Ass, tits or thighs? (Ft nod krai cast) (Typical warnings of NSFW, fem!reader, mentions of a lactation kink in Albedo's, possible OOC for all of them. Fight me all you want in the comments if you want. English is not my first language)
(this plot is so overused. Does that mean I care? No, I'll do whatever I want so just enjoy my analysis or whatever)
Varka: Ass
He'd be super embarrassed about this question and probably blurt out "personality" or something like that. A knight shouldn't be so improper with his lover! But sometimes you see him staring a little too long on your behind for it to be a "friendly" look when you bend over to pick something up. If he's ever holding you close to him, his hands are always on the hips or waist, just close enough to your ass but never doing anything until you ask. Basically cock blocking himself lmao
Flins: Thighs
Also the type to say "personality" but more of an endearing way than anything else. Probably be like "you are so enchanting, how could I pick just one?" So he says personality instead. Though, he's never one to complain if he gets a nice shot of your thighs, doesn't care if they're small or big. He seems like the type of guy to enjoy giving oral, so having your thighs around his head is probably a fantasy of his.
Nefer: tits
Not ashamed of her answer, and it was quite obvious. She doesn't care about your body type either. If you're flat, she likes pinching and playing with your nipples from underneath your shirt, perhaps dragging her fingers along your areola. If you're well endowed she prefers to squish your tits between her fingers to relieve stress. One thing's for certain, with those claws on her fingers your skin will hurt and look red. Good thing she has her mouth to help.
Lauma: tits
Unlike Nefer, she prefers to admire your body from afar more than anything, and she is most importantly not crude. She likes laying her head on your chest regardless if your tits are big or not. If you're ever sore she likes massaging them within her fingers, but she'll never go past your boundaries. Though, if you ask her to take a step further she wouldn't mind, after all she does have a few fantasies and needs of her own.
Nicole: thighs
If you ever asked her this question, she'd at first go on a tangent about how human evolution evolved and why we find such body parts appealing despite them being storehouses of fat for the most part. If you ask her to give a straight answer she'd say thighs. She likes it when you wear shorts, maybe when you sit down and they seem to look bigger. Regardless of their size she likes to lay her head down there and stare up at you whilst yapping about another topic. If she feels cheeky she might bite.
Alice: ass
Practically has an obsession with slapping your ass, with how red it gets from her fondling sometimes. Especially likes it if you wear a tight dress or shorts, she just loveees admiring your figure. She may be busy but that won't exactly stop her from meeting you often enough to eye-fuck you. If you have a tattoo on your lower back best believe she's kissing that senseless. Other than that, she prefers to bend you over with her strap and take you from behind.
Arlecchino: thighs
You're often the one straddling her waist while she does her paperwork, and her hands always find themselves digging into your thighs. She'll stop if it hurts, but gods does she love looking at your legs when they're properly marked by her fingers. If she's eating you out expect plenty of teeth marks around your inner thigh. When she's holding you by your waist, she finds her fingers drawing circles on your hip, to outer thigh. Also likes the feeling of control when her hands spread your thighs open.
Columbina: tits
She takes a long time to think about it, especially since she likes all parts of you and never bothered to think about these sexual questions. She eventually says tits because they're the closest to your heart. She spends the time with you mostly listening to your heartbeat, so she finds it fair to prefer your tits. If anything else, you'll sometimes find her either squeezing or pinching your nipples since she's interested on your reactions and how they feel in her palm.
Illuga: tits
He'll freak out at first if you ever ask and refuse to answer. Though, he stares at your chest a lot more than what is necessary. If you have a gap between your tits, he likes fixating on that for whatever reason, especially when he can see that gap from your top. If you don't have a gap, that's fine too because he'll still be staring at how much space your breasts take. If you allow him to touch he'd probably do it once before chickening out. If you offer a titjob he's practically jello in your arms.
Sandrone: no preference
It's either she doesn't care or she cares for all parts of you equally. There's no real problem for her anyway, she takes what's most convenient. If you're cuddling with her her hands will rest on your tits. If you're standing beside her (with no one around) she'll place a hand on her ass. She likes observing how your thighs enlarge when you sit. You can please her with almost anything.
Dottore: different per segment.
Webtorre likes your tits, Omega your ass and prime your thighs. Though, if you attempt to seduce the different versions of him with any one, it will work. Webtorre will be the more eager of the three to grab a hold of your tits. Omega usually just takes whatever chance he gets and places a hand on your ass whenever he gets the opportunity of your bending over. Prime prefers it when you're cockwarming him and your thighs wrap around his waist. He gets hard just from the feeling of your thighs.
Wanderer: no preference
Also another one that doesn't care. If he's carrying you while he's flying, his hand will subtly palm your thighs. Time to time he listens to your heartbeat, so the cushioning on your chest is appreciated. If you don't have any, that's fine too. His hands are (for the most part) on your ass when you're walking together with no one around. He's not overtly dirty too, if you don't like it then he'll immediately stop.
Albedo: tits
I know that for most of the characters you've seen me saying tits but it's more true for him than ever. He feels like the type of guy to have a lactation kink to be honest. Like, he'd research it for normal purposes and be completely normal about it but it will eventually grow on him. If you're ever pregnant with his kid he will suck your tits at least once for a taste. He's very gentle otherwise, compared to a certain Nefer.
݁(except maybe— if they were dying. Or worse, you.)݁
— Just a small note: this post was written with a gn!reader in mind. The “girlhood” line in Signora’s part is metaphorical—symbolic of vulnerability, seen through her lens—not meant to imply or specify anything about the reader! My apologies for not clarifying sooner. Take care, and thank you sm for reading ‹𝟹
✦Pierro
''You remind me of the human I buried to survive.''
You remind him of something sun-warmed and pure. If the gods had been kinder, you were someone he could drink tea with in a sunlit herbarium. If he had met you before he lost everything, he might've asked you to become a part of it.
He watches you with the same bitterness of a man who once begged the stars and got nothing back
✦Capitano
''....''
Honor is everything to a man like him but you've smiled and for the first time, he wondered losing an army for a flicker of light was such a tragedy. No one will know. He will take that silence to grave, strapped in armor.
✦Dottore
"I’ve recreated your nervous system in glass and broken it seventy-two times. Still not enough."
He dissected every kindness you gave him and labeled it ‘contamination.’ He’ll never say it, but he studies you like an unexpected variable.
He has your laugh recorded. Reversed. Slowed. Studied. He plays it at midnight. You sounded like a child, once.
✦Columbina
''I am alone but not with you''
She wants to take you and put it in her pocket; folded and touched shut like a charm before a massacre.
From the places she's usually perched on, everyone below looks like insects. So she wants to keep you forever—in case the war forgets to.
✦Arlecchino
''I don't think I know how to keep people without owning them''
She's scared to treat you different than others, even if you'll never hear her say it. Because admitting means guilt, and guilt means you're not just another dog she picked off the street. Because domestication is just another kind of leash.
She still hides small bottles of poison between your perfumes. Maybe that's love, in her language.
✦Pulcinella
''I like how you're too old to be this naive. Foolish child''
He wants to scare you. Because if you're afraid, it means you’re wise.
If you’re smart, you’ll stay close. And if you’re close… Well… You’ll learn that sometimes, monsters teach you how to survive—by making you survive them.
✦Scaramouche
''If I had a heart, I'd rip it out and serve it on your plate. Or press your ear against my chest so you can listen to it beat for you.''
His tongue is venom and he speaks in curses and snarled comments. No one likes him for it. But his greatest wish is for you to come back; still smiling, hair wet and your hands cupping his after the storm passes. As if there is something human in him to hold.
✦Sandrone
''I envy the dolls. They get to be held by you''
She speaks your name with the same mouth that bit your wrist red. She watches you laugh and wonders if she could peel your joy off your skin and wear it like a coat—just for a moment. Just to see if it fits.
Every time you speak without being asked, she pictures tuning your vocal cords out of existence but leaving your hands untouched. If she sighs around you, don't mistake it for exhaustion— it’s restraint.
✦La Signora
“You remind me of myself before I realized softness is a liability.”
Rosalyne would never say it aloud, but she sees her younger self in the way you linger in doorways, one foot in girlhood, waiting for approval. She almost warns you to run. But saints and women die first. And you're too good at lingering in doorways.
✦Pantalone
“I was afraid you’d look at me like everyone else does. So I made sure you looked up to me instead.”
He made you depend on him. It was easier than being vulnerable. He wanted to see gratitude in your eyes, not judgment. So he bought your silence, your presence and your shampoo— if you smelled like comfort, maybe you’d feel it. Maybe you’d forget to look at him long enough to see the fear.
He didn’t mean to buy your love.
But now that's his, he polishes it daily.
✦Childe
“I worship The Tsaritsa, but I dream of you.”
He hopes you never see the parts of him that enjoy the killing, not just the chase. He’s covered in mud, not blood; and he's quiet because there were more toy orders than usual, not because he had to walk through children to kill the father. It's what he tells himself.
— sleeping habits and positions with their special one;
[note.] — I know the harbingers already got the semi sleeping related scenarios with wake up, buttercup... but if soft as slumber will get me back to writing, I say it's a good sacrifice. SANDRONE DEBUT BTW I LOVE HER SO MUCH.
capitano himself needs little to no rest, like actually. he chooses to sleep to be close to you (and maybe provide protection, if there ever arrives the need for it.). but, if he ever were to make any requests — it’s to sleep light. there’s just something suffocating about heavy bedding. not to mention, he can substitute for the missing heat.
hold his hand, have your head on his chest, be a full on starfish. do whatever you please. capitano will have you sleep through the night regardless, especially if you’re a moving sleeper. you ain’t moving an inch once he has you in his embrace.
── 𝐝𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞
either sleeps eighteen hours a day or wakes up after half hour, there’s no in between for dottore. yes, he will retire to bed with you, but falling asleep is different territory. it’s just that his brain is too active all the time, sleeping included.
when he does indeed transform into a cat to replenish his energy, he wants the best. dottore might say he needs just the basics, but you have not seen the fluffiest of the blankets in months. that’s gotta say something.
── 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚
could probably sleep anywhere, as long as she has you by her side. it’s very relaxing for her to have the soft accompaniment of your heartbeat as she’s humming to tire herself out. head on your chest, she is the biggest fan.
prefers to have the room be cold, by a long shot. maybe some lavender essential oils to calm the space down? only if you’re willing and not allergic. she wants nighttime to be a relaxing time for both of you. getting a skylight is definitely on her bucket list — ah, pretty stars…
── 𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐨
as fascinating as it is, nighttime is the major cause of conflicts between you and arlecchino. she just won’t go to bed. her strictness with herself makes it difficult to retire before everything on the task list is checked of. so, if she’s never in bed, the preferences are all yours.
also not the biggest on affection once she’s laying down. arlecchino considers her nails too sharp to allow for uncontrollable handholding, same with embracing you from behind. I guess sleeping close side-by-side it is.
── 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞
if we’re speaking technicalities, sandrone does not need much. perhaps a little bit of cushiness to have her joints not lock up, that’s all. on the other hand, her preferences have resulted in you having one of the most delightful of beds in the whole wide world — pillows, blankets. you name it, it’s there — including a tiny pulonia plush.
it’s actually quite heavy for her to scooch over during the night. as unfortunate as it is, she simply has to resort to you doing all the work. please do, she requires it as much as her morning coffee.
