Iâm fine, Mahito is more than fine, Nanami is cĚỊ̟́̾ÍĚźĚĚĚĽĚ˝ÍĚŁÍÍÍͤÍÍ͢Ȩ̌ͥȨ̌ĚĚÍĚ ÍÍ ĚąÍŚĚľÍÍlĚĄÍĄĚĚşĚĚ ÍĚĚÍĚšĚÍĘ̳̌ĚÍŚĚĚĚŚĚ̤ÍĚĚĚ̢̪ͤĚĚĚ°ĚĄeĚÍÍÍĚĮ̲̜́ĚĚÍÍĚÍĚ˛Í ĚłĚÍĚ͢ÍĚ̥̾Í̲ÍĚ´ĚŁÍĄÍĚŞĚĚĚĄĚĚłÍĚĚÍĚĚaĚÍÍÍŞÍĚĚ Ě¤ĚĚÍŞÍÍÍÍĚÍÍĚĚÍÍͨÍĚĚÍĚÍŻÍͤĚĚÍĚĚÍrÍͨĚĚĚͨĚ̡ͪĚ͎ͧĚĚ°Ě˘Ě ĚĚŁĚÍ Ě¤ÍÍĚ̢ĚÍŻĚÍĽÍŞÍŚĚÍÍÍl̞̹ͼ̪̊͏ÍͧÍĚÍÍĚŁĚÍĚŻÍĚżĚÍÍÍĚĚĚĘ̌̾Ḛ̪̌̽ͨĚĚ´_ĚźĚy_ĚÍŻĚŻĚĚŽĚŠÍĚ nĚĚÍĚ ĚśÍ̢̞ĚĚĚ̸Į̜́ĚÍŻĚŁÍÍ͎̪̟̲ĚĚÍŹĚ̸ÍĚ°ĚŚÍ oĚĚŻĚŠ_ĚĚĚĚÍ Í Í¨Ě¸ÍĚŽtĚŞĚŤÍŤĚ_ÍĚ˝Į̼́ĚĚ̸̡̥̜ͤ_ÍĚÍ. đŤ
Thinking about how harbingers might have penned you letters when you're far away
Arlecchino (pre Luna III)
My Dearest (Name),
How do you fare in my absence? I hope the children haven't been particularly strenuous to take watch of, some of them have been quite rowdy as of late. I have taken Lyney, Lynette and Freminet to Nod Krai for my own personal reasons so I hope you don't mind that you are now in charge of the house of the hearth. Pen me about their behaviors regularly.
I haven't taken you to Snezhnaya yet for some issues but Nod Krai is quite similar. You probably wouldn't be able to handle the cold either, even I have to sometimes bundle up in parkas even as my Pyro vision warms me.
Tea parties with Columbina and Sandrone have resumed as of late, though it is quite lonesome without Rosalyn and the Captain. I was thinking about bringing you, for one. The harbingers' personalities might be eccentric, however I shall be able to protect you regardless of any circumstance. Sandrone seems quite interested in meeting you too.
Ultimately however, I leave the decision-making up to you. The siblings are probably returning to Fontaine by now so no need to deal with the paperwork and documents, Lyney will do those for you.
Fare well (Name).
From your lover,
Peruere
Scaramouche (pre Irminsul, post Shouko no Kami)
Dearest Fair Love (Name),
How do I say this. The project for making me a god... Failed. I remember promising you my reverence and you being my aide by my side. Truly, I didn't intend for all of this to happen. Blame the Doctor, for all things. The project has done some considerable damage upon my vessel, I now have holes on my back wherein the tubes used to be.
Lesser Lord Kusanali has been taking care of my injuries as of late. And would you look at that, I can truly bleed. Consider that a courtesy of the Doctor that now I'm closer to your species than ever. The Traveler, once hostile, is now quite different now that I am truly vulnerable.
How are you doing? You've always complained of Snezhnaya's tundra, and for once I was given the opportunity to give you a better view, only for that plan to demolish itself once I was defeated. Tell me, how do you feel now that I've broken my promise?
...
I want you to burn this letter as soon as you finish reading it. I have no intention for the Fatui to find out about my whereabouts. In fact, I may never see you again. You should find yourself glad, that you'll never see my worthless face again. Do not come looking for me. Even if I am in Sumeru I shall hide until you have let me go.
So long, (Name) My love,
From your husband, From,
Scaramouche Kunikuzushi
Tartaglia (during the fortress of meropide)
Lovely (Name),
This may sound absurd but I am currently in prison. How laughable, isn't it? The eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers reduced to a mere prisoner is Fontaine! What a joke. Fontaine's judicial system is nothing more than jests, for I got imprisoned for a crime I did not commit. It's quite ridiculous, the timelines don't even match up and I'm still in dreaded Meropide!
