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Hi, I'm Snow, I'm 26 year old & have autism.
I use They/Them & He/Him pronounce 🏳️⚧️🏳️🌈
My blog is a place where I will mostly share my art, AU's, reblog Yandere content & share my written work every now and then
[All the banner you see me use where thrown toghether by me & my shitty editing skills that I hope to improve someday, hopefully ^^"]
what happens when we take Pierrot or Harlequin to Universal Studios Horror Nights or literally any halloween themed attraction parks?
Will they be scared or no?
Maybe neither would be scared, but Harlequin would enjoy(?) Y/N's closeness when they get scared. He may be confused for more than one reason...
Pierrot might be impressed by the sets maybe? The most scared he would be is maybe worrying about Y/N, and about Y/N having certain "types" lol (Just my fan imagination of course)
Ironically, Halloween Horror Nights has a lot of clown and circus themes, so I just imagine it would be funny to imagine Y/N being scared by, essentially, regular clowns. (And possibly Pierrot misinterpreting Y/N's tastes)
How do you think Pierrot, or more so Y/N, react if Pierrot just suddenly got to a giant size? How would he interact with Y/N?
Thank you~! 🫶
Hmm-! Oooh- It's almost the same dynamic I would think? Since Y/N would again be tiny in comparison to Pierrot. Difficult for me to say, but maybe Y/N would give extra care to let Pierrot know he's loved. (Just in case he's worried he would scare Y/N) Also, could kinda work for either, but Y/N would probably enjoy sitting on Pierrot's head and looking at the stars from high up. (I imagine anyways~ >v</ )
A/n: I hope you enjoy! You are assumed to be wearing a skirt or something short and baggy enough to have Doctor sip inside. ~Fox🦊
Synopsis: Doctor pulls you (his established lover) on stage and fucks you through the second half of their concert.
Tags: SMUT, public sex, P insertion, making out, creampie
Inspired by: @ashleydrawz
The chaos of backstage thrums through the soles of your shoes. Walls and equipment maze between the band and the stage, but they can't muffle the chant of thousands. A sound that swells like a tide then crashes against the foundation. The intermission music is barely a whisper beneath their unified voice. Near you, a stagehand barks at a lighting cue; another rushes past. An ungainly bouquet of three guitars clutched in their arms. From a neighboring room, Harlequin's laughter rings out, punctuated by a sharp crash and Jester's indignant demand to know what he's broken.
None of it registers.
Your world has narrowed to the figure emerging from the backstage gloom. Doctor still clutches a drumstick; its twin tucked into the harness across his chest. The hood has slipped back, exposing a fringe of red hair plastered damply to his forehead. His shoulders heave with each breath, the black fabric of his shirt clinging to his chest, dark with perspiration. Under the unforgiving glare of the work lights, the exposed skin of his arms gleams, slick and heated.
You watch him a beat too long.
Of course he notices. His glowing eyes find you from behind the dark lenses of his mask. Something shifts in his posture, the fatigue momentarily replaced by a deliberate straightening of his shoulders, a tilt of his head. Then he moves, his path unwavering, directly toward you.
"Rough set?" You ask when he's near enough.
He stops before you, a dry silence stretching for a moment.
"...Your concern is touching," he finally says, the words laced with a familiar sarcasm.
"Just stating the obvious." You gesture vaguely at his disheveled state.
A look is thrown your way through the mask's lenses, but you can feel the amusement radiating from him, a tangible thing. You reach for the water bottle on the nearby table, the cap already twisted off.
"Hydrate."
He accepts the bottle without comment, nudging his mask up just enough to reveal his mouth of razor-sharp teeth before tipping it back. You watch the column of his throat work as he drains nearly half in one go.
And perhaps your gaze lingers again.
When he lowers the bottle, he catches you mid-stare. His head cocks to the side.
"Find something of interest?"
"Not particularly."
"You're watching."
"Supervising."
"Ah." He takes another swallow, his eyes locked on yours over the rim of the bottle.
