else. Something more. Something hungrier.
You hold his hand more tightly. "Hey. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
He makes a noise, not quite a breath, not quite a moan. His body is stiff, and then he shudders.
"You cannot say things like that to me."
"Why not?"
"Because I will believe them." His forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath coming faster. "Because I will want more. Because I will want to keep you so close you forget there was ever a world without me in it."
His hands move to your waist, drawing you closer as if he is desperate, almost out of control. It seems like he can't help himself as he reaches for you again.
“I'm sorry,” he whispers against your neck. “I'm sorry. I know it's too much. I know I am too much. But you... you look at me as if I am worth something, and I don't know how to...”
His words cut deep as he utters them with so much honesty. His grip on your hand tightens as if he is afraid that if he doesn't hold on to you, he will lose control completely. You can feel the slight tremble in his hands as he holds onto yours.
“Pierrot?”
He looks up at you as if he really sees you for the first time. The dimness disappears completely as he looks at you. What is left is a stark, hungry look that makes your breath catch in your throat.
It disappears as he blinks it away again, covered by the gentle gaze that you know so well. You saw it though. You saw the truth behind those eyes as they looked at you with a stark longing.
“Like... no one...” He stops as if he can't continue. He starts again. “No one asks me if I am all right. The Jester makes sure that I perform. The others make sure that I don't interfere. But no one...”
He lifts your joined hands, presses his masked forehead to your knuckles.
"You see me. You always see me. Even when I try to hide. Even when I dim myself down to nothing." His voice in your mind drops, becomes something almost private. “Truly, do you know what that does to me? To have someone who sees?" You open your mouth to respond, but he's not done.
"I watch you sometimes. When you don't know. When you're rambling about your birds, your facts, your beautiful, wonderful thoughts. I watch the way your hands move, the way your eyes light up, the way you exist so fully in a world that doesn't deserve you." His thumb traces slow circles on your skin. "And I think: this. This is what I would keep. This is what I would preserve. Forever, if I could."
The words should be sweet. They sound sweet. But underneath them is something else—a current so deep and strong it might pull you under if you're not careful.
"When you worry about me," he continues, quieter now, "when you touch me like this, when you look at me like I matter... it stirs something. Something that wants to keep you. Protect you. Have you in ways that aren't..."
He stops. Shakes his head slightly. ”Again, Forgive me. I'm not... I'm not used to this." He looks up at you, amber eyes wide and unguarded.
"No one has ever cared if I'm alright. And now you do. The one person I would burn the world for. The one person I would—"
He catches himself, but the words hang there anyway. Heavy. Full of implication.
"You should probably go. Before I say something that truly frightens you." He's still holding your hand. He hasn't let go.
You think for a moment.
There are thirty minutes before the curtain goes up again. Thirty minutes before he has to walk back out there, under those cruel lights, and perform. Thirty minutes before he has to smile for the crowd, to be the silent, sorrowful Pierrot, pretending that nothing ever hurts him.
Thirty minutes is plenty of time.
"You said you only have thirty minutes..."
You step closer, and he instinctively steps back, surprise flickering across what you can see of his face.
"Yes dear, is there a reason why…?”
"I think I may have something to help cheer you up."
You step into his space, blocking his escape, your eyes cataloging every tiny tell—the tension in his shoulders, the way his gloved fingers twitch, while he backs away step by step until the back of his head hits the edge of a nearby wooden table cluttered with props and costume pieces. His gloved hands are on the edge, knuckles tight.
"O-Oh, really? Uhh... my dear, what are you—“
You place your hands on his chest and feel the rapid beating of his heart beneath the uniform. He’s tall that you have to tilt your head back to look up to meet his eyes, even like this. The angle seems to change something in his gaze, though—filed with hunger and puzzlement mixed.
"Thirty minutes is plenty of time to make you feel better." You tilt your head, letting a small smile play at your lips.
"Wouldn't you want that?"
You reach up and gently touch the edge of his mask. Not to remove it—never that—but to claim his attention fully. Your fingers trace the smooth curve where bone meets his skin, a deliberate, claiming gesture.
Pierrot doesn't say anything. He can't. His eyes widen behind the mask, the amber irises blowing tiny dots as his face floods with color—that beautiful pinkish blush spreading across his mask. His breath catches, stutters, stops altogether—even his mouth disappeared…?
Anyway, your eyes drift downward, following the line of his body, and…
There's a noticeable bulge in his uniform.
He's hard. Obviously, unmistakably hard, pressing against the dark fabric like it's physically painful.
He notices you noticing. A strangled sound escapes him, half-gasp, half-whimper. "I—that is—I didn't mean to—you just—when you touched me like that, I—"
He stumbles over his words, tripping and fumbling in a way you've never seen. Pierrot, always so composed, so still, is falling apart in front of you. His hands flutter uselessly at his sides, wanting to touch you but clearly terrified of overstepping.
"My dear, I apologize, I don't know why my body is reacting this way, it's just—you're so close, and you smell like—and your hands are so warm, and when you look at me like that, I—"
"Pierrot." Your voice is soft, steady. Your fingers trail from his mask down his chest, slow and deliberate. “Talk carefully to me. Or don't. But you're not deflecting your way out of this one."
He shudders under your touch, his head falling back slightly, exposing the long line of his throat. You can see the pulse there, fluttering like a trapped bird.
"I don't know what you want me to say, my dear…” he breathes, desperate and wondering. "I don't know what you're doing. I don't know what this is. I just know that when you're near me, I—I feel like I'm burning. Like every nerve is alight. Like I would do anything—anything—to keep you looking at me like this."
Your fingers continue their slow journey downward, tracing the ridges of his costume, the dip of his stomach, the trembling tension in every muscle. His hips twitch involuntarily toward your hand.
"Please," he whispers, and he doesn't even know what he's begging for. "Please, I need—I need you to—if you're going to—"
Your fingers ghost over the bulge in his uniform, barely a touch, just enough pressure to make him gasp. His hands finally move, gripping your shoulders like you're the only solid thing in a tilting world.
"My dear," he chokes out, his voice cracking. “My star. My everything. If you keep doing that, I won't be responsible for what I—"
You press harder, a slow, careful stroke through the fabric, and he cuts off with a sound that's pure need. His hips rock into your hand, helpless, involuntary.
"Thirty minutes," you murmur, echoing his earlier words. "Is that still enough time?"
Pierrot's breathing is ragged now, each exhale a shuddering tremor that vibrates through his entire frame. His chest rises and falls beneath your hand, rapid and uneven.
Behind his eyes, thoughts race.
As said, It’s true, he's been struggling lately. The performances have been harder. The demands heavier. Some nights even days, the guests would get too bold—test his patience. He endures it because he must.
Because the show goes on.
But you. You're here. In his space. Touching him. Worrying about him.
Offering yourself to him. To make him feel better.
"Ha... haa..."
The sound escapes him, broken and wondering. His hands, still gripping your shoulders, tremble violently.
"My dear..." His voice in your mind is fraying at the edges. "My star... my love..."
The words tumble out, escalating without his control. His mask tilts, and his mouth—you see it now, beneath the bone-white curve—opens slightly. Just a crack. Just enough.
Sharp white teeth gleam in the dim light. Dozens of them, more than any human mouth should hold, rows of perfect, needle-sharp points. A string of saliva stretches between them, thick and glistening, dripping slowly down his chin.
"You come to me like this," he breathes, and his voice has changed—darker, hungrier, threaded with something ancient and possessive. "You touch me. You worry about me. You offer yourself to make me feel better."
His tongue, ridiculously long, warped in color like dried honey, snaps out to catch the drool as it begins to fall. It's both repellent and mesmerizing.
"Do you know what you've started?" He leans closer, his masked face inches from yours. “You truly have no idea what it does to me, to have you here, wanting me, giving yourself to me?"
You look up at him, and for the first time tonight, you feel it—of genuine uncertainty. A whisper of fear.
What the fuck did you just start?
"But very well." His tone is soft, almost polite, even though the hunger remains. "If you still desire me—if you still want this—I am yours. For those thirty minutes you claimed. I will give myself to you completely."
He's begging now. You can hear it in his voice, see it in the way his whole body leans toward you like a flower toward the sun.
"Let me show you what my tent looks like from every angle. Let me fit you into every space I can find. I cannot deny you. I could never deny you. Not when you look at me like that. Not when you touch me like I matter."
A shudder runs through him. "Thank you," he whispers, and the gratitude in his voice is almost worse than the hunger. "Thank you for this. For choosing me. For giving me this chance. It will be quick—thirty minutes is so short—but I will make you feel it. I will make you feel how much I love you. How much I have always loved you."
His face changes, his head lolling as he tips into delirium, his perception of reality overwhelmed by the image in his mind.
“And once it’s finished—once you walk out of here—everyone will know. They’ll see it in you. The marks. The scent. The way you walk. They’ll know you’re mine. Wherever you tread in this circus, they’ll know.”
He leans in closer, and for a second, you can see his eyes, really see them, through the mask. His pupils have distorted into heart-shaped pinpoints, faintly pulsing, surrounded by two rings of light. They're beautiful, distorted, completely obsessed with you.
His tongue comes out, long and supple, curving slightly at the end.
“Just be patient with me,” he whispers, and there is something sad, something pitiful, about the words, this old, powerful being asking for your touch.
“I’ve never… I’ve never done this before, not with anyone, not with anyone who mattered, not with anyone I loved. I might be clumsy, might be too much for you, but I will try, I will try so hard to be what you need.”
He is helpless, completely, utterly yours.
“So tell me, my love, my star, my reason for being… he whispers, his tongue tracing your cheek, leaving a trail of moisture.
“…do you still want those thirty minutes?”
You stood there, silent, watching him fall apart in slow motion. The heart-shaped pupils, the slick tongue, that frantic, fevered look—everything centered on you as if you were the sole tether holding him back from shattering.
The silence continued. His breathing caught.
"...My dear?"
