“You didn’t tell me.”

“It is pointless.”

“Why?”

She sighs, thumping her feet on the floor in annoyance. Your petting of her head turns into soft strokes. It’s quiet for a few seconds before she rolls over again.

“I want to breed. I cannot breed. Therefore, it is pointless.”

You can’t help but smile, though you feel a little guilty for smiling when she grumbles a “why the hell is that funny?” You shake your head, apologising before you stand up and walk to your closet in the bedroom, fishing for something. You can hear her grumbling all the way from the living room, and once you finally find what you’re looking for, you come back to her. A box, wrapped in plain crimson wrapping. You bend down to her again.

“Open it, will you?”

“I apologise, love, but I am not in the mood to open gifts.”

“Trust me. Open it.”

She groans as she sits up. She knows you won’t let it go until she opens it, so she decides to humour you. She doesn’t bother with her usual opening style, clean and preserving the paper. She rips into the paper before she comes face to face with a black box. She gives you a pointed look, as if to say “really?” before she opens the box, only to find a strap on and a harness.

Her face crumpled in confusion, her eyes moving up to meet yours, your prideful smirk covering your face.

“The hell is this? My love, we have enough of these.”

“No, no. It.. it has fake cum, it’s safe to go inside of me. It’s not real, I know, but it’s the closest we’ll get. It’s already set up. You want to breed me when you’re like this. It gives you the illusion, does it not?”

She lets out a shaky breath, staring at the contents of the box before she mutters under her breath.

“I fucking love you.”

You can only chuckle in response, but it ends quickly as a gasp rips through you. She’s on top of you within seconds, sliding your shirt up and off your body, her thumbs dipping under the waistline of your shorts before roughly dragging them down. She seems to be already panting as she fumbles with the harness, staring at your flushed face below her. You hear a few clicks before you feel her slap it against you, gathering the slick that quickly developed with what sounds like an almost whimper. You can see in her eyes she wants to make you wait, that she wants to tease you until you beg her, but she’s losing all restraint. And then you breathe out a moan and she loses herself, pushing into you with no warning, causing both of you to groan in unison. Your hand clutches the carpet, murmuring to Arlecchino who is thrusting into you quickly, breathing heavily into your neck.

“We are on the floor.”

“Don’t care. Take it.”

Your body ends up moving with the force of each thrust, your noises growing louder with every minute that passes. Her thrusts are shallow and quick at first, her only noises being grunts and growls of pleasure. You can tell she’s close by the way her movements change, becoming hard and deeper than ever, her grunts turning to whines as her tail begins twitching. You feel yourself clench around her strap, and as your orgasm rides over you, the strap does exactly what it’s supposed to do. Arlecchino gasps, holding onto you as you tremble and moan. She pulls out, if only to see the ‘cum’ dripping out of you as she roughly rubs your clit with her thumb. She’s kind enough to give you some respite.

Until she starts again, grunting with increased desperation, her hips stuttering as they move without any certain rhythm, her hands pulling and keeping your thighs apart. She moves you into every position possible with each time she fills you. A mating press, your legs hooked over her shoulders, and now, on all fours, a pretty arch of your back that she has pushed you into before she moves her hand into your hair and pulls your head up roughly with a sharp tug of your hair, causing some strangled gasp to come out of your mouth. Arlecchino, being the woman that she is, pulls your head back so she can look at you as she fucks you, watching your face twist in overstimulation and pleasure as tears begin to fill your eyes. She doesn’t stop, though. You haven’t said the safe word, so why would she?

“Take it. Take my cock and have my children. You look so pretty with my cum dripping out of you. I won’t stop until I’m certain I’ve bred you well enough. Now cum. Again.”

You obey, though you can’t stop your body reactions. This time, it’s too much, as you cry out, your breath hitching as you speak the safe word. She slows down, coming to a stop. She stays inside of you for a while, her grip releasing on your hair as her face comes down to nuzzle in your neck before pulling out with a soft, wet pop. The floor is covered in the ‘cum’, and it’s dripping out of you, trailing down your trembling legs. She lays you back down on the floor, albeit the fact the floor is messy. Her hands trail up your legs, her tail still twitching as she gathers the fluid with her fingers.