Do not worry about me just yet. I fare quite better than most of the runts in the Fatui, do I not? Honestly, I can practically hear you grumbling in disapproval, "My dear Ajax found himself in prison!" And all that jazz. Rest assured I'm not in any danger. And save your lectures in your glorious penmanship until I return, I'd prefer to hear your voice rather than my monotone thoughts in this dreary place.
When I return to Snezhnaya, or even escape this absurd prison, expect a few gifts of apology right around your doorstep. Pen me whatever you want I'll give it to you regardless of its availability and hassle. All just because I worried you, what a good lover I am don't you think? Anyway, my word count is almost finished and though I do have plenty more to say I don't want to face your disapproval at breaking another rule so I'll just leave it at that. Just remember, I'll be home soon.
From,
The love of your life,
Ajax
Dottore (in the middle of Luna III)
My Dearest assistant,
Nod Krai truly is a beautiful place isn't it? The stars shine ever brighter and the moon lays ever closer to our quaint Teyvat. Phantoms dot the entire nation, and I've heard are quite cumbersome to deal with. Well, certainly not for me, they've actually been quite useful.
Now you might wonder why I'm not in Snezhnaya as of the moment, and, well, who am I kidding? To pass up such a golden opportunity that is moon-prayer night? Utterly unacceptable. My clones should keep you company, no? All of my work and studies are now in your hands, for I am beginning a new project of my own, that which being so great that even you, my dear assistant, shall be baffled by what I have planned.
Don't worry your pretty little head on anything complicated back at my lab. Just sign the dreary paperwork and electrocute any rowdy experiments of mine. Perhaps I'll gift you a moon marrow hm? Would that be enough of a gift for being so loyal to my vestiges? Well, with my plan in motion I can't quite let you borrow them, but certainly I'll also give you power comparable to that of mine. Just you wait.
Feel free to curse me out all you want for peeving you with the Tsaritsa back at Snezhnaya. She's quite a passionate one, isn't she? Well then, I shall be on my merry way, can't have this experiment be gone to ruin by my idleness, no?
May we meet again Hayati,
From,
Zandik
(word vomit honestly feel free to criticise. Possible OOC. Gender neutral reader. I didn't do Columbina or Sandrone cus I was too lazy to so uhh if you want them just ask)
Scarce (female whitney x reader) male whitney version here âĄ
warnings: degrees of lewdity (and whitney) are its own warning, mentions of harassment/non con, abusive/controlling relationships, whitney is kinda nice
"Supplies are scarce," The dealer says. "Very scarce. ÂŁ2000 per dose. Don't try to negotiate. There are plenty of rich kids looking to impress mummy and daddy."
You donât need to check your wallet, thereâs no way youâd be able to shell out ÂŁ500 on stimulants, let alone ÂŁ2000. Youâre barely managing to scrape by as it is, especially since you took on Robinâs debt.
Between waiting at the Cafe, working on Alexâs farm, and volunteering as an initiate at the Temple, youâre surprised you even have the time to study. But thatâs why you need stimulants, to give you the edge you couldâve had if you werenât forced to work so hard.
You swallow and shake your head, walking away from the dealer without another word. Tears prick at your eyes as your stomach churns, terrified that you might start crying before you can reach the bathrooms.
You donât have rich parents to impress, but you still want to win. The 2000 pound reward was enough to catch your attention when River was describing the competition, despite maths being your worst subject. God knows you need the money.
The ÂŁ4000 allowance doled out by the Temple each month is the only thing keeping you from having to sell yourself on the streets. Though the idea of fast cash is appealing, you donât want to do it. There was a reason you were working yourself into an early grave even though youâve been told an âeasierâ way existed. Itâs dangerous work, and even if you got over that part, it terrifies you to think of what Whitney would do if she found out.
Sure, she called you âslutâ more than she called you by your own name. But you were hers. She made that much abundantly clear, not only to you but to anyone who dared touch you in front of her.
You freeze when Whitney flashes into your mind. You didnât know much about her, not really. But from what youâve gathered, thereâs no way she could help you out financially, or want to help you for that matter. Despite the tears in your eyes, the corners of your lips flicker up into a half-smile. You didnât need Whitneyâs money, you would never ask that of her. But you did need her help.
It doesnât take long to find her, itâs an hour before class starts and she, for once, is early. Standing inside the school gate, near the entrance, smoking with her friends. You walk to her, shoes silent on the freshly fallen snow.
