Chapter Text
“Scara,” Lumine gasps, the warning edge in her voice dulled by a moan when his hand wanders lower. Hiking up her shirt and rubbing through fabric before dipping inside. He never lets her wear any pants or skirt, thinks she’s better off without them. “Not now.”
“You don’t tell me when I get to have you,” he growls into her throat, impatient as he slides her panties down her slender legs. Fingers already itching to touch, already grazing slippery folds before sinking in between. He stretches them before curling them — and her brain short-circuits, sputtering as he thrusts against her g-spot in a lazy but firm pace.
“But we shouldn’t,” she tries, hand on his chest to push him off only for her efforts to be fruitless when he pulls her flushed against him instead. His lips trail lower to her collarbone, teeth scraping on her skin, and she shudders. “You have to go to work.”
“Work can wait,” Scaramouche huffs, the crease of his eyebrows frustrated as he all but slaps his palm against her clit, pressing hard as he picks up speed, wet squelch after wet squelch in tandem with the snap of his wrist. His foot calmly kicks her ankles apart when she tries to close her legs. “Not like anyone’s gonna get mad at their boss for being late.”
Her knees buckle as his other hand thumbs her clit, the single nub still sensitive from the night prior, still aching from his attention earlier in the shower. But it’s not as though he ever cares about how much she can take. Likes to push her beyond her limits if anything. Her eyes water when he pinches down and his flash with satisfaction, smug grin tilting at his mouth when she throws her head back and bucks against him out of habit. His erection a heavy weight on her thigh as he jolts — grinds needily against plump flesh.
“Still, just because you can doesn’t mean you sho —” she pushes, protest interrupted by a cry when he adds another finger. In and out, in and out — his tongue laps a long line along her neck and the knot in her belly coils, about ready to release.
She always comes too easily on his fingers, especially when he kisses up her neck like that, and it’s almost embarrassing how he makes sure of it every time. So full of himself because she’s always so predictable, at least to him. His lips and hand knowing all the right spots like he’s had his time picking them apart. Latching on to them and attacking them whenever he can.
“I have time,” he assures her, tenor firmer and gentler all at once. His breath hot on the hollow space at the base of her throat. “Enough time to fuck you stupid. You want that, don’t you?”
Lumine knows better — she always does. Yet, she whines anyway. Heat already reaching a fevered pitch from the thought of him buried deep inside, right where he rightfully belongs, right where he’s so used to belonging. Her walls already molded to his shape a long time ago, a space stretched open just to fit him.
“Look at you already thinking about it,” he croons, laughing as he feels her squeeze around his knuckles. “What, you can’t wait anymore? Already need me to fill you up? Need me to pound you into the wall like the dirty, sloppy girl that you are?”
Her toes curl, nails digging into the carpet as he emphasizes that with a particularly harsh thrust of his digits. Blinding white pleasure shoots up her spine and she gushes around him, folds fluttering and legs threatening to give out as she struggles to keep up with the ruthless rhythm he sets.
Her arms fumble for purchase on his shoulders as he doesn’t even bother to pin her still against the wall, too busy kneading on her cunt and clit with his hands as he eyes how she trembles, how her resistance melts into nothing but a babbling, wanton mess. Her back arching every time his fingers jerk left to right at the same time he sheathes knuckle-deep.
Whenever he has her like this, Scaramouche doesn’t help her brace herself — relishes in how she struggles to keep her balance instead, how she slowly slides down the wall before he sooner or later has to pick her up and bounce her on his cock. Coos at her like she’s pathetic the entire time, like she can’t do anything without him, like she can’t even stand on her own two feet without needing him to pull her up. And she can’t, she can’t — especially not when he pistons his fingers into her so sweetly like that, so cruelly like he has to have her sobbing or else it’s not good enough.
The thought spurs her on, slick gathering even further down his wrist before trickling lower to her knees. Flushed, always so red when he lavishes her with too much attention.
“Answer me, Lumine,” he warns her even though the way her body tenses is answer enough. Her chest heaving, tears stinging at the back of her eyes before springing free when he tugs at her clit again. Stubborn — that’s what he is, pushing even when she tries to pull away from the ecstasy. “You know I don’t like it when you act like I’m not even here. Why, is the thought of me dicking you down better than me actually doing you? Do I need to stop so that you can fuck yourself instead? You don’t need my help anymore?”