You narrow your own. "Don't get ideas."
A low chuckle escapes from him. "I've been perfectly silent."
"Your face isn't."
"My face is covered."
"Exactly. Suspicious."
He laughs again, a quieter, more tired sound this time, and sets the bottle down on the table behind you. The moment it's out of his hand, you're moving, the clean cloth you'd kept ready in yours. You step into his space.
"Hold still."
His gaze drops to the cloth, then lifts to meet yours. "Planning to give me a sponge bath back here?"
"Planning to stop you from dripping on everything."
"How thoughtful."
"You reek."
Doctor's hand flies to his chest in a dramatic gesture of wounded pride. "Now you're just being cruel."
"Stay put."
You start at his forehead, pushing back the sweat-damp strands of his hair before wiping the moisture from his hairline. He goes utterly silent. You've learned this about him. The man who commands a stage, who projects terror and theatrics under the hot lights, becomes remarkably still when you tend to him. He'll never voice his enjoyment, but he doesn't have to. It's in the subtle relaxation of his shoulders, the unconscious lean into your touch.
The cloth moves gently to his temple. His eyes drift shut.
"Worn out?" You ask.
"Not especially."
"Your eyes are closed."
"Resting them."
"You're impossible."
"So, I've been told."
A small smile touches your lips as you guide the cloth down the side of his neck. The backstage heat has been merciless, and it takes several passes to clear the sheen of sweat. Your fingers brush against the straps of his harness as you work; the leather warmed against your skin. The air around you smells of ozone and something uniquely his—a combination of antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood that clings to him like perfume. Each pass of the cloth reveals more of his reddish skin, still flushed from exertion beneath the mask. You can feel the steady pulse in his neck as you work, a rhythm that seems to sync with the distant roar of the crowd.
Doctor's gaze lowers to you. Even with the mask obscuring his features, you can feel the intensity of his attention like a physical weight. The glowing points of his eyes seem to pulse brighter, tracking your movements with an unnerving focus. The dim backstage lights catch the edges of his mask, casting shadows that make it appear even more menacing than usual.
You pointedly ignore it. Instead, you focus on the task at hand, folding the cloth to a fresh section before continuing. The material is damp against your fingertips, growing warmer with each pass over his heated skin. You're acutely aware of the proximity between you, of how you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the faint scent of sweat and something else—something dark and electric that is undeniably him.
The cloth travels over his collarbone, tracing the line of one shoulder. He continues to watch; his head tilted at a slight angle. His breathing has evened out, no longer the ragged gasps of someone who just poured every ounce of energy into a performance, but something calmer, more measured. You can feel the tension in his shoulder muscles begin to ease under your touch, a subtle surrender that he'll never acknowledge aloud.
"What?" you finally ask, your patience wearing thin.
"Nothing."
"You're staring now."
"I'm supervising."
You still your hand. The corners of his eyes crinkle, the only sign of his amusement visible behind the mask.
"You're irritating."
"And yet, you remain."
"A momentary lapse in judgment."
"Apparently so."
You roll your eyes and grab his wrist, lifting his arm to wipe his forearm. His skin is hot to the touch, the muscles still corded with tension from the first set. He offers no resistance, allowing you to maneuver his limb, his gaze heavy on your face. The cloth glides over his skin, collecting the sweat and leaving behind a clean, glistening trail.
"You know," he says, his voice a low murmur, "you're always so focused when you do this."
"Someone has to be."
"Mmm." A noncommittal sound, almost a hum, rumbles in his chest. "It's fascinating."
"Don't get used to it."
"Never."
His other hand comes up to rest on your hip, a casual, proprietary gesture that sends a jolt through you. You don't pull away. Instead, you finish with his arm and move to the other, your movements just as deliberate, just as focused. His thumb begins to trace small circles on the curve of your hip, a slow, rhythmic motion that seems to echo the distant thrum of the crowd.