When you get to her, you reach out and grab onto her sleeve, giving it a gentle tug.
âW-WhitneyâŚâ
Whitney looks down at you, her face unchanging as she blows smoke into yours. âThe fuck do you want, slut?â
You try your best not to cough, but the smoke does nothing to help your stinging eyes. They fill up even more, making the world blurry with tears. You look down, but donât drop your grip on her sleeve.
âOi,â She barks at her posse. âFuck off.â
âHey-â One of her goons starts to protest.
âDid I fucking stutter?â Whitney flicks her cigarette butt at the lean boy before taking a mock step forward, the threat of a punch looming. The boy flinches away. âNo? Right, now get the fuck outâve here.â
They scatter fast after that, leaving just the two of you behind.
âHey, up here.â Whitney takes your chin between her forefinger and thumb, forcing you to look at her. âDid someone fuck with my property again?â
Your status at school is no secret- itâs probably one of the reasons Whitney noticed you in the first place. She hadnât been the only one to bully you, though at least she hadnât beaten you up like some of the other students had.
But since Whitney claimed you as hers, only a few people have tried to rough you up like the way they used to. And those who tried, well⌠They wouldnât even look in your direction now.
âNo,â You say quietly, letting your head lean against her middle for a second. You feel how her chest moves with an intake of breath.
âSomeone fucking with you?â
âNo,â You havenât asked for her help before, sheâd given it without you needing to ask when youâd gotten beaten up after school, and on Halloween when that man tried to grope you. âMaybe⌠yeah, I think so.â
âThinking too hard, huh? Itâs not good for sluts like you. Too pretty for that, lemme do the thinking. Whatâs going on?â
âI⌠I tried to uhâŚâ You trail off, suddenly embarrassed to admit that youâve been taking stimulants. âBuy stimulants... and I⌠I donât knowâŚâ
âGabe selling them again?â You give her a confused look. âSkinny fucker, short too.â You nod.
âHe um⌠Keeps raising the prices. I canât⌠I canât afford them. I donât know if itâs just for me but⌠I canât...â
âFigured youâd get your big bad girlfriend to shake âem down, yeah?â She teases, her voice uncannily soft as she cups your cheek. âFuck, youâre adorable. Fucking nerd. Yeah, I know that guy. How much is he charging?â
âTwo thousand pounds.â
âFuck that.â She laughs, tugging you close. âYouâre not paying a thing to that fuck, got it?â
âWhitney I need-â
âYeah yeah, Iâll get your pills, smarty. Relax.â
Itâs your turn to exhale, your shoulders dropping at her command. âThank you.â
âYou can thank me on your knees, slut.â Whitney smirks. âBut Iâll take a kiss, for now.â
Grabbing you by the waist, she leans down. Connecting your lips in a passionate kiss, her tongue exploring the inside of your mouth as her hands explore your body. When she pulls away, youâre gasping, and painfully turned on.
âNow run off, Iâve got shit to do.â
You follow her orders, stumbling off into the school as she rolls up her sleeves and stalks towards the stimulant dealer.
âËâąŕŹ Red Sky at Night, Shepherdâs Delight ŕŹâąËâ
*slides in with more Church AU ideas* May I interest yâall in Priest! Arlecchino x Devotee! Darling?? Do enjoy this sweet story ŕťę°ŕžŕ˝˛Â´ Ë ` ęąŕžŕ˝˛á
Tw:: yandere, manipulation, psychological trauma, stalking, blood, violence, death, religious abuse, self-flagellation, harassment, MDNI, pls take note of these warnings
Note:: FICTIONAL depictions of religion
⥠3.7k words under the cut âĄ
⥠As with most nations, the Church is the highest authority in Fontaine. This is especially true for the Court of Fontaine, a city that boasts a strong faith in God. However, it is this same faith which has been corrupted by the Church to spin a web of lies, prejudices, and hypocrisies. Still, there is hope for that city, as provided by its head priest Arlecchino.
⥠Not much can be said about her previous life. In the past, she was known as Peruere, a quiet orphan from the House of the Hearth. Raised by her predecessor Crucabena, Peruere followed in her footsteps and claimed to have felt a calling to priesthood. There was a beauty to it, the idea of a child giving back to the Church by bringing its followers closer to salvation. At least, that is how the public perceived her vocation.
⥠In truth, Peruereâs motivations were different. Shortly after her ordination, Crucabena disappeared under mysterious circumstances and her authority was passed on to Arlecchino. Immediately afterwards, she began to reform the Church and the House of the Hearth. She challenged the Churchâs falsehoods, eliminated the other corrupt priests, and preached a more compassionate form of worship.
