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glowmiko · 3 years ago

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‧ ˏˋ SCARAMOUCHE ﹐ ◜ VENOM ! ◞ ̣ ͘ ─┈ I KNOW you’re right for me; ecstasy. I keep coming back for more.

ׄ     ׅ  ★̶̲ WARNINGS 、fem!reader ╱ brat taming ╱ dom/sub dynamics ╱ sensory deprivation ╱ bondage ╱ teasing ╱ mating press ╱ heavy degradation ╱ orgasm control ╱ orgasm denial ╱ cunnilingus ╱ multiple orgasms ╱ impact play ╱ rough sex ╱ breath play ╱ throatfucking ╱ name calling ╱ modern!au ╱ bdsm themes ╱ mild sir kink ╱ spit ╱ fuck buddies → lovers ╱ creampie ╱ gets sappy @ the end ╱ minors & dc antis do not interact.

ׄ     ׅ  ★̶̲ NOTE 、GUESS WHO TF WHOOO! i missed xianoii sm y’all don’t even know . . submitted *most of my assignments & finals N SUMMER BREAK IS HEREEE WOOO!!! comeback era in order: so yk i had to write for my boo thang . . wouldn’t be a xianoii post if scara wasnt slutting us (me) out ^_^ pretty pls don’t let this flop n let me know u still love me 🥹🤲🏽 kk more info abt xianoii comeback era posted l8er! ts is kinda messy but nonetheless enjoyy my loves mwah! *reposting with working tags!

ׄ     ׅ  ★̶̲ WORD COUNT 、6.1k ( complete accident )

YOU SEARCH FOR something more in your relationship with Scaramouche. You can’t figure out why. He intrigues you to the extent of adoration, which blooms into branching feelings of varying scale. Obsession, greed, and attraction; are just a small piece of what he brings out of you. You feel a myriad of emotions when he’s added to the picture, and you can’t help but lose all composure and act on impulse. Perhaps that's why you did something as dumb as this: Stripping yourself of clothing until only the thin and laced fabric of your panties and hardly opaque fabric of your dainty tanktop covered your body, your shirt ridden up your abdomen to just beneath where your breasts fall, your clear skin blemished by the words etched above your waistline; “Miss You”. The words are sloppily written above a crooked arrow pointed downward, right where you needed him. You knew he was never willingly generous or kind with you, and with you teasing him like this, you were anticipating what was waiting for you.

You weren’t anything more than fuck-buddies— if you could even call it that. Scaramouche used you when he wanted you. It was never a dire need, a complete opposition as to how your approach to your relationship was. A part of you was aware of that, yet, it didn’t drive you away. Maybe you were just a masochist, liking every and any way he broke you down. Or, maybe, you saw something in him that was a key ingredient to the recipe of your situation. Whatever the case, anticipation ate you alive, your fingers clicking back to your messages every few seconds to see if he’d seen what you sent him. Your teeth subconsciously sunk into your bottom lip, and it wasn’t long until your mouth upturned in a smile, the “Delivered” shifting into a “Read” after what felt like an eternity. It was only a matter of his response, and the time between him getting on the road to your house.

Scaramouche isn’t as enthusiastic as you with this photo. You knew better than to tease him, and the fact that you’d even thought up something like this, let alone execute it. On one hand, he’s somewhat flattered that you miss him enough to drive yourself into desperation. It’s pitiful how far you’re willing to embarrass yourself just for his attention— he can’t help but feel pity for you. Your message gains no response from him, and with a swift look at his watch, he sighs, grabbing his things before heading out of the office door.

Now is the time to reflect on what you’ve done. You knew teasing him would come with repercussions, but you’ve never faced anything like this before. Your arms find themselves rubbing against soft fabric, bound behind your back and unable to touch anything but themselves and the softness of your bedsheets. Your eyes are blinded by the blindfold wrapped around your face, your body completely restricted from the right you have, only to be replaced with what Scaramouche is serving you; an antagonizing wait.

