𖤐 fake it till we make it.ᐟ | what happens when scaramouche, your rival since the first year of highschool, had some annoying admirers on his back? easy—he (fake) dates you to shoo them off. nothing can possibly go wrong with faking a relationship with the guy you hate, right?
𖤐 in hindsight | You are a singer-songwriter. Music has always been a part of you, it's a part of your identity that no one can ever take away. However, there's always a catch: you are diagnosed with a chronic illness that puts your life on a timer. Those who have heard your countless melodies have grown to notice that the notes on the sheet played a gloomier tune. Would the snarky and capable medical student you've met be able to bring life back into these melodies? Even as your life begins to seep out of your own body? A reboot/rebranded version of Autumn Leaves.
𖤐 blurred lines | You say you’re just friends. You say it every time you leave a party together, every time you wake up tangled in sheets, every time you swear it’s the last time. But habits form, lines blur, and pretending gets harder when jealousy starts to sting.
𖤐 my dear y/n | you and scaramouche were once lovers, both of you being each other’s first loves in middle school—all the way to your junior year. but after growing apart & growing up, you two broke it off quite calmly, brushing it off as an inevitable outcome. but, what’ll happen now that you two are at the same university, coming across one another (too) frequently? will you two even be as close as before? friends? enemies? lovers?
𖤐 raised the bar.ᐟ | yn thought she finally escaped the perpetual doom of placing 2nd after she graduated high school. but alas! the leaderboard has her name printed under another’s! a name she thought she’d never get to see again. better luck next time, i guess.
𖤐 keep my heart | you find plenty of guys around you attractive, but there is only one you’re willing to make the first move on: the guy you first saw during your older brother’s soccer game. spoiler: he's a player from your rival university.
𖤐 just a hater | in which you major in astronomy and scaramouche is the biggest astronomy hater (in your eyes). what happens when someone confesses their feelings for you, and you not knowing how to handle affections, suddenly blurt out that you are already taken. by who? well, scaramouche of course.
𖤐 stuck with you | after the disaster that was the live award show, where you and scaramouche got into an argument on stage after both of your groups got a tie for top artists, your guys' PR teams have been in shambles trying to scrape up your mess. that's when the idea to send you both off with some other idols to a remote location for a survival dating show to mend your public image comes up. before you know it your bags are packed and you’re on a plane to a remote island. the only obligation is you need to end up with scaramouche at the end of the show, whether you end up liking him or not doesn’t matter to your managers as long as the show’s ratings stay high. whatever you do in between to get there is up to you!
𖤐 how (not) to fall in love | your best friend is tired of being single. she wants to fall in love. she wants to become like the female leads she's watching from romance movies. so being the supportive and kind best friend you are, you decided to help her! except that the guy she has her eyes on happens to be your long-term crush from your middle-high school days. surely, you're not the one who will fall for him... right?
𖤐 sweet melody | THERE ARE not many things that can sway your interest ever since the "incident", but in spite of that, you pushed forward. you are now the owner of the biggest bakery chain in your city, consistently seeing couples and catering to them as such. you've been a big host at weddings, events for celebrities, and even a big support for your friends and family. you've even earned yourself a niche following as well by how sweet you are to everybody around you. but, even with your kindness, you don't have a particular spark that keeps you going anymore these days. that is until one of your employees starts suggesting you write love letters to customers who request your services. at first you thought it was a horrible idea that could easily turn into trouble, but that was until you were tasked with writing one to your own (very very famous) ex-boyfriend.
𖤐 UNDERST☆ND | when the famous streamer Scaramouche, reveals being in a long term relationship with a mysterious person, no one thought he would be married to the famous idol, YN.
𖤐 camera flip, heart leap.ᐟ | IN WHICH—you, although faceless, are a very famous streamer known as KUMI. you were streaming as usual, playing games and interacting with fans. but when you're about to exit the stream, you accidentally pressed the wrong button that led to you opening your cam and showing your whole face to your audience. this wasn't supposed to happen, no ! so you panicked and quickly ended the stream. numerous screenshots circulated on twitter, which broke both the fans and the internet. this reached a certain someone, SCARAMOUCHE, your rival in streaming. when the said boy saw the trending photo, he almost fell off his gaming chair. because—lo and behold! KUMI was actually [name]?! now who is this [name] in his life, if you may ask? she's the girl that scaramouche has been admiring from afar in real life! quite shocking, right? have i told you that he’s also been sending you anonymous love letters? oh well...
𖤐 always an artist, never the muse | you, an artist who lost her skills, chose practicality over passion. you try to avoid anything that has something to do with art, not until you met a naturally gifted artist who's living a life you wish you had.
𖤐 how you get the girl.ᐟ | breaking up with kuni was one of your biggest regrets yet (however, you'll never actually admit that to anyone). but was it really a wise decision to keep in touch with him even after you broke his (and your) heart?
𖤐 how haters are born | YOU ARE on your way to being one of the hottest streamer in your nation at the moment, racking a monthly average of 10 million viewers, but something specific bothers you about it. you know that a lot of people hate you, but there's this one account. one account that's been following you since the early days of your career. they leave a flood of rude comments in your stream, your moderators banned each account they made, but they keep making more. you are at the end of your tether. but you are yet to find out that this persistent cockroach is none other than your friend's friend (and the only other streamer that's bigger than you), scaramouche.
𖤐 how haters die | YOU WERE under scrutiny of the one and only justsofamous for years and years before finding out who he is. constantly having to question your self-worth was a bigger downhill slope than the time you were begging your friends, crying and pleading, for them to go to a concert with you of an artist they all hated except you. but now that you're pretty much going through the motions of retracing your self esteem and your (extremely ironic) relationship with this guy who harassed you and then picked enough apples to win your heart, you started to consider moving in with him after he offered it enough times. only that, once you actually did...things started falling apart again for the two of you.
𖤐 that's that me espresso | You’re a new idol that just debuted under ‘Fontaine Entertainment’ with your new single ‘Espresso.’ You just graduated high school which means all your classmates are shocked to see you into stardom. Including your old situationship, who happens to be an actor.
𖤐 of all people... | When you, a student who finds her best friend admits the terrors of high school. A best friend who've you'd hated ever since he left. Of all people, why was he the one to make you swoon, a person you swore to hate?
𖤐 behind the lens | to be categorized and reposted
𖤐 just playing the part | to be categorized and reposted
𖤐 short fics | a collection of short smau/written fics.
synopsis ,, you are one of the biggest streamers on twitch, also amassing over a million followers on twitter, all while never showing your face and simply playing games on steam. scaramouche is a huge punk music artist with a following just under yours. one rainy evening, your paths briefly cross and you find yourself meeting him more often as you become involved in something that threatens to ruin both of your careers.
warnings ,, reader’s gender is up to you (it isnt relevant to the plot), kys jokes, slow burn, weird fan behaviour, stalking, probably gonna have a lot of written parts
A/N :: hii im a little rusty at writing cause it’s been a while but i hope im good enough to entertain you!! thank u for considering reading my fic, i will try to post consistent updates ! 😸 i also habe no idea how twitter works so…
For every fragment of you that my memories blocked in order to protect you from me.
pairing; wanderer(genshin impact)/reader
cw; reader is not traveler, does this count as dead wife montage?, angst w/ a happy ending, lore might not be accurate cuz I'm not a fan of the wasted potential, other additional tags to be added
summary; Ever since Nahida had restored Wanderer’s core memories, he vowed to return the remaining fragments of his own history that he had attempted to erase.
Yet within the fragments that played before him, he noticed a recurring character whom he had only ever heard rather than seen—a voice, it was only almost a faint whisper, barely a decibel high for him to hear even if he had focused all his energy into it. And when he forced his way through these fragments in order to find the culprit, he got further lost than before.
It annoyed him to say the least—that your own subconscious took such an initiative to hide your own memories away from you with such purpose…
Or:
While Wanderer is regaining the memories he erased, he notices a character haunting the narrative—aka you.
Chapter 1: A gentle yet distorted chorus.
Wanderer was always fond of a structured routine, unlike certain travelers who waited to see where the day led them.
In his words, routines made the day efficient, predictable, and he strongly believed that those who failed a routine were the same kind of people who overpack their schedule without any sort of time management, placing two things right next to each other without calculating how much time it took to walk from one place to another—practically setting themselves up for failure.
His personal routine was quite lenient in his opinion; mornings included rising unusually early since he didn’t require much sleep, or any, and heading to the Akedamiya. Being Nahida’s covert assistant, between these hours, he sometimes gets assigned tasks that need to be taken care of behind the scenes.
By the time the sun sets on the horizon, he concludes his work at the Akedamiya and, living up to his title, wanders around Sumeru. He often spends this time using the Fatui intruding on the Sumeru forests nearby as target practice, to which the forest rangers didn’t really mind since it meant he dismantled the Fatui’s camps and whatever illegal extraction devices they set up (perhaps that was why the Chief Officer of the Forest Rangers takes an interest in him).
Once the day comes to an end, the world around him falls into slumber, and he as well returns to his chambers… but not before visiting the Sanctuary of Surasthana.
Wanderer makes a point to visit the Sanctuary of Surasthana at least once a day, not only to visit Nahida, but also to regain the fragments of his memory piece by piece.
Ever since Nahida had restored the Wanderer’s core memories, he vowed to return the remaining fragments of his own history that he had attempted to erase. And that he did, in an endless void, he reaches out to the fragments before him and lets them play before him as an observer.
Once the composition ends, the fragment becomes a part of his memory.
Wanderer never complained about the arrangement. Sure, there were days he got agitated when he found something out that upset him, but none were worth lingering in the past when the present moved on.
Yet within the fragments that played before him, he noticed a recurring character whom he had only ever heard rather than seen—a voice, it was only almost a faint whisper, barely a decibel high for him to hear even if he had focused all his energy into it. And when he forced his way through these fragments in order to find the culprit, he got further lost than before.
It frustrated him to say the least—that your own subconscious took such an initiative to hide your own memories away from you with such purpose…
He didn’t want to be fixated on the past, but it irked him that he had to listen to the gentle voice pass from one ear to another, to watch his past-self listen, talk, and stare at nothing—or something, but he just couldn’t see them. He wanted to make a deal out of it; perhaps it was someone purposely interfering with his memories, a villain, but the person seemed so… insignificant.
They didn’t add any value, and the few conversations felt one-sided as he could only hear and see his past self and not the other person. He watched how soft his eyes became, and the crease in his forehead smoothed when their presence entered the room—they were important to him, but it was something personal, something he could keep to himself; no one else needed to know about them…
It was not as if he couldn’t mention it to God of Wisdom at any time; he knew the young Archon would go out of her way to help him if it bothered him so much—he wouldn’t doubt that she, herself, would be curious about who this person was.
But he also knew that if her curiosity was disturbed, she wouldn’t stop until she was satisfied, and it was no secret he loathed all forms of interaction with those he was unfamiliar with, and there was a possibility that she would force him into these social situations that he wasn’t fond of, but reluctantly would be required to amuse for her own curiosity.
Lacking an appealing route to the situation at hand, he silently endured the circumstance before him as the day passed on like any other, with him lucid in an empty void with a fragment playing out before him.
His past self laid inelegantly on a chaise longue, his arm resting on the backrest with his forearm slightly raised as he played with his fingers. Eyes dilated as he stared into nothing, lids hesitated to blink as if not wanting to take his eyes off whatever he found so infatuating about the ceiling.
Wanderer unconsciously drew back his lip as it twisted into a grimace from watching himself speak continuously for hours with no end, seemingly to no one, about how unfair his fate was.
Normally, he would not bother focusing on the words he had to say as much as he did not find any relevance with who he was back then and now, but the tender yet low whisper was present.
It wasn’t clear or audible, but that wasn’t what he focused on; it was how he responded to the voice. He carefully listened to himself reply to the person to know what they spoke—he hoped to know if there was more to the presence, maybe someone who deeply affected him to be the person he was.
But nothing, if anything, he would say that they were stabilizing, they did nothing to “fix” him, yet nothing exactly to make him worse—they were just there, listening… probably the only thing they could do with someone like he was once.
Once his monologue ended, there was a stretched silence that was then filled by the soft voice with words undecipherable by the naked ear. And once the voice fades away, the silence returns once more, and he watches his features to see how his past self would respond to whatever was spoken—but that’s when he sees his eyes flicker as he held a breath unconsciously that he never needed to, and he seemed to notice it as well when he released the breath in a shudder before tilting his head back with his eyes shut to let out an amused yet husky laugh.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of in not understanding one’s perspective. Your effort to try is not dismissed… and oddly enough, I find it much more intimate that you can admit your incomprehension of my point of view.”
That. That made Wanderer flinch.
Before he could stay longer within the fragment, he saw the scene before him distort—someone outside was interrupting him.
With a sigh, he began grounding himself once more and returned to his state of being.
His eyes adjusted to the soft light within the Sanctuary of Surasthana slowly as he opened them, and before him stood the Lesser Lord Kusanali with a gentle smile gracing her face. “I apologize; I hope I’m not disturbing anything important.”
Wanderer smiles at the young Archon before lying through his teeth, “No, not at all…”
“Well then, I’m sure you’re familiar with the former Sage of Rtawahist Darshan and the former Grand Sage of the Sumeru Akademiya, Azar."
a/n; It's been a while since I wrote anything, so I might be rusty--I hope it's not hard to read...
everytime you two meet around the knight of favonius hq, he couldnt help but to pull you aside just to cup your face and squish your cheeks gently.
to you, it might looked like an innocent exchange, which you dont mind at all. but it was a different perspective from lohen's side. he was panting, almost like a mad dog as he admires your glossy eyes, the way your lips looking so kissable at the moment that he might do just that until both of you are breathless. the plumpiness of your cheeks that he loves oh so much, he couldnt resist to give it a few wet kisses.
"lohen, stop. that tickles," you giggled, lightly pushing him away by his chest. he adored the sound that you made, like a hymn to his ears. he took the initiative to nibble the flesh.
"lord, you're so cute and adorable. i could just eat you up like this," he mumbled with his mouth full of your cheek. he could already imagine himself eating you in both ways to satisfy his bottomless hunger for you. all for him. you're his, and no one gets to taste you like he did.
he was dangerously considering that you two should have a quick getaway time together, because dear barbatos your face is making him feel things ten times the normal amount, its borderline unhealthy.
not to mention that being around you made him hard. extremely hard.
he was drunk on you, a little bit tipsy from a wine called moments with you. he slumped over and embraced you like he meant it, all while nuzzling his face against your neck.
"i love you so SO much, sugarplum. i dont think i can live without you~"
and his statement wasnt even an exaggeration. he wont hesitate to kill anyone who dares to harm you.
"alright, my sweet talking vice captain. we should go back to work before jean finds us loitering like this. we can meet back home later."
oh the things he wants to do to you. you'd better be prepared by then.
-
a/n: this twink got control over me. i want him to do stuffs to me like, plsssss lohen one chance 🙏🏻😭
warnings: Porn with plot / Pseudo incest / yandere / Kunikuzushi became an Archon (yes its a warning) / creampie / mating press / fluff / angst / trashy plot but fuck it we ball / Raiden Co.™ (we are the product) / Overstimulation / Multiple Orgasms /
summary: In which Ei didn’t abandon her prototype, but made someone soft to sit beside him. What starts innocently between two unfinished puppets becomes attachment, attachment into dependency, dependency into possession. And after that, things got.. out of hand.
19kwc
Men and women complete each other.
That's what Yae Miko told Raiden Ei when she wanted to abandon the prototype, that she didn't have to start over, the answer was simple: if he was too emotional to rule over Inazuma, she just needed to make another puppet to complement him, to be naturally obedient and help him with his duties, and what better would it be than to make a female puppet? As the saying goes, behind every great man is a great woman, and she just needed to make that great woman.
It took a while to make you, but it did not disappoint. You were done, another puppet whose duty was made clear from the moment you opened your eyes: serve the prototype and make sure to be his right hand anywhere he goes.
At first you were shown the Raiden Shogun's main residence, taught the basics of life to ensure you knew at least the bare minimum before meeting the prototype, and that was when Ei realized she might have made a mistake. You were too meek, too soft for anything, you were as emotional, if not even more than the prototype.
That was when Ei was ready to abandon you both, to scrap everything and start over like she meant to. Yae Miko came again and suggested that maybe this was for the best, that if the prototype had to be with a puppet as emotional as him, he would feel some type of connection. For a great ruler and his right hand to become, they needed a deep emotional connection that could be built through recognition.
He could recognize himself in you, and in that recognition, find something worth protecting. If they were both weak in the same way, then neither could remain that way forever, because someone would have to take the first step, and perhaps they would learn to stabilize each other, to grow not despite their emotions but through one another.
And if his first duty was something simple, to care for someone like himself, then maybe he would begin to understand responsibility before being given power.
The first time she introduced you to the prototype under her and Yae's supervision, it was... strange to say the least.
They didn't expect immediate connection, but they also didn't expect the thick silence to stretch the way it did, as the two of you stood there, facing each other with no idea what to do with it.
You looked at him, and he looked at you, both of you aware of the other in a way that made it harder to move instead of easier, your hands held too still at your sides, clutching at your kimono, your posture too careful.
You tried to speak, but so did he at the same time.
The words overlapped and cut each other off before either of you could even get them out properly, your voice catching as you stopped immediately, gaze dropping while he did the same, both of you stepping back at the exact same time, shame radiating from the both of you.
Ei and Yae stood there watching the interaction, and neither of you managed to recover from it.
The meeting ended shortly after that.
Ei, with a low sigh, concluded the first meeting as a failure.
So she did something else instead. From the next day onward, you were made to meet him for two hours, every single day, in the hopes that simple exposure would do what intention could not, that being placed beside each other again and again would slowly ease the tension between you, allow familiarity to settle where awkwardness once held its ground, and, eventually, bring the two of you closer.
And of course, like everything that Ei planned that had gone wrong before, this did too, as at first nothing changed at all.
You would sit across from each other, or stand, or even walk slowly along the same path under supervision, both of you aware of the other's presence in a way that made it impossible to relax into it. Not a single word was exchanged, only brief, subtle glances that never lasted long enough to mean anything - except perhaps, a quiet, mutual judgment, as if neither of you quite knew what to make of the other being the same as yourself.
It went on like that for days.
Yae had even snickered at it once, something quiet and amused at the way neither of you could manage something as simple as speaking, let alone reconcile that strange, mirrored discomfort, which in her eyes was absolutely hilarious, two puppets judging one another for being the same? Unmatched.
Ei did not find it amusing. She needed this to be resolved as soon as possible, so she could finally lock herself away to meditate, maybe she should've abandoned you both and started over.... But she's far too gone now, she has to make it work, somehow.
Annnddd, there was absolutely no progress to acknowledge, no connection forming in the way it was intended to. When Yae saw Ei's distress, that's when she suggested something else: to intervene more directly, she would go to the prototype, and Ei would go to you. That both you and the prototype seemed eager to please, as endearing as it was seeing you both try to work hard, trying is not enough, they needed progress.
He was pulled aside first. Yae told him, plainly, that he needed to speak, she didnt say it as a suggestion, or that he should try to speak - no. Straight up, you have to talk, thats a task.
You were given the same treatment, Ei's instructions were just as direct: you were to converse with the prototype, it was a task.
The next time you were left together, the weight of those instructions sat heavily between you as you both tried to speak... Which turned out at the same exact time.
"I-"
"Did you-"
The words collided and stopped again, both of you freezing mid-sentence, eyes wide as you looked at each other before the silence dropped back in, heavier this time because you had both tried and still failed.
Your face flushed immediately, heat rising too quickly as your hands clenched slightly at your sides, your thoughts scrambling for something to fix it, to prove you were worthy, that you could do what you were told, but finding nothing, the embarrassment settled in faster than you could push it away.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to- I just-" you started scrambling, words stammering against each other as you stepped back, your gaze lowering further in shame and embarrassment as the feeling built.
"I wasn't- I didn't- it's fine, you- you can go first," he said quickly, his own voice just as unsteady, his hands flailing around, his eyes flickering away from you as though that alone might make it easier.
"No, it's okay, you can-"
"It's fine, I don't-"
The overlap happened again, and somehow that made it worse.
Your breath caught as the frustration and embarrassment tangled together, your chest tightening as the situation slipped further out of your control, your body reacting before your thoughts could settle.
"I'm sorry-" you said again, quieter this time, before turning and running away quickly without waiting for anything else, vision blurring slightly as tears gathered in them.
"Wait-!" he called after you, the word coming out suddenly.
You didn't stop, you kept going.
Your steps carried you further than you meant to, past the halls, past the servants who tried to stop you, and into the garden, the open space hitting you all at once as your breathing grew uneven, your chest tightening as you moved toward the familiar sakura tree without really thinking about it.
By the time you reached it, you couldn't hold it back anymore.
The tears came before you could stop them, your hands coming up to your face as your shoulders shook, the frustration settling in heavier than anything else.
You couldn't even do something simple.
You were made for a purpose, given a role from the moment you opened your eyes, and your merciful mother Ei made it easier for you by giving you time to adjust, to get used to him, and you couldn't even manage to speak properly let alone start working, to the one person you were supposed to stand beside.
Your breathing broke as the thought settled deeper, your fingers curling slightly as you pressed them against your face.
"I can't even do this right..." you whispered to yourself, the words slipping out without meaning to as you continued to cry.
For the next few moments, your painful sobs were the only thing heard in the garden before careful, hesitant footsteps approached slowly behind you.
"H-hey..." his voice came, quieter than before, unsure in a way that matched the way you felt.
You didn't turn immediately, your shoulders still trembled slightly as you tried to steady your breathing, your hands lowering just enough for you to glance back at him after you made sure no more tears came out.
He had stopped a few steps away, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to come closer, his gaze fixed on you with the same uncertainty that had been there since the beginning, though now concern was mixed into it.
"I didn't mean to mess it up," he said after a moment, his voice uneven but steady enough to continue. "I just didn't know what to say, and then you started talking and I thought I should answer but I think I interrupted you and then it just-" he stopped briefly, his brows pulling together slightly before he continued, quieter now. "I don't think you did anything wrong."
Your breath caught slightly at that, your gaze dropping again as your fingers tightened against the fabric of your long sleeves.
"I did," you said softly, your voice still unsteady. "I couldn't even talk properly. We're supposed to work together and I can't even do that, I don't know how I'm supposed to help you if I can't even- "
"You don't have to know right away," he said, the words coming a little faster this time, like he didn't want you to keep going down that line of thought. "I don't know either. I think that's why they put us together, because we're both bad at it." he continued, looking totally serious.
You let out a quiet pfft at that, you couldn't help it- he looked so funny concentrated like he didnt just call himself (and you) bad.
He flinched slightly at the sound, clearly not expecting it, a hint of embarrassment crossing his expression, because why were you laughing at his very, very hard attempt at comforting you? before the feeling softened into something quieter. His gaze lingered on you despite himself, drawn to the way you looked when you laughed, when you smiled, so different from the tearful expression you had moments ago, and from the usual meek look you had on your face almost all the time.
And, somewhere in that realization, he felt a small, unfamiliar sense of pride settle in his chest, knowing he had been the cause of it.
So he decided to approach you, though he did hesitate for a second before slowly stepping closer, very careful to reach you and not make it feel too sudden.
His hand lifted briefly, plucking a flower from the cherry blossom tree's bent branch, and before you could ask what he was doing, he gently placed it into your hair, tucking it just behind your ear with a touch so light it barely registered at first.
"There," he said quietly, like he was trying to fix something even through his embarrassment, "You look... better."
You blinked, your breath catching in your throat slightly as your hand came up instinctively, brushing against the small pink flower where he had placed it, your tears stopping completely.
From a distance, unseen by you and him, Ei had been watching as Yae stood beside her, observing the scene that unfolded just as closely.
When Ei shifted slightly, as if preparing to step forward, Yae reached out and stopped her without a word, her gaze still fixed on the two of you, and when Ei looked confused, Yae looked back at her and just shook her head no. For once, Ei didnt argue.
From that day on, something changed.
At first, it was the next time you were sent to prepare tea under the supervision of other servants (so you don't burn yourself), your hands still a little clumsy as you tried to remember the steps you had been taught. Your attention stayed fixed on the motions in front of you, measuring herbs, pouring the steaming water with precision to not splash anywhere, until you felt a presence beside you.
When you glanced up, he was already there, standing closer than usual, watching your movements with a quiet focus before taking the teapot and attempting to copy them himself. His motions were hesitant, slightly stiff, and when he got it wrong by pouring too fastly letting the water splash, he paused, staring at the mess like he was trying to understand where it had gone wrong, then looking at you as if waiting for correction without actually asking for it.
"You're holding it too tightly," you said softly, reaching out just enough to adjust his grip. "If you loosen it a little, it's easier to control and it won't splash next time,"
He nodded enthusiastically at your explanation, trying again, slower this time, more careful, his attention sharpening as he followed what you told him. And when he finished, seeing that he didnt splash nor did he overflow the cup, his gaze flickered back to you and lingered a moment longer to see your approval. You smiled and praised him while clapping your hands, he averted eye contactt with a sheepishly content smile.
After that, it happened again when you were practicing writing.
You had already started before he arrived, the brush already moving across the paper in slow, careful strokes. He settled beside you without a word, taking his own sheet of paper as his brush hovered uncertainly above it, before he finally began to imitate the characters you were forming.
The strokes came out wonky at first, breaking where they shouldn't, and he paused halfway through one character, his brows pulling together slightly as he looked at what he had done, then back at yours, then back at his paper again, trying to see the difference.
"I think I did this wrong," he said quietly, tilting the paper just enough for you to see.
You leaned closer without thinking, your shoulder brushing lightly against his as you looked over it, your finger hovering just above the ink as you pointed out the mistake.
"It's this part," you explained, your voice low and steady. "You stopped too early. It should connect here."
He followed where you pointed, trying again more carefully this time, and when he finished, the line held properly. He stared at it for a second, before letting out a small breath and setting the brush down.
"Okay, thank you," he murmured, almost to himself, though his gaze drifted slightly to the side anyway, just enough to catch your expression again.
That day, he noted quietly that you seemed to like being asked for help.
Then it started happening outside of tasks.
You were in the garden one afternoon, crouched near the base of the sakura tree as you gathered fallen petals into your hands, your attention drifting as you watched them slip through your fingers. You didn't notice him at first, not until he lowered himself beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed against yours as he reached for a petal as well.
He didn't say anything, he just copied what you were doing. Picking one up, turning it slightly between his fingers before letting it fall back to the ground.
You glanced at him briefly, then back at your hands, and after a moment you shifted slightly closer to him without thinking, the space between you closing just enough that it felt.. easier.
After that, it became something you started to expect.
When you were sent somewhere, he would appear sooner or later, sometimes a few moments after, sometimes already there like he had known where you would be. At first he kept a little distance, still unsure in the way he moved, but that distance grew smaller each time.
One time, when you were sent out to retrieve a few items as part of Ei's practical instruction for you, he had come with you without being asked to because, well.. hes almost always with you now. On the way back, you had both noticed a group of children playing something unfamiliar, running, chasing, laughing like it was the most fun thing in the world.
Curious, you had approached the group of children and asked them what it was, they explained it easily, calling it "tag," going over the rules as if it was something everyone was supposed to know already. Taking in the new information, you glanced to the side to see him already glancing back at you before giving a small, quiet nod - an unspoken agreement had formed between you.
To say you both wanted to be human was an understatement, so anytime one of you discovered something new about humans, you would tell one another to practice it when nobody was watching.
And so, the next time you ended up walking through the garden together without being told to, one of you eventually asked if you could try the game you had learned about before, as part of wanting to feel more human. The suggestion lingered for only a moment before it was agreed upon.
At first, it was just that, something you did in the garden when there was no one around, a simple agreement between the two of you to be more human.
But it didn't stay like that for long, it was fun. Thats basically it, you both had alot of fun playing this human-made game that it came naturally now as something that both of you enjoyed more than something that bloomed out of trying to be human.
Sometimes one of you would start running without warning, laughter slipping out in quiet bursts as you chased each other through the garden paths, your movements less careful than what you're taught to do. Your hands would brush when one of you reached out instinctively, neither of you pulling away as quickly as you used to. It didn't stay in the garden either, sometimes it carried into the hallways, even in the middle of errands or tasks, one of you would scream tag before the game started all over again.
After that, he started staying longer, actually, scratch that, he started staying with you all the time.
So much so that the servants began to look for him when they saw you, grinning when he appeared a moment later, as if it confirmed something they had already begun to assume. And if one of them needed either of you, they would simply say to search for one, because you would always find the other.
"Two peas in a pod," they began to say, watching as the two of you moved through the residence side by side. It was almost as if the intention behind your creation showed itself in the way you stayed near each other, like two halves that were always meant to move in tandem, never quite complete apart.
And somewhere along the way, without either of you realizing when it happened, he stopped coming to you because he didn't know what else to do, and started coming because he wanted to be there.
Before you were made, there were nights where he couldn't sleep, lying awake with a quiet, suffocating feeling of being incomplete that sometimes broke into silent tears when no one was there to see it. But that didn't feel the same anymore. Not when he was with you. Not when, for the first time, that emptiness didn't sit as heavily as it used to, because somehow, being beside you made him feel complete.
Raiden Ei decided it was enough, seeing the significant progress that had been made. Once she reached that conclusion, she withdrew from everything just as quietly as she had observed it, sealing herself away within her plane and leaving the rest in the hands of Yae Miko without telling any one of you.
From that point on, everything changed faster.
Yae took over what Ei had started, guiding it into something more official. The days after that became more organized, more demanding, as preparations were rushed forward and work had to be done. Even if you did not fully understand the weight of it at the time, you felt the shift in the way people treated him, in the way they spoke around him, in the way their attention lingered longer than before, and how Yae forbade either of you from playing around in front of people, unlike before.
The day it happened stayed with you like it had been carved into memory.
You were both prepared for six long hours, dressed and refined with careful precision, servants moving around you in practiced silence that felt unfamiliar as they were a little casual around you and him before. You were dressed in a layered dark kimono with different deep purple and lavender accents, heavy with fabric and detail, adorned with accessories that screamed wealth and royalty. Your hair was arranged to suit your pretty facial features, your face carefully painted with makeup meant to sharpen and elevate your presence, turning you into something formal, something that matched his position rather than just his company.
You were made to stand beside him, just as you always had, your place already decided long before you were made, before either of you understood the weight of it. The space around you was filled with voices layered over one another in formal tones, words spoken with intention rather than the ease you were used to, each one carefully chosen instead of simply allowed to flow. They carried expectation, and something heavier than either of you had been prepared for.
He stood still through it all.
You could feel the tension in him even without looking, the way his posture stayed too rigid, the way his hands remained too still at his sides, like any movement might disturb the weight of what was happening.
As much as you were concerned, you still stayed as formal as you had been taught during the days Yae had trained you, careful with your posture, your tone, your words. As you stayed where you were always meant to be, beside him.
When the title was given, when everything settled into place around him, it felt less like some type of beginning and more like something being placed onto him all at once, something heavy that did not leave room to step back from it. You were named as well, not apart from him, but as something defined alongside him.
When it was over, when the voices faded and the space cleared as servants cleaned everything up and changed you from formal clothing to light ones meant for sleep, you returned to your room and he came after you, as by now he not only followed you during the day, but he even decided to sleep next to you, saying it eased his occuring nightmares and you - feeling concerned for your beloved other half, the person who you were made to serve, agreed to not tell anyone and let him in everynight now.
He exhaled the second he stepped inside as he closed the door behind the both of you, he made his way to your bed and sat, his shoulders dropping slightly like he had been holding that tension the entire time.
"That was.. a lot," he admitted, his voice quieter now, lacking the composure he had held. outside.
You smiled at him, your expression soft and natural, unlike the rigid one you had moments before as you stepped closer.
"You did well," you said gently.
He flushed faintly at that, a soft pink rising to his cheeks as his gaze drifted to the side for a moment, like he didn't quite know what to do with the praise. Still, he reached for you anyway, pulling you into him with a touch that was still a little uncertain despite having done it many times before.
You melted into him easily, your arms wrapping around him without hesitation. And as the moment softened, his grip adjusted carefully until he shifted the both of you down, settling back so you were tucked together under the covers, half draped over him as he held you close.
"Thank you," he murmured after a while, so quiet it almost blended into the silence.
You didn't ask for what, as the comfort of him already lulled you to sleep.
After that, the duties piled.
At first it was manageable, things he could learn through guidance, through Yae's careful instruction. But the expectations grew quickly, the weight of the position settling deeper with each passing day, and it showed in the way he started coming to you later and later at night.
Your duties were far lighter in comparison, smaller tasks, simpler instructions that were usually polishing up his work, basically things that usually ended earlier in the day. So by the time night settled in, you had already returned to your room, waiting.
There were evenings where he would arrive barely speaking, his movements slower as he stepped inside, his shoulders carrying a tension he didn't know how to put down. You would shift closer without needing to ask, your presence enough to ease it as he leaned into you, his guard lowering only when it was just the two of you.
You began to sit in on meetings when you could, your place beside him never questioned, though the people within those rooms did not always hold the same quiet acceptance.
There were those who spoke carefully, fully trusting Ei's decisions and having faith in their now new ruler.
And those who saw themself in higher regard didn't.
"You expect us to accept this?" one of them had said once, a person from a prestigious family, their voice carrying a sharpness that cut through the room, their gaze fixed on him with thinly veiled disdain, as if the mere thought of a puppet ruling over them cut through his pride. "A puppet placed in a position meant for the Shogun herself, expected to rule as if that is enough to replace her presence? Hah, you make me laugh."
The room had gone still after that but he didnt respond.
He stayed composed, his expression controlled in a way that hid more than it revealed, but you felt it, the shift in him, the way something tightened beneath the surface even if he refused to show it.
It followed him back.
That night, when he came to you, it didn't take long before the composure slipped. He was already holding you close, his arms around you like he couldn't quite let go, and the weight of everything he had been carrying finally broke through.
His face stayed pressed against the plush of your chest as he spoke, his voice muffled, uneven, breaking in places he usually keeps hidden outside.
"They're right," he murmured, shaking slightly as he clung tighter. "I'm not... I'm not even human."
Your chest tightened at that, but you didn't move away. Your hand lifted gently, resting against his back as your other slowly threaded through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp to soothe him.
"That doesn't mean you're nothing," you said softly, your voice calm despite the way it pulled at you. "You're still you, and I'm the same as you are. So if that makes you less, then it makes me less too, and I don't think that's true."
He stilled slightly at that, the words sinking in as he stayed pressed against you, his grip tightening for a moment like he was trying to hold onto them as much as he was holding onto you.
"We're the same," you continued, quieter now, your fingers still moving through his hair. "So we'll figure it out together. You don't have to do it alone."
He didn't answer, but that night he stayed closer, clinging to you like you were his lifeline. Shaking softly as if letting go of it would mean falling apart completely.
But after that, things didn't get easier, if anything... they grew worse.
The voices against him grew louder over time, the discontent no longer something that stayed behind closed doors or slipped through in careful remarks. It grew into something harder to control, something that followed him into every room, every meeting, every space where he was meant to be acknowledged as the one in power.
At first, it had only been one voice at a time, a single person speaking out of turn, testing boundaries that had not yet been enforced.
Then it became two.
Then more.
Meetings that were once controlled began to shift, the tension no longer sitting quietly beneath the surface but rising openly, voices overlapping as arguments broke out in ways that no one bothered to conceal anymore. They questioned him directly now, their tones sharper, louder, no longer disguised as concern but something closer to defiance.
"You expect us to accept this?" one voice cut in, immediately followed by another before the first could even settle.
"A construct placed into a position originally meant for the Shogun, expected to carry out governance as if function alone is enough to replace authority!"
"-tradition, and the will that once defined it," someone else finished over them, not as agreement, but as continuation of the same accusation.
The room did not settle. It only grew louder.
"Power is not simply the execution of orders!" another voice pushed through the noise, refusing to be drowned out. "It is recognition! It is inheritance!"
"What you present is neither inherited nor recognized, only assigned!"
"This is not what Inazuma stands for-"
"We will not be led by something that was created to imitate-"
The room would fill with it, voices rising over one another, each accusation layered over the last, no longer a discussion, but refusal made audible.
And every time it happened, you flinched.
At first, it was small, barely noticeable, the reaction contained in the way your shoulders tensed slightly, the way your hands tightened where they rested. But as it continued, as more voices joined in and the volume rose, it became harder to hide, your breath catching more often, your gaze dropping as the sound pressed in from all sides.
He noticed. Even when he didn't react to them, even when he held himself still through it all, his gaze would flicker toward you for just a second.
But the meetings never stopped - and neither did the voices.
That night, when the doors finally closed behind you and the quiet returned, it didn't feel the same.
You sat beside him, your hands clenched slightly in your lap, your thoughts still caught in the echo of it as your voice came out softer than you meant it to.
"...what if something happens?"
He looked at you, the tension still lingering in his posture, though his expression softened slightly at the question.
"They're getting louder," you continued, your fingers tightening as you looked down, your words coming slower now, more uncertain. "Every time we go there, it's worse than before. They don't listen anymore, they don't even try to hide it, and I don't know what they're going to do if it keeps going like this."
Your breath caught slightly before you looked back at him, your voice quieter now.
"I'm scared."
The words settled between you, heavier than anything else. And for a moment, he didn't respond.
Then he shifted slightly closer, his hand reaching for yours, his grip gentle but steady.
"It's okay," he said, his voice softer now, more certain than before, like he was trying to anchor the both of you with it. "Nothing is going to happen. I'll fix it."
You searched his expression for a second, like you were trying to hold onto that certainty, your shoulders easing just slightly as you nodded.
"Okay..." you murmured, your voice still quiet, but steadier than before.
You believed him.
Or at least, you wanted to.
But he didn't fix it.
Because they got to you first.
It happened in a seemingly normal day, you were walking down the garden, everything was quiet as it always was, your steps slow as you walked along the path, your thoughts already forgotton the protests because, funnily enough, they all calmed down recently..
You didn't hear them approach, not having time to react as hands grabbed you suddenly, rough and immediate, your breath catching sharply as your body jolted in surprise, your voice barely forming before it was cut off, your surroundings blurring as panic hit all at once.
"Wait- I didn't- let go-!"
Your words broke apart as they pulled you back, your feet losing balance as you struggled against them, your movements uncoordinated as fear took over, your heart racing too fast to keep up.
No one stopped them, no one really saw what happened, as everything was already closed for the night. And so you got kidnapped.
And that same night, something felt wrong.
He was in his office, still working through a few documents, when suddenly he felt as if something had been removed from where it was supposed to be, a feeling so overwhelming he couldn't just shrug it off.
So he looked for you at first without really thinking, expecting to find you where you usually were, the garden, playing with stray cats or flowers, maybe already waiting for him in your bed or secretly eating sweets in the kitchen since everyone was asleep. He moved through all the familiar places he would usually find you in.
But you weren't in any of them
And the longer it went on, the heavier it became, the realization setting in piece by piece as the space around him felt emptier than it should have.
Incomplete, like something had been taken from him.
The news reached him soon after, not from a concerned servant, but from a secret letter sent with intention, delivered as something meant to provoke rather than inform.
