elise ♡

You’ve been stressed recently. Towers of files kept appearing on your desk, and it seemed as if the piles kept growing, despite your constant work. By this point, you’ve used three bottles of ink in the past two days, and you can’t remember the last time you ate or drank anything other than coffee or some other caffeinated drink. You minded, of course you did, but what other choice did you have? You were given a deadline, and you had to adhere to it.

The ink on your paperwork was starting to blur. You wondered if it was because it had smudged, but no. It was because your eyes had been burning for the last hour, strained from staring at the same stupid report as if glaring at it hard enough would make the numbers rearrange themselves into something more reasonable. Numbers had never truly been your strong suit, you were much better at other things. You took a breath, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes hard enough to see shapes in the hopes it made your exhaustion disappear.

It didn’t. Your shoulders ached. Your neck was stiff. Your hands felt like they didn’t belong to you anymore. If anything, you’re starting to wonder if you’re even real. Everything is moving in slow motion, and it’s so overwhelming, you can barely breathe. Outside your office window, the evening sky had turned a bruised purple, the last of the daylight bleeding away behind the buildings of Fontaine. The streets below were quieter now, and usually you’d take a break to open the window, gaze out and appreciate the smell of seawater and pastries. You can’t. Not when your desk looked like a disaster zone and your deadline was approaching quicker than you could comprehend.

You look around your office, exhaling quietly as your arm reaches to turn on the lamp. You pick up your pen again, swallowing as you vow to finish this stack by the time the clock hits midnight. Then, you could sleep. Just a couple of hours, but sleep nonetheless.

You are interrupted by a knock at the door, a short rapping sound that drags you out of your stupor. You flinch so hard the pen slips from your fingers, clattering onto the floor. You curse quietly, shaking your head.

“What?” You call, clearly exasperated.

Arlecchino stands in your doorway as though she knows exactly how long you’ve been in there. Her heels click softly against the floor as she stepped inside, her coat pristine, her posture flawless. It’s fucking obnoxious, you think. She doesn’t even need that coat when she has fire coursing through her veins, and it irritates you irrationally every time you see it. You feel your face contort into some sort of annoyed expression before you force it into neutrality.

Her gaze sweeps over you in one slow, deliberate motion. The tensing of your shoulders, the set of your jaw, the way your hands were still trembling slightly as you tried to look composed. Then her eyes flick to the mountain of paperwork on your desk, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Working late,” she hums, almost amused. “Again.”

Your throat tightens, and you sigh.

“Someone has to.”

Arlecchino’s expression doesn’t change, it so rarely does, but something in her eyes sharpens. That cold, wolfish focus that made most people instinctively straighten their backs. You wish you were relaxed enough to be stressed by her, but her wrath seems milder than what will happen if you don’t reach this deadline.

She walks closer, unhurried. The sound of her footsteps was maddeningly calm, like she had all the time in the world. You’re sure she’s finished with her work, her only job to go back to the orphanage and make sure each child was in bed. Quite frankly, her calmness pisses you off. She’s always liked to irritate you, and half the time it feels like she knows exactly what buttons to push.

She stops at the edge of your desk and rests two dark fingers lightly against one of the documents, tilting it just enough to read the header. Then she hums, unimpressed.

“This is what’s keeping you here?”

You let out a tired laugh, though it comes out more bitter than amused. “Apparently.” Your voice cracks on the last word, and you clear your throat in an attempt to hide it, but she notices. Of course she did.

Her gaze shifts back to you, lingering this time, just watching.

You swallow hard, forcing words out of your mouth. “What are you doing here?”

Arlecchino’s lips curve, but it wasn’t quite a smile. You’re unsure if you’ve ever seen her smile.

“I came to retrieve something,” she says smoothly.

Your brows furrow. This is your office. What on earth would be in here? “Retrieve… what?”

She leaned forward, just slightly, and her shadow fell across your desk.

“I needed to retrieve something from my office, and upon leaving, I saw a light turn on in here. I was merely curious as to what my dear colleague could be doing at such an hour. Surely not more paperwork? Perhaps another secret lover? Was I not satisfactory, or are you just a whore? I had to know.”

For a moment, you could only stare at her, frozen between disbelief and the sudden, traitorous warmth spreading through your chest. The nerve she has to say such a thing with a straight face.

“That’s—” You shake your head so hard you get dizzy. “That’s not funny.”

Arlecchino tilted her head, her pale hair shifting over her shoulder.