You can’t feel him. You don’t hear him, and God, a small part of you has your heart pounding in fear, your mind running a mile a minute in cycling thoughts of what’s in store for you. You’d pissed him off before, and you’re well aware he’s not the generous type, especially with teasing, but your desperation got the better of you, and all you can do now is wait. Clench your thighs in hopes he won’t keep you waiting any longer, your teeth gnawing on the insides of your cheek softly, your hands and arms subconsciously wriggling behind your back. And while you fight for your freedom, Scaramouche watches you in annoyance. What is your problem with him? Do you like being treated the way he treats you? What is it about him that has you grappling at straws for his attention..has you willingly waiting for him to stomp into your home angrily to bind you on your mattress with his tie? Do you think you’re something to him because you’re surely mistaken if you do. You’re nothing but one of many who’ll take the chance out of any day to please him. You don’t intrigue him in the way he does you. He doesn’t long for you in the same way. He doesn’t care for you outside of the use you provide in serving and pleasing him. And maybe he’s made a mistake in pursuing you too often, but you’re his favorite plaything.

He can’t lie and say he doesn’t like and long for you on occasion—because he does; but only when you can serve him. At this moment, he’s contemplating how you can do so. Your desires aren’t greater than his, in his opinion, but somehow, he can only sit and watch your neediness expand with the thought of giving you want weighing heavy in the back of his mind. With a very heavy sigh, Scaramouche creeps over to the bed. You missed him? You needed him? You’re getting him.

He’s back. You feel the mattress beneath you sink under his weight, “S-Scara? I…” he hushes you, a finger pressing against your lips, a light but stern ‘Shh’ following. “You’ve said enough. I don’t want to hear another word come from you.” You feel him pull further from your body the movements on the mattress indicating he’s further down. A nod from you is in response, and you swear you hear him smile, a light chuckle emitting from the man. You go a few seconds with no speaking before you feel his soft fingers brush against your calves, running up and down your lower leg. It’s not long before teasing lines are drawn up your right leg by his fingertip, his hands inching closer and closer to your inner thigh. Your breath hitches as you feel his fingers run over your clothed cunt, the soiled fabric eliciting a sigh from the man. “When I saw your picture, heh, all I could think about…”

“...about how fuckin’ pathetic you are.” as the words fall from his lips, his hand cups your cunt, middle and index fingertips pressing against your lips. The heel of his hand presses against your clit, a small gasp escaping your gaped lips, which are immediately zipped shut, feeling that intimidating gaze lays upon your face. You feel him rise higher, his head level with yours. “A pathetic bitch. Is this what you wanted? What you missed?” you feel his fingers press harder against your cunt, fighting against the fabric to feel the pulse beating. “You missed this? You had so much confidence, so tell me now.”

You’re excited despite the nervous gulps and silence that consume you. What's been a little less than two weeks feels like a lifetime of not having him, and with him here, on top of you, audibly angry, giving you just what you needed is like heaven. You're in bliss, even though you're aware that in the next few moments, you’ll be completely and utterly destroyed. You nod, hearing a scoff from the man. He's not pleased. Whether you're trying to purposefully piss him off or not, you're succeeding. “Answer me when I'm talking to you. I've taught you better than that.” you feel his fingers pinching at the fabric, adding pressure that has your hips bucking on their own. “..Yes…yes, sir.”

He chuckles and you swear that’s the first time this whole night he’s shown you a bit of softness. He doesn't praise you; instead, he keeps his mum, those fingers that teased you pushing your panties to the side, exposing your soaked cunt to the warm puffs of air that blow from his steady exhales. Your scent fills his nose, that familiarity and softness bringing him back to times before. He never went down on you for you– but him, and here, this is all for your torment.

His tongue licks over his lips, his neck craning further downward, the faintest meeting of his lips to yours leaving you jolting. “You missed me here..?” he whispers faintly. The words are spoken against your labia, your body reacting to every syllable spoken. His tongue licks a stingy stripe from your entrance to your clit, wedging between your folds to collect a sample tasting of your slick. A low moan vibrates gutturally from him, the sheer sound leaving your thighs to instinctively close around his head. “Yes, I did…I do, sir. I need you so bad right now,” your voice tries to latch on to stability, but with the way his tongue lightly treads around your clit and tenderly toys with the bud, teasing you as he gradually builds up pressure– you're stuck masking whines with your words.