They had you. And they made it clear what they wanted, the return of the real Shogun, give up his position, or consequences that would not stop with just you - a clear message of a revolt waiting to happen.
Thankfully, It didn't take him long to trace which family sent this, and the moment he had a clear name, he didnt wait. The same night he went,
The estate was guarded, as expected, with figures stationed along the entrance and within the grounds, already alerted enough to stop an intruder, but not prepared for him. They moved the moment they saw him, stepping forward to block his path, voices rising in warning, weapons, polearms specifically, drawn out, mistaken him for an intruder, how irritating, he's the Raiden shogun, the ruler of Inazuma, and these people can't even recognize him?
He really should have asserted his authority sooner, should have stopped trying to please everyone, to listen to every concern in the name of being a good ruler. Look where that had gotten him. They saw too little and took too much.
And now it was too late to regret it, wasn't it? Now that they had taken the only thing that had ever been meant for him.
He didn't slow down as the guards moved the moment they saw him, stepping forward to block his path, but they didn't get far. The moment they tried to stop him, he used his electro power.
The strike was immediate. It hit them before they could react properly, their movements cutting off as their bodies locked, a sharp, broken sound leaving them as the current ran through them. They didn't last long after that, collapsing where they stood, their weapons slipping from their hands as everything went still.
He had never used that power before. Not once, even after being given the Gnosis, as his creator built it into him, he had never felt the need to. But now that he did, it didn't feel unfamiliar, and it didn't feel wrong like he originally thought, it felt right, being in power, showing people their places in an immediate manner rather than using safer options that usually have him look weak in the end.
He didn't stop to look at the lifeless bodies around him.
He continued forward, deeper into the estate, and anyone who tried to stand in his way met the same fate,a strike of electro cutting through them, their resistance ending just as quickly, voices cut short before they could form anything more than warning. What had been structured quickly unraveled, order breaking apart into scattered attempts to stop him that never reached completion.
By the time he reached the inner halls, there was nothing left to slow him down.
The silence that followed wasn't natural, but when he finally found you, everything was already over.
You were locked in a room, your hands shaking as you sat there crouched in the corner, sobbing quietly to yourself, the fear still clinging to you before the sound of a door snapping open suddenly had you flich, your head snapping up.
You froze as you watched him standing there, just beyond the threshold.
His clothes were stained, the pure white fabric marked heavily with deep crimson, the sight of it jarring enough to make your breath catch as your eyes widened, your body going still as he stepped closer.
The moment he saw you alive and well enough, he felt a flicker of relief, but it was quickly overshadowed by an undeniable anger at what they had done to you. Your clothes were tattered, your usually silky hair from being meticulously cared for now disheveled, your eyes still teary like you had only just stopped crying.
For a second, you didn't move, not fully understanding the situation, but then he smiled. Soft, familiar, like nothing had changed.
"Let's go home," he said, his voice gentle in a way that didn't match anything you had just experienced.
Your breath broke as you stood, your steps unsteady as you rushed toward him as the relief of seeing him overcame what concerns you had about the red in his clothing, your hands reaching for him without thinking. Relief crashing into you all at once as he held you just as tightly, his grip firm like he wasn't going to let you go again.
The next day, the entire nation heard it.
The way treason was almost commited, how the entire clan got wiped overnight for kidnapping the Shogun's right hand.
His voice carried across Inazuma, steady and unwavering, leaving no room for doubt as it settled over everyone who listened.
"Take this as a lesson," he declared, his tone calm in a way that made it sharper while he held your shoulder by his side, "Because from now on, those who dare to defy me, or lay a hand on what is mine, will face the Raiden's judgment without exception."
And from that day forward, he was no longer just a nameless puppet.
He gave himself a name.
Kunikuzushi.
──── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ────
“Let’s get you ready, miss.”
The servant’s voice was soft as she stepped behind you, her hands already steady as she guided you toward the seat in front of the vanity, the polished mirror reflecting your image back at you. You allowed her to sit you down without resistance, your hands resting neatly in your lap as she began her work, brushes and small containers laid out in careful order across the table.
Her fingers were gentle as they moved across your skin, applying each product with practiced precision, her gaze focused in a way that made it clear she had done this many times before.
“You don’t need much,” she murmured quietly, more to herself than to you as she adjusted the angle of your face slightly. “Your skin is already as smooth as porcelain... it holds everything well.”
There was a pause as she leaned back just slightly, observing her work before continuing, her movements light as she added only what was necessary, enhancing rather than changing. Being a puppet had its advantages, your features untouched by imperfections, your skin naturally even, clear from blemishes, almost too perfect in a way that made heavy makeup unnecessary.
Today wasn’t a normal day, though. It was a celebration, held for the day he became an Archon. You had been woken since the early hours of the morning, attendants already waiting to prepare you, guiding you through everything from bathing to choosing the right layers of clothing.
From the moment dawn broke, the entire residence had been in motion. Servants moved quickly through the halls as preparations were rushed forward, everything carried out with a sense of urgency.
Your gaze drifted slightly as the servant worked on your hair now, carefully arranging it to fall in a way that framed your face perfectly, securing pieces in place with luxurious accessories that matched the outfit laid out for you. Dark silk fabric, deep and rich in color, layered with accents of purple and soft lavender, elegant in a way that stood apart from everyone else's.
knock knock
You blinked, your attention shifting back as your voice came out softly, “Come in.”
The door opened as he stepped inside.
Kunikuzushi carried himself differently now, the presence around him heavier, more defined, carrying authority, yet the moment his gaze landed on you, something in it softened just slightly.
“Are you ready?” he asked, tone fond if you looked close enough as he stepped closer.
You nodded.
The servant immediately stepped back, lowering her head respectfully as she moved aside, her presence fading into the background the moment he entered.
He reached for your hand, and you took it without hesitation, a small, closed-eyed smile forming on your lips as your fingers curled lightly around his.
As he led you out, walking through the open hallways, his gaze flickered toward you again, lingering this time now that no servant was around.
“You look pretty,” he said, quieter now, the words meant only for you.
You smiled, your grip on his hand tightening just slightly, “You too, Kuni.”
The name still felt new, even though it had been five hundred years since he chose it for himself.
It was strange. The moment he told you, you hesitated, not because you didn’t understand it, but because you did. Kunikuzushi - a name that meant nation destroyer, something that definitely isn't something meant for a ruler, let alone him, a person who was the embodiment of gentleness itself. But even then, you accepted it without question.
You remembered how he used to hesitate whenever names came up, how something in his expression would turn insecure whenever servants spoke about naming their children, their voices filled with pride over something he had never been given. He never said it directly, but you knew he wanted one. Even when your creator, Ei, never gave him one, even when she had already decided he would take the position of the Shogun, she still left him without something as simple as a name.
You had wondered about that more than once, but never enough to ask.
So when he chose one for himself, you didn’t question it, even if it carried a meaning you didn’t like.
You accepted it because it was his, and because of that, you chose one too, naming yourself y/n.
The walk continued quietly after that, your hand still in his as you moved through the halls, the space clearing naturally wherever he stepped.
“C'mon, let’s go to the garden first before the shrine,” he said after a moment, his tone soft again.
You nodded eagerly, “I’d like that.”
Even after he had become an Archon, with duties piling up more and more, never seeming to end no matter how many hours he spent in his office, you found it endearing that he still made time for you, even if it meant abandoning his work sometimes just to stay by your side.
He led you along a different path, your steps light despite everything waiting ahead, but before either of you could react, a servant rushed around the corner too quickly, her attention elsewhere as she collided straight into you.
“Mmf-”
The impact knocked you off balance immediately, your body tilting back before you could steady yourself, but his grip tightened instantly, pulling you back toward him before you could fall, his arm steady as he held you in place.
The servant stumbled back from the collision, disoriented, her body dropping to the floor as she scrambled before looking up - and froze.
The moment she realized who stood in front of her, her expression shifted entirely, panic overtaking everything else as she immediately lowered herself, her hands and knees pressed to the ground, “My apologies- Archon, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t looking, please forgive me, I-”
Her words tumbled over each other, rushed and desperate as she bowed repeatedly, her voice shaking.
He didn’t hesitate, didnt even think for a moment, letting her word register to him, “Take her to confinement,” he said flatly, his tone leaving no room for discussion.
The words didnt have time to settle in the air before two guards came and took her away.
You stilled slightly beside him, your fingers tightening instinctively as your gaze shifted away, not wanting to look at that poor woman, your expression faltering just enough to show the discomfort you couldn’t quite hide.
Since that day, the day you were taken, something in him changed drastically. He was firmer now, cruel even.
There was no hesitation in the way he handled things anymore, no room left for mistakes or forgiveness where it could be avoided. People respected him, feared him even, and it showed in the way they reacted, in the way the servant was already being pulled away without protest, knowing that talking back would only lead to more punishment.
The first time you saw it happen was when he electrocuted a servant for accidentally spilling tea on you, a new girl who clearly hadn’t meant any harm. You had screamed that day, horrified that he would go that far over something so small, your voice shaking as you tried to make sense of it.
You cried that night, the image of it stuck in your head no matter how much you tried to push it away, and even when he came to you, trying to comfort you like he always did, you couldn’t bring yourself to respond. You ignored him for a full day, turning away from every attempt he made, until he finally gave in and promised he wouldn’t do it again, saying he would send them away instead of killing them.
But it was something you still hadn’t gotten used to, and you weren't sure you ever would.
His gaze shifted back to you, expression going from stern to soft again, “I’m sorry,” he said, quieter now, the edge in his voice gone as quickly as it had appeared. “I hope that didn’t ruin your mood.”
You shook your head quickly, offering a small smile despite the way your chest still felt tight, “It’s okay.”
He relaxed slightly at that, the tension easing from his shoulders as he continued walking, your hand still held securely in his. But the silence didnt last.
“You know... you didn’t have to punish her like that,” you said carefully, your voice soft as you glanced at him. “It was just a mistake, she didn’t mean to-”
He abruptly stopped.
His head turned toward you sharply, the movement sudden enough to make you flinch, your words cutting off as your breath caught.
“What?” he asked, his tone low, unreadable.
“I- nothing,” you said quickly, your voice smaller now as you shook your head. “I’m sorry.”
He exhaled slowly, the tension shifting into something else as his hand lifted, his fingers gently but firmly tilting your chin upward until you were looking at him.
“Look at me.”
You did. His expression wasn’t angry, it seemed almost concerned, though it felt almost.. forced.
“Are you scared of me?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but more serious than before.
Your eyes widened slightly at that, your head shaking immediately, “No- no!, Of course not, I'd never be scared of you, Kuni.”
He held your gaze for a moment longer, searching it like he was looking for something specific.
“I don’t want anything happening to you,” he said, his tone softer now, the concern clear in a way that made your chest tighten for a different reason. “People take advantage of kindness. If I let things slide, they’ll think they can get closer, and I won’t allow that.”
You nodded, even if the feeling in your chest hadn’t fully settled, your hands tightening slightly, “I understand.”
His expression softened almost immediately at your answer, the tension disappearing as quickly as it had come, “Good.”
His hand moved from your chin to your head, patting it lightly before he continued forward again.
The garden came into view not long after, the space opening up into the familiar view. He didn’t say anything when you got there, just loosened his hold slightly and let you walk ahead, knowing you would anyway. It had always been like that with you and this place.
It was filled with blooming flowers, carefully tended, rows upon rows of them in different colors, their petals bright under the light as the sakura trees stood tall above it all, branches stretching gently overhead while soft pink petals drifted down with the breeze, settling across the stone paths and grass.
He had this made for you, every part of it.
Because he knew you liked flowers, the way you would stop to look at them, touch them carefully like they might break, the way you had once told him you wanted to grow something with your own hands, the way you would spend hours just playing with fallen cherry blossom petals. He remembered that, even when you didn’t think he would, and this was the result of it, a space made entirely from something as simple as your preference.
You stepped further in without thinking, your gaze lifting as you took it in, your shoulders easing as the tension from earlier slipped away little by little. Your fingers brushed lightly against a nearby bloom as you passed, your movements slower now, calmer and content.
He watched you for a moment instead of the surroundings, his expression softening just slightly, the faint tension that usually stayed in him loosening in a way it didn’t anywhere else. This was the only place he didn’t mind wasting time in.
That moment didn’t last long, though, as a servant approached from the side, her steps quick but more controlled than before, as she stopped a short distance away and bowed deeply.
“Archon, the ceremony is about to begin. They’re waiting for you.”
He clicked his tongue under his breath, a faint scowl crossing his face at the interruption, irritation settling immediately.
You glanced at him, the reaction so familiar that a small giggle slipped out before you could stop it, soft and light against the quiet of the garden.
“It’s okay,” you said gently, your voice easy as you turned slightly toward him. “We can come back later, you know.”
He looked at you for a second, the irritation easing just slightly as he held your gaze, before giving a small nod, “Alright.”
He reached for your hand again without thinking, his grip steady as he turned away from the garden, leading you back the way you came.
──── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ────
“Congratulations,” Yae said, her voice light, almost teasing despite the weight of the moment, her gaze settling on him with a knowing curve to her smile. “It seems Inazuma has gained quite the Archon. I do hope you plan on living up to all of this attention, hm?”
He glanced at her, his expression steady, though there was the faintest hint of something behind it, something that didn’t quite match the ease of the celebration around him.
“I don’t plan on disappointing anyone,” he replied, his tone even, not quite playing into her teasing, but not rejecting it either.
Yae hummed softly at that, amused.
“Mm, how reassuring,” she said, though the look she gave him lingered just a second longer.
The shrine was filled with people, voices cheering in celebration, formal at first but loosening as the night went on, the air warmer with movement, with praise, with expectation that never quite left him no matter how much they dressed it up as something lighter. You stood beside him through it all, just as you always had, your presence something that naturally belonged there.
He handled it well as always.
He responded when needed, acknowledged what had to be acknowledged, his composure steady even as person after person approached him with words that all sounded the same after a while.
You stayed quiet through most of it, offering small responses when spoken to - which is quite rare as being the second puppet to the archon usually has you being forgotten or overshadowed - your attention drifting more than once because the place felt too loud, too full.
By the time he had made his appearance, greeted who he needed to, and fulfilled what was expected of him, everything became calmer. The celebration spilled outward, people moving away from the shrine, conversations breaking into smaller groups, laughter slipping in where formality had been before as the festival truly began.
And for the first time that night, no one was paying attention now.
Your gaze shifted slightly, watching as the crowd dispersed, the weight of their attention lifting just enough that it felt like you could breathe again, and without saying anything, you stepped back, quietly and carefully.
Slipping away before anyone could stop you.
The shrine halls were emptier now, most having already moved toward the festival outside, leaving the inner rooms quiet, undisturbed. You made your way into one of them without hesitation, closing the door behind you as you moved quickly, already reaching for the small disguise you had hidden away earlier.
By the time you stepped back out, the change was enough to go unnoticed, your appearance softened, altered just enough to blend in rather than stand out, wearing a casual festival kimono rather than the extravagant one.
And the second you opened the door, ready to enjoy your time in the festival, you froze.
A man with strange blue hair was standing right in front of you.
You jumped slightly, your breath catching as your hand came up instinctively, eyes widening before you relaxed just as quickly, realizing it was just Kunikuzushi, of course you'd know it was him. Even without the disguise, even with it, it didn’t matter. You would always know.
“Kuni-!” you breathed out, half startled, half relieved, your brows pulling together slightly. “Don’t scare me like that...”
He tilted his head slightly, watching your reaction with something faintly amused, though it didn’t last long.
“You were going without me?” he said instead, his tone quieter, but there was something in it, something that made it clear he didn’t like the idea even a little.
You blinked at that, caught off guard for a second before you shook your head slightly.
“I just thought you’d be busy,” you said, softer now, leaning to the side just enough to look over Kunikuzushi's shoulder, checking toward the direction of the shrine. “Don’t they need you there?”
“I don’t care,” he replied immediately. Then, just as easily, his expression shifted into something more innocent, something that reminded you of who he once was before.. Everything. As a small grin tugged at his lips. “Let’s go.”
He took your hand before you could say anything else, his grip firm, already pulling you along as if the decision had been made long before you even stepped out of that room.
By the time you reached the festival it was already deep into the night.
Lanterns lit the streets, warm and glowing, casting soft light over everything as people moved through the space, laughter and chatter filling the air in a way that felt completely different from the shrine. It was louder, messier, but in a way that felt alive with normal people.
You slowed without meaning to, your gaze lifting as you took it in, the small details catching your attention one after another, the stalls, the lights, the games, everything feeling new even if you had seen parts of it before.
Your hand tightened slightly in his without realizing.
“It’s pretty...” you murmured, more to yourself than anything, your gaze lifting as the lanterns above cast a warm golden glow across everything, the soft light catching on your pretty face and in your eyes as it flickered gently with the night air.
He glanced at you instead of the festival, his attention lingering on the way the light softened your expression, the way your features seemed to glow under it without you even realizing.
“...yeah,” he said after a second, quieter now, though it was clear he wasn’t looking at the same thing you were.
You didn’t notice, already pulling him toward one of the stalls.
The candied apples caught your attention almost immediately, the glossy red coating reflecting the lantern light as they were displayed neatly, and you paused there without needing to say anything.
Before you could even reach for one, he had already paid for it, already taken notice that you wanted it even before you fully arrived at the stall, placing it into your hands like it was nothing, like it was expected.
Your face lit up at that, a soft smile forming as you thanked him, already taking a small bite as you continued walking around, the sweetness immediate.
You didn’t get far into the festival before your movement was interrupted.
His hand shifted, fingers wrapping around your wrist just enough to guide it upward, pulling your hand closer to him before you could react, and then-
He leaned in and took a bite, a big proper one at that, right from your sweet sweet candid apple.
You froze, face flushing almost instantly as a pretty shade of pink dusted over your cheeks, your breath catching slightly as you stared at him, completely thrown off guard.
“K-Kuni- what are you-”
He pulled back, chewing once-
And immediately made a face.
His expression twisted, brows pulling together, his face scrunching in disgust as he turned slightly, spitting it out without hesitation.
“..that’s disgusting,” he muttered, his voice flat, clearly unimpressed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
You stared at him for a second before bursting into laughter, you couldn't help it.
“You don’t even like sweets, why the hell would you do that?” you said between small bursts of laughter, the earlier embarrassment slipping away completely.
He clicked his tongue, his brows pulling together slightly as he looked at you, clearly unimpressed with your reaction.
“Tch. You’re laughing at the ruler of Inazuma?” he said, his tone carrying that familiar bite, though it wasn't the one he used to intimidate officials, the one you heard oh so clearly before this was nothing like it, “The one and only Archon of this land, reduced to this-”
He gestured vaguely to the mostly-bitten candied apple in your hand, his expression sour.
That only made it worse.
Your laughter picked up again, softer but no less amused, your shoulders shaking slightly as you tried and failed to hold it in.
“Kuni- pfffft” you tried, but it broke off into another quiet laugh.
His expression shifted at that, irritation flickering into something else before he reached out suddenly, his fingers catching your cheek in a quick pinch, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to make you stop.
“Stop laughing,” he muttered, as a faint flush dusted his face before he let go a second later.
You blinked at him, still smiling, your laughter fading into something softer.
“...you’re mean,” you mumbled, tone completely fond.
“..you started it,” he shot back almost immediately, before clicking his tongue again and looking away.
“...I don’t know,” he added under his breath, like he was backtracking, before taking the stick from your hand without warning. “I’ll get you another one.”
“Kuni, I can still eat this one-”
But he was already walking off.
You watched him go for a moment before following after him, though you slowed when someone stepped into your path.
A man. He greeted you politely, though there was a slight eagerness to it, something in the way his attention settled on you, his eyes lingering on your covered cleavage for more than necessary.
“Ah- sorry, I didn’t mean to stop you,” he said quickly, stepping back half a pace like he didn’t want to seem too forward, “I just.. saw you earlier, walking around, and-” he hesitated for a second, like he was trying to word it properly without embarrassing himself, “I thought I’d regret it if I didn’t say something.”
His gaze flickered over you again, softer this time, a little nervous but genuine.
“You look really beautiful tonight.”
You blinked at that, a little surprised, but you didn’t think much of it.
“Oh- thank you,” you replied softly, your tone gentle, your posture easing slightly as you smiled back out of habit more than anything. “You didn’t have to come all this way just to say that, though.”
“I don’t mind,” he said quickly, almost too quickly, stepping just a little closer without realizing it. “It’s not often someone like you is out here like this. I thought I might at least try to speak to you while I had the chance.”
You tilted your head slightly at that, not quite catching what he meant, or maybe just not thinking too deeply about it.
“It’s nice here,” you said instead, glancing briefly toward the lanterns, the stalls, the movement around you. “I wanted to see it properly, not just from a distance.”
He nodded, watching you more than the festival itself.
“I’m glad you did,” he said, softer now. “If you don’t mind, I could walk with you for a bit, just until-”
“You don’t need to do that,” you said gently, shaking your head slightly, though there was no rejection in your tone, just simple honesty. “But thank you.”
You smiled again, polite, kind, the way you always were, and that should have been enough.
It should have ended there, but you didnt notice when Kuni came back. But he noticed everything. The way the man stood too close, the way you smiled, the fact that you didn’t pull away.
By the time the man finally excused himself, offering a slightly awkward goodbye before stepping away, you turned back-
Only to find Kuni already there, looking at you.
Something about his expression made your chest tighten slightly, the earlier warmth from the festival dimming just a little under it.
“What?” you asked, your voice softer now, a hint of uncertainty slipping in as you tilted your head slightly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His hand closed around your wrist before you could say anything else.
Tighter than before.
“Why were you talking to him like that?” he asked, his voice low, controlled in a way that didn’t quite hide the irritation underneath.
You blinked, caught off guard, the question not matching what had just happened in your mind, “...like what?”
“Like you didn’t know what he was doing,” he said, his gaze narrowing slightly. “You’re not that naive.”
Your brows pulled together slightly at that, the confusion settling deeper now.
“I was just being nice,” you replied, quieter this time, the earlier ease gone. “He came up to me, I didn’t want to ignore him.”
“You shouldn’t be talking to people like that,” he said, sharper now. “You’re not just anyone. You’re-”
He stopped.
But the words had already settled between you.
“I’m what?” you asked, your voice softer, but there was something else in it now, something more fragile than before. “I’m still allowed to talk to people, Kuni. I know what I’m doing.”
“No, you don’t,” he snapped, quicker this time. “You don’t have the Gnosis, you can’t protect yourself if something happens-”
“I don’t need to be protected all the time,” you cut in, your voice tightening, not loud, but firm in a way it rarely was, being the meek little doll you were. “I’m not helpless.”
The silence that followed wasn’t calm, it pressed in sharply as neither of you moved.
Your grip on trying to argue loosened slightly, your gaze dropping just a little, not in submission, but because something about this felt.. wrong. The night had been different just moments ago, lighter, softer, like how things used to be, like how he used to be with you before everything became so heavy.
Before this.
“...you weren’t like this earlier,” you murmured, barely above a whisper, more to yourself than to him, though you knew he heard it. “You were laughing with me.”
You stupid, stupid girl, that didn’t make it better. If anything, it made it worse as his grip tightened enough to make you wince.
“We’re going home,” he said, final, leaving no room to argue.
“Kuni- wait-”
But he didn’t.
He just pulled you along with him, back through the festival, past the lanterns, the laughter, the stalls you hadn’t gotten to see, the candied apple you never got back, all the way to the Shogun’s residence.
By the time you got back, everything felt colder.
The moment you were inside, you pulled your hand away from his without looking at him, going straight to your room to change out of the disguise, your movements quicker than usual, like if you stopped for even a second you’d start crying. When you were done, you went to your bed without waiting for him like you're used to, slipping under the blankets and curling into yourself, your back turned as you pulled the covers up higher.
It didn’t take long before the tears came quietly, your shoulders trembling slightly as you tried to keep the sound down, your fingers clutching the fabric near your chest as everything from earlier replayed in your head, the warmth of the festival, the way he had been smiling with carefree energy - one you didnt see from him for awhile now, the way it had all shifted so suddenly.
You had been happy, and then it was gone, just like that.
After a few moments, when the only sound heard in the room was your quiet sobs, a creak of a door opening changed that.
You didn’t move, even as you heard him step inside, the soft sound of the door closing behind him. There was a pause, like he was looking at you, taking in the way you were curled up, the way your breathing wasn’t steady.
The bed dipped slightly as he sat at the edge, and for a moment, he didnt say anything before-
“...Are you crying?” he muttered, quieter than before, like he wasn’t sure how to approach it.
You sniffed slightly, tightening the blanket around yourself. “sniff I’m not.”
He almost scoffed at that, you were shamelessly crying your sobs heard loud and clear, and you still had the audacity to lie - he doesn't know if she should find that annoying or pathetically adorable.
“...you’re a terrible liar,” he said flatly, though there was no real bite to it.
You didn’t respond this time, only turning your face further into the pillow like that would somehow hide it better.
Then you felt him move.
The mattress shifted again as he leaned closer, his hand coming to your shoulder, not rough this time, not like before, but still firm enough to turn you back toward him despite your weak resistance.
“Kuni- no..” you mumbled, your voice small, embarrassed, your hands instinctively trying to pull the blanket higher.
“Stop hiding,” he said, quieter now, his brows pulling slightly as he actually looked at you.
Your lashes were damp, your cheeks flushed, your lower lip trembling in a way you were trying - and failing - to control.
For a second, he just stared, then his hand moved.
He pushed himself closer, one hand bracing beside you as the other came up to your face, his thumb brushing just under your eye, catching one of the tears before it could fall further.
“...you’re still crying,” he murmured, softer now.
“I said I’m not,” you insisted weakly, your voice breaking anyway.
“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath.
Before you could react, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your eye.
You froze.
His lips lingered just long enough to catch the tear there before he pulled back slightly, only to lean in again, this time closer, brushing against the damp skin beneath your lashes, almost instinctively, like he was trying to get rid of them himself.
It caught you completely off guard.
“W-what are you doing-” you let out a small, shaky laugh despite yourself, your hands coming up to push lightly at his shoulder. “That’s weird-”
He clicked his tongue, though there was no real annoyance behind it.
“You’re the one crying everywhere,” he said, like that justified it entirely.
You huffed a small laugh at that, the sound uneven but real, your shoulders loosening just slightly as you pushed at him again. “Stop- Kuni-”
He didn’t move far, but he did pull back enough to look at you properly.
And for a second, it felt normal again.
The tension eased, the heaviness lifting just a little as the remnants of your laughter lingered between you.
But it didn’t last, this all felt so temporary, how could you bathe in these sweet moments when you don't know when he flips? Your smile wavered, your lower lip trembled again. You tried to look away before he could see it, but he already had.
There was a small pause before his hand shifted, tugging lightly at your sleeve.
You blinked, looking back at him, still a little teary, a little confused, “...what?”
He hesitated, just for a second but he still sighed, and reluctantly continued whatever he was planning to do, “...can you brush my hair?”
You blinked again, caught completely off guard. “..what?”
“Brush it,” he repeated, a little more direct this time, though his voice had lost its earlier sharpness. “Help me.”
You stared at him for a second like you were trying to process it, your expression softening without you realizing, “..now?”
“Yes, now,” he said, a little impatient, though it didn’t sound serious. “You like doing it, don’t you?”
Your expression brightened almost immediately, the sadness easing just enough as you pushed yourself up, nodding quickly.
“..okay.”
You slipped out from under the blankets, following him as he stood, your steps lighter now as you made your way to the vanity together. He sat down without another word, waiting, while you reached for the brush.
Your fingers wrapped around it before pausing.
It was the one you gave him. A simple comb, tinted faintly purple, your initials carved carefully alongside his.
For a moment, your chest tightened.
You remembered when you gave it to him, how he had looked then, how gentle he used to be.
Your expression wavered slightly.
Then you shook your head, small and quick, like pushing the thought away before it could settle, and stepped closer behind him.
You started brushing.
Slow, careful strokes, working through his hair, smoothing it out, easing through the small tangles without pulling too hard. The motion came naturally to you from the amount of times he used to ask you to brush his hair after you gifted him the brush, how bashful and embarrassed he used to be after asking you, your hands steady, gentle as you hummed softly under your breath.
He didn’t say anything, but unknown to you, in the mirror, his eyes softened, his shoulders dropping slightly. Yes, he asked you to brush his hair only to comfort you since he knew you liked being helpful to him, but this was for him as much as it was for you, even if he'll never admit it.
He leaned into it just a little, his expression shifting into something quieter, something almost meek, almost obedient, like he was letting himself relax completely under your touch.
It made you smile seeing your work in use for him, so you kept going, softer now, more focused, your fingers careful as you worked through the ends before a mischievous thought bubbled up, your hand shifted slightly, brushing his hair back from his neck.
The electro mark was exposed.
You paused for just a second before leaning down and pressing your lips against it. The kiss lingered, warm, a little firmer than it needed to be, almost feverish.
He inhaled sharply.
His entire body stilled, a faint flush rising up his neck, his fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the vanity.
You pulled back with a small smile, a little pleased, like you knew exactly what that did. You knew how insecure he is about it, how he brings his hand back to press that symbol whenever he felt stressed, as if the proof of him being made, not born, fueled his self-hatred.
Before you could say anything, his hand shot up, grabbing your wrist.
You blinked, surprised, your gaze meeting his as he turned slightly in his seat, pulling you closer.
And then he kissed you directly.
Your eyes widened, a soft, startled sound leaving you as you pulled back slightly. “...Kuni- wait- what are you-”
He didn’t let you get far.
His face stayed close to yours, his grip still around your wrist, his gaze locked onto you in a way that made your chest tighten.
“You were made for me,” he said quietly, like it was obvious, like it didn’t need explaining. “So stop looking at other people like that.”
Your breath caught.
“..I wasn’t-”
He didn’t let you finish, kissing you again.
This time deeper, more insistent, his hand tightening slightly as he pulled you closer. You hesitated for only a second before your resistance melted, your hands lifting slightly as you leaned into him without thinking.
Your breath hitched softly against his lips, your thoughts slipping as the kiss lingered, growing warmer, heavier, until he bit your lower lip, a small gasp escaped you.
And in that moment, he deepened it, closing the space further with his tongue, pushing it in to swirl it around yours, like he was testing how far he could go, like he was claiming something he had already decided was his.
By the time he pulled back, your expression was soft, dazed, your gaze unfocused as you looked at him, your lips slightly parted.
He watched you for a second before standing.
Without a word, he guided you down into the chair, switching places with you as he reached for the brush again.
“Give it to me,” he said simply.
You did.
He started brushing your hair the same way you had done for him, slower than usual, more careful than you expected, his fingers occasionally brushing against your neck to the matching electro symbol you have as well, as he worked through it.
A small, content, cute sound slipped from you before you could stop it, your shoulders relaxing as you leaned back slightly, your eyes lowering.
And just like that, you melted into it.
──── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ────
After that night, things didn’t go back to how they were before.
There was something new sitting between you, something unspoken and unsure but still soft, its better than before, definitely.
So when you went out again, dressed in a disguise and slipping into the streets like before, you found yourself smiling more than usual, your steps lighter as you wandered through the market, looking at things without urgency, simply enjoying being there.
You didn’t notice him until you walked straight into him.
The impact wasn’t hard, but enough to make you step back slightly, your balance falling back a little as your hands lifted instinctively.
“Oh- I’m so sorry,” he said immediately, his voice calm, soft in a way that felt as gentle as the winds breeze. He reached out slightly, steadying you before you could stumble further.
You blinked, looking up at him.
And paused.
There was something about him that stood out immediately, his red eyes, to his pale cream hair that had one red streak that matched his eye color, and how soft his expression looked - so calm even though you've bumped into him.
“It’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice softer now as you straightened. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
He gave a small nod at that, his hand dropping back to his side before you gave in to your curiosity.
“...are you from here?” you asked without thinking, tilting your head slightly as your gaze lingered on him, more specifically, the red streak in his hair, it was pretty unique.
He looked a little amused at that.
“What makes you think that?” he asked, his tone light, not offended, just curious.
You glanced at his outfit, then back at him.
“You don’t dress like everyone else,” you said, your gaze lingering on him for a moment longer. “Not like you’re from somewhere else, but... it feels different. Like you don’t stay in one place for long.”
He glanced down at himself briefly, then back at you, a faint hint of amusement in his expression.
“...is it that obvious?” he asked lightly.
You shook your head slightly. “Not obvious, just.. the way you carry things, and how your clothes are arranged. It looks practical, like you’re used to moving around a lot.”
That seemed to catch his interest.
“..that’s not wrong,” he admitted. “I travel often. I don’t stay in one place for long.”
“With someone?” you asked, your curiosity slipping through naturally.
He nodded slightly.
“With a friend,” he said. “We’ve been moving from place to place for a while now.”
Something about that felt... nice.
The idea of it.
Freedom.
You didn’t realize you had gone quiet until he spoke again.
“If you’re not busy,” he added, “would you like to join us? We’re staying at a nearby ramen stand. It’s not far.”
You hesitated instinctively.
“No, I don’t want to intrude,” you said, shaking your head lightly. “You’re with your friend, I shouldn’t-”
“It’s not an intrusion,” he replied calmly. “We wouldn’t have invited you if it was.”
You paused again. Then nodded, a little more hesitant this time.
“...okay.”
The walk there was quiet, but not uncomfortable, it felt like he was a quiet person by nature more than anything, so it was relaxing in a way. When you arrived, you were introduced to his friend, Tomo, who greeted you easily, his personality more open, more direct.
You sat with them, ate, and talked.
It wasn’t anything complicated, just simple conversation, small things, questions about where you were from, what you liked, what you did, things you answered carefully, not lying outright but not revealing too much either.
At some point, he asked your name.
You paused for just a second trying to think of a good name then-
“...Tsubaki,” you said.
There was a slight pause.
You could tell from the way his gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary, like he understood it wasn’t your real name, but he didn’t question it.
“...that suits you,” he said instead, letting it go easily.
And that was that.
When you left, you felt.. happy.
Genuinely.
That night, when you were already settled in bed, he noticed.
“Why are you so happy?” he asked, his voice quieter, but there was something observant in it.
You turned slightly toward him, the smile still lingering on your face.
“I met someone today,” you said simply. “His name is Kazuha. He’s a wanderer, he travels with his friend, and they invited me to eat with them. We talked for a while and it was really nice.”
There was a pause, you didn’t think anything of it, too trapped within your own happiness to see his annoyance.
“...is that so,” he said, his tone neutral.
You nodded, already settling back into the pillow, falling asleep completely oblivious to Kuni's gaze.
After that, it didn’t stop.
You met him again.
By coincidence at first, running into him in the market again, the conversation picking up easily like it hadn’t ended the first time. This time, it was simpler, walking together through stalls, trying small street foods, talking without hesitation.
You enjoyed it. But this time you didnt notice someone, a specific someone, seeing the interaction.
When you returned that night, the atmosphere was different.
You felt it immediately.
“What were you doing?” he asked, his voice calm, but there was something tight beneath it.
You paused slightly before answering, “I was just out,” you said. “I ran into Kazuha again, we were just talking-”
“You went out to see him again?” he cut in.
You frowned slightly, “It wasn’t planned,” you said. “We just met again.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he replied, sharper now, stepping closer as if the distance itself annoyed him. “You shouldn’t be going out like that.”
Your brows pulled together, “...why not?”
“Because you don’t understand what you are to other people,” he said, gaze locking onto you like there was no room left for anything else. “You were never made for them.”
You stiffened slightly, “What does that mean?”
Instead of answering verbally, he reached for your arm.
His fingers caught the sleeve of your kimono and pulled it back just enough to expose the doll joint beneath, his touch slowing there like it was familiar, like it was something he had memorized long ago. His thumb traced over it gently.
“You always used to do this,” he said quietly.
You blinked, “...what?”
“When I couldn’t sleep,” he continued, his voice lowering. “When I didn’t understand what I was, when I thought something was wrong with me.” His fingers stayed there, pressing lightly over the joint. “You would trace it like it made sense to you. Like you weren’t afraid of it.”
His gaze finally lifted to yours.
“Human hands would hesitate,” he added. “They would flinch. They would pretend not to see it or act like they don't think it's uncanny, an inanimate object made to mimic humans,”
His grip tightened just slightly on your sleeve.
“Do you think he would love you like this?” he asked.
You froze.
“He’s human,” he continued, voice steady, almost matter-of-fact, but with something sharper underneath. “He has a beginning and an end. A life that breaks in half the moment it starts. Do you think he would stay when he understands what you are? When he realizes you don’t end where he does?”
His fingers pressed lightly again against the joint, like hes trying to prove the point of what you are.
“And even if he did,” he went on more quietly, “it would still end the same way. He grows older. He forgets himself. He disappears.” His hand finally lowered. “You don’t.”
Your chest tightened.
“...then what am I supposed to do?” you asked, voice unsteady now. “Am I just supposed to not feel anything? Not talk to anyone? Not-”
“Let me,” he said.
You blinked, “...what?”
“Let me love you,” he repeated, slower this time, like it was the only answer that had ever made sense. “No one else is built for you. No one else stays. No one else understands what it means to exist like this.”
He stepped closer again.
“But I do.”
A pause.
“I know what you are,” he continued, softer now, almost certain in a way that left no space for doubt. “I know what I am. And I know we don’t break the same way they do.”
His hand lifted, briefly brushing your doll's joint on your wrist again like a habit he couldn’t unlearn.
“So don’t look for something temporary,” he said quietly. “When I’m already here.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty as the words lingered.
Your expression softened slowly, like something in you had stopped resisting, “...I love you too,” you said quietly.
──── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ────
Yae started noticing something.
You and him had always been close, that much was expected, encouraged even, something she herself had once pushed for, but this felt.. different. It wasn’t just proximity anymore, not just the way you stood beside him or followed where he went, eager to please, or how he always tried making time for you, it was in the way his attention lingered too long, the way your reactions came too naturally, like there was something unspoken being passed between you that no one else was meant to understand.
At first, she dismissed it.
It wasn’t unusual for the two of you to rely on each other, especially after everything that had happened. If anything, she had expected it. So she let it go, choosing not to look too deeply into something that could very well mean nothing at all.
But then she saw you in the garden.
It hadn’t been intentional. She had only been passing through, her attention elsewhere, she had personal matters to attend to, until movement beneath the sakura tree caught her eye. And when she looked-
She stopped.
You were on his lap.
No, it isn't that you had your head in his lap, sleeping, maybe you were fully straddled across him, your knees resting on either side of his waist, your pelvis pressed into his, your bodies close enough that there was no space left between you. Your hands rested loosely on his shoulders, his hands settled at your waist like it was the most natural place for them to be, like neither of you had thought twice about it.
You were talking to him softly.
Close enough that your faces nearly brushed when one of you leaned in just a little too far.
You weren’t kissing. Nothing about it was outright inappropriate.
But it didn’t matter, something about it felt wrong.
It sent a chill down her spine, something instinctive, something immediate that told her this was not what was supposed to happen.
She didn’t interrupt, nor did she make her presence known or confront either of you,
She just watched for a moment longer than she should have before turning away, her expression tightening slightly as she continued on like she hadn’t seen anything at all.
