:3

Your robe, pale pink silk from Saks, clings lightly to your shoulders. The bathroom lights, halogen-bright, reveal every pore, every faint line. Patrick insists this lighting is “unforgiving but necessary.” You agree.

Behind you, through the half-open door, the sounds of Patrick moving through the apartment echo, measured footsteps across the glossy black floors, the whisper of wool trousers, the faint clink of glass against countertop when he poured himself a drink. The apartment smells faintly of sandalwood candle and dry champagne.

You haven’t spoken since leaving Evelyn’s party. That isn’t unusual. Sometimes Patrick retreats into himself after these nights, after too much champagne and not enough recognition. You assume he’s still replaying the evening in his head: worrying if the Armani suit he wore appeared a shade duller than Halberstam’s Brioni, if people noticed the subtle hand-stitching on his lapel, if they cared about the story he told, again, about his latest acquisition, the Twombly painting he’s convinced no one appreciates enough.

You swipe toner along your jawline, Chanel cotton pad white against your skin, and sigh quietly. Patrick is like this at least twice a month. Maybe more.

In the mirror you catch him entering the doorway. His shirt is unbuttoned, hair slightly out of place. He raises one finger like he’s about to deliver a correction. His lips part, his brow furrows. Then he closes his mouth, pivots, and leaves.

You roll your eyes.

“Patrick,” you call after him, fixing a strand of hair in place, “it’s okay, you can tell me if it’s one of those days.”

You mean PMS. Mood swings. Hormones. You sometimes joke when he is like this that he is on “period”. You don’t expect him to laugh, because Patrick never laughs when the joke is on him. But you do expect some snide retort about how you are ungrateful over the expensive robe you have on or how you shouldn’t drink champagne with caviar. Instead, there’s silence. His footsteps fade down the hallway, then nothing.

You go back to your serum, unbothered.

“Not now,” Patrick says from the hall, his voice sharp but clipped, as though he’s answering a question you never asked. Then, more pointedly, “I’m thinking.”

You hear him still moving around the apartment long strides on the black granite tiles, a cabinet door opening, the sound of liquid poured into crystal. His thinking always comes with movement, with pacing, as if he’s rehearsing an argument in front of an invisible audience.

You dab eye cream under your lashes but skip the last couple of steps, because suddenly you’re too distracted by him, his silence, his vague evasions. You cap the jar with a sharp twist, push away from the mirror, and walk toward the bedroom.

He’s already there, a glass in his hand, Macallan. You tell him lightly, “Have another. And then maybe some water. Wash your face, put something on it, and come to bed.”

The suggestion is practical, even affectionate. But when he turns toward you, on his glossy forehead, a vein bulges visibly. His shirt is still unbuttoned, collar askew, tails untucked. For Patrick, it’s a disarray bordering on catastrophe.

He sets the glass down a little too firmly, amber liquid sloshing. He straightens slightly, launching into one of his trademark speeches, words fast and precise, as if he’s delivering quarterly earnings to an audience of hostile shareholders.

“At Evelyn’s,” he begins. “At the party. Paul Allen—Paul Allen—didn’t take his eyes off you. He kept leaning in as if what you were saying was so profound it couldn’t possibly be ignored.” The hatred cracked over his face as he said the name.

He paces once, twice. “And you, sitting there, letting him talk to you, laughing, with your head tilted. Don’t deny it. Don’t play innocent. You enjoyed it. You enjoyed being at the center of his orbit for five minutes. You loved it. It was obvious.”

His hands slice the air as he speaks, his voice rising, polished vowels sharpening into something almost ugly. The whole thing sounds rehearsed, as though he’s been replaying it since 10 p.m., cataloguing every detail, waiting to deliver it here.

When he finishes, he stands rigid, chest rising hard, eyes fixed on you like you’re a chart he’s trying to read.

You blink at him, only listening to half of what he said and not taking it as a problematic behaviour . “So… what does that mean, Patrick?”

His lip curls angrily, face frustrated. “It means you liked Paul Allen’s attention.”

For a second you just stare at him. Then you laugh bubbling, girlishly. “Patrick, he’d had too much champagne. He was talking too much, to everyone. Don’t twist it.”