He hums in response to your words, his lips wrapping around your throbbing clit, applying heavy pressure while beating his tongue softly against it, matching the pace of the beat that sings your neediness. He finds amusement in the way you're squirming, attempting so hard to keep your sounds low and your body opens and available to him. Everything you do in response is to ensure his happiness regarding you. You don't and won't get anything if you've ticked him off, and he's glad you know that, because he can do things like this to you: abusing your clit slowly but surely, sucking and quietly slurping at your folds and skillfully bringing you to your peak without laying a finger on you. Your moans are getting harder to contain, your voice breaking as you fight it off.

That knot begins binding in your tummy, and it's now that you begin fighting against your constraints, your hips lifting off the bed and further into his face. You're so close you can taste the euphoria on your tongue, and your eyes are beginning to roll beneath your blindfold. You're almost there. So close, so close– and it's gone. As fast as it came, it went, Scaramouche pulling off from you- not before sinking his teeth into your thigh, peering up at you from below. You swallow down all the things you want to say to him, knowing better than speaking to him when you knew it was too good to be true. “You're not going to cum that easily. You didn't earn it.” and you knew that. But you hoped he’d adopted some leniency toward you, but your dream was swiftly shut down by his body completely moving up, his legs over yours. “I don't think you've gotten it through your skull,”

He pauses, his left hand smacking on the side of your head before yanking the blindfold upward, letting your eyes fall upon his flat features. His right hand reaches out to your face, his index finger sliding under your chin, craning your head up to meet his intense gaze. “I'm not pleased with you at all. You reek of desperation, and your incessant pawing at my attention is irksome. Do you think that warrants an orgasm?”

Your eyes readjust to the light, your slow blinks focusing your gaze upon him. He's speaking softly to you, but you know in the layers of those words is thick malice. You've done the one thing he told you to never do. Bother him outside of your agreement. Your conversations begin and end with him. No matter how needy you are or how much you miss him, you do not contact him. You are his and not vice-versa. Your “relationship” does not step out of the boundaries of his word and your submission, and the fact you purposely and idiotically defied that…he's not letting up anytime soon. “Answer me when I'm fucking talking to you.”

“No. I’m sorry, I am! It's just..it’s been a while since we last saw each other and I–” he stops you immediately, his thumb slipping between your lips. “Do you think I care?”

He adjusts his hand to grip your chin, his fingertips pressing and smushing your cheeks. With a sigh, he roughly lets go of your face. “Let's put it in a language you can understand.”

Before you can even think, his hands have shot directly for his belt, efficiently undoing the buckle and pulling down the zipper, the waistband peeling out and teasing his solid black boxers. It's then that it registers what he wants. He slips his hand into his boxers, his other hand slightly pulling down his bottoms to allow him to easily pull out his cock; semi-hard and the tip gradually flushing red, pre-cum beginning to pool in the slit. He doesn't say a word when he places his fingers beneath your lips, and you already know. You let a glob of spit drop out of your mouth, falling onto his fingers. It's torturous as he lets his fingers run over his dick, slicking it up with your saliva with slow and deep breaths, his eyes fixated on the way your face easily tells on you. His cock is only centimeters away from your face, and from the way he's slowly and sensually stroking himself, you're fighting the urge to beg for him to end the teasing.

“Make yourself useful. Open up.” he’s repositioning his body, shoving you flush against the headboard, angling his hips to meet your tongue, sliding the tip onto your tongue, and slowly easing in. He pushes all the way in until his tip knocks at the back of your throat, your tongue slathering the underside in saliva. He sighs contently as you envelop him in the warmth of your mouth, your lips suctioning immediately to the tip. Scaramouche grabs the back of your head, angling you perfectly as he pulls his hips out, teasing you with the tip left between your lips. “Wider.” is all he says before thrusting his cock to the hilt in your mouth, crowding it with his girth. He hears your gags - hurried and frantic, attempting to adjust and accommodate for him.

It doesn't take long before Scaramouche is steadily building a pace in his thrusts, gradually going faster and deeper with each drive of his hips. His eyes bore into yours, watching as they gloss over like freshly lacquered floors, tears brimming your waterline and barely holding up - threatening to spill. The sounds of you choking on his dick is like music to his ears, and with a sigh, he's slowing down, alternating in speed for his amusement. “Bob your head. Give it a nice suck.” and you comply.