That was when she started paying attention.
Really paying attention.
It didn’t take long for more moments to reveal themselves, things that might have been brushed off before, things that no one else seemed to question.
One afternoon, she stepped into the kitchen, expecting to find servants preparing the next meal, only to pause when she realized it was just the two of you.
That wasn’t unusual, you had always liked cooking together, well, it was spending time together overall, but anyway. What was unusual was the way it played out.
You stood beside him, focused on what you were doing, your attention on the pot in front of you as you stirred carefully, unaware of the small smear of sauce left near the corner of your lip. You must have tasted it, and it smeared. He noticed it before you did, his gaze catching on it immediately as his hand lifted without hesitation.
He wiped it away with his thumb.
And instead of stopping there-
He brought it to his lips and licked it off.
You blinked at him for a second before letting out a small laugh, the sound light, unbothered, like there was nothing strange about it at all.
“Kuni- you could’ve just told me,” you said, smiling as you turned back to what you were doing.
He only clicked his tongue, looking away slightly like it didn’t matter.
Yae didn’t step in despite the weirded out expression she had on.
She simply turned and left.
Another time, she saw you walking through the halls together, your hand loosely held in his as he spoke about something in a low voice, your attention fixed entirely on him. That alone wasn’t new, but what caught her was the way he stopped mid-sentence, reaching up to adjust something in your hair that didnt need adjusting, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary, your expression softening immediately at the touch like it was something you enjoyed.
It was natural to you.
That was the problem.
The adjusting itself isn't necessarily weird, but as things stack up, underneath the normal display, things just feel off.
She started asking the servants after that, subtle at first, phrasing it like casual curiosity rather than concern.
“They work well together,” one servant said, not thinking much of it. “They’ve always been paired like that, haven’t they? It’s what they were made for.”
“They’re close,” another added, more thoughtful, though not suspicious. “The Archon relies on her. It makes sense.”
None of them hesitated or questioned it.
And that was what bothered her.
They didn’t see anything wrong, because to them, your closeness had always been explained away as duty. You were made for him, placed at his side from the beginning, shaped to assist him, to remain with him, to complete what he lacked. To everyone else, what they saw was simply the result of that design.
But Yae knew better.
That wasn’t what she had seen. That wasn’t what this was. Too close. - far too close.
That night, she decided to confirm it for herself.
She slipped into her kitsune form, sneaking into the estate, past the guards, and moved through the hallways with ease. She made her way toward your room first, expecting to find you there like usual.
It was empty.
That alone was enough to make her pause.
You should have been there.
Her ears twitched slightly as she listened, picking up on the faintest shift in presence somewhere deeper within the estate. She didn’t rush, but her movements became more deliberate as she followed it, slipping further in until she reached one of the inner rooms, one that opened out toward a quieter part of the garden, the window left slightly open as the night air drifted inside.
She only needed a glance.
She didn’t step in.
She didn’t need to.
Because the moment she had a peek,
She saw everything.
You were on a low futon, both of you completely naked. Kunikuzushi had you folded beneath him in a deep mating press, your legs pushed up and spread wide, knees nearly touching your shoulders.
His hips drew back slowly, the obscene glint of slick shining on his cock as it slid almost fully out of you. Then he pushed back in with one smooth, deliberate thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
A broken whine slipped from your lips. Your body squirmed beneath him, back arching as much as the position allowed, fingers clutching desperately at his shoulders. He leaned down, pressing soft, almost reverent kisses across your flushed face, your cheeks, your fluttering eyelids, the corner of your trembling mouth, while one hand rested possessively on your breast, thumb brushing over the nipple.
It wasn’t something that could be misunderstood.
It wasn’t something that could be excused as simple fondness of one another.
Her expression tightened, something sharp settling behind her eyes as she pulled back immediately, not giving herself time to look longer than necessary, even though she already did.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Not like this.
Not between the two of you.
Yes, she told Ei to make you both anatomically correct, to have you built as realistically as it could be, but she didnt think it would turn out like this.
She turned and left without hesitation, her pace quicker now, her thoughts already moving ahead.
This had gone too far.
And if she didn’t intervene now, it would only get worse.
The next day, she didn’t bother with formalities.
She entered the estate directly, her steps steady and authoritative as she made her way to his office without announcement. The door slid open with a little aggressiveness she couldn't hide.
He didn’t look up.
He sat on the floor like usual, documents spread around him, brush in hand as he continued writing, his posture composed, unaffected by her clearly irritated display that screamed you're in trouble.
“What,” he said flatly.
Yae stepped inside fully, the door closing behind her as her gaze settled on him, sharp and assessing.
“I’ve been hearing things,” she said, her tone light, but her eyes weren’t. “About you and your little companion. Tell me, just how close have the two of you become?”
He didn’t pause.
“Nothing has changed,” he replied calmly, his brush continuing across the paper. “You’ve seen how we’ve always been.”
She watched him for a moment, then tilted her head slightly.
“Is that so?” she hummed. “Then let me ask you something else.”
This time, there was a brief pause in his writing.
“If the time came,” she continued, her voice steady, deliberate, “would you take a wife?”
The question lingered in the air as he didn’t answer immediately, but his brush resumed, slower this time.
“If it was required,” he said, his tone neutral. “It would be done.”
Yae’s gaze didn’t leave him.
“And would you choose one yourself?” she asked instead, eyes narrowing, “Or would you have one chosen for you?”
There was a brief pause, but his brush didn’t stop this time, the ink continuing across the paper as if the question felt irrelevant.
“No,” he said simply. “A consort isn’t necessary. I can handle state affairs on my own.”
Yae watched him for a moment, her expression unreadable, before she crossed her arms over her chest, clearly unimpressed.
“Don’t try me, Kunikuzushi.”
His brush didnt stop, clearly not caring for whatever she had this time but-
“I saw you,” she said, the lightness gone completely now. “Last night, I saw everything clearly. Don't play dumb, I already know,”
That was when he looked up.
His expression unreadable but dark, his gaze meeting hers without flinching, without denial, not even a hint of surprise.
For the first time since she entered, he gave her his full attention.
“And what will you do?”
Yae blinked slightly at that, the question catching her off guard.
“What?”
He didn’t look away from her.
“And what exactly will you do about it?” he repeated, his tone calm, but there was something else sitting underneath it now, something firmer. “You’re the one who told Ei to make her in the first place. You pushed for it. You said I needed someone, didn’t you? Someone to stand beside me, someone to stabilize me. You made her for me.”
His gaze didn’t waver.
“So what exactly is the problem now?”
Yae’s expression tightened, her composure slipping just slightly. “Kunikuzushi, don’t start twisting this into something it’s not. That’s not what she was made for, and you know it.”
He let out a quiet scoff, setting his brush down this time.
“She’s mine,” he said plainly. “That was the entire point. Or did you forget your own reasoning?”
“That doesn’t mean-”
“And did you really think I’d take a human as a wife?” he cut in, his voice sharper now, something irritated slipping through. “Some fragile thing that would wither in a few decades? Something I’d have to watch die while I stayed the same?”
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing.
“No one is worthy of that position,” he continued, more quietly now, but more certain. “No one except her. We were made the same, we’ll remain the same, and we’ll exist for the same length of time. There’s no replacement for that, no replacement for how she treated me, for how pathetically adorable she is, so eager to help me in more than one way.”
Yae’s patience snapped at his clearly disgusting implication.
“Kuni, don’t you dare try to justify this,” she said sharply, stepping forward now, her tone losing all pretense of lightness. “This is wrong, you-”
“We what?” he cut in immediately, his expression flattening. “Say it properly.”
Her jaw tightened, “You’re crossing a line.”
He stared at her for a second before letting out a quiet, almost amused breath.
“Are you implying we’re siblings?” he asked, his tone edged with something mocking now. “We don’t have blood, Yae. We don’t have biology. We don’t even have real bodies in the way humans do. So what exactly are you trying to compare this to?”
That was it.
Something in her expression hardened completely.
“I’m taking her,” she said.
He paused, and the shift in the room was immediate.
“What?”
“I said I’m taking her,” she repeated, her voice firm now, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “You’ve taken this too far.”
His gaze sharpened, irritation settling fully now, “No, you won’t.”
“Try me,” she shot back without hesitation. “By the time the sun sets, you’re on your own, Kunikuzushi.”
Before he could respond, she turned and left, slamming the door shut behind her.
──── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ────
That night before the sun fully set, she didn’t wait.
She moved through the estate unseen again, careful this time because the servants haven't fully left, so she kept avoiding them, slipping through the halls without leaving a trace. She didn’t need anyone witnessing this.
By the time she reached your room, everything was quiet.
You were inside, seated at the vanity, gently brushing through your hair, your movements slow and absentminded, unaware of anything beyond the routine.
The door slid open.
Before you could react, her hand caught your wrist roughly.
You let out a small, pained sound as she pulled you up to your feet without warning.
“Wha- Yae? What are you doing?” you asked, confused, your voice unsteady as you tried to pull back slightly.
“We have to go,” she said quickly, her grip not loosening. “Now.”
“Huh? Why-?”
She didn’t answer as she kept pulling you toward the door.
You stumbled slightly trying to keep up, your confusion growing as her urgency made no sense to you, your free hand instinctively reaching for her arm.
“Yae, wait- what’s going on? Why do we have to-”
She stopped, not because she felt the need to explain to you what happened but because he was already there.
Standing in the doorway and blocking it.
He looked at the two of you, his eyes half-lidded, a small smile resting on his lips, but there was nothing soft about it. It sat wrong, the kind of expression that didn’t reach his eyes at all.
Yae didn’t flinch.
“Move,” she said flatly.
He tilted his head slightly, “And why would I do that?”
“Don’t play dumb,” she replied, her grip on you tightening slightly as she pulled you a step back behind her. “You know exactly why. Move.”
Thats when he opened his eyes fully, the smile gone, a dark glint on his indigo eyes.
“What,” he said slowly, “so you can take what’s mine?”
His gaze flickered to you briefly before returning to her, something darker settling in it.
“No,” he continued, his voice lowering. “I don’t think so.”
Yae shifted, pushing you back slightly behind her.
“Kunikuzushi-”
He didn’t let her finish because the moment she moved-
He struck.
The first hit came too fast to anticipate, cutting through the air and landing before she could react properly, the current snapping through her body as it locked for a second, a sharp breath forced out of her as her footing staggered. It wasn’t that she couldn’t fight back, it was that she hadn’t expected it, and that single moment was enough.
She shoved you further back immediately.
“Stay back-!”
Her vision flared in response, energy pushing outward as she forced herself to counter, the air cracking between them as she blocked the next strike, but it didn’t fully stop it, the current still slipping through enough to make her body jerk again, her stance breaking as she dropped to one knee.
He didn’t rush or hesitate.
Another strike followed, stronger this time, the power behind it heavier, the kind that didn’t leave room to recover easily.
“The first one should have been enough for you to understand,” he said, his voice even as he stepped closer, completely unbothered by her attempts to steady herself. “But I suppose I expected too much.”
She tried to push herself up again, her movements slower now, her breath uneven as the aftershock still ran through her.
He continued like it was nothing.
“I know kitsune are supposed to be clever,” he said, almost conversational, another surge of electro building in his hand, “but this is a bit much, don’t you think? Sneaking around, trying to steal something that doesn’t belong to you.”
Another strike landed.
This one forced her fully to the ground.
“Aren’t Tanuki's the ones known for stealing?” he added, clicking his tongue lightly as he watched her struggle. “It’s disappointing, really. A Kitsune - something that represents Inazuma - acting like that and a shrine maiden at that.”
She still tried to move, tried to get back up but she was too weak now, her movements slow.
He stepped forward, stopping right in front of her.
“Stealing from the Raiden Shogun of this land,” he continued, his tone lowering slightly, something sharper settling into it now, “do you know what that’s called?”
His foot lifted-
And came down hard, pinning her head against the ground before she could move again.
“Treason.”
The word settled heavy.
“And you know what happens to people who commit treason, don’t you?” he went on, his voice steady, almost calm in a way that made it worse. “They’re executed.”
There was no pause after that. No hesitation as he pressed down harder.
A wet, sickening crack split the air as her skull gave way beneath his foot. Bone shattered like porcelain, and dark blood gushed out in thick, hot spurts, splattering across the floorboards and soaking into the edges of her outfit. It pooled quickly under her head, glossy and crimson in the dim light, her pink ears twitching once before going completely still.
And that was it.
“You’ve overstepped,” he finished flatly, his foot still resting there, grinding slightly into the ruined mess even after she was long gone.
Then he looked up to glance back at you and smiled, like this was normal, like he didnt just crush someone's head in front of you.
Your hands were already covering your mouth, your breathing uneven, eyes wide. And the moment he took one step towards you, you instinctively stepped back.
His expression shifted immediately.
“...why are you moving away?” he asked, the smile fading, something sharper replacing it.
You didn’t answer, taking another step back, smaller this time as a small broken sound slipped from your lips, something akin to a scared whine.
He paused as annoyance flickered across his face.
“Why are you acting like that?” he said, more firmly now, stepping forward again, closing the space you tried to make. “Why are you scared?”
That made something in you snap.
“Scared?” you repeated, your voice shaking, your hands dropping from your face as you looked at him properly now. “You- you just killed her. Right in front of me. And you’re asking why I’m scared? Are you fucking serious Kuni?”
His brows pulled slightly, like he didn’t like the way you said that.
“She was trying to take you,” he replied, like that explained everything. “What was I supposed to do? Let her?”
“She wasn’t doing anything wrong!” you shot back immediately, your voice rising without you meaning it to. “She was probably trying to help-”
“Help?” he cut in, his tone dropping. “By taking you away from me?”
“Yes!” you snapped before you could stop yourself, your chest tightening. “Maybe she should have, if this is how you’re going to act!”
The moment the words left your mouth, his expression hardened as something in his gaze went cold.
“...you don’t mean that,” he whispered, voice laced with disbelief.
“I do,” you insisted, even if your voice wavered. “What is wrong with you? You weren’t like this before. You weren’t- you didn’t-” your words caught, your breath hitching as everything started catching up to you all at once. “You didn’t hurt people like this.”
“I did what was necessary,” he replied flatly. “You just didn’t see it before.”
“That doesn’t make it okay!”
“It does if it keeps you here.”
The way he said it was so simple, like your freedom was nothing to him at all made your stomach twist.
“You can’t just decide that!” you said, your voice breaking now. “You can’t just decide that I don’t get to choose anything, that I don’t get to talk to people, that I don’t get to leave-”
“You don’t need to,” he cut in again, sharper now. “No one else is needed. It’s just us. It’s always been just us.”
“That’s not true!”
“It is,” he insisted, stepping closer again, his presence overwhelming in a way it hadn’t been before. “Who else has stayed with you this long? Who else understands you? Who else even can?”
You didn’t answer.
Because you knew.
And he knew you knew.
Yae only stayed around for duty, her loyalty to your creator - your mother, is what kept her around, she doesn't particularly care about either of you personally she just cares about keeping inazuma safe for Ei, and talking about her, your "mother" dosent care about either of you too, she made you for her selfish wish of throwing her responsiblities to someone else, all other humans lived and died right before your eyes. You only had him.
“We were made like this,” he continued, his voice lowering, more controlled now, but no less intense. “You and me. The same. We don’t leave. We don’t change. We don’t disappear like they do.”
His hand reached for your wrist, gripping it, not as rough as before, but firm enough that you couldn’t pull away.
“So stop trying to act like you belong with them,” he said. “You don’t - we don't.”
The adrenaline that had been holding you up, that made you argue, started to fade quickly.
Your chest tightened, your breathing hitching as everything crashed down at once, your vision blurring as tears gathered before you could stop them. Your other hand came up shakily, fingers brushing over your wrist where his grip held you, tracing the visible doll joint there.
“...then why?” you whispered, your voice breaking, your fingers pressing lightly against it. “Why were we made to feel anything at all?”
He didn’t interrupt.
You looked down at your own arm, your thumb dragging slowly over the seam, your shoulders trembling as the tears started falling properly now.
“This isn’t fair,” you continued, your voice cracking as the words came faster. “I feel things the same way they do. I think the same way they do. I want things the same way they do, so why, why does it matter so much that I’m like this?” your grip on your own wrist tightened. “I’m not any less than them just because I have this.”
Your breathing hitched.
“So why does it feel like I am?”
For a moment, he just looked at you.
Then his grip shifted, loosening just enough for his hand to slide over yours where it held your wrist, stopping you from pressing into it any harder.
“You’re not less,” he said, quieter now.
Your gaze flickered up.
“You’re more,” he corrected, his thumb brushing over the joint you were so focused on, “You don’t break. You don’t fade. You don’t get left behind by time like they do.”
His hand guided yours away from your wrist slightly, not letting you keep staring at it like that.
“And you think that’s cruel?” he continued, his voice steady, like he genuinely didn’t understand why you were hurting over it. “To exist without that weakness?”
“I didn’t ask for it,” you said immediately, your voice shaking. “I didn’t ask to feel everything and still be.. different.”
“You didn’t need to ask,” he replied. “You were made exactly the way you’re supposed to be.”
Your brows pulled together, tears still slipping down your face.
“For you?” you whispered, the words coming out before you could stop them.
There was no hesitation.
“Yes.”
The answer came too easily - too naturally.
“And I was made to be incomplete without you,” he added, his gaze not leaving yours. “So why are you looking anywhere else?”
Your breath caught.
“I don’t want you to look at yourself like something’s wrong,” he continued, quieter now, his hand still over yours, grounding it. “Not when I’ve seen every part of you and never once thought that, just how you didn't see me as any less.”
His thumb brushed lightly over your wrist again.
“You didn’t pull away from me,” he said. “So don’t expect me to do it to you.”
Your chest tightened further at that, your emotions tangling together until you couldn’t separate them anymore.
“What happened to you..” you whispered, your voice small now, breaking. “Kuni, you’re- you’re so mean now. You weren’t like this. Why do you keep hurting people like this..?”
For a second, something in his expression flickered, he wanted to say how other people ask - no beg to be hurt from their own idiocy from their own superiority, like a heartbeat is what makes them superior when it's the very thing that stops them from achieving immortality. But he didnt say any of that, instead-
“..I told you,” he said, quieter now. “I’ll make it up to you.”
Before you could respond, he sat down at the edge of the bed first, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. Then, without giving you time to react, he pulled you forward onto his lap in one smooth motion, your legs over his to the side. Your balance caught instinctively as your hands came up to steady yourself against him.
His hand came up to your face, holding your cheek, his thumb brushing just under your eye where tears had gathered.
“You’re still crying,” he muttered, almost under his breath.
“Kuni-” you started, your voice unsteady, your body still tense-
He didn’t let you finish.
He leaned in and kissed you.
You made a small sound against his lips, more of a whine than anything, your hands instinctively pressing weakly against him, not enough to push him away, just enough to show the hesitation still there.
He didn’t stop.
His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you, the kiss deepening despite the way your breathing still hitched, your fear not fully gone.
“Stop thinking about it,” he murmured against your lips, not really giving you the chance to. “Just stay.”
His hand shifted, sliding down to your thigh, gripping it before lifting it slightly, guiding your leg on the other side over his lap until you were properly straddling him now, your light yukata lifting over from the movement, exposing your legs as he pressed your pelvis against his.
You gasped softly at the movement, your hands catching onto him more firmly this time.
He took advantage immediately, pulling you back into the kiss, slower this time, more sensual, like he was trying to overwrite the violence and blood with something else.
While his mouth moved against yours, one hand sneaked up under the hem of your pulled-up yukata, palm gliding over the curve of your ass.
When you gasped again at the contact, he deepened the kiss, tongue slipping past your lips to tangle with yours. It turned into a slow, heated make-out, tongues sliding together. Neither of you needed to breathe - being puppets -, so the kiss went on and on, deep and consuming.
His other hand moved from your cheek to the back of your skull, fingers threading through your hair as he pressed you closer into the kiss, holding you there firmly.
Under the yukata, his fingers found the edge of your panties. He tugged lightly at the fabric, then paused.
“Lift your hips for me,” he murmured against your lips, voice low and gentle.
You obeyed without thinking, raising yourself just enough. He slid your panties down your thighs in one smooth motion, letting them catch at your knees before they slipped further. The cool air brushed against your now-bare pussy, making you shiver.
Only then did his fingers reach down. The first slow stroke of his fingertips through your folds had you whimper softly into his mouth, making him smile into the kiss. He circled your clit gently at first, then rubbed two fingers against your entrance, smearing your own slick on yourself before he pushed both digits inside you, curling them deliberately.
He explored with patience, each downstroke of his fingers working through your walls, pressing and rubbing against that sensitive spot inside that made your thighs tremble and vision blur.
“Ahh- Kuni...” you whined cutely, the sound small and shaky even though you didn’t need air.
“You’re getting so wet already.. One of the only things she did right is making you automatically correct... who could've thought a pretty little doll could get this soaked?” he purred between kisses, voice low and velvety. “Just for me. You were made for this, weren’t you? Made for me.”
Your chest tightened. The pleasure felt good - too good - but the memory of the sickening crack and the dark blood gushing across the floor flashed again.
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes even as you rocked against his hand.“Kuni... I saw-” you started, voice breaking into a soft gasp as his fingers curled harder.
“Shh. Don’t think about her,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You’re mine. Ei made you for me. Not for this world, not for anyone else. Just me and she tried to take that.”
Before you could reply, he pulled his fingers out slowly, the loss making you whine in protest.
Without hesitation, he brought his slick-covered fingers up to his lips. His tongue slipped out, slowly licking a long stripe up his index and middle finger, savoring the taste of your slick with lazy laps. He even closed his lips around one digit for a moment, sucking it clean while his indigo eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time.
You stared back at him, wide-eyed, the display so lewd it would have made you burn with embarrassment if your mind wasn’t already fogged over with pleasure. Instead, all you could do was let out a tiny, mortified whimper.
After watching him for a few seconds, before you could stop yourself, you asked-
“...What does it taste like?”
Kunikuzushi raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your question. Then a faint, mischievous spark lit in his eyes as an idea formed.
“Wanna try for yourself?” he murmured, voice low and teasing.
You - already flushed from the question you asked and not wanting to embarrass yourself further - nodded slowly, though that wasn't all, you were curious, being both puppets, artificial in every way. What did something like this even taste like to beings like you?
He brought his slick-coated fingers slowly in front of your mouth, tapping your lips slightly in a silent instruction to “open up.”
You parted your lips slightly, tongue slipping out as you started in small, kittenish licks - tentative and shy at first. You dragged your tongue along his fingers, tasting... Nothing.
There was no real flavor at all, only a faint, neutral wetness. It felt strange, almost disappointing in how empty it was.
You blinked up at him, still licking slowly. “It... it doesn’t taste like anything,” you whispered, a tiny pout forming on your lips between licks. “Just.. wet.”
He let out a soft, amused huff.
“Exactly,” he murmured, watching you clean his fingers with those delicate little licks. “Because you were made for me. Nothing about you is supposed to be for anyone else’s senses.. only mine.”
Then he rested both hands on your hips so you don't squirm as he started grinding up against you, the friction of his clothed cock rubbing right against your soaked pussy drawing more helpless sounds from your throat.
“Mmm.. haa.... Kuni..” you gasped, hips twitching despite the guilt twisting in your chest.
With one hand still steady on your hip, he reached between you and undid the obi of your yukata, letting the fabric fall open and slide down your shoulders, baring your skin.
His darkened gaze dropped to the swell of your breasts, taking self-indulgent glances before he took your arm gently, lifting your wrist to his lips, kissing the delicate doll joint there, then each finger one by one, then the joint at your elbow, soft, worshipful presses against the places where porcelain met synthetic flesh.
The tenderness made your breath hitch. Before he could say anything else, you leaned in closer, fingers threading into his indigo hair. You tugged his head back gently and pressed your lips to the back of his neck, right over the glowing Electro symbol.
Your reverent kiss made something in him snap.
A low, feral sound rumbled in his chest. In one swift motion, he shrugged off his own yukata, letting it fall off his shoulders as he pulled down his briefs. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed, already leaking precum. Guiding your hips forward so the head of his cock is probing against you before he started smearing his precum over your entrance.
The blunt pressure made you both sigh.
For a moment he just held you there, tip pressed against you.
Then, slowly, he began to push in - inch by careful inch. You felt every ridge, every stretch as he filled you. When he finally bottomed out, fully seated inside you, both of you were slightly breathless in that strange puppet way.
“..There,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours, voice rough. “Just feel me. Don’t think about anything else.”
He stayed still for a few heartbeats, letting the fullness settle deep inside you. Then he started moving, slow drags of his cock pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, the withdrawal wet and obscene. His hands guided your hips at first, pulling you up and down on his cock. Gradually, your own movements joined his. You rose and fell on him without fully realizing it at first, grinding yourself down onto his length.
A soft, shaky whimper left you.“Kuni.. I can’t stop seeing it..” you whispered brokenly, tears slipping down your cheeks even as pleasure bloomed inside you.
Kunikuzushi’s grip on your hips tightened, but his voice stayed low and soothing against your ear, “Shh... let me fix it” he murmured, “You’re doing so well for me.”
The pace quickened as he buried himself to the hilt with every thrust now, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filling the room. Your breathing hitched into small, needy gasps feeling his tip hit against your g-spot in every thrust.
“It feels.. so good.. but she ah-” you whimpered, the words catching as another deep thrust made your voice crack. “Kuni.. I saw the blood..”
“That’s it.. just like that,” he whispered encouragingly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Focus on me, she dosent matter,”
Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter until it finally snapped. You came hard around him, clenching and pulsing with a soft, broken cry, “Kuni-!”
Your body trembling uncontrollably in his lap as fresh tears spilled over.
He wasnt too far behind, the moment you clenched around him his hips jerked up once, twice, and then he came too, burying himself as deep as possible while he spilled inside you with a low groan.
You felt every pulse as he filled you with his release.
Both of you were panting softly, chests rising and falling out of habit more than need, when you felt him twitch and harden again almost immediately, still buried deep inside your slick, cum-filled pussy.
“Kuni...!” you protested weakly, voice shaky and tired.
He only grinned against your skin, something dark and hungry flickering in his indigo eyes. “Maybe I’m not done yet,” he murmured. “Let me have my share of you.”
Before you could say anything else, he flipped you onto your back on the bed, pressing you down into the sheets. The pace changed completely. He started fucking you harder, deeper, the wet sounds of his cock driving into your cum-slicked cunt echoing louder in the room. You lost count of how many times you came that night, each orgasm blurring into the next, your voice growing hoarse from crying out his name between broken sobs and whimpers.
At some point he turned you over again, pushing your chest down against the bed so your ass was raised high, your face buried in the sheets. He fucked you from behind with rough, relentless thrusts, one hand pressed firmly between your shoulder blades to keep you in place while the other gripped your hip hard enough to leave faint marks on your synthetic skin.
You were a trembling, overstimulated mess by the end, “No more... Kuni, no more..” you whimpered desperately, voice cracking as another wave threatened to crash over you.
He buried himself to the hilt one last time, groaning deeply as he came again, pulsing and flooding you with even more of his seed for what felt like the millionth time that night. Only then did he finally slow down.
He pulled out slowly, a thick trail of mixed cum dripping from your abused cunt onto the sheets. Your body collapsed fully onto the bed, exhausted and trembling, unable to hold yourself up any longer.
Kunikuzushi didn’t care about the mess. He simply gathered you into his arms, pulling your limp body against his chest and holding you close. His hand stroked gently down your back, fingers tracing the delicate joints along your spine.
“Sleep,” he whispered against the top of your head, voice softer now, almost tender.
You could still feel the warm stickiness between your thighs and the way his cum slowly leaked out of you, but his arms were secure and warm around you.
“..it’s just us, right?” you asked quietly.
His hold tightened slightly.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just us.”
With your head tucked under his chin and his steady presence surrounding you, exhaustion finally won. Your eyes fluttered shut as you drifted off in his embrace.
──── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ────
Tsubaki (椿): primarily symbolizes deep, devoted love, quiet affection, and unwavering loyalty. Often associated with love that is both gentle and consuming, the camellia’s way of falling whole rather than petal by petal reflects a connection that does not fade slowly, but ends all at once, making it a symbol of enduring bonds and intensity beneath softness.
Scara is the undisputed king of high-stakes gaming, a streamer who thrives in the darkest corners of Resident Evil speedruns and the high-pressure lobbies of Valorant where his mechanical precision is matched only by his biting wit. His room is a fortress of sharp angles and cold neon lighting, a dark sanctuary where the only sound is the frantic clatter of his mechanical keyboard and his own voice cutting through the tension. He is the "sweaty" gamer personified, a man who treats a single missed headshot as a personal failing, leading to legendary "rage-quits" that are usually followed by him staring into the camera with a look of pure, focused disdain.
"Are you seeing this? My crosshair was literally on his skull," Scara snaps at his chat, his eyes narrowed as he watches a replay of a lost round. He leans back, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on his desk while the chat fills with "L" spams and laughing emotes. "The hitbox in this game is a joke. Anyone who says otherwise is coping or silver-ranked, and quite frankly, I don't have the patience to explain the difference to you today." He’s mid-sentence when the sound of a soft door-creak echoes through his high-end mic, and the jagged edge of his expression blunts instantly. You wander into the frame, blinking sleepily against the harsh red glow of his setup, carrying a plate of sliced apples.
"You’re still at it?" you ask, your voice a soft, lo-fi contrast to the aggressive electronic music pumping through his headset. You lean down, resting your chin on his shoulder and peering at the screen where a tactical map is covered in frantic pings. Scara doesn't look away from the monitor, but he shifts his chair just an inch to the left, creating a space for you to lean into. "Eat an apple, Scara. You’ve been surviving on caffeine and spite for four hours." He lets out a huff that’s supposed to sound like a dismissal, but he obediently opens his mouth as you hold out a slice. "Spite is a very efficient fuel source," he mutters around the fruit, his voice losing that sharp, performative bite.
The whiplash of switching between your tabs is a rite of passage for your fans. One moment, they're watching him scream at a zombie-infested hallway, and the next, they are watching you spend forty-five minutes deciding which shade of blue looks best for your character's flower garden. Your world is built on the foundation of lo-fi beats, pastel-colored overlays, and games where the primary objective is usually to decorate a house or organize a virtual shelf. Your community is a sanctuary of kindness, a place where people come to decompress from the very kind of stress that Scara’s channel produces in bulk. During your occasional co-op streams, this clashing of worlds becomes a comedy of errors that usually ends with him accidentally proving how much he adores your "boring" hobbies.
"Why are we standing here? The sun is going down, we’re losing daylight," Scara’s avatar says in Stardew Valley, pacing circles around your character who is currently staring at a fence post. "Scara, I'm trying to decide if the wooden fence or the stone fence looks more 'cottage-core,'" you reply calmly, clicking through your inventory. He stops his character and stares directly at you. "It’s a fence. Its purpose is to keep the livestock from escaping. The wooden one is cheaper to craft and easier to replace. This isn't a diplomatic summit, it’s a farm." You let out a small giggle, placing a wooden post down and then immediately breaking it. "But the stone one has such a nice texture."
He lets out a long, theatrical groan, leaning his head back against his chair and staring at the ceiling for his camera to see. "I am a professional. I have a 1.8 K/D in one of the hardest shooters on the market. And yet, here I am, debating the 'texture' of a 16-bit rock with a woman who hasn't even upgraded her watering can yet." Despite the complaining, he spends the next hour silently gathering all the stone you need, clearing your entire farm of debris with the same terrifying efficiency he uses to clear a bomb site. When you finally finish the fence and tell him it looks "perfect," he just mumbles, "Whatever. I’m going to go get more wood so you can waste that on the 'aesthetic' too," while his character icon practically dances around yours in circles.
The "Scare Swap" events are perhaps the most anticipated nights of the year, where you are forced to play one of his horror games while he sits beside you as a "guide." You’re currently trembling through a corridor in Resident Evil, the flashlight beam on the screen flickering as your hand shakes. "I don't like this, Scara, I don't like the breathing noises," you whisper, your character frozen in a doorway. Scara is sitting just out of frame, his eyes glued to your screen, and while he’ll make snarky comments about your "terrible aim," his hand is resting firmly on the back of your chair. "Just walk forward. You have three shotgun shells and a knife. Even if you miss every shot, I’ve seen you win a fistfight with a slime, you'll be fine," he says, his voice dropping to a low, grounding murmur.
Suddenly, a monster crashes through a window, and you let out a genuine shriek, dropping the controller onto your lap and covering your eyes. Scara doesn't laugh instead he leans in closer his chest pressing against your shoulder as he reaches for the controller. "Hey, breathe. It’s just pixels," he says, his tone shifting into something surprisingly tender that his chat has never heard before. He doesn't take over the game entirely; he just puts his hands over yours, guiding your thumbs on the joysticks. "See? We’re just going to turn around, go through the door, and ignore him. Don't look back. I’ve got you." The chat goes into a frenzy, but he doesn't care, his focus entirely on the way your breathing hitches against his neck.
His protectiveness extends far beyond the gameplay, as he is secretly the most terrifying moderator your "cozy" channel has ever seen. While he maintains his persona as a lone wolf, he spends his off-time lurking in your stream, his dark room illuminated by the soft glow of your pastel-pink world. If a viewer ever dares to make a disparaging comment about your "boring" content, they get a direct, scathing call-out from him. "Hey, user99, I see you in the other chat saying this stream is 'sleep-inducing,'" Scara says during his own live broadcast, leaning into his mic with a predatory grin. "If you’re too mentally overstimulated to appreciate a well-organized storage chest, that sounds like a personal deficiency. Go watch a subway surfers clip and leave her alone before I ban you from my channel too."
There’s a legendary clip from a late-night stream where Scara was deep into a "no-hit" run of a notoriously difficult boss, his focus so intense that he hadn't blinked in what seemed like minutes. You wandered in, still half-asleep and wearing a fluffy robe, completely oblivious to the fact that he was at the final boss of a five-hour challenge. You leaned over and rested your head on his shoulder, mumbling, "Scara, I can't find the remote, and the bed is cold." Without a second of hesitation, he let go of the controller, effectively letting the boss kill him and failing the challenge just to wrap an arm around you and pull you into his lap. The chat went silent as the "Game Over" screen flashed, only for Scara to look into the camera with a bored expression.
"What are you looking at? The run was dead anyway," he lies easily, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your arm while you nestle into his chest. "Go to sleep, chat. I have better things to do than entertain people who can't even parry a basic attack." He ends the stream abruptly, the screen going black, but the fans know exactly what happened next. This constant push and pull between his high-octane professional life and your serene influence is what makes your dynamic the crown jewel of the community. You are the only person who can make him "rage-quit" not out of anger, but because you mentioned you were lonely, and he is the only person you allow to ruin your "aesthetic" with his tactical spreadsheets.
pairing: The Kabukimono/Kunikuzushi/Scaramouche/Wanderer x Reader
synopsis: In which, you, his lover of 300 years, begs to have your branch in Irminsul erased. This was followed after his own erasure and restoration in your mind. He then reminisces on his years with you, where you had loved each and every version of him.
genre: angst & fluff warnings: Implications of depression and suicide. Mentions of murder, massacres, human experiments, and mutilation. also one photo from the visual aids might be considered a jumpscare.
author’s note: this is my first fic and i'm quite nervous. so if you can, please enjoy this scenario I've had on my mind forever. if it isn't a hassle, the music is what i believed suited the vibe of each segment of the story, thank you!
wordcount: 11.6k words
masterlist my introduction!
"erase me as you did for yourself..."
He stared at you with disbelief. Did he hear that right? Surely you were jesting; you did joke around. You would say the most absurd of words and laugh without a care in the world. Though that was the thing, you did care. People always said that the loudest of people were the loneliest of all. He knew that much, after all, he did spend centuries with you, with that, he knew you better than anyone.
So why didn’t he see this coming? This is exactly what families and friends say upon the death of their loved ones. It was always stated that whoever had passed was such a joyous person; what would possess them to do such a thing?
So here he was, staring at you in shock. After all, you were one of the few people able to do so, in fact, the first. One of the many reasons he loved you.
‘What did you say..?’ His face contorted into shock from your words, disbelief from the implication, and anger from the betrayal.
‘You are neither deaf nor stupid, you heard me.’ Those words struck; it was a sign of how well you knew him. Every phrase, reply, or insult. You knew it all. To simply erase everything? How could you do such a thing?
‘I’m not, but you definitely are. Erase yourself? What the fuck are you talking about?’ He snaps back at you. You stopped being afraid of his glare long ago. Each time he did, you would be the angel that balanced his demonic attitude. Though you glared at him back, he never saw such anger in you. Of course, bickering, arguments, and fights occurred. How could it not after more than 300 years together? But this was new, or at least he thought it was.
‘I told you to erase me like how you did to yourself. Erase me from Irminsul.’
‘Why? Why the hell- why the fuck would you ask for that?’
‘Why not? You did it. You erased yourself from the whole world! Had it not been for the Traveler and Lesser Lord Kusanali, I would have forgotten you, too.’
‘That’s different!’ He argued, trying to defend himself, but honestly? It hurt. After all the arguments, the talks from our hearts, he still didn’t let go of his pride.
‘How is it any different? Tell me! How is it any different?!’ Yelling came from the voice that was once so sweet. A voice now tainted with hurt and anguish.
‘Because I was a coward! You know me, you’ve known me for so long! My sins and what I’ve done. Everything that I did, everyone that I knew…I ran away from-’
‘me! ME, of all people, Kuni!’ You screamed, clutching your chest. Betrayal was what you thought in the time that came. You never uttered it out loud, but that was how you felt. He had betrayed you, left you without a single memory of him. To you, it was the worst form of abandonment.
‘You were built on your hate for abandonment…the three people who betrayed you, who left you! But you turn around and do the same!’
‘You don’t get it, [Name]. I HAD to do it. It was me running away from what I did. You know what I’ve done. As Kunikuzushi, as Scaramouche, The Balldeer! I was a monster! Erasing myself from Irminsul was the only way to repent for my mistakes. My victims aren’t coming back from the dead, I know that. By making everyone forget…allowing those silver branches to rewrite history around me…can my acts be atoned for…’
You should have felt happy, you know, you should have. Your lover came back from what you called something even worse than death. Yet why couldn’t you feel as such? You knew exactly why, and it was because he chose to leave you behind. Worst of all, you didn’t even notice. Imagine that, walking around and knowing something is wrong, knowing something was missing. The void as deep as the Abyss that corrupted the whole of Teyvat. Your mind wrecking itself as it tried to make sense of the change that no one bothered to analyze. Your heart missing who made it whole, but never knowing who did so.
He promised, you reasoned in your head. Scaramouche wouldn’t have cared if anyone forgave him. It was you who stood by him for almost three centuries. As much as you would deny it, you two were dependent on each other, two puzzle pieces that made the fit, but from chance.
You remember exactly how you met him. You, a creature of unknown origins with a story written to themself who met a puppet who was making history with each step he took in the land of Inazuma.
Light did not seep into this cave that the wandering eccentric had entered. The darkness offered no comfort, and he believed he did not need such. The Kabukimono was taught many things, lessons he may not need, as he was not human. He needn’t eat, sleep, or even breathe.
