Chapter Text
How the clicking of heels can sound menacing, I don't know, but hers sure did.
Arlecchino strode through the halls of The House of the Hearth. Eyes sweeping through the passing by orphans, looking for the lovely face of her eldest daughter.
It was the weekend, and most children were out shopping or exploring Fontaine. Arlecchino hoped you wouldn't be out for too long; she trusted you not to be foolish enough to stand her up on the afternoon tea you had scheduled. However, the edges of the mountains had already been stained pink as the sun slowly withdrew into the darkness.
She looked away from the windows, walking with the same unbothered tranquillity. She got to a small sitting room close to the older kids’ quarters. Lynette was sitting with a few other girls, going through the shopping bags of one of them.
“Oh! Good afternoon, Father,” one girl acknowledged. The others’ greetings quickly followed.
“Enjoying the weekend, girls?” her velvety voice indicated more than curiosity. “May I ask who will be the kind girl to tell me where my daughter is?”
Arlecchino’s glued on Lynette's nervous fidgeting like a cat spotting a particularly guilty-looking mouse.
“Lynette?” She dragged the syllables, sweetness adorning her threatening tone.
The girl was blushing. “Um, she is out.”
“Out where, dear?”
Under Father’s crossed gaze, Lynette couldn't lie. As much as she loved her adopted sister, she wouldn't die for her secrets.
Lynette looked down in defeat. “She is having lunch with a friend.”
That sounded too innocent to be something worth hiding from her. Arlecchino pressed, “Having lunch at four in the afternoon? And what type of friend are we dealing with?”
“I don’t know him, Father. Everything I know is that she left to have lunch, nothing else.”
Arlecchino wasn’t happy with those answers, or the lack of them. Y/n didn’t have many friends, but a face like hers attracted attention, too much for her own good. There wasn’t anything the older woman could do about it now, and she wouldn’t chase after the girl.
She nodded at Lynette and left. Before returning to her office, Arlecchino decided to check on her daughter’s room, see if the commotion was useless and y/n was already home.
The corridor was empty, the faint golden light shining through the windows drew long lines along the carpet. Arlecchino followed calmly to the end of the corridor, to the door she had only ever crossed when she first brought y/n in.
She remembered when she rescued the poor girl from the illegal circus as clear as day. Y/n was kept in an aquarium, playing many mystical creatures from Fontaine’s legends for the eyes of the public. Exposed, but contained. Captive, for sixteen years. Arlecchino bristled at the very memory.
That’s why she tried to teach the girl to be independent, but even after two years, she still struggled to grasp social cues and she got attached to others too easily. Arlecchino had to conceal, protecting her beloved from her own ingenuity and teach her to fly so that one day she could flee the nest.
Such a task turned exponentially harder the moment Arlecchino heard something coming from behind the closed door. She halted.
A soft laugh came through the door. She could recognise that warm, joyful sound anywhere. But a masculine voice followed it.
Arlecchino padded closer to the door. The voices became clearer.
“You’re very funny, Pierre,” y/n’s voice sounded charmingly shy. A glimpse of flushed cheeks and fluttering eyelashes played on Arlecchino’s mind.
“I’m not trying to be funny. I’m serious,” he said breathily.
The girl giggled. “It tickles!”
“But doesn’t it feel good?”
“A little, yes.”
Arlecchino leaned against the wall, trying to decipher whether this interaction was appropriate or if she would have to intervene.
More giggling, from both sides this time.
“Does it still tickle?” the boy asked.
“Yes,” she chuckled.
“And here?”
Her giggle confirmed his question.
“What about… here?”
Arlecchino froze as she heard the soft gasp.
“Hm, Pierre? I don’t think…”
“Shh, it’s okay. If you like it, there’s nothing wrong with it.”
Another gasp.
Arlecchino felt as if she was nailed to the wall, unable to move. Her full attention was on the sounds in the other room; she listened to them like an expectation on the edge of her seat.
A slurred moan echoed softly.
“Pierre…” y/n whispered, but the warning in her voice sounded more like an invitation.
A muffled gasp preceded the obvious turn of events. It took Arlecchino a moment to realise they were kissing.
She had to do something. Had to drag the bastard out of her house, lecture naive y/n for bringing boys into her room, and find an appropriate punishment for him, one that would teach him to never lay a finger on her daughters again.
Yet, she did nothing. She could only listen.
A thud, he pushed her against a wall. Ruffling, his arm around her waist, her fingers tight on his lapels, pulling each other closer. They kissed desperately, messy. A soft moan or another escaped the girl’s lips.