The threat lingers, eyes she didn’t realize had shut close flying open to stare up at him in desperation. “Please don’t,” she pleads, fingers yanking at his sleeves. She’s sure he’ll give her an earful later on when his shirt inevitably wrinkles. “I don’t want that — I want you, just you —"
Frustratingly enough, his fingers slow.
“Then beg,” he says, his voice an asserted command as he takes her in, breathing ragged and coming out in shallow pants when she sobs, choking on a whine even when he’s not even trying, even when he’s not even breaking a sweat. “Ask for me to let you come. Ask for me to fuck you and help you get off like a little bitch in heat. Be good for me — make me proud, sweetheart.”
The switch between degradation and praise causes her skin to prickle, the fire in her loins ready to burst as she sinks down on his fingers the same time he bucks them upwards. Blood buzzes in her ears, loud and heavy. “Please, I — I’ll do anything, just please —"
“Oh, come on, you can do better than that,” he scoffs, a snap of his hand too hard into her slit before he stills as though in added emphasis. “You’ve given me better than that, so try harder. Don’t fucking half-ass this or you won’t have me at all.”
Lumine feels light-headed; a rubber band close to snapping as she cries, aching from the loss of constant pressure other than his fingers still being nestled deep inside. But it’s not enough — not anywhere close to being enough when she knows he can offer her more. Even if only when she does the same.
“Can I please come?” she breathes out, panting like she’s already out of air. “Please, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good — please just let me come. I just wanna come, I know I don’t deserve it, but I wanna come, I wanna —”
“God, you really do bark like a dog,” he laughs, the sound choppy and amused as he watches her breaking down in tears with keen interest. His lips kissing them away as he leans in and she can smell the mint in his breath. “And then what? After you come, what do you want me to do to you? Should I just go to work, like you asked? Or should I fuck you standing the way those pretty eyes are begging for?”
She frowns, irritation scratching through despite everything. “You said work can wait,” she hisses at him, teeth bare and bristling.
He raises an eyebrow at her at that, hand already retracting before she clenches around him, walls keeping his fingers where she wants him in spite of the glare in his eye. But Scaramouche is nothing if not unperturbed, nothing if not merciless — staring down at her unfazed like he already anticipated this.
“Mind the attitude,” he chastises her. She sniffles as the thumb on her clit withdraws, out of her space and out of her grasp. “Do you actually want me to leave? Is that why you’re acting out?”
“I’m not —” she goes to bite back, only to simmer down when he levels her with a scathing look, another warning in lust-addled indigo. She swallows, throat drying and chest burning. “Don’t leave me, please,” comes her whisper, soft at first before lifting into choked sobs, “I promise I’ll behave. I just want you, want your cock in my pussy, want you to cum balls deep in my cun —”
Her pleading is cut short when Scaramouche thrusts a few more times, the last one harder than the ones prior as he pushes her over the edge. His chuckle dark and low on her pulse point as he revels in the sight of her violently convulsing before going still, her chest a quick rise and fall as she dissolves into a garbling mess.
“Atta girl,” he husks on her lips, mouth brushing over hers in a tender kiss as he helps her ride out her high, digits slamming into her only briefly before he draws out in a wet pop. “Shh, don’t worry, I got you,” he hushes her when she whines, palms squeezing her ass before lifting her off the floor, her legs straddling his hips on their own accord as she peppers kisses down his neck.
“Please hurry,” she begs, head burying into his shoulder as she hears him unbuckle his belt, the sound of him unzipping his pants as enticing as the sweet nothings he mouths into the shell of her ear.
“Impatient, aren’t you,” he purrs, a statement more than a question as he feels her shake when his length flops out of fabric and up against her, tip leaking at the slit before wiping his pre-cum on the throbbing nerve of her clit. “You want this that much? Yeah? Want me to fuck you until that brain of yours melts? I’m not even inside you yet and I’ve already got you all quivering and sweaty and ready to cream all over my cock.”
“Yes,” she cries, fingers digging into his back. “Yes, I want that so much. So, so much that it hurts. Please stop torturing me, Scara. Please, please, please —”
He heaves then. A breath too slow and too quiet, too hot on the flushed skin of her forehead as he maps his mouth over her hairline.
“You’d die without me,” is all he whispers before she feels him bringing her down at the same time he bucks his hips up. His cock disappears into her body and she turns dumb, holding onto him even when he tells her he’s everything she needs.
December 24th.
That was the first time she met him. He had found her first — just a little before the clock struck twelve, just a little minutes shy of Christmas.
