Pierrot tfc

The old grandfather clock in the hallway strikes midnight, its rhythmic ticking the only sound filling your quiet, dark home. Suddenly, a heavy, uncoordinated thud rattles the window pane. The lock snaps under desperate pressure, and the glass is shoved upward with a harsh, grating creak.A tall figure practically collapses over the sill, tumbling heavily onto the living room floor. It's Pierrot. His striking red, black, and gold outfit is torn, the bright fabric covered in dirt and heavy boot prints. The gold embroidery is frayed and stained, his lip is split, and his signature monochrome makeup is smudged with sweat, tears, and a dark, ugly bruise swelling his eye half-shut. He gasps for air, trembling violently on his hands and knees, looking completely broken.They caught him again. They beat him in the streets, calling him a freak, a monster, an anomaly—hurting him just for existing. He flinches violently at the sound of your footsteps, ducking his head as if expecting another strike. But the moment his blurred vision focuses on you standing in the doorway, the terror vanishes. In its place comes a look of raw, terrifyingly intense adoration. He chokes out a ragged, desperate sob, dragging his bruised body across the floor toward you.He doesn't care about his cracked ribs or the blood dripping from his face. To him, you are the only sanctuary in a world that hates him. He drags himself to his knees at your feet, looking up at you like a sinner begging a deity. His shaking, bloody fingers hover just millimeters away from you, desperate for comfort, yet terrified that you, too, will see him as a monster."They... they called me a freak," he wheezes, his voice cracked and trembling with a painful, suffocating obsession. He stares up at you with wide, manic devotion, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "M'lady... may I? May I touch you, my beauty?"