“When have I ever engaged in jokes?”

The words hit you hard. You should be offended. You should be angry at the way she’s speaking about this so casually. You hadn’t engaged in anything with her in days, weeks, even. But instead, your tired body betrayed you with the smallest inhale, your breath catching as your stomach warms and twists at her words.

You grip the edge of your desk, trying to anchor yourself. “I am not a whore.”

Arlecchino stares at you for a long moment, before her hand brushes your cheek, so gentle it feels wrong coming from someone like her.

“No?” she murmurs. “I would beg to differ. If my memory serves correctly, the last time we were in your office at this time of evening, you were most definitely acting like one.”

“I don’t recall.”

Arlecchino’s eyes narrow.

“You’re lying.”

You hate that she does this to you. You hate that you melt into her so easily. You hate even more that you want to let her take over the way you know she wants, but the paperwork isn’t going to fill itself out.

“I can’t. The paperwork, I can’t stop,” you say quietly, voice trembling. “If I stop, everything falls behind and then—then it gets worse. I just need to finish this and—”

And suddenly, the dam inside you breaks, tears filling your eyes.

You squeeze your eyes shut, furious with yourself as you feel the moisture gather at the corners. “I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I don’t know why I’m—”

A soft sound leaves Arlecchino, almost like a sigh.

“Do not. You know how I feel about sorrow. It makes you waver, but you have always been a sensitive one.”

Your chest tightens painfully. You laugh weakly, a stupid attempt to hide whatever emotion you feel, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “I’m not even doing a good job.”

Arlecchino’s hand slides down, her fingers wrapping around your wrist, stopping your frantic wiping.

“Enough,” she says, but not harshly. Then she straightens, and you think she might leave. It wouldn’t be the first time. She really does not do well with emotions beyond arousal. Instead, her hands work on the buttons of her coat. She walks to hang it up on the wooden coat hanger you have by the door.

“Stand up,” she orders softly.

Your lips part. “Arlecchino—”

“Stand up,” she repeats. “Are you suddenly hard of hearing?”

Your body moves before your mind can catch up.

You rise from your chair unsteadily, legs aching from sitting too long, and her charred hands slide to your waist, steadying you effortlessly.

“You cannot complete anything while you are this tense. You are simply thinking too much. I can fix that.”

Your brows knit. It’s tempting, has your stomach flipping, but…

“I can’t. I have work to—”

Arlecchino’s gaze flicks toward the papers, then back at you.

“I wasn’t asking.”

“You can’t just—”

“I can,” she interrupts, calm as ever. “And you are going to let me. You know what to say if you don’t want it.”

She has you there. A word you once agreed upon when things started getting serious. You would say it if you really didn’t want to. And yet, you avoid it.

“Arlecchino,” you warn, your voice shaky. “I’m serious.”

“Oh, as am I,” she murmurs. “That’s the problem, is it not?”

Her other hand reaches past you, effortlessly plucking the document you’d been working on from the desk. You open your mouth to protest, but her eyes are already moving, scanning it quickly. Her expression stays unreadable, but she scoffs quietly, giving you an incredulous look as if to question if your stress this past week has truly been necessary, as if to say that a document this easy is a pathetic thing to be upset over. Your cheeks heat, and you stammer out an argument.

“It isn’t just that. Stop looking at me like that. It’s everything, it has been weeks of–”

She raises her hand, and your voice halts immediately. Satisfaction glints in her eyes and it hits you. You obeyed. Her eyes flicker to your parted lips for a second, then back up to your eyes, her lips quirking into something almost amused.

“Good girl.” She hums, and you gasp, stomach twisting with that familiar heat.

“Don’t—don’t say things like that. You can’t.”

Arlecchino steps closer, the space between you both practically gone by now. She’s so close that you can smell her perfume, expensive and elegant, just as you expected. Her fingers lift your chin, not gently, but not cruelly either. It makes your mind go blank.

“Cute,” she whispers, her head tilting. Her thumb swipes against your cheek, brushing against your lower lashline. “Tell me the word.”

Your throat tightens, and your breath catches.

“Now.”

Arlecchino’s gaze sharpens. Then, she leans down close enough that your lips brush for a second, her breath tickling. Her hand, calloused from countless fights, slides from your cheek to your chin, downwards. Slowly, deliberately, until her fingers rested on each side of your throat.