Consider Arlecchino who knows you so well, she knows your cycle. She knows when you’re ovulating, when you’re needy for her. Consider that she loves to tease you, too, pretending she doesn’t notice your glances towards her fingers, or the drawer where she keeps her absurd amount of toys, just for you. Pretends she’s unaware of the way you squirm in your seat. You already know she loves saying things with a double meaning, too, making you think of things that you shouldn’t be thinking about, not in public, at least. She can’t stop the slight smirk on her face either when she makes that motion with her ring and middle fingers, giving you flashbacks of her fingers curling inside of you.

Think about the way she won’t even touch you until you’re begging. Begging her so much you practically have tears in your eyes from how needy you are. Only then will she fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked— until you see stars. And she won’t stop until you’re begging once more, though, this time, you’ll be begging to stop. You know she will, too, once she hears you beg nicely enough or say the word you both know will stop everything immediately. She likes pushing you, yes, but never past your limits.

That seems to be how you end up here, looking up at her with your bare chest almost heaving as her blackened claws trail up your leg. “Please,” you whine, your hand pathetically grabs onto her wrist, trying to move her hand to your dripping, aching cunt. Arlecchino’s response is to click her tongue, shake her head and capture both of your wrists with her one hand before firmly pinning them above your head with a murmur of “needy girl,” her eyes boring into yours. “We go at my pace, or not at all.”

She decides you’d look stunning with her favourite black ribbon tied around your wrists. So, she does just that, tying it tightly before giving a sharp tug to make sure you can’t escape. You feel the bed dipping as she moves, and you hear the opening of the drawer. Her charred fingers dance over the huge selection of toys as she hums, purposely taking her time to tease you just a little longer. She’ll never admit it, but she’s had every single toy custom made for you, every strap with the perfect curve to hit the gummy spot inside of your pussy every time, every vibrator with the perfect setting to elicit delicious moans from your lips. Eventually, she chooses one. Or rather, two. One vibrator, your personal favourite, and her favourite strap. A crimson red that fades into the same black gradient as the one on her arms (she’s always liked to pretend it was real).

She saunters back over to you, the bed dipping once more. Her low voice, one that reminds you of velvet, whispers into your ear, her lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “How many do you need this time, sweet girl?” The way she says ‘need’ instead of ‘want’ reminds you that she knows you so, so well. She responds before you can find your voice. “As many as I want, I think. Don’t you?” Your head nods earnestly, your hips lifting in invitation. Arlecchino doesn’t take her red crosses for irises off of you, despite her hands moving to strap the harness onto her fully clothed body. She’s always liked to fuck you with her clothes on and you naked, the only thing she’ll ever take off is her suit jacket, and it’s only so your hands won’t scratch it to pieces.

Her fingers finally make contact with your needy clit, making you gasp. You don’t miss the way her nails have been filed on that one hand, though you know that the second you bring it up, she’ll shut it down. “Soaked for me already, hm? Good girl.” Arlecchino begins by rubbing small circles, riling you up before she eventually turns on the vibrator, the buzzing ringing through the air. Your breath speeds up immediately when you recognise the familiar sound of your favourite one, and you whimper the second it touches you. She knows it isn’t enough for you, though. Not when you’re this needy.

Gathering your wetness with the tip of the silicone strap, she glides it across your slit before slipping it between your folds. She looks at you, raising a singular arched brow as she waits for you to signal that you’re ready. The second you do, she pushes her hips forward, letting your pussy accept it with ease. Already, your back is arching, and she hasn’t even moved yet. She starts slow, almost achingly slow, with shallow thrusts that make you whisper pleading words. She shushes you with her hand over your mouth before she pulls her hips back. You think she’s stopping, until she makes eye contact with you, and with a grunt, she slams her hips back into you, hitting your g-spot and causing you to cry out. Arlecchino pulls back again, only to repeat the movement. Her grunts are like music to your ears, and you wonder if it’s turning you on more than the actual movement, the way her lips part with every grunt, her one hand over your mouth, the other one pressing your hips firmly to the bed so you’re unable to move.