Yet, in the dimness of this space, he struck flint together to light his lantern to offer a flicker to see. A skill taught to him by whom he once thought as a friend, Niwa Hisahade, his found family. An ability he used to burn away a home he shared with another who reminded him of himself, a young boy who ended up betraying him. Just like his mother, and just like Niwa.
Upon the gleam of the lantern shining over a small portion of the cave, water flowed by his feet. He remembered what humans used to do when all covered in grime and soot, especially bladesmiths who endured the heat of furnaces and remnants of coal and iron; they bathed. Again, he had no need for such activities, but why care?
Honestly, what was the point? What was his purpose of living if his birthright to the Electro Archon’s gnosis was taken? What was the point if the people whom he thought were his family left him for dead? What was the point if the last person dear to him abandoned him, too? He didn’t care, he didn’t fucking care, he thought as he removed most of his garments to sink into the water.
Emptiness wasn’t the word to describe how he felt now that he thought about it. He would deny it vehemently if someone asked him if he felt pain from what happened. Yet who would ask him that? He was alone now, and he would make it stay that way.
The Kabukimono was constantly reminded of what was supposed to be his. One was the power sealed within him. What would it be like to wield the power of Electro? Had it been the naïve boy fresh out of the Shakkei Pavilion, he would have been overjoyed and used it for good, what his ‘heart’ desired. Now? He wished he could electrocute himself upon the water where he bathed. He desired nothing more than to see the marks on his body glow the familiar purple like that of Raiden Ei’s, yet not to give life but to take his.
He wished he’d never been born at all.
The water that flowed around him was odd. Trickling as if something was moving, but he was still, stagnant in movement, as he was preoccupied with the thoughts that drowned him. Was it a fish? He couldn’t see the water; it was too dark. Though it wasn’t that deep, perhaps two copies deep. Could a fish of a large size be making that noise?
But something made his skin crawl. The light from his lantern went out as if someone blew on it. He rushed to the line of gravel where his things were, immediately striking the flint to light it, but it went out, again and again. It was in that third attempt that it stayed.
The water was rippling, something was there or someone. He could feel eyes on him. Something was watching him, but where? He did not have human skin, but he could feel his skin crawling. Was this fear? How long has it been since he felt that? Usually, he would scare others unintentionally, but now he was afraid, and he didn’t know what.
Tinkle Tinkle…the water continued to echo in this hollow space. Whatever was moving in the water was coming towards him.
He didn’t have weapons; he learned to forge them and not use them. Even so, he never fought before. Suddenly, he wished that the power within him was to be used against whatever was in the water instead of committing.
Then, when the thing closed the distance between itself and the lantern, he saw it.
A head, human? Humanoid? Human-ish? What was it? It was staring right at him with a glare that could pierce even the false sky.
If he had a heart, would he feel the sensations of heart palpitations? He was scared; he wanted to cry out of fear. He felt like a child, a little kid wanting to run to his mother for comfort. But he didn’t have that, did he?
Whatever this is, it still stared at him. It rose from the water, grounding themself on the gravel to get close to him. Their face was getting close to his, but not in a way like a predator, but a curious creature. Human-looking they were, he noted. Whoever was looking at him was studying him in an innocent way.
A wet hand came to his face, holding it softly and looking into his eyes. A tilt of the head similar to the bunny rabbits he once loved showed that this being was gentle. It made him nervous as whoever this person was scared the daylights out of him. He slipped as he tried stepping back but the algae beneath him made him sleep.
“Hahahaha!” They laughed softly and gently; finding his mistake funny and his fear amusing. One not out of politeness, it was even on the border with a cackle, like ones he heard when the bladesmiths drank during celebrations.
“You’re not a human…” They said, letting go and pulling away to examine him further. Wet garments sticking to his skin as they sat in front of him.
“No, I'm not…are you..?” He almost stuttered in shock and confusion, a bit relieved, they pulled away
“No”
“What are you then?”
“I don’t know.” Really? They didn’t know? Even he knew what he was, but that was because he was informed of his supposed purpose.
He examined this being. Delicate in appearance as he, movements gentle and graceful, but slowed with the resistance of the body of water. Eyes that first terrified him now became tender and warm.
What was he supposed to say in the presence of someone who was trying to study him with a piercing gaze? He couldn’t even confirm if this person —were they a person? Anyways, he wasn’t sure if he tried to leave, he wouldn’t come out of this cave unharmed.
Wow, suddenly he cared about leaving in peace unscathed. Emotions were a puzzle he desperately tried to solve. Not being human but feeling what these disloyal pests felt? It infuriated him.
Yet the most important matter at hand was escaping this…being. A beautiful creature, he noted, but terrifying as it made him feel as if he had a heart again.
“I don’t know what I am.” The individual clarified, but was generous in giving more information. Rising up from the water and lying on the gravel. “Perhaps that’s why I didn’t fit in with the humans when I lived amongst them.” Lived with the humans just like he did.
“I don’t recommend it. They’re monsters.” They said, sitting and settling in the water that flowed around them as he sat on moist land.
“You don’t have to tell me, I know full well what those burdensome pests are capable of doing.”
“Now that’s unfortunate. Now what on Teyvat have they done to you?”
“None of your business.” He spat back. This was one of the first times this side of him showed. The once kind and innocent Kabukimono was gone; he perished after everyone ripped his heart out.
“Fine by me, then I shall bother you.” They smiled softly. A warm expression on their face contrasted with the cold atmosphere of this cave. There, he learned snippets of whoever this was.
“They gave me the name [Name]. I’d change it to cut ties with them, but I wouldn’t know what to change it to. What’s your name?”
“I don’t have one.”
“When you lived with the humans, what did they call you?”
“That’s not important.”
You sighed, lying on the moist gravel. He didn’t let his guard down, didn’t relax his porcelain-like joints as he kept his legs hugged to his chest. Silence fell upon the two; the only sound was the pool echoing and the flickering of the flame from the lantern that sat by him, the thing that helped him see the view of your beautiful but horrifying eyes. Last he checked, the humans didn’t put pretty and scary in the same sentence to describe anything.
“What brought you to this cave?”
“Just wandering around, no preference nor objective.” He muttered gruffly, resting his eyes on his knees. “…do you live in this cave?”
“I live nowhere… kind of like you. I just stay far from the humans. Not keen on getting hurt again.” You confessed, leaning on a rock perched by the shore of the pool. Sighs came from you, and he knew that memories were running through your head.
“What did they do?”
“Now you don’t get to know! You won’t tell me anything. I know we just met, and I understand that. Humans said as much, something about them not being open to strangers.” So you were familiar with human behavior, he noted mentally. Perhaps you were more cultured than he, he wondered. “I’ll tell you when I get to know you better.”
“Know me better?” Did you actually make plans to be closer to him? This quickly after meeting? Okay, not so cultured after all, but neither was he.
“I have to go.” The wandering eccentric stood up abruptly. Drying himself and layering the various linens he wore from the moment he was born. Before he blew out the lantern, a golden light flickered. The feather he wore on his chest
“What is that..?” You tried to examine it, but he stopped you, gently prying it from your hands. Though not as knowledgeable with humans but immersed enough, you sensed that maybe it was an object of sentimental value.
Soft hands wrinkled from the water retracted softly, understanding the situation. Though the personal dilemma still stood. This stranger was leaving, and in your time of involuntary solitude, you had wished for companionship yet would understand if he did not wish as such.
Another bout of silence came over; he stood stagnant, and soft gazes from you were all he avoided as he didn’t look you in the eye. Our faces then fell when the lantern was about to perish. The wax was melted, and candles were to be consumed by flame after all. It shouldn’t have bothered him; he was going to leave the cave after all, and you were lurking in the dark this whole time.
Only, he was hesitant, and he didn’t know why. This time, you couldn’t read his thoughts or identify what emotion he was feeling. Though for whatever reason, you assumed that he was afraid of the dark and would need aid in leaving.
Surprise came to him when you suddenly took his lantern, bringing it with you to a corner, and suddenly the rocks that you had lit using the lantern’s remaining ounces of life came to shine in luminescence. The light then spread, and the whole cave shone from the crystals that decorated the jagged walls and the underwater floor where fish DID swim.
The radiance from the crystals had revealed the beauty of nature. Specifically, nature untouched by humans. The only things tainted by their cruelty were you and him.
For once, his eyes bore fascination; his mouth slightly agape. Not as gullible and childlike as he once was, but this moment showed that in him, the boy who believed in everything and everyone wasn’t entirely dead. He was in there somewhere, sleeping peacefully and resting.
He watched as you took a stone, striking it against a vein of the brilliant geodes. Upon retrieving a piece that one could easily bear in one hand and in a pocket. You handed it to him, taking his delicate hands and gently gesturing for him to keep it. That way, he wouldn’t be so afraid of the void when he would inevitably venture out again.
In truth, it wasn’t the dark he was afraid of; you merely assumed.
The Kabukimono, however, wars raged in his mind. He didn’t want a friend, no more companions, no more found family. Though filled with grief and anguish from his experiences, why did he keep thinking about what you said? About getting to know him more.
“Don’t run into any more humans…don’t get hurt again.” A soft and genuine warning came from your lips. It felt different. It wasn’t Katsuragi warning the innocent lad to be selective with friends as some may not be trusted, but a statement coming from someone who possibly lived through what he did.
It was by my single and first act of kindness towards you that a flicker of hope appeared in his nonexistent heart. He didn’t have that piece. He felt like an incomplete puzzle. He only felt like a human when with those he thought loved him. To feel it again, it left a bittersweet feeling within his soul. He would reject it but yearn for it so dearly.
Don’t say it, don’t say it…don’t you dare. You swore to yourself…
In his head, it was as if a voice had spoken and echoed in his subconscious. Maybe it was his imagination. Has he gone crazy? Was this the psychosis that humans educated him on? That sometimes such emotional turmoil could cause one to grow ill within the restraints of their mind. It was as if he could hear his mother, the Shogun, but even a gentler version of her voice…it sounded like her, but it wasn’t.
“One day, you’ll meet someone as peculiar as you in a place most would not expect. You’ll be at a low point in your prolonged life, but they will bring you hope through compassion. It is very important that you ask them to join you on your endeavors.”
“Make your choice, my dear.”
[“Leave me alone, I care not for worldly possessions nor useless companionship]
or
[“Join me. wander this cruel and disgusting place they call the world.”]
He chose the latter.
With that, you took his hand as you two walked through the cave that he once believed symbolized his inner turmoil. He entered at one of his lowest and darkest moments, where he had almost given up upon being stripped of purpose and meaning. Now, he was leaving the hollow space that glowed both with newfound peace and the gems that would forever symbolize the act of benevolence that made him act against his principles.
You were going to be with him from now on. Or at least, you thought.
་ ༘࿐
You didn’t know how long it had been, perhaps as long as familiar faces from your past were starting to age. The wrinkles and grayed hairs did not excuse them from the pain they caused you.
That’s how they were. Issues would arise between you and humans. Problems they deemed minor, yet you couldn’t understand why they hurt you. It pained you, but as time goes on, they’ll consider it as water under the bridge.
You were someone who was adopted by humans, able to live a life that was filled with what you could never understand. From bonds and relationships to the atrocities they would commit. As a young child, you could never comprehend why humans did as such. What was the purpose of the rules? Why were there standards of every aspect that influenced their minds? Why did emotion have no logic, and yet they continue to push for reason?
Your lack of understanding caused you to overanalyze to rationalize their deeds. If they loved you, why were you constantly raised in hatred? Where did such hurtful words originate, and why were they directed towards you? What was the stigma that surrounded people like you, and why did you have to blend in with their concepts of normal or acceptable?
Most importantly, if they loved you, how could they do such things?
Your adoptive father was a man filled with rage; it replaced his lack of remorse. In the times you had slipped, made a mistake that could be excused or forgiven, all you could do was cry and apologize each time the man threw you out of the house as storms took over the land.
His wife, your mother, was a significantly kinder individual. Patient and loving, but it came with conditions. You acted as her puppet to conceal her horrible personality. In the times when she spoke behind everyone’s back, you would come to her defense. She painted you as the person who narrowed her mind. People then came to loathe you.
One of those people was your siblings. Older in age and more rotten in their hearts. They would band together and not only exclude you but shame you. From your appearance to your habits, a comment was heard. You had lived for so long, but you believed the first time you shed tears was a reaction and not an instinct; it was because of them.
You lost the spark of confidence in yourself. You no longer believed yourself to be beautiful, no longer heard your voice as a blessing, no longer found yourself a delight. Their words echoed in your mindscape for years.
“The reason Mother took you is that she had pity. Father loathes you because you are acting like an ungrateful child.”
“Why do you guys hate me?”
“We don’t hate you. Where did you get that idea?” Taunts came left and right from the lot of them.
“You guys always say I’m deadweight…a burden. I don’t feel…nice because of the words you tell me…you always kick and pull on my hair…it always makes me feel…I don’t know…” You couldn’t explain as your eyes became wet with tears, clutching the hem of your clothes like a little child.
All you got was more ridicule, more humiliation than the time your father had made you weep in public for a mistake as small as being late to the school you were already failing. They couldn’t accept that a child of theirs was behind. This time, for the reason that this child wasn’t born and raised amongst them.
“Must we have a reason?” All high and mighty as they pick at straws to blame you for their shortcomings, to excuse their behavior and mistreatment thrown at your face.
Surely you had friends, right? Wrong. Nothing but backstabbing people who had absolutely no reason to abandon and forget you. You hated the fact that how humans felt needn’t be logical. You were the sweetest and most angelic person they had ever met. So why do what they did? No reason, [Name], we just felt like it.
The reason was that you were ‘weird’. You were odd, and they couldn’t bring themselves to describe you as peculiar, as that was reserved for those they found somewhat normal; extremely ironic. You weren’t human and never would be. That was what they told you, and they never let you forget.
Your fear of being erased from history came into place, deeply engraved into your mind and in your soul. You wanted to mean something, to be someone special. If you were such, then no one would ever turn their back on you again. You would never be as lonely as you were when you were exiled for standing up for yourself.
Now, on top of the cliff, you stood with The Kabukimono, who, by this point, had been given a name. One you gave to him personally in the decades spent together. He held your hand as he noted your wistful and melancholic gaze towards the place that was once your home. Only you never wanted to consider it as home.
“I could burn down their villages.” He offered, tilting his head; his face gave a look of anticipation. It didn’t exactly soothe him when he committed arson by burning the house he lived in with the little boy. More of it symbolized him leaving everything behind.
He wanted you to have that. To leave and abandon all who wronged you. Additionally, he wanted those who struck tears in your beautiful eyes and grief in your golden heart to die a slow and agonizing death. He didn’t count how many years you two had been traveling together, but he accepted you into his heart as someone who was as hurt as he couldn’t possibly run away.
“Don’t…don’t burn them…they are still alive…”
“I think that’s the point.”
“I can’t do that…”
“You won’t. I’ll do it.”
“But they’re my family and friends…I couldn’t bring myself to do that…or at least agree to it.”
“Did you forget what they did to you? Call it water under the bridge, but that’s definitely not how it seems when you cry just from remembering them. I…don’t like seeing you do that…”
“Do what?”
“Cry.” You had asked why, and for whatever reason, he couldn’t explain it. Every time you wept, it made his chest tighten in a way he hated. Perhaps he found it bothersome that he would do anything to make it stop. Though honestly, perhaps he wanted you smiling and laughing instead of bawling from painful flashbacks.
He found himself wishing you smiled instead of wailing, like how you would smile when seeing a cat out and about. How you’d smile when eating delicacies he found disgusting for their sweetness. He wanted to hear you laugh; after all, it was the first thing he heard from you when he first met you.
With that, you left with him. You refused to look back, not wanting to set your precious gaze upon once more.
Agonizing screams echoed throughout the laboratory . His screams. You could hear every break of his voice, the wreckage of his throat, the tears he shed as pure torture ensued. You could see him hooked up to strange devices, you could see him being mutilated repeatedly to ‘fix’ him. This was for the better, right? That was what the Doctor said.
It had been some time since being recruited in Fatui. A man named Pierro, also under the title ‘The Jester, ’ had extended his invitation to him. It had happened as he had suspected that we were being watched and followed. In our failed attempt to escape, soldiers of the Snezhnayan military surrounded us. They bowed as that man stepped in.
The man had explained that a fellow harbinger of his had his eye on this eccentric. The praise caught his ears despite his reluctance; who was interested in him and who gave the recommendation to this harbinger?
Upon the offer of power sealed within, he accepted. You tried to deny it, but you knew why he accepted it. He wanted a purpose in life, a reason to live, a job to fulfill. Most importantly, he wanted vengeance upon all who wronged him. In your devotion towards him, you supported his decision.
As his cries continued, you looked away —silently weeping yourself as you never wanted him to experience this. Yet, you knew he wanted this, even at the cost of brutal and inhumane experiments enacted upon him; he wanted this. If it meant getting what he most truly desired, you would be there.
“At last, it seems we have reached the goal, puppet.” A cunning voice broke through, one laced with malice and pure amusement from the puppet’s suffering. The Doctor, Dottore, had opened the experiment capsule in which he had trapped the puppet in.
“I was informed that you had power sealed within you.” A lie, he sensed, and knew that he had power deep in his being when he met The Kabukimono as the mechanic, Escher.
“I believe that you will reach your full potential. Now, come. Show me your full power.” Scaramouche —the name he was given by the Fatui — had exited the capsule. His puppet body glowing with Electro surges. The marks upon his body, the symbols of his nation and Archon, glowed with the light of purple. He could see the sparks coming from his hands. It felt invigorating, felt freeing and just…right; he was meant to have this power.
“Ah!” You yelped, the shatter of a neighboring experiment capsule spreading throughout the room.
Upon letting a strike of lightning out, he had struck many objects. The capsule, the apparatus used on his body to modify him, and the communication devices of Dottore for the other segments. He initially wanted to stop as he knew it was scaring you; the wrecking of the room posed the risk of hurting you. But alas, Dottore wanted to see the full extent.
The Doctor had forced Scaramouche to channel his power and unleash a blow. Dottore even lied, inviting one of his segments in and reassuring Scaramouche that if he focused, he would strike just him. He knew better than to trust him, but he did as such.
‘AH!” Horror entered Scaramouche’s eyes when his one and only companion was struck. The lighting hitting you violently and causing you to collapse and pass out. He rushed to your side, holding you in his arms and desperately trying to wake you up.
“You spend all this time here with me, and you still chose to trust my words.” Dottore notes, looking down at you like a lab rat worth testing on until it dies.
“I will kill you one day.” Scaramouche grits his teeth, muttering his vow, only for Dottore to grab at his mouth, forcing the puppet to look at him.
“I think you’re forgetting something here, boy. Who gave you your destiny back? This power was supposed to house your fate. Now I ask you, who gave it to you?”
“Me. So remember what I am capable of and what I can strip from you the moment I hear you utter another ungrateful babble.”
“If I hear another word, I will rip them limb from limb and direct your power to reduce their body to cinders. Do you understand?” Scaramouche nodded, looking down. It looked like a begrudging agreement —it was, yet it was also to mask his fear. Dottore let go of his face with a shove.
“Though perhaps I’ll allow you one comment of negativity as I DO owe you. If it weren’t for you, then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of creating myself over and over again.” A smile that he could only describe as pure insanity was engraved in his mind. He would dream of every experiment; every cut on his fair skin, every twist of his puppet joints, every drug injected into his artificial veins, every surge of power forced into his body that threatened to destroy him if it weren’t for his resolve.
“You kept your promise…” Scaramouche said in a murmur as his sigh of relief warmed your hand. What was the promise? To not abandon him.
A hum reached his ears, scars tainted his eyes as he saw the scar on your body. It looked like the roots of a tree that would spread deeper into rich soil. Only it ruined your skin. Guilt seeped into his core. You had always been doubtful of your appearance. Now you have more reason to believe less of yourself. He would never admit it, but as you hated your looks, he found you ethereal.
“The Fatui is the most advanced military force in Teyvat; they’ll have the best healers.” Scaramouche traced the scar gently. It had healed…His power was powerful enough that you were comatose for a few days.
Perhaps this was another time to call you out on being weird. You had wanted to keep the scars. If this were you in the past, you’d be bawling your eyes out and desperately searching for ways to rid them from your flesh. Being vain sometimes is rooted in judgment and prejudice that allows the seed of insecurity to grow.
“No…it’s..beautiful…” His eyes widened at your words. Shocked that you would choose to keep such a blemish. “I think it’s beautiful…like the tree branches from the maple tree we used to sit under…” Oh, had you missed the trees as since arriving here; it was rare to see a tree with foliage or of vibrant colors that Scaramouche used to hate.
Beautiful like you, he thought.
་ ༘࿐
“You spared him…” Your voice came in soft yet cold as the wind howled. It came as you watched him from a hill on the beaches of Inazuma. The land he swore he wouldn’t return to. But as he swore to never return, his resolve for vengeance was stronger. He wanted revenge against those who betrayed him as a naïve boy. They were long dead, of course; it had been centuries since the incident at Tatarasuna. You’d think it was enough that he didn’t turn off the Mikage Furnace. But no, he wanted more.
Here you two were, watching the men he terrorized scramble in terror. It was as if an omen of misfortune was placed upon them. Though that was the case as his actions would haunt generations of the clans to come.
“…don’t even mention it.”
“This is the first time I’ve seen you back down from retribution. Why?” Your intention wasn’t to interrogate; you just wanted to know why he would let go of what he wanted.
“Tell me.” Your urging voice caused him to click his tongue once more, and after pacing around in frustration. He rubbed his face and scratched at his head in anger directed at himself.
“Niwa…That man was Niwa’s descendant. Just under a new last name…Kaedehara.”
“Was it mercy?” He couldn’t answer you. Maybe it was. Though the truth was, he still harbored love for Niwa. His first true family in his years of being ‘human’.
How was he supposed to admit it? That emotion was the reason Raiden Ei deemed him unfit to house the gnosis; that emotion made him weak when faced with life. That emotion seeped back into a heart that didn’t exist, and he let go of his resolve.
Words weren’t needed at this moment as he watched the clan retreat. His gaze was filled with hatred but also longing. You needn't narrate his feelings as you knew him. He could fight and argue with you to deny it, but both of you knew he still yearned. He loved so deeply, and that is why it hurts just as much when it’s thrown back at his face.
“They gave me a new name.” Your head tilted, gesturing for him to continue and explain. Who had given him a name, and what was it? “Kunikuzushi. It means Country Destroyer.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“I don’t feel.” Of course, the verbal confirmation, or rather cover-up, that he was but a husk of his former self.
“Then I guess it seems fitting for you. Tatarasuna’s population still dwindles, the Shogun is punishing the clans for their failure since you destroyed three schools from the Raiden Gokaden.
“You think I’m a monster, don’t you?”
“…”
“I knew it.”
“Of course you are…but I’m no saint either. I know what you did to my village.” His breath hitched. You found out about what he did? How? Who told you?
“But I didn’t bat an eye. I didn’t care. In fact, I wanted to watch them perish…”
“I should have told you then.” A soft murmur came as he gazed at the horizon where your village once was. He had hunted each and every person whom he deemed a former threat to you and thought the quick and painless methods of death were too merciful.
He struck your father with lightning in the rain as a parallel to how he threw you out, shoved your mother in the ravine of electrified water, as that was how she punished you for misbehaving as a child. As we went on to your siblings, he spent months toying with their fragile and pathetic minds, and eventually, they did the work for him. He burnt down not only homes, but the history of the places as stakes, killing former friends like witches on trial. No one would come out alive, no one would tell their story, and no one would remember them as they chose to forget you.
“How long ago did you do it?”
“Decades ago.” Those set of years felt like a blink of an eye. That was the curse of both time and immortality. If she who ruled time gave the opportunity to reverse what was done, you wouldn’t take it.
“As atrocious as those humans.” Kunikuzushi describes himself. The words left a bitter aftertaste that he couldn’t enjoy this time.
་ ༘࿐
He was supposed to feel proud of himself. He had earned a seat in the Tsaritsa’s faction of Harbinger. The title ‘The Balladeer’ was granted to him like a badge of honor. Honestly, he scoffed at that. Yet he felt no honor. Even with the praise he received from Snezhnaya’s queen, he felt nothing. As soldiers of lowly ranks saluted to him, he didn’t care. Then, when you knelt down before him, it struck him.
He had wondered why you stayed. It wasn’t that he wanted you to leave. In fact, he needed you to stay. Though the question still remains, why did you stay? In the centuries you spent with him, he had become a monster. Through his acts of vengeance, he had committed heinous acts. He had done it against the descendants of his former family, who were innocent, and those from your own past who knew nothing of their sins.
What has changed between you and him? He asked himself. Nothing did. You stayed with him. You loved and cherished him as the day you first gave him that glowing crystal to help him navigate in the dark. You caught him scoffing an amused huff upon seeing penguins. He witnessed a penguin giving a potential mate a pebble. Ever since arriving at Snezhnaya, he has called you his ‘idiot penguin’.
Night took over the sky that you and he would spend hours looking at each night. This time it wasn’t wherever when travels were continuous; it was when we had shelter. Not like we couldn’t attain that before, we merely didn’t like the idea of staying in one place; we wanted to leave everything behind. There was no such thing as settling.
Being in the palace for Harbingers was not counted as settling but resting. The Balladeer hated it here. Reminders and memories of those torturous experiments would plague him as he slept. Coming back to the icy palace would remind him that he would be sent out on expeditions to the Abyss. The result of knowledge that was forbidden being brought to Teyvat. It would be in the form of corruption, as even gods could not process the true form of the void.
In contrast to the Abyss realm, there was light. One could never exist without the other. The Balladeer, though now known by his malicious and inhumane ways, could not live in the darkness of his mind. The light that shone was you. This stood firm as further missions revealed that the sky he once gazed at was a lie. Lies would come at him again and again, so that he couldn’t bring himself to trust anything or anyone. At least anyone that wasn’t you, the only truth to his world.
“It is quite a shame that the sky is fake. Looking at this phenomenon now lacks that beauty.” He teased a bit as you leaned against the window, looking at the winter sky where the Aurora Borealis was illuminating the land.
“I can still enjoy looking at it; it’s beautiful.” You huffed, shaking your head with a chuckle. This is the same thing he said about food in your years of exploring not just the world, but cuisines from all time and nations. He found bitterness to be the truth as spices would just flavor the bland, and sweetness would conceal the ugly.
“That’s ignorance.”
“There is a time when we can enjoy life without thinking.”
“Since when have we enjoyed life?” You paused quietly at his words. You had enjoyed it with him so far, has he not in his perspective?
“What’s the matter with you? You’ve gone quiet all of a sudden.”
You never really did ask how he felt during his 300 years with you. Every time you did, he would reply in his usual answer that he needn’t feel such human aspects. At times, you felt doubtful about anything; his way of reassurance was not as affirming. He would instruct to utilize logic to find the answer, not acknowledging that there was a part that refuted any logic or reasoning.
Did he find life just a bit more bearable? Was he happy at all with you? You never knew. He would never say it. You’d defend the fact that words weren’t needed by the reason that it had been three centuries of companionship; that you knew him better than anyone. Did you, though?
You could never quite explain how you felt for him. You made a small promise to him that neither of you would ever explore this concept. It was to protect ourselves from the hurt we both lived through. Though you could never stop yourself from wondering how he saw you. What were you to him? And what lengths would he go through for you?
Perhaps what he did to your village and all the residents that settled there was an obligation. Maybe he sensed your inner turmoil and destroyed their lives and legacies for you to stop your useless sadness.
You could never know. He wouldn’t say anything. While he has no one but you, he couldn’t even bring himself to open his heart to you. Was it because he didn’t have one?
“Nothing…don’t mind me. I’m just admiring this false sky’s gift…”
You couldn’t explain your grief. It broke your heart seeing the man you loved lose everything he worked hard for. All he wanted was to have his purpose, to be an Archon that his mother would be proud of. To be someone worth more than anything that no one would turn their back on. He would wish that no one would ever lie to him, no one would leave him. You stood as the only person who loved his soul.
But you were the reason he chased the gnosis. The reason he disappeared from you when he arrived in Inazuma to wreak havoc once again. The cause of your times by the hands of the Harbingers, why you paid the price of his treason. You didn’t care for the capital punishment that awaited you when he left for the Electro gnosis. Some part of you still trusted him, but even your faith was dwindling as you were starting to osee him as a stranger.
It was Dottore who brought you to Sumeru to see his final transformation as a god. Seeing him in that artificial but divine body should have been the moment he thought you’d be proud of. Though he saw your gaze. It wasn’t fear nor anger, but confusion, as you couldn’t recognize him.
The gnosis gave him purpose, but what he wanted from it was a heart. A heart is what beats; it’s what keeps a human alive. It is also the symbolism that signifies the love between humans when a heart beats for a person. He wanted that. He wanted a heart that would beat for you. He wanted to love you, and he couldn’t do that without that retched organ he yearned for.
“Anything but the gnosis..!” Echoed in your head for weeks as he was defeated by The Traveler, the First Sage of Buer, with Lesser Lord Kusanali herself. This was it. What you feared. You couldn’t bear the tears or anguish that would come when he awoke. You didn’t want to see him fall apart, for it broke you too.
But alas, as he woke from his coma, weep was the first thing he did. You could feel his grip on you; he depended on you like his lifeline. He had failed you, he believed. He had failed to prove he was worth something. Worthless was the word he used for every moron he encountered. Now he was using it for himself as he had lost his birthright, his chance to arise from his turmoil, to look at you and love you both body and soul, and his desire to live.
“You could be at rock bottom as you are now, and how we are will never change…I’m not who you’re trying to impress but…you won’t need it. You never looked back, so that means they won’t ever see you. They stopped being there and therefore don’t deserve to see you in all your glory.”
“You’ve been human…you hate it, but I know just how much you yearned for it. You may not have had a heart, but I know just how deeply you loved…The fact that you did just proves that you didn’t need the gnosis.”
Silence came over, and you continued.
“I don’t have to tell you just how long and how much I’ll be there to love you.” Perhaps he did, as he genuinely couldn’t understand just what love was and why he wanted to give it all to you. He just didn’t believe he was loving you for 300 years. He wanted the gnosis for a heart because a human loves with a heart, and he spent these centuries chasing his humanity.
་ ༘࿐
The void was how you would describe it. You didn’t know where you were or how you got here. All you knew was that you were here. Here in the land of Dendro, the pinnacle of all knowledge, but why? It was one thing to not know what you were or where you came from, but it was another to be in an entirely new land where you couldn’t remember what brought you here, or who.
You knew you were five hundred years of age. You remembered your first two centuries filled with memories of your time with humans. Yet what happened in the next three?
You could have sworn you had someone by your side this whole time. You could bet on someone’s precious life that someone was with you all these centuries. There was a person who you loved, who protected you, who wreaked havoc just to make you happy. You were supporting someone, standing by them even as malice took over their soul. But who? And why couldn’t you remember?
You would eat, sleep, and dream. This was all you could do as you desperately invaded your mind to remember who was it that destroyed three of the five schools of the Raiden Gokaden? Who massacred your place of origin and erased their dragpath from history? This was what was on your mind as Lesser Lord Kusanali could not offer her help. You don’t even remember what led you to meet her and the Traveler.
The guilt you felt couldn’t be explained. It ate at you as you stayed awake in the bed given to you by Sumeru’s archon. You didn’t know why you felt this way for simply having a liking towards the vendor’s assistant. It was when you decided to explore the fuss around the Grand Bazaar. Your intention was to see the famed Nilou. You had fallen in love with the way her body moved like flowing water, how she dedicated her dances to Lesser Lord Kusanali.
In the time you watched the Nilou with pure amazement, a familiar but unknown veil flowed in the wind. You looked to your side and saw a beautiful man with a hat known as a ‘kasa’. How did you know the hat was a ‘kasa hat’? He watched Nilou with a soft smile. “Her dances are dedicated to her God; that devotion is worth admiring.” A gentle voice snapped you out of your trance as you realized he knew you were staring at him.
He had introduced himself as one with no name. He also bore no recollection, and you found that an odd coincidence. It was from the void in both of your souls that you bonded together. Little did he know it was he who left that hole in your heart.
Blissful ignorance came over with every goofy grin that came from him. Oh, how you admired his attire; it seemed so comforting to you. To add to his appearance, which was fair and flawless, his attire gave a childlike aura. The kasa hat resembles a lotus, and according to Lesser Lord Kusanali, that meant rebirth. The birds that soared in the patterns of his clothes showed freedom. Had he been shackled by something prior? The golden feature was one thing he cherished without knowing who gave it. Yet according to him, there was something that tugged at him more.
“This crystal…one of the merchants said it came from Inazuma. It glows when you strike it. A good night light, I’ll say. Might work for someone afraid of the dark.” He notes, showing you the crystal.
“Are you afraid of the dark?” You teased, nudging him as you sat on top of this tree, gazing down at the city. Looking down and seeing students scramble for thesis works, merchants trading amongst one another, and adventurers collecting their awards from the guild.
“No, perhaps more what lurks in the darkness. He even offered a hefty price for it, saying it was rare. I turned him down…I don’t know who gave it to me or where I got it…but I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. I don’t want to lose it.”
“You really have no recollection of your past, do you?”
“I don’t, unfortunately…But I want to remember…don’t you? You said you’re missing memories too.”
“Yeah, but not my whole life…you don’t know about anything from your life…I can only imagine what that’s like.”
“Oh, don’t feel bad for me. Perhaps I’ll get my memory back.” He laughs, smiles at you softly with a warmth that radiates from his eyes.
“And how do you think you’ll get your memory back?”
“I’m not sure! Maybe I’ll hit my head again?”
“HAHAHA! Want me to do it? I’ll shove you off this tree!”
“No thanks! That’s too much! Do it with a stone instead. What if you throw this crystal at me? Maybe I’ll remember who gave it.”
“..?”
“Wait, wait! I’m kidding!”
The vendors looked in confusion, seeing a boy being chased by another down the city as they came from the Akademiya’s viewing tree. He was yelling ‘I take it back, wait please!” With the other threatening to throw a crystal worth more mora than the average paycheck.
་ ༘࿐
This is how you greet your companion after not remembering him for who knows how long. A punch to the face, which might bruise his porcelain skin. It was fortunate he was not made of actual porcelain, and if he was? You wouldn’t care. He muttered a comment about deserving it, deserving more even.
It was thanks to the Traveler and Paimon catching on to him in his new life that he chose to remember. Nahida had even granted your memory of him back, along with his whole life. You couldn’t look at him the same after that.
The battle between him and his past selves was concluded. Even earning the favor of the gods above and earning a vision. A vision that represented freedom. Did he feel free? Certainly. Yet he knew he also felt guilt. In the process, he knew that perhaps you deemed him like the rest.
You should have been happy. He was back! You didn’t care if your actions with him were to benefit or harm; you’d follow him regardless. If anyone asked, you felt abandoned. He had spent his years with you in deep talks about abandonment and betrayal. He even made the both of you swear that we wouldn’t turn our backs on one another, and what happened?
You tried to do what he always said, the method of thinking to get rid of irrationalities. You knew that his intention by erasing himself from Irminsul was not only to erase the past and run away from it, but somehow atone for it.
You also felt betrayed. In the time he spent with you, he chose to just erase it. Three hundred years, and what were you to him? A pet? A follower? How could you possibly know when he wouldn’t even speak about how he felt? Salt rubbed on your wounds when he insisted the Traveler name him. What happened to the one you gave him?
He could have had any other title. He has been The Kabukimono. He was once Scaramouche, The Balladeer. Inazuma called him Kunikuzushi. Yet his true name was the one you so happily and lovingly gave him. He chose to forge a new one.
You could recognize and remember him now, but he felt like a stranger.
He could feel your sadness leak from you. How your gaze was filled with nothing at all; no emotion or feeling. How you would yearn for someone who was right there in front of you. He knew you were angry; you had every right to be. He was too maddened himself to not realize what he had the whole time. No amount of erasing was ever going to compensate for that.
“Erase me as you did for yourself…”
“What did you say..?”
“You are neither deaf nor stupid, you heard me.”
“I’m not, but you definitely are. Erase yourself? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I told you to erase me like how you did to yourself. Erase me from Irminsul.”
“Why? Why the hell- why the fuck would you ask for that?”
“Why not? You did it. You erased yourself from the whole world! Had it not been for the Traveler and Lesser Lord Kusanali, I would have forgotten you, too.”
“That’s different!”
“How is it any different? Tell me! How is it any different?!”
“Because I was a coward! You know me, you’ve known me for so long! My sins and what I’ve done. Everything that I did, everyone that I knew…I ran away from-“
“me! ME, of all people! You were built on your hate for abandonment…the three people who betrayed you, who left you! But you turn around and do the same!”
“You don’t get it, [Name]. I HAD to do it. It was me running away from what I did. You know what I’ve done. As Kunikuzushi, as Scaramouche, The Balldeer! I was a monster! Erasing myself from Irminsul was the only way to repent for my mistakes. My victims aren’t coming back from the dead, I know that. By making everyone forget…allowing those silver branches to rewrite history around me…can my acts be atoned for…”
“What was I to you? Someone you loved or someone who just stayed for you?”
“I loved y-“
“No, you don’t…I was just convenient to you, now was I? I just kept you motivated until you had the strength to do this.”
“You know that’s not tr-“
“No, I don’t! You never say anything! Three hundred years is a human’s lifespan multiplied! I stay by you, and what do I get?”
“[Name]-“
“Oh, I’ll answer that for you! I got a partner who was too blinded by his own anger, and he couldn’t even bring himself to believe he felt what humans did. You chased your humanity all this time, but you already were one! Even if what you did before was atrocious, you were human. You didn’t need a heart.”
“You chose your revenge instead of opening your eyes, and now look. You had to choose to atone for that; by choosing that, you left me! Imagine what that was like! Losing the person you loved, your person, your other half, your soul! I have felt that, and the worst thing is, I didn’t even know why my heart ached for every single day and night.”
“And what do you do when you get your memories back? You turn your back on what he had. Our history, our memories, OUR LIVES.”
“Oh my god…were we real..? Was our love anything to you…? Oh god…what if it wasn’t…” Realization comes to you, and it made you go insane. Your shouting stopped, coming into whispers of disbelief as you looked at him like he was nothing but a hallucination.
He didn’t know what to say. He spent years avoiding the concept of sentiments. He believed in the philosophy that the soul and body were separate entities. The body was a hindrance to him. So now, when he needed to understand himself to explain his actions, how he loved you all this time, why he regretted his choices, suddenly he couldn’t articulate.
“You can’t erase yourself. You don’t deserve that. A monster such as myself did.” He says, a cold tone from his throat as deep down, he knew he hurt you beyond belief. You believe that he chose everything else over you. How was he supposed to fix that?
“You can’t access Irminsul. Lesser Lord Kusanali won’t help you.” He continues, holding you in his arms. He buried his face in your shoulder to stop the tears.
“You’re worth remembering, [Name]. I’m…sorry…300 years with you was…actually everything to me…”
Perhaps it was too late for that. How could he say that? It was so ironic.