You tighten the suction of your lips around his shaft, swirling your tongue around - top to bottom, slicking him up with running globs of saliva. You quietly moan as you do so, fluttering your eyes back and forth between eye contact with him and the protruding veins peering back at you. You can tell it's been some time since his last release, the look in his eyes carnal. It's hard to not feel intimidated under his gaze, and you feel yourself cowering beneath him, slacking on your duty. Scaramouche is aware of the effect he has on you, – you wouldn't be in this situation had he not – and he sees the way you falter. In his mind, it seems as though you're dead set on pissing him off. The one thing you're good at, and you can't even finish the job?

It's in the blink of an eye that his palm is cracking against the skin of your cheek, his hand immediately slipping between your locks and gripping tightly, yanking you back. You wince— you're fucked.

“I was going easy on you…but you must like being treated like a whore.” he grits through his teeth. A mixture of annoyance, sexual frustration, and anger burns an inferno in his eyes, the grip on your hair tight and the sting of your cheek strong. “Gave you a simple fuckin’ task. Pathetic bitch can't even do that right.” you want to argue back– but you know anything you say won't change his mind. He's been plenty lenient, and whether you agree or not, he's done extending fair play. The ball’s been in his court, but now, it's stuck.

“I'm gonna fuck you up.” he grips your hair impossibly tighter, pulling your head back until it knocks against the headboard. “Gonna pull your hair like this..” he then removes his grip, his hand instead slapping against your face in small smacks. “..Bruise up this pretty face…�� his eyes meet yours briefly. The two of you are on opposing sides of this predicament— you, who just missed him and was incredibly horny, and him, who just wants someone to control. His threats would've scared anyone away. Sent them scurrying with their tail between their legs. But you, you're something different. A masochistic attention whore, for starters— but you're also loving. Though he's berating you and treating you like scum beneath his shoe, you still peer up at him with those eyes, full of adoration. And so when your eyes meet, only briefly, Scaramouche withers with pity, because only you would let him treat you like this, but still look at him like that. Perhaps the feeling is mutual, but he’ll never admit it.

His thumbs slither between your lips as the rest of his fingers tangle in your hair, the digits granting him a grip on your head. His thumbs stretch your lips as wide as they could. “...and fuck your face. Stick your tongue out and take it.” you comply. He lowers your head to his hard-on, slamming you onto it. The entire shaft disappears in your mouth, and the tip kisses the back of your throat. It's not long before he’s thrusting into your mouth, his balls slapping against your chin and your tongue struggling to keep up with the rough thrusting into your mouth.

He drinks up your chokes, groaning and cursing every time your gags vibrate against the sensitive head of his cock. Your eyes water again, peering up at him with sweetness, as if to silently ask for less, but to no avail, you're ignored. Drool runs down your face and his cock, spit dribbling down to his balls and painting him messily. You wish you could move your arms, your fingers wiggling and hands moving wildly for something to grab and clutch. He's amused at your attempts. Your movement is only helping him anyway.

You're sure your throats got to be bruised, at this point. The air is hard to inhale through your nose, and you're stuck trying to breathe around the girth of his dick, wheezing, tightening your throat around him. Though it's not intentional, it sends shivers up his spine and he's much more vocal, trying to mask moans beneath tough grunts. He's slowing down, burying you at the hilt of his cock until your nose upturns on his pelvis, your lips wrapped around the base, and your tongue dancing over as much as you could. “A-ah, fuck…just like that. Fuck…”

He’s long since peeled his thumbs from the corner of your mouth, hands residing behind your head until now; his left hand running down to your neck, wrapping his grip around the shaft and squeezing, tightening you on his cock. You feel like the air is being stripped from you and you keep telling yourself ‘Breathe, just breathe’ but to no avail, the lack of air throws you into a panic. Your protests and thrashing only have him cursing in longer, drawn-out strings. In seconds he’s pulling out, his hands leaving you and rushing to his cock. He pumps himself fiercely, all of your spit and his precum driving him directly to his high. “Fuckfuck— open..your mouth-! Swallow m—” he’s cut off with his own guttural groan erupting, his cum shooting thick onto your lower face until you open your mouth, catching as much as you can. Your jaw hurts and you're sure that it’ll take a while for you to recover, but you're quick to be good for him, leaning forward and licking the sensitive tip, cleaning him up.