You didn’t reply, only grabbing the front of his uniform and pulled him down into a kiss—or as close to a kiss as you could manage with his mask in the way. Your mouth found the edge of his mouth, the corner where skin met porcelain, and you pressed hard, demanding.
He made a sound like he'd been struck.
Then his hands were on you, clumsy and desperate, fumbling at your waist, your hips, your face. He kissed back with zero finesse— sharp teeth clicking against yours, tongue too eager, too wet, too everywhere at once.
"Sorry—sorry—I don't—I've never—" he gasped against your mouth, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
You walked him backward, using his own desperate momentum against him, until his spine hit the edge of the wooden table. Props clattered to the floor, which nobody cared. In one motion, you broke the kiss, grabbed his shoulders, and pushed.
He went down hard, flat on his back among the scattered costume pieces, staring up at you with those ridiculous, beautiful heart eyes. Before he could move, you were on him, straddling his hips, pinning him to the table.
"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, yes. Yes. Please."
You kissed him again, deeper this time, your tongue finding his. He moaned into your mouth, his whole body arching up into yours. His hands roamed your back, your sides, your thighs—anywhere he could reach, greedy and reverent all at once.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you started counting.
Five minutes gone. Twenty-five left.
You pulled back just long enough to gasp, "Time—"
"You'll..." he interrupted, his voice wrecked. "You'll know when time is up. Trust me, I'm watching...."
Then he kissed you again, and you forgot what you were going to say.
His long tongue filled your mouth, wrapping around yours, exploring every corner like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside. At the same time, he started moving—a desperate, grinding motion, his hips pushing up against you.
He was dry humping your thigh like a rabbit, like he couldn't help himself, like the friction was the only thing keeping him conscious.
"I love you," he babbled against your mouth. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I'm sorry, I know it's too much, I know I'm too much, but I love you, I love you, please—"
Your hands found the front of his uniform, working at the ties and closures with increasing impatience. Beneath your fingers, the bulge in his pants was unmistakable—and growing. Larger. Thicker. Pushing against the fabric like it might tear through.
You glanced down. Swallowed.
Okay. That’s… a lot.
But you didn't have time to be intimidated.
Fifteen minutes left, maybe? You weren't sure anymore. Time had gone fuzzy.
Yet, you were determined to make him feel better!
You tugged harder at his clothes, and he helped—desperate, clumsy hands working alongside yours until finally, finally, his uniform fell open and you could see him.
See all of him.
His cock was... as mention, a lot. Large, obviously—monster large—thick and long and slightly curved, the color of pale flesh, faded honey-yellow with darker veins tracing along the shaft. It twitched under your gaze, a bead of moisture forming at the tip.
"I know," he whispered, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure. "I know it's—I know I'm—if you don't want to—"
You wrapped your hand around him.
He moaned. Loudly moaned—a broken, desperate sound that cut off halfway as he clapped his own hand over his mouth.
"Sorry—sorry—I'll be quiet—I'll be so quiet—please don't stop—"
You stroked him slowly, experimentally, learning the weight and heat of him in your hand. He was silky smooth, hot to the touch, so hard he was practically vibrating and may you add he barely fit in your hand?
Regardless, his hips jerked up into your fist with every movement, helpless and wanting. "Please," he begged. "Please, I need—I want—can I—will you let me—"
You lean in and kiss him.
You tilt in close, kiss him, not hurried, not casual. A real kiss, deep, slow, thoughtful, your lips warm against his, and it’s like it softens something inside of him. His hands, still holding you, lock in without thought. A soft, surprised noise escapes, but is muffled by the kiss.
It’s a minute, maybe two, or more, all of it running together in one big blur.
When you finally pull back, a thin string of saliva connects your lips to his. It stretches, catches the dim light, then breaks. His eyes are daze wide, pupils swallowed by want, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.
"I... that..." He touches his own lips, trembling. "What was—why did you—"
You cup his cheek, thumb brushing away the moisture at the corner of his mouth. Your touch is gentle, grounding.
"Not today, Pierrot."
He freezes. The warmth in his eyes flickers, replaced by something panicked. "I—what—did I do something wrong—I'm sorry—I'll be better—I'll—"
"Hey. Hey." You shush him softly, your thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone. "You didn't do anything wrong. Listen to me."
He goes quiet, but his whole body is coiled tight, waiting for the blow.
You lean in, press your forehead to his mask. "I don't want your first time to be a quickie backstage with thirty minutes on the clock. That's not how this should happen."
"But—"
"No buts." You pull back, meeting his eyes. "This—right now—is about making you feel better. About getting you out of your head. About reminding you that you're loved and seen and wanted. But your first time? When I finally have you properly?" You smile. "I want time. I want space. I want to take you apart so slowly you forget your own name."
His breath hitches. A visible shiver runs through him.
"You... you can't just say things like that."
"I just did." Your hand slides from his cheek down to his chest, feeling the frantic pace of his heart. "And I meant every word. But for now? For the next however many minutes we have?" You tilt your head, considering. "Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good. Not everything—not yet—but enough."
"Enough?" He sounds dazed. "What do you mean, enough?"
You don't answer with words. Instead, you move, sliding down until you're kneeling before him. His eyes go impossibly wider.
"Wait—you don't have to—I never expected—"
"I know." you continue, “But I want to. And you're going to let me, because you deserve to feel good, and I'm going to make sure you do."
He's was still hard, aching and so beautifully vulnerable. You wrap one hand around him—it didn’t fully cover him, feel the heat, the weight, the way he jerks at your touch.
"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, that's—that's—"
"Shh." You lean in, let your breath ghost over the tip. "Just feel."
You start slow. A few experimental licks, tracing the shape of him, learning what makes him gasp. His hands fly to your hair, gripping but not pulling, holding on like you're the only thing keeping him upright.
"Please," he begs, voice cracking. "Please, more, I need—I need—"
You oblige, taking him deeper. Your hands wrap around what doesn't fit, working in tandem with your mouth, building a pace that has him trembling apart above you.
"That's—I can't—you're so—" Words fail him, dissolving into broken sounds that would be embarrassing if they weren't so honest.
You look up at him through your lashes, still working, and the sight of him, just ruined, desperate, sends a thrill through you.
"More," he gasps. "Please, more, I need more, I need—"
You pull off with a wet sound, and he whines at the loss.
"Turn around," you say, voice rough.
He blinks, uncomprehending. "What?"
"Turn. Around." You give him a little push. "I want to try something."
He obeys immediately, clumsy with want, presenting himself to you. You press against his back, your mouth finding his neck, your hands sliding around to finish what you started.
"Oh," he breathes, understanding dawning. "Oh, yes, please, yes—"
You work him faster now, your mouth on his skin, your whispered praise in his ear. "You're doing so well. Taking this so well. My good, perfect Pierrot."
But then you stop. Completely. He makes a desperate, questioning sound, but you're already moving—stepping back, your hands finding your own waistband. His eyes go impossibly wide as he watches you push down your bottoms, your underwear following in one smooth motion. The fabric pools at your ankles, and you step out of it, completely bare from the waist down.
"You... what are you—"
You turn, presenting him with the full view—your back to him, your hands braced against the wooden table. You look over your shoulder, meeting his stunned gaze.
"Use me," you say, voice low and steady. "Use me to get yourself off. Your cock—rub it on me. Between my thighs. I want to feel you against me."
He makes a sound that's barely human. A broken, reverent whimper.
"I—you—I can't—that's—"
"You can." You shift your stance, spreading your legs slightly, offering him access. "I want to feel you, Pierrot. All of you. Want you to use my body to make yourself feel good. Please."
The word please breaks something in him. He steps forward, his long frame folding over yours, one hand gripping the table beside yours, the other finding your hip. His cock, still slick from your mouth, presses against the soft skin of your inner thigh.
"Like this?" he breathes, and the first tentative thrust has him gasping. "I—like this—against you—"
"Yes." Your voice is thick. "Just like that. Use me."
He does.
His hips find a pace, slow at first, experimental. His cock slides between your thighs, the sensitive skin there gripping him, wetting him with every pass. You can feel him against you, the heat, the weight, the desperate need in every movement. His forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin.
"You feel—" He chokes on the thought. "You feel incredible. So soft. So warm. I can't—I never imagined—"
You push back against him, meeting his thrusts, and he moans—a broken, beautiful sound. His grip on your hip tightens, fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks.
"More," he begs. "Please, more, I need—"
You give him more. You roll your hips, grind back against him, let your body move with his. His cock slides against you, catching on your slickness, the tip occasionally nudging against your entrance, so close, so achingly close, but you shift just enough that he doesn't slip inside. Not yet. Not tonight.
He notices. A desperate, frustrated sound escapes him. "You're… you're teasing me, you're being mean—"
You laugh, breathless. "Maybe. But you like it."
"I do," he admits, voice wrecked. "I like everything you do. Everything you are. I like—ha—I like watching you—watching my cock between your thighs—seeing your face when you—"
He trails off, lost in the sight of you. Your body is so small compared to his, curved and bent over the table, your expression dazed and wanton.
The contrast undoes something in him.
He pushes harder against you, his pace growing desperate. The table creaks beneath you both. His cock is soaked now—from your mouth, from your thighs, from the evidence of his own pre cum. Every slide is wet and obscene, the sound of it filling the small space.
"I'm close," he warns, voice strained. "I'm—I can't—where should I—"
"Between my thighs," you remind him, reaching back to grip his hip. "Right there. Let me feel it."
He nods frantically, too far gone for words. His thrusts turn erratic, desperate, and then he's coming—hot and wet against your skin, spilling between your thighs, marking you as thoroughly as if he'd been inside you.
He groans your name, the sound muffled against your shoulder, his entire body shuddering through wave after wave. When he finally stills, he's trembling, breathless, just utterly spent. He stays slumped against you, trembling and spent, his forehead on your shoulder and softening cock still nestled between your thighs.
"I..." He can't find words. "I... you..."
