Chapter Text
The poison is a deep, rich shade, swirling thick in the vial as Arlecchino tilts it back and forth. She brings it closer, inhales—the scent is sharp, layered, with a faint bitter edge beneath the acrid bite.
“Hm,” she murmurs, thoughtful. “Strong aroma. Good color. Promising enough.”
Heloir shifts beside her. Arlecchino doesn’t look, but she catches the way her shoulders tense, holding back a giggle. She knows Arlecchino is playing it up for her—just a little—but the seriousness on her face keeps Heloir from letting it slip.
She gives the vial one last swirl, then downs its entire contents in one smooth motion. She waits for a beat, careful to pick up on any changes in her body. Heloir watches in trepidation, waiting for just the same.
And yet… nothing.
"The cinderspire extract must’ve been too diluted," Arlecchino says, tapping the empty vial against her fingers. "I barely feel it."
Heloir’s expression falls. “That should’ve been a lethal dose…”
Arlecchino only hums. She’s taken doses like this before. They never work the way they’re meant to, at least on a regular person. Occasionally she will be left with a faint, drifting buzz beneath her skin, but this time not even that.
“This is terrible. An affront to my craft,” Heloir mutters, mostly to herself. “I was trying a new distillation method… it was supposed to be faster, more efficient—” She huffs sharply. “I must have messed up somewhere in the process—no, it doesn't matter. I’ll fix it. The next one will be much better. Just you wait, Father!”
She’s already gathering up the remaining vials in her hands, muttering under her breath as she rushes out of the room, not even waiting for a response.
If Arlecchino didn’t know better, she’d almost think Heloir was genuinely trying to kill her. But they both understand the futility of it, at least as far as death is concerned. The bloodfire running through Arlecchino’s veins makes poisons little more than a nuisance, dissolving the toxins the moment they attempt to attack her system. It’s a useful boon—one that turns this little game with her daughter into more of a test of skill, rather than a life-or-death scenario.
Today may not have brought out the girl’s best, but Arlecchino is sure she’ll bounce back soon enough. Heloir is talented, after all—just a little too ambitious for her own good sometimes.
A few hours pass, morning fading into late afternoon. Arlecchino stands in front of the mirror, adjusting her coat, fingers running lightly over the fabric as she checks her reflection.
She’s already looking forward to the evening ahead—a date with Furina at the Opera Epiclese. It’s been much too long since the last time.
She wouldn’t dare say so out loud, not in anyone's presence, but whether it be a day or a week… it’s always too long.
She’s just about to leave when the sound of footsteps behind her halts her in her tracks.
“Father!”
Heloir appears, practically bouncing with excitement, another vial clutched in her hand, the liquid within a dark shade of purple.
“I spent the whole day on this one,” she says, beaming with pride. “This time I used noctebane. Surely this one will work, right?”
Arlecchino arches an eyebrow, already preparing herself for another round of their game. She takes the vial, inspecting it with the same theatrically thoughtful manner as before. Then, she drinks.
There’s a brief flare-up this time, like a spark igniting somewhere in her chest, spreading quickly, before easily dissipating just as fast. It’s almost imperceptible, vanishing before she has time to properly register it.
She lets the silence hang in the air a moment longer, waiting for more reactions. When nothing else happens, she sets the vial down with a soft clink.
“Well, I can definitely tell the difference,” she says. “Though it’s still a step down from last week’s concoction.”
“Urgh, It must be the noctebane,” Heloir mutters, frowning, evidently disappointed. “It’s less potent than cinderspire. But I made up for it by upping the dose… No, it’s fine. Next time!”
Arlecchino’s lips twitch upwards. “Of course,” she says dryly, though not unamused. “Next time, for sure.”
***
“This is ridiculous,” Furina grumbles, slouching in her seat and crossing her arms. “I don’t know why we even bothered coming. This show is a disaster.”
Arlecchino hums softly, barely acknowledging the discordant notes from the stage. She shifts in her seat, the plush fabric creaking beneath her, eyes finding their way to Furina again, as they have all evening.
