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beautiful, violent, vulgar.
CHARILY— tensile of his fingers wreathe through pale strands of hair, and he crooks his wrist enough to forcibly cant your head towards him. It is painful, the strain on your neck alone enough to make you cry out, a choked sound that barely makes it out. Obstinately, you press your lips together in order to stifle any sounds that could be perceived as a protest to the ministrations.
He uses the pad of his thumb to caress the curvature of your cheek, smearing coquelicot and ardor along the expanse of soft skin. He thinks you look beautiful with blood on your face, and you refuse to let yourself lean into it. such a soft touch, a satirization of yearning. Scaramouche simpers.
overwrought with predilection, the corners of his lips pique, almost coy in the way that he taunts you. “that’s really creepy,” he says.
patience begets understanding— and both were hurriedly waning. In spite of his overt repulsion to you, you feel a shiver tease up your spine. cracking, splintering. you would not break for him.
your head inclines upwards, irked by the caprice behavior. the familiar diversity of mixed signals. your body aches insipid from the ludic assault, unsteady legs striving to keep you from falling over, but you manage to stay on your knees. He would not tolerate you in any other position before him.
balanced on his haunches, he is reaching for you again, and you still almost completely.
"Say it," his cadence heralds a tonality--- detestation underlain in his words, a barely concealed impendence. with his other hand— his fingers are none too gentle on your jaw, pressing hard into the swell of your cheeks, the pale skin there tinging a rubescent color from the unshakable cincture he has on you.
when you opt to say nothing again, your face begins to twinge under his accostation. you are almost certain that he would leave contusions where he is touching, and you suppress a wince from the unexpected pain as a result of your insubordination. You wouldn’t put your hands on him, grasp his wrist, be so submissive as to seem so desperate to have him far, far away from you. But also—
you would not obey the balladeer either. you would not fall to your knees, so he forced you to them. that's how you found yourself in this situation in the first place.
pledge yourself to me. submit to me. tell me that I am God to you . Your archon.
redacted praises— his fingers trail over the curvatures of your jaw and run over your lower lip. you would not lie to appease him; you would not promise yourself to someone like this. those forceful fingers pry forcibly between your lips, shoving into the mouth that you have tried so hard to keep silent.
your breathing accelerates, an indignant whine around the intrusive appendages as they opened you up wider and wider— you could not keep it in after all. What was he doing to you? the corners of his lips catenarize into an expression that you had not witnessed before and—
—it scares you; your body reacts with a hesitation that wasn't there before. "I'm getting so bored with you," he hisses. though you can tell that is not quite true. He still looks too pleased holding you down like this. "If you won't sing your adoration to me, isn't there a better use for this mouth of yours?"
You did not mean to do it, albeit you whimper for him.
He spits in your mouth, eyes alight with amusement as he watches you squirm under his hands. He seems to like you writhing like this, and after an incline of his head, he retracts his fingers, holding them over your mouth instead. "Swallow it," he says simply.
you hold it in your mouth, defiant.
You shouldn’t have done that.
you weren't expecting him to strike you as hard as he did. hard enough for you to bite your tongue, your blood mingling with his saliva, and with the utmost reluctance, you do as you were told.
he clicks his tongue, as though disappointed with the acquiescence to the order. And when he actually does start to look as though he finds the situation tedious, you panic.