She speeds up quickly, until the bed is moving with every fast and hard movement. Your sounds are muffled by the palm of her hand, but both of you know the neighbours would be hearing you should she release her grip. As you approach your first orgasm of the night, thanks to her thrusting and the vibrations on your clit, your eyes fill with tears of relief and pleasure, only for your eyes to roll back when it crashes over you. Arlecchino slows down just enough to help you through it, glancing down at the creamy ring formed around the base of the strap before she continues the pace she was originally going at. You cum again, then again, until you reach your fourth, and by this point, Arlecchino’s suit jacket is indeed, off, even though your hands are tied. You manage to give the non verbal signal, three knocks on the wood of the bed, and she immediately turns off the vibrator, releases her grip on your mouth and slows into soft thrusts until she stops completely. The strap is pulled out of you with a soft pop, her breath just as heavy as yours.

When you were baking this morning, you certainly didn’t expect to end up where you are now. I mean, surely it’s expected by now, with Arlecchino as your girlfriend. You should know by now that she’s prone to suddenly coming up behind you and turning you into putty with a few simple touches and whispers against your ear. But the cupcakes, you protest, but by the time you finish your sentence, you’re already breathless, the back of your dress slowly unzipping, thanks to the charred hands belonging to Arlecchino. Her nails softly scratch at the skin of your back, a place she knows you adore. And you prove that, by shuddering at the sensation, a smirk spreading on her face. The cupcakes are half forgotten by now as she leads you away from the kitchen with her hand on your arm, lips brushing against your ear with every step she takes, the sound of heels on wood echoing the suddenly quiet room.

Before you can blink (or that’s what it feels like) her lips are on yours, moving in the perfect rhythm as her hand brushes against the shoulder of your dress. Already unzipped, it falls, past your shoulder, resting at your elbow and revealing the top part of your breast. She doesn’t hesitate in catching a nipple in her mouth, sucking and swiping her tongue over the ever hardening bud.

“So needy, hm?”

Her voice is a low rumble, one filled with amusement and desire she can’t seem to hide. Her hands take purchase around your waist, and you bury your head in her neck as you feel your hands fumbling with the belt of her trousers. She lets you fumble, your nipples now rolling between her thumb and forefinger, her lips ghosting the shell of your ear.

“Are you so excited you’ve forgotten how to undo a belt, love?”

You grumble in response, but your breath is taken away when she pinches your nipple, motivating you to hurry up, already. Hurry is what you do, your head rising to catch her lips in another kiss, fast, needy, passionate. Her belt finally comes loose, her buttons undone, and she bites back a groan as her dick springs out, hitting her lower stomach. Instead, she breathes out harshly, her hands finding your waist again as she sits on the abundance of blankets and pillows (your choice, of course, she doesn’t see a need for it, but she secretly adores the smile you develop when you find a new pillow you like). Her hands drag her on to you, two fingers making their way between your legs, dragging across your slit to collect the slick that’s been gathered there. She hums in approval, giving herself a few pumps, distributing said stick to her dick from her fingers before she speaks.

“You’re soaked. We haven’t even started and you’re making a mess.”

You whimper quietly in response as she drags the tip across your slit, teasing you. Your hips move, grinding against it, your head falling forward as your face twists in pleasure. She lets you, her breathing speeding up, though she remains silent. When Arlecchino decides you’re finished with that, she doesn’t even give you a warning, slipping herself into you and letting out a sharp puff of air the same time you groan. Your head falls into her neck once more as she starts gently, small, shallow thrusts.

“God, you’re good. So good, good girl.”

Her voice is strained, it isn’t difficult to tell she’s holding back on making any sounds at all. Why she does this, you don’t know, but it’s so much hotter watching her face of struggle, her head tilted back, her eyes closed and her mouth open in silent moans. Her hands tighten around your waist, her sharp, sharp nails threatening to dig into the soft skin that lays upon you. She lets you do the work, riding her and getting what you need, but she’s so close to just holding you there and thrusting into you instead. She likes control, she likes to control the pace, and most of all, she likes to be the one to control when you orgasm over her.

