#the freak

[brenshor]

She is absolutely horrified Clark. Horrified. Damn your buns of steel.

[iyayadonna]

✑ 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎: 𝒶𝓎𝑒𝑒𝑒 𝓌𝑒 𝑜𝓊𝓉𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒𝑒𝑒 .ᐟ ꩜ 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈𝓆𝓊𝑒

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

✑ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈:  A rare day off. No blood, no bargains, no circus politics. Just Pierrot and Harlequin, and an ordinary outing that quickly becomes anything but ordinary.

Among the aisles of the grocery store, petty arguments, snacks snatched from the hands of others, and the sunlight reflecting a little too softly off the paint on their faces, the tension builds. Not dangerous. Not violent. Just… different. Quiet. Almost human like.

For once, no one is performing.

But when these two TFC grotesque try to act normal, is it ever really just a simple hangout?

✑ 𝓌𝒸: 16.7k

𝒶/𝓃: sooo things were getting a little too freaky for my liking, so we’re having fun instead... kinda! so heavily inspired by me with my two hb in IRL every time we go shopping... ughh... just same damn chaos, different clowns. i might do more duos like this....

✑ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: longgg oneshot · pierrot x gn! reader x harlequin · domestic fluff · psychological horror undertones · trauma · grief · found family · inkyette OC! (Lore) · belonging · soft moments in the dark · monsters learning to heal… somewhat…

The circus looked gentle in the afternoon.

You had seen it under the midnight sky, full of shadowy purple hues. You had caught a glimpse of it during the inquisition, when it had been transformed into a platform for your most hidden thoughts. But never like this, bathed in the pale light of the morning, almost serene, the rides and tents resembling a forgotten fairground rather than a lair of grotesques.

You stood at the back gate, Inkyette's poppet form cradled in your arms, waiting for Ticket Taker to let you in.

❝You're fidgeting,❞ Inkyette's voice murmured, the doll's head tilting to look up at you.

"I'm not fidgeting. I'm just... anticipating?"

❝Right, you're fidgeting. It's adorable.❞

Before you could say anything back, the gate swung open. The both of you see Ticket Taker stood there, impeccable as always, his white eye scanning you both.

"Visitor," he greeted, the word a designation rather than a greeting. “Inkyette. You're expected."

He stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter. As you passed, his hand caught your elbow, gently like, but with unmistakable authority.

"A word."

You stopped. Inkyette's poppet form went still in your arms.

The Ticket Taker's white and blue looked to her, then back to you. 

"The Poppet has informed me of your... arrangement for today. The outing with the Harlequin and Pierrot today." He mentioned before adding on, "I want to be clear about something." His voice dropped, losing its professional veneer, well just slightly. "Of all the members of this circus, those two are the most... variable. Pierrot appears quiet, but his emotional regulation is unpredictable. Harlequin appears chaotic, because he is chaotic. Together, they are a statistical anomaly of poor decision-making."

You blinked. "I mean, I know Harlequin can be a lot, but Pierrot is usually pretty—"

"Quiet?" The Ticket Taker’s, his now white eye blinked in what might have been amusement. "Yes. Quiet. Until he isn't. Until something reminds him of what he's lost, or something threatens what he's found, or simply because the wind changes direction." He sighed—a precise, measured exhalation. "I am not saying this to frighten you. I am saying it so you understand: you will be managing variables today. Not simply... hanging out."

Inkyette's voice piped up from your arms. ❝Bileteiro, you're terrifying them. Look, they're sweating.❞

You wiped your forehead self-consciously. You were sweating. Just a little.

The Ticket Taker's gaze softened, just like a micrometer, barely perceptible. "I am not threatening you. I am warning you. There is a difference." He straightened, professional mask snapping back. "They are on a curfew. Seven PM. Not a minute later. The Jester was... explicit on this point."

"Seven PM," you repeated, filing it away. "Got it."

"you don't," he said flatly. "But you will. Seven PM means seven PM. Not 7:01. Not 7:02. Seven. PM." He paused. "The Jester and I does not make requests. He makes statements. This was a statement."

❝Alright, alright, enough,❞ Inkyette interrupted, her doll form wiggling in your arms. ❝You've made your point. They're properly terrified now. Let them have their fun before you stamp 'ANXIETY' on their permanent record.❞

The Ticket Taker regarded her for a long moment, then gave a single, precise nod.

"Very well. The subjects are waiting in the east tent. The one with the—" He paused, seeming to search for the right word. "—the commotion."

"Commotion?"

But he was already walking away, his footsteps echoing with metronomic precision.

You looked down at Inkyette. "Commotion?"

❝Oh, didn't I mention?❞ Her painted smile widened. ❝Harlequin apparently woke everyone at six AM. Already dressed. Buzzing. There was... discourse. Yelling. The Jester had to intervene and tell him to take his butt back to bed…❞

"Six AM."

❝Six AM, yeahhh, he was excited.❞

You stared at her. "Excited. Harlequin. Was excited about a grocery trip."

❝And Pierrot, apparently, has ‘lost’ his voice too.❞

"...What?"

❝Just go. You'll see.❞ She wiggled again. ❝Put me down. I have repairs today. Jester's finally approved a new body for me—proper sized, like the others. We'll talk later.❞

You carefully set the poppet on a nearby crate. "New body? Like—possession? How does that even—"

❝Long story. Short version: I can possess objects. Doll form is my first, my home. But I've been interacting with you enough that Jester and Bileteiro think I'm ready for an upgrade. Still a poppet, still not alive alive, but... bigger. More present.❞ She paused. ❝Less portable.❞

"That's... amazing. And terrifying. And amazing."

❝That's me in a nutshell. Now go. Your disasters await.❞

She went still, just a doll again, her painted smile frozen in place.

You turned toward the east tent—the one with the commotion—and walked. The east tent was, as promised, full of commotion. Like you heard Harlequin before you saw him—his dual-toned voice carrying through the canvas in a series of complaints, demands, and what sounded like accusations about someone stealing his aesthetic.

You pushed through the flap. And stopped.

Two figures stood in the tent, both so thoroughly covered that you almost didn't recognize them. Like, Pierrot was... bundled. That was the only word for it. An oversized hoodie in dark grey, hood pulled up over what you could now see was a baseball cap worn underneath it. A medical mask covered the lower half of his face. Dark sunglasses hid his amber eye. His long white hair was completely tucked away, vanished into the layers. Wide-leg cargo pants. Chunky sneakers. Fingerless gloves.

He looked like a streetwear model who'd gotten lost on the way to a photo shoot and just... kept walking.

Harlequin was slightly more visible, but not by much. A short-sleeved hoodie over a long-sleeved base layer, the undershirt sleeves bunched dramatically at his forearms. Joggers tucked into combat boots. A second shirt—or jacket?—tied around his waist, sleeves knotted in front. A dark mask covered the lower part of his face, and his hood framed his black waves, leaving only that signature heart-curl visible.

They both turned as you entered.

Harlequin's eyes—visible even above the mask—lit up with unmistakable delight.

"Well, well, well," he purred, his voice slightly muffled by the mask but still managing to drip with mischief. "Look who finally showed up. We've been waiting forever. I was starting to think you'd abandoned us to the horrors of our own company."

"You've been waiting," you said flatly, "for approximately ten minutes. And I heard you woke everyone at six AM."

Harlequin's eyes widened. His mask did nothing to hide the way his jaw dropped.

"That—that's a lie. Who told you—"

"Ticket Taker." You smiled sweetly. "He sends his regards. And a reminder about seven PM."

Harlequin's indignant sputtering was cut short by a soft tap-tap on your arm. You turned. Pierrot stood there, holding out his phone. The screen displayed a message in neat, careful text:

「 hello. 」

You blinked at him, then at the phone, then back at him.

"Uh. Hi?"

Another message appeared, typed with surprising speed:

「 i not allowed to speak in public, so i’ll be using the phone in order to communicate. 」

Behind you, Harlequin snickered. "Yeah, sure. I'm pretty sure he's gonna try to speak—"

Pierrot's head whipped toward him. Even through the sunglasses and mask, you could feel the glare. His fingers flew across the phone.

「 do not. 」

Harlequin grinned, eyes dancing. "Do not what? Do not tell them how you were so excited about today that you spent an hour deciding which hoodie said 'casual but mysterious'?"

Pierrot's shoulders tightened. 「 i will end you. 」

"You'd have to catch me first, mournful. And with those sneakers? Doubtful.”

You watched this exchange with growing bewilderment.

This was... not what you'd expected. At all.

Pierrot turned back to you, typing furiously. The new message was longer: 「 harlequin is lying. i was not excited. i was simply... prepared. for the outing. which is normal. people prepare for outings. he, on the other hand, woke everyone at six am because he couldn't decide between two identical black shirts. 」

"I did not—"

「 you did. jester had to intervene. there was yelling. ticket taker filed an incident report. 」

"I—that—the report was unnecessary—"

You couldn't help it. You laughed. Both of them turned to look at you—Harlequin indignant, Pierrot—well, you assumed indignant, based on the body language. "Okay," you said, still grinning. "Okay. This is already the best day off I've ever had. Are we going shopping or what?"

Harlequin recovered first, his indignant expression melting into something more predatory—but playful, this time. Genuinely playful. "Oh, we're going shopping alright. And I have plans."

Pierrot's phone screen lit up:「 his plans are bad. i have veto power. 」

"You do not have veto power—"

「 jester gave me veto power. specifically for today. ask him. 」

Harlequin's mouth opened, then closed. His eyes narrowed.

"...I'm going to have words with the management."

「 you already did. at six am. it did not go well for you. 」

You watched them bicker, something warm blooming in your chest. This was ridiculous. This was absurd. This was two ancient, terrifying creatures arguing like siblings over who got veto power for a grocery trip.

And somehow, impossibly, it was exactly what you needed.

"Alright, you two," you interrupted, stepping between them. "Veto power can be settled later. Right now, we have three stores to hit, a curfew to respect, and apparently a lot of chaotic energy to burn through." You looked at Harlequin. "You. No starting fights at “all during this trip You looked at Pierrot. "You. Phone voice is adorable. Use it liberally."

Pierrot's shoulders relaxed slightly. The phone screen lit up:

「 ...adorable? 」

"Adorable," you confirmed.

Behind you, Harlequin made a gagging sound. "Oh, wonderful. We're doing feelings now. In public. Where people can see."

You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "You woke up at six AM because you couldn't decide between two black shirts. You don't get to mock feelings today."

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"That's—that's different—"

「 it's really not. 」 Pierrot's phone screen held up helpfully.

Harlequin's indignant sputtering followed you all the way out of the tent.

Soon, the three of you walked through the silent circus grounds toward the main gate. The sun was higher now, warming the canvas and casting long shadows between the tents.

Harlequin had recovered the strays he caught, striding ahead with that familiar predatory grace that somehow translated even through joggers and combat boots. Pierrot walked beside you, close but not touching, his phone ready in his gloved hand.

You glanced at him. "So. Phone voice. How does that work, exactly? You just... type everything?"

He nodded, fingers moving:「 yes. it's... different. but i can say more this way. normally i forget words. or get stuck. typing helps. 」

"Huh." You considered this. "That's actually kind of smart."

