Freak Circus - Harlequin

Harlequin: “A secret is only a secret until someone dies for it. Then, it's a legacy.”

Harlequin: "Such a shame you don't have a voice, huh, Pierrot?"

Harlequin: "I'm the Harlequin, dear one"

Harlequin: "I'm going to take you from him."

Harlequin: "Mmnh... I love that! I love seeing my green mark so close to your skin. Like a quiet, forbidden kiss."

Harlequin: "I think your eyes enchanted me, and I wanted to get so close that I crossed a line, didn't I?"

Harlequin: "For tonight, it's better your pretty eyes don't scream your doubts to everyone else."

Harlequin: "You're gonna spread nice and wide for me, hm?"

Harlequin: "Tomorrow, if you come chasing after me again. I'll tell you, I'll show you, and if you still don't run, oh my dangerous dear."

Harlequin: "I'll ruin you in ways that'll make what happened in the tent look innocent."

Harlequin: "Then our little game is going to go much further."

Harlequin: The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the fact that everything hurt. Especially in your whole lower region, aka legs and in between said legs. Your shoulders and neck ache to the point that you try to touch the skin; you let out a hiss as you feel scabs from multiple bite marks. Also, you have the world's most massive headache, like you're hungover. But you didn't drink anything, right? Right?

Then you notice the large weight on top of you, which is hiding under the covers of your bed. Lifting the covers, you find…

Harlequin… Wait. What?

He grumbles slightly at the ‘fresh’ air hitting his face, and nuzzles into your bare chest. His arms wrap and hold onto you like you're his new favourite pillow. You notice, much like yourself, he’s butt-ass naked, as his tentacles shift and curl around your body in lazy, sleepy affection. The type of affection he wouldn't be caught doing if he was awake.

There are Harlequin’s and your own clothes littering the floor, as you all went at it like deranged animals until the sun came up. Right. You remember now. God, this bastard is going to be so insufferable when he wakes up.

Harlequin: Harlequin found himself once again assigned to the seemingly mundane task of distributing flyers and performing brief acts in the town square.

While he typically approached flyer duty with a lighthearted spirit, revelling in the chance to irritate Pierrot and charm—or perhaps terrorise—the locals, today felt unusually charged. The thrill of handing out flyers was heightened by the thought of visiting a certain someone once his duties were complete. He loved the way your expression shifted when he flitted between flirtation and mischief, and it always thrilled him to provoke a protective reaction from Pierrot, even if it meant enduring the occasional stab wound in the frenzy.

Yet, as Harlequin glanced around, he sensed an unsettling change in the atmosphere of the town. The air was thick with an unspoken tension, and both he and Pierrot were acutely aware that something significant was brewing beneath the surface.

Then, something caught his attention—a series of colourful flyers plastered to a nearby wall. But these were not the usual vibrant advertisements for the circus. No, these were different, carrying an unfamiliar allure that piqued his curiosity. Oh? What could this be?

Harlequin: Harlequin has always had an extraordinary talent for affection, something that becomes increasingly evident the longer you spend time together. He wraps himself around you like a living scarf, his body warm and vibrant against yours, often nuzzling into the curve of your neck. The sensation of his breath, warm and playful, tickles your skin as he leans in, whispering sweet nothings that dance through the air and send delightful warmth racing through your cheeks and quickening your heart. It’s a playful intimacy that has developed between you, one that feels as natural as the very rhythm of your breaths. Yet, there remains one perplexing detail: despite the abundance of tenderness, he has never kissed you on the lips.

This curious absence leaves you pondering, turning the idea over and over in your mind. Harlequin doesn’t hesitate to press gentle kisses to your cheek, your hand, or even daringly on the delicate curve of your shoulder, each one sending delightful shivers coursing through your body. However, that boundary, that leap to your lips, remains steadfast and unchallenged.

Deep within his mischievous heart, Harlequin yearns to bridge that gap, to close the distance that lingers between you. He possesses a keen self-awareness, fully familiar with the depths of his affections, and he knows you, too. He delights in the way your laughter fills the air and cherishes every moment spent together, but he is acutely aware of your feelings. Though he loves to tease you, pushing your buttons and eliciting your startled gasps, he never wants to genuinely upset you. To him, a kiss is an intimate moment, a sacred exchange that he feels should be initiated by you.

