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It was a damn Instagram ad. Or maybe it was on TikTok—you don’t remember. You barely remember your life before you made the purchase. All you knew in that moment was that a seven feet of cocoa-brown plush with a permanently stitched grin and arms wide enough to swallow you whole was what your life had been missing. Sure, you were one of the lucky few to rope the attention of a towering circus clown with a yandere streak, but c’mon? A bear plush so ginormous that his head grazed your ceiling? That was a totally different kind of insane.
You’d clicked “Add to Cart” before you’d really considered the repercussions of your actions.
Like … how exactly you were gonna haul a sixty-pound mass of polyester up the stairs to your second-floor apartment. And then, after that, where the hell you were supposed to put it. It was almost too tall to even fit in your bedroom, for fuck’s sake!
Thankfully, you’ve worked out a system. During the day—when you’re not home—the bear looms in the corner of your bedroom like a truly-, madly-, deeply-unqualified Cristo Redentor. At night, you wrestle it onto the mattress and let it slump across, its bulk swallowing half the bed while you curl next to its plushness. And on the couch? It crams itself beside you, offering up its massive, velveteen torso as something to drape over, lean against, or disappear into entirely.
Of course … this IS all done when you’re sans the aforementioned circus clown with a yandere streak.
When Pierrot is around, it’s him—always him—at your side, in your bed, watching you like a sentinel. It’s him whose protective arms drape over you. Him who gets to provide you the comfort of a warm body. Only him who gets to touch you.
He walks in on you one day, sitting on your couch and scrolling through your phone productively. The bear is at your side. One of its thick, overstuffed arms is hooked around your shoulders. Your cheek rests against its chest, faintly denting the brown pile. It’s almost like a neck pillow. A shitty neck pillow, considering there’s no memory foam or microbeads or, like, even bone and sinew to do any actual supporting, but you lean on it all the same.
It’s not warm, nor does it tighten when you shift. But it’s … there? You don’t think too much of it—it’s a stuffed animal. And it’s comfortable.
And it doesn’t stop being that way, even when you feel the air shift in the room. And hear the purposeful jingling of bells.
Pierrot hovers in the doorway. The hallway light illuminates him from behind. You watch as his silhouette crawls across the floor like it’s possessed. He’s standing stock-still, stiller than the bear, even, with his head tilted just slightly. His gaze drags over the little tableau you’ve made. To your cheek pressed into plush. To the arm hooked around your shoulders. To your fingers buried in synthetic fur.
His smile twitches, and you furrow your brows at him as he continues to linger, not moving even an inch. He laps up the not-spectacle before him with long, scrutinizing licks. Something twinges in your stomach. It’s just a bear, you remind yourself. I don’t have to feel guilty. I’d rather hold him, anyway. You tuck the bear’s arm a little tighter around you and grin up at Pierrot. It’s not like he’d be jealous of a stuffed animal.
“Hey,” you greet him. He’s almost adorable with his cocked head and too-wide eyes—like fathomless black marbles with two almost-imperceptible slits of yellow. You knock the bear away, making room, but Pierrot’s stare remains fixed on it. The fabric of the couch where it had rested is barely room-temperature under your fingers as you pat the seat. “Come sit.”
It’s only then that Pierrot’s attention snaps to you. His pupils dilate, and his irises round out. They begin to pulsate like twin, beating hearts. “My dear! You have …” he glares back at the bear and then makes a face like something reeks, “something on your couch.” You don’t hear him mutter—no, spit—out the words, “A criatura,” under his breath.
You laugh and poke the bear again, its fur engulfing the tip of your finger. Something metallic shifts in Pierrot’s grip. Er, had he been holding a dagger in his hand this whole time? You try not to think about that as you explain, “Yeah! I put in my order a couple of weeks ago, and he,” Pierrot buckles at the word, “just arrived. Isn’t he cute?”
Pierrot sniffs. His mumbling, “I believe the person holding—it—is much cuter,” is actually imperceptible. When you incline your head in confusion, he goes red and amends, “I—If you think so, my dear.” He takes in the huge, lumbering form of the bear and the way it practically pools off your couch. “I, um, personally, contend it’s too tall,” how deeply ironic of his six-foot-five ass, “but I suppose …” He seizes the bear by the back of its stitched neck and shoves. It lurches, tipping sideways before collapsing in a heap at the far end of the couch. He collapses into its place. His long arms wrap around your shoulders and chest so sweetly that it makes your breath catch. He’s almost the monster embodiment of syrup. “You prefer something warmer, anyway.”
