“are you sure about this,” beel questioned, eyes furrowed looking up at your figure. his shirtless body kneeling at the woman in front of him.
“never have been more sure in my life,” you replied, twirling the leash around your pointer finger.
beel’s neck adorned a cute pink color, with a bell, of course - such a cute gift. It clashed with his usual darker attire, but he listens to what he is told (especially by you). his collar is placed above all the small patches of purple and brown skin from your previous makeout session. belphie finally out of the room, most likely in the attic sleeping, meant you had the space to yourselves.
beel slowly began feeling the rest of his clothing clinging to his warming body. his basketball shorts loose on the legs slowly tightened holding back his growing erection. not that he would admit it of course. it’s just a collar.
“its a little tight,” he mentions, fingers gripping onto the thick collar while tracing the smooth material. it wasn’t unpleasant, just different.
from beel’s stature alone, anyone would give him a second glance; his tall physic, big biceps with even more muscular legs - even his pudgy stomach from his gluttonous behavior. he was just a big guy. it was all intimidating to the average demon on the street.
so to see himself reduced to such a state made his brain go foggy. he liked the feeling of being powerless to someone of a smaller height than him. and having it be a woman was the cherry on top.
he could easily pick you up. easily take control. easily flip the script to something more common and traditional. but he sits there, awaiting your every command.
it’s not like this hasn’t been the dynamic he’s wanted all along. under all the intimating looks, he’s just a cute teddy bear. he would do anything just to get a positive reaction from you. beel is the sweetest guy of them all actually. he’s supposed to be a demon, right?
being the physical representation of gluttony, he admired your body more than anyone else has previously. he’s not saying you eat too much (that’s his trait), but the way you carry your weight is so beautiful to him.
your chubby cheeks he gnaws on instead of his favorite edible snack. your hips that he digs his fingers into when he gets stressed. your thighs that grip his skull tight while he’s giving you the best head of your life. how could he not? he’s a certified eater.
he loves it all.
something about how you carried yourself with such confidence is sexy on its own. your a woman who knows what she likes. he likes that.
that’s why beel put so much faith in you when you handed him a present and told him to put it on.
your thumb reached over to the clasp at the end of the leash and opened it. you bent down in front of him to clip the leash onto his pink collar. his gaze focused on your cleavage hanging in front of his face, slightly covered from your favorite cami top.
noticing his eyes glassed over and staring at your breasts, you made use of your new tool. you yanked. not too hard, but enough to startle him.
“my eyes are up here,” you teased, pointing at your eyes for reference.
“i know i’m just,” he paused, “hungry.”
this time he wasn’t talking about food. you, obviously knowing that, gave him a smile.
“i know baby,” your hand lowered down to the top of his head. fingers running through his soft hair, petting him like a damn dog. if he had a tail, it would be wagging like crazy.
noticing his eyes closing from the relaxing motion, you yanked the leash again. a little harder this time.
a groan slipped past his lips, “was that really necessary?”
“with that attitude, it’ll be worse.” your foot slowly put pressure on his groin. you stood back up tall to put more weight onto your foot.
a string of curses flew out of beel’s mouth. none intended at her, just based in pleasure. the constant yanking of his upper extremities made his cock leak.
“i haven’t heard an apology yet.” another yank. a steady reminder.
“yes, ma’am. i’m sorry. i wasn’t trying to give you attitude-“
yank.
“i was giving you attitude but i’m sorry-“
another yank.
“please ma’am i’m sorry it wont happen again-“
you, again, bent down as you pulled him close to your face, noses almost touching. you can feel his hot, uneasy breaths on your face. the traces of faint whimpers behind each breath came from the constant abuse to his already sensitive neck.
you looked him dead in the eyes and whispered, “it better not happen again.”
your foot pushed harder and he swear he couldn’t breathe. you had barely done anything but his mind was already blank.
——
a/n: i lowkey might make a part ii but idk we will see
“wait. no, please,” mammon groaned, throwing his head back. sitting on his bed, arms at his sides while his legs open, cock sprung to attention.
“sweetheart,” you cooed at his face that’s stuck in both pleasure and discomfort, “you know i do this cause i love you right?”
your fingers gliding along his v-line, teasing, touching everything but his aching shaft. your left hand slowly making its way up his abdomen to cup his, now tear stained, face.
mammon, ever the good boy to please his mistress, whimpered as you wiped his tears slowly flowing from his cheeks. this torture has felt like hours but has only been about 10 minutes.
“please ma’am…” whimpers followed his every word. “i wanna be good for you. please i’m being good i promise.”
“and you are sweetheart” you placed a kiss on his temple then his nose. “you’re being so good for me.”
“please… oh god please touch me i can’t stand it anymore please” mammon can’t stop the words coming from his mouth. all reduced to desires, wants and moans.
you forcefully cupped his balls, squeezing and massaging in the same motion.
mammon let out a loud gasp as more precum leaked down his shaft. he let out an “oh fuck….” while his eyes rolled back into his skull. he was never one to take good to teasing.
“see mammon….” your left hand made its way back down to his pubic region, slowly tracing your way back down to his red, pulsing cock. “good boys get rewarded when they please their mistress, yes?”
mammon, unable to think of a sentence let alone come up with a word, just lets out a whimper while quickly nodding his head. he already felt like cumming, but he knew he would screw it up if he did. he rarely makes it this far without instantly cumming when you take his tight jeans off with slow, precise movements.
your left hand slowly made its way down to the base of the shaft in a loose grip, right hand still massaging his tightened balls.
“i wanna hear u beg for me to keep going” you said sternly “no words, no cumming.”
almost immediately following that phrase he starts rambling, begging and pleading. only you can reduce the great mammon to such a state of pleasure that even money can’t buy.