“That tenor’s voice is atrocious. How can people stand this?” Furina continues, shaking her head with exaggerated disdain.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of Arlecchino’s mouth at her antics, but it fades as her gaze drifts down, drawn to the curve of Furina’s bare legs as they cross. Her eyes linger on the garters, noting how they press gently against the plump flesh of Furina’s thighs before flicking back to the stage.
It’s not uncommon for her girlfriend's presence to steal her attention, to make everything else fade into the background as though irrelevant. But tonight… it feels different. More physical, more demanding than usual.
There’s a warmth simmering beneath Arlecchino’s skin, and it has been growing all evening, slow and insistent. She shifts again in her seat, attempting to adjust—but the ache only deepens, swirling low in her gut.
She tries to focus on the performance, but her eyes wander once more, this time drawn to the gentle rise and fall of Furina’s chest, the smooth line of her collarbone—unmarked, for a change, proof that it really has been far too long. She should fix that soon—press her lips to delicate skin, leave a mark to remember her by.
Furina’s voice cuts through the air again. “How did they even manage to get permission to perform on this stage? The Opera Epiclese’s standards must have plummeted since I left.”
Arlecchino leans in, breath warm against Furina’s ear. The faint scent of her hair lingers in the air, and before she can stop herself, her fingers begin tracing along the garter at Furina’s thigh—slow, teasing, ghosting over soft flesh.
“If you’re not having fun, surely we can find another way to occupy the time?” Arlecchino whispers, low and coaxing.
Furina glances at her, a spark of intrigue in her eyes, her foul mood seemingly already forgotten at this new, welcome distraction. “Oh? What did you have in mind?”
Arlecchino’s fingers travel higher, her touch lingering just a little longer than necessary, as though savoring the feel of Furina’s skin beneath her fingertips. She leans in closer, her lips brushing softly against Furina’s neck, the warmth of her breath causing a shiver to run through her body. Arlecchino smiles to herself, and her lips trail lower.
Furina tilts her head, silently granting her more access. Hands reach for Arlecchino’s broad shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of her suit. “You’re awfully bold tonight,” she murmurs.
Arlecchino doesn’t bother with words. In lieu of a response, her lips find Furina’s in a kiss that’s anything but gentle—hungry, urgent, her tongue slipping against Furina’s almost instantly, as if seeking a relief she hadn’t quite realized she’d been craving until now. Furina matches the intensity, her fingers tightening their grip, pulling Arlecchino closer.
Arlecchino moves with purpose, hands deftly finding their way underneath Furina's clothing, fingers grazing the soft curve of her breast through her bra.
Furina doesn’t protest. If anything, she leans into the touch, her body responding eagerly, a sigh escaping her lips as Arlecchino’s fingers trail over her skin. She’s more than content to let her hands roam her body, the touch always welcome. They might be in public, yes, but the opera is a joke, and from their high spot in the private box it’s hard to imagine anyone would notice their growing disinterest in the performance.
She shifts, pulling Arlecchino closer by the back of her neck, offering more of her skin, inviting her to leave more marks. She feels the warmth of Arlecchino’s touch, how it spreads across her skin, how—Wait.
Something’s off.
Arlecchino is warm. Too warm, in fact, even by her standards. Furina’s brow furrows as she pulls back just enough to look at her, only now taking in the uncharacteristic urgency in her movements. It’s not like her to initiate something like this, not so insistently—and certainly not in public.
“Arle?” Furina calls, in an attempt to snap her out of her trance.
Arlecchino only hums in response, the sound vibrating against her skin, but she doesn’t stop. A hand slips below her bra, grazing over her nipple, sending a shiver through Furina.
Oh, that feels good… No, no—she needs to focus.
“Arle,” she tries again, firmer this time.
Another hum, another absent brush of lips against her neck. Arlecchino doesn’t slow, caught up in her own momentum, too focused to properly register the call for attention.
Furina exhales sharply, then presses against Arlecchino’s shoulders, pushing her back into the seat with a touch more force than necessary. Arlecchino finally stills, blinking up at her in surprise—right before Furina follows, settling into her lap, hands splayed against her chest to keep her at a distance.
She lets out a low groan at the contact, and that’s when Furina feels it—the bulge pressing against her from below. Arlecchino is already hard. Fully, unmistakably so, despite barely having been touched.