Patrick doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even twitch. His jaw tightens, the vein throbs again. “And you,” he says, voice like ice, “had too much champagne yourself. That’s why you think this is funny.” He sneers faintly. “Vintage Krug ʼ85. Typical.”

You can’t help it, you giggle again, watching him, his perfect composure cracked open just enough to let something raw bleed through. The sight of him like that, creased, undone, his perfection slipping, only makes you chuckle more.

If Patrick saw himself now, he would bolt and button his shirt, smooth every line, adjust every angle. Patrick Bateman would never allow himself to look like this. And yet here he is, disheveled, angry, more appealing to you than ever.

You perch at the edge of the bed, silk slipping across your thighs, eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the vein throbbing insistently along his temple.

Patrick’s voice picks up again, low and precise, almost clinical, every word measured, catalogued. “You laugh, but do you understand the architecture of perception in these situations? It’s not merely that he spoke to you. It’s the way he positioned himself, the subtle gestures, a nuanced display of territorial dominance. And you—” His chest rising slowly, “you respond, drawing him in with the sort of body language that implies interest yet maintains deniability, which is the most infuriating combination.”

You bite your lip, stifling another giggle, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Patrick,” you say, the word drawn out, “I’m just imagining the poor man’s face when he realized it wasn’t working.”

A flicker crosses his eyes, dangerous, the vein on his forehead throbbing in protest. He sits up slightly, shirt falling further askew. “It’s not amusing,” his tone clipped, but the tautness in his limbs betrays him. “It’s an examination of hierarchy, of social mechanics. One cannot simply laugh at this and move on without consequence. You—” he gestures vaguely toward you, accusatory finger pointed at you, “You think humor absolves it. It does not. Do you comprehend the implications?”

You can’t help yourself. The edges of your lips twitch. “I do comprehend, Patrick. Really, I do. I’m just… amused. He probably had too much champagne. Or maybe he’s always been a little tedious.”

His eyes narrow, a glitter of steel in the halogen glow. “You trivialize again,” he says. “You reduce a sophisticated observation of interpersonal negotiation to a flippant remark about inebriation. You are, in essence, mocking the very architecture of… of—” he pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose, exhaling, then continues, voice low and deliberate, “—socially codified displays of attention, and control. You are mocking it, mocking me.”

You let out a breathy giggle, perched on the edge of the bed, silk brushing the edge of the mattress. “Patrick, I’m laughing because you’re so frustrated. It’s adorable when you’re mad.”

The vein on his temple pulses faster. His hand hovers, the other tightening on the mattress. His shirt slips lower, exposing the smooth planes of his chest. He tilts his head, eyes locked on yours.

You laugh again, teasing, high-pitched and whiny, almost childish. “Come on, Patrick. Don’t be like that. You know I didn’t mean anything. It’s funny. Isn’t it funny?”

Something snaps. The vein jumps, his jaw tightens, the slow, controlled rhythm of his movements now a taut wire stretched to its limit. Without warning, he grips your leg, pulling you toward the edge of the bed, close, impossibly close. Your breath catches. His eyes hover over yours. His hand stills just inches from your face, fingers curling like he might touch or dominate.

“Is it really funny?” His voice is low and venomous, testing the boundary your own boldness.

You’re caught in the tension, in the heat of the moment, perched at the boundary of his fury and his need. You can feel the storm coiled inside him, contained by decades of precision and control, and you can’t help but shiver slightly, thrill crawling along your spine.

And that’s where it hangs. Breathless, sharp, ready to tip into something far darker, far more indulgent.

Patrick’s grip on your leg tightens, dragging you until your silk nightgown hikes up your thighs. The movement is unceremonious but practiced, as though he’s pulling a chair into place. His palm slides up the curve of your calf, fingers pressing in too firmly to be tender.

You look at him, Armani label still visible at the collar, hair slightly mussed from the humid night air.

“Funny,” he repeats, his hand gripping your jaw now, holding your face steady. “You think this is funny.” His eyes flicker with something dangerous, though his voice remains eerily calm, too calm, like he’s still moderating. “You must have enjoyed it, having Paul Allen’s champagne-soaked mouth this close to yours.” His thumb presses against your bottom lip until you part it, soft breath spilling out.