His shoulders lifted slightly—a shrug, you realized. But pleased.「 harlequin says it's 'creepy.' 」

"Harlequin says a lot of things." You raised your voice slightly. "Most of them wrong!"

"I heard that!" came from ahead.

「 you were meant to. 」 Pierrot typed, and you could feel the smugness radiating from him.

The main gate loomed ahead. The Ticket Taker wasn't visible, but you had no doubt he was watching from somewhere. Probably taking notes and making sure everything is okay before you leave. 

Harlequin reached the gate first, spinning to face you with his arms spread wide. "Freedom!" he announced, his voice slightly muffled by the mask but still theatrical. "The open road! The world beyond! Today, we conquer—"

Pierrot walked past him without stopping, holding up his phone:「 we're going to grocery stores. calm yo ass down. 」

You snorted.

Harlequin's arms dropped. "You're ruining my moment. And “you don’t talk like that, you learned that from Inkyette.”

「 your moment was unnecessary. 」

"It was dramatic! There's a difference!"

「 there really isn't. 」

You slipped between them, grabbing each by an arm—Harlequin's solid and warm, Pierrot's thin but strong through the hoodie sleeve. "Come on, you two. We've got three stores, seven hours, and apparently a lot of chaotic energy to burn. Let's go."

Harlequin perked up immediately, falling into step beside you. "Ooh, three stores? Which ones? Please say there's a mall. I want to judge people's outfit choices."

Pierrot's phone screen appeared over your shoulder:

「 you don't dress well either. 」

“I’m undercover. It's different."

「 it's really not. 」

You laughed, and for a moment—just a moment—everything was simple. Just three friends (could you call them that? Yes, you decided, you could) walking toward a day of ordinary chaos. The Ticket Taker's warnings faded. Inkyette's confidence in you felt earned.

What could possibly go wrong?

So. Shopping with Harlequin and Pierrot was... a show.

Not the usual kind—no spotlights, no audiences, no performances designed to thrill or terrify. This was different. This was pure, unfiltered them with the curtains pulled back and the costumes off.

And it was entertaining.

You'd made the executive decision to take your car rather than risk public transportation. The bus was out of the question—too many eyes, too many questions, too many chances for someone to recognize that the tall, pale figure in the back wasn't quite human. Your car was safer, of course.

Mind you, the damn argument started before you even reached the vehicle. Before you even reach your destination.

"I'm sitting in front." Harlequin had already positioned himself by the passenger door, arms crossed, chin lifted in what he clearly thought was an authoritative pose.

Pierrot said nothing—because he couldn't—but his phone screen appeared over Harlequin's shoulder with impressive speed: 「 no. 」

"It's not 'no.' It's common sense. I'm more present. Better company. Better conversationalist."

「 you talk too much. i'll be quiet. better for driver. 」

"I will be selectively talkative. There's a difference."

「 there really isn't. 」

You unlocked the car, ignoring them both. "Get in. Both of you. We're burning daylight."

Harlequin made a grab for the front door handle, but Pierrot was faster—not in speed, but in presence. He simply... moved. His tall frame unfolded, and suddenly he was there, blocking Harlequin's access, his masked face tilting down at the green one with an expression you could feel even through the sunglasses.

「 i'm taller. i need the space. 」

"I'm average height for a human male—"

「 you're above average. but i'm well above average. front seat has more leg room. back seat will be tight for me. 」

Harlequin's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "That's... that's actually a fair point. I hate that it's a fair point."

「 i know. plus i’m older than you anyway. 」

You watched this exchange from the driver's seat, having already gotten in and started the engine. The sheer silliness of it—two ancient, terrifying creatures arguing over leg room—was doing things to your ability to keep a straight face.

Harlequin, grumbling, climbed into the back seat. He folded himself in with surprising grace, though his knees pressed against the back of the passenger seat.

"This is degrading," he announced. "I am a monster. A creature of shadows and terror. And I'm sitting in the back like a child on a family road trip."

Pierrot settled into the front seat with considerably more ease, though even he had to adjust the seat back several clicks to accommodate his long legs. Once situated, he pulled out his phone:

「 you're a very dramatic child. 」

"I will end you."

「 you'll have to catch me first. good luck from back there. 」

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard, and focused on your phone. Music. You needed music. And navigation. And definitely, absolutely, positively not to make a face at the chaos unfolding beside you.

"What are we listening to?" Harlequin's voice came from the back, already leaning forward between the seats. "Something with energy. None of that sad mournful stuff Pierrot likes."

「 my music has depth. yours is just noise. 」

"It's called rhythm, you uncultured—"

"If either of you touches my aux cord," you interrupted calmly, still scrolling through playlists, "you're walking."

Silence. Blessed, beautiful silence. You glanced up. Pierrot's masked face was turned toward you, and you could have sworn there was something like respect in his posture. In the back seat, Harlequin had leaned back, arms crossed, but his eyes were bright with amusement.

"Bold," he murmured. "I like bold."

「 don't support them, 」 Pierrot's phone screen read. 「 they'll get ideas. 」

"Too late," you said, and hit play on a playlist called Driving With Chaos. "I've already got plenty."

The first notes of something upbeat and ridiculous filled the car. Harlequin's foot started tapping immediately. Pierrot's head tilted, listening, then gave a small nod of approval.

And just like that, you were on the road.

The grocery store was a local gem—the kind of place tourists never found since locals guarded like a secret. It specialized in affordable, locally-sourced produce, which meant you could get better food here for half the price of the chain stores.

You pulled into the parking lot, already mentally running through your list. Apples. Oranges. Bagels for quick breakfasts. Maybe some of those really good strawberries if they were in season—

The car wasn't even fully parked before Pierrot was moving.

You'd never seen someone exit a vehicle so fast. One moment he was beside you, the next he was gone, the door closing with a soft click as he strode toward the entrance with purpose.

"What the—" Harlequin started. Then you both saw it.

Pierrot reaching the cart return. Pulling out a quarter. Inserting it into a cart with the smooth precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. "He... he had a quarter," you said blankly. "Ready. In his hand. The whole time."

Harlequin stared. "I didn't even know he had pockets in those pants."

By the time you and Harlequin caught up, Pierrot was already at the entrance, shopping cart at the ready, waiting with the patience of a man who had just won a race no one else knew they were running.

「 i got a cart, 」 his phone screen read, and you could feel the smugness radiating from him.

"You—" Harlequin sputtered. "That's—you cheated—"

「 how is having a quarter cheating. 」

"You didn't tell us you had a quarter!"

「 you didn't ask. 」

Before Harlequin could respond, a miraculous sound reached your ears: the distinctive rattle of a stray shopping cart left near the entrance. Someone's abandoned cart, sitting right there, waiting to be claimed.

Harlequin's eyes went wide. 

He was moving before you could blink, grabbing the cart with the triumph of a predator who had just spotted prey. "HA!" He spun it around, presenting it like a trophy. "See? I have a cart too. Now we're even."

Pierrot's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly.

「 that doesn't count. 」

"Counts to me."

You watched this exchange with the dawning realization that this was going to be your entire day. And somehow, impossibly, you were here for it. "Alright, cart warriors," you interrupted, pulling out your phone with your shopping list open. "I have a list. I have a mission. Try to keep up."

You walked into the store without looking back. 

Behind you, the sound of two carts—one pushed with quiet dignity, one with theatrical swagger—followed.

Inside, the grocery store was busy but not crowded—perfect for a focused shopping trip. You'd done this a hundred times alone. You had a system. A method. However that same  method did not account for two ancient monsters trailing behind you like ducklings.

You were locked in, phone in hand, eyes scanning the aisles. Apples—there. You grabbed a bag, started selecting. Then moved on to oranges. Then bagels. Then the really good strawberries, in season, yes, you grabbed two containers. Behind you, the cart parade continued—Pierrot's quiet and organized, Harlequin's swerving occasionally as he got distracted by things.

At some point, you realized you'd lost them. Not entirely—you could still hear Harlequin's voice from two aisles over, silly imagining him arguing with someone about the merits of different pasta shapes—but they'd stopped following you.

Fine. You had a list. You could circle back.

You grabbed the last few items, checked your notes, and turned the corner toward the international foods section—

And there was Pierrot.

He appeared beside you like a ghost, shopping cart in tow, and held up his phone before you could ask: 「 i got ingredients. for dinner. at the circus. 」

You blinked. "You're... cooking for everyone?"

He nodded, then typed rapidly: 「 tonight dinner feijoada. black bean and meat stew. everyone at the circus eats a lot of protein. 」

He showed you a video on his phone—someone making the dish, the beans bubbling, the meat browning, all of it looking incredibly rich and savory. "That looks amazing," you admitted. "I had no idea you cooked."

「 i cook a lot. it's... calming. reminds me of before. 」

Something soft passed through his posture, quickly hidden.

You looked down at your own cart—full of fruit and bagels and very little protein—and made a joke without thinking.

"Well, I'm basically buying rabbit food over here. Guess I don't fit in with you big meat-eaters, huh?"

Pierrot went rigid. His masked face turned to you, and even through the sunglasses, you could feel the weight of his attention—suddenly serious, suddenly worried.

His phone was out and typing before you could blink:

「 i can make other things. vegan dishes. vegetarian. whatever you need. i can learn. i can adjust recipes. you don't have to eat meat. i'll make you something else. something good. something you'll like. just tell me what you want and i'll— 」

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." You reached out, touching his arm gently. "Pierrot. Hey. Look at me."

He did, his whole body trembling slightly beneath your hand.

"It was a joke. A dumb joke. I was kidding."

He stared at you. His phone screen updated:「 ...kidding? 」

"Kidding. Like... funny ha-ha. Not serious. I don't actually think I don't fit in because of my grocery choices." You squeezed his arm. "I was making fun of myself. Because I eat like a University student."

The tension in his shoulders didn't fully release, but it eased. Slightly.

「 you're sure? 」

"I'm sure." You smiled at him, soft and genuine. "But thank you. For offering. For caring enough to offer."

He looked at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his phone screen changed:

「 ...okay. but if you ever do want something specific. vegan or otherwise. just tell me. i'll make it just for you. 」

"Deal." Your eyes drifted from Pierrot's phone to where Harlequin had wandered off. He was at the end of the aisle, grabbing things with the enthusiasm of a child in a candy store, his cart already overflowing with chip bags and... was that a family-sized jar of pickles?

Like everything in this grocery cart was just a shade of green to be honest. And… He looked content. Genuinely content. His shoulders were relaxed, his movements loose, and he was humming something under his breath that might have been a song or might have been pure nonsense.

You turned back to Pierrot. "He's... happy."

Pierrot followed your gaze, then nodded slowly. His phone screen lit up:「 he doesn't get to do this. normal things. he's always performing. this is... good for him. 」

You smiled. "Good. He deserves nice things."

Pierrot's head tilted, something unreadable in his posture. Then he gestured toward the meat section ahead, and you followed.

The seafood counter stretched before you, all ice and gleaming fish and little flags with prices. Pierrot stopped in front of a massive cut of salmon—beautiful, pink, and marked down to a price that made you do a double-take.

「 last time we shopped together, 」 his phone read, 「 he did this. 」

You glanced at him. "Did what?"

「 grabbed the most expensive salmon. didn't look at the price. just... grabbed. expected me to cook it. 」

You snorted. "Let me guess. You cooked it?"

A long-suffering nod.