Her skin is flushed, and there’s a fine sheen of sweat at her temple, barely noticeable in the dim light, though now that Furina is pressed close it’s become impossible to ignore.
“Arle, you’re burning up,” she murmurs, one hand trailing up to her jaw, tilting her face up slightly to get a better look. “What’s going on with you?”
“What do you mean?” Arlecchino asks, seemingly confused at the interruption.
“I mean this. ” Furina gestures vaguely, exasperated. “You’re flushed, you’re sweating, and you—” She shifts in Arlecchino’s lap. “You’re hard. Already.”
Arlecchino’s fingers tighten against Furina’s hips, her jaw flexing. “And?”
Furina just stares. “ And? ”
Arlecchino gives her a flat look, as though the answer should be obvious. “I want you, Furina.”
Something in her voice—hoarse, strained—sends a shiver down Furina’s spine, but she shakes it off.
“Yes, I gathered as much, and I’m sure you’re already aware I always enjoy a good ravishing, risqué or not. But this—this isn’t normal for you.”
Arlecchino’s brows furrow slightly, irritation flashing in her eyes, but just as she opens her mouth to retort, something shifts. Her fingers loosen their grip, her shoulders sagging as realization dawns. She exhales slowly as she sinks back into the chair.
“...Ah.”
Furina blinks, caught off guard by the shift. “So you do realize something’s off.”
“...Yes. I believe I know what this is.”
“Well, I’d love to be let in on the mystery,” Furina says, though the sharpness in her voice is undercut by concern.
Arlecchino drops her head back against the chair, closing her eyes for a moment before sighing. “It’s… Heloir’s poisons.”
Furina stills. “What?”
“She makes them, and I will… test them, on occasion” Arlecchino explains. Furina gives her a dumbfounded look, so she clarifies further. “It’s a game we play, you could say. My bloodfire burns through toxins before they can take effect, so there’s no real risk, but there are always remnants left behind. Harmless on their own—usually. They will be flushed out of my body over a few hours, or a day at most.”
Furina frowns. “And yet, somehow, this happened.”
Arlecchino nods. “The residuals must have bonded in my system.” Another sigh, this one edged with mild frustration. “The main ingredients in today’s poisons… they’re occasionally used in the making of a certain type of aphrodisiac. Processed the right way, at least.”
Furina stares at her, then glances down—at their positions, at the undeniable evidence of what Arlecchino is saying.
“You’re telling me,” she says slowly, “that you’ve accidentally drugged yourself into this state.”
Arlecchino pointedly avoids her gaze, shifting slightly—her own rendition of embarrassment. She sighs, likely already wishing for the conversation to be over.
“Yes—it seems life is truly stranger than fiction, at times.”
“How long until it wears off?” Furina asks. “Are there… health risks?”
“I don’t know how long it will take. Though if it were truly dangerous, the bloodfire would have already intervened by now, burning away any toxins.” She pauses, contemplating. “I’ll simply have to... push through it. You don’t need to worry, I’ll handle this on my own.”
Furina rolls her eyes, unimpressed. “So, you’ll just go home and suffer in silence, then?” She shakes her head. “No, Arle. That’s not happening. Obviously, I’ll help you.”
“There’s no need for you to—” Arlecchino starts to protest, but Furina’s piercing gaze silences her before she can finish the sentence. “...As you wish,” she relents after a beat, resigned. Then, more quietly, “...Thank you.”
Furina giggles at the awkward display, her concern melting away with the reassurance Arlecchino will be fine. A spark of something playful takes its place, lighting up her expression. She leans in, her body flush with her girlfriend’s, breath warm against her ear. “Now that that’s settled, we should probably take care of your… little problem, before we leave.”
Hesitation lingers now that Arlecchino is clearer-headed, a stark contrast to her earlier eagerness, though the pull of Furina’s touch remains unescapable. “I can wait until we get home,” she says, her tone clipped, as though she’s trying to convince herself as much as Furina.
“Are you going to ride the aquabus with a hard-on the whole time?” Furina challenges, amused.
Arlecchino’s mouth opens as though she means to protest, before closing it with a tired exhale. “You… may have a point.”
“Don’t I always?”
