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You're in your apartment, throwing barbs back and forth with the green circus performer as you both sit down to eat. He takes a seat on the couch behind you while you sit at the counter on a bar stool, the ones with a low back on them. The few times you've invited him to your place and offer him food demand he eats he always insists on this seating arrangement. You can't see him and you can't turn around.
The late afternoon sun casts a warm golden glow throughout your space, providing some natural light as you refuse to turn on your lights. What you did turn on was the radio that sat atop the microwave because you enjoy the background noise as you cooked. Right now the radio was quietly going through the advertisements you've heard hundreds, if not thousands, of times before.
Your socked toes touch the back of the metal wire footrest, not quite resting your feet but keeping them in place. You feel the plush cushion of the seat on your exposed thighs and even through your shorts. You never really use these bar stools. Whenever you eat, you're always sitting on the couch. Wearing a t-shirt and resting your forearms on the counter, the cold counter top shocks the skin of your exposed arms just a bit, not used to the sensation.
"Huhum, colour me surprised. Everything is to my liking." You hear Harlequin's spoon clink lightly against the vitrelle bowl he's holding from behind you. "Though, the greens are a bit too much wet for me. We already have the kimchi. I'd much rather eat something else wet—"
"Just eat the veggies, Harley." You pick up the leafy vegetable in your spoon. "Lord knows you probably don't get your greens in as much as you should."
"How could you ever think that? Green's my favourite colour."
You snort and roll your eyes, putting the vegetable in your mouth and crunch down. You're both eating lunch that you prepared: kimchi fried rice with spicy steamed bok choy. There's a decent amount left in the large frying pan on the stove and the wooden spatula rests on a small plate off to the side, easy to reach if seconds are wanted.
After eating a couple more bok choy, you bring a spoonful of kimchi fried rice to your mouth. The taste is just right with a lot of spiciness, but it doesn't dull the other flavours. You make your own kimchi so you can amp the spiciness to your liking.
The small bacon bits also add the right amount of sodium and crispiness. You also eat the fried egg in its entirety at once, enjoying it as you cooked it to perfection.
You tune back in on the radio when the commercials end, now playing "I like the way you kiss me." The only reason you remember the song title was because it's literally the first lyric.
It's really ironic that this song's playing since the literal embodiment of the song is sitting behind you. Not that you could actually fact check—you've never had sex with Harlequin—but it wouldn't surprise you if he did in fact hit it in the back just so his sexual partners wouldn't get attached.
But you don't say anything, appreciating the quiet time meal times give you.
"I'll taste spicy after eating this. Want to give it a try and see if you can handle it, dearest?"
Never mind. You nearly forgot how Harlequin literally detests silence. "Why don't you suck your own dick and tell me? I'm sure you're flexible enough and I hate disappointment." You crunch on another piece of bok choy, the spice flooding your tongue.
"Or perhaps you're the one who'll taste spicy~" He makes lewd squelching noises. "Oh how I'd devour you in a heart beat, bite marks littering all over your pretty skin. All mine to ravish."
Heat rises to your cheeks at the visual he's giving you. You're proud of how casual your tone is when you say, "Uh-huh, not if the scratch marks I leave on you incapacitate you first."
You pointedly ignore the visceral hunger in his voice as he asks, "Is that a promise?"
"Hm, sure. Not like I'll ever invite you into my bed like that, though." You chuckle, swallowing down fried rice. "You'll have to live out your fantasies with someone else."
"And why would I ever do that when you are here just within my grasp and your bedroom door is already open?" You hear a door click.
You bristle, already hearing his bell jingles coming from inside your bedroom. "Oh, fuck you, Harlequin."
"Should I take that as my invitation, dearest?" He asks in a mocking manner, but there's an undercurrent of unrestrained lust.
You drop your spoon into your bowl, covering your eyes with your non-dominant hand. "Get out of my room, Harlequin. I'm not going to ask again."
"Dominant, are you? Too bad, because you'll be under me~"
The hand not covering your eyes balls into a fist, fingernails digging into your palm. But you take a deep breath. In, out.
"I'm going to the bathroom." You don't wait for his reply as you get off the bar stool and use your memory and spatial awareness to guide you to the bathroom by the entrance of your apartment.
