I am ivory. I am willing to write anything sick and depraved, and I do not have any current boundaries.
i will write:
yandere themes // cnc + noncon // dark sh themes // ANYTHING DARK // I CAN ALSO WRITE TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF// extreme angst // jirai kei themes // much to be added as i go.
I was wonder if you could write a scara x escort readers
But like it's not him that paid for her it's childe?? And childes like going to set him up with the reader and scara kind of like judges us for a job and maybe you can tell he's not like into us and stuff or something and eventually we start drinking them get like a really drunk and it's like fluffy.. fluffy fluff
I'm so sorry I really don't know how to word this request I've just been like dreaming about it
Feel free to decline
Scara x Escort!reader ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა
PLEASE GIVE ME REQS
tw: mention of rape, scara is kinda mean but too much, alcohol use, uhh idk what else
૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა afab reader
i reallllyyy hope you like this!! i tried not to make Scara OOC but i think i failed </3
Your job was basically walking the line between therapist and prostitution.
Yeah, it was a pretty rash comparison.
But it wasn't exactly wrong.
Being an escort wasn't just about dressing pretty, sitting across from some stranger, and letting him buy you dinner. Sometimes, the men wanted someone to listen to them. Someone to laugh at their jokes. Someone to make them feel desirable. Someone who would look at them like they were interesting instead of pathetic.
Other times, they wanted something more.
And sometimes, they didn't care what you wanted at all.
You'd learned that pretty quickly.
Becoming an escort had been a last-ditch decision after you dropped out of college barely a month into your first semester. You'd told yourself it would only be temporary. Just something to keep you afloat until you found an actual job.
At first, it had been fucking terrifying.
There was so much you didn't know. How to screen clients. How to recognize warning signs. What questions to ask. What information never to give out. When to leave. When to lie. When to smile sweetly and pretend you weren't scared.
There were rules to this kind of work.
Most of them existed because somebody else had already learned the hard way what happened when you ignored them.
Eventually, though, you got used to it.
You learned how to navigate the scarier parts.
You learned how to look confident even when your stomach was twisting.
You learned how to flirt without promising anything.
You learned how to make a man feel wanted without actually wanting him.
And, more importantly, you learned how to tell which men were worth the risk.
Because, honestly?
The job was kind of bad.
Really bad, sometimes.
It depended on the client.
Every once in a while, you managed to land someone wealthy. Those clients tended to be easier. They had more money, more to lose, and usually more awareness that hurting you could come back to bite them.
Usually.
Not always.
Money didn't magically make someone a good person.
But it could make them more careful.
And if one of those men decided to cross a line anyway, at least there was a chance you'd walk away with enough money to make the entire night feel slightly less pointless.
Not that being raped was ever worth the money.
It wasn't.
There was no amount of money that could magically make something like that okay.
But when you were desperate enough, sometimes you had to think in ugly, practical terms.
At least you'd get something out of it.
That was the logic you told yourself.
For girls who weren't as fortunate, things could get much worse.
They had to take whatever clients they could find, including men who couldn't afford much and knew they couldn't afford much. Men who thought paying for your time meant they owned it.
And when a client like that decided to get violent, there wasn't always much separating you from a very bad night.
Let's just say things got messy.
Fortunately, you didn't have to take that unfortunate of men.
You weren't exactly getting the most fortunate ones either.
Not yet, anyway.
You were somewhere comfortably in the middle.
And that was fine.
For now.
You only planned on doing this until you could find a job that paid better and, preferably, didn't fire you after the first two months.
You wanted something stable.
Something normal.
Something that didn't require you to memorize strangers' faces and keep your emergency contacts ready just in case.
But you didn't have time to think about your future right now.
You had a new client to get ready for.
This client was supposed to be like every other one.
At least, that's what you assumed.
There was one subtle difference, though.
He was around your age.
That was rare.
Most of your clients were older men with expensive watches, expensive cars, and enough money to make you overlook how little you actually wanted to be around them.
This guy?
Apparently, he was young.
Not that you minded.
You were only doing this for the money, after all.
At least, that's what you kept telling yourself.
