✧ Featuring: Lohen x Afab!Reader
✦ Word count: 1k
✧ Tags: Smut (obvi so MDNI), mentions of violence and killing, probably OOC, penis in vagina sex, afab reader, pretty vanilla for the Lohen smut tag, minus Lohen's weird commentary about sex, freak4freak situation, hints of possessiveness.
✦ Note: Reader is mentioned to regularly loses to Lohen in spars. Nothing screams adulthood more than writing smut. Author knows nothing about sex or smut so pls be kind...
Lohen has a rather skewed outlook when it comes to intimacy, he himself has noticed it.
Intimacy is weird.
As a concept, it is as simple as it can be. Almost everyone has been taught of this when they reach a certain age whether by their parents or a guardian.
In reality however, Lohen doesn't get it. When you strip yourself off of your attire, of your garments and armor, do you not feel vulnerable? Why shed the pieces of defense meant to shield your body from danger and peril?
Do you ever think twice about what could happen when you let him trail his kisses from your jaw down to your neck, lap at the sensitive skin, graze gently down on the area above your arteries? With how sharp his teeth are, just a little pressure would surely break the skin, making you bleed with uncontrollable force until the pain subsides and you're clouded in a hazy, unfocused state nearing death—Maybe about 5 minutes, no less.
But that doesn't seem to be of concern to you. You loll your head sideways, giving him more space with his ministrations. You let those pretty sounds fall from your lips, further encouraging his assault on your poor neck. You guide his hand to your chest, making him feel how desperate you are for him.
And right here, is where he can feel it most. Not the licentious expression you have on your face, not the persistent begging of his name, but the frantic, rapid heartbeat beneath his fingers. It thumps viciously in your ribcage, pumping blood to your body, painting colors on your cheeks and heating up your core with want.
It's a bit ironic.
Those who stand on the opposite side of him would scurry to protect this part with their silver armor, steel plate, bronze suit and whatnot. They panic when he sneaks behind them with a blade to their chest, they frantically flee, struggle to get out of his grasp. Yet you arch into his touch, taking in his palm like you want to merge in with it.
You can see how he uses his Cryo power to pierce through the heart of the Wild Hunt monsters and still be willing to offer up your heart to him.
You could see how his spear cuts through the calves of his enemies as they fall to their demise and still part your legs when he nudges them with his knee.
You could see that crazed, maniac look in his eyes when he slaughters everyone on the battlefield and still beg for more when he thrusts into you with his merciless, vicious pace.
The action is terribly addictive, even to him. When your wall clenches around his cock, it frays his mind and fills it with a sick sort of adrenaline. Your sweet moans and choked breaths sends his pace all frantic and hurried, eager to chase after that lustful high. The sting you give him when your nails carve a painful, reddened path down his back drives him crazy with unprecedented want and possessiveness.
And when you both come, he has that dark, hazy look in his eyes like he's admiring his prey. A sick sort of joy blooms within his heart— that he's got to protect such a fragile little thing and he alone gets to ruin it thoroughly.
For once, Lohen realizes that he doesn't have to take out an entire hilichurl camp or a group of Abyss Order monsters to get his adrenaline overflowing like this. Because you already grant him a kind of power that the battlefield can't give.
Lohen seems to have a rather skewed outlook when it comes to intimacy, you soon come to notice during your relationship.
He always asks if you're sure about this, if you know what you're doing— "Bringing someone like me into your bed? You're holding a blade to your neck, y'know?"
Maybe you are, and it certainly feels like it when he traces a line down your body just like how he would with his knife. He presses his digits down your tongue like how he would with the trigger of his revolver. And he thrusts into you with the same vigor he lunges his spear.
The acts are familiar as you've seen him perform them on the frontlines all the time, yet these violent acts of his, within the sanctuary of your bedroom, manage to ignite your body with need and set your core ablaze with lust. And of course, you enjoy them all, that's why you lean into the warmth he gives you, you call out his name sweetly to ask for more, you clench and hold him as close as possible— despite the danger, the peril he poses himself to be.
You know he looks at you through the lens like you're something weak and vulnerable because you yield yourself to his whims— but that's not true. For someone to be inviting a so called dangerous weapon into their bed, you know exactly what you're doing.
When you hold his hand and lead him through the door, you've already caught the prey before it even realizes. You don't need to do anything for him to readily unbutton his shirt, he does it for you without even asking. He rids himself of his cover, letting the silver armor drop to the ground with little care. He willingly lets you envelop his mouth, no doubt basking in your taste regardless of your teeth softly nipping at his lower lip and then tugging at his tongue. He guides your hand to his hair, allowing you to yank, pull, shove his head back and forth however you like onto your body.
In turn, you trust him with your vital organs. You let him threaten you when his teeth grazes across your jugular, you let him into the beat of your heart and you separate your legs with ease when he nudges you with his knee. You're aware what he's capable of doing, but you know he won't.
The feeling is strange, almost indescribable. For once, you realize that you don't have to triumph over Lohen in a spar to feel strong. He already gives you a kind of power victory can't.
childhood bestfriend!scara and reader losing their first times to eachother during a family trip..? scara confessing his years of built up feelings while inside of her..? maybe..? thank you…
scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. first time/lost virginity. confessed feelings. brief mention of bullying. creampie.
scaramouche didn't know how to lead into kissing you. he agonized about it, rehearsed it in his head. but what came out instead was, "you like sweets, right?"
"huh?" you are caught off guard, and for good reason. scaramouche hates anything sweet. "yeah, you know i do. why?" he has even gagged out loud while you were eating chocolate before.
"opposites attract," he replies quickly before his lips are on yours.
scaramouche remembers exactly when he fell in love with you. he was 8 when you moved in next door to him. he was getting bullied out on the playground for having a cat keychain on his back pack.
he was just going to wait for the kids to leave once they were bored, but there you came. you pushed a kid who he swore was in a grade above you right down into the dirt. "leave him alone! cats are cool! and stop being so mean!" you didn't stop there. you hit them with the biggest threat. the threat that meant everything as a kid, "i'll tell on you!"
he only agreed to go on this stupid family trip because you were going.
once he started kissing you, he couldn't stop. his cock is already twitching when you open your mouth for his tongue. he moans softly, cupping your jaw as your tongue curls and glides around his. the way you shiver in response to his fingers grazing over your bare skin while he helps you take off your clothes is getting addicting fast.
once you are naked underneath him, scaramouche takes his time kissing, and biting your neck. it has always been so frustrating to him that your pretty neck isn't covered in his bite marks.
the feeling of his teeth nipping at a sensitive spot makes you shiver as soft moans sound from you. you tilt your head to the side, encouraging him to bite down. "right there. please, bite me there," you breathe as you wrap your arms around him.
"how sweet, begging for me already," he teases, pulling a chunk of skin into his mouth to suck on. your moans rise in octave as his teeth sink onto your skin.
your head is spinning. scaramouche is the only boy you have ever loved. the only boy that you thought about. the only boy you want to submit yourself to.
the feeling of his teeth on your neck has made you wet embarrassingly fast. he groans as you writhe a little underneath him, your thigh rubbing against his pulsing cock. "sc-scara.."
"i know what you need, i got you," scaramouche sits up, and chuckles hearing your whimper. he brings his hand between your legs. your whimper was one of need, the need for him to touch you. he couldn't fucking get enough of that.
your back arches off the bed as his fingers dip between your drooling folds. immediately you melt back onto the bed as he strokes your cunt wetter, circling your puffy clit.
your walls squeeze empty around nothing, rocking your hips up to grind on his fingers. you whine from the intense throbbing in your poor little clit. your body twitches, slightly overwhelmed with pleasure. you spread your legs wider in invitation. you know what you want, for scaramouche to be inside you.
"if it hurts, just look at me," he commands gently, bringing his cock to your clenching hole. he feels utterly weak in the knees seeing the deep look of need in your eyes.
you are doing everything you can to convey to him that you want him. he certainly isn't going to take this moment for granted.
he pushes inside slowly at first, letting your pussy accommodate his thick cock. pain tenses your body, but only for a few moments. you shake a little, moaning as he bottoms out. "fuck, you are so tight," he groans, afraid to move for a few moments.
he soothes his fingers on your clit, making your thighs shake. "m-move, please. i want to feel your cock," you moan, your words nearly making him break.
his thrusts are soft at first, building with intensity the more he feels your cunt squeezing his cock. his fingers never leave your clit, magnifying the pleasure as his cock nudges into your sweet spot. he has been waiting so, so long for this.
the words just come tumbling out of his mouth. "fucking hell, do you know long i have been in love with you?" he moans, rolling your clit between his fingers. "i want you," he angles his hips, making sure he hits your sweet spot, "i've always wanted you. always, always. it's always been you."
you cry out as pleasure snaps tight in your core. your body isn't going to last much longer. every thrust into your sweet spot only overwhelms you more. your own confession is torn from you as the knot of your orgasm starts to fray.
"i'm in love with you, scaramouche! i'm so in love with you that it hurts!" you are boneless as you cling to him, his cock squelching in your cunt. "inside, inside, please!" you babble, tears of need pooling in your eyes.
"shit, i can really cum inside?" he hisses, his cock pulsing almost unbearably at your words.
"m-mhm," you manage to sob before your orgasm hits you. you are boneless, shaking from the intensity. nothing else around you matters but him, and how unholy good his cock felt in your spasming cunt.
"oh fuck, i love you," scaramouche moans as his cock empties in your cunt. he takes his time thoroughly pumping his cum up inside you.
----
DO NOT plagiarize/translate/repost on tumblr or any other site without my permission.
lord... saw someone mention babytrapping with lohen and can't stop thinking about mutually obsessed weirdos lohen x reader 'fighting' over whos trapping who here like they arent both way too into it 😭 everyone in mondstadt has CONCERNS about the idea of either of you reproducing let alone together
Hi Anon,
I'm not sure why, maybe I forgot English, but I feel like I didn't really write this correctly? I wanted to post this earlier, but I kept getting ideas, so I might have lost the narrative. Regardless, Reader/Lohen really want that baby, and they will get it by any means necessary except for actually sitting down and having an honest conversation about wanting kids.
It’s not as though this is the first time you’ve gone along with Lohen’s whims, all while working toward your own hidden agenda. Somewhere along the way, you stopped asking whether this was a good idea and started asking what would work. Like that time during a celebration with the Knights, when everyone started dropping like flies except for the Grandmaster. A new batch of wine and a surpringly low tolerance to alcohol from knights who drink rather frequently. Who would have thought? You had been sprawled on the ground, staring up at the night sky, by the time Lohen hauled you into his arms and carried you back to your shared tent. It was nice being lifted so effortlessly, tucked securely against his warmth, that you forgot to mention you'd swapped your drink for juice before the festivities had even begun. Varka had been there the next morning and looked far too concerned about the whole situation, but you told him it was fine. It had been easier than explaining why you hadn't done anything to stop it.
In hindsight, maybe you could have sat down with Lohen and had an honest conversation about your relationship. Unfortunately, you'd already committed to a much worse idea, and there was no backing out now.
"Gonna' cum-" Lohen groans into the curve of your shoulder, his face tucked against your neck. Bloody bite marks litter your skin, sitting far too high for your clothes to hide, and you know he did it on purpose just to be a brat. You're going to get so many pained looks tomorrow. The entire city is going to know exactly what the two of you have been up to. Again. Though you suppose you cannot exactly play the innocent card. Not when you spend far too much time standing in front of the mirror, absentmindedly tracing the indents and bruises scattered across your skin. Not when your nails are stained red from how often you pick at the scabs, never quite giving them enough time to heal properly.
"Y-You need to- ah! You... hah-You need to pull out," Your words cut off in a whine as Lohen jostles you higher in his arm. His fingers dig into your thighs as he adjusts his hold, folding you closer against him. Your stomach clenches, both because he's attempting to carve a space for his dick there and it's working, and the weightlessness now that your back isn't supported against the wall anymore. Everything but your shoulder and head is relying entirely on Lohen's strength, and your heart flutters at the display of strength. It's your second-favourite thing about him.
"Yeah, yeah, 'heard you the first time," Lohen is infuriatingly blasé about your stipulation, too busy making the most of you finally letting him fuck you raw. He's been away for weeks working on a solo mission. Something about an auction, though you cannot be entirely sure those were the exact words when you had been too distracted by sucking on his tongue. Regretfully, your gaze drifts down to the floor, where two broken condoms lie discarded nearby. Two failures in a row seem unlikely enough to be bad luck rather than anything else. Probably just a bad batch. It would be a shame to end the night over so soon, so as long as he pulls out, everything will be fine.
He's surely wasting no time making up for the weeks he spent away, returning all of his pent-up desire tenfold as he fucks into you mercilessly. His hips never stop moving as he holds your thighs apart, keeping you pinned between him and the wall. It feels deliriously good, enough to leave you dizzy with it, your body clenching around his cock, sucking him in deeper. In, out, in, out, in, in, in-
"Hey."
Your hands fly to his face, pulling him down until he's forced to meet your gaze. It's the clearest your eyes have been all night. You draw him closer, your lips brushing his as you whisper the words directly against them.
"If you cum in me, I'll get pregnant."
There is nothing but the sound of heavy breathing and the sting of nails digging into each other's skin as Lohen stares at you with half-lidded, clouded eyes. Then, like the stupid little pervert he is, his cock twitches inside of you. Warm thick cum floods where it shouldn't, and you're too stunned that Lohen seriously just came at that. Only when you feel yourself being lowered gently to the ground does he let out a quiet grunt, pulling out to watch your combined slick and cum ooze out of you, little wet sounds splattering onto the floor.
"You-" you're about to bitch and cry, ready to find the nearest object to break over his head because this isn't fair! If you seriously get pregnant from this, you're going to drug him and ride him until his hips snap in half! Your murderous thoughts come to an abrupt halt when you hear giggling. Lohen has a hand clamped over his mouth in a pathetic attempt to muffle it, but with how hard he's trying and failing to hold back a full laugh, it isn't working. His head tips low enough that his bangs fall across his face, and his other hand scoops the cum that leaked onto the floor. Lighting his hand, he slightly spreads his fingers before dipping them into his mouth to suck clean, and you frown at how gross he's being again. The cum is supposed to go into you; has he never attended a sex ed class before?
A soft pop sounds when he pulls his now-clean fingers from his mouth. He pushes his sweat-damp hair back, finally giving you a clear view of his face, and you shiver at his expression. That same deranged smile still plays at the corners of his lips, but his eyes look almost blown wide, so dark you could swear they're glowing red. He plants his hands on either side of your head and leans over you until his shadow swallows you whole, until all you can see is him.
It's hot. You're breathing each other's air, neither of you making any effort to pull away. Your legs remain locked around his waist, and he doesn't move back to give you space. You can feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest just as surely as he can feel yours. Occasionally, you wonder how you let it get this bad. How someone could have such a monopoly over your life to the point you'd find any reason to keep them with you.
"You still think I'm the one being trapped?"
Before you can answer, his hands fall back to your thighs, and with a single pull, you're flat on your back again, your knees bent so far they nearly brush your head. He cracks his neck, then proceeds to slam in so hard you can feel him in your throat. So hard that you see stars behind your eyes. Hard enough that every coherent thought scatters, dissolving into nothing but a barely intelligible string of Lohen, baby, Lohen, baby.
When you manage to look up at him, you find his gaze already fixed on your face. You can feel the intensity of it as he takes in your parted lips, the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, the fresh bite marks blooming darker against your neck. You see the tenseness of Lohen's mouth, still smiling but undeniably strained from pleasure, pleasure that you're giving him, drowning him in-
Lohen grunts under his breath, closing his eyes, enjoying the feeling of you swallowing every inch of him. He looks like a man on a mission, teeth grinding together, you can almost hear them crack from how tense his jaw is. His fingers bend at odd angles, lifting you and slamming you down that nearly gives you whiplash at each push and pull against sensitive nerves. At this point, you're more of a sleeve than an actual human being. You couldn't imagine anyone touching you like this, let alone fucking you. Thank the Archons, you hadn't done this on a table. Jean might actually kick both of you out if you showed up asking for another budget increase to replace broken furniture. Considering the look she'd given you after the bookshelf incident, you'd be lucky if she didn't start assigning the two of you retraining orders.
"S-Slow- slow- down-! You promised you- you wouldn't!!" You sob, fat tears slipping from your eyes. Despite your words, your nails dig into his skin, your ankles digging into his back to pull him closer. You'll fucking kill him if he doesn't cum in you again.
"Shut up-" Lohen rarely curses, so it's always a treat to hear him lose that princely appearance. Not that you have long to relish in your small victory when his hand slams beside your head, cracking the floor from the strength of his fist. With half your support gone, you feel yourself tilting to the side, the sudden movement making you tense up, clamping down on him. He lets out a low hiss, leaning forward to fully pin your body to the ground, as he buries himself deep on one last particularly bone-shattering thrust. You let your head drop harshly onto the floor as he cums, a burst of warmth that fills your stomach. You're shaking in his arms as his hips instinctively grind to ride out the waves that went on far longer than usual, throbbing in heavy pulses as he somehow dumps even more cum into you. It feels so good that you can't help but follow him, finally letting that wire inside you snap free.
You both don’t move for a while, just taking the time to catch your breath and settle back into each other’s presence. It has been getting increasingly lonelier each time Lohen gets sent halfway across the world. While you can understand his role as vice-captain, you don't appreciate seeing him fewer and fewer times. You move your hand to settle over your stomach, hope in your eyes, that hopefully now he'll have a better reason to stay.
“Sorry, I know I promised, but I couldn’t resist,” he says easily, voice soft as he presses a few lingering kisses to your cheek, yet making no move to pull out, “I’ll get you something for it tomorrow morning, alright?”
With your body fully caged in by Lohen, there's no wiggle room for you to kick him away or knee him in the gut to let you go. It's almost as if the past few minutes never existed. That same deceptively gentle smile sits on his lips, eyes catching faintly in the low light as he moves his hand on top of yours, lacing your fingers together. He raises it, pressing a small kiss on the back of your hand, whispering, "Don’t worry, nothing bad will happen."
Tomorrow morning, when you are still sleepy and woozy, Lohen will coax you into opening your mouth so he can slip in the same two white tablets, and you will groan and complain the entire time. They're oddly sweet for morning-after pills, and you've never been fond of sugar.
𝒞ospℓαყer!𝐵oყfriend (𝒮cαrαmouche & 𝐿ohen) x AFAB!𝑅eader
꒰ 𝑀ODERN 𝒜U ꒱
🕸️️๋࣭ ⭑ Summary: Your boyfriend looks exactly like Scαrαmouche in real life, and he's built a massive TikTok following from cosplaying him. One day, while he's filming, you see Lohen's burst animation leak and lose every functioning brain cell you have. He notices. So he does what any normal, well-adjusted person would do… fucks you in the Scαrαmouche cosplay until you forget Lohen's name. And when that doesn't fully work? He shows up in a Lohen cosplay you didn't know he ordered, in your bedroom, just to prove he can still be the one you fall apart for.
Warnings (cw) .ᐟ cracking in cosplay ꒰ roleplaying ꒱, blindfolding, degradation, rough sex, near-blackout from choking, creampie ꒰ a lot... ꒱ , oral ꒰ f and m receiving ꒱, mild cnc undertones ꒰ consensual roleplay framing ꒱, established relationship, manhandling, suspended 69 position, aftercare, lohen nation vs scaranation...
Word count .ᐟ 16k+
𖦹.`` ꉂ🕸️ Author's note: This is a concept I had for a fat while (like years, not just months) bcuz of those TikToks of ppl dating a cosplayer and they'd flex about it, and I finally, finally put a cosplayer x reader into writing. Thank you to my wonderful, smart, gorgeous bestest friend @vvalentiqq, who helped me with this, especially with the crazy ass sex positions, so props to her!! And this, as always, is cross-posted onto AO3.
"Ugh, quit blinking, you keep making me mess up, Kuni!" You snap, yanking your boyfriend by the jaw closer to you.
He opens his right eye, the one you already applied eyeliner on, and glares, his eye rolling before closing back again. "I'm not blinking, and I'm staying perfectly still. It's your fault if you mess up, not mine. Don't get mad at me that you're shitty at this."
You take a deep breath, repressing the urge to slap him hard in the face, because you know it's useless. Your boyfriend lives to ragebait the shit out of you. You don't say anything in response; you scoot closer to his standing frame, your feet dangling off the bathroom counter as you continue working on his left eye.
"Do you want the wing straight up or straight out?" You ask, pausing with one hand on his jaw, and the other on his cheek, with the eyeliner hovering right above his lashline.
Kuni opens both of his eyes this time, stares straight at you, and rolls his eyes at your question like it should be obvious, "Neither? Obviously." He narrows his eyes, crossing his arms as he adds, "When have you ever seen me with that? You're my girlfriend, you're supposed to know that it goes out slanted. Not up, not straight. Slanted."
You narrow your eyes back at him, tightening your grip on his jaw in retaliation, "How am I supposed to know when you're ultra specific about everything and change your answer every time I ask? Two days ago, you told me to make it straight."
He flicks his eyes to the side like he's side-eyeing some invisible camera, and his eyes look annoyingly perfect when he does it. With the base shadow on his lids and the dark smudge along his lower lash line, and the contacts he doesn't need to wear.
His natural eyes are blue, but he insists on wearing indigo colored contacts because it's "more accurate", and you've learned not to argue with him about Scaramouche lore because you will lose. Every single time.
He glances back at you, his tone dry, "I told you that because last time was Xiao, not Scaramouche like today. Obviously. How many times do I need to say it for you to understand?"
You glance at him, copying his dry tone, "Just one more time, and I'll poke this pen through your eyelid. You wouldn't need someone to do your eyeliner by then."
He gives you a challenging smirk in response, "Do it, then. You wouldn't get that far to do any actual damage. I'll sue you and use the settlement money to hire someone who can actually do eyeliner."
You don't dignify that with a response. You tilt his head back with your grip on his jaw, angling it so you can drag the liner across his lash line in one smooth stroke.
You smile involuntarily when it comes out clean and matches the other side perfectly. It always comes out good when he stops being a little bitch about it… which is never, but today sufficed that never.
"The other side matches," you say, leaning back to check your work, watching as his eyes open slowly like he's unsure if you're done or not. "Perfect, like always, because I did it. Not you."
He scoffs, stepping back and moving toward the bathroom mirror, examining just what you're calling 'perfection'. You watch as he tilts his face to the left, then right, and as he leans in, he narrows his eyes.
The eyeliner is actually the last step of a much longer process. This part, the eyeliner, takes ten minutes tops. The puppet joints took an hour.
Every time he cosplays Scaramouche, Kuni sits in front of his vanity mirror with a palette of dark shadow and a thin, angled brush that he uses to paint puppet joints onto his own skin.
Knuckles first, every finger, dark, then his wrists, then his belows. He does his shoulders himself too, twisting in the mirror to get the angle right on the backs of them, and the concentration on his face while he does it is almost scary.
He's already head-to-toe in cosplay, minus the hat. As cringeworthy as it is to say, your boyfriend does look like Scaramouche reborn, and it's not just because of how accurate the clothes look on him, or how invested he is in cosplaying him. He looks exactly like Scaramouche would if he were real and not 3D.
The height… the weight… even his fingers match Scara perfectly. Skinny and long, the puppet joints make him look more biblically accurate.
He hates wigs, absolutely despises them, and as any person who finds their 'celebrity lookalike', or any 'lookalike' in general, he dyed and cut his real hair to match Scaramouches.
His hair is naturally black, and after an abnormally long hair appointment, the hairdresser was able to cut and style Kuni's hair to match Scaramouches without looking like some botched bowlcut.
"It's not a bowlcut," Kunikuzushi told the hairdresser, probably 4 times, just to get his point clear, "It's a mullet, mixed with a hime-cut in the front, and don't you dare forget the lighter colored streak in the back."
You remember being told that day to stick around, not in the waiting room, but in a chair beside the table your boyfriend was getting his hair done at. You had to get up at least 9 times to reassure Kuni that the hairdresser was getting the back right.
And after that day, after every time he put on his cosplay for this character that he's so obsessed with… he didn't look like your boyfriend anymore.
But you don't really complain.
"It's… acceptable," Kuni says to his reflection, the tiniest praise for the war you just went through, while doing his eyeliner.
You hop off the counter, tossing your hair back, while holding eye contact with his gaze in the mirror, "It's perfect, actually. You're welcome." You poke his arm from behind, giggling at the way he makes a disgusted face in response. "I love you too, you ungrateful man."
He doesn't respond to that; he just walks out of the bathroom and into his room.
He's already in the corner when you step in, adjusting his tripod and ring light, and you know the drill by now. Stay out of frame, stay quiet during takes, and entertain yourself until he's done being internet famous.
You grab your phone off his nightstand and settle onto his bed on your stomach, feet up, pulling up Genshin Impact. It feels like a chore to open this game up now, but you have to, for that stupid free constellation event where you have to complete your commissions and spend 120 resin.
You spawn in Nod-Krai, already moving your joystick to run towards the crafting bench, planning to craft your resin into condensed resin, but to your dismay, you already have 5 crafted resin from the previous days you tried this trick.
Domains it is.
You can hear your boyfriend in the background recording the same TikTok, over and over, trying to get the perfect take while you're teleporting to a random domain. It's annoying, and all you can focus on while you wait for people to join your world.
Once people join your world, and you start the domain, you move on autopilot. You don't really pay attention, probably fighting air every now and then, until a notification pops up from the top of your screen.
Even though you're in a co-up domain, your thumb his the notification before you can even finish reading.
The video loads, and it's what seems to be some sort of POV shot. It's like you're some enemy Lohen just knocked flat, because the view is from below, on the ground. His hand reaches down and grabs you, or the camera's face, dragging you to his height, and you spot his other hand raising a weapon, but you aren't even focused on the weapon… you're focused on the face he makes.
A grin with manic eyes, the expression of someone who doesn't just enjoy violence… someone who's aroused by it.
It happens so quickly that you watch it again, on loop. You watch the jaw grab again, the way he yanks whoever it is upward, the way his grin widens before the hit. You screenshot the maniac grin on the 4th loop… then watch it play through again.
Your thighs press together.
You scroll to the comments after the 7th rewatch, needing to see if everyone's losing their minds as hard as you are.
@scaramouchewho okay so we're all in agreement that lohen is what scaramouche COULD have been if hoyo let him be unhinged, right?
@kuniscaraworshiper everyone in the lohen tag better remember who paved the way. Scaramouche is the ORIGINAL unhinged short king… y'all are so disrespectful
@touchinggrassfearsme i just want lohen and scara to kiss… then me at the same time next… then they can kiss each other again after THEN THE SAME THING AGAIN
@mpreglover6769angie GET PREGNANT GET PREGNANT
You laugh seeing this comment, and when you tap on it, you're left with…
(This comment has been deleted.)
@lohennation BREED ME LOHEN. BREED ME. TEASE ME. USE ME. DEGRADE ME. oh and scara can watch ig… (yes i changed my user because of this video)
@wanderermybeIoved, you people don't know one thing about Scaramouche, and I don't want people talking about him when you clearly don't care about his character development or lore. He's more than just a "hot angry guy." Lohen fans (who just became fans of him less than an hour ago, mind you) wouldn't survive 5 minutes of scara's actual story because their reading comprehension is lower than a 4th grader's due to their goon-rotted brains.
@fatuiworshipper the way Lohen is just Scaramouche if he wasn't busy being sad all the time. he's happy to be evil… that's so hot
You scroll back up and watch the burst animation again. Your thighs squeeze together, and your bottom lip is caught between your teeth. You've watched this video at least 20 times now, and around the 10th time, your underwear became a wet, sticky mess.
"Hey."
You don't hear him, you don't even flinch.
"… Hello??"
Nothing.
"Did you actually die? Should I call someone or check your pulse first?"
You don't hear your boyfriend because you're still on that Lohen video, grinning at some dumb comment of yet another person leaving scaranation for lohennation.
"You've been ignoring me for like ten minutes," Kuni says from across the room, and you can hear the shift in his tone, the way it goes from casual annoyance to genuine irritation, "what is so interesting about your phone that you can't look up for even a second?"
You look up from your phone before he can accuse you of cheating, which technically, in some tiny way… You kinda were.
He's standing by his setup, ring light off, his phone in his hand with his arms crossed. His expression looks like he's in between choosing to be mean about it, or letting it slide. He looks annoyed enough that he won't let it slide, and 10 minutes is a long time, unless he was just exaggerating.
"…Hi." You say, sweet and innocent, still lying on your stomach, still with the phone in your hand as you glance at it just once, like a random comment, before looking back at him, not fully engaged.
His gaze drops to your phone in your hand, then lifts back up to your face. The corner of his mouth lifts with slow, unbelieving amusement, like your delayed little “hi” is almost too stupid to be real. "Welcome the fuck back. Where did you go?"
"Remember Lohen from that one quest in Mondstadt?" You don't wait for a response, voice breathier than intended because your brain is still stuck on that video, "His burst animation just got leaked…"
You watch as your boyfriend's face changes into reluctant curiosity that fights with the irritation of being ignored. He walks over to his bed and drops down next to you. "Really? Show me."
You sit up, holding your phone out, and he just takes it, angling the screen toward himself. You watch his face as the animation plays, how his jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly, and his gaze cuts back to you once it's over. "It's okay." He says, tone devoid of any emotion you can pick up on.
"Just… okay? Kuni. Did you see the grab, the way… the way that the angle is like a POV, like that's you, he's grabbing… the way he just, his hand goes like-" You mimic the way Lohen's hand, holding the weapon, goes from behind and towards who he's about to stab.
Kuni glances at your hand, then back at your face, your phone still in his hand. "Mhm. I saw the exact same video as you." His tone feigns nonchalance.
You drop your hand, continuing to yap while not reading the room, "And the grin… Kuni, the grin? It looks like he's about to-"
"I said I saw it." He hands your phone back, using his own to open TikTok, scrolling through his feed with such focused intensity that it doesn't do a good job of hiding how little he cares about this. "People are going to lose it over this."
"They already are, have you seen the comments?" You're already scrolling through them on your phone, looking for one that doesn't say anything about Scaramouche, but it's practically impossible. "Everyone's saying-"
"I know what they're saying, I don't need to see the comments to know." His thumb flicks through posts, and you can see his jaw working, yet again. "Same shit that infected my feed when Lohen was in that quest, and people barely had info on him. 'Scara's done.' 'We're switching.' Like their loyalty has a shelf life of milk."
He keeps scrolling through his TikTok feed, and annoyingly enough, every video that comes up is about Lohen. He's talking, ranting about character depth versus surface-level hype, something about Scara's arc having actual emotional complexity while Lohen is, "just a boy with a violence kink." He is making good points, but you aren't fully paying attention.
You're still scrolling through Twitter, lying back against the pillows, reposting mindlessly on fan art that already exists of Lohen, and trying not to laugh at the posts comparing Lohen to Scaramouche.
He turns his head to you, and he stops talking, because he notices your attention is elsewhere. You don't notice the sudden silence because your brain is so far inside your phone that the real world doesn't exist right now.
His lips touch your neck, a soft, tiny kiss with the warm press of his mouth against the spot below your ear, and he shifts closer. His hand lands on your thigh, his thumb drawing a slow line along the inside where the hem of your sleep shorts sits.
You tilt your head up slightly, giving him access without giving him your attention, as your gaze is still on your phone. Your body just responds to him on autopilot because of months of this exact pattern, him kissing your neck while you doomscroll, except this time you're scrolling through posts and posts of his… replacement.
His tongue touches the skin at your neck, a quick and wet drag followed by his teeth grazing that same area. His fingers itch higher under your shorts, pushing the fabric up your thigh.
"Kuni, not right now, I'm looking at something-"
He cuts you off with a "Mmhmm," not stopping at all because just a second after, he's sucking on your neck. His fingertips graze the edge of your underwear, tracing the elastic back and forth, back and forth. It's light enough that it could be an accident, but what he's doing to you is clearly intentional.
You're still scrolling even as your boyfriend, in cosplay, is practically making love to your neck, and his fingers… they slide down from the hem of your underwear, to where your slit is, through the fabric.