── 𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞
the obvious maximalism of bedding choice aside, the bigger mystery is how pantalone cannot fall asleep unless there’s some sort of noise in the background. he’ll entertain any of your wishes in regards to proximity preferences, but you’re dealing with a record player in the corner of the room in exchange.
retires to bed early and stays in there as much as possible. he’ll stop you from getting him up in the tightest of hugs. if you can’t get up, neither can he… or something like that.
── 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐚
honestly, kind of a nightmare. ajax is quite the vivid sleeper and he moves A TON. not to mention he’s constantly too warm. turning the heating down did nothing, same with getting that special bedding that has the cold side.
well, the second one might’ve failed because ajax will snuggle you like his life depends on it. handholding is simply not enough, he has to breathing in the scent of your shampoo or else he won’t fall asleep ever… and tired childe gets even more unhinged than his usual self.
some harbingers and how they prefer to share their bed with you (fluff, comfort)
ft. arlecchino, dottore, pantalone, sandrone
ARLECCHINO
Definitely a big spoon. She doesn't hold you close to her chest, but she does keep her arms around you in a way that feels secure. She never asks to cuddle in the first place, usually one to slot into bed after hours of work and simply pull you to her. If she had a stressful day, or a day that left her annoyed and irritated, she might gently caress your arms with her nails; simple reminders of you physically in her arms do wonders at relaxing her in the late night. On rare occasion she'll talk low, asking about your day in whispers that leave you warmer than intended.
DOTTORE [OMEGA]
He has a very specific way of sharing bed with you. He starts his wind-down with reports in bed, often demanding you lay by his side and rest your head on his chest. He keeps an arm firm around you as he reads, sometimes aloud if he wants to either hear himself talk or hear what you have to say in response. Once he's either bored or finished reading, he'll pull you a little closer, just enough where you can hear his heart beat and feel the rumbles of his voice from his chest.
PANTALONE
Loves having you close in any capacity. His bed is huge, silk sheets and the softest pillows you could imagine, and he loves having you with him. Often times he'll read aloud to you from whatever novel he's currently on, engaging with you in commentary on aspects of the story, leaned into your space while you curl into him. Sometimes he'll shuffle into bed and say nothing but pull you against his chest, hands resting right above your beating heart, and other times he'll simply flip you over and tuck your head under his chin.
SANDRONE
While she doesn't really need sleep, she does enjoy being the little spoon. Often times she complains in your arms about the day she's had, going on about this and that while keeping herself close to you. If you shift or move away, she'll stop herself and go "where are you going?" Very demanding of the shared time in bed with you. Sometimes she sleeps on top of you just because she's heavier than she seems, and it acts both as a way to keep you with her for the night, and to keep your arms around her.
note: for context, this is the second post of the reader being the tsaritsa's daughter. reminder that these are strictly platonic due to reader physically being a teenager!! see post here. might be ooc. (prob is lowk) pierro and pulcinella are really short considering there's not much on them..
lore spoilers!!
ps: part 2!!!
00: the jester, pierro.
to say you didn't like him was an understatement. you met him shortly after he joined your mother's band of fools, as you liked to call them. he was cordial and at first, you liked him enough. he'd share stories about his days as the mage of the vinster king before the cataclysm. similar stories your father used to share about his own family in khaenri'ah. and you'd listen, partly from interest and the other half because it seemed no one else wanted to approach you because of your fragile condition.
though, when you began seeking your mother after recovering enough strength to leave the warmth of your chambers with thick clothes and shivering hands, he became an insurmountable obstacle. it was like he could sense your presence at the massive doors to the throne room or one of the many council rooms in the palace. he'd beat you to the door, closing it behind him with a gentle click to prevent you seeing your mother and he'd escort you back to your chambers.
eventually the attempts became more frequent and more desperate than the last, your younger self homesick for a mother that was so far yet so close at the same time.
in one of the last few attempts you made to try and see your mother for at least a second, he'd finally gone cold.
"your mother refuses to see you, child. behave as the duchess you are and see yourself to your room and recover."
he had shut the door in your face.
from that day, you made it a point to avoid him, and he accepted it without a thought. though, there were still a few moments in which he quietly watched over you between the centuries. moments in a warm room where you let your violin echo your loneliness, or the few times you were outside for a few minutes. your face would crumble as the sun which once felt overwhelmingly warm to you now did nothing against the curse on your body, still freezing your hands and arms even with thick coats.
as time progressed and decades passed, you'd make your disdain clear with side glares and dismiss his reprimands with meaningless and empty promises. though on the very rare occasion you tolerated his presence, you'd listen to his stories like you did centuries ago, because in that aspect, it was like a glimpse of your father lingered on in his tales of khaenri'ah.
01: the captain, capitano.
the relationship between the two of you was oddly meaningful. the man was as quiet as a mouse when the two of you were alone. you weren't blind; you knew he and many of the harbingers only kept you company to keep an eye on you. because of that, you didn't find the formidable man intimidating, but a man with wise words and great intellect.
when you picked up the sword after being bedridden for such a long time, your steps weren't even close to your former prowess. once a child who wielded the blade and polearm with the vigor of a graceful warrior now tripped and staggered with simple movements. yet he often sat in silence, watching the flaws in your stance and with a deep voice, he'd point them out.
"your feet are too far apart and your arms are too close to your body." his footsteps were heavy on the thick carpet. he knew better than to be too close to you, his cryo capabilities would freeze your skin. instead, the scabbard of your sword pushed your arms a few inches to your right side.
"having a firmer base and keeping your feet light will allow you to move like a swan and strike with the strength of a tiger."
some days, he'd come around just to watch you get back up to your feet. he'd heard about your achievements in your youth (wonder from who), and watching you struggle to keep up with simple exercises made something in him want to see you improve. other times. he'd simply come and drink tea in silence, listening to you vent your frustrations about your swordsmanship, and most importantly, your mother.
when your body started adapting to your curse, he started dueling you. while your limbs started freezing over and showing signs of fatigue, he looked like a boulder being brushed by a light breeze. when the jester heard about it, he discouraged the practice and relayed that your mother found it unwise. but you stopped listening to anything that came from him. you made it obvious you wouldn't listen unless your mother said it face to face.
the captain, despite his loyalty to your mother, couldn't refuse your demand to keep training you. and so he did, even when your body was at its limit and your fingers turned a deep cerulean. he was harsh, but by the time you were collapsed on the carpet shivering, he had already draped a thick blanket over you and ordered a servant to bring tea. it was through him that you learned how to insulate your body with the own coldness of your flames.
then when your body warmed enough to stand and move slowly, you'd sit and drink tea together in silence. it was poetic, how a man who was slowly eroding was teaching a child cursed with the same fate. though one day, you were tempted to ask about the thing that plagued you the most.
"what lies beyond your hat, thrain?" he was calm about it, as if he had been prepared for years.
"a face disfigured by time and the consequences of sinners." you could only assume he meant the same erosion that was chiseled into your left hand. dark blue coloring and cracks of light blue creeping up your arm, so different from the half of the curse that affected your vision.
as the years went by, you regained some of your former prowess, and even thrain had to admit that he was putting in effort in defeating you. you weren't near his level, clearly, but you were scarily close considering the curse that burned you at both ends.
shortly before he left for natlan, he confided in you. in came in simple conversation after one of your duels. he calmly his tea, faced clouded with darkness while you regained your breath and warmth. he told you of his anger of the pyro archon, the way the gnosis held the solution towards the night kingdom and ley lines.
of course, you knew the way they functioned. your limited freedom and confinement to the indoors often led you down rabbit holes of information found in the books in the library. but when he told you of the souls in his body and his plan for natlan, you shut down as a defense mechanism.
the day he left, he visited you one last time. you were quiet and distant, but despite that, he allowed himself to get close to you. he patted the top of your head and murmured goodbye before his heavy footsteps disappeared down the corridor.
when the news came of his dormant state, you allowed a single tear to escape the gap of your mask, for the man who was your mentor and made his peace.
but for now, your plan was set in motion.
02: the doctor, dottore.
you quickly found out the doctor was a complex and multifaceted man. his interest in you was quickly piqued, an order from the tsaritsa herself to monitor your wellbeing. you met him a few years after he became a harbinger, a young man expelled from the akademiya for illegal research with too much ambition and too much thirst for knowledge.
the laboratory created for him in the depths of the zapolyarny palace was cold, even by the standards of an acclimated snezhnayan. the first time you stepped foot in it (quite literally), ice crept up your leg and made it a dense block of ice before you could step back. servants had to carry you back to your chambers while dottore followed closely behind, muttering his observations.
your leg refused to thaw until he took the risk of placing fire on it directly. from then on, he made a makeshift lab in the corner of the drawing room in your chambers, visiting you a couple of times a month due to the tsaritsa's demands. you found that dottore was an unconventionally antisocial man. despite talking to himself about his observations and findings, he'd give you one word answers to the things to didn't understand.
"interesting. the compounds and composition hasn't been changed, yet the chemical traces suggest contradicting elements.. why is that?" he watched a small sample of your fire with fascination, seeing it gently lick a blank sheet of paper. in the blink of an eye, it became a thin sheet of ice that broke with a slight touch.
"what does that mean?" you swung your legs languidly with boredom.
"something."
eventually, begrudgingly, zandik, as you somehow forced out of him, found himself warming up to you. sometimes, he brought you sweets or played the piano in your room after the experimenting left you cold and weak. he even began to strike up irrelevant findings in his other experiments just to erase the awkward silence.
but then, his visits became weekly. he'd realized that for some reason, you weren't aging as you should have. sure, you were a godling, but even then, you should have aged until you reached adulthood. but a single year of human development became three for your internal timeframe, then five, then ten, and so on until you became physically stuck at the age of sixteen.
unlike you or pierro or thrain, zandik was human, despite all his attempts to become immortal. you watched his body become slower and strained, watched as wrinkles formed around his eyes and mouth. but he wasn't scared. one day, he told and showed you of his success. on one of your checkups, a boy around your age accompanied him and your heart nearly stopped.
he looked like your little brother, had he lived sans the red eyes.
segments, he called them, a way for him to remain immortal while decaying like a human. the boy was warmer than the original zandik, though he still carried the same sharp ambition and relentless intelligence.
when the original zandik died, you cried for hours, not because you were particularly close, but rather because he became someone else you lost. eventually as time passed and segments grew from children to old men, you stopped crying for them, and each segment strayed from the familiarity the original zandik had with you.
but perhaps out of the consciousness of their being, everytime one of the segments was close to their time, they'd leave with a farewell, something even zandik didn't do, in which you'd stubbornly say you'd see them the following week. of course, by then a younger segment had replaced them and continued as if nothing happened.
once the news from nod-krai and sumeru reached your ears, you did not weep for him. instead, you looked at the piano in your room and sat on the stool, fingers pressing the keys to a solemn melody, the same he played after tiring days. when the song ended, you could only glance back at the piano.
"for good, our final farewell, zandik."