You made sure your phone was turned on and within reach as you sat at your vanity, meticulously working on your makeup.
You put more effort into your appearance than you technically needed to.
But that was the point.
You wanted repeat customers.
Repeat customers meant predictable money.
Predictable money meant fewer desperate nights.
So you treated every appointment like it mattered.
You carefully fixed your eyeliner until the wings were twins, not sisters.
You checked your foundation.
You touched up your lips.
You made sure your hair looked effortless despite the amount of effort you'd actually put into it.
You even packed makeup for touch-ups.
Yes, it wasn't a date.
You knew that.
But treating it like one helped.
It made getting ready feel less like preparing to meet a stranger who had paid for your company and more like preparing to go somewhere you actually wanted to be.
It was better for your mental state.
After finishing your makeup, you stared at yourself in the mirror.
Then you started practicing your expressions.
A soft smile.
A teasing smile.
A coy little glance.
A look of genuine interest.
A quiet laugh.
You even practiced looking surprised.
Facial expressions were essential in this line of work.
You needed to be able to convey emotions whether you felt them or not.
Especially when you didn't feel them.
You had gotten surprisingly good at it.
A man could sit across from you and tell you the most boring story you'd ever heard, and you could still look at him like every word coming out of his mouth was fascinating.
That was part of the job.
Make them feel interesting.
Make them feel attractive.
Make them feel wanted.
Even when you couldn't wait to leave.
You were still practicing in the mirror when your phone finally pinged.
Tartag0011 - 8:32 PM
Hello, miss. Just checking in to make sure we're still on for tonight??
You raised an eyebrow.
Normally, men didn't ask.
They demanded.
Be here at eight.
Wear something nice.
Don't be late.
That sort of thing.
This was different.
Strange, even.
He was checking whether you were still comfortable with the arrangement.
You tapped your nails against the phone for a moment before typing.
Name (✿^‿^) - 8:35 PM
Yes, yes! No worries!
Actually, may I have a description of what you look like?
You bit your nail while waiting for his response.
Then you locked your phone and went back to your mirror.
You weren't going to stare at your phone like some lovesick teenager.
You had a job to do.
You continued practicing your expressions, occasionally checking the time.
The closer it got to the meeting time, the more restless you became.
Not nervous, exactly.
Just alert.
There was a difference.
Eventually, you sighed and realized you were running out of time.
You quickly shoved a few makeup products into your bag, grabbed your perfume, and stood from your vanity.
Right as you reached for your bedroom door, your phone pinged again.
Tartag0011 — 8:41 PM
Oh sure 😄
I have navy-purple hair and rbf
Not hard to miss.
You stared at the message.
Then you let out a small giggle.
Navy-purple hair and Rbf?
You'd never seen someone describe himself like that.
It was ridiculous.
Silly, even.
But oddly memorable.
You shook your head.
It wasn't your business whether he was cute, interesting, or strange.
You weren't planning to get attached.
That was another rule.
Never get attached to the client.
You grabbed your keys and walked toward the bedroom door.
After opening it, you stepped into the hallway and shut it behind you.
Your house was tiny.
Embarrassingly tiny.
Calling it a house was almost generous. It was so small that it might as well have been a glorified shed.
At least the rent was cheap.
You made your way through the cramped little place toward the front door.
Maybe it was dangerous to walk to your appointments alone.
It probably was.
But you couldn't afford a cab, and you didn't have a car.
So you usually met your clients at the bar down the street.
Dangerous?
Yes.
Cost-efficient?
Also yes.
You walked slowly, deliberately taking your time.
You didn't want to arrive before him.
You preferred getting there afterward.
That way, you could see him first.
Evaluate him.
Watch how he moved.
Watch how he looked at people.
Watch whether he seemed nervous, aggressive, drunk, arrogant, or simply creepy.
You could learn a lot about a man before he even noticed you were watching.
Sometimes dinner led somewhere else afterward.
Another bar.
A hotel.
An apartment.
Somewhere private.
And if you were going to potentially follow a stranger somewhere private, you wanted to know exactly what kind of man you were dealing with first.
