ex bf!scaramouche x reader; smut, reader is afab but uses gender-neutral terms
cw: dubcon, toxic behavior, manipulation
Clubs were always his thing. Not yours.
Dozens of bodies crushed together, the hint of booze and something more illicit in the stagnant air, the music that would thud in the back of your head for hours after you left. It all seemed like the worst place to spend a night off, especially since you were usually so busy with work and uni that days you could afford to lose to hangovers were few and far between.
Not to mention all the sleazy half-drunk weirdos who’d gladly slide into the space beside you the moment he stepped away. You hated the way their eyes would linger on the too-tight dress Scaramouche insisted you wear, how their voices turned slippery the moment they realized you were alone.
But Scaramouche never stayed gone for too long.
He liked to watch how your eyes would flit around the room desperately searching for him, but the second they tried their luck he’d swoop in like some twisted knight in shining armor to slide a firm hand around your hip and press possessive little marks into the side of your neck. You knew he’d never let anyone touch you- but it scared you every time they tried.
In hindsight, that was probably the point, to feed into his overinflated ego: to feel you melt into his side the moment he’d come back, to hear the quiet ‘don’t leave’ that would slip from your mouth the moment he returned. Every time, he’d chuckle and press a condescending kiss against your forehead as if your clinginess wasn't his doing.
You hated nightclubs and you hated your ex boyfriend. You hated how suffocatingly controlling he was, how thoroughly he’d pushed himself into every nook and cranny in your life until there was barely any space left for you. You hated yourself for how easily you let it happen. You hated how readily you complied when he’d told you to block all of your friends, how you’d cave when he’d insist you skip class, how you’d let him shrink your worldview to only him.
And you loathed how now, two months after the breakup, you found yourself in a nightclub again. Still in that stupidly expensive dress he bought you and his signature red smeared along your eyelids, sitting at the bar and waiting for him to show up behind you. You searched for him in every empty corner, whipping around a little too harshly when you heard a laugh that sounded a little too much like him, gritting your teeth when it wasn’t with something you pretended was relief.
The alcohol was shit here, you decided as you watched your cheap vodka swirl around in your glass, but at least it burned enough for you to forget your reason for coming here. It’d become a familiar ritual- finish your classes, drink your ass off in the club, then crash at home and spend the next day sobbing your eyes out and mourning the loss of your relationship as if you hadn’t been the one to end it.
He had moved on; you were painfully aware of that much. For the first month and a half, he wouldn’t stop spamming you with the proof. Every morning you’d rise to texts and rambling voice messages about how great he was doing, how many people he’d slept with since you’d dumped him, how grateful he was for you finally removing your restraints on his freedom. He’d switch numbers every time you blocked him until you finally got sick of it- erasing all your socials and buying an entirely new phone just so you could breathe. The whole thing was probably orchestrated to get under your skin, but you couldn’t help but fall for it just as you’d fallen for all his other tricks.
He hadn’t contacted you since. Maybe he’d finally gotten sick of your silence.
You sighed, exhaustion snapping you out of your thoughts for a moment. They were particularly loud today, so you raised your hand for another shot. You needed to quiet your brain, even if it was just for a moment.
Suddenly, you jumped as you heard a voice behind you. The same old sleazy tone of a guy trying to get into your pants. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing here all alone?”
You peered at the guy from the corner of your eye- blonde, muscular, grin the size of a sun. The type of guy you would’ve been falling over yourself for before Scaramouche. Now, all you saw was a half-drunk pervert. “Screw off.”
“Aww, but we haven’t even gotten to know each other yet!” He chortled, slurring his words and spewing the stench of alcohol in your nose. He slipped into the seat beside you, snaking a hand towards where yours was clenched around your glass, though you immediately shifted it away.
“A heavy drinker, huh? I like that.” came his overly flirty voice again, this time down your neck.
“Didn’t you hear them, worm? They said screw off,” said a familiar voice. The new arrival grabbed the pervert’s collar and yanked him backwards until the back of his head slammed against the floor, and you were so stunned by the familiar voice you just stared slack-jawed as Scaramouche slid into the seat beside you as if it was his own.