"You think you're so clever," you murmur, your attention fixed on the task at hand.
"I am clever."
You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips. "Humble, too."
"A virtue."
"A rare one, in your case."
"Perhaps I save it for you."
The words hang in the air between you, a quiet admission in the cacophony of backstage preparations. They settle like dust motes in a sunbeam, fragile but undeniable. You finish cleaning his other arm and let it drop, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders. You're standing so close now, your bodies nearly flush. You can feel the heat of him through your clothes, the steady beat of his heart against your palms—a rapid rhythm that betrays his calm exterior. His grip on your hip tightens slightly, pulling you even closer until you're pressed against him. The leather of his harness is warm against your fingertips, the fabric of his shirt still damp with sweat. His head dips down, his masked face hovering just inches from yours. The glowing points of his eyes seem to bore into you, seeing past the facade you've so carefully constructed, past the jabs and the sarcasm, to the vulnerable core you rarely show.
"Doctor," you whisper, a warning and a plea all in one.
"Hmm?"
"The set."
"Right."
He doesn't move. Neither do you. For a heartbeat, the world outside this small bubble ceases to exist. There's only the two of you, the heat, the darkness, and the unspoken things that pass between you in the charged silence. The distant roar of the crowd fades to a distant hum; the frantic movements of stagehands mere shadows at the edge of your awareness. In this suspended moment, you can feel every point where your bodies touch—his hand still resting possessively on your hip, the warm press of his chest against yours, the leather of his harness digging slightly into your palms where you grip his shoulders. His mask seems to absorb all the light in this small space, creating an even deeper intimacy between you, while those glowing eyes never waver from yours. The air grows thick with everything left unsaid, heavy with the weight of past moments like this and the promise of what might come when the night is over.
Then, a stagehand's voice cuts through the haze. "Two minutes, Doctor!"
The spell is broken. Doctor straightens, his hands falling from your hips. He takes a step back, and the sudden space between you feels cold and vast.
"Showtime," he says, his voice once again the cool, detached front you're so familiar with.
You watch him turn and stride toward the stage, the swagger returning to his step with every passing second. You follow at a more measured pace, your heart still beating a little too fast. The other members of your makeshift family are already in position—Jester tuning his bass with a ferocious concentration, Harlequin stretching his long limbs with languid grace, and Ticket Taker checking the keyboard with meticulous care. They barely glance up as Doctor takes his place behind the drum riser, a throne of polished chrome and gleaming black.
You stop at the edge of the stage, the roar of the crowd washing over you like a physical force. The lights are blinding, turning the massive arena into a sea of indistinct faces and waving arms. You watch Doctor settle behind his kit, the sticks looking like extensions of his hands as he taps out a complex rhythm on the hi-hat. The muscles in his arms flex with each movement, the overhead lights catching the sweat on his skin, making him look almost otherworldly.
Then he looks up, his gaze finding yours even across the distance and the chaos. He holds up a single finger, a clear signal. A moment later, the stage lights snap to black.
The crowd's roar intensifies, a collective gasp of anticipation. In the sudden darkness, you feel more than see a figure approaching. A familiar silhouette. A gloved hand closes around yours, tugging you forward.
"What are you—" you start, but your words are swallowed by the deafening noise.
"Up here," Doctor's voice is a low growl in your ear, pulling you onto the raised platform of the drum riser.
You stumble slightly, your eyes adjusting to the dim, purple-tinged glow of the emergency lights. He guides you with a firm but gentle pressure on your back, maneuvering you with an unnerving precision in the confined space. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the steady thrum of the stage vibrating through the soles of your shoes.
"Sit," he commands, patting his lap.
You hesitate for a fraction of a second. This is new. A step beyond the usual boundary-pushing, a line drawn in the sand and then promptly erased. The thought of all those eyes, even in the darkness, sends a jolt of adrenaline through you. But it's Doctor. And this, you've learned, is how he operates—a public spectacle of private ownership.
