Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ballroom was bathed in a low crimson glow, the kind of lighting that whispered sin and shimmered against polished marble floors. Crystal chandeliers above clinked softly with the weight of decadence, and the air was heady with perfume, leather, and anticipation. This wasn’t a high-protocol night, just dominants proudly parading their adorned submissives in a masquerade of themes, aesthetics, and flesh.

Peter Hale leaned against a marble pillar near the edge of the room, the sleeves of his black tailored suit rolled to his elbows, shirt unbuttoned at the throat just enough to give a hint of skin. The chain of his pocket watch caught the light with every shift of his weight. His gaze? Fixed on the chaotic little jester he'd brought to this party.

His wife. His little beta. His beautiful brat.

Isabelle Stilinski-Hale stood near the refreshment table, nose scrunched adorably as she tried to pick between black forest cake and something that looked like crème brûlée but of course, wasn’t paying any attention to the way every set of eyes in the room kept drifting back to her.

She was the embodiment of Peter’s brilliance and wicked sense of humor.

Her outfit was custom, naturally. A diamond-printed leotard in a glossy black and blood-red pattern crisscrossed with strappy black ribbons that hugged her waist and laced up over her hips like a corset. A short, flouncy skirt bounced every time she took a step, the ruffled hem teasing glimpses of the swell of her thighs.

Her legs were mismatched works of art: one thigh-high sock was scarlet with black lace at the top, the other deep black with red diamonds climbing it like a lover's trail. Black and red heels lifted her a few inches higher—Peter’s choice, of course. Her long legs were a gift enough, but the added height? Divine.

And then the finishing touch: the court jester cap, soft velvet with three bells that jingled lightly with every tilt of her head. Peter had angled it slightly to one side earlier in the evening and refused to let her correct it since.

No neck ruffle. Not for his pet. Instead, she wore her silk and lace collar, wolf and moon charms nestled at the hollow of her throat, swaying softly when she breathed.

She was exquisite.

And completely oblivious.

Isabelle didn’t notice the hushed murmur of admiration she left in her wake. Didn’t register the subtle tension from other dominants who raised an eyebrow at her informal, slightly bratty behavior toward Peter. She didn’t see the glances some dommes gave, as if unsure whether to find her precious, amusing, or in need of discipline.

But Peter saw it all. And he grinned.

“She’s causing quite the stir,” a familiar voice purred beside him.

Peter turned slightly as Bellatrix approached, heels clicking confidently. She was radiant in a form-fitting black velvet dress that shimmered like a raven’s wing, long black gloves that kissed her biceps, and a coiled snake armband winding up one arm. Her eyes lined in sharp black kohl sparkled with mischief and approval.

“Morgana?” Peter asked knowingly, already hearing the faint chimes of laughter.

“Morgana,” Bellatrix confirmed with a smirk.

Across the room, Morgana flitted like moonlight through the crowd. Her golden curls bounced with every step, and her gossamer wings shimmered as she spun in a circle for a group of cooing submissives. She wore a pastel corset-dress with glitter and translucent fabrics clinging to her curves—half woodland sprite, half pin-up nymph. Playful, radiant, and just barely managing to keep her halo intact.

She swooped toward Isabelle like a glittering hurricane.

“Izzy!” Morgana sang, flinging her arms around the unsuspecting jester. Isabelle squeaked, almost losing her balance in the heels. Peter chuckled as his wife clung to her friend, bells jingling with every movement.

“Morgana, you sparkle bomb, you scared the hell out of me!”

“You look adorable!” Morgana pulled back, bouncing on her toes. “Peter really outdid himself. You're like slutty confetti. I love it.”

Peter watched as Isabelle flushed a delightful shade of pink. “I am not slutty confetti.”

Bellatrix leaned in, murmuring near Peter’s ear, “She has no idea, does she?”

“None.” Peter’s smirk curled like a wolf’s grin. “That skirt might as well be tissue paper. And her cheeks flush every time someone compliments her collar like it’s an accident that she’s wearing my claim over her heart.”

“I envy your patience,” Bellatrix mused. “Mine would be kneeling for causing half this kind of disruption.”

Peter’s voice lowered. “Mine gets to misbehave. With boundaries. She's the fool in court—distracting, entertaining, underestimated. It’s her role tonight.”

“And you,” Bellatrix said with a glint, “the King who put her there.”

He inclined his head. “Long may she jingle.”

Across the room, Isabelle turned with a frown. “Peter, Morgana’s trying to convince me to sneak cupcakes into our bags. I told her we’d get caught.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, I can feel the frosting on your lip from here.”

She licked it quickly, eyes wide. “Lies.”