Escorts didn't normally have sex with their clients.
That wasn't automatically part of the deal.
But you weren't naïve enough to pretend it never happened.
You weren't completely against it, either.
If someone offered enough money to cover your bills, you'd at least consider it.
And if the man happened to have a pretty face?
Well.
That certainly helped.
You weren't made of stone.
Normally, though, you weren't interested.
You made enough money without crossing that particular boundary, and most of the men you met weren't attractive enough to make you want to blur it.
Money was the point.
Not romance.
Not affection.
Definitely not love.
You continued walking, thinking about all the things you could be doing instead.
You could've been in college.
You could've been worrying about exams.
You could've been working some boring nine-to-five job.
You could've been complaining about coworkers instead of memorizing strangers' faces.
Instead, you were walking down the street to meet another man who had paid for your time.
The distant music from the bars and clubs gradually became louder as you approached the main street.
You passed the rowdier clubs without giving them much attention.
You weren't going there tonight.
You were heading to the quieter bar down the street.
The one with dim amber lighting.
The one that played jazz instead of obnoxious club music.
The one where the atmosphere was warm enough to make you forget, for a little while, exactly what you were there for.
But the atmosphere wasn't the only reason you brought clients there.
You knew the woman who owned the place.
She knew what you did.
She knew the risks.
And, more importantly, she knew you well enough to notice if something went wrong.
That made the bar safer than most places.
Eventually, you reached the entrance.
There was no need to check in with security.
They'd known you for a long time.
You walked inside, immediately scanning the room.
You weren't expecting to see your client downstairs.
You'd specifically told him to go to the second floor.
It was quieter.
Less crowded.
And easier to keep an eye on someone when there weren't dozens of drunk people surrounding you.
You walked through the bar, listening to the sounds around you.
Glasses clinking.
Music playing softly in the background.
People talking.
Men laughing.
Women laughing, too.
Except you could recognize the difference between genuine laughter and the fake kind.
You heard several women who did the same job you did laughing with their clients.
Those airy, breathy little laughs.
The ones designed to make a man feel funny.
Interesting.
Desired.
You knew that laugh.
You used it yourself.
You slowly climbed the stairs.
Halfway up, you discreetly checked your perfume.
You smelled good.
Perfect.
You pulled the compact mirror from your purse and gave yourself one final inspection.
No smudged eyeliner.
No lipstick on your teeth.
No obvious flaws.
Good.
You slipped the compact back into your purse and continued upstairs.
The second floor was noticeably quieter.
You looked around.
Your eyes moved from table to table until they finally landed on someone with navy hair.
You paused.
That had to be him.
For a second, you simply stared.
He wasn't what you were expecting.
The profile hadn't lied.
He really did look around your age.
His hair was a deep navy-purple, exactly as he'd described.
His face was sharp around the edges but somehow soft at the same time.
Pretty, in a way that didn't immediately scream pretty.
And then you noticed the red eyeliner at the corners of his eyes.
You almost smiled.
Those were definitely twins.
Not sisters.
You couldn't help the little giggle that escaped you.
It wasn't the kind of giggle that meant oh my God, he's so cute.
It was something else.
Something much more practical.
A quiet, almost wicked little thought slipped through your mind.
This is going to be easy…
It was time to work.
You made your way toward him slowly, taking your time as you looked him over before you reached his booth. He was attractive, you couldn't deny that. The kind of attractive that made it annoyingly easy to stare. His clothes looked expensive, his posture was effortlessly confident, and even from a distance, you could catch the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air.
You were still eyeing him when he finally noticed you walking toward his table.
For a brief moment, you expected him to look interested.
Instead, his eyes flicked over you once before he looked away, barely giving you a second thought.
That stung your ego a little.
You would admit that much.
Still, you kept walking.
Your heels clicked against the floor as you approached his booth, your confidence returning with every step. Once you reached the table, you placed your fingertips against the cool marble surface, letting your manicured nails make a quiet clicking sound against it before you slowly lowered yourself into the seat across from him.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
You opened your mouth, ready to introduce yourself and figure out exactly what kind of evening he wanted.