Your pulse skitters, but you laugh again, your voice tipping into a whine. “Patrick—”

The sound seems to set something in him alight. He moves fast, with a precision that feels orchestrated, like a line of action executed exactly as rehearsed. He shoves you flat onto the bed, silk sliding up, hair fanning across Egyptian cotton sheets so white and crisp they could have been laundered in Perrier.

His knee forces between your thighs, holding them apart. His shirt dangles open, cufflinks still attached, one corner brushing your collarbone. He leans down, teeth grazing your ear before his voice cuts sharp: “I don’t want Paul Allen’s name in your mouth ever again.”

You gasp, half-smiling still, even as his hand finds your wrists, pinning them above your head. The sheets crumple beneath you. You think of the detergent, imported, discreetly branded, the one Patrick insists on ordering because it leaves no “cheap floral residue.” It smells faintly of white musk and static control.

He kisses you then, rough, bruising, all pretense gone. Not the carefully staged pecks he gives in public, but punishing. His teeth scrape your lower lip, his tongue invades, claiming space.

When he pulls back, your mouth is swollen, wet, parted. His eyes drop to it like it’s a mark of ownership. “You laughed at me,” he says, tone flat, analytical, though his breathing betrays him. “Do you realize how humiliating that is? To laugh. To act as though my analysis is a joke?” His grip tightens on your wrists. “Unacceptable.”

You arch into him, deliberately, and whisper with a smile, “You look even better when you’re mad, Patrick.”

The vein in his forehead pulses harder. He yanks your wrists down, forces your hands against his chest, dragging them across his skin until they catch on the edges of his shirt. “You don’t deserve me to be generous,” he mutters, almost to himself, words spilling fast, jagged. He exhales sharply, leaning close, breath hot against your cheek. “We are going to see who’s gonna have the last laugh.”

His belt is undone in one smooth motion, the metallic click loud in the silence. The zipper follows. He pushes your thighs wider, fingers leaving imprints where they press into flesh.

There’s no gentleness when he puts his cock inside, forceful and quick. There’s precision. He moves like he’s proving a point, every thrust a correction, having you squirming under him “Is it funny now?” every sound you make both vindication and provocation.

Your whines fill the apartment, high and breathless, echoing against glass and marble. His hand clamps over your mouth, muffling, his palm pressed firm against your lips. He leans close, eyes blazing. “Not so funny now, is it?”

The two of you sat under a tree, your head resting against his shoulder, a book in his lap. A small breeze drifts past the two of you every now and then, carrying the scent of flowers. You’re half-asleep, listening to the sound of pages turning.

One of your hands rests in his. Occasionally, you feel the pressure of his thumb pressing against your wrist.

“You’re doing it again,” you call out, flickering your eyes up to his face.

“Do you want me to stop?” He huffs while pressing his thumb harder into your pulse point.

“I didn’t say that,” you roll your eyes, moving to intertwine your fingers with his own. Reluctantly, he lets go of your wrist and reciprocates your movement.

Silence settles between the two of you, and you’re content to not say anything.

“When I was created…” he begins quietly, his voice not rising above a whisper. “I wasn’t given one.”

Your smile fades. 

“I was made to be empty,” his grip tightens and his gaze remains fixated on where your fingers are interlocked. “I don’t need to breathe. I don’t have the need to sleep. I don’t have blood and because I don’t have a heartbeat to circulate it.”

You bite your tongue. As much as you want to reply to him, you’re scared he’ll stop talking. Despite how much improvement he’s made with communicating his emotions, it’s still a rarity when he actually does it.

“I’ve spent so long wondering what it would feel like,” his eyes finally look away from your hands, choosing to instead look at the horizon. “They say people can hear their own heart in their ears when they’re frightened. They can feel them race when they’re excited. They ache when they grieve. They calm when they take deep breaths.”

His expression softens into an expression of vulnerability.

“I’ll never get to experience that.”

Your chest tightens with something akin to pity.

“So…” he gives an almost embarrassed shrug as he runs his thumb over your wrist once more. “I borrowed yours. When I listen to it… I can pretend.”

“Pretend what?” You speak up.

“Pretend I’m real,” he finally redirects his gaze to you. “That I’m a person.”

“Oh, bullshit!” The exclamation slips from your lips before you can process it. You sit up straight to look directly at him as his eyebrow twitches.

