#🦊 𝔎𝔦𝔱

[knavesflames]

Biker!Arlecchino au🏍️

Omg so many people wanted biker!arle au so here we are! Vice president is of course @hulahoopsoupgroup who often provides me with brain rot I can turn into writing (thanks for the brain rot while I’m at work)

We were talking about biker!Arlecchino and her backstory (more to come hmm) and more specifically, how she’d be in an intimate setting. It led to, well, this. Enjoy:)

Word count: 1517

Content: cunnilingus (reader giving), Arlecchino.. bottoms?!

Nsft utc!

Most people think she’s exactly how she looks. Angry, unfeeling, downright terrifying. Once you know her, she’s anything but. Especially when she’s taken a liking to you, once you’ve earned her affection. I think, once you’ve earned her messily cut flowers (much to her own embarrassment), there’s no question on whether you’ve earned it or not. Once she’s decided she likes you enough to be around you, she’s loyal. More than, even. She’d follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked her to, and she’d do it without a question. (She’d grumble, obviously, she has to maintain her intimidating demeanour).

In reality, she’s softer. Don’t mistake it, there are walls covered with barbed wire and signs telling you to leave her alone. You could probably hear a dog snarling in a warning, if those walls were visible. Once you get past these walls, however, she’s nothing if not a woman craving real love.

Perhaps that’s why she’s become so infatuated with you, someone who can make her cheeks heat with only a glance, someone who, when she’s ‘sleeping’, will stroke the silky locks of her hair as you try to soothe your own mind to sleep. You know there’s a reason she’s so closed off, you know she won’t say a word if you ask, so you don’t. She’s comfortable with you, though, so you let her open up at her own pace, which, granted, is.. agonisingly slow. Arlecchino does not allow herself to be vulnerable. Even during intimacy she refuses to let herself go. Arlecchino is on guard at all times, any second she’s conscious. She’s on guard even when she’s falling into the throes of slumber. Only when sleep overtakes her completely does her body relax.

Which is why tonight seems to be so special for the both of you. Instead of the usual, her on top of you, calmly asking directing you to the position she’d like you to be in (with a weird clear of her throat every so often to hide the way her breath catches when she sees you), you are, in fact, the one taking off her clothes tonight. In a moment of weakness vulnerability, she has allowed you to move forward with your gentle advances.

Although reluctant, she lets you shrug off the shirt she always has on and allows your fingers to dance gingerly over the many tattoos she’s acquired. From this distance, you’re able to see the age of the ink, the quality of it, too. You can see the way the lines have gone from shaky and hesitant to sharp and refined. You don’t tell her, but you’re also able to see which tattoo was her first, done by herself in her bathroom one night with a slightly shaky hand. All you know about that is that she promptly decided she was not giving herself another tattoo. In her own words, “why would I have anything less than the best on my skin?” You’ll learn the story behind them one day, you decide.

A low hum comes from her throat when your nails seem to gently scratch at the skin, and she speaks, albeit with a slightly strained voice. “Careful. The ink might bleed. Feels… it feels nice, though.” Your own response is a chuckle, but you choose to continue what you were originally doing. The tattoos will get more love another time. Your lips meet her neck instead, grinning when you feel her shiver slightly as you press gentle kisses along her skin, from her jaw to her throat, her collarbone…

Whatever skin you can reach, you’re kissing, your thumbs stroking her skin as you lower yourself slowly. She isn’t even fully aware of what you’re doing, her head tilted up towards the ceiling, until she feels your hands on her stupid leather pants. When Arlecchino looks down, her eyes widen almost imperceptibly at the sight in front of her. She had not expected you to be on your knees, and she goes to stand up in a panic until she hears your voice. “Help me with these? I don’t know how you even get these on each morning.” The response is a huff that could almost be interpreted like a laugh. Almost. You can see the hesitation in her eyes, but she sees your soft smile and she eventually moves to help you with them. You look up at her when you hear her breathing stutter, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion as you murmur, asking if she’s alright. When she reassures in the same gruff voice she always has that she is, indeed, alright, you continue.

Your gentle assault of kisses move now from her stomach, to the sides of her hips, the tops of her thighs, her inner thighs, and then, you stop. Your eyes meet hers again when your breath fans against her skin, and she gives you the nod you need to continue. You don’t miss the way her lip is caught between her teeth, and you are very well aware of the fact this is the most vulnerable she’s been around you. Progress, you think, you only hope it lasts. When you do finally begin, and your next kiss is against the part of her that for Arlecchino, seems to be aching, you feel her thighs immediately tense. You can only assume the rest of her body has tensed too, but it is immensely impossible to miss the way her thighs are now sandwiching your head. Whether it’s to keep you there or to stop you, you aren’t entirely sure, but you decide to continue anyway. You trust her to tell you if she wanted to stop.

