#foolisheval

BALLADEER

The Balladeer? He's reckless when he's fucking you. He's all raw energy and unbridled passion, like a storm of thunder you can't control but can only surrender to. When the Balladeer's hands are on you, it's electric. Every touch sends shockwaves through you (quite literally) and every kiss feels hungry. As if he's trying to devour you whole.

Scaramouche will fuck you for hours if you ever dare to mouth off so don’t even think he’ll look past disorderly behavior. You’re his cute little subordinate after all. If his hands aren't firmly gripping your waist, then one of them is surely between your legs, his fingers working their magic with the kind of precision that only he seems to possess. Two fingers press into you, curling upward with perfect intent when they find that sensitive, gummy spot inside of you— the one that makes your knees tremble and threatens to steal the strength from your legs. Scaramouche’s other hand is no less active, the broad expanse of his palm pressing teasingly against your lower stomach. It's not just to make you feel more; it's to ensure you're at his mercy, unable to shift or chase after the rhythm he sets. He gives you only what he decides you’re allowed to have. And today, despite his day being ruined by your relentless teasing, he’s feeling unusually generous… perhaps even a bit too generous with the way he’s been overstimulating you.

You've always loved Scaramouche’s hands. You love the way they feel, the way they claim every part of you they touch, and especially the way his palm grinds against your clit when he slips a third finger inside. It's a delicious stretch, one that pulls wanton moans from your lips before you can even think to stifle them. It’s all too much. All too fast and too rough! But, god, you can’t get enough.

When frustration has been building up in him for far too long— he lets it show in the roughness of his words and touch.

That's when you feel his hand slide up to your neck, wrapping around your throat with a firm yet deliberate grip. “Fucking slut, huh? Yeah? You asked for this.”

XIAO

Xiao, who finally has enough of your teasing, your denial of the orgasm he was chasing and your constant mouthing off. He is so frustrated and annoyed that he flips the both of you over just so he can fuck you at the pace he's been aching for this entire night.

It takes you by surprise because the change is so sharp, as if a flip has switched. One second you're lazily riding the man, holding him down and bathing in his moans and whines for more. Denying him as often as your heart desires because you thought he'd let you.

And now you're beneath him, desperately gripping the sheets to try and find purchase as he fucks so hard and so fast that you're about to pass out. You've never been so full of him and still so hungry for more at the same time now that he's hitting spots inside of you that you didn't know existed in the first place.

Xiao holds you by your lifted hips, fucking himself into you like it would make up for the amounts of ruined orgasms you've brought him. And he does it so easily, handling you around like a doll made for his desires. "You’re impossible to handle,” He groans, the drag and pull of his fat cock rendering you speechless.

He knows you deserve the meanest of treatments. It would be just fair to almost drive you over the edge just to ruin every ounce of release once you're actually about to finish. Maybe he should've fucked your throat instead so he wouldn't have to deal with your attitude. Even now, all you do is complain and whine between broken moans and gasps for more. But, god, you feel too good, too warm and way too tight. The face you're making is motivation enough to keep on fucking you even after you've come.

Xiao rubs your clit, gifts you another orgasm, but he never slows his pace. And although Xiao fucks like he owns you, even he is moaning like a bitch when he empties his balls into you.

TARTAGLIA

There's nothing Ajax likes better than seeing your stupid colorful socks dangling over his shoulders as he fucks his fat cock into your gushing pussy. Your nails dig into his biceps, whining for him, telling him that it's too much but not pushing him away as he pounds you harder.

"A-Ajax!" Your eyes roll back whenever he hits that special spot inside of you, but Ajax isn't stopping until he's sure your pussy is filled to the brim. You're so close to drooling all over your chin, moaning his name over and over just to spur him on a little.

Ajax isn't exactly known to be a patient man, but he'll make an exception for you. Fucking you senseless is an art he's more than willing to practice over and over again until he's mastered it. It doesn't matter whether his balls are coated in your slick, or you babble incoherent sentences about how big he is, about how full you feel.

He knows he did a great job fucking you when he finally empties his balls into you and you gush around him like you've never before.

The chair is cold under you as you sit, and the air between you thickens the moment Xiao steps closer. His hands are gloved, precise as he prepares the piercing, and the faint brush of his fingers against your skin burns hotter than it should. He says little, but when he speaks, it’s direct, his eyes never leaving yours as he murmurs instructions. You barely hear him over the sound of your erratic heartbeat and the music playing over the speakers as his steady hands tilt your head to the side. The pain of the piercing is quick but the heat that blooms beneath your skin lingers long even after he steps back. When he finishes, he hands you aftercare instructions, his voice smooth but distant.

As you head for the door, still dizzy from the quiet tension in the small room, the air shifts again. A figure leans casually against the front desk, the sharp indigo of his eyes locking onto you the moment you pass. He doesn’t speak but his smirk is enough to leave you breathless, like he already knows exactly what you’re thinking. His gloved hands flex as he removes them, revealing tattooed fingers that brush against his jawline in lazy confidence. He doesn’t even need to introduce himself, someone else does—Aether, one of the staff, calls out, “Scara, take a break already, will you?” and the name feels like it burns into your memory. His gaze lingers on you as you leave, like a promise you don’t yet understand.

When you return for your check-up you’re surprised to find Kazuha waiting for you. His smile is warm, disarming, and the moment he speaks, his voice lilting and soft, your nerves disappear. His red eyes gleam with something you can’t quite place, a quiet intensity that draws you in even as his gentle touch puts you at ease. He handles your jewelry with care, his fingertips brushing against your skin as he works. There’s no need for the extra lingering but he doesn’t rush, his voice dipping into something intimate as he gives you advice. You catch his gaze once and the faint curl of his lips makes you feel as if he’s unraveling you. Thread by thread. Without even trying.

When Kazuha leans in close to inspect his work, the heat of his breath fans against your cheek, you’re caught between wanting to stay frozen in place and wanting to turn toward him, to close the gap. “Perfect,” he says. The word hangs between you like it means more than just your piercing.

You think you’ve prepared yourself by the time you return to the studio again, exams finally being over and adrenaline buzzing through your veins. You’re ready to treat yourself with something nice. However, when you’re greeted by Scaramouche, all your composure dissolves. He doesn’t just take up space—he owns it, leaning against the counter with that same smirk you remember, his sharp eyes sweeping over you in a way that feels like a challenge.

“You’re back,” Scaramouche says, his voice mocking and smooth, like he’s been waiting. When he suggests a conch piercing, the way he tilts his head and looks at you makes it impossible to say no. His touch is firm but teasing. His hands linger a little too long against your skin as he works. He clicks his tongue in faux disappointment every time you shift around. “You’re not scared, are you?” he taunts.

Scaramouche knows just how to turn you into a stuttering mess.

The tension coils tighter with every teasing remark, every brush of his fingers, until you’re dizzy with it. When he’s done, he steps back, but the way his eyes rake over you makes you feel bare. Is he admiring more than just the piercing? “Looks good on you,” Scaramouche says with a confident smirk, but there’s an underlying weight in his tone that stirs something deep within you. Thankfully, he and his colleagues have a knack for delivering exactly what you need.

not proofread!