Arlecchino huffs, but Furina’s attention has already shifted to more pressing matters. Without hesitation, she reaches for Arlecchino’s belt, swiftly unbuckling it before her fingers slip into the waistband of her pants. Arlecchino’s cock springs free, and the reaction is instant—her hands find their way to Furina’s hips, pulling her in closer.
On any other day, this is when Furina would tease—taking it slow, letting the anticipation build, whispering filth against Arlecchino’s ear all the while. But tonight, the way Arlecchino’s body reacts tells her everything she needs to know. This isn’t the time for games. Arlecchino needs her, and she can feel that need in every twitch of her muscles.
She brings her hand to her mouth, spitting onto her palm. The saliva drips down, thick and abundant, and she uses it to ease the glide of her hand along Arlecchino’s cock, immediately setting a fast, firm rhythm. Arlecchino sighs at the first stroke, her back arching just slightly as she pushes into Furina’s touch.
Lips are pressed to Furina’s neck, tentative at first, then growing increasingly insistent. Her breath catches when Furina’s thumb finds its way to the head, pressing down on the slit there, gathering the precum that beads at the tip. Arlecchino shudders, her tongue slipping out to trace a line along Furina’s neck. She moans softly, the sound thick and muffled against skin.
“Furina…” The name leaves her lips in a low, needy groan, and Furina feels the fingers on her hips tighten their hold. She lets out a shallow breath herself, the intensity of Arlecchino’s reactions almost overwhelming her.
Something like this wouldn’t normally be enough to get her girlfriend to react this way. Arlecchino is always so composed, so in control. But now, she’s practically putty in Furina’s hands, her usual restraint dissolving with every touch, leaving her clinging to Furina with raw, unfiltered need.
It’s… electrifying. It sparks something deep within her—every tremble in Arlecchino’s body, every stifled moan, sending a jolt of molten heat racing through Furina’s veins.
She scratches lightly at the back of Arlecchino’s neck, her fingers tangling in the monochromatic strands of her hair, tugging her closer. She moans quietly at the feel of teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her collarbone. The soft nip sends a shock of pleasure straight down her spine, and she encourages it with a push, urging her girlfriend to keep going.
Arlecchino doesn’t hesitate, quickly undoing the buttons of Furina’s vest and freeing her breasts from the confines of fabric. Her hands find their way to soft, yielding flesh, fingers kneading before her lips follow—latching onto a nipple, sucking slow and deep. Furina gasps, barely restrained sighs escaping her as Arlecchino’s tongue works over her skin. With each sound slipping past Furina’s lips, Arlecchino’s arousal only grows. Her hips jerk forward, erratically grinding into Furina’s touch.
“Furina,” she breathes. “I’m close.”
Furina tugs sharply at Arlecchino’s hair, guiding her up into a kiss—hot, messy, all clashing teeth and colliding tongues. Her fingers tighten around the strands, pulling her in deeper, swallowing every ragged moan that slips free. At the same time, her strokes turn sharper, faster, dragging Arlecchino right to the brink. She wants to feel it—to have Arlecchino come undone in her hands, quivering and desperate.
Arlecchino shudders, every thrust pushing her closer, tighter—until she finally tips over the edge. A low, guttural groan rips from her throat as she spills into Furina’s hand, her body seizing up—then trembling through the aftershocks. The last waves of pleasure fade into something looser, lazier, satisfaction settling deep in her limbs.
She slumps back into her chair, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. She takes a moment to recover before reaching into her pocket for a handkerchief, offering it to Furina. She doesn’t take it.
Instead, her gaze stays fixed on Arlecchino’s release, slick and glistening on her palm, coating her fingers. In contrast to Arlecchino’s slowly returning clarity, a haze lingers in Furina’s mind, the remnants of arousal clouding her thoughts. Eventually she breaks the silence, her voice low and thoughtful.
“...Is whatever you took contagious, by any chance?”
The question catches Arlecchino off guard. She blinks, then lets out a short, amused laugh.
“I’m afraid whatever you may be experiencing right now is your natural state and nothing more, Furina.”
***
The walk home is quiet. Arlecchino occasionally lags behind, her movements slow, eyes hazy and unfocused. At first, she had almost seemed like herself again, but as the minutes passed it became clear that the lucidity regained from their brief escapade at the opera is now wearing thin. Furina notices it first in the way Arlecchino’s gaze keeps straying—her gaze insistently following the curve of Furina’s back, lingering on the line of her shoulders, her waist, then lower still.