⥠Despite her efforts, however, scars run deep within the city. The children werenât the only ones harmed by Crucabena; her influence spanned the entire Court of Fontaine, from religious schools to devout families. In the latterâs case, it can be difficult for Arlecchino to reach out to individuals and correct their beliefs. But some have taken to her like a moth to flame, actively seeking out her enlightenment. One such moth is you.
âžâ･ ŕš
âExcuse me, Father!â
The Church is silent in the wake of mass. Footsteps and voices echo as believers depart to go on with their daily lives. The children are walking through the exit connected to the House of the Hearth, their solemn demeanors giving way to laughter. Only two people remain.
As always, you linger behind Arlecchino, head bowed.
âAh, ______.â She turns around to face you. âIs something the matter?â
You look the sameâshy expression, modest clothing, rosary in hand.
In a quiet voice, you tell her, âI am in need of your guidance. Yesterday, IâŚcan we discuss this in your office? Iâll try to keep it short this time.â
âAh, of course. Follow me.â
By now, it has become routine for you to approach Arlecchino after weekly mass. She leads you down a hallway and into her private office, her confident gait juxtaposed by your meek footsteps. A few words are whispered to a passing nunâorders to prepare your favorite tea and desserts.
In the meantime, she takes a seat on the sofa and gives you a polite smile.
âGo on. You have my undivided attention.â
âžâ･ ŕš
⥠If Arlecchinoâs trauma led to her disillusionment with the Church, then yours brought you âcloserâ to God. Technically, there is nothing wrong with your devotionâyou pray daily, treat people with compassion, and derive a sense of solace from your religion. The harm lies in your blind faith, your total dependence on Arlecchinoâs guidance.
⥠While youâve accepted Arlecchinoâs stance on religion, you still abide by Crucabenaâs doctrine when it comes to your own religious life. You abstain from all vices. You repent for actions which barely count as sins. You are in a constant state of shame, guilt, paranoia, confusion. She can only imagine just how traumatic your meetings with Crucabena were.
⥠Still, you make for enjoyable company. It is common for Arlecchino to see you in the House of the Hearth bearing gifts for the childrenâand she can tell the difference between performances and your genuine acts of charity. When you arenât confiding in her, you inquire about her hobbies, her favorite things, her life before priesthood. There is something so pitiful, so precious about your trust in her.
⥠Which is why Arlecchino is quick to notice a shift in your attitude. It begins with you sitting in the middle pews during mass, rather than your usual spot in the front row. During communion, you avoid eye contact and accept the wafer from her with trembling hands. There is a decrease in your private meetings. Fortunately, there is no need for her to investigate; rather, you provide the answer on a silver platter.
⥠Confessions are a wellspring of valuable information. Be it a direct admission or small details, such encounters have aided Arlecchino in punishing those who commit evil under the guise of virtue. Neither is it difficult for her to deduce oneâs identity through their voice and mannerisms. So when she recognizes you beyond the screen, she wonders why you opted for the confessional rather than your usual face-to-face confessions with her.
âžâ･ ŕš
âBless me, father, for I have sinned. My last confession was one week ago.â
That is the first thing you tell her. From the center compartment, Arlecchino can imagine you doing the sign of the cross. The ritualistic gesture lends a short-lived grace to your movements, your hands honed by years of practice.
A pause. âPardon my insolence but I must know: I am not speaking to Father Arlecchino, am I?â
Oh?
âYou are not,â is her swift response, spoken in an altered voice. âAnd why do you ask? Does your confession concern the head priest?â
What secrets could you possibly be hiding from her?
She hears a hitched breath. âNo! I just donât want her to know. So please, what Iâm about to tell youâŚdonât breathe a word of it to anyone else.â
âBut of course. And what do you have to confess, my child?â
There is the sound of beads clicking togetherâyour rosary, an old violet-and-black set designed by Crucabena. Arlecchino owned an identical one up until her death.
âThese past years,â you whisper, âI have been consumed with carnal desires.â
She sits up straighter. âDesires?â
âItâs complicated,â you mutter. âThereâs this person Iâve known for years, and Iâve always looked up to them as a fellow believer. Yet over time, Iâve been plagued withâŚimpure thoughts of them. They captivate me. Their attention brings me joy and anxiety in equal parts. They haunt my thoughts in debauched fantasies. Yet we arenât even married, much less lovers.â
Who are they?
A spider has taken up residence in a corner of the ceiling. It sits in the center of a silvery web, waiting for its prey.
