HI GUYS IM BACK IM SORRY FOR NOT UPLOADING FOR SO LONG I JUST DONT REALLY HAVE ANY MOTIVATION ANYWAY HAPPY PRIDE MONTH
Arlecchino x wife reader
Warnings: High-tension emotional distress, heavy themes of perceived betrayal, physical intimidation, psychological angst, and a cliffhanger ending. Contains physical trembling, choking silence, and severe marital tension. IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH ANY OF THESE WARNINGS PLEASE SCROLL
The private quarters of the Harbingers were usually a sanctuary, but tonight, they felt like a tomb. Y/N stood by the velvet curtains, her formal black ruffled blouse catching the dim crimson glow of the dying hearth. She was trembling down to her very fangs, but it wasn't from a vampire's hunger or a winter chill. It was from the sheer, suffocating weight of the aura bleeding off her wife.
Arlecchino stood by the heavy oak desk, her back to Y/N. Her hands, clawed and stained a deep abyss-black at the fingers, were gripping the edge of the wood so hard it groaned. On the blotter lay a forged ledger and a set of stolen letters—a masterclass in sabotage framed beautifully to look like Y/N had been selling secrets to a rival faction. To make it worse, the forgery explicitly implied Y/N had been doing it in the arms of another lover.
"Arlecchino... please, just look at me," Y/N whispered, her voice a fragile, broken thread in the heavy silence. "It’s a lie. I don't even know who that agent is. I swear to you, I've never—"
"Quiet."
The word dropped like a guillotine. Arlecchino turned around, and Y/N’s heart completely stopped. The Knave’s eyes—usually so cold and controlled—were completely blown out, the crimson X's in her pupils vibrating with a terrifying, jagged angst. She looked monstrous. The sheer force of this perceived betrayal had shattered her legendary composure, leaving raw, unadulterated fury in its place. Arlecchino truly believed the lies. To her, the evidence was absolute. Her wife had broken her vows.
In a blur of motion too fast for Y/N’s eyes to track, Arlecchino crossed the room. Her large, dark hand shot out, pinning Y/N against the stone wall. Her fingers pressed firmly into the stone on either side of Y/N’s neck, trapping her completely.
"Do you take me for a fool?" Arlecchino hissed, her voice trembling, laced with a dangerous, quiet venom. "I gave you everything. My name, my protection, my heart... things I swore I would never give to another living soul. And you hand them to a rat in the lower districts?"
Y/N’s eyes filled with hot, panicked tears, spilling over her pale cheeks. She reached up, her small, trembling hands clutching desperately at Arlecchino’s wrists. "I love you! I only love you! Please, Arlecchino, look at my eyes! You know when I'm lying!"
Arlecchino leaned in close, her breath hot against Y/N’s cheek, her gaze piercing deep into Y/N's soul. But the rage in Arlecchino's mind was too loud, completely blinding her to the truth. "I see nothing but a traitor," Arlecchino whispered, her voice cold as ice.
Slowly, the black, shadow-like energy began to crackle around Arlecchino's claws. She raised her hand, her expression hardening into that of a merciless executioner. Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, sobbing as she braced for the end.
Suddenly, a loud, frantic pounding echoed on the heavy oak doors from the hallway outside, but Arlecchino didn't drop her gaze. She loomed over her wife, her hand poised to strike, completely convinced of Y/N's guilt.
Hii! So I was wondering if you could write a fic of Arlecchino, where she gets protective/jealous over y/n, because y/n was talking to one of the other girls in the Fatui, like Sandrone or Signora. Could be fluff or smut depending on how you want to write it
Ty!! :D
SO CUTE!! I made this fluff, btw! I love this idea, I had a....ball...hehe...(get it...cuz...cuz they're at a ball...ha...get...get...it?...)
Tags - Jealous Arlecchino/ Arle being pissed/ Sandrone being gay for the reader/ Childe knowing his place/ Possessive Arle/ No smut/
The ballroom glittered with gold.
Crystal chandeliers spilled warm light across polished marble floors, strings playing somewhere high above the noise of conversation while diplomats, Harbingers, and wealthy fools drifted through the room in expensive silks and sharpened smiles.
Arlecchino hated every second of it.
She stood near the back of the hall with a half-empty bourbon glass in one hand while Tartaglia rambled beside her with the unstoppable energy of a hunting dog.
“—and then the idiot actually thought he could outrun me across Dragonspine. In snow. Like I wouldn’t track him—”
Arlecchino gave a low hum that sounded vaguely attentive.
In truth, she hadn’t heard a word in the last several minutes.
Her gaze had already wandered.
Naturally.
It always did.
Across the ballroom, she caught sight of her wife weaving elegantly through clusters of guests, smiling sweetly as she spoke with various diplomats and Fatui officers alike. Effortless. Charming. Warm in ways Arlecchino herself could never quite emulate naturally.
