Thread by @tinylethologica

#scaralumi 🔞; cw: maid & master / breath play / degradation

— bestow upon me a sixty-minute mirage —

The library in their mansion was supposed to be holy and untouched, everyone knew. The books left to rot, a last memorial to a dead aunt, and here he was, defiling it.

The scent of sex mixes with dusty, sweet papers that were crumbling with age, and sweat drips down his jaw, landing on the carpet. Along with all the other liquids.

“Young master!” Lumine pants, gripping onto the bookcase in front of them, wood and paper blocking out the afternoon sunlight. “Please!” she begs. “We shouldn’t do this here. You know what Lady Ei’s rules are!”

/Lying whore/, he sneers internally, digging his nails into her thigh as he thrusts into her again, the force so strong his balls smack her folds, satisfying loud. Lumine twists and moans, her back perpendicular to her legs as she holds on for dear life.

“I’m your owner,” he says, the words laced with poisonous threat, “not my mother. So you don’t get to tell me what to do, got it?”

And just to punish her—not like she didn’t want it, not like she didn’t ask for it—he grabs the back of her hair and /pulls/.

Lumine whines as her airway is cut off, an unnatural angle to the arc of her throat. Her black choker stretched thin like garrote wire. Her cunt tightens around him, just like he knew it would—she was worth that much, at least.

“Did you not hear me?” he demands, stopping the drive of his hips into her. “I asked you a question, slut.”

“Y-Yes,” she wheezes, her manicured nails biting into the wood, leaving what he knew would be crescent dents in soft, ancient pulp.

It was all this mansion ever did; the whole place, rotting away with the memories Ei couldn’t let go. “Y-young m-master.”

Satisfied with that, he releases her hair. Lumine comes back to life with a wet gurgle, her ruffled headpiece skewed as she heaves for air,

like she’d just been rescued from the verge of drowning.

What a play she’s putting on for him. He hadn’t even pulled that hard.

Scaramouche laughs, only slightly bitter, knowing he sounds cruel, accepting his nature anyway. During the fuss, her dress had fallen down, covering her backside, hiding his cock from view.

“With the way that you’re acting,” he murmurs, flipping over the white-trimmed black dress, threaded stitches that he’d personally created for the occasion abandoned in favour of her swollen folds, “it’s almost as if you’re not enjoying this?”

With that, he flicks his forefinger over her engorged clit, making fast and rough circles. And that gets her quietly whimpering like nothing else, a slip-up of “Scaramouche!” as she coats his hand with dripping slick.

She never did enjoy the act of penetration all that much, much to his initial frustration, thinking it was his own inadequacy and lack of knowledge. Though it wasn't like he’d had much experience to begin with.

But it worked out. They made amendments and they made do, and it became interesting, knowing that she’s letting herself be used like this. That he has her attention, her permission to use her body, even without reciprocal pleasure.

Even so, he always did get absolutely giddy when she was forced to feel like he did: whited out, erased, no thought left except a name—his.

“That’s right,” he croons, other hand palming the soft swell of her breast, and then a cruel twist of her pert nipple,

hard enough to hurt, surely. A stray question of whether she’d ever consider getting it pierced, so he can play with them even easier, roll the flesh in his mouth and chase the taste of metal on his tongue. “You enjoy this, don’t you? Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” Lumine says immediately, melting into a mewl as he rewards her for the effort with a sloppy kiss at her neck. Another twitch of her cunt, almost as if she truly enjoyed it.

He plays with the idea anyway, the delusion that it wasn’t something as filthy as fucking that she longed for, but instead something as simple as a kiss. A lover’s privilege; soft intimacy. The scent of her inteyvat perfume worn just for him. “I belong to you, young master.”

“My little whore,” he says roughly, thrusting himself until his hips touch her ass, soft flesh cushioning the punishing strikes. “Mine, mine, /mine/. Say it again.”

“Yours,” Lumine says wetly. “Always yours.”

/Sure you are./ Scaramouche sneers, “You’re this into my cock, slut?”

“I do.” Lumine’s legs quiver, almost folding, but he won’t let her get away that easily—slams his palm into the shelf, his arms become the bony frames holding her up. Her ribs brush against his forearm, and he can count them if he focuses hard enough.

He frowns. Has she been eating properly? He’d made sure she had enough money, but…

“—yes, yes, yes,” Lumine babbles, derailing him entirely. Arches her back to shove herself back against the roll of his hips, as if trying to take him even deeper.

“I love your cock so much, young master.”

“You’re such a goddamn liar,” he spits. But ruts into her even more violently, until it felt as if the entire world was shaking, this stupid fucking library and its stupid fucking bookshelf and

its stupid fucking books on the verge of decaying into wet mold. He stutters, losing his rhythm at the thought, but Lumine won’t let him go so easily.

“Y-Young master,” she stutters, turning her neck to stare at him, a dewy-eyed distraction. The blush from her face extended all the way down her neck to her collarbones.

She wets her lips, tongue swiping over the leftover cherry red of the waterproof lipstick he’d thrown at her before they started fucking. “I want your cum in me. Need it, young master. /Please./”

It’s a good distraction. Masterful, because she always did know how to play him like one of her stupid physics questions. Scaramouche lets it fuel him, letting the anger wash over him until it’s all he is, just human skin wrapped around boiling rage.

“You want my cum?” he mocks.

“I do—”

“—no, you don’t! You’re just saying that because you want me to finish faster, don’t you?” he snarls, tugging her nipples just to make her shudder. “Want this all to be over so you can take your money and get out.”

What he wanted at the beginning of their agreement was still what he wanted now, something real, something genuine, beyond the reach of his mother. As if knowing exactly what he wanted—probably did, with her smart ass brain—

Lumine obliges him with a moan so filthy loud his ears ring with it.