You tilt your head and press a gentle kiss to the side of his temple. “Yeah. Me too. Do you at least feel better?”
He laughs, a fragile, incredulous laugh that barely makes it out of his throat. It’s soft, almost nothing more than breath, but it’s real. It’s him.
“Better,” he says, almost to himself. “So much better. I didn’t know—I never imagined—”
“Plenty of time to imagine later.” You pull him close, letting the last of the tension seep out of his body. The guy who usually sits so tight with unspoken sorrow now softens, pliant against you. “For now? Rest. You’ve got a show to do.”
“The show,” he murmurs, almost amused. “I’d… forgotten about the show.”
See? Mission accomplished.
He move in your embrace, cupping your face in his hands, and kisses you—soft, reverent, full of promise. When he pulls back, his amber eyes are warm, glowing with something that looks a lot like peace.
"After the show," he whispers against your lips. "You and me. Time and space. Taking me apart."
You smile. "After the show."
A quiet hush falls between you, comfortable and warm as you both catch your breath, still riding the high of what just occurred. Your hand makes lazy, sleepy scribbles on his chest; his hand makes slow, contented circles on your back. It’s safe, it’s warm, it’s wonderful, it’s perfect.
And then you remember.
“Hey.” You raise your chin to look up to his face. “How much time do we actually have left?”
He pauses for a moment, thinking it through, then bursts out with a slow, gleeful grin that illuminates what you can see of his face.
“Five minutes,” he says, his voice holding a hint of something wickedly gleeful.
Your eyes go wide. “That’s—”
“Plenty of time,” he says, already moving you beneath him with easy strength. “More than plenty. I can do so much with twenty-three minutes.”
“Pierrot—”
“I want to… leave marks,” he says, his voice a warm, hot whisper against your skin. “Everywhere. So many that you forget where one ends and another starts. So that when I’m on stage, when I’m performing, I look out into that audience, I look out for you, and I remember that you’re mine.”
His teeth brush your pulse point, careful but hungry.
“Is that alright? Can I mark you? Claim you? Just a little?”
You laugh, your breath catching in your throat. “A little?”
“A lot,” he says, his hunger returning but tempered with warmth. “I want a lot. But only if you want it too.”
You pull him closer by his hair.
“Then stop asking and start marking.”
After the Show
The applause is different this time.
Pierrot, in the center, stands up to the audience, his chest heaving, his performance smile firmly in place, as if to hide the true smile that wants to escape. The glare of the lights is just the same, unkind and unforgiving, but tonight it does not hurt; tonight, it seems to reveal something true.
And that is because, in the front row, you are there.
You are branded by him. Bite marks show through the collar, down the back of the neck, and into the hairline. Some are hidden by clothing, but some can be seen by an inquisitive eye, and for him, they are always in view, every time he glances in your direction during the performance, and he glances in your direction often.
The crowd is up, really up—standing, clapping with real heat. Faces that had been flat and quiet during his previous show now glow with thanks. Cheers rise, whistles cut through the air, people begging for another round.
Pierrot doesn’t seem to notice any of it.
He’s looking at you. At the marks. At that smile you give him, the one that says you’re proud, protective, completely his. And something in his chest shifts, not with pain but with a joy so fierce it almost hurts.
Backstage, the others are waiting.
Harlequin smirks, arms crossed, twitching with amusement. "Well, well. Someone finally figured out how to perform."
Ticket Taker nods once, a rare gesture of approval. "Efficient. Focused. No errors."
Doctor hums thoughtfully. "Fascinating. The physiological response to genuine emotional engagement appears to have enhanced his precision by approximately forty-three percent."
And then the Jester steps forward.
His massive, horned form looms in the dim light, but his voice—when it comes—is warm. Surprised.
Almost... proud. "Pierrot."
Pierrot tenses, waiting for critique. For redirection. For the familiar weight of expectation.
"That was your best performance yet."
Pierrot's head snaps up, eyes wide.
"I mean it." The Jester's low purple glow seems to pulse with sincerity. "I've watched you perform a hundred times. A thousand. I've seen you go through the motions, seen you fade into the background, seen you disappear beneath the weight of it all. But tonight?" He pauses. "Tonight, you were present. Every movement had purpose. Every gesture meant something. The audience felt it. I felt it."
Pierrot's hands tremble at his sides.
"Whatever you did differently tonight"—Jester's gaze flicks briefly toward the stage entrance, toward where you're probably still sitting in the front row—"keep doing it. This is the Pierrot I always knew you could be."
The praise hits him like a physical blow—but a good one. A healing one. His face, what little is visible beneath the mask, flushes with color. His eyes glisten.
"I... thank you. I don't know what to say."
"Then don't say anything." The Jester turns to go, but pauses at the edge of the light. "Just keep performing like that. For yourself. Not for… them."
He disappears into the shadows, and Pierrot is left standing there, overwhelmed, vibrating with an emotion he can't quite name.
Harlequin saunters closer, dropping his voice to a murmur.
"So. The human."
Pierrot stiffens.
"Relax." Harlequin's grin is sharp but not unkind. "I'm not going to interfere. Just... interesting, is all. The way you looked at them tonight. The way thwy looked at you." He tilts his head. "Jester noticed too. He won't say anything—not directly—but he noticed."
Pierrot's heart hammers.
"Good for you," Harlequin says simply, and there's something almost genuine in it. “Really. You deserve something that isn't complicated by trauma and survival." He pauses. "Well. Something less complicated, anyway, still stay on your toes before I take them away from you~”
He claps Pierrot on the shoulder and saunters off, leaving Pierrot alone with his thoughts, unable to react quick enough to his comment.
And then you're there.
You navigate through the backstage chaos, dodging people and wires until you stand before him. He looks flushed and his eyes shine. You can feel the quiver in his body, the tremble of emotion just beneath the surface.
“Hey,” you breathe softly. “You were amazing.”
He opens up before you, not in tears exactly, but in a way that feels softer and more vulnerable. He wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your hair. He holds you as if you’re the only thing holding him up.
“I saw you,” he breathes, and you feel his words through more than just your ears. “Every time I looked out there and saw all those people, I saw you. Covered in me. Watching me. Believing in me. And I—I couldn’t fail. Not with you there. Not after everything.”
You wrap your arms around him, holding him as tightly as he holds you.
“You didn’t fail. You soared.”
He looks up at you, his face open and vulnerable and somehow utterly beautiful in its happiness. “This is the best day of my entire life,” he says, and means it. "Not because of the applause. Not because of the Jester's praise. Because of you. Because you're here. Because you're mine."
You reach up, touch his cheek.
"I'm yours. And you're mine. And we've got time."
He tilts his head, a slow smile spreading. "Speaking of time..."
You laugh. "How much do we have?"
He checks—mentally calculating—and his smile widens, tilting his head to the side. "Thirty minutes."
Your eyebrows shoot up. "Thirty minutes until what?"
"Until the next show." He leans in, his forehead against yours. "Thirty minutes until I have to perform again. Thirty minutes of you and me and that private space you promised."
You grin. "Thirty minutes is plenty of time."
"My thoughts exactly, my dear..." He takes your hand, and together you slip away from the backstage chaos, toward the quiet sanctuary of his wagon, where thirty minutes stretches before you like an eternity.
And somewhere in the shadows, the Jester watches you go. A low, thoughtful hum escapes him. "Interesting human,” he murmurs to himself. "Very interesting." He turns away, but not before a small, almost imperceptible smile crosses his massive features.
"Satisfactory pet for him."
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
synopsis: a sudden idea pops in your mind. what will happen if you touch his horns?
tags: fluff, suggestive, established relationship, pierrot is being a pupppy.
wc: 1.2k.
⤖ part w. harlequin (click).
hiding from haunting eyes, responsibilities and cruelty, you spend your free time with pierrot, who often visits your flat… no, he practically lives there, abandoning the circus just to see you more often than usual. constant performances and your job can keep you to apart, but by the end of the day, you find yourself in the same position as before.
resting his face on your chest, pierrot eventually smiles and babbles something under his nose, as you lie here, enjoying the feeling of his weight on top of you. neither of you try to engage in the conversation: pierrot is too busy with your presence, and you’re too busy staring at his horns.
you’re not frightened – you saw his inhuman features a lot of times before, as much as his long claws, pale skin and wild, unnatural gaze. you came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t a normal clown – he wasn’t a person; he was a fantastic creature, but as long as he was so gentle and loving, you didn’t mind it at all. someone could consider you crazy, and, yeah, you were crazy in love with him and his damn horns.
an interesting idea pops in your mind when your curiosity outweighs self-preservation instinct. and you should ask his permission before you act on your sudden impulses, but this thought isn’t important, is it?
because what could possibly be more interesting than his reaction? you never ever touched his horns. it wasn’t like you were prohibited from doing so, more likely you didn’t dwell on this detail. you took it for granted, you knew they were there, but that was all. that was in the past, by the way, your present self doesn’t think so.
would he like it? would he stare at you with his usual lovesick expression? would he be mad? ah, it doesn’t matter. the worst reaction is him hurting you, but pierrot would never do this, you know he wouldn’t.
so, as confident in yourself as ever, you slowly but surely run your hand down his hair. pierror doesn’t flinch – he used to this kind of intimacy between you two, he adores when you get all touchy and gentle with him. that works in your favor. your lovely boyfriend doesn’t suspect anything, his body language is relaxed, but his grip on your waist is still tight.
then, after a few seconds of distracting his attention, you move your hand a little higher. the moment of truth arrives. carefully, with your fingertip, you trace from the tip of the horn to its base, as pierrot raises his head and looks at you in astonishment.
his eyes show no anger, no pain, no discomfort. surprise. that's the best word to describe the emotions floating from his gaze. and there’s something else, something you can’t put your finger on. yet.
“my lady,” he stutters – actually stutters, as he tries to regain his composure and doesn’t show you what you shouldn’t see. “what are you doing?”
