#signora x reader

[vmprgrl-2005]

arranged marriage headcanons-fatui harbingers

“me and my husband we’re sticking together”

synopsis-you find yourself in an arranged marriage with a member of one of the most feared groups in teyvat. certainly they won't shed their intimidating exterior and begin to fall for you...unless?

including-pierro, capitano, dottore, arlecchino, signora, pantalone, childe

word count-3.3k

warnings-arranged marriage, gn reader, some mentions of violence, alcohol (in arlecchino's part), some manipulation (mostly in pantalone's part), probably a bit ooc (especially for dottore lol)

pierro:

-at first he has no genuine interest in you, but he’ll still be courteous towards you for appearance’s sake. he’ll hold doors open for you, assign guards to escort you anywhere you want to go, and put his arm around you whenever you’re walking together. despite the tenderness of his gestures, it still seems like his feelings towards you are as cold as the snowy snezhnayan winter, very few things are able to sway pierro’s stoic demeanor 

-in an attempt to get closer to you, he’ll take you out on walks in the middle of the night, it’s just about the only free time he gets and he likes to avoid the watchful eyes of the public. since you’re being forced to spend the rest of your days together, he figures he might as well spend some time with you. for a while you walk side by side in silence with your hand resting upon his arm as he guides you around the city, you can’t think of anything that you could discuss with the head of the fatui harbingers. one night when you’re feeling particularly bold, you ask him how his day was. pierro pauses for a moment before letting out a barely audible chuckle that rumbles out of his broad chest. he simply states that he’d rather hear about your day and says your endeavors are likely more interesting than his since he spends more time giving orders and doing paperwork than anything else. under the guise of wishing to listen to you excitedly talk about what you do with your time, pierro keeps you protected from the reality of the dirty work he finds himself caught up in as the director of the fatui (although he has come to enjoy the sound of your voice) 

-you realize that he’s actually starting to become fond of you when he briefly neglects his duties to be with you. he’ll cut meetings with the harbingers short so he can visit you and allow you to come into his office while he works through mounds of diplomatic paperwork

-you’re sitting on a couch in pierro’s large office absentmindedly flipping through the pages of a book when a fatui underling stumbles in through the door with a bouquet of padisarah flowers cradled in both of his arms. the young and very obviously nervous young man stutters out something along the lines of “where is your lover’s room again, lord harbinger?” your face flushes as you glance over at pierro, who pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, “just bring them to my desk.” pierro stares down the underling as he scurries towards his desk and gently places the massive bouquet on it before swiftly making his way to the door. your eyes stay locked on pierro as his spindly fingers wrap around the flowers, grasping the carefully trimmed stems just above the pale blue ribbon tied in a bow around them. he saunters over to where you’re sitting and gently places the flowers in your arms. “i had them imported from sumeru since…” pierro’s voice trails off and your eyes widen at the thought of him feeling shy in your presence, “we got married one year ago today.” his intensely blue eyes meet your gaze after he finishes speaking. “they’re beautiful,” you smile, “thank you, pierro.” “not nearly as beautiful as you, my dear” he replies as his gloved hand gingerly cradles your face, his chilly fingers being a stark contrast to your flushing skin. the interaction leaves you unspeakably flustered and has you looking forward to many more years of being wed to pierro

capitano:

-much like pierro he’s not particularly interested in having a romantic relationship with you, but he won’t be completely cold and stoic with you like he is with other people, he doesn’t want you to be afraid of him. he also won’t really be physically affectionate, the most he’s going to do is put his arm out for you to hold while you’re walking together as he doesn’t want to lose his reputation of being a formidable and powerful harbinger

-he allows you to follow him around most days while he gives orders to fatui soldiers and meets with the other harbingers. he’ll stop to talk with you every now and then but doesn’t go out of his way to be romantic or give off the impression that your marriage is founded in the two of you being attracted to each other

-part of him finds your presence comforting, capitano hasn’t had any sort of companion in so long and being around someone that isn’t ordering him around or battling with him makes a foreign sense of warmth well up within his decaying chest. he eventually finds himself infatuated with you and the softness you bring into his life–he longs to find a way to show you he cares about you without making you uncomfortable 

-one night while you’re waiting for capitano to get out of a confidential meeting with the other harbingers a couple of guards begin frisking you, asking why you’ve been lingering in the hall for so long and not taking your answer that you’re married to capitano as the truth. just as tears begin to crawl across your lashline, you feel a large, heavy hand fall onto your shoulder. as you turn around, your eyes fall upon your foreboding husband standing behind you. “are they bothering you, dearest?” capitano asks in his deep, stern voice. you nod frantically, taking the opportunity to cling onto his strong arm. the guards skitter away at the sight of one of the most powerful harbingers staring them down, not wanting to subject themselves to whatever getting on his bad side looks like. even after they leave, you remain clinging onto capitano, reveling in how protected he makes you feel. gazing down at your still shaking form, he says “i’m sorry you had to deal with them. is there anything i can do to make up for my absence, sweetheart?” the emphasis he places on the pet name has your heart fluttering, so much so that you can’t find the words to respond to his question (even though you know exactly what you want). instead of responding, you simply curl into his chest. you assume that he can tell how you feel about him from the way one of his arms wraps around your waist while his other hand gently holds the back of your head–you’re completely unaware of how long he’s been waiting to do so

dottore:

-he uses you as a lab assistant…until you make a mistake…then he just lectures you and expects you to watch and ask questions about his (evil) genius scientific process. he loves to show off and he knows that you really have no choice but to stay with him so you’ll be stuck in his lab a lot of the time watching him work (unless he’s doing one of his cruel human experiments, he spares you from the sight of those)

-it takes him forever to show any bit of warmth towards you. he’s never really cared for marriage and being wed to you is no different to him, he views forming relationships as a waste of time. however, he’ll eventually start to realize that you’re the only person whose presence he can tolerate and he curses himself for beginning to go soft. you’ve lingered around his lab for so long that he’s gotten used to your endless questions and sometimes clumsy movements, he’s even begun to find them comforting, familiar. the way that you bump into his desk and occasionally hand him the wrong test tube used to anger him, but watching you learn how to navigate his lab and what subjects interest him the most has been (as much as he hates the word) endearing 

-the next time dottore beckons you to his laboratory so you can hand him samples while he works he finds the tips of his ears burning every time your hands come close to his. he huffs under his breath, infuriated that his body is subjecting him to such trivial, juvenile emotions. you notice the change in his demeanor and ask him if he’s feeling alright to which he frustratedly throws his hands against his desk, sighing deeply before motioning for you to come closer to him. hesitantly, you approach him, even after knowing each other for a while his anger still intimidates you. the moment you look up at him he presses his lips against yours. his kiss is fleeting, more so his lips briefly coming into contact with yours than an actual kiss–it ends before you can fully process what’s happening. he can’t help but smile crookedly at the sight of your face heating up just as his did moments earlier. “fascinating,” he mutters, “so you have begun to fall for me.” your cheeks flush as dottore speaks, the way that he talks about your feelings so clinically like you’re one of his experiments makes you feel embarrassed for having a physical reaction to his kiss. before you can muster a half-hearted excuse, he turns and walks away, calling out “i’ll see you after i’m done working, darling” in a condescending tone as he wanders to another part of the lab. you take it as a cue to go back to your room and contemplate what your relationship with dottore has evolved into  

arlecchino:

-she is extremely cold towards you for a while, she sees your marriage as nothing more than a legal union and doesn’t really care to pay attention to you. she won’t be rude to you when you’re together, but she believes she has more important things to do than form any sort of relationship with you. most of the time you spend with her is at political events where the two of you are expected to make an appearance together and whenever you happen to run into her in snezhnaya

-arlecchino tends to keep her distance from you–she doesn’t want you to distract her from her work and also thinks you deserve to be protected from the dangerous fatui business that you didn’t ask to be a part of. 