03: the damselette, columbina.
she came to you a particularly lonely night. the palace was oddly quiet except for the gentle weeping coming from your cello, a rendition of a popular ballet piece from the korolevskiy troupe. the song served as the entrance of the grand dance between the male and female lead. you had seen it with your father and mother when it was first released, your little brother barely walking and babbling.
your mother naturally loved it, a grand orchestra piece made by a single composer, the song acting as a final goodbye to his beloved sister. (yes i love pas de deux) you didn't understand it then, too young to comprehend it, but old enough to have the melody remain in your mind. but by extension, you grew to understand why she adored it.
after all, the song was a final, grand act of love.
amidst the timbre of the cello, a soft voice hummed the voice. from surprise. the grip on your bow tightened and what could only be described as a squeal squeak out of the cello. you turned around, surprised to see her standing mere feet away from you. you hadn't heard her coming. she tilted her head, her voice as soothing as a balm for the soul.
"why did you stop?" your eyes tried to meet hers, only to find a crisscross blindfold over her shut eyes.
"i wasn't expecting people. did my mother send you?" you queried, distant but not unkindly.
"the tsaritsa? no, she did not. i was merely wandering about the garden, but the wind carried over the melody. what was it?"
"you've never heard of the grand step of two?" you asked with bewilderment, a break in the composure you were carefully building around yourself. "it's the korolevskiy troupe's best movement."
"i rarely get the chance to leave the palace." she hummed quietly. you took a few seconds to digest her words before placing your bow back on the strings and began playing the descending scale once again. this time, she familiarized herself with the scale before singing it back in cadence.
from then on, her voice became the harmony to the melody of your violin or cello, or even the piano in your room. her voice, soothing as it was, sometimes lulled you sleep in between playing and you'd wake up to her gone, the sleeping only becoming more frequent after the abyssal curse reached your neck. sometimes, you'd talk about mundane things.
"is it as good as everyone says? the play from the korolevskiy troupe?" she mused over tea.
"it's recognized across teyvat as one of the most successful ballet pieces. to think you haven't seen it, i can't deny it, it surprises me."
"perhaps you and i can go see it- oh. forgive me." you shook your head, the movement stiff with melancholy. with the raging winters, even stepping foot outside the palace would be enough to freeze you solid.
"just make sure you see it." you said with a sad smile.
the day she did, she came back to you a few days later. sandrone had accompanied her and cried during the second act, during the grand step of two. she confided in you then. the piece caused her to feel homesick. homesick to a place she never truly belonged and the exhaustion of being utilized for her ability.
you didn't know what it was. unlike the other harbingers, you had never seen her demonstrate any strength that belied her gentle appearance. but there had to be a reason why your mother ranked her so high. at first, it was only a mention that breezed past your thoughts, but eventually, you could see it in her face.
you didn't want to lose anyone else. sure, your heart had become colder and accustomed to death and loss, but even thinking about it made your gut clench as if to throw up. she was the first to simply coexist with you, the first to see you, not as the tsaritsa's daughter, but simply you.
at first, you tried to dissuade her with the obvious that your mother wouldn't tolerate treason against her or the fatui. if she got caught, it would be a death sentence. but you saw the smile on her face, melancholic and languid, her mind already set.
you let her go.
as expected, the rooster had issued the palestar edict on your mother's behalf. days passed following the chaos between the woman who was in fact, the trilune goddess, and zandik.
a single letter had been delivered to you, the emblem of the frostmoon scions colored on the back with a single sentence:
"we'll watch the korolevskiy troupe together someday."
the letter was burned to ashes in the fireplace.
the plan didn't leave room for hesitation.
04: the knave, arlecchino.
she was the first one to be sought out by you. it wasn't directly, but the ascension of the criminal who killed the former fourth harbinger to be her replacement had roused your curiosity. sure, lesser ranked harbingers or mortal ones were simply replaced once their time came, but to think it was mere child who defeated the fourth harbinger was astounding.
you rarely left your chambers for a couple of years. it was around this point where you began wearing a mask to hide your face. the curse had caught up to your face. you understood why thrain hid his, yours a disfigured atrocity that made you break every mirror in your chambers and refused dottore's checkups. even rosalyne, who you often sought out, was denied entry.
the guards stationed at the throne room didn't even stop you at the massive doors, staring at you with bewilderment before opening the doors. there alone in the grand space stood a white and black haired teenager around your physical age, her frame turning towards you. her eyes narrowed imperceptibly with suspicion.
"are you another harbinger?" she asked, though it came out more as a demand. you mere shook your head with a languid grace.
"a mere passer-by. i try to understand who the fools who serve my mother are." you climbed up the steps slowly, almost painfully. your vision had become more unpredictable with the centuries and instead of your body freezing every time the temperature was below your body's liking, it also started freezing things through your clothes, evident in the splotches of ice of the stairs where your feet were.
"mother?" she murmured before humming with realization as she looked at a lavish portrait in the throne room. the tsaritsa with a man, a little boy who looked just like her, and an older girl who took after her father with the tsaritsa's eyes. "you're the grand duchess."
you hummed absentmindedly. you avoided looking at the portrait, the change in what you looked like and now would have probably been another breaking point. instead, you fixed your gaze on her. "you're young for a harbinger, though i suppose life favors the victors." you paused. standing beside her, the ice beneath your feet melted and you felt a hint of warmth. it felt wonderful, the first time in nearly five hundred years in which you felt warm and not cold. "hmm.. perhaps one day, you could join me for tea."
she started coming over to your chambers often, surprising rosalyne who teased you for not inviting her over. simply put, it was refreshing having someone of similar age to you close, even more so someone as honest about her intentions. you found to be serious and stern, though sometimes when it was just the female harbingers and yourself at one of sandrone's tea parties, she'd relax.
her warmth was more than welcome, and you often found yourself falling asleep on her shoulder. often, she relayed what pierro told her about her heritage, about the fall of the crimson moon dynasty and the rise of the eclipse dynasty in khaenri'ah. sometimes, you would supply her with your own stream of information from years of reading about the matter.
the curses you shared, so different yet so similar at the same time only seemed to strengthen the amicable bond between the two of you. hers, which burned so brightly also burned and corrupted her soul. yours, which was once the brightest flame of them all reduced to a power that slowly killed your body from the sheer cold.
she told you of her past, growing up in the house of the hearth alongside the only friend she ever had and the cruel mother that tore the bond between them. her silence suggested the sheer cruelty. in turn, you told her the broader details of your disappearance from the public eye, why the citizens of snezhnaya hadn't seen the grand duchess for centuries.
the knave began leaving for fontaine throughout the year, now managing the house of the hearth her own way. you could see the changes in her, the way she began growing out her hair and wearing makeup to look older than she really was. you watched with a saddened heart and envy as the young girl became a truly formidable woman who cared deeply despite her aloof demeanor.
in the meetings that became less frequent, she began to talk about the children of the house. particularly a set of twins and a younger boy who was well versed with mechanics.
"freminet, he's talented in many areas, yet his lack of confidence holds him back." she said once, her voice much deeper than you remembered it. "you'd get along with him, considering your own expertise in the mundane." she said it as if you weren't a multi centennial being.
she noticed your unusual silence one day, thick and almost oppressive in nature. the tea that was usually in the table in front of you wasn't there, and neither was the cursed girl she grew to see as a valued friend and sometimes slept on her shoulder when the curse exhausted her.
"peruere." you started, voice low and pained. your heart and face burned, feeling the curse extend slightly further. "if the time ever came, where someone you loved dearly was at risk, and it went against the life you've constructed as a harbinger.. would you fight as the knave or as peruere?"
"where does this come from?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity and intrigue. "i'd rather avoid that sort of thing. but in the hypothetical sense.. peruere."
she didn't understand it then, why she could sense you smile under the mask, but now after columbina was gods knows where because of dottore, the decision was much simpler to make as she clenched her fist with steady determination.
the moment she went back to snezhnaya, she went to see you. yet you did not open the door, not the first time, nor the second, or the third day.
you could only listen to her retreating footsteps as you sat against the wall, the room covered in ice as you shed the last tears you ever would.
05: the rooster, pulcinella.
he was much like pierro in terms of keeping you away from matters concerning the fatui. by the time he had come, you weren't interested anymore. you kept your distance from him. you had heard how he constantly twisted people's words against them and began rumors among the ranks about the other harbingers.
not only that, but it seemed the facade of the dedicated mayor who took care of ajax's was really just a means to control him. he was young, you knew childe trusted him implicitly, but you and most of the harbingers understood it was for leverage.
to you, he was just another obstacle in the way of you seeing your mother, but unlike the director, you didn't fight him. although if there ever came a time where he crossed the line, you were more than ready to put him in his place. you weren't a harbinger after all. the rules did not apply to you.
06: the balladeer, scaramouche.
you met him after one of dottore's checkups. the scientist told you of an interesting being he found while in inazuma, a puppet, hidden in the ruins of an old village. at first, it was just a mention until he quite literally crashed into you at the turn of a corridor.
he scoffed and walked away while you stayed winded for a bit, mostly because the captain had not gone easy during a duel and had you wanting to run away from the room.
you rarely saw him between going and leaving harbinger meetings or when you tried to seek out your mother despite the constant refusal from the jester or the rooster. he didn't pay you any mind, as if you were just another deluded person in the palace.
the first proper interaction you had with him was after your last attempt to see your mother. it had been successful, but the event that transpired left you feeling empty and cold. you found yourself in the balcony of one of the towers, not caring about your limbs as they became solid ice or the crystalization of the skin of your face. you didn't cry, but you never wanted to disappear as much as you did at that moment.
"to think the beloved grand duchess of snezhnaya isn't very beloved by the tsaritsa herself. amusing." his voice was as cold as the winter storm that raged outside the castle. you turned and looked at him, four pointed star pupils glaring at him with heat that contested the ice of your limbs.
"you cross a line, balladeer." your voice imitated the command in your mother's voice exceptionally well. "though, i must say that you are the pot calling the kettle black. the abandoned puppet of the shogun, that i fear, is far more depressing than my situation."
"i've made my peace with it." he scoffed. he stopped beside you, wearing only the black and purple clothes that were far too light for such a cold place. he couldn't feel it, you noticed. you envied it.
"if you made your way here to become a harbinger, then clearly, you have not. though, i can't exactly blame you for it." your teeth clattered together as frost covered your chin. he looked at you incredulously, before scoffing again.
"why are you here? are you really willing to suffer for the actions of someone who clearly doesn't want you near?" his words struck something in your and for that moment, they served their purpose. you clenched your jaw and went back inside the palace with difficulty.
there was a strange rivalry between the two of you, not oppressive, but that of two people with incredibly similar situations trying to coax the other to move on while clinging to the past. often, you'd find yourself in situations where you took turns insulting the other while other harbingers like dottore were around. it filled the room with light humor, considering that if any other person said those things to either one of you, they'd be missing by dinner.
however, the two of you also shared the appreciation of knowledge. it had come up in random conversation, but it stuck with you, his theory of a false sky. you found yourself invested in research about the possibility of it, eventually leading to your investigation of the four shades. particularly ronova, the shade of death.
when he started collaborating with dottore, you found yourself suspicious. you knew he wasn't over his past or the betrayals inflicted on him. but to become an artificial god, was a blasphemy that even you didn't consider wise.
"what are you trying to prove, scaramouche? that you can rewrite fate?" you asked him the night before he and dottore left for sumeru. he turned on his heels, answering as if it were the most obvious thing.
"fulfilling what i was created for. godhood is meant to be mine, even if it's achieved through unconventional ways." he scowled slightly. "maybe the reason you're curse hasn't gone away is simply because you let it control you."
you no longer remember him.