You start gently, your lips barely ghosting over the small bundle of the nerves, your tongue swirling carefully against it every so often, and you smile into her at the realisation her breath is speeding up, and she’s very quickly beginning to move with you. You clench your fist against the carpet in the attempt to muffle your own gasp, or whatever noise that’s threatening to escape your lips. At one point, when your lips wrap around her clit, you’ve clearly done the right thing, because you hear a strained whimper, and without warning, you feel her hands weaving into your hair. Your eyes meet hers when they flutter open, and along with the feel of her nails scratching against your scalp and her fingers carding through your hair, you see the way she’s looking at you.

For Arlecchino, you might as well have hung the stars in the sky, the very stars she admires each night. With her lips parted, her cheeks flushed (a common occurrence now she’s dating you, it seems), and the way her right eyebrow is raised ever so slightly, she stares down at you in a daze, and her words come out in some strange mix of a groan and a whimper.

“I’d burn the world for you,” Arlecchino murmurs, her hands tightening in your hair to bring you back to her core when you pull away to speak. The act both of you are involved in is gentle and full of love, something Arlecchino promised she’d never feel again. It’s that very thought that makes her move her hips in time with your mouth, chasing the high she never allows herself. Though, she keeps speaking, though the words are becoming more of a mumble.

“If loving you will take me to hell, I’m going to greet Satan with roses, I swear.” You feel the urge to tease her for how affectionate she gets, and you hold out as your mouth continues their ministrations, until you can’t hold out. “So affectionate when you’re being eaten out, hm?”

You are met with a sharper tug on your hair and a sharp puff of air that ends in a quiet whimper. Then another whimper, and another as the coil in Arlecchino’s stomach grows tighter. One more look at your eyes staring up at her and she shudders, her mouth falling open and her thighs trapping you even more as she rides your face through her climax.

She was quieter than you expected, though you wonder if it’s because she’s shy. When you rise from your position, your knees are a little red, nothing time won’t fix, but your main focus is on her. You end up crawling into her pillows, patting the space next to with a tilted head, a silent request for her to join you. She does, settling herself on your chest so she can listen to your heartbeat, so she doesn’t have to look at you straight after, too. A gentle press of your lips to the crown of her head and your hand in her tresses is all she needs before her body relaxes under the sheets. There are no words spoken, but there doesn’t need to be. Not right now. It’s not like she can speak right now either, not with her current state, which is, well.. the only sound in the room is the sound of your stifled giggles, and her soft snoring.

[knavesflames]

since we are both sick in the head, i request biker arle headcanons (both sfw and nsfw)

oouuhhh thinking about biker arle who looks all intimidating and has tattoos showing up to your doorstep with flowers and melts when shes around you

im gonna throw up

thankyouiloveyoubyee

We truly are sick in the head. Literally what is it about this woman that has us in such a chokehold actually it’s so stupid but UGH. I have not once simped over a fictional woman as hard as this. Anyway, screaming, crying, throwing up at the thought of her

Anyone notice the references to a couple people in server?

Word count: 1159

Contents: fluff, soft arle, she’s scary but she’s not

Fluff utc!

Arlecchino. Everyone knows her. Who wouldn’t know the biker filled with tattoos, going around cursing like a sailor and never being seen without that stupid motorbike? She’s scary, intimidating. Even the grown adults shy away when they hear the familiar engine from afar, or refuse to look at her when she grumbles out that she wants to buy coffee. Even the store owner who supplies her parts for her bike and accessories for her stumbles over his words when she says she wants a new helmet. This one just doesn’t make her hair look nice when she takes it off, she says. The store owner is too intimidated to correct her, and tell her that it is not, in fact, the helmet’s fault.

The people in town also seem to be a little wary around you, too. They seem to know that if they say the wrong thing, or cause your face to fall or crumple, or cause tears to fall from your pretty eyes, that they’ll soon be facing the wrath of Arlecchino. Nobody seems to understand how you managed to break through her walls, how someone like you, so opposite Arlecchino, has her melting. Everyone sees it. Do they comment on it? Do they want to face her piercing glare, and whatever else she would do? Not a chance. It’s a little comical, though, seeing someone so tough looking, waiting outside of a store holding your cat, holding her in her arms while she feeds it treats every so often, going so far as to buy and place a bandana around her neck to surprise you. She does this all with a straight face, of course. It’s second nature to her, she’ll do anything for that smile of yours, the same smile that makes her feel like her insides have been set ablaze, makes her feel like a blushing teenager all over again.