You lower yourself onto his lap, your front flush against his chest, the leather of his harness cool against your heated skin despite the backstage humidity. The position is initially awkward, the hard metal of the harness clips pressing uncomfortably into your sternum as you try to find your balance in the confined space. One of his gloved hands comes to rest at the small of your back, steadying you, while the other grips your hip, sending shivers down your spine. He shifts beneath you, the movement deliberate and measured, adjusting you until you're straddling him properly, your thighs bracketing his hips.
From this vantage point, you can see the entire stage laid out before you like a kingdom in waiting, the vast emptiness of the back of the arena stretching into darkness beyond the reach of the emergency lights. An expectant hush that has fallen over the crowd, a collective held breath that thrums against your skin like electricity. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your palm where it rests on his chest, a counterpoint to the distant thrum of the bass through the stage floor. His mask remains in place, but you can feel the intensity of his gaze even without seeing his eyes, a weight that pins you in place as surely as his hands on your body.
His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel every ridge and buckle of his harness digging into your thighs, each point of contact with a distinct pressure against your body. His body heat radiates through the damp fabric of his shirt, a warmth that seeps into your own clothes. One of his hands slides down your back, his fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a possessive slowness that sends shivers through you, coming to rest on the curve of your ass, a proprietary, claiming gesture that makes your breath catch in your throat. The crowd beyond the darkness of the stage seems to hold its breath in unison with you, the sudden intimacy of this position a stark contrast to the public spectacle unfolding around you.
"Comfortable?" He murmurs, the vibration of his words traveling through your chest.
"Perfectly," you manage, your voice a little too tight.
"Good."
The world explodes in a flash of blinding white light. The opening chords of the next song rip through the arena—a discordant, driving rhythm that sets your teeth on edge. The crowd roars, a single, unified entity of pure, unadulterated energy. Doctor begins to play, a complex, relentless beat that seems to shake the very foundations of the building. The sticks blur in his hands, a flurry of motion that defies the eye. You can feel the impact of each strike in the vibrations that travel through his body, into yours. The thrum of the bass drum is a steady, primal pulse against your core, a rhythm that starts to match the frantic beating of your own heart.
This is part of the show. A spectacle. But as he continues to play, one of his hands leaves its place on your hip, the movement smooth and deliberate, and disappears between you. He leans forward slightly, creating the smallest bit of space. You hear the faint, metallic rasp of a zipper, a sound that is utterly lost in the cacophony of the music, but that seems to echo in the sudden, charged quiet of your own mind. A moment later, the heat of him, bare and insistent, presses against your inner thigh. Your breath hitches, your hands flying to his shoulders for support as you grasp the damp fabric of his shirt, your knuckles white with the force of your grip. The sheer audacity of it, the reckless, public nature of this act, sends a jolt of pure adrenaline through your veins, potent and intoxicating.
"Doctor," you gasp, but the word is stolen by the sheer volume of the music, lost in the wall of sound.
He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. His intentions are clear in the deliberate pressure of his hips, in the way he holds you, a firm, unyielding grip that is both an invitation and a command. You shift your weight, your body moving with a will of its own, guided by an instinct that is as powerful as it is undeniable. You sink down onto him, a slow, deliberate slide that draws a hiss of breath from your lips. The stretch is exquisite, a fullness that steals the air from your lungs and leaves you breathless. He's hot and hard inside you, a solid, grounding presence amidst the overwhelming sensory input of the stage lights and the roaring crowd.
For a moment, you remain still, your body adjusting to the intrusion, your mind struggling to process the reality of this situation. Then, he starts to move. A subtle rock of his hips, a slow, deliberate rhythm that is in perfect sync with the beat of the drums. The vibrations from the drums travel through his body, into yours, a secondary source of stimulation that is as maddening as it is pleasurable. Each strike of the bass drum sends a jolt through your core, a pulse of sensation that makes your toes curl. You can't help but move with him, your body rolling in a counter-rhythm that is both a response and a challenge. Your hands tighten on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the muscle and bone as you struggle to maintain some semblance of control. The world outside this small, overheated space has ceased to exist. The crowd, the other members of the band, the very stage itself—it's all a blur of light and sound, a backdrop for this intimate, intense, and utterly public act of possession.