But he spoke first.
"No offence, but I'm only here because my friend forced me to be here. I don't actually want a prostitute."
He rolled his eyes as though he'd already grown tired of the conversation before it had even started.
You froze for half a second.
You were caught completely off guard, and judging by the faint shift in his expression, he could see it on your face. His eyes traveled over you from head to toe, almost as though he were judging you for having the audacity to be offended.
"I'm not a prostitute," you said with a scoff. "I'm an escort."
Of course, he had a resting bitch face.
Or maybe it wasn't resting.
Maybe he was simply a bitch.
Either way, you weren't particularly concerned. You were being paid to sit here, and you had already been paid. His attitude wasn't going to change that.
"Isn't that like the same fucking thing?"
He scoffed, looking at you as though you were the stupid one for making the distinction.
You stared at him for a moment.
You knew what your own job was.
"No. A prostitute is paid specifically for sex. An escort is paid for her time and companionship. Sex isn't automatically part of the arrangement."
You gave him a completely deadpan stare.
You didn't even bother using any of the seductive expressions you'd practiced in the mirror earlier. There was no point. You already had the feeling that this man would somehow find a way to insult you for blinking incorrectly.
Then you caught the scent of his cologne again.
It was expensive.
Not just expensive-smelling, either. It had that subtle, polished scent that immediately reminded you of the wealthy students you'd gone to college with before you'd dropped out.
Typical.
You were annoyed by what he'd said, but you couldn't exactly blame him for not knowing the difference. Most people didn't.
"Well, you're kind of a bitch. No offence."
His mouth curled into a snarky little smirk as he looked at you.
"There's no way this job pays well for you."
Your eye twitched.
Yes.
He was pissing you off.
But what exactly were you supposed to do about it?
You leaned back slightly and crossed your legs beneath the table.
"Well, let's get this over with, then, since my..." He paused, deliberately emphasizing the word. "Friend is paying for the food."
He picked up the menus and tossed them across the table toward you.
You caught them and immediately slid one back toward him.
"I already know what I want."
"Of course you do."
He shook his head and looked back down at his menu, apparently finished entertaining you.
You sighed quietly.
Then you stared at him.
You couldn't really help it.
Watching people was practically part of your job. You were supposed to pay attention to them, to their expressions, their body language, the little things they did without realizing it.
And, admittedly, he was interesting to watch.
Eventually, he looked up.
His eyes met yours.
His brows immediately furrowed.
To him, you were strange.
Really, really strange.
You didn't look away.
You didn't even realize how intensely you were staring until his expression became increasingly uncomfortable.
Then, beneath the table, his shoe lightly nudged your ankle.
You didn't react.
He stared at you.
You stared back.
A second later, he kicked your ankle again, harder this time.
It still didn't hurt.
You finally blinked and shook your head slightly, as though waking yourself from a thought.
"What?"
"You're staring," he muttered.
You looked away.
"Oh."
A brief pause.
"Sorry."
You turned your attention toward the restaurant instead.
Something about tonight felt different.
Normally, you knew exactly how to behave. You knew when to smile, when to flirt, when to laugh at a man's jokes, and when to lean close enough to make him feel desirable. You knew how to make an evening feel intimate without necessarily making it personal.
But this?
This felt too much like an actual date.
And that made you uncomfortable.
You weren't supposed to be dating him.
You were working.
You reached toward the side of the table and pressed the small red button that summoned a waitress.
While you waited, you decided you could at least attempt some small talk.
"So, I'm guessing you aren't... Tartag0011?"
You said the name hesitantly, looking directly at the man sitting across from you.
His expression changed immediately.
He looked almost offended.
More offended than when you'd corrected him about being an escort.
He shook his head.
He clearly didn't even want to discuss it.
"That idiot..." he muttered under his breath, looking away.
You raised an eyebrow.
"Okay."
Awkward.
You could tell he didn't want to be there.
And, honestly, neither did you.
Eventually, the waitress arrived and took both of your orders.
He was surprisingly polite to her.
Almost strangely so.
His entire demeanor changed when he spoke to her, his voice becoming noticeably more pleasant. For a moment, you wondered if he knew her.
