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❛ 𝟹𝟶 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝓈 ❜ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉 𝓍 𝑔𝓃! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

— pierrot x gn! reader

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: pierrot x gn! reader · smut · oral (giving) · quickie · thighjob · praise kink · marking/biting · possessive behavior · aftercare · emotional hurt/comfort · performance anxiety · trauma processing · established relationship · fluffy aftercare · semi-public · size difference · overstimulation · worship vibes.

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

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