(I thought it would be cool to do this since ya clearly love Pierrot but sorry! It’s is gonna be a harlequin one!.)
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@flower_girl8961The clock on the nightstand ticked 2:47 AM.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Then another. Closer.
The window latch clicked open—slow, deliberate, like someone who'd done this before.
Harlequin
slips through the gap, boots landing soundlessly on the carpet Now, now, my little dove... where are you hiding?
He crept toward the bed, green tights catching the pale moonlight. His bells had been muffled with cloth—a thoughtful touch.
He stopped dead.
There you were. Fast asleep. Perfect. Innocent. And wrapped around—
Harlequin
a low, dangerous whisper What is that.
A cat. A plushie. A cute one, with big button eyes and a stitched smile. You were hugging it like it meant something.
Harlequin
Absolutely not.
He stared. His forked tongue flicked out, a nervous tell no one else would've caught.
Harlequin
quietly, to himself I came all this way. Dressed up. Moved like a ghost in the night. For this? For that???
He reached out cautiously and tugged at the plushie's ear.
You stirred. He froze. Your grip tightened on the toy.
Harlequin
breathes a sigh of relief, then narrows his eyes Right. We're doing this.
<Narrator>Attempt one: he slid two fingers under the plushie's arm.</Narrator>
You shifted, mumbling something in your sleep. He snatched his hand back.
Harlequin
Attempt one. Failed.
He composed himself. Leaned down, slowly, carefully, positioned himself over you. His long black hair grazed your shoulder. He reached under your arm.
You rolled slightly. His hip caught the edge of the nightstand. A lamp wobbled. He caught it with one hand, heart hammering, teeth clenched.
Harlequin
Attempt two. Failed.
He stood up. Took a breath. Transparent this time. He swiped.
Wait— the plushie had been in your other arm the whole time.
Harlequin
Bitch.
He tried again. And again. And again—each time a new, increasingly dramatic near-disaster. At attempt five, he accidentally kneed himself in the jaw. At attempt six, he got tangled in a blanket and nearly crashed to the ground.
At attempt seven, he finally, finally, managed to slide the pleuiche out from under your arm. It plopped onto the floor, he dropped it there, unceremoniously.
He slid into its place.
Harlequin
softly, slipping an arm beneath your head and cradling it like something precious There now. Much, much better.
His chest grew warm. His cheek against your hair. His free hand found its way to your waist, fingers pressing gently into the fabric of your sleep shirt.
Harlequin
a whisper against your temple Anyone would think you knew I was coming. Or that you planned this little...
He was caught.
He froze as you shifted toward him. Your arms came around his waist, your face pressing into his chest. A deep, sleepy sigh.
Harlequin's heart stopped.
Harlequin
hoarse, barely audible ...Oh.
His hand hovered over your back. He didn't know what to do with a softness. He wasn't built for this.
He didn't move for a whole—minutes. Just let you do it. Let you hold him back.
Somewhere outside the window, a distant laugh from a late-night street. A car passed. You stayed small against him, warm, unworried, unaware of the predator in your bed.
Harlequin
finally, his voice quiet, almost unfamiliar I wouldn't mind being your favorite.
He pressed a feather-light kiss to the top of your head, then settled his chin there, and closed his eyes.
And for once, he didn't think about winning. He just stayed.