“Arle,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. She catches the flash of desire in Arlecchino’s eyes as they dart quickly away. “Are you alright?”
“I assure you, I am fine.” Arlecchino’s voice is smooth, but there's an edge to it she doesn't quite bother to mask.
Furina’s lips quirk up at the corners. “You seem to be eyeing me like you’re... planning something. Anyone else might find it somewhat unsettling.”
Arlecchino tilts her head, eyes sharpening as she moves closer, but not enough to bridge the distance. “My intentions are harmless.”
Furina slows her pace, a teasing glint in her eyes as she allows Arlecchino to catch up. “Harmless? Then perhaps you should stop looking at me like you want to ravish me right here on the street.”
The words are playful, but there's a buzz she can't quite suppress shining through. She speaks them almost as a challenge—or an invitation. Arlecchino doesn't respond immediately, though her fingers twitch at her sides, as if restraining herself from reaching out.
“I am hardly the type to act so recklessly…” Arlecchino says. “As tempting as it may be.”
Furina arches an eyebrow at the words, and Arlecchino quickly looks away. It hasn’t even been an hour since the last time they’d been “reckless.”
“Always a first time for anything, right? Or a second,” Furina teases.
She watches as Arlecchino’s jaw tightens, the muscles flexing beneath her skin, before her gaze flicks once more—now openly roaming over Furina’s body. The hunger is clear—primal, almost predatory. Her body is coiled tight, like a wolf watching its prey, biding its time for the perfect moment to strike.
“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” Arlecchino mutters, her voice low, betraying a growing crack in her composure. Furina feels a shiver slip down her spine.
Without missing a beat, she quickens her pace, the excitement building with every step. She feels the heat of Arlecchino’s gaze following her every movement, palpable against her skin.
When they finally reach the apartment, she doesn’t even have time to feel the relief of privacy washing over her—the door barely clicks shut before she’s slammed against it, Arlecchino’s weight pressed insistently against her backside.
Arlecchino’s hands are already under her clothes, fingers sliding down her sides—warm, urgent. She grinds against Furina, pulling her in by the hips, groaning at the friction and the much needed relief it brings. She’s hard again, the reprieve from the earlier handjob having long since faded.
Without hesitation, Arlecchino tugs her shorts down, just enough to grant access, the fabric bunched around Furina’s thighs. A hand slips between her legs, fingers sliding through slick heat, and she exhales sharply—almost in disbelief.
“Soaked already?” she murmurs, her breath hot against Furina’s ear, though the tone is less teasing and more awed.
Furina swallows hard, pressing her forehead against the door. She would be embarrassed, but the heat pooling low in her stomach leaves no room for shame. “You act as if you haven’t been working me up all night.”
Arlecchino doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Instead, her fingers move to unbuckle her pants, the sharp clink of metal making Furina clench around nothing in anticipation. She shifts instinctively, arching her back slightly, but Arlecchino’s grip tightens on her hip, holding her exactly where she wants her.
“Do you need me to prepare you?” she asks.
It’s not just a courtesy. Arlecchino would do it, take the time to ease her open, no matter how badly she needs relief—but the fact itself that she’s asking instead of acting betrays just how desperate she already is.
Furina shakes her head. She’s already throbbing, already wet enough that Arlecchino’s fingers had slipped through her with ease. She doesn’t need it. And more than that—she doesn’t want to wait.
“No, just—just start slow.”
Arlecchino exhales, the tension in her hold easing as she presses a kiss to the back of Furina’s neck—a silent thank you. Her hands steady at Furina’s hips, and then—finally—she pushes in.
She doesn’t bottom out immediately. Instead, it’s slow. Careful. Furina sighs shakily, her body adjusting around the stretch, but it’s not her own reaction that draws her attention. It’s Arlecchino. The way her hips quiver against Furina, how her breath stutters, caught between restraint and need. A hand presses against the door beside Furina’s head, Arlecchino’s larger frame enclosing hers. It clenches around the wood, her arm shaking with effort.