“Excuse me?” He looks irritated at your sudden outburst. Wincing, you suppose you can’t blame him. He just opened up to you and that’s how you respond? Good job.

“Sorry, that’s not what I mean,” you apologize frantically, shaking your head. “I just mean, you are a real person. It’s idiotic that you’d think otherwise.”

Wanderer stared at you. For a few minutes, the silence stretches out, becoming increasingly awkward as he continued staring.

“Idiotic?” He repeated flatly. You rubbed the back of your neck. 

“Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best word choice…” 

“No, continue,” his voice had taken on that dangerously calm edge you knew all too well. He’s pissed. “I’m interested.”

“Kuni,” you sigh, taking his other hand in yours. “You get frustrated when you work on your research papers. You get sad when Durin does. You get annoyed when someone is too close to you. I’ve seen you cry and laugh. I’ve seen you care about people.”

You think of the children in Sumeru City who always seemed to wave at him first when the two of you walked past them. You think of the elderly woman he’d carried groceries home for after saying he was going the same way as her, when in fact, he was meant to be heading in the opposite direction to meet you at a cafe. You think of how Durin immediately lit up whenever he got to spend time with him. You think of how the Traveler and Paimon had sung his praises, saying they trusted him and how he had saved them.

“You worry, regret, you feel emotions,” you continue. “You chose to become someone different. You chose to repent. Do you think missing a heartbeat makes that any different?”

The breeze rustled through the branches overhead. 

He doesn’t answer. So you let go of one of his hands and reach over, placing your palm against the center of his chest. It was warm.

“Being a person isn’t about what you’re made up of,” you trace the patterns that are barely visible through the translucent fabric of his shirt. “You’re a scholar. Surely you know what the five criteria for personhood are.”

“Don’t turn this into a lecture,” he replies, his eyes narrowing in faux irritation.

“Go on,” you teasingly coo. 

He lets out a loud groan.

“Consciousness, reasoning, self-motivated activity and the capacity to communicate.”

“And…?” You draw out.

“...And self-awareness.”

His eyes flicker down to your hand.

“You know what I feel?”

“My chest?”

“My boyfriend.”

“You’re corny,” he clicks his tongue, making no attempt to hide the color slowly flushing his cheeks. 

“I know who you were,” you correct gently. “And I know who you choose to be every day.”

Without another word, he leans sideways until his forehead rests against yours.

“I’m still going to listen to it,” he whispers, his thumb finding purchase against your wrist once again.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I just hope you won’t think less of yourself anymore.”

“I’ll try,” and for now, that’s more than enough for you.

Imagine being 2D’s first real partner (Fuck Paula) and touring with him.

-

Everybody knows tour buses are tiny. So being smushed close against your boyfriend in his tiny bed was expected. You were basically curled up into yourself as 2D spooned you from behind, long arms flopped across you. The sounds of rain and rolling tires in the background of the night.

You awoke late one night at the sound of 2D panting in your ear, one of his hands gripping your wrist. Something fluttered in your lower stomach as you realized how he was rolling his hips against your ass.

“2D…” you whispered and nudged him with your elbow.

“Mmm fuck… sorry luv… yer just so warm…” he said.

You shushed him: “Hey, don’t fucking wake everybody.” Rolling over, you met his lips in a kiss. Making out, his hips still slightly rolling against yours as his tongue explored your mouth. His hand slipped past your waistband, running his finger along your slit, moaning into your mouth as he felt how wet you were.

“Please luv, need you~” he whispered. Then started to rub your clit slowly, until your hips started to roll against his hand. His hard cock in his shorts pressing against your thigh.

2D wasted no time when you kissed him again and gave him the yes he needed. Pulling your shorts and underwear down before his own. He gave himself a few strokes before running the tip along your slit, pulling a gasp from you as he slowly pushed himself inside you. He bit your shoulder a bit to stifle a groan.

You tugged his hair a bit “Shhhhh quiet or we are gonna wake the guys up”.

2D nodded, before his lips pressed back against yours. Hips rolling against each other as he held you close, rutting into you quick and deep. You clenched around him each time his hair at the base of hit your clit just right.

You nipped at his neck as you came, leaving hickeys. He only moved faster as he fucked you through your orgasm, drawing out his own.