“Proof,” he teased, gesturing to her mouth. “Come here, jester.”

Morgana giggled and gave Isabelle a push toward Peter, practically glowing with mischief.

As Isabelle made her way back, bells and curls bouncing with each reluctant step, Peter held out his hand. She took it instinctively.

“I can’t believe you put me in this,” she whispered, glancing up at him under her lashes.

“You wore it,” he murmured, running his thumb under her chin. “That’s what matters.”

“Everyone’s staring.”

“They’re staring because you’re mine. Because you glow when I touch you. Because you carry my mark—” he gently brushed the wolf-and-moon charms against her collarbone, “—and wear a skirt that invites a hundred dirty thoughts. You’re the perfect little paradox.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes, still flushed. “I’m a harlequin.”

“And the court’s favorite,” Peter said with pride. “But make no mistake, little beta. You’re my fool. And anyone who forgets that…” He let the threat hang in the air like smoke.

“Gets a jester bell shoved up their ass?” she offered sweetly.

Peter blinked. Then grinned sadistically. “You’re learning. Come, Belleza. Let’s show them what devotion dressed in diamonds looks like.”

He tugged her close, arm wrapping around her waist possessively. As they walked deeper into the crowd, Isabelle leaned in with a sly whisper.

“…Can we still steal cupcakes?”

Peter grinned wickedly.

“Only if you jingle while you do it.”

Chapter Text

The music had shifted, still sultry, still slow but now with a deeper, older rhythm. Something you didn’t just hear, but felt. A heartbeat wound through the notes like silk being pulled tight between two bodies.

Peter guided Isabelle to the dance floor with a hand firm at the small of her back. Her heels clicked delicately over the marble until she was pulled flush against him. One arm slid around his shoulders, the other resting obediently in his hand. Her bells chimed with each breath, each sway. The court jester, in her Alpha’s arms.

They danced in a slow, unhurried circle. His hand curled around her waist. Possessive. Her heart beat faster than the song, but she followed him, letting his confidence guide her until her gaze wandered.

She turned her head slightly, lips parting in soft surprise. Around them, submissives glittered like gemstones, flesh draped in ribbons, leather, lace, and in some cases… nothing at all.

One woman was entirely painted silver, shimmering under the lights like a statue. Another wore little more than gold chains and a collar shaped like a sunburst. A man nearby knelt in nothing but polished boots and inked runes across his back, every symbol a spell of submission. There were fae, kittens, Roman slaves, a literal living painting, and even a human-sized carousel horse whose domme had apparently gone all out with glitter reins and a riding crop.

Isabelle looked down at her own playful skirt, her mismatched socks, her jingling hat… and blinked up at Peter.

Her voice was soft, curious, almost insecure.

“Why did you choose a Harlequin, Alpha?”

Peter’s smirk turned slow and deliberate, the kind that usually meant her knees were going to be sore by the end of the night either from worship or punishment, and sometimes both.

“Oh, Belleza…” His fingers slipped just beneath the edge of her skirt as they turned in time to the music. “There’s a reason the Harlequin is the fool and the master of the masquerade.”

She tilted her head, her lip trembling just slightly. “You think I’m a fool?”

Her voice was so quiet, it barely reached him over the hum of music and murmured conversation, but it hit him square in the chest. Peter’s expression softened just for a moment as he brought his hand up to brush his knuckles along her jaw.

“Not a fool in the traditional sense,” he said, gaze sharp and unwavering. “But you do get the Jester’s Privilege.”

Isabelle blinked. “The what?”

Peter turned her slowly in his arms, hand gripping her waist tightly as he leaned in to speak near her ear, lips almost brushing her skin.

“Jesters were the only ones in court allowed to speak the truth without consequence,” he said, voice dark and low. “They mocked kings. They teased the nobles. They danced the line between offense and insight, and everyone smiled because they were entertained. They got away with what no one else could… because under all the bells and laughter, they always knew more than they let on.”

He let that sink in for a moment.

“You speak out of turn,” he said, brushing a hand over her collar reverently, “you brat and poke and make your Alpha growl but I let you, because you see through masks even when you’re wearing one. You disarm people with that sweet face and those wide eyes and that ridiculous humor but you understand more than you admit. That’s why the Harlequin suits you.”

Isabelle’s breath caught. Her lips parted in silent surprise, her fingers curling slightly at his shoulder.

“You’re not a fool, little jester,” he murmured, voice velvet and steel. “You’re my clever, chaotic, dangerously honest submissive. And this—” he twirled her once, making her skirt fan and bells jingle, “—is your armor. Pretty, playful, and impossible to ignore.”