You let out a soft, quiet, "Mm…" moan, still not looking up. The only reply he gets is the little sound you make and the wetness between your legs.
His middle finger traces your clothed slit in a lazy back-and-forth, that's designed for teasing and nothing else. His mouth is still at your neck, and he bites softly at it while that Lohen video coincidentally pops up on your feed again. Involuntarily, your hips shift up against his hand while your eyes are still glued to the screen.
His fingers slide up from your slit, back up to your waistband. You let out the tiniest whine, but that whine turns into your breath catching when his fingers dip beneath your underwear and make direct contact through your folds.
"You're so soaked," he says against your neck. His tone makes your thumb pause just as you're about to click on the comment section. His cadence shifted into something that sounds less like your boyfriend and more like the boy he's currently cosplaying as. "And it's not because of me. It's hard to believe a pixel on a screen could make you this turned on… but I guess anything's possible with someone like you."
You feel his middle finger circling your clit, slow and teasing, not giving you anything that you want while you watch that video on loop, again. The pattern of it doesn't stop, but the desperation and need to have him stroke you properly makes your hips twitch, and your focus shifts from your phone to his hand, and only his hand, at an alarming rate.
"It must be embarrassing," he starts, the same condescending drawl Scaramouche's voice has, and it fits in his mouth uncannily well, "getting this worked up over a character animation. Over something that can never," the same index that was teasing at your clit pushes inside you, knuckle deep, and you clench around it, "touch you."
He's quick to add a second finger, his ring finger, because one isn't ever enough for you. He curls them upward, finding that spot he mapped ages ago. Your phone screen goes dark from inactivity.
He doesn't leave any achy part of your cunt unoccupied, especially if his thumb is currently being useless. His thumb finds your clit, and he rubs in circles while his fingers curl inside you. The dual stimulation makes your mouth fall open, and your phone falls out of your hand. Your phone hits the side of your stomach and falls down face-first beside you.
"There it is," he says against your skin, pressing a kiss to the mark he left on your neck. "Phone's finally down. Took you long enough."
He pulls his fingers out, and before you can even whine about it, he shifts on top of you, sliding down between your legs. You look down at him, and the visual of Scaramouche slipping under the covers and pulling at the waistband of your shorts is doing something to you that ten replays of Lohen's burst animation could never replicate. Because this is actually real.
He's sliding your shorts down when you mistakenly whimper out, "Kuni…"
He stops, hands pausing on the fabric at your knees. "Mm… no. That's not my name tonight." He pulls the shorts off completely, tossing them wherever without looking in his room, and his fingers hook into your underwear next.
"It's Scaramouche. That's who you're looking at… That's who's touching you. And, that's the only name I want to hear coming out of your mouth. Not Kuni, and definitely not Lohen. If you even try saying his name, I'm cutting your tongue out." He drags your underwear down your thighs, his eyes never leaving your face. "Scaramouche. Understood?"
You nod, too distracted by what he was saying to even realize you're bare from below, and you realize that the moment his mouth is on you.
His tongue drags flat across your clit, and you let out an involuntary, unfiltered moan at the contact. You'd care about his neighbors hearing if his mouth wasn't making you forget that other people exist.
It feels like he's reformatting your brain as he eats you out. Like every lick is deleting thoughts about Lohen and replacing them all with himself. His tongue works on your clit in patterns that make you let out dumb, uncontrollable moans. Two fingers slip inside you without warning, curling against your spot, and you can't help but grab onto his hair, that perfectly styled, dyed Scaramouche hair, and hold on.
Your hips twitch up, grinding into his face while your head tips back. "H-aah… f-fuck… Sca-"
He pulls back from your clit, fingers still working inside you, but at an even faster rhythm, "Louder than that."
You listen, brainless, doing whatever he says, "Scara… Scaramouche, I'm… hah… s-so close…"
He dives back onto your clit, mouth sealed on it, making you cum embarrassingly fast with his fingers curling inside your spongy walls. Your thighs shake around his head, and your grip on his hair tightens as you grind onto his face, clenching around his fingers. He goes slower once the aftershocks are over, and when you finally let go of his hair, completely out of breath, he pulls his mouth off your clit with a wet pop.
He wipes his chin with the back of his hand, the cosplay sleeve dragging across his face from his cosplay. The sight of that is so absurd and so hot that you almost cum again from that visual alone. The puppet joints look slightly faded on the two fingers he was fucking you with, and somehow that makes it worse.
He grabs one of the detached sleeves and slips it off his outfit. You watch him, brain still sluggish from the orgasm, fold it into a thick band, and you furrow your brows, confused. "What are you…"
"Scaramouche wouldn't let you see him lose composure." He slides up from between your legs, wrapping the fabric around your eyes, tying it behind your head before you can even protest. You can't see anything now, just darkness, and the sound of his breathing close to your face. "So you don't get to either."
You feel him move back and settle between your thighs, sliding them apart. You're still so sensitive from your orgasm that feeling his cock suddenly press against you makes an involuntary whimper slip out. He wastes no time slipping in, but he does it slow, stretching you open inch by inch, and you grab fistfuls of his sheets because the fact that you're missing one of your senses is making everything amplified.
"Oh my god…"
"Say my name," he says, and he feels deep enough inside of you that you can't tell how much more of him there is. You only know the stretch, the pressure, and how full you already feel.
A faint moan slips out of you before you manage, breathless, "Scara…"
"Yeah?" He says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, he knows you can barely think. "Too full to say it properly?"
Your fingers curl helplessly in the sheets. "Sc… Scaramouche…"
He starts moving, and because of the blindfold, every thrust feels amplified tenfold, so much deeper. His hands are gripping at your hips hard enough to bruise. You feel him closer, by your ear, voice still in character, "You think some new character is going to replace me?" He puncuates the end with a hard thrust, and your mouth hangs open with a gasp.
"Some battle maniac with a grin? Pathetic. I've been your favorite since 1.1," another thrust, and it hits you deep, he grinds into that same spot, "and no amount of leaked animations is going to change that."
"I know… hah… I know-"
He pulls back just enough that you feel the loss of him even though he's still inside. Your hips chase him up, a needy whimper spilling out because you don't feel him moving anymore, and you wonder why. You feel his hand leaving your hip to pull the blindfold off your eyes.
Light hits your pupils, and you squint, disoriented, and the first thing you see isn't him. It's your phone, held inches from your face, bright and open on the password screen. In a flash, your phone's unlocked from just your face, and just as fast as that happens, he turns your phone back to him.
"Wha… what are you doing?" You're still catching up, blinking through your vision that's trying to adjust, even more now that a phone was shoved up in your face. He's swiping through your apps with one hand while the other pins your hip to the mattress. His cock is still inside you, not moving at all, and it almost feels painful with how much you're craving him to.
He pulls up Twitter, looking at your feed first before checking your reposts, because of course, the first thing that comes up is someone reposting that Lohen burst animation for the millionth time, like people haven't seen it already. He scoffs, tapping on your profile picture on the side, and looking through your reposts.
"This one says," he starts, scrolling with his thumb, his tone almost bored as he reads your reposts out loud, while he finally starts grinding into you, but it's slow, painfully slow. "I would let Lohen degrade, breed me, use me, and rearrange my insides until I pass out… You liked that one, reposted it from the same account that has your face on it. How dense can you be?"
You face heats up realizing just how embarrassing that is, only after doing it a while ago, "That's… that was just a joke-"
"Let's go to your replies tab and see if you did anything other than mindlessly repost whatever you saw," you watch as his thumb moves across your phone, he shifts his hips forward in a slow grind that makes your breath hitch, "Oh, so you did comment on something… that's it? Three fire emojis and a fucking… crying emoji? That's your contribution to the discourse? Really? Was your brain rotting that badly that you couldn't even type words?"
You don't even try to come up with a coherent response for that, and he doesn't wait for one. He throws your phone somewhere on his bed and leans down, propping himself up on his forearms on either side of your head, and the closeness of him in full cosplay makes your breath catch in your throat.
"You know what's funny to me?" His eyes never leave your face as he rolls his hips, still a slow grind that drags his cock against your walls in such a way that keeps you in between being able to think and not. "You have a cosplayer. An actual, real person who dresses up as your favorite character and fucks you in it. And instead of appreciating that… you're reposting about a character that doesn't even have a release date yet."
A weak protest slips out before you can stop it. "I do appreciate-"
"Do you?" He thrusts hard this time, and it makes your back arch, your hands flying up to grab his shoulders as he continues at the same deep pace, watching your face change with every thrust. "Because I'm literally inside of you in a Scaramouche cosplay right now, and 20 minutes ago you were eye-fucking a burst animation while I was standing 12 feet away."
Your face burns, "That's not…" You swallow, trying to gather a thought that doesn't sound pathetic, "That's not fair, he's just a character, you're-"
"I'm right here." Another deep thrust, his hand slides up to cup the side of your face, tilting it so you're looking directly at him. At the eyeliner you did for him, the contacts, and the hair you even helped style. "And I'm the closest thing to a fictional character you're ever going to get. So maybe," he grinds into your spot, and your eyes roll, "act like it."
Humiliation and want feel like they're tangling so tightly that you can't separate them anymore. You can't even form a proper response for that, only being able to muster out a, "F-fuck… Scara…." as your fingers curl harder into the sheets.
"Mm." He keeps the angle, keeps rolling into that same spot, watching as it makes you go stupider quicker while his thumb traces your cheekbone. "You know what you should repost? A video of this. Me, in cosplay, between your legs. See how many likes that gets compared to a leaked animation."
Your brain decides this is the moment to let something slip. Completely irrational. "A lohen cosplay would probably get more likes because he's… trending." You don't even mean it as a dig; you say it in the normal, supportive tone you always give when he talks about content, while getting dicked down.
And the second those words leave your mouth, everything goes silent. He stops, completely. Cock buried inside you, and his hand on your face tightens. His thumb presses harder into your cheekbone. His expression doesn't change, but his eyes do. It's this flat, cold look you can see even with the contacts, and the silence stretches long enough that you realize what you just did.
You scramble to backtrack, "I didn't mean-"
"No, don't backtrack now," he cuts in, voice eerily calm, tilting his head like he's studying any new reaction you'd make, "You sounded very sure of yourself a second ago. I want the same answer you gave before you realize I didn't like it."
You sink back into the pillows, head shaking, "Scara, you know that's not what I meant…" but you stop at the end when you see the look in his eyes darken.
He lets go of your face and pulls almost all the way out to slam back in, both of his hands gripping on the backs of your thighs, pushing them apart. He's fucking into you at a new pace that's faster and rougher than anything before this, every thrust feeling like a point he's making without words.
"He's an animation," he says between trusts, his voice strained, but he's still in character. "He doesn't feel like this…" A thrust so deep it pushes you closer to the headboard. "He doesn't sound like this." Another one, harder, and the sound that comes out of you is almost unrecognizable.
"And he doesn't know that if he hits this angle," he shifts his hips and nails your spot dead-on, and your vision whites out at the edges completely, "you make that exact face."
Your legs are shaking around his grip, your hands grasping at anything, his shoulders, his arm, the sheets, the only thought in your mind is him, the body between your legs trying to prove a point with his entire being.
Then, your phone lights up next to your head. It's a Twitter notification, something about Lohen, and the timing is so cosmically cruel. He sees it, and before you can even squint to see what it's about, he scoots back, letting your head fall off the pillow. You look at him, confused, completely innocent to the change of position that's about to happen.
His hands leave your thighs to grab at your hips, and in one inhuman motion, he lifts you off the bed almost entirely. Your back leaves the mattress, the entire room feels like it's tilting as he hauls your legs over his shoulders, your full weight being suspended against his body. His hands grip the front of your thighs, your arms scrambling for anything, and they end up gripping at the backs of his thighs. Your head is still on the mattress, and your arms, but everything else is up in the air.
He's about to fuck you upside down.
You yell out of panic, "Wha… SCARA-"
"You were about to check your phone." He says, voice unbothered like he isn't holding you in the air with his dick buried inside of you. "While I'm inside of you… While Scaramouche is inside of you." He adjusts his grip, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs, and slides his hips back before slamming into you hard, forcing himself so deep that you see white. "Do I not have your full attention?"
Even as full, and thought empty as you are, you still try to defend yourself, "You do… hah… You do, I wasn't-"
"You were reaching for it," another hard slam, and you cry out, your nails digging into the backs of his thighs. "Your hand almost moved. Almost. You were going to look at a notification while im fucking you."
He fucks into you, over and over, your legs dangling on his shoulders, the angle hitting something so deep inside of you that your body doesn't know how to process it apart from going completely boneless.
You're limp, even being fucked upside down. Your muscles gave up, and now you're just a body he's holding in the air and fucking into.
Your weight being nothing to him, your pleasure being everything.
"Scara… Scara, oh my god, I can't… f-fuck… I can't-"
"Can't what?" His voice is annoyingly steady, controlled, even though he's holding you up and thrusting into you with a force that should effect both of you, but it seems like you're the only effected one. Moaning sounds that aren't even words anymore, just vowels and air. "Can't think? Good. You shouldn't be thinking. The only thing in your head right now should be my name, and the fact that no pixel on a screen," he thrusts up, sharp, and the sound you make is practically a scream, "has ever made you feel like this."
Even with your mind blank, you can process his words enough to know that he's right. Because he's here, and real, and holding you in the air and fucking the coherence out of your skull. "SCARAMOUCHE- fuck, please… please don't stop-"
His pace only grows faster, his grip on your thighs tightening in such a way that you know it will end in bruises when you wake up tomorrow. You cum with the lower half of your body, suspended in the air. Your body locks up, ankles rolling, feet clenching around his shoulders as the orgasm rips through you in waves so intense that you can't even keep your eyes open, can't even suppress or care for how dumb you sound.
You can do anything except convulse around him while he holds you through it like you weigh nothing.
He cums exactly five seconds after, the way your walls clench around his cock not letting him pull himself back any longer. He buries himself deep with one final thrust up that pins you against his hips. You feel every pulse of it, hot and thick, filling you up as his fingers flex on your thighs.
There's so much that your body can't contain it, even in this position, you can feel some of his cum leak around where he's still inside you, dripping down between your ass cheeks.
He holds you there for a moment, catching his breath and you still catching yours, and then he finally sets you down. He moves back, lowering you, and you bounce back on the sheets, still out of breath, gasping, legs shaking, cum pooling more properly between your thighs now that you aren't in the air.
He's already pulling at the cosplay before his breathing even levels out.
"Finally," he mutters, yanking at the chest piece with the urgency of someone escaping a straitjacket, "I can take this stupid fucking thing off."
The outer layer comes off first, and he gets out of bed to toss it onto his desk chair without looking. Then the arm pieces, what's left of them, since one sleeve is still tied in a crumpled blindfold shape somewhere in the sheets. He pulls the one he's wearing off and throws it on top of the outer layers on the chair.
He's left in the sleeveless undershirt, the tight black one that sits flush against his chest and shows the puppet joints he spent way too long on at his shoulders. The shadow has smudged from the sweat, the edges bleeding where the lines used to be clean.
"I was literally cooking alive in that," he says, working at the fabric that sits on his hips next, "do you know how many layers this cosplay has? About four. Four fucking layers in a room with one fan and a broken AC because Ei cares more about being at work all the time than actually caring about a home she's barely at."
You don't respond because you are, at this moment, a puddle of a human being with no functioning brain cells and shaking legs. You're lying exactly where he put you down, staring up at the ceiling, legs still open because closing them feels like an exercise right now.
He glances at you once the majority of the cosplay is off, just the undershirt and shorts, and he gets quieter. He disappears into the bathroom that's connected to his bedroom and comes back with a warm, damp towel.
He sits on the edge of the bed and pushes your thigh to the side, wiping between your legs without saying anything. His movements are careful, clinical, almost, like the same precision he gives his cosplay goes into this too.
He cleans the cum off your inner thighs, the crease where your thigh meets your hip, folds the towel to the clean side, and gets the rest.
You flinch at the contact, still sensitive, and his other hand presses flat against your lower stomach to keep you still. "Stop squirming."
"But… It's sensitive," you say, finally, voice weak.
"I know it's sensitive. I'm the one who made it sensitive. Stay still."
He tosses the towel onto the bathroom floor when he's done, then goes to his dresser, pulling out a sleep set and underwear that are yours. A cropped top and matching shorts that somehow migrated into his drawer because you're here more than your actual house.
He comes back and slides the underwear up first, lifting your hips with one hand to pull them over your ass. Then, the shorts come next, doing the same motion he did for the underwear. He grabs the top next, and this part requires sitting you up, and you're not cooperative.
You're practically dead weight.
He pulls you up by the arms like a ragdoll, gets the shirt over your head, and guides each of your arms through the sleeves. You keep going limp on purpose, and it's irritating him. "You're not helping," he says, which isn't a helpful remark on his part.
You can't do anything but let out a tired, annoyed sigh, voice moving slowly as you say, "I can't feel my legs, Kuni."
He pauses as he's trying to pull the top down, giving you a sideways look, "That's a you-ca n't-help problem, that's a you-won't-help problem. Your arms should work fine."
You give him a fake, straight smile, shrugging at a languid speed, "They don't, actually. You broke those too when you held me upside down, and I had to hold onto your thighs for dear life."
He scoffs, dropping you back against the pillows, and you sink into them, boneless, dressed, clean, happy that you've trained him well enough to do this much after sex, because it pays off every time.
He pulls the covers out from under you, and this time you actually scoot to give him space to tuck them over your body. He grabs both of your phones and plugs them in, then walks to his closet to take the top off and replace it with a plain black t-shirt, and tugs on a pair of grey sweats. When he's done, he always backs toward the bed to get into the covers beside you, but you stop him.
"Kuni, can you please get me water?" You ask, with a tiny pout.
The exhale he lets out is so deep it could qualify as a controlled breathing exercise. He stands there for a full three seconds, covers still bunched in his hand, staring at you with the expression of a man who wants to only pass out in bed and rot.
"You couldn't have said that before I walked toward the bed?"
You look up, pretending to think, mouth curling up when you glance back at him, "I wasn't thirsty before you walked toward the bed."
He rolls his eyes, his hand coming up to rub his fingers at his temple in annoyance at all of this, "That doesn't even make sense."
You clasp your hands together, pouting, again, putting on a sweet expression just to mess with him further, "Please?"
He drops the covers and leaves the room. You hear his footsteps down the hallway, and they're loud enough that you know he's being loud on purpose.
Because Kuni doesn't make noise when he walks unless he wants you to know he's annoyed.
His house is massive; you spend 99 percent of your time in his room, so you actually get jumpscared every time you leave it. The hallways are long, or probably longer than an apartment floor in general, with marble flooring and clear walls with art on them that his mother picked out and he's never looked at once.
The kitchen is insane. Countertops that stretch for what feels like miles, a center island bigger than your own bed, and appliances that look like they belong in a once luxurious restaurant. Every surface is spotless because the housekeeper comes three times a week, and Kuni is already a clean freak on his own, so the combination creates a kitchen that looks perpetually unlived in.
He opens the cabinet, grabs a glass, fills it from the filtered tap, and when he turns around, his mother is sitting at the island.
She's been there the whole time, apparently.
Ei is on a barstool at the center island, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of red wine in her right hand and her phone in her left. Her hair is long and ink-black, pin-straight, falling over one shoulder, and in the dim kitchen light, she looks less like a person and more like a portrait someone painted and forgot to hang.
She looks up from her phone at the sound of the glass filling.
Her eyes move over him, at the messed-up hair, the contacts he forgot to take out, and the faded puppet joints still visible on his knuckles.
And also the fact that he's getting a glass of water at one in the morning in a post-sex haze that he thinks isn't obvious but is extremely obvious.
"You're still awake," she says, her voice carrying that same low, unbothered tone that makes everything she says sound like an observation.
"You're home," he replies, matching her energy beat for beat, turning off the tap without looking at her. "When did your flight land?"
"Three hours ago." She takes a sip of wine. "I didn't want to interrupt."
The silence that follows is loud. He knows what that means, she knows that he knows, and neither of them will say it directly because everyone in this family treats emotional honesty like it's some disease.
"Right." He grabs the glass and turns to leave as fast as possible.
"Kunikuzushi."
He stops, but he doesn't turn around, his grip on the glass tightening.
"Eat something tomorrow. The fridge is stocked." She pauses to take a sip before continuing, "And take your contacts out before you sleep. They'll irritate your eyes."
He stands there for a second, then another, then another, then walks away without responding. And his footsteps down the hallway are quieter this time. Not on purpose.
He gets back to his room and shuts the door behind him with his foot. He walks up towards the bed and reaches over to hand you the glass. You take it, sitting up slightly, drinking half of it in one go while he stands there watching you like you just made him walk a marathon for a cup of water.
"Happy?" He asks, pulling the covers back.
You roll your eyes and hand him back the glass. He sets it on the nightstand and gets into bed, lying flat on his back. You immediately roll onto his chest like a magnet, your cheek pressing against the cotton of his t-shirt, and you can hear his heartbeat, still a little fast, coming down.
His hand finds your hair, starts that absent, repetitive thing he does, threading his fingers through the strands over and over. You press closer to him, tangling your legs with his under the covers, and his arm tightens around your back.
You close your eyes, and his fingers never stop moving through your hair.
He doesn't tell you he loves you; he never does first. But his thumb traces a slow circle against your scalp, and his breathing evens out underneath you, and he doesn't move even when your weight goes fully dead against his chest.
That's how you know.
You're in your room today, not at your boyfriend's house like you usually are. You do like being in his room and hanging out with him constantly, but it's also constantly exhausting. Some days, you'd just prefer to be… alone.
Your room is the complete opposite of Kunikuzushi's aesthetic. Light beige walls so you can hang up cute pink miscellaneous things on your wall without them clashing. A fluffy, soft, pink bed that used to be a canopy until you woke up to a fat spider next to your face, as if it was their bed too. Plushies… lots of them, on your bed, some kept on a large shelf you bought to store the expensive anime figures Kuni always buys you. Long story short, the general vibe of your room makes you seem like someone whose entire personality is soft and sweet.
You're lying on your stomach on the bed, phone in hand, scrolling through the fallout of the Lohen leak from 3 days ago. The internet has still not calmed down… if anything, it's worse.
@scaranation4LIFE scaranation we STAND. Every character had their tiny moment of fame… our show lasted four years. FOUR. We were even on the news… lohen's gonna last one patch and you're all going to be crawling back
@lohenxscarabeliever i don't want lohen OR scara… i want them BOTH to ruin my life SIMULTANEOUSLY. Why is this so hard to understand
@wanderersfavoritebuttplug scara… I’d never replace you for that sadistic twink (maybe) (we’ll see)
The comments are always talking about the same thing, at least every comment section under a Lohen Twitter post, as the diehard simp, the one who wants Lohen and Scara to fuck each other, the one who wants to cuck Scara in front of Lohen, and the very few actual loyal Scara fans.
… You feel like you're a bit of both.
You're deep in the comments, simultaneously looking at edits of Lohen on TikTok, then taking a Twitter break, then TikTok, when at some strange point, your bedroom door opens.
You don't look up, you assume it's Kuni because your parents aren't home, and you gave him the key ages ago. "Hey, Kuni," you say, still scrolling, legs swinging behind you, "if you're here to yell at me about using your newest Flower Knows palette before you did, it's not that big of a deal-"
You stop because when you look up, what you see is something you'd never, ever expect from a surprise visit from your boyfriend.
Kunikuzushi is standing in your doorway in full-on, perfectly accurate, as always, cosplay. But it's not Scaramouche, or some other male in the game… It's Lohen.
Your phone hits the mattress.
The character you've been losing your mind over for 3 days, the one you've seen on your phone screen a genuinely convincing number of times, is here, in real life, standing in your pink bedroom doorway.
"When did you-" your voice comes out strangled, your mouth feeling dry, and your throat feeling so tight that you cut yourself off. Your eyes scan the cosplay, again and again, confused at why he didn't tell you about this. Especially ordering a unique cosplay of a character that hasn't even fully come out. "When… when did you order this??"
He grins, a toothy, sharp-eyed grin that looks nothing like Scara's smirk. It's so strangely accurate to the expression Lohen would make, and you wonder if he's spent the last 3 days practicing for this.
"I've been tracking you all day," he says, and his voice is different than normal, more confident, louder, less… restrained on what's deemed as good. "You've been hard to pin down."
He crosses the room, and your body does something it doesn't do with Kuni. It tenses out of something close to fear, but closer to not knowing what's coming next. His hand grabs the front of your tank top and yanks you off the bed. You yelp in a way that's higher, more startled, more genuinely caught off guard than anything Scara has gotten out of you in months.
"Nervous?" He questions, his grin widening, and his fists twist in your shirt, pulling you closer, until your chest is against his. He can feel your heartbeat… at least you assume he can, because you can hear it going haywire through your ears to the point that you'd believe it's audible even if he wasn't this close.
You deny because you hate admitting things to him when he's acting smug, even though anything you could say would be utterly pointless, as your face and the way you're barely moving prove his point way too well. "I'm not nervous…" You try a distraction, any, "Are you really wearing a wig, Kun-" but it gets cut off quicker than you can even finish the last word.
"Your heart feels like it's about to explode out of your chest." He leans in, his mouth next to your ear, and his voice drops, but he still keeps the edge of it in character, "What's different? You let Scaramouche do whatever he wants to you. But Lohen shows up and suddenly… You can't even talk?"
You knit your eyebrows, staggering to say anything that sounds like you're not any less dumb, "That's… it's different, you're usually-"
"Usually what? Predictable?" He pulls back to look at you, and you glance up and down at his cosplay once more, and it's even more annoyingly perfect up close. You seriously don't know how he does it; he even looks good in a wig, even though he hates them. "You know every move Scaramouche makes before he makes it. You're comfortable with that, and that's boring." He says it like an insult, and his grin drops suddenly, his eyes not leaving you once as he says, "I'm not comfortable. Are you scared of me?"
You answer a simple, "No." But the way you still haven't moved on your own since he appeared at your door proves without words otherwise.
"Liar." He shoves you, and you fall back before you can catch yourself on the bed, bouncing on the pink sheets, your tank top riding up slightly in the process. "Your voice had the tiniest crack in it."
He's on top of you before you can sit up, his knee between your thighs, his hand going to your jaw… and he does it.
The burst animation.
His fingers close around your jaw as he lifts your face toward his, slow, and the grin is right there, a perfect replica of the video you've watched on your screen more than 100 times.
"There's my favorite prey," he says, holding the pose for three seconds, and instead of reaching his arm back and stabbing you, he leans in to kiss you.
It's violent, that's the only word to describe it. Non ceremonial, just teeth, tongue, and a lot of force by him. His hand is still gripping your jaw, controlling the angle, and also making sure you don't pull away so soon. You make a sound into his mouth that's between a moan and a whimper, that's even more vulnerable than anything you've made during sex when he cosplays as Scaramouche.
He pulls back, unbuckling one of the belts on the cosplay, a strap that's a part of Lohen's design, and he wraps it around your wrists, binding them above your head against the bed.
"Every battle maniac needs a sparring partner," he says, tying the knot with one hand while the other shoves your tank top up above your breasts. "And you looked at me like you volunteered."
He strips your shorts, then your underwear, and he doesn't bother about being sweet with it. He yanks them down your legs and throws them somewhere behind him, and then his hands grip the backs of your thighs, and he pushes them up toward your chest.
Mating press, that's what he's doing.
Your knees are at your shoulders, your hips are tilted up, and he's on the bed, kneeling over you. His weight is driving your thighs down, folding you in half. Your wrists are bound above your head; you're just completely open and trapped.
"L.. Lohen…" You whimper out in the voice of both someone in awe, and in the tiniest fear of what's coming next.
"Hmm." He unzips his pants, frees his hard cock from his underwear, which he slides down just enough, and positions himself at your entrance, and he pushes in.
The first thrust is the full length of him burying himself deep inside you in one stroke; the angel of the mating press makes it feel deeper than it should. His cock presses against your cervix, and the sound that leaks out of you is closer to a sob than a moan.
"AH- oh fuck oh fuck oh-"
"Too much?" He asks, and his grin, that fucking grin, is right there, his face inches from yours because the mating press puts him on top of you… over you, covering you entirely.
"N-no, just- hah-" You get cut off with the way he pulls back and slams back in, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull, before just fully closing.
"Not convincing." He pulls back, again, slamming into you harder than the last one, like he's powering up his thrusts, and your back tries to arch off the bed, but his weight is pressing you flat, and you have nowhere to go. You feel his hands at your face. "Your eyes are watering."
You open your eyes back up to look at him, head shaking, even though you do feel something hot and wet sliding softly down your cheeks. "You're lying, they're n-not-" You're studdering from the way he's repeditely fucking into you, especially hitting your deeper spots on purpose when you try speaking, but he cuts you off anyway.
"They are." He leans down and licks a tear off your cheekbone. The act is so different from the way he's currently fucking into you, brutally, and you're turning incoherent faster than ever, moans spilling out uncontrollably as the sound of his hips plaping against your ass fills the room.
"You cry for Scaramouche because it feels good. You're crying for me because you don't know what I'm going to do next." Both of his hands leave your face; one goes back onto your thigh, the other finds your throat. "And that scares you… Doesn't it?"
His fingers close around your neck, and he doesn't choke you the same way Kuni does during normal sex. This version is different, new, something you've never felt before. Lohen's choke. His fingers press into the sides of your throat, squeezing the muscles, not your windpipe, but the tissue around it. The difference, the way this feels new, is because it feels like it's designed to hurt, not to just cut off air. The pain is sharp, and you can still breathe, technically, but every inhale aches, and the compression makes the blood rush to your head in a way that amplifies every sensation that a blindfold never could.
You can't move your hands, even as they itch to grab or instinctively hold at his wrists, you're reminded that they're bound together by his belt. Your moans just get more amplified thrust after thrust after squeeze, "Nghh- Lohen… hah…"
"You can barely even say my name." He squeezes harder, his thumb pressing into the hollow of your throat, and the pressure pushes you right to the edge of too much. "Scaramouche gets full sentences out of you… Full moans… Full 'please'. But me?" He thrusts deep, grinding, holding himself inside you while his hand tightens on your throat. "I get syllables… Half-words… or just plain denial over anything I say. You're so nervous you can't even beg for anything properly."
He fucks you into the mating press until your thighs are shaking against his hands, and your voice is hoarse from the sounds he's pulling out of you. His hand stays on your throat. The pressure of his squeeze fluctuates a lot, from him tightening when he thrusts hard, loosening when he grinds slowly, a cycle of both pain and relief that keeps you permanently on the edge of too much without ever crossing into too much.
Because Kuni knows your body, he knows how much it can take. He pushes you close enough to passing out that your vision darkens at the edges, your mouth falls open, your eyes lose focus, and then he loosens his grip and lets the blood rush back.
And the gasp you take is almost an orgasm on its own. "Please- hah… please, I can't… too much-"
"You can handle it, you just don't know it yet." He squeezes your throat and fucks into you hard enough that a plushie falls off the bed. The grin on his face is still, still beautifully intact, and it's the most terrifyingly perfect thing you've ever seen from this close.
"You know what's funny? You were scared when I walked in. Nervous. Couldn't even talk to me." He leans down until his lips brush yours, his hand still on your throat. "But you're not trying to stop me, are you? Your hands are tied, your legs are pinned, and we have a safeword you could've used at any point, and you won't, because you and I both know this is exactly the type of 'too much' that you crave."
You cum with his hand on your throat and his cock buried so deep you can feel him in your stomach. The orgasm hits different in a mating press, so much more intense. Your walls clench around him in rhythmic pulses that you feel in your entire pelvic floor, and he fucks you through it, his pace not slowing, his hand not loosening.
And by the time the aftershock fades, you're boneless, twitching, and making sounds that are barely human.
He cums inside you, you feel the heat of it, thick, pulsating, his hips pressing flush against yours and staying there while his cock throbs. His hand finally loosens on your throat, and his forehead drops against yours.
His breathing is ragged, and it's the first time you've ever heard him lose the composure of the character, and for one second, between the last pulse and first exhale, it's just Kuni.