07: the marionette, sandrone.
you found the woman intriguing, really. you first met her when rosalyne invited you to her tea party on her behalf, dragging you along while telling you that it would be good for you. you simply let her, mostly because you didn't have anything better to do and you wanted to leave your chambers for a bit.
yet as you entered sandrone's room, what could only be described as a squeak left your lips as a giant automaton filled the room with its tall and rather wide frame.
"don't mind pulonia, take a seat." her voice was high and pompous. you sat next to rosalyne, naturally, far enough away to put some distance between yourself and the giant mecha. rosalyne never let you live your fear of pulonia down.
to say you were a bit terrified of her brilliance for mechanics was an understatement. her workshop was filled with books and parts used for mechas, complex where even your extensive knowledge of the sciences failed to grasp what half of it meant.
you rarely visited her workshop, as there wasn't much in common between the two of you. she tolerated you, as she put it, often spending time complaining about columbina's perpetual singing or rosalyne's habitual drinking habits. she did, however, find an interest in the aspect of your curse. she'd look at the frost on your hands that rarely went away and began ordering pulonia around, much to your dismay.
"why the interest?" you mentioned casually once, observing sandrone as she tinkered with a small device barely larger than a bracelet. she huffed slightly, shooting you daggers, her voice haughty and exaggerated.
"because every time you come over, i happen to find one of my teacups encrusted with ice." she pointed an accusing finger at you. "do you know how long it takes for it to melt?! or how many handles have been snapped off?! clearly gloves aren't going to be a long time solution so i'm making one."
"does that mean you want me at your tea parties? i'm honored." you teased with a small smile. she groaned and rolled her eyes
"please, i'm only doing this because i'd never hear the end of it from rosalyne." she muttered out. what she made was a carefully designed bracelet with constant heating. of course. the gadget froze over the moment it was placed on your wrist, leading to a groan from the woman.
she noticed the way that around her, you took after rosalyne and often teased her. it was probably one of the only things left that really showed that despite the curse, you were still a teenager. of course, whenever she did get annoyed, she'd "send" pulonia after you. she never really did, but watching you run out of the room was amusing enough.
she never did stop trying to build something for your hands. you were her guinea pig for the warming device, yet every time, it failed to work. she never got too discouraged, and by a few days later, you were pulled back into her workshop.
the teasing started dying down after years, as if the curse had hardened you, and it did, literally and metaphorically. but after rosalyne's death, it tanked, and not even threatening you with pulonia was enough to get you to act like before.
your presence at her tea parties became less frequent until you were just another empty seat.
08: the fair lady, la signora.
you were there when she became a harbinger out of formality, even though to had two servants flanking your side and helping you stand straight. you watched as pierro read your mother's decree out loud for the rest of the harbingers to hear. rosalyne-kruzchka lohefalter, the crimson witch of flames, to become the eighth fatui harbinger, and the title of la signora bequeath to her like a heirloom.
you only really met her when you were taken to the infirmary during a difficult night where you would not stop shivering. she was there, getting salve for the burns the liquid flame caused to her face. her eyes locked onto your frame, hiding beneath thick layers of blankets and sheets that barely did anything to stop the shivers.
"what's a kid like you doing here?" she asked kindly, the mondstadtian unaware of your royal blood. the servant beside you had looked at her with a pointed glare.
"this is the grand duchess and the tsesarevna, (name) anastasyevna." (yes matronymics) you were far too out of it to really listen to what they were saying, and eventually the cold brought you into a deep sleep. but when you woke up, you didn't see the servant, but rather rosalyne sitting beside you while reading.
she set down her book when she saw you stir slightly and gave a small smile. her hand was incredibly warm as it takes through the strands of your hair before settling on your cheek. surprisingly, frost didn't cover it and for the first time since you were cursed, someone gave you affection without the fear of your curse.
you quickly learned that your mother had specifically instructed her to look after you, mostly because it seemed that your skin didn't freeze with her touch and because the woman was instinctively maternal around children. as young as you were, you followed her around a lot when you were strong enough to walk like a duckling following its mother.
she never seemed to mind it, encouraged it, even. you, who never stepped foot outside of snezhnaya, often listened to her descriptions of her old home in mondstadt, though they were always laced with slight bitterness, and her studies in sumeru.
once you got better and began playing your instruments again, she often listened closely with a glass of wine, and in her eyes, a melancholy glazed her eyes, especially if the song was ever slightly solemn. you never questioned it. sometimes, she had sheet music sent from the other nations, ballads from mondstadt, anthems from sumeru, or folk songs from liyue.
in every aspect except blood, she became a partner in crime and something of a guardian. the two of you often teamed up to tease sandrone, more so when she began developing a bit of a temper. though you found yourself asking rosalyne more and more about your mother, which she always changed the topic to something else.
she was your constant source of heating, often finding yourself with your head on her lap while you complained about your mother or the endless checkups that she insisted. she'd pinch your cheek lightly with a light chuckle or rub the points of your ear when they were covered with frost. (she never lost that habit, even centuries later when you were taller than her and lost your childlike behavior.)
later in the centuries and after you had seen your mother, rosalyne remained as one of the people who had a deep bond with you. your new antisocial behavior made her push you into interacting with the other harbingers, such as sandrone and pantalone.
"what did the korolevskiy troupe perform this time?" peruere asked, handing over her plate for a slice of cake while you languidly sipped your tea beneath the mask.
"the mountain sparrow. you missed a good one." rosalyne answered, lying next to you on the couch, her hand twirling with your short (or tied up) hair. you ignored sandrone's sharp comment about sitting next to dottore and pantalone. and columbina's rebuttal of seeing sandrone cry.
"the composition was crafted from love and death. it'd be difficult to sit through it without shedding a tear." your voice was a low hum.
"perhaps a rendition?" rosalyne teased lightly, though peruere did seem interested. you shook your head.
"perhaps another time." the fair lady frowned slightly but didn't push.
she had seen you grow from a warm-hearted child to an antisocial teenager, the curse consuming and eroding your being. alongside it, you had developed a thirst for power that wasn't there before, spending more and more time researching abyssal energy and the ley lines.
inazuma was a region you knew little about, even through all the literature in the palace. rosalyne had promised to bring back a few light novels and to tell you about the region when she got back, as she did every time she departed for a nation.
only this time, nothing but ashes came back.
09: the regrator, pantalone.
you met feofan before he became a harbinger, one of zandik's experiments. originally, he was just a name in passing after a check up, though the doctor eventually began talking about him more in his pursuit of an elixir of immortality.
he was much like zandik in terms of ambition, a man born with nothing who hated the gods for interfering in mortal affairs. you didn't think much of him until he became a harbinger by zandik's recommendation. it was then that he and zandik were rarely seen apart, even during your checkups.
your blood was one of the materials zandik sought to try and craft an elixir of immortality. while it didn't work on him, it did for the chain-smoker. despite his hatred for the gods, it seemed the rule didn't apply for you. he felt indebted, even if he never said it out loud.
most of the time, his actions were subtle. you'd open the doors to your chambers and you'd find various assortments of sweets or silks from liyue. he was the reason you owned a cello, finding it in your room after a particularly bad winter night.
"are cigarettes really worth another set of lungs, feofan?" you asked once, nose wrinkling slightly from the smell. you had made yourself comfortable in his office, the room warm and covered with thick tapestries and carpets in front of the hearth. his smile was small and he answered with a hum.
"life's simple pleasures will always have a place. besides, there's nothing a good cigarette can't fix. i may as well make use of immortality to appreciate it thoroughly." you rolled your eyes.
"no being in teyvat is truly immortal. even the gods you hate will eventually erode to the works of time and death. it's only a matter of duration." he gave a light chuckle to your words and simply let out another puff of thick smoke.
"that just gives me more reason to take pleasure in these vices."
one time, he offered you a sip of his wine. he knew you wouldn't get any older physically, but your life was limited, so why not give you a glimpse of adulthood? it was only the one time, both because you spat out the bitter drink and stained a very expensive coat of his, and because he had been reprimanded by the rooster.
part of you knew the man would die not much longer after you eroded, the elixir no longer having a donor for the immortal aspect. you knew he knew, but he always told you the same thing. forget the past, live in the present, and ignore the future.
"if everyone had the same mentality you did, the world would cease to exist." you said over the gentle weeping of the piano dottore played. "equal attention to the three are necessary for survival."
"they distract from the moment. could you imagine being focused on something you couldn't control that you miss the time you spend with a good bottle of wine or comrades?"
needless to say, you appreciated his somewhat absurdist view on the passage of time, even if you couldn't relate to it.
you wanted to take fate into your own hands.
10: ???
11: childe, tartaglia.
you refused to see him for the longest time. it wasn't just because the rooster had personally sought him out at an absurdly young age, but because your mind betrayed you. instead of seeing ginger hair and deep blue eyes, your brain changed his features to a platinum white and eyes that held the four pointed star.
the fourteen year old didn't know who you were, a result of centuries of hiding away in the palace because of your curse. but all he knew was that you were mentored by the strongest man there was. and that was enough to get him to plague every walk around zapolyarny palace.
you'd leave your chambers and walk around the corridors only to have a second set of footsteps imitating yours. you'd shoot him a pointed, but heatless glare through your mask to try and get him to stay away, only for the boy to stubbornly follow you. eventually, his presence became expected and you'd save him a seat next to you in one of the drawing rooms.
"stubborn child, why do you insist on following me like a stray?" you demanded once, watching the boy take multiple biscuits from the serving stand on the coffee table, completely ignoring the warm cup of tea in front of him. he stuffed one in his mouth.
"cause you're the captain's student. he refuses to duel me." he stated, as if it made perfect sense for one of the strongest humans alive to duel a fourteen year old boy. "and if i beat you, then he'll be sure to consider me as a fine duelist."
you sighed in disbelief and continued drinking your tea.
you didn't think much of it until you started realizing more and more lower ranking fatui members were coming back injured from training. when you observed the training one day, you realized that it was childe's doing. despite his age and childish behavior, he had an intense bloodlust not even some vengeful gods had.
you indulged one day, picking up a wooden sword from one of the many racks lined up against the wall and walked over to the ginger, who stood over a well beaten pyro agent. his eyes lit up with adrenaline and he rushed forward, swinging his wooden staff. it only hit air as you side stepped it easily along with the other swings and grabbed him from the back of his collar like a petulant brat.
"what gives?!" he complained, freeing himself from your grip. you huffed lightly.
"if you cannot land a single hit on me, how do you expect the captain to duel you." you watched him huff with disappointment. you sighed through your nose and set the wooden blade down.
"from now, you come to me. other harbingers have already complained that their fatuus are out of commission because of your ruthlessness. understood?" you ordered. his eyes twinkled with satisfaction and victory. you won the battle, but he won the war.
of course, your duels often consisted of his calculated swinging that hit air and your constant side stepping before poking him with the end of the wooden blade or simply making him fall on his ass.
though, you felt.. proud.
once he was tired enough, you'd sit him on a couch and give him sweets. it was in those moments where he'd tell you about his family, especially his younger brother teucer. you listened out of politeness, but inwardly, anger consumed you. you knew the rooster was only taking care of his family as a way to control and manipulate ajax.
with time, he proved to be an exceptionally talented fighter, especially after he gained a delusion. you actually had to carry some of his attacks and his movements were in tandem with yours. even some of his techniques with the polearm were influenced by some of your own, untraditional methods. but you did make sure to put him in his place when he got too cocky.