་ ༘࿐
“How is Hat Guy nowadays, Nahida?” Paimon would float by the Traveler. Her loud and shrill voice grew in concern.
It had been a while since he had enrolled in the Akademiya. Nahida had praised his devotion to studying for the entrance exam. But really, he was drowning himself in books to distract himself.
He had achieved quite a lot. They were glad he was living the life of a stressed and sleep-deprived human. Even if he didn’t need sleep, the fact that he wasn’t actually struggling in studies. After becoming a member of Vahumana, the Darshan specialized in Aetiology, and you could barely speak to him as he was buried in books. From studies of Medicine to Social Sciences and Psychology.
But that isn’t the update they wanted. They wanted to know how he has been since the disappearance of [Name]. The Traveler had officials place missing person posters of their siblings. They didn’t imagine that Wanderer would place posters of his partner in places that were even prohibited. A sketch drawn by himself as he had memorized their face. He couldn’t believe that was one of the things he left behind by burning his branch in Irminsul.
It had been cruel months. Surely they didn’t go through with it, right? He could still remember them. He knew them like the back of his delicate hand. He would smile in his sleep. Paimon would assume he was dreaming of teasing and tormenting people, but it was him dreaming of you. One dream caused him to cry. Crying in his sleep is what caused Ei not to give him the gnosis and throne. The dream that caused him to weep by his books was his last memory of you. Where you wailed, clutching your chest as the pain in your heart was too much. Your beautiful hair in a mess as you scratched and pulled at it in insanity.
Had he really made you feel abandoned? Oh, how he was a hypocrite.
Aetiology was the study of causation. He would read and listen to lectures about humanity. In social sciences, he learned why they did what they do. Why wage wars? Why consider something as brittle and worthless as gold as a monetary treasure? Why do stupid superstitions based on false gods exist?
It wasn’t all just studying the morons he was now with, but understanding himself. He needed that desperately if he wanted a chance to be with you. He needed you more than anything and anyone.
He knows what betrayal is like more than anyone, but why do the same to you? Now looking back, with Nahida’s help. He learned that he was never actually betrayed and abandoned, but that was how he felt. He never actually became a traitor to you, but the same logic applies. That’s not how you felt.
In his studies of causation, he learned why he was so driven. You. He swore never to get attached, but he became fond of you. More than that. Godhood was one thing he wanted, but what he needed was to be complete. He was a stringless puppet already with no master controlling. With you, he was a lover with no heart. It seems he was 300 years too late in confirming he needn’t that wretched gnosis.
At night, he would talk to himself, imagining it was you. The explanation you deserved.
“I was told that only humans could love…that I needed to have it…a heart that would beat for you…But I already had it…I had you…until I chose to forget you…”
If only you knew he would do anything for you. All those lovers who would claim they would burn anything and everything for you. It’s an exaggeration from them, but the Wanderer had done it for you in the past.
“My victims won’t come back…I’m not trying to atone for it. I’ll go to hell anyway. I’m just making sure any sliver of justice will be given to their descendants. Even that Kaedehara boy.”
Where were you? What have you done to yourself? Again, surely you weren’t able to push through with that…Self-erasure was equivalent to suicide. It was another realization that struck him as he paused. He had studied how suicide victims leave behind people who loved them. From their grief to their acceptance. Oh god, he didn’t even give you a chance to grieve him properly.
If only you knew he would only go by the name that Traveler gave him in public. He was always going to go by what you gave him. It was proof you existed, your mark on not the world but him. You were all the proof he needed to show he could be devoted to someone. No gnosis was ever going to prove the same.
If only he had understood and realized that sooner.
“So I chased it. Fought for it. Destroyed for it, and all that time… you were there.”
“You spoke to me. Stayed with me. Chose me, and I…” A bitter laugh came out, but soon he choked on his own tears, dropping the crystal on his hollow chest. Looking out at the window, he saw no Aurora Borealis. For one, it happened every hundred years; second, it only happened in Nod-Krai and Snezhnaya, where the penguins waddled, giving out favorite pebbles to mates.
You were his penguin, his idiot penguin. You were an ethereal creature beneath the snowflakes. Not ephemeral like the flowers that would wilt.
How does someone ever fill the void of another who had been present for that long? Someone as loving and as devoted as you? That’s right, you don’t. He wanted —no, needed to find you. He was going to do so. No matter what it took. He would gladly become a monster again to erase his efforts of atonement if it meant finding you.
“Here at last! And things look even messier than last time, haha!” Enthusiasm filled the docks as a beautiful witch stood by. The sustainer of the world’s borders, Alice. Here in Nod-Krai, where the chaos had yet to begin. The moon is shining for her.
“Well, Miss Alice? Shall we begin?” A synthetic human answering, his formality showing his loyalty and familiarity towards her.
“Ah! There’s no rush, and I’d like to catch up with an old friend first. And what about you, young man?” She reads the letter she received via crow from that old acquaintance, now looking at the man whom she called.
“Hm. Let’s part ways here. I have an old score on my own to settle, and a wound that I was the cause of.” He left, walking by as the water reflected not his current self, but that of the past.
He never knew he had developed a connection with you. A connection that allowed him to sense if you were here. After all, you barely spent time apart. He could sense it. You were here. Here in Nod-Krai. What made him internally panic was the fact HE was also here. Dottore.
Just a coincidence, he reassured himself. He was going to take his revenge on the Doctor and get the Light of his Abyss back in his life. No crossovers. He was going to get you first.
Little did he know that he would have to shoot two birds at once.
“Such obedience. Becoming an enemy of the Frostmoon Scions for the mission.”
“It is only I repay my debt to you, Dottore.” You saluted him. It was your way of thanking him for sheltering you. To you, you appeared in the land of Nod-Krai, where those worshipped the fallen moons. No memory of who you were, or where you came from.
As you resumed your mission, the Doctor would grin every time he remembered why exactly you served under him. He knew who you were, just not when he met you, or how he did. He could have sworn something was missing when he found you alone. For whatever reason, he found that you had the guts to come back to Snezhnaya, despite the threat of capital punishment, even if no one knew why that loomed over your head.
You had offered your service, your being, your soul. Just to erase yourself from Irminsul. Yet why could everyone remember you but yourself? Perhaps he strayed a bit from what was agreed.
He erased the twig of your branch in Irminsul, but not the seed. You were the only one who couldn’t remember. All but you could reminisce while you wandered the world. More clueless than you were 500 years before
Imagine your lover’s horror upon seeing you stand by the monster he loathed.
Light of his void, stripped of ambition and passion. Heart and soul erased. Eyes so ethereal, yet carried no remnants of love, forever empty.
pairing: scaramouche x f!reader
summary⎯ They’re an iconic faceless streaming duo, adored by the internet for their chaotic dynamic, featuring lots of jokes, bickering, and charm. A bag swap in the local library makes them slowly become friends in real life, oblivious to the fact they’re already inseparable online.
status: ongoing
genres: social media au, romance, streamer au, college/university au, modern au, fluff, humor, slow burn, some drama/angst (haven't fully planned it yet but it will be an entire arc), scara might be ooc, side characters might also be ooc, double identities (miraculous ladybug style but it's streamers)
side ships: cyno x tighnari, layla x rosaria, dahlia x venti
warnings: kys jokes, some angst
started: 23/11/2025
completed: tba
taglist: OPEN! (comment to be added, I might take a few days to reply to "pls tag me" comments bc I like to add everyone new in one go, but if it's still open I'll 100% add you!!)
Channels:
Charlotte's spies Pro Gamers
VODs:
🖋: includes a written part
Act 1:
⎯1. bitter over pixels ⎯2. golden feather keychain 🖋
this years hermitcraft gamers outreach charity streams were so fun i just had to draw my favorite moments (spoiler: it’s mostly grian and his mumbo jumbo cardboard cutout)
my wrist hurts from drawing so much so quickly but the grind never stops
pairing . AdultContentCreator!Scaramouche x OFmodel!Reader
summary . You make premium adult content, profiting off your virgin status, rejecting every disgusting offer in your DMs, waiting for something that feels real. Then, you find that something, Scaramouche. He makes adult content, fucks girls, sends them off, and the cycle repeats. But something about him makes you want to hand him over all your firsts. [MODERN AU]
contains (warnings) . explicit sexual content, being filmed, but obviously consensual, mean scara, dirty talk, degradation, oral, throat fucking, mirror sex, porn WITH plot, overstimulation, too lazy to add more
word count . 14k (i know... i know.)
an . i literally spent ages on making the fake twitter profiles, idk how these ppl in the smau's do it istg. i also had to study, like a maniac, loads of twt corn acc's to make this, so i hope this is good. cross posted onto ao3
You have a dirty secret.
Well… maybe dirty isn’t the right word.
Lucrative.
Thrilling.
Deeply, and I mean deeply embarrassing if anyone you knew in real life ever found out.
You make premium content.
Sex content.
It started after so many failed job searches; it’s so hard to find work in this day and age as a young adult with zero experience. You also attend college, and you know the moment you do actually get a boring, shitty job as a cashier or some shit, you’d want to shoot yourself in the head due to all the stress that’ll come with it.
You saw other girls on TikTok, flaunting their gaming set-ups from DMing creeps on Discord, going on calls with them, masturbating or pretending to, and they get the biggest paycheck of their life.
You’d do that if you didn’t have to go on call with them and hear their gross, disgusting voice.
So you chose the other option, chose to sell your body online, even though, compared to how girls on Discord make money, they don’t have to sell their nudes, just talk on call, you’d rather just record yourself doing lucrative acts.
I mean, why not? You were already broke, stressed beyond any comprehension, already spending too much money on lingerie that no one ever saw.
Now someone sees it, thousands of someones, actually.
It’s practically a job at this point, your real job if you’re being honest.
You lie to your parents, tell them you work at a cafe near campus, and they’re so proud of you. Their hardworking daughter, juggling school and work and still managing to keep her grades up.
If only they knew.
You don’t just do it for the money, even though that’s how it started. Like, yeah, the money is actually insane, more than you’d ever even expect, so much that you've had to open separate bank accounts just to hide it from your parents. But that's still not why you keep doing it.
You do it because it's fun.
You do it because it feels good.
I mean, why wouldn’t it?
It’s fun dressing up all cute, bringing your aesthetic in your videos because the fans love it. Soft pinks, light pastels, lace, ribbons, and so many bows.
You show your face in your videos.
But you wouldn’t ever get caught. Why? Because you wear wigs, cute ones that actually look good and not shitty party city ones, you do your makeup in a way that people on TikTok and Pinterest would call ‘dollmaxxer,’ eyelashes, glossy lips, aegyo sal shimmer forever and always.
You cosplay sometimes, characters from games and anime that your subscribers request.
That’s the thing that sets you apart from a lot of creators, most of them crop their faces out, wear masks, keep the camera angled just so. You’re lucky you don’t have any distinctive birthmarks, tattoos, or anything tying you to the girl who goes to college and buys coffee from the campus Starbucks.
It didn’t take long before you moved out of your college dorm. Roommates are a liability when your job involves moaning loudly on camera three times a week.
Now you have your own apartment, expensive but worth it, a pink sanctuary where you can film without worrying about anyone walking in.
Your content is... specific.
You goon, that’s the word for it, that’s what people call it on the internet.
You slap your face with dildos, letting them bounce off your cheeks, you grind on pillows and plushies, soaking the fabric while you whimper and moan. Sometimes you even sell the pillows you grind on, subscribers love it all.
You drool excessively, letting spit drip down your chin while you suck on a dildo attached to your wall, your eyes rolled back, your tongue out too far.
You make yourself look stupid, brainless, like a toy that exists only for pleasure.
It's fun.
It feels good.
And the sponsors love it.
Sex toy brands send you free products constantly. Vibrators, dildos, plugs, things you didn't even know existed before you started this job. All you have to do is use them on camera, tag the company, and they keep sending more.
What you hate is your subscribers.
Obviously, your content caters to the male gaze. That's the market. That's where the money is.
But god, the men are disgusting.
The comments they leave, the DMs they send, the way they talk to you like you're not a person, just a thing they can say whatever they want to.
You have some subscribers who are women, followers, and mutuals who found you through the aesthetic side of things. They're the sweetest. They leave nice comments, send supportive messages, and actually treat you like a human being.
The men are the problem.
You also profit off being a virgin.
It’s not a lie, you know, some creators fake it, like Sophie Rain. But you’re genuinely untouched.
Never had a boyfriend. Never had sex, never even been kissed before.
The dildos you use on yourself don't change that. Toys aren't real dicks.
It's your biggest money maker, honestly. The virgin thing. Men lose their minds over it. They DM you constantly, begging to be the one to take it, offering obscene amounts of money to fuck you on camera.
You always deny.
Always.
Because even so, even after everything you've done on camera, you want to wait for the right person. You want it to mean something. You want...
You don't know what you want.
But you know it's not some random subscriber with a dick pic in his DMs.
Tonight, you're exhausted.
You just finished filming a two-hour session, one of those marathon streams where you edge yourself over and over until your thighs are shaking and your brain goes blank. Your subscribers loved it. You made more money in those two hours than most people make in years.
And now all you want to do is lie in bed and doom-scroll until you pass out.
You're on your stomach, still wearing the sheer babydoll lingerie from your stream, lacey underwear clinging to you. You’re on your phone, Twitter open, scrolling mindlessly through your feed.
Your algorithm feeds you content from girls like you, with similar aesthetics, similar content. Some of them are your mutuals, creators you’ve befriended through the weird little community you’ve stumbled into. You leave sweet comments on their posts, the kind of supportive girl-to-girl energy that balances out the gross male comments.
You're not really paying attention, just scrolling.
And then something new comes up.
It's a video, a boy, this time, which is unusual for your feed. The algorithm is probably experimenting, testing your preferences.
The boy is skinny, pale, really pale, like porcelain skin. He’s on a bed with white sheets, his face is cropped out of the frame, but you can see his body, lean and so pretty, looming over a girl who lies beneath him.
He's holding her arms above her head.
And he's fucking into her mouth.
You don't scroll past. You don't mindlessly like and move on. Instead, you tap the video to turn up the volume just a little.
The sounds are obscene.
Wet, throat gagging sounds, the girls' muffled whimpers mixing with his soft grunts of pleasure. He fucks into her mouth, slow, at first, almost lazy, then faster, harder.
The girl taps his thigh. The universal signal for "I need to breathe." You've done it yourself, with the dildos attached to your wall, practicing for videos, it’s basic human instinct, you think.
He laughs.
That laugh.
It's mean and amused and condescending, and something about it makes you clench around absolutely nothing.
He doesn't stop. If anything, he goes faster, ignoring her desperate taps, using her mouth like it belongs to him.
Only at the last second does he pull back. She gasps, choking, saliva dripping down her chin, and before she can recover, he's pushing back in.
Your pussy clenches again.
The video is in Japanese, which was obvious mainly because of the body parts being censored and the words coming from his mouth. You don't understand a single word from it, but something about him, about the way he moves, the way he sounds, the casual cruelty of his body language...
You click on his profile.
scaramouche
His profile picture is a boy's pale, slender hand gripping a girl's face. His bio is in Japanese characters you can't read, so you copy it into a translator.
"i'll fucking digest you, one kiss at a time."
That's it. That's all he has to say about himself.
He’s following zero people, fucking dickhead you think, and he has over 500k followers.
Holy shit…
More than you.
You scroll down, his age is listed, 20. He’s 2 years older than you.
Obviously, as any normal person who's about to stalk a stranger's content, you click on the media tab.
Your heart drops.
He shows his face.
Not everyone does; most people don’t want others to recognize them in real life. You didn’t expect to see his face because in the other video, the camera was angled down.
This guy, this scaramouche, he doesn't seem to care.
He's hot.
No… hot isn’t the right word to describe him, actually. He’s pretty, beautiful, even, in a way that doesn’t even seem real.
Dark indigo hair, which could almost be blue or even purple in certain lighting, eyes the same color.
A face that definitely shouldn’t be used on making porn.
The first video with his face in it is him on a couch with a girl. His house is expensive, the kind of expensive that screams old money or nepo baby or both. The girl's face is blurred, but his isn't. He's looking directly at the camera, completely unbothered.
Nepo baby, you decide. Has to be. Some rich kid who hates his mom and spends her money on whatever he wants, not caring about his image or his future or anything.
He probably gets away with it because he's a man.
The video is in Japanese as figured. You watch it anyway, picking up on body language instead of words. The girl looks nervous, shaking slightly, and he sits close to her, petting her hair, touching her thigh. He leans in but doesn't kiss her. Just hovers there, making her wait.
You get bored and translate the description instead.
He calls her shy. Says she just broke up with her boyfriend, saw his content online, and wanted to be one of the girls in his videos. He talks about how he's going to ruin her. Turn her into a perfect little doll.
You don't feel disgusted by it; you don’t even know what you feel.
You keep scrolling.
Ten minutes later, you've gone through most of his content.
He's always in control, always cruel, always making the girls in his videos fall apart in ways that look almost painful. But he also... takes care of them. In his own way. Kisses them while he fucks them. Leaves hickeys all over their skin. Holds them down but also holds them close.
It's confusing.
Probably more confusing for the girls.
It makes you feel things you don't want to examine.
Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, you give up pretending you're just curious.
You grab the vibrator from your nightstand, the one you just used on stream, and press it between your legs.
You cum to the sound of his voice.
His moans, the way he laughs at the girls when they beg, the way he laughs even harder when they start shaking from being overstimulated. The things he says in Japanese that you don't understand but somehow feel in your core anyway.
You cum again.
And again.
You're on your third orgasm, trembling and oversensitive, when your phone buzzes with a notification.
A DM.
From him.
Your heart stops.
You stare at the notification, certain you're hallucinating. You followed him earlier, when you first clicked on his profile. You didn't think anything of it; you follow lots of people.
But he followed you back.
And now he's messaging you.
You tap on the notification with shaking fingers, fully expecting to see a wall of Japanese characters you won't understand.
It's in English.
You stare at the message for a full minute in shock. Your brain is refusing to process this, because what the fuck type of coincidence is this?
He looked at your profile, saw your content, your bio, your everything while you were cumming to his own content.
And in your bio, the first fucking line is:
horny virgin
Fuck.
scaramouche:
hello?
i know youre online
i saw you like one of my videos 3 minutes ago
and twitter also shows when people read your texts
Shit.
You forget how annoying this app is, how it automatically shows ‘seen’, when you click on someone’s DM, and there doesn’t seem to be a way to turn it off.
Twitter needs to fucking change that.
Embarrassing.
you:
um… hi?
scaramouche:
there she is
thought you were gonna leave me on read
you:
sorry
i was just surprised i guess
scaramouche:
surprised that i messaged you?
you:
yeah lol
you kinda dont really seem like the type to just dm ppl
scaramouche:
im not
girls usually come to me
You roll your eyes hard in real life. He sounds so egotistical.
you:
okayyy..
so why r u dming me then?
scaramouche:
bcuz i wanted to
is that a problem
you:
no
i mean… IDK… i guess not?
scaramouche:
relax holy shit
im not gonna bite you unless…
unless you want me to
You read that last message three times at the least. Your face is burning, you're still wet from earlier, still sensitive, and this conversation is not helping. You squirm in your bed, sitting back against a pillow and pulling your sheets over you so that you’re more comfortable.
The vibrator, the toy you used on yourself to his videos stares back at you, the stare feels harder than how it felt when your plushies would look at you while you shot videos.
You turn your body away from it and lie on your side.
you:
how did you even find my account
i know you aren’t just scrolling thru your notifications, looking at any any girls profile that follows u
scaramouche:
algorithm duh
you came up on my feed
some video of you drooling on a dildo
In real life, you shove your face into your pillow, embarrassed, before glancing up, thumbs typing.
you:
oh god
scaramouche:
it was cute
very pathetic mostly but cute
i liked it
you:
i don’t know if that’s a compliment or not
scaramouche:
it is trust me
You don't know what to say. You're typing and deleting, typing and deleting, too shy to keep up this conversation.
Thankfully, he talks first, again.
scaramouche:
you know what actually make me interested in you, though
you:
what?
scaramouche:
your bio
the first thing it says, horny virgin
thats real right?
not some marketing bullshit like the other girls on here
you:
it’s real
scaramouche:
fuck thats hot
You stare at your screen, wide eyed, trying to ignore the feeling of your cunt, aching, clenching around nothing…
Because of him.
you:
…
scaramouche:
i mean it
the virgin thing drives me insane
but you already know that from stalking my account
you:
uh, no i wasn’t
scaramouche:
mhm…
yeah sure
tell that to my inbox
stalker tip: try not to like every single post of mine that you scroll past, even though i always get a shit ton of likes, i can see when a mutual likes my post
You didn’t think about it till now that you’re mutuals with him on here, you followed him, and he followed you.
He continues typing.
scaramouche:
its hot thinking about some cute girl who’s never been touched for real
who only knows what it feels like from toys
and whos been practicing on dildos for years without having the real thing
you:
i haven’t been practicing for years
i’ve only been doing this for like… a year tops
scaramouche:
even better
a year of making content
a year of showing off that pretty little body and nobody gets to actually have it
thats so fucked up dont you think?
you:
i guess when you put it that way
scaramouche:
and then i look at the shit you post
"soft girl with soft moans & a tight grip" "wanna b ur brainless toy" "force me to take it"
you srsly write all that and youre still a virgin?
you:
those r just marketing
it’s what subscribers want to hear
you should know this
scaramouche:
is it though?
because i watched ur videos
and you dont look like youre faking it
you look like you mean every dirty word
You don’t have a response for that, because he is actually right. You do mean it, every filthy caption, every desperate moan, every time you beg the camera to use you, you mean it.
You just never thought you'd actually get to experience it.
scaramouche:
so here what i wanna know
with all the subscribers you have
all the men in your comments, begging, offering to fly you out and fuck you on camera
why are you still untouched
you:
because they’re all disgusting
dont u see half or most of them are like 40 yr olds with wives??
plus i dont want my first time to be with some random guy who just wants content
scaramouche:
what do you want then
you:
i dont know
something real ig
someone who actually gives a shit about me
scaramouche:
thats cute
naive
but cute
you:
whats that supposed to mean
scaramouche:
it means you’re in the wrong industry for romance sweetheart
but i respect it
it’s rare nowadays
You're blushing so hard your cheeks could probably boil an egg.
He called you sweetheart.
Sweetheart.
It shouldn't affect you this much. It's probably something he says to all the girls.
But still.
you:
so why r u messaging me if you’re not trying to fly me out or whatever
scaramouche:
maybe i am
you:
oh
scaramouche:
would that be so bad?
you:
i mean yes? i dont know you
scaramouche:
you know what i do
you know what i look like
you know how i treat the girls in my videos
you also know that im more age appropriate than the creeps in your dm’s
thats more than what most people know about each other before they fuck
you:
thats different
scaramouche:
how
you:
it just is
scaramouche:
youre scared arent you
you:
im not scared
im just cautious
scaramouche:
same thing but whatever
i get it tho
random guy on the internet wants to meet up
thats serial killer energy i know
you:
it is a little bit
scaramouche:
fair but for what it’s worth i dont live in japan
so i wouldn’t have to fly u there if you change your mind
i just go to japan sometimes for vids, i actually live in [insert city/town/wherever you live name]
Your heart stops.
That’s where you live. The same area your apartment is in, the same place where your campus is in.
He’s so much closer than you thought.
you:
wait srsly??
scaramouche:
yeah, why?
r u from there too?
you:
…maybe
scaramouche:
holy shit
small world
or maybe the algorithm knows more than we thought
you:
that’s kinda creepy
scaramouche:
it’s extremely creepy
but also very convenient if you ever wanted to meet up
you:
i don’t know about that
scaramouche:
no pressure
just saying the options here
You've spent the last hour watching his videos, cumming to his voice, imagining yourself as one of the girls he ruins on camera. And now he's in your DMs, telling you he lives in your area, offering to meet up.
This is insane.
And also dangerous.
And also everything you've fantasized about.
scaramouche:
you dont have to decide rn
im not going anywhere
just think ab it
you:
okay ill think about it
scaramouche:
good girl
You’re too fucking easy, because those two small words makes your entire body feel hot, and you have to press your thighs together to relieve some of the pressure
scaramouche:
you liked that
didn’t you
you:
what
scaramouche:
being called a good girl
i can practically feel you squirming through the screen
you:
get over urself
im not squirming
scaramouche:
liar
you:
shut up
scaramouche:
make me
You’re going to die, literally, actually going to combust right here in your bed, and they’ll find your body in the morning, still holding onto your phone, still blushing.
You need to end this conversation before it spirals into you giving in.
you:
i need to go to sleep
scaramouche:
running away already?
you:
im not running away
im just tired
i had a superrr long stream tonight
scaramouche:
yeah i watched a little of it
u looked all cute
all fucked out and desperate
you wish you had someone there to actually take care of you after, don't you?
Oh fuck do you. So bad…
You wish he was that someone.
you:
maybe
scaramouche:
think ab that too while you’re “sleeping”
you:
you’re insufferable
scaramouche:
really now?
and yet…
you haven’t blocked me
you:
goodnight scaramouche
scaramouche:
scara
you:
what?
scaramouche:
call me scara
only people i like get to use the full name
you:
okay
goodnight, scara
scaramouche:
night virgin
dream about me
You close the app before you can say anything else stupid.
Your heart is pounding, head spinning, and you’re still so wet, still needy, and now you have a name, and a face to attach to all of your desperate fantasies.
You're not going to sleep tonight.
You know that already.
You're going to lie here in the dark and think about him. About his voice that you can only imagine in Japanese because that’s all you’ve heard. About his hands… About all the things he does to those girls in his videos and how badly you want him to do them to you.
But you can't.
You won't.
Because if you meet him, if you let him take your virginity, he'll just add you to his collection. Another video, another conquest. Another girl who fell for his pretty face and annoying pretty and cruel hands.
And then he'll move on to the next one.
And you'll be left with nothing but a video and a broken heart.
You want him. You know that now, with painful clarity.
But you want him to stay.
And you don't know if he's capable of that.
Two weeks.
It’s been two weeks since Scara slid into your DMs, and somehow, against all logic and reason, he’s still there.
You expected him to ghost you.
That's what guys like him do, right?
They message a girl, realize she's not going to put out immediately, and move on to someone easier. You were prepared for the silence, had already started bracing yourself for the inevitable.
It never came.
He’d send you videos, porn videos he found on twitter.
scaramouche:
[video attachment]
this is what id do to u btw
just so yk
you:
oh my god scara wtf
u can’t just send me stuff like that at 2pm
scaramouche:
um why the fuck not?
r u at school or something
you:
yes actually
im literally in the middle of a lecture
scaramouche:
boringgggg
watch the video
you:
im not watching porn in class scara
scaramouche:
coward
It wasn’t always porn that you’d both talk about though, he’d send you other things…
scaramouche:
[image attachment]
you:
lol is that build a bear
scaramouche:
it’s a fucking sanrio build a bear
it’s YOUR fault my algorithm is ruined
now i see this dumb shit constantly
you:
aww
that’s so cute though??
scaramouche:
it’s not cute
it’s annoying
i used to get porn content now i get plushies and dumb pastel room tours
you:
sounds like an improvement tbh
scaramouche:
i hate you
He was also still in the subject of wanting to meet with you, in real life.
scaramouche:
[video attachment]
notice how she taps out at the end?
you:
yeah
scaramouche:
i wouldn’t let u tap out
you:
…
scaramouche:
just saying for when we meet
you:
IF we meet
scaramouche:
when
You clicked on his profile one night, just to check. Just to see if he's posted anything new.
He hasn't.
No new videos.
No new photos. Nothing in the same amount of time he’s been chatting with you.
That's... unusual. He used to post constantly. New girls every few days, new content every week. Now there's nothing.
You're not sure what that means.
But then you notice something else.
His following count. The little number that shows how many accounts he follows.
1
Just one.
You tap on it, expecting it to be private, and it is. But you already know.
It's you.
Out of everyone on this app, all the girls in his DMs, all the creators he could be following... he only follows you.
You don't mention it to him.
At some point, you both exchanged numbers.
scaramouche:
hey y/n
we should exchange numbers
you:
why…
scaramouche:
bcuz twitter dms r annoying and i wanna text u without the app crashing every 5 minutes
you:
idk…
scaramouche:
im not asking for nudes
well even though you have it all posted already
i just want ur number so we can talk easier
you:
ughh
okay
fineee [number]
scaramouche:
finally
check ur texts
You check your texts and there's a message from an unknown number.
3058291193: hey virgin
You save his contact with a little purple heart emoji next to his name.
You both start texting more now that you both don't have to open Twitter just to message each other. It's nice, fun... but you also want to know more about him.
So one day, you ask.
you:
we’ve known eachother for like almost 2 weeks now
and i barely know anything about u
tell me something ab u
scara:
uhhh
like what
you:
why do u do this content
i mean… you clearly don’t need the money
scara:
the fuck
how do u know that
you:
your house in the vids
ur clothes
everything about u screams rich
scara:
observant now?
yeah okay
my mom is super loaded
shes some corporate bitch who cares more ab her company than her own son
she barely knows i exist
so i spend her money however i want and she doesn’t gaf
you:
that sounds so lonely
scara:
dont psychoanalyze me
or im blocking u
you:
sorry
scara:
it’s fine
ur not wrong
it’s just annoying when ppl are right about me
After that conversation, he started talking more about himself.
scara:
i have a cat btw
you:
wait… rly?
i didn’t expect that
scara:
black fur, golden eyes
her name is kuroneko
it means black cat in japanese
yes i know thats basic shut up
you:
aww thats so cute
can i see her??
scara:
[image attachment]
you:
OH MY GOD SHES SO PRETTY
scara:
shes a bitch actually
hates everyone but only tolerates me
you:
sounds like someone i know…
scara:
fuck off
You find out more and more about Scara. How he speaks Japanese fluently because his mom sent him to international schools growing up. How he lived in Tokyo for three years before moving back here. How he absolutely hates sweets, can’t stand anything too sugary…
except for you…
Tonight, you’re in your bed after a long day of school, you skip filming to talk with Scara like you normally do.
scara:
yk what i dont get
you:
what…
scara:
why u wont let me meet u
you:
ughhh scara
we’ve been over this
scara:
have we though?
because everytime i bring it up you change the subject
or you say you’re not ready
or you make some shitty excuse
you:
scara…
scara:
im srs two weeks we’ve been talking
i message you everyday
i havent posted shit because im too busy thinking ab u and u still wont tell me why you’re so scared
im not a stranger to u anymore, y/n
You stare at your phone for a long time.
You’ve been making excuses, not wanting to give the real answer everytime he’s too close to it.
But tonight, for some reason, you're tired of pretending.
you:
okay fine
u wanna know why im scared?
scara:
duh
it’s what ive been asking this whole time
you:
because you’re going to leave
scara:
what
you:
after you take my virginity and film the video you’re going to leave
and go back to making content with other girls
and im just going to be another video in your collection, another girl you fucked and moved on from
He doesn’t respond, and you keep going.
you:
and i dont know if i can handle that scara
because i actually like you, and i like talking to you all night
and then that’ll all just be over once we meet up
The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again.
You wait.
And finally…
scara:
you’re so fucking pathetic
you:
wow
thanks
scara:
no i mean it
thats the most pathetic thing ive read
two weeks of bullshit when you could’ve just said that from the beginning
you:
so what? r u going to make fun of me now?
scara:
no im gonna tell u something and you’re going to listen, okay?
you:
okay
scara:
i havent posted in 2 weeks because everytime i think about filming with some girl whos offering in my DM’s, all i can think about is you
and how it should be you
and how everyone else would just be a waste of time
and im the one who reached out to you first when i normally dont
do u understand what im saying?
you:
i think so
scara:
good bcuz thats all your getting
my pride can only take so much
You read his message, over and over, trying to convince yourself that they're real, trying to convince yourself that he likes you just as much as you like him.
you:
okay
scara:
okay what
you:
okay ill meet u tmr after school
u can come by my place
scara:
are you serious
you:
yes im serious
i want to
i’ve wanted to this whole time i was just scared
scara:
and now?
you:
still scared but more scared of never knowing what this could be
scara:
…send me your address
you:
[address]
scara:
ur fucking kidding me
you’re 5 miles away from me
you:
wow really
scara:
i could’ve been fucking you for 2 weeks
you:
scara
scara:
im kidding
kind of..
ill be there tmrw what time specifically
you:
my last class ends at 3… so maybe 5?
gives me time to get ready
scara:
k
ill bring my camera equipment in case yours is shit
you:
it’s not shit
scara:
we’ll see
goodnight virgin
sleep tight, because tmr you’re going to be ruined
you:
goodnight scara
You don't sleep.
I mean, who would in a situation like this?
You drift in and out, feeling both anxiety and anticipation.
Tomorrow.
It’s happening tomorrow.
After two weeks of texting, flirting, you’re finally going to meet him.
And he's going to take your virginity.
And film it.
And maybe, possibly, hopefully, not disappear afterward.
The next day is absolute torture.
Every class drags on forever.
Every lecture feels like it's being delivered through molasses.
You check your phone constantly, rereading your conversation with Scara, making sure it really happened. Making sure you didn't imagine it.
You didn't.
Your last class ends at 3:07. You're out the door by 3:08, practically running to your apartment.
You do that stupid Cassie routine in Euphoria. Shower, shave, exfoliate everywhere. Everywhere. Moisterize every inch of your body with the expensive lotion that makes your skin feel like silk and look insanely good for the cameras. You do your makeup, lighter than usual, the kind of look that you wear in class, soft and pretty.
Because you asked him over text to blur your face out in the video, that you didn’t want to dress up too much because you dont wanna be in makeup and a wig getting your virginity taken.
He didn’t care, if anything, he loved it, how he gets to see the real you the fans don’t get to see.
You take forever finding the right clothes to wear. You don’t want to wear anything revealing, you dont want to be standing there with your tits out when he walks in. You want… something in between. Cute but not too desperate, sexy but not aggressive.
You settle on a pink bra, lacey, with a little bow between the cups. Matching panties, obviously. A sheer babydoll top over it, soft pink that makes your skin glow.
You look at yourself in the mirror.
And realize something that makes your stomach drop.
Not only have you never been fucked before.
You've never been kissed.
You're getting all your firsts taken tonight.
scara:
omw
And in exactly 20 minutes, you hear a knock at your door.
Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears. You walk to the door on shaky legs, peering through the peephole.
He's there.
Real, solid. Not just a face on a screen anymore.
He's wearing a dark hoodie, oversized, with baggy black jeans and chunky boots. His hair is messy, falling into his eyes. He looks grunge, maybe? Alternative definitely. Like someone you'd see at a concert, not someone who makes porn for a living.
He’s also short, taller that you, definitely, but not by much. Somehow that makes him less intimidating.
Somehow, that makes him more real.
You open the door.
His eyes scan you immediately. Up and down, taking in your bare feet, your babydoll top, your face without the usual layers of camera-ready makeup.
"You look different," he says.
His voice, god, his voice. You’ve only ever heard him speak Japenese. You honestly expected him to have an accent or something, but he doesn’t have one, just this tone that makes your knees weak.
You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms. "Good different or bad different?"
"Good." He tilts his head, looking at the top of yours, before looking back down at your eyes and smiling, almost mocking. "You're much shorter than I thought."
You roll your eyes at him, "Says you."
He snorts, shrugging. "Fair enough."
For a moment, you just stand there, both of you, staring at each other. Two people who've shared every filthy thought in their heads, who've seen each other at their most vulnerable, meeting for the first time.
"Are you going to let me in?" he asks, breaking the silence. "Or are we doing this in the hallway?"
"Oh, right. Sorry. Come in."
You step aside, and he walks past you, and he smells good, expensive cologne probably.
You shut and lock your door as his eyes scan your apartment, moving through it.
He sees the pink walls, the LED strip lights set to white because hot pink looks disgusting to you, he sees the collection of plushies on your couch.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "It's like a Sanrio store exploded in here."
"Shut up."
"I'm not judging. It's very you." He picks up a Hello Kitty plush from your couch, examining it with mock seriousness. "Does she watch while you film?"
"Sometimes."
"Kinky."
You lead him to your bedroom, and he takes it all in with the same amused expression. It’s even worse than the pink shit outside your room. A huge bed with pink sheets and a duvet with brown teddy bears, plushies everywhere on the bed, fluffy rug on the floor, but what he mainly focuses on is the ring light set up in the corner, the camera equipment you use for your streams.
"Your setup isn't shit," he admits, examining your camera. "Better than I expected."
"I told you."
"You did." He sets the camera down and turns to face you. "Okay. Get on the bed."
Your eyebrows knit, glancing at the bed, and back at him. "Already?"
"Relax." He rolls his eyes. "I'm not fucking you yet. We need to talk first."
"Talk?" You tilt your head, confused.
"Yeah. You've seen my videos, right? The ones where I'm just... talking to the girl before anything happens?"
Well yes and no… you have seen them, but they’re all in Japanese. You never understood a single word he was saying.
He doesn’t wait for a response. "That's the pre-talk. I do it with everyone. Go over boundaries, safe words, what they're comfortable with." He sits on the edge of your bed, patting the space next to him. "Come here. Stop looking at me like I'm going to eat you."
"You might."
"Later,” he says with a wink.
You sit down next to him, leaving a careful gap between your bodies. He immediately closes it, shifting until your thighs are touching. You don’t move away.
"Okay," he says. "I’m not recording this one because most of my fans don’t understand english, so you can say whatever you want. First things first. Safe word?"
"Um... pink?"
"Pink." He nods. "Good choice, the one’s that are easy to remember are always the best. If you say it, everything stops. No questions. No arguments. You say pink, I stop. Got it?"
"Got it,” You say with a nod.
"Second thing. What are you okay with?"
"I... I don't know. Everything? I've never done any of this before, so I don't really know what I like."
"That's fine. We'll figure it out." His hand lands on your knee, casual, like it belongs there. You don’t pull away. "What about what you're not okay with?"
"I don't want my face in the video. Blurred, cropped out, whatever. I don't want people to recognize me."
"Done, we already chatted about that earlier, but what else?"
"I... I don't know. That's it, I think."
He's quiet for a moment, studying your face with those intense indigo eyes.
"You're shaking,” he points out, not taking his eyes off you once.
"I'm nervous,” you say with a nervous giggle.
"I can tell." His hand slides higher, resting on your thigh, just above your knee. "You've really never done this before? Any of it?"
"No."
"Not even kissing?"
Your face burns as you look down, shaking your head. "No."
You glance back up and see something change in his expression, a hungry look like you just handed him so much more then you’re already giving.
"Oh? So I'm your first everything."
"Yeah."
"Fuck." He breathes out the word like it's been punched out of him. "That's... that's so fucking hot. You have no idea."
"Scara..."
"No, I'm serious." He turns to face you fully, one hand coming up to cup your jaw. "You've never been touched by anyone. Never been kissed. Never had someone's hands on you like this." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "And I get to be the first."
You don't know what to say. Your whole body is tingling where he's touching you, every nerve ending lighting up.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks.
"You're asking?"
"First time counts. I want you to remember it, all of it."
You nod.
He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don't. His lips brush against yours, soft, tentative, nothing like the brutal way he handles the girls in his videos.