“Keep riding me, pretty girl. You’re taking me so well. You can take all of me, look at you. Your pretty cunt is so greedy for me.”

Only she knows how much she loves whispering to you while you ride her, how much she loves watching your cheeks dust with pink, and your mouth opening and closing, only to open in a quiet moan. You and her both know the praise she gives you only spurs you on. You ride harder, the sound of skin meeting skin sounding over and over again as you bounce on her, a little harder every so often when Arlecchino can’t help but spear you on her cock.

And when your legs start trembling, your grip on her shoulders gets tighter and your moans get louder, she finally, finally lets out a grunt of pleasure, her hands shifting just slightly to position herself right before she stops your movements. Not a second of hesitation occurs before her hips start moving, thrusting up into you again and again. She makes sure the tip of her nestles into that spongy spot inside of you again and again, relishing in the mewls and moans coming from your pretty lips.

“Good girl. Good fucking girl. Take it, doll, I know you can.”

Her thrusts stay fast until you cry out, a signal that your orgasm is fast approaching, sweat beading on your forehead. She changes her pattern, hard, slow and deep, just to prolong the pleasure, just enough to make you wait.

“Do you want to cum, pretty girl?”

A nod so urgent and a gasping breath, a shaky “yes” ringing out so loud it sounds like the walls are speaking back, and her thrusts return to their original pace.

“Then cum. Cum all over my cock. You make such pretty faces when you cum, so keep your eyes open. Keep them open or I stop.”

You know she isn’t joking. She’s done it before, stopped and waited. Cockwarmed you until the high of the almost orgasm ebbed away before starting again, the same command in place. So, your eyes stay open, rolling back as the peak of the orgasm crashes over you like waves hitting the sand. Her thrusts slow to a stop, her lips meeting yours once again, though this time, slow and loving as you come back to reality, as both of you calm down. Once you do, her fingers caress your hair, moving it behind your ear as she kisses your forehead, her voice murmuring once more with a hint of a chuckle in it.

Breathing heavily after yet another performance, you stare out into the crowd. You keep your face still, but your eyes can’t help but light up when you see the familiar figure front and center in the crowd, clapping loud and slow. She stays seated while everyone files out of the opera epiclese, her stoic face disrupted by the hint of a smirk.

“Very fun, love.”

You finally move from your ending position, letting your fingers gently bounce on your costume— a beautiful white lace bodice with rhinestones that shine oh so perfectly in the light, complete with a white tutu, because what ballerina can dance without a tutu? You grin a thank you, stretching your feet that are still clad with your pointe shoes.

Finally catching your breath, you hear the familiar clack of her heels walking across the floor and up the stairs to the stage as you take a seat on one of the props. Your ballet partner nods and hastily runs off, not wanting the potential wrath of Arlecchino, because what if his hands were too close to your waist for her liking? What if he held you for a second too long? Her smirk disappears when she sees him run off, a quiet mutter of “coward” under her breath as she walks towards you. Her own hands dance up your waist, her breath coming close to your ear.

“I don’t like him.”

You can’t help but roll her eyes at her jealous streak, one she’d never admit she has.

“You say that with every partner I’ve had.”

Her voice takes on a sharper tone, not by much, but you can tell she’s serious, and you can’t help but try to contain a shudder.

“They’re not me.”

You plant a soft kiss on her jaw as you reassure her that you do not, in fact, feel anything towards them. Her lips twitch into a frown, and her hand grabs your wrist, a tight grip that can only be possessiveness, her voice practically a snarl.

“It’s not you I’m worried about. I know you’re mine. It’s them. You’re gorgeous, and they get to be close to you. I wouldn’t be surprised if they tried anything.”

“They don’t.”

Her other hand moves to gently grip your chin, keeping you looking at her. She enjoys watching your face flush when she does it, and if anyone were to walk in, well, isn’t that a bonus? She gets to showcase that you’re hers and nobody else’s.

