FOND | Scaramouche x Reader

chapter twenty-eight

TRIGGER WARNINGS: lots of innuendos and sexual jokes, mentions of sex. No smut, though, and nothing graphic!
NOT PROOFREAD!
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written in bold - your thoughts,
written in italic - his thoughts.
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day 3 of the holiday,
scaray/n's room
02:01 pm.
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You slowly get up from your lover's warm embrace, craning your neck to the right and to the left to relieve some of the tension as you let your bare skin get caressed by the sunlight. It's quiet around you, serene almost, nothing more but the slow and steady breaths of the man laying down between the sheets capturing your attention as it sends shockwaves down your spine.

You raise your arms above your head and you start stretching, like a cat enjoying the tender rays of sun, while your body is quite sore. It's obvious that if you will continue like this, you wouldn't be able to walk normally for the next days. Not that your lover would mind having you laze around with him for a bit longer, but you do need your legs to function properly.

Right now, when he heavily gazes at you from under the warm blanket, it's like you are shining in Scara's eyes, looking like an absolute goddess that he wished he could worship every moment of his life. His clouded irises are unfocused, tired and half-lidded, full of reflections of you.

The only thing he could see is you.

You and the pretty bruises he left on your hips last night, when you were slowly bringing him to the end of his sanity, pulling him into the flames of your passion like the sinner that he is. Every time he lets his eyes dance on your skin, it makes his heart thump faster in his chest, fingers trembling to touch you once more. 

It's surreal, how much I fell for her.

"I hate it when you leave," he mumbles in the silence of the room, making you shudder. As if the cold wind has caressed your skin, you feel him softly tracing your spine with the back of his pointer finger.

He wants you to feel every touch of his fingertips like the wings of a butterfly against your back.

"Do you already miss me?" A teasing smile blooms in the corner of your lips when you turn your head to look at him.

Scaramouche is so pretty, with disheveled hair and red lips, chest heaving with eternal desire for you. His skin is also full of scattered hickeys, as you are craving for him even more after that night, while his body is your canvas.

"Don't make me sound so whipped," your lover groans as he places an arm over his face to hide his blushing cheeks. A laugh escapes your lips, fingers slowly pushing his arm away to make eye contact with him again. Your touch makes him sigh, feeling you wipe away the last traces of the tears that were running down his cheeks earlier.

You let your other hand brush past his naked chest and onto his jaw, cupping it gingerly in your fingers. "Aren't you, though?"

His gorgeous eyes narrow as he looks up at you. "Are you feeling proud of yourself, Y/n?" He breathes out. "My wrists fucking hurt, you know?"

You take one of them in your hand, raising it up to your lips and placing a lingering kiss right on his wrist. He fidgets under your intimate attention.

In your mind, the memories from earlier are playing like an old movie: the way he breathed heavily under you, hands tied up above his head, a silky blindfold you found in your closet resting on his eyes and making him surrender to you. 

Teasing him to no end like he did to you, feeling him arch his back with every thrust, seeing those pretty tears running down his cheeks from so much pleasure - it was truly a marvelous sight to behold.