“please mistress pleaseohgodiwannacumiwannafeelyourhandonmycockpleasemaam….” he’s speaking so much and so fast, but you can ultimately hear his desire between his gasps.
you giggle at his state while kissing him again on his flushed cheek, “mmm…. that’s my good boy. that’s exactly what i wanted to hear.”
his now purple tip continues to leak precum in waited anticipation. swiping the precum with your fingertips, you use it as lube to slowly circle his aching head.
mammon can’t even speak anymore now just reduced to moaning, gasping and whimpering mess. “yeah you like that sweetie? mistress knows what the great mammon wants right? she knows what you like..”
mammon let out a groan and gasped “ ‘m cumming” not even a second later as jets of white cum spirted from his aching tip.
you quickly grabbed his now sensitive cock with rigor. “who said you could come?” you barked at him, frown apparent on your face.
mammon, still lost in the pleasure of a brain melting orgasm, still tries to plead his case.
“nonono no one told me… im sorry maam i didn’t mean too imsorryimsorry-” he tried to explain quickly, frantically shaking his head in shame and embarrassment.
“sorry isn’t gonna cut it” you hummed, started picking up the pace pumping his cock with haste.
“my boy knows what happens when you don’t follow directions right?” you grin as your hands continue to work his sensitive cock, watching his body squirm to stay under your control.
through gasps, moans and overstimulation, he nods and whispers “punishment time mistress.”
your teeth graze his earlobe then taking a small nip, “that’s right my sweet boy.” you teased, licking at the spot on his ear to dull the pain inflicted.
synopsis: nobody (and surely not you) thought it would be this fun being married to your enemy.
word count: 5k
cw: dead dove: do not eat. porn with little plot, AFAB reader, AMAB scara, dominant reader, sadistic reader, mean reader, submissive scara, masochist scara, heavy dubcon, forced marriage, ‘consummation’ sex, hate sex, virginity loss, slight blood, anal fingering, foreign object insertion, improper use of wine bottle, wine as lube, degradation, condescending praise, slight nipple play, feminization, scara has a little dick LOL, role reversal, no mentioned aftercare.
note: this draft is all the way from 2024. and the only reason i remembered it was because i attended a wedding last night. congrats to the newlyweds because me posting this monstrosity is in honor of you /hj. may you never find this and live happily. i don’t know what possessed me tbh. suspend your disbelief. 😣
a part of your brain, the rational part, was watching from outside of you. it was telling you to get it together, flee the room, and stop being entertainment for these people. but that part wasn’t controlling you right now, as upon your finger was a simple wedding ring, an elegant gold thing decorating your index, embellished with pink diamonds twinkling up at you mockingly. your eyes were wandering, watching interestingly as it slid coyly down your finger and back up again in a brisk motion as you fiddled with the thing, rubbing the pad of your finger against the engravings. evidently, it didn't fit you too well.
the band itself was delicate, composed of three slender strands braided together, their paths intertwining so seamlessly that it seemed time itself had fused them into one. in contrast, your groom favored silver—a metal that perfectly matched his cool undertones: indigo hair, ghost-pale skin, and those amethyst eyes, always glinting with shards of disdain. the silver ring he wore suited him, cold and sharp, reflecting his frosty temperament in every facet. the gold on your finger felt almost antagonistic, a bright defiance against the chill that seemed to radiate from him. you caught yourself smirking at the thought—an involuntary, private amusement that should have gone unnoticed. but of course, he saw it. his gaze—narrowed, icy, and edged with contempt—landed on you, silently demanding to know: what could possibly be so amusing about this union?
if it wasn’t already obvious, the two of you were getting married. against your will, i may add. as youths, you and scaramouche could barely stand to be in the same room together—each encounter ended in barbed words, icy silences, and a competition for the last word that never truly ended. your mutual hatred was infamous; a rivalry that spanned years, fed by petty grievances and deeper, unspoken wounds. but here you are, at the altar, beneath a vaulted ceiling adorned with fragrant garlands of wisteria and roses, shafts of colored light from stained glass windows dancing across the marble floor and gilded pews. the ceremony is a grand affair, an orchestrated display of opulence and tradition: priests in gold-embroidered vestments chant ancient vows in low, resonant tones, and a string quartet plays regal melody that echoes through the hall.
your families, who planned this union, draped in the finery and crests of their houses, sit rigidly in the front rows, faces set in pride. not as though you care, however.
as you and scaramouche recite your vows—each syllable clipped and heavy with bitterness. the exchange of rings is performed with practiced precision, hands barely touching, your eyes locking in open challenge. the applause that follows is muted, uncertain, as if the entire court is waiting for the ceremony to turn violent at any moment. but you were both able to contain yourselves (miraculously).
you argued that nothing could solicit this fate, but alas, you have no say in the matter. everyone in attendance’s stares flew between you both, you wished they wouldn’t. you could practically hear the collective thought: “well, at least it’s not me up there.” a piss poor wedding, but nobody dared utter a word aloud—though you’re fairly sure at least a handful in the audience were quietly rooting for disaster, if only to spice up their otherwise excruciatingly dull day. it was almost touching, how your misery could serve as their entertainment. you’d raise a toast to them, if you weren’t already being paraded around like the world’s saddest party favor.
after the procession, before you could even attempt to slip away into the solace of solitude, a small army of servants descended upon you both. you were separated, each of you spirited off in different directions by attendants whose hands were gentle but unyielding. they guided you through the rituals reserved for newlyweds: a ceremonial bath in rose-scented water, warm oils kneaded into your skin until it glowed, and endless primping—hair brushed, robes arranged, every detail fussed over until you hardly recognized yourself in the mirror. somewhere out there, you imagine the same guests who pretended to care about your happiness are already gossiping about your performance, placing bets on how soon your marriage will implode. throughout it all, your mind replayed the venomous glances and brittle words exchanged at the altar, the memory of scaramouche’s contempt lingering like a bruise. elsewhere in the palace, you imagined him enduring the same indignities—scrubbed raw, perfumed, and swaddled in silks—forced to wait in restless discomfort, bracing for a night neither of you wanted.
when the final ribbon was tied and the last drop of perfume dabbed at your pulse points, you were finally left alone—this time truly alone—to gather your thoughts. the palace felt cavernous and cold as you made your way to the shared bedchamber, footsteps echoing along marble floors. the hush of the evening promised privacy at last.