Warmth—the “body heat” kind—floods over you in an instant, and you barely spare your fuzzy friend another thought. Fuck, Pierrot is so so so overwhelming and so so so intense, but you’re always so so so glad he’s yours. You melt into his grasp and twist your arm so you can pat his head. He’s positively giddy at that. So clingy … and you love it. In your affection, you don’t feel the subtle tightening of his hold. Or see the way his pupils thin to slits as he peers past your shoulder.
His masked cheek presses sweetly to your skin. His breath is heated. But his gaze is cold.
And it hasn’t left the bear.
He stays in your apartment that night, and he’s Pierrot—adoring, effusive, and anxious (and when it comes to you, all three) Pierrot. He’s happy to just bask in your presence and practically oozes fondness out of every pore. You still manage to find some stuff for him to do besides staring at you with an uncannily-wide smile on his face in pure lovesickness.
Together, you watch a movie, yap about the day, and raid your snack drawer (that’s mostly you, though). And before you go to bed, the two of you [REDACTED], [REDACTED], and [REDACTED] some more.
Before you doze off, Pierrot pauses beside the bear on his way to the light switch. One gloved hand brushes down its plush head. His fingers dance at the seam along its throat for just a breath too long before he gently tests the material between his claws.
Then he flicks off the light.
The next day goes off without a hitch. Pierrot doesn’t get a chance to stop by to do more than deliver you a bouquet of flowers so huge it obscures your head and promise to try with all his might to stop by at night. You try to stay up as late as you can, but you feel your eyelids grow heavy some time around one.
Feeling a little chilled, you go through the ritual of hauling the bear onto your bed. It slumps forward obligingly. You burrow against its stomach.
The bear is warm from the day and from steeping in the sunlight from your windows, but it’s not, like, actually warm. And the weight you feel crushing you isn’t living and solid … just compressed polyester and stuffing. You tuck your arm around it anyway. Even though … you kind of wish your fingers were curling into a narrow waist instead. That your arms were looped around someone who holds you like you might drift away if he’s not careful. You almost miss the way Pierrot’s bangs tickle your nose. And how you always have to sneeze right afterward.
But Pierrot’s not here. So for now, the bear will have to do.
It’s barely a substitute.
Heh.
Bearly.
The next morning, you awaken to fur brushing your skin. It’s downy, almost, like silk, and luxuriates your cheek. It’s not an uncommon sensation and not entirely unwelcome. What is unwelcome, though, is the rough drag of polyester fiberfill. Your eyes, still laden with sleep, blink open. The duvet is made of passable cotton. Shifting, you lift your head. Any grogginess evaporates when you take in what’s on your bed.
There’s a flurry of stuffing scattered across your pillow. It drifts in a soft white spill trailing down from the bear’s back like fresh snow. You sit up slowly. The seam along its spine has been opened cleanly. And there, embedded in a perfectly-straight line down its back, are three daggers.
You huff.
This would be mysterious if you hadn’t seen dozens of those same daggers jabbed into Harlequin’s ribs three days ago, when he’d teased you a hair too lasciviously in Pierrot’s presence.
And this would be terrifying if you hadn’t … kind of already expected it. You stare at the displaced fluff and let out a measured breath.
“… Okay,” you whisper.
You don’t confront Pierrot. You probably should. You stifle a smile instead. It’s just so, so, so ridiculous. So earnest, even. Jealous? Over a stuffed animal? Was he really? You knew that clown had a yandere streak a mile wide, but you didn’t realize how far it ran.
Oh, well, you wouldn’t test him. Pierrot’s poor little heart probably couldn’t take that. From now on, you’ll work extra-hard to ensure he’s not made uncomfortable over your plush. You leap off your bed and grab your sewing kit, taking in the leaking stuffing. And not just for Pierrot’s sake.
When Pierrot visits next, the bear is firmly stationed to make as little contact with you as possible. It’s tall enough that if you allow it to sit at the side of your bed, the tip of one overstuffed arm can still slot behind your back and provide you with soft support as you lean against your headboard. It’s entirely functional and impossible to mistake for anything else. Your knees are drawn up, and your laptop is balanced on top of them.
But when Pierrot unceremoniously enters your room—he never knocks, never announces his summons—his eyes go still when he notices the bear’s arm wedged against your spine.
He smiles through the rest of the evening. He laughs when you laugh. He puddles into a grinning mess when you speak. He presses close and listens to your voice like you’re the ringmaster in his own circus. But his gaze flickers once, then twice. To that arm. There’s an early performance he must give the next morning, so he can’t spend the night, and bids you a tender goodbye. The kiss on your forehead is almost as searing as his stare when he looks past your head into lifeless, plastic eyes.
You wake to silence. And a sense of foreboding. You sit up.