Scaramouche hisses, has to squeeze his eyes shut to try and prevent himself from coming. He had wanted to take his time, wanted her to enjoy this as much as he did, so orgasming too soon would ruin his plans.

Fails anyway, when Lumine urges, squeezing him for all he’s worth, “That’s it, young master. Come for me.”

And like the fucking loser that he is, always deviating in his intentions to follow her plans instead, of course he comes. No question asked, giving her exactly what she wants, as deep as he could go.

"Then take it. /Take it/," Scaramouche spits, half-delirious, only just remembering with what brain cell was left in his blithering mind to pinch her clit, to forcibly drag her down with him.

A quiet whine—because Lumine was quiet, when she actually did come—and she clamps onto him even tighter, writhing her body as if trying to escape his hold.

Scaramouche doesn’t let go. Can’t. Presses himself to her neck, loses himself in the soft vibration of her throat as they both ride out their orgasm, muttering Lumine over and over as if he were the whore being paid instead.

Lumine, Lumine, Lumine, like a broken record, like a mourning widow.

Lumine pats his head and hums, an awkward arrangement of her arms with the position they’re in, but if she’s offering comfort, he won’t protest.

Their breaths mellow out, lungs no longer craving so much air, and the sweat on his forehead has begun to cool. The timer blasts loud into his eardrum, reorienting him right back in the library, that damned room.

He is acutely aware that he is still sheathed in her warmth, and struggles with the idea of pulling out, of letting her leave.

“Scaramouche,” Lumine says. Already, she’s wiping her lipstick off on her shoulder, red smeared over white lace, not even needing a tissue. Efficient as always, down to the seconds. “It’s time to—”

“I know,” he barks, nose still flooded with blooming inteyvats, mouth still sour with want—not sex, but intimacy instead. A desire he knows he could never sate no matter how much he pays her. Would receive nothing genuine anyway.

She could kiss him as innocent as he wants, as filthy as he wants, tongue or no tongue, and it would still be fake.

“Then get to it already,” Lumine says impatiently, wiggling her hips, his softened member beginning to slip out even without his help.

“It’s already evening and I still have to study. There’s a test tomorrow.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “Careful there. Don’t be too friendly to the man you just fucked for money,” he drawls, sliding out of her with one fluid motion,

uncaring of whether his cum or her slick is going to dirty the floor. Would make this place less bearable to be in probably, the smell of old sex and faded perfume. He hopes it stays.

Lumine shrugs. All of that shy, submissive countenance, vanished in the blink of an eye. “You know what I am. I know what you are. There’s no need to take it beyond that.”

Ah, yes. Her, a whore. Him, her loyal—and only—customer.

“At the end of the day,” she says, “it’s to pay the bills. Don’t mistake it for anything else.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Scaramouche says, buttoning himself as best as he could. The maids—the actual ones—were going to be gossiping again.

/The young master’s beloved darling/, they’d call her, not knowing that she was his temporary call girl. “You could get another job. You don’t have to service me like this.”

Lumine laughs, and archons, if that didn’t hurt the shriveled up black mass that he calls his heart. “But this is easy,” she says honestly, easily, like the truth is so effortlessly deduced. “You get one orgasm, and I get more money than I'd earn elsewhere in an entire weekend.”

“Or one hour,” Scaramouche corrects, narrowing his eyes. The agreement had been either one orgasm or one hour. He took some pathetic pride in knowing they’d been straying toward the latter recently.

“Or one hour,” Lumine agrees, stripping out of the maid costume. “Either way, it’s less time-consuming. I like having the extra time for studying.”

“And the extra money,” he says, hoping he didn’t sound as bitter as he felt. Wanted to tell her that if she wanted, he could pay her entire tuition with a snap of his fingers, cover her living cost for the rest of her time in university—but what would that cost /him/?

“That too,” Lumine says cheerfully, slipping on her panties—he’d told her to go without, so they were still serviceable enough—and then tugging on her sweatpants and hoodie. Jabs her glasses back on her face, a university student again, someone who is not his, someone free.

“So then. Next Wednesday?”

“Next Wednesday.”

“Anything I should know ahead of time?” she teases. “Are we roleplaying again? You sprung the maid thing on me too last minute, you know. I was scrambling for lines the entire time.”

“Watch more porn then,” he says flatly, debating on whether he should wipe his hands on his pants. Doesn’t. “That’s how you can prepare better.”

Lumine pulls a face. “Do I really have to?”

The idea of her studying someone else’s reactions, potentially getting off on it, was enough to make him seethe. After all he’d done to make sure she would associate the act with his face, and to have it all ruined because of his stupid idea.

“You only need to bring yourself,” he scoffs, curling his lips and trying not to snarl. “We’ll improvise. It’s not like you do all that much anyway.”

Their first time together, she’d sat there and taken him, a smile on her face like she’d been watching a particularly amusing puppet show.

“Sure, sure,” Lumine says with a smile as she slings her backpack on her shoulder. And at the entrance, with only her head in the frame, she waves her hand. “See you next time, /young master/,” she croons.

“Get out already!” Scaramouche rolls his jaw, tempted to snatch a book off the shelves and hurl it at her. But he doesn’t want to hurt her, not really, and he doesn’t want to dirty his hands. So he only stands there, listening to the door gently swinging shut,

waiting for the echo of her laughter to fade.

And then, when the sound of her is gone, only the smell of sex and Inteyvats and decomposing books and rotting mildew to accompany him, he puts his index finger in his mouth. Swirls his tongue around the wet skin.

As expected, it tastes like her.

[end.]

wrote this in a manic mood, hopefully it was okay so i won't wake up regreting this :')

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