Once you shut the door, you open your eyes and drop your hand, locking the door. You aren't putting it past him to just creak the door open and leave it like that to annoy you.
You grab something from under your sink cabinet, pull your shorts down, and sit on the toilet. As you piss, noting how the stream is quiet as you expected, you think.
God, this is dangerous. This is probably the closest he's ever pushed you to have sex with him. You didn't know he wanted it that bad to invade your bedroom. The door's shut for a reason.
You let out a shaky sigh and collect yourself. You look at the panty liner sticking to your underwear and rip it off, noting how underneath on the top part, there's a wet spot. Huh, you didn't think you were that wet but hey, isn't Harlequin just full of surprises.
You replace the wet, basically soaked-through liner, with a new, clean, and dry one, wrapping the used one in the wrapper before tossing it in the trash can beside the toilet. Then, you take some toilet paper and wipe yourself almost mechanically with detached precision, like you've done this before.
And you'd be right. You've done this countless times before over the years. So at this point, it's become muscle memory and nothing noteworthy.
༘⋆𖦹 💚 *ੈ‧₊˚
When he heard you move from the chair, Harlequin thought he thoroughly fucked up. He moved silently to the door frame once he heard your declaration.
His mouth parted slightly when he saw your hand over your eyes as you stepped confidently to the bathroom, only hesitating as you approached the corner and used a hand to feel for the wall.
As he sat back on the couch, he got pulled into his thoughts, his lunch forgotten. He finished it all. A hand came up to his face, touching the mask. You were still abiding by his rules, within your house. Not crossing any of his boundaries when he clearly did.
That made a knot in his stomach. At the realization that, even when you were shaking in anger, you still considered him. And instead of using your fury as a reason to snap at him, you just removed yourself from the situation.
His thoughts stopped when he heard wet noises from inside the bathroom. Squelch, squelch, squelch.
He got up to turn off the radio before returning to the couch.
His pants tented. Was this his punishment? To hear you pleasure yourself without him?
But just as quickly as the sounds arrived, they stopped. He heard you flush the toilet and wash your hands before stepping out of the bathroom. The scent of holly berries floods his nostrils as he recognizes your hand soap.
And you're still covering your eyes.
He watches you cross the room, take your seat, drop your hand, pick up the spoon, and continue eating like nothing happened.
He closes his eyes, looking up to the ceiling. You are driving him mad. "You're playing a dangerous game, my dear," he warns, nearly a growl. "Teasing me when you clean yourself, getting rid of that oh so delicious nectar. But don't worry, if you want to play the long game, I can get you wet again in a flash."
He sees you falter for just a second, head turning a smidge to the radio. Then, the sweet sound of your chuckles fill the room. "You heard that, huh? God, you're so needy for sex. I've never encountered someone such as yourself."
His eyes narrow as his grin stretches just a bit wider. How lucky you are that, as of now, he's rather fond of you. How he values you enough not to just drag you out of the chair right now straight towards the bedroom and begin his usual more touchier methods of seduction.
No, you are not the usual. So he'll continue taking his time. But oh, how he is ready for this torture to be done.
He moves to the centre of the kitchen, putting himself in your view. "Don't you want to see how much I like it?" He gestures to his nether regions, where his pants tent.
However, instead of the instinctual glance he expected from you, you blink, keeping your eyes on his face. You frown, sending him a questioning gaze before you awkwardly laugh. You close your eyes as you look down at your bowl and push another spoonful of rice to your mouth, chewing. You swallow, almost painfully, and look up at him. "Yeah, and just because I'm wet means I like it."
Harlequin grins at your response. Yes, you get it. Maybe today is the day where he'll finally get what he wants. He should be happy. Satisfied. But… emptiness started growing inside him, displacing the warmth that reveals itself when he's around you. Perhaps he's just sad to see the chase end. Yes, that must be it. "See? Isn't it obvious. So why don't we move to the bed? This chase has been fun, but I want my reward."
He notes your eyes widening. But not in fear. In disbelief.
