(tangent)Freeuse Laws of Fontaine

#Since the main cast wont stroll into this part of teyvat, here a dive into how this nations operates#

The waters of Fontaine glittered under a pale sun, canals cutting elegant lines through white stone and gilded ironwork. Steam hissed from ornate vents. Clockwork mechanisms clicked in steady rhythm along the bridges. The city breathed with the quiet precision of something long perfected—orderly streets, polished facades, the soft murmur of citizens moving between appointments and cafés.

Yet the eye kept catching on certain figures.

Women walked the boulevards with collars of dark metal or seals of official wax pressed against bare skin. Some wore nothing but thin silk sashes that framed more than they covered. Others were led on short leashes of braided cord, hips swaying in measured steps while their handlers spoke casually of the day’s schedule. A few knelt at public fountains, thighs open, waiting with the same patient stillness as the statues around them. Passersby scarcely slowed. A merchant adjusted his hat and continued negotiating prices. Two clerks argued over paperwork while one absently rested a hand on the nearest collar, fingers stroking the soft throat beneath as if it were nothing more remarkable than a railing.

No one stared. No one whispered. The sight belonged to the streets the way the fountains and the clock towers did—simply part of the view.

A young woman with an elaborate seal across her lower belly was guided past a café terrace. Diners lifted their cups in mild acknowledgment. One gentleman rose, tipped his hat, and stepped forward to use her mouth while his companions continued their conversation about the latest theater reviews. She swallowed without complaint. When he finished, he wiped his fingers on a napkin, returned to his seat, and the woman was led onward. The café returned to its quiet clink of porcelain.

Further along the main canal, a small procession moved toward the grand plaza. Three collared figures walked in single file, wrists loosely bound behind them, bodies oiled and marked with the same official stamps. Citizens parted politely. A few reached out to pinch or stroke as the line passed, testing the give of a breast or the slick heat between a pair of thighs. The women kept their eyes forward. The handlers made brief notes on clipboards. Business as usual.

The city did not feel cruel. It felt composed. Elegant. Certain of its own rules.

Near the heart of the Court district the architecture grew richer still—tall windows of colored glass, balconies heavy with iron scrollwork, the low thrum of music drifting from an open doorway. Lanterns of pale blue glass already glowed along the façade even in daylight. Gilded lettering announced the establishment in refined script. The air carried the scent of perfume, polished wood, and something warmer beneath.

Inside the Casino of the Court of Fontaine the air was cooler, scented with expensive tobacco, polished mahogany, and the faint metallic tang of official seals. Chandeliers of cut crystal threw soft light across green felt tables. The soft clatter of chips and the measured shuffle of cards mixed with low conversation. Everything moved with the same refined order that governed the streets outside.

Lynette stood at the edge of the high-stakes floor.

(https://im.ge/i/QMZV0LJ)
(artist: Yuto)

The reverse bunny suit left almost nothing to the imagination. Black satin framed her body in clean, deliberate lines: a high collar, long gloves, a small tail, and the familiar bunny ears rising from her silver hair. The front of the suit was open from throat to hips, held only by thin straps that crossed beneath her breasts. Small black pasties covered her nipples. Everything else was bare—the soft curves of her tits, the flat plane of her stomach, the pale insides of her thighs, the smooth slit of her pussy left completely uncovered. A thin official collar of dark metal rested against her throat, the temporary service mark replaced today by a heavier, permanent jackpot seal that hung between her collarbones like a pendant.

She was the prize.

Usually the house offered her for a week, sometimes a month—long enough for a winner to use her thoroughly and return her when the contract expired. Tonight the plaque on the velvet-roped table beside her carried a different weight. Permanent ownership. The winner would take her home, keep her, mark her as property for as long as they wished. The paperwork was already prepared, stamped and waiting under glass.

Lynette’s face remained calm, ears angled slightly forward, expression the same quiet blankness she wore during every performance. She did not speak unless spoken to. She simply stood where the floor manager had placed her, body on display, and let the customers do the rest.

A man at the nearest table reached out without looking up from his cards and cupped one of her breasts, thumb brushing the black pastie until it shifted and the soft flesh yielded under his palm. Lynette did not pull away. She shifted her weight a fraction so he could have a better grip, the way she had been trained. Another player, laughing softly at a winning hand, slid two fingers between her bare thighs and found her already slick. He worked them in and out while he considered his next bet. Lynette’s breathing stayed even. A soft, almost inaudible sound escaped her when he pressed deeper, but her eyes stayed fixed on the far wall.