You yourself think it’s adorable. Walking out of the store to see her holding your beloved cat (you joke that the cat is more important than her to see her pout) (you reassure her straight after that they’re on the same level, just to watch her pale cheeks flush a light pink). In reality, she makes you melt just as much. You have to hide the grin forming on your face when she speaks to you in that stoic voice she always has.

“Look. She looks dashing, I think. Matches my bike. I should get her a helmet.. I will ask someone to custom make one, I can take her on rides.” You cut her off immediately with an “absolutely not. My cat is not riding on a motorcycle.”

“Oh. Okay. I am still getting her a helmet. I want us to match.” She responds, her face completely blank, which makes everything funnier. You stand on your toes to kiss her cheek, pretending you don’t see the way her eyes widen. “My two favourite beings staying safe, wonderful.”

Even the notion that she’s one of your favourite things has her turning on her heel to conceal the ever growing blush on her face. She finds herself blushing often when she’s around you, she realises. She realises also that her words falter when you tell her to not speed, to make sure she’s wearing the correct material, that no, she doesn’t need to try and look sexy, that you find her the sexiest when she’s wearing the correct things.

She’s out riding for longer than usual, this time. The evening is dragging on, and she ALWAYS texts you when she’s home. She knows how you worry.

She is, actually, finished with her evening ride. Riding her bike as the sun sets is freeing for her. She likes to picture all of the negative shit being left in the wind as she drives. This evening, however, she drove past a field. A field decorated with different wild flowers she just knows you’d love. So, she slows to a stop, parking her bike in a way she knows won’t get it damaged. Her bike is her prized possession, second to you. She wades through the flowers, finding the best ones, slicing the stalk with her nails, the ones she kept long and not filed blunt (for your sake, of course). She grumbles to herself when the ovule gets under her nails. Once she deems the small bouquet good enough, she drives to you. Stopping just a little ways from you, she ties her boot lace around the stalks of the flowers, tying a clumsy bow. Arlecchino being Arlecchino, fixes herself as best as she can before she finds her feet moving towards your door.

When you rush to open the door after hearing her familiar knocking pattern, your own words falter for once. There she is. Stood in that shirt she KNOWS shows off her arms and the tattoos she knows you love, stood in those jeans she and you know all too well shows off her ass. She’s caught you staring, it’s the reason she wears them. And in her hand sits a messy, slightly wilted bouquet of flowers, clearly handpicked, hand cut (or rather, nail cut, you can see the residue under her nails), tied clumsily with a boot lace of all things.

“Here,” she mutters, “I thought you’d like these. Sorry they’re all.. weird.” You’re silent for a few seconds before she speaks again, a little defeat in her tone as she glances away, a sad frown twisting at her features despite her attempting to hide it. “Never mind. It was stupid. They’re ugly now, anyway. Have a good night.”

She goes to turn, but your hand shoots out and wraps around her bicep before she can leave. “Stop it. I love them. I don’t know what to say because you’re so.. adorable.”

“I’m what.” Her voice almost sounds shocked, if it wasn’t for the rough attempt at stoicism. She never thought she’d be called adorable in her life. She’s not meant to be adorable. She doesn’t want to be adorable. Her insides say otherwise, when she sees your soft eyes, filled with small tears, and your eyebrows furrowed in a look of pure adoration. You snatch the flowers before she can take them away, immediately walking into your home and placing them in a vase in the middle of your living room. She watches, straight faced, no indication of her feelings until she huffs, her face bright red.

“Turn on the air condition. It’s fucking hot in here. Where’s that kitty of yours, I want to see if she liked the fox toy I bought her.”

You look at her once more, a giggle rising in your throat as you tilt your head towards the cat tower, your eyes following as she moves towards it. You realise just how much you love this woman. At the same time, she realises she probably wants to spend her life with you, if you’d let her.

[knavesflames]

Hello…….. I have a question!

How would you guys, The People, feel if I made biker!arle an AU? It would be my first one ever

I have so many ideas (so does kit who would be vice president of the biker au) and I simply do not think I can compile it into a few fics, especially when i think of more things as time goes by. You get me. The People™️ get me. So, how would you feel?