The snow had been a stark difference to the midnight shade of his hair, pristine white on slight blue locks that also feathered over his face. Not a lot of guys could wear red eyeliner and pull it off, but he did: crimson streak perfectly done by the side of his eye, the line bringing more attention to the indigo in his gaze, almost heavy but not too much on his pale complexion — just enough to scare people off, but nowhere close to deterring them from staring, as if that scowl on his face couldn’t do the job as well.
He was pretty then, too, she remembers thinking, because she’d been around this street for a while and she’d never seen someone as good-looking if not a little irritated. Like he had just woken up from a nap and she was the first thing he saw that night and he was more than a tad displeased. That tension in his shoulders never gone, his hand oddly tender as he brushed off the snow from her hair; the light touch contrasting the sharp look in his eye as he appraised her the same way one would consider a product in a store.
He seemed permanently pissed off, so she was understandably confused when he went and offered her dinner — only to then shrug it off as perhaps just a kind gesture because he was obviously not in a good mood and maybe he needed that to feel better about himself.
I know a place that’s open for twenty four hours, he had said, voice a dulcet tone, sultry despite the way he spat it out as he glanced over his watch. Then he had looked at her again, that usual dark glare — If you wanna eat, then get a move on. I don’t like people who are slow, and he warned her that, only to wait around anyway when she shuffled on her feet in fear that he was planning to do awful things to her once he got her alone.
It wouldn’t be the first time it happened.
She hadn’t eaten anything for a little over two days at that point, though, and she was hungry so if she was more than eager to follow the pretty stranger, people could forgive her for that lapse in stupidity.
But then nothing happened.
And dinner turned to him lingering around every day after that. Bought her a Christmas gift, too, strangely enough. A bracelet, gold like the tangled tresses of her mane, a perfect fit around her wrist like he had stared at it for a good enough amount of time to tell. She was pretty sure he did.
Better keep that safe. I spent too long choosing that for you, he’d mentioned, and if he wasn’t him and she wasn’t her, it would have been almost a cute thing to say to your significant other. Yet, he said it like it was normal, like this was his new normal and he’d be damned if it wasn’t hers, too.
Sometimes, he would come by with new clothes. Always had food on hand for her and would just sit there and watch as she wolfed everything down like it might as well have been her last meal. Except it wasn’t — because he kept coming even when bystanders gave him odd looks. Kept seeing her even when he didn’t have a lot to say, which was pretty much always.
She didn’t blame people for staring, to be honest. They stood out — her with dirt and grime on her face and those torn up sleeves and holes in her shirt, him with those branded outfits and super clean shoes, not even a wrinkle or a stain in sight like he couldn’t stand any semblance of imperfection. People like him didn’t hang out with people like her, and yet, still he was there. Like he didn’t have better things to do, people more in his league to engage with. Maybe he didn’t. She’d heard of lonely and bored rich people and he seemed to fit the description enough.
Come home with me, he had said at some point. By then, it had been almost a year into their weird form of companionship.
Okay, and she had said yes, because she’d thought she had him all figured out, thought that it was better to have a place to stay than none at all — even if his intentions still left ample room for consideration. Besides. He’d been nothing but kind in spite of his taciturn nature, and not a lot of people were kind to her.
She took his hand and she remembers it still like it was just yesterday: his tight grip, fingers bruising as his nails dug into her knuckles, like he couldn’t risk her running away. Not that she tried.
She didn’t have anywhere else to go, anyway.
Later, when she had settled down and he had let her use his shower, it was no surprise when she found herself in bed with him, body to body, heated flesh to heated flesh. His teeth and hands marking every spot he could think of. Maybe this was what he was gunning for, but she didn’t really care because she had nothing to lose. Clinging to him like he was her only support system, because he was even if it was a little contrived.
And it helped that he was pretty. It helped that he’d been nothing but kind. It helped that she was used to whoring herself out like this just for a place to sleep for a night or two. Not like he made it seem that it would only be temporary. It was evident enough from how he’d snuggled up to her after that, arm around her waist, chin on her shoulder as he pulled her close to his chest. It was odd, but not unwelcome: this pretense of romance and a home.
She decided she could live with it. If it was him, she figured she would be fine with this — whatever this was. But it was hard to get rid of bad habits, harder still to dig out her survival mechanisms. So when she asked for money out of sheer impulse, that came to no surprise as well.
