night from morning + Arlecchino/reader
There’s something holy about waking in bed to your wife. She fucked you last night, you can’t forget with the strain to your legs, but as you peek up at her, her blouse back on, something she slept in while her fingers prod at the pages of, not a report, but a book you’ve been begging her to read. Finally, she’s here with you, doing as you want, thanks to her job finally telling her to take a break, using a papercut as reason. You owe that person everything for how holy you feel. “I know when you’re staring, sweetie,” she adds to the air as she flips the page, letting the tail of a ribbon find the page. She shuts it for her attention to you. You hum, a grumble in your throat as you stretch from sleeping on your side, moving to grip her waist barely clad. “Morning.” She hums, letting her grip find your shoulder. “Good morning indeed.”
Her fingers massage the taught flesh, a reminder of the ties she used against you, the strain of her nails as she pounded you from behind. Your eyes flutter up to her. “Would you like breakfast now?” Your lips muse in thought, shaking your head against her as she hums in response, “A lazy day in bed, then?” You nod your head, slowly moving to stray from the warmth of her to the ache of your body. You let your hand dig into the side of your neck, dipping into the muscles she licked against last night. You mumble when you feel her own hand meet the base of your spine, digging into it pleasingly, “You know, it’s unfair that you top so well.” She raises her brows in intrigue, amusement licking at her words, “We can switch if you’d like, my love.” You let your hand trail from your neck, drop with your words as you bashedly respond, “…I didn’t say that I just said it was unfair- you have inhumane strength and I’m stuck sunbathing in the kitchen. It’s unfair.” She hums in return; you know what’s next. “Ahh, I understand my love, my apologies for liking your pleasure.”
You turn to look at her from over your shoulder, “Apology accepted.” She, on the other hand, seems to not be done, not accept what you’ve accepted as she leans to kiss your cheek, down to your neck, not adding to the other love-bites, but when she gets to your neck, you feel a whisper of her breath, the echo of her words on your mind, “Do you need some help sweetheart?” Your lips fumble around a smile, as if a gulp of water too big to swallow, you turn to her further, letting her arms slowly come to wrap you up in her, as each’s blankets. “What help do you seek to conceit, my wife?” She’s entertained just as you are, the bed calling both of you as you creak back onto it, her back slowly relaxing against the headboard. “Well, my wife,” she starts, letting her eyes of crosses cut between yours, “I suggest a subdued recollection of the night before, since you are still suffused with somnolence.”
A bubble of reproach croaks through you as you shake her shoulders, not amused in the slightest when adjusting over her lap, leaning back but always there with her, by her. “C’mon,” she mutters the plea, continuing as she leans under you, kissing the bare flesh of your being, slowly descending from your jaw to your ear to nibble, to your neck to lick up the taste of you, even lower this time to your collarbone, letting her teeth taste them as if you are her meal, not what’s between your thighs. “Let me take care of you after last night. You were so well for me, unbelievably so due to my ailment of the thumb.” You don’t huff this time, instead you let her plead with her lips time and again, trailing down until she reaches the drop of flesh, teeth grazing the softness before she finds her lips over the edge of your nipple, the sensitiveness you’d never admit to with words, but a cry of satisfaction. “My wife,” she prompts, and you know you’ll have to tug her onto your being, but only with affirmation. “Yes, Arle, do as you must-” Your breath chokes you as she wetly, warmly wraps her lips around you, purging herself of any thought not indulgence when sucking on the tender flesh, already poked and bitten from the night before.
The cry you let out is more of a whine of overstimulation, even if the morning’s just begun from the night before. Verbally, she does not tease you, but with her soul corporeal, she lets both of her hands indulge in the flesh of you, swiping against her bent legs, keeping you pressed right against her as she smiles up at you, mouth still full of you. Your fingers inn retaliation cling to her shoulder, dig into the fabric that spools around her neck and shoulders, but due to how long repetition has found you in that habit, she’s grown thicker skin, not vocal cords though, moaning around your breast as she wetly releases it, biting your bicep right next to it as you stutter on her lap. Her name almost takes your tongue, but her tongue laves over the chill bite making it so warm, so heavenly you don’t care the ice cream has melted so long as it's still sweet. She’s still sweet.