You didn't particularly care enough to ask.
Once the waitress left, you saw no reason to keep pretending you were desperate to entertain him.
You rested your arms against the table and leaned forward, letting your head settle into your palm.
He might have been a dick, but at least sitting here was a nice break from your usual work.
"So, aren't you supposed to, like, entertain me or something?"
His elbow was propped against the table, his cheek resting against his palm as he looked at you.
You glanced up at him.
"Well, yeah. Kind of."
You shifted your head in your hand, unconsciously mimicking his posture.
"Most of the time, men just talk to me."
You studied him from across the table.
He studied you right back.
For once, neither of you seemed particularly interested in pretending this was anything other than what it was.
A paid evening between two people who didn't really want to be there.
“I don't think I have anything to talk about,” Scara said.
He still looked at you as though he were quietly judging you, his indigo eyes lingering on your face with an expression you couldn't quite decipher. But there was something different there now. Something softer, perhaps. You couldn't tell if it was pity, curiosity, or something else entirely.
You decided to ignore it.
Maybe it was better that way.
“Well, maybe you can explain to me why your friend is buying you time with an escort?” you asked.
The question left your mouth before you had the chance to reconsider it. The way he went quiet afterward made you wonder if you had been too blunt.
It wasn't exactly an unusual situation for you. Friends paid for their friends' appointments all the time, especially when they were convinced the person in question needed a little help in the dating department. Still, you had no idea whether he had ever had something like this happen to him before.
“I'm not actually sure...” He scratched the back of his neck and glanced away, looking mildly embarrassed. “Normally, he just sends me on blind dates with his friends, but it seems like he ran out.”
There was clear annoyance in his voice when he mentioned it, as though the mere thought of all those failed setups was enough to irritate him.
You watched him for a moment.
You weren't sure whether you wanted to keep asking questions. Part of you felt like you were prying, but then again, getting him to open up was quite literally your job. You were supposed to make him comfortable. You were supposed to get him talking.
“Do you have trouble dating?”
The second the question came out, you realized how backhanded it sounded.
You almost winced.
He, however, didn't seem offended. He simply sighed, long and heavy, as though you had managed to touch upon a subject he was already tired of discussing.
“Stupid...” he muttered.
He rubbed his neck again before looking back at you.
“I just haven't found anyone yet. I don't even know if I want a girlfriend.”
And suddenly, you understood.
It was another case of a man's friends deciding that he desperately needed a relationship and taking it upon themselves to find him one.
A classic.
“I see...” You leaned back slightly, studying him. “Then don't rush yourself into finding someone. It usually ends badly.”
The words came out more seriously than you intended.
You were speaking from experience.
Nobody deserved to be pushed into a relationship simply because everyone around them thought they were lonely. Nobody deserved to end up trapped in something they weren't ready for.
After that, the conversation fell quiet again.
But this silence was different.
It wasn't as tense as before.
There was something almost comfortable about it now. The two of you sat across from one another, occasionally looking at each other before quickly looking away. Every time your eyes met, however, you caught him staring just a second longer than necessary.
You weren't sure whether you were imagining it.
Normally, you didn't drink while working.
It was one of the few rules you actually followed.
But tonight felt different.
Maybe it was the awkwardness. Maybe it was the strange chemistry between you. Or maybe you simply wanted something to take the edge off.
Either way, you reached toward the small red button on the table and pressed it, signaling for one of the women working the floor to come over.
He didn't say anything.
He simply watched you.
You suddenly realized something.
You didn't even know his name.
It was strange when you thought about it. You had already spent enough time sitting across from him to have a conversation that was considerably more personal than most first meetings, yet you still knew practically nothing about him.
You wondered if it was even worth asking.
It wasn't like you were going to see him again.
At least, that's what you told yourself.
For a moment, you looked at him, and something about his expression made you wonder if he had been thinking the exact same thing.
Then, unlike you, he actually acted on the thought.
“What's your name, anyway...?”
His voice broke through the silence.
He was looking directly at you now, although his attention occasionally drifted past you toward the room around you. His gaze returned to your face, lingering there.