only then did you find scaramouche already waiting. he stood near the bed, arms crossed tightly over his chest, every line of his body drawn with tension. his indigo hair, freshly washed and falling in sharp, uneven layers, framed a face so pale it was almost translucent in the low light, veins visible beneath the surface in delicate threads of blue. the subtle flush on his high cheekbones was a stark contrast, blooming in feverish streaks across the bone, and his violet eyes—wide, bright, shimmering with wary defiance—flicked over you with contempt. he looked fragile and unyielding all at once, like a porcelain doll set on edge, every muscle wound tight beneath the delicate robes that clung to his slender frame. the tension between you thickened as the door closed on the rest of the world, trapping you in a rom with this damned man.
for a moment, you and scaramouche simply stared at each other in the dim, perfumed light—a mutual sizing up, both of you bristling with nerves and the remnants of pride. it was supposed to be a night of duty and tradition, but neither of you had ever been one to obey quietly.
the table near the window still bore something like a wedding feast: fruit, a plate of untouched sweets, and, most tempting, a full bottle of wine.
you made a show of pouring two glasses, the crimson liquid sloshing with a theatrical recklessness that matched your mood.
scaramouche arched a brow, arms folded tightly across his chest, but didn’t refuse the drink when you handed it to him.
you both stood awkwardly, sipping in silence at first. the wine was sharp and sweet, a little too strong for comfort. after a few swallows, scaramouche spoke, his tongue loosened by the alcohol and the oppressive closeness. “i suppose you’ll expect me to be grateful for this, too?”
you let out a low, humorless laugh. “gratitude isn’t what i’m looking for. i’m not here to play house.”
he snorted, the sound brittle. “good. i’d hate to see you try.”
by the time the bottle was half-empty, the edge between you had softened, dulled by the alcohol and the inevitability of what was to come. certainely with alcohol in your system it would make this easier to do.
“might as well get over with this.”
you bends toward him slowly enough that he could conceivably stop you, but he doesn’t—before you push him on the bed, or after.
you quite liked that.
you smiled, snaking your wandering fingers around his slutty waist, giving it a good squeeze; your palms slid along the thin silk of his robe, feeling the heat rising beneath the fabric, tracing the curve of his hipbone until you could press your thumb into the soft dip just above his thigh. his body stiffened, back arching ever so slightly under your touch, as if torn between recoiling and leaning in. his skin felt fever-warm, a faint tremor shivering through the muscle beneath. his hands, previously balled in fists at his sides, hovered uncertainly in the air—torn between pushing you away and clutching at the sheets for support. you caught the sharp hitch in his breath as your nails grazed his side; what a waste, but you’d make use of it since the situation called for it, it was your duty, as his steadfast wife, no? you ought to be praised.
when he edged closer, his chest aligned with yours, and you felt the restless flutter of his shallow breaths, quick and uneven. his body was tense—every muscle drawn taut as if bracing for impact. you wondered, with a flicker of cruel amusement, what made him so unbearably stiff in your arms.
“this is your first time, isn’t it?” scaramouche swallowed hard at the question, heart skittering in his chest, breath quick and panting. your hands slid down his sides, caressing his hips, along his thighs.
at the movement, an astounded look quickly shot up to his face, mouth agape.
“what do you think you’re doing?” he growled, regaining his composure with the speed of a snapped blade. his glare locked onto you, unwavering and sharp. you met his hostility with equal resolve, your lips curling into a faint, dismissive smirk before you scoffed—utterly unbothered.
“consummating our marriage,” you declare rather bluntly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, your grip digging into his waist to keep him near. scaramouche’s eyes widened, defiant but uncertain, and for a moment he hesitated—then, with a bitter, reluctant sigh, he spat, “fine.”
you almost laughed at how begrudging he sounded—so proud, so unwilling to show even a hint of vulnerability. he glared at you, jaw set, every inch the reluctant prince forced to submit to tradition. but as you leaned in, lips brushing his ear, you were struck by a sudden, dark thrill—a wicked idea blooming in your mind. if you both had to endure this, you might as well enjoy it on your own terms. why not make him squirm? why not make him remember who truly had the upper hand?
your lips met his neck, making quick work—tasting, devouring, savoring the sweet hint of wine on his skin. your tongue traced the thin line of his pulse, lapping at the salty-sweetness, teeth scraping down to where his collarbone jutted beneath skin. you sucked a mark there, letting your lips drag with just enough pressure to make him shiver. the moment was rudely interrupted by your fingertips ghosting over his blushed nipples, quickly transitioning from small flicks to brazen pulling, rolling the hardening peaks between finger and thumb, sending electric shocks through his abused, raw tits. he choked on the sensation coursing through his upper body, his face taking on a red tint from the brazen mishandling, chest rising as you pinched and twisted, feeling his nipple stiffen even further under your touch.
with this, scaramouche forces himself to think straight and fall out of his (presumed) drunken haze. for a split second, he tries to recall what he’d imagined this night would be—a quick, dutiful act, maybe awkward, but not like this. he forces himself to understand the perversion of the situation. his mind reels at the sudden escalation—he doesn’t know how to reconcile the confusion in his mind, his hesitant repulsion, his inexplicable reaction to your warm, wet mouth suckling relentlessly on his taut skin. every new sensation is a jolt, not what he’d braced himself for. he needed to get over this. now.
he gripped onto your shoulders to push you away, but just then, before he can even proceed to protest, his traitorous dick jerks. pleasure rippled through him in soft waves that were growing incrementally stronger.
a feeble moan sputtered out of his mouth unexpectedly at the stir in his groin, betraying his sentiments. you hummed happily against the crook of his neck from the sound.
from this? really? scaramouche cursed himself silently, glancing up at his blushed complexion, you release your suction on his neck with a small, audible ‘pop’. you grin smugly before proceeding to lick a long stripe up the ripening hickies littering his flesh, as if an apology. if that. he grimaced, eyeing you as if you’ve committed the most offensable of crimes. at this proximity, he could smell the sickening scent of rosehip oil from your heavy body prodding against him as it hung over his senses like a cloud of smoke, stupefying any of his remaining rationale.