Then the Lohen grin slides back. He stays inside you for a moment more, his cock still twitching with the last of it, before pulling out in one motion that makes your body clench around nothing.
You feel the immediate emptiness, the warmth of his cum already starting to leak, but you don't get to process that because his hands are on your hips and he's flipping you.
Your stomach hits the mattress, your face presses into your pillow, and the shift of his cock inside you during the rotation makes a wet, obscene sound that you both pretend not to hear. Your wrists are still bound with the belt, and they're now pinned beneath you. You feel him reach under you, fingers finding the leather, working the buckle loose with one hand, while the other grips your hip to keep you from sliding forward.
The belt falls away from your wrists, you roll them instinctively, flexing your fingers, and before you can even appreciate the freedom, you feel the belt loop around your neck instead.
He pulls it taut from behind. He doesn't choke you with it just yet; he just lets it sit snug against your throat with his fist gripping the trailing end like it's some sort of handle.
"Ass up," he says, and you barely get your knees under you before he gives up on waiting and pulls your hips back toward him.
He slams in at a rough, fast, punishing pace. The sound of his hips against your ass is echoing off your room in a rhythm that makes your plushies at the edge of the bed vibrate, causing a couple of them to fall.
He uses the belt as a way to anchor his thrusts while he rails into you with a force that has your fingers twisting in your sheets, and your neck being forced to arch back.
"Fu- oh my g-god, Loh-" You can't even finish his name, it just dissolves into a broken moan as he hits your spot from this angle. The deepness of the backshots makes your toes curl against the bedsheets.
He keeps going, his pace not slowing down at all, and you're too far gone that you barely register it when his rhythm stutters for a second, especially when you hear him mutter something under his breath that doesn't sound like Lohen.
"This stupid fucking…"
Your brain is somewhere between your legs; the only sound that's audible and coherent to you is the sound of his hips against your ass, and your endless moans.
He thrusts hard, and you let out a whimper, your fingers flexing on the sheets, and your feet coming up, clenching, then dropping again. But between the next few thrusts, you catch pieces of something that doesn't match the character he's trying to play.
His voice sounds like it's shifting, not into Scara like it's some muscle memory he has, but into Kuni, your boyfriend, sounding genuinely irritated about something that has nothing to do with sex.
"I swear to god, it keeps sliding," he mutters, and his grip on the belt loosens for a second as his other hand does something behind you that you can't see. He does another hard thrust, and your face falls against the pillow now that he isn't yanking on your neck. But he doesn't pull you back, choke you, or do whatever you expect him to do.
He complains.
"This is the last time I'll wear a wig. The last fucking time. I told you I hate these things and you always ignore it and tell me to suck it up when it's a character that isn't him-" a thrust that makes your spine arch, "and now I have gross, synthetic hair scratching at my face, and I'm going to lose my mind."
You're barely processing any of this, still, it all sounds like fragments to you that don't make sense because of the thick haze of being fucked into your mattress.
He grunts, clear frustration, and you hear something that sounds like a clip, or whatever mechanism that's keeping his wig attached to his actual hair, and his pace slows down enough that curiosity overtakes the pleasure for one stupid second.
You turn your head.
And it's Kuni behind you, one hand still on the belt at your neck, and the other holding the Lohen wig that he just pulled off his head. His real hair is back, dark indigo, messy, slightly matted from the wig cap he also tore off. He hasn't noticed you looking yet; he's too busy glaring at the wig with genuine contempt.
He's out of character, fully, completely, for once mid-fuck. He never breaks character, and something comes over you… Maybe it's the absurdity of the visual, maybe it's because you're fucked stupid enough that impulse control is just completely gone.
Maybe it's because the opportunity is just too perfect to pass, and you've seen that TikTok audio one too many times.
You gasp, loud, dramatic, your voice coming out in that exaggerated, scandalized tone that you know he's going to hate, "he's BALD. He's bald, and he's torturing people who have HAIR!"
The silence that follows lasts exactly one and a half seconds.
His eyes snap to you, and you're looking at him over your shoulder, half of your face pressed into the pillow, and you're grinning. That kind of stupid, shit-eating grin that you know is about to have severe consequences.
His expression goes through several stages in rapid succession. Disbelief comes first, processing it comes second, then recognition of the reference, and on the last and final stage, something dark and focused appears that makes your grin falter just slightly.
He throws the wig, and it hits your vanity mirror, sliding off somewhere that you don't care to watch, and his now-free hand shoves your head back down into the pillow. It's not gentle. His palm is flat against the back of your skull, pressing your face into the fabric, and your giggle gets muffled by cotton.
"You think that's funny?" His voice drops back into Lohen's, but it's rougher now, meaner, the edge of genuine irritation soaking through the character because you made a dumb joke while he was inside of you. "You think you're clever?"
You're trying to respond, but your face is pressed into a pillow, and his hand is keeping it there. What comes out next is a muffled, "Mm srrhyy-" that dissolves into a yelp when he slams into you so hard your knees slide forward on the sheets.
"Every prey animal thinks it's funny right before the teeth close." He fucks into you at a pace that's brutal, and way faster than anything before. Each thrust is showing you further into the mattress while his hand keeps your head pinned, and the belt around your neck pulls tight from the motion. "You want to make jokes? I'll give you something to scream about instead."
His other hand leaves the belt to grab at your hip, yanking you back onto his cock with every thrust, and the force of being pushed down and pulled back simultaneously has you making sounds into the pillow that are just broken, raw sounds. Your hands claw at the sheets above your head, your back arching down, while your ass stays up, and you can feel his fingers digging bruises into your hip while the belt drags against your throat.
"Mmph- wait, f-fuck, I'm sorryyy, I was k-kidding-" you manage between thrusts, your words slurring against the pillow, saliva starting to collect at the corner of your mouth because your jaw won't close properly. "Loh-hen, please, 'm sorry, I didn't m-mean-"
"You have a funny way of apologizing," he grinds out, and his hand on the back of your head shifts, his fingers curling into your hair and pulling your face just barely off the pillow, enough that your moans aren't muffled anymore. "Usually, people apologize without laughing. You're still smiling about it, I can hear it in your voice."
He's not wrong. You are still smiling, with tears in your eyes, getting absolutely destroyed because the image of your boyfriend ripping off a wig mid-sex with that look on his face will live in your brain rent-free forever. "Liar… 'M not smiling-"
"You are." A thrust so deep your smile actually drops because your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open around a moan that's more of a wail. "There… fixed it."
His other hand releases your hair and goes to his own head. You can feel the shift in his movements, slightly distracted, one-handed thrusts that are still devastating but less focused as he runs his fingers through his real hair, fixing it through the vanity mirror on the far side of your room.
Because even while he's railing at you, Kunikuzushi will not be caught dead with bad hair.
He's multitasking, fucking you into the mattress with one hand on the belt, and styling his hair with the other… the worst part is, he doesn't even slow down.
He pulls the belt back just enough that you're forced to arch your spine, the pressure on your throat lifting your chest slightly off the mattress, and the angle change makes his cock hit differently, shallower but dragging against your front wall with every stroke, and the sound that comes out of you is embarrassingly close to a squeal.
"Ah ah AH, oh m-my god, oh my god, right there, don't- nghhh don't move from that, please plea-hease..." Your words are tumbling out in a slurred mess, your brain is completely out of your control, and your hips are pushing back against his on their own because the angle is too good.
He cums with a groan, pressing into the back of your shoulder, biting down on your skin through a moan he clearly didn't want to let out. You feel his cock pulse inside you, the heat spreading, and his hips grind forward in small, lazy rolls as he empties everything. His hand goes slack on the belt, and his forehead drops against the space between your shoulder blades.
He stays there for a second, breathing, then he pulls back, letting go completely of the belt, and you fall forward because he was the one pulling your practically limp body against him. Your ass is up in the air, and you feel him slide out, and the gush of cum that follows is immediate. It's thick, warm, spilling out of you and down between your thighs.
He sits back and watches it, you know, because you hear the sheets shift, and you can tell by the way he doesn't move or speak, just watches the mess he made ooze out of you.
His thumb presses against your entrance at the rim, and more cum leaks out around the pressure, sliding down in a slow trail toward your clit. "Look at that," he murmurs, his voice back in character for Lohen, in an amused, fascinated tone. "You can't keep any of it in."
His other hand comes up and spreads you open with his thumb and forefinger, holding your folds apart, and you can feel the cool air hit the mess inside you. You feel more of his cum spill out from being exposed. You bury your face deeper into the pillow because the visual you can't even see is somehow still the most embarrassing part of this entire night.
"Lohen, don't just… stare at it-" You mumble into the pillow, voice a bit pitchy as your thighs try to close, but his knee is in between your legs before you can even try to hide.
"Why not?" His thumb traces through the cum leaking down your folds, collecting it, spreading it in a slow circle around your clit, and your hips jerk at the contact because you're so overstimulated. "It's mine, I put it there, and I'll stare at it for as long as I want."
He leans down, and you feel his breath warm against your swollen, sensitive skin. Then you feel his tongue, a single slow lick from your clit up to your folds that collects everything in its path. You let out a sound that's halfway between a moan and a sob, your fingers crushing at the sheets. His mouth seals around your clit and sucks one, hard, before pulling off with a wet pop that's so loud it echoes.
"Ahh- hhah, that's... you c-can't just do that and stop..." You whine, your hips chasing his mouth, but he's already sitting up, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
"I can do whatever I want." He says, like it's a fact, and his thumb pushes inside you lazily, scooping cum out and watching it drip off his finger before sliding it back in. "And right now I want to watch you try to keep it together while I play with the mess I made."
He does this for longer than is reasonable. Sliding his finger in, pulling it out with cum on it, pressing his thumb against your clit, watching you flinch and twitch and moan into the pillow while your body can't decide if it wants more or if it wants him to stop.
When you finally lift your head enough to look back at him, your vision is blurry, and your cheeks are wet, and your hair… let's not talk about that. But his hair, however…
It's perfect.
His actual hair, styled in Scaramouche's cut, falls over his forehead in a way that makes him look like a character rendered by someone who accidentally released him into the real world. He fixed it while he was fucking you, which means at some point of the most brutal backshots of your life, your boyfriend was simultaneously running his fingers through his hair to make sure it looked good.
And it does, it looks like Scaramouche wearing Lohen's clothes, the dark blue and silver of the cosplay framing his face differently than Scara's outfit does, and the combination of his real hair with Lohen's costume is somehow hotter than either one on its own.
"Your hair…" You start, breathless, head tilting, staring at him.
"I know." He doesn't elaborate, and for a second you did forget just where his fingers still are, but then you get instantly reminded when his thumb circles your clit again. His expression is annoyingly smug for someone who was complaining about a wig 4 minutes ago.
He slides back into you without warning, and you gasp, your head dropping back down, because you're still so unbelievably sensitive. Even though he did slurp some of it out, you still have his cum inside of you, and the re-entry just pushed every bit of the leftovers deeper. He does exactly two, slow thrusts from behind, enough to hear the wet sound of it, and enough to feel you clench around him involuntarily, and then he moves.
His hand wraps the belt tighter around your neck and pulls backward toward him. Your upper body lifts off the mattress as the leather digs into your throat. And at the same time, as if he's some pro multitasker, his other hand hooks under your thigh, and hauls you up.
The room tilts as he rearranges your body like you're a doll getting repositioned on a shelf.
He sits back on his heels, then further, his legs extending toward the foot of the bed, and he pulls you down onto his lap with your back against his chest. His cock is still inside you, and the angle of his cock in your folds shifts as gravity does the work of seating you fully onto him. Your weight pushes him impossibly deep.
"Oh my- f-fuck..." Your head falls back against his shoulder, your mouth open, eyes unfocused on the ceiling. You can feel him everywhere. The depth of this position, your full weight on his lap, is the kind of full that makes your brain actually go blank.
The belt is still around your neck. He grips the loose end in one fist, his other hand settling on your hip, and he snaps his hips up.
It's different from behind, and the mating press, and just any position he's ever tried with you. Every thrust pushes up into you while your own weight pushes down. The collision of both forces means he's hitting your cervix with almost every stroke. The belt pulls at your throat in time with his rhythm, and it's like a constant tug that keeps you slightly alert. He's using it as a leash while he fucks up into you.
"Lohen… Lohen, oh my g-god, that's so… hhh…" Your hands grip his thighs behind you for leverage, your nails pressing crescent moons into his skin through the dark fabric of the cosplay pants. Every thrust forces a sound out of you that you didn't choose. The sound ranges from breathy moans to hiccuped whimpers to full, unfiltered whines that bounce off your bedroom walls.
"Mm, good girl… Keep saying my name just like that." He says against the shell of your ear, his grin pressing into your hair, and his hips don't slow down at all while his free hand leaves your hip to cup your breast, squeezing it through your bunched-up tank top.
Then, suddenly, the pace changes. It slows like someone pressing on the brakes. The frantic upward thrusts melt into something grinding, deliberate, circular. His hips roll instead of slamming. His hand on the belt adjusts, and you can feel the leather pulling higher on your throat, the pressure shifting from the side of your neck to the front, directly on your windpipe, cutting your air down. It makes the room tilt and your head go light.
"Lohen is fun. I'll give him that."
Your walls clench around him so hard that you feel his breath catch, a tiny fracture in his composure that he covers immediately. The shift from Lohen's energy to Scara's is like someone swapped an entire soundtrack mid-song, same instruments but a completely different vibe.
"But fun is temporary." His hips roll in that slow, calculated grind that's purely Scaramouche. The one that doesn't just find your spot but sits on it, presses into it, with the exact amount of pressure needed to make your eyes cross. "Chaos without control is just noise."
He thrusts so deep that your vision goes white at the edges and your mouth opens around a shameless sound you can't hold back. "I'm not noise." He pulls the belt tighter, your air growing thinner as your head feels floaty and warm. "I'm the only voice in your head that stays."
"Scara…" It comes out of your mouth before he can ask for it, before he can demand it, your body just defaulting to the name it knows and has moaned out more times than you can count. Just the same as muscle memory.
"There she is." His voice sounds satisfied in a way that Lohen's never was. It's settled, fully sure, like something just got confirmed that he already knew. His thumb traces the edge of the belt for exactly one second.
Then his pace goes feral, the leash yanks tight, and you can feel the grin return against the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin. The whiplash of Scara's controlled grind slamming into Lohen's chaos makes your entire body jerk against his chest.
Then he goes back to Scara, slow, precise, the belt adjusting to hit your windpipe just like before, and your vision goes soft and dreamy.
Then Lohen, again, fast and reckless, the belt pulling to the sides, sharp and painful. Your vision snaps back, too clear… too much.
Then Scara.
Then Lohen.
The switches accelerate, and you're caught between two different rhythms that you don't even have time to get used to either one before it switches back and forth, and you're left shaking, trembling, your thighs quivering helplessly on either side of his.
"You feel so fucking good-" you can hear Lohen's signature grin in his tone, his hips snapping up hard enough that you bounce on his lap, "You think you can handle more?"
And then, like a light to a switch, Scara's back, his thrusts slowing into a grind that feels torturous. "Of course you can't… You never could. You just pretend."
"Mm… mmnhh, I c-cant, it's too much," you're babbling, the words coming out in disconnected fragments that don't form a single coherent thought, "both of you at the s-same time… I can't… my brain… can't…"
Your body is trying to process two characters and one cock, and one belt on your throat that keeps changing how tight and how rough it's being pulled, and the gravity pinning you down, and his hands on you everywhere. "Please jus- hha, pick one, p-please, I can't think when you keep switching, I-"
"No." It doesn't sound like either character he's playing as he says that, almost himself. "You don't get to pick, you get both."
You cum on the fault line. On the exact millisecond where Lohen's chaos collides with Scara's control. The two rhythms are crashing together inside your body like a wave hitting a wall. The orgasm rips through you so hard that your vision actually blacks out for a second.
Your walls seize around him in rhythmic, violent clenches, your back arching against his chest, the belt pulling taut as your body contorts, and the sound you make is raw, unformed, the kind of noise a person makes when their brain short-circuits.
He cums with you, his groan is buried in the crook of your neck as his teeth bite down on your shoulder. The belt goes slack in his hand, and his hips stutter up as he fills you again. You feel every pulse of it, hot and thick, and his hands grip your hips hard.
His breathing is ragged against your neck, not in character, just Kuni, just like before, catching a breath he doesn't need to catch because the adrenaline is still making his body do human things.
He lets go of the belt and unloops it from your neck. The leather slides off your skin, leaving a warm, raw line that you'll see in the mirror tomorrow. His hands settle on your hips, gentle, all the urgency gone.
He turns you around, rotating you by your hips without pulling out. Your legs swing around until you're facing him, straddling his hips. When your eyes meet his, it's your boyfriend looking at you, Kuni, with his makeup smudged, his real hair messy and falling into his eyes, wearing another character's clothes with his own face underneath.
He grinds up into you, slow, not thrusting, just rolling his hips with his cock still inside you, his cum still inside, and the wet sound fills the quiet room.
He kisses you, a slow kiss where his hand cups the back of your neck. His tongue slides against yours, and your hands find his face, holding his jaw the same way you hold it when you do his eyeliner. Your fingers on his cheekbones, your thumbs at the corners of his mouth… the grip is so familiar that your chest aches with it.
He pulls out, the gush of everything between you spills onto his thighs, and you whimper at the loss, your hips chasing him involuntarily, still kissing him, before settling.
He leans back, lies flat, and looks up at you. "Sit on my face." He instructs, his hands already going for his bottoms, shoving the waistband down with both hands, lifting his hips, and kicking the pants and underwear off in one motion that sends them somewhere on the bed. He settles back onto the mattress with his cock resting against his stomach and the rest of Lohen's cosplay still on his upper half.
You're still on top of him, and you start to move toward his face, swinging your leg over to straddle his chest, and just as you're about to lower yourself down facing the wall, he stops you.
"Other way." His hands catch your hips, holding you in place before you can settle. "Face my cock, not the headboard."
You turn, shifting on your knees so you're facing his legs instead, and the second your thighs are on either side of his face, his hands pull you down. He doesn't ease you into it, his fingers dig into your hips and yank you flat on him. His mouth meets your cunt like he's been starving for it. His tongue is on you immediately, flat and broad, licking through the mess of his cum and yours that's still leaking, and the groan he lets out against your folds vibrates through your entire lower half.
"Ah- oh my god, Loh-" Your hands brace against his stomach, fingers splaying across his chest, your body jerking at the contact because you're still so overstimulated that even his breath against you would be too much, let alone his entire mouth sealed to your cunt like he's trying to milk you dry.
He doesn't let up; his tongue pushes between your folds, lapping at the cum he left inside you, alternating between long drags up your clit, and pointed flicks that make your thighs clamp around his head. His hands keep your hips pinned to his face, and every time you try to lift yourself even slightly because it's too much, he pulls you back down harder.
You look down past his stomach, past his lips, and his cock is right there. Hard again, flushed at the tip, twitching every time you moan. It looks helpless, which is a stupid word to use for a dick, but that's what it looks like.
Just lying there… hard… neglected, pulsing at nothing while his mouth does all the work on you. The visual of that all, combined with the way his tongue just circles your clit makes your mouth water and your body move on its own.
You lean down, lips pressing against the tip, soft, barely any contact, and you feel his hips twitch upward at even that little touch. You open your mouth wider, about to take him in, settling your weight forward onto your forearms on either side of his hips, and then his hands move.
They leave your hips, and you feel them slide down your back, his arms wrapping around your torso, his palms pressing flat against your shoulder blades from behind, and before you can even register the shift in grip, he lifts you.
Your knees leave the mattress, your thighs slide up his shoulders until they're hooked over them, his arms anchored around your back. You aren't straddling his face anymore; you're suspended above him, upside down, your entire lower body held up by his arms, and your upper body hangs between his legs with his cock directly in front of your face.
"KUNI- what the HELL-" Your hands scramble for something to hold, and the only thing available is his back, his sides, your fingers digging into whatever part of him you can reach. "Stop putting me upside down!! How are you even this strong??"
He ignores you, his mouth is still on your cunt like the position change was nothing, like rearranging your entire body didn't interrupt the rhythm of his tongue.
Your thighs are wrapped around his shoulders, your calves pressed against the sides of his head, and his arms are locked around your lower back and hips, creating a cage of muscle that keeps you from falling. Your stomach is pressed against his chest, your breasts squished between your body and his, and your face is hovering directly over his cock with your hair hanging down.
He doesn't pause to let you adjust; his tongue pushes inside you from below, curling, and the moan that rips out of you vibrates against his inner thigh because your mouth is right there, inches from his cock, and you can't even hold back the sound.
You take him in your mouth because his cock is right there, hard, flushed, leaking from the tip, and this is the only logical response you can think of.
Your lips close around the head, and you can hear, feel, his groan vibrate against your clit from below. The sensation travels through you, making your thighs tighten around his shoulders, and you take him deeper in response, your jaw stretching as you slide down his shaft.
His hips start moving, and he's fucking up into your mouth with thrusts that push his cock past your tongue and into the back of your throat. The angle of being upside down makes your gag reflex hit differently, sharper, your throat constricting around him with every push.
"Mmph-" You gag around him, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth and running up toward your nose because gravity is working against you, and your eyes water as he pushes in deep enough that your lips press flush against his base.
He pulls your hips down against his face at the same time, grinding your cunt onto his mouth, and the dual sensation of his tongue on your clit and his cock in your throat creates a never-ending loop.
Every sound you make around him vibrates through his cock and makes his groan against you, and every groan he makes against you vibrates through your clit and makes you moan louder, and the cycle just keeps building on itself until neither of you is making sounds that qualify as human.
Your hands grip the backs of his thighs, nails biting into his skin, your only anchor while the rest of you is suspended in the air, getting destroyed from both ends. His arms tighten around your back whenever your body jerks too hard, keeping you steady, and the strength required to hold you like this while simultaneously eating you out and thrusting into your mouth is something you'll think about later, when you have brain cells to think with.
His tongue circles your clit and then seals over it, sucking hard, and your entire body arches in his grip. Your moan around his cock is muffled and obscene, a wet, gargled sound that would be embarrassing if you had any shame left, and the vibration of it makes his hips stutter up so hard you choke.
"Mmngh-" Spit drips down your chin, or up your chin technically because you're upside down, and his cock slides out of your mouth for a second while you cough and gasp, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his shaft.
He doesn't give you a break. His mouth doesn't leave your cunt, his tongue pressing harder, faster, relentless, and your mouth finds his cock again through the haze, taking him back in because even choking on him feels better than the alternative of not having him in your mouth.
His hips roll up in longer strokes now, less frantic but deeper, and you can feel the tension building in his thighs, the muscles tightening under your fingers. His arms squeeze around your back, pulling your hips down harder against his mouth, and his tongue works your clit in tight, focused circles that are designed to break you.
Everything builds at the same time. His cock pulsing heavier against your tongue, your walls clenching against his mouth, the pressure in your core climbing toward something massive, and his breathing getting faster against your cunt, his groans getting louder, less controlled, desperate in a way he only gets when he's close.
You cum first, barely, by maybe a second.
Your walls seize, and your thighs clamp around his shoulders, and the orgasm crashes through you in a wave so intense your jaw locks around his cock. The constriction of your throat, squeezing around him, plus the vibration of your moan, plus the way your entire body shakes in his grip, is what sends him over.
He cums in your mouth with a groan so deep you feel it in your spine. His hips push up one final time, his cock pulsing thick against your tongue, and you swallow around him because there's nothing else to do in this position, the cum sliding down your throat (or up, gravity is still confusing) while his tongue works you through the last aftershocks.
His arms loosen, not all at once, because if he did, you'd drop violently onto the bed. He eases the tension gradually, lowering your hips back toward the mattress, and you let his cock slip from your mouth with a wet sound that you're too brain dead to be embarrassed about.
"Put me down," you mumble against his thigh, your voice wrecked, your arms shaking. "Please, Kuni, put me down before I die in this position, and you have to explain it to my parents."
He lowers you down carefully, his hands guiding your hips and legs until your back is flat on the mattress beside him. Your head is at the foot of the bed, and your feet are near the pillows, but you don't really care because you're horizontal and alive, and that's enough.
He sits up, looks at you sideways on the bed, completely destroyed, and he doesn't say anything. He just moves you, his hands sliding under your back and your knees as he repositions you properly to put your head up against the pillows where it belongs.
He's quiet when he cleans you up this time, zero commentary about you squirming, no dry remarks about sensitivity, just the warm cloth from the bathroom, careful movements between your legs while his other hand stays on your hip to keep you still when you flinch.
He brings new clothes from your dresser, a pair of underwear, which goes on you first, slides up your legs, then shorts, then a top he pulls over your head and feeds through your arms without asking for your cooperation because he's already learned you won't give it.
He doesn't talk the whole time, which is unusual, because Kuni always has something to say, always has a complaint or a remark or a correction. But right now he's just doing it quietly, focused, tucking the hem of your top down with his fingers before standing up and walking toward your closet.
He changes into the pajama pants and black shirt he keeps in your drawer, and he pulls the Lohen cosplay off in pieces as he does it, dropping each part onto the chair by your desk.
"I'm never wearing that thing again," he says, pulling the top layer of Lohen's outfit off his shoulders with a grimace, his tone flat and final. "Whoever designed this character hates the human body. It feels like it's over 6 layers, especially with the long-sleeve, the cape thing… everything." He drops the last piece and kicks it under the chair. "Scara's cosplay isn't even that heavy because Scara was designed by someone with common sense."
You watch him from the bed, half-lidded, sinking into the pillows, your body so heavy that you feel like you're melting into your own mattress.
He walks back and pulls the covers up, sliding in beside you without ceremony. The second he's horizontal, you're already moving toward him, pressing your face into his chest, your hand curling into the front of his shirt, and his arm wraps about your back.
He kisses your forehead, soft, and then the bridge of your nose when you lift your face up enough, then the corner of your mouth. It's small, quiet presses of his lips against your skin that feel nothing like Scaramouche or Lohen. These are Kuni kisses, the ones he gives when no character is being performed.
The ones he probably doesn't even realize he's giving because they come out of him the same way breathing does.
He tips your chin up with his finger, and his eyes are just blue. Not indigo contacts, not the ones he wore for the Lohen cosplay, just his natural, stupid, annoyingly pretty blue that you fell for before you even knew that you cosplayed.
"Who do you want?" He asks, his voice low, and it's the softest you've heard it all night.
You look at him, at the messy hair, at the body who dyes his hair for a fictional character and hates wigs and complains about having to style his hair everyday and who buys you an abmormal amount of primogems, and probably would get you c6 r5 Lohen the minute he drops because he does that for every character, even when he gets jealous when you simp for a character that you don't just ask him to cosplay like any other logical person dating a cosplayer.
"Kuni," you say, and your voice is small and sure. "Just Kuni."
His mouth twitches, and you can see the shape of a smile trying to form before he catches it and pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin and pressing his lips to your hair.
"Good answer," he murmurs into your scalp, so quiet that you almost miss it.
You close your eyes, your face against the fabric of his shirt, and you're asleep before you can respond. He stays awake for a minute more, his hand moving through your hair in slow repetitive movements. He stares at the ceiling fan, and he doesn't say anything.
He doesn't need to.
I have a Discord now! 18+, for readers, writers, and anyone who wants early wips and a place to chat!! (link)
Hat Guy's ASMR Commissions: Grand Prize | [Scaramouche/Wanderer x Reader]
This fic occurs after "Hat Guy's ASMR Commissions: Raffle Winner"
Summary: After somehow, YET AGAIN, finding yourself engaged in anonymous sexual acts with your clueless project partner, you decide that enough is enough. It's time to buckle down, and just get through the remainder of the semester without any more distractions. At least, that was YOUR plan.
Scaramouche has other plans, however, when pieces come together, and he realizes that maybe it was fate that had him sitting beside you on that first day of class.
Content: Smut, fingering, vaginal sex, teasing, orgasm denial, choking, fem!reader
Word Count: 9.6k
Note: The final part! :)
For some reason, Scaramouche thinks that you’re…annoyed with him. Giving shorter replies than usual—not bothering to plaster on a socially polite smile when you talk with him.
He’ll admit he’s a little curious about the change in attitude, considering between the last lecture and this one, the two of you haven’t had any contact. Maybe something in your personal life rubbed you wrong over the weekend? Who knows, but he’s not interested enough to ask.
…at least, not until another 2 lectures go by, and your attitude still hasn’t changed.
There’s no way he did something, right?
As he endlessly eyes you, his curiosity growing with each passing lecture, you pointedly refuse to look his way.
Because you’re annoyed. You finally get him out of your head and start acting normal with him and then he has to go and call you.
Phone sex with your fucking project partner who doesn’t even know it’s you.
If anyone else were in your position, you think they’d be a little grumpy too.
“Alright class—”
Both your and Scaramouche’s gaze flit to the head of the hall. Your professor smiles brightly at the room.
“We’re now officially in the home stretch! Only 3 more weeks until we begin the project presentations—which is half of your final grade, as a friendly reminder! That being said, even if you and your partner have been virtually working on the project together, I highly recommend getting together in person to finalize the details, and to practice your presentation! We don’t want anyone having stage fright on the day of, do we?”
He laughs heartily, and you both idly wonder if he’s aware of the annoyed looks being thrown his way.
Regardless, the room fills with quiet conversation as partners begin double checking each other's schedules.
You sigh, and for the first time in a while, actually look over at Scaramouche. He blinks at you, wondering why you almost look…wary. Like a cat that’s on its guard.
“I’m assuming you don’t want to meet up in person,” you say, beginning to pack your notebook into your bag. You already know he’s not the most outgoing, and you hardly doubt he’ll want to see you face to face outside of class—
“It is a bit of a drag, but we might as well,” he says with a shrug, which makes you pause. He almost laughs at the shocked look on your face.
“What? I need to pass this class as part of my major, and I’d prefer to get a good grade.”
Well, you suppose that makes sense, but still…
The idea of seeing him in person outside of the lecture hall in which you currently sit makes your heart race—
Heat rises on your skin as your mind begins to wander to recent events, and you immediately try to fist fight the thoughts back into their time-out corner.
“Okay,” you say after a pause, and Scaramouche watches you as you hurriedly zip your bag, and stand from your seat. He doesn’t quite understand your rush, but assumes maybe you have somewhere else you need to be.
“Just email me then—”
“The last time I sent you an email asking you to look over the presentation slides, you took a week to respond. And that was after I also reminded you in class.”
He fixes you with an unimpressed stare. You huff, both embarrassed and peeved that he’s right.
“I know, but—”
He rolls his eyes, and digs his phone out of his pocket.
“Give me your number.”
“Oh c’mon—”
“What’s the big deal? I’m not gonna feed your phone number to bots so you get a million spam calls.”
He clicks open his phonebook and opens a new contact page—typing in your name. Then, he glances up at you, expectantly waiting for you to give him your number.
You sigh.
Whatever—you’re not gonna win here. And he’s right, even if you hate it. It did take you a while to get back to him last time, and the semester is reaching its end. You can’t afford to take a week to review things anymore.
You motion for his phone. He hands it over without hesitation, watching you as you type in your number, and then hit save on the contact.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he teases as you pass him his phone back. Your eyes narrow, and you hold your hand in front of you. Your middle finger twitches up ever-so-slightly before you seem to catch yourself, and turn away with a huff.
Scara’s lips twitch at your slip up, amused that you’d actually been about to flip him off.
What a brat…
Without saying another word, you exit the lecture hall, leaving your partner behind with his thoughts.
Later on in the week—during small conversation at the end of the next class—you and Scaramouche manage to settle on a time to meet up.
You decide on Friday afternoon, and reserve a study room at the library.
You both manage to show up on time—and while at first you aren’t really able to focus, too busy throwing snarky comments at each other—eventually you do actually manage to be productive.
An hour passes in the blink of an eye—your powerpoint slides lined with information, and formatted to look nice.
The only thing left to do is practice your presentation and make a page for your academic references, which, you can probably knock out today so you can get this whole thing over with alre—
Click.
You and Scaramouche glance over at the door—to the somewhat apologetic looking stranger who has just popped their head into the small room.
“Sorry, we have this room reserved from 4pm…”
You glance at your phone.