You freeze, stunned shock. "… You know I was being sarcastic, right? Just because our bodies respond to stimulation doesn't mean we… automatically like it. You know that, right? It's important to me that you understand that." You soften your gaze as you both make eye contact. "And I thought I made it clear that I enjoy your company. Platonically. As a friend. And not in a friends-with-benefits sort of way."
His eye twitches. "Oh, come now." He leans in, propping himself up with his hands on the counter, looking down at you. "Surely you aren't satisfied with the small touches we share."
"… Yes…? Yes, I am." Your eyebrows knit together. You're confused. He doesn't know at what though. You nearly steal his breath away when the following words fall from your lips, "I like being around you. I enjoy the flirting, teasing, and our banter. You're fun to be around and… I just want to love you… in my own way."
You break eye contact hesitantly, staring at the last few remaining spoonfuls of rice. You're shrinking, he realizes, curling up on yourself. His mask cracks.
He's noting how the light and fun atmosphere changed to serious and vulnerable. He finds himself silent, wondering if he should be real with you. Because, to his surprise, he finds your confession… has soothed the gnawing emptiness that crept up his throat.
But how? Why? He doesn't like the road this conversation turned to. You just admitted you only want to see him as a… friend. "We'll still be friends, dearest. Friends can have sex."
You scrunch your nose. "I know. Some people have sex with friends and they're fine. But that's not me. I don't like sex."
He's the one with wide eyes now. He puts on a sly smile. "Ah, I never thought you'd be a virgin. Always the unsuspecting ones that are a surprise~"
"Harley, I've had sex before. Multiple times." You push away your bowl to the side, close to the wall. You fix him with a pinched expression that communicates the gravity of the situation. "How else would I be so confident in my dislike for sex?"
"Mhm, your previous sexual partners have disappointed you, then." He takes your hand, grazing your pulse. "Rest assured, I will make it pleasurable for you."
You snatch your hand back so fast his reflexes couldn't react. His fingers twitch. He made sure not to scratch you with his claws, going as far as to ensure you wouldn't even feel them. Only his fingertips and palm.
He ignores the dimming light of the warmth inside him.
"I know when a touch is platonic and when it's sexual in nature." You frown, your eyes flicking downwards to his hand still outstretched. "And I also know that you were being careful when you touched my hand. But that doesn't change the intention behind it."
"You don't know anything," he retorts back, like spitting acid. Or more accurately, poison.
"Yes, I do." Your voice remains calm, steady, unlike the erratic pulses and thumps in his ear. "Give me a 'small touch'"—you make air quotes—"then. Clearly, you think that a small touch means platonic."
He sneers. "Alright then, dearest."
The Harlequin moves to be behind you and without hesitation, slides his arms underneath yours and pulls you close to him. A back hug. One of the most platonic touches he knows while ensuring the most amount of surface area touched.
You don't stiffen. Your heart rate doesn't even race. Your breathing doesn't change. For a second, nothing happens. Nothing changes. You don't react.
And that hurts him more than any shout or slap you could've thrown his way. Indifference. He can't stand that.
He wants to let go. Prove to you that the both of you will be unaffected by this. Just slip his hands away and remark that you don't know the difference between a sexual or platonic touch.
He needs to let go.
This much touch is encroaching on dangerous territory for his heart. But he doesn't. Because the warmth doesn't recede anymore to make way for the ever growing emptiness. The way his heart clenches almost makes him believe he isn't as heartless as he is.
That's when it happens. You press your non-dominant arm against his, seemingly locking him into place to keep him on you. Then, you lean into his touch. You relax against him. You let out a happy breath. Your heart rate slows.
His mouth opens to a small "o" shape. Just like that, hearing your own heart slow for him, he can't stop deluding himself in convincing him that you were lying. A lying liar who lies. You both know he can release you at any time. You wouldn't be able to stop him, certainly not with just an arm.
So… the only other reason why you pressed your arm against him, in such a soft, comforting touch, made him sick. Borderline nauseous even. The only other possible reason was that you reciprocated. He clutched you tighter. And he's going crazy inside at your response, of you rubbing your thumb back and forth on his arm.
This is so pathetic, he chides himself. But he needs more.