“ah, nothing, my dear,” you say, your face is adorned with a lovely smile. “is there something wrong?”
somewhat pleased by the lack of any annoyance or irritation from his side, you wrap your slender fingers around one of his horns, and poor pierrot jolts. he drops his head back on your chest, his heart is beating like crazy, he’s ready to explord from the sheer sensation of your soft hand caressing that part of his body.
he feels illegally good. he melts from the tenderness with which your skilled fingers treat his rough but sensitive horns.
“n-no, there’s nothing… ah, my lady,” he says, the way his voice hitches make his answer sound like something between a moan and whine. “just… stop, please…”
pierrot fidgets on the bed, his grip on your waist becomes almost painful. he doesn't show his face, but you can hear how hard he's breathing when you grab his second horn. you do the same. you wrap your hand around it, move it up and down, up and down...
“do you want me to stop, pierrot?” you ask teasingly, but the underlying softness and fondness in your voice is unmistakable. “doesn’t it feel good?”
he fidgets yet again. he doesn’t want you to feel what this little situation does to his body. he doesn’t want you to feel his throbbing desire, but it’s obvious, isn’t it? pierrot is practically shaking with the efforts to hold back another groan.
and if this monster had a tail, he would be wagging it like a little puppy right now.
“it does, my lady, it feels so good, but…” he murmurs and suddenly raises his head to look at you.
his pale cheeks are nothing but redness. his eyes, which used to look at you with love and affection, now burn with passion and intense desire. he loves every moment of this, but there’s a problem. if you keep this up, he won’t be able to control himself.
“but… i’m afraid i’ll lose my mind, my lady,” he admits sheepishly. “horns are the most sensitive part of my body, which why… ah…”
judging by the look on your face, you see what your caresses are doing with him. you already know he’s especially sensitive there even before he could say it, but you clearly underestimate the influence of your actions. but as long as you can make him feel good, you’ll play this game.
“then lose control, my dear,” you whisper sweetly.
then you scratch the horn with your nails, trying a different approach. after all, there’s a lot of things you can possibly do with his lovely horns, you can’t miss such an interesting opportunity. pierrot hisses through his teeth; sensations borderline on painful, but it still makes the fire of desire burn brighter and brighter in his chest… and in other parts of his body as well.
but he got your permission. which means there’s no point of return now, and he can be as wild as you let him to be.
“promise me you won’t stop,” pierrot says when his long, wet tongue touches your neck, and this gesture already predicts a hot, sleepless night for you.
he always gets particularly aroused when he's with you. he could always get aroused even from a simple touch on his hand. but now you've done much more. you're doing much more. because your other hand is touching his horn too. because you're still caressing them slowly, and pierrot lets out a low, plaintive moan.
“i promise,” you manage to say before he presses his lips against yours in gentle yet demanding kiss.
but there is only one thought in your head. maybe you should touch his horns to make him a whining mess a little more often.
You pull a condom out of its wrapper to propose to Pierrot to have sex.
Pierrot: “My dear…? Why are you taking out a balloon? Do you want me to make you a cute flower? I’m very good with my hands.”
*he assumes it’s one of those balloons clowns use...*
You: “No, Pierrot, it’s for—”
*stares at his very practical hands*
Pierrot: *quickly blows into the condom, shaping it into a cute little dog*
You: o.o
Pierrot: *show off his creation, very proud of it*
“Tadaaan!”
In which you and Pierrot find yourselves stuck in your tiny apartment together during a snow storm, Pierrot finds something of yours and it leads to some very nice discoveries.
Pairing: Pierrot x Reader (nonbinary afab)
Warnings: yandere behavior (religious imagery regarding his yandere devotion), friends to lovers, porn with plot, finding out he's a monster, lose of (at least Pierrot's) virginity, oral, penetration, monster genitalia, cream pie, knotting,canon typical biting, only slightly proof read
The sun sets and a chill rolls through town, not unlike the night the circus settled in. It was unexpected, the snow that is, it had been cool recently, yes, but the people about town had only needed a light sweater before tonight. This was definitely not good for business. Pierrot could see the tension in the ticket takers shoulders as they all watched the snow fall just outside the big top's entrance.
Pierrot had been hopeful since he saw his love last, that it would be as intense as they had said it would be. He now knows it will. Not even an hour has passed and the troupe has all gathered together to silently watch as snow engulfs the world outside. They disperse after a while, going about tasks they have been assigned to weather proof their tents and condense supplies. He flies through his as fast as possible, wanting to slip away before the snow gets too deep and treacherous. It won't matter once he leaves, but the punishment for leaving work undone would be... Unpleasant... To say the least. He does leave a note before he goes, telling them he would be back before they reopened to the public and vaguely where he would be, he's not too fond of the idea of any of them finding his loves home and barging in on their little sanctuary from the cold after all.
The small apartment has never had the best air conditioning, they knew that. But the frost dancing up the glass door to their balcony seemed to mock them as they ruffled about looking for the storage bin of quilts under their bed. They hadn't needed it last winter, nor had they thought they would with the autumn being as tame as it had been before tonight. They make contact with a plastic tub and pull it out, celebrating a bit too soon. They pull it out triumphantly to find... Swim wear. Damn it! They push it aside and press themself to the cold floor again.
As they fumble about with their cheek pressed to the floor they curse themself for not taking their own advice. "I'd make sure to get your warm stuff out when you get home! Everyone's saying this storm's gonna be a doozy." They had warned their new friend Pierrot. He had nodded as they handed him a hot chocolate, their recommendation given the cold. He seemed so happy about it, they really hope they weren't too pushy, he originally had asked for a milkshake and- ow!
They bump their head on their bed frame when they hear the frozen metal of their balcony door open and a cold rush of air on their rear. They hadn't noticed it, as they were lost in thought, but they had slowly shimmied their way under their bed as they searched blindly, and they were now kind of stuck, which is a problem, given there is someone now in their home. They hear the glass door close. Shit... Is someone seriously breaking in during THIS weather!? Asshole! Once they get out from under this bed they're gonna kick this prick right into the mountain of snow by the street! If they could just- fuck- god this is embarrassing... And scary but the embarrassment is winning out over that at the moment.
"Are you alright, my dear?" A concerned voice from behind and the feeling of someone's body hovering over their own. Wait... They know that voice...
"Pierrot? Oh thank goodness it's just you..." They let a heavy sigh leave their lips. "I thought a stranger broke in, I was starting to panic..." They say with a stilted chuckle, the fear that had been bubbling up now dying down. He has done this a few times now, coming in unannounced through the balcony door. It scared the crap out of them the first time, but they quickly got used to it. He was insistent on coming in this way, not wanting to just come in through the front door for whatever reason... They still have no idea how he gets all the way up here honestly. He's always very coy whenever they ask.
"Anyways- yeah I'm fine. I'm just trying to find my winter blankets. It's cold in here." They tell him as they return to their search. "Wait... Why are you here? Shouldn't you be back home? It's not going to stop snowing for a whiiiiiile. Your gonna get stuck here, dude..." They find another tub, good they only have two. They think they should really clean out from under here soon, there is significantly more junk than they'd care to admit.
Pierrot can't help but stare at the scene before him. His hands shake as he fights the urge to touch them. He had entered their sanctuary as he always has, through the balcony's door, and was met with the most delicious view of his beloved's divine body. He had rushed to them when he heard the thunk of their head against the underside of their bed, and now they are below his hands, mere inches away, the heat radiating from them is intoxicating. They had wriggled about fruitlessly for a moment before he found his voice again and calmed upon its recognition. They speak and it's only partially processed. A small sound leaves their perfect lips, then the sound of cheap plastic on linoleum fake wood floor as they begin to try and free themselves again.
"Oh- uh... Can you back up? Kinda hard to get out when you're on the way, 'row." They shyly ask after their knee bumps his. He complies, standing up and to the side for them as they oh so cutely scoot and wiggle their way free from below their bed. He knows he's blushing, he can feel the heat on his cheeks and the quickened beats of his heart, but he is not embarrassed by it. How could he ever be embarrassed by a reaction caused by them?
"Can you check and make sure I got the right one? It would suck if I got up and found out I found my summer stuff again..."
Pierrot does as he is asked, walking around to the opposite side of their bed and opening the plastic container his beloved had pushed out from below.
"Quilts, yes?" He looks up from the tub just in time to see their head pop up from under the bed.
"Yeah!" They smile at him and fully rise from their spot on the floor. Ah, that smile, so warm that he feels any remaining chill from the trek here leave him. He watches as they find their way next to him, reaching into the tub and pulling out one of the thick, heavy quilts and tosses it onto their bed. They stare at the remaining two quilts in thought before settling on bringing them out too.
"Are you cold? those clothes don't look any different from your normal ones..." They pick up one of the quilts and offer it to Pierrot. They are so kind, just another reminder of their perfection. He gladly accepts it, reaching out with a lovesick look in his eyes that almost says something, only to stop as they wrap it around his shoulders and softly pat his head, making the bells on his cap jingle.
For such a large intimidating guy, he's so easily flustered. Their smile stretches into a grin as they watch the blush spread across his face. Blush... Over what is supposedly a mask. How does it do that? Another thing he's coy about. It blushes and moves and sits on his face like skin, but they know it isn't. Sometimes they wonder if he's human at all. The nails below his gloves come to sharp points, but were they just his gloves or were they his real nails? If they asked right now they doubt he'd give a straight answer. He'd dance around the question and distract them, like with so many of their queries.
Ah shit- they were staring at his hands, not that he'd said anything about it. Or... Maybe he did? It's hard to concentrate around him, and he makes their already busy mind race. You'd think his novelty would have worn off by now, given how much time they had spent together since they met, but no. He's still a puzzle to them, a very charming, tall, sweet, bit creepy, puzzle. They finally take their hand from his jester hat thing and flop onto their bed. A beat of silence later they feel his chin rest on their knee and look down to find him staring at them, literally heart eyed.