Shit.
Hurriedly, the two of you pack up your belongings and exit the room.
“Well, we got most of it done, at least…,” Scaramouche mumbles, unbothered. “We’ll probably only have to meet up one more time.”
“Great,” you respond with a quiet sigh. Your eyes wander across the rows of library books.
“I’ll be free soon enough…”
“Yup,” he agrees, obviously not realizing that you're not talking about this project or the class, but him.
Once this is all done with, you’ll finally be rid of him. Not…that he’s a parasite, or anything. You were…are…a fan of his persona, but…this has all just been too much.
Keeping secrets, and trying to play it cool despite the things that have happened between you without him realizing.
You just need a break to get your head back on straight.
“I’m gonna head out, but let’s touch base later,” he says, inclining his head towards you in a curt goodbye as he turns away.
“‘Kay,” you mumble in response, and once he’s out of earshot, you take a deep breath.
Everything’s okay, you’ve got this.
There’s been no more raffle announcements on his page, and you’ve double and triple checked with Yae and Lisa to make sure they won’t be getting another commission for you. So, you should be able to avoid any more sexual mishaps during the remaining few weeks of the semester.
It’s all gonna be fine.
That night, Scaramouche slouches in his computer chair—mindlessly scrolling through his twitter interactions.
It’s mostly likes, a few horny reposts, and some amusing comments. One of which reads—
“Bro I am so jealous of this raffle winner. I’d give up my entire ass to have a call with Hat Guy.”
The raffle winner…
She nudges the head of the dildo between her folds—a blissful little sigh escaping her as it fills her inch by inch—and Scaramouche catches the sound.
He grips his cock tightly, fighting against himself as the mental imagery of her sinking down on his cock fills his mind.
He usually doesn’t feel much when he fulfills commissions. Whispering filth and giving mean commands is like second nature to him—no emotion involved. But…she’s got him craving—wishing he were there in the flesh inside of hiding behind a screen.
He clenches his jaw as he feels blood rush to his cock.
It’s been over a week, and he’s still craving—unable to get the mental imagery out of his head. The sounds of his commissioner as she’d dutifully followed all his commands. The breathless laughs she’d give when talking back.
He misses it.
And it makes him feel insane.
Getting attached to a faceless fan is something only a fool does, yet here he is—unlocking his phone, and scrolling back through his call log.
It’s obvious she’d enjoyed it, so calling her again would likely be taken as a nice surprise, right? He could just…make up a lie about his motives for calling—saying that…she won another raffle, or something, and definitely not that he’s reaching out because he desperately wants to hear her choke on cock again.
He quietly laughs to himself, throwing caution to the wind as he scrolls down and down—back to the day he called his beloved commissioner, searching for the only unsaved number he’d called on that day.
…except, when he finds the section of the log he’s looking for, there’s no unsaved number.
He frowns, sitting up a little straighter.
What the fuck? Had he managed to delete it, somehow?
He scrolls back and forth, clicking his tongue in annoyance. How had a number just deleted itself? It doesn’t make sense.
Now fully annoyed, he starts from the top of the day.
He’d called Durin at lunchtime, since they had been meeting up to share a meal. After that, he’d gotten three calls from Childe, who had refused to take the hint that he didn’t want to talk after he’d sent the first call to voicemail. Then, a call from Aether and Lumine, who had wanted to catch up since they were off traveling, and finally a call to Y/N—
He pauses.
Huh?
That’s not right, he hadn’t even had your number back then, there’s no way he could have called you—
He clicks on the log details.
An arguably long call, on a Sunday, in the evening…
That’s around the time he’d called his raffle winner, but—
He jolts, eyes going wide.
The day after the call, you’d been annoyed with him in class, and have been acting differently ever since. And…when you’d taken his call, you’d sounded shocked, which he had attributed to the shock any fan would have when an online idol calls them, but maybe…maybe you had been shocked for an entirely different reason.
Because he’s your project partner…the project partner you’d been shocked to see sit beside you on the first day of class. Who had bristled when he talked to you, as if the sound of his voice triggered something—
“Holy. Fuck.”
He holds a hand over his mouth, but fails to fully cover his growing grin.
His commissioner's friend had also mentioned that she was shit at checking her personal email, and he knows for a fact that you’re shit at checking your school one.
Unable to help himself, he laughs.
Oh, this is just too much.
Finally, all the somewhat off ways you’ve been acting towards him ever since your first meeting make sense.
The pieces come together. The lightbulb flickers on.
Without missing a beat, he starts to scheme.
A few days later, you walk into the lecture hall with your headphones in, and your eyes on your phone.
Mindlessly, you make your way down to your and Scaramouche’s table, and shrug your backpack off your shoulders. You notice his sneakers as you set your bag on the ground, and, realizing he's already here, glance up at him.
What you find makes you freeze. Because he's smiling.
Genuinely—his eyes almost sparkling as he regards you.
“Um…,” you pull your headphones off, feeling somewhat unnerved.
Of course, he looks dashing when he smiles for real, but currently you're more concerned with the reason behind the smile…
“You alright?”
“People usually smile when they're happy, don't they?” he responds. You press your lips together.
Okay…
“What are you happy about?” You ask cautiously as you slide into your seat beside him. He rests his chin in his palm, his eyes following your every move.
“Oh, I just made sense of something that was confusing me, that's all.”
…okayyyyy. You suppose figuring out a mystery can indeed be rewarding.
“I'm…happy for you,” you say, meeting his gaze once again. His smile widens, and your heart jumps against your ribs—fluttering annoyingly at the sight.
Immediately, you turn away and instead focus on getting what you'll need for class out from your bag, hoping that he won't notice the blood that is rushing to your face.
(He does.)
And thankfully, before he can say or do anything else to confuse you, the professor arrives.
The lecture goes on as normal, and you spend the hour dutifully jotting down notes.
Time passes fairly quickly, and once class ends, you begin packing up your belongings without a second thought. It's not until Scaramouche's voice reaches your ears that you're finally forced to pause.
“We should arrange our final in-person project session,” he says.
Ah, shit, he's right.
“Okay,” you say, reaching for your phone. “I can book a room at the library again—”
“I don't want to go to the library again. Let's do it at your place.”
…HUH?
Your gaze whips to him in disbelief, only to find that he's already standing to leave.
“I can make time whenever it works for you. Just text me your address and I'll come over.”
He throws a wave over his shoulder as he begins walking away, and you trip over your words.
There's no fucking way—
“Hey—!” you shout after him, but he doesn't spare you a second glance.
You swear to god, this little motherfucker…
How can he just invite himself over to someone else's place?? Does he not realize how rude that is??
For days afterwards, you fume about it—fully intending to march into the next class and put your foot down and demand the location be changed to the library. However, fate is obviously not on your side, because the morning of the next class, you get an email from the professor saying that today's lecture is canceled on account of him getting a flat tire during his commute.
He ends the email encouraging everyone to use this time to work on the project, and with a frustrated sound, you chuck your phone at your bed.
Then, after a couple minutes of cursing the powers that be, you retrieve your phone and text Scaramouche.
“[address].”
“This lecture is the only one I have today, so I’ll be free for the rest of the day. Come over when you’re free.”
It takes a short while, but finally, he responds.
“K. Be there around 6.”
And so, you spend a good chunk of your morning and afternoon doing chores, homework, and whatever else you can think to help distract yourself and pass the time.
When the clock finally draws nearer to 6, you dig out your laptop and open the powerpoint the two of you have been working on for a couple weeks now. You review the slides, and jot down notes about a few points you want to double check with him.
Overall, you feel that it’s a pretty solid presentation, and you’re somewhat proud of yourself that you’ve managed to help conjure such articulate sounding slides, considering how one section of your brain is always on high alert whenever Scaramouche is near.
Speaking of…
You tap on your phone screen.
6:04PM
A text message pops up.
“Buzz me in.”
Shit.
You rub your hands on your pants and take a deep breath.
It’s fine. Letting a project partner into your personal space is nothing big. It’ll be more comfortable for you working on it here rather than the library anyway. YEP.
Attempting to smother all your worries, you stand and walk over to your door—hitting the button beside it. It makes a buzzing sound, and from beyond your apartment, you hear a click and a door opening up the hall.
You turn the lock open on your door, and take one more deep breath. You feel a bit of zen with the inhale.
Everything will be fine.
With a small nod to yourself, you pull the door open just as Scaramouche reaches your doorstep. He blinks in surprise at the perfect timing, and with a small smile, you step aside and usher him in.
He nods his head in thanks, and as he crosses the threshold, you notice the shopping bag in his hand.
“Did you bring something?” you ask.
He pauses.
“Oh, yeah, I brought some snacks. Figured I should at least do that much.”
He walks over to your coffee table and begins unloading the bag.
Dark chocolate, strawberries, pistachios, and—
“Wine?”
“To celebrate finishing the project,” he explains innocently enough.
You can’t help the little laugh that escapes you.
“So you’re looking forward to being done with it just as much as me, huh?”
He makes a face as he plops down onto your couch and rummages around in his bag for his laptop.
“Did I, at any point, give any indication that having a group project was my joy of the semester?”
“Oh I thought your bright and cheery attitude each time you saw me in class meant you were really enjoying it,” you respond sarcastically, moving around the back of the couch to join him. He snorts.
“I’m not sure I’d describe myself as “bright and cheery”.”
You breathe a laugh.
“No, probably not.”
He cocks an eyebrow at your agreement, turning to face you as you sit on the opposite end of the couch.
“No? How would you describe me, then?”
He’s baiting you, and you know it. So, barely missing a beat, you respond—
“Short and grumpy.”
The grin that stretches on your face happens naturally, and without realizing, you relax a little.
Bantering with him makes everything feel less tense, and more…normal.
His eyes narrow, yet a smile stretches at his lips.
“I see you’ve gotten comfortable enough to mouth off to me after a semester together. Guess our partnership has grown.”
“Maybe slightly,” you agree sarcastically, and he rolls his eyes.
With the ice broken, and the anxiety of having him in your apartment now mostly forgotten about, the two of you decide to get to work.
You hook your PC up to your TV and project your powerpoint slides on the screen—the two of you debating back and forth who will cover what talking points, and making bullet points of said talking points on a separate document you’ll be able to reference during the presentation.
Once that’s all sorted out, you decide to do a half-assed runthrough—both of you talking from your respective seats on the couch rather than getting up to practice in front of a nonexistent crowd.
Despite both of you being less than overjoyed to have been assigned a group project, it becomes clear that being assigned to each other was an auspicious happening—as both of you rehearse the presentation with ease, clearly having digested the content of your professor’s lectures.
“Good?” you ask him once you’ve wrapped up the final slide. He nods.
“Good enough. We still need to write the slide with the references, though.”
“Ugh, I forgot about that.”
With a sigh, you stand from the couch and stretch your arms above your head. You’ve been sitting too long, and your mouth is dry from talking.
Turning, you head for your kitchen, mumbling about needing some water.
As you go, Scaramouche’s voice calls out from behind you.
“Hey, princess?”
“Hmm?” you immediately respond, turning back to look at him. You assume he’s likely going to ask you to get him some water as well, but when you meet his eyes, he doesn’t say anything.
He just grins.
You frown in confusion, not understanding the look on his face.
“What?”
Without a word, he stands from his seat, and slowly walks up to you. Once you’re toe to toe, he bends a little closer.
You instinctively lean back, trying to keep an appropriate distance.
“Why are you being weird? Did you want water? I can grab you some—”
“Do you usually respond to men calling you “princess”, or is that just because it’s me?”
Instantly, you feel as if you’ve been struck by lightning—your eyes going wide with panic as you realize what he’d said, and how easily you’d responded to the petname.
The petname he always calls you when he’s bossing you around as Hat Guy.
You meet his eyes, and there, you see that same sparkle that had been present when you’d greeted him in class the other day. A shimmer of gleeful knowledge.
You suck in a breath, heat flooding your face.
He knows.
You take a step back, panic setting in, but Scaramouche’s hand slips against your waist—keeping you from running.
“Ah, so I was right. It is you,” he drawls, smiling growing wider. You lean back, and he allows you space to move—but follows you as you slowly inch backwards, but never away from him.
Your heart is racing, embarrassment and dread flooding your veins.
How did he—? When did he—? There’s no way—
You back yourself into your kitchen table, and he moves his hands to grip the table on either side of you, effectively caging you in.
“If only you were better at checking your emails…and giving me your phone number? You gave that up pretty easily despite keeping your identity a secret this whole time. Did you want me to figure it out?”
He teases you naturally, his voice dripping with amusement. Despite all of your efforts to not reveal yourself, you’d fucked up in the end.
“Why try so hard to keep it a secret anyway?”
“It would be inappropriate to out you in public,” you say without thinking, still unable to meet his gaze, “and…it’s not like I wanted that part of myself to be known anyway…”
Well, he supposes that’s true. His online personality is meant to keep him anonymous, so respecting that you’re aware of who he is to his face was actually a kind gesture on your part. And he can’t blame you for not wanting any relative stranger in real life to know the things you get up to on the down-low, but, even so…
“So…it’d be inappropriate for you to acknowledge that you know who I am, but it’s completely appropriate to take a call from me and consent to further sexual interactions after we’ve already become project partners?”
You can hear your pulse in your ears.
“You—!” you finally turn your face to him, and the smug look he bears makes you wish you could disappear into the floor.
Your heart races faster, hands fisting anxiously in your shirt.
“You forced that on me! I didn’t know—”
“I asked for your consent to continue the phone call, and you gave it,” he reminds you. Your gaze jumps away, and he quietly chuckles, oblivious to the way your lip trembles, and how your eyes begin to shine with tears.
This is so embarassing.
You’d tried so hard to not slip up, to keep identities hidden, and now that he knows…
You bite your lip.
It feels humiliating—him teasing you like this. After the hour you’d just spent feeling comfortable around him, without a worry in the world. Now, everything feels like it’s crumbling.
He opens his mouth, fully intending to unleash his next smartass comment, but pauses as he finally notices the look on your face.
Ah.
Immediately, he dials it back. He creates a little space between you.
“Sorry, I…I’ve gotten so used to the idea of teasing you like I did when you were anonymous, but I guess it’s a little different now.”
He lifts his hand and brushes a tear away from your lash line. You bat his hand away.
“I didn’t do anything wrong—”
“You didn’t,” he agrees, voice soft. “I’m the one who did. Because ever since that phone call, I’ve been fantasizing about calling you again. I’ve been fisting my dick while replaying the sounds you made on the call in a loop in my head. I even went so far as to go and listen to the commission I made you, so that I could imagine how you followed all my instructions, and what sounds you probably made while doing so.”
His admission has your emotions in shambles—your chest tight with shame while your stomach sears hot with arousal.
The change in his tone and his actions has you reeling. One second he’s mercilessly teasing you, and the next he’s laying his feelings bare? You’re not sure how to deal with that emotional whiplash.
Yet, he continues on anyway—unaware of your internal chaos.
“And…aside from thinking about that anonymous follower, I realized that at times I also found myself thinking of my somewhat awkward and bratty project partner, even when you weren't around.”
…huh?
You glance up at him in surprise, and he rubs his neck a little sheepishly.
“Over time, I started looking forward to class so I'd get to throw another teasing comment at you and see how you'd react. I guess I grew to enjoy our banter without realizing it. And when I connected the dots and realized that my bratty partner and my bratty raffle winner are one in the same, well…”
He quietly chuckles.
“I guess I've been going a little crazy ever since.”
His gaze locks with yours, and a shiver rakes your spin at the hunger and excitement showing in his eyes. A hope that his words will reassure you enough to answer his next question the way he desperately wants.
“So. All that being said…,” he places a hand on the table beside you, leaning a little closer, but keeps his other hand behind his back—leaving you a route of escape should it be needed.
“I would like it if you are still interested in consenting. Because I cannot stop craving more.”
His voice drops as he speaks that last part, and you bristle.
Even though a minute ago you were about to cry from his teasing…
You shift, eyebrows twitching as your cunt throbs.
How does he always manage to do this to you? You should be embarassed—should say no, that it'd be better to keep things appropriate between the two of you considering you were never supposed to know each other's identities, and yet…
You take a deep breath, and stand a little straighter.
“Are you sure your performance won't disappoint in person?”
Your eyes meet, and for a second, he can only regard you with surprise. That was not the response he had been expecting, but—
A grin breaks out on his face, and he steps into your space, his free hand cupping the back of your skull.
“Always such a brat,” he laughs, and then your lips meet.
His kiss is devouring—a tell that he’s been waiting and dreaming of this moment—the moment he finally gets to touch you in person.
He presses you into the edge of the table as your mouths slot together—his tongue swallowing up the sweet little moan that escapes you. His thigh nestles between your legs, pressing up against your pussy, and you instinctively grind down on it—already craving more.
He chuckles, his teeth nipping at your lower lip.
“You’re being so pliant already. Does that mean you intend to be good and submissive?”
“I think I’m more of a snarky bottom than plain submissive,” you respond, carding your hand through his already messy hair.
“Think you can deal with that?”
“Happily,” he responds, his hand resting at your throat as he leans in to kiss you again. As your lips meld, the pressure of his fingers on your throat becomes apparent—squeezing tighter and tighter with each second that passes.
Your brain begins to fog as he restricts the blood flow to your head, and before you know it, he’s got you pressed flat against the table’s surface.
The sight of you flushed and breathless beneath him—his hand tight around your throat—goes straight to his cock.
“I guess you like being choked,” he muses, nudging your knees apart. He settles himself between them, and finally loosens his grip. Immediately, you take a deep breath, but don’t manage to fully inhale your lungs before your breath catches—something hard pressing at your clothed pussy.
You glance down as Scaramouche grabs your waist, keeping you still as he grinds himself against you.
“You got hard pretty fast,” you mumble, still a little breathless. His fingers dig into your sides, an obvious warning that he doesn’t appreciate your teasing words, but it’s a warning you’re both aware will not be heeded.
“Guess it’s because you’ve been fantasizing about fucking me for a couple weeks, huh?”
You grin, and he slips a hand under the hem of your shirt. Goosebumps rise on your skin as his fingers skim up your torso, between your breasts, and up to your throat—lifting your shirt along with his motion.
“I should actually cut off your airway this time,” he threatens, the pads of his fingers ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck. Your chest rises and falls quickly, and you feel your nipples harden against the cups of your bra.
“You could, but if you did, I’d pass out. And then you wouldn’t get to hear all those pretty sounds you’ve been imagining hearing when you fuck me.”
“I see you’ve figured me out,” he mumbles, but rather than choking you again, he cups your jaw, and places his thumb at your lips. Without hesitation, you meet his gaze and allow him in—your lips suctioning around his digit as he presses down on your tongue.
Despite the lip you’re giving him, it’s clear you want this just as much as he does. You simply don’t intend to make it easy for him, which he doesn’t necessarily mind.
Having a fully submissive partner wouldn’t scratch his itch. Making them get so desperate that they bend to him is really what gets him going.
“Lift your chest.”
Pressing your shoulders down, you do as he says—your spine curving off the table. He immediately reaches behind your back and unhooks your bra, and your breath catches at the sensation.
He’s not wasting any time.
Without saying anything, he shoves your bra up to your neck where your t-shirt is also bunched, and then immediately gropes one of your breasts with his hand.
He methodically squeezes—as if he’s committing the sight before him to memory, and cataloging how each touch makes you squirm. Unsurprisingly, a flick of his finger across your nipple garners the biggest reaction from you—your body jumping and your thighs squeezing around him.
The corners of his lips curve upward.
“Having fun?” you ask. He rolls his eyes.
“Yes, now shut up.”
And before you can think of a smart response, he leans down and sucks your other nipple into his mouth. You gasp as his teeth scrape at the puckered skin—your hand instinctively grappling for his head.
He groans as your fingers root in his hair, and the heady sound goes straight to your cunt.
If he gets turned on by the sounds you make, well…clearly the opposite is also true.
“Scara—,” you start to say, fully intending to tell him not to bite like a dog, but the words die on your tongue as he begins rolling one nipple between his fingers, and laps at the other with his tongue.
Shit.
In the end, the only thing that leaves your lips in that moment is a whine—your chest pulling away from his demanding touch. Feeling your body attempt to escape the onslaught of pleasure, Scaramouche immediately curls an arm behind your back and presses your chest up into his mouth.
At the same time, he reaches down and shoves his hand beneath the waistband of your pants.
A noise of surprise leaves you—your thighs attempting to close as you feel his fingers ghost against the crotch of your already damp panties. However, with his body still slotted between your legs, there’s no chance at hiding yourself from him.
With a lewd pop, he releases your nipple from his mouth.
“You’re this wet already? It’s almost like you get off on me or something.”
“Shut—ah!”
He sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your breast, and at the same time, slips a finger inside you.
He tests the waters while lapping at the indentation of his teeth in your skin—his finger inching deeper and curling cautiously.
As desperate as he is for you, he doesn’t want to hurt you.
…well, he supposes that’s a lie, considering he’s already bitten and choked you, but those types of pain are a little different, he thinks. Those are the kinds of pain people typically enjoy.
“When was the last time this pussy took a dick?”
Scaramouche asks the question as he begins to move his hand. Your thighs twitch at the feeling of his finger pushing against your insides.
When you don’t answer, he nips at your breast again.
“Hm?”
He locks eyes with you. Your cheeks warm.
“The last time you told me to put a dick in myself.”
His dick twitches.
Ah, fuck, that’s so hot.
“What an obedient slut…do you only touch yourself when you have permission?”
“Wh—of course not! I’ve just been busy since then—”
“Mhmm.”
He smiles, taking your other nipple into his mouth this time. You can’t help but whine at the feeling, your fingers tugging at his hair.
A shiver rakes his spine.
He wants to be inside you already.
Having taken one finger no problem, Scaramouche slips in a second. This time, you feel the stretch. And it feels good.
“Fuck,” you breathe, your hips grinding against his hand.
“Stay still,” he grumbles, and while you do indignantly groan, the motion of your hips immediately stops.
Pleased, Scaramouche’s fingers grind inside you a little faster, and a little deeper, and it doesn’t take him long to find that sensitive little spot that has your hips involuntarily jumping.
You lock eyes with him, and in that moment, you swear you can read his mind.
“Don’t—,” you start to say, but it’s too late. He restarts the grind of his hand—making sure to angle it so that each thrust has the pads of his fingers scraping against your g-spot.
Instantly, your breath catches.
Shit, shit, shit—
You start to sit up, but Scaramouche places his hand on your sternum and holds you down.
“Trying to run away? Doesn’t it feel good?”
Too good. Each pass of his fingers inside of you has fire tracking through your body—arousal burning hot and tight in your gut.
You’ve never been this close to cumming this quickly. The sheer speed at which he’s brought you to the brink of orgasm has your head spinning.
“I—,” you pant. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”
Scaramouche feels your pussy clamp down on his hand, and watches as the muscles in your legs and torso tighten—anticipating release.
And yet, before the tension can snap, he pulls his fingers out.
Your orgasm is denied.
You loose a frustrated groan, and your eyes—which had fluttered shut—shoot open as you fix him with a glare. He only regards you without regret, bringing his arousal-slick fingers to his lips.
He licks one digit clean, and then the other.
“What? Do I ever let you cum right off the bat?”
No, but still.
“You fucking suck—”
You rear a leg back, and attempt to kick him. He skillfully grabs your foot, intercepting the blow, and then tugs, bringing you closer to the edge of the table. You swing your legs down as he takes a step back to give you room.
However, just as soon as you’ve gotten to your feet, he’s closing the gap. He kisses you as if he’s still starved—as if everything you’ve done so far is hardly enough to sate his appetite—and you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Where’s your room?”
He grabs your wrist and begins tugging you down the hall without waiting for your answer.
You can’t help but smile as you watch him scan the doorways for the one that leads to your bedroom.
It’s cute seeing him get impatient, considering he’s typically the one denying you and forcing you to wait.
He locates your room before you’re able to answer, and nudges you towards the bed.
“Bend over it,” he tells you. You turn towards him, a teasing smile blooming on your face as you intend to play a little hard to get, but when you find him pulling down the zipper of his pants—hard cock prominently bulging against his briefs as his pants slip down—your brain momentarily short circuits.
Realizing you haven’t moved, his eyes flit to yours.
“Do you want me to fuck you or not?”
With a quiet huff, you walk over to your mattress—slipping your t-shirt and bra fully off as you go. You’re just about to bend over when from behind you Scaramouche mumbles, “pants too”.
A shiver rakes your spine at his words and the thought of being before him in nothing but your panties, but you dutifully rid yourself of your pants nonetheless—kicking them away with your foot as you spread your legs and drop your chest to the bed.
The sight of you has him internally cursing—and he quickly fishes an item from his pocket before shedding himself of his clothes.
A gasp leaves your mouth as he finally settles behind you, his fingers ghosting up the curve of your spine. He toys with the hem of your panties, and you feel his cock rest against your ass.
Excitement rushes through you, your pussy clenching.
He's finally going to fill you up and fuck you proper.
Ah, but—
As soon as you open your mouth to ask about protection, he reaches down and sets a ripped-open condom packet on the mattress beside your head.
You hadn't even told him where your stash is, which means he must have brought his own.
“I see this was your goal,” you mumble, your heart doing a little flip as you realize how much he had planned for this happening.
“Obviously,” he shoots back. He hooks his hands on your panties, and slowly peels them down your thighs—his eyes drinking in the sight of your pussy.
Yep, this is better than what he's been imagining.
Fuck.
Fisting his cock in his hand, he nudges it between your folds—his jaw clenching as the head of his cock catches at your entrance.
Unintentionally—your sex addled brain only thinking of how you need more—you grind your hips back on him. His cock slips inside of you, and a cry leaves your lips as he stretches you open.
“Shit—,” he hisses. One of his hand tangles in your hair, while the other presses down on the small of your back—keeping you pinned.
“Don't fucking move again. I'm taking you how I want. Got it?”
You manage to nod your head despite his stern grip on your hair, and Scaramouche can't help but note the way your body writhes at his words.
You want this just as badly as he does.
“Good girl,” he praises, his voice low and scratchy as he slowly inches himself deeper inside of you, until his hips are flush with your ass.
Your pussy quivers, and a wanton whine sneaks past your lips. He's filling you up wholly—as if your pussy was made just for him—and you can't get over how good it feels.
Yet, it's still not enough.
“Please move,” you whimper, struggling to keep your body still. Scaramouche can feel the way your body trembles beneath him—struggling to obey his command not to move—and he smiles.
“Wow, you even said “please”, guess you are getting desperate…however…”
He slowly drags his hips back, until only the head of his cock is still nestled inside of you.
“Just telling me to “move”? Not sure I understand. Should I pull out, or—?”
Any other day, you'd bite back at his playing dumb. You hardly want to let him get away with teasing you like this, but right now, you're too desperate to be smart with your words.
“Please fuck me,” you huff, an edge to your tone, like you're about to lose it.
Realizing you're finally needy enough to set your wit aside has Scaramouche's smile widening.
“Well, since you asked so nicely.”
He fucks himself back inside of you— again, and again, and again—until your ass is bouncing with each thrust, and the sound of wet, sinful sex is filling your room.
Your fingers fist in the sheets above your head, each grind of his cock drawing an array of pornographic sounding whines and moans from your chest.
Scaramouche commits every little detail to memory—from the crack in your voice, to the curve of your spine beneath his stern hand, and the way your pussy clenches on his cock.
“Fuck…”
His hand untangles from your hair in favor of getting a better grip on your waist—both of his hands squeezing you on either side as he begins fucking you harder.
Your forehead drops to the bed—a startled gasp muffled by the sheets as he uses his grip to force your stomach down, and your hips higher.
The new angle has his cock once again grinding against the sensitive spot inside of you.
“Oh, fuck—!”
Your thighs shake, and you try to drop your hips, but Scaramouche doesn't allow it.
“What? Feel too good?” he teases, a little breathless himself. Your pussy feels so fucking good, he's seriously already getting close to losing it himself…
“Mmm—!”
You can't even think straight, your muscles tensing as every pass of his cock inside of you has you quickly slipping closer and closer to the edge.
“Scara…I…”
Your warning slips away, your brain too distracted by the heat spreading through your limbs. The pleasure is scorching you from the inside out.
Scaramouche knows what’s coming regardless—not unaware of the way your shoulder blades pinch together as your grip on the sheets turns white knuckled, or how your pussy has started tightening on his dick.
“I didn’t give you permission,” he reminds you, and the sound that leaves you is caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
You turn your head, and manage to glance back at him. His cock jumps at the fucked out look in your eyes, and you somehow make your tongue work again.
“How am I supposed to wait for permission when you’re fucking me so good?”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit—
He pulls his dick from inside of you.
Your eyes widen in shock, lips parting in complaint that he doesn’t allow to be voiced.
“Flip over,” he tells you, although he’s already shoving you around. He rolls you onto your back, and you blink up at him as he climbs atop you, and guides himself to your entrance once again.
“I wanna see your face when you cum,” he growls.
He shoves in, and when you gasp, he smothers it with his lips.
His kisses are sloppy—full of tongue and teeth as he grinds his cock inside you. The new angle allows him to hit spots even deeper inside of you, and you can’t help but cling to him—your nails digging into his back as you hang on for dear life.
Scara shivers at the sensation, unable to help the groan that’s ripped from him.
He wants to see you unravel—wants to feel your pussy milking around his cock.
“Are you gonna cum, princess?”
He breaks his string of kisses to ask, and you heave a breath, your head spinning. Yet, you manage a nod.
You’re so close.
“Use your words,” he tells you.
Tears prick your eyes, and your lip quivers. He’s driving you crazy.
“I’m gonna come,” you whine, your gaze finding his. He can see the shimmer in your eyes—a desperation that you can’t hide.
You look so fucking debauched beneath him. God, you’re gonna be the end of him.
“Ask,” he grumbles, although he feels his own orgasm impending—his balls tightening.
“Please,” you quietly sob.
He shudders.
How could he possibly say no to you?
“Cum on my cock, princess.”
With a choked cry, you hug him tighter, and do just that.
Your pussy milks around him as pleasure washes through you, and Scaramouche curses. He’s not gonna last when you’re so warm, and wet, and fucking tight—
“Fuck—!” he hisses, and with one last thrust, he plants himself deep inside of your cunt and cums.
The two of you stay just like that for a solid minute—hot and heavy breaths fanning between your bodies—until his balls are empty, and the condom inside of you is messy and full.
Then, he slowly slides himself out, his gaze locked on your pussy as he does—admiring the way your pretty hole flutters at the loss.
No longer intertwined, you flop your limbs limply against the mattress. Your chest rises and falls steadily as you finally begin to catch your breath, and your eyes flutter closed.
It still hasn’t fully sunken in that…that all just happened. But…you feel good about it. Satisfied, and assured. At least, until the mattress dips, and Scaramouche exits your bed.
A bolt of panic strikes you as he bends down to retrieve his clothes, and heads for your bedroom door. Is he leaving? Just like that?
Your chest tightens, but you don’t call out to him—only watch from the corner of your eyes as he walks into the hall—the sound of his footsteps getting farther, and farther…
And then, you hear the sound of a cupboard in your bathroom opening, followed by the squeak of the faucet turning on.
Oh.
A few beats later, he shows up in your bedroom doorway, his pants back on, and a wet wash cloth in his grasp.
The look on your face must show what you’d been thinking, because he cocks an eyebrow at you, frowning.
“Did you think I was leaving? I’m not that big of a dick…”
He walks over to your bed and sits beside you. A blush paints your cheeks, and you snatch the cloth from his hand.
“You do tend to be mean,” you tell him. He rolls his eyes.
“Not when it comes to aftercare.”
He snatches the cloth back, and then gently drags it up the inside of your thighs. You try your hardest not to squirm at the feeling.
Once he’s satisfied with his cleanup job, and sees that you’ve calmed down, he touches his knuckles to your forehead.
“You alright?”
“Yes,” you respond, your chest fluttering at the unusual tenderness from him. “Thanks.”
He nods, and for a moment, simply regards you—his gaze softer than normal.
Then, he sighs and stands—stretching his arms over his head.
“If I didn’t promise my friend that I’d help him study for the exam he has tomorrow, I’d stay and fuck you again.”