Just to have something to fall back on when you decide you’re bored of me, she had explained when he seemed offended. He couldn’t blame her for that, though; it seemed too good to be true and good things didn’t happen to her often. Or at all.
You want my money to fall back on when I get bored, he echoed that with a scoff, slow like he was still trying to process the laughable notion like it was silly. And she knew it was, but she didn’t have much shame to spare. That was stripped away from her a long time ago.
It won’t happen, he told her just a second after, but threw money on her lap regardless. Flippant like it wasn’t even a large amount even though she could survive a whole year and still have some more with that kind of money. She’d given him an accusatory look and he’d brush her off with a dismissive wave.
Only because you seem to need the reassurance. Might as well ask me to put you in my will at this point, he griped. Even included that jibe. Not that it wasn’t fair because she thought about it. She knew he was rich the moment he started splurging on her, and though she was grateful, being opportunistic was also a bad habit. She could never be too cautious, especially with people like him who flip-flopped often between two things.
But then four years passed and nothing changed. He still wants her, and it’s the longest time anyone’s ever wanted her. Or at all, really. The sex is one thing, but he’s also strangely sweet when he needs to be — though that slips out through his actions rather than his words because he’s never been the best at expressing himself.
Four years later, and she found herself letting him through her defenses even though she thought she knew better. It was hard not to, when you spend that much time with someone else. When no one’s looked at you and someone finally does.
The only downside is that she doesn’t and can’t have free reign. It’s not normal, she knows — how he refuses to allow her out of the apartment even after all these years. But she soothes that thought with the fact that he gets her anything she needed whenever she asks, so she doesn’t really have much to complain about — even though she should.
She’s fine with it, she tells herself whenever doubt creeps in, whenever he’s sound asleep and she stares too long at the window wondering if she could possibly force it open. She’s fine with it because he takes care of her, he loves her like she’s actually his and they fit so well like they’re actually meant to be together. And not a lot of people love her so she clings to him anyway, desperate for any warmth and affection, for any touch even if it comes in the form of his nails sinking in.
She doesn’t have anyone else to go to, anyway.
Everything comes crashing down on her whenever he’s not around. When he’s at work, it sinks into her — slowly, like a boulder being guided down on her shoulders. Bit by bit, with each passing tick of the clock.
This isn’t healthy. She’s not even supposed to be here. Lumine hasn’t had the best life, but even then she’s sane enough to know that him isolating her like this does more harm than good. Not even that — it’s a crime, and is it really love? Is this really the kind of love she wants?
The walls feel like they’re closing in on her. Inch by inch, day by day. A box too small and a cage too tightly secured. It’s nice in the moment when he’s there to hold her, but now that he’s gone, it’s cold ice on her skin, a heavy weight of nausea in the back of her throat.
She’s alone. She can’t even go out. Even after all this time, he’s never told her the password to his apartment, won’t even let her have the keys. At some point he had promised her he would, told her that she could even look for a job if she wants.
That day never happened.
And he ensures that there’s no way for her to contact the outside world either — not the internet, not even a landline. Sometime ago, she remembers asking for a phone, that it didn’t have to be anything special. She just needed anything to anchor her sanity from slipping. He had given her the green light, but then he lied to her about that, too. He always lies.
Even so. Affection worms through doubt and resentment, rearing its head like an ugly snake around her heart. Her chest feels tight, overwhelmed to the point of suffocation. Lumine misses him, a part of her always aching for him when he’s gone.
It’s one thing to keep her locked up in here, it’s another to leave her to stew in the loneliness. The least he could do is take responsibility and keep her company — never leave her side and stay here with her every day, even though she knows that’s impossible. Someone has to feed them and that’s not going to be her. He won’t let it; not without his permission.
Today, again, Scaramouche is late and Lumine sits there waiting on bated breath for him to come home. Wringing her hands, fiddling with her thumbs after there are no chores left to do.
A string of beeps signalling his homecoming and she’s instantly off the couch, arms crossed over her chest as she taps her foot lightly on the floor — already ready to badger him even if it’s the last thing she does.
The door clicks open and she spares a fleeting glance at the stairs, contemplating escape if only briefly before he closes it shut again.
“Where were you?” she asks, nerves on high alert as she eyes him taking off his shoes and socks. Scaramouche loops one hand around his tie to undo it before peering up at her, frowning at the sight of a woman scorned.