He looked the human incarnation of charm, as usual. His white button-up was slightly undone, deliberately flaunting the scarlet lipstick marks along his collarbone, his leather jacket hanging off one shoulder like he couldn’t care enough to put it on. Each hand was adorned with dozens of silver rings and on his waist was an assortment of fancy belt chains, all from brands you were too broke to name. He still had his usual smug grin on, though it was undermined by the dark circles under his eyes and the slightly manic way his fingers dug into the edge of the table.
Your heart immediately began to race with a mixture of emotions. Relief, which you refused to admit. Anger. Disgust. But most of all, a sinking feeling of terror that tugged at your brain in all the wrong ways. The breakup had been ugly- in all your half-drunk stupors you couldn’t help remembering how scary he’d been when he’d screamed at you, when he’d locked the door and tried to force you to stay. How furious you were at him.
You wanted to run. Yell. Maybe grab him by the neck and kiss him like he was the air in your lungs and you were drowning without him. Instead, you forced your voice flat and side-eyed the marks on his neck. “..I see you’ve been busy.”
He scoffed, stretching out his arms with a casualness that was a bit too forced, a bit too rehearsed. He wanted more than anything to drop the act and shove his way back into your arms, but it was easier to fall back on the malevolence that was so familiar to him. “Well, you know. Getting around. Unlike you, clearly.”
You didn’t miss the way his eyes caught on your dress, on the matching red eyeliner you wore. He couldn’t suppress the immediate shit-eating grin that rose to his face, but at least he didn’t leave a snarky comment on it. His gaze wandered to the cut of your top, admiring it with no shame whatsoever. “How’s your little.. school thing going?”
You grit your teeth. Archons, he was always like this. He’d treat both your grievances and your joys as beneath him; as if all your feelings were some vaguely boring pamphlet. It made you want to gouge your damn eyes out. “Fine, thanks.” You responded, dryly. “My textbooks just came in for the semester.”
“Hm. Can’t imagine how you’d afford that.” he responded, faux sympathy dripping from his overly sweet tone. Another thing you hated. He loved to lord his money over you, act like he was a benevolent god and you were his lucky little worshipper. Having a famous politician for a mother certainly didn’t help with his ego problems.
Just to rub it in, he ordered the most expensive thing on the menu- some expensive-ass champagne you were surprised this dingy bar even stocked. He locked eyes with you as he wrapped his slender fingers around the stem, sighing obnoxiously loudly as the rim left his lips. “You want a sip?” he asked, tipping the glass in your direction and knowing full well you would refuse.
“I want you to shove that champagne glass up your ass. What the hell are you doing here, Scaramouche?”
“Just clubbing. Is it such a crime to want to get out a little? Besides, you’re the one wearing my makeup and the dress I bought you.”
That shut you up real quick. You downed the rest of the vodka with a sharp swig, then stood up. “It was nice seeing you, Scaramouche. Good day.”
Before you could take a single step, his hand shot out to wrap around your wrist to drag you back. The look on his face was something you hadn’t seen before- pleading. Almost desperate. A hint of softness flitted across your face before you could stop it, but his vulnerability vanished the second his grip slid from your wrist to your fingers. “Drop the act, (Name.) I know you want me back.”
You bristled immediately, attempting to swat his hand away. “Huh? Where’d you even- No! Absolutely not! Let me go!”
“Not until you admit it,” he shook his head. “Go on.”
You hesitated for a split-second, and that was enough for him. His lips broke into a victorious grin, yanking you forwards until his head was practically crushed against your chest. “It’s alright, you don’t have to say anything. I missed you too.”
Your first instinct was to push him away, but the way he nuzzled into you as if you were a ray of sunlight stopped you. You were suddenly acutely aware of the buzz of alcohol in your veins, of how your anger softened to something easier to manipulate.
You’d had one too many shots; your brain felt like it was melding together. He knew that full well, of course. He’d been watching your every move.
