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knavesflames · 2 months ago

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hi el :) imagine arle getting frustrated w reader and grabs her by the throat, harder than she intended to, but then reader enjoys it

mhm I think that could be fun

something something hands something something fingering

Yeah gotta be about the hands I just know you love hands so much

Hello >:) I do love her hands you’re so correct about that. I spent today writing this and at some point I just brain rotted completely and zoned out for a bit but!! Here you go. If she doesn’t do this to me, I will burn the world down <3 /j feel free to have an emoji if you’d like✨

Word count: 2119

Content: reader likes fingers, bratty reader, fem!reader, fingering, asphyxiation (consensual obviously), fingers in mouth, hand over mouth.. you know.

A/N: I tried without using the red colour for Arlecchino. I used it only so I could differentiate between reader and her, but I’m unsure if you guys enjoy it or not. Let me know<3

Nsft utc!

Her hands were the first thing that drew you to her, if you’re honest with yourself. You remember hearing the way her nails drummed against the surface of the counter as she waited for her coffee (double espresso. That’s it. Nothing else). The sound annoyed you, and you remember the way your eyes scanned for the perpetrator so you could politely ask them to stop. You never said anything.

Your eyes had locked onto her hands and you were admiring scrutinising each centimetre of skin. Blackened, though they were, they were slender, and her fingers were long. Even without the nails that looked like they’d scratch out an eye with ease, they were elegant, fitting for a woman of her stature.

Now of course, Arlecchino was no fool. She was plenty aware of what you were staring at, no matter how much you were trying to hide it. She found it endearing, really. How quickly you focused on them, how your breathing got just a little deeper. She liked it, and she liked you. Not just because of this, of course, she’d had her eye on you for a while, but the fact you’d made it clear that you liked her too.. A woman like her gets what she wants, especially when what she wants, wants her.

A relationship quickly formed. It seemed you both fit together quite nicely, despite her cold, closed off nature. It was quite a sweet relationship, apart from the fact that you could be a total brat when she needs it the least. How many punishments would she have to give before you learned? Or, perhaps, you quite liked them. Especially when she used her hands and her fingers.

From the way you watched her fist the base of her favourite strap, to the way you mewled when her fingers curled inside of you, you were both very very much aware of the fact that it was her hands that were the thing that got you off more than anything else. You were both very very much aware that she used that to her advantage.

One day, she was lucky enough to work from home. A rare occurrence, but one she treasures. She does not have to don the suit she wears in public, she can give her feet a much needed rest from the stilettos she refuses to leave the house without. Instead, her outfit is.. almost casual. It’s a nice change, you think. She looks like husband material. You’d never say that. Instead, you decide today is the perfect time to annoy her until you get what you want! Of course you do, you’re just a little slut for her and her hands :(

Your arm snakes over her chest as you stand behind her, your words drawn out and pleading. “Peruere,” you whine, “take a break.”

“I cannot. You know this.” Comes the firm reply. You know this, but you can’t bring yourself to care. It makes you more determined, though. Arlecchino should have known. Your fingers fumble with the buttons of her loose shirt, and your lips kiss the shell of her ear. Arlecchino sighs, her eyes raising from the paper that sits on her desk. Her hand gently slaps your own away, and her voice comes out just a little sharper.

“No. Not right now. Do not be a brat.” It’s a warning, a warning you don’t listen to. “Peruere, I’m wearing the set you like.” Her jaw feathers at that. She’s unsure if it’s the image you’ve set in her mind or the way you say her name, her real name. It’s her weakness, but currently, you’re frustrating her. Beyond belief. And the second you moan into her ear, a fake, airy moan, she loses any control she had.

She spins her chair around, stands up, and pushes you against the nearest wall. Her hands wrap around your throat, and she does not squeeze, but she could. She has. You pretend you don’t like it, but she knows, from experience, the way that your underwear is practically unwearable after thirty seconds. You get so wet for her and she loves it. Her fingers twitch and her thumb strokes your windpipe, just to see the reaction it elicits from you.

“Do you enjoy breathing?” She murmurs, her voice low and soft, a contrast to the way she just slammed you against the wall. When you only smile widely in response, her grip tightens, just enough for you to lose your breath. “Not so much, then.” Arlecchino has a tendency to muse to herself when she renders you incapable of speaking. She does it purely to mock you, to remind you of the fact that she is the one in control, no matter how bratty you can get. When you attempt to reply, and the only thing you can manage is a strangled whisper of her name, full of want, she tightens until your breath stops. She waits, timing the seconds in her head until she knows your vision blurs just a little before her grip relents.

She watches as you gasp for breath and moan at the rush of oxygen, your eyes glassy. (She wouldn’t do it if you didn’t like it, but she vividly remembers the time you asked for it. You tap thrice if it’s too much). “Not so talkative now, are you?”

When you catch your breath enough to speak, she realises your few seconds of breathlessness was not enough. “Perhaps I don’t want to talk.” Your smirk is infuriating, infuriating enough that she scoffs.

“Wanted my full attention, did you?” (Sorry I couldn’t help myself putting her voiceline in there). You shrug, pretending like you really don’t care at all, but when her hand travels down from your throat, nails grazing your perked up nipple that begs to be freed from the restraints of your bra, she knows that your words are complete bullshit.