2D then flopped his head down on the pillows “Fuck… amazin’ Luv”. He whispered.

You rested your head against his chest, his cock softening, still stuffed inside you. “Mmm~ love you Stu” you whispered.

i originally intended to make this a oneshot ~ but i have a personal headcanon of scaramouche being designed to switch anatomies, not inherently intersex but he is build to alternate between the two.#

𝜗℘˚̣̣̣ so kind of fueled by that, i love the idea of afab!scaramouche having his first time with Y/N (also afab), but he's obviously unsure about things because it's all new to him, which leads to you getting to take control of things for a change. just imagine topping him to scissor and he's gripping the sheets under you and squirming; looking up at you, half-lidded and teary eyed with his jaw slack and drooling. (drooling durr emoji)

𝜗℘˚̣̣̣ the sensation's totally new to him but that doesn't mean he doesn't love it. in fact he's probably delightfully surprised by it, if anything.

"you like it when i do this, right?" "does this feel good?" "like that?" ~ and he's holding in his whimpers behind his tightly-bitten lip and rocking his hips into you to feel more pressure on the friction while you're sliding against him.

𝜗℘˚̣̣̣ it's only the sounds of wet skin pressing together accompanying your moans ~ his being shakier and strained from poorly restraining it ~ while he holds your hips and murmurs praise about how good you're doing [oh?? how rare!].

𝜗℘˚̣̣̣ feeling your fingers inside himself for the first time and grabbing at your wrists to control the pace.

𝜗℘˚̣̣̣ now you're trying to do things the exact way he does with you, scissoring, turning and curling your fingers with your tongue lapping at his clit, a pathetic attempt at moving yours with the same precision as his. it seems he likes it? his hands are digging through your hair while you prod at his g-spot.

𝜗℘˚̣̣̣ his pride stops him from begging you to keep doing it like that, and he's trying to maintain some sort of control shoving your face into his cunt while he grinds against your face. your nose pressing against his clit and tongue thrusting hungrily into him. "fuckk~ y..eah..~ just like that...~", leaving in a depraved, breathy voice. his head's falling back into the pillow, indigo strands sprawled out while his hazy eyes lock onto the ceiling ~ totally lost in pleasure.

𝜗℘˚̣̣̣ he's not going to admit just how much it turned him on to see you lapping up his squirt and sucking at his cunt as he orgasms but there will be signs.

𝜗℘˚̣̣̣ or even just trying things with him, like a double-ended dildo? just imagine him feeling the stretch of being stuffed for the first time, or how he's whimpering --- eyes fixed to how it disappears into both your holes while you're thrusting in some sync to penetrate yourselves. or with you on top, still 'riding' him with it and a vibrator pressed to him.

𝜗℘˚̣̣̣ pressing him into the bed where he can barely move as you fuck the shit out of him, watching a creamy ring of his own juices form around the base and ooze out along his ass while he's throbbing around silicone. a few harsher thrusts just to send him over the edge.

𝜗℘˚̣̣̣ or having him ride a dildo in front of you while you watch, if not your own strap, and teaching him how to get himself off. like, instructing him, punishing him for doing more than he'd told, etc.? would he even let you? this is my fanfiction so idc, he will now.

𝜗℘˚̣̣̣ or idk? i'm thinking of Y/N sat in front of him, one hand grabbing a fistful of his hair and pushing/guiding his hips onto it (riding/doggy maibly) with their own desired pace with forced eye contact.

Scaramouche sat on the couch, his arms crossed, irritation written all over his face. He refused to look at you, his jaw clenched, shoulders tense.

The day’s been rough to him, just like any other day. The endless pressure, the sharp-tongued arguments, the weight of expectations pressing down on him—it was all too much. The last thing the harbinger wanted to do was deal with the likes of you.

“You’re impossible,” you sighed, stepping closer. “You’re all wound up, and you won’t do anything about it.”

His eyes flicked to you, sharp and unamused. “And you just can’t help yourself, can you? Always meddling.”

You scoffed, arms crossing to mirror his posture. “Meddling? You’re miserable, and I’m offering to help.”

“I don’t need your help,” he snapped, rolling his eyes. “I’ve handled worse days without you hovering.”