“do as you will then,” he finally caves. i mean—of course he would, it was you.
it made him want to squirm. his pulse was a distant whoosh in his ears, overwhelmed by the tremor that rolled across his creamy skin and the closeness of your body.
“ha—you actually like this. i’d have never thought. i’ll do my best to please.”
your lips moved in tandem across his skin as you degraded and kissed him all at once, your words like a string of disjointed music he couldn't make sense of. soft actions, harsh words. why? clutching his thighs roughly, your darkened eyes, unashamedly danced with greed. ashamed with his previous utterances, scaramouche bit down on his bottom lip to silence any sounds from feeding your avarice, grappling to your matching robe for dear life.
“are you enjoying this, scara?” you sneer. “so, so, sensitive,” you continue to coo.
“if you want me to keep going you have to beg for me to, yes?”
his pupils track the progress of your fingers outlining his entrance, swallowing hard. if he was going to stop you, now was that moment. but he didn’t.
and then you open his mouth, and it becomes something else entirely.
the soft press of your tongues quickly devolved into a sloppy, clumsy tangle—hungry, wet, and chaotic. his lips parted on a gasp and you took control, kissing him deeper, harder, teeth knocking and breaths mingling in feverish pants. wine slicked your mouths, the taste sharp and sweet as you bullied your tongue past his hesitant lips.
you broke away just enough to sneer, "is that all you’ve got? i’ve kissed pillows with more enthusiasm."
he glared, breathless. "you’re lucky i’m even letting you touch me, you insufferable brat."
you pressed your mouth to his again, harder, lips bruising. "if i wanted dead fish, i would’ve gone to the market. try to keep up, or are you always this useless?"
he bit your lip sharply in retaliation, muttering, "keep running your mouth and i’ll find something to stuff it with."
you laughed, low and cruel, licking the sting away. "promises, promises. you couldn’t satisfy me if your life depended on it."
he scoffed, eyes dark. "lucky for us, your standards are nonexistent."
you gripped his jaw, forcing his face up. "at least i don’t whimper like a kicked dog every time someone actually touches me."
he flushed, anger and humiliation mingling. "if you’re so desperate to prove how much better you are, why don’t you actually show me? or is all that bravado just for show?"
the kisses turned rougher, spiteful, banter stinging as much as the press of your mouths. hands wandered with intent, nails biting, both of you vying for dominance through lips and words, neither willing to let the other win—even as you tangled deeper into the heat.
scaramouche was utterly lost in you, swept under by sensation. so deeply distracted that, with a subtle push, he toppled onto the bed and cried out—not just in pleasure, but in startled surprise. in that instant, you tore open his robe with a decisive motion, the silk parting beneath your hands. for a brief, breathless moment, both of you lay exposed in matching robes—shimmering, identical fabrics pooling around your bodies. when he blinked his eyes open, he found you gazing down at him, naked hunger in your stare coaxing shudders from deep within his body.
as his breathing evened out, you trailed your hand over the flushed skin of his thigh, lips brushing his ear. "i want you to remember this," you purred, voice low and thick with intent. without hurry, you reached for the bottle of wine left half-abandoned on the nearby table—a relic of the forced celebration that had long since soured. you caught his wide, uncertain eyes: "stay still for me."
you uncorked the bottle, its heavy glass body catching the candlelight—a deep, mossy green, thick at the base and tapering to a slender neck that glistened with condensation. the glass felt cold and substantial in your hand, almost ominous in its weight. The scent of the wine was rich and heady, sharp notes filling the air as you tipped the bottle, pouring a decadent splash over your fingers. you let the wine drip directly onto his skin, the cold liquid making him shudder as it snaked along the creases of his thighs, pooling in the hollow just beside his cock. the wine itself was dark, nearly black-red, and it trickled in thin, gleaming streams down scaramouche’s trembling thighs, leaving behind sticky, glistening rivulets that stood out against the stark pallor of his skin, tracing wet, winding paths over his sensitive skin, staining him in vivid contrast—ruby against ivory. your touch was methodical, alternating between gentle and rough, as you slipped slick, wine-drenched fingers between his cheeks and circled his entrance, coaxing him to relax as you stretched him, testing his limits.
scaramouche shuddered beneath your hands, his responses a chaotic, beautiful mess. shame and pleasure warred across his face—his cheeks burned with a deep, helpless crimson while his violet eyes darted everywhere but your gaze, glassy with tears he tried and failed to blink away. each gasp and broken moan slipped past lips bitten red, his breath stuttering as if he couldn’t decide whether to whimper or protest. his thighs quaked under your touch, knees falling apart despite himself, and his hips jerked, moving unconsciously in time with your rhythm. the sheets bunched in his fists, knuckles straining white, as he desperately sought some anchor—anything to keep from being swept away. sweat beaded along his hairline, strands of indigo clinging to his flushed, tear-streaked cheeks. his body arched and writhed, every muscle betraying his attempt at composure, the evidence of his unraveling written in the trembling lines of his slim frame. even as he tried to turn his head away, muffling his cries against his arm, you could see it etched across his face—humiliation and want tangled so tightly that neither could exist without the other.
"y-you're insane," he hissed through clenched teeth, voice shaky, rich with humiliation and need. "do you get off humiliating me like this? tch—of course you do. sadist."
but his hips lifted, involuntarily, as you pressed the cool neck of the wine bottle—slick with wine and the heat of your palm—against his entrance, watching his body jolt at the foreign sensation. the glass was unyielding, a stark contrast to the warmth of his body, and you relished the way it made him gasp and writhe.
"wait—what are you—?" scaramouche squirmed, trying to twist away, voice brittle with panic. "no, not like that—are you insane?" his hands came down to push at your wrist, but your grip was unrelenting, and his protests only spurred you on. "you're seriously— gods, you're actually going to—stop!"
"this is— ngh—” but his voice broke on a moan, lashes fluttering as he tilted his head back.