She clears her throat. âAnd what is the matter with that? It is true that many view lust as a sin. But carnal desires are natural and not evil as to warrant eternal damnation.â
Silence. Most likely, you are mulling over what she just said; discernment isnât your strong suit.
Itâs just like you to fret over an ordinary crush. But who is this person that ensnared your heart? Do they know you as well as her?
Arlecchino continues speaking. âMoreover, no human is immune to temptation. From what you told me, it is clear that you have made active efforts to suppress your lust. So is it not possible for you to resist this so-called temptation, if not distance yourself from the object of your desire?â
âBut how can I resist temptation when its very source lies in the Church?!â
Even Arlecchino is caught off-guard by your outburst. It is followed by your horrified gasp.
âWhat do you mean?â she asks.
Your next words are spoken in an even softer voice. âItâs Father Arlecchino. She is the one I desire.â
A fly buzzes through the latticed screen of the confessional. It briefly hovers around Arlecchino before she swats it away.
âAh, now I understand.â
âShe hasnât done anything to me!â you add quickly. âI swear, itâs purely one-sided. And that is what distresses me most of all. She is a woman of God, dedicated to the salvation of His flock, yet here I am making a mockery of her righteousness.â
âAnd what do you see in her?â
âWhere do I even begin? Sheâs kind. I know there are people who speak ill of her, claiming she preaches falsehoods, but Iâve witnessed her compassion with my own eyes. The orphans love her. The Church is warmer, more welcoming under her authority. AndâŚâ
The fly has taken a liking to the spiderweb. Spying its prospective prey, the spider begins its crawl towards the edge of the web.
You take a deep breath. âShe knows of my religious struggles yet has never given me reason to fear her judgment. She is the one who helped me discern my vocation. She is the one who put a stop to my self-flagellation, even though that penance was assigned by Mother Crucabena. She is the one who has reassured me, time and time again, that I am worthy of Godâs love. SheâŚâ
That is when you burst into tears.
For the next few minutes, the only sounds in the confessional are your choked sobs and rosary beads. Arlecchino herself remains silent but her thoughts are just as discordant.
Her gaze drifts to her necklace. It is a far cry from Crucabenaâs rosary, a long chain from which hangs a silver cross adorned with ornate engravings and crimson jewels. When she presses down on a specific jewel, the pendant separates to reveal a hidden blade.
How long has it been since she struck Crucabena with that false symbol?
âIâve tried so hard to be good,â you continue between sobs. âAll my life, Iâve done my best to resist temptation and abide by the Churchâs teachings. So whyâŚ? What I feel for Father Arlecchinoâitâs disgusting, itâs not normal, it cannot be called love. But IâŚâ
Your voice trails off. In her mindâs eye, Arlecchino sees you kneeling with your head bowed and your rosary looped around your clasped hands. If only she could wipe your tears.
âAnd I am truly sorry for all my sins,â you sniffle. âNow please, Father, what is my penance? If you tell me to distance myself from Father Arlecchino, then I will do so at once. If anything, I think sheâd prefer it; Iâve wasted enough of her time.â
âHush, my child,â she says sharply. Then, in a gentler tone, she adds, âGive me time to think.â
The fly is caught in the spiderâs web. From her seat, Arlecchino watches as the spider bites down on the struggling insect and wraps it in silk, sealing its unfortunate fate.
Well, this was an unexpected answer, but not an unfortunate one.
In truth, she cares little about her vow of chastity. It is but a minor offense compared to those of her fellow priests. As for your attraction towards her, it doesnât bother her at all. Her own sentiments require further reflection but for nowâŚ
âWhy not put your desires to the test?â
There is the sound of beads hitting the floor. âExcuse me?â
In a calm voice, she explains, âThere is nothing inherently sinful about falling in love with a priest. Rather, the fault should lie in the priest who cannot commit to their vow of chastity. But that, too, can be put into questionâafter all, nowhere in the religious texts is it explicitly stated that God demanded celibacy from His shepherds. It is for this reason that other denominations allow their priests to marry and procreate.â
âI see,â you mutter. âThough I doubt our Church would permit that anytime soon.â
âWho knows? As for the matter of your penanceâŚlike you said, it is impossible to escape the object of your desire. So why donât you continue your usual interactions with Father Arlecchino? It will enable you to discern whether what you feel for her is truly lust or love. And should you ever confess your feelings to her, she will be the one to instruct you on what to do.â
âIs that all? Surely, there must be anotherââ
She cuts you off. âThat is the only way. It is my belief that you need only desire something with sufficient intensity and God will answer. Or are you doubting my words as a priest?â
Your fearful âno!â puts an end to your confession. Thus, you recite your prayers and leave the confessional. After a while, Arlecchino makes a stealthy exit.