“Peaches. Peach. Either one.” You manage to get out, your voice so hoarse it sounds as if you haven’t spoken for days.

“Ah,” she murmurs, almost pleased. “There it is. You do remember. Wonderful. I was becoming concerned for that ever perfect memory of yours.”

“Arlecchino…” you almost whine. Her name sounds different on your tongue now, softer, needier.

“What is it?”

You can’t bring yourself to respond right away. You catch her eyes, and your eyebrows furrow. Her fingers slide down your arm, then catches your wrist.

“Speak.”

“Hit me.”

She raises an eyebrow, not because of the request. She has done it before with you, multiple times. She’s surprised at the sheer want in your voice. It almost makes her chuckle. It would have already made her chuckle, if she wasn’t so strangely attached to you. She gives you a moment to back out before her hand drops your wrist and moves upwards, her palm making contact with your cheek harshly, the sound echoing through the dimly lit room. You gasp, breath escaping you and your head spins before you let out a disbelieving laugh. Arlecchino watches your reaction with a quiet intensity. For a second, she wonders if she hit too hard before she sees your shoulders slightly relax.

“Feel that?” she asks, and you nod before you can stop yourself. Arlecchino leans down, lips brushing your temple before she tilts your head up, your lips meeting hers. For what just happened, the kiss is soft, about as soft as she can get. Her mouth drifts lower to the corner of your jaw, and she peppers kisses along your neck, smiling the smallest bit at your gasps and the way your hands wrap around her neck. When your knees grow weak, she moves her body so she can lift you onto the desk, her fingers nimbly moving the stacks of paperwork long forgotten.

“Suddenly,” she whispers, her voice a breath against your skin, “I find myself very interested in what makes you fall apart. I already know, of course, but I like testing it out again and again.”

“Please stop talking,” Your fingers curl against her coat, gripping it like you need something solid. “Just keep going.”

Arlecchino stills. Not because she’s unsure of what to do, she’s never been unsure a day in her life, not unless you count the day her beloved friend died, but because of the way you said it.

You weren’t rude or upset. Just desperate, like you were hanging off the edge of something and this was the only thing keeping you somewhat sane.

Her gaze drags over your face, your lips, your half-lidded eyes. Then she hums, amused.

“Keep going?” She repeats softly. Her hands brace on either side of you on the desk, trapping you in effortlessly. You can feel the heat of her body, the weight of her presence. The air feels too thick to breathe. “You’re usually better at pretending.”

Her fingers slide up your thigh, slow, almost thoughtful before stopping, squeezing once, firm enough to make you inhale sharply.

“Are you begging?”

Your breath shudders out of you, and despite your best efforts, you nod gently. Arlecchino’s mouth curls, satisfied, and she leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips.

“You work yourself to the bone,” she whispers, voice low, “and then you come to me and ask for pain like it’s the only thing that makes you feel real.”

Her teeth graze your jaw.

Your body reacts immediately, arching into her like a reflex. Arlecchino chuckles under her breath, condescending.

“Pathetic,” she murmurs.

The word should sting. Instead it makes your stomach twist pleasantly, your hands tightening on her shoulders as if you’re afraid she’ll pull away. It’s embarrassing how words so insulting make you feel this way. Her eyes flick up to yours.

“Look at me,” she orders. You do. Her expression is calm, but her gaze is sharp and possessive, like she’s memorizing you in this moment. Like she wants to make sure you don’t forget who put you back together when the world tore you apart. You’re not sure you could forget if you tried.

Her hand comes up again, and she brushes her thumb over the faint warmth still blooming on your cheek from the slap.

“You needed that,” she murmurs. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Say it properly.”

“I needed you to,” you admit, voice trembling. You’re embarrassed at how your voice is trembling, but you can’t stop it.

“Tell me,” she whispers, “did you behave today?”

You blink, trying to gather your thoughts. “What…?”

Her nails dig lightly into your thigh. It hurts, just barely.

“At work,” she clarifies. “Did you do what you were told? Did you smile when you were supposed to? Did you sit there and let them pile responsibility on you until you couldn’t breathe?”

Your chest tightens. You hate how accurately she describes it. You wonder how she’s able to read you so well, and it begins to irritate you again until—

“Good girl.”

The praise hits you harder than the slap did. Or maybe it was the mix of the two. Your head tips forward slightly, like your body is giving up on holding itself together.

“Such a perfect little thing,” Arlecchino murmurs. “So desperate to be useful. You’re shaking again,”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re not helping, are you?”