"breathe," you reminded him, voice both mocking and oddly soothing. inch by inch, you eased the bottle inside, careful but unrelenting, refusing to let him retreat. scaramouche’s eyes flew wide, mouth falling open in shock as the chilled glass pressed past the tight ring of muscle, spreading him with an unfamiliar, unyielding pressure. a strangled sound escaped him, his knuckles turning bone-white as he clung to the sheets, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of enduring the violation. you press deeper, and scaramouche feels the burn of it, the stretch of his walls accommodating something they’ve never held before the sensation was overwhelming—a strange, borderline unbearable fullness that made his thighs shake and his breath catch in his throat. the bottle’s surface was unforgiving, the cool glass shocking against the heat of his body, and he could feel every inch, every subtle curve and seam, as it filled him inch by merciless inch.
humiliation washed over him, burning bright beneath the pallor of his skin, and yet his body betrayed him: his hips jerked, involuntarily grinding down, desperate for friction, for anything to ground him in the storm of sensation. his body caught between the urge to escape and the desperate need for more. his face was a picture of ruin—cheeks wet with tears, lips parted and quivering, eyes squeezed shut as though denial alone could erase the feeling of being split open and used. scaramouche sniffled brokenly, the sound trembling between pain and pleasure, his nose running from the force of his sobs and the overwhelming sensations. his breathing turned ragged, the fullness inside him impossible to ignore, and he whimpered, the sound high and helpless, as the bottle settled deep within. the glass stretched him open in a way your fingers never could, the smooth, cold bottle forcing him to feel every millimeter as it slid deeper. he writhed helplessly, back arching, desperate to escape the intrusion even as his body clenched greedily around it, unable to help the way he responded, every nerve firing as you’d carved space inside him where there wasn’t any before.
only when the bottle was fully seated did you pause, tracing the tense, quivering line of his trembling body with greedy satisfaction. his entrance fluttered helplessly around the glass, his whole frame trembling with the effort to process the humiliating, intense sensation now filling him so completely. with every tiny movement, the wine inside the bottle sloshed audibly, the sound muffled but unmistakable, vibrating through the glass and deep into his core. the cool base pressed against his flushed skin, and a faint drip of wine leaked out, mixing with the slickness around his stretched rim. every shift made his hole clench and flutter, drawing a soft squelch as the bottle moved, the wet sound echoing the feverish flush on his cheeks. his body listens even as his mind stalls, and he doesn’t understand why it makes his chest tight or why even his legs remained splayed wide to grant you access—all of it was proof of his utter surrender, no matter how fiercely he tried to hold on to his pride.
you caught sight of a faint smear of red around his entrance, a glint of blood staining the glass and his pale skin. a slow, wicked smile curled on your lips as you leaned in, voice a taunt at his ear. "well, look at that. i really did pop your cherry, didn't i?" you purred, half-mocking, half-possessive, thumb swiping over the slick, ruddy mess. "i’m honored."
"look how well you take it," you whispered, your words dripping with condescending praise. the thrill of having the tables turned—of making the proud prince submit, of plowing the one who should have been plowing you—made your heart pound with exhilaration. his humiliation only made your satisfaction sharper; with every whimper and every tremble, you felt a heady rush, drunk on the reversal of power. he looked devastatingly pretty like this—face flushed a soft, feverish pink, violet eyes glassy and rimmed with tears, delicate lashes clumped together. the way his lips trembled, bitten pink and glossy, made him look almost doll-like, and the pale curve of his neck and collarbones was marred by blossoming hickies and smeared wine.
“don’t,” scaramouche pants, eyes squeezed shut. “don’t go further.”
you go further, anyway, because when has that ever stopped you?
you twisted the bottle, drawing out a gasp, and let your free hand wander up to his chest, fingers flicking and pinching his sensitive nipples until his back arched helplessly. his chest rose and fell in desperate little pants, the dusky peaks of his nipples stiff and reddened from your attention, his waist and hips so slender and soft beneath your hands that you could almost mistake him for a blushing bride. "such a delicate thing," you taunted, "i almost feel bad ruining you like this. almost." your tone was all mockery, laced with a sweetness that made it sting all the more.
you leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. "a pretty girl like you should know her place." you smirked at the way he flinched at the feminizing words, the flush spreading down his neck. "beg for it," you ordered, voice low and commanding. "beg me to keep using you. show me what a depraved little thing you really are—tell me you want it, that you want to be filled, to be made into my perfect little wife."
you began to twist and thrust the bottle mercilessly, picking up the pace with cruel precision. setting a rhythm that has him gasping. each movement was deliberate, calculated to draw out the most humiliating sounds and expressions from him. "look at you, clenching so desperately—like you can’t get enough. do you like being stretched open by something so crude? i bet you do. i bet you’d take anything i gave you, wouldn’t you?” you purred, voice sharper and meaner, letting your hand drift down to his thigh, nails biting into the soft flesh as you forced his legs wider.
the wine inside sloshed and squelched with every thrust, the bottle moving faster and rougher in time with your taunting words. his whole body jolted, thighs shaking, his feeble protests dissolving into pitiful, high-pitched moans. "are you going to cry? going to make a mess for me, pretty thing?" you sneered. every thrust rubbing against nerves he didn’t know he had. his body making decisions without him, chasing what it wants with no help from the part of him that knows better. there’s no space to think, no space to breathe, and when he opens his mouth to rebutt, nothing comes out.
it was too much—his nerves don’t know what to do with it, can’t sort the sensation into pleasure or pain, just registers it as too much, too fast, too soon, overwhelming, a deep visceral ache that pulses through his lower belly with every thrust. each time you twisted the bottle, the wet sound of wine squelching inside him blended with the ragged cries that spilled from his lips. scaramouche’s hips bucked, his entire body bowing off the bed in a perfect arc, back taut and head thrown back against the pillow.