You're putting on a show. A performance within a performance. You know the cameras are on you, on him. You know the audience is watching, their faces turned up to the stage, their expressions a mixture of shock, awe, and unbridled excitement. But you can't bring yourself to care. All that matters is the feel of him inside you, the relentless, driving rhythm of the drums, and the possessive grip of his hands on your body. The drums luckily add coverage, so all the audience knows is that you are grinding on his lap.
One of his hands leaves your hip and travels up your back, his fingers tracing the line of your spine with a possessive slowness that makes you shiver. He threads his fingers through your hair, his grip firm but not painful, and uses the leverage to pull your head back, exposing your throat to the harsh glare of the lights. You can feel the heat of his gaze, even through the mask, that seems to burn your skin. Your own breath comes in ragged gasps, each one a small, desperate sound that is swallowed by the wall of sound. He's pushing you, testing your limits, and you're meeting him at every turn, your body moving in a desperate, frantic rhythm that is a perfect counterpoint to the driving beat of the music.
The song builds, the tempo increases, and the music reaches a fever pitch. Doctor's movements become more demanding, more insistent. He's driving into you with a force that steals your breath, each thrust a claim, a declaration of ownership that is as thrilling as it is terrifying. You can feel the coil of pleasure tightening in your lower belly, a hot, heavy pressure that builds with every passing second. Your eyes flutter closed, your head falling against his shoulder, your body completely at his mercy. You're lost in the sensation, in the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of it all, and you don't care who sees. You don't care that you're on a stage in front of thousands of people. All that matters is this—this connection, this intensity, this feeling of being completely and utterly consumed by him.
He knows you're close. He can feel it in the way your body clenches around him, in the way your breathing hitches, in the desperate, frantic movements of your hips. He shifts slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts, and the new sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through you. A cry escapes your lips, a raw, uninhibited sound of pure ecstasy that is lost in the music. He responds with a low growl, a sound of approval that you feel more than hear and drives into you with renewed vigor. His other hand slides up your thigh, his fingers digging into your flesh with a bruising force, holding you in place as he takes you with a ferocity that is both breathtaking and overwhelming.
The world around you dissolves into a blur of light and sound. The crowd, the stage, the other members of the band—they all fade into the background, insignificant details in the grand, sweeping epic of your own pleasure. You're flying, soaring on a wave of pure sensation, your body arching against his, your hands clinging to his shoulders as you ride out the storm. And then, the coil of pleasure in your belly snaps, a wave of bliss that crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave. Your body convulses, your muscles clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you, leaving you breathless and trembling in its wake. You cry out his name, a raw, desperate sound that is swallowed by the roar of the crowd.
A moment later, you feel him stiffen beneath you, a low, guttural groan rumbling in his chest as he finds his own release. His hips jerk, a final, powerful thrust that sends another jolt of pleasure through you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, and for a moment, you remain like that, tangled together in the aftermath of your shared climax, a tangle of limbs and sweat and satisfaction.
The song ends with a final, crashing chord, and for a heartbeat, the arena is plunged into a sudden, deafening silence. Then, the crowd erupts, a roar of approval that is louder than anything you've ever heard. The lights come up, and the world rushes back in a dizzying, disorienting flood of color and sound. You're still on his lap, his body still joined with yours, the evidence of your shared pleasure a sticky, intimate secret between you, hidden from the thousands of eyes that are now fixed on the stage. The sudden return of reality is a jarring, almost brutal, awakening, and a wave of heat washes over you, a blush that you know is visible even under the harsh glare of the stage lights.