-after you’ve been married for a while she takes you with her whenever she visits the house of the hearth because the children keep asking about you and desperately want to meet the person who father married (that and she doesn’t have to worry about protecting you from the other harbingers while you’re in fontaine). the first time you visit you’re greeted with a chorus of “oos” and “ahs” from the children crowding around you who marvel at the sight of arlecchino’s supposed lover. she can’t help but grin ever so slightly at the sight of you reading to and playing with the children she cares about so much 

-while you’re in fontaine together she takes you on a date at hotel debord. you’re surprised and somewhat intimidated by the invitation, but also afraid of what will happen if you turn her down. she reserves a private table for the two of you on the second floor and orders a bottle of champagne that you can tell cost a few thousand mora just from the intricate design on the golden glass bottle. the two of you spend the evening talking, arlecchino seems much more willing to open up to you outside of the harsh environment of the fatui’s headquarters in snezhnaya. she tells stories about her travels and leaves out the gruesome details, her face flushes when you stare at her, your eyes sparkling as you compliment her strength. towards the end of your date she looks at you and says “we should do this more often.” it’s the softest you’ve ever heard her usually monotone voice sound, and you can’t help but agree with her

signora:

-she treats you like you’re her new pet kitten–like you’re a plaything for her to show off. she’s not exactly romantic or affectionate with you behind closed doors but in public she’ll flaunt your relationship to whoever’s willing to listen. she tells all of the other harbingers about how perfect you are and is all over you whenever you’re out together, she loves to wrap her arm around your shoulders and keep you as close to her as humanly possible so everyone can see that a lovely little thing like you is hers 

-signora doesn’t spend much time with you in private but she loves to take you out on dates and be as flashy as possible. she’ll buy you expensive custom made clothes and make your outings as much of a spectacle as she can. she loves watching reporters attempt to subtly follow the two of you and obtain information regarding your relationship while she parades you around as if you’re a priceless piece of jewelry

-whenever you’re not around signora does find herself feeling lonely. her attitude causes most of the other harbingers to keep their distance from her so you’re really the only person she has to talk to and she finds herself wanting to get closer to you. however, she has no clue how to approach you romantically without scaring you off or being too bold or embarrassing herself so she just waits for an opportunity to do so to naturally present itself

-one day you return from an outing with a few fatui skirmishers somewhat beaten up after getting a little too close during their encounter with a frostarm lawachurl. upon seeing the state you’re in, signora scolds the entire group, going on about how someone closely associated with one of the harbingers should never be put in such a dangerous situation and how the skirmishers should feel lucky that she’s not ending them right then and there, all while caging you in her protective embrace. you assume that her touch is purely for show, but even when the two of you are alone she keeps her arms wrapped around you, gently running her hands over your scrapes and bruises. you can’t help but avoid making eye contact with her, you’re not used to signora being so genuinely affectionate with you. “you must be more careful,” she says, her typical cocky demeanor softening, “you are very precious to me.” her admission makes you hide your face in the crook of her neck, to which she chuckles softly. you would have never expected it, but signora’s grand displays of affection for you were starting to become genuine

pantalone:

-he doesn’t really bother to spend time with you, he instead chooses to commemorate your marriage by presenting you with an abundance of expensive gifts (include your massive, glimmering wedding ring that was custom made for you using the finest diamonds in teyvat, which everyone you encounter can’t help but stare at). almost every week you’ll find a new luxury item in your room–handbags, fur coats, perfume, jewelry–anything that pantalone thinks will keep you from demanding a divorce. he’s a busy man so it’s easier for him to perpetuate the illusion of you two being married by gifting you items that only his unfathomable wealth could come close to affording

-after a few of the harbingers begin teasing him for never bringing you around, pantalone keeps you by his side as if you’re some sort of luxurious accessory, hoping that he can use your marriage as another means to get whatever he wants. he’ll expect you to follow him around as he works and look expensive and intimidating just as he does. on top of that, he’ll sometimes treat you as his secretary, giving you the same condescending smile he gives everyone else as he asks you to bring files to his office or to deliver a message to someone 

-although he would never admit that he’s falling for you, pantalone relies on you a lot. the small things that you do for him add up and make his hectic work life slightly less busy. pantalone begins to associate your presence with tranquility, like a beacon of gentleness in the ruthless sphere of fatui business. you never frustrate him like many other people do, you just walk alongside him and occasionally ask if there’s anything you can do to help him, something that he doesn’t realize he appreciates until he really thinks about it. although his first instinct is to repay you with material goods, he begins to realize that actually acting like your husband would likely be a more efficient way to keep you happy (and would make it easier for him to get what he wants from you in the future)

-while you’re carrying a large pile of papers down one of the massive corridors of the zapolyarny palace a fatui diplomat bumps into you, causing the pages in your arms to fly out of your grasp and scatter across the floor. “watch where you’re going,” he hisses as you scramble to gather the files that pantalone had entrusted you with. a moment later you hear a voice from behind you. “how about you watch how you’re speaking to a harbinger’s lover” pantalone chides at the other man who’s still standing a few steps away from you. the man can barely muster an apology as he tries to fearfully scurry away from pantalone’s intimidating stare. you gaze up at your purple-eyed husband who, much to your surprise, kneels alongside you on the floor and helps you gather the files you dropped. he then stands and takes the pile from you before cupping your face with his empty hand, the metal of the many rings adorning his fingers is chilly against your skin. “no one will ever speak to you like that again while you’re with me, my little gem,” he says in an unfamiliarly sweet tone. you can only focus on keeping your mouth from dropping open in surprise as pantalone offers his hand for you to hold while the two of you walk together so he can show everyone that you’re his

childe:

-really the only harbinger that acts like you’re actually a married couple. he introduces you to his family, showers you with gifts, and goes out of his way to spend time with you (he loves ice skating/fishing with you and telling you stories alongside his siblings). half the time you’ll forget that you didn’t actually choose to marry him, anyone who observed the two of you together would be convinced you’ve been in love for years 

-childe knew it would only be a matter of time before he began to fall for you, from the second he saw you he thought you were beautiful, not tainted by violence and abyssal energy like he is. although he can be quite cocky, he’s still a bit nervous that his feelings aren’t mutual. you’re one of the few people outside of his family who’s shown him kindness and he doesn’t want to ruin what he has with you

-he goes all out when he plans to tell you how he feels about you. he takes you to liyue for lantern rite and buys you lavish jade jewelry and trinkets, accompanies you to any festivity you want to partake in, and gets the two of you a hotel room with a perfect view of the lantern release and fireworks. as you stand on the balcony watching the sunset he wraps his arms around you from behind. blood rushes to your face, you’re not used to childe being overt with his displays of affection. as you tilt your head to look at him he mutters “is this ok?” shyly, you nod, falling further into him as you realize how at home you feel in his arms, how you don’t want the warm, safe feelings he invokes in you to ever end. from that night on you found yourself feeling closer than ever to childe, the man that you could get used to calling your husband

[joy99x]

🕯️Things the fatui would never say to your face

݁(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.

And when he dreams, your hands are clean.

And his are empty.

[dovelix]

picture perfect

⟢ synopsis... having a partner with a kamera in hand that instead of capturing ordinary things, decides to capture them. (fluff)

⟢ featuring... pierro. capitano. dottore(35). columbina. arlecchino. scara. sandrone. signora. pantalone. childe.

PIERRO

The jester's quarters is usually shrouded in a heavy, suffocating silence, reserved for the grim reality of planning a war against the divine. The maps spread across his enormous oak desk are stained with the ink of fallen nations, and the air always carries the faint, ancient scent of ash and dried parchment.

But then there is you. And the soft, mechanical click of a kamera lens shifting into focus.

When you first asked him to buy you a kamera, he didn't think much of it; you always had a habit of staring at scenery for far too long, or of saying out loud how beautiful something in your line of sight was, so naturally he assumed a kamera request was to capture such sights. Pierro never thought that the real reason behind the request was simply to capture him.

Of course, you always took pictures of beautiful sights, but more often than not, when Pierro was around, the first thing he could hear was the soft click of your kamera towards him.

At first, it caught him off guard.

Click.

He was reading reports.

Click.

He was overlooking troop deployments across Snezhnaya.

Click.

He was quietly watching the snow fall beyond the palace windows.

Every time he heard that familiar shutter, he expected you to be photographing something behind him.

Instead...

The lens was always pointed directly at him.

...click

Pierro doesn’t move immediately. He keeps his gaze fixed on a pile of documents, his gloved hand hovering inches over a document. A deep sigh comes out before he even looks up. 

"Again...?" He asks before another sound invades the room.

...click

"...Is there something amusing about my paperwork?" Pierro's tone deceptively flat. 

"Nope." you reply easily.   

"...Then?".  

"You look pretty... even when you're so focused like this." 

"..."

Silence.

Not uncomfortable.

Merely thoughtful.