You hesitated.
It was such a simple question, yet for some reason, you found yourself strangely reluctant to answer.
Eventually, you parted your lips.
“Oh, it's {name}.”
You gave him a small smile.
“Yours?”
He nodded, almost as though he were pretending the question didn't matter to him. Then he looked away for a second before answering.
“Just call me Scara, I guess.”
You blinked.
That was... weird.
The way he said it made it sound like Scara wasn't actually his name. More like a nickname he had decided was good enough.
You could have asked.
You didn't.
Who were you to question him?
Besides, in his eyes, you were probably nothing more than an escort doing her job. Whatever mysterious little details surrounded him weren't really your business.
You had been waiting for the woman to return for what felt like forever. You were just about to glance toward the entrance when you finally spotted her approaching the table.
And, to your surprise, she was carrying your food.
You immediately perked up.
At least you wouldn't have to sit there pretending you weren't hungry anymore.
She approached the table and carefully set the plates down in front of both of you. When she finished, she smiled directly at you.
You found that a little strange.
You weren't sure why she was looking at you like that.
You ignored it.
“Oh, miss,” you called before she could walk away. “May I get a bottle of... tequila?”
You smiled sweetly at her.
She nodded and quickly shuffled away to retrieve it.
Across from you, Scara stared.
He didn't say anything.
He simply began picking at his food, eating slowly while occasionally glancing in your direction.
Your own portion was noticeably smaller.
You didn't like eating much on nights like this. Especially when you were working.
Your appetite tended to disappear when you had to spend hours sitting across from strangers, smiling and pretending everything was perfectly normal.
Eventually, the woman returned.
She placed the bottle on the table and asked whether you wanted anything to chase it with.
You shook your head.
“No, thank you.”
She nodded and walked away.
Your attention immediately returned to the bottle.
You reached for one of the glasses sitting at the side of the table, the kind that was usually kept there for customers, and pulled it toward yourself.
Scara watched you.
You uncorked the bottle.
Then you poured.
And poured.
Until the glass was nearly full.
You could practically feel his eyes on you.
For the first time that night, he looked genuinely caught off guard.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, his attention fixed on the glass in your hand before shifting back to your face.
Still, he didn't say anything.
You raised the glass.
The alcohol caught the light as you tilted it slightly, and for a fleeting second, you caught Scara's gaze again.
There was something in his expression now.
Curiosity.
Interest.
Maybe even concern.
You couldn't tell.
And you didn't care enough to ask.
You brought the glass to your lips.
That was the moment you stopped being careful.
The moment the night began slipping out of your control.
[Scara's POV]
Originally, I had planned to leave the moment I finished my food. There was no reason for me to stick around. I'd already eaten, I'd already paid, and frankly, I had better things to do than sit around in some miserable bar watching strangers drown themselves in alcohol.
Then there was her.
I watched as the woman slowly drank down a glass of what looked like pure tequila, taking tiny, distracted nibbles of food between each swallow. She wasn't even really eating anymore. She was just picking at it, staring blankly at the table as though she'd forgotten what the food was supposed to accomplish.
It was pathetic.
Not that I cared.
At least, that's what I told myself.
I wasn't enough of a bastard to leave a woman alone at a bar when she was obviously drunk. An idiot, perhaps, but not that much of an idiot. She'd already been crying for God knows how long, and at some point, she'd stopped even trying to hide it. Her head was nearly resting against the table, her shoulders occasionally trembling with quiet sobs.
I'd finished my meal ages ago.
I shouldn't have still been sitting there.
It wasn't my problem. Whatever was going on with her had nothing to do with me. Besides, if she was working, getting this drunk on the job was incredibly unprofessional.
Then again, judging by the state she was in, I doubted she cared much about professionalism anymore.
Eventually, she seemed to forget where she was entirely.
She pushed herself up from her seat, leaving her bag behind, and began wandering toward the exit with the unsteady determination of someone who had no idea where they were actually going.
I stared after her for a moment.
No.
Absolutely not.
I wasn't about to become responsible for some drunk stranger.