People adored her.
That was the problem.
Arlecchino watched a lieutenant nearly trip over himself trying to make her laugh. Watched another woman touch her arm while speaking. Watched her smile politely through every interaction with practiced grace.
Then—
Her eyes landed on Sandrone.
And stilled.
Tartaglia noticed the shift immediately.
“…Uh oh.”
Sandrone stood near one of the massive windows overlooking the frozen Snezhnayan streets, speaking animatedly while one of her mechanical servants hovered silently behind her.
And in Sandrone’s hand—
Was her wife’s hand.
Not briefly.
Not accidentally.
Holding it.
Long fingers wrapped carefully around hers while Sandrone spoke with unusual enthusiasm, eyes bright beneath heavy lashes. The puppet-master leaned closer as she talked, clearly absorbed, clearly pleased.
And her wife—
Her darling, oblivious wife—
Was smiling.
Sweetly.
Patiently.
Listening with complete attention while Sandrone continued to hold her fucking hand.
The bourbon glass creaked faintly.
Tartaglia glanced down.
“…You’re squeezing the glass.”
Arlecchino did not answer.
Her stare remained fixed across the ballroom, sharp enough to skin flesh from bone.
Sandrone.
Of all people.
The woman was not subtle in the slightest once she developed interest in something. Or someone.
And Arlecchino knew.
God, she knew.
She had seen the way Sandrone’s gaze lingered before. Had noticed how quickly she appeared whenever her wife entered a room. The excessive gifts. The bizarre little mechanical trinkets mysteriously arriving at the estate.
At first, Arlecchino had tolerated it.
Barely.
Because her wife had seemed unaware. Innocently fond in return, perhaps, but oblivious to the implications.
Now?
Now Sandrone was standing in the middle of a crowded ballroom openly clutching her wife’s hand like she belonged there.
Something ugly twisted low in Arlecchino’s chest.
Possessive.
Hot.
Embarrassingly human.
Her thumb brushed unconsciously against the black wedding band on her finger.
Mine.
The thought arrived instantly. Violently.
Across the room, Sandrone laughed softly at something her wife said, tightening her hold slightly as she spoke again.
Arlecchino’s eye twitched.
Tartaglia physically leaned back.
“…Right,” he muttered carefully. “I’m gonna go… literally anywhere else.”
Smart boy.
Arlecchino barely noticed him leaving.
Around her, conversation had subtly begun to thin. Agents nearby suddenly remembered obligations elsewhere. A diplomat excused himself so quickly he nearly spilled his drink.
No one wanted to stand too close to The Knave when she looked like this.
Her wife still hadn’t noticed.
Still smiling.
Still allowing Sandrone to touch her.
Arlecchino set her glass down with deliberate care before it shattered in her hand.
Then she started walking.
The click of her heels against marble cut through the music like a blade.
Sandrone noticed first.
Of course she did.
Her yellow eyes flicked upward, immediately catching the approaching figure stalking across the ballroom floor. And instead of looking ashamed—
That irritating woman looked amused.
Her wife turned a second later.
The second she saw Arlecchino approaching, her entire face brightened beautifully.
There it was.
That softness reserved only for her.
And it soothed absolutely none of the rage simmering beneath Arlecchino’s skin.
“My love,” her wife greeted warmly.
Sandrone still had not let go of her hand.
Arlecchino stopped directly before them.
Towering.
Elegant.
Terrifying.
Her gaze slid slowly down toward their joined hands.
Silence.
Heavy silence.
Then finally, smooth as silk:
“…Am I interrupting?”
Her wife blinked innocently. “No? Sandrone was just showing me sketches for one of her new automatons—”
“She finds my designs fascinating,” Sandrone interrupted calmly.
Arlecchino’s eyes moved to her.
The air itself felt colder.
“How fortunate for you.”
Sandrone tilted her head slightly, entirely unbothered. “You appear tense tonight.”
“Oh?” Arlecchino said softly. “Do I?”
Her wife finally seemed to notice something was wrong.
“…Arle?”
God.
That nickname in that sweet worried voice nearly ruined her composure entirely.
Sandrone’s thumb absentmindedly brushed across the back of her wife’s hand while speaking again.
Mistake.
A horrible, horrible mistake.
Arlecchino smiled.
Not warmly.
The kind of smile that made grown men shut their mouths and reconsider every decision they had ever made.
Then, without breaking eye contact with Sandrone, she reached forward and slowly took her wife’s hand from the other woman’s grasp.
Deliberately.
Finger by finger.
Possessive in a way that was almost obscene.
“There,” Arlecchino murmured. “That’s better.”
Her wife stared up at her in confusion, cheeks beginning to pink faintly as realization slowly settled in.
Sandrone’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Oh,” she said.
Yes.
Oh.