That last statement makes your pussy twitch, but you try your best to ignore it.
“What?” you ask, pushing yourself up. “You had plans tonight? What time were you supposed to help your friend?”
“I told him I’d be over around 8,” he mumbles while digging around in his pocket for his phone. He finds it after a second, and you both clearly see the time on the screen when it lights up.
9:02PM
Your jaw hangs open.
“Scara!”
He sighs in annoyance.
“What? This was more important…”
“Don’t be a shitty friend! Go help them study!” you scold him. You scoot off the bed and retrieve your panties from the floor. Scaramouche watches you as you pull them on, along with your t-shirt.
“Ugh, fine.”
He finishes putting his own clothes on, and then heads to your living room to gather his laptop and backpack. You follow after him, standing at the edge of the room.
Once he’s sure he has everything, his gaze finds you.
“I’ll see you in class?”
His somewhat silly question makes you smile.
“Obviously? We still need to do our presentation.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Smartass.”
He walks to your door and grips the handle, pausing to look back at you.
“Make sure to re-hydrate before you pass out later.”
You give him a mock salute.
“Will do~”
He keeps himself from rolling his eyes again, and waves over his shoulder as he finally exits your apartment, leaving you standing there sore, bruised, and still a little horny.
You raise a hand to your mouth, finger tracing against your lips. Recent memories flash through your mind, and heat rises on your face.
Holy shit.
You can’t believe that just happened.
A few days later, you walk into the lecture hall once more. Scaramouche is already in his seat, and when you approach, he glances up, and nods at you.
“Hey,” he greets.
“Hi,” you respond with a little smile, and take your spot beside him.
He doesn’t go out of his way to make small talk, which you weren’t expecting. However…admittedly, since he came to your apartment, there’s been one question lingering in your mind that you’ve wanted to ask him about…
What exactly are you two, now?
Was that just a fling? Does he just see you as a fun little one-off event? Or, does he want it to be more than that?
It’s a question that’s kept your mind busy, but not necessarily in a panic. You’ll be a little disappointed if it was just a one time thing, but you’ll get over it. It was fun, and you don’t regret it at all—so, at this point, you just want to make your relationship clear.
“Hey—,” you start to say, mustering up the courage to ask, but just as Scaramouche turns your way, the professor taps the podium mic.
“Hello class!” he greets cheerfully, drawing everyone's attention. “Today is the first day of the final presentations, and I’m excited to see the fruits of your labor! As I’m sure everyone saw, I sent out an email listing the order of the presentations—which I generated at random, by the way. There are too many groups to get through in just one class, so whoever we don’t get to today will go next time. Now, without further ado—Group 1, please come up to the front!”
With a little sigh, two students sitting behind you get up and make their way to the front of the room. As they get their laptop connected and pull up their presentation, Scaramouche quietly yawns beside you, and rests his chin in his palm.
“If I start to fall asleep, nudge me,” he mumbles, and you roll your eyes, but nod your head nonetheless.
A little longer than an hour later, the first day of presentations wraps up—you and Scara still not having presented, considering your group miraculously ended up at the bottom of the list.
Everyone begins to pack their bags as the professor reassures those who had presented that they did a good job, and slowly, everyone files out of the room.
Scaramouche stands to leave first, and you take a deep breath, planning to try and get your question out once more, but he beats you to the jump.
“Wanna grab a meal?”
…huh?
You stare at him dumbly, and he frowns at you.
“What?”
“I just…didn’t expect you to ask,” you admit. He huffs.
“Well, it is lunchtime. And based on what you said last week, this is your only lecture today. So, if you’re free, I figured we could get lunch.”
“Oh, um—sure!” you say, not at all upset about his offer. He nods, and together, you exit the lecture hall and make your way to the nearby campus eateries.
As you enter the building, you dig in your bag for your wallet, aware that this particular spot is a buffet style where it’s a flat rate to get in. However, before you can even fish out a credit card, Scaramouche is stepping up to the register and saying “two”.
With a smile, the employee rings him up for entry for two people, and he pays before you can think to stop him.
“C’mon,” he says as soon as the payment goes through, heading into the buffet. You chase after him.
“You didn’t have to pay for me!” you tell him, feeling bad. He shrugs his shoulders.
“I wanted to. Plus, this could also be a celebration for actually managing to finish our project.”
Well, you can’t argue with that…and it is very nice that he’s treating you.
“Well, thanks, then,” you mumble, feeling a little confused about the entire situation, but happy nonetheless.
After the two of you load up your plates with food, you find a table to sit, and begin filling your stomachs. The two of you make conversation as you eat, mostly about the groups who had presented their projects today, and you nearly choke on a bite of food when he mentions how one of the groups accidentally misspelled “eroded” as “erotic” without realizing.
“Wait, even I didn’t notice that,” you laugh, and Scaramouche rolls his eyes.
“Obviously, you paid less attention than I did.”
As your giggles die down, Scaramouche spots a bit of food smudged on your cheek, and leans across the table. You freeze as his thumb brushes your skin.
“Some food landed here when you almost choked,” he mumbles, as if that explains everything. He pulls his hand back as if nothing happens, and finally, you snap.
“Okay, what is going on here?” you ask sternly. He blinks, obviously confused.
“What—”
“First, you invite me to lunch. Then, you pay for said lunch. Now, you’re being more friendly with me than ever before, and are touching me as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. So, what is this?? Are we, like, friends with benefits?? Was that just a fling?? Or—”
“I want to date. I thought that was obvious.”
HUH?
A blush spreads on your cheeks, embarrassed and caught off guard by his declaration.
“You—how was that obvious??”
“Did you not see my tweet?”
“No! I haven’t been checking your twitter as much since I realized my fucking project partner is someone I follow online and have interacted with—”
With an annoyed sigh, Scaramouche pulls out his phone and opens his twitter. He pulls up his latest tweet, and shows you the screen.
…oh.
“Am I the “personal event”?”
“Yes,” he huffs. He glances off to the side and crosses his arms, almost looking a little…embarrassed.
“After what happened at your apartment, I tried to knock out some of my pending commissions, but every time I tried, I found myself thinking about you, instead of whatever faceless commissioner I was making the audio for. It was honestly pissing me off—realizing that I can’t get you out of my mind now—so I decided the best thing to do would be to cancel the commissions and…listen to whatever feelings I was having.”
“Wow…,” you say, honestly stunned, and then drop your voice.
“I guess you’ve become a pussy addicted puppy, huh?”
He startles at your unexpected tease, but gets his wits about him when he sees the playful grin that spreads on your lips.
“Don’t forget I know where you live,” he threatens with a daring grin of his own, and you laugh. Then, after a couple beats, you clear your throat and sit up a little straighter.
“That’s true, you do know where I live, but our project is finished, and I have no reason to let in my project partner.”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes, understanding where you’re going with this.
“Alright,” he says, crossing his arms. “Then go out with me.”
“Ask nicely,” you retort, fixing him with a not-all-that-stern look. He rolls his eyes, although a smile tugs at his lips.
“Go out with me, please.”
“Better,” you say with a little laugh, and nod your head. “But yes, I will go out with you. Since you asked like a good boy.”
“I’m gonna get back at you later,” he promises, leaning in closer, so his low voice can only be heard by the two of you.
“And I have lots of things I want to do to you and with you, so you better be ready, princess.”
His words go straight to your pussy, and you try not to squirm. Either way, he seems to notice his words have had an effect on you, because he sits back and laughs. That boyish, genuine laugh that makes your heart flutter.
Months ago, you never could have predicted that your anonymous connection with Hat Guy would turn into this, and you’re not sure what this relationship will become, but at the very least, you’re sure it will be fun, sinful, and full of banter~
pairing . AdultContentCreator!Scaramouche x OFmodel!Reader
summary . You make premium adult content, profiting off your virgin status, rejecting every disgusting offer in your DMs, waiting for something that feels real. Then, you find that something, Scaramouche. He makes adult content, fucks girls, sends them off, and the cycle repeats. But something about him makes you want to hand him over all your firsts. [MODERN AU]
contains (warnings) . explicit sexual content, being filmed, but obviously consensual, mean scara, dirty talk, degradation, oral, throat fucking, mirror sex, porn WITH plot, overstimulation, too lazy to add more
word count . 14k (i know... i know.)
an . i literally spent ages on making the fake twitter profiles, idk how these ppl in the smau's do it istg. i also had to study, like a maniac, loads of twt corn acc's to make this, so i hope this is good. cross posted onto ao3
You have a dirty secret.
Well… maybe dirty isn’t the right word.
Lucrative.
Thrilling.
Deeply, and I mean deeply embarrassing if anyone you knew in real life ever found out.
You make premium content.
Sex content.
It started after so many failed job searches; it’s so hard to find work in this day and age as a young adult with zero experience. You also attend college, and you know the moment you do actually get a boring, shitty job as a cashier or some shit, you’d want to shoot yourself in the head due to all the stress that’ll come with it.
You saw other girls on TikTok, flaunting their gaming set-ups from DMing creeps on Discord, going on calls with them, masturbating or pretending to, and they get the biggest paycheck of their life.
You’d do that if you didn’t have to go on call with them and hear their gross, disgusting voice.
So you chose the other option, chose to sell your body online, even though, compared to how girls on Discord make money, they don’t have to sell their nudes, just talk on call, you’d rather just record yourself doing lucrative acts.
I mean, why not? You were already broke, stressed beyond any comprehension, already spending too much money on lingerie that no one ever saw.
Now someone sees it, thousands of someones, actually.
It’s practically a job at this point, your real job if you’re being honest.
You lie to your parents, tell them you work at a cafe near campus, and they’re so proud of you. Their hardworking daughter, juggling school and work and still managing to keep her grades up.
If only they knew.
You don’t just do it for the money, even though that’s how it started. Like, yeah, the money is actually insane, more than you’d ever even expect, so much that you've had to open separate bank accounts just to hide it from your parents. But that's still not why you keep doing it.
You do it because it's fun.
You do it because it feels good.
I mean, why wouldn’t it?
It’s fun dressing up all cute, bringing your aesthetic in your videos because the fans love it. Soft pinks, light pastels, lace, ribbons, and so many bows.
You show your face in your videos.
But you wouldn’t ever get caught. Why? Because you wear wigs, cute ones that actually look good and not shitty party city ones, you do your makeup in a way that people on TikTok and Pinterest would call ‘dollmaxxer,’ eyelashes, glossy lips, aegyo sal shimmer forever and always.
You cosplay sometimes, characters from games and anime that your subscribers request.
That’s the thing that sets you apart from a lot of creators, most of them crop their faces out, wear masks, keep the camera angled just so. You’re lucky you don’t have any distinctive birthmarks, tattoos, or anything tying you to the girl who goes to college and buys coffee from the campus Starbucks.
It didn’t take long before you moved out of your college dorm. Roommates are a liability when your job involves moaning loudly on camera three times a week.
Now you have your own apartment, expensive but worth it, a pink sanctuary where you can film without worrying about anyone walking in.
Your content is... specific.
You goon, that’s the word for it, that’s what people call it on the internet.
You slap your face with dildos, letting them bounce off your cheeks, you grind on pillows and plushies, soaking the fabric while you whimper and moan. Sometimes you even sell the pillows you grind on, subscribers love it all.
You drool excessively, letting spit drip down your chin while you suck on a dildo attached to your wall, your eyes rolled back, your tongue out too far.
You make yourself look stupid, brainless, like a toy that exists only for pleasure.
It's fun.
It feels good.
And the sponsors love it.
Sex toy brands send you free products constantly. Vibrators, dildos, plugs, things you didn't even know existed before you started this job. All you have to do is use them on camera, tag the company, and they keep sending more.
What you hate is your subscribers.
Obviously, your content caters to the male gaze. That's the market. That's where the money is.
But god, the men are disgusting.
The comments they leave, the DMs they send, the way they talk to you like you're not a person, just a thing they can say whatever they want to.
You have some subscribers who are women, followers, and mutuals who found you through the aesthetic side of things. They're the sweetest. They leave nice comments, send supportive messages, and actually treat you like a human being.
The men are the problem.
You also profit off being a virgin.
It’s not a lie, you know, some creators fake it, like Sophie Rain. But you’re genuinely untouched.
Never had a boyfriend. Never had sex, never even been kissed before.
The dildos you use on yourself don't change that. Toys aren't real dicks.
It's your biggest money maker, honestly. The virgin thing. Men lose their minds over it. They DM you constantly, begging to be the one to take it, offering obscene amounts of money to fuck you on camera.
You always deny.
Always.
Because even so, even after everything you've done on camera, you want to wait for the right person. You want it to mean something. You want...
You don't know what you want.
But you know it's not some random subscriber with a dick pic in his DMs.
Tonight, you're exhausted.
You just finished filming a two-hour session, one of those marathon streams where you edge yourself over and over until your thighs are shaking and your brain goes blank. Your subscribers loved it. You made more money in those two hours than most people make in years.
And now all you want to do is lie in bed and doom-scroll until you pass out.
You're on your stomach, still wearing the sheer babydoll lingerie from your stream, lacey underwear clinging to you. You’re on your phone, Twitter open, scrolling mindlessly through your feed.
Your algorithm feeds you content from girls like you, with similar aesthetics, similar content. Some of them are your mutuals, creators you’ve befriended through the weird little community you’ve stumbled into. You leave sweet comments on their posts, the kind of supportive girl-to-girl energy that balances out the gross male comments.
You're not really paying attention, just scrolling.
And then something new comes up.
It's a video, a boy, this time, which is unusual for your feed. The algorithm is probably experimenting, testing your preferences.
The boy is skinny, pale, really pale, like porcelain skin. He’s on a bed with white sheets, his face is cropped out of the frame, but you can see his body, lean and so pretty, looming over a girl who lies beneath him.
He's holding her arms above her head.
And he's fucking into her mouth.
You don't scroll past. You don't mindlessly like and move on. Instead, you tap the video to turn up the volume just a little.
The sounds are obscene.
Wet, throat gagging sounds, the girls' muffled whimpers mixing with his soft grunts of pleasure. He fucks into her mouth, slow, at first, almost lazy, then faster, harder.
The girl taps his thigh. The universal signal for "I need to breathe." You've done it yourself, with the dildos attached to your wall, practicing for videos, it’s basic human instinct, you think.
He laughs.
That laugh.
It's mean and amused and condescending, and something about it makes you clench around absolutely nothing.
He doesn't stop. If anything, he goes faster, ignoring her desperate taps, using her mouth like it belongs to him.
Only at the last second does he pull back. She gasps, choking, saliva dripping down her chin, and before she can recover, he's pushing back in.
Your pussy clenches again.
The video is in Japanese, which was obvious mainly because of the body parts being censored and the words coming from his mouth. You don't understand a single word from it, but something about him, about the way he moves, the way he sounds, the casual cruelty of his body language...
You click on his profile.
scaramouche
His profile picture is a boy's pale, slender hand gripping a girl's face. His bio is in Japanese characters you can't read, so you copy it into a translator.
"i'll fucking digest you, one kiss at a time."
That's it. That's all he has to say about himself.
He’s following zero people, fucking dickhead you think, and he has over 500k followers.
Holy shit…
More than you.
You scroll down, his age is listed, 20. He’s 2 years older than you.
Obviously, as any normal person who's about to stalk a stranger's content, you click on the media tab.
Your heart drops.
He shows his face.
Not everyone does; most people don’t want others to recognize them in real life. You didn’t expect to see his face because in the other video, the camera was angled down.
This guy, this scaramouche, he doesn't seem to care.
He's hot.
No… hot isn’t the right word to describe him, actually. He’s pretty, beautiful, even, in a way that doesn’t even seem real.
Dark indigo hair, which could almost be blue or even purple in certain lighting, eyes the same color.
A face that definitely shouldn’t be used on making porn.
The first video with his face in it is him on a couch with a girl. His house is expensive, the kind of expensive that screams old money or nepo baby or both. The girl's face is blurred, but his isn't. He's looking directly at the camera, completely unbothered.
Nepo baby, you decide. Has to be. Some rich kid who hates his mom and spends her money on whatever he wants, not caring about his image or his future or anything.
He probably gets away with it because he's a man.
The video is in Japanese as figured. You watch it anyway, picking up on body language instead of words. The girl looks nervous, shaking slightly, and he sits close to her, petting her hair, touching her thigh. He leans in but doesn't kiss her. Just hovers there, making her wait.
You get bored and translate the description instead.
He calls her shy. Says she just broke up with her boyfriend, saw his content online, and wanted to be one of the girls in his videos. He talks about how he's going to ruin her. Turn her into a perfect little doll.
You don't feel disgusted by it; you don’t even know what you feel.
You keep scrolling.
Ten minutes later, you've gone through most of his content.
He's always in control, always cruel, always making the girls in his videos fall apart in ways that look almost painful. But he also... takes care of them. In his own way. Kisses them while he fucks them. Leaves hickeys all over their skin. Holds them down but also holds them close.
It's confusing.
Probably more confusing for the girls.
It makes you feel things you don't want to examine.
Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, you give up pretending you're just curious.
You grab the vibrator from your nightstand, the one you just used on stream, and press it between your legs.
You cum to the sound of his voice.
His moans, the way he laughs at the girls when they beg, the way he laughs even harder when they start shaking from being overstimulated. The things he says in Japanese that you don't understand but somehow feel in your core anyway.
You cum again.
And again.
You're on your third orgasm, trembling and oversensitive, when your phone buzzes with a notification.
A DM.
From him.
Your heart stops.
You stare at the notification, certain you're hallucinating. You followed him earlier, when you first clicked on his profile. You didn't think anything of it; you follow lots of people.
But he followed you back.
And now he's messaging you.
You tap on the notification with shaking fingers, fully expecting to see a wall of Japanese characters you won't understand.
It's in English.
You stare at the message for a full minute in shock. Your brain is refusing to process this, because what the fuck type of coincidence is this?
He looked at your profile, saw your content, your bio, your everything while you were cumming to his own content.
And in your bio, the first fucking line is:
horny virgin
Fuck.
scaramouche:
hello?
i know youre online
i saw you like one of my videos 3 minutes ago
and twitter also shows when people read your texts
Shit.
You forget how annoying this app is, how it automatically shows ‘seen’, when you click on someone’s DM, and there doesn’t seem to be a way to turn it off.
Twitter needs to fucking change that.
Embarrassing.
you:
um… hi?
scaramouche:
there she is
thought you were gonna leave me on read
you:
sorry
i was just surprised i guess
scaramouche:
surprised that i messaged you?
you:
yeah lol
you kinda dont really seem like the type to just dm ppl
scaramouche:
im not
girls usually come to me
You roll your eyes hard in real life. He sounds so egotistical.
you:
okayyy..
so why r u dming me then?
scaramouche:
bcuz i wanted to
is that a problem
you:
no
i mean… IDK… i guess not?
scaramouche:
relax holy shit
im not gonna bite you unless…
unless you want me to
You read that last message three times at the least. Your face is burning, you're still wet from earlier, still sensitive, and this conversation is not helping. You squirm in your bed, sitting back against a pillow and pulling your sheets over you so that you’re more comfortable.
The vibrator, the toy you used on yourself to his videos stares back at you, the stare feels harder than how it felt when your plushies would look at you while you shot videos.
You turn your body away from it and lie on your side.
you:
how did you even find my account
i know you aren’t just scrolling thru your notifications, looking at any any girls profile that follows u
scaramouche:
algorithm duh
you came up on my feed
some video of you drooling on a dildo
In real life, you shove your face into your pillow, embarrassed, before glancing up, thumbs typing.
you:
oh god
scaramouche:
it was cute
very pathetic mostly but cute
i liked it
you:
i don’t know if that’s a compliment or not
scaramouche:
it is trust me
You don't know what to say. You're typing and deleting, typing and deleting, too shy to keep up this conversation.
Thankfully, he talks first, again.
scaramouche:
you know what actually make me interested in you, though
you:
what?
scaramouche:
your bio
the first thing it says, horny virgin
thats real right?
not some marketing bullshit like the other girls on here
you:
it’s real
scaramouche:
fuck thats hot
You stare at your screen, wide eyed, trying to ignore the feeling of your cunt, aching, clenching around nothing…
Because of him.
you:
…
scaramouche:
i mean it
the virgin thing drives me insane
but you already know that from stalking my account
you:
uh, no i wasn’t
scaramouche:
mhm…
yeah sure
tell that to my inbox
stalker tip: try not to like every single post of mine that you scroll past, even though i always get a shit ton of likes, i can see when a mutual likes my post
You didn’t think about it till now that you’re mutuals with him on here, you followed him, and he followed you.
He continues typing.
scaramouche:
its hot thinking about some cute girl who’s never been touched for real
who only knows what it feels like from toys
and whos been practicing on dildos for years without having the real thing
you:
i haven’t been practicing for years
i’ve only been doing this for like… a year tops
scaramouche:
even better
a year of making content
a year of showing off that pretty little body and nobody gets to actually have it
thats so fucked up dont you think?
you:
i guess when you put it that way
scaramouche:
and then i look at the shit you post
"soft girl with soft moans & a tight grip" "wanna b ur brainless toy" "force me to take it"
you srsly write all that and youre still a virgin?
you:
those r just marketing
it’s what subscribers want to hear
you should know this
scaramouche:
is it though?
because i watched ur videos
and you dont look like youre faking it
you look like you mean every dirty word
You don’t have a response for that, because he is actually right. You do mean it, every filthy caption, every desperate moan, every time you beg the camera to use you, you mean it.
You just never thought you'd actually get to experience it.
scaramouche:
so here what i wanna know
with all the subscribers you have
all the men in your comments, begging, offering to fly you out and fuck you on camera
why are you still untouched
you:
because they’re all disgusting
dont u see half or most of them are like 40 yr olds with wives??
plus i dont want my first time to be with some random guy who just wants content
scaramouche:
what do you want then
you:
i dont know
something real ig
someone who actually gives a shit about me
scaramouche:
thats cute
naive
but cute
you:
whats that supposed to mean
scaramouche:
it means you’re in the wrong industry for romance sweetheart
but i respect it
it’s rare nowadays
You're blushing so hard your cheeks could probably boil an egg.
He called you sweetheart.
Sweetheart.
It shouldn't affect you this much. It's probably something he says to all the girls.
But still.
you:
so why r u messaging me if you’re not trying to fly me out or whatever
scaramouche:
maybe i am
you:
oh
scaramouche:
would that be so bad?
you:
i mean yes? i dont know you
scaramouche:
you know what i do
you know what i look like
you know how i treat the girls in my videos
you also know that im more age appropriate than the creeps in your dm’s
thats more than what most people know about each other before they fuck
you:
thats different
scaramouche:
how
you:
it just is
scaramouche:
youre scared arent you
you:
im not scared
im just cautious
scaramouche:
same thing but whatever
i get it tho
random guy on the internet wants to meet up
thats serial killer energy i know
you:
it is a little bit
scaramouche:
fair but for what it’s worth i dont live in japan
so i wouldn’t have to fly u there if you change your mind
i just go to japan sometimes for vids, i actually live in [insert city/town/whereever you live name]
Your heart stops.
That’s where you live. The same area your apartment is in, the same place where your campus is in.
He’s so much closer than you thought.
you:
wait srsly??
scaramouche:
yeah, why?
r u from there too?
you:
…maybe
scaramouche:
holy shit
small world
or maybe the algorithm knows more than we thought
you:
that’s kinda creepy
scaramouche:
it’s extremely creepy
but also very convenient if you ever wanted to meet up
you:
i don’t know about that
scaramouche:
no pressure
just saying the options here
You've spent the last hour watching his videos, cumming to his voice, imagining yourself as one of the girls he ruins on camera. And now he's in your DMs, telling you he lives in your city, offering to meet up.
This is insane.
And also dangerous.
And also everything you've fantasized about.
scaramouche:
you dont have to decide rn
im not going anywhere
just think ab it
you:
okay ill think about it
scaramouche:
good girl
You’re too fucking easy, because those two small words makes your entire body feel hot, and you have to press your thighs together to relieve some of the pressure
scaramouche:
you liked that
didn’t you
you:
what
scaramouche:
being called a good girl
i can practically feel you squirming through the screen
you:
get over urself
im not squirming
scaramouche:
liar
you:
shut up
scaramouche:
make me
You’re going to die, literally, actually going to combust right here in your bed, and they’ll find your body in the morning, still holding onto your phone, still blushing.
You need to end this conversation before it spirals into you giving in.
you:
i need to go to sleep
scaramouche:
running away already?
you:
im not running away
im just tired
i had a superrr long stream tonight
scaramouche:
yeah i watched a little of it
u looked all cute
all fucked out and desperate
you wish you had someone there to actually take care of you after, don't you?
Oh fuck do you. So bad…
You wish he was that someone.
you:
maybe
scaramouche:
think ab that too while you’re “sleeping”
you:
you’re insufferable
scaramouche:
really now?
and yet…
you haven’t blocked me
you:
goodnight scaramouche
scaramouche:
scara
you:
what?
scaramouche:
call me scara
only people i like get to use the full name
you:
okay
goodnight, scara
scaramouche:
night virgin
dream about me
You close the app before you can say anything else stupid.
Your heart is pounding, head spinning, and you’re still so wet, still needy, and now you have a name, and a face to attach to all of your desperate fantasies.
You're not going to sleep tonight.
You know that already.
You're going to lie here in the dark and think about him. About his voice that you can only imagine in Japanese because that’s all you’ve heard. About his hands… About all the things he does to those girls in his videos and how badly you want him to do them to you.
But you can't.
You won't.
Because if you meet him, if you let him take your virginity, he'll just add you to his collection. Another video, another conquest. Another girl who fell for his pretty face and annoying pretty and cruel hands.
And then he'll move on to the next one.
And you'll be left with nothing but a video and a broken heart.
You want him. You know that now, with painful clarity.
But you want him to stay.
And you don't know if he's capable of that.
Two weeks.
It’s been two weeks since Scara slid into your DMs, and somehow, against all logic and reason, he’s still there.
You expected him to ghost you.
That's what guys like him do, right?
They message a girl, realize she's not going to put out immediately, and move on to someone easier. You were prepared for the silence, had already started bracing yourself for the inevitable.
It never came.
He’d send you videos, porn videos he found on twitter.
scaramouche:
[video attachment]
this is what id do to u btw
just so yk
you:
oh my god scara wtf
u can’t just send me stuff like that at 2pm
scaramouche:
um why the fuck not?
r u at school or something
you:
yes actually
im literally in the middle of a lecture
scaramouche:
boringgggg
watch the video
you:
im not watching porn in class scara
scaramouche:
coward
It wasn’t always porn that you’d both talk about though, he’d send you other things…
scaramouche:
[image attachment]
you:
lol is that build a bear
scaramouche:
it’s a fucking sanrio build a bear
it’s YOUR fault my algorithm is ruined
now i see this dumb shit constantly
you:
aww
that’s so cute though??
scaramouche:
it’s not cute
it’s annoying
i used to get porn content now i get plushies and dumb pastel room tours
you:
sounds like an improvement tbh
scaramouche:
i hate you
He was also still in the subject of wanting to meet with you, in real life.
scaramouche:
[video attachment]
notice how she taps out at the end?
you:
yeah
scaramouche:
i wouldn’t let u tap out
you:
…
scaramouche:
just saying for when we meet
you:
IF we meet
scaramouche:
when
You clicked on his profile one night, just to check. Just to see if he's posted anything new.
He hasn't.
No new videos.
No new photos. Nothing in the same amount of time he’s been chatting with you.
That's... unusual. He used to post constantly. New girls every few days, new content every week. Now there's nothing.
You're not sure what that means.
But then you notice something else.
His following count. The little number that shows how many accounts he follows.
1
Just one.
You tap on it, expecting it to be private, and it is. But you already know.
It's you.
Out of everyone on this app, all the girls in his DMs, all the creators he could be following... he only follows you.
Your heart does something complicated in your chest that you don’t understand.
You don't mention it to him.
At some point, you both exchanged numbers.
scaramouche:
hey y/n
we should exchange numbers
you:
why…
scaramouche:
bcuz twitter dms r annoying and i wanna text u without the app crashing every 5 minutes
you:
idk…
scaramouche:
im not asking for nudes
well even though you have it all posted already
i just want ur number so we can talk easier
you:
ughh
okay
fineee [number]
scaramouche:
finally
check ur texts
You check your texts and there's a message from an unknown number.
3058291193: hey virgin
You save his contact with a little purple heart emoji next to his name.
You both start texting more now that you both don't have to open Twitter just to message each other. It's nice, fun... but you also want to know more about him.
So one day, you ask.
you:
we’ve known eachother for like almost 2 weeks now
and i barely know anything about u
tell me something ab u
scara:
uhhh
like what
you:
why do u do this content
i mean… you clearly don’t need the money
scara:
the fuck
how do u know that
you:
your house in the vids
ur clothes
everything about u screams rich
scara:
observant now?
yeah okay
my mom is super loaded
shes some corporate bitch who cares more ab her company than her own son
she barely knows i exist
so i spend her money however i want and she doesn’t gaf
you:
that sounds so lonely
scara:
dont psychoanalyze me
or im blocking u
you:
sorry
scara:
it’s fine
ur not wrong
it’s just annoying when ppl are right about me
After that conversation, he started talking more about himself.
scara:
i have a cat btw
you:
wait… rly?
i didn’t expect that
scara:
black fur, golden eyes
her name is kuroneko
it means black cat in japanese
yes i know thats basic shut up
you:
aww thats so cute
can i see her??
scara:
[image attachment]
you:
OH MY GOD SHES SO PRETTY
scara:
shes a bitch actually
hates everyone but only tolerates me
you:
sounds like someone i know…
scara:
fuck off
You find out more and more about Scara. How he speaks Japanese fluently because his mom sent him to international schools growing up. How he lived in Tokyo for three years before moving back here. How he absolutely hates sweets, can’t stand anything too sugary…
except for you…
Tonight, you’re in your bed after a long day of school, you skip filming to talk with Scara like you normally do.
scara:
yk what i dont get
you:
what…
scara:
why u wont let me meet u
you:
ughhh scara
we’ve been over this
scara:
have we though?
because everytime i bring it up you change the subject
or you say you’re not ready
or you make some shitty excuse
you:
scara…
scara:
im srs two weeks we’ve been talking
i message you everyday
i havent posted shit because im too busy thinking ab u and u still wont tell me why you’re so scared
im not a stranger to u anymore, y/n
You stare at your phone for a long time.
You’ve been making excuses, not wanting to give the real answer everytime he’s too close to it.
But tonight, for some reason, you're tired of pretending.
you:
okay fine
u wanna know why im scared?
scara:
duh
it’s what ive been asking this whole time
you:
because you’re going to leave
scara:
what
you:
after you take my virginity and film the video you’re going to leave
and go back to making content with other girls
and im just going to be another video in your collection, another girl you fucked and moved on from
He doesn’t respond, and you keep going.
you:
and i dont know if i can handle that scara
because i actually like you, and i like talking to you all night
and then that’ll all just be over once we meet up
The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again.
You wait.
And finally…
scara:
you’re so fucking pathetic
you:
wow
thanks
scara:
no i mean it
thats the most pathetic thing ive read
two weeks of bullshit when you could’ve just said that from the beginning
you:
so what? r u going to make fun of me now?
scara:
no im gonna tell u something and you’re going to listen, okay?
you:
okay
scara:
i havent posted in 2 weeks because everytime i think about filming with some girl whos offering in my DM’s, all i can think about is you
and how it should be you
and how everyone else would just be a waste of time
and im the one who reached out to you first when i normally dont
do u understand what im saying?
you:
i think so
scara:
good bcuz thats all your getting
my pride can only take so much
You read his message, over and over, trying to convince yourself that they're real, trying to convince yourself that he likes you just as much as you like him.
you:
okay
scara:
okay what
you:
okay ill meet u tmr after school
u can come by my place
scara:
are you serious
you:
yes im serious
i want to
i’ve wanted to this whole time i was just scared
scara:
and now?
you:
still scared but more scared of never knowing what this could be
scara:
…send me your address
you:
[address]
scara:
ur fucking kidding me
you’re 5 miles away from me
you:
wow really
scara:
i could’ve been fucking you for 2 weeks
you:
scara
scara:
im kidding
kind of..
ill be there tmrw what time specifically
you:
my last class ends at 3… so maybe 5?
gives me time to get ready
scara:
k
ill bring my camera equipment in case yours is shit
you:
it’s not shit
scara:
we’ll see
goodnight virgin
sleep tight, because tmr you’re going to be ruined
you:
goodnight scara
You don't sleep.