The emptiness made itself aware: loneliness. He stuttered, wanting to pull away. But he just couldn't bring himself to.
The warmth grew inside, both in size and intensity. He was hungry. Starving, even. Not for food. Not even for sex. For something he couldn't name. Couldn't identify. But he could identify what he didn't want: for you to let go.
Meanwhile, you're just eating. Using your dominant hand to shovel food into your mouth. Finishing off your rice. Like everything was normal, unaware of the shatters you've left the Harlequin in.
His tendrils slipped out against his will. He feels it, the near electrifying sensation that courses through him when just one brushes up against your naked calf. He sucks in a breath and is quick to let you go, retreating a few steps.
"Merda," his growl escapes him before he can stop it.
But to his never ending surprise, you didn't turn around. Didn't demand answers. Instead, you scratch your head lightly and slide your bowl and spoon across the counter in front of you to place it in the sink, turning the tap on and filling the bowl with water. Harlequin wonders with a dread if you're going to splash him with water, despite seeing you turn the tap off and settling back in your seat.
Then, you move your hand to cover your eyes. His heart drops at the realization. Your other hand beckons him to you and he twitches. He so desperately wants to come closer but he's locked in place. There's no way you didn't notice the tendril. His mind flashes to the worst possible situations where his family gets chased out and they'd have to abandon the circus.
"… Your hugs are nice, Harley. I like them. … Do me a favour?"
His heart stutters.
"… Give me another hug? … Please? …"
A beat. Then two. Before he huffs, the mask slipping back securely in place. "Who's the needy one now?" His mind is racing. His voice sounds disembodied to his own ears. "Well, your begging is nice on the ears. But let's move somewhere more comfortable."
༘⋆𖦹 ✨ *ੈ‧₊˚
Your heart is racing. Oh my god, he's actually letting you hug him some more. Or, you guess, more accurately, he's letting him hug you. Who cares, semantics! You took a risk and Lady Luck shined down on you. Cuddles!
… But this is Harlequin we're talking about. Hopefully he doesn't spin this into sex.
Still having your hand over your eyes, you get out of the bar stool and turn around, facing him. With a hand on the small of your back, he guides you a short distance. When he lets go, you stop.
The next you know it, you're falling. Props to you though, only your free hand flails, trying to grasp at anything to steady yourself. But by the time you grip something, you're already sitting down. You touch the familiar fabric of your arm chair, sweat coming to your hands due to the shock. You also notice legs pressing up against your outer thighs and when you fell, you landed with an "oof" from behind you.
Oh my god you're in Harlequin's lap.
Not actually sitting on him, of course. Your butt is on the actual chair, you can feel the familiar texture on your thighs and through your shorts.
"Keep your eyes closed," he said quietly, recognizing a smidge of softness to his voice too. "But remove your hand."
You do as he says. You drop your hand from your eyes to rest on what you think is his knee. It's bony.
A piece of fabric rests over your eyes and you realize it's a blindfold. Still, you keep your eyes shut until he finishes tying the knot.
When you no longer feel his claws in your hair, you open your eyes and find that everything is black save for the light streaming through your balcony doors. You can just barely make out the silhouette of your table and chairs out on the balcony. Nothing else. Not even the furniture inside like the coffee table you know is just an outstretched leg in front of you.
"My guy, do you just keep this on you?"
"Two," he says, a bit smug.
You blink. "Seriously? Damn, okay." This must be a deal breaker for him. Still, you attempt a tease to return to the light atmosphere from before. "Don't want me to see how flustered you are? God, you're such a tease."
He barks out a laugh. "Like anyone could get the great Harlequin flustered. I'm the original Casanova~"
"Yeah, yeah. Time for cuddles." You pat his knee before squeezing it. You're sitting in his lap, his legs surrounding yours. You relax, your back leaning on his chest. You cross your ankles, one socked foot resting on the other.
Harlequin's hands come slowly, hesitant, sliding around your waist. You smile, letting out a content sigh. His chin rests lightly on your right in the crook of your neck. You can feel the different texture of the smooth, cold, indent of his mask and when his skin starts.
You also feel something warm coil and slide around your ankles but you don't pay much attention to them, even as they migrate up past your socks. They wind and tighten around your shins.
