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knavesflames · 5 months ago

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𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝓍 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝒸𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑜

hello friends, I have arrived. As per the poll, shower sex was first. I had trouble figuring out how to do this but settled on this. I hope you enjoy! (it’s supposed to snow on monday, god save me) (i always end my fics with humour why)

Word count: 2.1k

Contents: shower, tired arlecchino, fingering, it’s soft they love each other fr

nsft utc!

Arlecchino’s favourite thing to do after a long day of dealing with incompetent Fatui grunts is come home and see you. You greet her the same way each time, greeting her with a soft hum, waiting for her to appear in your vision. She appreciates that you give her space to at least take her blazer off. She does it hastily, the garment often being left on the floor by the doormat to be picked up by her on the way to bed later that night. You always seem to be cooking when she comes home, something you have learned to time perfectly— you know she gets hungry when she comes home, and you know she’ll only forget to eat. Each time she moves to the kitchen to wrap her arms around you, a soft sigh leaves her lips, her own subtle way of smelling what she can only describe as pure domesticity.

Arlecchino’s job requires her to be many things. Ruthless, unfeeling, violent, even. When her hands graze your waist, you feel none of that. The hands belong to a woman full of love, even if she cannot express it. You do things for her that no other person would. When you share a meal, for example, you leave any spices out of it (to her satisfaction, much to your own dismay), until the end, after you’ve plated whatever food it is and placed it on the table. It takes more time, but the small flicker of gratitude in her eyes when she sees the colour difference, or smells the difference of the two dishes, warms your heart.

Your eyes inspect her as she eats. Expressionless as she is, she isn’t very good at hiding her feelings. Not with you, anyway. “What’s the matter?” Your quiet voice comes out as a sort of hum as you glance up at her. You watch her hand slows, the metal of the fork reflecting the ceiling light.

“I am tired. Clearly, nobody in this organisation can do their jobs. I do not understand how we are to revive the—“ She cuts herself off before she says anything else. You know well enough that she doesn’t talk about work at home. You do not ask her to. You watch as her hand comes up to release her hair from her signature ponytail, a smile making its way to your face when her snowy strands cascade down her shoulders, disappearing behind her back. When her hair is down, she looks almost soft. Kind. You know, deep down, buried under the facade of strictness (that you beg her to stop applying to herself— she never listens), she is a woman full of love. You know that much because even during nights where her nails are biting into the skin of your thighs, or your hips, or even on occasion, your neck as she draws sound after sound out of you, the other hand is always caressing some part of you, her eyes always full of tenderness.

You remember one of the first times you had sex with her— it was the first time you had attended one of those stupid Fatui balls with her. You had let her pick out the outfit herself, and she enjoyed herself thoroughly. You had barely gotten into your apartment before she had picked you up and laid you softly on the bed sheets, grumbling about how you never made your bed. You were still figuring each other out— what worked, and what didn’t. Midway through, when you weren’t thinking, you whispered. “Degrade me.” Your eyes moved to look into her own, only to be met with an immediate frown. “I will not. How could I ever say such things about you?” You tried to explain, perhaps wondering if she was unaware of what it truly was. She did know, she couldn’t fathom saying a bad word to you, even in such a situation. You learned then how soft she truly was.

“A shower would help,” you muse through a mouthful of the food. “Warm water is good for tense muscles. You’re tense, you can barely keep your shoulders relaxed.” Her eyes move towards the food in front of her. For some reason, she isn’t too hungry. Work has stressed her incredibly, to the point her sentences are short and curt. Her face is apologetic after, you know she means well. You allow it. “I can wash your hair, I know you like that.” After deliberation, she lets out a small hum, a yes.

Once your stomachs are full, you move to place them in the sink, vowing to yourself that you’ll clean them later (you’ll forget). Taking her by her blackened hand, you gently, but insistently drag her towards the bathroom. Her footsteps are heavy on the floor as she reluctantly follows along. Something has obviously happened at work, you think, because she is just so stressed. You plan to make sure the water at least relaxes her muscles.

Once the water is warm enough and both of you have undressed in quiet silence (she has her showers so hot you can’t touch the water. You don’t understand how she can withstand such heat), you guide her into the shower, your touch as gentle as it’s always been. You listen to the barely audible sigh that escapes her when she feels the water touch her skin. “Good?” You murmur softly, smiling when you hear her hum in appreciation, her shoulders slowly slumping. You know Arlecchino well, it seems. Her hand comes up to cup your cheek, the feeling is different than it usually is— the water is warm, her hand is somehow even warmer. In turn, your hand does the same, cupping her cheek with such softness it seems you’re barely touching her.

“I haven’t seen you like this in so long,” her voice is as smooth as it usually is, the same velvety tone despite the exhaustion. “I almost forgot how beautiful you are. Almost.” A chuckle leaves your throat at the wry smile that appears on her face. “You are stunning, but you must take better care of yourself, Peruere.” Your gentle chiding causes a huff to escape from her, a dismissal, you know that much. You open your mouth to chide her once more, but her lips swallow your words before you can even form a syllable. It’s a soft kiss, softer than the usual kisses she gives you. When you part, you can’t help but gasp and choke slightly at the water dripping onto your face, and into your mouth.