his hands scrabbled desperately at your arms and the tangled sheets, nails leaving faint crescents in your skin, clutching for purchase as you leaned over him, your breath hot and sticky where it mingled with the sweat beading on his chest. his little cock twitched pathetically, leaking and untouched, the head flushed and glistening as hot, sticky spurts spilled over his belly and thighs, smearing together with the rivulets of wine that stained his skin. he came with a shattered sob, so pretty and ruined, his body clenching desperately around the bottle, hole fluttering around the unyielding glass as if begging for more. the sight of his small, flushed cock, drooling and spent, only deepened his humiliation—the shame of his own helpless pleasure burning in his tear-streaked face as he realized what you’d made him do.
you pinched and rolled his nipples between your fingers, savoring the way his whole body jerked at the sensation. “sensitive little slut. i bet you’d look perfect in silk and lace—panties stretched tight over that pathetic cock, ribbons tangled around your pretty thighs. you’d blush so sweetly with a garter hugging your leg, wouldn’t you?” you let your hand trail lower, nails scratching over his hip. “maybe you were always meant to be used like this—pretty and pliant, just begging for someone to ruin you. my little wife, eager to be filled and shown off. i should have you kneel at my feet in a bridal veil, let everyone see how perfectly you submit—my darling girl, my beautiful little princess.”
you pressed a kiss to his cheek, mockingly gentle. “maybe i should dress you up, let everyone see how much you love being my little wife. would you like that, scaramouche? all dolled up, on display, dripping and desperate for me?”
he whimpered, a broken, high sound that slipped past his bitten lips, the degradation sinking in, the bottle a constant reminder of his helplessness, trying to pull it in deeper, trying to push it out, his body can’t decide which. “stop—just stop, you don't have to—" he spat through gritted teeth, voice quivering and thin, even as his hips rolled wantonly, betraying him. "you can't just do whatever you want to me!" he snarled, defiance flickering behind his tears, though his protest was ruined by the tremor in his voice. shame curled his spine, and his body trembled with the effort of holding himself together. "it's not—it's not supposed to be like this. i didn't ask for any of this!" he protested, shaking his head as if denial alone could stop the onslaught. "let me go! i mean it—let me—" but the words crumbled into a sob as another twist of the bottle forced a moan from his lips. "damn you," he gasped, voice splintering between anger and pleading, "i said—ah—stop!"
but even as he fought you, his thighs fell open further, seeking more, as if his body refused to obey the indignation in his words. his breath came in short, ragged pants, chest heaving with every motion. tears streaked his cheeks, wetting the pillow beneath his head, and sobs mingled with moans as each twist of the bottle, make his walls clench around the retreating length like they’re trying to keep it inside. he shook his head, fighting desperately for composure, but his voice buckled, trembling and sweet:
"p-please," he gasped, every syllable laden with humiliation and desperate need. "just—just do it. i want— i want you to use me. don’t stop, please—please, i can’t—"
DO NOT INTERACT if you are... homophobic, fascist, a minor, transphobic, ableist, a zionist, racist
i write for dom!top reader primarily. sub!top and/or dom!bot reader if asked, never sub!bot reader. i write for all genders
I MIGHT take a while to complete requests, please consider the fact that im still in school, mentally unstable, and burnout easily
I WONT WRITE.. pregnancy, watersports, feces kink, noncon, ageplay, raceplay, nsfw for aged up characters/minors, pedophilia, incest, fauxcest, sexualization of age regression
Thinking abt Rishen 1311 with a crossdressing partner (afab on the soft pretty aesthetic side of things) spending an entire day dressing each other up and bonding over lingerie that would look sososo good on him then decided to give the little cutie a fashion show when they got to the reader’s studio and the next thing rishen knows he’s being pinned against the wall and and and — 😋😋😋
//dom!reader pls//
— 🌙
˖⁺. “ fashion , put it all on me ! ” :
﹙ bttm spy model x top fem designer reader ﹚.𖹭 ݁
. . . verse 1311 rishen x fem reader !! 🍒 : ﹙ admiral ˖ spy ˖ assassin character ﹚
your partner has always been such a stunner. so you invite him to your studio to be your favourite model
Rishen had just stepped into one of the pink lingerie gowns that you had given him as a gift the other day. Admiring the way he looked in the mirror, with a clear smile on his lips.
With the smallest quirk of a brow, he looks back at you and bites away at her bottom lip to hold away a grin, before looking back.
“It looks amazing. . . You have such amazing taste in the fabric and overall material of these lingerie sets.” Compliments are left out in the room to pierce your heart with that lovesick feel. A small kick lands against the ground as you look down and chuckle.
“I could only say the same for you my dear. You have excellent taste.” The response is almost breathless, you aren’t done either.
“You’ve always had quite the eye for the colors in particular. You know how to pick colours that complement.” Your fingers pinch at the fabric of the lingerie bra that covers your chest. It is thin, showing just about everything of your breasts. From the curves that fill out the bra to the mesh fabric to the way your nipples poke through.
All the while the admiral looks at you with adoration at how the gift he got you hugs at your curves nicely. It takes a bit for him to not stare too long at the wet patch of arousal in the panties that you wear.
Fortunately for him, you notice nothing. Rambling on like the two of you have for the past one or two hours, “It certainly helps me find the more tasteful lingerie.”
Shuffling of fabrics sound once more as the two of you change out, reaching over to try out the last set that you two have in the apartment.
You couldn’t help throwing a small peek over your shoulder as you hear a sigh of slight disappointment.
Turning from side to side in the mirror while wearing a white lingerie set, Rishen knits his eyebrows. It’s a pretty set, however, it’s not really something that catches his eye in particular.
And for a moment, the room goes quiet with contemplating silence from the both of you. Until another thought blossoms within your mind.
“You’d look adorable in my newest design.” You speak softly, breaking the silence of the room.
Gnawing away at your lip, while you rest your chin against your knuckles. You admire your boyfriend as usual.
Oh that striking body, the soft and sharp mix of facial features. Personally, the set looked absolutely beautiful on him to you. But alas, if he was not one for the look of it, he was not one for the look of it.
