all out?
—sub!scara/dom!reader, amab!reader | office sex, exhibitionism
—not beta read so excuse some mistakes if there are any TT
honestly, scaramouche should have seen this coming.
he stares at his empty cabinet, dumbfounded that there’s nothing inside it. surely not…
the balladeer wants to scream. just his luck, that it happened today too, when there’s a meeting scheduled that he cannot skip.
“fuck.”
the harbinger walks through the chilling halls of the zapolyarny palace. the cold has never bothered him in any shape or form, yet today proves to be an exception.
there are lower-ranked fatui passing by, hastily running off, not wanting to meet his gaze. an action that he isn’t unfamiliar to.
he hisses and stops when a certain ginger blemishes his view.
“looks like someone’s having a bad day!” he greets.
for a moment there, scaramouche thinks that he’s caught red-handed. not until he realizes that the youngest harbinger couldn’t have possibly seen through his facade.
“you’re deafeningly loud.” he bites back, continuing his steps despite the aching in his lower half.
“ah, still the same as ever. not that im surprised.” he says, chuckling echoing through the halls.
“the meeting’s to start in a few, although the director and the overseer hasn’t arrived yet.” tartaglia informs.
he flushes at the mention of your title, the one behind this problem that he’s facing right now.
“hello?” he calls out.
“can you learn to shut up just at least once?!” he yells.
currently, he sits on the chair provided for him, next to pulcinella and sandrone. as long as he doesn’t get seated next to that blue-haired freak, he considers any situation to be pleasant.
the door opens with a slam and the rest of the harbingers bow their head as greeting. there you stand, that folder you always carry in your arms and a pen between your fingers.
that’s when the memories comes back to him.
flashes of each time you’ve ripped his underwear with those fingers of yours, the scene claws into his brain as he bows down his head in unison with the others.
it was fine the first time. it was only a one-time thing, after all.
oh, how naive he was thinking that.
he then realizes that it wasn’t a one-time thing, seeing as there’s none of them left in his cabinet, forced to attend this meeting with his cock slapping against his thigh each time he walks.
it’s embarrassing. he seethes at your voice, talking about some topic that he couldn’t give a shit about. he adores when your tone is like that, commanding and strict. the more you speak, the more the harbinger wants to cave in.
his cock presses hardly to his shorts, begging for any kind of attention. unfortunately, he’s forced to endure it. to sit there in agony while he stares at you, giving out orders.
oh, how he wishes that you bend him against the table right now.
he can see it visibly twitch from underneath his clothing. if you were to see this, what would you have done? scaramouche’s imagination runs wild, thinking of how you’d make him take your cock. overusing his body and milking him dry. a doll, whose only purpose is to serve you.
“balladeer?” he snaps back to reality, hearing you mention him.
he bites back a needy whine, feeling everyone’s attention now centered on him.
“yeah?” he spit out, his eyes meeting with yours.
“you’ll be sent off to a separate mission, is that all right with you?”
god, you could ask him to do anything and he’d agree.
“sure.”
when the meeting ends, his body was moving on its own, moving towards you to grab you and pinning you to the wall.
“you! you better take care of this!” he shouts.
you were confused at first but it didn’t take you long to see his cock fully outlined through his tight shorts.
“why should i? you’re the one who decided to attend this meeting like that.”
he groans. he does not have the time for any of your teasing right now.
“you kept tearing through—just, ugh!
fuck me already!”
his voice echoes throughout the room. he would have never expected this kind of situation to happen but he needed you so badly. he’s been hot and bothered ever since this morning.
he lets out a relieved groan once he feels his abdomen pressing on the table.
then, next comes the sound of his shorts being ripped apart. he would have complained about your tendency to tear through his clothes but all the complaints in his head goes away once he feels your fingers digging inside of him.
“hnngghh—fuck, finally. only thing you’re fucking good for—oh god!”
“shit, shit, shit!”
his face presses up on his hands, far too drunk as drool goes down his chin. he’s loving each movement inside of him, the satisfaction and pleasure you give are intoxicating him and he wants more.
his body squirms, his feet constantly misplacing themselves on the floor. his dick leaking precum as you stroke it at a pace, leaving him panting and breathing like a dog who had just gone for a run.
“look at you, all loose already…your body’s just made for fucking, isn’t it? always wanting to prove something when you can just show everybody how much of a cumdump you are.”
scara grunts at your insult (praise?), wanting to spit back something to defend himself. but his body is then shifted around, his back laying on the cold table as you took no time in penetrating his hole.
his mouth is left wide open by the stretch. it burns but god, he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the pain. the pain that would soon then transition into pleasure by each. single. thrust.
pounding into him mercilessly, his mouth being covered by his own mouth to desperately hide his cries from enjoying it too much, smiling underneath.
eventually, he just decides to let go. his hands reaching up to fondle his own chest, playing with his nipples while you shape him into your own cocksleeve, his leg up as you wanted better access into fucking him as much as you can.
scara’s so damn loud. of course, he doesn’t notice it. nor does he notice a certain redhead blushing needing to do a double take to see if he’s seeing the right thing.
“f-fill me up! fuck, please!”
“haaah—! more, more!”
after a while, those sentences are no longer coherent as he’s turned to just moaning and whimpering, slurring his words that you can barely understand.
the table is a cum-filled mess, his dick spurting out white as his eyes roll back the furthest they can into his head.
and yet, he doesn’t stop.
even better, he’s started to match your rhythm and grind himself onto you.
there’s a bit of a swelling in his belly from your cum and yet that isn’t seen as a blockade.
each thrust, your cum slipping out of him and back into him and the warm feeling of your stickiness is just enough to send him over the edge.
in the end, he’s left with a satisfied smile. laughing and chuckling while struggling to breathe, his walls aching and not sure if he wants more or to just stop moving for as long as he can.
one thing’s for sure though,
he’s completely forgotten that his shorts are torn apart.