Arlecchino interlaced their fingers tightly before lifting her wife’s hand to her lips, pressing a slow kiss against her knuckles while keeping her gaze fixed directly on Sandrone the entire time.
A warning.
Clear as a blade to the throat.
Mine.
-------
By the time they returned to the House of the Hearth, the halls had gone mostly quiet.
Only the low crackling of fireplaces and the occasional creak of old floorboards disturbed the stillness of the estate. Moonlight spilled silver through tall windows while servants quietly extinguished lamps deeper within the manor.
Arlecchino walked beside her wife in complete silence.
Not hostile silence.
Worse.
Sulking silence.
Which was honestly almost comical considering she looked capable of personally executing an entire nation.
Her wife had noticed it immediately after they left the party. The clipped responses. The way Arlecchino’s hand remained possessively fixed against the small of her back the entire carriage ride home. The cold expression sharpened into something dangerously juvenile beneath all that terrifying composure.
Jealous.
Absurdly jealous.
And apparently determined to nurse that jealousy like a grudge.
But first—
There were children to take care of.
As they passed one of the side corridors, soft footsteps pattered against wood flooring before a tiny sleepy figure appeared rubbing at tired eyes.
“Mother?”
Arlecchino’s wife immediately softened.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured gently. “Why are you still awake?”
The little girl sniffled. “Couldn’t sleep…”
Arlecchino watched as her wife crouched without hesitation, smoothing messy hair back from the child’s forehead while speaking softly.
“No nightmares tonight, hm?”
A tiny nod.
Within minutes, another child emerged from somewhere down the hall. Then another. Apparently several of the younger ones had escaped bedrest entirely.
Arlecchino leaned silently against the wall with crossed arms while her wife handled them with practiced ease.
And gods.
There it was again.
That warmth.
That impossible gentleness Arlecchino herself could never replicate correctly.
One child climbed directly into her wife’s lap while another clung sleepily to her arm. She soothed each of them patiently, humming under her breath while escorting them back toward their rooms.
No irritation.
No exhaustion.
Just tenderness.
It did something dangerous to Arlecchino every single time she witnessed it.
Eventually, after stories were read, blankets tucked properly, and sleepy foreheads kissed goodnight, the manor finally settled into silence once more.
Their chambers greeted them with soft amber firelight and warmth.
Her wife disappeared toward the vanity while Arlecchino removed her gloves with sharp, deliberate movements.
Still sulking.
Honestly impressive.
From the mirror, her wife watched with increasing amusement as Arlecchino sat stiffly at the edge of the bed, arms crossed tightly over her chest and gaze pointed stubbornly away.
Pouting.
Actually pouting.
A woman capable of reducing entire organizations to ash sat on their bed looking personally offended by existence itself.
Her wife bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.
Instead, she calmly dragged a comb through her hair and said lightly, “The party ended up being rather nice.”
A dangerous pause.
“Hm.”
Ah.
Still grumpy.
She set the comb down slowly before turning to look at her fully.
Arlecchino refused to meet her eyes.
That almost made it worse.
Her wife finally moved to sit beside her on the mattress, close enough for their knees to brush.
“…You’re still upset.”
“No.”
A lie.
A terrible one.
She smiled despite herself. “Arle.”
Silence.
Then finally, clipped and bitter:
“Sandrone has taken an interest in you.”
Her wife blinked.
“…What?”
That got Arlecchino’s attention for exactly long enough to shoot her an incredulous look.
“What do you mean what?”
“I mean…” she said slowly, trying not to laugh yet, “what do you mean?”
Arlecchino stared at her like she was being intentionally difficult.
“The woman practically hangs off you every time you enter a room.”
“She does not.”
“She held your hand.”
“…She did?”
Arlecchino’s eye twitched.
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
There was a pause.
Then, horrifyingly:
“I thought she was just being friendly.”
Arlecchino made a low sound somewhere between disbelief and suffering before leaning back dramatically against the headboard.
“You are impossible.”
That finally cracked her composure enough for a laugh to slip out.
Then Arlecchino began muttering again, irritation bubbling back to the surface.
“It is constant,” she complained. “Every gathering. Every meeting. Someone always trying to touch you or monopolize your attention despite the fact that you are very obviously married.”
Her wife leaned her cheek against one hand, listening fondly while Arlecchino continued her irritated rant.
“Signora flirts simply to provoke me. Tartaglia encourages it because he enjoys chaos. Sandrone stares at you like she’s planning to steal state secrets from your brain.”
“That seems dramatic.”
“It is accurate.”
“And?”
“And,” Arlecchino continued sharply, “I dislike people behaving as though they are entitled to what is mine.”
There it was.
Mine.
Always mine.
Her wife’s expression softened completely.
She shifted closer before asking gently, “Who did I marry?”
Arlecchino blinked.
The question clearly caught her off guard.
