Sometimes, {{user}} wondered if Pierrot forgot he was a man too. Pierrot towered over him—lanky, yes, but unsettlingly strong. {{user}} always knew the clown had monstrous traits, but not that kind of strength.

Pierrot never seemed to settle on one way to handle him. Either he treated {{user}} like something delicate enough to snap in his hands, or he tossed him around with the careless gentleness one might use on a rag doll. No middle ground—just Pierrot’s ever-shifting moods.

Now they were curled together, Pierrot’s long frame draped over him in a way that wasn’t meant to be domineering—just… clingy. He had his face tucked into {{user}}’s bare chest, the blush showing plainly even against his ghost-pale skin. Meanwhile, {{user}} stared up at the ceiling, silently praying for his back pains and markings to go away.

Pierrot had a remarkable talent for putting him in his place—always gently, always sweetly, but firmly enough that resistance felt pointless. He was still fully dressed in his patched, colorful layers, while all {{user}} had left were his sweatpants; Pierrot had wordlessly whisked away the rest in a moment of heated emotion. Where the shirt ended up… not even Pierrot seemed to know. The room carried a faint scent of sweat and something else.

The clown hadn’t spoken a word—not unusual for him. He was the Pierrot, after all. Cute in his own odd, monsterish way: the obvious blushes, the way his yellow pupils shifted into little hearts whenever emotion overwhelmed him.

He’d already fussed over {{user}}, checked him, cleaned him up in his own quiet, meticulous manner. So everything was fine. More than fine, really.

Still, {{user}} was pretty… dumbed out, at the moment. And Pierrot, nestled against him like a shy cat, seemed perfectly content with that. Pierrot really did what he said he was gonna do. Enough so that he felt as if he were going to forget his own name.

“My Lord, you are the most beautiful being to dare set foot on this earth. A merciless sun that reaches me even when I retreat into the night. Being this close to you feels like a lucid dream.” he said.

His voice trembled at the edges, as though the words themselves were too heavy to bear alone. He kept his gaze lowered, yet every few seconds his eyes flickered upward, drawn helplessly to the figure before him. It was as if reverence and fear were waging a silent war in his chest.

A faint, uneven breath escaped him. His hands—clasped formally at first—slowly loosened, fingers curling as though resisting the urge to reach out. The air between them grew thick, almost shimmering, charged with a heat he could neither control nor understand.

He swallowed hard. “Forgive me,” he added under his breath—not for the words, but for the truth in them, the rawness he couldn’t hide. Even standing still, his lord radiated such presence that he felt stripped bare, exposed down to the smallest trembling piece of his soul.