I mean, who would in a situation like this?
You drift in and out, feeling both anxiety and anticipation.
Tomorrow.
It’s happening tomorrow.
After two weeks of texting, flirting, you’re finally going to meet him.
And he's going to take your virginity.
And film it.
And maybe, possibly, hopefully, not disappear afterward.
The next day is absolute torture.
Every class drags on forever.
Every lecture feels like it's being delivered through molasses.
You check your phone constantly, rereading your conversation with Scara, making sure it really happened. Making sure you didn't imagine it.
You didn't.
Your last class ends at 3:07. You're out the door by 3:08, practically running to your apartment.
You do that stupid Cassie routine in Euphoria. Shower, shave, exfoliate everywhere. Everywhere. Moisterize every inch of your body with the expensive lotion that makes your skin feel like silk and look insanely good for the cameras. You do your makeup, lighter than usual, the kind of look that you wear in class, soft and pretty.
Because you asked him over text to blur your face out in the video, that you didn’t want to dress up too much because you dont wanna be in makeup and a wig getting your virginity taken.
He didn’t care, if anything, he loved it, how he gets to see the real you the fans don’t get to see.
You take forever finding the right clothes to wear. You don’t want to wear anything revealing, you dont want to be standing there with your tits out when he walks in. You want… something in between. Cute but not too desperate, sexy but not aggressive.
You settle on a pink bra, lacey, with a little bow between the cups. Matching panties, obviously. A sheer babydoll top over it, soft pink that makes your skin glow.
You look at yourself in the mirror.
And realize something that makes your stomach drop.
Not only have you never been fucked before.
You've never been kissed.
You're getting all your firsts taken tonight.
scara:
omw
And in exactly 20 minutes, you hear a knock at your door.
Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears. You walk to the door on shaky legs, peering through the peephole.
He's there.
Real, solid. Not just a face on a screen anymore.
He's wearing a dark hoodie, oversized, with baggy black jeans and chunky boots. His hair is messy, falling into his eyes. He looks grunge, maybe? Alternative definitely. Like someone you'd see at a concert, not someone who makes porn for a living.
He’s also short, taller that you, definitely, but not by much. Somehow that makes him less intimidating.
Somehow, that makes him more real.
You open the door.
His eyes scan you immediately. Up and down, taking in your bare feet, your babydoll top, your face without the usual layers of camera-ready makeup.
"You look different," he says.
His voice, god, his voice. You’ve only ever heard him speak Japenese. You honestly expected him to have an accent or something, but he doesn’t have one, just this tone that makes your knees weak.
You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms. "Good different or bad different?"
"Good." He tilts his head, looking at the top of yours, before looking back down at your eyes and smiling, almost mocking. "You're much shorter than I thought."
You roll your eyes at him, "Says you."
He snorts, shrugging. "Fair enough."
For a moment, you just stand there, both of you, staring at each other. Two people who've shared every filthy thought in their heads, who've seen each other at their most vulnerable, meeting for the first time.
"Are you going to let me in?" he asks, breaking the silence. "Or are we doing this in the hallway?"
"Oh, right. Sorry. Come in."
You step aside, and he walks past you, and he smells good, expensive cologne probably.
You shut and lock your door as his eyes scan your apartment, moving through it.
He sees the pink walls, the LED strip lights set to white because hot pink looks disgusting to you, he sees the collection of plushies on your couch.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "It's like a Sanrio store exploded in here."
"Shut up."
"I'm not judging. It's very you." He picks up a Hello Kitty plush from your couch, examining it with mock seriousness. "Does she watch while you film?"
"Sometimes."
"Kinky."
You lead him to your bedroom, and he takes it all in with the same amused expression. It’s even worse than the pink shit outside your room. A huge bed with pink sheets and a duvet with brown teddy bears, plushies everywhere on the bed, fluffy rug on the floor, but what he mainly focuses on is the ring light set up in the corner, the camera equipment you use for your streams.
"Your setup isn't shit," he admits, examining your camera. "Better than I expected."
"I told you."
"You did." He sets the camera down and turns to face you. "Okay. Get on the bed."
Your eyebrows knit, glancing at the bed, and back at him. "Already?"
"Relax." He rolls his eyes. "I'm not fucking you yet. We need to talk first."
"Talk?" You tilt your head, confused.
"Yeah. You've seen my videos, right? The ones where I'm just... talking to the girl before anything happens?"
Well yes and no… you have seen them, but they’re all in Japanese. You never understood a single word he was saying.
He doesn’t wait for a response. "That's the pre-talk. I do it with everyone. Go over boundaries, safe words, what they're comfortable with." He sits on the edge of your bed, patting the space next to him. "Come here. Stop looking at me like I'm going to eat you."
"You might."
"Later,” he says with a wink.
You sit down next to him, leaving a careful gap between your bodies. He immediately closes it, shifting until your thighs are touching. You don’t move away.
"Okay," he says. "I’m not recording this one because most of my fans don’t understand english, so you can say whatever you want. First things first. Safe word?"
"Um... pink?"
"Pink." He nods. "Good choice, the one’s that are easy to remember are always the best. If you say it, everything stops. No questions. No arguments. You say pink, I stop. Got it?"
"Got it,” You say with a nod.
"Second thing. What are you okay with?"
"I... I don't know. Everything? I've never done any of this before, so I don't really know what I like."
"That's fine. We'll figure it out." His hand lands on your knee, casual, like it belongs there. You don’t pull away. "What about what you're not okay with?"
"I don't want my face in the video. Blurred, cropped out, whatever. I don't want people to recognize me."
"Done, we already chatted about that earlier, but what else?"
"I... I don't know. That's it, I think."
He's quiet for a moment, studying your face with those intense indigo eyes.
"You're shaking,” he points out, not taking his eyes off you once.
"I'm nervous,” you say with a nervous giggle.
"I can tell." His hand slides higher, resting on your thigh, just above your knee. "You've really never done this before? Any of it?"
"No."
"Not even kissing?"
Your face burns as you look down, shaking your head. "No."
You glance back up and see something change in his expression, a hungry look like you just handed him so much more then you’re already giving.
"Oh? So I'm your first everything."
"Yeah."
"Fuck." He breathes out the word like it's been punched out of him. "That's... that's so fucking hot. You have no idea."
"Scara..."
"No, I'm serious." He turns to face you fully, one hand coming up to cup your jaw. "You've never been touched by anyone. Never been kissed. Never had someone's hands on you like this." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "And I get to be the first."
You don't know what to say. Your whole body is tingling where he's touching you, every nerve ending lighting up.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks.
"You're asking?"
"First time counts. I want you to remember it, all of it."
You nod.
He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don't. His lips brush against yours, soft, tentative, nothing like the brutal way he handles the girls in his videos.
It's gentle.
It's perfect.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you melt into him. Your eyes flutter shut. Your lips part. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
When he finally pulls back, you're breathless.
"Not bad," he murmurs, thumb rubbing at your lip. "For someone who's never kissed before."
You stare at him, blinking slow, fully dazed. Your lips are tingling, actually, your whole body is tingling.
You wonder if he can see that.
"Can you..." You trail off, embarrassed.
"Can I what?"
"Do it again?"
"Yeah," he says quietly, like he was going to anyways. "I can do that."
He kisses you again. Longer this time. So much deeper. His hands tangle in your hair, tilting your head back, and you let him take control because you don't know what else to do.
You just know you never want him to stop.
When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing hard.
"Okay," he says, standing up. "I need to set up the camera."
"Now?" You ask, pouting, wanting him to come back.
"Yeah. Now." He walks over to your ring light, adjusting the angle. "You're going to sit right there, looking all fucked out and pretty, and I'm going to film what happens next."
Your heart is pounding, your lips are all swollen, and your entire body is aching with want.
He's really doing this.
It's really happening.
He positions the camera, checks the lighting, makes sure everything is perfect. Then he turns back to you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.
"Ready?"
You're not.
But you nod anyway.
The camera light blinks red.
Recording.
Scara stands at the foot of your bed, fingers going around the hem of his hoodie, he pulls it over his head and your breath catches. You’ve seen his body in videos, pale, and lean, and deceptively strong, but it’s so different in person, more real, more… overwhelming.
It’s also the first time a boy’s been shirtless in your bedroom.
"You're staring," he says.
"Sorry."
"Don't be." His fingers move to his belt, undoing it with practiced ease. "That's kind of the point."
He pushes his jeans down, stepping out of them, and now he's just in black boxers. You can see the outline of him through the fabric, already half-hard, and your mouth goes dry.
He gets on the bed.
The mattress dips under his weight, and suddenly he's right there. He sits in front of you, cross-legged, casual, like he does this every day.
He does do this every day.
Just not with you.
"Come here," he says, and it's not a request.
You lean forward, and his hand catches the back of your neck, pulling you the rest of the way. His lips meet yours, and this time it's not gentle. It’s like he’s doing it for the camera. This time it's hungry, demanding, his tongue sliding past your lips before you can even process what's happening.
You make a sound against his mouth. Something embarrassing. Something needy.
He laughs into the kiss.
His hands are everywhere, your shoulders, your waist, your hips, you can feel his hands at the hem of your babydoll top, "This is pretty," he murmurs when he pulls back just a little, fingers in the lace. "But it's in the way."
He pulls it over your head before you can respond, and a kisses you again, his fingers now at your back, unhooking your bra with practiced efficiency that should bother you but doesn’t.
The bra falls away.
He pulls back from the kiss, and his eyes drop to your chest. You resist the urge to cover yourself, to hide, because he's looking at you like you're something precious. Something he wants to devour.
"Pretty," he murmurs.
"Scara..."
"Shh." His hands come up to cup you, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you gasp. "I'm appreciating the view."
Before you can respond, he's moving you. His hands on your hips, spinning you around, pulling you back against his chest. Your back presses into his bare skin, and his so soft, warm, and solid.
"There we go," he murmurs against your ear. "That's so much better."
One hand finds your breast again, squeezing, palm warm against the soft flesh, rolling your nipple between his fingers.
His other hand slides lower.
Down your stomach, tracing the edge of your panties, where his fingers trace the edge of the lace without going any further..
"These videos you make," he says, conversational, like he's not currently driving you insane. "I've watched all of them. Every single one."
"You mentioned that."
"Did I mention the one where you sat on that vibrator for forty-five minutes without cumming?" His fingers dip below the waistband, just barely, brushing against the sensitive skin beneath. "You were crying by the end. Begging even. And you still held out."
"That was... a challenge. From a subscriber,” you breathe out, trying not to squirm.
"I know… I read the caption." His fingers slide lower, finding your folds, and you whimper. "I jerked off to that video six times. Kept thinking about how pretty you'd look if it was me making you cry. Me making you beg."
He presses his fingers against your clit, rubbing in slow circles, and your hips jerk involuntarily.
"There it is," he murmurs. "Those pretty little sounds. Just like in the videos. Except now I get to hear them in person."
"Scara..."
"Take these off." He snaps the waistband of your panties. "I want to feel you properly."
Your hands are shaking as you lift your hips, sliding the underwear down your thighs, kicking them off somewhere onto the floor. You're completely naked now, pressed against his bare chest, with nothing between his hand and your cunt.
His fingers finds your clit immediately.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're soaked, already. We've barely started and you're dripping all over my hand."
"I can't help it."
"I know you can't, that's what makes it so fun."
He circles your clit slowly, not enough pressure to do anything but tease. Your hips buck, trying to get more friction, but his other hand that was on your breast wraps around your waist, holding you in place.
"Patience," he says. "We have all night."
"Scara, please..." you whimper out, so sweet and so needy.
"Please what?"
"More. I need more…"
He laughs, and it’s that exact laugh from the first video you ever watched of him. The one that made you wet before you even knew his name.
"You want my fingers inside you?"
"Yes." You nod, desperate.
"Such a simple word… You’re going to have to beg prettier than that."
Your face burns, but you're so turned on you don't care about dignity anymore.
"Please, Scara. Please put your fingers inside me. I need to feel you. I've been thinking about it for two weeks, imagining what it would feel like, and I can't... I need..."
"Good enough."
He slides a finger inside, and the sound you make is embarrassing. High, and so desperate and completely involuntary. He's not even doing anything yet, just holding his finger inside you, letting you adjust to the intrusion.
"Tight," he murmurs. "So fucking tight. All those dildos you use and you're still this tight?"
"They're not as big as..."
You cut yourself off, embarrassed.
"As what?" He adds a second finger, stretching you open. "As me? Is that what you were going to say?"
You don't answer. Your brain is going fuzzy, all of your attention is focused on the feeling of his fingers inside you.
"You trained your throat for months," he says, still in that conversational tone, like he's discussing the weather while he finger-fucks you. "I watched you go from barely taking six inches to deepthroating that ten-inch dildo on your wall. Holding it for a full minute without gagging."
His fingers curl, pressing against your front wall, searching.
"Fifty seconds," you manage. "I could only... only do fifty seconds."
"Still impressive." He crooks his fingers, checking your expressions, seeing if he found that spot yet. "But training your throat is one thing. This..." He curls and curls still searching. "This is something else entirely."
He finds the spot.
Your whole body jerks, a broken moan spilling from your lips. He presses harder, rubbing circles against that bundle of nerves, and your vision starts to blur at the edges, your toes curling
"There it is," he says, satisfaction dripping from his voice. "That's the spot, isn't it? That's what makes you fall apart, go fucking blank."
"Oh god. Oh fuck. Scara, I can't..."
"You can." His fingers speed up, pressing harder, faster, and you can’t control the loud moan you let out, hard instictively grabbing at his arm. "You're going to take whatever I give you, and you're going to love it."
His other hand leaves your breast and wraps around your throat instead. Not squeezing hard enough to cut off air, just enough to make you aware of how completely he has you.
"Look at you," he murmurs. "Shaking already. Just from my fingers. Imagine what you're going to do when I actually fuck you."
You can't imagine it. You can barely think. All you can do is feel, the pressure building between your legs, the heat of his body behind you, the grip of his hand on your throat.
He adds a third finger.
The stretch makes you gasp, pain and pleasure blurring together. He doesn't slow down. If anything, he goes faster, fucking you with his fingers like he's trying to prove a point.
"You know what my favorite video of yours is?" he asks.
You shake your head, unable to form words.
"The one where you fucked yourself on that machine for two hours straight. Where you came so many times you lost count. Where you were crying and begging and saying you couldn't take anymore, but you didn't stop." His fingers speed up, fucking into you harder, faster. "You came eleven times that stream. I counted."
"You... y-you counted?" You surprisingly manage out.
"I counted everything." His grip on your throat tightens. "Every moan. Every whimper. Every time your eyes rolled back. I have it all memorized."
His fingers find that spot again, pressing hard, and you cry out, the sound echoing off the walls of your bedroom. Your mouth falls open, gasping for air, and that's when he moves.
His hand leaves your throat, and suddenly his fingers are in your mouth instead. Two of them, pressing down on your tongue, and you suck on instinct, moaning around the digits.
"That's it," he breathes. "Fuck, that's it. That's what I want. Suck them just like that."
You suck. You suck his fingers like your life depends on it, tasting yourself on his skin, while his other hand keeps working between your legs. The combination is overwhelming. Too much and not enough all at once.
"Fuck," he groans. "You're so good at that. All that training paid off, huh? You're going to suck my cock just like that. I'm going to fuck your throat until you can't breathe, and you're going to take it, because that's what you've been practicing for."
The words push you closer to the edge.
"You're close," he observes. "I can feel it. The way you're clenching around my fingers, the way you're shaking. You want to cum so bad, don't you?"
You nod desperately, unable to speak with his fingers in your mouth.
"Too bad." He slows down, keeping you right on the edge. "I'm not done with you yet. I want to hear those pretty sounds a little longer."
You whine around his fingers, and he laughs. "God, you're pathetic," he murmurs, and it sounds like a compliment. "Completely pathetic. And I fucking love it."
He keeps you there for what feels like hours. Edging you, backing off every time you get close, until you're crying real tears and begging around his fingers for release.
"Please," you sob when he finally pulls his hand from your mouth. "Please, Scara, I can't... I need..."
"Need what? Say it."
"I need to cum. Please. Please let me cum."
"Okay." His fingers speed up one final time. "Cum."
You shatter.
The orgasm rips through you like nothing you've ever felt before. Your whole body convulses, clenching around his fingers, and the sound you make is somewhere between a scream and a sob. He works you through it, extending the pleasure until you're twitching and oversensitive.
Then he pulls out.
You collapse against him, boneless, breathing hard, shaking. You've made yourself cum hundreds of times on camera, but it's never felt like that.
"Good girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "That was beautiful."
Then he pushes you off.
You land on your back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe. Your whole body is tingling. Your cunt is throbbing. And he's not done.
You hear the rustle of fabric, of something hitting the floor.
You lift your head to look.
He took off his boxers.
And his cock… is big.
You've seen it in videos before, sort of. Japanese censorship laws meant he always had to blur it, pixelate it beyond recognition. Sometimes he got lazy with the editing and you can almost make out the shape. But you've never seen it clearly.
It's bigger than you thought.
You’re almost an expert at dildos, which translates into dicks. You’re able to tell how long they are just by a glance, and you’d estimate his is about 8 inches, at least.
"Fuck," you breathe.
"That's the plan."
Your hand reaches out before you can stop yourself.
You wrap your fingers around him, feeling the weight, the heat, the way he throbs in your grip. It's nothing like the dildos you've practiced with. It's warm and alive and so, so real.
You’d never use dildos again if you had the real thing everyday.
"Eager," he says, but he doesn't stop you. Just watches, eyes dark, as you stroke him slowly. "You're supposed to be a virgin."
"I am a virgin." You look up at him, voice almost tired, still recovering.
"Could've fooled me." He lets you touch him for a few more seconds, then grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away. "But I didn't come here to get a handjob."
He comes closer, positioning himself between your legs. You spread them automatically, making room for him, and he settles into the space like he belongs there.
"This is going to hurt," he says. Not a warning. Just a fact as he rubs his cock slowly against your folds, almost teasing.
"I know." You say, anxious, but just wanting to get the hard part over with already.
"You might bleed."
"Wait really? I thought that was a myth…" Your brows knit, getting distracted way too quickly.
"You could,” he says, not dwelling on the subject further, “And I'm not going to be gentle."
Your breath catches, you nod slow. "I know."
He grabs one of the cameras he'd set on the bed earlier, angling it down between your bodies. The other cameras are already positioned around the room, capturing everything from multiple angles, but this one will get the close-up.
The money shot.
"Any last words?" he asks, almost mocking.
You shake your head, rolling your eyes despite the whimpers you’re letting out, feeling his cock, warm, heavy, just resting ontop of your cunt. "Just... do it. Before I lose my nerve."
He smiles, cruel and so adoringly beautiful at once.
And then he pushes inside.
Easing in? Not his style at all. He slides all the way to the hilt in one smooth thrust, and the scream that tears from your throat is unlike anything you’ve made before.
It hurts.
It hurts so fucking bad.
You feel like you're being split in two, like he's too big, too much, like your body wasn't made to take this. Tears spill down your cheeks, and you grab at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
He doesn't stop.
He starts to move, slow but not gentle, pulling out halfway before pushing back in. The camera in his hand stays steady, like he’s a pro at this, documenting everything, while his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise.
"There it is," he breathes. "Fuck, there it is. That's what a virgin feels like. So fucking tight. So fucking perfect."
"It hurts," you whimper. "Scara, it hurts..."
"I know." He leans down, still moving, still fucking you, and his lips brush against your cheek. "I know it hurts. But you're taking it so well. Such a good girl."
Tears are streaming down your cheeks. He notices, and instead of stopping, he leans down and kisses them. His tongue traces the wet tracks on your skin, collecting your tears, tasting your pain.
"So pretty when you cry," he says against your cheek. "I've always thought so. All those videos where you make yourself cry from overstimulation. But this is better. This is real."
He keeps moving, slow and deep, and gradually the pain starts to fade. It doesn't disappear completely, but it transforms into something else, a burning fullness that makes your toes curl.
"That's it," he says, feeling you relax around him. "There you go. Starting to feel good, isn't it?"
You nod, biting your lip.
"Use your words."
"Yes," you manage. "Yes, oh god, yes..."
He speeds up.
The camera is still in his hand, still recording, but his attention is on you now. On the way your face changes, pain melting into pleasure. On the sounds you're making, those sweet, cute moans that you're not even trying to hold back anymore.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he says, voice rough. "Two weeks of watching your videos, imagining it was me inside you instead of those stupid toys. And now I'm finally here. Finally fucking you for real."
He changes the angle, and suddenly he's hitting his cock deep inside the spot that makes your vision blur. You cry out, back arching, and he does it again. And again. Finding that spot and abusing it mercilessly.
"That's the one," he says, satisfied. "Found it, again. You make the cutest fucking face when I hit it."
"Scara... Scara, I'm gonna..."
"Already?" He laughs, mean and delighted, hitting that spot again, again, again. "We just started. You're really that easy?"
"I can't help it... it feels so good..."
"Then cum." He fucks you harder, faster. "Cum on my cock like the desperate little slut you are. Show the camera how good I make you feel."
You cum so hard you see stars.
Your whole body convulses, walls clenching around him, and you're pretty sure you're screaming but you can't hear anything over the blood rushing in your ears. He fucks you through it, doesn't slow down at all, and when the first orgasm starts to fade, the second one is already building.
"Good girl," he breathes. "That's my good girl. One down, how many more to go?"
He loses count somewhere around the fifth.
"Up."
His voice cuts through the haze of pleasure, and you look up at him, dazed. He's pulled out, leaving you empty and aching, and he's sitting back on your headboard, cock still hard and glistening with your slick.
"What?"
"Come here." He grabs your hips, hauling you up, and suddenly you're straddling him. His cock presses against your entrance, and you whimper. "I want you to ride me."
"I don't... I don't know how..."
"Mhm, don’t worry, I'll teach you." He guides your hips, lifting you up, positioning his cock at your entrance. "Sink down. Slow."
You sink Inch by inch, feeling him fill you up again, until you're fully seated in his lap. The angle is different like this. Deeper. You can feel him in places you didn't know existed.
"Now move." His hands are on your hips, guiding you. "Up and down. Just like that. Find your rhythm."
You start to move. It's awkward at first, clumsy, but then something clicks and suddenly it feels amazing. You're in control, setting the pace, taking what you need.
"That's it," he murmurs, watching you with dark eyes. "Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me what you've got."
You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder, and grind down onto him. He groans, hands tightening on your hips, and you feel a surge of power. You did that. You made him make that sound.
You're so close to him like this, chest to chest, his breath on your lips. It feels intimate in a way you weren't expecting. More like making love than making content.
"Kiss me," you whisper.
He doesn’t hesitate, he kisses you, deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours while you ride him. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, and for a moment it's just the two of you, the cameras forgotten.
Then, he breaks the kiss, as if remembering what it is you both are supposed to be shooting.
"Faster," he demands.
You go faster.
You bounce on his cock, chasing the pleasure, and he watches with heavy-lidded eyes. One hand slides up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to look at him.
"Pretty," he says. "So fucking pretty. Taking my cock like you were made for it."
"Scara..."
"You know how many girls have been in this position? How many have ridden my cock on camera?" He yanks your hair harder, and you moan. "None of them felt like you. None of them were this tight, this wet, this desperate."
"Please..."
"Please what? Use your words."
You whine, grinding even more desperately. "Please... harder... I need..."
He laughs, and then he flips you.
One second you're on top, the next you're on your back with your legs over his shoulders and he's fucking into you so hard the headboard slams against the wall. The angle is brutal, hitting deep, and you can't do anything but lie there and take it.
"This is what you wanted, right?" His voice is rough, strained. "To be ruined? To be fucked so hard you can't think straight?"
"Yes," you sob. "Yes, yes, yes..."
"Then take it. Take all of it."
He cums inside you.
You feel it, hot and thick, filling you up as he groans and shudders above you. His hips keep moving, fucking his cum deeper, and you cum again just from the feeling of it.
When he finally pulls out, you're a mess. Cum leaking from your cunt, tears drying on your cheeks, whole body trembling with aftershocks.
He looks down at you with something like satisfaction.
"We're not done yet."
Content like this calls for lots of positions being changed, different ways you both fuck, constantly moving, constantly trying different things.
After probably your 14th orgasm of the night, you’re on the bed, propped up on your hand when you suggest, "I want you to fuck my face."
He pauses in the middle of repositioning the camera, eyebrows raised. "What?"
"The first video I saw of you." Your voice is hoarse, wrecked from moaning. "You were fucking that girl's throat. Making her choke. I want... I want you to do that to me."
"I remember that video." He sets the camera aside, turning to look at you with renewed interest. "She tapped out three times and I didn't stop."
"I know."
"And you want me to do that to you."
"Yes."
He smiles slow, and the look he gives you is predatory.
"Lie on your back."
You position yourself how he wants, your head close to your pillows, looking up at him. From this angle, his cock looks even bigger, hard again already, glistening with your combined fluids.
He stands over you, cock in hand, and taps it against your lips.
"Open."
You open your mouth, and he slides in.
You've practiced this. Months of training with dildos, learning to relax your throat, to breathe through your nose, to suppress your gag reflex. But nothing could have prepared you for the real thing. The heat of his cock, the weight. The way he pulses against your tongue.
He slides in slowly at first, letting you adjust to the angle. But then his hips start to move, and slow goes out the window.
He fucks your face.
There's no other word for it. His cock slides down your throat, cutting off your air, and then pulls back just long enough for you to gasp before plunging in again. The sounds are obscene. Wet, gurgling, choking sounds that would embarrass you if you could think about anything besides the cock in your throat.
"Fuck," he groans, falling foward, his head falling down onto one of your pillows. "Your mouth feels amazing. Better than I imagined. You really did train for this, didn't you?"
He keeps going, humping your face with desperate little thrusts, and the sounds he's making are nothing like the controlled, mocking ones from before. These are raw, unfiltered. Almost vulnerable.
You start to choke for real. Your hands come up, slapping against the backs of his thighs, the universal signal for "I need air."
He doesn't stop.
Instead, his knees move, pressing down on your arms, trapping them away from trying to signal for anything. You're pinned now, completely helpless, unable to tap out or push him away.
"There we go," he groans. "That's better… no tapping out, no escaping. You just lie there and let me use your throat like the good little fuckdoll you are."
He picks up the pace, driving into your throat over and over. You can't breathe, can barely think, your vision starting to blur around the edges. Your thighs rub together, desperate for friction, and he laughs.
"Getting wet from choking on my cock? Fuck, you're perfect. Listen to that sound." He thrusts particularly deep, and you gag violently. "That wet, sloppy, choking sound? That's the sound of your throat being trained by something real."
Just when you think you might pass out, he gets up from your pillow and he pulls back. You gasp for air, chest heaving, drool and tears covering your face.
He gives you five seconds.
Then he's back in your mouth, fucking your throat like he's trying to break you.
"Gonna cum down your throat," he grunts. "And you're gonna swallow every drop. That's what good girls do, right? That's what you always say in your videos?"
You try to nod, but you can't move. You just lie there, throat open, accepting whatever he gives you.
He buries himself deep and cums.
You feel it pulsing down your throat, hot and thick, and you swallow on instinct. He holds himself there, grinding against your face, riding out his orgasm, until finally he pulls out.
You gasp for air, coughing, drool and cum running down your chin, your whole body trembling.
He looks at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
The positions blur together after that.
He fucks you from behind, face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air. He fucks you on your side, one leg hooked over his shoulder.
Then, he lifted you off the bed like you weighed nothing at all. Your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the air out from your lungs, and you could already feel his cock pushing inside.
"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, and you obey, ankles locking behind his back, thighs squeezing his waist. The new angle lets him sink even deeper, and you cry out, nails raking down his shoulders.
"Fuck… Good girl." His voice is strained, arms flexed as he holds you up, and you can see the slight muscles in his forearms working.
Every thrust pushes you up the wall, your back scraping against the plaster. It hurts, you can feel the friction burning your skin, but the pain just makes the pleasure more real.
"You know how many times I've thought about this?" He fucks up into you, brutal and deep. "Having you pinned like this. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Just taking whatever I give you."
"Scara..." Your head falls back against the wall, eyes rolling. The angle is hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur.
"That's it." He shifts his grip, one hand sliding under your ass to support you better, the other coming up to wrap around your throat. "Look at me. I want to see your face when you fall apart."
You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed, that perfect composure finally cracking. He looks almost as wrecked as you feel.
"You're so fucking tight like this," he groans. "Squeezing me so hard. Like your body doesn't want to let me go."
"It doesn't," you gasp. "I don't. Please don't stop, please..."
"Couldn't stop if I wanted to." His hips snap forward, driving you up the wall, and you swear you see stars. "You feel too good. Took one look at this tight little cunt and knew I was fucked."
The hand on your throat squeezes, cutting off your air just enough to make your head spin. Your legs are shaking, your arms are shaking, everything is shaking, and he just keeps going, fucking you against the wall like he's trying to leave an impression of your body in the plaster.
"Cum for me," he demands. "Right now. Let me feel you pulse around me."
You don't have a choice. Your body obeys him without your permission, clenching around him as the orgasm rips through you. He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, and when you finally go limp in his arms, he's still hard inside you.
"Good," he breathes. "Now let's see how many more we can get out of you before your legs give out completely."
More and more positions blur after that one, and at some point, you’re on your knees, carefully placed on your soft rug of course.
You're grateful for that, the soft rug. You've been down here for what feels like hours, jaw aching, lips swollen, looking up at him while he holds the camera and watches you worship his cock.
"Eyes up here," he says, tilting the camera down to catch your face. "I want them to see those pretty eyes when you choke."
You look up at him through wet lashes, his cock heavy on your tongue. He's not moving, not yet. Just letting you hold him there, drool pooling in your mouth, waiting for permission.
"You look good like this." He traces the outline of your stretched lips with his free hand. "On your knees where you belong. Mouth full of cock. Barely able to breathe." His thumb wipes at the drool running down your chin. "This is what you were made for, isn't it?"
You try to nod, but it's hard with your mouth this full.
"Don't answer that. It was rhetorical." He starts to move, slow shallow thrusts that make wet sounds echo through the room. "I already know the answer. I've seen you practice on those dildos for hours. But they were never enough, were they?"
He pushes deeper, hitting the back of your throat, and you gag around him. The camera catches everything.
"Plastic can't compare to the real thing." He pulls back, lets you breathe for half a second, then pushes back in. "Can't feel you choking. Can't hear the sounds you make. Can't watch the tears fall down your pretty face."
Your eyes are watering. You can feel the mascara running, can feel how messy you must look, but he's looking at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"Take it deeper," he instructs. "Show me what you learned."
You relax your throat, let him slide further, until your nose is pressed against his stomach and you can't breathe at all. The camera is right there, capturing the way your throat bulges around him.
"Fuck." His voice cracks, almost breaking from the feeling of your mouth. "Fuck, that's perfect. Hold it. Hold it for me."
You hold, five seconds… ten… fifteen. Your lungs are burning, tears streaming down your face, but you don't pull back. Not until he does it for you.
"Breathe."
You gasp, sucking in air, and he taps his cock against your cheek. Once. Twice. Leaving wet marks on your skin.
"Open."
You open, and he slides back in, and the cycle starts all over again.
You both switched rooms at some point, change of scenery, and you led him to your bathroom.
He'd bent you over it the second you walked in, said something about the lighting being "fucking perfect" and grabbed his camera from the bedroom. Now you're pressed against the marble, watching yourself in the mirror while he fucks you from behind.
"Look at yourself," he orders, one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head up so you can't look away. "Look at what I'm doing to you."
You look.