“…Me,” she muttered after a moment.
“Mmhm. And who do I love most?”
Another pause.
This one quieter.
“…Me.”
The sulkiness in her voice was so ridiculous that her wife nearly laughed again.
Instead, she sighed fondly and climbed properly into Arlecchino’s lap before the woman could protest.
Large hands instinctively settled against her waist.
There we are.
Her wife cupped Arlecchino’s face between both hands, thumbs brushing along sharp cheekbones while forcing her to finally meet her gaze.
That stubborn pout remained firmly in place.
God, she was adorable like this.
“There’s no need to be so jealous,” she murmured softly.
Arlecchino frowned faintly. “Easy for you to say.”
“You’re my husband.”
A quieter expression flickered beneath the irritation.
Her wife leaned down and kissed her gently.
Slow.
Soft.
Lingering.
Arlecchino melted almost instantly despite herself, one hand sliding upward along her back while her shoulders finally loosened beneath the affection.
When they parted, their foreheads rested together.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.
Arlecchino stared at her silently for a long moment.
Then, very quietly:
“…I know.”
Another pause.
“…I still dislike Sandrone.”
-----
This was so CUTE I love writing Alrecchino!! I'm taking suggestions!! Message me your request and I'll likely do it!! No smut right now though <33
a/n: kabisado by iv of spades is eating up my brain so here's a cute little fic for arlebubu :3 also, i used to be @sdfgderp! i moved blogs hoho anyway enjoy my piece!
arlecchino x f!reader
word count: ~700 words
Know by Heart
---
The early afternoon lighting was perfect for some light reading. After convincing the younger children of the House of the Hearth to take a nap, you head into Arlecchino's study to pick up the book on her desk and invade her couch. Just within fifteen minutes of reading, soft lips kiss your cheek while you were lost in the book you were reading.
You look up from the page you were reading and see your sweet husband, her hair clamped behind her hair with a few stray strands falling down to rest on her shoulders. You didn't miss the detail of her removing her intricate coat, leaving her in just her undershirt and pants. You figured she was already home for a while, and you didn't notice.
"I'm home, cherie. I figured you would be reading at this time," Arlecchino murmured. "How are you and the children?"
"Well, they're in their rooms, taking a nap. How are you home early?" You reply, setting the book down on the coffee table near the couch.
Patting the spot beside you, you invite Arlecchino to sit down with you. After sitting down, she leans over to you and you take the hint, lying down on the couch so she could lie down on top of you. She melts into your touch, resting her cheek on your chest while her hands braced you. A chuckle escapes your lips and you deftly remove the clamp bunching her hair up, putting it on top of the book on the coffee table. Her long hair falls down and you smooth it out behind her head.
"You're home early, light day?"
"Is it so bad to clock out early to spend some time with my wife?"
"No, it's not that..."
"Then why do you question my presence now?"
"Because..." You brush back her unruly bangs so you could see her face properly, "I know you always come home by seven in the evening."
"And? I know you get grumpy when you wait long for me to get home, even if I leave work early for my coworkers' standards."
Of course she knew. In fact, she knew a lot about your mannerisms and habits for the long time you have been living together. What time you prefer to sleep, how you liked your coffee, how you bit the eraser of your pencil when you were figuring out how to grade the children's homework, Arlecchino's all too familiar with your antics.
You weren't any different from her. In just a few months, you picked up some of her habits as well. Seeing her walk around in the nearby forest to watch insects, how she almost always wakes up earlier than you except for the days when nightmares plagued her the night before, and how her eye twitches when she tastes too much seasoning in one meal, you were familiar to her personality as well. However...
"My love, I am this close to you, am I not getting one kiss?"
You sometimes forget Arlecchino can be clingy.
Your hands cup her face and you pull her close to you, giving her the kiss she was asking for. Your husband melts into the kiss, lifting her body up to hover her head over yours. Her cursed hand cups your face in turn, her thumb swiping over the apple of cheek. When she pulls away, she was met with the sweetest smile. Your smile.
To her coworkers (most especially Sandrone), Arlecchino's ability to somehow link certain events or things to you was uncanny. She sometimes muses on the fragrances she might smell, wishing she was smelling your perfume instead. Other times, when she eats sweet confections, her tongue craves the sweetness of your kisses instead. She sees someone else bite their pencil when thinking, her mind drifts to you, wondering what you would be up to at that hour of day.
Arlecchino has put the details she knows about you in her heart. She knows you by heart. And she knows...
"Oh no! Father's eating Mother's face again! Close your eyes!"
Children can have a knack of making themselves known. You both wouldn't have it any other way.
I’ve been dabbling in riso printing! I’ve been trying to figure out how I can translate my soft digital style into a risograph by separating all the color channels. I have not printed them yet, so I have no idea if they’ll work ~ I still need to pick the final colors!