(https://im.ge/i/QMZVmqz)
(artist: Yuto)

“Motivation,” the floor manager had called it earlier, adjusting the seal at her throat. “Keep the tables warm. Let them feel what they might own.”

Hands explored freely. Fingers pinched the soft undersides of her tits, tugged at the pasties until they nearly came free, then pressed them back into place. A woman in an elegant evening gown reached around from behind and stroked the exposed slit of Lynette’s pussy with two manicured nails, spreading her open for the next player to inspect. Someone else slapped her lightly on the ass, then left a handprint that slowly faded against pale skin. Lynette accepted each touch the same way she accepted a stage cue—quietly, completely, without resistance.

When a high roller at the center table decided he wanted more, he simply pulled her closer by the collar. Lynette stepped forward on cue, knees parting just enough. He pushed three fingers into her in one smooth motion, curling them while he studied his cards. Her walls clenched around the intrusion. A thin line of arousal slid down the inside of one thigh and dripped onto the carpet. The man hummed in mild approval and kept her there, fucking her slowly with his hand while the rest of the table continued betting.

(https://im.ge/i/QMZV94S)
(artist: Yuto)

Lynette’s ears flicked once. Her face remained composed. Only the faint flush across her cheeks and the steady wet sound between her legs betrayed anything at all.

The permanent seal hung against her throat like any other piece of stage jewelry. The contract she had signed years ago was precise, stamped in triplicate, and filed under the Casino’s official service charter. She had read every clause. She had initialed the page that allowed the house to elevate her from temporary prize to permanent jackpot whenever the numbers aligned. The possibility had always been real. Tonight it simply was.

She did not care in the way other people seemed to expect. The thought of belonging to a single owner for the rest of her life registered as nothing more than another performance note. What registered far more strongly was the state of her body.

Her pussy would not stop dripping.

Every hand that groped her, every set of fingers that slid between her bare thighs, every casual pinch or slap left her slicker than before. The reverse bunny suit offered no barrier. Arousal ran in thin, steady threads down the insides of her legs, catching the light whenever she shifted. The black pasties over her nipples had been nudged aside more than once; each time a customer pressed them back into place the sensitive skin beneath throbbed. She remained still through all of it, ears forward, face calm, while her cunt clenched and wept around whatever was currently inside it.

The evening deepened. The ordinary tables began to clear. Floor managers moved with quiet efficiency, collecting the highest winners of the day and guiding them toward a single, elevated table near the center of the floor. Velvet ropes were drawn. A fresh deck appeared. The plaque that had sat beside Lynette all night was moved to the middle of the green felt and locked under glass: Permanent Ownership – Lynette.

She was called forward.

Lynette stepped into the dealer’s position without hesitation. every player at the table could see the wet shine between her thighs as she took her place. She shuffled with the same precise, almost mechanical grace she used on stage. Cards whispered across the felt. The first hands were dealt.

One man dominated from the opening round.

He was young, dark-skinned, built with the solid muscle of someone who had spent years under a harsher sun than Fontaine’s. The desert of Sumeru still clung to the set of his shoulders and the quiet intensity in his eyes. He spoke little. He simply played—aggressive, precise, reading the table the way a predator reads open ground. Stack after stack of chips moved toward him. Other players folded, muttered, or watched with tight mouths as their fortunes drained away.

Lynette dealt.

Every time she leaned forward to slide a card across the table, her bare breasts swayed inside the open front of the suit. Every time she collected discarded hands, the motion spread her thighs a fraction wider and another thin strand of arousal slipped free. The Sumeru man watched her as carefully as he watched the cards. Once, between rounds, he reached across the felt, hooked two fingers into her dripping cunt, and held them there while the next hand was played. Lynette continued dealing around the intrusion, face blank, ears steady. When he finally withdrew, his fingers shone. He wiped them absently on the edge of the felt and returned to his cards.

The other high winners were falling one by one.

If the desert man kept taking their chips, the table would empty until only he remained opposite the dealer. And the dealer, tonight, was the jackpot herself.