"at this rate, you might actually make me take this seriously someday." you said, extending a hand towards his form. he shifted back from his alternate form and took it. he had grown taller than you, yet he still carried that childish behavior. you had grown used to it at a certain point.
"only seriously? i was hoping i'd defeat you." after his orders to go to liyue, dueling became rarer because of the schedule conflicts. but after rosalyne's death, even going near you seemed impossible.
Short Idea. Platonic! Yandere! Harbingers x GN! Adult! Low-Rank Fatui! Reader x Platonic! Yandere! Tsaritsa
Warning: Platonic Cuddles, platonic sleeping in one bed. A very strange idea.
______________
You were nothing special. Just a low-rank Fatui. Not even a full soldier, you were just a guard in Zapolarny Palace, and, from time to time, do odd jobs. A glorified servant, as you often jokingly call yourself. But payment is good enough, food is fine, and you have your own room.
Then one night you wake up, because someone lay down next to you, and start spooning you. You looked back, seeing Lord Tartaglia. Harbinger looked exhausted, and already out cold. You recalled, that last few days were pretty hard for Harbingers. It seems, he either mistook your room for his, or thought yours were an empty guest room.
After some thinking, you decided just let him sleep. He wasn't hurting you, and, besides, guards might see him leaving, and neither him or you need rumours and speculations about your supposed relationship.
You woke up alone. The same day you receive a gift basket full of pastries and an apology note for getting into your personal room and space from Childe.
It would stay just a silly little memory. But in a few days, right before you went to bed, Childe knocked on your door. He, once again, looked exhausted. He asked you... to let him cuddle you again tonight. Because last time he had the best sleep in last few months. He was tired, he wanted a calm place to rest. But he will leave, if you don't want it.
You let him cuddle with you again. It was a strange request, but it was harmless.
"Childe's Cuddle time" became somewhat of a norm. Tartaglia visited you few times a month. He even starts to bring tea and snacks, so you two can talk before cuddling. You learnt about his family, about his protectivness of children, his hobbies. You also shared some information about you with him. You listen to his troubles, offered some worlds of encouragement.
Then one night, Childe appeared in your room with company. Signora was with him, and he looked guilty. Apperently, other Harbingers noticed, that he looked more well rested, than the rest of them, so they pressed Childe for answers really hard. In his defence, he wasn't planning on telling about you, but when his colleagues' guesses became "deranged", he felt the need to protect your honour.
So... Signora wanted to try this "magical cuddles" for herself. And, once again, you could say 'no'.
But you said 'yes'. She looked as bad, as Childe before the whole cuddling situation.
So, yes, you spend the night being a cuddle pillow for Signora.
Now, there also was "Signora's Cuddle time". And, she also start bringing treats, so you two can talk over tea before cuddling.
Now two Harbingers looked well-rested, because of cuddling with you.
It means more will come.
Next time, you were visited by Sandrone. She brought the whole tea set and enough food to feed a small army. You listen to her troubles. She has to lay on you, but, still, you two cuddled.
Now, you have three harbingers visiting your room for company and cuddles.
Then, three became four. You sure, that Columbina just wanted to know, what the whole deal was, but, she visited you quite often. She also was quite a clingy cuddler. She also decided to use Sandrone's tea parties as your and her "pre-cuddling bonding time". Parties, that, on top of Childe, Signora and Sandrone, were visited by Arlechinno and Capitano.
Soon you get two more cuddlers.
Arlechinno put more emphasis on pre-cuddling. She shared her troubles with House of Hearth kids. She liked hearing your thoughts on the matter. But, despite the emphasis, she always stay to cuddle.
Capitano didn't sleep, but he found some solace in your heartbeat and breathing.
The rest of Harbingers soon joined the line.
Pulcinella was the only one, who didn't cuddle. But he hugged, and spent hours talking with you.
Pantalone was the first one, who took you on a walk as part of "pre-cuddling bonding". And he was another clingy cuddler.
Dottore treated it as experiment. You guess. He wanted to test, how playing with hair, tracing lines and positive affirmations affect the efficiency of cuddling. Or, maybe, he wanted more, than just a hug, but didn't know how to ask. Oh, and he was the small spoon.
Pierro talked. A lot. About past, about future, about current. He also likes spooning.
Surprisingly, Pierro wasn't the last one to join this little activity. It was Scaramouche. Balladeer during cuddling reminded you of a cat, who clearly wanted pets, but acted not-interested and offended.
You acsepted cuddlers Harbingers. Then, one night, Tsaritsa herself appeared on your doorstep. With cake. And quietly asking for cuddles.
---------
For you, the whole ordeal was just a strange but harmless thing.
For Harbingers and Tsaritsa it was one of the only beacons of warmth and acceptance in this world.
They liked you. Not romantically, platonically. You were not just a close friend, but someone who understand them, and who let them be vulnerable.
But their love, while platonic, was obsessive.
You make them happy, so they will make you happy.
Childe dealt with soldiers, who were treating you badly.
Signora silenced servants, who slacked off while cleaning your living quarters.
Sandrone sent adventures that were laughing at you to do the high risks commissions.
Columbina scared the living lights out of civilians, who were biased towards you because you were a Fatui.
Arlechinno tracked down your bullies from school and dealt with them.
Capitano broke bones of high-rank officers, who were planning on dumping all their work on you.
Pulcinella destroyed reporters, who caught a wind about you and Harbingers and were planning to write a slandering article.
Pantalone bankrupt multiple salespersons who sold you less than perfect goods.
Relatives, that wanted to leech on you, disappeared forever in Dottore's lab.
Pierro arranged for your parents a good wealthy life in any nation they wanted. Just, not in Snezhnaya...
Scaramouche will assist in lightly pushing your parents to move away.
And Tsaritsa will make sure, that you will have every reason to stay in Snezhnaya. Stay in Zapolarny Palace, where she and her harbingers will keep you safe and happy.
tea party - reader x sandrone x columbina x signora x arlecchino (6.2k)
signora has sent for a maid to bring tea to her and the other lady harbingers in sandrone's chambers. she's very pleased to see that they've done as she asked, and sent them a pretty one.
cw: power imbalance, bordering on dub-con although reader enjoys it. voyeurism, stripping, being on display, fingering, squirting, cunnilingus (both giving and receiving), pet names, kissing between reader and harbingers and between various harbingers themselves. reader has a vagina and wears a maid uniform.
that fatui lady slumber party really got me guys. i'm gay.
You balance the tea tray carefully in your hands, steam curling from the spout of the teapot and coalescing in the air like breath on a winter’s night. You’ve never been tasked with this particular duty before, but the Fatui grunt who had seen you downstairs had grinned widely as if he’d come across a jackpot when he’d laid eyes on you, and before you knew it you were being laden down with the tray and all of its accessories and sent upwards towards Lady Sandrone’s chambers with teacups for four.
Ordinarily, your work does not put you in the direct line of the Harbingers. You’re more of the downstairs kind; the neat little maid who peeps into bedrooms only when they’re empty, to dust mantelpieces and clear the ashes of fireplaces and make the beds so that the inhabitants of Zapolyarny Palace find their abode in perfect condition no matter when they return to it. In the rare cases that somebody does enter a room whilst you’re working, you’re to stand in front of the nearest wall and avert your eyes until they’ve passed, or until you can find a suitable moment to back out of the space and leave them to their business. Whatever that is.
One doesn’t get very far in this line of work if they’re too interested in what goes on behind closed doors here.
Speaking of closed doors: you have drawn to a stop before Lady Sandrone’s chamber door, the tea tray in hand. A brief frisson of fear goes through you: you are not used to being looked at. You are not used to having the eyes of your betters upon you. You try to resist the urge to pat your hair and pull at your clothes to make sure that you’re presentable: you’re certain they won’t give you more than a moment’s notice.
You’re simply furniture to them, you remind yourself, as you balance the tray carefully on one hand in order to give a sharp tap upon the door. A low, amused voice comes from within that most certainly does not belong to Lady Sandrone.
“Come in.”
Of course they do not get the door for you; that would make things far too easy. They probably have not even thought that you might struggle to do so: servants are furniture, after all. You carefully use your elbow to press down the door handle and your shoulder to push it open, thankful that they have at least thought to kept the door unlocked. You slowly enter the room, the teapot and the teacups on their heavy silver tray held before you like it is a sacrifice to them.
It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, and when they do your breath catches in your throat at the sight of the four beautiful Fatui Harbinger women before you.
“Oh!” Lady Columbina – you recognise her, the ethereal woman with the mask over her eyes. “Our tea!”
They’re dressed as casually as you’ve ever seen; whenever the newspapers or magazines print images of Harbingers, they’re always draped in furs and silks, proud faces staring from the pages. But here, in Lady Sandrone’s rooms, they are dressed down as if ready to sleep. The Fair Lady reclines on a sofa in a ruffled nightgown. Lord Arlecchino wears slippers and a shirt open low in the chest. Lady Sandrone and Lady Columbina wear comfortable nightgowns – frilled and embroidered, naturally, and far more expensive than anything you’ve owned in your life, but undoubtedly nightwear all the same.
You try to bob into a curtsey and almost spill the tea, your cheeks going hot at the feeling of being looked at by all of them. Their attention focuses in upon you: far more than they would a piece of furniture.
“Oh,” purrs the Fair Lady, stretching out on the sofa like a cat before she pushes herself up. “Good. They sent a pretty one, like I asked.”
She moves towards you with purpose, with a leonine kind of grace that makes your heart beat too fast in your chest. The neckline of her nightgown hangs off her shoulder, and you’re struck suddenly by how much taller she is than you. How much this feels like a cat playing with a mouse.
“M-may I put the tray down and leave you in peace, My Lady?” You ask, your voice coming out in a nervous warble – and from the armchair in the room, a lower voice gives a satiny chuckle.
“You’re scaring them, Rosalyne,” says the Knave, and you see that despite her words she has a mild smile on her face. Lady Sandrone scowls.
“Put it down then,” she says. “Come into the room and let us look at you.”
“My . . . My Lord Harbingers--”
An impatient click of Sandrone’s tongue.
“We don’t have all day, you know,” she says, waspish. You’ve heard of Lady Sandrone having an awkward demeanour and a temper that’s quick to fire – you suppose they’re right. Still. You do not want to be getting on the wrong side of any Harbinger. You think helplessly of the tasks you haven’t yet gotten to (the windowsills are supposed to be dusted down, the grand table laid for supper) – but you’ve been witness to too many conversations about how the Harbingers treat those who displease them then to want to find yourself amongst those ranks.
Awkwardly, you bob another curtsey as you walk into the room proper. Signora gives a satisfied hum, and you just about manage to stop yourself from jumping in alarm when the door slams shut behind you and you hear the unmistakeable click of a key turning in the lock.
You place the tea tray upon the low table in the room. You’re grateful to see that not a drop of it has spilt. At least you can be certain of one thing amongst all of this strangeness.
You fist your hands in your apron, horribly aware of how it feels to have so many people’s eyes (although you’re not sure if you can truly consider the Damselette to be ‘looking’ at you) upon your form when you’re so used to being an invisible member of the masses. Signora walks back into the centre of the room, taking her place on the sofa once more although not lying prone upon it again. Instead, she leans forward slightly, interest colouring the one visible eye.