Scaramouche comes down from his high, his low eyes softly laying his gaze upon you. He sinks into your mattress, catching his breath and wiping away the sweat that beads at his hairline. His hand reaches to your face, thumb swiping up a rope of cum that missed your face, pressing the digit between your lips. You, eager to please and even more eager for him to let up on you, suck and swirl around the digit, your eyes never leaving him. With a sigh, “...how do you want me first?”

You've finally got him. Pounding into your cunt mercilessly, his grip on your waist and right leg. Your leg stands tall in the air, occasionally draping over his shoulder with your toes curling. Your leg pulls him into you more, his hips slapping against yours with euphoric fervor, driving you straight to the edge with no warning.

You're at your third orgasm at this point, your cunt decked down with your arousal and cum. Your clit throbs in neglect, your entire body burning and begging for attention from him– but all he seems to care about is dumping another load onto your body. His teeth are gritted and his eyebrows are furrowed. His grip is so tight on your skin that you're sure bruises have begun to form under the relentless slapping and groping of his calloused palms. Scaramouche can't get enough. The contraction of your pussy around him and the squelch it elicits every time he plunges his cock in, the way you moan his name endlessly and effortlessly, the way you attempt to grip and claw at anything even though he’s still got your arms bound behind your back– simply, the way you allow him to use you, but you still want him. Long for him. You cry his name because he makes you feel good even though you know the favor won't be returned. You let him bruise you up and slap you around like a ragdoll, and it's fine because he likes it. Everything you do is a response to and for him, and it's only now he realizes the feeling is mutual.

He wouldn't be fucking you hard like this had he not enjoyed your body. It's because you're what he's always wanted that he comes back; no matter how much you irk him and spoil his mood. And yeah, he may treat you like shit sometimes, but you never feel resentment toward him. Now, at this moment, Scaramouche knows you're right for him.

“‘M cumming!-- Oh my G—” your voice resurfaces in his mind and pulls him back, his thoughts pushed aside to tend to your approaching high. His pace slows and his thrusts go deeper, knocking at your sweet spot repeatedly until your voice dissipates and you squeal in place of words. Your body tenses and jerks before you let that knot unravel, a large and satisfying groan escaping your mouth as you orgasm. He's pulling out from you and letting you collapse for a moment. He watches and slightly admires you as you pant heavily.

Without a word, he's grabbing you by the tie around your wrists, flipping you to your back. While he's over you, his fingers fiddle with the knot, promptly untying you and tossing the tie to the pile with the rest of your clothes and his pants. “Are you leaving?” you almost sound disappointed. You are though, as you are every time your time together gets severed. He shakes his head, “Do you want me to stay?”

There's a softness in his tone that you're not familiar with. Complete with the way he's looking at you: gazing down upon your fucked out state with something akin to admiration, rather than the look of pure disgust you're used to…you're lost. Do you want him to stay? You've never been given this option. “Can you?” you don't know what's going on, or what's going to happen now that he's here for longer than expected. It's been a bit over an hour since he tied you up to have his way with you, and after then, he's usually gone to never be heard from or seen again until he needs you.

The silence is deafening. “Can I ask you a question?” he waits for your answer. You nod slowly, chewing haphazardly on the inside of your lip. “What do you think of me? …Outside of..this?” you pause. Why’s he asking you this?

“Well, I already told you I missed you, and I think you're well aware of how you make me feel,” you're nervous. You pause and giggle, readjusting your position to lay comfortably on your side, playing with your fingers. “I guess…there isn't much to express. What I really think about is the you I don't know. You when we aren't together, what goes on in your mind when we are— I just want to know you, I guess.” he expected that the least. He knew you were infatuated with him, that much was clear, but…you wanted to know him? He hadn't had anybody take a true interest in him the way you do. “I dunno. I don't want this to be weird so take what I said lightly.”

It's too late for that. “Good…I-uh–” he stops himself. It sounds like he has something to say, and you've never seen him so choked up before. “I don't know what it is, but I think I feel the same? And if I do, then what?” he doesn't know what he's saying. Why is he saying this to you? He hopes and prays you aren't making fun of him. He portrays himself to you as a boss. He takes control of you and demolishes any sense of strength you have because he's dominant. He never had to open up, and he's never felt this way about somebody to even assess how he feels. All he knows is that when you're around, the ache is subdued and he can fulfill you both in the best way he knows.