「 he's banned from the kitchen. has been many years. doesn't stop him from requesting things. 」

"Banned, huh? What did he do?"

Pierrot was quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, his fingers moved:「 i watched him try to cut vegetables once. he didn't use the cutting board. just... the counter. directly on the counter. 」

You stared at him. "The... the kitchen counter? Like, the surface?"

「 yes. just... chop chop chop. right on the granite. i still find marks sometimes. 」

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. "That's—how—why—"

「 i have no answers. only trauma. 」

You were still giggling as you moved further into the meat section, Pierrot's cart rolling quietly beside you. The beef section was next—ground beef in neat little packages, prices ranging from "okay" to "absolutely not."

You leaned down, picking up a packet to check the price. Too high. You put it back, grabbed another. Better. You held it up triumphantly.

"Found one!"

Pierrot leaned in, squinting at the price tag. Then he reached for his own packet, holding it next to yours. 「 mine is cheaper. 」

You looked at his. Looked at yours. Looked at his again. "No way. Let me see that." He held it closer, and you took it, comparing the tiny printed numbers with the focus of someone solving a murder. "Okay, yeah, yours is cheaper by like... twelve cents."

「 twelve cents is twelve cents. 」

"You're not wrong." You handed his back. "Good eye."

He nodded, pleased, and reached for another packet—then stopped. His phone screen lit up: 「 wait. you're getting one too? 」

You blinked at him. "Yeah? For myself?"

「 i thought you were just... looking. for me. 」

"Why would I—I need ground beef too, Pierrot. I eat meat.”

He stared at you. You stared back. 「 ...i didn't think of that. 」

"You thought I was just... what? Helping you grocery shop out of the goodness of my heart?"

「 ...yes? 」 That’s so real so you couldn't help it. You laughed—a real, warm laugh that made his shoulders relax and his head tilt in that curious way. "That's adorable. But no, I need food too. I'm a human being who eats. Remember?"

「 right. right. of course. i knew that. 」

"Sure you did."

He was still typing a response, when a familiar voice cut through the moment. "Well, what do we have here?" Harlequin appeared around the corner, his cart of chaos rolling behind him. He popped his head between you and Pierrot, eyes narrowing at the proximity. "Getting cozy in the meat section, are we? How domestic."

Pierrot's phone screen lit up immediately: 「 we're comparing prices. something you don't understand. 」

"Ooh, prices. How thrilling." Harlequin's voice dripped with sarcasm. "I forgot how exciting it is to watch you two bond over math."

「 at least i can read prices. remember the salmon incident? 」

Harlequin's face twitched. "That was one time—"

「 you bought the most expensive salmon without looking. then expected me to cook it. 」

"You did cook it though. And it was delicious."

「 that's not the point. 」

"It's exactly the point."

You watched them bicker, something warm settling in your chest. Then your eyes drifted to Harlequin's cart. And stopped. "Harlequin."

"What?"

"Why do you have three whole pineapples in your cart?"

He glanced back at his haul—the chips, the pickles, the random boxes of things, and yes, three massive pineapples sitting on top like tropical crowns.

"I like pineapple."

"You're a meat eater. All of you are. You said everyone at the circus eats mostly protein."

"We do. But I—" He paused, seeming to search for words. "I like some human food. Still. Sometimes I want something different. Something that isn't just... flesh and blood and whatever else we scavenge."

He looked almost defensive now, his usual swagger dimmed.

"Can't someone like me have different days? Can't I want something human sometimes?" His eyes met yours, suddenly vulnerable. "Like... like a normal person? Just for a day?" The question hung in the air between you. You opened your mouth to respond—

Pierrot's phone screen appeared in your peripheral vision: 「 no. 」

Harlequin's mouth opened and closed several times, fish-like. You watched the exchange with growing amusement, the pineapples temporarily forgotten. "You know what?" he finally managed. "I'm taking my pineapples and my dignity and I'm going to..."

「 to the checkout? because we're almost done. 」

"I—" He deflated slightly. "...Yes. Fine. To the checkout." He grabbed his cart and began marching toward the front of the store, dignity barely intact. You and Pierrot watched him go, then exchanged a look.

"Let's go before he doesn't something dumb."

「 agreed. 」

Afterwards, the parking lot was quiet as you popped the trunk, revealing the modest haul from the first store. It fit neatly—your fruits and bagels, Pierrot's stew ingredients, and Harlequin's mountain of chaos—plus three pineapples, now slightly bruised from their great escape.

You pulled out your phone, opening a notes app. "Alright. Ticket Taker asked me to keep track of expenses, so let's do a quick recap. Who spent the most?"

Harlequin immediately pointed at Pierrot. "Him. Definitely him. Look at all that fancy meat."

Pierrot's phone screen lit up:

「 you bought three pineapples. and seven bags of chips. 」

"They were on sale—"

「 you don't even know what sale means. you grabbed them because the bags were colorful. 」

"I have aesthetic sensibilities—"

You held up a hand. "Both of you. Receipts. Now."

They stared at you. "Receipts," you repeated. "The little papers they gave you at checkout. You kept them, right?"

Harlequin's face went through a complex series of expressions. "I... may have... crumpled mine into a ball and thrown it into the parking lot."

「 i saw you do that. i said nothing. 」

"I do have a system. The system is 'out of sight, out of mind.'"

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Harlequin. Ticket Taker is going to audit you."

He paled. Actually paled, the grey and white of his skin lightening several shades. "He... he wouldn't. Not over chips. Not over pineapples."

「 he would. he absolutely would. you'll be lucky if you only get three forms. 」

"Three forms is nothing. I've done three forms in my sleep."

「 those are the informational forms. then come the itemized forms. then the justification forms. then the appeals. 」

Harlequin's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "I'm going to die. He's going to kill me with paperwork and no one will find my body for centuries."

You sighed, pulling out your own receipt. "I'll help you sort it out later. For now, let's just get to the next store before you two bankrupt yourselves further."

Harlequin's face lit up. "Wait—you'll help me? Really?"

"Someone has to. Clearly it's not going to be Pierrot."

「 i have my own receipts to organize. i'm not his keeper. 」

"You're literally the only reason he hasn't accidentally bought a car yet."

「 ...that's fair. 」

You closed the trunk, glancing between them. "At this point, am I even hanging out with you two, or am I just... babysitting? Running errands?"

Harlequin gasped, genuinely offended. "Babysitting? We're fully grown. Ancient, terrifying, adult creatures of the night."

「 you the youngest, woke everyone at six am because you couldn't decide between two shirts. 」

“Look we are not gonna keep bringing—“

“Stop, please,” you interrupted, but you were smiling. "Come on. Next store. And Harlequin?"

"Yeah?"

"Keep your receipt this time. Put it in your pocket. Remember it exists."

He saluted dramatically. “Fine, yes."

You were absolutely certain he would forget within five minutes.

The second store was smaller but infinitely more interesting—a little international market tucked between a laundromat and a bakery, its windows filled with colorful packages and unfamiliar labels. The moment you stepped inside, the smell hit you: spices, dried herbs, something warm and savory you couldn't identify.

Pierrot was already moving, grabbing a cart with the efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times. 

You glanced back at Harlequin. 

He was just... standing there. No cart. No basket. Just him.

"You're not getting a cart?"

He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don't really... know what I'm doing here."

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I know basics." He waved vaguely. "Food from... where I'm from. Brazilian stuff. Things I grew up with." Another shrug, more defensive this time. "Pierrot's the one who actually tries. Explores different cultures. Makes complicated dishes. I just... eat what he makes and pretend I know what's in it."

Something in his voice—a note of genuine insecurity, quickly masked—made your chest tighten. "Harlequin..."

"It's fine." His usual predaceous was back, forced but present. "I have other talents. I don't need to know how to cook to be terrifying."

"You don't need to know how to cook to be you," you corrected gently. "But if you ever want to learn, I'm sure Pierrot would—"

「 i would not. 」

Pierrot had reappeared, cart already containing several bunches of fresh herbs and what looked like three different kinds of onions. His phone screen was held high.

「 he's banned from the kitchen. permanently. the counter still bears scars. 」

"I told you, that was one time—"

「 you cut vegetables on granite. with no cutting board. i still find marks. i will always find marks. 」

You bit back a laugh. "Okay, okay. Kitchen privileges aside—Harlequin, if you want to grab a cart and explore, go ahead. We're not in a rush."

He glanced at the store entrance, then back at you. "Maybe I'll just... watch. See what you two do. Learn by observation."

"That's surprisingly mature of you."

"Don't sound so shocked."

You grinned. "No promises."

Moving on, Pierrot was thorough. You'd known he was meticulous, but watching him shop was like watching an artist at work—every aisle examined, every shelf scanned, every item on his phone's list checked and double-checked.

He went down every single aisle. Not quickly. Not with urgency. Just... methodically, making sure he hadn't missed anything. You wandered off a few times, grabbing things you'd forgotten from the first store—a jar of something pickled, a bag of coffee, a box of tea that caught your eye. Meanwhile, Harlequin picked up a jar of salsa, examined it with profound suspicion, and put it back like it had personally offended him.

"That's not salsa," he announced.

You glanced at the jar. "It says salsa on it."

"It's wrong salsa. It's—" He waved vaguely. "It's whatever they think salsa is. It's not real salsa."

"You have strong opinions about this."

"I have correct opinions about this. My salsa is better. My salsa is actual salsa. This is..." He made a face. "This is tomato sauce with ideas." Pierrot, who had been examining a jar of curry paste, looked up.

「 you've never tried it. 」

"I don't need to try it to know it's wrong."

「 that's not how food works. 」

"It's exactly how food works. Some things are objectively incorrect."

「 you're afraid of new things. 」

Harlequin's head whipped around. "I am not—"

「 you eat the same three things every day. meat. rice. beans. occasionally pineapple when you're feeling 'adventurous.' you've never once tried any of the dishes i make from other cultures. 」

“Okay? And? I watch you make them—"

「 watching isn't eating. you're afraid. it's okay. i'm just pointing it out. 」

Harlequin's mouth opened and closed several times. His face cycled through indignation, denial, and something that might have been genuine embarrassment.

You, wisely, said nothing. You simply pushed the cart forward, rolling your eyes at both of them, and headed toward the checkout.

Behind you, the argument continued:

"I am not afraid of food—"

「 then try the curry i made last week. you didn't. 」

"I was full—"

「 you ate three steaks immediately after. 」

"That was separate hunger—"

You tuned them out, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. This was ridiculous. This was absurd. This was two ancient creatures arguing about salsa in the middle of a grocery store.

And you wouldn't trade it for anything.

The checkout process was surprisingly smooth—no incidents, no pineapple escapes, no accidentally purchased stuff. Harlequin even kept his receipt, though he immediately handed it to you "for safekeeping" with the trust of a child giving their parent something important.

Pierrot paid for his haul with quiet efficiency, then stood by the bags, watching you complete your own transaction.

As you walked back to the car, bags swinging, Pierrot's phone screen lit up:

「 i wasn't expecting the prices to be so reasonable. 」

You glanced up at him. "What do you mean?"

「 places we usually shop... they're more expensive. for humans, i mean. we can afford it, but..." He paused, typing carefully. 「 it's nice to see what normal costs. what you pay. 」

"That's... actually really sweet." You loaded your bags into the trunk. "Speaking of which—how does the circus afford things? Like, what's your guys' deal? Do you have jobs? Investments? A really aggressive squirrel that brings you money?"