The bear is still there. There’s its round head and crescent ears. Its fat torso bulges thick with the stuffing you managed to shove back into it.
But the entire limb that had been touching you the night before is gone. There are three red-and-black “X” stitches closing the wound. Even a golden star embroidered right at the shoulder blade.
You stare at it for a long time. This time, concern and worry swirl into a fine cocktail under your sternum.
Into the silence, you mutter, “… Um … that feels excessive.”
You ram the bear into your closet after that.
That night, Pierrot comes over. Fuck, he’s practically vibrating with devotion when he sees you. He’s armed with more flowers, brigadeiros, and so much adulation that it’s almost scary.
Which is okay. That’s something you’re willing to entertain, because you do adore him. Even if you’re not as openly electrified as he is, you don’t want to resist Pierrot, even if you could. He doesn’t try to be charming, and nonchalance isn’t in his dictionary. It’s so refreshing and impossible to tire of.
You’re halfway through kissing him, returning the ones he’s lavishing on your neck, when he pauses. His gaze drifts to the closet door.
Then back to you.
Then to the closet again.
His smile, ever-present, spreads like poison across his face.
“My dear,” he hums. “Your creature.”
You raise an eyebrow. “What?”
Pierrot tilts his head. “It should watch.”
Huh? “It should what?”
“It should see,” he continues, voice glittering with a strange, eager energy. “It should understand.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s normal to invite a seven-foot stuffed animal onto the cuck chair (i.e. the corner of your room).
Your heart skips a beat. “P—Pierrot—”
He’s already moving, gliding toward the closet on his lanky legs. He reaches for the knob, but then he stops. His claws linger there like a stubborn specter. The delight on his face drains away and is replaced by something else. His pupils contract into two yellow specks.
Then, quietly, he withdraws his hand.
“No,” he says, almost to himself. He faces you again. “It shouldn’t,” he corrects, “It shouldn’t see what only I get to see.”
You raise yourself off the mattress. The sheets tangle around your waist, and you watch him carefully.
“Pierrot,” you have to wonder, genuinely curious. Your mind zeroes in on the memory of your mutilated plush. “Why are you so jealous of a stuffed animal?”
The words hover in the air, and Pierrot doesn’t answer immediately. The bed creaks as he retreats back onto it, sitting on his knees and leaning into you. His face is only centimeters away from yours. His eyes are practically glowing, spiraling with a mania that you’re still deciding what to do with.
“Because it touches you,” he says. He flexes his fingers. “It touches you,” he repeats, voice lower now. “It gets your weight. Your warmth. It gets your back when you’re tired. It gets your hands when you’re lonely.” His pupils are even wider. “When I’m not there.”
You swallow hard.
He moves forward until his knees press into the mattress on either side of you. He looms over you, and you’re forced to look up at him. “I should be the only one,” he whispers, sounding ragged and desperate now. “I should be the only thing that gets to hold you when you sigh like that.” His voice trembles. “The only thing that gets to feel you soften. The only thing you reach for without thinking.” His claws finally settle on your waist. “I watch you curl around it,” he continues, and now there’s something frantic in his eyes. “Like it could ever be enough.”
His jaw tightens.
“But it cannot love you, my dear,” he bites out. “It cannot worship you. It cannot lose its mind over the way you breathe.” His forehead drops to yours, pressing firmly. “Only I do.” The ruffles at his collar barely hide the blush that’s now creeping from his hairline down into his neck. “I should be the only thing that touches you,” he says again in a tone just shy of pleading.
“If you need something there when I am not—” He inhales sharply. “Stuff me.”
You gasp, because it almost sounds lewd, but he doesn’t stop. In fact, his eyes become even more glazed. Like the glass beads of a plush.
“I would let you cut me open,” he says. There’s not a drop of hesitation in his voice. “Empty me. Fill me with whatever makes me soft enough for you to hold. I would let you sew me back together if it meant you would never reach for something else.”
Your breath catches. He doesn’t look away.
“I would give up movement. I would give up performing. I would give up everything except being where you need me.” His claws dig deeper into your waist. You almost let out a cry, but his next words silence you. “If being a toy is what makes you choose me, my dear, then so be it.” You and he are so close that you’re breathing the same air. “I don’t want to share your comfort.” He goes on, “I don’t want to share your weight, your hands, or your weariness.” His voice drops to a whisper. “That is mine.” He sighs, his whole body shuddering. “You are mine.”
Silence stretches between the two of you.
His breath is warm against your mouth. His hands are steady, but you can feel the tremor.
“If I have to replace all of myself out to stay near you,” he says, “I will. And I’ll be grateful.” His head drops to the crook of your shoulder. “And warmer. I will always be warmer.”