"You are too kind, but you needn't worry yourself over me, my dear." His voice... They look towards their TV as they feel a blush creep up their face to match his. His voice is always just a little gravely from going so long without being used, and they'd be lying if they said it didn't give them butterflies. They try and fail to contain a jolt as he gently lays his claw-like hand on their thigh. God he's so cute sometimes, it's maddening. They have to be normal, he's obviously just an affectionate person is all. Yeah, nothing else. They gently pull away and sit up, feeling a little awkward from their own internal reaction.
"Hungry? I was gonna to make dinner soon-ish." They try and force the heat to leave their cheeks, but god he's still looking up at them like THAT. he's going to be the death of them, they know it. He nods and they flee to the kitchen a few feet away, not much room to hide here, but the half wall separating the kitchen and the rest of the apartment gives the illusion of space. They open the fridge and hope the inspection for a decent meal descends upon their poor indecisive mind.
Pierrot still sat on the floor where they left him, his mind racing. Was he too forward, or was it merely the wrong time? Humans are difficult to understand at times. He couldn't get the image of their face darkening as he inched closer and spoke out of his mind. Had he read too far into their lingering touch? Were they simply in thought, comfortable enough to let their mind wonder? He liked the thought of that. They surely enjoyed his company, why else would they be so hospitable? That's it! They were just shy, he can help them with that. He could coax them out of their shell, they will be stuck together till the ice thaws after all... He stands from his seat on the floor and makes his way to the wall separating him from his love. He can hear them mumbling about the food in their fridge, that adorable look of concentration etched in the divine curves of their face.
After a bit they began pulling ingredients and set about getting to work. That had him excited, he's consumed the drinks they make at their job, yes, but now he's going to taste what they'll make of their own accord! He watches them silently, holding his head in his hands as they flit about. A sizzling pan wafts mouth watering aromas into the air around them and he realizes just how hungry he really was. They do too, as a growl rumbles loudly from his stomach. They don't look towards him, too busy with their task, but he sees the corners of their mouth quirk up and a quiet chuckle finds its way to his ears.
"Go sit down, I'll bring it over when it's done, hun." They flick their gaze to him for a moment as they spoke, a small confident smile gracing his vision before returning to the sizzling pan. Pierrot stays for a moment, watching them intently, then pulls himself away and to their bed. Looking at the disheveled blankets he decides it would be nice if he made it for them. He hums to himself as he pulls the blankets off the bed, untangling them from each other and sets them aside.
Thunk! Pierrot looks down beside him, ah, a book. They must have been reading before he came over! Surely they wouldn't mind if he took a peak... Oh my...
They round the corner, two warm plates in hand. They're actually really proud of the way the food turned out and were proud to share it with their friend! Maybe they would watch a movie, Pierrot probably shouldn't be going back out in this weather, the storm hasn't let up one bit and they wouldn't want anything to happen to him- what does he have? Is that- oh god- they forgot to put that up! All the color drained from their face as they stare bug-eyed at the erotic monster love manga in their sweet, caring, considerate friend's hands. He's completely engrossed in his reading and they take time to process the neatly done covers on their bed and slowly put the pieces together on how this transpired...
They stand there frozen, the warm food the only thing keeping them from running over and snatching the book from his hands. He turns the page and they see him blink in surprise at what lays before him on the page, slowly they move towards one of their bedside tables and set the food down. He's so tall it's hard to peak over and see where he's at from where they stand. They have no choice. As quick as they can they snatch the book from him and bolt to the bathroom! They have to hide, the embarrassment is too much to handle! Thankfully he was so locked in he didn't notice them getting closer till their fingers covered a particularly saucy depiction of a shadowy monster on full display, and just as quickly ripped it from his grasp. They're thankful, for once, that they live in such a small space, because before he can fully stand up they are already slamming the bathroom door behind them and clicking the lock in place.
They hear a sound of shock, maybe panic, the padding of feet to the door and a frantic knock. "My- my dear! Please come out! You have nothing to be ashamed of! Truly! I was quite enjoying your picture book!" There is a pause, they can practically feel the panic radiating off of him, but they are still too embarrassed to speak, taking Pierrot's role of silence in this interaction. The door knob jiggles and they lean against the door, he's begging to be let in, pleading for them to just open the door. They take a few deep breaths and work up courage and find their voice again.
"Just- just give me a bit! I just need to- uh- calm down. I forgot I had this out..." They choke out, knowing how pathetic they sounded making their cheeks burn all the hotter. When did that happen? One second they're as cold as the storm outside, now they feel the heat from their face could thaw all the ice in the world and wash them far away from this situation. After a few moments they see Pierrot's shadow under the door move away and they could feel him slowly slide down the door and sit against the cold tile floor... They have to go back out there eventually... What if he gets bored and looks through the drawer in their bedside table? Then they'd have to live in here. They could definitely wait out the storm at least. There's running water and a place to bathe and relieve themselves... There are definitely worse places to be locked up in. But... No. No they can't stay in here for who knows how long... They're just going to have to be a big brave person and face the music and hope he doesn't talk about the... What page was he on? Knowing how much he saw might help them feel better. They had grabbed it and unintentionally marked his place with their finger. They had just finished reading it so he must have started from the beginning. They hold the book up to their face and- yeah no he got to the smut. Almost to the end of it too. He was literally one page away from seeing the twink MC get knotted by his big scary monster boyfriend... Now they kinda feel bad... That page is a really well done full page spread. And the aftercare in the next few pages is really sweet.
Ok! They got this, they are a strong, independent person and can handle a mildly awkward interaction with a friend. And like he said he was enjoying it! Not sure if he knows what manga is but that's a whole different, less important, thing! It makes sense for a traveling circus to have a few people who are a bit oblivious to pop culture... They're distracting themselves again... Out they go! Before they can change their mind again! They swing the door open and step out, shoulders set square in mock confidence, that is until they are unceremoniously pulled down into a crushing hug. The book falls from their grasp and they freeze in momentary shock. Right... Right. He was sitting against the door. They wiggle, trying to get their arms free at least but a possessive rumble vibrates through their skull and they are pressed harder to Pierrot's chest. Yeah, they're not going anywhere.
A sigh leaves their lips as they decide to just get comfortable. Their legs were kind of weirdly behind them right now and it was quickly becoming strenuous. They press into his chest and shimmy their legs, he seems to catch on as he loosens his grip just a bit to let them move further up his chest. After a bit of wiggling they find the most comfortable position right now has them sitting between his legs, wrapping their own around his hips. It's a very intimate position but he's not letting go and at least their legs aren't falling asleep.
"... sorry I freaked out. I... I didn't- ugh..." They grumble into the fabric of his shirt. Why was this so difficult? They want to just laugh it off and pretend he didn't see anything... But he did. And worse, he was enjoying it. They won't lie to themselves, they saw how into it he was. Just as into as they were. Maybe... They had been a lot less clothed while they read this than he was. Maybe that's what really flustered them. Like he'd somehow know they touched themselves to it, that knew and was judging them for it. But that's not the kind of person he is. They know that.
"Are you... Not fond of the book, my dear?" He asks hesitantly, there's a layer below the question. They can tell he's asking about more than just the yaoi. But... What is he actually asking?
"I... Um... I bought it for a reason. I really like the way they draw..." They clear their throat. "The- the way they draw monsters." They say shyly, pulling at the fabric of his shirt to fully hide their face. They can feel his gaze boring into them. he leaned back as they spoke, his arms finally loosen and his claws gently slide against their clothed back. He pulls them from his chest slowly, forcing them to look up at him with a gentle finger under their chin.
He's searching for something in their eyes. They can see it, they just can't tell what. He seems to find whatever it is. hearts forming in his eyes as he leans in and captures their lips in a kiss. They freeze. Do they want this? They can't say they haven't thought about how his lips would feel against theirs, and this feels so much better than they ever imagined. They feel him begin to pull back, no. No they want this. They quickly pull him, wrapping their arms around his neck and kissing him back.
A hand finds its way to their hair, long claws scraping against their scalp. They shiver, a small sound escaping into the lips locked onto theirs. His tongue peaks out from behind his long sharp teeth, begging to be let in. They allow him, parting their lips and pressing their chest to his. His heart is beating hard below his ribs, making theirs beat faster in response. They feel a rush as his long tongue finds their own, exploring the smaller space of their mouth. It's so much more than they expected, it's almost overwhelming. They pull back, desperate for air, and stare up at him panting slightly with glossy eyes. He's staring back, he's trembling, obviously trying to hold himself back. His tongue is still hanging from his open mouth, long and... Golden yellow? What? Their breath slowly evening out as they absent-mindedly reach up and grab it, rubbing the wet appendage with their thumb. It wraps around their finger, his breath heavy against their skin as they play with it curiously.
He whines as they continue, his cheeks slowly growing brighter. A large hand finds its way to their hip, pressing hard into the fabric of their pajama pants. Their free hand slowly makes its way up his shirt. they look into his glowing eyes for permission, finding it in abundance as they remove their hand from his tongue to undo his corset top. His pale skin slowly shows itself to them. It's so... Pretty. They push away the fabric and press soft kisses to his chest. His hands on their hips are shaking with the effort of restraint. They smile against his sensitive skin, sitting back onto his lap and slowly lifting their shirt. His breath hitches as he watches them. Pierrot's hands follow just beneath the fabric, savoring every newly found inch of skin. They toss it to the side, smiling shyly as he begins to kiss their exposed skin, mimicking their earlier softness. They shiver as his long tongue glides against their sensitive nipple, hardened from the chill air and his electric touch.
A possessive rumble emanates from Pierrot, it is their only warning before he bites into the soft flesh around their nipple. A startled moan escapes them and they instinctively grab onto the fabric of his hat, finding solace in the ridged structure beneath. He detaches himself once he notices, taking their wrists and roughly pinning them to the floor below him. A grunt forces it way out of them and they look up at him in mild surprise. He's shaking, but they can't tell exactly why. They tilt their head to the side in a silent question. He only continues to stare in response. Slowly, almost painfully so, they free their hands and cup the sides of his mask.