“At work, obviously,” he answers her, annoyed but careful as he discerns the familiar signs of her anger. The stiff shoulders, the pupils blown wide like she’s ready to grab at his hair and tug at their roots. “Relax. I wasn’t with anyone.”
She honestly wasn’t even thinking about that, but now that he’s brought it up, it’s all she can focus on. After all, Scaramouche is beautiful if not perfect — and he has the money. Who’s to say he doesn’t have another woman held in captivity in a different apartment that she doesn’t know about?
“What’s stopping you?” she grits out, and he has the audacity to roll his eyes.
“Like I have the time,” he scoffs, brushing past her and into the living room where he proceeds to fling his tie over the sofa. Glare burning into the sparkly clean table before diverting to her again. “I already have my hands full with you. Though I guess at least you have the decency to help around the house.”
Her rage flares, and she’s left fuming by the lack of care in his response. He flops on the couch and she’s swiftly in his face again, looming in front of the TV before he could even switch it on. “Can’t you just reassure me properly instead of being an ass?”
His arm is calm as he sets the remote back on the coffee table. But she perceives the twitch of his fingers, the flex of a vein popping if only barely.
“You didn’t seem to mind my ass when I was fucking you against the wall this morning,” he snaps back at her, hissing through gritted teeth, through tight lips so soft she wants to kiss the poison on them away. She blinks, flustered as red colors her cheeks from the reminder. A mistake when he notices the way her eyelashes flutter and sneers. “See? Look at that, you’re already drooling for it even though you’re the one picking a fight. What, need me to breed the attitude out of you again?”
Lumine clenches around nothing. Her insides still feel warm, his cum from earlier having dried for a while now but somehow it still feels like a part of him lingered. A part of him always lingers.
“I bet you say that to every other prisoner you’ve got locked up somewhere,” she stammers but then snipes as the ire returns a good tenfold. His brows shoot up in surprise, eyes glinting and malice flitting across his features before he schools them again.
“You’re implying that I do this all the time,” he murmurs, low but dangerous, his gaze narrowing into slits. She can almost feel his hands around her throat. “How many times do I need to tell you that I don’t want anyone else? Do I really have to reassure you — or are you just projecting?” She frowns at that but a crazed smile spreads on his lips, his eyes pained but sadistic, loving but loathing. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Lumine. God knows you’re the one who wants out of this relationship.”
For a moment, she parts her lips to argue that she doesn’t. Only to then clamp them shut again. She really doesn’t, but another part of her does. Chipped wings and tattered sense of self.
“Do you know what being cooped up in here all alone does to me?” she says, barely above a hushed whisper but just good enough for him to catch — and the question is answer enough. His ears flush, but it’s not out of embarrassment or arousal. That much is clear from the dark expression on his face. “How much it drives me insane? I don’t even know what day it is.”
“The calendar’s right there,” he coldly points out, a wry smile tugging at his features. “And if you want me to be around more, then you can just say that. There’s no point in bickering with me about it.”
He goes to reach for her hand there, ready to be gentle again right after he just struck a knife to her chest. She pulls it away, taking a step back the minute he shoots her a glare.
“You can’t manipulate me into giving in, Scara,” she mutters, and he sounds a snort. Angry and almost laughing.
“Oh, here we go again with that bullshit,” he grumbles, making for the remote again before she snatches it out of his grasp. His scowl deepens and her blood runs cold. “You’re testing my patience, sweetheart,” comes his sickeningly sweet purr, his equally sardonic grin chilling and sinister. “I’m really tired right now, so you’d better tread lightly before I actually lose it.”
That should have been a good enough cue for her to drop it — but she doesn’t, pushing like always because she’s already been pushed around enough. “At least get me something to occupy myself with when you’re gone,” she says, firm even though there was a moment she wavered a little. A pause, and then: “Like a phone.”
The look on his face falters, lips thinning into a thin line over the fact she brought that up again. “You have the TV,” he deadpans. “The vinyl records. I even bought you books. Besides, who are you gonna contact with a phone, anyway?”
Lumine swallows a lump in her throat. “People,” she says lamely, unable to come up with an actual name. A flash of blonde, a tail of a braid — but he’s not here with her anymore. A ghost of her past and a burning scar more than anything else.
He pins her with an odd stare, something between a laugh at her expense and the slightest of trepidation that she actually has other people around her. “You don’t know people,” he finally decides after what felt like a long pause. “You ran away from home, remember? No friends, no brother.”