“They better not. I’ll kill them the second they’re too touchy.”

“Stop it—“

Before you can protest anymore, she’s only gone and bent you over the damn prop, a small wooden table. Your tutu flares upward, which earns a low, throaty chuckle from Arlecchino.

“You’re cute with this tutu. You’re lucky it’s expensive or I’d rip it off you. You’re not only cute, you’re mine.”

She feels your breath hitch as her hand travels up your thigh before she removes it, only to have it landing down roughly on your ass. Her fingers caress smoothly where the slap landed, soothing the sting, and my god is she glad you can’t see her and her wicked grin when you yelp. Her nails, long and sharp (you’re lucky she files two of them down), slice through your tights and leotard with one simple movement, causing you to whine.

“Arlie, these were expensive.”

“Shut up, I’ll buy you new ones.”

“But—“

“Would you like to cum? Then be quiet.”

With a whimper, you comply. With her one hand on your back, holding you down against the table, her other hand traces around your slit, so carefully avoiding touching you where you want to. Your hips buck back in an attempt to force her hand where you want them, which earns another slap on your ass and a yelp from you.

Your voice echoes around the now empty opera epiclese, which makes you so painfully aware of the fact anyone could walk in.

“What if someone comes in?”

“I’ll kill them if they do.”

“Arlecchino.”

“Fine. They won’t.”

With her fingers finally dipping into you, a soft moan leaves your lips.

“Good girl. So wet for me, it’s almost like you want to get caught. Lift your leg.”

Seeing your confused look, she taps your thigh, almost commanding you to lift it.

“You’re flexible enough. You can arabesque and développé everywhere. Lift your leg.”

You bite your lip, but lift your leg anyway, wrapping it around her waist for support. She knows you’re able to stay like that, and she relishes in how easy it is to touch you with your legs the way they are, so she uses it to her advantage.

Her fingers dip into you once again, teasing you mercilessly. Pretending like she’s sliding her sharp nails into you, making you whimper in nervousness, but she’s not that cruel. She slips two fingers inside of you (the ones with the filed nails, thank god), groaning softly when she feels you suck her fingers in. You let out a quiet moan that echoes once more as her fingers card through your hair, untangling it from the elegant hairdo you had while dancing. With a gentle flick of her wrist, your hair is wrapped around her fist, giving it gentle tugs.

Her fingers pump into you, slowly, then faster when your cute sounds only confirm you want to keep going. The hand in your hair tugs harder, lifting you from the table and pressing your back against her. Once she’s satisfied with your position, her hand moves. The hand once weaves into your hair moves to your exposed throat, squeezing gently and chuckling at your choked moans and the tears forming in your eyes.

“Not so scared someone will walk in now, hm? You’re so confident on stage, I thought you’d like someone walking in to see you turn into a fucked out whore. My fucked out whore. Do you hear me? Not his. He’s lucky I don’t rip his head off for looking at you the way he does.”

Her grip loosens enough to let you speak, grinning when she hears your cute little mumbles of agreement, feeling the way your pussy clenches around your fingers as she curls them, hitting the spongy spot inside you just perfectly.

Your tutu and your pointe shoes, which are still on your body (for a reason, because she’ll never admit how much it turns her on seeing you like that), are long forgotten by you. Your brain is focused on one thing, and she knows exactly what— chasing the orgasm she knows she’s giving you. Your voice rings out, stuttering and punctuated by moans.

“Cu-cumming, I’m-“

Her velvety voice whispers in your ear, her lips travelling down your shoulder before giving a quick bite that sends you over the edge.

“Good girl, cum for me.”

It’s all you need as you clench around her fingers and tremble, your position finally failing you. Her arm is quick to catch you before you fall against the table, her body leaning over yours as she soothes you, guiding you through each wave of pleasure. Her fingers pump inside just a little more, slowing to a stop before pulling out. Her fingers glisten with your slick in the stage lighting, and she moves her fingers ever so slightly, if only to showcase how messy you made her fingers. She smirks, her stoic demeanour almost back into place as she stares at you, her tongue flicking out to clean her own digits.