“…I thought you just liked the skirt,” she whispered.

“I love the skirt,” he said with a grin. “It barely covers your ass, and I saw at least three people tonight trip over their own tongues trying not to stare.”

She flushed. “I told you people were staring.”

“And I told you: they’re staring because you’re mine.”

He spun her back into his arms again, this time flush against his chest. His thigh slotted between hers, forcing her weight onto him slightly. She clutched at his shoulders, cheeks bright pink, heart racing.

“Are you going to punish them for looking?” she asked breathlessly, teasing.

Peter’s grin was dark and slow. “No. I’m going to fuck you in that skirt later and let them hear.”

Isabelle squeaked.

He chuckled, wicked and warm.

“But for now,” he added, pressing a kiss just below her ear, “dance with me, little jester. Keep the court entertained.”

She leaned into him as the music pulled them deeper into the center of the floor, the bells on her hat ringing faintly as she whispered, “Yes, Alpha.”

And behind them, Bellatrix sipped her wine with a smirk.

Morgana, glittering and barefoot now, leaned against her Domme’s side. “Told you they were disgustingly perfect,” she sighed, dreamy.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes fondly. “Disgusting doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Chapter Text

The dance slowed to a natural end, though Peter held onto Isabelle a little longer than necessary. He always did. His hands moved possessively, one stroking down the curve of her waist, the other tracing the edge of her collar. She was flushed and warm in his arms, and though she couldn’t see it, the whole ballroom watched them with the sort of reverence usually reserved for royalty or something just shy of holy.

Even among gods and monsters, they were something else.

Isabelle’s hat jingled when she tilted her head to look up at him. Her lipstick was smudged just enough to tell secrets. Her eyes sparkled beneath the mask of her bells.

“You gonna parade me around now?” she asked, teasing. “Show me off like a prize pig at the fair?”

Peter made a low, amused sound in his throat. “If you were a prize pig, I’d be bankrupt from trying to win you back every year.”

“Gross,” she giggled. “Romantic. But gross.”

He leaned down, brushing his lips over her temple. “You’re the only little fool I’ve ever wanted to worship.”

From across the room, Morgana was currently balancing two cupcakes and a wine glass as she waved for Isabelle to come back over, likely to gossip, or to make her try on fairy wings, or to stick another edible star to her cheek. Bellatrix gave Peter a look that said good luck, and sauntered away with her usual panther-like grace.

Peter kissed Isabelle’s knuckles slowly, then released her. “Go on, Belleza.”

She blinked. “You’re letting me go?”

“For now. The leash is still attached, even if you don’t feel it,” he said, voice dipping. “But if you’re not back in ten minutes, I will find you.”

“And when you do?”

Peter smiled, slow and sadistic. “I’ll have the jester kneel.”

That made her shiver. “Yes, Alpha.”

As she flounced off, bells ringing and hair bouncing, Peter leaned back against the same marble pillar from earlier, arms crossed, watching her blend back into the crowd. Watching her sparkle. Watching her be his.

A few other dominants drifted by, giving respectful nods or admiring glances.

“Unorthodox costume,” one commented casually.

Peter didn’t even look at them. “Perfect choice.”

A moment later, Isabelle was beside Morgana, giggling over something sparkling and ridiculous, likely not even realizing her leotard had shifted slightly or how her skirt fluttered too high when she twirled. She leaned into her friend, accepting a glass of whiskey with a shy smile, completely unaware that more than one person in the room had their fantasies altered that night just from watching her laugh.

And still, every single one of them knew exactly who she belonged to.

Peter’s eyes softened for the briefest of moments. Then darkened.

Because no matter how lovely she looked from afar, no matter how brightly she danced in the spotlight, he was the one she’d come home to. He was the one who’d pull off those heels, unclasp that collar, tug that leotard down slowly while she trembled and sighed under his touch.

He was the one she would kneel for. The one she’d jingle and brat and tease until her eyes filled with tears and her lips murmured apologies into his palm.

She was his jester.

His queen of mischief.

His.

And gods help anyone who forgot it.

—

Near the end of the night, as the lights dimmed and the music drifted into something softer, Peter returned to her.

No words this time. Just a hand offered.

Isabelle took it instantly, smiling sleepily, liqour-happy and bell-worn.

“Time to go?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“Home?”

“Yes,” he said, pressing his lips to her knuckles again.

She blushed.

As they walked out together, the ballroom seemed to part for them, a dozen stories lingering in their wake. A jester and her king. Chaos and control. Beauty and the beast.

And behind them, the faintest sound of a bell, one last jingle before the doors closed.

💋🎭🐺