A wave of ire washes over her. “That’s low, Scara,” she growls, hands clenching into fists at her sides. “Even for you.”
“No, Lumine,” he barks out a laugh, the sound short and almost hysterical. “What’s low is you talking to me like this when I gave and still give you everything. You wanted love, and no one gave it to you. But you know who did?” His eyeliner gives his eyes that usual sharper edge as he narrows them at her. Spiteful, just the briefest of an undertone of hurt. “I did. I give you just that, but you keep spitting it back to my face.”
Remorse needles in before she stamps it out.
“You don’t even treat me like a person,” she says, just as biting before she gestures at everything around them — the bookshelves, the vinyl records and TV he mentioned. The warmth of a home and the cold bars of a cage. “These books? All of this? They’re all just to keep me busy so I don’t try to get away — find someone more normal.”
His smile is one of disdain. “Careful,” he warns her. “Say one more word and you’ll regret it.”
She doesn’t heed the warning. “I just need more,” she confesses, soft but heavy. She knows it is because his eyes flutter shut, hurt if not disappointed. The guilt resurfaces, only to fade again when indigo opens again and he’s looking at her like she just grew another head. Like he doesn’t know her.
“I’ll buy you more,” he tells her, almost pleading this time. “Anything you want, I’ll get it. You know I will.”
Lumine wishes that was enough, that this was normal and neither of them were so broken and bruised that they would cling to the next best thing. Even then, their relationship isn’t even good — there were good moments, sure, but those stopped meaning as much when she’s by herself and has the time to think it over.
“More of what? Of books I’ll finish in a week and get bored of rereading in a month?” she laughs, the sound bitter as she shakes her head. Scaramouche reaches a hand upwards to massage his temple like he’s staving off an incoming headache. Maybe he is; she knows she’s a handful when she’s like this because he always tells her that if not show it.
“Then tell me what you wanna read — or do, really,” he sighs. “Just say it and it’s done. But I won’t know unless you tell me.”
Her back draws into a stiff line then, lips a downturn into a frown. “I tell you what I want all the time,” she answers pointedly, appraising him as he freezes. Body tensing like a bowstring as though he just got cold water poured over him. “I want to work, to make friends and see the outside world like every other normal person.”
She’s not surprised when he doesn’t even consider it. Shaking his head even before she finished talking. “You can’t,” he says, more to himself than to her. His eyes wide, pupils large like he’s scared. “I can’t let you. I won’t.”
“This isn’t living, Scara,” she whispers, hushed. Metal on her tongue as she bites so hard on her lower lip that she breaks through skin. But he catches it, anyway — head turned so quickly towards her that she almost worried his neck had snapped. How dare you, the scowl on his face says. How fucking dare you.
He levels her with a glare — a certain venom in the animosity of his gaze. “You would have been dead if it weren’t for me,” he says, low but cutting, a reminder.
That strikes her right in the middle of her chest. Painful to the point of smothering. How could he even say that? Angry, she snipes, antagonism between her clenched teeth, “You don’t even pay when we fuck anymore.”
Scaramouche’s features darken. There’s a bit of contemplation as he spares a brief glance at the door to their shared bedroom, possibly already considering retrieving her collar and leash. Then, back to her, voice measured but ill-tempered. “I dare you to say that again.”
Lumine swallows at that. Part of her knows better, knows that this would be another mistake in her already long list of slights against him if she doesn’t listen. But the hurt refuses to wane, clinging to her like a second skin.
“You used to throw money at me after sex,” she challenges instead, narrowing her eyes at him when he does the same. “You don’t do that now.”
He cocks his head to one side. A tap of his finger careful — something sinister brewing at the tip.
“That’s what this is about?” he sneers, indigo flashing a grudge and just the tiniest hint of jealousy if she looks close enough. “You’re upset because I’m not paying you for sex like you’re some cheap whore I picked off the streets? Oh, wait, you are.” A pause as he waits for that to sink into her, the slight satisfaction when attitude wavers and her gaze blurs, tears threatening to break free. “Did that hurt? Need me to comfort you again before you throw me away?”
She slides her eyes shut. Her lashes feel wet — quivering on her cheeks. “If I am what you say I am,” she says, just as cutting if not more. Just as hurt if not more, “then what’s the issue? That’s the point, anyway, isn’t it? Why you took me in? I bet you were just biding your time, weren’t you. Here she was, some filthy girl living on the streets just waiting for someone to rescue her — it’d be so easy to screw her if you pay her just a little bit of attention.”