Doctor straightens, his hands coming to rest on your hips. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. You can feel the smug satisfaction radiating from him, a palpable thing that is almost as intoxicating as the lingering pleasure that still hums through your veins. He leans forward, his lips brushing against your ear.
"Get up," he murmurs, the vibration of his words sending a shiver down your spine.
You comply; your movements are clumsy and uncoordinated. Your legs feel like jelly, and you stumble slightly as you rise, your body still humming with the aftershocks of your orgasm. He follows, rising from the drum throne with a fluid grace that is at odds with the intensity of what just transpired. He adjusts himself with a casual, almost nonchalant movement, then offers you a hand. You take it, your fingers lacing with his, the leather of his glove cool and smooth against your skin. He leads you off the riser, your steps unsteady on the uneven surface of the stage. The other members of the band watch you go, their expressions a mixture of amusement and something else—something you can't quite decipher.
As you step off the stage and into the comparative darkness of the wings, a comfort against the lingering chill of post-coital reality and the overwhelming heat of the stage lights. Doctor stops, turning to face you. He's still a spectacle, a vision of controlled chaos in his sweat-damp clothes and elaborate makeup, but there's a new intimacy in the way he looks at you, a vulnerability that he rarely shows.
"You," he says, his voice a low murmur, "are going to be the death of me."
You manage a weak smile. "The feeling's mutual."
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that you feel more than hear. Then, he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that is surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the raw, primal intensity of your encounter on stage. It's a kiss that speaks of possession, of ownership, but also of a deep, abiding affection that is as unexpected as it is welcome. His tongue slides against yours, a slow, deliberate exploration that leaves you breathless and wanting more. When he finally pulls away, you're left feeling dazed and disoriented, your lips tingling and your heart hammering against your ribs.
"Come on," he says, his hand coming to rest at the small of your back, guiding you through the maze of equipment and personnel that clutter the backstage area. "The encore's in ten."
"You're not serious," you say, your voice a little shaky.
"Always."
He leads you toward the green room, a small, cluttered space that is a refuge from the chaos of the stage. The other members of the band are already there, sprawled on a mismatched collection of couches and armchairs. They look up as you enter, their expressions a mixture of amusement and something else—something that looks suspiciously like approval.
"Well, well," Harlequin drawls, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Look what the cat dragged in."
Jester just snorts, not bothering to look up from the strings he's meticulously cleaning on his bass. "More like what the cat dragged on."
Pierrot and MC first kiss? But MC is shy 👉🏻👈🏻 this had been on my mind a lot
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{//||--Pierrot x ReaderPrompt: Shy first-kiss
Big monster, nervous human; nice fall day.
Silly gooses lol short n' sweet
Thank you for sending this~! I hope you enjoy(:
The crisp autumn air bit at your cheeks, painting them a sharp crimson that you hoped Pierrot would chalk-up to the October chill. Walking home beside him after your shift ended, you kept your hands buried deep inside your coat pockets, your shoulders hunched. You were acutely aware of how quiet you were being—gaze fixed firmly on the ground as your boots crunched rhythmically through the dry, fallen leaves.
Beside you, Pierrot noticed.
He always noticed.
Usually grand, theatrical, and prone to filling the space with dramatic gestures to help keep the attention from feeling entirely focused on you: your crushing shyness seemed to act as a tether on his usual circus energy in return. He didn't want to overwhelm you, but he also couldn't bear to see you so tense. With a sudden, dramatic flourish, he swooped downward, his gloved fingers sweeping through the leaves.
"My dear, look," he chimed, his voice carrying that familiar joyous lilt to it.
When you peeked up, you saw several small acorns dancing through the air between his hands in a flawless, miniature juggle. He kept his eyes locked on yours, tilting his head with a soft, painted smile as the acorns spun in a perfectly practiced arc. The sheer absurdity of him treating a quiet neighborhood street like a big-top ring, coaxed a small chuckle from your lips.
Mission accomplished; your monster beamed as he basked in his success.