She moves onto your other breast, teasing the area beside it, right between as she kisses like her full lips could trace every notion of your skin, every bit of texture and bubble of skin. She lets you, maybe as magnanimous as she promised she’d be or hiding last night’s sadism of pleasure under sewn seams. It’d show in her eyes though, blinking in content as she licks against your breast, biting into the bit of it lightly enough for you to wrap around her tightly, uncaring if she’s smothered by you when your hands rake down her clothed back, scratching as if you’re falling from the walls of her castle. Her hands return the love, moving against your back delicately, selfishly clinging to every dip and softness your body has offered from the night before, surely still drenched in bodily fluids and tentative promises of the last time. You’re grateful for the power she allows you to have, the consent to grip against her without even a hint of wanting to stop you, bouncing back against her curve, the few buttons astray between the two of you as you moan from her touch, moan from her presence and dedication to you.
Heaven isn’t near, it’s here as you find your place against her, one of her hands moving to your cheek, pressing into the flesh that grinds as you stutter from her heat, her hand slowly moving you against the silk that bunches between the two of you. It’s abashed, it’s degrading, it is as they say Heaven is before you enter, your moans breathy and sky-like when you feel her finger slip all the way down, tickling the flesh of your mound before finding your slit, slipping against it and plunging a finger in. Abashed embarrassment is what finds you when you cum and she chuckles against you, barely able to keep the shaking of your thighs from hindering her movements. But she stops; she’s sweet with the heat between you two.
She’s the one to unravel you, so slowly you barely realize she’s coaxing you out of your shell, like always. “I must’ve taken you so well last night too.” she murmurs against your ear, kissing the cartilage as she takes your forearms in her grasp. You still face away from her, letting your gaze find a spot on the wall, wondering if all the nights hitting against the headboard wreaked havoc for the plaster, indents that will last longer than the nails on Arlecchino’s back. Without a response, Arlecchino hums in amused understanding, letting your hands find the sides of her arms this time, before she adjusts you to her leg, settling you against her like before. “There, better?” You’re still tingling with stimulation, but your winced moan, chopped by your movements into her, are found endearing by the woman below you, finally catching your gaze. “Yes,” you mutter again, knowing better than to leave your needy wife without a response.
Your hand moves onto her cheek, letting your fingers split between her ear whilst your other massages the tone to her bicep, feeling the flesh groove underneath your prints and the silk. “Good girl,” she affirms, her grip moving away from your hips again to trail against your slit like before. “I want you to grind when I penetrate you, okay?” You nod your head, brows creasing as she tugs you apart, letting her finger trace you without needing to look, as if you’re her home mapped out. Your toes holt when her pad swirls against your clit, letting the soft pearl, so delicate and sensitive, flick under her touch, prodding it a few more times as if she has no idea it causes you jolt of pained stimulation, your thighs straining in response. She relents, smiling up at you when she finds her way back to your entrance, soaking her skin damp as she lets another finger join the length of her pointer.
She breathes a breath for a moment, shaky and ragged as she dives into you, letting the length of her fingers, the knuckles and bones and stretch scissor into your tight wetness. As if your strained reaction has no compare, she leans into you, ignoring the touch you have on her face as she rests her forehead on your collarbone, panting against the morning of you as she comments, “You’re so good for me.” Her fingers twirl into you, her wrist flexing as she dives her two clipped nails deepest into you, letting them submerge with wetness, let your wetness stick to her like glue as she sighs against you, unable to taste or tease you. “Arle,” you mutter, meeting your other hand to her neck, moving her shut-eyed, blissed face to yours, only taking a moment to savor how utterly devoted she is to you, your pleasure, your comfort, your love as you dive down to her lips.
You meet her with no expectations, letting the softness of your lips commingle with the need of hers. She’s quick to take you, but with your grip on her cheek you slowly raise her into you, let yourself grind against her bare thigh, soft with your clit flicking against it, drowning her in your wetness. It’s soft even when she isn’t, it’s soft even as she moves to swallow you whole, swathe you in her devotion to you, as if you were a deity, as if you were her money. You let your hand raise from the groove of her neck, tickle the short strands of hair in the back all while keeping your lips slipping against hers, shoulders raising as if to block even the slightest bit of Helios from this commitment to one another.