Having dragged Arlecchino along to a lunch with your friends, you’d think you’d be happier than you are right now. Arlecchino is not like your friends in the slightest, them laughing and talking loudly with playful slaps on each other's arm as they melt in hysterical laughter. You suppose that is why Arlecchino zeroes in you and your behaviour now. Arlecchino is usually the quiet one, cracking a small smirk at a joke or huffing in laughter occasionally, you being the bridge between hysterically happy and Arlecchino’s level of calm. And yet, there you sit, poking the small salad leaves with your fork, a miserable expression on your face.

She frowns, glancing over at the plates of your friends. Pasta, focaccia, a burger.. why on earth do you have a salad? One that doesn’t even look good, of all things. Her foot moves to nudge you under the table.

“Eat. There is almost nothing on your plate and you look miserable. Shall I go and order more for you?”

You’re quick to deny her offer, a little too quick for Arlecchino’s liking, if she’s honest. She watches you for the rest of the lunch, watching how you smile and say you’re too stuffed to get dessert. She gives you a pointed look when you say that. She says nothing, but somehow you know that she’s not about to let this go.

You both walk home at a leisurely pace in comfortable silence. Feeling the slightest of breezes against your skin and listening to the afternoon birds chirping relaxes you, and it’s always a pleasure to walk through the town. Arlecchino’s arm snakes around you, resting gently on your hip. A silent gesture, but one she does often, one you usually enjoy.

“Don’t.”

The word pierces through the air as you shrug her arm off, continuing to walk in silence. Her eyes focus on you again, your face holding the same miserable look, like you’re about to burst into tears. Her brow creases and she folds her arms over her chest, her tone almost accusatory. Almost.

“What has gotten into you, love? You do not wish for my touch, you did not eat, you lied to your friends.”

“No—“

“If you say “nothing”, I swear to the Tsaritsa I will sit you down and not let you move until you tell me.”

You both walk the rest of the way home in tense silence, her words simmering. You know she isn’t joking, she would. She has done it once before, and it was the longest hour of your life. Of course, she only means well, but sometimes her ways of showing it can be a little.. tricky. You’re home before long, sliding the keys into the door and shutting it with a small click. You know you have approximately five seconds before—

“Tell me. You have not eaten except about five salad leaves, it is 4pm, your clothes are unusually baggy for your taste. Unless you plan on turning into a rabbit, you will tell me what is going on inside that pretty little head of yours.”

Her stare is unwavering, piercing through you in a way that would make anyone shudder and run away. You are not afraid, you know how soft she really is, at least around you, but you know you can’t put off telling her any longer.

“They are smaller than I am.”

“What? You are slightly taller than them, yes. What is wrong with that?”

“No. Not like that. They’re just.. smaller. Smaller breasts, smaller hips, smaller thighs. I don’t understand why I have to be this way.”

You mutter, gesturing to your body, hidden under the clothes. They are indeed baggy, chosen quickly when you glanced at yourself in the mirror this morning. She is silent for a while, clearly pondering. Arlecchino has a tendency to be blunt, a little too blunt, and it’s obvious she’s trying to soften her words.

“That is true. That does not make you any less beautiful. You are very feminine. I enjoy that.”

You stare at the floor, sniffling a little. It takes her a few seconds to realise you are crying, albeit trying to hide it to the best of your ability. But she is vigilant, she knows. She always knows.

“It is not a bad thing to have the body you have. You are healthy, you just have curves. Many people have surgery to get what you have naturally.”

“They can have it. I don’t want them.”

“Stop. I do not want to hear this nonsense. It is ridiculous. You..”

She walks behind you, pressing her lips to the nape of her neck. You swat her hand away when it brushes your arm, but she tuts and brings it back, gently caressing the skin.

“You are stunning. Your breasts are perfect. They are full and I can hold them in my hands just right. If I must admit, they are good to lay on. They are soft, and they move with your breathing.”

Her hands move, tracing the outline of your breasts through the baggy shirt. She traces a heart before she moves downwards.

