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.”