...But leaving her alone wasn't exactly an appealing alternative, either.
"Unbelievable," I muttered under my breath.
I waited a few seconds before getting up. I didn't want to follow her too quickly and make myself look like some creep stalking a vulnerable woman. I grabbed her bag from where she'd left it and followed her outside instead.
By the time I caught up with her, she'd already made it out of the building.
"Hey."
She didn't stop.
I reached out and caught her by the arm before she could wander any farther.
"You've gotta be careful," I said, keeping my voice firm. "You're drunk."
I might as well have been speaking to a wall.
She turned toward me, but her eyes were completely glazed over. Whatever I'd said clearly hadn't registered. She was far beyond tipsy. She was completely gone.
I sighed.
"Where do you live?"
She mumbled something I couldn't make out.
"What?"
She tried again, words dragging together as though her tongue had stopped cooperating.
"One... two-six-four... down the road..."
I stared at her.
"That's it? That's your entire explanation?"
She only blinked at me.
I honestly hadn't expected her to be stupid enough to bring clients to a bar this close to her own home. That seemed like a spectacularly bad idea.
Unfortunately, I was proven wrong almost immediately.
I walked her to my car and drove the short distance she had indicated. When I stopped in front of the house, she immediately reached into her pocket and pulled out a key.
I stared at the house.
Then at her.
Then back at the house.
"You've got to be kidding me."
She stumbled toward the door, barely managing to keep herself upright. I watched her unlock it and push it open.
She walked inside.
And, naturally, she didn't bother closing the door behind her.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the open doorway.
"Of course."
I grabbed her purse and followed her inside.
The first thing I noticed was how small the place was.
Not cozy.
Small.
There was barely enough room for one person to move around comfortably. The furniture looked inexpensive, the space was cramped, and the entire place had the unmistakable feeling of somewhere someone lived because they had nowhere better to go.
It was... depressing.
I hated that I felt pity for her.
She didn't even notice me enter.
She simply stumbled over to the couch and practically collapsed onto it, curling into herself as if she'd finally run out of whatever strength had been keeping her upright.
I sighed and shut the front door behind me.
"You are seriously lucky it was me," I muttered, walking around the couch and setting her purse on the coffee table. "It could've been some fucked-up old man with much worse intentions."
She lifted her head slightly.
"I wouldn't be drunk if you were a regular client," she mumbled between hiccups.
I stared at her.
"That's your defence?"
She didn't answer.
I stepped closer, and the moment I did, her eyes widened. For a second, genuine fear flashed across her face.
I stopped.
"Relax."
I crouched slightly so I wasn't looming over her.
"You're fine. I'm not trying anything."
Her expression remained wary.
"I'm just taking these Bobby pins out," I explained. "Your head's going to hurt like hell in the morning if you sleep with those digging into your skull."
She blinked at me.
Then, apparently deciding I wasn't about to murder her, she relaxed against the couch.
I carefully removed the pins from her hair one at a time, making sure not to yank any strands. I placed each one into a small pile on the coffee table.
"There."
Once I was finished, I looked down at her heels.
I sighed again.
"These too."
I crouched down and carefully removed her shoes before setting them aside.
Then I stood.
"Where's your room?"
She blinked at me several times.
For a moment, I wasn't convinced she'd understood the question.
Eventually, she lifted one hand and pointed vaguely toward the hallway.
I followed the direction of her finger.
"Very helpful."
I walked over and opened the first door I found in that direction.
A bedroom.
I scanned the room before walking over to the bed. I grabbed a pillow and a blanket and carried them back into the living room.
She was already half-asleep.
"Seriously?"
I knelt beside the couch and gently lifted her head enough to slide the pillow underneath it.
"There."
Then I unfolded the blanket and draped it over her.
Once I was certain she was comfortable, I sat down on the floor beside the couch.
I didn't particularly want to stay.
But I wasn't leaving yet.
I watched her breathe, keeping an eye on her chest as it rose and fell beneath the blanket.
Slow.
Steady.
Good.
At least she was breathing normally.
I leaned my head back against the couch and stared toward the ceiling.