“Let’s make up, okay?” He said, in that sickly-sweet tone which he knew would send your resolve crumbling in no time. This hadn’t been the first time this happened- you’d taken multiple “breaks” in your three-year relationship; you’d found out he bugged your phone and dumped him, found the secret underwear stash he kept and threw his stuff out into the street. But somehow, Scaramouche ended up weaseling his way back into your life every time.
It was probably because, as much as you didn’t want to admit it to yourself, you needed him. Every second without him made you increasingly paranoid that he was stalking you; it was better to have him in your sight. You hated waking up screaming from nightmares and not having him hold you to his chest and kiss your tears away. He was a possessive asshole, sure, but he was familiar. And you hated new things.
You nodded, and if possible his grin got even wider. Still with that tone that made your stomach flip, he took your hand and pressed it lovingly against his cheek. “I knew you’d come around. You always do. I mean, that’s why we’re so perfect for each other. You can never stay mad at me.”
You were so goddamn tired of running. You could never get rid of him no matter how hard you tried.
Your mind and vision were a blur as he guided you through the tangle of sweaty bodies in the nightclub, keeping a firm grip on your wrist to make sure you didn’t fall a single step behind. You kept your eyes fixed on the back of his neck the whole time, still vaguely wondering who left those marks (the reality was, he’d painted them on himself.)
You suddenly found yourself in the nightclub’s dingy bathroom- the whole room smelled vaguely like piss and vomit, and it made your stomach churn with every inhale. One of the mirrors was shattered where someone had undoubtedly thrown a punch- as evidenced by the dried blood along the sink. The tiles gleamed with years of uncleaned filth. “Why are we here?”
Scaramouche finally turned to you, his expression too eager to mean anything good. “So you can apologize to me, of course. Properly.”
You knew exactly what that meant. Every time, your ‘breakups’ were somehow your fault, every time you’d end up atoning for them by letting him fuck you raw, until the two of you were both panting, exhausted messes. It was his way of reinstating his claim on you, both inside and out (as if you’d been seeing anyone other than him, which you hadn’t.)
You were sick of the whole ritual, but you’d rather comply and get it over with than refuse and have him make your life a living hell for the upcoming days. Either way, you knew he’d be glued to your side for at least the next week- and you’d learned that he was much easier to deal with when he was satiated.
“Down.” Scaramouche commanded softly, and immediately you sank to your knees, trying not to flinch at the feeling of freezing tile against your skin. He grinned cruelly at your obedience, sighing as he ran a hand through your hair. He knew you’d fold the second his tone sweetened. It was one of the things he adored most about you.
He couldn’t resist tracing his fingertips along your face, feeling you shudder lightly under the chill of his rings. Finally, he gently squeezed your cheek with a look that betrayed the adoration that he was too scared to outright express. “All bark and no bite, huh?”
You glared up at him, yet he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. Still with that gloating stare, he unbuckled his belt with an agonizing slowness, taking his time to tap his fingers against the ornate buckle. You could still hear the thudding of music and partying outside the bathroom door, and you prayed that it would drown out the sound of sex.
“No teeth, remember? You know what’ll happen if you do.” He cooed, a warning wrapped in false sweetness. One that would’ve caused you to rebel if you’d been any less exhausted.
His fingers skimmed the tent in his boxers, eyes locked on every single reaction of yours- the way your fingers dug into your knees slightly, the way your throat bobbed, the way you were leaning towards him as if attracted by an unseen gravity. Archons, the feeling of reinstating his control over you made Scaramouche’s boxers feel impossibly tight.
After prolonging your silent suffering for a few seconds more, he finally pulled the last barrier away. His cock was half-hard already, precum spilling at the tip like it’d been aching to greet you, too.
His gaze locked with yours, soft and leering. Like an owner finally tossing his dog a bone.
“Well? What are you waiting for?”
Your hands wrapped around the base of his cock and guided it to your parted lips, your tongue flicking out slightly to lap at the tip. But only a second passed before he got impatient and grabbed a fistful of your hair, forcing you forward until your nose was crushed against the bone of his pelvis.