“You’re a liar. I dislike liars. I can only assume you’re dripping for me, like you usually are.” Arlecchino hisses. She’s annoyed, you can tell that much, because she knows the work she was supposed to do today is forgotten. It always is when you act like this. Her hand leaves your nipple, trailing down your stomach until her nails dip into the waistband of your underwear. You’re lucky enough that she’s filed three of them, just for the days she decides that she doesn’t want you to clench around her strap, but instead, she wants to feel the way her fingers pull orgasm after orgasm out of you until you can’t form any words.

When her digits graze your folds and she feels how wet you are without even properly sliding her fingers into your slit, she huffs, her words full of arrogance. “You’re fucking soaked. Over some choking? You’re a good little slut aren’t you?”

You’re already melting at her words alone. The tone of her voice, the way she says such dirty words so softly. It almost makes you think she’ll give you mercy. She will not, not now. She notes the way your breathing, now that you’ve caught your breath, has sped in anticipation. Her digits graze over your sensitive skin, touching everywhere but the one place you need it the most. Her intention is to make you beg, you’ve realised, but you’re adamant that you won’t.

When she realises her current tactic won’t work, she lets her finger give a single tap to your aching, puffy clit. It’s enough for a jolt of pleasure to shoot through your body, your lips parting in a small gasp. She taps again, and once more before she rests her finger there, and doesn’t move it. She watches with amusement as you clumsily grind your hips in an attempt to get friction and sensation, her finger only moving away any time you get even the slightest chance.

“I didn’t say you could do that, did I? Are you really so mindlessly needy that you disobey me?” Her voice only serves to make you more desperate, and your arm shoots out. Your hand grips her wrist in an attempt to keep her finger where you’d like it, and for now, she abides. Arlecchino allows you to chase the pleasure for only a few moments before she shifts her hand, two of her beautiful blackened digits line up against your entrance.

“Are you going to be a good girl, hm?” A dangerous whisper right against your cheek. At this point, you might just be out of your mind with desperation, so you agree. Your head moves frantically in a nod, a quiet whimper of ‘yes, I promise, please.’ With that, she pushes them in without much difficulty (thanks to the fact you’re convinced you’ve never been this wet). The Knave is so agonisingly slow with it in the best way possible, sliding her fingers in inch by inch until you take her to the knuckle. Usually, she coos, and tells you just how well you’re taking it. Not today.

Instead, she begins her assault, curling her fingers and immediately reaching THAT spot. The woman is quick, and the second you open your mouth to groan, you feel the same two fingers on her other hand push into your mouth and press down on your tongue. You whine in response, but her reply is a cold chuckle, her voice so mockingly sweet. “We have neighbours. Do you want them to hear how badly you’ve been misbehaving?”

You do. You so badly do. You so badly want people to see just how much she can make you fall apart. Alas, you shake your head, and just to irritate her (turn her on) even more, you let your tongue swirl around her fingers the way you’ve done with her strap so many times. You suck on them hungrily, your moans and mewls of pleasure muffled. “Oh, you are a good little whore for me, aren’t you? So obsessed with my fingers you’ve chosen to suck on them while I finger fuck you into silence.”

With each curl of her fingers and rub of her thumb on your stiff clit that just begs for attention, you’re getting to the edge VERY quickly. She knows it, she can tell when you clench around them and your walls pulsate. When your legs tremble and you can barely keep yourself against the wall. When each squelch of her fingers pumping in and out of you has your eyes fucking rolling into your head, and you can no longer focus on anything and you can barely remember your name.

Usually, on nights where she decides to be loving, she’ll slow herself down during your orgasm, to prolong it, to let the pleasure hit you for longer. Today though, she speeds up and moves her fingers harder, so hard, in fact, that tears are once again welling in your eyes, that you’ve begun essentially deepthroating her fingers and gagging on them (she loves it! She adores when the very thing that has you cumming also has you struggling like a little slut, her slut <3).

You tap thrice on her wrist when it gets too much, and she takes her fingers from your mouth quickly, opting to instead clamp her hand firmly around your mouth to shut you up instead. When you cry out as your orgasm hits you, she can only raise a single eyebrow. You did not ask for permission, and she has told you that brats ask for permission. “Peruere,” you moan shakily from behind her palm as you slowly come down from it, but the look in her eyes makes yours widen.

Her fingers slide out of you with a soft squishing sound, and the dark finger pads glisten with the evidence of what she’s done to you. Arlecchino coaxes your jaw open, and she places her fingers into your mouth again, though, softly this time.

“Clean them.” She demands, and you do, groaning at the taste of it and the way she stares right at you. When she’s satisfied, she retracts them, leaving you whimpering at the loss of them. You are spent, and your legs feel like they’re about to give way. Your panties are so wet that you know you’re going to have to put them straight into the washing machine, and the thought of it makes you shiver. You lift yourself off of the wall, your legs trembling, only for her to push you right back.

“No. I did not say we were done. You interrupted my work hours, so I will not be finished with you until my work hours are over. We have about five hours.” Aww, such a shame, isn’t it?

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