"You don't have to show me, if you don't want to. I won't force you to do anything. But I can promise you, I won't be scared. I know you won't hurt me, Pierrot." Their smile is gentle and genuine as they stare into his golden eyes. After a moment, he finally seems to believe them. Shakily he lifts himself from them and brings his hands to this hat, looking away he frees himself from it and removing this gloves.
Three dark horns stand out confidently against his bright white hair as it, too, tumbles out from below his hat. He looks back at them shyly, surely feeling exposed. They are... In awe. Their eyes follow the curves of his horns, the way the light reflects off the deep, almost black, red of them. They find their hands drawn to his horns, and he bows his head in acceptance of their touch. Finger tips glide over the textured ridges, every delicate caress bringing him lower and lower into their lap. They explore this secret part of him with the utmost care, leaving no inch untouched. He kisses their exposed stomach, lovingly reminding them what they were in the middle of. They look down, seeing their heart eyed Pierrot with his sharp claws wordlessly pleading to see more of them in return. They can't deny him, or themselves for that matter. He slides the warm pajamas from their hips, making their poor skin make contact with the cold floor. Hm... Maybe it's time they move this elsewhere...
"Let's... move this to my bed, ok?" They push him back slowly as they rise on shaky legs, smiling shyly and pulling him up with them. He follows obediently, watching rapturously as they lead him. He's completely captivated by every curve and crevasse of their body as they walk the short distance to their bed. They sit before him, bare and looking up at him with such genuine soft affection... It's driving him mad. He lowers himself before them, finding his rightful place on his knees. He laces his touch with prayer as he oh so carefully spreads their legs, finding their sacred spring glistening. He restrains himself, leaving a trail of kisses on their thighs on his pilgrimage to the only holy place he's ever dared yearn to desecrate. Their divine hands take hold of his horns and pull him closer. A needy sound leaving their perfect lips, his name. They whimper his name. His tongue lulls out from behind his dagger sharp teeth and he finally tastes them. Pierrot tastes the ambrosia coating the lips of his lover's divine pussy. He melts into them. He's completely lost in the taste,in the smell, in the sounds of euphoria they sing for only him. His long tongue glides across the sensitive bud of their clit and coils around it. Oh the sounds they make for him as he pleases them... Sounds only he can hear, and only will hear from now on. He detaches his tongue from their twitching clit and slides down into their sobbing hole. He quickly finds the very back, his love moaning out erotically as his tongue rolls and coils around itself. Pierrot's hand presses down onto their stomach and finds he can feel himself wriggling around inside them and he growls hungrily, feeling the way they tighten at the sound. He sloppily makes out with their cunt, desperate to taste their orgasm. He feels their tight grip on two of his horns, he holds their grinding hips, hears the broken remnants of words leave their drooling mouth. Finally, a gush of liquid over his tongue and the feeling of his lover's thighs clamping down over his head as they pant pathetically above him.
He pulls apart their weak legs and crawls up their trembling body. crazed love drunk eyes meet theirs, misty from pleasure. Wordlessly they seek each other and kiss once more. The taste of them on his tongue as it wraps around theirs. They wrap their arms around his neck and pull him flat against them. Pierrot fumbles with his remaining clothes, his cock desperately pressing against the stubborn fabric of his pants till it is finally freed.
Pierrot wishes he could be gentle, but he isn't. He ruts into their sensitive cunt desperately. His eyes glowing eyes rolling back as they moan into the passionate kiss. He's unabashedly grabbing at them, their hips, their thighs, their chest, anything and everything he can. Pierrot is desperate to memorize every inch of them he can inside and out. He wishes he could completely engulf, to feel them in their entirety all at once. He wants to know the feeling of being divine, but he can only hold pieces of their divinity at a time. But even so, to get the privilege of making love to the essence of love itself... It is pure euphoria. The purest, most maddening, ecstasy.
The soft ridges on his cock drag against the walls of their pussy, sliding easily in, but pressing deliciously deep on their way out. As he draws closer to his end it becomes harder and harder to pull out, not just physically, but spiritually. He wants to stay buried inside them, making them cum over and over on his cock till they're crying from bliss, the image of it summoning a possessive growl from deep in his chest. He forces his mouth to give their poor kiss swollen lips a break, only so he can leave kisses and nips across the skin of their neck. Pierrot is hanging on every gasp and moan they make like a sermon, teaching him how to worship them properly.
Their breath is ragged as they cling to him desperately, one hand tangled in his hair, the other fruitlessly clawing at the inhuman skin of his back. They whine as they try and move their hips to meet his thrusts, inviting him deeper, instinctively begging to be filled by him. Pierrot fights against his twitching cock, wanting this moment to last forever, but can feel them tighten around him, locking their legs around his hips as they cum. His name falls from their lips, like a command directly to his soul, he forces his cock completely into their trembling pussy as the knot at the base expands. Cum gushes into the deepest part of them, Pierrot's cock nearly fully locked in when he bites into the hot sensitive skin of their neck. The waves of his orgasm unfortunately nearly deafen him as they cry out in a sinful mix of pleasure and pain. He groans praise into their now bloodied flesh, his cock still twitching and gushing inside of them. He would have warned them, if he knew they needed to be. But not even he suspected he would keep cuming for as long as he does.
The two lay there for a long while, nuzzling and whispering sweet nothings. Pierrot feels his love shift, as though uncomfortable, at one point and brings them both beneath the covers of their bed. He feels their breathing slow and deepen as they fall asleep on his bare chest. He kisses their forehead, still slightly damp with sweat, and whispers proclamations of his devotion amidst the still comfortable silence. He knows he will have to answer their questions tomorrow, but for now he will bask in the bliss of acceptance, holding and being held by the one he loves more than anything.
Cw: 18+, SMUT SMUT AND MORE SMUT, Oral, Marking/biting, breeding/creampie, over stimulation, p in v sex, Monster fucking ig? Idk enjoy! :3
“Shall I go again?” He sounded so innocent and cheery despite his insatiable request. You were flabbergasted. Of course you were. Did he think you had infinite stamina? Hell, you were still catching your breath. You were still coming down from the mind blowing high that he inflicted.
“Again?” You asked, voice shaky. He nodded profusely. He smiled at you like it was Christmas day and you were a present to be unwrapped. His chin glistening as his tongue wipes it away with great enthusiasm.
“Of course! I said I wanted to bring you pure ecstasy,” He leans in voice noticeably lower “And I am a man of my word, dearest.” He licks a languid stripe up your core, further emphasizing his point. Your essence, still leaking from your earlier encounter. He absolutely reveled in how sweet you tasted, how entrancing you looked. One might say you looked disheveled or a mess. Your breath was still ragged, eye lids heavy, and head lighter than your limbs. But above him, in this moment you looked enchanting. As if you had him under your spell. He hums as he kisses up your thighs.
“Meu amor, anseio por sentir seu corpo…” You don’t quite recognize the words as he speaks them. “..Quero suas coxas pressionando minha cabeça enquanto você grita meu nome.” They come out muffled and whispered against your skin, “Quero segurar seus quadris enquanto eles se movem contra meu rosto. Por favor, meu coração.” But he speaks them with such an earnest, almost like a prayer.
“And what does that mean?” You tilt your head smiling curiously. His voice comes out in a low growl this time.
“It means, sit on my face.” In one swift motion, he grabs your hips, and rolls you over so that you are now sitting on top of him. Your hands fall to his chest. Your cheeks instantly reheat with embarrassment. It was such a bold request coming from him. Hands still on your hips, he pulls you closer. You were now kneeling on top of his face. You were so close and yet so far. He stared up at you, watching, waiting. He wanted you to sit. But you wouldn't. You were hesitant. Why?
Of course, you wanted to. You knew how amazing it would feel. But you couldn't help but worry. Insecurity spurred by past encounters bubbling to the surface.
“Darling? What troubles you?”
“I just- well what if I- Wouldn't I be too.. heavy?”
Heavy. That word. For a split second it filled him with rage. Not because of your size. You weighed nothing compared to his strength. What ticked him off was some low life, undeserving, ingrate, idiot made you feel self conscious. When in Pierrot's eyes no one should be able to breathe the same air as you. He wanted to know more about that fool so he could kill them himself. But he shakes the thought away, storing it for it to be found at a later date.
For now he would focus his attention on you. He chuckles lightly drawing circles against your skin as if to soothe you.
“I understand that this may seem a bit brash, but I have every confidence that I can handle you. I appreciate your concern for me, but I am quite certain I can hold you.” His hand squeezed your sides. “Now please sit.”
How his voice managed to soothe and command in the same breath was almost bewildering. But never mind that. You were still weary but you gathered the courage to slowly crouch lower as you hover closer to his face. The familiar scent of your arousal hits him the closer you become. Then you stopped again. Still hovering. Barely an inch off of his face. Your brows knit as you look down at him. He was growing irritated.
What happens next is almost a blur. He pulls you down by your hips holding you against his face as his tongue plunges into your sensitive core. Your head falls back involuntarily. Your hands reach out looking for something to hold for purchase. Your palms grip the fabric of his hat. He grunts as you do so, the vibrations moving right through you as he does. As if he had already committed your velvety walls to memory, Pierrot's tongue instantly finds your sweet spot. He caresses and curls around it drawing the most sinister sounds from you. Like a musician's favorite instrument. His tongue slows as the appendage leaves your depths. He stops, eyes falling to you.
“Grind..” his voice is hoarse and muffled against you. In your heady state you can hardly process the word.
“Wha-” you can barely respond as his hands move your hips against his face.
The stimulation to your clit is enough to drive you crazy but his tongue re-enters you. It's all so much. Your knuckles turn white as they grip him. Your hips move faster. Was it you moving? Was it Pierrot? You didn't know. You didn't care either. That familiar coil that boils in your abdomen was fast growing. You were close. He knew it too. His tongue moved impossibly faster. How was he so good at this? Your climax hits you before you can even finish the thought. Your hips buck involuntarily against him as you ride out your high. He slows letting you catch your breath.