Arlecchino couldn’t stop the images forming in her mind— y/n with flushed cheeks, lips parted and eyes closed, eyebrows arched in such a delightful expression of pain.
The woman felt a wave of heat rise from within her. She closed her eyes, pressing harder against the wall, as if to ground herself.
Y/n’s moans prevented her from succeeding. Such adorable sounds. Embellished in the warmth of her voice, they sounded pure and beautiful, sweet like honey to the ears.
“You’re so pretty,” the boy panted. “So good.” Smacking sounds as he kissed her skin. Where? How?
Arlecchino’s body was roaring. She couldn’t move; she was stuck in that dazed state as the scene produced in her mind followed the sounds.
Y/n, pressed against the wall, her always beautiful dresses spread around her like the frosting of a cake, the ruffled skirt pulled up to her thighs. Hands roamed over the smooth skin, grabbed handfuls of her, slid between them.
A loud moan made something in Arlecchino melt, and a wave of shivers washed through her, electrifying her body. Y/n could make the sweetest of sounds, hot enough to pierce through the coldest of hearts.
More ruffling. The sounds grew louder— her moans not muffled anymore, and kissing increased. Popping sounds told Arlecchino exactly what she had to know.
“They’re so beautiful… So full and soft..” the boy groaned, going back to work on the only part of her body that was exposed.
She whimpered softly.
Y/n, arched, with her generous neckline at full display, being touched; being kissed. Her chest going up and down with each breath, breasts squeezed in the tight corset. Great Heavens, Arlecchino had to stop.
She clenched her fists, trying to keep her hands steady. Her body was burning from the inside out. For a moment, her clothes felt like too much, too hot. Her fingers itched to fix it, to fix the aching point between her legs. No. She’s your daughter, you freak.
Arlecchino let out a shaky breath, lower than a moan, but nothing close to a sigh. Her eyes fluttered closed.
“Father…” The title in her breathy voice was sinful, cruel.
The woman’s eyes snapped open. Why was she… Did she…
“Father won’t… like this,” y/n whimpered. Her words woke Arlecchino from her daze. “Pierre, we should really stop…”
He didn’t stop. Arlecchino could hear all that sucking and popping— he was feasting in her.
Y/n’s moan turned into a yelp. “W-What are you doing?” she asked, voice tinged with fear.
The boy took his lips off her body, “What do you think? You wanna do this with clothes on?”
She was breathing heavily; her silence was enough of an answer.
Arlecchino’s body cooled, and the heat turned into something darker.
That Pierre boy, “What do you think we are doing?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused.
“I-I thought we were… I was showing you my room.”
“No way you’re doing that,” he sounded annoyed, “Don’t back down now.”
“But I…” The fear in her voice turned a switch in Arlecchino.
The door swung open, the door handle hit the wall and tinkled to the floor. The couple stared with terror as Arlecchino entered the room; her intensity filled the space. Her expression was dark, her eyes pooled with rage. The air around her stark silhouette blurred with heat as her Vision glowed scarlet.
Crimson crosses fixed on the boy, oh, poor boy. He was on the far corner of the room, face a greenish shade of pale. But her eyes were focused on those disgusting, swollen lips he dared to blaspheme y/n's body with. The heat haze outlining her body increased. He could've wetted his pants.
“You,” her voice was heavy with fury, “If you don't leave my house right now, your parents won’t have a body to bury." He was shaking. He hesitated to walk around Arlecchino to reach the exit. “Out.”
The boy was gone in a second.
Without his presence to fuel the fire in her, Arlecchino turned to y/n. Her eyes softened at the sight. The girl was still holding onto the wall, her face bright red, her hair dishevelled, and her clothes… The layers of her skirt were tangled on each other, exposing her legs, and one of her sleeves had slid off her shoulder, making her cleavage even more obvious, and with it the red marks that darkened by the second.
The girl was about to cry; her fingers trembled in fear. She had always been so terribly scared to disappoint Father, and now she was caught with a boy's hand under her skirt.
Arlecchino, noticing her daughter’s vulnerable state, tried to calm down. She reached for the door and closed it so they could have some privacy. Y/n was still shaking when Arlecchino walked to her. “Come on, sit with me”, she said calmly as she took the girl by the hand, leading her to the bed.
The woman steadied y/n with an arm around her shoulders, patting her back with zeal. She trembled violently, her hands were fisted, nails carving in her palms as she tried to hold back her tears.
Arlecchino used their silence to fix up the girl’s appearance. With her long fingers, she brushed her hair, fixing the lustrous strands with soothing caresses; she fixed her skirt and pulled up her sleeve. She finished with a soft pat on her cheek.