Pierrot appeared beside you, arms full of his own bags, still holding his phone out:「 We have resources. Ancient resources. Accumulated over centuries. 」

"So... you're rich?"

"We're comfortable."

Harlequin rolls his eyes, “We’re very rich. he's being modest.”

「 Harlequin. 」

“What? they asked.” 

You sighed then turned to Harlequin, eyes wide. "How rich are we talking?" He waved vaguely. "We don't really think about it. There's... a lot. From over the years. Investments. Properties. Things that appreciate."

"And you get... what? An allowance?"

"Something like that. Ticket Taker handles most of it. We get what we need." He shrugged. "It's not like we have many expenses. We don't age. We don't get sick. We don't need much."

You loaded the last bag, then leaned against the car, a thought occurring to you. "So... you're rich. And I'm here, buying discount produce and budgeting for hot sauce."

Harlequin's eyes narrowed. "What are you implying?"

"Nothing. Just... you know. If you ever wanted to cover for me. Since you're rich and all."

「 they're joking… right? 」 Pierrot's phone screen appeared.

"I am absolutely not joking. Look at this." You gestured at your modest grocery haul. "I have responsibilities. Bills. A life that requires money. You have three pineapples and seven bags of chips."

Harlequin burst out laughing—a genuine, surprised sound that echoed across the parking lot. "Oh, that's good. That's really good. You want us to bankroll you?" He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "I like you. I really like you."

You grinned, pleased with the reaction. Then you glanced at Pierrot.

He was... typing. Rapidly. His phone screen lit up with what looked like a small novel.

「 i wish i could. genuinely. i would if i could. but jester and ticket taker monitor all expenses. if they noticed the amount spent was higher than usual—especially with him involved—」 He gestured at Harlequin without looking up. 「 they would audit everything. for weeks. maybe months. there would be forms. so many forms. i cannot risk the paperwork. 」

You blinked. Harlequin blinked.

You looked at each other.

"Pierrot," you said slowly. "That was a joke."

His head tilted. The phone screen updated:「 ...a joke? 」

“Again, remember a joke. Like... funny. Not serious. I wasn't actually asking you to pay for my groceries."

「 but you said—」

"It was playful teasing. Because you're rich and I'm not."

「 oh. 」A pause.「 ...oh. 」

Harlequin snorted. "Oh my god. He missed it. He completely missed it."

「 i didn't miss it. i just... took it seriously. because it seemed serious. 」

"It was obviously not serious."

「 was it? 」

"Yes!" you and Harlequin said in unison.

Pierrot's shoulders hunched slightly. The phone screen updated:「 ...i'm not good at jokes. 」

You reached out, touching his arm gently. "Hey. It's okay. Now you know. Next time, if I say something ridiculous about you paying my bills, it's probably a joke."

「 probably? 」

"Eighty percent of the time. The other twenty percent I'm testing to see if you'll actually do it."

Harlequin howled with laughter. Pierrot's shoulders relaxed, and you could have sworn you saw the tiniest hint of a smile beneath his mask.

「 noted. 」

Soon, you loaded the last few bags into the trunk, organizing them by some internal logic that only made sense to you. Harlequin watched with mild fascination, while Pierrot stood guard over the cart like a very tall, very pale sentinel. "So," you said, straightening up. "Allowances. Based on performances? How does that work exactly?"

Harlequin perked up immediately. This was his kind of topic—attention on him, explaining something, being the center of... well, something.

"We get paid per act," he began, leaning against the car with practiced casualness. "The more we perform, the more we get. But it's not just quantity—it's type. Different acts pay differently."

Pierrot's phone screen appeared beside him:

「 mine pay more. 」

"They do not—"

「 they do. my acts are more... involved. more preparation. more emotional labor. 」

"I do plenty of emotional labor. Do you know how hard it is to be menacing every single night?"

「 you enjoy being menacing. that's not labor. that's recreation. 」

Harlequin's mouth opened, closed, opened again. "...Okay, that's... that's actually fair."

You watched this exchange with growing amusement. "So Pierrot gets paid more because his acts are more... what? Artistic?"

「 essentially. mine are performance-based. narrative. emotional. his are..." He paused, searching for the right word. 「 chaotic. 」

"I am not chaotic—"

「 you are. you're gremlin in a green costume. it's your brand. 」

“So what I’m hearing is called being a devilish jester," you interrupted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Harlequin froze. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. "A what," he finally managed.

"A devilish jester. You know—tricks, chaos, storytelling, general menace. Sounds about right. Like you just said your acts are chaotic. That's pretty much the definition of a jester."

"But I'm not—I'm a harlequin—"

"Isn't that just a type of jester?"

The sound he made was somewhere between a strangled gasp and a dying engine. Pierrot's phone screen lit up with what appeared to be pure glee:

「 they're not wrong. harlequin is literally a type of jester. it's in the name. 」

"THAT'S NOT—THE HISTORICAL CONTEXT—"

You and Pierrot exchanged a look. A long, meaningful look.

"I think," you said slowly, "you just got clocked."

"I did NOT get—"

「 you did. it's okay. we still like you. 」

"I don't NEED you to like me—" Harlequin cut himself off, his face went through approximately forty-seven expressions in three seconds. Then, without another word, he turned, opened the car door, and climbed into the back seat. But before he closed the door, you caught a glimpse of his face.

He was smiling. Genuinely smiling. Like someone who had just been seen, truly seen, and found that it didn't hurt as much as he'd expected.

You leaned down, catching his eye through the open door.

"For what it's worth," you said softly, "I think devilish jesters are the best kind."

He blinked at you. Something soft and surprised flickered across his features.

Then the mask snapped back.

"Whatever. Just—drive. We have stores to attend." He slammed the door.

You straightened, grinning,climbed into the driver's seat, and started the engine. Behind you, Harlequin was already scrolling through his phone, pretending he wasn't smiling.

He wasn't fooling anyone. Like he was grinning and so were you, and even Pierrot's shoulders shook with silent laughte. Still, the day was far from over. There was still window shopping.

Still a few hours until curfew. 

The drive to the next store was longer—twenty minutes of highway with Harlequin occasionally leaning forward to critique your driving, such as “You're very careful. It's almost boring." and Pierrot silently watching the world go by from the passenger seat.

You pulled into the parking lot of a massive warehouse store, the kind of place that sold everything from five-gallon buckets of pickles to flat-screen TVs to winter coats. The building stretched before you, grey and imposing, its parking lot blissfully sparse. 

"Okay," you announced, putting the car in park. "This is my favorite store. Fair warning: I will probably get distracted. There's just... so much stuff."

Harlequin's eyes lit up. "Stuff? What kind of stuff?"

"All kinds. Food in bulk. Clothes. Electronics. Furniture. Random things you didn't know you needed until you see them."

He was already unbuckling. "I'm going to need a bigger cart."

You laughed, climbing out and patting your pockets for your wallet. Membership card. Membership card. Where was your—

You patted again. And again. "No, no, no..."

"What's wrong?" Harlequin appeared at your elbow, head tilted.

"I can't find my membership card. It's—I think I left it in my other wallet." You groaned. "We might have to go somewhere else. I can't get in without—"

「 i have one. 」

You and Harlequin turned. Pierrot stood by the trunk, phone held up, expression unreadable behind his mask and sunglasses. You blinked. "You... have a membership? To this specific warehouse store?"

「 yes. i come here sometimes. alone. found it a few months ago. 」

Harlequin's grined. "You—what—you've been hiding this place?"

「 i wasn't hiding. i just... didn't mention it. 」

You stared at him. "Pierrot. If you had a membership this whole time, why didn't you say something? I was about to turn the car around."

He was quiet for a moment, fingers moving on his phone. Then: 「 you sounded excited. when you talked about it. your voice changed. got brighter. i wanted to hear you excited. so i let you talk. 」

The words hung in the air. Harlequin made a gagging noise. "Oh, that's disgusting. That's genuinely disgusting. I'm going to be sick."

But you barely heard him. You were looking at Pierrot—really looking—and something warm was spreading through your chest.

"That's... Pierrot, that's really sweet."

His shoulders relaxed slightly. 「 is it? 」

"Yeah. It really is."

「 oh. good. 」

Pierrot was red in the face while Harlequin was already walking toward the entrance, dramatically covering his ears. "I can't hear this. I refuse to witness this level of softness. We're going inside before I lose my appetite."

he entrance loomed ahead, two employees stationed at the door with scanners, ready to check memberships. Standard warehouse stuff. Pierrot grabbed a cart from the corral—one of the massive ones, built for bulk hauls, with a deep basket.

Then he stopped. Just... stopped. Staring at the cart.

You walked a few steps before noticing. "Pierrot? You okay?"

He looked at you. Looked at the cart. Looked back at you.

His phone came out:「 get in. 」

You stared at the screen. Blinked. Read it again. "...What?"

「 the cart. get in the cart. 」

"You want me to—" You gestured vaguely. "Get in. The shopping cart. Like a child."

「 yes. 」

"There are two people at the entrance who are going to watch me get in a shopping cart."

「 i know. 」

"And then I have to sit in it while we go through the store."

「 you don't have to walk. 」

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Behind you, Harlequin had caught on, and his face was doing something alarming—somewhere between shock and gleeful anticipation. "Oh, this is beautiful. Please. Please get in the cart. I need to see this."

You shot him a look. "You're not helping."

"I'm not trying to help. I'm trying to witness art."

You looked back at Pierrot. His posture was patient, waiting, the cart held steady like an offering.

「 i'll push you. it'll be fun. 」

"I—you—" You took a breath. "This is so embarrassing."

「 i know. 」

"You know and you're still asking?"

「 yes. because i want to. and you want to make me happy. 」

Damn him. Damn him and his quiet perceptiveness and his ability to see right through you. You sighed—a long, defeated exhale—and walked to the cart. "Lift me up."

Harlequin actually squeaked. Squeaked. Like a tiny, delighted animal.

Pierrot, with surprising ease, lifted you and settled you into the cart's main basket. You immediately crossed your legs, trying to take up as little space as possible, and pointedly looked away from the entrance.

"Don't look at them," you muttered. "If I don't see them, they don't exist."

Harlequin was wheezing. Actual wheezing, bent over, clutching his stomach. "I can't—this is—you're actually—" He gasped for air. "I'm going to remember this forever."

"Shut up and push."

Pierrot began pushing the cart toward the entrance, his pace steady and unhurried. You kept your eyes fixed on the middle distance, refusing to acknowledge the two employees who were definitely, absolutely watching this happen.

One of them scanned Pierrot's membership card without comment. The other just... stared. At you. In the cart. With your legs crossed like you were posing for a very strange portrait.

You smiled weakly at her. She blinked. 

And then you were inside, rolling past the entrance, free at last from that particular humiliation. "You know," Harlequin said, still giggling, "for someone who didn't want to do that, you settled in pretty quick."

"The cart is spacious enough. It's comfortable. I've made worse decisions."

「 i'm proud of you. 」 Pierrot's phone appeared over your shoulder.

"I hate both of you." No you don’t. 

Because, shopping in the warehouse was a different experience entirely. The aisles were vast, the ceilings high, and the sheer scale of everything made you feel simultaneously small and overwhelmed.