He is as perfect outside as he is on the inside. Every flaw and perfection. You always told him just how much you value every part of him, even when they get grim.
Despite the turns of his head you have gotten when you have said such, you know better. And you know it reassures him. It is exactly why you continue to say such.
You catch his eyes as he looks over at you. Maroon blending so very well with the fondness lingering in your eyes as irises pour into one another. And with the small flick of stiletto nails against a piece of dust on the gown you were wearing, your stand up. Walking over to him with a big grin.
He only lifts a brow of curiosity, leaning back against the heater with a simple cock of the head.
“Oh?” The soft sound that emits from the back of his throat almost has your knees bending, almost. It doesn’t matter how much of a dom you are in the bedroom or outside of it. His voice makes you bend. Always has.
“Mhm,” Arms wrap around a slim waist, squeezing the warm body before yours close. While you press a kiss to soft, deep red lips. “I have just the thing to help cure your disappointment. If you’ll come with to my studio today?”
Silence takes over the room once more. Rishen leans close. The perfume wafting off of him, and gods, your head loops. It takes every nerve and bone in you to not push him back against the window and feel him up here and now.
Ah, but you wish to save that for later. So you grab him by the hips and pull him in for a long kiss, deepening it every minute that passes until he’s the one left loopy and breathless.
“Hah—” He gasps, knuckles turned white as fingers curl around the soft silky fabric that covers your body they previously glided down against.
“Well with this treatment,” The whisper is so soft against your lips. Mutually sharp nails running down your delicate skin, and squeezing just enough to threat at piercing through.
“I might as well, muñeca. . .”
All it took was that and a single smile, the mischievous glimmer in his eyes and the raise of your own eyebrow.
“Grab a coat and get all dressed up ‘nd pretty, huh?”
Driving to the studio had been a blur for the both of you. Tension arose like the most suffocating heat you have ever experienced in your life, yet you love it all the same.
The admiral had hurried behind the screen to see what was behind. Picking out one of the intricately designed lingerie. So much detail— The deep reds of it woven together with silken strings of a lighter hue in the red. It shone so beautifully in the light of the studio too. . .
A soft scoff escapes his lips.
“You had all of this prepared, no?”
The call to you is a smooth croon. One that has your heart fluttering over and over again, along with the twist of arousal in your stomach from the anticipation for what beautiful sight will meet you in just a few moments.
“Well I was expecting you to say yes,” You answer. The smirk ever clear in your voice as you put on music for your little show.
Plopping down into a chair, crossing your legs and leaning back to enjoy the upcoming show, you hear the familiar shuffling of clothes softly thudding against the ground. While Rishen makes little noise putting on any of the lingerie, only leaving you to chuckle softly at the slight click of a tongue.
It was hard to keep the tease back at your tongue. It rolls off so naturally, what can you say?
“You struggling back there princess?”
“Shut up,” He whispers, clearing his throat. “I just need to. . . tuck,” a small sound leaves him after. But a moment later, he makes his way out onto the small walkway.
Like a model, he takes his walk down to you. Like an angel, he shines in the light of the studio so perfectly. Everything about his shillouette left you in absolute awe.
And truly, breathless, is the only way to describe the way your entire being has been rendered at the sight before you. Eyes darkening as they roam every little curve and corner.
“Look at you. . .” The murmur reached his ears quick, and the brat took the opportunity to smirk at you. While running his hands down his chest and down his thighs, giving you a little pose.
“Uh-huh?” What a cruel thing to do. Croon at you like that while he moves his hand down into the lingerie panties. Of course your eyes would instinctively trail down to the hard, and quite prominent, bulge in them.
Oh it made you tick with the kind of irritation that left you aroused. Wanting to get him down on his knees and beg for your forgiveness while you fuck him into you. Listen to his pretty cries asking for more.
You are brought back to reality when you hear a soft ‘awww’ emit from your boyfriend’s throat.
“Got you all worked up hm?” He chuckles, giving you a lascivious wink.
That was it.
Without any words you rise from your seat and make your way over to him. Hands immediately gripping onto the soft flesh of his waist. Pushing him back against one of many props in the studio. Lips attacking his in a hungry manner.
Pulling away for a moment to catch your breath. What depraved woman you are, to sit and watch your partner doing a little show for you. Only to immediately get up with the intention of fucking him breathless after just one lingerie set.
Perhaps it was also just because he had left you pent up the last few days. Teasing you, leaving early for work after feeling you up. . . It was enough.
“Gods, so fucking need—”
Needy,
Needy, was the word he wanted to finish the sentence off with. However, your hand shoving the panties off of him and cupping at the base of his cock forced a breathless gasp out of him. Hips bucking.
“Shut up.” You grunt, gripping at his hips while you grind your wet cunt down against his erection, the slick spilling through the fabric of the panties as if there wasn’t any.
“Fuckin’ brat. Haven’t you acted a pain in the ass enough this week huh? Think you need to be taught a lesson.” Pressing yourself up against him while stroking away at the shaft. Teasing him by holding back on going up to the tip.
What a pretty whimper that you get too. Your lips taking all of the words away from him you knew awaited to pass through his lips, you don’t wanna hear anything he has to say. It will all be mocking and bratty, you know that much.
“You knew what you were doing when you put this specific lingerie on.” Is all you can pant against his lips. Hoisting him back up to press him against the cold wall to your right. Enjoying the feel of him shivering against you.
“There was a sign that read where you had to begin.”
Slowly, your hand moves up to the tip, squeezing away at it.
Rishen opens his mouth again, about to say something. Try his luck. Tntil a slew of moans come trickling out of his half open mouth at the abrupt pace his poor dick suddenly receives.
Fast and tight, your hand fucking him so well.
“F-Fuck—” He moans out, his head rolling back against the wall, while his hips desperately meet with your hand. Thighs tensing each time you move from the tip and all the way down, while your other hand fondles and carresses his balls.
He can all but swallow heavily at the feel, while his hand moves down to cup at your cunt. Earning a sharp inhale from you as you buck your hips and squeeze around his leaking dick.
SMACK!