There was something in the way you said 'pretty' that awoke an amused feeling in Pierro; he never thought someone would use such word about him so matter-of-factly.

Maybe it was that amusement that made him allow you to take pictures of him in the first place. Although Pierro had set a rule about taking pictures while he was working, just in case your clumsy hands might lose the camera and it may fall into the wrong hands, but besides that, he truly never minded how many photos you took of him. How could he deny your happiness?

Having someone look at him through a lens just to find something beautiful to preserve is the only warmth he has left.

CAPITANO

The first time it happened, Capitano assumed it was an accident.

The quiet click echoed through the camp. He turned his helmet slightly toward you, waiting for an explanation.

You simply lowered the kamera with a smile.

"...Apologies," you said, though your expression suggested you were not sorry in the slightest. "The light looked nice."

He gave a single nod.

"I see."

That was all.

Or at least, that was what he thought.

Capitano is not a vain man.

Praise means little to him.

Admiration even less.

His entire life has been devoted to duty, to honor, to protecting others before himself. He neither seeks attention nor enjoys standing at its center. If anything, he prefers remaining unnoticed, his face forever hidden behind cold steel.

Which is exactly why your fascination confuses him.

One evening, after hearing the familiar click for what must have been the seventh time in the span of an hour, he finally speaks.

"...May I ask something?"

"Of course."

"You possess hundreds of photographs."

You nod.

"I do."

"...Then why continue taking more?"

You blink as though the answer is obvious.

"Because they're all different."

"...Different."

"You're never doing the exact same thing."

You begin scrolling through the kamera.

"Look."

You move beside him, showing him the tiny photographs.

"This one's when you were talking to Ororon."

"..."

"This one's after Sandrone's tea party."

"..."

Capitano studies the images in silence.

None of them are grand.

None are carefully posed.

They are simply... moments.

Small things.

Things he himself would never notice.

"I still don't get why I am the solemn center of each photo..."

"Because i love you." You simply said. "Isn't normal to take pictures of one's true love because they're the most important thing in someone's life?"

You made a small pause.

"Besides i like the idea of preserving your memory with photos... just in case."

Capitano's shoulders become strangely still.

"I see."

From then on, he never asks you to stop.

Sometimes, while you're fumbling with your Kamera, he'll patiently wait before walking away.

"...Finished?"

"Almost."

"...Take your time."

DOTTORE

He notices long before you realize he has.

"You've photographed me forty-three times this week." His voice suddenly interrupted.

You nearly drop the kamera.

"...You counted?"

"I remember." He quickly answered, his gaze hovering over you for a moment.

"...Curious."

"What is?"

"You never photograph my laboratory."

"You never photograph my work."

"You photograph..."

"...Me."

He gestures toward himself.

You simply shrug.

"I like you."

He pauses.

Not dramatically. Not visibly. But something in his focus sharpens.

"Can you repeat that?"

"I like you, is it a crime to photograph something i like?"

He studies your face with unmistakable curiosity.

"...Fascinating."

Rather than discouraging you, he begins doing small things in return, he'll deliberately lean against his desk while reading, knowing the angle of light will change, knowing it will alter how he appears in your frame.

He'll remove his gloves before writing notes, slower than necessary, as if testing whether you notice the difference.

He'll pause in the middle of speaking, just long enough for you to react, as if waiting for the exact moment your finger tightens on the shutter.

Click.

"...As expected."

"You did that on purpose."

"I wished to confirm a hypothesis."

"...You posed."

"...If that is your preferred terminology."

It even surprises him how much he enjoys it.

Not the attention itself, but the fact that its you giving it. That distinction becomes important to him in a way he doesn’t fully articulate, though it lingers in the way he allows himself to be seen a little more often than before, he's is not someone who cares for vanity, nor for how he appears in a frame. And yet, the knowledge that you choose to capture him out of everything in your world truly fascinates him.

He's even looking forward to seeing the results.

"May I see today's collection?"

COLUMBINA

You never really hid the fact that you took pictures of her, in fact you were quite obvious, despite that, she never really said anything, sometimes you wondered if Columbina was even aware that the subjects of the pictures you took was her despite how obvious it was. Of course, Columbina wasn't dumb.

...click

Today she slowly turned her head, as if the light itself has gently called her attention, not startled but curious, her movements are soft, unhurried, almost dreamlike.

"Are you taking a picture of me again?"

"Mhm."

"May I see?"

You hand her the kamera without hesitation.

She looks through every photo with quiet curiosity, her expression unreadable but not unkind. She lingers on some longer than others, tilting her head slightly as if listening to something only she can hear within the images themselves.

"..."

"...You always photograph me when I'm singing."

"I think you look happiest then."

She tilts her head further, almost childlike in her curiosity.

"...Do I?"

"You do."

A gentle smile appeared on her, soft and distant like moonlight on still water, beautiful, at least you saw it that way. Very dramatic that is true but, Columbina's beauty was truly the best thing you could've captured.

At least that's what you tell everyone.

"...Then keep taking them."

"Even if I take a lot?"

"Especially then."

Sometimes she'll quietly wander over while you're reviewing the pictures, footsteps almost silent, as if she’s afraid to disturb the moment even though she’s already part of it.

Without asking, she'll lean her head against your shoulder, watching the screen as if sharing the same memory, breathing in the same quiet.

"...I like seeing myself through your eyes." She said suddenly.

You blinked.

"You say that like it's strange."

"Is it?"

She blinks slowly.

"I think it's nice."

She never thinks your habit is strange.

If anything...

She finds it sweet that someone would treasure even the smallest, quietest fragments of her existence.

"You know..." Columbina suddenly whispered.

"hm?"

"I think i would like it if you were in the photos with me too, we can't let your beauty go to waste."

Your shoulder stiffened slightly, your gaze flicked away as your cheeks burned slightly.

"Don't say things like that so suddenly youー"

click

"huh-"

"hehe now i have a picture of you too, all flustered (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡"

ARLECCHINO

You never hid the fact that you took pictures of Arlecchino either, and it wasn't like you could hide anything from her regardless. It had never bothered her this small habit of yours, however she did set a clear rule.

"The House is off limits."

You nod immediately.

"No operations."

"No confidential meetings."

"No children unless they're not doing something important and have clearly stated properly that they're comfortable with pictures being taken."

"I understand."

Her rules are absolute, and you respect them without hesitation, its not like they don't make sense.

Outside of work...

She has no objections.

She's reading in the lounge.

Click.

"..."

She doesn’t look up.

Making coffee in the early morning light.

Click.

"...You’re persistent."

Fixing a loose button on her coat before stepping out.

Click.

"...I can hear you, you know."

"I know."

One evening she catches you scrolling through thousands of photos, her presence silent behind you. You don’t even notice her until she speaks.

"...You kept this one?"

She points toward an image taken after a long mission.

Her hair is slightly messy.

She looks exhausted.

Human, in a way few ever see her.

"You look very handsome when you're exhausted." You reply honestly.

Silence stretches between you for a few seconds.

A very faint, incredibly rare smile tugs at the corner of her strict lips. She lets out a quiet, fond sigh, shaking her head.

She leans slightly closer, just enough to see the screen better.

"You document everything."

A pause.

"Even moments I would consider... unnecessary."

Her eyes narrow slightly, but not in displeasure. More like she’s trying to understand the logic behind it.

"I like seeing you even in your most unflattering moments."

"As romantic as that is, I don't think anyone appreciates a bad photo."

She straightens, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she reaches out and gently tilts your kamera down, not stopping you, just adjusting your angle with precise, practiced care.

"If you insist on doing this..."

Her thumb brushes the edge of the device.

"...then at least do it properly."

SCARAMOUCHE

Scaramouche at first finds the whole thing annoying, as much as he loves you it is truly persistent how you keep trying to capture every single moment of him.

"Put that useless piece of junk away before I shatter it into a million pieces. I am not joking."

"No."

"..."

He walks toward you.

You instinctively hug the kamera closer. He just stops close enough that it feels like he could take it if he wanted to... and he did.

He snatches it with effortless speed.

"Hey—!"

You expect him to delete the pictures immediately.

Instead...

He stares at it.

"..."

The silence stretches longer than it should, his eyes narrow slightly, his thumb hovers over the device, not quite pressing anything. For a moment, he looks almost irritated at the idea that something so small has managed to capture him so easily.

He tilts the kamera slightly, and the screen reflects faintly in his eyes.