Your reflection is a mess. Makeup smeared, hair tangled, mouth hanging open as sounds spill out that you don't recognize. Behind you, he's a study in contrast, composed and controlled, watching your face in the mirror while he drives into you.
"You see that?" He pulls your hair harder, forcing your back to arch. "That's what a ruined virgin looks like. That's what I do to girls who think they can resist me."
"I didn't resist," you gasp.
"No." He slams into you, and you watch your own face contort with pleasure. "You didn't. You spread your legs and begged for it. Desperate little thing."
The angle is brutal, every thrust pushes you into the counter, the edge digging into your hips, but you can't look away from the mirror. Can't stop watching the way his cock disappears inside you, the way his face tightens with pleasure, the way your body moves with each impact.
"This is my favorite part," he says, meeting your eyes in the reflection. "Watching you watch yourself get fucked. Seeing the exact moment you realize how pathetic you are."
"I'm not..."
"You are." He reaches around, fingers finding your clit, and you cry out. "You're dripping all over my cock, moaning like a whore, watching yourself get ruined, and you're going to cum just from seeing your own fucked-out face in the mirror."
He's right, way too fucking right. Because watching yourself, watching him, watching the everything being reflected back at you… it’s pushing you toward the edge faster than anything has.
"That's it," he murmurs, rubbing your clit in tight circles while he fucks you. "Watch yourself cum. I want you to remember exactly what you looked like."
You cum with your eyes locked on your own reflection, watching your face go slack with pleasure while he groans and spills inside you.
The mirror fogs up from your breath.
He doesn't pull out.
"Again," he says. "I want to see it again."
At some point, you end up with him sitting against your headboard, your body draped across his lap. His fingers are in your ass, slicked with lube, stretching you open while you whimper into his chest.
"You've never done this before either, have you?" he murmurs, working a second finger inside you. "Never had anything in this tight little hole?"
"No," you gasp. "Never."
"Jesus Christ." He crooks his fingers, finding a spot that makes you see stars. "You really are a virgin everywhere. Completely untouched. And now you're all mine."
"Scara..." You can barely form words. "It's too much..."
"It's not enough." He adds another finger, 3 now, and you cry out. "Not nearly enough. I'm going to ruin every part of you before this night is over."
He keeps you there for what feels like hours, working you open, making you cum over and over until you're crying and begging and promising him anything if he'll just let you rest.
But the position that stands out most is the one where he's fucking you face down into your mattress, deep and slow. His mouth is on your neck, your shoulder, your jaw, kissing and biting and marking you as his.
It feels oddly passionate for sex content.
"You feel incredible," he murmurs against your skin. "Better than anyone I've ever had. Tighter. Warmer. More responsive."
"Scara..."
"I love how you say my name." He bites down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, hard enough to bruise. "Say it again. I want everyone who watches this to know exactly who's ruining you."
"Scara. Scara, please..."
"Please what?"
"I don't know." You're crying again, overwhelmed. "Just... more. I need more."
He gives you more, more thrusts, more of everything, until you're shaking apart beneath him, cumming so hard you see white.
He kisses you.
A lot.
More than he does in his videos. You've watched enough of them to know that he's usually detached, controlled, focused on the camera and the performance. But with you, he keeps leaning in. Pressing his lips to yours, or to your neck, or at your breasts, anywhere he could find.
"Intermission."
He pulls out, leaving you empty and aching, and collapses onto the bed beside you. You're both breathing hard, covered in sweat and other fluids, and you've lost count of how many times you've cum.
"I need a minute," you manage.
"Take five." He rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand, watching you. "You've earned it."
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember your own name. Every muscle in your body aches. Your cunt is sore, your throat is raw, and you're pretty sure you have bruises in places that bruises shouldn't be.
You've never been happier.
"Here."
You turn your head, and see him holding out his hoodie, the one he was wearing when he arrived.
"Put this on. I can see you shivering."
You hadn't noticed, but he's right. The sweat is cooling on your skin, making you tremble. You sit up, wincing at the soreness between your legs, and pull the hoodie over your head.
It's a little big on you. Soft and warm, and it smells just like him.
"Better?"
"Yeah." You look down at yourself, almost drowning in his clothes. "I look like a little kid."
"You look like you're mine."
The words hit you somewhere deep. You look up at him, and he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"Lie back," he says.
"What? I thought we were taking a break."
"We are." He pushes you gently onto your back, spreading your legs, and you let him. "But I've been wanting to taste you all night, and I can't wait anymore."
He settles between your thighs, his face inches from your cunt, and looks up at you through his lashes.
"Just relax. Let me take care of you."
His tongue drags through your folds, and you gasp, hands fisting in the sheets. He's not trying to make you cum this time. Not yet. He's just... tasting. Exploring. Licking up the mess he's made of you, cleaning his own cum from your cunt with gentle, thorough strokes.
"You taste like me," he murmurs against your skin. "Like us. Fucking delicious."
He eats you out slowly, lazily, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue circles your clit, dips inside you, traces patterns that make your toes curl. And the whole time, you're lying there in his hoodie, feeling more cared for than you've ever felt in your life.
When he finally makes you cum, it's soft. Gentle. A slow wave of pleasure that washes over you instead of crashing, leaving you warm and boneless and completely content.
He crawls back up your body, kissing your forehead before settling beside you.
"Fiftieth orgasm of the night," he says. "New record?"
"Definitely a new record."
He laughs, it’s not the mean laugh from before, it’s something softer, something real.
When it's finally over, you're barely conscious.
Your body feels like it's been taken apart and reassembled wrong. Every muscle aches. Your throat is raw from screaming. You can still feel him leaking out of you, cum dripping down your thighs.
He tucks you into bed. Actually tucks you in, pulling the covers up to your chin, smoothing your hair back from your face. Then he climbs out, reaching for his jeans.
You watch, dazed, as he pulls his jeans back on. He starts gathering his cameras, carefully placing them in his bag, and something cold settles in your stomach.
This is it. The part you've been dreading. The part where he leaves and goes back to his life and you become just another video in his collection.
"Are you leaving?"
Your voice comes out small, scared. You hate how vulnerable you sound.
He pauses, camera in hand, and looks at you. "Do you want me to?"
The question hangs in the air. You're still wearing his hoodie, still lying in your bed, still feeling his cum leaking out of you. And he's asking if you want him to leave.
"No." you whisper. "I don't want you to leave."
No pretense. No games. Just honest, raw need.
He puts the camera down.
You barely have time to process before he's climbing back into bed, pulling you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
"Good," he murmurs into your hair. "Because I didn't want to leave either."
His hand traces patterns on your back, soothing. After everything he's done to you tonight, the tenderness almost makes you cry again.
You tilt your head up to look at him, and he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is different from before. No heat, no desperation. Just soft and slow and achingly tender.
He tilts your chin up and kisses you.
When he pulls back, you chase his mouth.
"Needy," he murmurs, letting you kiss him again.
When you finally pull back, letting you both get some air, you can’t help asking, "What are you going to do after this?"
"What do you mean?"
"After this. After tonight." You trace patterns on his chest, avoiding his eyes. "Are you going to post the video and move on? Find another girl to film with? Go back to your life like this never happened?"
He's quiet for a long moment.
"Is that what you think?"
"I don't know what to think. That's why I'm asking."
He catches your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his eyes.
"If I don't leave," he says slowly, "if I keep coming back here, keep filming with you, keep... spending time with you outside of filming... this stops being just content. You get that, right?"
"What does it become?"
"Something else." His thumb traces your lower lip. "Something more."
"That sounds like you'd be my boyfriend."
The words hang between you. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can feel it.
"Is that what you want?"
You're quiet for a moment. Not because you don't know the answer, but because you're scared to say it out loud.
"Yes."
The word is barely a whisper.
But he hears it.
Not a smirk. Not a mocking grin. A real, genuine smile that transforms his whole face, makes him look younger, softer, almost innocent, something just for you.
"Good," he says. "Because I'm pretty sure I've been so far gone on you since that video you posted with that stupid Hello Kitty pillow."
"It's not stupid."
"It's extremely stupid." He kisses you again, soft and sweet. "But so am I, apparently. For falling for a girl I met on the internet."
"You fell for me?"
"Obviously." He rolls his eyes, tone almost sassy, but there's no heat in it. "Why else would I follow only you? Why else would I stop posting? Why else would I spend two weeks texting you instead of finding someone else?"
"I thought..."
"You thought wrong." He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin. "I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to."
I don't want you to."
"Then I won't."
You lie there in silence for a moment, processing everything that's happened. The long sex. The confession. The fact that you apparently have a boyfriend now, one who makes porn and took your virginity.
It's insane.
It's perfect.
"Scara?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I might love you."
He's quiet for way too long, and your heart plummets. But then his arms tighten around you, and his voice comes out rough.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I think I might love you too."
You fall asleep in his arms, wearing his hoodie, with his cum still inside you and his heartbeat steady under your ear.
CW: MINORS DNI, 18+ CONTENT. Cock warming, desk sex, p in v intercourse, threesome (eventually), established poly relationship?, blowjob, Kaveh and Alhaitham bickering for a few moments (lmao). Afab Reader like usual but Kaveh uses they/them when talking about you. Can’t think of anything else.
Notes: Got a bit carried away with this one.. Y’all are lucky. I almost wrote angst instead of smut tonight, so be glad my dr appointment went well 😒 Another Kaveh prompt, I’m not sorry. Also, totally late again- I’ll try to post on time Friday.
Word Count: 2476
Usually, Kaveh’s focus on his work was nothing but sharp- he could sit for hours, hands dragging a pencil along the page and erasing lines over and over. Especially when it came to major projects with deadlines fast approaching.
Tonight, however, his attention was not even close to being focused on the almost blank page in front of him.
Instead, he was focused on you. The way your warm walls enveloped his stiff cock so perfectly. The way you’d clench around him every so often and shift- to which his hand would immediately shoot to steady you with a small scold of “Hold still.”
It had started no less than twenty minutes ago when you slipped into the office, stealing his attention away from what he had been trying to work on just moments prior. You had plopped down onto his lap like you owned the place (And in a way, he supposed you did), straddling him.
He was weak to you and your touch- something you knew very well. It didn’t take long before you were sweet and pliant on his cock, warm walls encasing his length.
It took a great deal of restraint not to fuck you then and there- instead allowing you to cock warm him as he attempted (key word being “attempted”.) to continue the rough sketch of some building he was commissioned for.
“Don’t.” He warned under his breath as he felt your hips shift once again, his cock twitching inside of you, “Hold still or I’ll kick you from the office.”
“But would you really?” You purred with a shit eating grin, eyes flickering up to meet Kaveh’s as you gave him an innocent look- only earning a huff of “Shut up.” under his breath in return.
Feigning a yawn, you hid your face against his neck, arms loosely around the blond’s waist. The lack of stimulation was getting to you and you couldn’t tell if you wanted to grind against him or just start stimulating yourself.
“Can’t you take a break?” You asked, giving him the most pleasing look you could muster- he was always weak to the puppy dog eyes, “You haven’t paid any attention to me all day.”
“You’re the one who decided to come in here.” He spoke, stress leaking into his tone, “Now behave and sit still until I’m done- then you can have my attention.”
You huffed in reply, cheeks puffing. The plan you had oh so meticulously prepared wasn’t working out. He was supposed to be fucking you senseless, not focusing on the draft in front of him.
But, knowing better than to keep pushing buttons, you just leaned against him. The last thing you wanted was to piss him off and have him kick you from the office until he’s done.
It was getting kind of hard to not move around though- the feeling of him filling you up but not moving was practically driving you insane. The stimulation wasn’t nearly enough to get you off, but his small shifts along with your own as you got comfortable kept you wet and needy.
By the time he had finished- or at least decided he was done for the day- you were about to start crying and begging for something. Anything. This lack of stimulation was killing you.
“Okay.” Kaveh hummed, hands moving to your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles as he smiled down at you, “I’m sorry for being snappy.” His lips pressed to your cheek.
You just muttered out a small, dismissive reply, lips pursed. It wasn’t like you didn’t understand.
With a sigh, Kaveh pressed another, softer kiss to your lips, only lingering for a moment, “I think I owe you something.”
His hands were gentle as he guided you off his cock, eliciting a sharp whimper from the emptiness to slip from your throat- but he shushed you quietly and positioned you to be lying on the desk, back resting against the wood.
He stood between your legs, your ankles hooking behind his back automatically as he sank back into your warmth- drawing soft noises from both of you.
Kaveh, ever the vocal one, buried his face against your neck with a grunt, “Fuck.” His voice was breathy, and he could feel the way your warm walls clamped around his achingly hard cock.
Arms resting on either side of your head, he began to steadily move his hips back and forth- slow at first but quickly picking up in pace. Soft noises slipped from your lips before you could even stop them, your head falling back against the table.
“So pretty like this.” Kaveh grunted, panting while he leaned over you. His cock hit the deep spots inside you that had you seeing stars- drawing more and more noises from your pretty lips.
Pressing his lips against yours in a deep kiss, he wasted no time in swirling his tongue with yours, drinking up your moans and whimpers as his thrusts hit deeper.
“Mmf-“ You gasped, head almost slamming back against the desk as a jolt of pleasure went up your spine- thankfully, one of Kaveh’s hands shot out to catch it.
“Careful, baby.” He hummed, pressing a kiss to your now exposed throat- the angle gave him perfect access to suck on the skin, leaving dark marks in his wake.
Walls spasming around his pistoning cock, all you could think about was the overwhelming pleasure you felt through your entire body. Your nails dug into his back, leaving crescent-shaped indents and small scratches as you babbled incoherent nonsense.
“Looks like you two are having fun.” Came another voice from the entrance of the office- tone unimpressed but in the usual lighthearted way that warmed both of your hearts.
Like a deer in headlights, the two of your heads snapped up to stare at the third person- calming down only after recognizing that it was none other than Alhaitham.
“I come home to my partners fucking like rabbits on my desk.” He spoke with a faux sigh, stepping further into the room. There was no genuine heat behind his words.
Kaveh flushed immediately, mouth opening to argue back like always- he had stopped moving at this point, cock still inside if you, “We’re allowed to be intimate when you aren’t here!” He huffed out.
“Never said you couldn’t.” Alhaitham shrugged, stepping to the opposite side of the desk to stand by your head- your eyes immediately flickering up to him.
“How’re you doing, beautiful?” He asked, hand moving to cup your jaw- earning a lighthearted complaint from Kaveh about how tender he was with you. He ignored it.
You just hummed nuzzling against his palm as if forgetting the fact that your blond boyfriend was currently balls deep inside of you, “‘M okay.”
Alhaitham nodded, looking back up at the other male, “I know I’m interrupting, but mind if I join?” He asked so casually as if it were another Tuesday night.
Kaveh huffed, feeling a bitter feeling of jealousy prickle in his chest, “You two get private moments all the time- but when I finally get private time with them, I have to share.”
It was silent for a few beats, your eyes flickering between your two partners- unsure of who would speak first.
“But I guess you can join.” The blond finished quietly as if accepting defeat- the small pout on his face made you giggle a little and you reached for his hand to squeeze it reassuringly.
“We can have a night just for us tomorrow if it’ll make up for it?” You offered softly, eyes full of love and tenderness.
That seemed to pique his interest and he nodded rather eagerly, a load of excitement buzzing through him as if he had won a big prize- and in a way, you guessed he had.
“You’re lucky I love you both.” Kaveh murmured before looking up at Alhaitham, “Well, hurry up if you want to join. I’m not waiting for you.” And with that, his hips started their steady rhythm again.
You gasped, walls spasming around his length from his quick movements. “Kaveh!” Your voice was shaky from the sudden pleasure, kiss-swollen lips falling agape.
Alhaitham watched you both for a few moments, a noticeable bulge growing in his pants. Finally, he pulled them down, his hardened cock springing to attention in front of your face.
The desk itself wasn’t that big- big enough for the length of your back, but your head kind of dangled off the ledge without the presence of someone to support- which was to his advantage anyway.
“Open up for me?” The scribe spoke softly, one of his fingers rubbing against your cheek again- and you followed his request, mouth falling wide for him.
His length slid into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. Sure, you’d given him plenty of blowjobs in the past, but his length was always so… overwhelming.
But if choking on dick was how you’d go out, then you’d accept that death with pride.
Tears beaded in your eyes as you tried to relax your throat so as not to gag uncontrollably- your eyes fluttered shut, allowing both of them to use your body as they pleased.
Kaveh’s thrusts into your soaked cunt we’re fast, hitting deeply and causing you to moan around Alhaitham’s length in turn- drawing the smallest of noises from him, his own hips moving to thrust into your mouth.
Drool was building on the base of his cock, drilling down your face- yet you didn’t have it in you to care much, your cheeks hollowing to increase his pleasure.
“‘M close, angel-“ Kaveh all but whimpered out, his hips stuttering against yours as his orgasm grew closer. All you could do was whimper around Alhaitham’s cock, your own release building low in your belly, walls clenching uncontrollably.
And with a very muffled moan, you came walls clamped around the blond’s length and causing his own orgasm to tumble over- painting your insides with his white seed.
Your mind was a haze of your orgasm and after jolts of pleasure, barely noticing when Alhaitham pulled out of your mouth, still fully hard. He stepped over to Kaveh, pulling the blond away so he could stand between your legs instead.
Kaveh moved with a small huff of complaint, instead moving to stand by your head, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks, forehead, lips- anywhere he could reach. “Did so good for me.” He hummed sweetly, praises soft.
Alhaitham watched as a mixture of your juices and Kaveh’s seed dribbled from your abused cunt, using his dick tip to stuff it back in before he slipped in- bottoming out with a soft grunt.
You whined almost immediately, still sensitive from your last orgasm and overstimulation already biting at you. Kaveh, for his part, soothed you quietly under his breath, hands staying cupped to your cheeks.
“One more for me, okay?” The scribe asked softly, his hands on your hips. You nodded shakily, walls clenching around him already as your thighs trembled.
Steadily, Alhaitham’s hips began a steady rhythm. A beat that didn’t change in tempo as soon as he figured out the best one. Hitting precisely at the spots that he knew would make you squirm.
And squirm you did.
You were nothing but a moaning heap on the desk, overstimulated and fucked out as your boyfriend thrusted into you. Tears began to well up oh so prettily, trickling down your flushed cheeks as choked little whines left you.
“Haitham!” You cried out, back arching off the desk slightly as you felt his cock bully your hole, thrusts not slowing. Your pleasure was growing at a rapid pace, the same feeling winding in your lower belly.
“Doing so well- just a bit more.” He murmured, burying his face against your neck. Kaveh huffed from above but continued with what he was doing- lips smoothing over your forehead before he stood and walked away.
But before you could really ask where he was going, your attention was drawn back to Alhaitham- who was now grunting quietly against your throat. He wasn’t usually one to make noises but your walls were clenching so tightly around him. His own pleasure was taking hold of his thoughts.
“Mmf-“ You cried out, the pleasure becoming overwhelming, your body dangling precariously over the edge of your next orgasm, “Close, ‘m close-“ You babbled, mind blank except for the toe-curling ecstasy you felt.
“Go ahead.” He all but purred, his hips still going in that steady rhythm- just slightly off. His own release was building up, “Let go for me, ‘kay?”
Fingers tangled in his gray locks, you whimpered pleasure only building higher and higher- a tingling sensation between your legs, a tightness in your belly like a band about to snap, and then-
You cried out loudly, mind going blank as you came again, orgasm hitting hard. Cunt fluttering around Alhaitham’s cock, walls clamped down.
“Wow.” He spoke, watching your juices squirt against his abdomen. But he couldn’t stay stuck on it for long as his own release hit him, a grunt escaping as he emptied his load into you just like Kaveh did.
He collapsed on top of you, still inside of your warm walls as the both of you panted.
Pressing a gentle kiss to your nose, he patted your cheek, “Still with me?”
It took a moment for your eyes to focus properly but you nodded slowly, brain still a bit behind on everything. A tiredness had begun to seep into you, your body limp and pliant in the best ways.
“Kaveh is running the bath.” Alhaitham murmured, voice low so as not to overwhelm you, “Think you can walk, or do you need me to carry you?”
It didn’t take a genius to answer that- especially with the way your legs were trembling.
“Can you carry me..?” You asked, voice cracking from overuse. Exhaustion pulled at you, but a warm bath sounded heavenly. Especially surrounded by your partners.
After slipping his now soft length out of you- pulling another whine from your lips that he shushed gently- his arms slid under your knees and back to lift you, walking out of the office and to the bathroom.
The bath was filling, the gentle smell of lavender filling the air. Kaveh stood from beside the tub, walking over to press a kiss to your forehead, “Bath’s almost ready, and then we’ll all cuddle the rest of the night. Sound good?”
You nodded with a hum, cheek resting against Alhaitham’s shoulder while he settled you down on the toilet lid, moving to prep you for the bath.
You were safe, warm, content- and sure, you’d wake up sore tomorrow, but that’s a problem for then.
Summary : You weren't the MC. You weren't chosen. But you loved them. This is what's left of you.
CW : Angst, fem reader, non mc reader
A/N : First of all, I'd like to apologize in advance if there are any mistakes, because this is my first time writing and English is not my first language. It's been a while since I played lads but I've had this idea in my head so I'm sorry if there are any inconsistencies with the game. I hope you'll enjoy it all the same, happy reading.
Zayne — The garden no one saw bloom
You think it began when he smiled at you. A real smile, not the one he gave to patients, not the one he wore like a mask when things weren't going well. No, a smile just for you.
One day, you made a minor error on a pre-operative report. Nothing serious. But him, Zayne, the one everyone feared for his coldness, had taken the time to correct you with a gentleness you didn't know he possessed.
And then, he had said: "You learn quickly."
Three words. And yet, it was enough for a treacherous seed to find refuge between your ribs.
You never believed in love stories. Even less in the Hanahaki disease. For you, it was fiction, a tragic tale for souls too sensitive, too fragile for this world.
But the flowers... The flowers never asked for your opinion.
You woke up one morning with a burning throat and a metallic taste on your tongue. A violet bellflower detached from your lips like an unconfessed confession. Perfect. Immaculate. Deadly.
You continued to work. To smile. To cough in the bathroom when no one was looking. To smother the damp petals in tissues that you then concealed.
To love him.
Silently. Desperately. Mortally.
Zayne saw nothing. Or perhaps he refused to see. Perhaps it was simpler that way, to pretend that your eyes didn't linger on him when he entered a room, that your breath didn't catch when his hand brushed yours.
He passed by you with his impeccable files, his meticulous analyses, his subtle perfume — that scent of pine and antiseptic that haunted you even in your dreams. That coldness that no longer frightened you for a long time.
And then there was her.
His patient. His childhood friend.
You remember the day you saw them in the hallway between two procedures. Her hair was still wet from the rain. He handed her a towel without a word. She laughed. He smiled.
That smile... it was different. Deeper. More authentic. As if all the light in the world had chosen to take refuge on his face at that precise moment.
You had never seen his face so relaxed. So alive.
Every time she came to see him between missions, you felt him change. Metamorphose before your eyes. His gestures became softer. His voice lost that characteristic coldness.
And you became transparent. Invisible.
And it was even more painful than the flowers taking root in your lungs.
You thought you could hold on. That it would pass.
But one day, as you leaned over the sink in the break room, a coughing fit doubled you over. Dozens of violet petals splashed across the immaculate porcelain, tinted red, with your red.
And Zayne walked in.
He froze. The scattered flowers, the scarlet blood everywhere. The deafening silence that enveloped you both.
He closed the door behind him. Slowly. Methodically. As if performing a delicate operation. "Since when?" His voice was barely audible.
"It doesn't matter," you replied while wiping the corner of your lips, where a drop of blood still glistened.
He came closer. Too close. You wanted to scream. Or collapse against him and let your tears soak his immaculate coat. Or kiss him, just once, to know what his lips tasted like before dying.
But instead, you laughed. A small nervous, empty laugh.
"You think it isn't real, don't you? Hanahaki. The disease of lovesick fools. You must have studied it somewhere in your forgotten old textbooks."
He said nothing. His green eyes, usually so cold, so distant, wouldn't let you go. For the first time, you saw something in them that you couldn't name. Fear? Pity? Regret?
"I thought it was a legend, too. Until you." You continued, the words escaping your mouth like frightened birds.
"Why didn't you tell anyone?" he asked, his voice betraying an emotion you had never known in him.
"Because I knew you couldn't do anything." You plunged your gaze into his. "And I didn't want... to burden you with this."
He looked away. He seemed... hurt. But not for you.
"I can slow the progression," he offered, his tone becoming clinical, professional. As if you were just another patient, another body to repair.
"But you can't cure me."
He looked at you for a long time. As if searching for a way out, a solution, a lie to cling to. As if he could rewrite history, change feelings, tear out the roots that had wrapped around your heart.
"I'm sorry," he finally whispered, the words falling between you like stones into a bottomless well. And that's what hurt you, much more than the flowers tearing apart your organs. Not that he didn't love you. You already knew that.
But that he couldn't.
Because his heart, as frozen as it might appear to the world, was already beating for someone else. And no science, no medicine, no prayer could change that.
He offered you a temporary treatment. Medications to slow the growth of the flowers. A procedure to remove them. He almost begged you to accept, his eyes shining with an urgency you had never seen in him.
But you refused.
You didn't want a meaningless survival. A body without love. A heart too empty to continue beating. You preferred to die with this feeling intact, this exquisite pain that reminded you that you had lived, that you had loved, even if in silence.
You wrote him a letter. You left it on his desk, between two surgical reports. A letter where you didn't ask him to love you back, but simply to understand why you had chosen to leave.
You don't know if he read it. You didn't want an answer.
You left alone. You chose the room furthest from the north wing, where light barely enters and silence resembles the sea.
You didn't scream. You didn't cry.
You lay down. You closed your eyes, one last time.
And the flowers did the rest.
Zayne found you a few hours later. He knew exactly where to look.
You were nothing but a cold breath, surrounded by withered violet bellflowers, and crystallized blood. A macabre work of art, almost beautiful in its tragedy.
He didn't cry.
He sat beside you, took your still warm hand — that hand he had never really held while you were alive — and whispered something that no one else heard.
Then he placed a flower in a vial. Just one.
And he placed it in Operating Room 3. On the windowsill, next to an old gardening book that you had given him one day, claiming that he needed to learn how to care for living things.
You weren't the protagonist of his story.
But you were the tragic ending of his.
Because sometimes, it's the secondary characters who leave the deepest scars.
Sylus — The codes no one decodes
The first file you decoded for him was barely six months ago.
An intruder had managed to manipulate the internal sound waves at the Onychinus headquarters. The best experts had given up, defeated by the enigma. No one had understood how. You did.
Sylus didn't congratulate you. He simply said one word: "Effective."
And that's the kindest thing he ever said to you.
This simple word had become your treasure, a rough diamond that you polished in your mind each night before falling asleep. A rare compliment from an even rarer man.
Since then, you stayed.
Not because he kept you. He never kept anyone.
But because in his silences, in his pointed looks when you fed a stray cat or when you clumsily dropped something or when you cared for your precious flowers in the small improvised garden under your office window, you had found a space.
Not a place. Not a story.
Just a possibility. And that's worse than anything.
Because possibility feeds hope. And hope is the slowest, cruelest poison there is. You fell in love with him while trying to avoid him.
You didn't look for him. But it was always him your eyes found.
You didn't want to know what he read during his rare moments of rest. But you found him asleep with annotated music notebooks, unfinished compositions.
And you never dared to tell him.
You built a wall around your heart, stone by stone, code by code, as you did with security systems. But feelings are viruses more insidious than any malware. They infiltrate. They contaminate. They destroy.
You surprised him one night, in the conference room. The 'miss hunter' as he liked to call her, had fallen asleep on data from an ancient artifact. Strands of hair fell across her peaceful face.
He removed his jacket — that jacket he never took off, like armor against the world — to cover her. He looked at her for a long time, as if she were a precious memory, a rare constellation, an equation only he knew the solution to. You never saw that tender gaze directed at you.
The day you coughed up the first flower, you were still working on a particularly complex encryption system. A pain in your chest, as if someone had plunged a knife right into your heart. A burning sensation, as if acid were flowing through your veins.
Then a blue lily fell from your mouth, silent and damp. A messenger of death wrapped in beauty. You put it in a metal box.
You didn't believe it at first. You thought it was a chemical reaction. A hallucination caused by lack of sleep.
Until others followed. Blue lilies, ever more numerous, ever larger, as if your body was becoming a funerary garden.
And that same body began to weaken. Your fingers trembled on your keyboard. Your breath became short. Your nights, battles against suffocation.
You tried to hide it. But Sylus remains Sylus.
He observes everything. Even when he pretends not to care.
He confronted you one evening, as you were leaving the office, a bloodstain betraying you at the corner of your lips.
"You're bleeding a lot. Why aren't you saying anything?" His voice was calm, almost detached. But his eyes weren't.
"It's nothing. Just a cold." You attempted a smile that turned into a grimace.
"Do you think I'm stupid? You're vomiting flowers." He said these words as if announcing the day's weather. Simple. Factual. Undeniable.
You laughed. An empty laugh, as if mocking yourself, this absurd situation, this body that was betraying you.
"Are you going to fire me for this?" You tried to joke, but the words came out more bitter than intended.
He didn't laugh.
He just narrowed his eyes. Studied every detail of your face like a code to decipher, a puzzle to solve. "What is this disease? A mutation? Did someone contaminate you?"
"It's not a disease. It's a... curse."
You said nothing more. He didn't press.
But you saw it. That gleam in his eyes. That fierce determination that characterized him when faced with enigmas.
He searched. He combed through the oldest archives he could find.
He found a forgotten word: Hanahaki.
And a truth too ugly to be spoken aloud.
He came back to see you a few days later. Late at night.
You were in the generator room, sitting on the floor, a faded lily in your hands.
"It's me... isn't it?" His voice was just a whisper, almost lost under the hum of the machines. You raised your eyes. Slowly. Painfully.
"I never asked you to love me." You simply replied.
"You never asked me for anything else either."
He crouched down in front of you. He suddenly looked older. More human. Less invincible. He extended his hand toward you as one approaches a wounded animal. You backed away.
"If I had known you were capable of love... maybe I would have lied to my heart." You laughed bitterly, the sound transforming into a painful cough.
He exhaled, as if struck by an invisible force. The words had reached him where no weapon ever could. "Why didn't you say anything?"
You shrugged.
"Because I'm not miss hunter. I'm not the one who triggers cataclysms or prophecies. I'm not the one who makes your heart beat. I'm just a line of code in your algorithm. Replaceable. Erasable."
He closed his eyes. You saw his jaw clench. He would have liked to be cruel. To accuse you. To shake you. To tell you that you were stupid to have let things go so far. But he said nothing.
Because what you were saying was true.
And truth is the only thing Sylus has never known how to fight.
You stopped coming to work. No one saw you again.
A note was found in your private files, left in an old system journal format, coded with a melody he had composed one evening when you thought he hadn't seen you crying.
"I'm sorry I didn't know how to be a story."
Simple words yet so devastating. A virus that would infect his system forever. Sylus didn't cry.
But he burned all the flowers you had left behind. As if he could erase the proof of your love. As if he could rewrite the code of your meeting.
All except one.
A blue lily.
Which he had tattooed in the shadow of his nape. Where only he knows of its existence. Where the pain remains in silence.
A beacon hidden in his own body. A reminder that even the most secure systems have their flaws. And that some codes are never meant to be deciphered.
Xavier — The time no one took
You spent your nights calibrating temporal sensors, sorting anomalies, chasing echoes that might not even exist.
Xavier spent his hunting Wanderers.
You worked on the same floor. But you lived in two different worlds.
Yet you loved him. For a long time.
Not violent or possessive love. No. The kind of silent thing that settles between two heartbeats. The kind of feeling you never confess because you know it wouldn't change anything.
He always called you by your full name. Not once had he pronounced just your first name, that nickname your close ones used, that intimacy you would have so wanted to share with him.
You knew why. You weren't her.
Not the girl who accompanied him on each of his missions.
Not the light of his past. Or of his future.
He had laughed with her several times. Sometimes you heard them from your isolated post. A mundane discussion about a music style had turned into a passionate debate. She had stolen his earbuds, a gesture so familiar, so intimate. He had let her, with a smile on his lips that you had never seen.