This wasn't a job anyone should have to do.
Risking your body just to barely scrape by sounded miserable.
And somehow, I doubted she had much choice in the matter.
"Hey."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out one of my mother's business cards. She'd insisted that I keep a few on me at all times, despite how unnecessary I'd thought it was.
Apparently, she'd been right.
I picked up a pen from the middle of her coffee table and turned the card over.
I wrote my number on the back.
"If you ever want an actual job," I said, though I knew she was barely awake enough to hear me, "call me. Or call the number on this card. We might be able to arrange something."
She didn't respond.
Of course she didn't.
She was drunk out of her mind.
There was no way she'd remember any of this tomorrow.
I stood up and headed toward the door.
I'd barely taken two steps when I felt fingers wrap around my hand.
I looked down.
She was staring up at me through half-lidded eyes.
"You..."
Her voice was barely audible.
"What?"
She raised her other hand and pointed vaguely toward her forehead.
"Kiss me here."
I froze.
"No."
I immediately looked away.
"I can't-"
I didn't want to disrespect her.
Not when she was like this.
She tightened her fingers around my hand.
"Please..."
Her words were slurred and broken.
"I just want to feel loved..."
She swallowed, her eyes beginning to close.
"Just... for one second."
I stared at her.
Then I rolled my eyes.
"You're unbelievable."
I bent down slowly, making sure she understood what I was doing, and pressed a brief kiss against her temple.
Nothing more.
I straightened again and looked at her.
She was already drifting back to sleep.
"Idiot," I muttered quietly.
I walked to the door and locked it behind me before shutting it properly.
Then I left.
I doubted she'd call.
Honestly, that was probably the last time we'd ever see each other.
And, for her sake, I hoped it stayed that way.
But as I walked away, one thought stubbornly refused to leave my mind.
I just hoped I would never see her face on the news.
This was just a draft from when I was high, no guarantee I will keep it up!! If you like this or want more, feel free to leave a request
Scara loved the way you looked when you cried. It was his guiltiest pleasure.
He didn’t care what brought the tears to your eyes. Whether it was the overwhelming intensity of your private moments together or him simply being cruel for the sake of getting a reaction, the sight of your watery eyes and trembling lip stirred something dark inside him. It excited him in the most twisted, selfish way imaginable.
All of his friends knew about his strange fixation, though none of them ever said a word. They simply watched as he relentlessly picked on his poor, mentally ill girlfriend. They watched him tease you, mock you, and chip away at your composure until tears finally spilled over. Then, as if flipping a switch, he would soften. He would brush away your tears with surprising gentleness, pull you close against his chest, and soothe you while you buried your face into him, your tiny, shaky sniffles sounding almost too "adorable" to be real.
What they didn’t know was that you loved every second of it.
Only Scara knew the truth.
Your tears weren’t caused by the insults themselves. They came from the dizzying rush they stirred inside you the knot forming deep in your stomach, the heat blooming beneath your carefully put together coord, the thrill of surrendering to the emotions he so expertly pulled from you. Every carefully chosen word, every sharp remark, every taunt was calculated. He knew exactly which buttons to press, exactly how far he could push before your eyes glossed over and your breathing became uneven.
He had memorized every one of your reactions.
In public, he would casually smack your thigh whenever you ignored him or got a little too snarky. His palm always landed in the same spot, right over the fresh cuts hidden beneath your stockings. The sting made you flinch instantly, your breath catching in your throat as you fought to keep your composure.
He would simply look at you with that knowing smirk.
“What’s wrong?” he’d ask so innocently that anyone watching would believe he was genuinely concerned.
By then, your eyes would already be shimmering with unshed tears.
And just as they finally escaped, he would cup your face with unexpected tenderness, gently wiping each tear away with his thumb as though he hadn’t been the one to cause them in the first place. His touch was warm, almost affectionate, a stark contrast to the teasing that had pushed you to that point.
It was a cruel game the two of you understood far better than anyone else.
His friends only saw a heartless boyfriend making his girlfriend cry. They never realized that behind your watery eyes and quiet sniffles was an unspoken understanding known only to the two of you.