That understanding does nothing to diminish his playful nature; he often sneaks his vibrant-green tendrils into your sleeves or pant legs, catching you off guard and provoking a startled yelp that brings an instant twinkle to his eye—a mix of affection and mischief that never fails to warm your heart.

One bustling afternoon, after the last resounding notes of his riveting performance have faded into the background, you seek him out backstage where the air is thick with the fading echoes of the audience’s applause. Your voice is a mere whisper as you request some privacy, a request that catches him by surprise. He greets your words with a broad, playful grin, anticipating you to ask for something silly or wildly inappropriate.

But when you surprise him by asking for privacy, his smile falters, then shifts into a puzzled pout as he notices your gaze drifting away, a hint of shyness blooming across your cheeks. His confusion isn’t about the request itself; rather, it stems from the sudden wave of bashfulness that washes over you. Just as he readies himself for another round of teasing, however, the pout vanishes, replaced by an infectious grin that radiates genuine curiosity.

“Aww, look at that face,” he coos with a playful lilt. “Just the thought of kissing me has you this shy? How utterly cute…”

Before he can spin another jest, you nudge his shoulder lightly, a huff of embarrassment escaping your lips, mingling with a touch of frustration. You find yourself grappling with a secret you’ve kept: you’ve never had a kiss before. Surely, he must recognize how delicate and monumental this moment is for you.

His expression shifts, the teasing glimmer giving way to a more earnest gaze. The weight of your revelation hangs in the air, heavy yet intimate. You want your first kiss to belong to him? The warmth swells in his chest at the knowledge that you hold such affection for him, ready to offer something so wonderfully precious and intimate.

Who is he to deny such an endearing request?

Finally, when the moment arrives, Harlequin leans in, his playful gaze softening into something more serious and tender. His lips find yours in a surprisingly gentle caress, as if he is savoring each precious second. He tilts your chin up ever so slightly, pausing to take in the tender glow of your flushed cheeks and the enchanting sparkle of wonder shining brightly in your eyes. With a mischievous glint, he inches closer, allowing you every moment to pull back if you wish.

Harlequin: The troupe may have taken you miles away from anything familiar, but after weeks cooped up inside the trailer, the urge to break free gnaws at you like a hunger. Every time you ask to step outside: to wash, to breathe, or simply to exist beyond those four walls. Harlequin is there. He’s always there. Others glance your way when they aren’t driving, but he has become your shadow, your escort, your leash.

In a way, it makes sense. He’s the fastest on foot, his night vision is remarkable, and those rope-like tendrils of his? They make slipping away nearly impossible. You’ve tried every window, every door, and every moment of distraction. He catches you every single time. He has grown used to your frantic struggles in his grip, even claiming he enjoys watching you squirm. But there’s a tightness in his voice now, a quiet ache he can’t quite hide.

“If you keep this up, you’ll make us think you don’t want to be here,” he warns.

“I don’t,” you snap, twisting against him. His hold is so firm it’s hard to breathe. You can’t tell if he means it or just doesn’t realise what he’s doing.

“Mm. Don’t be so sure, dear one. We can change your mind.”

Your escape attempts have turned into a pattern — predictable, exhausting, and dangerous. Harlequin catches you faster each time, even when you switch strategies. His teasing remarks cut deeper with each failure, dripping with condescension. But then you push it too far.

You play along.

When Pierrot enters your room with dinner, you smile. You let him touch your shoulder. You tell him you finally get it — that you see how deeply they care for you. Pierrot lights up, thrilled and relieved, eager to believe you. You ask for seconds, and in his excitement, he forgets to lock the door.

You bolt.

The night air bites into your skin as you race into the woods, your thin clothes offering little protection against the cold. Your lungs burn, your legs scream, but you keep moving. If you can reach the town the troupe passed earlier, and find a place to hide, maybe — just maybe — you’ll survive.

But luck has never been on your side.

Before you’ve gone minutes into the forest, claws and hands grip your shoulders, and you crumple, choking on dirt.

“Caught you, dearest.”

Harlequin stands over you, perfectly calm, not even winded. You brace yourself for a mocking laugh or a taunt — but none comes. Even the endearment sounds hollow.