You, you had only taken silence from him. Professional nods. Carefully drafted anomaly reports, which he skimmed through without really seeing them.
You were just a voice in his earpiece when a breach opened. Just another biometric signature among others.
But that was enough for you.
At least, that's what you repeated to yourself each evening when returning to your empty apartment, looking out the window and dreaming of a life for two. Just you and him.
Until the day you started vomiting flowers.
The first time was after a long mission at the border of N109 zone, a particularly unstable temporal rift. Xavier and she had been stuck for forty-eight hours in a loop. You had spent all that time awake, eyes fixed on the screens, desperately searching for a solution to bring them back.
When they finally returned, exhausted, she had collapsed in his arms. He had held her against him like a recovered treasure. You had simply turned off your equipment and headed to the bathroom, where a coughing fit had bent you in half.
You had thought it was only blood, that red substance that stained your lips. But no. A blue morning glory had fallen from your mouth, with a sweet and unbearable fragrance. A macabre miracle. A beauty that was killing you from within.
You cleaned up the blood. Threw away the flower. Silent throughout, as you had always been. You didn't tell anyone. Because you knew.
Hanahaki. An ancient disease. Almost forgotten. Mentioned in the most obscure texts. And incurable, unless loved in return.
You tried to ignore it. To pretend it was a passing anomaly.
You continued to transmit data, to smile behind your glasses, to cough secretly into tissues that you then burned to leave no trace.
But your body betrayed you.
One evening, as everyone was leaving the command center after a particularly taxing day, you collapsed near the main entrance. Your legs gave way beneath you like branches too fragile. A cascade of blue flowers surged from your mouth, forming around you a crown of suffering.
Xavier, who seemed to have returned because of something forgotten, probably his watch, rushed to you. He knelt down, his blue eyes wide with shock. He saw the flowers.
"Is it a contamination? Did someone hurt you?" He asked, an expression of genuine concern on his usually stoic face.
"No... no, it's not that." You murmured, struggling to breathe between the petals obstructing your throat.
You clenched your teeth, trying to keep your throat closed, but another flower came out: blue and perfect.
He picked it up.
"This flower... is it an ancient symbol? Some kind of... death ritual?" He asked, confused, seeking a rational explanation for this phenomenon that defied all logic.
"It's not a ritual. It's a curse."
You turned your head toward him, your gaze clouded by tears you refused to let fall. "I'm sick because I love. And it's not reciprocated."
He froze. Looked at you without understanding. Then slowly, gently, his fingers tightened around the flower, almost crushing it.
"Me?"
You laughed. A dry, painful laugh that triggered a new wave of coughing and flowers.
"Who else? I don't talk to anyone else." You tried to smile, but your lips only formed a grimace stained with blood.
Silence.
You placed your hand on his cheek. A gesture you would never have dared make normally. A last gift you allowed yourself before the end.
"Don't worry. I don't want reciprocity. I'm not asking you for anything. I just want... to be able to breathe a little longer."
But you couldn't.
You died three days later. In your sleep.
Your heart gave way under the flowers that had invaded every corner of your rib cage, transforming your body into a morbid garden.
Xavier didn't speak.
He canceled all missions for a week. An unprecedented act that sparked whispers throughout the base. He erased your digital traces from the system, as if you had never existed, except for one.
In a secret corner of the archives, a file bears your name. Not your full name. Just your first name, the one he had never pronounced while you were alive.
Inside: the image of a single blood-stained flower.
And a line, written in an ancient language: "She loved me in a language I didn't speak." A late confession. An eternal regret.
For even he can never go back in time to repair the heart he broke without knowing.
Rafayel — The canvas no one saw being born
You worked right next to his studio.
Every morning, you unlocked the rusty gate, took out the brushes, and let the sun graze the incomplete canvases that waited for someone to give them life again.
You weren't a painter. Not like him. You restored.
You took dead works, forgotten, cracked by time and indifference, and tried to give them back dignity. A final brilliance.
Rafayel painted the future. Emotions. Souls. His canvases were windows open to universes that no one else saw.
And he only looked at you when you laughed.
"You still have fingers covered in varnish," he would say with a smile. "You'll end up poisoning yourself."
You laughed. You didn't care. You would have gladly let the varnish eat away at your skin down to the bone if it meant he would continue to look at you.
It was your way of existing in his eyes. Of occupying, if only for a moment, a corner of his retina. You loved him slowly. Like loving a song you've never heard in full.
Each day, a new detail was added to the fresco that Rafayel had become in your mind. The way he squinted at a canvas that resisted. How his fingers danced above a palette, seeking the perfect color. The sound of his breathing when he sometimes fell asleep on his stool, exhausted after hours of frenzied creation.
But you knew. You weren't his muse.
He never spoke of her, but sometimes he painted her. The 'miss bodyguard'. That slender silhouette that returned in his canvas with obsidian reflections.
That silhouette that wasn't you. Would never be you.
She often talks to him when she comes to his studio, laughs with him, a hand placed carelessly on his shoulder as if she had all the rights in the world. Sometimes, he offers her a brush. She laughs, hugs him. It's their ritual: a brush for each victory, each successful mission.
You, you've never received anything but his friendship. A comfortable, lukewarm friendship, like a shawl placed on the shoulders of a sick person out of pity.
The day you coughed a red anemone onto your palette, you understood.
It wasn't an allergy.
It wasn't the varnish you handled daily.
It was love. The kind you never asked for, and which kills when it isn't returned.
Hanahaki.
You immediately knew what it was.
You had read the old legends in a notebook of Lemurian mythology that Rafayel had left lying around one day.
You had prayed for it to be false.
But flowers never lie.
You continued to live. To work. To restore works that would survive long after your body had become dust. To smile when Rafayel passed by, covered in paint.
"You should sleep more," he said one day, stopping in front of you longer than usual. "You look... a bit faded. Like a color that's fading."
You didn't reply. You didn't want him to see, to know, to understand. You simply nodded, offering him a smile that was meant to be reassuring but trembled at the corners.
But he eventually saw it.
One evening, as you had come to return a notebook he had forgotten at your place during his last visit, you collapsed in his studio, at the foot of an unfinished canvas representing a field of wildflowers under a stormy sky.
A shower of red anemones covered the floor, escaping from your mouth and mingling with spatters of paint, creating a work you would never have wanted to sign.
Rafayel froze at the sight of your condition. Then he rushed over. Took you in his arms.
His hands trembled. His eyes, usually so confident when fixed on a canvas, wandered over your face with palpable panic.
"No. No, no, no. Is it me? Is it... me who did this to you?" His voice broke on the last word, like a wave on a rock.
"It's not you. It's what I feel." You whispered, the metallic taste of blood mingling with the sweeter one of flowers.
You raised your eyes to him, gently, like a final light before eternal night.
"You never promised me anything. I knew from the beginning."
"You should have told me..." Rafayel's words were tinged with remorse.
"And then what? You would have loved me out of pity? You would have painted a lie?" You shook your head, "I'd rather have these flowers. At least they're real."
He said nothing. He was crying, silently.
You placed your red-stained hand on his cheek.
"I just wanted you to know that I found you as refreshing as a new air. As vibrant as a color one discovers for the first time. Even if you never saw me, I saw you entirely. And it was beautiful. I appreciated being your friend."
You died that night, in his studio.
Silently. Without calling for help. Your body surrounded by red flowers like an offering. Rafayel refused to paint for weeks.
He let the canvases molder in a corner, the brushes dry, harden, become unusable. As if his art had died with you.
Then, one day, he returned.
And on an immense canvas, he painted a woman sitting in the light, hands stained with varnish and love, restoring a work that no one else could have saved.
No one knew her name. People stopped in front of his exhibition, touched by an emotion they couldn't name, feeling there was something profoundly true in this image, something that transcended mere representation.
But at the foot of the painting, a phrase was engraved in the wood: "She loved like one restores a damaged canvas — in silence, and until the end."
And sometimes, when light strikes the painting in a certain way, some people swear they see red anemones growing along the frame, their petals opening toward the sky like silent prayers.
Caleb — The vessel no one knew how to repair
You knew every fiber of his vessel.
Every vibration, every tremor, every tiny defect in secondary circuits that escaped automated diagnostics. You could sense when a problem would arise days before it manifested, as if the metal and wires spoke to you in a language only you understood.
It was you who taught him to recognize a trajectory anomaly by ear, sitting cross-legged in the cockpit, hands full of grease, a half-chewed piece of gum between your lips.
"You're my mechanical guardian angel," Caleb would say.
You smiled.
Because it was almost that.
You kept him alive. From a distance. You watched over him through the metal and circuits of his vessel. But never in his arms.
You loved him.
You don't really remember how it started. It was blurry.
One moment, he had offered you an energy drink on a rainy evening.
The next day, he had defended you against an odious superior who criticized your abilities.
And the day after... You had no longer wanted to repair any vessel but his. As if your hands had developed an exclusive memory of his circuits, a particular affinity for the metal that protected him from interstellar voids.
But you knew it. You were not and would never be the famous 'Pipsqueak' he spoke of with that tenderness in his voice.
You were a blurry silhouette in his rearview mirror. A comfort marker. A practical tool. Not a story. Not a future. Just a fragment of his present that would disappear as soon as he accelerated.
The first flower appeared after a particularly dangerous recovery mission. He had returned with the vessel in tatters, impact marks all over the hull, the heat shield almost destroyed.
You had worked three days and three nights without sleep to restore it. When you had finally finished, you had collapsed against the command console, exhausted but satisfied.
That's when you had coughed so hard that you doubled over.
You had coughed so hard that you doubled over.
And in the hollow of your palm, a pink flower, delicate, perfectly formed. A Bleeding Heart tinged with a red that wasn't that of the petals but of the blood that now lined your throat.
You knew immediately.
Your late grandmother had already spoken to you about it on several occasions. Hanahaki.
A disease that strikes only those who love too much. And who are not loved in return.
A disease that modern science had relegated to the rank of myth, psychosomatic, collective delusion of a bygone era.
Yet, there it was, in your hand. Real. Deadly. Beautiful enough to die for, literally. Caleb noticed your pale complexion. Your persistent cough. The dark circles under your eyes. He forced you to rest. You refused.
"I've known people who broke everything except themselves. And you're the opposite, huh?" He told you one day, as you struggled with a faulty relay despite your fever.
"Maybe I'm already broken." You replied with a sad smile, wiping away with the back of your hand the sweat that beaded on your forehead.
He laughed, without understanding the weight of truth in your words.
And it killed you a little more. Each unshared laugh, each gaze that passed through you without really seeing you, each story he told about "Pipsqueak" and their adventures... so many roots that sank deeper into your lungs.
When you lost consciousness in the hangar, he thought it was a gravitational overload. He rushed over. He activated all emergency protocols.
He didn't understand why you were vomiting flowers. Why was your heart weakening for no apparent reason. Why the scanners detect no known pathogen.
"Is it a weapon? Did someone do this to you?" He asked you, kneeling beside your hospital bed, his calloused hands gripping yours with a strength that betrayed his fear.
"No, Caleb..."
You grabbed his sleeve, trembling.
"It's me. It's just... me."
He frowned, lost.
You rested your head against his chest, listening one last time to that heart that had never beaten for you. "I loved you... like one loves a star that will never return. Bright but untouchable. Vital but distant."
He remained frozen. Completely paralyzed by the confession you had just made. By the horror of understanding that it was he, indirectly, who was killing you.
He tried everything to understand what was happening to you and how to heal you.
He contacted the most discreet researchers. He went through old medical books. He even begged an Enforcer to let him search through the forbidden archives.
But nothing.
Love can't be forced. And you were already too far gone, carried away by a current against which no one could swim.
You died between two beats of the engine.
In the rest area he had specially refurbished for you, with that window looking out at the stars you so loved to observe during your breaks. Your body surrounded by pink flowers, shaped like broken hearts, like a cruel metaphor for what had killed you.
Caleb doesn't speak of you anymore.
He sealed the hangar where you worked. He doesn't let anyone touch his ship.
But sometimes, when he returns from a mission, he leaves a little pink flower on the dashboard.
And one day, someone heard him whisper in the empty cockpit when he thought he was alone: "You don't fix anything now, huh? Yet I'm the one who's broken."
Because some vessels, even the sturdiest, never fly the same way again when they've lost their guardian angel.
To those who weren't the story
You weren't the light of the world.
You weren't destined for great prophecies.
You had no power, nor a great reciprocated love waiting for you.
You had flowers in your throat.
And a heart too vast, too generous, too full of them.
Men who saw in you only a pale reflection of the one they truly desired.
They didn't choose you. They didn't save you. But they remember.
And perhaps that's the real curse of Hanahaki: not dying of unrequited love, but leaving behind an eternal remorse in the hearts of those who failed to see.
For some hearts never melt under the warmth of a gaze. Some loves die without ever having had the chance to live.
And some flowers bloom only once — in the silence of a final breath, colorful witnesses to a devotion that surpassed understanding.
We are all, in our own way, blind gardeners. Unknowingly cultivating feelings that bloom around us, sometimes neglecting the most beautiful roses to chase after mirages.
The true tragedy is not to love without return.
It's to leave without having been seen.
To be reduced to a dried flower in a closed book.
To be understood too late.
So the next time you see someone coughing slightly in your presence, look carefully. It might just be allergies.
Or it might be a garden desperately trying to reach you, to show you its beauty before withering forever.
For silent love is the loudest when it disappears.
Hello to viewers that may have just passed this post. This a non fanfiction post, in all honesty I just posted smut/fanfiction first thing in this account because I thought and knew that was probably the fastest way I could get a reading or validation for my writing (I was in a major slump and that was what I thought would bring back my confidence in writing) not to say I don't enjoy making fanfiction but I also hope you enjoy a different cup of tea from me.
Prompt : Love by W2E
It felt silly. I felt silly for grinning to myself, rethinking to myself our itty bitty little interactions.
I think he's in love with me too, my friend said so. She even said the chats we had seemed to be from a couple arguing with each other. The first song I would press every night before having the queue on shuffle was Love by Wave To Earth. I really really liked him. At some point despite not wanting to be the type to be 'delusional' that's exactly what I had become. I genuinely thought I had a chance. It crushed me when he rejected me, not that it wasn't unexpected but just because it was unexpected doesn't make it hurt any less-- but I still continued liking him, to the point of loving him until I made it so I loved everyone else around me that now that I think about it, I really did love him but I also held a lot of love in my heart which is what I realized would be more than enough to fill with my family, my friends and him.
As time passed by those feelings of love had evolved to be non-romantic, I say it's evolved
because just because it isn't romantic and is more platonic doesn't make the love I have towards him any less and I think and am thankful for that all the time. Even when those feelings of rejection ate me up I continued to love him, even when my heart hurt so much, too much I still loved him and will continue to love him because I'd rather wallow myself in love than wallow myself in hatred towards him. Hating someone after being rejected by them is too easy but I choose the road that will both give me the most pain throughout the journey and the greatest joy once I've reached the end. I don't want to dislike him for not returning my feelings because I can't force someone to like me back, and I never will.
This is a short confession/end of the letters or notes I will dedicate to the person I had most recently liked and had confessed to.
tags: smut, omegaverse, afab! reader, omega!reader, alpha!zhongli, consensual somno, pet names, reader is in heat, zhongli is in rut, reader pregnancy in afterword, idk if genuine excitement to start a family counts as breeding kink, I STILL think this is somewhat fluffy if not vanilla
word count: 4k (side note what the fuck)
a/n: is celeste doing a good job of hiding the breeding kink or no
masterlist | taglist
It’s scarily easy to forget, you concede. It’s too easy to just question why your stomach is killing you all of a sudden. Or why that stack of pillows in the living room is calling out your name like a record player on repeat. Or why letting zhongli go on that work trip last week almost made you want to fall to your knees and beg him to not go.
But once you realise it's your heat breaking, it's almost like your body doubles down. With Zhongli returning from his trip within two days, there’s really no point in telling him. His ever-righteous alpha urges would have him running home in a heartbeat, and you can't have that.
So you call in sick to work for the next week, and if anyone knows why, they don’t question you, and you resign yourself to a horrible few days by yourself. You wear Zhongli’s clothes in the hopes that enough of his scent is left behind to cool your impulses a little. Still, it’s only so long before silk is the only fabric your clammy skin can bear, and since his silk pyjamas have been freshly laundered, there’s really no point in even trying.
You reluctantly switch to your own clothes again, a silk night dress you've adored since the day Zhongli bought it for you, and focus on building a nest in the spare room to distract yourself. It works so well, in fact, that you wonder how Zhongli will ever fit between the pillows you've piled up —you subconsciously only made it big enough for yourself. The spare room is good because it's the smallest—in fact, it's so small that calling it a room is almost an exaggeration. It was initially an overzealous store cupboard that you ended up forming an affinity to during your heats, and while it was never a badly kept room, Zhongli couldn’t bear the thought of you using a cupboard when you were most vulnerable, so he had it remodelled. It was worth it to him, even if you were only using it 6 times a year.
This would be the third out of six heats this year, and you congratulate yourself on making it halfway through the year without keeling over and calling it quits. But making it through this one would be tricky. One of the many advantages of married life is not having to go through heat alone, and if Zhongli doesn't return home in time, you might explode.
You try to sleep off the anxiety first, surrounded by cooling silk sheets and everything in the house you can find that smells like your alpha, and it works for the first few hours of the night until a heat cramp rips through you and stirs you awake. Zhongli is many things, but above all, he is a doting alpha, and since he has your permission to help you in any way he sees fit during your heats, he has a very good way of satisfying that part of you before a heat cramp can even manifest itself. But since you haven’t experienced a heat cramp to this extent in what feels like years, you find yourself doubled over and whimpering in pain. The waves of agony even have you forgetting how it was that you managed your heats before you found Zhongli and his cool hands and doting kisses and perfect co—
It doesn’t help to think about him, you realise, as another wave of pain shoots through you. If you can make it downstairs to just grab a hot drink, maybe your symptoms would subside enough for you to just take matters into your own hands like you used to, and then you can decide how you want to proceed. So you wait until the waves of pain are retreating, and you take the opportunity to rush downstairs and rifle through Zhongli's stash of teas. He has labelled them meticulously, so even in your dazed, heat-addled state, you know to not disturb it too much.
You find one that seems to be labelled appropriately and do the worst job of preparing yourself a cup to drink. You know he'd have an aneurysm if he saw you, but times are tough, and he’s not here to help you. He would probably be even more offended by the way you chug the drink, not even pausing to appreciate the notes and intricacies of the flavour as you trudge back upstairs and hope you find the energy for one orgasm to get you through the night.
It's tricky during this phase. Your body only desires carnal pursuits, but your mind is so riddled with anxiety that it feels wrong when you slide your underwear down past your knees, and your other hand gently brushes your nipple. It feels awkward to slip your fingers between your legs, to pretend that it's him who’s fucking you with his fingers, but it works, so you can’t complain. You tell yourself that you’ll clean up before you fall back asleep, but the hours of no sleep are catching up to you, and you fall asleep as you are.
When you wake up again, it's not from a heat cramp or because you need to use the toilet, it's because your heightened senses can hear the front door opening. You take a minute to listen before you panic—Zhongli isn't supposed to be back for another day or two, but when you realise that it's his steady but hurried footsteps that you hear, the tension leaves your body, and you relax. You don't have the strength to go to him, so you just hope that he finds you here, and he does.
He pushes your door open and glances inside, spotting you curled up in your tiny nest, stressed and anticipating another wave of pain. He feels horrible.
“Oh, my love,” he whispers, walking over to you and taking you in his arms. He carefully nips at your scent glands first and is relieved that from the way you smell, you're in your late preheat, so even though you may have suffered up to this point, it hasn't been the worst your body has to offer. A grateful hum slips from your lips as your eyes close in bliss, and his cool hands against your stomach seem to calm the heat cramp that was building up. “Love, why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were coming back anyway,” you reply, capturing his mouth in a desperate kiss. “No need to bother you.”
“There was every need to bother me,” he whispers, gently adjusting the pillows around you on the bed and stripping off layer after layer after layer. He starts with his gloved hands, and the sight has you clenching on nothing, but you're just happy to finally have him to yourself despite your frustration. “You’re my wife, my mate, my omega. It is my job to take care of you. First and foremost.”
He reaches under you to pick you up, but you protest, grabbing his forearm. “I don’t want to move.”
Zhongli is hit with this unyielding wave of desire, so much so that he has to swallow his thoughts of you round with his child down before he speaks.
“Little love,” he shoots back, gently stroking your hair. “I have to take the contraceptive. Should I leave you here?”
“Don’t,” You say. You’d agreed that the next time your heat and his rut coincided, you’d be more thsn happy to explore the idea of having a child, but with the painful realisation that it might not sync up as fast as you want it to, you’re not holding out on luck.
“Beloved,” Zhongli shoots back, devastatingly beautiful, as you pull out the ribbon that holds his hair back. The image in his mind from earlier shoots back into his mind as he quickly contemplates whether he can take your words as they are, given the stage of your heat. If you were further along, you might say anything to get him inside of you again, but right now, he doesn’t think that’s the case. He takes your hand and gently kisses the inside of your wrist, a familiar action that makes you smile lightly.
“Don’t take it.” you repeat. “I don’t want you to take it.” You gently tug the ends of his hair to pull him closer to you, suddenly over-aware of the fact that your scent glands are begging for his attention. “Please.”
“I don’t want you to have regrets later,” Zhongli says quietly, and this time, when he leans in to nip at your neck again, something in his scent tickles the back of your throat, rich and almost spicy, and it makes you cough. His eyes shoot up to yours as realisation dawns on the both of you.
Zhonglis ruts are less common then your heats, with him experiencing only four a year compared to you. And if the last time they coincided was 2 cycles ago…
“Hm,” Zhongli mutters as you pull him into your nest. “That seems to explain things.” He had returned home early from this work trip for a multitude of reasons. At first, it was your reaction to him leaving, and then it was the dreams and constant thoughts of you that proved difficult to handle during important funeral proceedings, and then it was the thoughts of how you would look pregnant the moment he realised you were in heat. He should have realised sooner, instead of ignoring it and letting you suffer thus far.
“Sleepy?” he asks you, as you bury your face into his chest. But the most you do in the way of a response is make a soft humming sound, your omegan senses calmed by the knowledge that your alpha is close. He is upset by the fact that you didn't feel you could reach him when you needed him, but he knows now you need him more than you need an ultimatum. But for the next few hours, it seems like it’s just a waiting game. He is grateful his rut hasn't set in fully, or else the way you nuzzle into his chest might have driven him half crazy.
He gently strokes your hair, unable to tear his eyes from you for a single second—not only because you're the epitome of beauty to him but also because he has been away, and he wants to take stock of everything. You once joked that he’d probably notice if a strand of hair on your head went missing, and although he’d laughed it off, he wouldn't be surprised if he could.
Your scent slowly begins to shift to something more sweet as you claw at your husband. You're not awake yet, and you won't be for a while, but you’d given Zhongli explicit permission to do whatever he needed to keep you happy during your heats, and he is always eager to please.
Even still, Zhongli takes his cues from you—if you’re grabbing at his face, he’ll kiss you for as long as you want him to, until you escalate things in your heat-addled slumber. And you do, breathy moans punctuating the kiss until you can take no more, and you're grabbing at his hips.
“What do you want?” Zhongli whispers, as he gently rolls you over onto your back. He’s been ignoring his almost painful hardness in favour of doting on you but refuses to forgo his manners the moment sex is on the table.
You whine at him, clawing at him some more, and he chuckles, gently pulling your nightgown up to your waist. He clicks his tongue at the sight of you, practically dripping for him, your underwear nowhere to be found, and as much as he wants to dip his tongue into you, he knows it's cruel to play with you in such ways.
“I know, love. I know.” He whispers to you as he gently enters you. You’re so wet that there's almost no resistance, and the breathy moan that slips out of you is almost too much for him to bear. His mind is almost immediately flooding with thoughts of fucking you into the mattress until you’re both so tired that it will take days to recover, but he would never do anything like that unless you were awake. He may have your permission, but he has his own morals.
“Is this what you wanted?” he whispers as you pull him closer, your head thrown back in silent bliss. Your response is in the way you clench around him, the slight whine in your quiet moans, and the way you dig your nails into his back. Gods, he loves it when you do that. And although it drives him near crazy, he keeps a steady pace until he feels his knot growing. He nips at your scent glands again, using the opportunity to whisper in your ear—filthy words that have you orgasming almost involuntarily, and the way you clench on him as his knot settles into place triggers his.
He pulls you to the side so the both of you can lie down comfortably, and he is convinced that the satisfied look on your face as his knot keeps all of his cum safe inside you is enough to keep it there for another half hour.
His estimations turn out to be correct, and by the time you begin to stir, his knot is still going strong. He talks to you as you wake, gently reminding you to not move too suddenly. You’re dazed but, more than anything, grateful for him as you pull him tighter.
“Thank you,” is the first thing you say when you wake up, gently planting a kiss on his cheek. The action, albeit mostly innocent, makes his cock twitch inside you, and you've regained enough of your sanity to laugh. “Rut?”
“It seems so.”
“Did you…?” your question trails off as if the process of asking is too tiresome for you. If he had, you would understand, but your anxiety is understandable. If he had taken it, it would mean you would both have to wait again, and Zhongli would be lying if he said that the idea of being a father would be unfavourable to him.
“As per our agreement, I did not.”
The smile you give him is so… perfect that Zhongli has to look away before his knot returns with a vengeance, and he opts for pulling you into a hug, the cold silk of your dress against his chest. He wants to bathe you before the next round of cramps set in, otherwise, you will be clammy and irritable, and he learned very quickly that you cannot bear any discomfort that he cannot fix by fucking you during your heats.
He wants to run a hand over your belly, but decides against it, for fear of jinxing things, instead settling on pressing multiple kisses to your head.
“How do you feel?” he asks you. He’s not entirely sure how far into your preheat you were before he returned home and he’s worried that he hasn’t been able to help all of the symptoms as a result.
“Warm,” you whisper. “How come I’m still wearing this?”
“As you remind me every cycle, doing anything but what an omega in heat explicitly asks of you is essentially torture. You didn't ask me to take it off, so I didn’t.”
You pout at him, and he laughs gently at you. His knot has deflated, so he slowly sits up and pulls you into his arms. “Will you fight me if I offer to bathe you?”
You shake your head no, lifting your arms above your head as he carefully drags your nightdress off. He decides to save himself the hassle of trying to get it completely clean and just get you a new one.
The minute your skin is exposed to the cold air, you wrap your arms around your chest, and Zhongli takes personal offence to that, kissing your arms until you move them, and then kissing your breasts, his tongue flicking out to tease your nipples. From the way your nails dig into him, he realises that's just about as far as you’ll let him go with the teasing, so he picks you up and takes you to the bath. It’s easy when you’re as pliant as you are now—any attempt you make to push back is easily combatted with words of praise and a gentle kiss to your head, and before you know it, you’re clean and dry and pressed up against your lover’s cool skin.
“Are you still certain about this?” Zhongli strokes your hair again, gently scratching your scalp in a way that sends satisfying shivers down your spine. “I can still take the contraceptive if you want.”
“No. I want this with you,” you reiterate, pulling him into another kiss. You expect him to kiss you back softly, the way he usually does, but the fact he’s in rut has slipped your mind, and the way he captures your lips in a fiery kiss has a wave of need rushing through you. You gasp at the way his teeth graze your neck, the way his hands rest against your skin, still so gentle despite the fact you know he wants to be anything but.
A heat cramp comes over you so suddenly that Zhongli barely has the chance to register the change in your scent, but he’s quick to respond to your whimper. It’s cheeky of him, he knows, but he gently slides a hand up your thigh and lets it play with your clit for little more than a few seconds. Judging by how drenched you are, if he’d allowed himself to play for any longer, you might have taken matters into your own hands.
Zhongli whispers your name, although it comes out as more of a growl than a whisper, and you know he’s asking for your permission to take you the way he wants to—the way he craves. And even though he knows you’ll be fine, in fact, when you’re in heat you’re most compatible for a mate in rut, he feels the need to check. So when you reach for him and bite on his neck as hard as you physically can, he takes that as an okay.
It takes every single piece of patience he has to gently place your legs over his shoulder, and slowly sink himself into you. It takes even more for him to maintain a slow pace when you’re looking up at him like that, even more so when you moan his name in the breathy way he loves so dear.
“Safe word?” he asks through gritted teeth, and only when you repeat it back to him does he let himself relax a little. He slides a pillow under your hips, before whispering: “Brace yourself, love.” And even though he warns you, you’re still shocked by how hard his next thrust is—if you hadn't been in heat, it probably would have been enough to send you over the edge. His hands grip your waist so hard that in the back of your mind, you're convinced that it’s going to bruise, but the rest of your thoughts are blank, a dull hum in your head where words are supposed to be.
“Are you still alright?” he asks, as he moves his hands from your waist to your wrists.
“More. please, more,” you reply, and he obliges, quietly pleased with the way your pleas shift from words to loud moans and desperate whimpers.
“You want me to breed you, don’t you?” his voice is impossibly steady, his eyes trained on you in a way that stops you from looking elsewhere, even after he thrusts into you so hard that you want to throw your head back. Your whispered please is so faint that he almost doesn't hear it, but he does feel you clench desperately around him, and he's almost disappointed that he’s knotting you so soon.
The way you look at him is unfair. The way you scream his name as you orgasm is unfair, the way you close your eyes in bliss as he cums inside you is so. Fucking. Unfair. How is he ever supposed to win against you? You could ask him for the world, and he would create it for you.
“Is it safe to assume you’re satisfied now?” he asks you when you’re once again capable of speech.
“For now,” you respond. And even though you know it's bad to keep things from him, you don’t tell your husband that you don’t feel another heat cramp for the rest of the week.
~~~
“It has been less than a second since I stepped over the threshold of this house and you are already jumping on me.” Zhongli laughs as you barrel into his arms. He notes you smell different, but he can’t pick up what he is. As he picks you up, he thinks that you're slightly heavier than usual, but that could just be his muscles being fatigued from moving packed boxes of paperwork all day.
“You’re home early,” you smile, looking down at him. He manages to get his shoes off and walk you over to the living room, where you curl up next to him on the sofa. You have been increasingly affectionate as of the last few months and increasingly horny too, but you have those phases every so often, so Zhongli does not question it. They rarely last this long though.
He very quickly realises you’re wearing the replacement of the silk nightgown he got rid of during your last heat. He made sure it was a one-to-one replacement, but it fits differently on you now. Not a bad difference, it’s a perfect difference, he concludes.
“I missed you, my love.” he kisses you softly. “More than should be humanely possible.”
Your husband's brain has been replaced with a rock, you decide.
“I think we need to look at remodelling the fourth room,” you smile, gently pushing zhongli to get him to sit with his back against the arm rest of the sofa.
“The room that conjoins ours?” zhongli replies. “Why would we need to do that?”
You sit between his legs, your back against his chest, your head tilted lightly to the side so he can kiss your neck the way he always does. But this time, he hovers before he kisses you, and you use his sudden pause to take his hands and place them on your belly.
You feel his breathing pause for a second, and the silence that descends between you is warm and comfortable as realisation dawns on him.
“You’re…” Your husband is speechless for the first time ever. He sits up slowly, his eyes trained on you.
“I am,” you reply, turning around to look at him. You're shocked when you realise that he’s crying. “Oh, darling, don’t cry. You’ll set me off.” you cradle his face in his hands, gently wiping his tears away with your thumbs. He smiles at you, eyes shining with unshed tears and eternal love.
Zhongli doesn't reply; he just kisses you softly and pulls you into a hug. “I suppose I should add ‘mother of our child’ to my list of names for you,” he says quietly, pressing kisses into your hair, your cheeks, and your neck as you giggle at him. "I am certain you’ll be a great mother, deserving of every praise.”
You smile. “And you’ll be a great father.” you reply. “The best father our child could ever ask for.”
notes: i have plenty of things to blame this on but I wont even start. can smut be fluffy...? is that a thing? is this enough to make u guys forgive my absence ?