Just as she expected, you are still praying inside the Church. With your dried tears and tightly clasped hands, you make a perfect image of repentance.
Shaking her head, she walks down the hallway and into her office.
The tea table is empty. That will change tomorrow; she already has the perfect choice of desserts in mind. Cakes, tarts, macarons, all of your favorite treats.
The next day, an invitation is delivered to your doorstep. The envelope bears the official seal of the Church of Fontaine.
âžâ･ ŕš
⥠Since then, Arlecchino has treated you differently. In the past, her religious counsel took the form of reassurances, open-ended questions, and reminders that only you can discern your own fate. But now she finds herself giving you more specific lessons and instructions. She invites you to more tea parties and private events in the House of the Hearth.Â
⥠She is also moreâŚphysical these days. During mass, she puts the communion wafer in your mouth, a gloved thumb brushing against your lip. On your walks to her office, she places her hand on your back, forcing you to match her pace. At one point, she even pulls you aside and tells you to disrobe so she can see if you are wearing your scapular properly. There is a moment of silence when your scars are exposed, followed by the warm sensation of her fingertips tracing your skin.
⥠However, it doesnât take long for another issue to arise. One mass, Arlecchino notices that a certain individual has moved to the front pews to sit next to you. This continues for weeks, with him speaking to you before and after the service. Youâre clearly uncomfortable around him, and it reaches the point that you mention it to Arlecchino during a tea party.
⥠Quietly, you explain that you are being harassed by one of your coworkers. For weeks, he has been bothering you at work, walking you home from mass, showing no signs of accepting your blatant rejections. Even worse, no one is taking your distress seriously due to his popularity within the Court of Fontaine. Normally, Arlecchino would be quick to eliminate him but she decides on another solution which would kill two birds with one stone.
⥠Her suggestion is that you stay in the Church for a few weeks. It is a convenient arrangement on both sidesâthe children are already familiar with you; the House of the Hearth has no shortage of rooms; and in the worst-case scenario, it can serve as a trial period for nunhood. In the past, Arlecchino did deem your personality fitting for a life of religious service, though you disagreed on the basis that you werenât âworthyâ of such an important role.
⥠It doesnât take long for you to adjust. The House of the Hearth is quiet, secure, shielded from outside disturbances. The children are friendly to you, and they all agree that youâd fare well as their caretaker. Best of all, Arlecchino has more excuses to spend time with youâbarbeque parties, walks along the sea, meetings with the other priests and nuns, nightly conversations in your room. It feels like home.
⥠One day, you are fitted into a nunâs habit. It looks perfect on you, with a few embellishments to suit your style preferences. Arlecchino personally helps you into the outfit, fixing the buttons and smoothing out imaginary creases. The final piece is a cross necklace identical to her own; she casually reveals the hidden blade and claims it is a self-defense mechanism. When you cast your gaze upon your shared reflection in the mirror, a flustered smile adorns your face.
⥠Still, you are undecided on your âtrueâ vocation. Eventually, you decide to return to your job and think it over. Arlecchino personally escorts you to your house and insists that you keep your cross necklace, if only to replace your âmissingâ rosary. Once the front door is shut, she casts a harsh glare upon the figure across the street. Later, her children are assigned to keep watch over you and your stalker.
⥠For the next few days, all is well. Your daily life resumes. Arlecchino keeps a close eye on you through her childrenâs reports and her own inspections. After mass, the two of you enjoy another tea party, and you make no mention of your stalker. When the news reaches the city of an upcoming celestial phenomenon, you eagerly accept Arlecchinoâs invitation for a viewing party.
⥠The crimson moon rises, bathing the world in a blood-red glow. While the children gaze at the moon, Arlecchino waits for you in front of the orphanage. Strange, punctuality is one of your virtues yet youâre late. Just as she is about to leave for your house, Freminet frantically approaches her and leads her to the Church.
⥠Red. Itâs all over you, and not from the moonlight. The first thing Arlecchino sees is you curled up on the floor in a state of shock. In the heart of the Church lies a familiar figureâyour stalker, writhing on the floor as blood pools from his chest. Lynette stands over him, ensuring that he wonât escape, while Lyney tries and fails to console you.
⥠All three of her children are wearing their crosses. Yours is on the floor, its blade exposed and tainted with blood. Lyney is the one who explains the situation to Arlecchino: They heard a commotion in the Church and by the time they arrived, you had driven your cross into your stalkerâs heart. He had attacked you and paid the price.