“Come here,” says the Knave, curling her fingers toward you and motioning to the spot in front of her chair. The Damselette has drifted towards the three other Harbingers and you now, taking a seat on the floor on her knees. There’s a faint smile on her face, too. Your cheeks still hot, you follow the instructions as a servant is supposed to, and find yourself stood before the woman. “Turn around and face the others,” she says, her voice still quiet and calm, strangely comforting in this unusual situation. You swallow audibly, but do as she says.
“My . . . Ladies?” You hazard, aloud, but your words are stopped in the air as quickly as they come when Arlecchino places her hands consideringly upon your hips, her fingers curling into the soft flesh there.
“Very nice,” says Signora, appreciatively. Sandrone makes a soft harrumph.
“They’ll do, I suppose,” she says, as Columbina stands from her position and practically floats over to Marionette. That faint smile on her face does not budge an inch, as she lays a hand on Sandrone’s shoulder and gives her own nod of assent, humming out a snatch of melody. A faint flush rises in Sandrone’s cheeks.
“D-do for what?” You ask, your voice coming out quiet and warbling in the room, which suddenly seems to have gotten ten times hotter than before. Arlecchino laughs softly, her hands curving down over your hips, lower and lower beneath the apron and the skirt of your uniform, until they alight on bare thigh. You let out a surprised cry, realise what you’re doing, and try to stop the cry in its tracks by biting into your lower lip.
“Oh,” Signora practically coos, and now she’s standing too, walking towards you with a sultry sway in her hips. You hadn’t realised just how tall she was before, but your eyeline is roughly around her generous chest before she leans down towards you and uses one finger to tilt your chin up to look her in the eye. “Absolutely adorable. I think I’ll allow myself the pleasure of being first.”
“First--?”
Your words are stopped by Signora’s hand wrapping around the back of your head and pulling you in for a kiss that feels like it burns down to your bones.
There’s a cry of complaint from across the room that you think comes from Sandrone, but you can’t concentrate with the Fair Lady’s mouth pressed against yours, soft and cool and full. Her tongue laps across the seam of your lips, and in surprise you open them and she takes the opening and slips it into your mouth. Arlecchino’s hands on your thighs move to grip, holding you in place – but her fingertips come far too close to the place between your legs, and panic alights like a dull flashing light in your brain.
Your gasp is swallowed up by the kiss you’ve found yourself in, though, and so you’re helpless to do anything other than let yourself be anchored in place and let Signora plunder your mouth hungrily.
After another long moment, another sweep of her tongue, she pulls back from you with a satisfied sigh and a wet pop. She regards you with a smile from beneath her half-closed eyelid.
“Oh, but you’re a sweetheart, aren’t you? Arlecchino, you ought to kiss them too, seeing as you helped so much . . .”
“These are my chambers--” Sandrone’s outraged voice seems to rise in pitch, but Signora turns and holds a finger up to the incensed other Harbinger. Columbina keeps her hand where it is, even as Sandrone seems to burn with the indignation of it.
“Watch. If anyone can work them over, it will be our Knave. You know what an effect Lord Arlecchino has on the . . . timid ones.”
You don’t know quite what you expect, but you don’t expect the tug backwards on your thighs until you find yourself pulled onto Arlecchino’s lap, all ungainly frills and aprons and lace and stockings. Your face is so hot you fear you could fry an egg on it, but you’re too scrambled by everything going on to say anything, as much as you want to babble out your apologies and run for the door.
Arlecchino, though, seems to know exactly what to do – she pulls you closer against her, rearranges your uniform, and then you find yourself sitting on her lap with your back to her front, your legs bracketing one of her solid thighs.
“Poor thing,” Arlecchino murmurs into your ear, her voice soft and low and soothing. “You’re not used to being looked at, are you? Don’t worry. You’re very easy on the eye.”
You want to protest against that, but Arlecchino has reached between you both and you give a squeak of surprise as your apron falls to the floor, untied by one clever hand.
“You don’t need all of this in front of us,” Arlecchino continues. “It’s easier if we take it off, isn’t it? Ah. The dress too, I think--” The soft clink clink clink of the hooks and eyes of your dress being removed, and this garment is pulled over your head and you cry out aloud as you’re left in just your underwear in front of all four of the Harbingers. “There we are. Oh, you are pretty.”
The Damselette, never one for traditional manners, removes her hand from Sandrone’s shoulder to walk over to you – even with her eyes covered, you can sense her interest, and she hums in the back of her throat as she runs a hand over your collarbone, dipping to the line of your chest through your thin brassiere. When your nipples harden at the brush of her palm, she lets out a soft, musical laugh.
“Columbina,” says Signora, surprisingly gentle, and she pulls back, but still hovers closer than she has been before. You have the unnatural sense of being watched, far closer and more intensely by Columbina than she was when she was by the Marionette. Sandrone, for her part, does not seem to want to be left behind, and she stands too so that the three of them bracket you in, a loose half-circle around where Arlecchino has you straddling her thigh. The Knave gives a little chuckle.
“See?” Arlecchino murmurs. “They can’t resist. Shall we give them a show?”
“I don’t . . . understand . . .” Your voice is a helpless thing, when you can feel the pleasant curls of heat low in your belly that remind you of how lovely you find every lady Harbinger, how enjoyable it is to be viewed as something pretty. Arlecchino’s hand brushes lower, lower, over the soft curve of your stomach and onto the plain cotton of your underwear.
“Shh,” she murmurs in response. “I won’t hurt you. None of us will. At least . . . not in any way you won’t enjoy.”
A rush of heat; those dark-tipped fingers, so much like claws, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. You let out a heated gasp as they stroke over your pubic mound and then lower, lower, slipping between the plump lips of your sex to the slick heat between.
“Speak for yourself,” Signora says, her voice husky. “I think that something that’s been hiding their loveliness from us for so long deserves a touch of punishment. Perhaps a spanking?”
You practically quiver under the idle threat combined with Arlecchino’s fingers, as they continue to slide between your thighs and map out the length of your slit. You’re aware of just how hot you are; the warmth and the wetness all at once making you feel dizzy. And the thought of being spanked--
“I said that they wouldn’t enjoy,” Arlecchino says mildly. “Judging by how they feel here . . .” Arlecchino punctuates her sentence with the briefest brush of fingers over the swollen button of your clit, “that’s not something they’re entirely against.”
“Take off their underwear,” Sandrone orders, imperious. “I can’t see.”
“My Lord Arlecchino--”
The Knave presses a kiss to the side of your head and you go all-over useless, your limbs melting under the brief moment of affection. It is so difficult to find anyone who is truly thankful to you in your line of work – anybody who really appreciates what you do. Would it be so bad, to let yourself be used by these women who already seem so much more appreciative of your presence than you’ve encountered in months?”
“I think we can oblige, don’t you?” She asks, her voice very warm and low like liquid honey, and you find yourself nodding in agreement as if hypnotised – letting her urge you onto your feet for a moment, off her thigh, in order to pull the sodden garment down your thighs and off your legs and onto the floor. “This too, I think--” And then you are divested, too, of your brassiere, your nipples standing to stiff attention in the room before them all. Tight coils of embarrassment mixed with arousal seem to keep them hard, noticeable to every woman in the room. Signora practically coos to see you standing there like this.
You dither for a moment, but are quickly pulled back onto Arlecchino’s lap – albeit in an entirely different position to the one you were in before.
Your thighs spread wide, your feet hooked behind her ankles, your back pressing against Arlecchino with one arm wrapped around your waist. In this position, there is no shying away – your thighs are forced wide, the lips of your sex open and displaying your clit and your entrance and just how wet you’ve allowed yourself to get from Arlecchino’s touch. Your chest heaving in soft little pants.
“There,” Arlecchino says, with more than a touch of the smugness about her – and then she reaches between your legs, delving between your thighs, and uses two finger to spread your lower lips even further apart. “My. Messy little thing.”
Columbina tilts her head to the side and then says, in her soft, strange, musical voice;
“I can help.”
You don’t realise exactly what she’s going to do until she’s before you, and her fingers are brushing along your thighs with the most feather light of touches, and then she is sinking onto her knees. You almost buck against Arlecchino in alarm as you feel surprisingly cool breath against your heated sex, but the woman has you in too strong a grip to do anything but squirm a little.
“Don’t,” Columbina says, voice lilting. “Don’t worry. You just seem like you need to relax. I think you could do with some help.”
You don’t think this is one of the usual ways that a superior – for that is what every woman in this room is to you – helps a servant relax, but you find yourself unable to say much to that effect as Columbina leans in and you feel the cool, wet muscle of a tongue flick teasingly out to taste you.
You suck in a ragged breath, your mind warring with your body about everything that is currently happening to you. You cannot deny that Columbina’s tongue against your most private and intimate parts feels good; you should know, from her singing, that she is entirely aware of just how to use her tongue. And yet it does come as a surprise – just how much she takes to working that same tongue over you, the delicate flick of the tip against your clit, the sensation of her dragging the flat of it down the length of you.
The way she doesn’t seem to mind that your arousal is wetting her cheeks; the fact she keeps making soft little hums of pleasure as she does it. Despite the blindfold covering her eyes, it’s as if she knows every one of your weakest spots – every sensitive little nerve that has your body feeling like tiny jolts of electricity are ricocheting all over your skin.
Arlecchino’s breath hitches in her throat, too, as she watches Columbina’s head between your thighs. You cannot imagine what you look like to the assembled throng; all in disarray over one of superior’s lap with another of them between your legs, Arlecchino’s fingers still lewdly spreading you open so you can’t even try to get away from the exploring tongue.
She doesn’t go at it with aplomb; she takes her time lapping at you, as if you’re some new flavour she wants to take the time to enjoy. But your body does not agree with the idea of taking time, and you feel the way that hot curls of want seem to keep curling inside of you. Helplessly, you reach for the arms of the armchair you’re spread over, digging your fingers into the plush upholstery.
“Columbina,” comes a petulant voice, and you look up to see that Sandrone is staring at you both with her lip twisted to one side, as if she’s considering whether or not she wants to get involved in this – but despite that, her hands are fisted in her dress and there’s a layer atop her words, a kind of breathlessness you didn’t realise an artificial body could create, that suggests she’s being rather flustered by the show. “If you go at it like that, you’ll never achieve any results!”
Columbina’s mouth pulls off your sex with a luridly wet pop, and you go hot again to see the way her delicate tongue flicks out to clean the wet droplets of your arousal still painting her lips.
“Oh?” Columbina asks, with only the slightest tilt of her head and a smile still on her face. “Isn’t the process just as enjoyable?”
Sandrone huffs out a noise of outrage and frustation.
“Of course you would think that,” she seethes, and she, too, moves towards you. She nudges Columbina aside with her foot and – much to your surprise – sinks down to join her on her knees. She takes a moment to look at you (and oh, you’re so terribly aware of the way Arlecchino is spreading your sex apart, so that she can see exactly how wet you are, exactly how it feels as though your clit is pulsing under the scrutiny).
“Sandrone,” Arlecchino says, and though her voice is mild there’s something that’s almost a warning – Sandrone looks at you again, and rolls her eyes.