But he doesn't stop. After your brief moments of reprieve, he continues his onslaught. It was maddening. It was too much. Your head was light, your limbs shaky, it was even hard to form a coherent thought at this point. But you didn't want him to stop. The feeling was beyond your comprehension. It was extreme, it was extraordinary, it was total and utter ecstasy.
Meanwhile Pierrot was moving on autopilot. Memorizing your angelic voice, the way you say his name in such magnificent bliss. The way your body moved involuntarily as if begged for more and more, to which he would provide without question. But of course he could never forget the way you tasted. Deep down he knew he would crave your sweetness for the rest of his days. How your walls squeezed and convulsed around his tongue, he could never be without it.
The familiar convulsion and tightness of your walls is like a canary in a coal mine. It wasn't a want. He needed to make you cum again.
“You're close. I can feel it..”
But this one felt different than the others. It arose sooner and burned much hotter. No. It could be! We're you going to-
“Wait… Pierrot- This feels different-” your words came out stammered and raspy.
He didn't quite understand what you meant but even so he wasn't deterred. If anything you spurred him further. He continues his assault until you finally burst. A harsh mewl followed by a stung of curses leaves you as your vision brightens and your legs squeeze around his head. A waterfall pours directly into his mouth. He swallows as much as he can muster before your orgasm subsides. You can't believe you just did that. You had no idea you could do that. You just squirted. You were in total shock, eyes wide as you pulled yourself off of his head. His expression was unreadable. Eyes glistening, staring up at the ceiling, shifting as if seeing something that wasn't there. His breath was heavy as his hands were splayed out.
“Oh my god- I'm so so sorry! I had no idea I could do that.” Your hands come up to hide your face in complete embarrassment. However you peak threw watching a wide grin paint his face.
“That was extraordinary..” It comes out as a whisper. As if he was at a loss for words. He then looks to you, smile ever present as his cheeks redden brightly. “You are extraordinary.”
You stare at him astonished before chuckling in disbelief. It was written on his face how much he enjoyed that. You wipe the beads of sweat from your forehead. You felt absolutely elated. But you couldn't help but to notice that he was still clothed. Completely clothed in that red and black uniform. You look down at his pants noticing the large tent in his crotch. It was hard to ignore. Your hands come up to his face. His masked face. He rubs against your palm eyes seemingly closed by the lack of visible golden pupils. He was content it seemed. But something didn't feel right.
“Pierrot.. “ The words get caught in your throat before they can surface. He looks at you, pupils blown. “Won't you let me return the favor?” His pupils shrink. “I don't want to push you, of course! It's just that..” You pause looking down. “Well, I've never seen you beyond the clothes and the mask.” He moves away quickly, sitting in front of you.
“It's for a good reason. I don’t want you to see me.” you frown.
“But why? You've spent your time showing me how much you care. Why can't I do the same?”
“Because I'm far from deserving of it. Because I'm not-”
“Human?” His eyes widen at you.
“How did you..?”
“I've suspected it for a while now.” You say scratching the back of your head. “I've just been too scared to ask.”
“Because you fear me?”
“No! Because I love you.” The words fall so easily. They shock him to his core. You love him?
“And I want to see you. All of you. The Horns, the claws, sharp teeth, all of it, Because it's you, Pierrot.” You head falls against his.
“Of course I would never force you, but if you'll let me, I want to love all of you.”
It is silent for a moment before he pulls away, stepping off the bed. He breathes a deep shaky sigh before nodding and turning back towards you. He began by first taking off his hat revealing long silky ivory hair, with three rigid horns crowning his head, obsidian and ribbed almost like a goat's. His ears are pointed and elongated too. Almost hidden by his hair due to the color. He removes his neck ruffles next along with his gloves. The skin of his palms and talon-like claws are black. They fade to a muted grey as you view his upper arms. Next is his tunic as he reveals a body covered in jagged scarring, cracks, and black bruising. The sight makes your heart hurt but you don't dare interrupt yet. The uniform did well to hide the muscular, yet slender body hidden underneath. Then he takes off the boots, then his hands come up to his mask. He looks at you before the yellow pupils in the piece of porcelain disappear as he turns and places the mask on your bedside table. As he’s turned, you notice obsidian discoloration along his spine going below his pant line. You stand walking toward him. Your palm comes up to his face as he turns to look down at you. His face is covered in black cracks and scars, but also noticeable ivory freckles dotted along his cheeks. His teeth are sharp as ever, stray fangs protruding from the top and bottom of his closed mouth. But his eyes are the same. The same black sclera and golden ringed irises. He was frozen against your palm. Waiting for you to speak. Waiting for an insult. Waiting for the look of disgust that he's known so well by so many others. But it never comes. You were just looking at him. With those same eyes you always did. The same expression he fell in love with when he first laid eyes on you. You smiled. Like he was a daisy first to bloom after a snow storm. You held his cheek so gently. Like he was something precious, rare and needed to be handled with care. To the outside world he maybe deemed a monstrous creature, but to you he was “Beautiful..”
The statement is soft but rattles through his brain like an echo chamber. All other slander and wounds fading at just one word. So foreign, but oh so welcomed. Your hand finds his other cheek as he mimics your motion, following your warmth and feeling your small hands against his clawed ones.
He chokes on the breath he didn't realize he was holding. The relief flowing through him in waves shouldn’t have felt so overwhelming considering your treatment toward him thus far.
But he just couldn't help it. How could he ever come to terms with someone like you loving someone like him? However it came to be, he would be forever grateful. His hands glide down your forearms. The realization of his gloves no longer limiting his contact to your skin was bewildering. It felt forbidden to feel your soft supple skin this close, but at this moment he couldn’t bring himself to care. His forehead falls against your once more. His white lashes feathery against your skin. You comb your fingers though his hair, drawing a shiver from him.
“Pierrot,” you murmur, inches from his lips. “You’ve pampered me enough, I think it's high time I return the favor.” He shakes his head at you.
“My dear, you don’t have to-” you shush him with a peck to his lips.
“I know I don't have to. But I want to.” You smile at him.
You had him finally on full display. No mask, no cover ups, no hiding. Who were to not seize an opportunity handed to you on a golden platter? He couldn’t bring himself to argue with you either. Not when it was something he wanted too. Your hands slide down to his stomach, finding home to his sides. He follows your lead as you maneuver him back to the bed. He sits, palms flat against the mattress. Your finger tracing against marked skin, memorizing every detail. At his V-line, just under his stomach laid a thick vein that disappears under his pants.You had almost forgotten he was still wearing them, and how he was practically bursting out of them. You wondered. What would happen if you ran a single finger along the tented fabric? The reaction would be a soft mewl followed by involuntary twitching coming from the area. He was so reactive. In this state, he would do absolutely anything you asked. You knew this and would gladly take advantage.
“I want these off.” That's all you say before he removes them in one swift motion.
And there it was. Standing at full mast, twitching and gushing was his cock. The size would be a challenge to handle for certain. But the way it was harshly pink as if screaming neglect, how could you ignore it any longer. You grasp it in your hand firmly drawing a gasp from the man above. You run your thumb along the base taking note of the thick protruding vein along it. You begin with a few slow experimental pumps watching clear liquid beginning to ooze at his mushroom tip. Pierrot’s eyebrows are scrunched, eyes squeezed shut as a red hue paints his cheeks. It was refreshing to see how affected he was by your motion. It only served to drive you further, to see what other reactions you could pull from him. Your hand slowly rises in tempo as you focus on the upper base and tip. Pierrot could be heard mumbling and stammering in a language you couldn't quite understand. His hips jerk up into your fist as you work.
You slow your pace. He looks down at you doe eyed. You couldn't help but smile amused by his pouting.
“Oh, trust me you're gonna love this part.”
What were you plotting? The cogs roll in his mind as he watches your hand move down his base to his sack. You then lick a long slow stripe up his length. He can barely shudder before he watches your soft lips close around his tip and begin to sink down, lower and lower. You take as much of him as you can down your throat. His eyes widen at the site, a strangled sob follows as his head falls back. His claws rip at your sheets as he tries and fails to collect himself. You knew he’d love that. Your head begins to bob up and down slowly. He was savory in taste and twitched against your tongue. You gather saliva, lubricating him as you move your free hand back to his base as you focus on licking and prodding at his tip.
“You’re close, I know you are. Give it to me..” you say before going back to his leaky tip. It was so hard to hold back with you. He was trying so hard to be a gentleman and not push your head down with his hand but he couldn’t help it. He was gentle, holding your head as he moved faster, eyes crossing. Then he erupted. He all but growled while holding your head as his pumps became slower and thick white hot liquid poured down your throat. You lick your lips as you watch his dazed expression.
Before you can process it you are laid on your back, legs spread wide as a huffing Pierrot lays his head on your neck. One large palm is clutching your hip. The other on your head board, threatening to shatter it. He ruts his thick tip against your clit, desperately whining against your ear.
“Need inside.. Need to feel you.. Please let me..” It wasn't an ask. It was a plea, an imploration, as if needing you was a means of survival.
You angle your hips slightly upward, the tip catching between your slippery folds. He slides in.