You grabbed a few things you needed—bulk rice, a massive jar of peanut butter, enough granola bars to last a month. Pierrot wandered nearby, comparing prices on industrial-sized cans of tomatoes, his phone in constant use.

But Harlequin... was bored.

You noticed it first in the way he dragged his feet. Then the way he sighed dramatically every few seconds. Then the way he started picking things up, examining them, and putting them back in entirely wrong places.

"You know," he said, apropos of nothing, "we could race."

You looked up from a box of crackers. "Race what?"

"The carts. You and me. Down that aisle." He pointed toward a long, straight stretch of floor, blissfully empty of other shoppers. "I push, you ride. Winner gets... bragging rights."

"You want me to sit in the cart while you push me as fast as you can."

"Yes."

"And this sounds like fun to you?"

"It sounds like chaos. Which is the same thing."

You thought about it for exactly one second. "Deal."

Harlequin's grin was visible even through his mask.

Pierrot looked up from his tomato research just in time to see you both take off—Harlequin pushing your cart at full speed, you clinging to the sides, laughter already escaping your throat. The aisle blurred past. Shelves of bulk snacks. Towers of paper towels. A confused employee with a box of something who had to jump out of the way.

You were flying.

"FASTER!" you shrieked.

Harlequin obliged, his inhuman strength sending the cart rocketing forward. You hit the end of the aisle, somehow managed a turn without tipping, and came to a skidding stop near the clothing section.

You were breathless. Giddy. Alive.

"That was—" you gasped. "We have to do that again."

Harlequin was grinning, actually grinning, wide and real. "See? I told you chaos was fun."

You climbed out of the cart, legs wobbly, and leaned against a rack of plain t-shirts to steady yourself. "You're a terrible influence."

"I prefer 'excellent influence.'"

You and Harlequin were now in clothing section was practical—basic tees, sweatpants, socks in bulk packages. Not exactly high fashion, but functional. Harlequin picked up a plain black t-shirt, examined it, and put it back with a sigh. "I thought we'd go to a mall today," he admitted. "For real clothes. Not... this."

You looked at him. "You want to go clothes shopping?"

"I mean—" He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I thought maybe. Since we were out. But this is fine. This is—"

"Harlequin."

"Yeah?"

"We can absolutely plan a separate trip for clothes shopping. Just you and me. No errands. No grocery lists. Just finding you things that make you feel good."

He blinked at you. "You'd... do that?"

"Of course. You came out with me today, even though this is basically just running errands. The least I can do is plan something that's actually for you." 

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or something softer he'd never admit to. "That's..." He cleared his throat. "That's surprisingly thoughtful."

"You sound shocked."

"I am, a little. Most people don't..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely. "You know. Offer things. Without wanting something in return." 

You considered this. "I mean, I do want something in return."

His eyes sharpened. "Oh?"

"I want to see you in nice clothes. Something formal, maybe. Really do up the whole 'devilish jester' aesthetic."

The red that crept up his neck was unmistakable. Even his face were turning pink.

"You just—you just want to see me in—in suits—"

"I want to see you in anything that makes you feel good. But yes, suits would be a bonus."

"I—you—that's—" THWACK. A box—a box of something, you didn't see what—hit Harlequin square in the back of the head. He stumbled forward, caught himself, and whipped around. Pierrot stood at the end of the aisle, phone held high, posture radiating pure menace.

「 stop flirting with them. 」

"I wasn't flirting—"

「 you were. i could hear it from the canned goods section. 」

"It was conversation—"

「 it was flirting. you're bad at it. stop. 」

Harlequin rubbed the back of his head, glaring. "You threw a box at me."

「 i aimed for your head. i hit your head. i'm satisfied. 」

You couldn't help it. You laughed—a loud, surprised sound that echoed through the clothing section. "Pierrot, did you just assassinate him with bulk merchandise?"

「 no. if i wanted to assassinate him, i would have used something heavier. that was a warning shot. 」

"A warning shot," Harlequin repeated flatly. "For flirting."

「 for flirting with them. there's a difference. 」

"Is there, though?"

「 yes. them is off limits. you know this. 」

Harlequin opened his mouth—probably to argue—but you stepped between them, still grinning. "Okay, okay, no more cart racing or suit fantasies until we finish shopping. Deal?"

Pierrot nodded, satisfied.

Harlequin muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "worth it."

You caught Harlequin's eye and winked. 

The red that crept up his neck was magnificent—spreading from his ears to his cheeks, even dusting the tips of those ridiculous heart-shaped curls. 

You laughed, genuinely delighted, and pulled out your phone to check your shopping list one last time. This was the final store. After this, you could head back, drop off your chaos gremlins, and collapse into bed with the satisfaction of a mission accomplished.

Your thumb scrolled through the notes app. Apples? Check. Oranges? Check. Bagels? Check. Pierrot's stew ingredients? Check. Harlequin's mountain of—Your thumb stopped, eyes looking at the displayed in the corner of your screen. 6:47 PM. You blinked. Looked again. 

6:47 PM. Holy shit.

Your head snapped up. Pierrot and Harlequin were still arguing—something about whether pineapple belonged on pizza, like you overe eared while thinking, Harlequin: "It's fruit, it doesn't belong on bread"—Pierrot's phone: 「 you literally just bought three pineapples. 」 —Harlequin: "That's different, those are for eating, not for topping—")

"Guys." They didn't hear you.

"Guys!" Still arguing.

"WE NEED TO CHECK OUT NOW."

They both froze, turning to look at you with matching expressions of confusion. "What? Why?" Harlequin glanced around. "Is something wrong? Is there a—a threat? Do I need to menace someone?"

"No, there's no threat, it's almost seven o'clock." Blank stares.

"Seven," you repeated. "The curfew. Ticket Taker. Jester. Ringing any bells?"

Harlequin waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, that. We have time. It's fine."

「 i still need more things. 」 Pierrot's phone screen appeared. 「 the warehouse didn't have the specific brand of tomatoes i need. for the stew. 」

"Pierrot, it's almost seven—"

「 this is important. the stew requires specific tomatoes. i cannot compromise on tomatoes. 」

"And I want to look at the snacks at the next store,” Harlequin added. "They might have different chips. New flavors. Untried possibilities."

You stared at them. They stared back.

"We are going to be so late," you muttered. But you didn't stop them.

The next fifteen minutes were a blur. You raced through the store, grabbing things with reckless abandon, barely checking prices. Pierrot found his precious tomatoes with a quiet sound of victory. Harlequin discovered an entire aisle dedicated to international snacks and nearly wept with joy.

You kept checking your phone. 6:52. 6:55. 6:58.

"Okay, okay, we have to go now."

You practically shoved them toward the checkout, where a very tired cashier rang up their haul with the thousand-yard stare of someone who had seen too much. Harlequin tried to pay with what looked like antique coins. You intercepted. Pierrot quietly handed over actual currency.

6:59. You ran. Well, you ran. They walked at a normal pace, confused by your urgency, which somehow made it worse. "Why are you running?" Harlequin called after you. "It's just a time! Numbers on a clock!"

"Numbers that Ticket Taker cares about!"

He paled slightly. "Oh. Right. Him."

You made it to the car at 7:03. Three minutes late.

You were definitely going to get a passive-aggressive notation in someone's ledger.

You popped the trunk, breathing hard, and started loading bags. Harlequin and Pierrot stood nearby, watching with the detached fascination of people who had never experienced a deadline in their lives. "Okay," you gasped, straightening up. "Expenses. How much did you both spend? Quick. Before I pass out."

Harlequin produced a crumpled receipt from his pocket—miraculously, he'd kept it. You scanned it, added it to your mental tally.

Pierrot handed over his own receipt, neat and folded.

You did the math in your head. "Okay. Noted. Ticket Taker gets his numbers. Now get in the car."

They got in the car.

You collapsed into the driver's seat, started the engine, and began the drive back. For a glorious five minutes, there was silence. Then Pierrot's phone screen lit up:

「 actually, can we make one more stop? 」

You gripped the steering wheel tighter. "What."

「 the warehouse didn't have the right tomatoes. the ones i got are acceptable but not ideal. there's another store near the circus that might have the specific brand i need. 」

"Pierrot. It's after seven. We're already late."

「 it's on the way. barely out of the way. five minutes. 」

"I—you—" You took a breath. "Fine. One stop. One."

"And I need cookies," Harlequin added from the back.

You turned to stare at him. "Cookies."

"Yes. Cookies. I forgot to get cookies."

"You're a man-eating monster. Why do you need cookies?"

"I have layers. Complexities. A nuanced palate that appreciates both flesh and baked goods."

「 he's just saying that because he saw a commercial. 」

"I did NOT—okay I did, but that's not the point—"

You rubbed your temples. "Fine. Cookies. But I'm staying in the car."

"Oh no you're not. Harlequin chimed in. "You're coming in with us."

"Why."

"Because," Pierrot's phone screen read, 「 we want you to. 」

"It's more fun with you there," Harlequin added, and for once, there was no teasing in his voice. Just sincerity. "Come on. Please? Last store. Promise." 

You looked at them—Pierrot's hopeful posture, Harlequin's earnest eyes—and sighed. "Fine. Last store. But I'm not buying anything."

"Deal."

"You're both terrible."

「 we know. 」

The last store was smaller than the warehouse, a regular grocery store with fluorescent lights and Muzak playing softly from invisible speakers. You walked behind them as they entered, hands in your pockets, determined not to buy a single thing.

They immediately started arguing.

"No, the good tomatoes are over here—"

「 those are the wrong brand. i told you, it has to be this brand. 」

"Brands are a social construct, Pierrot. Tomatoes are tomatoes."

「 you are wrong. you are objectively, factually wrong. 」

"I am subjectively correct—"

You tuned them out, leaning against the cart and scrolling through your phone. 7:15. You were definitely, absolutely getting a strongly worded notation in someone's files.

They wandered off, still arguing, and you let them. For a few blissful minutes, you were alone with the cart and the Muzak and the quiet hum of refrigerators.

Then your phone rang. The screen displayed a number you didn't recognize, but the caller ID read: TICKET TAKER.

You stared at it. It kept ringing. You stared harder. It rang again.

"Uh," you said, to no one. "Hi?"

You didn't answer. You couldn't answer. What would you even say? Yes, hello, I have your monsters, we're slightly late, please don't audit me?

The phone went to voicemail. You let out a breath.

Then you heard the arguing. Not casual bickering—real arguing, voices raised, carrying from two aisles over. You sighed, pushed off the cart, and went to investigate to found them in the cookie aisle, standing in front of a display of packaged snacks, both gesticulating wildly.

"—makes no sense, Pierrot, explain it to me—"

「 i CAN'T explain it, it's a COUPON, you just—you READ it— 」

"I DID read it! It says 'buy two, save two dollars'—but does that mean I have to get two of the same kind, or can I mix and match?!"

「 it SHOULD be mix and match— 」

"Then why does the fine print say 'exclusions may apply'?! What does that MEAN?!"

「 I DON'T KNOW, I DIDN'T WRITE IT— 」

You walked up to them. "What is happening."

They both turned to you with matching expressions of desperation. "You." Harlequin grabbed your shoulders. "You're human. You understand human things. Explain this to me."