“Alright,” she says, with a sigh. “I won’t hurt either. I just want to show our Moon Maiden how she should have gone about it if she wanted to get results—”
You let out a faltering noise as Sandrone, business-like and ruthless, runs her finger down your slit. Making a pleased little noise at how wet she finds you, she rotates her wrist slightly, so that she can press a finger against your entrance and gently circle her thumb around the pulsing button of your clit. And then, with no more fanfare, she slides that finger inside of you.
You jerk, unused to the intrustion – but Sandrone clicks her tongue and Arlecchino makes a soft soothing noise against your ear and keeps you anchored against her.
“Don’t mind our Lady Sandrone,” she says, whisper-quiet like a secret. “She gets rather invested in her projects – if anything, you should feel honoured she’s finding you worthy of her attention.”
“That’s right,” Sandrone says, looking up, as she crooks her finger inside of you, testing the way you feel around her. Her thumb doesn’t stop the maddening circle of your clit. “You should thank me, I think!” She pulls the finger out and pumps it once or twice, in and out of you, before she puts another finger against your entrance and looks up at you expectantly.
Your mind feels like a mess of wires, all tangled up. You can’t deny that the feel of something inside of you is intoxicating; that Sandrone knows what she’s doing with the inexorable rotation of her thumb, that Columbina’s exploratory tongue has stoked a fire in you that you can’t ignore. But it still takes you a minute to puzzle around it, to let your own heavy tongue reply to the request for gratitude.
“Th-thank you, My Lady . . .?” You hazard, and Signora laughs. Everybody in the room must be able to hear how flustered you are and how out of it all of this attention is making you feel. You, too, can hear the breathiness in your words, the thickness in your throat – and as Sandrone slides her second finger inside of you, you release a whining, stuttering moan.
There’s the slightest stretch, of course – but there’s also a feeling of fullness that you’re entirely unfamiliar with, a kind of slight sting that makes you want to roll your eyes back in your head. Sandrone gives a little pleased ‘hmph’, before she once again sets to working those fingers in annd out of you, pumping slowly, mimicking the movements that you’d one day thought a man might do to you--
You would never have once imagined this particular situation. Even in the midst of it all, you can barely believe it’s happening – all four of these beautiful women, all so focused on you, on the noises you’re making and the reactions you’re giving them . . . Sandrone crooks her fingers inside of you again in a come-hither motion, and somehow it seems as though she brushes against some kind of switch in the hot, tight channel of your sex and you moan, louder and more wanton than any noise you’ve ever heard yourself make.
“I’m trying to concentrate,” Sandrone admonishes you, but there’s a smug pride in her voice as she continues to mercilessly work that new spot inside of you, forcing more shockwaves of pleasure forward. It’s . . . overwhelming, in the most primal of ways. To have Sandrone do this for you, her fingers curling and pumping, her thumb working over your clit now with more pressure. You can feel the muscles in your thighs jumping, your toes curling helplessly, your shoulders shaking.
“Don’t worry,” says Signora, and you can hear her smile even as your lashes flutter. “You can be as loud as you want, sweet thing. The rest of us don’t mind hearing you at all.”
A click of Sandrone’s tongue, but she doesn’t sound all that angry – she’s far too busy being pleased with herself, as helpless little whines and whimpers keep escaping from your mouth. The slick sound of her fingers pumping into you embarrasses you and thrills you all at the same time, and that feeling does nothing to quell the excitement you feel building up in you.
“That’s right,” Arlecchino coos. “Let go.”
“So soon?” Sandrone asks, but then she lets out a laugh and she seems to increase her speed to a point that almost seems inhuman, more machine than anything else – and that feeling you’ve felt building in you, that ball of heat and wanting, that need to do something without the knowledge of what it is . . . that all escapes you, all at once, and you come under Sandrone’s clever fingers.
Oh.
You do more than come.
Something about where she’s been stroking you and the pressure and the speed all comes together, and you feel something else inside of you break – and you feel a gush, fluid spilling forth from you, onto Sandrone’s fingers and onto Arlecchino’s lap and onto your own inner thighs.
You barely notice all of that, though. Far more pressing is the way that your orgasm seems to explode into being, the fireworks, the way it feels your body is being disassembled and then being put back together. Your thighs shake – and your mouth is moaning, whimpering, helplessly making noises into the heated air.
She carries on through your orgasm, though she does at least have the decency to slow down, to help you over the peaks of your release with stroking, gentler fingers. She waits for your breath to almost even out, before she slowly, slowly pulls her fingers out of you.
She looks down at those fingers and shakes her head, making a click of displeasure with her tongue.
“You’ve made a mess,” she tells you, as smug as before – but then Signora laughs from her place.
“Then have the sweet little thing clean you up,” she says, and a hot flush climbs up the back of your neck – but Sandrone smiles sweetly and stands up and then places her fingers in front of your lips, wet and glistening with your ow slick.
“With your tongue,” Sandrone says. “Be good, now.”
You’re hesitant as you do it – but you do it even so, almost enjoying the thrill of how corrupt it makes you feel, to move your head forward and envelope Sandrone’s fingers within the warm, wet cave of your mouth. She’s clearly not expecting you to be so eager about it, either – when she feels your tongue hesitantly probing against the finger joints, she lets out a shaky breath as she waits for you to finish.
She pulls her hand back and tries to gather up her poise again, and with a little sniff she says;
“Well. I suppose . . . that was very nice.”
Columbina laughs, and then the Damselette is at Sandrone’s shoulder again, placing her delicate hand upon the other Harbinger’s own and pulling her back. As they retreat a little further into the room, you swear you see Columbina press a fleeting kiss to the corner of Sandrone’s mouth--
“Oh my,” says Signora, smiling at you. “It seems I didn’t get to go first after all. What a terrible pity.” Her uncovered eye gleams. “Still – I suppose that it means I get to do something a little different. After all – you’ve gotten to come, haven’t you? Been happy to be the receiver? I daresay it’s about time for you to try giving.”
“My lady?” You warble, unsure of what she means – but Arlecchino makes a noise of agreement, and she lets her arm around your waist ease off and gently assists you to stand on shaky legs, like a fawn taking its first steps.
Signora laughs.
“Oh, how cute.” She turns and walks purposely towards the sofa, where she comfortably settles herself – and then she takes the hem of her nightgown in her elegant fingers and pulls it up around her waist, bunching up the fabric behind her so that her legs and her thighs and the tempting golden pale hair at the vee of those thighs is revealed. She heaves a soft sigh and pleasure and then, stretching like a cat, parts her thighs so that you can see her own sex between them, pink and glistening in the firelight. “Look what you’ve done to me. The least you could do is come and do something about it.”
“H-how, My Lady?” You whisper, though your mouth has gone dry at the sight of her, so beautiful and statuesque and entirely at ease. Signora laughs aloud once more.
“Why, Columbina’s already done it for you and you don’t have an inkling at all of what I might want you to do with your pretty mouth?”
You take back what you thought about your mouth going dry before – because now it is a Sumeru desert.
“I . . . you would allow me to do that?” You whisper, and Arlecchino stands too. She places a gentle hand in the middle of your lower back and pushes you forward.
“Oh, sweetness,” Signora purrs. “I’d be getting even more out of it. Think of it as . . . repayment for me having the forethought to summon such a pretty maid to the tea party. Come get on your knees for me, hmm?”
You don’t know if you would have been able to do it – to gather up enough courage to walk over there and dare to put your mouth upon a Harbinger – if it hadn’t been for Arlecchino, walking with you. She gently pushes down on your shoulder once you’re there, and as you sink to your knees she takes a seat beside Signora, pulling the other woman’s thigh onto her lap.
Signora makes a soft noise of pleasure not unlike a cat’s, and then wraps her hand around the back of Arlecchino’s head to pull her into a kiss that makes your heart hammer in your chest, it’s so full of sensuality and hunger. Arlecchino kisses her back, hungry for the other woman’s mouth, her teeth tugging at the plump fullness of Signora’s bottom lip. When they separate, both of them have half-lidded, wanting eyes as they look down at you.
“Isn’t that cute on you,” Signora purrs, and she places a hand loosely on the top of your head, fingertips tangling in your hair. “Don’t be shy now. I’m sure you’ll be an expert in no time.”
It still requires determination to breach that final gap. You can smell Signora on the air; sweet and slightly musky, something that makes you fair dizzy with wanting. Her fingers pet through your hair again, as she coos sweetly at you and you finally manage to bring forth the courage to put your mouth on her.
She’s so beautiful. Stately and graceful and above you – and yet here you are, about to do this for her, after she’s said so many sweet things about you . . .
Your tongue hesitantly reaches out, lapping against her heated core. She tastes sweet, a slight tang at the back of your mouth, but far from unpleasant – and as your tongue moves against her, she lets out a pleased sigh, shifting just so in order for you to be able to access her sex better. She rests her head on the back of the sofa with a pleased ‘mmm’ noise, and you notice that Arlecchino is drawing patterns with her fingers on Signora’s bare thigh.
Emboldened by the reaction, this time you flick the tip of your tongue against the slightly hidden pearl of Signora’s clit, and the woman gives a little thrust of her hips forward to encourage you to repeat the motion again. You do exactly what you think she’s guiding you to do and lick and suck at her clit, and you’re encouraged with sighs of pleasure and breathy little moans that make that ache low between your own thighs return.
“You could try sucking on it,” says Arlecchino, and you briefly glance up from below your lashes to see that she’s resting her head against Signora’s neck and chest, gazing down at you with those strange eyes and hunger in the set of her mouth like a wolf looking at a tender morsel.
You follow her advice, gently sucking the swollen bud (peeking out from beneath the hood now) into your mouth and sucking gently on it, and Signora’s hands tighten in your hair almost painfully. She groans, chest-deep, and then she adds her own voice to the advice though hers sounds more like an order:
“Don’t stop doing that.”
With such clear instructions, how could you possibly ignore her? You continue to suck on it, feeling it almost twitch in your mouth, the way that she keeps her legs apart even though she clearly wants to press them either side of your head and pull you in. Harbingers don’t get where they are by not having self-control, you suppose.
“Next time we’ll teach you how to use your fingers too,” you hear, a whisper behind you, and you realise that Columbina and Sandrone have come to join in. You think, from the sound of their voice, they’ve settled back onto the large pillows on the floor – but the far more pressing matter is in your mouth.
“I won’t be long,” Signora sighs, tilting her hips up even more. Her voice shakes and shudders. “Mm . . . you have no idea what watching you being worked over did to me--”
You double your attack on her, the thought of being the person who makes the Fair Lady come sending frissons of excitement all through you again. You let go of her clit for a moment to give more eager laps of her cunt, up and down, over and over, her sweet slick coating your tongue. You pay particular attention, though, to her clit – to keep going back, over and over.
And only partly because the insistent hand in your hair keeps dragging you back to it. You flick your tongue over it, an ache in the root of the organ because of how hard you’re trying – and then you feel it. Where your chin is practically buried in the softness of her sex, her entrance pulses once, then twice against you--
And Signora whines aloud, she finally gives in the urge to wrap her thighs around your face, a slippered foot digging into your back, and pulls you in to keep licking and sucking at her as she rides out the heated waves of her orgasm, soaking your cheeks, pulsing against you with hungry moans and the flex of those strong, lithe thighs.