"You really think this is worth keeping?"

"Yeah." You reply quickly.

That single word makes him pause.

Not visibly.

Not dramatically.

He scrolls slowly and reluctantly

And then stops.

It’s a picture of him when he thought no one was looking—standing alone, wind brushing through his hair. Just... quiet.

"..."

He clicks to the next image.

Another.

Then another.

Each one makes his expression shift in the smallest, barely there, but still there way.

And yet he keeps going.

"...Why do you even take so many?"

He looks at you.

Really looks.

Then he immediately hands the kamera back.

He turns his head away as if that ends the conversation, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t fully leave. He clicks his tongue once, like he’s trying to erase the entire interaction from memory.

He complains every single time.

He rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue, calls you ridiculous, insufferable, and worse, but never actually stops you. He just stands there enduring it like it’s a personal inconvenience he refuses to admit he tolerates, like your presence has become an irritation he’s quietly accustomed to.

Yet...

After complaining so much, now whenever an entire day passes without hearing the shutter—

"...You've been quiet."

"Hm?"

"...No pictures today?"

You smiled mockingly.

"Aww do you miss the attention?"

"...Don't misunderstand."

He crosses his arms, looking away, voice sharpening as if to cover something else.

"...It's simply strange."

A pause.

"...Annoying, even."

But he doesn't leave the room right away.

SANDRONE

When you first asked Sandrone for a kamera she expected for you to document the tea parties she hosts, after all it's probably one of the only beautiful and peaceful moments that she has and she takes good care of making everything nice and sets a beautiful table presentation.

So when she finished setting everything every time she didn't expect for the kamera to always point at her.

At first, she assumes it is a mistake.

"...You are not photographing the table?"

Her voice is flat, but there is a faint pause at the end—like she is genuinely trying to understand.

You lower the kamera just a little, still smiling at her.

"I am. But you’re part of it."

She blinks once.

She thought it was just a one-time thing.

But then it happens again.

And again.

Every tea party, every carefully arranged afternoon, every moment she designs for “peace” ends up with your attention drifting away from the porcelain or mechanics and toward her instead.

"...You are doing it again."

"I know."

A pause.

"...I wanted to."

"...Why."

"Because you look cute."

There is a pause.

A long one.

Her fingers tighten slightly around her teacup.

"...That is not a sufficient reason."

But her voice is quieter than before.

And she still doesn’t tell you to stop.

The next time, she prepares more carefully.

The table is even more precise than usual. The lighting is adjusted. Everything is arranged like a display meant to be observed from a distance.

She sits down.

"...This time, focus on the table."

"Mm-hm."

You say it too easily.

Suspiciously easily.

She narrows her eyes slightly.

And then—

Click.

"..."

She doesn’t look up.

She just lets a long sigh out.

It was her again.

Of course it was.

"You are not listening."

"I am."

"You are not."

"I am listening and taking pictures."

"You should be listening and then taking the pictures."

"It works for me this way."

click

She knows she can't change your mind about the pictures you take, and deep inside she probably would be sad if she ever managed for you to actually stop taking pictures of her.

But she won't ever say that out loud of course.

SIGNORA

There are very few things Signora considers worth preserving.

Power fades. Beauty withers. Nations rise only to collapse beneath time's heel. Even people are fleeting; she learned that lesson five hundred years ago when Rostam died and Rosalyne died alongside him, leaving only the Crimson Witch... and later, the Eighth Harbinger. Every attachment she has ever treasured has ended in ashes.

So when she realizes that you are trying to preserve her...

She doesn't understand it.

At first, she assumes it's infatuation, the kind that fades.

She has seen nobles obsess over appearances. Diplomats flatter beautiful women. Admirers become bored after a season.

She expects the same from you.

After all there's no denying that she's a beauty, even she knows that. She expects admiration.

The familiar click of the kamera echoes through the hallway of the Zapolyarny Palace.

She doesn't even bother turning around.

"You've photographed me three times since breakfast."

Click.

"...Four." You grin shamelessly. "You looked pretty."

"..."

A faint sigh leaves her lips.

"You have remarkably low standards."

"You are my standards."

"..."

For a second, only a second, you catch the slightest pause in her stride before she continues walking as if nothing happened.

You photograph her while she's reading, while she's silently drinking tea, while she's staring through palace windows during snowfall, while she's half-asleep on the couch after returning from an exhausting mission, the glamorous moments, the ordinary moments.

The moments no one else is ever allowed to witness.

That confuses her more than any compliment ever could.

"...Why?"

You lower the kamera.

"What do you mean?"

"Why preserve... these moments?"

She gestures vaguely toward herself.

"I am not attending a banquet." She says."I'm hardly dressed for court, there's nothing impressive happening."

"...Because it's you."

"..."

"I don't need a special occasion."

"..."

"...I wanted to remember how peaceful you looked."

She looks away before you can notice the tiny crack in her carefully maintained composure.

People think Signora is vain.

She certainly enjoys elegance.

She carries herself with impossible grace, expects refinement, and refuses to tolerate sloppiness.

But beneath that polished surface is someone who once loved so deeply that grief transformed her into living flame. Someone whose memories of happiness became buried beneath centuries of pain and duty.

Your photographs begin reminding her of something she thought impossible.

Being remembered.

Not as "The Fair Lady."

Not as "The Eighth Harbinger."

Not as the Crimson Witch.

Just... Rosalyne.

Even if neither of you says the name aloud.

PANTALONE

To the Regrator, everything in existence has a price tag, a net worth, and a calculated return on investment. Relationships are usually no different. But when it comes to you and your constant photography, he becomes endlessly amused by your habit.

Whenever he catches you aiming the Kamera.

"Would this side be better?"

"...You're posing."

"I'm investing in quality." He smiles. "Am I providing adequate material for your collection today, my dear?"

He enjoys teasing you far too much, adjusting his posture just slightly every time you hesitate, as if the entire world is simply another negotiation to be refined into something more profitable, more perfect, more you-approved

If you gasp because he looked particularly handsome in one picture...

"Oh?"

"That expression."

"You liked that one."

"I—"

"You did."

He never lets you finish your denial, smiling likes there’s something quietly satisfied in the way he watches you react.

Eventually your old kamera starts struggling under the weight of constant use, worn down by how often it’s used to capture him in every possible light, every angle, every expression.

"A muse of my stature deserves only the finest tools for their craft. The resolution on that standard-issue Snezhnayan model is quite tragic."

You blink, lowering the kamera.

"It works just fine, Pantalone, is just a bit worn down."

He simply chuckles. "Nonsense. Only the best for the one documenting my legacy."

And without a word, it disappears.

The following morning, a beautiful new one rests on your desk, polished and far more advanced than anything you owned before.

"...You bought me this?"

"It captures finer details."

"You didn't have to."

"I know." Pantalone spoke with a pause. "...I wanted to."

he becomes your most cooperative model. He will literally pause high-stakes financial meetings with foreign dignitaries the moment you walk into the room, raising a hand to silence a trembling merchant just so you can get a clear photo of him looking imposing.

"One moment," Pantalone will tell the terrified merchant, completely ignoring the man's panic as he turns his most charming, radiant smile toward your lens. "My partner requires a portrait from my good side. Pray ensure you don't catch the glare on my rings, darling."

CHILDE

Taking pictures of Childe was the worst habit you could have possibly developed. Not because he hated it, the exact opposite.

He enjoyed it far, far too much.

The first few times, it was innocent enough. You'd catch him laughing after a fight, completely focused while cleaning one of his weapons, doing anything really. You'd quietly pull out your kamera, snap a photo, and he'd only glance over with that familiar fox-like grin.

"You taking pictures of me?"

"...Maybe."

"At least get my good side, baby."

That should've been your warning.

Because the moment Childe realized you genuinely loved taking pictures of him...of him, not because he was the Eleventh Harbinger, not because he was famous, but because you simply liked watching him exist...

he made it everybody's problem.

"Look at this picture my baby took of me!"

"So fucking stubborn aren't ya? haa, i guess once my baby sees me they'll have to take a bloody picture of me."

"Oh, this? My partner took this, aren't they talented?"

Every time he notices the kamera...

"Wait!"

He strikes an exaggerated pose mid-step, almost too fast for you to react.

"No, no, this angle!"

He shifts dramatically, turning his chin like he’s on a stage, eyes bright with anticipation as if the world itself is an audience.