⥠Calmly, Arlecchino tells Freminet to bring you to the orphanage. Once you are gone, she walks up to your stalker and stomps on his head, piercing his skull with her stiletto. Lyney and Lynette are told to dispose of the body, clean up the church, then return to the party. The crimson moon serves as a silent witness all throughout.
âžâ･ ŕš
âFather, your faceâŚâ
As soon as he sees her, Freminet leaves your room and closes the door behind him.
âFreminet.â Arlecchino wipes the blood off her cheek. âThat sinner has been dealt with. You may return to the party.â
âOh? Okay.â He nods, casting a worried look at your door. As he walks down the hallway, one of his hands comes up to touch his cross pendant.
With that, Arlecchino enters your room.
Even in your change of clothes, your visage is painted crimson by the moonlight. Your body is slumped against the bed, knees on the floor. No sounds leave your lips save for short breaths. Tiny crescents mar your armsâa coping mechanism or an attempt at penance?
Wordlessly, she sits next to you and pats your head with a gloved hand.
âFather.â You are the one to break the silence. âWhat justâŚâ
âThat man is dead.â She says it plainly, her tone void of judgment. âHe wonât be able to torment you any longer.â
You immediately look up, eyes glossy. âAre you sure?! Did IâŚ?â
In the blood-red moonlight, your anguish is clear as day. Your hands tremble, nails digging into the mattress, before clasping together in a graceless effort to steel yourself. But the familiar gesture does little to calm you, all prayers futile in the wake of your sin.
âThis is it. Iâm really going to burn in Hell,â you sob. âI didnât mean toâwhat should I do, Father?â
This time, Arlecchino spares no warmth in consoling you. She adjusts your body so that your head rests on her lap, letting your tears drip onto her cassock. Her hand remains on the back of your head, stroking your hair.
âThere is no need to fret,â she says gently. âBefore the moon sets, the Church will be purged of that manâs filth and it will be as though he never appeared tonight.â
You shake your head. âEven then, youâŚGod knows what I have done.â
âListen to me.â She tilts your face upwards, her expression firm. âAll you did was use your cross necklace for its intended purposeâto save yourself from harm. And yet even in the face of evil, you claim to be the one who sinned. None of this is your fault, ______.â
Her other hand caresses your cheek, wiping away your tears.
âPerhaps it is all part of Godâs plan,â she muses. As she speaks, she kneels to your level and holds your hands, intertwining your fingers. âWe live in a cruel world and it is only in places such as my Church that safety can be promised. Should you take the veil, no other sinners would dare to violate your virtue.â
Your next words are soft, hesitant, filled with disbelief. âAre you saying that I can still become a nun?! That youâŚyou donât mind keeping me around?â
âAnd for what reason would I deny you sanctuary?â she asks, her expression shifting to a frown. âAs a priest, it is my duty to shepherd Godâs flock. And as a person, it is my desire to protect those I cherish. Everything I do is for your own good.â
For once, you are rendered speechless. All you can do is stare at your lap, at your hands clasped together.
When Arlecchino leans towards you, her grip prevents you from drawing back.
âAll you must do is listen to me,â she whispers. âUntil our mortal deaths, I will be the one to lead you away from true temptation and deliver you from evil. Does it seem agreeable to you?â
âIâŚI guess so,â you whimper. Nervously, you meet her gaze, your eyes alight with a glimmer of hope. âIf itâs you, I can believe it.â
âGood. And remember this always, ______.â
The crimson moon shines brightly, casting a blood-red halo around your savior. And as Arlecchino pulls you closer, your lips a breath away from a kiss, a secret is divulged with the fervence of a sacred prayer.
âGod still loves you. As do I.â
âĄ
More Church AU here!! Dottore ŕš Capitano ŕš Pantalone ŕš Pierro ŕš Dainsleif
Note:: Please do not send me any Church AU asks/ requests involving other characters or dynamics who are not listed in my masterlist.
âŚDonât ask me how many times I broke down over Priest! Arlecchino. Just donât. To all of the Arle simps out there, I hope I did your wife justice. And may you all suffer from brainrot bc I refuse to be the only one in pain (â¸â¸áľá´áľâ¸â¸)
Lastly, lots of love to @diodellet for beta-reading this fic and my mutuals for indulging my brainrot. I hope this was worth the wait <3
Tag an Arlecchino enjoyer!! @navxry @leftdestiny-posts @beloved-blaiddyd @ainescribe @vennnnn-diagram @stickyspeckledlight @harmonysanreads @ddarker-dreams
tw - mentions of kidnapping/imprisonment, implied alcohol consumption, and reader referred to as 'mother'/'mom' but otherwise gender-neutral.