It's gentle.
It's perfect.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you melt into him. Your eyes flutter shut. Your lips part. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
When he finally pulls back, you're breathless.
"Not bad," he murmurs, thumb rubbing at your lip. "For someone who's never kissed before."
You stare at him, blinking slow, fully dazed. Your lips are tingling, actually, your whole body is tingling.
You wonder if he can see that.
"Can you..." You trail off, embarrassed.
"Can I what?"
"Do it again?"
"Yeah," he says quietly, like he was going to anyways. "I can do that."
He kisses you again. Longer this time. So much deeper. His hands tangle in your hair, tilting your head back, and you let him take control because you don't know what else to do.
You just know you never want him to stop.
When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing hard.
"Okay," he says, standing up. "I need to set up the camera."
"Now?" You ask, pouting, wanting him to come back.
"Yeah. Now." He walks over to your ring light, adjusting the angle. "You're going to sit right there, looking all fucked out and pretty, and I'm going to film what happens next."
Your heart is pounding, your lips are all swollen, and your entire body is aching with want.
He's really doing this.
It's really happening.
He positions the camera, checks the lighting, makes sure everything is perfect. Then he turns back to you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.
"Ready?"
You're not.
But you nod anyway.
The camera light blinks red.
Recording.
Scara stands at the foot of your bed, fingers going around the hem of his hoodie, he pulls it over his head and your breath catches. You’ve seen his body in videos, pale, and lean, and deceptively strong, but it’s so different in person, more real, more… overwhelming.
It’s also the first time a boy’s been shirtless in your bedroom.
"You're staring," he says.
"Sorry."
"Don't be." His fingers move to his belt, undoing it with practiced ease. "That's kind of the point."
He pushes his jeans down, stepping out of them, and now he's just in black boxers. You can see the outline of him through the fabric, already half-hard, and your mouth goes dry.
He gets on the bed.
The mattress dips under his weight, and suddenly he's right there. He sits in front of you, cross-legged, casual, like he does this every day.
He does do this every day.
Just not with you.
"Come here," he says, and it's not a request.
You lean forward, and his hand catches the back of your neck, pulling you the rest of the way. His lips meet yours, and this time it's not gentle. It’s like he’s doing it for the camera. This time it's hungry, demanding, his tongue sliding past your lips before you can even process what's happening.
You make a sound against his mouth. Something embarrassing. Something needy.
He laughs into the kiss.
His hands are everywhere, your shoulders, your waist, your hips, you can feel his hands at the hem of your babydoll top, "This is pretty," he murmurs when he pulls back just a little, fingers in the lace. "But it's in the way."
He pulls it over your head before you can respond, and a kisses you again, his fingers now at your back, unhooking your bra with practiced efficiency that should bother you but doesn’t.
The bra falls away.
He pulls back from the kiss, and his eyes drop to your chest. You resist the urge to cover yourself, to hide, because he's looking at you like you're something precious. Something he wants to devour.
"Pretty," he murmurs.
"Scara..."
"Shh." His hands come up to cup you, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you gasp. "I'm appreciating the view."
Before you can respond, he's moving you. His hands on your hips, spinning you around, pulling you back against his chest. Your back presses into his bare skin, and his so soft, warm, and solid.
"There we go," he murmurs against your ear. "That's so much better."
One hand finds your breast again, squeezing, palm warm against the soft flesh, rolling your nipple between his fingers.
His other hand slides lower.
Down your stomach, tracing the edge of your panties, where his fingers trace the edge of the lace without going any further..
"These videos you make," he says, conversational, like he's not currently driving you insane. "I've watched all of them. Every single one."
"You mentioned that."
"Did I mention the one where you sat on that vibrator for forty-five minutes without cumming?" His fingers dip below the waistband, just barely, brushing against the sensitive skin beneath. "You were crying by the end. Begging even. And you still held out."
"That was... a challenge. From a subscriber,” you breathe out, trying not to squirm.
"I know… I read the caption." His fingers slide lower, finding your folds, and you whimper. "I jerked off to that video six times. Kept thinking about how pretty you'd look if it was me making you cry. Me making you beg."
He presses his fingers against your clit, rubbing in slow circles, and your hips jerk involuntarily.
"There it is," he murmurs. "Those pretty little sounds. Just like in the videos. Except now I get to hear them in person."
"Scara..."
"Take these off." He snaps the waistband of your panties. "I want to feel you properly."
Your hands are shaking as you lift your hips, sliding the underwear down your thighs, kicking them off somewhere onto the floor. You're completely naked now, pressed against his bare chest, with nothing between his hand and your cunt.
His fingers finds your clit immediately.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're soaked, already. We've barely started and you're dripping all over my hand."
"I can't help it."
"I know you can't, that's what makes it so fun."
He circles your clit slowly, not enough pressure to do anything but tease. Your hips buck, trying to get more friction, but his other hand that was on your breast wraps around your waist, holding you in place.
"Patience," he says. "We have all night."
"Scara, please..." you whimper out, so sweet and so needy.
"Please what?"
"More. I need more…"
He laughs, and it’s that exact laugh from the first video you ever watched of him. The one that made you wet before you even knew his name.
"You want my fingers inside you?"
"Yes." You nod, desperate.
"Such a simple word… You’re going to have to beg prettier than that."
Your face burns, but you're so turned on you don't care about dignity anymore.
"Please, Scara. Please put your fingers inside me. I need to feel you. I've been thinking about it for two weeks, imagining what it would feel like, and I can't... I need..."
"Good enough."
He slides a finger inside, and the sound you make is embarrassing. High, and so desperate and completely involuntary. He's not even doing anything yet, just holding his finger inside you, letting you adjust to the intrusion.
"Tight," he murmurs. "So fucking tight. All those dildos you use and you're still this tight?"
"They're not as big as..."
You cut yourself off, embarrassed.
"As what?" He adds a second finger, stretching you open. "As me? Is that what you were going to say?"
You don't answer. Your brain is going fuzzy, all of your attention is focused on the feeling of his fingers inside you.
"You trained your throat for months," he says, still in that conversational tone, like he's discussing the weather while he finger-fucks you. "I watched you go from barely taking six inches to deepthroating that ten-inch dildo on your wall. Holding it for a full minute without gagging."
His fingers curl, pressing against your front wall, searching.
"Fifty seconds," you manage. "I could only... only do fifty seconds."
"Still impressive." He crooks his fingers, checking your expressions, seeing if he found that spot yet. "But training your throat is one thing. This..." He curls and curls still searching. "This is something else entirely."
He finds the spot.
Your whole body jerks, a broken moan spilling from your lips. He presses harder, rubbing circles against that bundle of nerves, and your vision starts to blur at the edges, your toes curling
"There it is," he says, satisfaction dripping from his voice. "That's the spot, isn't it? That's what makes you fall apart, go fucking blank."
"Oh god. Oh fuck. Scara, I can't..."
"You can." His fingers speed up, pressing harder, faster, and you can’t control the loud moan you let out, hard instictively grabbing at his arm. "You're going to take whatever I give you, and you're going to love it."
His other hand leaves your breast and wraps around your throat instead. Not squeezing hard enough to cut off air, just enough to make you aware of how completely he has you.
"Look at you," he murmurs. "Shaking already. Just from my fingers. Imagine what you're going to do when I actually fuck you."
You can't imagine it. You can barely think. All you can do is feel, the pressure building between your legs, the heat of his body behind you, the grip of his hand on your throat.
He adds a third finger.
The stretch makes you gasp, pain and pleasure blurring together. He doesn't slow down. If anything, he goes faster, fucking you with his fingers like he's trying to prove a point.
"You know what my favorite video of yours is?" he asks.
You shake your head, unable to form words.
"The one where you fucked yourself on that machine for two hours straight. Where you came so many times you lost count. Where you were crying and begging and saying you couldn't take anymore, but you didn't stop." His fingers speed up, fucking into you harder, faster. "You came eleven times that stream. I counted."
"You... y-you counted?" You surprisingly manage out.
"I counted everything." His grip on your throat tightens. "Every moan. Every whimper. Every time your eyes rolled back. I have it all memorized."
His fingers find that spot again, pressing hard, and you cry out, the sound echoing off the walls of your bedroom. Your mouth falls open, gasping for air, and that's when he moves.
His hand leaves your throat, and suddenly his fingers are in your mouth instead. Two of them, pressing down on your tongue, and you suck on instinct, moaning around the digits.
"That's it," he breathes. "Fuck, that's it. That's what I want. Suck them just like that."
You suck. You suck his fingers like your life depends on it, tasting yourself on his skin, while his other hand keeps working between your legs. The combination is overwhelming. Too much and not enough all at once.
"Fuck," he groans. "You're so good at that. All that training paid off, huh? You're going to suck my cock just like that. I'm going to fuck your throat until you can't breathe, and you're going to take it, because that's what you've been practicing for."
The words push you closer to the edge.
"You're close," he observes. "I can feel it. The way you're clenching around my fingers, the way you're shaking. You want to cum so bad, don't you?"
You nod desperately, unable to speak with his fingers in your mouth.
"Too bad." He slows down, keeping you right on the edge. "I'm not done with you yet. I want to hear those pretty sounds a little longer."
You whine around his fingers, and he laughs. "God, you're pathetic," he murmurs, and it sounds like a compliment. "Completely pathetic. And I fucking love it."
He keeps you there for what feels like hours. Edging you, backing off every time you get close, until you're crying real tears and begging around his fingers for release.
"Please," you sob when he finally pulls his hand from your mouth. "Please, Scara, I can't... I need..."
"Need what? Say it."
"I need to cum. Please. Please let me cum."
"Okay." His fingers speed up one final time. "Cum."
You shatter.
The orgasm rips through you like nothing you've ever felt before. Your whole body convulses, clenching around his fingers, and the sound you make is somewhere between a scream and a sob. He works you through it, extending the pleasure until you're twitching and oversensitive.
Then he pulls out.
You collapse against him, boneless, breathing hard, shaking. You've made yourself cum hundreds of times on camera, but it's never felt like that.
"Good girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "That was beautiful."
Then he pushes you off.
You land on your back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe. Your whole body is tingling. Your cunt is throbbing. And he's not done.
You hear the rustle of fabric, of something hitting the floor.
You lift your head to look.
He took off his boxers.
And his cock… is big.
You've seen it in videos before, sort of. Japanese censorship laws meant he always had to blur it, pixelate it beyond recognition. Sometimes he got lazy with the editing and you can almost make out the shape. But you've never seen it clearly.
It's bigger than you thought.
You’re almost an expert at dildos, which translates into dicks. You’re able to tell how long they are just by a glance, and you’d estimate his is about 8 inches, at least.
"Fuck," you breathe.
"That's the plan."
Your hand reaches out before you can stop yourself.
You wrap your fingers around him, feeling the weight, the heat, the way he throbs in your grip. It's nothing like the dildos you've practiced with. It's warm and alive and so, so real.
You’d never use dildos again if you had the real thing everyday.
"Eager," he says, but he doesn't stop you. Just watches, eyes dark, as you stroke him slowly. "You're supposed to be a virgin."
"I am a virgin." You look up at him, voice almost tired, still recovering.
"Could've fooled me." He lets you touch him for a few more seconds, then grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away. "But I didn't come here to get a handjob."
He comes closer, positioning himself between your legs. You spread them automatically, making room for him, and he settles into the space like he belongs there.
"This is going to hurt," he says. Not a warning. Just a fact as he rubs his cock slowly against your folds, almost teasing.
"I know." You say, anxious, but just wanting to get the hard part over with already.
"You might bleed."
"Wait really? I thought that was a myth…" Your brows knit, getting distracted way too quickly.
"You could,” he says, not dwelling on the subject further, “And I'm not going to be gentle."
Your breath catches, you nod slow. "I know."
He grabs one of the cameras he'd set on the bed earlier, angling it down between your bodies. The other cameras are already positioned around the room, capturing everything from multiple angles, but this one will get the close-up.
The money shot.
"Any last words?" he asks, almost mocking.
You shake your head, rolling your eyes despite the whimpers you’re letting out, feeling his cock, warm, heavy, just resting ontop of your cunt. "Just... do it. Before I lose my nerve."
He smiles, cruel and so adoringly beautiful at once.
And then he pushes inside.
Easing in? Not his style at all. He slides all the way to the hilt in one smooth thrust, and the scream that tears from your throat is unlike anything you’ve made before.
It hurts.
It hurts so fucking bad.
You feel like you're being split in two, like he's too big, too much, like your body wasn't made to take this. Tears spill down your cheeks, and you grab at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
He doesn't stop.
He starts to move, slow but not gentle, pulling out halfway before pushing back in. The camera in his hand stays steady, like he’s a pro at this, documenting everything, while his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise.
"There it is," he breathes. "Fuck, there it is. That's what a virgin feels like. So fucking tight. So fucking perfect."
"It hurts," you whimper. "Scara, it hurts..."
"I know." He leans down, still moving, still fucking you, and his lips brush against your cheek. "I know it hurts. But you're taking it so well. Such a good girl."
Tears are streaming down your cheeks. He notices, and instead of stopping, he leans down and kisses them. His tongue traces the wet tracks on your skin, collecting your tears, tasting your pain.
"So pretty when you cry," he says against your cheek. "I've always thought so. All those videos where you make yourself cry from overstimulation. But this is better. This is real."
He keeps moving, slow and deep, and gradually the pain starts to fade. It doesn't disappear completely, but it transforms into something else, a burning fullness that makes your toes curl.
"That's it," he says, feeling you relax around him. "There you go. Starting to feel good, isn't it?"
You nod, biting your lip.
"Use your words."
"Yes," you manage. "Yes, oh god, yes..."
He speeds up.
The camera is still in his hand, still recording, but his attention is on you now. On the way your face changes, pain melting into pleasure. On the sounds you're making, those sweet, cute moans that you're not even trying to hold back anymore.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he says, voice rough. "Two weeks of watching your videos, imagining it was me inside you instead of those stupid toys. And now I'm finally here. Finally fucking you for real."
He changes the angle, and suddenly he's hitting his cock deep inside the spot that makes your vision blur. You cry out, back arching, and he does it again. And again. Finding that spot and abusing it mercilessly.
"That's the one," he says, satisfied. "Found it, again. You make the cutest fucking face when I hit it."
"Scara... Scara, I'm gonna..."
"Already?" He laughs, mean and delighted, hitting that spot again, again, again. "We just started. You're really that easy?"
"I can't help it... it feels so good..."
"Then cum." He fucks you harder, faster. "Cum on my cock like the desperate little slut you are. Show the camera how good I make you feel."
You cum so hard you see stars.
Your whole body convulses, walls clenching around him, and you're pretty sure you're screaming but you can't hear anything over the blood rushing in your ears. He fucks you through it, doesn't slow down at all, and when the first orgasm starts to fade, the second one is already building.
"Good girl," he breathes. "That's my good girl. One down, how many more to go?"
He loses count somewhere around the fifth.
"Up."
His voice cuts through the haze of pleasure, and you look up at him, dazed. He's pulled out, leaving you empty and aching, and he's sitting back on your headboard, cock still hard and glistening with your slick.
"What?"
"Come here." He grabs your hips, hauling you up, and suddenly you're straddling him. His cock presses against your entrance, and you whimper. "I want you to ride me."
"I don't... I don't know how..."
"Mhm, don’t worry, I'll teach you." He guides your hips, lifting you up, positioning his cock at your entrance. "Sink down. Slow."
You sink Inch by inch, feeling him fill you up again, until you're fully seated in his lap. The angle is different like this. Deeper. You can feel him in places you didn't know existed.
"Now move." His hands are on your hips, guiding you. "Up and down. Just like that. Find your rhythm."
You start to move. It's awkward at first, clumsy, but then something clicks and suddenly it feels amazing. You're in control, setting the pace, taking what you need.
"That's it," he murmurs, watching you with dark eyes. "Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me what you've got."
You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder, and grind down onto him. He groans, hands tightening on your hips, and you feel a surge of power. You did that. You made him make that sound.
You're so close to him like this, chest to chest, his breath on your lips. It feels intimate in a way you weren't expecting. More like making love than making content.
"Kiss me," you whisper.
He doesn’t hesitate, he kisses you, deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours while you ride him. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, and for a moment it's just the two of you, the cameras forgotten.
Then, he breaks the kiss, as if remembering what it is you both are supposed to be shooting.
"Faster," he demands.
You go faster.
You bounce on his cock, chasing the pleasure, and he watches with heavy-lidded eyes. One hand slides up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to look at him.
"Pretty," he says. "So fucking pretty. Taking my cock like you were made for it."
"Scara..."
"You know how many girls have been in this position? How many have ridden my cock on camera?" He yanks your hair harder, and you moan. "None of them felt like you. None of them were this tight, this wet, this desperate."
"Please..."
"Please what? Use your words."
You whine, grinding even more desperately. "Please... harder... I need..."
He laughs, and then he flips you.
One second you're on top, the next you're on your back with your legs over his shoulders and he's fucking into you so hard the headboard slams against the wall. The angle is brutal, hitting deep, and you can't do anything but lie there and take it.
"This is what you wanted, right?" His voice is rough, strained. "To be ruined? To be fucked so hard you can't think straight?"
"Yes," you sob. "Yes, yes, yes..."
"Then take it. Take all of it."
He cums inside you.
You feel it, hot and thick, filling you up as he groans and shudders above you. His hips keep moving, fucking his cum deeper, and you cum again just from the feeling of it.
When he finally pulls out, you're a mess. Cum leaking from your cunt, tears drying on your cheeks, whole body trembling with aftershocks.
He looks down at you with something like satisfaction.
"We're not done yet."
Content like this calls for lots of positions being changed, different ways you both fuck, constantly moving, constantly trying different things.
After probably your 14th orgasm of the night, you’re on the bed, propped up on your hand when you suggest, "I want you to fuck my face."
He pauses in the middle of repositioning the camera, eyebrows raised. "What?"
"The first video I saw of you." Your voice is hoarse, wrecked from moaning. "You were fucking that girl's throat. Making her choke. I want... I want you to do that to me."
"I remember that video." He sets the camera aside, turning to look at you with renewed interest. "She tapped out three times and I didn't stop."
"I know."
"And you want me to do that to you."
"Yes."
He smiles slow, and the look he gives you is predatory.
"Lie on your back."
You position yourself how he wants, your head close to your pillows, looking up at him. From this angle, his cock looks even bigger, hard again already, glistening with your combined fluids.
He stands over you, cock in hand, and taps it against your lips.
"Open."
You open your mouth, and he slides in.
You've practiced this. Months of training with dildos, learning to relax your throat, to breathe through your nose, to suppress your gag reflex. But nothing could have prepared you for the real thing. The heat of his cock, the weight. The way he pulses against your tongue.
He slides in slowly at first, letting you adjust to the angle. But then his hips start to move, and slow goes out the window.
He fucks your face.
There's no other word for it. His cock slides down your throat, cutting off your air, and then pulls back just long enough for you to gasp before plunging in again. The sounds are obscene. Wet, gurgling, choking sounds that would embarrass you if you could think about anything besides the cock in your throat.
"Fuck," he groans, falling foward, his head falling down onto one of your pillows. "Your mouth feels amazing. Better than I imagined. You really did train for this, didn't you?"
He keeps going, humping your face with desperate little thrusts, and the sounds he's making are nothing like the controlled, mocking ones from before. These are raw, unfiltered. Almost vulnerable.
You start to choke for real. Your hands come up, slapping against the backs of his thighs, the universal signal for "I need air."
He doesn't stop.
Instead, his knees move, pressing down on your arms, trapping them away from trying to signal for anything. You're pinned now, completely helpless, unable to tap out or push him away.
"There we go," he groans. "That's better… no tapping out, no escaping. You just lie there and let me use your throat like the good little fuckdoll you are."
He picks up the pace, driving into your throat over and over. You can't breathe, can barely think, your vision starting to blur around the edges. Your thighs rub together, desperate for friction, and he laughs.
"Getting wet from choking on my cock? Fuck, you're perfect. Listen to that sound." He thrusts particularly deep, and you gag violently. "That wet, sloppy, choking sound? That's the sound of your throat being trained by something real."
Just when you think you might pass out, he gets up from your pillow and he pulls back. You gasp for air, chest heaving, drool and tears covering your face.
He gives you five seconds.
Then he's back in your mouth, fucking your throat like he's trying to break you.
"Gonna cum down your throat," he grunts. "And you're gonna swallow every drop. That's what good girls do, right? That's what you always say in your videos?"
You try to nod, but you can't move. You just lie there, throat open, accepting whatever he gives you.
He buries himself deep and cums.
You feel it pulsing down your throat, hot and thick, and you swallow on instinct. He holds himself there, grinding against your face, riding out his orgasm, until finally he pulls out.
You gasp for air, coughing, drool and cum running down your chin, your whole body trembling.
He looks at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
The positions blur together after that.
He fucks you from behind, face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air. He fucks you on your side, one leg hooked over his shoulder.
Then, he lifted you off the bed like you weighed nothing at all. Your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the air out from your lungs, and you could already feel his cock pushing inside.
"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, and you obey, ankles locking behind his back, thighs squeezing his waist. The new angle lets him sink even deeper, and you cry out, nails raking down his shoulders.
"Fuck… Good girl." His voice is strained, arms flexed as he holds you up, and you can see the slight muscles in his forearms working.
Every thrust pushes you up the wall, your back scraping against the plaster. It hurts, you can feel the friction burning your skin, but the pain just makes the pleasure more real.
"You know how many times I've thought about this?" He fucks up into you, brutal and deep. "Having you pinned like this. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Just taking whatever I give you."
"Scara..." Your head falls back against the wall, eyes rolling. The angle is hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur.
"That's it." He shifts his grip, one hand sliding under your ass to support you better, the other coming up to wrap around your throat. "Look at me. I want to see your face when you fall apart."
You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed, that perfect composure finally cracking. He looks almost as wrecked as you feel.
"You're so fucking tight like this," he groans. "Squeezing me so hard. Like your body doesn't want to let me go."
"It doesn't," you gasp. "I don't. Please don't stop, please..."
"Couldn't stop if I wanted to." His hips snap forward, driving you up the wall, and you swear you see stars. "You feel too good. Took one look at this tight little cunt and knew I was fucked."
The hand on your throat squeezes, cutting off your air just enough to make your head spin. Your legs are shaking, your arms are shaking, everything is shaking, and he just keeps going, fucking you against the wall like he's trying to leave an impression of your body in the plaster.
"Cum for me," he demands. "Right now. Let me feel you pulse around me."
You don't have a choice. Your body obeys him without your permission, clenching around him as the orgasm rips through you. He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, and when you finally go limp in his arms, he's still hard inside you.
"Good," he breathes. "Now let's see how many more we can get out of you before your legs give out completely."
More and more positions blur after that one, and at some point, you’re on your knees, carefully placed on your soft rug of course.
You're grateful for that, the soft rug. You've been down here for what feels like hours, jaw aching, lips swollen, looking up at him while he holds the camera and watches you worship his cock.
"Eyes up here," he says, tilting the camera down to catch your face. "I want them to see those pretty eyes when you choke."
You look up at him through wet lashes, his cock heavy on your tongue. He's not moving, not yet. Just letting you hold him there, drool pooling in your mouth, waiting for permission.
"You look good like this." He traces the outline of your stretched lips with his free hand. "On your knees where you belong. Mouth full of cock. Barely able to breathe." His thumb wipes at the drool running down your chin. "This is what you were made for, isn't it?"
You try to nod, but it's hard with your mouth this full.
"Don't answer that. It was rhetorical." He starts to move, slow shallow thrusts that make wet sounds echo through the room. "I already know the answer. I've seen you practice on those dildos for hours. But they were never enough, were they?"
He pushes deeper, hitting the back of your throat, and you gag around him. The camera catches everything.
"Plastic can't compare to the real thing." He pulls back, lets you breathe for half a second, then pushes back in. "Can't feel you choking. Can't hear the sounds you make. Can't watch the tears fall down your pretty face."
Your eyes are watering. You can feel the mascara running, can feel how messy you must look, but he's looking at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"Take it deeper," he instructs. "Show me what you learned."
You relax your throat, let him slide further, until your nose is pressed against his stomach and you can't breathe at all. The camera is right there, capturing the way your throat bulges around him.
"Fuck." His voice cracks, almost breaking from the feeling of your mouth. "Fuck, that's perfect. Hold it. Hold it for me."
You hold, five seconds… ten… fifteen. Your lungs are burning, tears streaming down your face, but you don't pull back. Not until he does it for you.
"Breathe."
You gasp, sucking in air, and he taps his cock against your cheek. Once. Twice. Leaving wet marks on your skin.
"Open."
You open, and he slides back in, and the cycle starts all over again.
You both switched rooms at some point, change of scenery, and you led him to your bathroom.
He'd bent you over it the second you walked in, said something about the lighting being "fucking perfect" and grabbed his camera from the bedroom. Now you're pressed against the marble, watching yourself in the mirror while he fucks you from behind.
"Look at yourself," he orders, one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head up so you can't look away. "Look at what I'm doing to you."
You look.
Your reflection is a mess. Makeup smeared, hair tangled, mouth hanging open as sounds spill out that you don't recognize. Behind you, he's a study in contrast, composed and controlled, watching your face in the mirror while he drives into you.
"You see that?" He pulls your hair harder, forcing your back to arch. "That's what a ruined virgin looks like. That's what I do to girls who think they can resist me."
"I didn't resist," you gasp.
"No." He slams into you, and you watch your own face contort with pleasure. "You didn't. You spread your legs and begged for it. Desperate little thing."
The angle is brutal, every thrust pushes you into the counter, the edge digging into your hips, but you can't look away from the mirror. Can't stop watching the way his cock disappears inside you, the way his face tightens with pleasure, the way your body moves with each impact.
"This is my favorite part," he says, meeting your eyes in the reflection. "Watching you watch yourself get fucked. Seeing the exact moment you realize how pathetic you are."
"I'm not..."
"You are." He reaches around, fingers finding your clit, and you cry out. "You're dripping all over my cock, moaning like a whore, watching yourself get ruined, and you're going to cum just from seeing your own fucked-out face in the mirror."
He's right, way too fucking right. Because watching yourself, watching him, watching the everything being reflected back at you… it’s pushing you toward the edge faster than anything has.
"That's it," he murmurs, rubbing your clit in tight circles while he fucks you. "Watch yourself cum. I want you to remember exactly what you looked like."
You cum with your eyes locked on your own reflection, watching your face go slack with pleasure while he groans and spills inside you.
The mirror fogs up from your breath.
He doesn't pull out.
"Again," he says. "I want to see it again."
At some point, you end up with him sitting against your headboard, your body draped across his lap. His fingers are in your ass, slicked with lube, stretching you open while you whimper into his chest.
"You've never done this before either, have you?" he murmurs, working a second finger inside you. "Never had anything in this tight little hole?"
"No," you gasp. "Never."
"Jesus Christ." He crooks his fingers, finding a spot that makes you see stars. "You really are a virgin everywhere. Completely untouched. And now you're all mine."
"Scara..." You can barely form words. "It's too much..."
"It's not enough." He adds another finger, 3 now, and you cry out. "Not nearly enough. I'm going to ruin every part of you before this night is over."
He keeps you there for what feels like hours, working you open, making you cum over and over until you're crying and begging and promising him anything if he'll just let you rest.
But the position that stands out most is the one where he's fucking you face down into your mattress, deep and slow. His mouth is on your neck, your shoulder, your jaw, kissing and biting and marking you as his.
It feels oddly passionate for sex content.
"You feel incredible," he murmurs against your skin. "Better than anyone I've ever had. Tighter. Warmer. More responsive."
"Scara..."
"I love how you say my name." He bites down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, hard enough to bruise. "Say it again. I want everyone who watches this to know exactly who's ruining you."
"Scara. Scara, please..."
"Please what?"
"I don't know." You're crying again, overwhelmed. "Just... more. I need more."
He gives you more, more thrusts, more of everything, until you're shaking apart beneath him, cumming so hard you see white.
He kisses you.
A lot.
More than he does in his videos. You've watched enough of them to know that he's usually detached, controlled, focused on the camera and the performance. But with you, he keeps leaning in. Pressing his lips to yours, or to your neck, or at your breasts, anywhere he could find.
"Intermission."
He pulls out, leaving you empty and aching, and collapses onto the bed beside you. You're both breathing hard, covered in sweat and other fluids, and you've lost count of how many times you've cum.
"I need a minute," you manage.
"Take five." He rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand, watching you. "You've earned it."
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember your own name. Every muscle in your body aches. Your cunt is sore, your throat is raw, and you're pretty sure you have bruises in places that bruises shouldn't be.
You've never been happier.
"Here."
You turn your head, and see him holding out his hoodie, the one he was wearing when he arrived.
"Put this on. I can see you shivering."
You hadn't noticed, but he's right. The sweat is cooling on your skin, making you tremble. You sit up, wincing at the soreness between your legs, and pull the hoodie over your head.
It's a little big on you. Soft and warm, and it smells just like him.
"Better?"
"Yeah." You look down at yourself, almost drowning in his clothes. "I look like a little kid."
"You look like you're mine."
The words hit you somewhere deep. You look up at him, and he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"Lie back," he says.
"What? I thought we were taking a break."
"We are." He pushes you gently onto your back, spreading your legs, and you let him. "But I've been wanting to taste you all night, and I can't wait anymore."
He settles between your thighs, his face inches from your cunt, and looks up at you through his lashes.
"Just relax. Let me take care of you."
His tongue drags through your folds, and you gasp, hands fisting in the sheets. He's not trying to make you cum this time. Not yet. He's just... tasting. Exploring. Licking up the mess he's made of you, cleaning his own cum from your cunt with gentle, thorough strokes.
"You taste like me," he murmurs against your skin. "Like us. Fucking delicious."
He eats you out slowly, lazily, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue circles your clit, dips inside you, traces patterns that make your toes curl. And the whole time, you're lying there in his hoodie, feeling more cared for than you've ever felt in your life.
When he finally makes you cum, it's soft. Gentle. A slow wave of pleasure that washes over you instead of crashing, leaving you warm and boneless and completely content.
He crawls back up your body, kissing your forehead before settling beside you.
"Fiftieth orgasm of the night," he says. "New record?"
"Definitely a new record."
He laughs, it’s not the mean laugh from before, it’s something softer, something real.
When it's finally over, you're barely conscious.
Your body feels like it's been taken apart and reassembled wrong. Every muscle aches. Your throat is raw from screaming. You can still feel him leaking out of you, cum dripping down your thighs.
He tucks you into bed. Actually tucks you in, pulling the covers up to your chin, smoothing your hair back from your face. Then he climbs out, reaching for his jeans.
You watch, dazed, as he pulls his jeans back on. He starts gathering his cameras, carefully placing them in his bag, and something cold settles in your stomach.
This is it. The part you've been dreading. The part where he leaves and goes back to his life and you become just another video in his collection.
"Are you leaving?"
Your voice comes out small, scared. You hate how vulnerable you sound.
He pauses, camera in hand, and looks at you. "Do you want me to?"
The question hangs in the air. You're still wearing his hoodie, still lying in your bed, still feeling his cum leaking out of you. And he's asking if you want him to leave.
"No." you whisper. "I don't want you to leave."
No pretense. No games. Just honest, raw need.
He puts the camera down.
You barely have time to process before he's climbing back into bed, pulling you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
"Good," he murmurs into your hair. "Because I didn't want to leave either."
His hand traces patterns on your back, soothing. After everything he's done to you tonight, the tenderness almost makes you cry again.
You tilt your head up to look at him, and he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is different from before. No heat, no desperation. Just soft and slow and achingly tender.
He tilts your chin up and kisses you.
When he pulls back, you chase his mouth.
"Needy," he murmurs, letting you kiss him again.
When you finally pull back, letting you both get some air, you can’t help asking, "What are you going to do after this?"
"What do you mean?"
"After this. After tonight." You trace patterns on his chest, avoiding his eyes. "Are you going to post the video and move on? Find another girl to film with? Go back to your life like this never happened?"
He's quiet for a long moment.
"Is that what you think?"
"I don't know what to think. That's why I'm asking."
He catches your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his eyes.
"If I don't leave," he says slowly, "if I keep coming back here, keep filming with you, keep... spending time with you outside of filming... this stops being just content. You get that, right?"
"What does it become?"
"Something else." His thumb traces your lower lip. "Something more."
"That sounds like you'd be my boyfriend."
The words hang between you. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can feel it.
"Is that what you want?"
You're quiet for a moment. Not because you don't know the answer, but because you're scared to say it out loud.
"Yes."
The word is barely a whisper.
But he hears it.
Not a smirk. Not a mocking grin. A real, genuine smile that transforms his whole face, makes him look younger, softer, almost innocent, something just for you.
"Good," he says. "Because I'm pretty sure I've been so far gone on you since that video you posted with that stupid Hello Kitty pillow."
"It's not stupid."
"It's extremely stupid." He kisses you again, soft and sweet. "But so am I, apparently. For falling for a girl I met on the internet."
"You fell for me?"
"Obviously." He rolls his eyes, tone almost sassy, but there's no heat in it. "Why else would I follow only you? Why else would I stop posting? Why else would I spend two weeks texting you instead of finding someone else?"
"I thought..."
"You thought wrong." He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin. "I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to."
I don't want you to."
"Then I won't."
You lie there in silence for a moment, processing everything that's happened. The long sex. The confession. The fact that you apparently have a boyfriend now, one who makes porn and took your virginity.
It's insane.
It's perfect.
"Scara?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I might love you."
He's quiet for way too long, and your heart plummets. But then his arms tighten around you, and his voice comes out rough.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I think I might love you too."
You fall asleep in his arms, wearing his hoodie, with his cum still inside you and his heartbeat steady under your ear.
Dom!Scαrαmouche x ShyObessive!Reαder
꒰ MODERN AU ꒱
*•.¸♡ summary Scaramouche is the school's most notorious bully... who's also your neighbor... who's also your crush... who's also the very person who fully consumes your thoughts. He doesn't know who you are, and you know everything about him. And one day, you finally get what you wish for; he finally, finally notices you.
warnings (cw) .ᐟ bully x victim, obsessive behavior, yandere reader, masochism, non-con photography (reader takes pics), self-harm (non-suicidal), unhealthy coping mechanisms, dark themes, possessive thoughts, blood play, knife play, loss of virginity, rough sex, degradation, manipulation, possessive behavior, unhealthy everything
word count . 21k+
˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ authors note i did everything in the GIF at the beginning (like srsly even the pop-ups I edited separately), and it took me 8 hours... this fic has been sitting in my drafts since march 9th, and after a crap ton of rewrites, it's finally done!! this is cross-posted onto ao3. best viewed in dark mode!!
You’re invisible at school… at home… at life in general.
But it’s not in the cool, mysterious way. Not in the “she’s so quiet and interesting” way that girls in movies get to be.
The way people look right through you.
The way where you sit in the same seat every single day and no one, not once, has ever asked if they could borrow a pencil or copy your notes or sit next to you at lunch.
You eat lunch alone… You always have.
But that's fine, that's okay. Because being invisible means you get to watch.
And fuck, do you love to watch.
7:42 AM
You're at your locker, grabbing stuff for your first period, when he walks in.
Scaramouche.
Even his name feels dangerous in your mouth, like saying something you shouldn't. You've never said it out loud to anyone.
Who would you say it to?
But you whisper it sometimes, alone in your room. Pretending he’s in there with you, pretending he’s your boyfriend, pretending he’s saying your name back, moaning your name bac-
Well… let's stop there.
He’s wearing black today, which isn’t really news because he always wears black. Black band tee, grey long-sleeve undershirt, baggy jeans. His dark indigo hair falls into his eyes, and he shoves it back with an irritated hand as he walks through the hallway like he owns the building.
Childe is next to him, as always. Ajax, technically, but everyone calls him Childe. That’s just some joke you never understood the origin of. He's tall and ginger, but surprisingly, despite him being a ginger, he’s just as popular as Scara is. He's nice to girls, flirty with them, it’s practically his personality.
You've heard him call underclassmen "sweetheart" and "pretty thing" in the hallways, and they giggle and blush and don't realize he's the same person who shoved a freshman into a locker last week for looking at him wrong.
Scaramouche doesn't bother being nice... Not to anyone.
You watch them walk past your locker, close enough that you could reach out and touch Scaramouche's sleeve if you wanted to. You never dare to, though. You press yourself against your locker instead, making yourself smaller, and they don't even glance your way.
Your heart is pounding so hard you feel sick.
First Period: AP Literature
You sit three rows behind him in this class, and you love it. Why? Because it’s the perfect viewing angle. It’s better than him sitting behind you, because you wouldn’t be able to see him, and you'd rather shoot yourself than deal with that, all period. You'd also absolutely hate it if he were sitting across the room because then he’d see you staring at him, catch you in the act.
But in this seating arrangement, he’d never see you or feel your stare.
You take pictures from time to time, to send to no one, just to keep for yourself… to print out later.
You watch the way he slouches in his chair, the way he spins his pen in his fingers when he’s bored, the way he tips his head back and stares at the ceiling, letting out a groan because being in class is physically painful to endure.
Against all odds, pointing at Scara being a complete dumbass, he’s actually really smart. You know this, or notice it, because you see him ace every single test he takes despite his never studying or taking notes. He doesn’t cheat on them either, even though he’s a bully who looks like he’d harass students to do his homework for him.
Academically lazy to sum it up.
It’s infuriating… how he can be so smart with little to no effort… and also so fucking attractive.
Everything about him is attractive to you, even (especially) the things that shouldn't be.
A girl is sitting next to him, a popular girl with long brown hair. You watch her lean over to whisper something.
You can't hear what she says, obviously, but you watch Scaramouche's face, the way his expression doesn't change, the way he doesn't even look at her when he responds.
"I don't care."
Three words.
Clearly, to dismiss her, not caring how rude the dismissal sounds, because why would he? The girl’s face crumbles even though she did expect it, and she turns back to her notebook, visibly embarrassed.
You want him to talk to you like that.
You want him to look at you with those cold… beautiful indigo eyes and tell you he doesn't care about you.
You want him to be mean to you.
Cruel to you.
You want to matter enough to him that he'd bother being cruel.
Is that fucked up? Probably. But who the fuck cares in this day and age?
You’re wearing one of your favorites today. A babydoll pink and white polkadot dress that's a little too short… but you paired it with a skirt for extra layering. You're also in white knee-high socks and Mary Janes, and you have a cute little bow clip in your hair.
You look like a doll, and you always try to maintain that style, that vibe.
As someone passes by your desk, they whisper, "Cute outfit", on their way to sharpen their pencil.
You don’t even know the classmate's name, but you smile automatically, ready to say thank you, but they’re gone before you can even respond.
And that's the extent of your daily social interaction. Compliments from strangers: surface-level acknowledgments that you exist and put effort into your appearance. But it just makes you feel like you’re just a person who takes up space in the world.
It's not enough… It's never enough.
You go back to watching Scaramouche.
Second Period: Calculus
He sits in front of you in this class. You can see the back of his neck… the way his hair curls slightly at the nape… the way you want to tug on that hair.