You let out a startled, muffled noise as his cock filled your mouth suddenly, pressing insistently against the back of your throat. Your eyes snapped up to glare at him, half-lidded and your face flushed, to which his cock immediately throbbed against your tongue.
“Fuck, don’t look at me like that if you want me to go easy on you.”
Your nails scrabbled against the flesh of his thighs in protest, scratching them raw. He didn’t seem to care. If anything, he seemed to revel in the feeling of your hands back on him as his fingers twisted even more roughly in your hair, pushing himself into your mouth again and again, moaning shamelessly.
He always let any scrap of control you gave him get to his head immediately, always took more, and more, until you had nothing left to give and it was all him. You couldn’t breathe. Literally and figuratively.
He was rough, as per usual, and your body responded to him before you could process it as conscious thought. Your jaw slackened to make space for him, your tongue met every thrust with a gentle rhythm. You’d missed him, even if you refused to admit it.
He was falling apart in record time, now- head tipped back in a shamelessly obscene string of moans, eyes shut and fingers trembling as if he was close just from a few seconds of your mouth on him again. You sucked with a vengeance, determined to make him lose control and assert dominance in the only way you now could. It didn’t take much, just a few groans around his cock and a few slow blinks before he was spilling himself down your throat.
He wasn’t satisfied with just that, though- you went until tears of overstimulation slipped down your cheeks and your jaw ached, till his well-done hair was falling in sweaty streaks across his flushed face and you were both bonelessly exhausted. He finally pulled back and haphazardly tugged his slacks back on, while you stared at the cracked tiles beneath you and let your tears drip freely to the floor.
He laughed, the sound hoarse and slightly unhinged as he roughly grabbed your jaw to force your gaze back on him. “That wasn’t too hard, wasn’t it?”
His fingers pushed into your mouth, watching with sick fascination as your throat spasmed around his fingers and using his thumb to wipe off the cum around your mouth to push it back in. “That’s right. Swallow.”
You tried not to choke as it went down. Finally, his fingers left your mouth with a wet pop to cup the side of your cheek. You shuddered at the feeling of his spit-soaked fingers against your skin.
You nodded weakly and didn’t even protest as he pulled you up, his hand immediately wrapping around your waist like it belonged there.
His blue Cadillac was standing outside, parked over two parking spaces. He held the door open for you as you got close and helped you inside.
Your back hit the expensive leather seat as you collapsed against it- he turned the car on to whatever shitty music he’d been listening to on the drive here.Your eyes drifted over the dashboard, and your breath suddenly caught in your throat.
That creep. He’d somehow had your location pulled up and on the navigation system, even though you were sure you'd stopped sharing it with him.
You barely had time to ponder it before he was climbing over the center console and pushing you down until both you and the passenger seat lay flat- putting all his weight on your hips so you wouldn’t be able to squirm away. He wasted no time on teasing this time, undoing his belt with fumbling fingers and kicking his slacks off as if every second without you burned.
The second his cock was free, he grabbed the hem of your dress and pulled- you winced as the sound of tearing fabric filled the enclosed space. “Scara, that-”
“Shh,” he muttered into your neck, lips softly ghosting over your pulse point, “I’ll buy you another one. I’ll buy you every damn dress you could ever want.”
His fingers were just as quick in ripping off your undergarments, tossing them over his shoulder without caring to look where they landed. With one hand caging you underneath him, the other went to your already soaking pussy, running his fingers through it and letting out a small sound which he refused to acknowledge. “You don’t need me to prep you, right? This is okay?”
You opened your mouth to answer, but he didn’t wait before guiding himself to your entrance and pushing all the way in in one single, deep thrust.
You screamed, nails scrabbling at his jacket as he bottomed out, colorful curses slipping from your lips. He cut your protest off with a kiss that was all teeth, bumping messingly against your jaw and forcing his tongue in. You could feel his lips curving into a smug grin as soon as you let him in.
“What are you whining about, sweet thing? You know you’re made to take me.”