He shoved a coupon at your face.

You took it, read it, and looked at him.

"Harlequin. It's a coupon. You buy two, you save two dollars. You can mix and match. It's not complicated."

"BUT THE FINE PRINT—"

"The fine print is just... fine print. It doesn't apply to cookies. Probably."

"Probably?!" He looked stricken. "I need certainty. I need answers. I can't make a decision without—"

"Then ask a worker."

Harlequin stared at you. Pierrot stared at you. Even the fluorescent lights seemed to dim. "...What?" He finally said.

"Ask. A worker. One of the ‘humans’ who works here. They'll know." You quote it with your fingers.

"I am NOT—" He sputtered. "I am NOT going to associate with random humans. I don't talk to humans I don't know. That's—that's beneath me—"

「 he has a point, 」 Pierrot's phone screen appeared. 「 i don't talk to humans either. except you. you're the only human we both... tolerate. 」

You blinked at them. They blinked back.

"So," you said slowly, "you want me to ask a random grocery store employee about a coupon. For cookies."

"Yes," they said in unison.

You sighed. A long, defeated, profoundly tired sigh. "Fine. Stay here. Don't start any fights. Don't eat anything without paying. Don't—" You pointed at Harlequin. "—scare anyone."

"No promises."

You walked toward the front of the store, already rehearsing the conversation in your head.

Behind you, you heard Pierrot's phone screen light up:

「 you're going to get us banned. 」

"Worth it."

You didn't look back, quickly found a worker near the bakery section—a young guy, maybe early twenties, with the tired eyes of someone working a double shift. He was stocking loaves of bread when you approached.

"Excuse me? Hi. Sorry to bother you."

He turned, and you saw him register your presence with the automatic customer-service smile. "Yeah, how can I—"

"My friends have a coupon question. They're, uh. Over there." You gestured vaguely toward the cookie aisle.

He followed your gesture. Then his eyes went wide.

Because "over there" meant Harlequin and Pierrot, standing in full "incognito" mode but still managing to be the two most intense people in the store. Harlequin was leaning against the shelf with practiced casualness. Pierrot was simply... standing. Existing. Taking up space in that quiet, overwhelming way he had.

The worker swallowed. "Your... friends."

"Yes. They're... tall. I know. They get that a lot."

He followed you back to the cookie aisle, and you watched him visibly brace himself as he approached them. 

Harlequin's grin was immediate and slightly terrifying. "Ah! The expert arrives. Finally. Someone who can speak with authority."

The worker looked at you. You gave him what you hoped was an encouraging nod.

"So," Harlequin continued, shoving the coupon at him, "explain. Buy two, save two. Same pack? Mix and match? What's the rule?"

The worker blinked at the coupon, then at Harlequin, then at the shelf of cookies. "Uh. You can mix and match. As long as they're part of the promotion."

"Which ones are part of the promotion?"

“Uh." The worker squinted at the shelf. "The ones with the little tag. See? Those ones. And those. And—"

Harlequin's eyes narrowed. "But the fine print says 'exclusions may apply.' What are the exclusions?"

"I don't... I don't think there are any. For cookies. It's just a coupon."

"A coupon with fine print always has exclusions. That's how fine print works."

The worker looked at you again, desperation creeping into his expression. You stepped in. "Harlequin. Just pick two. Pick the fucking cookies. It'll be fine."

He stared at you. You stared back.

"...Fine." He grabbed two random bags and shoved them in the cart, muttering under his breath about "inconsistent human systems" and "why can't anything be clear." 

The worker backed away slowly. You gave him a grateful nod.

He practically ran. Great. You checked your phone. 7:32.

"We need to go. Now."

Harlequin nodded, pushing his cart toward checkout. Pierrot followed—then stopped.

「 i forgot something. 」

You froze. "Pierrot. No."

「 it's important. one thing. i'll be quick. 」

And he was gone. Just... vanished down an aisle, leaving you and Harlequin standing there. You stared at the empty space where he'd been. "He did not just—"

"He absolutely just did." Harlequin was grinning. "This is great. The look on your face—"

"Harlequin, we are so late. Ticket Taker is going to—"

"Relax. What's the worst that could happen?"

You thought about the Jester's burning eyes. The Ticket Taker's rules. The concept of being audited. "Many things. Many, many things."

Pierrot reappeared thirty seconds later, holding a small bag of something you couldn't identify. He looked pleased with himself.

「 got it. ready now. 」

You didn't even ask what "it" was. You just grabbed his sleeve and started dragging him toward checkout. The self-checkout area was blessedly empty. Harlequin immediately claimed a machine, scanning items with the enthusiasm of a child playing a new video game. Pierrot took the machine next to him, methodical and precise.

You stood nearby, watching the total climb on each screen, ready to intervene if necessary.

Then your phone rang: TICKET TAKER.

You answered. "Hi. Hello. Yes. We're—we're almost done. Just checking out. We'll be there soon."

Silence on the other end. Then, crisp and cold:

"You are aware of the time."

"Yes. Absolutely. Fully aware. It's just—there were complications. Coupons. Tomatoes. Normal shopping things."

"The Jester will need to be informed."

"I—can you just—give us ten more minutes? Please? We're literally at the register."

Another pause. Longer this time. "I will inform him of your delay. I cannot guarantee his reaction."

The line went dead. You stared at your phone. FUCK.

You spun back to the self-checkout. Harlequin was staring at his screen with profound confusion, and a worker was approaching with the expression of someone who had already had a long day. "What now?!"

The worker—a different one, older, more tired—pointed at Harlequin's screen. "Your coupon isn't working."

"I KNOW it isn't working. That's why I need help."

"You have to clip it to your phone number first. Then type your number in at the keypad. Then it'll apply."

Harlequin stared at her. "That's... stupid."

She shrugged. "I don't make the rules."

「 i've been telling you that for ten minutes, 」 Pierrot's phone screen appeared. 「 you wouldn't listen. 」

"Because your explanation made no SENSE—"

「 it made perfect sense. you just don't like being wrong. 」

"THAT'S—" Harlequin stopped. Took a breath. "Okay. Fine. Whatever. Phone number. Keypad. Got it."

The worker watched him type, then nodded. "There. It worked." Harlequin stared at the screen, where the total had magically dropped by two dollars.

"...I hate this store."

"Then why are you here?" 

He had no answer. The worker walked away. Fuck. You wanted to cry. Miraculously, eventually, finally, all items were scanned, paid for, and bagged. You stood in the parking lot, surrounded by bags, doing one last mental calculation.

"Okay. Final expenses. Pierrot, how much?"

He showed you his phone. The number made your eyes widen.

"You spent... that's... Pierrot, that's more than both of us combined."

「 i had a list. i followed the list. the list was extensive. 」

"Your list was three pages."

「 yes. extensive. 」

You turned to Harlequin. "You?"

He showed you his total. Less than Pierrot, but still significant—mostly chips, cookies, and the three pineapples that had somehow survived the entire trip. "And I'm last," you said, glancing at your own modest haul. "As usual."

「 you need to spend more on yourself. 」

"Pierrot, I'm fine."

「 you're not. you bought rice and granola bars. that's not food, that's... survival. 」

"It's called budgeting—"

"Okay, okay," Harlequin interrupted. "Numbers are done. Can we go now? I'm tired of standing in parking lots."

You blinked. "You want to go? Now you want to go?"

"I want to go home. There's a difference."

Something in his voice—soft, almost vulnerable—made your chest tighten. "Right. Home. Let's go."

You loaded the last bags into the trunk and climbed into the driver's seat. The engine turned over. The clock read 7:48. "Okay. Circus. Now. No more stops." You pulled out of the parking lot. You drove for approximately thirty seconds before Harlequin spoke.

"I don't want to go back yet."

You glanced in the rearview mirror. He was looking out the window, expression unreadable.

"Harlequin, what the fuck, we're late. Jester is probably already—"

"I know. I just..." He trailed off.

Pierrot's phone screen lit up in the passenger seat: 「 neither do i. 」

You gripped the steering wheel. "Guys. I can't—we can't just—"

"We want to help you with your groceries," Harlequin interrupted. "Carry them up. Make sure you're settled. It's the least we can do."

"I don't have that much. I can carry it myself."

「 we know. 」

"We still want to."

You looked at them—really looked. Harlequin's stubborn set of his jaw. Pierrot's quiet, hopeful posture. They didn't want to say goodbye. Not yet. Not after a whole day of being normal, of being themselves, of not performing for anyone.

"I..." You swallowed. "I live on the fourth floor. No elevator."

"We're not human. We can handle stairs."

「 we'll be quick. then we'll go. promise. 」

You thought about the Jester. The Ticket Taker. The curfew that was rapidly approaching. You thought about two ancient creatures who just wanted to help you carry groceries because they weren't ready for the day to end.

"...Fine. But if Jester kills me, I'm haunting both of you."

Harlequin grinned. "Deal."

Pierrot's phone screen lit up: 「 we'll protect you. probably. 」

"Probably?!"

「 we'll try. that's the best i can offer. 」

You sighed, turned the wheel, and headed toward your apartment. Behind you, Harlequin was already planning which bags he'd carry. Pierrot was quietly typing something you couldn't see. And you were trying very hard not to think about how much you didn't want this day to end either.

You drove quickly back to your place, the clock on your dashboard a constant source of anxiety. 7:52. 7:53. 7:54. "Okay," you said, pulling into your usual spot. "I should grab my wagon from the trunk. It'll make carrying everything upstairs—" You turned around. 

They were already out of the car. Both of them.

Arms full of your groceries. Walking toward your building.

You blinked. Stared. Blinked again. Right. Grotesques Insane strength compared to a human. You scrambled out of the car and hurried after them. They followed you up the stairs—three flights, no elevator—without so much as breathing hard. You, meanwhile, were slightly winded by the time you reached your door.

You unlocked it, pushing open the door to your small space.

Your studio apartment wasn't much—a combined living/sleeping area, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom just big enough to turn around in. But it was yours, and they'd seen it before, even if neither of them had technically been invited that first time. You'd forgiven them eventually.

They stepped inside, moving with surprising grace for beings their size, and set the groceries on your kitchen counter.

You immediately got to work, pulling items out of bags and putting them in their designated places. Produce in the fridge. Canned goods in the cabinet. Granola bars in the snack drawer.

Behind you, Harlequin and Pierrot talked quietly about nothing in particular—the drive, the stores, the way that one worker had looked at them. Your space was small enough that you could see them in your peripheral vision, lounging against your counter like they owned the place.

Then you heard laughter. Not mean laughter. Mischievous laughter.

You turned—Wait. They were in your bedroom area. The bedroom area. Where your personal things lived. You walked over and found them holding... things. Items. Private items.

"HARLEQUIN. PIERROT."

Harlequin looked up, grinning, a neutral-colored piece of fabric dangling from his fingers. "What? We were just looking." Pierrot, beside him, was blushing. The red crept up his neck, visible even under his mask and sunglasses. His phone screen lit up: 「 i tried to stop him. 」

"You did NOT—"

「 i did. he didn't listen. he never listens. 」

You snatched the fabric from Harlequin's hand. "These are private. You don't just—you can't—" Harlequin's grin widened. "Relax. We've seen worse. Much worse. Remember the time we found Jester's—"

「 we don't talk about that. 」

"Right, right. Trauma. Got it."