Your walls quickly feel full. You grip his arm for purchase as you squeeze around him. Your body was resisting him. He couldn't have that happening, he was almost all the way in. He gave you a few moments to relax around him before attempting to roll his hips deeper. Just a little more. After a few languid thrusts, the slap of skin hits his ears and he knows he's balls deep inside you. He couldn't hold back any longer. A string of 'I'm sorry's' fall from him as his pace picks up as he begins to piston inside you at an impossible rate. The sound of sinful squelching and slapping fills the air as he does so. Your head board slams against the wall behind it as your bed creaks at every motion. He was absolutely drunk off the feeling of your warmth and tightness. All coherent thought and caution are thrown to the wind as he only has one objective at this moment. He needed to breed you. He needed to fill that sweet pussy of yours with his thick seed over and over, again and again. You needed to be leaking so he could fuck it back into you. The very thought brought him closer and closer as his thrusts became more sporadic. The grip of his hand on your hips was almost enough to break skin but you didn't care. You were too busy riding the tsunami that was about to crash upon your shores. You were sure you would get a very annoyed complaint from your neighbor later. But oh well. This was way too amazing to care. Your legs circle his waist as best as you could manage considering his pace. You were the first to Blow, legs squeezing around him impossibly as your nails surely left red scratches down his back. This would drive him to his breaking point. Warmth fills your abdomen as convulsed inside you. The air felt thin. Both of you huffing and puffing, sweat pooling. You pull him down for a very sloppy kiss as he pulls you both up. Now in a sitting position as your tongues dance, he reaches behind you placing one of your pillows toward the middle of the bed.
“Lay on your stomach.”
You do so, thankful for the extra cushion. Your limbs would probably give out without it. He spreads your cheeks open, watching the white liquid trickle out and down your slit. He gathers it on his tip before pushing back in. Was he.. Harder? How was that even possible? You feel something soil around your leg as he begins to thrust. A tail? You would try to care more later. For now you were too busy drooling at the new angle. It gave him a direct shot to your sweet spot. Hands around your torso as if you were a life line. A hot languid lick up the side of your neck before a sharp sting. He was marking you, inside and out. He needed to feel you close. As close as possible. To hell with the pillow. He lifted you with his arms. Your back against his chest, left hand moving to your collar bone, Right hand cradling your abdomen. He was so deep he could feel his tip bulging through your stomach as he moved. Your eyes roll into your skull, grasping at his arms or whatever you could for purchase for fear of falling over. But he would never let you fall. He knew your human body couldn't take much more. What a shame, he'd do this for days on end if you let him. But even so he wanted you to cum again. His right hand moved from your abdomen to your poor swollen clit, thumb drawing rhythmic circles to it. He could be heard cooing soft praises, and pleas in your ear as he does so.
A broken cry leaves you, hot tears dampening your cheeks as your back arches off of him. you ride out your high clutching one of his horns . He grips your hips once more, heavy balls slapping against your puffy lips. He finally empties himself inside you holding your body against his as his head falls against your shoulder. He held you there for a moment savoring your warmth. He peppers your neck in kisses, licking at the red mark on your shoulder as a silent apology.
He layed you down on your back as he moves to lay on your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist. You feel exhaustion sweep over you. Your hand combs through his hair as a quiet rumbling can be heard from him. The outside faded away in this respite you two shared. Of course you both would have to return world and its harsh people. But for now you two lovesick fools would soak in every second of this. Although...
You were sore and couldn't walk.
You'd definitely need to call in sick for tomorrow.
A/n: I finally finished! Again sorry this took so damn long. I really hope you enjoyed it as much as I loved and hated making it. I just want to preface that I have no idea what Pierrot looks like under the outfit and I'm just going off of headcanons. I can't wait to find out when its revealed in the game. But anywho, thanks for sticking around and I hope to see ya'll stop by on my future works.
You reappear in your bra and panties from the bathroom, setting his wicked heart into pure panic.
"My...! My Lady! I'm not worthy to see you like that! Oh dear...!" He presses his hands to his eyes, yet keeps his fingers slightly open, allowing him to still see.
And it does nothing to hide his perverted, drooling smile.
You stop, stunned.
"Pierrot... We just slept together. What are you even saying?"
✧Harlequin✧
"Tease." Harley walks past you, his toothbrush in his mouth, not even looking at you.
You stop dead in your tracks, furious.
"You only have a towel around your hips right now! Whore!"
"Say it again, babe. It goes straight to my cock." He smirks
✧Jester✧
"How dare you?" He demands, offended, "Is this you testing my patience?"
You stop, towel still wrapped around your hair, freshly out of the shower, in clean new undergarment.
"I, huh... I didn't think you would mind since we just..."
"Wearing red laced lingerie like that. I clearly remember ordering you to wear purple from now on." He rumbles, looking down on you from all his height, "Do you have anything to say to save yourself, foolish little pet?"
✧Ticket Taker✧
"Let me open that." He whispers, seeing you in difficulties.
And he unclips your bra, revealing your breast to his eyes, plenty satisfied.
"I didn't know you knew how to open a bra." You chuckle, attacking his ear with nibbles and gentle biting.
"Do you take me for an amateur, Dear one? I must know my arts to please my woman."
"Pervert." You tease.
He slaps your ass.
"For you? Always, Dear one."
✧Doctor✧
"Let me help."
And he cautiously clips your bra close in your back, seeing you in difficulties.
"Thanks, Doctor." You flush, cheeks still hot of your sinful activities ten minutes ago.
"No worries. Are you alright? Are you sore?"
"I think I am alright." You smile bashfuly, "I just have to take in that... We did it."
He kisses your shoulder gently.
"I can help with a massage. Or another... 'Inspection'." He smirks deviously, sending your heart in a frenzy.
-We all know he gets jealous very easily, he would never get rough though, atleast, not with you.
-You can feel a burning gaze from you don't even know where as Harlequin inspects his own pin that's on your shirt collar. He's smug about it as usual.
-Later, you know you're being watched but you don't try to look and see where the gaze is coming from, that is until you're alone, to which you feel yourself being pushed down onto any surface that's around you.
-You shrieked before your body is turned around to face Pierrot, he looks sad, " My lady... Please stay away from that Harlequin.. Please? I can show you my love for you... I swear I can-- just- if you'd let me.. " He practically begs with his eyes, and who are you to decline the poor guy?
-It's passionate, every thrust he delivers is a promise, a promise to give you anything and everything you want, just for you to love him, and only him.
-Every squeeze, every sound, anything that conveys a silent admission that you love him the same, he goes crazy. His thrusts will even get sloppier, he just wants to feel you. He wants to know that you would never leave him for anything nor anyone.
-Harlequin will be taken care of later.
Harlequin
-He doesn't take a second to notice the fact that you aren't wearing his pin, yet you're wearing Pierrots.
-He doesn't know if you're trying to tease him, or if you're really just not interested in him. But let me tell ya, if he finds out you're only doing this to tease him, oh boy...
-He will make you pay, he will make you admit to him that you only want him. He will fuck you up until you finally spew out how pathetic you are just for him.
" Such a little meretriz, just remember you wanted this, you wanted me to overeact, did you not~? " Grabs your chin, bringing your head back against his shoulder as he rams into you from behind, his thrusts nothing but possessive and punishing, " You're going to take it, you started it~ " His tentacles then come up to wrap around your neck, not to necessarily choke you, but just enough to get the point across.
-He likely won't stop until you finally admit the words he wants to hear, and trust me, he can most definitely keep going for however long he wants, you wouldn't want to try it.
Ticket Taker
-He wouldn't show his jealousy, you would have to really try and pry, or be a little bit perceptive to notice his feelings.
-He might be a little meaner to you, he's not necessarily mad at you, he's just, well, he's stubborn. But then again, he doesn't like the feeling you make him feel.
-When he gets tired of it, he'll lure you into his tent, and then when you least expect it, you'll feel someone grabbing you, a gloved hand coming over your mouth to shush you.
" I cannot tell if you're doing this on purpose, either way, you're going to take care of the things you started. " You yelp as you feel sharp teeth of him grazing your skin, you physically prepare youself for a bite by tensing up.
-His thrusts are slow, but rough. Making sure you feel every bit of him, marking his way inside of you, so you and him know that you are his.
-His arms are surrounding your body, one on your waist, another on your shoulders, hoisting you up against him whilst your entire body shudders with each slow but punishing thrust of his.
-He doesn't usally get too jealous, nor does he show it a lot, however, even the small jealousy mixing in with his stress from the circus can really get to him sometimes.
Jester
-He rarely ever gets jealous, though on the off-chance he does, he doesn't really show it, his passive-agressiveness just increases really. It's almost impossible to spot, and if you do spot it and decide to point it out to him...
-I feel he wouldn't show it at all, the only way is if he knew you knew that he was jealous. He'd get even more riled up if you did it on purpose.
-You wouldn't notice him around, it honestly scared you. That is until you feel a hand on your shoulder and see the face of the Jester appearing at the corner of your eye.
" I know what you're doing, I would have given you a chance off the hook, yet you decided to take advantage of the feelings I have for you, " He pushes you up against some crates from behind, pushing you down by your back, " Mh, just know, you did this to yourself, pet. "
-Pain mixes with the pleasure as you feel swift smacks against your ass, he isn't the one thrusting into you, he's ordering you to thrust yourself onto him instead. He wants you to work for it by showing him how much you need him, and only him.
-Sure, it may seem he is punishing you, but really he just wants to see how desperate you get for him, how much you want and need him, the things you do for him to let him know you won't betray him, to let him know you're different than those other insufferable humans.
Doctor
-I'm not sure this guy really knows what jealousy is, though, if he saw you visiting the other circus member tents other than his, at first he wouldn't think much of it since well, nobody likes to visit the Doctor.
-After a while, he realizes how much he yearns to examine you, how much he needs to feel your beautiful, admirable, human body.
-He would most likely order a fool to take you to him, even forcefully if needed. He feels desperation to feel your skin, see your fear, all of it, he wants to see again.
" You seem long overdue of your appointment, sweetie. I know my tent is not the most favorable, yet I feel the need of your presence. I promise to go easy, my sweet patient. " His claws draw near your intimate regions whilst you're laid near the edge of an operating table.
-His thrusts are deep, yet slow. He leaves his pace that way for a while, wanting to see every twitch, every reaction, every sound all coming from you. His claws do dig into you, drawing the liquid shade of red he loves to see.
-Most of what he feels isn't necessarily jealousy, it's more of a longing to feel you again, to feel the things he wants had. He'll make sure he pays attention to every detail mustered by you.