“Oh, so you admit it’s a bad day.” You smirked at his frown. “Would it kill you to let someone take care of you for once?”

His glare sharpened. “You’re delusional if you think I’m going to just sit here and let you—”

“Let me what?” You stepped closer, leaning down, challenging him. “Touch you? Make you feel good?”

His lips parted, but no words came out. A hint of color dusted his cheeks, though his defiance didn’t waver. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stubborn.” You tilted your head, lowering yourself in front of him. “But I know you want this.”

His hands twitched, hovering over his seat, his breath a little unsteady. “Tch. If you’re going to do something, do it properly.”

You rolled your eyes, hands traveling to his crossed legs, prying them apart. Scaramouche watched with reluctant interest, his finger tapping rhythmically on the armrest.

You made quick work of untying the sash at his waist, tugging at the fabric of his shorts. They slipped down easily, pooling around his thighs—but the moment you reached for the tight leggings underneath, you let out an exaggerated sigh.

“No wonder you’re stressed all the time,” you muttered, tugging at the clinging material. “You wear way too much shit.”

Scaramouche scoffed, glaring down at you. “Don’t insult my fashion, you imbecile—” His words cut off into a sharp inhale as you tugged the leggings down in one smooth motion, a little rougher than necessary.

In the same instant, his hardening cock slapped against your cheek. Scaramouche’s entire body tensed, his breath catching in his throat. His fingers twitched, his glare sharp enough to kill. But he said nothing.

You, on the other hand, slowly blinked before a smug grin curled on your lips.

“See?” You tilted your head, voice dripping with amusement. “You need this badly,” you leaned in, one hand wrapping around his shaft as the other stayed on his thigh.

You pressed a lingering kiss against the tip, slow and deliberate, watching as Scaramouche’s gulped. His breath hitched—barely, but you caught it.

Then, just to be cruel, you dragged your tongue along the underside at an agonizing pace, tracing every little twitch, every little shift of his hips as he tried not to react.

His breath came uneven now, chest rising and falling in shallow, irritated exhales. His fingers twitched again—this time moving to your hair, not quite gripping, but the warning was there.

“EnounMF!”

His words dissolved into a gasp as you finally took him in, all at once, no more teasing. His head snapped back against the couch, fingers digging into your scalp as a ragged breath left his lips. For a moment, all that arrogance, all that restraint, vanished.

You barely had time to smirk before his grip tightened, hips shifting forward as if testing just how much you’d let him take. His lips parted, and then, just like that, he was back—composure slipping back into place, though it wavered at the edges.

“Fucking finally,” he muttered, though his voice was weaker than before, his fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to pull you closer or let you work.

His lashes fluttered, breath coming heavier, but his attitude remained intact. “Slower,” he ordered, his voice wavering slightly. Then, a sharp intake of breath. “No—faster.”

You couldn’t help but scoff. “Make up your mind.”

His nails dug into your skin as he let out something close to a whimper, quickly masked by a haughty scoff. “You should be grateful I’m letting you do this at all.”

You leaned in, lips brushing the forming precum. “Oh, you’re letting me?”

Scaramouche shivered, tilting his head back against the couch, his smirk faltering as pleasure overtook his composure. “Shut up and keep going.”

And who were you to deny him?

His thighs trembled beneath your hands, tension coiling tight, but even now, he refused to give up control. His fingers curled in your hair, not pulling—yet—but firm enough to remind you who was really in charge here.

“Ohmnn–” The sound slipped before he could bite it back, sharp and breathy, but he recovered fast. His grip tightened, pressing you closer, guiding rather than forcing.

You smirked against him. “Getting impatient?”

His response was immediate—a quick tug at your hair, just enough to make you wince. “Less talking, more suckingh–!” he bit out, his voice unsteady but still dripping with arrogance.

His grip in your hair suddenly tightened, yanking you down with zero warning. “gHLK–!?” Your throat clenched around his length as a choked, muffled gag escaped, your hands scrambling against his thighs.

A sharp inhale from above—then a quiet, breathless chuckle. “Oh? Too much?”

Your eyes watered as you tried to pull back, but his fingers only tightened, keeping you there just a moment longer, just until your body trembled with the effort to breathe.

Then, finally, he eased up, just enough for you to gasp, drool spilling down your chin as you inhaled sharply.