Furina can feel it—the strain in every careful roll of Arlecchino’s hips, each movement measured when it’s clear she wants more. Her touch is hungry, but controlled, rough around the edges as her fingers dig into Furina’s skin, barely leashed desire flashing in every flex.
It sends a sharp thrill through her, knowing Arlecchino is struggling, that she’s biting down on the urge to give in and take her for all she has to offer. She grinds against her, testing, feeling the way Arlecchino’s grip tightens in response.
“You can go harder,” Furina breathes, strained. “I can take it.”
The words provoke a low groan from Arlecchino. She doesn’t need another invitation. Her body surges forward, pushing deep with a single, forceful thrust that leaves them both gasping for air.
Furina’s body jolts, her breath catching as she’s stretched open and filled so completely. Before she can even begin to adjust, Arlecchino pulls back and thrusts forward again, harder this time, drawing a loud moan from her lips.
It doesn’t take long before her rhythm breaks down, turning erratic, wild. Every glide of her cock against Furina’s slick walls is more desperate than the last, each thrust pulling Arlecchino further from the control she’d fought so hard to maintain.
Her mouth finds the back of Furina’s neck, kissing and biting roughly at the sensitive skin there, leaving hickeys all over. Her hands fumble with the buttons of Furina’s vest, working them open with growing urgency. At first, the touch is gentle, considerate—but it doesn’t last. The buttons catch, and with a low, impatient growl, Arlecchino rips the vest open, buttons scattering across the floor. The cool air hits Furina’s exposed skin, making her shiver against the sudden chill.
Arlecchino's arm wraps around Furina’s waist, her muscles flexing as she effortlessly lifts her, pulling her up until her toes barely brush the floor. Furina gasps at the sudden shift, a startled squeal escaping her as the new angle grants Arlecchino better access, allowing her to push deeper into her. It’s as if Furina weighs nothing at all in Arlecchino’s arms, the raw power in her hold clear. She’s lifted, pressed, claimed—every movement a testament to her strength.
Arlecchino is everywhere now—grabbing, groping, touching Furina’s body with a possessive hunger. Her hands find her breasts, her hips, her ass, seizing every part of her with an almost thoughtless urgency, the attention clearly only meant for her own pleasure, Furina’s only an afterthought.
It’s raw, primal—like she's little more than an object for Arlecchino to fuck, to satisfy her own desires. She should find it demeaning, degrading—and yet, all she can focus on is how it feels so good. She can sense how far gone Arlecchino is, how she’s already lost to her own need, and the very thought of it sends a rush of heat through Furina’s core, igniting something deep inside her.
Every coherent thought slips away, leaving her feeling both helpless and yet intensely alive with pleasure. Arlecchino is claiming her in every way possible, and though she may already be lost to her own pleasure, Furina’s mind is also rapidly unraveling, melting under the force of her thrusts.
Suddenly—too quickly—Arlecchino’s body stiffens above her. She grunts, her hips jerking forward as she spills inside, panting hard and disheveled. She drapes herself over Furina, holding her tight through her release, hips lazily twitching and driving into her, prolonging her climax.
As her breath steadies, her demeanor shifts. Her hands, once urgent and demanding, now move with a softness that feels almost foreign after the shameless groping. Her lips, once harshly marking Furina’s skin to the point of bruising, now trail gently down her nape, her shoulders, each kiss lingering on her skin.
Still trembling from the intensity of it all, Furina can’t suppress the faint, needy sound that escapes her—her mind unable to process the unexpected, sharp contrast between forceful and tender. She pushes against Arlecchino’s hips, wordlessly begging for her own release.
Arlecchino pulls out, and Furina barely has time to voice her disappointment—though a whine still finds its way past her lips—before she’s filled again, this time by Arlecchino’s fingers.
“I apologize,” Arlecchino says, hoarse—though also soft, tender. Her fingers press deeper. “I’ve been… selfish. You haven’t come yet.”
Furina doesn’t answer immediately, too disoriented to even process the words. Her body still shakes from the aftershocks, every breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. It takes a few moments before she’s able to voice a coherent thought, and when she does, it’s little more than a slurred murmur.
“Mm… ’t’s fine,” she says eventually. "...It was kind of hot.”