You shoved the items back where they belonged and pointed at the door. "Out. Both of you. We're leaving."  They followed, still laughing, and you grabbed your keys with renewed urgency. As you locked up and headed back down the stairs, you glanced at them.

"So. The whole 'being late' thing. You said you had a plan?"

Harlequin and Pierrot exchanged a look.

"We... may have mentioned a plan," Harlequin said slowly. "But I believe the word 'probably' was involved."

You stopped walking. "Probably?"

「 there was a 'probably' in the sentence. definitely. 」

"Pierrot. Harlequin. What does 'probably' mean in this context?"

Harlequin shrugged. "It means we might have a plan. Or we might just be hoping Jester's in a good mood."

"You're hoping. The Jester. The mountain of judgment. Is in a good mood."

「 in our defense, it's happened before. once. in 1920. 」

"ONCE? IN 1920?!”

"We'll be fine." Harlequin waved a dismissive hand. "Probably."

You stared at them. Then you started running.  

"GET IN THE CAR. NOW." They followed, laughing, and you peeled out of your parking spot like a getaway driver.

Sooo. you made it back to the circus at 8:07 PM.

A whole hour late. Great.

You followed the directions on your phone to the back entrance, parking in a spot hidden from view. The three of you climbed out, and Harlequin and Pierrot immediately started unloading their haul—chip mountains, pineapples, and all.

You turned to grab a bag—

And froze. The Ticket Taker was standing there. Arms crossed. Both eyes—white and dark blue—fixed on you. Expression utterly unreadable.

You walked toward him, words already tumbling out. "I'm so sorry. I know we're late. I tried to get them to leave earlier but there were coupons and Pierrot needed specific tomatoes and Harlequin wouldn't stop touching my things and I—"

"Visitor."

You stopped. Swallowed. “It's... it's okay. I'm here. They're here. Everyone's safe. I just—I genuinely had no control over—"

“Ah, what a good little human.”

A different voice. Deeper. Heavier. You turned.

The Jester stood there and glowing, his purple-lit eyes fixed on you. Beside him, the Doctor hovered, his cyan gaze curious.

Your brain shut down.

You immediately stepped behind Harlequin and Pierrot, using them as shields. It was futile—they weren't nearly big enough to hide you from him—but it was instinct. Jester's head tilted. A fraction. Just enough. "Do not worry," his voice rumbled. "I am not angry."

You peeked out from behind Pierrot's shoulder. "...What?"

"You are late. You broke the rules. I am not angry."

"But—all the warnings—the curfew—Ticket Taker said—"

The Jester's mouth curved. Just slightly. Just enough. "I expected you to break them. I see Inkyette trained you well."

The words hung in the air.

Ticket Taker stepped forward, his crisp voice cutting through your confusion. "The shopping trip was a test. To see if you could manage them. To see if you could keep up, keep calm, keep them from destroying public property." He paused. "You passed."

"A test?" You looked at Harlequin and Pierrot. They looked just as shocked as you felt. "They didn't know?"

"They did not," Jester confirmed. "Their behavior was genuine. That was the point."

You were still processing. "Wait. So the whole day—the stores, the coupons, the pineapples—that was all just... a test?"

"A trial really,” Ticket Taker corrected. "To determine your suitability for... additional responsibilities."

"Additional—what?"

Jester's voice filled the space. "You will be doing work around the circus. If you choose to accept. There will be pay. Fair compensation for your time."

You blinked. "Work? Like... what kind of work?"

"Various. Helping with events. Managing... situations. Being a presence that they"—he gestured at Harlequin and Pierrot—"respond to. You have a calming effect on them. We have observed this."

"You've been... observing me?"

"Of course. You are associated with The Poppet. You are always observed."

Well that was terrifying. You filed it away to process later. "And Inkyette?" you asked. "Does she know about this? Is this why she—"

Jester's expression changes, fondness crossed his features. "Inkyette, when she was alive, did things like this. Ran errands. Managed situations. Kept them"—another gesture at Harlequin and Pierrot—"from destroying everything." He paused. "She has told you about her past. Yes?"

You thought about it. Inkyette's stories. Her careful, curated narratives. The way she'd always seemed to gloss over certain details.

"I know she died protecting you," you said slowly. "I know the ‘Boss…’ did what he did. But her storytelling is... a little wobbly. She leaves things out."

Jester laughed.

It was a deep, rumbling sound, surprising and warm. "Of course she did. She made herself look innocent. Made her choices seem simple." He shook his head. "She did sacrifice herself, yes. But she did far more than that. Far more than any of us asked. And she was killed for something far smaller than she deserved."

The weight of his words settled over you.

"She will be out of commission for a while," Jester continued. "Her body is undergoing... repairs. A redesign. The Doctor is handling it."

The Doctor stepped forward, his clinical voice cutting through the heavy moment. "We are transferring her consciousness into a new vessel. More durable. More present. Once everything is finalized, you will see her again."

"When?"

"Weeks is what we seeing. So you'll be hanging around us for the time being," He paused. "For now, she is in the rebuilding process. But when she returns—" His cyan eyes gleamed. "She will have a body like ours. Accessible. Real."

You stared at him. "A body like yours? So she can—she'll be able to—"

"Work. At the circus. As she did when she was alive." Jester's gaze was heavy, knowing. "What did you think? That I gave her to you for her freedom?" The words hit like a physical blow. "No," he continued, soft and final. "She belongs here. She always has. And soon, she will be able to fulfill that belonging. Fully."

You looked at Harlequin. At Pierrot. At the Ticket Taker and the Doctor and the terrifying Jester.

"She'll be... happy? With that?"

Jester's eyes softened. Just slightly. "She will be whole once again. That is more than happiness. That is peace."

Silence settled over the group. Jester inclined his head. "Go home, little human. Rest. You have earned it. And when Inkyette returns..." He paused. "You will see what belonging truly means."

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Jester turned, gesturing to Ticket Taker and Doctor. They followed without question—three figures disappearing into the purple-lit dark of the circus, leaving behind only the echo of their footsteps. You stood there, car keys in hand, heart still pounding from the confession.

Pierrot and Harlequin hadn't moved.

They stood frozen, expressions caught between shock and something else. Something you couldn't name.

You looked at them. For Pierrot's hunched shoulders, his phone hanging limply at his side. At Harlequin's uncharacteristic stillness, his usual flirtiness completely absent. 

And suddenly, the weight of the night crashed down on you.

You didn't know their full history with Inkyette. You knew she'd died. You knew she'd been... consumed. By them. To get rid of the evidence.

Their previous boss had made them do it.

Forced them.

You looked at Pierrot—traumatized, sad, carrying grief like a second skin. You looked at Harlequin—careful, defensive, avoiding something he'd never speak about.

They had eaten her back then. And they had spent every day since trying to earn back something they could never repay.

Your chest tightened. You should lighten the mood. Even though your brain was screaming questions you'd never ask. Even though you just wanted to go home and process everything.

You'd just had the most fun day of your life with them.

The least you could do... was try. For Inkyette.

"So," you said, your voice coming out steadier than you felt, "what kind of adventures did you three have? You know, back when Inkyette was... around?"

Harlequin blinked. The shock on his face changes—slowly, like ice melting—into something almost like a grin. "Adventures," he repeated. "You want to hear about adventures."

"I want to hear about her. The real her. Not the poppet." You shrugged, aiming for casual. "The human, alive her that—I don’t know maybe broke up fights and got you into trouble."

Pierrot's head lifted. His phone screen lit up:

「 she got us into trouble. we didn't get her into trouble. there's a difference. 」

"Lies," Harlequin said, but there was warmth in it. "Absolute lies. You're rewriting history."

「 i'm correcting it. 」

Harlequin turned to you, his grin sharpening into something almost genuine. "We were terrors. The three of us. Absolute nightmares for everyone else in the circus. Jester used to hide when he saw us coming."

"Jester doesn't hide."

"He learned. From us." Harlequin's eyes glittered. "We once convinced Ticket Taker that his ledgers were infested with ink-eating moths. He spent three days recataloguing everything."

Pierrot's phone screen lit up:

「 inkyette made fake moth wings. out of paper. stuck them to the ledgers. 」

You laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of you. "She did not."

「 she did. we still have old pictures. somewhere. 」

Harlequin snorted. "We had one big fight, though. Really went at it. Punches thrown. Actual violence."

"You fought each other?"

"Violently. Passionately. Loudly." He crossed his arms. "And I won."

Pierrot's phone screen appeared instantly:

「 you did not. 」

"Did too."

「 you threw one punch. i blocked it. then i hit you. 」

"You hit me with your fist. That's one punch. I threw one, you threw one. Tie."

「 and then I hit you with a chair. 」

Harlequin's grin widened. "Exactly. So I won because you cheated…”

「 and? the chair was available.. 」

You watched them bicker, laughter bubbling in your chest. But beneath it, something else. Inkyette had broken them up. Had been there, in the middle, stopping them from killing each other. And now she wasn't.

Now it was just you.

They kept arguing, but you'd stopped listening.

Your mind was elsewhere—on the weeks ahead. On the empty space where Inkyette's voice used to be. On the poppet that would sit still and silent while you waited for her to come back.

She was getting a new body. A real body. But until then...

You were on your own.

No whispered warnings. No annotations in the dark. No one to translate the silences or explain the rules you didn't know existed.

Just you. And them. And the weight of everything unsaid.

"Oh," you breathed, so quietly neither of them heard.

Harlequin was still arguing about the chair. Pierrot was still typing furious rebuttals. They were wrapped up in each other, in their history, in the endless push and pull of two beings who had been bound together by trauma and survival and her.

And you were standing on the outside, holding the keys to your car, wondering how you were supposed to survive the next few weeks without the one person who made this all make sense.

But then Pierrot looked up.

His amber eyes met yours through the darkness, and something in his expression shifted. Softened.

He typed something quickly, held up his phone:

「 you okay? 」

You swallowed. Nodded. "Yeah. Just... tired. Long day."

Harlequin stopped mid-argument, turning to look at you. His sharp eyes narrowed—not suspicious, but seeing. Reading you in that way he did when he wasn't performing.

"It's a lot," he said quietly. "Finding out about... everything. About her. About us." He paused. "About what we did."

You wanted to say something reassuring. Something that would make it better.

Instead, you said nothing.

Because there were no words for this. For the horror and the history and the fact that you were standing here, talking to them, liking them, knowing what they'd been forced to do.

Pierrot's phone screen lit up one last time:

「 she wouldn't want you to be scared. of us. of this. 」

"I'm not scared," you said, and meant it.

「 good. because we're not going anywhere. and neither are you. 」

Harlequin snorted. "That's surprisingly poetic for you."

「 i have my moments. 」

Then Harlequin stepped forward, closer than he'd been all night. Close enough that you could see the faint glow of his eyes, the way his tendrils drifted lazily in the still air. 

"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "you remind us of her. Not in looks. In... presence. The way you just... stay. Even when you shouldn't."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning you couldn't quite grasp. Harlequin's eyes—those sharp, neon-bright eyes—held yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. He was close.

Closer than he'd been all day.

Close enough that you could see the way his pupils dilated, the way his tendrils drifted toward you like they had a mind of their own.

"You don't run," he murmured, his dual-toned voice dropping to something almost intimate. "You don't flinch. You just... stay. Like you belong here. Like you've always belonged here."