“Better, my dear?” she offered, her voice back to its velvety, tranquil tone. Y/n sniffed, wiping a single tear from the corner of her eye, and nodded.
Father gently lifted her chin up to look her in the eyes. That sight nearly killed her. Her thick eyelashes, wet and dark, framing wide, pleading eyes, red nose, and flushed cheeks.
“I'm terribly sorry, Father. I shouldn't have done- I shouldn't have brought someone into the House without asking, or- or done-” The words were stuck in her throat, she couldn't say what she had done out loud.
Arlecchino caressed her shoulder. “There is no need to panic. I am not angry with you, but we must talk about it, hm?”
Y/n nodded, looking embarrassed.
“Tell me, dear, who is that boy?” The woman tried to sound calm so y/n wouldn't think the anger was directed at her.
“We met in one of Lyney’s shows. We had tea last week and he… he took me to lunch today.”
“And how did he end up in your room, with his hands on you?”
The girl blushed.
“He wanted to see my photographs,” she whispered, only then realising how stupid that sounded. Why would a boy be interested in her hobbies?
Arlecchino watched her face, saw the sadness lingering on her lovely features. “Did you want him to touch you?” she asked hesitantly.
Y/n wondered for a moment. “He is nice, and it didn't feel bad, but… But it's fine as long as my body liked it, no?”
Arlecchino stared at her with concern. She knew her children, especially y/n, weren't very educated in the sexual field, but she didn't know that she lacked even the basic principles required for safety and health. Arlecchino realised the talk they were about to have would be harder than she initially thought.
She took a deep breath and took her hand in hers.
“It seems like there are a lot of things I failed to teach you. Because I avoided this kind of conversation with my children, I've put you in a position of vulnerability where bastards like him can take advantage of your innocence. I'll change that. This talk will be… difficult, embarrassing even, but there's no way to avoid this.”
Y/n listened carefully.
“What do you think that boy was doing to you?”
“He was touching me.”
“And how was that different from when Lyney or Freminet touches you?”
“My brothers hug me, they don't touch where Pierre did. The… intentions are different.” Y/n was blushing heavily.
“And do you know what Pierre’s intentions were? What he wanted to do?”
“He, um, wanted to touch me everywhere.”
Arlecchino stared, trying to see if the girl was omitting out of embarrassment or if she genuinely didn't know that the boy wanted to bed her. She decided to change the approach.
“Do you know what sex is?”
“It is what happens between a man and a woman to make babies,” she said simply.
Her innocence was amusing. Sad, but amusing.
“I feel like I've found where the issue lies. Sex, my dear, is not the act of procreation. It must happen for a baby to be born, but it isn't exclusively for that.” Y/n tilted her head in confusion.
Arlecchino was struggling to find the right words, “Sex is when people kiss and touch each other bare, like what that boy tried to do.” Her anger flashed at the last sentence.
The girl frowned. “But why would people do that?”
“Because it feels good,” the woman answered simply, the shadow of a smile creeping over her face. She, more than anyone, knew how good it felt.
Arlecchino felt like a monster next to that sweet girl, a grinning wolf snuggling with a lamb. The stark contrast between their experiences should be concerning, but instead it was rather… Exciting.
Y/n's eyes wandered as she rolled the information in her mind. She did want to kiss some people, and felt as if just hugging them wouldn't be enough. She remembered how her body felt weird when Pierre touched her thighs and her breasts. Was that… desire? And if it were… She looked at the older woman.
“I think I understand. But I… I didn't want to be naked with him at all! Yet my body liked it when he touched me. Is this possible?”
Arlecchino stroked the girl’s hand. “It is possible, my dear. Your body liked it, but you weren’t comfortable with him. Men are crazy about sex; they use every woman naive enough to believe their fallacies. What I need you to understand is that there is a difference between biology and desire, and a much bigger one between desire and decorum. You are a lady, a beautiful and smart girl; you are more important than anything in the world. Having your body should be the highest of honours, so you should choose your partners accordingly.”
Y/n listened intently, her interest piqued. “So sex is special?”
“Don’t you think it is?” Arlecchino raised an eyebrow. “You are giving yourself to someone, and they are giving themselves to you. Isn’t it intimate? To see where no one else has seen? Touch where no one else has touched?”
The girl nodded, eyes distant, lost in a riverflow of thoughts. Father had just opened her eyes. She now understood many things about her life that had been blurry and confusing— things about herself and others.
She glanced at Father, sweet eyes traced the sharp edges of her face. Arlecchino returned the look, waiting as her daughter assimilated everything.
“This explains a lot,” y/n murmured. “Is this— sex, I mean— related to our private parts?”