Your glare burned into him, but just as you went all out—taking him deep, fast, relentless—his hand tightened in your hair, yanking you back just enough to make you stop in your tracks.

A breathless, shaky laugh left him. “Getting bold, aren’t you?” His voice wavered, but the authority was still there. “I don’t remember telling you to do that.”

Even as his thighs trembled, as his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, he still forced your pace, guiding you back down—but slower this time, dragging it out, making sure you obeyed him.

“Try that again,” he murmured, breath hitching, “and I’ll make sure you really struggle to breathe.”

You would have argued back if your mouth weren’t too preoccupied with his dick. The wet, obscene sounds echoed in the space between you, each lewd noise only spurring Scaramouche on further.

Once again, he pushes you down, forcing you to take his length in one go. “Mmhnn..! So warm..” His legs trembled against your shoulders, it’s almost like the harbinger wants to wrap them around your head and never let go.

You blinked away the tears that formed the longer you stayed in that position. His cock throbbed deep inside, pushed to the back of your throat. “Mpph– hgKhh–!” You’d gag before he allowed you to pull back and catch your breath, only to push you right back into the same motions.

When you looked up at him, you were almost surprised—despite how demanding he'd been, Scaramouche looked more debauched than ever.

His glare has softened to half-lidded eyes, mouth slightly agape with drool forming on the corners. “What’s with that look?” The Balladeer cuts through your thoughts, his fingers tightening around the strands of hair.

He didn’t look away though, and neither did you. The eye contact made everything else intimate, if you’d ignore the way he’s been roughly handling you.

As the two of you stared at each other, you continued with your ministrations. Your saliva has mixed with his precum already, creating a salty yet uniquely Scaramouche taste.. if that even made sense to your taste buds.

The harbinger’s breathing starts to get heavier, his grip faltering. “Fuck. I can’t take this anymore,” he hissed. “Make me cum already.”

The tension in his body was unmistakable, every muscle coiled as he sought the release he’d been denying himself. Though he commanded you, it felt as if there was no choice left for you to make.

His breath quickened, and his hand tightened in your hair as he started to move his hips, thrusting with a desperation that gave you no chance to resist. His free hand moved to the side of your face as if guiding your head wasn’t enough.

“Faster–ah!♡♡–damn it,” Scaramouche’s voice broke, each word laced with frustration as his hips started to move on their own. “I can’thngh♡—don't you dare stop..!”

Scaramouche’s cock thrusted in and out of your mouth with ease, but it was no longer a show of dominance—it was desperate, borderline needy. His movements lost their rhythm, hips jerking erratically as if he couldn’t decide between restraint and indulgence.

Your head bobbed in time with his hips, forcing you to fight off your gag reflex. You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing on breathing through your nose.

His hand threaded through your hair, pulling you closer with a low groan. “Please, don’t stop... don’t mm♡♡fucking stop,” he gasped, the edge of his command faltering into something more unhinged.

“I’m close–” he whines, “Soclosesoclosee!♡” And then, in one swift motion, it was over. Scaramouche’s release came crashing down, spilling over your lips, your mouth, the warmth overwhelming you.

He cried out as his hips jerked, his fingers digging into your scalp, holding you firmly in place. His chest heaved as he stilled, back arching towards your face.

Your mouth worked overtime, dragging out the harbinger’s pleasure as you had no choice but to endure the aftermath of his release. Each movement sent another shudder through his body, his grip tightening, his breath hitching with every twitch.

The pleasure crashed into him like a tidal wave, leaving him gasping as stars burst behind his eyelids, his vision going hazy. His eyes rolled back, lips parting in a silent cry, as if Celestia itself had momentarily pulled him into its grasp.

His grip finally loosened, and he slumped back against the couch, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. A shudder ran through his body as he tried to compose himself.

You slowly pulled his softening cock out, careful not to overstimulate the man. Luckily for him, you had swallowed down all his essence—not like you had a choice when he came straight down to your throat.

For a moment, there was only silence—except for the heavy sound of his breathing and the wet slickness on your skin. You joined him on the couch, his head abruptly falling to your shoulder just in time.

“Stay,” he murmured, still catching his breath.

You huffed a quiet laugh, wiping your lips. “Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”