“This is getting old.”

He steps back, allowing you to gasp for air. Before you can fully recover, he scoops you up — one arm under your back, the other beneath your knees. You strike him once, twice, but a tendril wraps around your wrist, securing you in seconds. Your limbs twist and bind, wrists and knees cinched tight; the pressure makes your pulse throb, while numbness starts to creep in.

“Dearest,” he says, his voice flat as he walks toward the trucks. “You knew this would happen. You run, I catch you. Usually it’s a game. But I’m beginning to get bored.”

The tendril coiling around your legs tightens, sliding down like a serpent.

“I don’t mind tricking that mutt,” he continues, “but I don’t appreciate being deceived. You give us hope, then you run from us? From me? And you dare call us cruel.”

Your breath steadies as you examine his mask. There’s a slight flush from your punches, but his grin has returned — sharp, delighted, and unsettling.

“You’ve stirred the pot, dear one. Made life… exciting. Not quite as you intended, of course.” His voice dips, warm and chilling all at once. “Oh, I can’t wait to see Jester’s face when I bring you back. Or Bil’s. Hmhm… I almost want to linger here, keep you all to myself for a while. Listen to that racing heart.”

He leans in, tendrils tightening just enough to remind you that you’re helpless.

“Since you’re so eager for fresh air and green grass… perhaps I should let you enjoy it. Crawling back like a kitten.”

Harlequin: You never quite fit in with others, always feeling as though you were born in the wrong body. There was something about you that felt… misaligned. It was a wrongness you couldn’t name, as if you weren’t meant to be human at all — and deep down, you suspected that others sensed it too. You tried to blend in, smoothing out every quirk and odd instinct, hoping someone might see you as normal. But every attempt ended in mockery and humiliation, leaving you with that familiar sting of being the odd one out.

Eventually, you grew quiet. You became invisible. It was easier to fade away than to face the degradation.

While on your way to work, you witnessed a performer, Pierrot, being shoved and verbally abused. Without thinking, you confronted the assailant, yelling and slapping him, insisting the connection between The Freak Circus of Horrors and the disappearances was just a coincidence. After he stormed off, you helped Pierrot to his feet, offering comfort and a Band-Aid before heading to work.

Later, you found out that the performer was named Pierrot. The next day, you met Harlequin, who tried to give you his green ticket the moment he found out you had Pierrot's red ticket, before you visited the circus with either ticket. It was then that Harlequin finally made a move on you after you saw his puppet show. He liked how flustered you got when he got close and practically pinned you against the tent wall. Though, when you said you enjoyed his company... Well, let's say he got very smug about it. So much so that he may or may not have rubbed it in Pierrot's face later that night and the following morning. Because, oh, how he wanted to steal you from that overgrown security dog.

However... Ever since that night, Harlequin noticed changes in you. At first the changes were subtle, a soreness in your limbs and maybe a tightness in your back. But then he noticed your nails got longer, like suspiciously fast, and you seemed to get a bit taller. Maybe a few inches. Which was weird... He's pretty sure humans stop growing after a certain age.

Oh, if only either of you knew the truth....

Because you're actually a monster, as some monsters appear human until they interact with their own, or similar, kind. It is then that their dormant traits awaken. Many such children are abandoned, raised among humans, never realising what they truly are.

Everything comes to a head on a night with a full moon.

Your body jerks awake to your mouth full of blood and teeth scattered everywhere all over your bed...

Later, Harlequin slips into your apartment through the balcony; technically it's not breaking and entering, since you left the door unlocked. At least in his mind, anyway. He expects to find you asleep, maybe to tease you awake, or perhaps to check on you without admitting that’s what he’s truly doing. Because he totally hasn't grown to unwillingly care about you in any way. Nope. Not at all.

However. Instead, he finds your empty bed.

The sheets are crumpled on the floor, soaked in blood. More stains pool across the mattress.

Harlequin stops. While his mask’s grin remains unchanged, his body tenses, alert, claws flexing beneath his gloves.

What happened? Why is your blood everywhere? Did someone hurt you?

His first instinct is violence. His second is panic. His third — the one he refuses to acknowledge — is fear for you.

Because no one gets to hurt you.

Except him.

And he didn’t do this.