“Your hips are beautiful. They are wonderful to hold, both when I come up behind you while you back, and while you are on top of me doing things only we speak about. And, they will be perfect, should we have a child.”

“Your stomach is wonderful. I enjoy massaging it, kissing it, and it may or may not be a weakness of mine when you wear those lovely dresses I know you own.”

Arlecchino’s hands gently knead the skin of your stomach as your tears slowly come to a stop. You can’t help but feel a little better knowing that the person you love finds you just as attractive as you hope she would.

“Your thighs, my god. They are so plush and you know how I love nipping at them, leaving pretty marks only you can see. I love feeling them next to either side of my head, feeling them clench around my head when.. well, you are aware, are you not? Having curves does not make you any more or less of a woman than someone with less curves than you. You are perfect the way you are.”

A small smile graces your face, a smile that always makes her warm inside, though not once will she admit it. She returns a smile of her own. Rare, but genuine.

“I will make you pasta. You will eat it. There is no argument.”

You groan, following her to the kitchen, though you attempt to hold back a giggle when you speak.

“Arlecchino, you.. you lack in the cooking area.”

Your friends are beautiful, handsome. They truly are. Your girlfriend, Arlecchino, is stunning too. It seems everyone around you has the perfect face, looks utterly amazing. You find yourself admiring them whenever you’re around them. Yet, you, yourself, are not any of those things. Not in your own mind. You can’t even look at yourself in the mirror, at least, not recently. You find your eyes burning with hot tears the second you catch a glimpse, and you find yourself growing bitter at the sight of anyone who doesn’t look like you. At least before it got so bad you could joke about how you wanted to be them, and now jealousy has given way to hatred, even if they’ve done nothing wrong.

It isn’t like Arlecchino hasn’t noticed, either. The way your makeup mirror has been flipped around so you don’t have to see yourself, or the way you purposely avoid looking towards any reflective surface, even during intimate activities. And if we’re honest, Arlecchino loves to make you look at yourself while you’re coming undone because of her, except her recent advances have been met with a firm ‘no’.

She can’t figure out why you suddenly began acting like this. Any mention of either your frame or your face turns you angry and silent, with your fists clenching. You aren’t angry really though, you’re just sad. Sad you won’t ever look like the people you wish you could look like. Devastated at the thought that Arlecchino will one day see sense and leave you for one of them. The thought of that hurts you so much you begin distancing yourself from her, too. Arlecchino, at first, is confused. She, for the life of her, cannot understand any of this. Yet, the day comes where you can’t even bring yourself to look at her while she speaks to you, and she can’t seem to keep herself quiet anymore.

“Look at me,” she snaps. She tries not to lose her temper with you, not when she knows there’s a clear reason why you’re acting the way you’re acting, but you’re not saying anything, you won’t even look at her.

You feel your own jaw setting, all of your negative feelings bubbling up for no reason. Unfortunately this time, she seems to be the target. “Or what, you’ll leave me for someone prettier?”

Arlecchino doesn’t flinch, but her expression, the one that’s usually so graceful and emotionless, crumples into a frown of pure disbelief and confusion. Her voice this time comes out as a quiet hiss. “What? You doubt my affection for you after all this time? Is that what this is about?”

When you go to argue back, and your voice breaks into a cry, she softens as much as someone like Arlecchino can soften. “I see,” she murmurs, sitting down next to you. Her hand softly lands on your knee, squeezing it gently. “This again, is it? I have told you countless times—“

“It doesn’t help. I still feel this way.” Your attempt at a venomous response does nothing but highlight how you’re feeling, the exact opposite effect you wanted. Still, you sniffle, your hands curled in on themselves as you talk. “No words will help that I want to rip off my own skin because it feels like I am the ugliest creature to ever walk the earth, or that I feel like I have been created for the universe to be amused at my torment.”

“Yet to me, you are a creature full of beauty and grace. You are wonderful, your face is, too. Do you not think I would have left if I wanted to?” Your response to her words is silence. Unfortunately for your brain, she has a point. She could leave in a heartbeat, you couldn’t stop her if you pleaded. She stays, though. Doesn’t that say enough?