Archons, you just couldn’t fucking think straight when he talked to you like that. His cock twitched inside you, kissing against places only he knew how to find. Every roll of his hips made the tip of his cock bump against your cervix insistently, and your fingers twisted in his jacket to hang on for dear life, nails leaving soft crescent-shaped dents in the leather.
You jumped suddenly as the seat under you vibrated with music when Scara swiped at the dashboard blindly- the lyrics to some shitty alt r&b song filling the enclosed space, almost loud enough to drown out the sounds of your bodies pressed together and Scaramouche’s heavy breathing.
Scaramouche tore his lips from yours, panting wildly as he stared down at the way your hair fanned out against the car seat. “Fuck, I missed you. And you know I hate admitting that.”
“Well, that makes one of you.”
He laughed, the sound strangely raw without that edge of sarcasm he loved to flaunt. “You’re such a liar, (Name.)”
His hands found the undersides of your thighs, pushing your knees up to your chest and out of his way so he could reach even deeper, his head falling against your knee with a ragged gasp. From this angle, you could feel every single time his hips drew flush against yours, every little press against the hypersensitive walls of your cunt.
Your vision blurred as you seemed to slip out of your own mind- for a moment, it felt like he was just trying to win you back, like he was just your sensitive, loving boyfriend who’d missed you oh so very much.
She said ‘careful, or you’ll lose it,’
But girl, I’m only human.
You liked him most like this, you decided- when was trying to placate you.
He pressed on your stomach suddenly, the sudden spike of pleasure causing your hand to slap over your mouth to contain your sounds of pleasure. The other splayed across the window, your attention suddenly on the feeling of the cool glass against your knuckles. Your eyes drifted from Scaramouche’s face to the harshly flickering lights of the nightclub, wondering if you’d still be at the bar if Scaramouche hadn’t found you.. He wasn’t having any of that. Suddenly, he thrust in so hard your head lolled back far enough to see the lyrics splayed across his front screen.
And I know there’s a blade where your heart is,
and you know how to use it.
“Sc-Scara, slow the fuck down!” You groaned, pushing at his chest weakly. Above you, his face twisted into a manic grin as he grabbed your hand in his, intertwining your trembling fingers.
“Haah- and why would I do that when I finally have you back?”
And you can take my flesh if you want, girl,
but baby, don’t abuse it.
“If you don’t stop, I’m gonna-”
“Go ahead.” He grinned, smugness returning full force. “You’ll be doing that a lot more, anyway.”
He angled his hips down slightly- now, instead of your cervix, he kept hitting that soft, needy part along your walls; the one that made your eyes roll into the back of your head and your toes curl. You might’ve spent two months apart, but Scaramouche still knew your body better than his own.
His hips only sped up as weak, wanton moans escaped your lips. You tried to pull back, tried to make some space between you, but his mouth was on yours again the second you tilted your head away. He was laughing now, the sound high-pitched and utterly insane.
“Two months? That’s a record, (Name). I’m surprised you didn’t go insane without me.”
You absolutely had, you finally admitted to yourself. You’d missed him in every empty corner he left, every silence they stretched on a little too long, in every conscious and comatose moment since you’d parted. You’d been filled with crippling anxiety every single day the past two months- finally, being back in his arms quieted it to a dull ache. You’d been such a fool to try and escape him when you knew he’d never let you go.
These voices in my head, screaming run now,
I’m praying that they’re human.
His lips ghosted over your cheekbone.
With a shuddering groan, he finally came, filling you with hot cum as your release followed soon after.
You stayed like that for a while longer- music fading out slowly, the weight of his body on you trapping you in a way that you’d come to admit was comforting.
“I’m glad you’ve finally come to your senses, (Name).” He smiled, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His hold on your waist tightened imperceptibly.
This wouldn’t be your last breakup. He was too controlling for that, and you were too willful. But the truth was, you knew at this point it was simply child’s play. You liked to think you had some source of autonomy, yet each time Scaramouche dug his claws in a little deeper and escape became a little more impossible.
He wouldn’t let you leave. Not now, not ever.
He pressed his lips against yours, and you closed your eyes and let your mind rest. Maybe this really was where you were meant to be.