It’s clear she’s not just saying it for Arlecchino’s benefit—her body tells the truth. The slickness between her legs, the way her knees have gone weak, trembling, how she can’t hold herself up without Arlecchino’s support, all make it painfully obvious. She’s soaked, aching for more, and she knows she would’ve probably come soon anyway, even if Arlecchino had kept treating her like nothing but a toy for her own enjoyment.
Arlecchino notices, her fingers pausing as she takes in Furina’s state. Something shifts within her—her voice takes on a dangerous edge when she speaks again, hot and sharp against Furina’s ear.
“Was it, now?” she mutters, her fingertips trailing lightly over Furina's clit. “Is this even necessary, then?” she wonders aloud, the question as much for herself as it is for Furina. She presses a little deeper, her fingers finding that sweet spot inside that makes her tremble and moan with each touch. “Should I bother?
For a moment, Arlecchino pulls back, leaving Furina wanting, her body taut with need. When Arlecchino speaks again, her voice has deepened, grown darker.
“Perhaps I should just go back to using you,” Arlecchino suggests roughly. “Just fuck you like a piece of meat—no care, no thought, no hesitation.”
Her hand resumes its motion, now harder, faster, drawing a cry from Furina with each relentless thrust. She nuzzles into the curve of Furina’s nape, her next words vibrating through her skin.
“Seeing as you were clearly enjoying it, anyway. Look at you... melting for me.”
Furina’s mewls are soft and disjointed, her response more a broken sound than a coherent answer. She’s too far gone, barely able to process the words spilling from Arlecchino’s lips.
“I’ll leave the choice to you,” Arlecchino says, her voice dripping with mockery. “What will it be, Miss Furina?”
The "Miss" feels like a cruel joke. There's nothing dignified about Furina right now, nothing worthy of formality—she’s a quivering, blubbering mess, too consumed by need to even think clearly, much less be able to answer. All she can do is whimper, her body begging for release.
Arlecchino senses her nearing the breaking point, and her rhythm slows, deliberately dragging out each brush of her fingers against that tender, needy spot. Furina tenses with frustration, the edge of her pleasure slipping just out of reach. She whines—soft, desperate—
“I don’t know—I don’t care—” she cries out, her voice breaking. “Please, just make me come. I don’t care how you do it, just make me come—please—”
Arlecchino drives into her with renewed intent, purposeful and deep. Furina’s moans spill freely, raw and unashamed, filling the room. A part of her—clearly the one with the most awful, backward priorities—briefly wonders if her neighbors are nearby, but the thought fades quickly. The sound of her pleasure would be obvious through the thin door, but she’s beyond caring.
Arlecchino’s rhythm intensifies, her fingertips teasing relentlessly at Furina’s clit as she plunges deeper inside her. Furina’s body trembles with the force of it, lightly thumping against the door with each forceful thrust as she’s brought nearer and nearer to the edge—
Finally, the tight coil inside her unravels. She lets go with a high-pitched whine, twitching violently as release floods through her, her walls clenching around Arlecchino’s fingers. She barely has the strength to keep herself upright, clinging weakly to the door. Her limbs feel useless, too shaky to support her weight, but the moment she starts to slip, Arlecchino is there, steadying her before she can fall.
Her arms wrap around Furina, pulling her flush against her body, heat seeping through every point of contact. A blackened hand tilts her chin up, coaxing her gently, and Furina easily follows. She’s slack in her grasp, pliant, letting Arlecchino take whatever she wants.
The kiss that follows is deep, claiming. Furina melts into it without thought—it feels good, anyway.
Arlecchino pulls back just enough to let them breathe. Furina’s lips tingle, her head light, her body spent.
“Can you keep going?” Arlecchino asks. There’s something hesitant about it, like she knows she shouldn’t demand more from her—but wants to anyway.
Furina needs a second to recover before she realizes—this must not have been enough. Not even close. Arlecchino’s body must still be thrumming with desire, with the lingering—growing?—effects of the makeshift aphrodisiac. She can already feel her growing hard against her once again.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she breathes, a hand reaching behind to pull Arlecchino’s body even closer.
Arlecchino lets out a short, relieved chuckle at her eagerness, and Furina can already tell—it’s going to be a long night.
She looks forward to every second of it.