Something snaps then, an already worn out rope fraying in half as he exhales. Slow, so soft it’s barely even there. “Fine then,” he murmurs, suddenly pushing a hand into his pocket to rummage for his wallet. In a matter of seconds, he flings a couple of thousands at her face. Hissing. “Here’s the money you love so much. You’re right, all I wanted from you was a good fuck. You’re easy pickings, Lumine. Desperate enough you’d spread your legs for anyone.”
For some reason, her chest twists. There’s a tear peeking from one side of his eyelid before he blinks them away. “Scara, I —” she tries, but a feral growl cuts her off.
“I don’t wanna hear anything,” he grits out, angry. “Shut the fuck up and get on your knees.”
The money flutters to her feet. A discarded heap. She stares at the tense line of his shoulders and it’s there again — that instinctive urge to apologize, to soothe his ache even though he’s the reason for hers.
Her pulse thunders in fear, in slight remorse even though it shouldn’t. “Scara, please,” she tries again, throat drying. “I didn’t mean —”
“I said get on your knees or are you too dumb to even comprehend that?” he barks out, footfalls mad as he marches over to her and takes her by the shoulders. She almost flinches but he stills her, his grip bruising before forcing her down on all fours. Leather boot kicking her knees apart when she tries to close them before snapping his foot in between. “Can’t even do a simple task without my help. You’re so useless.”
Lumine knows she shouldn’t, but her head grows fuzzy. Desire fueled in the pits of her stomach in spite of the circumstances. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry — I’m so sorry, Scara —"
“You’re wet,” he scoffs as he notices slick down her thighs, like he hadn’t already primed her to be like this. Leg retracting if only to wipe her arousal off on the flush of her knee. “I throw money at you and suddenly you’re an obedient slut. Do you know how disgusting that is?”
“I’m sorry,” she mutters again, but he’s already tipping her head up by the chin, thumb softly grazing her lips and nail digging into supple skin. He glowers at her, dark and seething. A pang of hurt.
“Why are you looking at me like that? Do you need more? Is that it?” he laughs, the sound rough between his tight lips. With that, he dangles his wallet over her head. Shaking it a little so that paper showers over blonde. Bills feathering over her locks. “Have fucking more then. But don’t expect me to play nice.”
“I won’t do it again,” she promises, but she knows it’s a lie. A soft mewl tearing out of her when he pushes his foot up and against her again, leather rubbing on the wet patch on her panties as she involuntarily bucks. Rides his leg at the same time he flicks it up her core. She doesn’t even know what she’s begging for anymore as she sobs, “I swear, I swear it won’t happen again so please —"
“Like hell you won’t,” he snarls at her, hands making quick work of undoing his pants before he pulls his length out and guides it to her lips. Tip smearing pre-cum on supple skin and dipping inside ever so slightly before drawing back. Teasing and torturous as he laughs and drinks in the sight of her chasing after him before slapping it on her cheek.
“Filthy little cock-hungry cunt,” he spits out when she moans against him every time his manhood withdraws only to flop on her face again. “Look at you already wheezing for me to fuck your mouth. Not so bratty now, are you? Yeah — yeah, you get a whiff of dick and you’re suddenly dumb again. It shuts you up, makes you want me to bruise that throat of yours until you can’t fucking talk, doesn’t it.”
And it’s humiliating — how he’s right, how easily she caves the minute sex with him is on the table. He curls his fingers around her hair and whispers honeyed love into her ears and it’s like nothing ever happened.
“Yes,” she says, pleading and muffled as she sticks her tongue out, her saliva a thin trail down on her chin and on the slit of his cock. He shudders and her eyes grow half-lidded. “Yes, please, use me to get off. Use me to make yourself feel good. Come down my throat, make me swallow every drop. Please, Scara, please —"
He exhales then — all pretty when he’s angry, all pretty when he looks down at her like she’s fresh meat and he’s starving for the next meal alive. His cheeks flushed as he stutters out a breathless laugh.
“Open,” he beckons, and she’s nothing if not accepting when he pushes so deep inside her mouth that she can’t breathe. “Good girl. Gag on me just like that,” he sighs, content as he listens to her slobbering all over him. Lets himself sit and throb on her tongue before bobbing her head up and off of him only briefly and shoving back in — and it’s then that she notes the snow outside the window, the calendar and the clock ticking twelve.
It's Christmas.