Childe isn’t in this class, which means Scaramouche sits alone in this one. You notice, when he’s not around Childe, he’s in a worse mood than usual. You wonder if you meant something to him, if he knew you, that maybe your presence would be the same as Childe’s… that he’s less moody when you’re around.
Maybe one day.
Staying optimistic about the unrealistic always helps.
A kid walks toward Scara’s desk, and the teacher orders him to sit in the empty seat, but the kid accidentally bumps Scara’s chair on the way with his backpack.
"Watch it," Scara says, barely any words, but there’s a clear threat in his tone.
The kid, some nervous-looking boy with glasses, apologizes profusely.
Scaramouche doesn't acknowledge the apology. Just turns back to his notebook and keeps writing, and the kid spends the rest of class pressed as far against the wall as physically possible.
You wonder what it would feel like to have Scaramouche's attention focused on you like that. Even if it was negative… Even if it was cruel. At least you'd exist to him.
At least he'd know your name.
Your mind goes blank after this period, after you walk out of the 2nd and sit in the 3rd. You don't have a 3rd period with Scara, so you don't care to log about it.
And after the third period comes…
Lunch
You eat in the corner of the cafeteria, at the table no one else wants because it's right next to the trash cans. The smell doesn't bother you anymore. You've been sitting here since freshman year.
From this angle, you can see Scaramouche's table perfectly.
He's surrounded by people. Not because he invites them, but because he tolerates them, and in high school, tolerance from someone like him is as good as a gold-plated invitation. Childe is there, of course, holding court, telling some story that has half the table laughing. Scaramouche isn't laughing. He's eating in silence, scrolling through his phone, occasionally looking up to say something mean that makes whoever he's talking to flinch.
A girl approaches their table, she's holding a bento box wrapped in a cute cloth, and you know immediately what's about to happen.
"Um, Scaramouche?" Her voice carries across the cafeteria, clearly nervous. "I made this for you. I thought maybe-"
"No."
He doesn't even look up from his phone.
"But I spent all morning-"
"Did I stutter?" Now he looks at her. That cold, flat stare that makes your stomach flip. "I said no. Take your sad little lunch box and go cry somewhere else."
The girl's eyes are already welling up. Childe, to his credit, reaches out and takes the bento from her with a charming smile. "I'll take it, sweetheart. Looks delicious… Don't let this asshole ruin your day."
She gives him a watery smile and scurries off, and Childe opens the bento and starts eating while Scaramouche rolls his eyes.
"You're too soft," Scaramouche says.
"And you're too mean." Childe shrugs, popping a piece of tamagoyaki into his mouth. "We balance each other out perfectly."
You watch the whole thing with your heart in your throat.
You want to be brave enough to approach him, to offer him something, to have him reject you to your face. At least then he'd see you. At least then you'd have something real, even if it was rejection.
But you're not brave.
Just as you’re about to get up and leave the lunch room, hide in the bathroom or walk around the school until the next period starts… something happens.
You hear a splatter coming from the exact same direction Scara is in. And when you look up, hand pausing on your tray, the one you were just about to pick up, you see who's the victim of a splatter.
Scaramouche.
“What the fuck.”
Some kid, visually poor and dorky, some… soon-to-be-dead kid is standing in front of Scaramouche, frozen, with an empty lunch tray.
The contents in that lunch tray?
On Scara, grape soda, to be exact, just soaking his band tee and dripping down his jeans, with remnants of the purple liquid on the floor beneath him.
Like his piss turned purple.
The cafeteria feels like it's gone silent. Heavy on the feels part because it isn't entirely silent, it's still loud like any high school lunch room, it's just silent in Scara’s orbit.
All of Scaramouche’s friends are looking at him, and the same thing is happening with some of the tables around him. You included because obviously.
Scaramouche stands up slowly, not jumping up, not scrambling, not yelling at the kid, immediately pushing him, no. Just slow. He rises and looks down more closely at his lap, and when he looks back up at the kid, his expression, which is normally never warm or inviting, looks worse than ever.
Like, in one second, he's going to snap at that kid.
“You have three seconds,” Scaramouche starts, voice low and eerily calm as he doesn't break eye contact once while that kid breaks it exactly 5 times, “to give me one good reason why I shouldn't break your fucking jaw in front of everyone.”
The kid breaks out of his frozen state and starts stammering, placing his empty tray on the table, which makes Scaramouche, who's still ‘calm’, throw the tray off the table with a force that, if anyone happened to be walking by, they would've been smashed across the table across from his.
The kid tries to back up, but Scaramouche steps forward with his arms crossed. And, as if they're bound together on a fucking unbreakable string, Childe also stands up, moving beside Scaramouche, his once-easy, flirtatious grin… gone.
“Dude,” Childe says, not to Scaramouche as his eyes are on the kid, and his tone is friendly, but not in a nice way, given the context. “You should probably run.” It doesn't come off as a suggestion but as a clear threat.
You can’t help but giggle a little at how cheesy those two are, especially Scaramouche, acting like some Disney Channel villain whose favorite line is, “If my eyes turn red… run.” Except, in this moment, he’s more like, “If my pants turn purple… run.”
The kid processes Childe’s words faster than you'd think and bolts. Scaramouche watches him go with clear murder intent in his eyes before turning to Childe. “Handle it.”
Two simple words that make Childe activate, immediately, like he's some robot servant that does all of Scara’s dirty work. Childe nods and moves away, not at all rushing or bolting like the kid, just walking, casual, because he knows he doesn't need to.
Scaramouche turns away from the table, away from his friends, you know, he despises, and storms past yours.
He doesn't look at you; you didn't really expect him to, even though you know when or when not to be delusional. He walks past, but you do get to see something the others didn't… he makes a sound, and an agitated grunt while moving past your table, your table.
For some odd reason… well, no, for some obvious reason because you’re obsessed with him and everything he does is hot to you, that sound…
It makes you feel something between your legs.
You smile, a stupid grin, out of adoration of the way he gets when he's angry like this, when he moves like he's barely containing something violent… he's the most stunning thing you've ever seen.
And when he’s out of the cafeteria?
That’s your cue.
Cue for what? To follow him.
To the boys' locker room.
You've seen him go in there before, you know he’ll go in there, and you’ve seen his locker before, opened it yourself, you saw it during one of your… reconnaissance missions.
And you know a shortcut he doesn't.
Fuck the lunch tray. You leave it there, already moving toward the side door of the cafeteria, through the hallway specifically where all the science classrooms are, though the empty gym that nobody uses during lunch period, because the basketball court is better outside.
Lots of ‘throughs’ as this is a shortcut.
And, just as planned, you’re there before he even crosses the main Hall, you assume. You just know he isn't here yet. (as the room sounds deceptively quiet and someone with a temper like his wouldn't burst into that room without making sounds.)
As this is a boys' locker room, a room where boys get naked, shower, etc, it stays locked at all times from the outside. But… you have a key.
Not the original key that belongs solely to the janitor, but one you made from a silicone mold. Three months ago, you waited until the janitor left his set of keys on the supply closet shelf during his break, then pressed them into the mold. After school, on your walk home, you had a duplicate cut at the hardware store.
So yeah, a creep like you has free access to the boys' locker room. Just one of the many things that'll land you in the counselor's office if you ever get busted.
You slide the key in, turn, and twist the knob, slipping inside before any passerby sees. The lights are slightly off in some rows of lockers, some flickering, in clear need of a lightbulb change, but the janitors are clearly too lazy to fix something as ‘minor’ as that because it’s above their pay grade.
You look for a good hiding spot that seals you enough that you’re able to have a clear view of his locker… and him, when he comes in. You press yourself against the wall in the second row, closer to the end gap, just so you’re ready to hide between the wall and the last locker in case he walks past this row.
You don’t have to wait long, thankfully. Because in exactly 50 seconds, the door bursts open, and the familiar scent of him fills the room.
He bursts in, dramatically, and you can’t see it, or him just yet, but you hear the door slamming against the wall with a bang that echoes through the empty room.
“Fucking grape soda. GRAPE. Are you kidding me…” he’s talking to himself, pacing, muttering things under his breath, “I’m going to kill that kid, I swear to god, I’m going to…”
You hear a locker, metal, kicked hard enough that you swear he just made a dent in a random student's locker. “It smells disgusting, like a candy store… sticky piece of shit…”
You’d lick the grape juice off of him, do all the work if he let you, you’d be the best girlfriend for him and only for him.
You get wet, stupidly quick, but it isn’t surprising, as you are fully devoted to this man. Just his voice, the fury in it at this exact moment, the way he sounds like he’s one inconvenience away from putting his fist through a wall-
You’d calm that anger for him, in more ways than one, get on your knees until his rant turns into endless pulled back moans that he’d hide with his hand, because you know him, you know he’s the type to never admit to how good something feels, only the bad.
You press your thighs together and bite the inside of your cheek, peering through and staring at his locker, waiting until he stops at it.
He’s finally at his locker, and you see him, the back of his hair… that beautiful dark indigo hair, and his hand moving against the combination of his locker, opening…
And then what you’ve been waiting for this entire time finally, finally happens.
He starts with his shirt, of course, sliding it up, and you bite your lip, seeing his skinny frame without a shirt, slightly toned abs that you could’ve never guessed existed on his stomach.
You’d give anything just to see him naked, just once, what his dick looks like, have the perfect vision for your fantasies in class, and at night.
But would he slide off his jeans that are slightly damp at his crotch? Would he slide down his boxers, too? You hope for both, but just the first would be enough for you.
He throws his shirt somewhere on the bench without looking and reaches for his belt, his fucking belt. He shoves his baggy jeans down his leg in rough, jerky movements, clearly because of the state he's in.
omg, omg, OMG.
You don't overreact yet, as he's still in his boxers… but it's actually the only thing he's wearing. The sight is lewd without it being inherently sexual, lewd from the dark stain from the soda spreading across the crotch area of his boxers. It clings to his skin in a way that makes your underwear wet and ruined, and he's annoyed at how sticky it is against his bare skin underneath.
He looks down at himself, letting out a groan and muttering, "You've got to be fucking kidding me." He hates that his boxers are soaked, that they still took damage even though his jeans took most of it. And he's too mad to think properly or logically because he's realizing he needs to rinse out his jeans AND his boxers, and the frustration in his posture is very apparent.
He yanks his boxers off. He just… stands there for a second, holding the wet boxers in one hand, looking at them, then looking at the jeans he dropped on the bench, then looking at the sinks across the room.
He needs to go to the sink, but he just took his boxers off, and now he's just standing in the middle of the boys' locker room completely naked from the waist down, and he seems to realize how stupid he is for fully stripping himself, and he mutters, "the fuck am I doing?" under his breath.
But you aren't processing his confusion… you're processing him.
He's… fuck. He's everything you've imagined. His thighs are lean, toned in a way that makes your mouth water, and when he turns just slightly to toss his boxers onto the bench next to his jeans, you get the full picture.
His fucking cock… your crush's cock… your wannabe future boyfriend, husbands cock.
It's soft, hanging between his legs, and even soft it's… so beautiful. It's long enough that you imagine what it looks like hard, thick enough that the fantasy you've built in your head suddenly feels so minor compared to the real thing. He's circumcised, as you would've guessed, and he's fully shaved, smooth skin, not a hair in sight.
You would do anything just to get out of your hiding spot, get on your knees, and lick off the grape soda just to see what it looks like hard.
You're shaking, like actually fucking shaking. Not in an anxious way, fuck no, in a anticipating way, like you're so excited you'd jump out of your own skin and play out your fantasies right here and now if it wasn't so scary.
Your phone is out, because it's better to save a memory of moments like these than to just witness them and never remember the full picture again. You get the camera app open, point it at him through the gap between lockers, your thumb hits the capture button once, twice, until you just use the volume button so you can get better angles of everything. You glance down at your camera, making sure the photos are high quality and fully focused on him.
You get the best angles on your phone, a clear shot of him from the side, another from behind when he bends down to grab his jeans, one more when he straightens up, and you can see him in profile. His cock swings slightly with the movement, and you realize your camera roll is becoming evidence that would end up in a court of law.
Your other hand is under your dress… It's not something you did consciously; your fingers just migrated there. You reach under, the babydoll dress hiking up when you find the front of your underwear, and you press directly on your clit through the cotton. You're soaked, or actually have been for a while, and the pressure of your own fingers through the damp fabric sends a jolt through you that you have to physically bite your lip to contain.
You rub in slow circles, your thighs instinctively closing around your hand as you're still taking pictures, watching him through your phone screen, multitasking on something a normal person would call unhinged.
You're biting your lip to suppress the sounds that you're so close to letting out, because if you even let one noise slip…
He'll find you.
And not in the sexy way.
After school, you're 100% printing these photos you're taking out, on glossy photo paper, and you'll pin them up inside of your closet door… so your parents don't see, so only you can see, and you'll kiss them every night like it's a ritual, everyday you do your makeup, mouth prints of whatever shade of pink you're wearing that day.
A shrine of kisses over images of him that he never consented to.
You'd set one as your phone wallpaper if you weren't so paranoid about someone seeing.
Actually, no, fuck it. You will. But you'll be careful with it, you'll use one of your favorite images from the many you just took, and put an emoji, sticker, something to cover up his… private, and it'll be ambiguous anyway because you have a privacy screen protector. Yeah, it's cringe to have a privacy screen protector because no one cares, but you care.
You don't want some rando in class to spot you zooming in on pictures you took in class, or just one's from his Instagram, that would be embarrassing.
You won't stop at printed photos and your phone's wallpaper; you'd draw him, too. Draw his… cock. You imagine it now, sitting at your desk with your cute pink notebook, sketching the shape of his cock from memory… fuck… even doing it in class, with the slight anxiety of getting caught, now that would feel good in comparison to someone seeing you stalking Scara's pictures on your phone.
You'd lick the paper, kiss it, kiss and lick your phone, too, tasting nothing but glass and your own depravity, imagining the warmth of his skin you'll probably never feel.
If you could get your hands on him, really get your hands on him, you'd tie him down and make a mold.
A full cast, silicone, the kind they sell online for making custom toys, and you'd use it on yourself every single night. Fuck yourself on a perfect replica of him while whispering his name into your empty room.
And you're not kidding, this is all very serious to you.
You watch him gather his jeans and head straight for the sinks. He walks right past your hiding spot, and he's close enough that you can reach out and touch his bare hip. He doesn't even notice you; he doesn't notice someone moving quickly into the shadows to hide with their phone in one hand and the other in their underwear.
Unnoticed, as always.
And this time you're happy about that.
He just quickly moves right past, naked, annoyed, and completely unaware of the predator he's sharing a room with.
You take that as your opening to leave. But just as you're about to pass his locker when you start moving, you spot it because you notice he forgot something on his trip to the sink.
His boxers.
You grab the boxers, ball them up in your fist, and you're at the door in seconds, gently opening it without worrying about the noise, since the sound of the faucet he's using in the background is enough to mask the door.
You sit against the wall next to the locker room door, chest heaving, heart going insane, with Scaramouche's boxers in your hand like you just won a rare prize from an arcade's most notorious scam machine.
You bring the slightly damp, from the grape soda, boxers to your face. The sickeningly artificial smell of the grape soda hits first, but underneath it, in the spots where his jeans took most of the spill, where the fabric stayed mostly dry…
You can smell him.
Musk… and warmth… and something like laundry detergent layered over skin… his skin. The fact that this fabric was pressed against him all day, cradling the part of him you just took pictures of… that this specific fabric was absorbing his body heat for hours…
… existing in a place you'd kill to occupy…
You press the boxers harder against your face and inhale until your lungs burn.
So, your plans after school are changing, but for the better. You were planning to just masturbate to the images you took of him, but after claiming something like this? You're going to touch yourself in bed tonight, wearing them, and you're going to cum so hard you forget your own name.
You wish he'd make you cum so hard you'd forget your own name… but technically he is, isn't he?
From inside the locker room, you hear the hand dryer start up; you assume it's him washing his jeans. You have maybe 2 minutes before he realizes his boxers are gone.
You don't wait 2; you just push off the wall and walk, fast-paced, not running, because that's stupid, even though your nerves are screaming at you to. You head to the nearest girls' bathroom, which isn't too far away, and duck inside, find a stall, and lock it.
And you do the very thing that proves you need professional help.
You slip off your underwear, which is normal in a bathroom, but what you're doing is nowhere near close to normal. You slide them down your legs and off, stepping into the boxers… his boxers, that you're clutching onto and pulling them up your thighs. They're big on you, loose at the waist (especially at the area meant for a man's bulge and not a woman's crotch), but they sit against your skin in a way that's comfortable to you, and the fabric of it still carries warmth.
His warmth… it's residual, fading, but there and that…
That makes it impossible to fight back on what you've been craving to do this entire time.
You have one hand holding up the skirt of your dress, and you close your eyes as you press the other palm flat against your lower belly, over the boxers… feeling them. You're so desperate, so pathetic, that you let out a moan, pressing your teeth into your lip to suppress any more that comes out. You feel the fabric over your skin, fingers brushing past your clit, and your thighs close around your palm, not at all caring how batishit isane this is.
That you're standing in a school bathroom during lunch wearing a boy's stolen underwear, on the verge of cumming if you make a full effort to masturbate in here.
You don't make a full effort, because it wouldn't be fun in a gross school bathroom.
What's more fun is the anticipation, watching him in class the rest of the day, knowing he doesn't have anything under his pants. And then finally rewarding yourself at the end of the day, in bed, where you can actually take your time with it. In a place where you can spread out, look at your phone in your soft, comfortable sheets, pressing your face into your pillow, falling apart properly.
You lift your palm from between your legs and your dress, fold your underwear, tuck them into your bra, set a reminder in your brain to put them in your backpack during passing, and walk out of the bathroom as if nothing happened.
Fourth Period: Biology
You know something that every other person in this classroom doesn't.
Care to guess what that is?
The seating arrangement in this period is you, tucked against the wall in the back row, and Scaramouche sitting in a row across from yours, one seat down, giving you a clear diagonal view of his profile.
What's in the profile is the secret you and Scara share… without him knowing you know it too.
That under those jeans, he's wearing nothing.
He looks different in this period, different in a way that only you notice. And what you notice is that he looks… uncomfortable. He looks uncomfortable all the time in class, because he'd rather be anywhere but class, and that's normal for most, but he looks like he's physically uncomfortable.
His posture keeps shifting, once every minute or so, sometimes longer, his jaw tightens, and there's a flush at the back of his neck that never goes away. The flush is so obvious against his pale skin, and it travels up to the tips of his ears.
It's driving him absolutely insane that he's not wearing underwear.
Childe's next to him, which is always expected, and you watch as Childe leans over with that stupid shit-eating grin of his to say something, and you assume it's about the grape soda incident. Scaramouche doesn't even give Childe a look; he just responds with a sharp, rushed, "Shut the fuck up," and that has enough irritation to make Childe raise his hands in surrender, as if he thinks Scara's overreacting.
Childe bumps Scara's shoulder, ignoring the glare he gets back in response as he casually adds, "I'm just saying, bro, you should've seen your face-"
"Don't fucking touch me," Scara starts, leaning in even though he's still mad about Childe's invasion of his personal space. "I said shut the fuck up, Ajax. I don't care what you did or how you handled him, but after this class is over, we're finding that kid, and I'm making him wish he never even stands within a mile radius of me without pissing his pants."
Childe just agrees, leaning back in his seat, staring straight ahead while mumbling something else to Scara you can't pick up on. You see it in the way his lips move and his hand gestures, but then you can't see it clearly at all as the teacher dims the lights in the classroom.
She puts on some boring documentary that you're all forced to watch and take notes, but she knows, and everyone knows nobody's writing shit on their paper.
You like it when the lights get dim in a classroom, yes, it makes you feel sleepy, but it also makes staring so much easier… and you're also too excited to even feel sleepy.
You're still watching him, the way his hand keeps drifting down, between his legs. He shifts, adjusts, tries so hard to find a position that doesn't remind him of the fact that his cock is pressed directly against the rough denim with nothing between them. You watch as his fingers squeeze hard against his upper thigh, so close to his crotch, but he's too embarrassed to even touch that area in class.
You aren't.
Not at all.
His hand moves back to his desk after squeezing, and just 20 seconds later, it's back down again… then back up. It's all a cycle of discomfort he can't break… and you're the only person in this room who understands why.
Because what he needs is on you right now.
Your hand, like a magnet, is already pulling up the hem of your skirt, zero shame because you don't care where you are when he's in the room. You pull it up just an inch, and you glance down.
Even in the dim lighting, you can see his boxers… on you. Black against your skin, peeking out from under your pink underskirt, it's an odd combo with your sense of style, but you don't even think of it that way.
You look back at him, watch the way he's slumped in his chair now, his jaw clenched, neck still flushed, one hand of his gripping the edge of the desk while the other is resting on his lap.
He's miserable and embarrassed, trying so hard not to let it show, and you've never been more attracted to anything in your entire life.
The lights are dim enough, and nobody is sitting next to you… But you aren't going to just touch yourself in class. That's something you agreed to finish off at home. But it is so tempting…
So you just press your thighs together, feeling the fabric of his boxers shift against your skin, the seam pressing just right when you angle your hips. You squeeze and release, squeeze… squeeze, and release to create friction that isn't even nearly enough to get you anywhere, but it still feels good in your lower belly.
You watch as he shifts in his seat again, how his hand drops between his legs… stays there for way too long, then jerks like he caught himself doing something inappropriate. His ears are red, even in the dim light, you can tell… and you don't think you've ever seen them get red before.
Squeeze… release… grip on the desk before your hand 'accidentally' drifts down between your legs.
You imagine, in a dream, a made-up reality of being his girlfriend. Sitting next to him, in the same spot Childe is in, dropping to your knees in front of his desk in the dark and unzipping his jeans, and finding him with nothing underneath. You imagine worshiping his dick without a thought, imagine his hand fisting in your hair, forcing you down when it gets fully hard, using your mouth while the documentary plays, and nobody takes notice of the girl between his legs.
Squeeze… release… keep. your. hand. on. the. chair.
The fabric of his boxers is warm now, from your body heat. It's not his anymore, but that's almost better in your mind because that means you're mingling.
His warmth soaked into the fabric…
… Your warmth replacing it…
You're both overlapping in a way he doesn't know about and would probably… maybe find horrifying.
You press your thighs together again, hard, and hold it. A tiny pulse of please rolls through you, but not enough for any release, but enough that it makes your toes curl in your Mary Janes.
Scaramouche shifts again in his seat, his hand going right in between his legs in his chair, squeezing his legs shut, then opening them up, tilting his head from side to side just slightly to make sure Childe and whoever's next to him didn't notice before retracting his hand.
And you just smile in the dark, repeating his exact movement.
Fifth Period: Art class
Childe and Scara carried out the whispered plan they discussed in class.
You know this because, as you're coming back from the bathroom, you hear Scara's voice. You stagger back, behind a corner, and when you peek out, you see Scaramouche and Childe just cornering someone in the hallway.
It's the boy from lunch, and he looked small in the cafeteria, but here… he looks even smaller than both of them (especially scara).
He's holding up his hands in surrender, and you can't make out what they're saying; it's fully incoherent. But, you can pick up on the tone, how they're shamelessly berating this boy, and well, Scaramouche's expression. He looks bored, annoyed, like this is some chore.
Like, hurting this kid is just something they do to pass the time.
Childe is next to Scara, but he's slightly behind him, at a distance, arms crossed, just watching this all play out with an easy grin. He's not really participating, currently at least, he's just observing…
Letting Scaramouche take the lead.
Scaramouche says something that makes the boy shake his head frantically, and Scaramouche's hand shoots out in response, grabbing the front of the boy's shirt, yanking him forward roughly.
Your thighs press together, and you let out a silent, involuntary whimper.
You watch as Scaramouche shoves the boy back against the lockers. The boy scrambles away the second he's released, running down the hallway, and Scaramouche watches him go with a satisfied smirk.
Those hands.
Those hands that just hurt someone… Those fingers that gripped and shoved and bruised.
You want them on you.
You want Scara to grab you like that… shove you against a wall, shove you against anything. Get in your face and tell you that you’re nothing, that you’re pathetic, worthless. You want him to hit you, punch you, wrap his fingers around your throat, and squeeze until you can’t breathe.
You want him to hurt you and then fuck you with the same hands.
You're wet. You’re fucking wet watching a boy get builled in the hallway, wishing that were you.
There's something seriously wrong with you.
After School
You follow him outside the school. Not in an obvious way… You're careful. You've been doing this for months. You've mapped and memorized his routine by heart.
He stays after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays for some club he's in, something music-related. Today is Wednesday, which means he goes straight to the parking lot.
His car is impossible to miss. A sleek black sports car, parked in the best spot because no one would dare take it from him. You watch from behind a pillar as he approaches it, Childe at his side, both of them laughing about something.
They look like they belong in some kind of movie. The popular boys, the… untouchable ones.
The kind of people you'll never be.
Childe claps Scaramouche on the shoulder and heads to his own car, a red thing that's almost as flashy. Scaramouche gets into his, and you watch him pull out of the parking lot. You stand there for a long time after he's gone.
Then you start walking home.
It’s not a long walk, fifteen minutes? maybe… You pass his house on the way; it’s huge, modern, full of big windows, perfect for stalking.
You live in a gated neighborhood, most of the houses here are modern with big windows, because no one is afraid of stalking, because it’s gated.
You stalk him, of course.
Your house is three doors down.
Scara is your neighbor, has been since you were both kids, and he has no idea you exist.
10:47 PM
You're in your pink room. Soft and sweet and nothing at all like the thoughts in your head.
It looks innocent, like you… but…
You’re not innocent at all.
You reach under your bed and pull out the box.
It’s small, just a plain wooden box you got at a craft store. Inside is a razor blade, some bandages, and a bottle of antiseptic.
Anyone with a brain could guess where this is going.
You've had this nightly routine down for a while now. This isn’t about wanting to die, being suicidal, or whatever the fuck that crap is.
You don’t want to die… why would you want to die when Scaramouche exists? When there's still a chance, however small, that he might look at you someday?
This is about love.
This is the only way you know how to express it.
You push down your pajama shorts, carefully keeping his boxers, which you put on after your shower, on your hips, as you drag the shorts down.
But that's for later!
You look at your thighs. They're a mess of pale scars and fresh lines; some are healed, some are still healing. But the ones that actually matter are the ones in the center.
SCARAMOUCHE.
His full name, carved into your left thigh in careful letters. You did it over multiple nights, letting each letter heal before starting the next. It's raised now, scar tissue spelling out your devotion, and every time you look at it, you feel something like peace.
On your right thigh, smaller: SCARA. His… nickname. The one his friends use. The one you'll never be close enough to use out loud.
Tonight, you add to your right thigh.
You press the blade to your skin, just below the nickname, and you think about him.
You imagine it's him holding the razor, him marking you, him claiming you as his.
You carve a heart into your skin.
It's small and a little wobbly; it’s hard to carve a heart perfectly… but it's there. Blood wells up, and you watch it drip for a moment before pressing a tissue to it.
"I love you," you whisper to your empty room. "I love you so much, Scara."
You give it aftercare, clean it, bandage it, and finally put away your box.
You slide off your pajama shorts completely and get back into bed, spreading your thighs, and when you do, the cut you made stings, aches like a bruise. It's a good type of pain, for you at least.
His boxers sit loose on your hips, the hem reaching your mid-thigh. You reach for your phone under the pillow next to you, unlock it, and open your camera roll app. It doesn't take much to find the pictures you took of him today, and you click on one of the first few.
It's him, still in his boxers, the ones you're wearing, but not really, as they're pushing halfway down his thighs. You zoom in on his cock hanging soft between his legs.
You stare at his cock until your vision blurs.
Your hand slides down, over your stomach, over the waistband of his boxers, and you press your fingers against yourself through the fabric. The cotton is already warm from your body, already starting to dampen, and when you rub a slow circle over your clit, the friction of borrowed clothing against swollen skin pulls a sound out of you that you don’t bother suppressing.
Thank every god, archon, whatever that your parents are prefectures away on some romantic getaway.
You swipe to the next photo, and it's him from behind, bending over, reaching for his jeans. His back… the way his legs are slightly spread, and you can see everything between them from this angle…
"Hah…" Your hips roll up desperately in your own hand, grinding against your fingers through the boxers. The fabric is getting wetter, a dark spot is spreading, and some sick part of your brain loves that. Loves ruining his clothes, just like how much he ruins you.
You swipe to the next, and in this one, he's straightened up, turned just slightly, his cock is visible in his full profile. The length of it is so big, even soft… "F-fuck…" You rub faster, working yourself in tight, frantic circles, and the pleasure builds quickly, too quickly, the wave you've been craving for all day-
You stop. Your hand jerks away from between your thighs, and you slap down against your thigh, onto the bare bandage where you just cut into it not too long ago. The pain is instant, and you gasp, arching off the bed, but you don't let go. You hold the pressure, let yourself feel the pain and the pleasure that was so building, crashes back down, retreats. Leaving you nowhere near the edge anymore.
That's the punishment, because you know that's what Scaramouche would do if he were here. If he were… but he isn't.
You imagine his voice in your ear, low and mean, telling you the pathetic little stalkers don't get to finish that fast.
"Did I say you could cum? Huh?? Desperate little freak… You stole my boxers, and now you think you get to use them? Earn it."
You squeeze your thigh harder and whimper into the dark of your room. And when the pain levels out, you let go, your fingers coming back up to your crotch, rubbing gentle circles this time, though the boxers. The fabric is soaked, clinging to you, and every pass of your fingers drags wet cotton across your clit in a way that makes your toes curl into the sheets.
You do this over and over, look at a photo, memorize it, rub yourself to the edge, then you slam your hand down on the cut and rip yourself back.
Edge… punish… breathe.
You imagine him watching you with those cold, beautiful eyes, amused at how pathetic you are, how completely gone for him, how you’d torture yourself just to feel like he’s in the room.
"Again. Do it again. I want to watch you cry."
Tears are streaking down your face, overstimulated tears, not sad ones, and the photos blur through your tears.
You blink hard to clear your vision as you keep swiping, and you land on a good one. He is standing with his head tilted slightly, cock visible, and he looks oddly peaceful in this one. Like you took a quick shot before he went crazy. He looks just like a job, standing in a locker room, having no idea that the girl living 3 houses down from him is going to use these images to ruin herself every night for the foreseeable future.
You rub yourself through his boxers one final time, pressing hard against your clit, grinding your hips up, and this time when the wave hits, you don’t stop. You let your hand stay where it is, letting the pleasure climb, let it crest. When you cum, you let go of your phone and press your other hand into the cut on your thigh, holding it there.
You experience pleasure and pain at the same time. The orgasm rips through you, clenching and pulsing, your back arches off the pink sheets, and his name falls out of your mouth in broken syllables, “Sca… hah… ngh… f-fuck… Scara…”
The pain in your thigh screams right alongside it. You hold both sensations as long as you can. Fingers pressed to your clit, fingers pressed to the wound, riding it out until your body gives out and you collapse back into the mattress, shaking, gasping, and completely boneless.
You pull your hand away from your thigh and check the bandage. It shifted, the adhesive loosened from sweat and pressure, but the gauze was only barely pink. You didn't reopen it, but you were close to doing so… but you're not changing the bandage. That's a morning problem.
You lie back down and curl into your side, pressing your thighs together so the fabric stays tight against you. Your phone is on the pillow next to you, and you pick it up, kiss the screen, and set it face-first on your nightstand.
Goodnight, Scara,” you whisper.
Morning
Today, you wake up with purpose.
You can feel it… how today is going to be different, that there's something in the universe, shaking you, telling you, promising you that today is the day.
You shower carefully, avoiding the fresh cut on your thigh. It's painful to walk around at first, because thigh cuts always have that odd bruised feeling, because thighs are mostly muscle. Your body gets used to it at some point, though, enough that you forget about it. You stand in front of your closet choosing what to wear today.
A black polkadot babydoll top that's slightly sheer under the bust, a pink miniskirt that hides the cuts on your thighs enough. You grab a pink cardigan and slide it on to make the top look less inappropriate, and you wear white lace ankle socks and pink shoes.
Before you leave, you sit at your desk and open your journal, grabbing the pink pen that actually writes in a pretty, pastel pink ink.
He'll notice me today. He'll notice me today. He'll notice me today.
You write it over and over, filling half a page, your handwriting getting more frantic with each repetition.
Manifestation. That's what the internet calls it. You're manifesting.
You close the journal, grab your backpack, and head to school, feeling way too happy.
First Period
It’s normal… he doesn’t look at you.
You watch him anyway.
Second Period
Ugh!
Normal, again.
But… his shoulder does brush yours when you’re both reaching for the door at the same time. He doesn’t acknowledge it or even look at you, but you replay the moment in your head for the entire class.
Third period
…
Fourth Period: Biology
This is when your life changes.
Your teacher is standing at the front of the room, talking about a group project. You're only half-listening, your attention fixed on the fact that Scara’s just two seats behind you. You wonder if he’s looked at you at all, period. He had to have you right there if he just looked straight ahead, right?
You can’t see him, and you don’t dare to look behind, but you imagine him, probably annoyed, slumped in his chair.
"I'll be assigning groups of three," The teacher says. "You'll have two weeks to complete the project. No switching groups, no exceptions."
She starts reading off names. You tune it out, doodling hearts in the margin of your notebook, until-
"Group seven: Scaramouche, Y/N, and Jacob."
Your pen stops moving.
Did she just-
Did she-
What the fuck, What the fuck, What the fuck, What the fuck!!!!!
"Jacob is absent today," she continues, "so Scaramouche and Y/N, you'll need to catch him up when he returns."
You can’t breathe… was there a time when you were breathing because you definitely don’t remember it…
Your lungs stopped working.
Your heart stopped beating.
You’re dead, you literally died.
This is the afterlife, and the afterlife is a fourth-period biology class.
Behind you, you hear Scaramouche's voice.
"Who the fuck is that?"
The words hit you like a bucket of ice water. Right, of course, the boy you’ve been obsessed with for years doesn’t know your name or that you even exist.
Why would he?
"Dude." That's Childe's voice. "The pretty girl who always wears pink. She’s 3 rows up."
"Uh…" You hear Scara snicker at the pink part. "Which one?"
"The one with the bow in her hair. Sitting by herself."
You can feel eyes on the back of your head, and you know, well, you can actually feel how hot your face is right now.
"Her?" Scaramouche sounds unimpressed. "Never seen her before."
"She's in like, all your classes, dude. I'm pretty sure she lives on your street too."
Your heart feels like it just stopped right then and there.
How the fuck does Childe know about that? No, scratch that… how does he even know about you to begin with??
"Bullshit, Ajax. How would you even know that?"
"I'm serious. I’ve seen her walking past your house before, unless she’s just some stalker and not really your neighbor." Childe doesn't sound like he's accusing you of anything; he just sounds like he's teasing.
"… Creepy."
You want to sink through the floor and disappear into the earth's core and never be perceived again.
Childe just told Scaramouche that you walk past his house. Which you do… Regularly.
Because you're a stalker.
And he just fucking called you one.
The bell rings, and you shove your notebook into your bag with shaky hands, ready to bolt, but before you can stand up, there's a presence at your desk.
You look up, slow, and he's right there. Scaramouche is standing there.
He's taller than you thought... Or maybe that's just because you're sitting down.
His indigo eyes are fixed on you, assessing, like he's cataloging everything about you and finding it all… lacking.
"So," he says, looking you up and down. "You're my neighbor?"
Your mouth opens, and of course, nothing comes out. You're frozen, pinned in place by his gaze, every fantasy you've ever had crashing into the reality that he's here, he's talking to you, he knows you exist.
"I-" You swallow hard, nodding. "Yes. I'm, um. Three houses down from yours."
"And you've never thought to mention that?" He crosses his arms, tilting his head.
"We've never talked before…” You say, voice small, but despite sounding nervous, the tone is almost snarky because of the words.
His eyebrow raises, just slightly. "We've never talked, but you walk past my house."
"I walk past a lot of houses... I go for walks sometimes." Your voice sounds weird… too high, and also too nervous. "I'm not- I'm not stalking you or anything."
Lies. Lies. You're such a liar.
Childe appears at Scaramouche's shoulder, grinning down at you like this is the most entertaining thing he's seen all week. "Hey there, sweetheart. Didn't mean to put you on blast like that."
"It's fine," you manage, glancing at Childe because it's easier to stare at a boy you don't find that attractive.
"I'm Childe. But you probably knew that."
You nod. You can't seem to form words anymore. You glance back at Scaramouche, and he's still staring at you, his expression unreadable, and you feel like a bug under a microscope.
"Look," Scaramouche says, and his voice is flat, irritated, everything you've ever fantasized about. "I don't do group projects. But since Jacob’s apparently too good to show up to class, I guess we're stuck together."
"…Okay."
"I'm not doing all the work."
"Okay…"
"Do you say anything other than 'okay'?" He says, his face still the same, still unreadable.
"I-" You fumble. "Well, what else do you even want me to say?"
Childe laughs, amused at all of this. "She's cute," he says to Scaramouche. "Be nice."
"I'm never nice," Scara says as he finally looks away from you to give Childe a glare.
"Yeah, I know. That's why I said it."
Scaramouche rolls his eyes and turns away from your desk, clearly done with the conversation. But before he leaves, he glances back at you over his shoulder.
"Don't make it weird," he says. "I know you've been staring at me all year."
Your blood runs cold.
He knew?
He's gone before you can respond, walking out of the classroom with Childe at his side, and you're left sitting at your desk with your heart in your throat and your mind racing.
He knew… He knew you were watching him. He knew this whole time, and he never said anything, never acknowledged it, just let you think you were invisible-
You don't know if that makes it better or worse.
The Rest of the School Day
He watches you.
You feel it in the fifth period, his eyes on the back of your head. You feel it in the hallway between 6th period, catching a glimpse of him staring from across the crowded corridor.
He looks away when you catch him. Goes back to his phone, his friends, his life. But he keeps doing it. Over… and over.
You don't know what it means.
After school
The walk home is fifteen minutes, and you spend every single one of them replaying the conversation.
"I know you've been staring at me all year."
He said that, actually said that… and that also means he knew. He knew you were watching him this whole time, and he just… let you? Let you think you were invisible while he was completely aware of your stare this entire time?
You don't know if you want to scream or cry or throw yourself into oncoming traffic.
When you get to your room, you close the door, drop your backpack, and stand in the middle of your pink bedroom staring at nothing.
Then you jump into bed, screaming into your pillow for approximately 20 seconds, until you reach over to your nightstand and pick up your journal. You rest it flat on your bed in front of you, opening it to its most recent page, where you wrote in pink ink, "He'll notice me today," over and over.
You write underneath the unfinished page, one sentence:
He noticed me.
It looks boring, so you underline it, drawing a heart, then 3… then 4 around it, staring at it, daydreaming about what'll happen tomorrow in biology with him…
You set 7 alarms that night, just in case.
Fourth Period: Biology
You're early today, like, embarrassingly early. Because just one minute after the bell that goes off when lunch is over, you were already in your seat.
You pick the best seat today, the window one, next to an empty chair, because it feels better than being close to where people walk by.