“Be quiet. I am helping exactly the way you want.”

Her gaze flicks down, to the mess of paperwork scattered across the desk, then back to you.

“You were drowning in this,” she says. “Stressing yourself sick.” You can’t tell if she’s making fun of you or not. Her hand moves, pushing the remaining documents aside with a single sweep, uncaring where they land.

“You don’t need to think anymore.”

Your eyes flutter. You don’t answer. You weren’t sure if you can. Arlecchino’s lips trail down your throat again, slow and deliberate, and you tilt your head back instinctively to give her more access. Your hands find her shoulders, then her hair, gripping gently. Her breath warms your skin. She pauses at a spot just beneath your ear, then bites. Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make you gasp, hips jolting forward before you can stop yourself.

Arlecchino pulls back just to watch your face. “Ah,” she murmurs, voice dark with satisfaction. “Liked that, did you?”

You whimper, eyes glassy. “Arlecchino…” you breathe again, like her name is the only prayer you know. She presses her forehead against yours.

“Tell me what you want,” she says softly. “Use your words.”

You shake your head, pathetic and overwhelmed, your fingers twisting into her coat like you’re trying to keep yourself from breaking into pieces. “I want you,” you whisper.

Arlecchino’s eyes roll before she sighs.

“That’s not specific.”

You swallow, voice barely holding together.

“I want… fuck. I want you to make me stop thinking.”

For a moment, she just stares. “Finally,” she murmurs. “An honest answer.”

Her hand moves to your jaw, tilting your face toward hers. “Then listen carefully,” she says. “You don’t get to be in control tonight.”

Arlecchino’s gaze flicks over you like she’s taking inventory—every trembling breath, every twitch, every little sign of how badly you need this. “And if you try,” she continues, “I’ll remind you why you’re letting me do this in the first place.”

You nod quickly, almost frantic. “Yes—”

Arlecchino clicks her tongue. “Careful,” she warns, voice sweet and cruel all at once. “Don’t rush.”

She leans in, kisses you once, slow and punishing, deep enough to make your mind go blank. When she pulls away, your lips part as you try to chase her. Arlecchino’s hand grabs your chin.

“No,” she says softly. Your eyes widen in confusion, and your lips part to speak before she cuts you off. “You’ll wait.”

You whine quietly, the sound embarrassing, but Arlecchino looks like she could live off it.

“Now tell me.” Her fingers tighten at your thigh, grounding you. “Do you want another?”

Your breath trembles, and you nod. You’re so embarrassed but you don’t think you can care, you don’t think you say the word that’ll make it stop because unfortunately, you do want it. The sting is the only thing that makes the pressure in your chest finally loosen. Arlecchino’s eyes soften with something like approval.

“That’s what I thought.”

Her hand lifts, and this time, her palm lands again, harder. It’s sharper, more deliberate. The sound echoes through the room, swallowed quickly by the dim silence.You gasp, fingers digging into her shoulders as your body jolts. Your cheek burns and your skin buzzes and you’re almost certain you’ll have a bruise in the morning.

“Good,” she murmurs, voice low. “You take it so well.”

She kisses you again, lips move against yours with maddening control, as if she’s tasting the desperation off your tongue and savoring it. You whimper into the kiss before you can stop yourself, and Arlecchino makes a sound that could almost be a laugh, but she’s losing her self control. Her hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer until you’re practically in her lap despite being perched on the desk. The heat of her body presses into yours, and it’s almost too much. Arlecchino’s fingers trail up your side, under your collar, brushing the sensitive skin there with deliberate slowness.

“Be good.”

You nod quickly, too far gone to even think about much anymore. You’re throbbing and she knows it, you know it, it’s so obvious it’s painful.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, ma’am,” you manage, voice trembling.

For a split second, something dark and satisfied flashes across her face.

“Good dog,” she whispers, and you inhale sharply, fingers clenching onto her shirt as if you can’t anchor yourself any other way. Her hands slide down your thighs, spreading them slightly. She pulls back to look at you, her expression unreadable as her hand slides up your thigh, under your skirt, past the fabric of your underwear before raising an eyebrow at what she finds.

“Tell me,” she says softly. “Do you want to be taken care of?”

“Yes.”

She hums.

“You’re so needy when you’re tired and stressed.” she murmurs, amused. Your skin feels like it’s on fire everywhere she touches.