Pierrot caught the acorns deftly in one palm, bowing low as if receiving thunderous applause from the empty sidewalk.
But as you reached the small iron gate of your front yard, the playful distraction faded, leaving behind a thick, charged silence between the two of you. The afternoon sun was dipping low, casting long, dramatic shadows across the porch. And the reality of the goodbye settled in, bringing the crushing weight of your nerves right back, making you stare intently at the brass numbers on your front door.
Pierrot stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow that felt entirely protective rather than imposing. The crisp breeze swept down the street, making you shiver slightly.
"M-my dear... you're freezing," he frowned, his voice dropping into a soft, reverent register that made your heart skip a beat. Forget that you were just moments away from being inside and warm...
Before you could stammer out this face, his large gloved hand reached out with agonizing slowness. He gave you ample time to pull away should you choose, but you remained still, albeit holding your breath. With the gentlest touch, his fingers brushed a stray lock of hair away from your face, tucking it carefully behind your ear. He didn't pull his hand away immediately; instead, he adjusted the brim of your knit hat, pulling it down just enough to snugly cover your ears against the wind.
"There, dear one..." his deep voice tender as always, a clawed thumb lightly grazing your cheekbone. His own selfish excuses to touch your soft skin.
His face was very close now. Up close, the theatricality of his mask couldn't hide the genuine warmth in his amber eyes—or the faint, creeping flush that was rising in his cheeks. Pierrot, the master of the big top, looked entirely undone by your proximity.
"I..." He swallowed, his hands hovering tentatively near your slender shoulders, utterly hyper-aware of how fragile you felt simply being human, let alone in your shyness on top of that fact. He wanted to be so, so gentle with you. Always frightened of the possibility of pushing you away from some miscalculation. "M-may I kiss you, my dear? J-just a small one! I-I promise... Only if you want it."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. You couldn't manage words, so you simply gave a small, hesitant nod, your eyelashes fluttering before going tightly shut.
Pierrot closed the remaining distance with a beautiful, deliberate slowness—all for your sake. When his lips finally met yours, it was incredibly light—barely more than a whisper of pressure, ensuring you felt completely safe. He tasted like the cool, crisp autumn air, but his lips were impossibly warm. It was a slow, melting gesture that completely dispelled the October chill.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch or two, his golden eyes were wide and shining, a brilliant, genuine smile dawning across his face. He looked entirely smitten in a breathless, happy daze.
"O-oh..." Pierrot stood there a low, goofy giggle escaping him as you both turned as red as the leaves around you on the sidewalk.
SUMMARY: Visiting The Freak Circus after Harlequins visit the true ring master of the circus wishes to see you
CONTENT: Jester x GN!Reader, slightly suggestive
(Part 1, Part 2)
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The air smelled sweet, you noted, clutching a red ticket in hand as you looked down at your watch. You had some time before Pierrot's show so why not check out some of the other attractions. Taking a few steps into the circus, you're stopped by a pink dressed fool who grips your wrist tightly.
“Jester would like to see you…”, the fool spoke softly before taking off in the direction of Jester's tent, leaving you struggling to keep up so they wouldn't drag you. Finally the fool finally lets you go once you reach what must be Jester’s private tent, blocking the entrance behind you leaving you no choice but to go inside.
Inside you find Jester sitting on a plush chair reading a book. “You wanted to see me…?”, you unconsciously straightened your poster, unable to help feeling nervous. You could never really read him, the few times you met him beforehand always left you with the slight impression that he didn't exactly like you. Slowly he placed a bookmark and set his book aside before looking up at you.
“Come here.”, he commanded, hooking a finger in your direction. You obeyed, making your way to stand right in front of him. “Sit.”, he pointed down at his lap. You swallowed hard but obeyed knowing better than to argue. “Hmm…”, he hummed approvingly, lacing his fingers in your hair in a tight grip.
