#rgrjrhrjrj arlecchino...

[chucapybara]

alright arlecchino hopping around in my head still so soft mornings with your darling knave!

oh, arlecchino being so utterly enamoured with you. she tends to wake up earlier than you do; a harbinger has many things to go about doing in a day, after all, and being one who manages the affairs of different house of the hearths across teyvat, it's no easy feat.

but on the off days, after a long night of making love to you, she finds herself trapped in your orbit, unable to escape. (not that she'd ever want to.) your soft, radiantly divine figure rests curled beside her, your breath tickling her cheek, and she loves it.

in the respite that comes, in this calm between the noise of her nightmares and of her day work, she finds that all the world is still when you are. an absence of howling, the absence of shades are substituted, if only for those few moments, with the gentle sunbeam that kisses your skin.

(she wishes she were the sun, for a brief time. oh, how her blood almost boils with envy for that heavenly star which gets to kiss you every morning before she does; and were it not for the fact that she loathed to wake you in such peaceful sleep, she may have done so already.)

arlecchino shifts, resting her head on her arm, facing you, observing every rise and fall of your unrobed shoulders, chest. her mind is quiet, silenced, lacking of any other thought except for you.

you, who is so precious to her, that she would rend heaven upon earth and bring down cities and crowns in your name if you asked her to. she who would raise armies and queendoms worshipping you—if she did not already dislike the thought of sharing you with another. (the notion of others gazing upon you with reverence to match hers is preposterous in its nature, so she strangles the thought in its crib.)

as she ponders her prayers for you, she notes how the blanket of your shared bed has dipped below your waist. arlecchino almost has the mind to tuck you back in, to preserve your comfort—all the more when she catches how you shiver, ever so slightly, when exposed to the naked air—but she realises doing so may only wake you.

and so she unfurls her wing of balemoon bloodfire, its crimson feathers catching the sun's rays, illuminating it as sunsets are wont to do. she drapes it over you in replacement for the blanket, mentally chiding it for doing a poor job at keeping you warm.

though, perhaps, this in and of itself was a blessing, too.

your expression eases, and so too does arlecchino's scarlet-eyed gaze soften. her wing rests soothingly around you, almost ticklish, exuding the hearthfire's homely coziness.

and it is this same ticklish sensation that rouses you, slow, steady. your lips part in a yawn, and you peek open a bleary eye, finding your sweet one already long having been observing you. your soul sings.

"good morning, lover," arlecchino murmurs fondly, pressing close. now that you're awake, she has no reservations about pulling you close. she loops an arm around your back, blackened hands ever gentle, ever soft.

you smile, still half-asleep, but savouring the affection. your own palm finds its way to arlecchino's spine, tracing delicately up and down, making your darling knave shiver.

(oh, how weak she finds herself at your touch. let all other things to which she be impenetrable, but for you, she spares a key.)

arlecchino is strong, and it shows in the grooves of her muscled form, tensing in the wake of your drowsed touch. she is especially vulnerable in the space just beside her wing, where you pay special attention, massaging lightly there and leaving tender brushes of your lips. fluttering kisses, with all the softness of rainbow rose petals on the gentle wind.

"morning, arle," you mumble in a wispy breath. you graze your fingertips some along the curve of her side, to the cursed ink on her arm (that is no more a curse than it is a part of the woman you love), tracing them as though you didn't already have every inch of arlecchino mapped out in your memory.

your eyes flutter closed, and your hand goes still, relaxed now on arlecchino's back once more as you are quickly returned to sleep's embrace—arlecchino cradling you, bloodfire wing secured around your form.

but this time, sleep itself has no choice but to share you with her.

all the time in the world could not compare to these tender, infinitisemal moments—your limbs tangled like vines, hair strewn across the pillows upon the bed that is only both yours to own, with you in her arms.

arlecchino's lips draw forth like a magnet, pressing tender kisses along your brow. "rest well, my dove."

and when she speaks, she hopes her faithful prayer follows you into your conscious, to warm your heart and remind you always of the devotion only your sweet knave holds, just for you. only for you.