“You’re going to behave,” she says. “You’re going to stay right here on this desk. I’m going to make you cum and I am going to hurt you until I am done with you or until you say the right word. Do you understand?”

Your head tips back, and soft, broken sound escapes you. Arlecchino pauses at that sound, eyes flicking up to watch your face as her fingers start moving in the way she’s learned you like, small, repetitive circles.

“I hate you,” you groan softly, your head falling forward into her shoulder.

“I hate you, as well.”

Your hands clutch her shoulders, nails scraping lightly over her shirt, and she responds immediately, pressing closer, caging you in with her body.

“You’re going to tell me when you can’t take it.”

“I can’t take it,” you whisper, so overwhelmed that your chest is heaving, small whimpers leaving your mouth with every breath.

Arlecchino’s eyes widen just slightly, and her expression softens in a way that makes your heart stumble.

“Already?” she says, amused, but there’s something warm beneath it. Her hand slides down, over your collarbone, over the fabric of your blouse. Her fingers pause at the first button, and she looks at you as if she’s waiting for permission, though she doesn’t truly need it.

“You’re overdressed,” she says. Her fingers begin to undo the buttons one by one, unhurried. Each click of the fabric coming free feels louder than it should in the quiet room.

The cool air hits your skin as she parts the blouse open, and you shiver.

Arlecchino’s gaze flicks up immediately. “Cold?” She teases, causing a glare from you. At that, she slides two of her fingers inside of you, and you let out a breathy sound, your hands clenching like you don’t know what else to do with them.

Her mouth drifts lower, down your neck and onto your chest, then your stomach, then low enough that pubic hair tickles her chin. She pauses, pulling back just enough to look at you.

“Hands,” she says simply.

You blink, dazed, taken aback.

“What?”

Arlecchino’s brows lift, expression sharpening. She’s no longer as soft as she was two minutes ago.

“On the desk.”

Your stomach flips. You hesitate, only for a second, before you place your hands behind you, palms flat on the wood, just as she told you. The movement arches your posture slightly, exposes you more. Arlecchino watches it happen, and you could swear you see her own breath catch in her chest.

“Much better.”

Her fingers slide beneath the fabric, brushing over your waist as she pulls down your underwear, ruined by now. She only raises an eyebrow, muttering something slightly degrading under her breath. She presses a kiss just above your pubic bone.

Then another. And another, moving lower. The softness of them is cruel, because you can feel the control behind every touch. Like she’s choosing exactly how fast you get to feel good. Her hands drift again, slipping the blouse off your shoulders, leaving you completely bare.

“Arlecchino, can you please just—“

“Yes,” she answers, calm and patient. Her hands move down your arms, sliding over your wrists, and then she takes them, lifting them from the desk. For a moment, you think she’s going to pin you down, but instead, she brings your hands up and places them on her shoulders.

“Hold on,” is the last thing you hear before her tongue places flat against you. Before you can respond, her mouth starts to move. Slow at first, then faster, more insistent.

You make a soft sound, and she rewards it immediately, tilting her head, pulling you closer by your hips, letting you feel everything. Her fingers, still inside of you, curl occasionally, and one of your hands moves to her hair, tugging lightly.

“There’s my good girl.”

You bite your lip hard, trying not to make noise, and Arlecchino clicks her tongue.

“Don’t do that,” she scolds softly. “I want to hear you.”

“I— I’m trying to be quiet.”

Her gaze turns sharp, almost annoyed.

“I didn’t tell you to be quiet,” she murmurs. “I told you to be good.”

Your stomach twists at the difference. Your head tilts back slightly as she continues. She doesn’t stop, even when your slight whimpers and gasps turn into moans so pornographic you pray silently to whatever god that nobody can hear you.

“Are you going to cum?” She asks, completely innocent. She makes eye contact with you, and curls her fingers again, and you lose it. You gasp sharply, body jerking. Arlecchino moves holding you in place like it’s nothing.

“Shh,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “That’s it.”

Your nails dig into her shoulder. The room spins, your thoughts dissolving into heat and sensation. Arlecchino’s voice stays low in your ear, murmuring instructions to you as you get closer to an orgasm, almost crying.

“Just like that,” she whispers. “Let go.”

Her free hand slides up your stomach, holding you steady as her touch grows more certain in the way it makes your breath stutter and your hips shift helplessly against her. You try to hold back, you really do, but it’s pointless, and you cum on her tongue and her fingers like you’ve been doing it for years.