“Pierrot and Harlequin have had quite the uptake in their fighting lately, I believe you might have something to do with that?”, he asked though he already knew the answer. “I didn't mean to cause trouble.”, you stammered wincing as he gives your hair a tug. “Oh but you have…Now, show me what has caused all this ruckus.”, he guides your face closer by your hair.
“Show me.” he commands at your hesitation.
You finally press a kiss to his jaw before he guides you to another spot, controlling where you place each kiss on his face until he’s satisfied, finally allowing you to pull back his grip, loosening to gently run through your hair. “Hmm…I think I can understand now that was rather…Pleasant.", he admits his other hand is going to rest on his chin as he thinks.
“Well I can't just allow their misbehavior to go on, especially in public…” he gives a sharp tug to your hair pulling your head back. “I guess I'll just have to keep you here to keep them in line.”
“Wha-”, your cut off as he shoves something sweet inside your mouth before covering it with his hand.
SUMMARY: A few days after Pierrots visit, Harlequin seems to have a need to balance the scales.
CONTENT: Harlequin X GN!Reader, slightly suggestive
(Part 1 is here!)
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Harlequin had been acting…Odd, lately. It seemed he was everywhere you looked, his teasing picking up a notch as he practically tailed you like a cat demanding your attention which wouldn't have been too much different from his normal behavior except the fact he was obviously wanting something with you catching him multiple times staring at you lips pursed like he was about to ask something but each time you asked he quickly looked away and made some excuse-
Your thoughts were cut off by the sound of a metal screech sitting up from your bed. You cautiously approach the balcony finding a mischievous green clad figure perched up with his sharp claws nails hovering over the railing scratch marks imprinted on the metal.
“Was that you?”, you asked accusingly, crossing your arms you leaned against the doorframe.
“Possibly~”, Harlequin grinned.
“If my landlord bills me for that you're paying it.”, you said flatly.
“I didn't say it was me, besides I brought you a gift~”, he sauntered closer leaning down to be eye level before dangling a set of keys in front of your face. Your work keys. You had forgotten them at work again and where your boss was very lenient after the last time you had to call him to unlock the store for you, well, got a rather stern warning. “Oh, you're a life- well job saver.”, you take the keys from him while absent mindedly pressing a kiss to his jaw.
His grin tightened as he held the spot you just kissed. “Aww~ I save your job and only get one, while he just happens to show up and gets a face full?”, he attempts to tease not able to hide the jealousy clear in his tone.
“Hmph, well I guess you do deserve a few more…”, you roll your eyes before you hold his face in either hand, hearing a hiss of surprise as you begin peppering his face with kisses. After nearly covering his entire face he pulls away his breathing heavy and his face bright red.
“Harl-!”, you barely got his name out of you mouth before he pulls you to his chest walking you back, stopping to draw the curtain before continuing to your bed pushing you down before crawling on top of you, shutting off your lamp leaving the room in total darkness you can feel him bury his face into your neck his body covering yours completely.
For a long moment you both laid in silence before a prod at your side makes you jump. It stops before continuing, a smooth, rope like appendages slowly strokes along your left side while another comes to stroke your right. Your hands come up to rest on the back of his head before gently toying with the curls near the nape of his neck causing his breath to hitch. His appendages slip near the bottom of your shirt gently prodding as if asking permission, when you nod they slowly slip underneath trailing along your skin to wrap around your abdomen and up your back before encircling your neck, carefully they moved and tightened like a strange kind of massage that had your eyes fluttering, struggling to stay awake.
As you began to doze a breeze from the open balcony allowed a sliver of moonlight to sneak in allowing you to catch a rare glimpse of the real Harlequin.
If you ever tagged me to do one of those tag game thingies and I never did it:
1) Thank you, seriously. Those are fun and being included shows that my followers care enough to want to learn more about me.
2) Very sorry about that, it’s extremely likely that I said to myself “Cool! But I’m busy at the moment, I’ll have to do this later today or tomorrow” before proceeding to just straight-up forget, now it’s too far back in my notifications and/or your blog to find again.
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