"Oh! Get one while I'm sparring!"

He’s already halfway into a stance, energy coiling through him like a spring.

"Now! Before I move!"

Click.

His grin widens immediately.

"Oh! One more!"

And then another.

And another.

You end up with hundreds of dramatic photos of him mid-action, mid-laugh, mid-everything he possibly can turn into a performance. He treats your camera like an audience he never wants to disappoint, always trying to outdo the last version of himself you captured, as if each picture is a challenge he intends to win.

And somehow, he never runs out of energy for it. Even when he’s clearly been training for hours, even when sweat clings to his hair and his breathing is just slightly heavier than usual, even when he's bloody and on high, he still finds a way to turn it into something theatrical

"Alright, We're taking a double portrait," he declares, snatching the kamera right out of your hands and holding it up at arm's length.

"Smile!"

He spends the next ten minutes dragging you into a dozen messy, laughing selfies, some blurry, some with him kissing your cheek, and others where he's making a ridiculous face.

"We're sending the best one to Teucer," he says proudly, carefully slipping the kamera back into your coat pocket before planting a soft kiss on your forehead. "Gotta show the kids back home that their big brother found the best photographer in Teyvat."

He's so annoying.

all rights reserved © dovelix | do not repost, copy or run my work through AI

[rosesoftly]

Ranking the Yandere! Harbingers as S/Os (separate)

Summary: This is a ranking of the yan! fatui harbingers, evaluating the happiness/safety of each harbingers as a spouse going from the best (at the start) and progressing to the worst (at the end). The proofreading may be lacklustre (nonexistent) and to that I say... forgive me pretty please, I am so exhausted!

Includes: Arlecchino, Childe, La Signora, Il Dottore, Pierro, Scaramouche

Word Count: 5.1k

TW: if you are not comfortable with the following, please do not read! Dark content, Yandere themes, controlling behaviour, financial manipulation, mentions of violence, emotional manipulation, isolation, violence , medical malpractice (dottore), very very unethical science (dottore), possessiveness, infantilisation (Pantalone)

Best

Childe:

Tartaglia is easily among the more mild of the yanderes, which is admittedly very little consolation in a group of blood thirsty murderers. Nonetheless, if you decide to take your predicament (he prefers you call it a relationship) in stride, you may find Childe to be rather personable company with a surprising amount of redeeming features for the Tsaritsa’s weapon of war. Admittedly, his penchant for massacring his (and your) foes with unnerving efficiency and enthusiasm may not exactly scream ‘husband material’ BUT if you are able to wade through the oceans of blood he has shed in his mad lust for battle, he is an oddly attentive and empathetic partner, even as a yandere.

Punch him! Kick him! Bite him! Scream at him! Use him as you wish! He will roll with the punches! He might even allow you to get in several hits before he eventually takes your wrists into his warm, calloused (surprisingly gentle) grip. Even when you spit vitriol in his face, cursing his existence, vowing that he will suffer at your hand - Tartaglia keeps that soft smile painted across his pink lips whilst in the depths of his lightless eyes you think you can almost make out half a twinkle. He will sigh contentedly as though you had caressed his cheek rather than struck it with whatever paltry might you can muster against the eleventh harbinger. If you didn’t know any better, you might believe that he enjoys being the subject of your ire.

Naturally having a ruthless mass murderer infatuated with you is far from ideal however there are a few silver linings. For one: his cold bloodedness on the battle field does not extend to you. Ever. Additionally, Childe will permit you far more freedom than any of the other harbingers. He would never keep you locked away, your love is something to be treasured. He has no doubt that your meeting was fated by the Tsaritsa herself for only the Goddess of love could foretell such a perfect match. To hide his love for you would be akin to blasphemy.

Rest assured that wherever the eleventh harbinger wanders, you will be by his side. Even in battles. Especially in battles. Childe relishes in any opportunity to display his fearlessness and battle prowess. Don't look so worried, as long as there is still blood in his veins, there isn't a single force in Teyvat that he would permit to harm you. In an odd way, being Tartaglia’s obsession might even be an improvement on your prior life. When you were first stolen away by a love-sick harbinger, you didn't anticipate a boon being the new cultures and civilisations that you are able to enjoy by his side. He will tote you along anywhere, from the foot of the tsaritsa’s throne to the most remote pits of the chasm - where he goes, you will follow. 

Furthermore, should you desire it, Childe will not harm your family. As a matter of fact, he won’t separate you from them at all. As long as they don't attempt to intervene in your relationship, then he is content to play the doting and charismatic son-in-law. He couldn't imagine the pain of never seeing his family again, how could he ever inflict such pain on his beloved? Besides, once you are married (something he hopes will be very imminent if the constant queries about your ring size are anything to go off of), then your families will be joined. The only things that could ever dissuade him would be if you ever revealed that your family had been cruel to you. That is something he refuses to accept or overlook. You are so gentle and sweet, the thought of anyone laying their hands on you or speaking down to you, family or not, he won’t accept it.

“Don’t worry” he reassures you, tucking your head into his chest as he wraps his arms around you. Whether you're pleading him to spare them or begging him to make them suffer, he doesn't seem to hear you. A faraway grin spreads across his cheeks as he takes a deep inhale of your hair, whispering into your strands, “You can just make a new family with me”, his arms curling even tighter about your body.

Arlecchino:

In many ways, she is similar to Tartaglia. Although she may initially appear to be cold and cruel, it’s clear that even her icy heart has thawed for you. She won’t completely isolate you. She does adore you, she just struggles to communicate it in a conventional way, even with Lyney and Lynette attempting to play wingman. 

The primary factor that makes her ‘worse’ than the eleventh harbinger is her astute belief that you should be satisfied with only interacting with her and her children. Any pleads to interact with others will immediately be dismissed, she won't ever deign to entertain such a request.

You do find solace in the fact that no day at the house of the hearth is ever boring. The whole house is made up of magnetic personalities that are giddy to have another parental figure. The children are not oblivious, they understand that your relationship with Arlecchino is unconventional to put it mildly however, they have also seen you coax out gentle smiles from their father. Not the sadistic smirk that comes when punishing a foe nor a pleased grin that comes when the children succeed in their missions. The smile you bring to her painted lips is small, no more than a thin crescent across her face, yet it is more truthful than any words that have fallen from her lips.

The happiness you bring their father is worth the world to them, as such the children will go above and beyond for you. You learn to anticipate daily magic shows, gifts of shimmering sea glass, endless games of hide and seek and gentle tugs on your clothing from the younger children asking for a bedtime story. As long as you behave and remain safely by her side, she is happy to allow you to indulge the children, if only for your own sake. She would never admit it aloud but seeing you dote on the children makes her heart grow lighter,

It is important to note that this a luxury that is reserved for only when you are well behaved. Her years as the father of the house of the hearth has taught her the importance of strict discipline. If she yields even once when punishing you then you’ll think you can get away with it. She does not relish in hurting you but it is for your own good.

Fret not. Her predecessor Crucabena has taught her that excessive cruelty will only cause strife for both you and herself. Her punishments are focused more on isolating you than causing physical harm. Besides, you provide something to the children that their father cannot provide: gentleness and warmth. To isolate you is as much a punishment for the children as it is for you.

However you ought not get any foolish ideas about fleeing. 

“The children would be heartbroken without you” she mutters, her corrupted hand stroking the skin of your cheek soothingly. Shrouded beneath a layer of concern for her children lay a much more selfish desperation to keep you close. The slow caress across your face may seem saccharine sweet to the unwitting observer but that is only because they cannot feel the way her needle sharp nails tickle across your cheeks, mere millimetres from a lapse in pressure - or judgement - leaving bloody scrapes stinging across the thin skin.

She is silent for a moment, her red lips drawn into a thin wound-like line. Her dark, haunting eyes ghost across your features before she finally opens her mouth, her rich low voice sounds almost wistful “Perhaps it’s time the house of the hearth officially had a mother as well as a father, what do you think, my love?”

You know the question is rhetorical. The grip on your face already gives you the answer.

La Signora:

500 years spent mourning a lost love cannot be shrugged off like a thick winter coat. Sometimes Rosalyne wondered if she could even remember a time before she was consumed by loss. Nevertheless, when her eyes met yours the raw passion and fire that she had tempered with her cryo delusion was reignited into a blaze. She believed that she could never love again, that her heart had broken and nothing would be able to fill it back up but now she knows better. She can look back on her suffering as a trial to teach her to treasure you, it wasn't meaningless - it was to teach her your true value.