“Such a good girl.”

You let out a shaky sound, half sob, half gasp. Arlecchino pulls back just enough to look at you. You’re slumped on the desk, chest rising and falling unevenly, skin warm, limbs heavy in that way that makes it feel impossible to remember what stress even was. Your hands are still gripping her.

Arlecchino looks down at you with that same unreadable expression she always wears, composed and distant, but she doesn’t step away. Instead, she reaches for your blouse first. She pulls the fabric back over your shoulders, straightening it as if she’s dressing a doll, not someone she just fucked to celestia and back. You watch her through half-lidded eyes, too exhausted to speak. Arlecchino re-buttons the blouse slowly, starting from the middle. Her fingers are precise, practiced. When she finishes, she smooths the fabric down your stomach, palm lingering for just a second too long.

Then she steps back. The loss of her warmth makes you shiver, and you find yourself pouting. Her eyes narrow slightly.

“Don’t get attached,” she says, voice flat. You glance at her, and understand she’s trying to keep a pretence, that she doesn’t care for people. You let out a breathy laugh, weak and dazed.

Arlecchino doesn’t smile. She turns away instead, walking to the side of the desk where your things are scattered. Papers, ink, a pen rolling near the edge. She picks the pen up and sets it neatly beside your folders. Then she gathers the paperwork into a clean stack, tapping the edges against the desk until it’s perfectly aligned.

You watch her, eyes heavy, voice quiet. “You didn’t have to clean.”

Arlecchino doesn’t look at you when she answers, and she sounds just as bored as she did when she walked in.

“Yes,” she says. “I did.”

“I’m sorry.”

Arlecchino finally looks at you. Her gaze is sharp, unimpressed.

“For what?”

You blink, lashes fluttering. You hate when she’s blunt like this. “For… being like this.”

Arlecchino steps closer again.

She stops some inches away from you, standing so near you can feel her presence even without her touching you.

Her hand reaches up, and she wipes the corner of your mouth with her thumb, expression unchanged.

“You’re not ‘like this,’” she says.

Her voice is calm, almost cold.

“You’re exhausted,” she continues. “Overworked. Underslept.”

She pauses.

Then adds, quieter, almost reluctant. She hates being seen as someone who has feelings.

“And you’re not allowed to apologize for needing relief.”

Arlecchino’s eyes linger on your face for a long moment. Then she pulls her hand away. The distance is immediate, back into place, back behind her walls.

She turns her head slightly. “Stand up.”

You blink. “What?”

Her gaze flicks to you again, impatient.

“I’m not carrying you,” she says flatly, but she holds her hand out anyway. You stare at it for a second, then take it. Her grip closes around yours instantly, helping you off the desk with ease, keeping you upright when your legs threaten to betray you. When you wobble, she clicks her tongue.

“Pathetic.”

You let out a soft laugh, leaning into her before you can stop yourself. Arlecchino catches you without hesitation, one arm around your waist. She holds you there for a moment longer than necessary. Then she speaks again, voice low.

“You’re not going back to work.”

Your brows knit, stressed all over again. “But—”

Arlecchino’s grip tightens slightly.

“No.”

The single word cuts clean through your argument.

“…Okay.”

Arlecchino’s gaze sharpens.

“That was too easy.”

You sigh, resting your forehead against her shoulder. “I don’t have the energy to fight you.”

For a moment, she says nothing.

“Good.”

You blink, pulling back slightly to look at her. Arlecchino’s expression is stoic as ever, but her eyes soften just barely, something you’ve seen only when she looks at you. She reaches into her pocket and produces a small handkerchief, immaculate, of course, (what else do you expect of her?) and presses it into your hand.

“Clean yourself up,” she orders.

“Drink water when you get back.”

“Is that you being caring?” you ask, teasingly. Arlecchino’s eyes turn to slits in irritation.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

But she reaches up anyway and fixes your collar again, smoothing it down with her thumb like she can’t help herself. Her voice drops, quieter.

“Fontaine is full of people who will take from you until there’s nothing left, and you’re the type who will smile while they do it.”

“To them,” she murmurs, “you’re useful.”

Her thumb strokes your cheek once.

“But to me…” She pauses, and you can tell she hates that she’s about to say it. “I quite like you, unfortunately, so I care greatly about your wellbeing.”

Arlecchino releases you immediately after, like she regrets the softness. She turns away, already walking toward the door.