Work Text:
You do everything in this tiny apartment. You cook, you clean, you do the groceries, and you pay less than a quarter of the rent. Who pays the rest, you ask?
Well, that would be your sexist, weeb, porn addicted roommate, Scaramouche. Yeah, it kinda sucks. But, it's cheap as fuck, he lets you smoke, and it gets you the furthest away from your family, so it has some redeeming qualities. So you stuffed yourself in this dingy two bedroom apartment with this stick figure of a man.
And it's actually quite decent. He barely leaves his pigpen, so little in fact that the most interaction you two have is a three minute insult fest when one wants the other to do something. But you always dread this one day, it's the same routine every time. You get screamed at, you get a face full of dirty clothes, and then you get yelled at for not folding it right.
“Laundry Day.” (Dun dun dunnnnn)
You knock rapidly on the wooden surface of Scaramouche's bedroom door, preparing yourself to get an earful of profanity. "Fuck off, you stupid bitch!" His screeching is slightly muffled by the flimsy door.
With one hand you hike up the plastic laundry basket under your arm, and huff from irritation when it slips back to its awkward position on your hip. You knock louder.
It's silent for a good minute. In the meantime you run a hand through your messy hair but your fingers get snagged on a particularly stubborn knot. But then an irritated groan comes from behind the door, and you hear him insult someone (or something), then the familiar creak of his gaming chair and muffled footsteps approaching you. You decide to declare a temporary truce with your hair in favour of dealing with the annoying piece of shit that's about to open the door. And just like you predicted, the door opens slightly with a creak as the familiar violet haired guy stares at you from the crack.
"The fuck you want, woman?" His voice is slightly raspy, most likely from all screaming he does when he plays his video games. His tone is filled with annoyance and hatred as he glances back into his room, and you motion with your freed hand to the laundry basket you're holding as a response. "It's laundry day, you pig. I'm here to get your filthy clothes."
Scaramouche opens the door a little wider to look you up and down, his eyes lingering on your low-cut cropped tank top that doesn't hide any bit of your plain black bra's straps, and your plain shorts. He huffs loudly. "I didn't know my apartment was a whore house." He remarks mockingly, though you can see his ears turn pink when he stares a little too long at your cleavage.
"Our apartment," You falsely correct him. The lease is under his name and he pays most of the rent, but you just want to piss him off. "and like I said, it's laundry day. So, shove the disgusting things you need washed in here and put it outside your fucked up room when you're done." You ram the laundry basket into the door and Scara stumbles a step back from the amount of force you used to open it, and ungracefully drop the basket on the messy floor of his bedroom.
He slowly looks at the basket, then back at you. He rolls his eyes and returns to sit at his computer desk, stepping over the plastic basket without batting an eye. You stand in the doorway and pinch your nose bridge so you wouldn't lash out at his childish antics.
He presses a button and begins talking again, confirming your former thoughts of him being on a call. You sigh loudly, and kick the laundry basket further into his room. "Get the fuck up and pick your clothes up, you pathetic online whore wannabe." You snarl as you half-heartedly point at the upside-down plastic cage sitting pathetically in the middle of a pile of dirty clothes.
He swivels in his seat, facing you with two middle fingers in the air. "Shut the fuck up cunt, you ain't my mom!" He sticks his tongue out so childishly, that something snaps inside your mind. If he was acting like a child, you’d treat him like one. You stalk towards him and you slam your hands down on Scaramouche's desk, trapping him between you and his chair and you glare down at him.
"Well I ain't your girlfriend either and sometimes it feels like I'm both!" Your closeness makes you able to hear the audio from his headphones. The laughter from the people is loud, and a stunned, brightly flushed Scaramouche is looking up at you. Or, the general direction of your upper body. He looks pretty cute when he actually shuts the fuck up.
He leans back in his chair until there's no more room to shy away, but makes no move to get out of this position. His eyes don't know whether to fixate on your face or your tits. "F-fuck you, go make me a-a sandwich or something." He stutters. You raise an eyebrow at the stammer, usually he says shit like that without batting an eye… But you're also usually more than 5 inches away from his face.