Her iciness and ruthlessness was well known to her subordinates however the harsh frozen exterior of La Signora melts away to reveal a fire that burns only for you. The flames that burst through her veins are a blistering purge to cleanse away any that would dare to cross her most beloved. After suffocating in bitterness and rage for so long, life dictated solely by her own regrets and longing - now that the gods have seen fit to return love to her, she refuses to squander or compromise her second chance.

Your relationship with La Signora will always be intense, it’s in the very nature of the flames that burn within her to be all-consuming however you may get away with a degree of unawareness regarding just how deep her emotions run until her fear of loss is reignited. It could occur in any matter of ways but the most likely would be if your life is ever placed in any danger.

She is willing to demonstrate just how hot the crimson witch can burn, she will carbonise their bones until not even ashes remain to be carried off by the winds of Barbatos. She would challenge anyone, her own subordinates, her fellow harbingers, the heavenly principles. There is no cost she wouldn’t pay to ensure your safety.

Unlike Childe, you will be kept far away from any battles or skirmishes. Your life will largely be spent in her estate in Snezhnaya where she can keep you hidden behind tall, thick walls and a legion of fatuus with explicit orders to prioritise your safety above all else. (Although, If you're lucky you may be permitted to attend one of Sandrone's tea parties (with her supervision, of course.)) Her protectiveness is suffocating, like a humid summer's day, even when you cannot see her she clings to your skin, wrapping you tightly in her warmth regardless of how you squirm and sweat. 

The Tsaritsa could ask almost anything of Rosalyne and have it granted, she was willing to challenged the anemo, geo and electro archons to gain their gnosis, but she would draw the line at you. You will never be forced to act as a pawn in this petty game the gods play. The Jester and Tsaritsa can push her around the board at will but you will be kept as far away from this vicious war against Celestia as she can manage. The mere thought of you being injured causes the crimson flames to pulse under her flesh, crying out for her to release them without discrimination - if she were to ever lose you, all of Teyvat would become a subject to Rosalyne’s rage. Not the quiet, cold bitterness that she subjected herself to for centuries, it would be the blistering wrath of the eight harbinger sweeping through any nation that dared to test her rage. Even she is afraid of the chaos she may unleash should she lose love again so… be a dear and stay safe at home while your beloved wife takes care of it all.

Pierro:

Despite having spent innumerable years as the wife of the director of the Fatui, you were ashamed to admit the man was still largely a mystery to you. In many ways he was so simple to understand but in other ways he remained utterly shrouded in mystery. You have had your husband bear his soul to you countless times, every day he tells you what he has done, what he is thinking, what he is feeling and yet you can never anticipate his next words, he remains an enigma.

He speaks plainly to you, gruff yet not without a tinge of affection that your ears have managed to pick up on. Any setbacks or challenges do not matter once his attention turns to you. You will never hear a harsh timbre or growl corrupt the words he whispers into your skin with reverence. That is the one certainty Pierro has granted you. No matter how little you feel you know of him and his motivations, you could never doubt the love and adoration he harbours for you.

Pierro may even be manageable as a yandere if not for the utter isolation he entails. Some harbingers may permit you handmaids and servants to attend to you, others will insist on remaining attached at the hip with you, refusing to part from their beloved. Alas, Pierro is an eternally pragmatic man. What would he stand to gain from trapping you in some palatial mansion surrounded by countless staff who will never stray from the script granted to them for fear of upsetting or offending you or him? How could giving you this small, vapid illusion of freedom possibly benefit you? It would be nothing but an insult to your intellect.

Instead you will remain in his private quarters in Zapolyarny palace day and night. Admittedly to call it simply a bedroom would be a disservice, the room was sprawling and larger than your childhood home thrice over, no expense was spared for the director of the Fatui however after a few years of naught but the same four walls, It’s inevitable that the space becomes stifling.

Your distress is only exacerbated by his never-ending schedule. Despite the amorous professions he mutters against the back of your hand after pressing a gentlemanly kiss to the back of it, he cannot give you all the time you deserve. Not yet, at least. In order to secure your future, he must dedicate everything to the planning of his revolution against the heavenly principles. Should he fail in this insurmountable task… he dares not ponder on what might become of you. He refuses to compromise your safety for anything, as such, for every night you spend lying in his arms, there's another 10 he spends hunched over his desk or in a meeting with the harbingers to fine tune the specific details of their schemes to obtain the gnoses.

Before the death of Signora you may have been permitted out for key public events in Snezhnaya, partly due to people expecting Pierro to bring his elusive spouse but primarily to ensure you don't go stir crazy however after the passing of Signora - that is it. No more going out of his chambers. His plan was 500 years in the making and now he is seeing the casualties of it, it has gone from a faint dream eternally just out of reach to his reality seemingly overnight and he will not have you be struck down before you can see the new world he is building for you.

He has already lost his country. Don't make him lose you too.

Pantalone:

Although he would ardently disagree if you ever voiced this sentiment aloud to Pantalone, it’s abundantly clear to anyone who spends enough time with him, that behind the façade of wealth and opulence lies a mere man who fears as all mortals do. His unyielding grip on his possessions (yourself included), his obsession with the acquisition of wealth, his constant need to take and take, stripping those around him of all they have to give.

He loves you deeply, with passion he was unaware he could muster for anything besides the acquisition of mora. The gleam of a coin seems dim when compared to the light in your smile. How could he not desire you?

Pantalone has always been a greedy man, his impoverished upbringing teaching him the necessity of clutching what you value close to your chest lest someone steal it from you. He has applied that value to everything of note throughout his life, how could you expect him to behave when he is presented with such unbridled feelings of love. Merely being in your presence overwhelms him with feelings he had believed himself immune to. Being so overtaken with devotion combined with the utter bewilderment these newfound emotions have caused, can you truly fault him for returning to his nature? Possession is the lifeblood of this banker. 

He really doesn’t understand your complaints about your situation. He views life in a strictly logical lens that persists in all facets, even those that can be distinctly irrational, such as matters of the heart. In his eyes all relationships are transactions, whether that be an exchange of vows in return for love and attention or a traditional arranged marriage for social or financial benefits. 

To Pantalone, transactions are the basis of all relationships so when you gift him something so precious, the fluttering of butterflies that tickle the inside of his ribcage until he's dry retching to try and get them out.

You also provide him with an endless amount of entertainment. While he rereads the last night's financial reports, trying to figure out how Dottore seems to have a magical ability to make funding disappear, he turns his attention to you. how would your soft lips would look painted petal-pink? or perhaps a deep ruby-red would be more suitable? his mind once again diverts itself, now wondering how that ruby lipstick might look smudged across both your faces.

In return for the joy and fulfilment you have brought into his world, he believes it’s only fair he finishes the transaction - he will not have it said that Pantalone does not pay his debts - he showers you in riches beyond belief, never in your life had you seen such absurd displays of wealth. Whether you grew up like him in the dregs of society or you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, the degree at which he showers you in gifts is unlike anything you’ve seen before. Every morning a new gown is laid on your bed, within the first year of your marriage, your sixth walk-in wardrobe was already overflowing. Every evening when he returns from work he is carrying a box with a deep purple ribbon wrapped around it, inside will sit a pair of diamond drop earrings, or a ruby encrusted bangle or a lustrous pearl necklace. Whatever he thinks will grant you joy. You’re sure the jewellers and seamstresses of Snezhnaya must think of him as their own personal archon. 

However, due to his spoiling of you, he feels it is his right to dismiss any and all complaints you make, he will insist that he has spoiled you too much and that you should be thankful he is kind enough to shield you from the horrors of this world, you couldn’t hope to understand how hard life can be so keep your pretty mouth shut and stop whining. Then he begins to muse aloud that perhaps a break from his generosity will remind you how lucky you are but you know that these are always empty threats as the following morning a familiar smile rests upon his lips as he presents you with yet another gift. 

Once Pantalone has his hands on you, prepare to be infantilised to a fatuous extent. Every task is seen to by someone else, sometimes it feels like he doesn't even want you to think. You thought the spouses of powerful men were supposed to manage their estates and households but he merely chuckles when you bring up the prospect.