By the time her shaking and groaning is done, and her thighs have released their hold on you to settle lazily back on the sofa, feet on the floor. She gazes at you, sleepy and sated, every inch a beautiful house cat.
Your gaze flickers nervously to the last woman in the room. You’re suddenly aware that, once again, there’s a pounding between your own legs that feels like a second heartbeat.
“Lord Arlecchino?” You whisper, shyly, your mouth still wet from Signora’s recent release. “Do . . . is there anything I can do for you?”
Signora lets out an amused laugh. Arlecchino looks at you, consideringly – it is not exactly a kind look, but you feel warmed by it even so.
“Our Knave prefers to play with toys,” Signora says. “And we hadn’t had enough time to procure them for this little soiree. Still . . . I daresay she’d very much like to play with you again. Don’t you think?” She addresses the last question to Arlecchino, who now gives a little smile to the other woman.
“Very much,” Arlecchino says. “I don’t think you’ve been nearly filled up enough tonight. Ah. One makes do, though.” She leans forward and brushes her dark-tipped thumb over your cheek, down to the corner of your mouth to wipe an errant droplet of slick from it. “I’m sure we’ll call on you again. Still. Until then . . . I think you ought to put your uniform back on. Someone from the palace is probably missing you.”
You don’t realise until you’re halfway back to the kitchens that you’ve left the tea tray and all of the tea things in Sandrone’s chambers.
Some very ooc- First time doing something like this so be nice :D
Accepting requests in the comments!
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
⋆˙⟡ ℭ𝔬𝔩𝔲𝔪𝔟𝔦𝔫𝔞⋆˙⟡
Her love doesn’t arrive like something she decides. It’s more like something that simply becomes true the longer she’s near you.
She watches you a lot—quietly, softly, like you’re the only thing in a room full of noise that actually makes sense. When you speak, she tilts her head slightly, as if every word is something precious she’s memorizing.
She doesn’t understand emotional complexity the way others do, but she doesn’t need to. If she feels drawn to you, that is enough.
She treats you like something sacred.
Not metaphorically—literally.
She’ll gently take your hand without warning just to study it, turning it slightly in the light.
“…So warm,” she says once, almost to herself. “You’re very real.”
If you ask what she means, she only smiles faintly, like the answer is obvious and you simply haven’t realized it yet.
She gives you things—small, strange gifts. Pretty feathers, broken jewelry she thought you might like, flowers she picked and forgot the name of.
And when you thank her, she just blinks slowly.
“I should be the one thanking you,” she says. “You let me stay near you.”
She doesn’t see herself as someone who loves you.
She sees herself as someone who was allowed to exist in your orbit.
And she considers that enough to devote everything she is to you.
⋆.˚𝒜𝔯𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔬⋆.˚
Her love is quiet. Controlled. Almost invisible if you don’t know what to look for.
She never confesses. Never lingers on emotional language. She simply acts.
If you are tired, she notices before you do—and your workload is already gone before you even realize it was ever yours.
If someone disrespects you, you never hear about it again.
She stands slightly behind you in crowds. Always close enough to intervene. Never close enough to feel suffocating.
When you ask why she does any of it, she answers without hesitation.
“It’s necessary.”
You raise a brow.
“For what?”
A pause. Just long enough to mean something.
“For you to be safe.”
That’s as close as she ever comes to admitting anything softer.
But her eyes do betray her sometimes—just briefly. When you laugh, or lean into her space without fear, something in her expression stills like she’s memorizing the moment for later.
She has rules. She insists she’s strict. Detached. Professional.
And yet she remembers the smallest things about you with unsettling precision.
How you like your drink.
When you’re usually tired.
The exact tone of voice you make when you’re trying not to admit you’re upset.
She says nothing about it.
But she adjusts the world around you anyway.
✧.*𝔓𝔦𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔬 ✧.*
His love is not soft. It is weighty.
It doesn’t show itself in gestures meant to comfort—it shows itself in decisions made long before you even realize you needed protection.
He watches you like someone observing something irreplaceable in a dangerous world.
Not fragile.
Just… valuable.
When he speaks to you, it is calm, deliberate. As if every word is measured against something far older than the present moment.
“You should not be here,” he says once, quietly.
You frown. “With you?”
A faint pause.
“With me,” he confirms.
But he never tells you to leave.
Instead, he simply makes it so nothing in the world can reach you without passing through him first.
He does not indulge easily. He does not soften often.
But when you sit near him without speaking, there are rare moments where his gaze lingers longer than it should.
“…Stay,” he says once, almost absentmindedly, like it slipped past his control.
When you look at him, he does not repeat it.
But he does not take it back either.
That is how you know it meant something.
꩜ S𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥𝔢 ꩜
He does not show love.
He shows irritation. Control. Sharp words that cut just enough to keep distance.
And yet… he’s always there.
You mention something once—once—and suddenly it’s handled. Fixed. Removed. Delivered. He never tells you it was him.
If you thank someone else for it, though?
He clicks his tongue, glaring.
“…You’re thanking the wrong person.”
You blink. “What?”
“Nothing.” He turns away, arms crossed. “Just—pay more attention.”
He hovers without hovering. Always within range. Always listening.
If someone gets too close—too friendly—his mood shifts instantly.
“What do they want from you?” he mutters, eyes narrowing.
“They’re just talking—”
“People don’t just talk.”
He doesn’t understand softness, not really. So when he cares, it comes out wrong.
He’ll insult you for skipping meals—
“Are you trying to be useless on purpose?”
—but then shove food into your hands without looking at you.
He hates that he worries.
Hates that you make him feel something he can’t control.
“…Don’t misunderstand,” he says one night, quieter than usual. “I’m not doing this for you.”
You tilt your head.
A long pause.
“…I just don’t like being distracted.”
But he doesn’t leave.
𖤓 𝒯𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝒶 𖤓
AJ shows love like he does everything else—fully.
There’s no subtlety. No hesitation.
If he likes you, you know.
He’s constantly in your space—grinning, teasing, bumping shoulders with you like it’s second nature.
“You’re coming with me,” he says one day, already grabbing your hand.
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter. I just felt like seeing you.”
He brings you things all the time. Not delicate gifts—things with meaning.
Weapons. Souvenirs. Little trinkets from places he’s been.
“This reminded me of you,” he says, completely serious.
Even if it’s something slightly unhinged.
He laughs easily around you, but there’s something deeper under it.
If you get hurt—even a little—his entire demeanor shifts.
The smile doesn’t disappear.
It sharpens.
“…Who did that?”
You try to brush it off. He doesn’t let you.
His hand comes up, tilting your chin just enough to inspect you properly.
“You should be more careful,” he murmurs—but his eyes are already elsewhere. Thinking. Calculating.
Later, he’s back to normal. Bright. Playful.
But whatever—or whoever—caused it?
Gone.
He never even brings it up again.
₊⊹ ℑ𝔩 𝔇𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢 ₊⊹
His love is… wrong.
Not broken—just different.
You are the only thing he treats with restraint.
That alone should tell you everything.
He studies you constantly—but not like his experiments. There’s no dissection in his gaze, no intent to take you apart.
Just fascination.
“You’re interesting,” he says, circling you slowly.
“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
And yet, he never crosses a line.
Not with you.
His touch, when it happens, is rare—and strangely careful. Fingers brushing against your wrist, your face, like he’s testing something delicate.
“…Fragile,” he murmurs once. “And yet, not as much as you appear.”
If anyone else tried that, they’d be gone.
If anyone else looked at you too long, he notices.
He always notices.
“They’re staring,” you whisper once.
“I’m aware,” he replies calmly.
“…And?”
A small pause.
“They won’t be, for much longer.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t threaten.
He just states things.
That’s what makes it worse.
You are not an experiment.
You are not something to be tested, broken, or improved.
You are something he has decided to keep.
And unlike everything else in his world—
He has no intention of ruining you.
Capitano
His love is discipline.
Not rigid—intentional.
He doesn’t hover. Doesn’t overwhelm. But he is always present in a way that makes the world feel… steadier.
You don’t realize how much he does for you until you start looking for it.
Doors are always opened before you reach them.
Spaces are cleared without you asking.
People think twice before speaking out of line around you.
Not because you demanded it.
Because he’s there.
“You don’t have to do all that,” you tell him once, watching him subtly guide someone out of your path.
“I do,” he answers simply.
You blink. “Why?”
A pause. Then—
“You should not have to concern yourself with things beneath you.”
There’s no arrogance in it. No condescension.
Just certainty.
He doesn’t touch you often, but when he does, it’s grounding. A hand at your back to guide you. Fingers briefly brushing yours to steady you.
Nothing excessive.
Everything deliberate.
If you ever look even slightly distressed, his attention sharpens instantly.
“…Speak,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “What is troubling you?”
Not if something is wrong.
What.
Because in his mind, there’s no world where you should be left to handle it alone.
꯱ׁׅ֒ɑׁׅ֮ꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ꭈׁׅᨵׁׅꪀׁׅꫀׁׅܻ
Sandrone does not show love.
She shows irritation. Dismissal. Very clear, very firm disinterest.
“…You’re inefficient,” she mutters, not even looking up from her work.
And yet—
The next day, the exact thing you struggled with is already fixed.
You didn’t ask her to do it.
She didn’t tell you she would.
You notice. Of course you do.
“…Did you—”
“No.”
Immediate. Sharp.
“I didn’t ask—”
“I said no.”
She refuses eye contact. Completely.
But the tips of her ears are just slightly warmer than usual.
She expresses everything through doing, never saying.
If something inconveniences you, it mysteriously stops being a problem.
If something breaks, it’s repaired before you even realize it mattered.
If someone annoys you—
They stop coming around.
Coincidence, obviously.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” she says one day, arms crossed tightly. “I’m not doing this for you.”
You hum. “Then why?”
A long pause.
“…It was bothering me.”
But her gaze flickers toward you for just a second too long.
She notices everything about you. Files it away. Uses it.
Quietly.
Carefully.
And she’ll never admit how much of her work is built around making your life easier.
𝕻𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖊
His love is indulgence.
Loud. Shameless. Completely unapologetic.
If he wants you, he doesn’t hide it.
“Ah, there you are,” he hums the moment you walk in, already smiling like he’s been waiting. “I was starting to think I’d have to send someone to fetch you.”
You raise a brow. “You could’ve just come yourself.”
“And deprive myself of the anticipation?” he replies smoothly. “Never.”
He spoils you relentlessly.
Clothes. Jewelry. Entire experiences curated just for you.
You mention liking something once—once—and suddenly it’s yours, ten times over.
“This is too much,” you say, staring at the latest gift.
“Too much?” he echoes, amused. “For you?”
He steps closer, tilting your chin up just slightly.
“There is no such thing.”
He’s always touching you—casually, confidently. A hand at your waist, fingers brushing yours, guiding you without asking.
Not controlling.
Possessive.
And he makes no effort to hide it.
If someone else gets a little too comfortable?
He doesn’t get angry.
He smiles.
“…Careful,” he murmurs, voice light but edged. “You’re speaking to someone who belongs to me.”
You glance at him. He meets your gaze without shame.
Not a hint of hesitation.
Later, when it’s just the two of you, he’s softer—but only slightly.
“You enjoy it,” he says, almost teasing, fingers tracing idle patterns against your hand.
“Enjoy what?”
“This.” A small gesture between you. “Being adored properly.”