You narrow your eyes and move even closer, to the point your noses are almost touching, forcing him to look into your eyes. "Make your pathetic self useful for once and pick up your filthy clothes, and I won't throw your computer out that window, is that clear?" He turns his head to glance at the mentioned window, but you grab his chin to force him to look at you. "I said, Is. That. Clear."
He finally pushes you away with a hesitant scoff. "I-i'm not doing shit..." even though he says that, he takes his headphones off and stands up to kneel by the basket to turn it right-side up. You huff triumphantly as you cross your arms, impatiently waiting for the basket to be filled.
He rises back to his full height to throw one more hoodie onto the pile of dirty clothes. He angrily motions for you to take the basket, clearly embarrassed for having listened to you. "That wasn't so hard now, wasn't it? I guess you're not that useless after all." You smirk and smack him on the shoulder before picking the overflowing basket from the floor. You turn to leave and hear Scaramouche curse you underneath his breath. You happily ignore it, feeling good about forcing him to be productive once in a blue moon.
Once the first load of laundry was done washing, you popped it into the dryer. You repeat this four times. God, how many clothes does he wear when he barely even leaves the house? You imagine him playing dress-up, weirding yourself out with the image of him striking several cringe anime poses in a full body mirror. You shake the thought away when it becomes more cosplay of certain oversexualised characters you saw pasted on his walls than his actual wardrobe.
After folding your own laundry, you decide to take a break while you wait for the last drying cycle of Scara's clothes to complete. You sit on your bed, leaning against the headboard as you search your nightstands for a stray cigarette. Luckily, you find a pristine nicotine filled cancer stick underneath the tacky magazines that you've never read, on where your ashtray is situated.
You light the cigarette just as Scara bursts through your door. You flinch at the loud bang and the cigarette falls from between your fingers, almost dropping on your bedsheets. You scoop it out of the air, unfortunately burning a small circle into your palm. You yelp in pain as you quickly pick it up, safely this time. "What the actual fuck, dude!? What the hell is your problem!?" You snarl at the guy scoffing at your misery.
He points at the long black leather studded belt in his hand. "This. This is my problem. Why the fuck is your bitchass belt in my closet?" You glare at him as you place the cylinder between your lips. "How the fuck would I know? What makes you think it's mine? Maybe it's one of yours." You roll your eyes.
He stalks over to the edge of your bed throwing it on the bed sheets. "I fucking mark mine so that this wouldn't fucking happen!" You shrug uninterested. "Oops.” Scaramouche's face turns red from anger. "The fuck you mean 'oops'? You do the laundry, you should pay more fucking attention to your shitty stuff!"
“Oh I'm sorry, have you tried maybe, I don't know, doing it yourself?” You take a drag from your cigarette while you pick up the belt with your toes, and his face scrunches up with disgust. You dangle it in his face to get an even funnier expression.
He snatches the belt back and throws it at your head, barely missing you by an inch. You gasp from the shock as you blink at the studded leather that almost hit you, now slowly sliding off of your pillow. “Fuck this shit, you need to be taught a fucking lesson!” Something in the back of your mind tells you you’ll need both your hands free so you place the cigarette on the ashtray as quickly as you can.
Scaramouche practically lunges onto the bed, forcing himself on top of you. “I'm gonna strangle the shit out of you woman!” You grab the studded belt that started this conflict just as his hands are around your throat and wrap it around his wrists.
“Now what's with this pathetic tantrum over a belt? Did your friends make fun of you or something?” You chuckle emotionlessly as you hold his tied hands as far away from your neck as possible. In truth, you were terrified. Your bitchy housemate was just that, bitchy. He had never tried to seriously harm you before this.
This was new territory. You had seen the tattoos that time when you accidentally walked on him getting ready to shower, (You went to sleep with trembling legs and a smile that day), the suspicious income and the insane amount of knowledge about weapons now make you think he’s able to kill you after all…
Until a drop of his sweat falls onto your cheek and wakes you from your disassociation. He thrashes in your unwavering grip and before he knows it, his knee slips and his body crashes onto yours. You can feel his chest rapidly rise and fall as he tries to regain his spent energy. You two lay still for a second before you realise what just occurred. You suppress a snicker. “Weak bitch.” You whisper into his ear and Scaramouche flinches.