Your eyes blink back at him, you must be dreaming? There is…it can't be. You're confused too, but someone has to take the lead, and you do. You prop yourself up on your knees, level with him, and bore your eyes into his. You tear a page from his book, “Let me put it in a language you can understand.” and before he can even respond, you're latching to him, pressing your puckered lips to his in a deep kiss. This is something you’ve never shared before– ever. He doesn't kiss you, he usually doesn't pay you any mind aside from you servicing him, but he doesn't stop you. Evidently, he's shocked but not stopping, allowing the kiss to deepen. His hands find yours, his traveling down to your wrists. He lifts your arms in the air, holding them until pushing you back on the bed, pinning your arms above you. You moan into the kiss as he bites down on your bottom lip, your back arching before your entire body grinds upward to him.

It gets incredibly heated almost instantly, and it's not long before your bodies are grinding against each other, re-igniting the flame that roared between you not too long before. “S-Scara..?” you manage to whimper out, his lips leaving yours and trailing down your body, a steady road of kisses drawn to the valley of your breasts, where his tongue takes action and licks around, teasing when he gets to your areola only to proceed with kissing around. It's only when his lips wrap around the hardened bud of your right breast does he hum in response, his indigo eyes that are usually filled with malice shining in lust. You choke out a moan, shivering as the new feel of his lips around your nipple engulfs you. “One more…I need you–!”

Your whispers of ‘please, please, one more, please’ don't fall on deaf ears, a smirk etching over his face as he buries himself in your tits, suckling on and toying with your nipples. He plans on giving you what you want– because trust, he wants it just as much as you do –but he wants to take his time with you. He wants to ravage you in a way he hasn't done before: slowly. With precision and the perfect amount of carnage that it drives you up the wall and wanting more. He wants to give you what he knew deep down all along that you deserved. Not someone to fulfill a fantasy of being useful, but for someone to take care of you. He meant what he said when he told you you were pathetic. But he is too. He wouldn't be basically nursing on your tits had he not been in the same boat as you.

He lets go of your arms, allowing his hands to run up and down the side of your body as he continues to trail his kisses down your body. You shudder when he reaches your thighs, and though he’s been down there too many times to count, you’re feeling brand new. You're not used to it in this scenario, and it's got your thighs pressing together in embarrassment. Peering back up at you, Scaramouche peels your thighs apart, “Nuh-uh. Keep ‘em nice and open. Just like this.”

You nod and keep your legs wide for him, watching intently as he sucks on the supple skin, marking you in deep shades of purple and red, prettily contrasting against your skin. And though they lay beside the marks his hands left on you earlier, he ignores them. View this as him making up for what he's done or him genuinely cherishing you– you don't mind, because you have him. “Scara..” God, call him that again. He looks up at you, laying his head on the plush of his thigh. Had you not known how fierce and ruthless he was, you'd gush and swear up and down he was innocent. “Please, now? I'm so ready for you…” your voice trails as you reach to his head, your left hand playing with the hairs that fall down over his eyes. Usually, begging like the way you are now doesn't get you anything— but this is no longer Scaramouche you're dealing with. This is the him you’ve been longing to know.

With no further conversation, he picks himself up and pushes your legs up to plant your feet on the mattress. He’s climbing on top of you, legs between yours as he pumps his cock, eyes on you as fuel for his libido, spit dripping from his lips to his incoming hard-on. Eyes locked on you, the male positions himself and lines up with your entrance, steadily pushing himself in. You're still dripping from your time earlier, your cunt inviting as he slides in, immediately bottoming out. And perhaps it's the change in attitude, but it feels so different. Your voices are unstoppable, slipping past in airy moans, your eyes fluttering before fixating on each other. He lets himself sit inside you for a moment, relishing the feel of you around him. And it's not like he hasn't been balls deep in you before, but it's only now that he's truly feeling you. Truly being in you. You're heavenly, and that's an indisputable fact.