You let yourself into Arlecchinoâs study exactly four strokes after midnight. Even from the doorway, she could see the crimson stain of wine on your lips, the tell-tale lilt to your posture. Clearly, your chosen habitat that night had been the House of the Hearthâs wine cellar â a not completely unusual pastime of yours, on its own. The fact that you were coming to her after drinking your fill was more notable.
She allowed you to stumble from the doorway to her desk before ever glancing up from the correspondence she was attempting to will herself to finish. Whichever one of her vintages youâd favored, it mustâve given you the strength to withstand the weight of the gaze you were always so quick to shy away from, the courage to all-but lay yourself across the crowded tabletop. Despite your new dauntlessness, your expression was sullen, your eyes glassy with tears yet to flow over. It was a face she was used to seeing in the confines of her chambers, or better yet, on the edge of her knee as she kept you perched in her lap through an otherwise dull meeting. Familiarity alone mightâve been enough to soften her, had she had any idea as to the source of your apparent distress.
 You didnât speak until you were settled. Arlecchino remained patient, limiting herself to a slight smile and the melodic drumming of pointed nails against polished mahogany. âPeruere,â you drawled, her given name a honey-sweet slur on your tongue. âI donât think I can do this.â
âI see.â It took every ounce of her impressive self-restraint not to laugh aloud. âWhat a shame. Remind me exactly what it is we canât do, love?â
âI canât do this.â You gave a sweeping gesture, nearly violent enough to knock yourself off-balance. âItâs not youâI mean, it is you, with the kidnapping and imprisonment and all, but aside from that, I justââ A deep, shuddering breath, followed shortly by a pitchy, almost keening noise. âIâm just not ready to be a mother.â
This time, Arlecchino couldnât stop herself â a single, breathy chuckle slipping past her lips. Your frowned deepened, and she did her best to sober quickly. âIâm sorry, Iââ She steepled her fingers in front of her, leaning forward to rest her chin on the point of intersection. âI suppose I wasnât aware you were going to be.â
If you heard, you clearly werenât listening. Rather unceremoniously, the glass splintered; your thin veneer of composure falling away as the first tear broke free, shortly followed by a second, then a third. She lost count somewhere around the dozenth. âItâs not that I donât love your children,â you started, your voice cracking as you struggled to wipe at your eyes between words. âI mean, I love them all in spite of them being yours, which is actually really impressive because I find you so unbearably off-putting to be around, butâ Iâm sorry, Iâm just not ready for this level of responsibility. Thereâs⌠how many? Fifty of them? Two hundred?â
âMy love.â She pushed herself to her feet, dulling her voice into the softest, smoothest possible coo. âIsnât it about time for you to retire for the night?â
âHow could you possibly want to go to sleep at a time like this?â You were sobbing now, rather unabashedly. All attempts to maintain your dignity had been laid aside in favor of burying your face in your palms and hanging your head almost pitifully low. âI have five hundred kids to take care of!â
Whether you were too distracted to notice her arms wrapping around you or simply too panicked to care, it wouldâve been impossible to say. You failed to protest as she pulled you against her chest, only sniffling miserably and burying your face in her coat. âYou seem to have forgotten that âFatherâ is only a title,â she murmured as gently as she could, letting her lips brush against the top of your head, then your tear-stained cheek. âMost of my children have already grown out of the need for a true mother and father, and I doubt those who havenât view either of us in a very paternal light. Do you understand?â
There was a delay, but she felt you nod against her chest. Arlecchino could only sigh, already moving to exit her study. âLetâs get you to bed, dear.â
~
You were still unconscious by the time she rose the next morning, no doubt putting off the inevitable hangover. She left you where you lied and, after making sure a pitcher of water would be waiting for you when you woke up, went about her obligations.
It was only a few hours later that, during a conversation with Lyney, he seemed to pause, to glance to either side. Whatever heâd planned to say was quickly forgotten in favor of a new tangent. âI donât think Iâve seen mom yet, today.â
At that, Arlecchino perked up. âMom?â
He caught himself quickly, straightening. âMother, I mean. (Y/n). My apologies, Lynette's disregard must be rubbing off on me.â
She took a moment to purse her lips, to do what she often did best and consider the information thatâd been laid at her feet. âLyney,â she said, eventually, when sheâd made up her mind.
âNext time you use that name, make sure your mother is within earshot.â
tangentwithtanner