”Don’t fret over such a thing, I already have someone seeing to something as menial as what we will have for dinner or the garden renovations”

If you ask for books he might acquiesce (should he deem the content appropriate), after all he does adore gifting you things, seeing that smile blossom across your face makes his breath pick up. Of course he won’t permit you to read them yourself lest you get a paper cut. Don’t he will read it out loud for you.

There is a task force of maids that assist you in everything from dressing to bathing to writing. He has someone assigned to do each task for you. At first it was pleasant to live without agonising over such small decisions and worries, however after a week of being completely robbed of your autonomy can be disastrous to the mind. It took hours of protest for him to finally acquiesce on anything and even that victory was minimal (On the plus side you are now allowed to feed yourself).

You’re sure he would assign someone to breathe for you if he could. He strips the joy out of the simple pleasures of life:

playing instruments: “oh there’s no need for such a thing, if you want music then ill hire you your own orchestra but you don’t need to lower yourself, you’re not some travelling bard, besides you might get callouses if you play too often” Gardening: “My darling what joy could you possibly find in digging around in the dirt? Tell me what flowers you wish to see boom and I will see it done. Any flower you wish, if it’s not suited for the Snezhnayan climate then I’ll simply have to build you a greenhouse” Baking:  “My treasure, I’ve hired the finest pastry chef in Teyvat, simply tell him what you desire and he’ll make it. I don’t want you hurting yourself nor do I want you skulking about in the kitchens where the maids work, what would people think?”

They have all been stripped from you. You can only understand yourself in relation to your husband. Any aspect of yourself that he has not personally cultivated shall be discarded. At first you felt as though he treated you like a beloved, exotic pet yet even that would attribute you too much agency. Day by day, you feel yourself become more like Pantalone’s doll than a human being, and that is just the way he likes it.

Scaramouche:

When you call him cruel he cannot help but burst into uncharacteristic laughter, vomiting up hysteric giggles bursting. He has known no being that has inflicted such suffering upon the puppet as you and yet he must endure your accusations and criticisms at every turn.

You have wronged him. Not the other way around.

Perhaps it is some form of cosmic irony. For centuries now, the balladeer has steeled his resolve to scrub away every last trace of human emotion and rid each and every illusion of frailty and softness. To finally become the emotionless weapon that Ei had desired of him only to turn the blade back upon her. His centuries long façade had become so convincing that even he had forgot the pangs of emotion within his hollow chest. Until you. Crashing into his core like a bull in a china shop, demolishing his hard work, undermining his pretence and stripping away his layers of armour until you hold the squishy parts that had been hidden away since he was kabukimono. 

You grasp at the fabric of his already unravelling psyche and start pulling at the threads without regard, completely ignorant of the turmoil you’ve thrust upon him.

To have his living, breathing punishment - the root cause of the violating feeling that now sits curdling in his chest - look into his eyes and whimper and wail about his cruelty and inhumanity.

Somehow, although he doesn't quite know how, you’ve cast some spell on him to fan the smouldering embers of tenderness that had died with that little boy in Tatarasuna and when you aren’t within arms reach, despite his puppet form having no need for oxygen he finds himself gasping for it nonetheless.

For a short while after these feelings arose he contemplated just killing you to rid himself of this sickness that has crept throughout him and enveloped his body and soul yet he couldn't bring himself to do it. Fury festered in each and every corner of his mind at the mere idea of you spending a second in the embrace of another, even if its is the soft dirt beneath his sandalled feet.

This train of thought steels his resolve. He will keep you close, grasped in a tight fist but he must ensure you remain unaware of any power you might wield over him.

The one trait about humans that he can appreciate is their self-deprecation. They are well aware of their weakness when faced with the insurmountable power of the divine. If you, a mewling wretch of a person are able to wield control over him then, does that not make him weak by association. 

He remembers all to well what happened the last time he was weak. He was cast away like the broken doll he is.

He will not allow himself to be cast away once more, least of all by you. 

Scream. Cry. Beg. His judgement on this matter is sempiternal. 

He is not daft. He sees the irony in turning you into his very own doll. He relishes in the sick feeling of satisfaction he gains seeing you bound up in a restrictive kimono, chuckling darkly as you stumble in the geta sandals he had commissioned just to watch you hobble.

Relax, he won't hurt you unless you deserve it. The issue lies in the fact that he has a very liberal perception of what a punishable offence constitutes. 

You are his now. No man can give you “'til death do us part” quite like the immortal scion of the electro archon. If you value your own safety and the safety of those you treasure, you will not bother Scaramouche with such inconsequential quibbles such as ‘missing your family.’ He can give you the world so stop whining.

He has granted you a life of insurmountable wealth with more mora than you could count in a lifetime, as well as his protection and affections so wipe your eyes and grit your teeth. You do know how he despises the sight of tears.

Dottore:

Dottore lives within a precarious balance. He exists in a stasis. He is simultaneously too aware of the intimacies and failings of humanity on both a cosmic and personal scale yet he is also similarly detached from the day to day lives, feelings and fears of people. He has long since scraped away his humanity in order to transcend into the being he always knew he could become.

Zandik is a name that has been since lost to time. He has always considered himself elevated above his fellow humans. Even as a young boy he understood that within him existed a profound desire to consume all knowledge and wisdom he could. As he blossomed into his teenage years he did not long for the tender embrace of a lover or hot breath against his ear. Instead he craved mastery over his studies and comprehension of all aspects of Teyvat. His deepest desire was to lose himself in the endless pursuit of knowledge rather than in the heated embrace of a lover. Until you came along.

You did not kill him, you never even laid a hand on him but somehow you committed a far more grievous crime. Crueler than murder. You unmade him. You wrapped your fingers around the very core of his being, the most tender and true parts of himself, the very essence of his nature and… your weak, puny hands tightened with all the strength your delicate mortal body could exert and you tightened your fist until he was crushed into naught but a handful of sand in your fist. Then you dusted your hands of him and presumed to move on as though the destruction of the second harbinger's personhood was naught but an trifle or a brief amusement to you. Such a cruel master he has found himself besotted with.

Now you leave him floundering. For the first time in centuries Zandik feels well and truly out of his depth. Never before did he have to deal with these sticky, sentimental emotions that have come to plague him.

He has taken to wandering aimlessly through the gardens of Zapolyarny palace, gazing up at the blinding mid-morning sun until his eyes felt as though they might beat out of his skill from the agony of staring ceaselessly. Perhaps the excruciating thumping in his eyeballs might distract him, if only for a moment from the thumping in his chest but it never lasts. Even if the sun managed to blind him, Dottore was beyond certain that your face would become a permanent fixture in his minds eye.

What are you thinking? What made you think that? Who are you thinking of right now? Is it him? Do you think of him as he does of you? Do you also wonder what he would look like spliced by a scalpel and laid out on an operating table for you to ravage? He could show you if you begged sweetly enough, but only if he gets to cut you open too. Don’t worry, it wouldn’t do to have his favourite specimen of study to die before he can reap every last fact and thought, until he can predict everything you feel and think better than he can his own. He will ensure you are unharmed from his experiments, if only to feel the warm, wet, pulsating heat of your heart thump within his hands. He can picture it now. Even with the blinding light of the sun, he can see it clear as day, he thinks he might even be able to taste it. If he took a bite out of your heart he thinks - no… he knows, it would burst into his mouth like a sunrise. He wonders if that would restore equilibrium. It would only be fair. You have consumed his heart wholly, surely it would only be just to return the favour…

If he acts upon his new feelings, Dottore is undeniably the cruellest of the harbingers. Not because he reviles you. Not at all. He treasures you. He prides himself on being a researcher and you have opened a whole new aspect of the human condition for him to explore and understand on a personal level, allowing him to understand attraction and affection from beyond the yellowed pages of a vahumana textbook. Truly he harbours no bitterness towards you, if you caught him at the right time he might even think that he loves you. Please believe him when he says it. He stands to gain nothing by deceiving you, he only desires to reach as deeply within you as he can - physically and mentally. Cover him in tears or viscera, it matters not to him, for the second harbinger is a close acquaintance to both, them being gore and fluids belonging to you only adds to the sweetness.

Even once he has carved you up and put you back together again, once he, once he has cut you open and squeezed and released your lungs - a sick grin falling across his face as he soaks in the high of each of your breaths being granted by his will alone -, once he has every tendon and blood vessel mapped and when he sits in the quiet and swears he can hear the gentle thumping of your pulse - he will not rid himself of you, even once he feels he has exhausted you of all knowledge. 

That simply means it's time to ask some of his other segments for ideas.