One of his tendrils brushed your wris,  "I wonder," he breathed, "what else you'd stay for."

Behind him, you heard a sound. Low. Vibrating. Wrong.

Pierrot hadn't moved from where he stood, but something had shifted. His posture was still—too still, the kind of stillness that preceded something breaking. His amber eyes, visible above his mask, had gone small, dotted.

Not stars. Not hearts. Voids. Empty. Hungry. Watching.

"Harlequin, Pierrot..." you said, your voice barely a whisper. 

He didn't turn. His grin widened, sharp and knowing. "He does this. Gets jealous. Thinks he's the only one who gets to want things." The tendril at your wrist tightened. Just slightly. Just enough.

"But here's the thing about Pierrot." Harlequin's voice was a purr now, dark and teasing. "He doesn't do anything about it. He just... watches. Waits. Hopes someone will notice how much he's suffering."

Behind him, Pierrot took a step forward. "He'd keep you in a box if he could," Harlequin continued, seemingly unconcerned. "A pretty little box lined with velvet. So soft. So safe. You'd never have to leave. Never have to run."

Another tendril brushed your cheek. "But you wouldn't like that, would you? You like the chaos. The danger. You like wondering what might happen if you stayed just a little too long."

Pierrot was closer now. Close enough to touch. His long fingers reached out, trembling, and wrapped around your other wrist.

His grip was gentle. Gentle. But his eyes—

His eyes was filled with possessive and obsessiveness.

"See?" Harlequin's voice was silk wrapped around razors. "He wants to keep you. I want to play with you. And you..." He tilted his head, studying your face with predatory delight. "You want both. Don't you?"

Your heart was hammering. Feeling every nerve was screaming run while something deeper, darker, hungrier whispered stay. "You're afraid," Harlequin observed, and there was no mockery in it. Just fascination.

"Good. Fear is honest. Fear doesn't lie."

Pierrot's grip tightened—not painfully, but possessively. His other hand came up, cupping your face, turning you to look at him. At the void where his eyes should be. His thumb traced your jaw. Slow. Reverent.

“Mine,” He finally whispers, “You're mine.”

Harlequin laughed—soft, delighted, wicked. "He's already decided. Look at him. Look at what you do to him."

You looked.

Pierrot's face was a mask of tragedy and want, the anger in his eyes endless and aching. He wanted to keep you. To preserve you. To wrap you in silence and stillness where no one else could reach.

But his hand on your face was so gentle.

"I could take you from him," Harlequin murmured, his lips close to your ear. "Right now. Just walk away. He'd follow. He always follows. And then we'd both have you."

Another tendril, wrapping around your waist. "Or you could run. See who catches you first." His grin was a slash of neon in the dark. "I love a good chase." Pierrot made a sound—low, vibrating, desperate. His forehead pressed to yours, the void of his eyes swallowing you whole.

“Don't run,” His voice pleaded. “Please. Don't run.”

Your heart was going to explode.

Is it even possible to live up to her expectations?

What expectations? What had she done here, in this place, before you? What impossible standard had she set by simply being—by existing in the spaces between their hungers and their needs, by holding them together with nothing but her presence and her voice and her stubborn, foolish love?

You had no clue what she did in the circus.

The one who stayed when staying meant death. The one who loved when love meant consumption. The one who looked at monsters and saw something worth saving.

And now she was gone. And here you were.

And somewhere, in the ink-stained heart of the circus, you could have sworn you heard her voice:

❝Oh, my time will tell... little scholar...❞

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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

[albeitt]

[bisexualhairrington]

joe keery should've known better than to hold his wrists up to be cuffed on kinktober of all months. the steddie fics are practically writing themselves

[bouquet07]

Director’s Cut

Joan Ferguson x Reader

summary: It’s been three months since you broke up with Joan. But Joan Ferguson doesn’t believe in breakups.

*****

It’s been three months since you broke up with Joan. Why? Because while her possessive nature was seductive when you first started dating, it eventually became toxic.

Suffocating you in a way that was no longer "sexy." It began under the guise of protection: her demanding your passwords and full access to your accounts. Then, it evolved into her picking apart everything you said, constantly doubting your faithfulness.

It all came to a head when you realized that loving Joan Ferguson meant accepting her version of "oneness," which required abandoning your privacy and merging your mind entirely with hers.

So, one night…

Joan is at the kitchen island, elegantly de-seeding a pomegranate. She’s wearing a white silk robe, looking clean and composed. A glass of dark red wine sits untouched nearby. You walk in late. As the door thuds shut, the tension in the spacious living room makes the air feel suddenly cramped.

“Three hours and twelve minutes. I hope the conversation at the pub was riveting enough to justify the… tactical silence? Or did your phone coincidentally die the moment you stepped inside?” Joan slices through the atmosphere with a smirk, not once looking up from her task.

“I was just out with Sarah, love. I didn’t think I needed to provide a minute-by-minute transcript. It’s Friday; I believe I'm entitled to some time on my own.”

Joan stops. She sets the knife down with a soft, metallic clink and finally looks at you. Her expression is one of amused pity. “Sarah. The one with the wandering hands and the mediocre intellect? How refreshing for you.” She offers you a sarcastic smile.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, knowing this won't die down anytime soon. “She’s my friend. And I’m tired of this interrogation every time I breathe air you haven’t filtered first.”

Joan chuckles softly. “Darling, if I were interrogating you, you’d be sweating, and I’d be much less charming. I’m simply curious why you feel the need to keep little... pockets of your life tucked away from me.” dropping each line with a light and tender tone.

“It’s called privacy, Joan,” you cut her off.

“No, it’s called deceit wrapped in a prettier ribbon,” Joan responds bitingly, her tone dropping into a dangerous register. She begins to walk toward you, her movements slow and deliberate.

“I am not deceiving you, Joan! How many times do we have to—”

“I saw the way you tucked your phone away when I walked into the room this morning. Like a teenager hiding a dirty magazine. It’s beneath you. And frankly, it’s an insult to my intelligence to think I wouldn’t notice the change in your pulse every time you get a notification.”

You try to control your voice, but the weight of this repeating pattern is too much. “My pulse changes because I’m scared of how you’re going to react! I changed my passcode because I wanted one thing, just one thing! that was mine.”

Joan stops inches from you. She reaches out and grabs your shirt, jerking you forcibly toward her. Her eyes are razor-sharp. “What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is yours. That was the agreement, wasn't it?”

You reach for her wrist, trying to pry her fingers from the fabric. “You’re suffocating me.”

With a dry, sarcastic laugh, Joan pulls you so close that you can feel the heat of her words on your skin. “Oh, don't be so dramatic. You said you loved me. You wanted someone to see you, to REALLY see you. Well, here I am. I see everything. I see the thoughts you haven’t even had the courage to voice yet. And now, suddenly, you don't want me?”

She shoves you backward, her hand still tight on your collar, forcing you to retreat as she advances. “Why would you want a 'private life' unless you were planning on filling it with someone else? Are we not enough? Am I not providing enough... stimulation for you every night we fuck? Do I not protect you from the world? And that... 'friend' of yours? Sarah, wasn’t it? Does she love you better than I do? Does she fuck you better?!”

You are crying now, the sob breaking out of your chest. The sound seems to snap Joan out of her heated rage. Her eyes instantly soften into a look of calculated fear and regret. She lets go of your collar, her hands shaking as she tries to smooth out the crumpled fabric of your shirt.

“Oh, honey… 

Honey, I’m sorry… 

I’m so sorry, baby…”

Your chest heaves with sobs.

“I was just scared,” she adds softly, leaning down to look you straight in the eye. She cradles your face in both hands, her thumbs tenderly wiping the tears from your cheeks. She plants several soft, lingering kisses on your cheeks, your eyelids, and finally your lips.

When you finally gather your strength, you take her hands and firmly pull them away from your face.

“I can’t do this, Joan. I’m leaving.”

And so, yes. you broke up with her. 

For the last three months, Joan replayed her memories of you on a loop. She thought of that night at the bar. she didn’t "do" bars, usually finding them unsanitary. But she went because you asked.

She remembered being crammed into that vinyl booth, watching your head tilt back as you laughed, your eyes crinkling at the corners. It was a genuine, unguarded moment, and you were laughing at something she had said.

Then there was the time you walked side-by-side down the grocery aisle after a grueling day at work. She remembered the rare, cooling sense of peace she felt just being near you.

She thought of the night you had a nightmare and she calmed you, holding you in her arms until you fell back asleep. In the silence of that room, she had vowed to herself that she would never let anything hurt you; she would kill a hundred, or a thousand more just to keep you safe and happy by her side.

She remembered the sweet, gentle kisses you exchanged before heading out, and the ones you shared after making love until you both drifted off.

Until Joan couldn't take the silence anymore.

Now, her living room is dimly lit. She wears the same white silk robe from the night you left. It’s a choice that feels less like a coincidence and more like a ritual. Seated perfectly upright on her gray leather couch, she swirls a glass of whiskey, watching the amber liquid catch the light before taking a measured sip.

The only illumination in the room comes from the cold glow of the television. 

On the screen, she is watching a tape of the two of you having sex.

The footage is high-definition, captured from a fixed, elevated angle. It is a recording you both consented to making, yet in this light, it looks like evidence. It is intimate, rawly so. The sounds of the video fill the silent room: the friction of skin, the rhythmic creak of the bed, and then, the specific sound Joan has bookmarked.

“Joan… please… Joan,” you say on the recording, your voice thin and breathless.

Joan’s thumb hovers over the remote. With a subtle click, she jumps the video back ten seconds.

She watches you again. More specifically, she studies you. She observes the way your fingers dig into her back, the way your head throws back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat, and the way she sinks her teeth into a love bite just under your jaw. She fixates on that "needy" hitch in your breath, the one you always tried to hide, but that she always managed to draw out.

“There it is,” she whispers against the rim of her glass before bringing it to her lips.

She hits play. On the screen, the climax of the video peaks. Your voice is a frantic whisper, muffled against her neck, but the words are unmistakable: “I love you. I love you so much. I’m yours.” On-screen, Joan kisses you tenderly, her tongue brushing against your lips in a slow, skillful possessive claim.

Joan hits PAUSE.

The frame freezes on your face. Your eyes are fixed on her, your expression shattered by pleasure and complete, utter surrender to HER.

She stares at the frozen image of your vulnerability. Her expression isn’t one of sadness or heartbreak; it is the look of a scientist confirming a fundamental law of nature. A small, chilling smirk touches the corner of her mouth.

“Three months of silence. Three months of 'privacy,'” she says to the empty room. “But we both know you're just playing a part right now. This 'breakup' is just a performance.”

She gestures broadly to the space around her, the silent, immaculate house where you no longer live with her. “This... is just a stage. And I am a very patient director.”

She presses the LOOP button.

“...please… Joan… I love you… I’m yours…”

Joan closes her eyes for a moment, letting the audio of your submission wash over her like a prayer. She takes another sip of whiskey, settling in to watch the loop for the twelfth time that night.

[mika-0730]

Velvet I prommy it's just a hedgehorg

[nicolenick]

Working on my design for himb — eye balls inspired by The Modern Prometheus: Animated, by the awesome and amazing can-of-w0rmz and Dykensteinery