“I- gasp… swear I'm- huff… gonna shove my Beretta 80X- gasp… up your pussy- huff… and fire the- gasp… entire magazine- huff… into your body.” He growls. You huff. “Say that when you don't have a raging boner digging into my thigh.” He freezes, and slowly lifts his hips. “Shut the fuck up, whOre.” His voice cracks when your knee grinds against his cock. A whimper falls from his lips as he avoids your stunned stare with a face red from embarrassment.
You blink. What. The. Fuck. You had fantasised about fucking your pathetic roommate a few times, but never had you thought he would make those noises. This was way hotter than the things you got off on.
You chuckle when he turns to glare at you for blowing hot air into his ear. His red face with upcoming tears in his violet eyes was like a pretty picture. In a moment of impulsiveness you gather all your strength and flip the two of you over. The unexpectedness of this action caught him off guard thereby giving you enough time to tie his wrists to one of the poles of your headboard. By the time the shock wore off his hands were firmly secured, and no tugging could loosen it up.
You hovered over him, both your hands firmly planted on either side of Scaramouche's head. “W-what the hell are you doing!? Untie me right the fuck now!” Flustered, he turns his head and closes his eyes. A hand gently caresses his violet hair, then gently tugs it. You pick up your abandoned cigarette to take another puff. You lower your hips until you’re practically sitting on his cock. You shift slightly forward, your ass grinding against his extremely sensitive member.
This gains you a string of colourful swears mixed with an insanely high-pitched moan. He throws his head back, exposing his throat. You hold your breath as you sink your teeth in his neck, tugging on his hair harder. His voice cracks violently through his moans as he bucks up into you. You blow the smoke through your nose as you laugh at his miserable pleasure.
You take another drag before you put the cigarette back down in the ashtray on your nightstand. Your now empty hand reaches for the zipper of his hoodie only to find him without anything underneath. “right. Laundry Day.” You deadpan. Scaramouche shivers from the gust of cold air nipping at his now exposed skin.
Your hand runs down his chest, slowly drawing swirling patterns down to his abdomen and eventually dipping down his loose shorts and between his thighs. His arms tug at the sturdy leather that's wrapped around them, while his jaw goes slack when you press a finger against his hole. "W-wai- Mmh, fuck!" He whimpers when he feels you circle his rim.
You blow the smoke in his face while you hum. “Hmm, yeah. You're right. I forgot a very important thing…” you shove the fingers that were touching him down his throat. "Suck." You command with a harsh glare.
His eyes go wide when you press your fingers against his tongue. It circles around your fingers, wetting them with his spit. A moan forces itself out of his throat when he has a taste of your flesh. You tug his hair again when he slows down. “Hurry your virgin ass up, I want to get to the main course.” You snarl.
You haven't even properly touched him, and yet here he lies underneath you with his tongue lolled out of his pathetic mouth and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head like a hentai girl. “What would your incel buddies think if they knew what a submissive little masochistic bitch you are in bed?" That earns you a high pitched whine that sends a burning heat down to your core.
You tug his shorts down to his ankles, taking his underwear with it. His cock slaps against his abdomen, finally free from its constraints. You give it an experimental stroke, pleased with the sound that comes from the wet hole invaded by your fingers. You lightly slap the underside of it and he jolts. “Thanks for warming my fingers up you little slut.” You snicker as you take your fingers out from between his trembling lips.
You slowly insert your index finger up his ass, and go back until only the tip of your finger is in. Your other hand closes around his throat, gently squeezing the sides to cut off circulation. Scara whimpers when you push your finger back in, and out, in and out, in and out, slowly speeding up. The sensation is almost too much for him. He’s never done anything with his behind when masturbating but… if he knew it felt this good, he would have done it ages ago. “Oh FUCK, ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” He swears when a second finger was added, the feeling overwhelming him as he got closer and closer to an orgasm.
His wrists burn from where they're tied up to your bedframe with your studded belt, the friction adding to the overwhelming pleasure. "Please, please, pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease- ngh- fuck!" Scara's voice cracked from pure ecstasy. Just as he's about to cum, you take your fingers out. “Please keep going, pleasepleaseplease please go back to touching me!”