"Hmm? You're not scared, are you?" You can just barely feel the vibrations from his throat as he talks. You definitely feel the indents of his chin. "Not going to ask what's happening? What's touching you?"
"… It's you, right?"
He hums. "Aren't you a smart girl. Yes. It's me."
Hurray. Your deductive reasoning hasn't failed you.
You bring your arms around his, hugging him back. Partly to increase the pressure, deepening it. You like pressure. What you said about you liking his hugs wasn't a lie. He applies a nice, deep pressure in his hugs that you've found most other people don't.
But you keep your arms on his mostly to keep your curious hands from grabbing at whatever is touching you. However, from what you can gather around your calves, you can tell they're warm with thin tips, moving like they're alive.
Inside, Harlequin's heart is racing faster than it ever has before. Not even back in Rio, when he pounded both his dicks into that—
Stop. Stop that train of thought immediately. Purge it. Or you'll feel his dicks and then get up and then leave—
He can't admit it. Can't admit that he's scared horrified of you leaving. He already had a taste of his own fear when he thought you would when his first tendril slipped out.
Now, though, he allows exactly two to feel your skin. Two only. Just to quell his need of releasing pent-up sexual energy, he convinces himself. Totally not because the warmth is starting to grow and spread all over his body, basking him in liquid pleasantness, even as the tiny pulses of electricity leave his other tendrils twitching to touch you.
Distantly, like a calm fog resting over his mind, he realizes he's revealing one of his monstrous features. He didn't want to see your face shift into fear, into terror. The wide-eyed expressions you'd inevitably give him that would usually make him chuckle would crush him. His heart clenches at the thought of it.
Even still, he can't bring himself to stop touching you. Curse you and your soft skin. He can't help it as another pair of tendrils reveal themselves, wrapping around your thighs. He clicks open the mask with a tiny crack as he glides his tongue over your skin. Mhm, you taste absolutely delectable.
He keeps the whine stuck in his throat when you shift one of your arms. Fuck, he is needy—
He freezes. You had delicately pried off one of his tendrils on your thigh. Not by much, only the tip and a few inches. But your soft fingers and your finger nails make an image flicker in his head. Instead of gentle wisps of a touch, ones he didn't deserve, what if you used them to claw at his back and dig in hard enough to draw blood as he—
"Ngh…" A whimper escapes him when you rub a thumb over the tendril's tip.
"Shit sorry!" You let go of him immediately much to his displeasure, his tendril back to gripping your thigh. "I-I didn't know you were sensitive—"
You tense when sharp teeth nip at your shoulder, moving upwards. As you register the action and that it's Harlequin nipping at your neck now, the sharp teeth bite and sink into your skin. You choke down the sound threatening to leave your lips, forcing it to remain in your throat.
The sensation is a shot. Like an actual needle piercing your skin. It remains at that level of pain despite it being several sharp teeth that are drawing blood. God, you just know you're going to bruise—
Two tips glide over your neck inside of his bite. Realization dawns on you that that's his tongue. His tongue is forked like a snake's. But you focus your attention back when he releases you from his bite.
He licks at the bloody bite with mindless precision. And that's when you start freaking out.
Despite freaking out internally, you maintain your composure externally. Your voice comes out steady, "… Harley, do you know how much germs are in a mouth? I swear to God if you give me some blood disease, you're paying for my treatment, time and emotional distress."
His low chuckles send heat between your legs. Then he plops his head down on your bite. You hiss, mouth opening to berate him, when he rubs his forehead against the bite.
... He's nuzzling you, like a cat. His cold mask generates heat through friction and applies a welcome amount of pressure on your neck. The fight dies inside of you and you close your mouth, obliging to stroke his left arm that's underneath your bicep.
Low rumbles sound from his chest, vibrating slightly against your back. You stiffen before relaxing just as quickly. It's too quiet to be purrs. In fact, there's not any sound. You feel the rumbles more than hear them.
All this touching is driving the both of you mad. Though you suspect it's affecting Harlequin more. His behaviour almost suggests he's drunk off of your touch.
His touch starvation is on another fucking level.