“Did you just swallow some?” She asks, a small chuckle rising in her throat. A hand comes up to gently shove her before you giggle, a sound that also is quickly drowned out by her lips. Her kiss is different this time, with more fervour and need in it. You let both of your hands wander until the meet and rest on the nape of her neck, fingers gently scratching at the wet hair strands. Arlecchino’s own hands gently guide you towards the wall, giving you respite against the relentless water stream. The air is thick with heat and steam, the mirrors fogged, but it seems neither of you are paying any attention to it. Her hands wander, tracing every part of your body she can reach. When you break for air, her lips take purchase on the skin of your neck, kissing and sucking gently marks onto it, marks you know will stay for a few days. You like it.

“You’re always so good to me,” she mumbles, nails slightly dragging against your skin. It feels good in a way you can’t explain. “Let me take care of you, hm?” You can’t see her face, but you can picture it, and the thought alone has you nodding breathlessly. Prying your legs gently apart, she lets out a breath against your neck, her voice changing to one that always has you melting.

“It’s been so long, hasn’t it? You must be so desperate.” It’s a question that doesn’t need answering. You’re very well aware that you’ve spent nights trying— and failing, to recreate what she does to you. She’s aware because despite the water that wets your skin, you’re the wettest you’ve ever been when her middle finger glides across your folds, eliciting a small gasp from you. She hums, pleased at the sight of her finger glistening (before it is quickly washed away by the water) when she pulls it back. A whine practically rips from your throat when you feel her absence, and you begin to wonder how you’ve managed to become so desperate within minutes. On a usual day, she’d tease you until you begged for it, but all she wants is to see your face when you reach the peak of your orgasm. It’s the one thing she thinks about when she’s on her missions, or when she's sat at the office— the way you cry her name, her real name, the way you tremble. The thought causes her to make a sound you swear she’s never made before, a whimper.

Her finger moves back to where it was, caressing and moving through each fold until she’s circling your entrance. You’re grateful she clips her nails (she’d rip them off if you told her to). Arlecchino’s red crosses meet your own eyes, and her eyebrows twitch in question. When you nod in response, your hips moving slightly, the corners of her lips twitch slightly in a smile as she presses her finger in, then another. The noise that comes from you can only be described as unholy, and it drives Arlecchino on further. She lets you get used to the sensation before she curls her fingers up into the same spot you happen to miss every time you do it yourself. Your eyes fly open and your lips part, but she speaks before you can make noise.

“Shh, be quiet. The shower doesn’t muffle everything.” You know nobody will hear anyway, but she’s always liked the idea of you trying to stay as quiet as possible, the look on your face every single time a louder moan escapes you. Perhaps it’s some sort of fantasy she has, to get caught, or at the very least, the prospect of being caught. You’re ripped out of your thoughts when Arlecchino curls her fingers again, finding a rhythm that has you bucking your hips. She leans down, mouth attaching to one of your nipples, and she practically groans herself. The water has formed droplets on your skin, and she thinks it makes you look even more appealing. There seems to be something about you, in the shower, whispering her name that seems to get her. She swears she could practically orgasm herself just at the sight of you.

“Peruere, please,” comes the mewl from you, words mixed with shaking breath. She (and you, for that matter) feels you clenching around her, and it only drives her to continue. A hand comes to rest in the soaked strands of her hair, tugging gently, and she knows it’s a sign that you’re close. Again, she chuckles, releasing your chest and moving her lips back to your own. Her tongue touches your bottom lip, and when you, somehow, in your pleasure clouded mind, deepen the kiss, her thumb finds your clit. The pressure is light, and it takes only a couple of circular movements before your hand in her hair tightens, your voice rising to a soft cry as you finally get the orgasm you’ve been chasing (alone or not) for such a long time. Her movements continue until your gasping turns to heavy breathing, and your eyes manage to focus on her again. Only then does Arlecchino pull out her fingers, holding them up to show you, like she always does. She knows it embarrasses you, she can tell by the way you avert your gaze. And as expected, you practically choke on your own saliva when she doesn’t hesitate in cleaning her fingers. Not by running them under the water, but letting her tongue flicking out of her mouth to lap up the evidence of your pleasure.

“What are you— you can’t do that.” You sound practically horrified at the notion (like you haven’t spent nights with her fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet, or to do exactly what she’s doing now. You enjoy those. It isn’t so bad when you’re tasting yourself, for some reason). Eventually, when she sees your wide eyes, she relents, moving to run them under the water.

The water isn’t as hot anymore, having dulled to a lukewarm temperature. “The water bill will be high this month, I assume.” Arlecchino says it with such nonchalance that you can’t help but snort. Biting your lip, you join her in her joking. “I didn’t wash my hair. Warm it back up. I know you can.”

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