Chapter Text
The man is serpentine in every sense of the word. You hold your breath as his gloved fingers slither across your skin, tracing your features as if appraising a fine piece of pottery rather than a woman. He hums lightly to himself, eyes like upturned crescents as he voices his approval. His aura wraps around you and constricts.
“This one.”
Gratitude drips from the madam’s voice, saccharine. In less than thirty minutes her establishment has made more mora than any of the women could have hoped to see in their entire lives. Even as they offer you glances of pity, the workers can’t hide their elation. Not only have they been spared a life of servitude under the Fatui, under a Harbinger no less, but their meager lives are much improved when the madam is happy. And she’s never been happier.
You are escorted without fanfare to a stagecoach at the back of the decrepit building. Various trinkets and personal items you’ve amassed over the years are left in your second story bedroom. No doubt they will be fought over and doled out within the hour. Your eyes linger on the frosted window you so often hung out of in an attempt to feel anything- even if it was just the frigid breeze on your skin.
When you turn back to the main cabin, the Harbinger is there. He waits patiently, door held for you, same unflappable smile plastered to his face.
Reluctantly, you enter, crossing your legs as you sit upon black crushed velvet. To your dismay, the Harbinger squeezes in next to you. Though you try to make your body small, there is no escape. His presence is suffocating.
As the stagecoach starts to move, you keep your eyes glued to the floor. The wooden slats gleam as if they’ve been polished recently, perhaps for your arrival. Resentment bubbles up. Just what about this man begets that everything is to be a show? So he bought himself a whore, does that too deserve such royal treatment?
In your brooding, you barely notice that the man is touching you. He’s leaned close, breath ghosting across your cheek. His fingers twirl a few strands of your hair as he merely looks on, observing.
“You’re unaware of your worth,” His voice is deep, but lilting. Your brows furrow as you consider his words, vague anger continuing to build. What worth? The worth you have lies in the last man to purchase your time. There’s more value in the glittering white jewel atop the Harbinger’s cane than there is in you.
You try to mask a shudder as his hands wander, fingers dancing down your chest. Even though you refuse to meet his eyes, you can see them clearly boring down on you. Pupils like slits as they take in their property. As he closes in on your neck, you brace yourself. His fangs are bared, he’s ready to strike-
The Harbinger doesn’t sink his teeth into your skin, he presses his lips to the pulsating flesh of your jugular and squeezes your clothed breast. You can’t help but breathe in his scent, a lightly spiced aroma with a hint of bergamot and something metallic, like the concentrated smell of mora itself.
“There are clients all over the world who will be fighting hand over fist for you to warm their beds,” You swallow hard as he continues massaging your chest, kissing his way up your neck and pressing his nose against your ear.
“Clients?” You find yourself asking against your better judgement, though your voice sounds small. You feel the Harbinger grin against your ear. Before he answers you he drags his tongue along the outer shell. Your breathing hitches when his hand slides under your bodice, one of the rings he wears catching your pert nipple.
“Yes, prelest**, do you think I clean out my coffers without the intention of making a profit?” Though the air around you is thick with tension, the Harbinger carries on exploring your body, twirling his tongue in the opening of your ear and nipping every so often at your earlobe, “Though, you’ll have to be much more engaged than this if I’m to see a return on my investment.”
You’re well aware of his subtle nudge to open yourself up, to let him have his way with you and prove yourself valuable, but you can’t bring yourself to move. It’s too difficult to breathe. Belonging to the Harbinger is a prospect terrifying enough, but to be sold over and over to the men that would deign to partake in his business dealings is more than a single woman can bear.
“I…don’t…” You don’t realize you’re crying until a thumb drags across your cheek. For the first time you turn to look at the man, it’s like coming face to face with death itself. His pupils aren’t slits, you find, but they’re narrowed all the same. Deep indigo irises the color of a darkening sky glow with delight as he soaks in your fear. The corners of his lips are permanently pulled in a genial grin, so much so that you wonder if you aren’t peering at a mask. Another thumb joins the first and the pair trace your cheekbones as the Harbinger sighs.
“There’s another habit we’ll have to break you of, it seems,” You try to pull your face away, but he’s managed to lock your head between his palms with an iron grip. Fear that should have settled in your bones the moment you met him finally starts to rear its head, “Name a single man that would want to bed such a haughty, sniveling little slut.”
He waits, expression ever still. Fresh tears fall as you continue to try to wrestle out of his grasp. You know he expects an answer, but the words die in your throat.
“You left the whorehouse mere minutes ago, have you already forgotten your place?” You shake your head violently, but continue to push and prod in an attempt to get away. The man is deceptively strong. He sighs again, jewels tinkling softly against his glasses as he shakes his head.
“No matter…” He somehow manages to smile wider, baring his teeth in delight, “…training is one of my specialties.”