The sound of your hand impacting with Rishen’s inner thigh scatters across the room. Follow by a loud whine from him as his hand moves away from you. Despite the fact your pussy continues you throb and flutter the way it does.
You are sure if it could speak it would be screaming at you to let him touch you.
Rishen, on the other hand, tries to grip onto anything— anything, to be able to stand up straight. The pain mixed with the pleasure of your hand vigorously fucking him is dizzying.
“P-por— Por fa-ah— Mngh— D-dios! Lo siento— Lo-L-Losientooo!!!”
“Those pretty moans and whines. That’s it. Just listen to yourself. Gods, You sound like a desperate whore.” You mock, spitting into his mouth while it is open and making him swallow it. His dick squirting with cum at the feel.
“Cumming already huh?”
“S— so mean!” He whines, hips stuttering against your hand while he pants and gasps.
“Yeah? You deserve it.” The comment forces more cum out of him, his sight blurry from the sheer amount of arousal that rushes to his gut.
Your hands were on his dick but his entire body was begging to have you on top of him riding him into oblivion. Or fucking him into the mattress in all sorts of different positions.
But unfortunately, he was not going to get what he wanted for a bit after acting such a brat this week. It was fine, he enjoyed this just as much.
To simply have you fucking him dumb just with your hand? It was addicting.
“Let me help.” He groans into your shoulder while you pin his hips into the wall after pulling your hands away. Bringing your panties to the side so that your can rub your pussy slit against his throbbing dick.
“No.” You whisper, “I want you to stand here, and take it like a good boy huh? Let me do my fuckin’ job.”
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Hello everybody!! I'm back, and I want to try my hand at Kinktober this year <33 I've generally changed fandoms from the old Tokyo Rev. since I out grew it, but I might still take suggestions for it??? Not that much, but anyways! Here's my list!
orgy
begging (FINNICK ODAIR, THG, TOP!MR)
scars
cum
mind control
formal wear
licking
threesome
oviposition
degradation
somnophilia
honeymoon
sharing
sex work
knife play
roleplay
hair pulling
D/s
crying
pegging
being forced to kneel
double penetration
orgasm denial
glory hole
fuck or die
sex pollen
deepthroat
collaring
ass worship
fisting
pregnancy or a/b/o
This list will serve as my master list for this years Kinktober, and each prompt is each day in order of October! Characters I'll choose by whim or by requests, and most of the prompts will be short drabbles, one shots less likely, but I hope to have fun and challenge myself!
The prompts will be a mix of male reader and some fem reader, but I'll try to keep a couple gender neutral if the worms in my mind don't consume all my writing.
Feel free to recommend any characters from my current fandoms which can be found off my masterlist atm, but I promise you guys, you WILL se some Finnick Odair love at least once in this because I've been frothing at the mouth for this man since I read him yap in Catching Fire.
It's been 1 month now since Kuroo start fucking with a demon like you, you'll always hungry to dry him out and when you ready to milk him you would always fly to his house (you like to watch the moon sometimes) or teleport.
And even though you and Kuroo always mess around he never once top, I mean you always tie him up with black chains so it makes sense and even though his fat cock is going inside you he'll always whine like a little slut. It's so amusing to you, like you can't get enough of is lewd face.
So, even though Kuroo enjoys it slot he since want to top you even if it's for a sec he wants to do it, so he wants to try something if it would work on a 'demon'.
You teleport to Kuroo like usual an went you got there he was fast a sleep which is pretty usual because when he wakes up he gonna see you fucking his cock.
You slowly take of your clothes and walk over to Kuroo "Aww, your so pretty when you sleep~ ku-kun~" you said with gossy eyes. Your eyes slowly move to his partially showed cock which you lick your lips and start inviting your self on Kuroo, ass in his face and and hands unzipping his pants, you didn't need to create any black chains that tie his hands together you just need your mouth to control him.... that's what you thought.
You admirer his fat cock that you were sucking on it was so big you couldn't get used to his size because how big it was which you love so much "Mmm~ mm~"
While you're sucking on his cock Kuroo is actually smirking underneath you.
Your enjoying his cock forgetting he might wake up which you don't regret but still, he grab your thighs and start going at it which you leave you in shock "H-Hey!? You wh-where fake slee-!" not even letting you finish he hit a spot that make you start losing your mind "AH!~ AHAH!~..." you start moaning load "Aww, is little devil finally becoming 'my' cum dumpster~?" That makes you snap out of it just the word 'my' make get back to your sense
Even though he hold you thighs with a powerful grip he no match for a hungry demon, you were particular moan so you couldn't say the words out so you start making black chains appear and tie kuroo's hand so you can finally move your ass off his face.
"Trying To eat me out, huh?" You said while getting off his chest "So what?, I finally thought I could control you once in awhile. The way you been fucking my cock all the time is making me go nuts and I couldn't even touch you it's getting annoying" kuroo said while sitting up and smirking at your dark expression "Oh, come on y/n gi-" kuroo was in total shock of what is in front his face "oh, that's it huh" you chuckled 'Did she just glow a dick?!'
"like what you see~?" You start pulling the chains that was around his neck so he can meet your eye level "ku-kun~ you know I don't love when other people control me especially you. Since that's the problem why don't I fix that~" you pull the chain to your dick level so Kuroo can suck your cock, it was more bigger then his "What, are you still so shock~?" He's still staring at your cock Wondering in his own thoughts "I-is..it..real?" He say in a low tone but you heard "Why don't you find out for yourself" you loosen up the chains a bit so he can touch it.
He slowly put his hands on the tip to see if it's real or not then he slowly put the tip of your cock in his mouth, it was warm in his mouth and he start moving until he have the whole thing in his mouth and you were getting inpatient how slow he was going.
"Kuroo do you think this is gonna be over when I cum in your mouth. Why are you going so fucking slow?!" You pull his hair up back to your face level, when you saw his eyes they were full with tear and lustful
"Ha, is little kitten crying over my cock. Oh don't worry this cock is yours and the fun part didn't even start yet~"