Arlecchino’s gaze flickered to the girl’s neckline, her creativity quick to produce an X-ray version without her own consent.
“Intrinsically. Sex is essentially the contact between two people’s intimacies.”
“Regardless of gender?”
Her question got Arlecchino off guard. Images flashed in her mind— her legs tangled with her daughter’s, smooth skin dotted with sweat, hips grinding against each other.
She blinked, her thighs tightening together. “Yes, regardless of gender,” she answered, her voice with a slight haspiness to it.
That seemed to have attracted y/n’s interest even more. “I see. Thank you, Father, for enlightening me. I admit to being clueless about all of this. Now I feel even more embarrassed for bringing Pierre over. I apologise, Father.”
Arlecchino had to put in a lot of effort to be able to smile. Her mind roared with uncontrollable, wild thoughts she couldn’t acknowledge.
“There is no need to apologise. You didn’t know. Now you do,” she said, standing up. “I should go now. You stay and rest.”
Y/n’s eyes widened slightly. “What about our tea?”
“We can reschedule. For now, rest.” And Arlecchino left.
The moon was now high in the sky. The world above was tinted silver, serene and stagnant, as if time itself had stopped. Y/n had given up trying to sleep hours ago. She couldn’t take her mind off the conversation she had with Father.
She wasn’t that clueless either. She had a faint idea of what sex was, but no one with whom she could talk about it. Father had been very clarifying.
Sex was special. Her body was special. Only someone up to the standards could have it.
She hadn’t thought of standards before. She watched the other girls; they were always obsessing over some boy, giggling about holding hands and blushing over kissing stories, even the ones younger than her.
Y/n was eighteen, the oldest girl in the House of the Hearth, and the only one who had never had a boyfriend. When even Lynette had found herself a lover, the girl started to feel left out. She had never liked a boy that way, but if being normal meant having a crush, then she would find one.
When she first started to respond to flirting, the long line of men waiting for a chance advanced all at once. She went on countless teas and lunches over the past months, met many men and always found them nice. Just not nice enough for dating.
They kissed, their hands got a little more daring, and she backpedalled. It’s not that she panicked, she just realised mid-make-out she didn’t actually like them. Kissing and hugging felt nice, but not more than that. Her body rejected them. All of them.
With the information added by Father, she could come up with some ideas. Biology is different from desire. Desire is different from decorum. That was it: she didn’t desire them. She didn’t know those men, didn’t trust them, and wasn’t attracted to them. She was attracted to the idea.
Now, lying on her bed, y/n wondered what attracted her then. The conversation revealed how ignorant she was in certain subjects, and raised questions about whether she was ignorant in more fields. She started to doubt she knew her own body.
Y/n let her hands roam freely around her body through the nightgown. She felt her muscles and soft skin, every bump and depression in her body. Touching herself felt different now, less innocent. That talk left her feeling dirty, maculated, for letting that boy touch her. And Father…
Her thoughts returned to Father once again. How much did she hear? It bothered y/n deeply. Her whole body burned when she thought about Father hearing them, hearing her moans. She covered her face. Oh my God.
Her legs pressed together involuntarily. She was burning. She had been burning since the day before, why she initially accepted Pierre’s invitation. Y/n wanted comfort, too bad he wouldn’t be the one to give her.
The girl rolled in bed, trying to sleep, but her body wasn’t cooperating. Neither was her mind.
Intrinsically. Sex is essentially the contact between intimacies.
Because it feels good.
Y/n put pillows between her knees, used the bathroom, drank cold water, but nothing seemed to work. Her pussy was pulsing under the thin fabric of her panties. For a moment, she wondered what would happen if she touched it.
If she touched, she could learn empirically. She would learn things Father wouldn’t want to tell her. She wouldn’t be ignorant and vulnerable and innocent anymore.
Her hands threaded down her body, fingertips gliding over the cotton nightgown. The sheer excitement of doing something like that was enough to make her hot. She was the last person anyone thought would do that. She, who didn’t even know what sex was mere hours ago, she, touching herself as everyone was asleep, innocent to the sins being committed in her bedroom.
Her fingers roamed downwards, brushing her erect nipples, drawing invisible paths toward her bare thighs. Slowly, she pulled her nightgown up to her waist. The white panties looked childish in the moonlight— modest and plain, and y/n’s excitement to take them off didn’t fade in the slightest; it increased, as if she felt the desire to prove Father wrong, to show her she could also be corrupt.
Delicate, nervous fingers pulled the thin fabric down to her knees.
Y/n’s breath hitched out of anticipation as she carefully ran a finger over her folds. She shuddered, the contact of her scorching core with her cold fingers provoking a pulsing sensation through her lower body.