You can feel nothing more than her here- her fingers quickening within you, the heat of her clothed chest against your bare one, the mess decanting onto her that she seems more than happy with, greedy with, the way she refuses to leave the devotion out of you even if it means no words can find her bitten lips. There is swollen need curdling within you, and she prods at it- the sticky sponge deep within your that her fingers toy with, tap against for the first time, settling deep against it as if she can reach further which you doubt isn’t plausible. Nonetheless, you can feel her dig against it, rub circles, swirling herself, marking you as hers from the inside as she makes quick work of your lips, slipping her tongue inside as you still, letting her find everything of you as if she didn’t last night.
Your hands twitch against her, dropping slowly to her other skin as you barely find time to grind against her thigh. It’s all so much, when she pulls you against her, tugs your body to her liking until she can’t so much as feel the difference in skin between your pussy. Uncaring of how much she desires you, you part form the kiss, pull away from her with a gasp, burrowing yourself between her shoulder so she can’t so much as tug you back into her from how much your lungs wrack with her.
She doesn’t make you, instead letting her hand find your head, petting it with a kiss of words, “You lasted longer than before; I must be a good trainer.” You could respond to her, with more than a hidden eye roll barely able to reach behind your dying lids or the muted whine against her, but she’s too pedantic with everything she’s done to you; you’re a field of study she’ll always know more of. While you pant form the dizzying kiss, she doesn’t relent, not even once does she consider stopping your pleasure as she guides her fingers and thigh in tandem, letting her fingers fuck you against her, squirm with the thrusts as her thigh slips against the wetness, guiding you with so little strength you wonder how much you truly weigh to her, if this is all she truly wants form you, raking orgasm from orgasm until you’re too muted to move, too overwhelmed by her to weigh a thing in your mind.
The thought comes as quickly as it plagued you, your eyes shutting when she moves to suck a hickey onto your shoulder, your fingers flexing against her as your knees dig into the mattress below, calves up in the air as she finally rakes another orgasm from you, only moments after the one before, moments after you came down from embarrassment to only find it again. You’re soaking her thigh, to no end there is a deluge coming from you as she toys with the special spot deep within you, finally letting her fingers curl and uncurl to reach it, tug against it all the while your clit beats against her thigh. You know she’d never let it end if you weren’t already coming down from last night, hadn’t already fallen into her with your hips unable to stand.
There, you get a true laugh from her, that pet to your head again before you hear the obscene slurp of her fingers to her lips. Her tongue. You let her hold onto your hips, keeping you placated on top of her as you rest in comfort, need boiling within you because she can never just take wo orgasms from you- it has to be three, more than three, fifteen- “You okay, sweetie?” It’s quicker, not than ever, but it’s one of the quickest times you’ve ruined the sheets before she even grabbed a toy or took you a centimeter away from her. But the embarrassment isn’t there when she’s so needy for you- that altruistic need everyone wants, desire swirling in the red of her eyes as you pull away, practically sobbing out a pant as you plead with your wife, “Want it in me- Please, Arle, I’m pleading for your magnanimity.” She seems a bit shocked, stunned around the edges as her brows raise, eyes freeze onto your features, capitulating every emotion you pour form your sloppy mind, yet she always regains herself, clings onto the bit of herself you never can after coming done by her.
She coos, “Such a big word, surprised you can still say it-” Your lips collide with hers, hoping to get the message of her tongue in you out, immediately attacking the muscle as yours twists with it, plunges past her lips to the muscle. She lets you wheedle it out of her cavern before sucking on the muscle harshly. She lets, she lets you, she lets you, no matter how it feels that you cannot fathom, she does it for you to gauge every bit of your being under hers- slowly moving under hers as she cradles you back onto the bed, moving above you as her knees set behind your thighs and your legs wrap around her hips. You’re the one who pulls away, taking a breath at the inflammation of your lungs as she smiles down at your need, satisfied beyond measure with your arms so lax against her chest. “You’re doing so well for me, darling.” It’s not condescending, you don’t think you even know what condescending is in this early morning. Not until she pulls from you, finds barely a muscle working in your body as your arms drop beside you. “C’mon,” she cajoles, “say how well you’re doing.”