He looks at you for the okay, to which you nod in response. He takes a different approach in the way he takes you, his right hand pressing on your stomach while the left hikes up your left leg on his shoulder, pulling out only to slam back in. This begins at a slow but deep pace, his hips colliding with yours with wet slaps of skin as a witness. Your moans are beautiful, and he swears they're more real–more authentic, somehow– in the way you sing them out. They sound more sensual, and possibly it’s the way he's fucking you. Taking his time with each thrust, angling his hips to hit the spot he knows gets your toes curling and eyes rolling. With your palms rubbing over your tits, your fingers pinching and rolling your sensitive nipples, you're in euphoria.

And though Scaramouche is taking a new approach with you— this isn't enough. In seconds, he's hiking up both of your legs, pushing them as far as they could go back, your ankles just hardly draping over his shoulders in this new position. He's wasting no time in using your legs as leverage, starting his thrusts again; this time with more fervor. His speed matches the pit of fire blazing in his stomach, his hips going back to what he knows best: fast, rough, and deep. He wants to take care of you, to ravish you sweetly and slowly, and he knows it’d be a preference of yours too, but he sees no protest in this, either. This entire time your eyes have not left each other once, drinking in the sight of one another like it's the first time you’ve seen each other.

Your hands are all over the place, flipping from gripping the sheets to groping your breasts, to reaching out for him, to toying with your clit. You're so used to him having you bound or holding you down that you're completely lost on what to do with yourself. The fact that your moans are even intelligible is crazy to you– you're always gagged, muffled, or told to shut the hell up. You feel so foreign but it doesn't bother you completely, because you've won. It might not have started out this way, and it may have taken 3 orgasms and a brutal facefuck, but you've gotten him to soften up and be real with you. You honestly don't know how, but you're overjoyed because it's not one-sided. You both feel something, and perhaps this can blossom into something more. You’ll just have to see.

You're both floating beyond cloud nine, your minds whirling in a repeated cycle of pleasure and each other. “Scara–! Fuck, I'm close!” your voice is shrill, hardly spoken in a coherent tone. He nods, pressing your legs into you harder before using his body as an anchor to hold them down. His hands wrap around your throat instead, gripping the shaft and applying pressure - the way he knows you like it. Your eyes widen and your mouth gapes open, the tightness of your abdomen feeling as though it's heightening your pleasure. He builds a glob of spit before shooting it in your mouth, watching as it mixes on your tongue before you swallow thickly. “Come on, pretty. Give it to me.”

Your hands scratch at his forearms, attempting to grab on and stabilize your jolting body. Your body doesn't agree, your hips bucking uncontrollably, your mind and body on separate wavelengths. Your mind is clouded, focused on the way Scaramouche is so attentive to your tells; flicking your clit every now and then, spitting down on your cunt, and applying extra pressure to your throat. You're so focused on the way his eyebrows furrow in concentration, his mouth switching between lowly spoken words and lip bites - ones so deep they could've drawn blood. You have a one-track mind, and your body is on several different tracks, mushing the asphyxiation and pressure on your neck with the surging pleasure that pulses from your pussy.

“Right there! Right there, harder, Scara– ahn- fuck!” you're on the tip of falling into your high. Scaramouche is quick to comply, slamming into your pussy hard. His grunts are guttural and more frequent, in sync with your moans as he hits you just right and you squeeze around him tight. “Yes! Pleaseplease – shit!” you're coming undone in no time. A wave of cum spills from your cunt, slipping past as Scaramouche approaches his high not too far after. “Cum in me…please. I wan- I want it ah– it all..!” having hardly come down from your high, you're crumbling apart from pleasure, but you're not too far gone to vocalize your pleasure.

“I got you— gonna give it all to you, princess.” that was it. You both find yourselves shaking, silently moaning as your highs creep up on you for the nth time, streams of cum meeting in the middle and mixing.

He slumps on top of you, your bodies giving out and falling limp. A few minutes of silence go by, and Scaramouche remembers what brought this on in the first place. You two had a lot to assess and a lot to talk about– but you needed a start. “Kunikuzushi.” he says it blankly and lowly. You look down at him, blinking in confusion. “Huh?”

“...Kunikuzushi. That's my name— er- it was my name.” he says, his fingers drawing inconsistent shapes on your skin. “Thought I should tell you…you can call me that if you want.”

With a giggle, you brush your fingers through his thin locks, a smile prominent on your sweaty face. “Yes, sir.”

#the best 🤭

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