She tried again, this time she applied more pressure to the finger. Her virgin body squirmed, unsure of whether to pull her hand away of to press harder. When the tip of her finger reached the hardened button, she arched her back with a gasp.
She propped herself up on her elbows, legs open, trying to see what it was that she had touched. She couldn’t see much from that angle. Eventually, she gave up looking and tried to feel it again. Her fingers searched for the hardened spot.
It was easy to find; her body would flinch every time her finger went close to it.
If her hands felt this good, what would someone else’s feel? The thought occurred to her suddenly, accompanied by the memory of Father’s fingers running through her hair.
The button tingled; her fingers itched to stroke it. One finger was too delicate; it only worsened the tickling. She pressed two against the hardened spot, trying to soothe the slight discomfort, but the burning inside her only worsened as she felt something slick on her fingers.
She moved her hand, feeling the outside of her pussy. Why was she so… humid? Her movements got bolder, fingers looking for the source of all that slick, stroking the lips and the bean. The more her fingers explored, the more unease she felt.
She never paid much attention to her intimacy, never felt it. It was a weird thought that she hadn’t even touched her own body when there were people who had touched many. Father had touched many. Y/n saw it in her eyes the moment she said: “Because it feels good.”
She wished Father had touched her. She was her daughter, why did strangers deserve Father’s touch more than her? Why did Father teach others how to have sex and not her, who needed it so badly?
And if Father was to touch her, how would she do it?
That was the golden question. The sparks of fire in her pelvis rose into a bright firebone.
Father would cradle her in her lap, her back pressed against Father’s chest. She would whisper in y/n’s ear, velvety voice caressing her mind. She would slide one hand between her legs, holding her thigh to the side, unfolding her like a present.
The once hesitant fingers now stroked her folds more certainly. Her eyes fluttered closed, enjoying the scenes her mind produced so effortlessly.
Father would call her my dear as she wiped the slick with her long nails. Those same nails would run over the hard button, and y/n would squirm under her touch, shuddering from the cold metal.
Her fingers rubbed circles on the button, playing with the weird, warm sensation every time she touched it. But those weren’t her fingers, they were Father’s.
She slid one finger inside and dragged it out, spreading the wetness over the bean, rubbing smoother circles. It was Father touching her, feeling the warmth of her insides, feeling the texture of her walls. Father would whisper in her ears, explain what she was doing, complimenting her.
You are more important than anything in the world.
Y/n moaned, her finger pushing inside her once again. It felt like nothing. She needed more. The girl pulled it in and out, stroking the inside of her pussy, her scorching walls pressing against her.
Was that what Pierre wanted to do with her?
Her fingers moved faster.
She wouldn’t have bothered if she knew Father was watching. She would’ve liked it, actually.
She imagined Father was on the other side of her door, peeking through the hole the broken doorknob left behind as she played with herself. She let her mind wander and pictured Father watching her dip her finger inside her slick folds, delighting in the slimy sounds that filled the room.
A second finger joined in. She had to put on a show for Father, no?
Her legs spread wider, another whiny moan spilt from her lips. Fingers moved faster, rubbing O-shaped circles on her walls, eventually brushing the bud. Y/n could practically feel Father staring at her, crossed crimson eyes watching through the hole, tracing a path of fire where they lay.
She jerked her head back, moaning louder this time. This felt good. She felt her muscles relax and tense at the same time, the knot in her pelvis stretching to the max as she increased the friction.
Dreamy images of Father played in her head— her messy, layered hair, her dark lipstick, her intense, lined eyes, her elegant nose, her minimal but remarkable contempt smile. How she adored The Knave. Every bit of skin, every sharp angle of her features; y/n loved it all.
An overwhelming, tingling sensation washed over her as she melted onto the mattress, more relaxed than ever. Her hand fell useless at her side as she let everything drip on the bed, fresh cum glinted on her thighs and sheets.
Y/n breathed heavily, panting for air. She just lay there, staring at the dark ceiling, catching her breath as she allowed herself to feel the consequences of what she had done.
Thrilling. That was the best word for it. She wondered if the girls sleeping in the next rooms had heard her, what would they think of her if they did, what Father would think of her. She smiled. No one would know, no one would think it was her.
Thrilling. But not enough.
She was decently satisfied though, her body wasn’t overheating and her mind was hers again, not a slave of lust anymore.
As her heartbeat slowly returned to normal, her eyes began feeling heavy. She yawned, turning her head on the pillow to gape at the night sky out the window.
A whole new world had been swung open to her on that day, a deliciously exciting world. One she was soon to realise was more than addicting.