You can feel it though, like salmon up the stream you can feel her smile touch a part of you that’s whiny, that’s needy, that’s commanding as your lips part, breathing, “I’m doing… well.” She kisses you- it’s quick, it’s in warning of what’s to come, it’s everything you’ve known her for. “Good job, baby.” She’s as fast as you thought her to be, moving her grip to your thigh whilst her other secures around your hips, tugging you up to her face so your upper body is squished against the sheets. It’s not uncomfortable, the position is more awkward, but definitely making the fire enflame your being as your legs rest against her shoulders tentatively. You doubt embarrassment would even be found in her mind, something so foreign that her greed pushes it out, her inhale of you so ghastly, so rapacious you don’t dare look at her, letting your forearm shade over your eyes as you let her do as she pleases.
She doesn’t dare start teasingly, she doesn’t dare forget why she’s between your thighs, instead she bathes in the glow of your hearth, the warmth tickling the tip of her tongue so much, as it pulls through your folds, she moans, breathes into it to drown herself in the deluge of your essence. Your toes curl in return, and her grip tightens in acknowledgement. She moves to slurp at your entrance, her own eyes closing as her lips move against the leaking honey from your hole. It’s desire that coats her deeply, her tongue moving into your cavern with the mind of an explorer, deeper and deeper as it digs into the essence, letting it curl and take as it pleases, maybe like an insect’s antenna, it refuses to back out as she lets her hand move from your thigh to your pulsing nub.
It’s not painful pleasure that finds you; it’s hedonistic pleasure that takes you by the slip of your velvet, moving down the wetness of you to curl against the natural curve of you, taking every bit of your river, pouring form nature to her human hands, letting her palm grind against you as you try not to writher, try not the focus on lifting your arm and noting the sheer dedication in Arle. Her brows furrowed, her mouth so obscene you think there’s an echo of a cave’s stalactites, or how her palm refuses not to map every bit of you, take form you as if she cupped her hand over a decanting of water, no bowls near except her fingers. It’s something more than heave, watching her take from you and combine her need with yours as she builds you to break like the dam of gates above the clouds.
With how long it’s been building inside of you, taken and molded into something sinful to the people and holy to you, you doubt you can last long with Arlecchino devouring you, taking her time to let the grooves of her tongue lap at every inch of you, mark you with every inch of her, or the way her fingers slide up and down, swirl around you to trace the sand of your being, the grooves of Earth the reside between your thighs. Devotion continues to capitulate Arlecchino from the world you rest, your back grooved into her front as she moves her tongue out of your entrance to slurp around it, your toes curling as you can feel the winding of her around you, the way she pays every bit of attention to the sensitivity moving into sentience inside of you, coiling until you can feel the venom attack you, plague you with her tongue diving into you, her fingers swiping with their precise prints against your nature of the heavens. You cry; she laps up the tears.
She lets you down gently, as if she hadn’t known the name to the word when selfishly licking up every drop of you today and yesterday, which have blended together likes your cum to her tastebuds of sweets. You feel her take your forearm, move it to her lips as she kisses them, before moving to peck your softly, then letting herself collapse a top of you, nuzzling into the warmth you both refuse to part from. Before, though, when your arms wrap around her being and she murmurs praise for maybe breakfast being ready because you definitely are ready to get out of the bed- there’s a knock. She lifts her head, raised on one arm by your side whilst the other holds onto your waist. “What is it?” There’s a moment, but the door is locked, and her child’s voice echoes in the halls. “Father, I would like some money.”
The laugh is overwhelming, and she lets you hold onto her arms and shoulders as you cave from the emotion, cheeks strained with happiness as she concedes, “I have spare change in the cookie jar.” You pause laughing, ignited with love as you query, “the cookie jar?” The steps leave even if you never knew when they met the door, her hand sneakily moving down your waist to the wet mound to pat, and she kisses your ear with a whisper, “It’s priceless; I’d spend anything to have all eternity with it.”
a/n; I'm now realizing i only write smut for myself n my kinky ass interests… this is liberating information