He humps the air, desperate for any friction, but you hover too far over him to touch. His eyes water with tears of unobtainable relief. “Hold your goddamn horses fuckface, I'm about to elevate your experience. If I can find one of those fucking things…” You mutter. He feels empty without your fingers.
You rummage through your nightstand’s drawer to find a small, flat, square shaped package. “Found it,” You stare into his eyes as your grin widens, “Now the real fun can finally begin.” You keep eye contact as you rip it open with your teeth and roll the condom over his throbbing cock. You shimmy out of your tight shorts, throwing your panties to the other side of the room right alongside it.
“Please… fuck!” He’s practically sobbing for your touch. You give his cock one more tug and relish in the broken moan that comes out of his pathetic mouth. “Fuuuckkk, I love the way you cry like you’re desperate to get laid.” you hiss under your breath as you grab his waist to line yourself up. You slowly sink down until your hips meet his.
He fits almost perfectly inside you. Your hands softly caress his chest up to his shoulder as you adjust to the feeling of him pressing against your gummy walls. It feels so right, the way he’s stretching you open, his shallow breathing and quick pulse felt under your palms. The way the world fades away, just him and you. As if this was how it was meant to be. For a moment you don’t recognise him as the smug freak he is, instead he almost feels like he could give his very being to you… Like a lover. The illusion is shattered when you shift and a stifled moan reaches your ears. You’re brought back to reality, as your eyes refocus to look down on his quivering form. You shake your thoughts away, choosing to focus on riding this pathetic man to pieces.
“Let’s get this freak show on the road then.” You whisper to no-one in particular as you lift yourself up, only to slam back down with full force. The reaction you get is nothing short of satisfying. A moan that could be confused as a scream and eyes rolling into the back of his head while he’s trying so hard not to fuck up into you. It's a challenge to get a steady rhythm going, but you manage to keep a decent pace. You gently cradle his jaw with one hand, a stark contrast to what's happening down there. You place a soft kiss on his cheek, rubbing circles into his skin to provide some comfort. “Does the poor little freak like me being soft?” You whisper in his ear, a few breathy moans thrown into the mix. “Y-Yes! God i love it, fuck!” You're not sure if he even knows what he's agreeing to, so lost in pleasure and lust he must be.
Scara has long given up on restraining himself and is now chasing his own high the best he possibly can with his arms tied up high above his head. You can feel the pleasure slowly building up with each pump of your hips, going up and down, up and down, up and down. “Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuck FUCK!” He cums with only a few swears as a warning not long before you feel your release coming. He’s trying to catch his breath, his energy spent, leaving you to use him as a sex toy for the last few thrusts you need for your orgasm to fall over you like a crashing wave.
You let your head fall back, eyes closed, thoroughly enjoying the mind numbing pleasure washing over you. You roll your neck until your chin bumps against your collarbone. You decide to lay your weary head next to Scara’s, who’s not entirely there, his brain fucked out so good that he doesn’t seem to care about what could happen around him. You eventually roll off of his stomach with a grunt as you lay next to him for a hot second. Then you remember the belt acting as handcuffs and sloppily untie his hands.
You decide that this is the perfect moment for a cigarette. You reach underneath your bed to paw for your discarded jacket. After a few seconds you decide to dangle your upper body from the edge so you could see where you left it. You scour the space underneath your bed hanging upside down until you see the small pile of fabric on the other side of the bed. The side occupied by the guy whose mind you practically fucked dumb. You decide to screw it, and just half crawl half stretch over him to reach for the discarded piece of clothing. You check its pockets only to find an empty box. “Ah fuck, I ran out of ciggs. Guess I'm gonna have to run to the store for more.”
Smoothly slipping on said jacket, you find your shorts, and hoist them up, your panties laying about somewhere. You don't care enough to search for them, you want to have a smoke so bad. You walk out the front door, leaving Scaramouche half asleep and exhausted from the mind blowing sex his roommate just gave him.
(He's absolutely going to brag about getting laid to his online friends without all the “embarrassing” details when he wakes up.)