Worst

A/N: i promise one day i will write something cute for Dottore, i do love him really. I ask you forgive any grammatical errors, i promised myself i would post this last night so i've just stayed up and hustled because its not morning unless i got to bed, trust me!!

[purrsoma]

hi question do u write for mha if so what characters slurrpeprp

also! thinking about husband dottore who loves you so dearly who makes the other fatui members jealous because he fucks you sooo good and they could never :(

i’m sowwy i’ve never seen mha :( i hope this makes up for it sweet dolly mwah

dottore’s sweet little wife is well known among the harbingers. it’s often that she’s seen walking about the palace with him and accompanying him on whatever excursion he’s attending next, decked out in classy coats and refined jewelry that speak of both adoration and ownership.

scaramouche seethes in utter jealousy every time your moans ring throughout the labs. it’s like the doctor enjoys getting him worked up before a procedure - scaramouche is just left strapped to a table and waiting while his ‘caretaker’ handles his so called ‘loose ends’ before getting to work. every pitch of your voice and cry of il dottore’s name make scaramouche’s stomach twist in jealousy, so much that it’s covered in white by the time the doctor actually makes it down to the exam table <3

arlechinno thinks it is beyond crude to have you beneath the desk while she’s simply trying to keep il dottore up to date on recent events, though her fist clenches behind her back almost as tight as her teeth. the idea of your sweet tongue pressed against her clit under her own desk almost made her panties soaked where she stood - if arlechinno really strained to listen past dottore’s arrogant voice, she could hear your choked gargles around his thick cock. how lucky he was to have such an obedient little wife on her knees for so long. heaven forbid the doctor ever leave her needy for a moment too long.

capitano can’t help but steal glances at you from under his mask every time he makes his way down to the labs for his medication. he’s as gentlemanly and polite as they come, always regarding you with the pleasantries of a soldier - but the heat in his voice always carried a palpable sense of lust. dottore most definitely noted it, but maybe he just liked seeing you squirm around the undeniable mass that was the first harbinger. the doctor never corrected his single superior, knowing that at the end of the day it was him who made you come undone. capitano never seemed to cross that line, either, his desire never daring to bridge past the low rumble in his larger than life chest.

signora sneers whenever she sees you dangling off of dottore’s arm, dark red lip curling in disgust. how could such a vile creature like the doctor claim such a sweet lamb like you? it was like watching a wolf shred carnage upon grass every time he dragged you onto his lap in the middle of a meeting. how infuriating it was to watch him flaunt you so unashamedly, and how humiliating it was that she wanted to watch it happen. she wanted to find out what about il dottore was so special and why you would choose him over her - was it his deft fingers that peeled you apart, or his sickeningly saccharine words that keep your head stuffed with lies? it was often signora had to remove herself from the room when it came to you two, unable to trust herself to keep her hands at her sides.

pantalone knew the doctor’s hold on you was too tight to even dream of undoing, but that wouldn’t stop him from being a sleaze. sure, his colleague would forever be the one to call you his and would forever have the right to undo you as he pleased, but in pantalone’s books? you were as good as his. all he needed was one lapse in judgement from the second harbinger. one expensive mistake, maybe an experiment gone wrong or a mission under his name that just happened to be sabotaged. all pantalone needed to brand his name on you was a debt, then you would realize how much of a husband you were missing.

bonus; tartaglia who all but begs to fuck you, day and night. unashamedly confident and cocky, the young harbinger basically threw himself at you any chance he could get, presence of the doctor be damned. why was it that every single one of his coworkers be so utterly debauched? were they all so dense as to not understand the devotion of a vow? one needless press from the eleventh was too much for dottore and he finally snapped. seems to be tartaglia is easily restrained when prompted, though the eleventh is much more unhappy with his situation when the doctor starts pounding you in front of him. his pleas from earlier turn desperate and even more annoying, but dottore can drown these ones out easier with your pretty moans to help!! <3

[arluene7688]

When they drop the bomb,

I’m gonna love you all day

What do the Harbingers do when they know the both of you are about to die, with nothing they can do?

Sorry guys I’m in a melancholic mood hehe 🤪

Can you tell who’s my fave just from this lol

0- The Jester

Pierro embraces you the way he did five hundred years ago.

Long ago, you had planned this. Planned the way you would go out together.

You would both share any final regrets, secrets, and grievances you had left unsaid.

For the two of you, burdened by immortality, this is a farewell to the world long overdue.

But when the day comes, The Jester, the formidable director of the Fatui, is unable to find it in himself to remain stoic and composed.

He embraces you, and this time he knows it will be the final one.

1- The Captain

Capitano, no, Thrain, weeps.

He weeps not for himself, but for you, you who had yet to see the flowers of the next spring, you who had yet to see one’s own child grow.

As he holds you, he will let himself be comforted. For once in his life, he allows himself vulnerability.

And as it ends, you wipe the tears from his rotted face and tell him how beautiful he is.

2- The Doctor

Zandik fights until it is too late.

Il Dottore is a heretic, and a defier of fate. He spends what could have been his final moments with you studying, searching, and resisting.

Zandik, yet to profess his love to anyone, Zandik, yet to call someone his own, oh, Zandik.

And, when he finally realises that there is nothing he can do, he looks back at your face and realises it is too late.

3- The Damslette

Columbina holds you and sings a lament to the moon.

She sings a final lullaby to send off the world, softening the end with gentle sleep.

She strokes your cheek, allowing her eyes to open at last.

And as a single tear falls down her face, she gasps as she witnesses the world’s, and your beauty for the first and final time.

4- The Knave

When the time comes, Peruere softens and allows weakness into the House of the Hearth.

Arlecchino sends the children for a day off, allowing candy and muddy boots in bedrooms.

She will gather you and the children, and read a storybook for them all, no matter their age.

She couldn’t bring herself to tell the children.

So, as she allows herself one final moment of softness, she tells the children how much she loves them, and she closes her eyes for the last time in your embrace.

5- The Rooster

Together with you, Pulcinella will reminisce.

He will sit with you in front of the fire, leafing through old diaries, photo albums, letters.

You will laugh together, weep together, and sit close like teenagers in love.

You’ll speak about what comes next, in your next life, and as always, it’s always together, the both of you together.

You’ll hold his hand and giggle at photos until it all ends.

6- The Balladeer

Scaramouche will allow himself to be held, and allow himself fear.

Long ago, Scaramouche hid away the part of him called Kunikuzushi. With it, he hid his fear, and there it had stayed.

Now, in your arms, he feels fear. And he allows it. He knows you fear too. But, he knows as well, that you hide it for him.

And you hide it well.

You sing him that simple Inazuman rhyme that mothers sing to children at bedtime. Kunikuzushi allows himself tears.

7- The Marionette

Sandrone feels warmth for the last time.

In her cold, unfeeling body, Sandrone has kept herself the same. Cold, unfeeling and unpleasant to all.

So why, did you allow this puppet to feel what was reserved for humanity?

She had just begun to cherish this feeling in her chest, a warmth not unlike what a true heart might be.

And now, she holds onto that warmth until the very end.

8- The Fair Lady

Rosalyne was not allowed her own goodbyes before. She will hold onto this one for as long as she can, despite the pain stabbing her fingers.

Signora will draw out her final moments with you for as long as possible. She will speak out loud every thought she has on you, listing everything she loves about you, and everything she wishes she could have done with you.

She may hold regrets from her past, but she will not allow the past to create regrets in the present.

She will hold you to her burning heart, and kiss you as the world is set on fire.

9- The Regrator

Pantalone will set it all aside, and sit with you by a river.

Pantalone will enjoy the sound of running water, the feeling of grass under his hands, the taste of you on his lips.

He will remember the times spent at this very spot before it all, before the Mora, the status, the pain.

You will smile at him with that dazzle in your eyes like you always have, and he will feel like a boy again.

10- ???

They wish they could be by your side, one last time.

11- Childe

Ajax will bring you to meet his family.

Watching you play with his siblings, Tartaglia wishes he could see the family you could have had together. He wishes he could see a child of his own grow without troubles. He wishes he could grow old with you, without the fighting, and the Fatui.

So instead, he’ll settle with popping up behind you and surprising you, laughing with his brothers and sisters while you scold him, pretending to be a happy family.

He will enjoy the last of what he owns.

[lair-of-platonic-yanderes]

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.

[wri0thesley]

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.