You overthink your outfit like crazy this morning, because you wanted to look cute, but not too much for him, because what if he thinks you're trying too hard? You're in a white babydoll short dress that ends at your upper thighs, thigh-high sheer white socks, and a pink underskirt. You hope it's not too much.
Students start coming in while you're just leaning back in your seat, scrolling on your phone, with your notebook open on the desk, 'ready to learn'. Childe comes in first; he acknowledges you as he walks past, cocking his head toward you with a slight smirk.
You don't react, not caring what he thinks about you, because all you care about is Scaramouche. You pause with your phone in hand, turning your head with his movements. You watch as he sits in his usual seat, alone, and just as you're about to turn your head back to the door to spy when Scara's coming in, you hear the chair next to you scrape on the floor.
You turn your head at the foreign sound, because no one ever sits next to you, and you see him. Scaramouche. Dropping into the chair like he's been sitting there all semester.
He doesn't say hi or acknowledge your existence at all. He just pulls out his phone, slouching in the chair. His slouch makes you sit up straight, feeling awkward that you're both leaning back in a chair.
He's just scrolling on his phone, not caring about the world around him, and you're freaking out completely on the inside.
You can smell his cologne… You can smell his… everything! He's right next to you; your crush is sitting right next to you. He chose to sit next to you and not that ginger leech that he's attached to in every class.
He's still scrolling on his phone as he asks, "Is Jacob here today?"
Jacob?
Oh, right, your third group partner, the absent one. You glance around the room with what you hope is a casual, "I totally know who that is" sweep, and see the seat you presume to be Jacob's empty.
"No." You say, shaking your head. "He's absent today."
"Of course he is." Scaramouche locks his phone and drops it face down on the desk. "Fucking useless. We're doing a three-person project with two people, one of who-" he glances at you sideways, judgingly, "can barely form sentences around me."
You stare at him, offended, still nervous, "… I can form sentences, actually. I'm talking right now."
He finally does a full turn at you, and he crosses his arms, the sides of his mouth going up in a smirk while his eyes stay flat in disbelief. "Oh, really? You said 'okay' six times yesterday."
You're already flustered, eyes darting to your phone like any nervous high schooler, then back to his face as you play with your phone case, as you say, "Okay, still counts as a response, especially a sentence, grammatically."
He looks amused at your response, well, not completely, just slightly. He rolls his eyes as he sits up, "Alright, Grammar, let's see if you're useful." He pulls your notebook toward him without asking, flipping it open, and you break out of your nervous stance and lunge for it, because you know if he opens it, he's going to see something about him.
But, you don't make it in time because he already flipped open a page, one, thank god, that doesn't have his name...
… It has something way worse.
It's 6 doodled hearts formed into a heart shape, 6 is his favorite number, and it's colored in blue ink, which is his favorite color. What's inside the heart is the scary part you don't want him to see. It's your initial, and his, with a plus sign in the middle. Your name in pink ink, his in purple because that's his favorite color… and he's looking at it.
"…Cute." He says, unreadable, and he flips to a blank page like he didn't just see his initial, clearly written in your own notebook.
Why didn't he question it? Does he assume it's about another person who has an S in the first part of your name? Does he know it's about him, and is he just avoiding it because he's uncomfortable? No, that wouldn't make sense, he's the type to address anything if it ends in a new victim for his bullying… so what does this mean…
You watch as he pulls up the assignment on his phone and starts writing in your notebook. You've never seen his handwriting before, apart from the times when you walk past his desk to go to the bathroom, and you squint, and it's messy. It's coherent, just… the lazy type of handwriting. "We need to split the cellular respiration sections. I'll date the electron transport chain because I know you'll end up getting us an F."
You let him use your notebook when he could just take out his, and you scoot your chair closer to the desk, sitting up to watch him write. "Why do you think I'd be the one to get us an F? I can do that part…"
"No, you can't because it's the hardest section and it seems like you've been writing love notes more than studying… if you study at all that is." He doesn't look up from writing, multitasking. "You can do glycolysis and the Krebs cycle."
You scoff when you process just what getting that topic compared to the others entails. "Those are… you're giving me the easy ones, and just giving yourself the more difficult ones?"
"Yeah, and?" He shrugs, still not looking up. "I'd finish it by the end of the day when I go to your house after school, you'd take a week to finish it if it were you. He scrolls through the assignment on his phone, then goes back to writing. "Don't mistake it for generosity."
He's going… to your house after school?
What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.
The teacher starts talking, informing the class of the project's contents, even though Scaramouche is 50 steps ahead of her, and you aren't even listening to her; you sound it out… only focusing on him.
"You're staring, and it's super fucking annoying, can you stare at something else… or just, I dunno, work?" He says, pen still moving, not glancing at you.
You look away from him and at the board, pretending that's what you've been doing this whole time. "I'm not, and I can't really work if you're using my notebook."
He just says whatever, and he pulls out his notebook, practically throwing it at your side of the desk, telling you to write in that. It's stupid; he could just stop writing in your notebook and use his, but you don't argue because you'd love to use anything that's his. You write in his, as he writes in yours, and all you can think about are the stupid topics you're forced to write about and the quiet sound of him breathing next to you.
"What's the deal with the outfits?" He says, completely out of nowhere, taking a break and leaning back in his chair, finally acknowledging you.
You look once, sideways at him, before dropping your pen to turn and say, "Huh?"
"The…" He gestures vaguely at you… all of you. "Whatever this is, you dress like this every day, to what? Look like a doll?"
You glance down at your own outfit, honestly more offended than you'd feel if someone average said the same thing to you. His opinion matters a lot to you. "I… I like how it looks… Is it bad?"
"Didn't say it was bad… I didn't say it was good either." He tilts his head, looking at you with an analytical gaze, "Do people ever tell you that you look like a doll?"
You nod, kind of annoyed at this point, hearing the same word being tied to you, but also liking it when people do refer to you as such. "Sometimes… I guess."
"Do you like it when they do?"
You're quiet for a second before nodding again. "…Yeah. I do."
He hums, sitting up and grabbing his pen again to continue writing in your notebook. "Figured."
You study his outfit, now that the topic of outfit choices is out there. It's the same as ever: the black band-tee, the long-sleeve grey undershirt, baggy jeans, and the dark platforms he wears to compensate for his short height.
"You'd look good in what I wear." You say before you can even think about not saying it.
His pen completely stops, and he turns his head toward you, slowly. The look on his face is that of someone who just heard something profoundly disturbing and needs a moment to process it. "…Excuse me?"
"Uh- Like-" You start fumbling, trying to back up the words you already said, trying to think of anything that'll make sense. "Like… the pink, the bows, um- the girly stuff? It would suit you… Your face has that kind of… pretty structure? Like you have doll-like features- kind of? So, I just thought-"
He stares at you, and you stare back, your throat working nervously as you cut yourself off before you say any more dumb, useless things.
"I shouldn't even justify whatever bullshit you just uttered with a response, but I am, because it was that terrible." Scaramouche leans his body closer to yours, slightly, arms crossed, "You're insane, certifiably insane. What the fuck makes you think I'd be caught dead wearing one of those stupid bows? Over my dead body. Actually, if I do die, and your crazy-ass manages to put one of your accessories on my corpse, I will haunt you."
You shake your head, still trying to defend yourself, "I'm just saying-"
He cuts his gaze away from you, holds his hand out for you to stop speaking as he turns back to his notebook. "You're done saying. Work on your side of the project, and I'll work on mine."
You write about… whatever the hell you were writing about before, taking quick glances at him when you think he isn't paying attention and turning back to your work when he moves his head even in the slightest. The period passes way too quickly, and you hear the familiar sound of students packing their things 2 minutes before the bell. Scaramouche closes your notebook, and he hands it to you, taking his own and shoving it in his bag. He leans back in his seat on his phone, waiting for the bell, and once it rings, he gets up, standing first, looking down at you.
"You live three houses down from me," he starts, shoving his phone in his pocket. "So, I'll come to your place after school. We'll finish the project early, and then we never have to interact again."
He walks away before you can even open your mouth, or even nod, and Childe appears at his side almost immediately, those two still, always being glued to each other.
You look down at the notebook he wrote in, the very notebook you still haven't put away, and you smile because his handwriting, his fingers, his skin touched this notebook. You close it and very carefully put it in your notebook as if it were something delicate.
You're never throwing this notebook away, ever.
3:15 PM
The final bell rings.
You're walking toward the exit, clutching your backpack straps, trying to figure out how you're going to survive being alone with Scaramouche in your house. Your room is covered in pink. Your journal is full of his name. Your thighs are-
Oh god. Your thighs.
You're wearing a short skirt. If he sees- if he somehow-
"Hey."
You nearly jump out of your skin.
Scaramouche is leaning against the wall by the front entrance, arms crossed, looking bored. His car keys are dangling from his fingers. He pushes off the wall and starts walking toward the parking lot without waiting for you.
"I'm driving," he says over his shoulder. "Keep up."
You scramble to follow him, your shoes clacking on the pavement. "You don't have to- I can walk-"
"You live three houses from me. It would be stupid for you to walk while I drive." He doesn't look back. "Get in the car."
His car is even more intimidating up close. All black leather and tinted windows. You slide into the passenger seat and clutch your backpack to your chest because you feel awkward putting it anywhere in his car.
Scaramouche gets in beside you, and he starts the engine.
"Seatbelt," he says.
You fumble with the buckle because your hands are shaking, but thankfully, you get it on before he notices.
He pulls out of the parking lot without another word, and you sit there in silence, staring straight ahead, trying to remember how to breathe. The music is playing low, something with heavy bass that you don't recognize. His hands are on the steering wheel. Those hands... Those same hands that shove and grab and hurt.
Those hands that you want on you so badly that it makes you dizzy.
The drive takes less than five minutes, but it feels like hours. You're hyperaware of everything. The way he smells, like expensive cologne. The way his jaw is set, like he's annoyed to be doing this. The way his eyes flick to you, once, twice, before returning to the road.
He pulls into his driveway, not yours, and he parks, turning off the engine.
"Well?" He's looking at you now, one eyebrow raised. "You said you're three houses down. Which one?"
"The beige one," you repeat, pointing vaguely. "With the white shutters."
He follows your gesture. Looks at your house, then looks back at you.
“Never noticed it before," he says, staring at you for too long and too deeply before unbuckling his seatbelt. "Come on. Let's get this project over with."
He opens his door and gets out of the car.
You sit there for a second, processing. Trying to figure out if this is real or if you're going to wake up any second now.
Scaramouche is going to be in your house. YOUR HOUSE!
You grab your backpack and follow him to your house.
He walks ahead of you, like he’s above walking next to you, or just waiting for you, but… he stops to wait when he’s at your front door.
You walk up your steps, trying not to shake even more under his stare, trying to stay steady as you unlock the front door.
You fumble with your keys twice before finally getting the door open, and you step inside with your heart hammering.
"Nice place," he says, and it sounds like an insult.
"Thanks. My parents are on a trip for a week, so it's just us…" Your voice comes out too small, and you clear your throat. "Um... My room is upstairs."
He follows you up the staircase without comment. You're hyperaware of every step, of the way your pink miniskirt swishes against your thighs, of the slight sheerness of your black polkadot babydoll top. You picked this outfit so carefully this morning. You wanted to look pretty, you wanted him to notice.
Be careful what you wish for.
You push open your bedroom door and step aside to let him in.
His reaction is immediate. "What the fuck."
He sees your pink walls, pink bedding, and pink curtains with little bows on the edges. Your bed is huge, piled high with plushies, my Melody, Hello Kitty, etc. You have a massive Hello Kitty squishmallow that takes up half the headboard. LED lights are on in your closet and on your walls, casting everything in a soft, warm glow.
Scaramouche stands in the doorway, taking it all in with an expression of disgust and probably disbelief.
"You actually live like this?"
You turn away so he won't see your smile. His cruelty always makes you happy, always makes you grin uncontrollably.
"I like pink..."
"Yeah, no shit." He walks farther into the room, looking around as if he's just landed on an alien planet. His black clothes are uncanny compared to all the softness, wrong in a way that feels right. "This is the most unhinged thing I've ever seen. It looks like a five-year-old's fever dream in here."
"You can leave if you hate it so much." You say, arms crossed, starting to get slightly more comfortable enough to throw that comment.
"Didn't say I hated it." He plops down on your bed without permission, right in the middle of it, leaning back against your Hello Kitty squishmallow like it never bothered him in the first place. "I said it was unhinged. There's a difference."
He's on your bed. Scaramouche is on your bed.
You've fantasized about this exact moment probably a thousand times, and now it's happening, and you don't know what to do with your hands or your face or any part of yourself.
"You gonna stand there all day?" He pats the space next to him. "Come on. We have a project to do."
You have to force yourself out of it and start moving to the bed before he thinks you’re weirder than what he knows you already are. You climb onto the bed, sitting against the headboard to give Scara as much space as possible. You reach down to your backpack on the floor and pull out your laptop, covered in Sanrio stickers, and flop it onto your bed.
"Cute," he says, and you can't tell if he's mocking you or not. You take it as a compliment.
You open your laptop and pull up the assignment, trying to focus on the words on the screen instead of the fact that he’s right there, close enough to touch, lounging on your bed as he belongs there.
He should belong there.
He pulls out his own laptop. Sleek and black and sticker-free. For a few minutes, there's just the sound of typing and the sound of you trying desperately to remember how to breathe and not glance at him any moment you can.
Then, he pulls out a vape. "Is that okay?" he asks, and it's not really a question because he's already bringing it to his lips; he knows you and most people wouldn’t say no to him.
"Um, sure..." You say, sounding very unsure, but letting it happen.
He takes a drag, exhales a cloud of something toward your ceiling. You watch the smoke float and dissipate. You think about how that vapor was in his lungs, how it touched the inside of him, how you're breathing in particles of Scaramouche right now.
You're so fucked up.
"So," he says, not looking at his laptop anymore, looking at you. "You've lived three houses down from me for how long?"
He's looking at you. He's looking at you. He's looking at you!!
"Two years."
"Two years." He takes another drag. "And you never thought to introduce yourself?"
"We don't exactly run in the same circles..."
"What circles do you run in?" His eyes are curious in a way that makes you squirm, feel too noticed. "I've never seen you with anyone. You eat lunch alone, and you sit by yourself in every class. You don't talk to anyone."
"I just- I don't really like talking to people... I like being alone." Lie, well, not entirely. You like being alone, but if he's there to fill the space, that's something you'd enjoy. And he's the only person you also care about talking to.
"…You're weird."
"That too." You say with a half smile, a nervous one.
He laughs… Scara actually laughed at something you said. You tuck the sound away in your mental collection, right next to every other scrap of him you've managed to steal.
"What do you do for fun?" he asks. "When you're not stalking me, I mean."
Your face burns, eyes widening as you sit back, fingers curling at your skirt. "I don't stalk you."
"Really? But you literally admitted to walking past my house every day." He says, taking another drag, like he’s totally unbothered while accusing someone of stalking.
"I live at the end of the street... I have to walk past your house." You say, squinting at him almost, playing out the perfect expression of someone who’s ‘innocent’, and getting annoyed at a stupid accusation.
"Hm… Convenient excuse." He says simply.
You don't respond because you don't have anything to say to that. He's so fucking right, and you both know it.
"Can we just work on the project?" you whisper.
"Boringgg." But he turns back to his laptop, and for a while, you actually manage to focus.
An hour passes, and you've gotten a decent amount of work done… all things considered. The project is on cellular respiration, which isn't hard, just tedious. You've divided up the sections, agreed on a format, and outlined the presentation.
Normal group project stuff.
But the whole time, he keeps looking at you.
You feel it like he's physically touching you; the stare is that heavy. His gaze on your profile, on your hands, on your legs tucked underneath you. And every time you glance over, he's staring at his screen.
But you know. You know he's watching when you're not looking.
It's making you insane.
Without warning, he shuts his laptop loudly.
You look up, startled at the sound, and when you see him moving, scooting across the bed toward you, you stammer out a startled, "What are you-" He closes the distance you so carefully maintained, and before you can react, he's reaching over and shutting your laptop too. Setting it aside… getting closer.
Close.
Really close.
"Tell me something." His voice is low, a lot different than before. "And be honest, because I'll know if you're lying."
You can't breathe… he's right there, right fucking there… just inches away.
"…Are you stalking me?"
You shake your head immediately, too fast, "N-no… I told you this before." The moment of your head, and your own words, contradict what you're trying to deny.
He doesn't look convinced at all. "Really?" He leans in slightly, and you press yourself back against the headboard. "Because I've been watching you, you know. All day today… And every day before that."
Your heart stops.
What?
So he has noticed you… does know who you are??
"You follow me between classes," he continues, "You watch me at lunch… You stare at me in every class we share, and we share all of them, don't we? Every single one. Childe told me, but I already knew."
"I don't-" Your mouth feels dry, so dry, and he cuts you off.
"You walk past my house every day, even though there's a shorter route to yours from school. My house is in the other direction, north, when the way to school is south… Don't try to deny that either."
"I…" He cuts you off again.
"And just now, when I was looking at you?" He smiles at you, not nice, not anything but mean. "You knew, didn't you? You could feel me watching. And you liked it, didn't you? Because you've gotten used to being the one doing the watching. It threw you off, having it reversed."
You want to cry and die all at once… and also run to escape all of this despite this being a fucked up version of exactly what you wanted.
"Shh." He reaches out, and his hand lands on your thigh… on your thigh. Right above your knee. "It's okay… You don't have to answer that."
His hand is on you… Scaramouche is touching you. After years of watching him from a distance, memorizing every detail, carving his name into your skin, he's touching you.
His thumb strokes across your thigh, slow and deliberate… higher. Closer to where your skirt ends.
"I have to say," he murmurs, "I've never had anyone this dedicated before. It's kind of flattering, in a fucked up way."
His hand keeps moving, up your thigh, fingers trailing over your skin, and you're so focused on the sensation that it takes you a moment to realize how close he's getting to-
His hand pauses, hovers. So close to where the scars are, where his name is, where every piece of evidence of your devotion is carved into your flesh.
He doesn't touch them, doesn't slide his hand any higher. Instead, he laughs, amused at your reaction to his touch and lack of response, and he moves his hand to your abdomen. Palm flat against your stomach through your top.
You exhale shakily, thank god. Thank god he didn't feel them, didn't see, didn't-
"But tell me this."
He leans in closer, lips brushing your ear, and you shiver, especially when his hand slides down, over your stomach, under the waistband of your skirt.
"Do you want me to fuck you?"
… What the fuck.
Everything stops: time, the world, your heart, the rotation of the earth on its axis. Everything just... freezes.
Did he just…
Did he really-
Maybe you misheard… Or maybe this is a dream. Maybe you finally snapped, and you're hallucinating in a padded room somewhere, and none of this is real-
But… his hand is still there. His fingers are still resting just below your waistband, waiting for a response. And his eyes are fixed on your face, watching your reaction.
He's serious. Completely serious.
You nod, tiny, nervous to give him a full one, nervous to admit that you want him that bad. But he sees it, he sees it so clearly because of the way he’s staring so deeply at you.
And he smiles at your tiny response, and he doesn’t give you a second, he doesn’t hesitate for even a moment to lean in and kiss you.
It’s not gentle, or soft, or anything like the first kisses you used to imagine back when you still believed in fairytales. He kisses you like he’s trying to consume you, devour you; his mouth is hot and demanding against yours, his hand is fisting in your hair to hold you in place.
Your first kiss... Your first fucking kiss, and it's with him.
How many girls get to even have their first kiss with their crush?
His other hand slides further under the waistband of your skirt. You can feel his fingers at the edge of your panties, and when he presses his hand fully against you through the cotton, you gasp.
He takes that gasp as an opportunity to slide his tongue past your lips, not hesitating for a moment as he licks into you like he owns every part of you.
His fingers roll over your clit, just right, and you whimper into his mouth.
You try to pull back, not because you want to stop kissing him, god fucking no, because you need air. But… he follows you, chasing your mouth, biting at your lower lip because how dare you even try and pull away.
"No breaks," he mutters against you. "I didn't say you could stop."
The kiss that follows is deeper this time, he tilts his head to get a better angle, and there’s something almost passionate about it… oddly passionate. It’s like he can’t get enough, like he’s been thinking about this as much as you have.
His fingers don’t stop their rhythm on your panties; he’s rubbing slow circles, and you’re embarrassingly wet already, soaking the fabric.
When he finally, finally pulls back, there’s a string of saliva connecting your lips; it’s risqué in a way that makes your cunt clench around nothing.
You’re panting, unable to even try to be quiet like you normally are, unable to compose yourself properly because that kiss lasted too long for 2 people that need oxygen like it’s a lifeline.
And yet… he’s barely even out of breath.
He gives you one last kiss while you’re still in a daze, trying to breathe; it’s softer than the others, tender. He moves, sliding down the bed, settling between your thighs, you don’t even process it until-
He lifts your skirt.
That fog in your brain clears instantly, like a reset.
"Wait-" You reach for him, try to grab his hands, try to push your skirt back down. "Wait, don't-"
It's too late. Way too fucking late.
He's looking at your thighs.
At the scars.
At his name, his own birthname, carved into your left thigh. Fully healed letters in raised star tissue.
Permanent.
Then, he looks at his nickname carved on your right thigh. SCARA. It’s smaller than the other, but just as deliberate, similar in depth to the other one, because you’re consistent with how you cut.
And beneath it… something not healed, fresh, still red, the heart you craved last night.
You watch his face. He doesn't look disgusted or scared. His expression is...
Amused.
"Well," he says slowly. "That's new."
"I can explain-" You stammer out, but he cuts you off.
"Can you?" He looks up at you, eyes narrowing. "Because I'm really curious what explanation you have for carving my name into your fucking thighs."
You, as predictable as ever, immediately started crying, tears spilling down your cheeks, talking so fast that your words sound jumbled. “I’m sorry, I’m so so so sorry. I know it’s fucked up, I know I’m crazy… I’m just- I-I’m sorry… P-please don’t… please don’t tell anyone-”
"Shut up."
You put your hand to your mouth, muffling your sobs.
He looks back down, ignoring your crying, and he stares at your thighs for a long moment. Then he pulls out his phone.
You move your hand from your mouth with wide eyes, "What are you-"
"Hold still." He grabs both your wrists with one hand, pushing them up above your head, pinning them to the headboard. "Don't move, and don’t even try covering it."
"Scara, please don’t-"
He takes a couple of pictures. He has flash and his ringer is on, so the sound and the light flashing right on your thighs make you flinch. You’re crying impossibly harder now, panicking at the thought of him sending this to his friends, to everyone at school to see, and Scara just looks at you, and he laughs.
He laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen, like exposing you to his camera lens is more amusing to him than anything.
"You're so fucked up," he says, his grip tightening on your wrists above your head because you desperately tried to thrash out of his grip. "Like, actually insane… I knew you were weird, fuck, the whole school knows how much of a weirdo you are, but this? You carved my name into your skin. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"I love you," you whisper, true devotion in your words.
Scara believes it, he believes it in the way you’re trembling, tears streaming that you can’t wipe because he’s holding you down, and even so, you’re looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world that matters.
"Yeah, I can see that," he says slowly, then he snaps out of it, his fingers tightening their hold on your wrist like he forgot what he was just doing.
You hear him take another picture, you don’t watch, you force your eyes to stay closed, just waiting until the camera flashes are over.
It doesn’t end for a while; he’s taking a bunch, documenting your thighs from different angles, capturing every single piece of evidence of your obsession.
"Please," you sob, eyes peeking out just a little, “please, I'll do anything, just don't show anyone-"
"Relax." He tosses his phone somewhere on the bed behind him. "I'm not going to show anyone."
Your eyes shoot fully open, sobs turning quiet. "You're… not?"
“No.” He says, rolling his eyes. He releases your wrists, and your body moves automatically, bringing your hands around you like a self-soothing hug, and you try to close your legs to hide yourself. He doesn’t let you, though; he just forces your legs back open, wide open. “I took those for me, not for anyone else. My own personal collection of proof that you’re completely fucking unhinged.”
You don’t know how to respond to that; you don’t even know what to do other than just continue to cry, silent tears this time, as he looks at your thighs. You so desperately want to still hide from him.
Even though it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
But you don’t know that…
"Where's the blade?" He asks, suddenly, zero context.
Your breath catches, you swallow, throat dry as you let out a tiny, confused, "What?"
"The blade." He says, and he says it like he’s annoyed he has to rephrase himself. "The thing you used to do this to yourself. Where is it?"
You shake your head, slowly, wiping your tears, not understanding why he wants to know, but your brain automatically tells you to lie, to maybe save yourself. "I don't-"
"Don't lie to me." He doesn’t even let you try. "I told you, I always know, always. And the heart's recent, you obviously have it in your room somewhere, unless you threw it out, promising to yourself that it’ll be the last time you cut yourself… but we both know that’s a lie. So, tell me where it is."
"...Under the bed." Your voice is barely audible, but he hears it perfectly. "T-there's a box."
He climbs off your bed the moment you say where and what it’s in, and you try to curl up, hide now that he isn’t practically on top of you, but you barely even get 3 seconds of freedom, because he’s back quick.
He’s not nice about it; he grabs at your ankles and yanks them, pulling you flat onto your back, forcing your legs apart. He settles between your thighs again, and this time he has the box.
With the razor blade inside.
"Scara..." Panic claws at your throat, finally understanding. "What are you going to do?"
He doesn’t respond at first; he just sets the box on your trembling thigh, opens it up, and takes out the blade. The box falls off your thigh from how much you’re trembling.
"I'm going to add to it," he says simply, examining the blade, the way it has a tiny amount of dry blood you were too lazy to clean off. "Give you something else to worship."
Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it. "You're going to-"
"Shut up and hold still. This is what you want, isn’t it? Well… I don’t care either way." He slides off your skirt while he talks, tossing it aside somewhere in your room, then his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, and those go too.
You’re bare now, well, from the waist down at least, spread open on your own bed, completely exposed.
This is everything you've ever wanted.
He lies down more comfortably between your thighs, at a full view now, and he presses a kiss on your left thigh, right over the S in his name. It’s a soft and seemingly gentle kiss, completely at odds with the blade in his hand.
"You really did this for me," he murmurs against your skin. "Every letter... Even every heart?"
"Yes..."
He kisses the C, then the A, then the R, works his way across his name, lips brushing over scar tissues, pressing the softest kisses onto his name on your thigh.
You’re trembling, exposed cunt clenching around nothing, and your waterworks have stopped. You don’t even remember when you stopped crying.
When the heart, the fresh one, is next, he pauses to look up at you. He looks up at you while he drags his tongue across it, slow, so fucking slow, almost lewd with how slow he does it, all while maintaining eye contact perfectly.
You let out a moan without thinking, a pathetic little sound.
And it doesn’t just stop there. You jerk your hips up toward his mouth, trying to grind against him the same way if he were eating you out.
But he’s not eating you out.
He’s licking your cuts, and somehow, that feels better than any head (even though you’ve never gotten any).
"Hah... Scara..."
"Your sounds are fucking adorable," he says, still not looking away. "Do that again."
He makes you make that sound again, he bites at the skin next to the heart, the whole area around it is slightly red and bruised, so you feel that painful sensation you love. You let out a whine, needy for more, aching for anything he’ll give you.
"You’re good at letting me do what I want." He positions the blade against a clean patch on your thigh, somewhere unmarked, right below where his name sits. "But I wonder how you’ll handle this, real pain. You want to impress me, don't you? Hold still and don’t fight it even when it stings."
You nod, eager, not a care in the world about fear or anything trivial like that. You want it to hurt, need it to hurt, not just tiny cat scratches that won’t be permanent after a month, you want him to mark you in such a way that’ll never compare to what you’ve already done to yourself.
He’s quick to make the first cut, and the pain is sharp; it feels sharper than how it feels when you do it yourself. He carves an S, careful to make it perfect even though it’s hard to curve cuts, he takes his time with this one, and it feels even better that way, the pain being dragged out. You let out soft whines as he does it, letting your body relax in such a way that he doesn’t even need to hold you down anymore.
“That’s it, take it for me, my pretty little canvas…”
Something comes up next that you don’t recognize, and this one, this part, he cuts deeper, slower, making sure it hurts, making sure it’ll scar thick and permanent. You can feel the blood dripping down your thigh; it doesn’t register to you how much you’re bleeding, how deep he’s going, but you don’t care.
Your mind goes absolutely blank when he licks up the blood before it can drip onto your sheets, he drags his tongue up, all the way to the cut, and the sting of it makes you grind up, desperate for friction.
"Ngh... fuck... hah..." You moan out.
“Just one more,” he says, thumb rubbing over the S he did, just to hear you whine again, and he grins as he continues, “Just your initial, and then it’ll match. We’ll match.”
You don't know what that means. He does what he says, though; he cuts the last letter into your skin, your initial, taking the same sweet time he took with his own initial. You glance down to peek at what he’s doing, and you see the + sign.
He fucking put S + your initial on your thigh. Like lovers carving something into a tree stump, but this isn’t a tree. He does it because you belong to each other… or at least, that's what you imagine.
You try your hardest not to grin when you tip your head back against the pillow.
When he’s… sadly… done, he sits back to admire his work. There’s still blood flowing, mainly from the + sign he cut so deeply, and he looks at it all, even the scars you did on yourself, like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
"You're mine now," he says. "Officially mine. No one else's… just mine."
You don’t understand, well, you do, and you don’t. You’ve always been his in your own eyes; the scars you did prove it. You didn’t need him to notice you to be his, because you were his already in the way he lived rent-free in your mind on a daily basis. But the way he’s saying it now doesn’t at all sound like that; it sounds different, like a permanent seal.
And the way he’s looking at you, too, like you matter, like you aren’t just some girl he’s going to ignore at school tomorrow, makes the claim feel more… equal, truly equal.
But you’re lost if that’s just your delusion talking, or if you’re actually right.
"What does that mean?" you whisper, craving more context.
"It means what it means." He tosses the blade aside, lying back down between your thighs, spreading them further apart. "Now I'm going to reward you for taking that so well."
Before you can ask what he means, his mouth is on you.
Not on your thighs this time, higher. His lips press against your clit, soft at first, almost teasing, and you cry out at the contact. You’re already sensitive, so worked up from the pain and the blood and the overwhelming reality of him, the boy you’ve been obsessed with for ages, touching you, marking you-
"Fuck... oh god… S-scara…"
He doesn’t let the teasing drag on for too long. His tongue comes out, and he licks up your slit like he’s savoring you, then his mouth seals over your clit and he sucks, your back arches off the bed as you let out a whine.
"No moving away." His hands grip your thighs, forcing them open, forcing you to stay spread for him. "I said I was going to reward you. Don't make me change my mind."
"M’sorry... hah... I'm sorry, I just-"
Two fingers slide inside you without warning.
You scream while he watches it all, maintaining eye contact, grinning at the way you’re already falling apart.
You don’t scream from pain, you scream because of the sudden fullness, the stretch, the way he immediately curls them up to find that spot inside you that makes everything go white. He's not gentle about it at fucking all. He just shoves them in and starts fucking you with them way too fast, hitting that spot again and again, while his tongue works your clit.
"Shit, you're tight." He sounds almost annoyed, still fucking his fingers into you while he talks. "You really are a virgin, aren't you?"
"Y-yeah... I've never... ngh... never done anything..."
"Pathetic." But his fingers don't slow down now that he knows you’re inexperienced. If anything, they speed up, fucking into you harder, and you can hear how wet you are, the obscene sounds filling your pink bedroom. "Have you ever touched yourself thinking about me? Doing exactly what I’m doing, just pretending in your little delusion that it’s me finger-fucking you?"
"I have- ah- I have, I just-"
"Just what?" Curling his fingers more, fucking more and more into that spot specifically every time you start talking, just so he can hear your words fall apart.
"It's not the same... hah... it's not the same as the real thing..."
He laughs against your cunt, and the vibration of that makes you clench around his fingers, and he knows how close you already are.
"Look at you… Squeezing my fingers like a desperate little obsessive whore. You want to cum that badly?"
"Yes... please... please..." You moan out, grinding almost desperately against his fingers without any shame at this point, too lost to even care how stupid you look.
"Then cum."
It’s embarrassing how fast you cum, how you clamp down on his fingers, crying out his name, and he works you through it with his mouth still sealed on your clit, drawing out the orgasm until you’re shaking and sobbing.
When he finally pulls back, his chin is wet. Your slick glistening on his skin, something of you on him, and you smile tiny at that. He wipes it off with the back of his hand, looking down at you like he wants to do more than just devour your cunt.
Your top, the only thing left on your body, is askew. Both straps fall off your shoulder, and one of your breasts is almost spilling out. He reaches up and moves the fabric aside, just slightly, with minimal effort because it’s already almost off, and it exposes your breasts completely. His hand immediately reaches for one of your breasts.
"These are nice." He squeezes, rough and careless. "Proportional and soft."
"Hah..." You can barely even form words, just whimpers and moans, still in a daze.
He can’t resist kissing you again, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, musky and just… weird, and anyone normal would cringe at this… but you don't. It’s hot, everything about this is hot to you.
His hand keeps playing with your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers until you're whimpering into his mouth. Then he pulls back, sitting up on his knees, and reaches for the hem of his shirt.
You watch him pull off his shirt in one smooth motion, and he looks the same as he did in the locker room. He looks like something out of a painting… Something you're not supposed to touch.
"Your turn." He nods at your top. "Take it off."
Your hands are shaking as you obey. You sit up just slightly and pull the babydoll top over your head, making you completely naked in front of him. Bare and vulnerable and terrified.
He looks at you… all of you. The curves and the softness and the marks on your thighs and the blood still drying on your skin. Then, he's reaching for his pants, unbuttoning them, shoving them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, and you look at it, shocked. It looks the same as it did in the locker room, just bigger because it's hard, and it looks so intimidating up close, too.
He laughs at the scared look on your face. "Don't worry." He strokes himself, lazily. "You'll take it."
He positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. "Look at me." You look back up at him instead of his cock, and his eyes are fixed on your face… watching you with an intensity that makes you want to cry again.
"Don't close your eyes," he says. "I want to see your face when I take your virginity."
He pushes in, all the way, zero warning, and zero preparation beyond his fingers. He bottoms out inside you, and you scream. The pain is sharp against your walls, the burn of the stretch, and it feels almost impossible to even be accustomed to the feeling.
"Fuck… i-it hurts…" You whimper out, a painful whimper.
"I know." He doesn't sound sorry, but he doesn't move yet. He just holds himself there, buried to the hilt, watching the tears stream down your face. "You're so fucking tight. It's almost annoying."
"Please…" You try to reach down to hold your stomach, anything, because the ache is almost unbearable. But he grabs your wrists and pulls them above your head, holding them there. Your whimpers don't stop, even though he isn't even moving. "Please… just… give me a second…"
"No."
He's mean. He pulls out and thrusts back in. Deep, and hard, bottoming out again, and you sob at the intrusion. He sets a rhythm that's neither fast nor slow, just steady, relentless, fucking into you like your pain is irrelevant.
And maybe that's the truth, maybe that's the point. Maybe you don't matter to him at all, and this is just him using your body because he can.
That thought alone makes you clench around him.
"Hah... there you go." His voice is strained, pulling out, going back in, over and over. "You like that? You like being used?"
"Yes... ngh... yes..."
"Fucked up little doll." He thrusts harder. "Getting off on being hurt. On being treated like nothing. You're so goddamn pathetic."
"I know... I know, I'm sorry..."
"Don't apologize." His hands let go of your wrists to grip your hips, pulling you into his thrusts. "Just take it."
Somewhere along the way, the pain starts to fade. Starts to blur into something else, something that builds in your lower belly like a coil winding tighter. You feel yourself adjusting to him, your body stretching to accommodate his size, and when he hits a certain angle, you moan instead of cry.
"There we go." He sounds satisfied, hitting you in the same angle that made you moan. "Feels good now?"
"Yes… god, yes…"
"Then beg me to go faster," He says, as he starts thrusting slowly on purpose.
"Please…" You don't even hesitate to beg, even in this state. "Please, Scara, faster, please-"
His pace picks back up, his hips snapping into you with brutal efficiency, and your eyes roll back in your head. It's too much, the way he's filling you up, hitting that spot inside you with every thrust… is too much… but also everything you wanted.
"Fuuuck..." His composure is cracking. You can hear it in his voice, the way it goes ragged at the edges. "You feel so fucking good. Tight little virgin cunt, squeezing me like you never want to let go."
"I don't... hah... I don't want to..."
He bites at your neck, and it's hard, so hard that you'll carry the mark even in the morning. His mouth works against your throat, biting, then sucking, not only leaving bite marks, but also leaving hickeys that'll be impossible to hide. Like you'd ever actually hide those, though.
You can feel yourself getting close, stupidly close, and you can feel him throb inside you, his thrusts starting to get messy. He cums into you without warning, slamming into you, burying himself as deep as he can go. You can feel the heat of his cum, the pulse of his cock, filling you up completely.
"Shittt..." His forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath ragged against your skin. "Fuck. Fuck."
The feeling of him inside you, the heat of his release, it's too much. You cum around him and fall apart, crying his name, nails digging into his back hard enough to leave marks.
You lose count of how many times after that.
He fucks you until you're boneless. Until you can barely move. Until your thighs are shaking and your voice is hoarse and you're so full of his cum you can feel it leaking out around him.
Three times? Four? Five?
Does it matter?
His lips are against yours, rutting into you slowly, when suddenly, your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a notification. Something mundane, and that was enough for him to break the kiss to glance at your phone, not too far away from you both on the sheets.
"… What the fuck is that?"
You're too dazed to think about what he's asking, but with the way he picks up your phone and his hips move to a stop while he's still buried inside you, it leads you confused… then shocked… then absolutely mortified because you know exactly what he just saw.
He's on your lock screen, your fucking lockscreen. Not just a photo you stole from his Instagram, no, it's one of the pictures you took in the locker room. And you put some dumb heart sticker where his crotch was.
He flips your phone toward your face, "Unlock it." He demands, but his tone is dangerously quiet. Your face unlocks the phone for him.
You watch, in horror, as the lock screen swipes up, and your home screen appears. The sound that comes out of you is not a moan or a whimper, but a full-body gasp of pure terror.
Your homescreen wallpaper is worse than the lockscreen one. Why? Because the homescreen is the uncensored version. Because not only is his cock out on full display on your homescreen, but you arranged your apps around it into a heart shape. One that feels dumb now.
He turns the screen toward him, and the silence is loud. He's still inside you… still hard… but he's not moving. He's not even breathing, just looking at his own cock on your phone screen, framed by a heart made by app icons.
"… What the fuck." His voice is quiet, not the sexy kind, a flat kind. This is the voice of someone processing something that their brain is actively trying to reject.
"Scara, give me my phone, please-" You reach for it, desperately, your fingers practically clawing at air because it pulls it out of reach immediately. His arm extends above his head while his other hand pins your wrist into the mattress.
"What the fuck is this?"
"It's nothing, it's just-"
"It's my dick." He brings the phone back down, holding it inches from your face. "That's my fucking cock on your home screen. And you made a heart out of your… what is that, your weather app? Your calculator?"
"Please, please just give it back, I can explain-"
He cuts you off, again. "What the fuck is there to explain? You arranged your apps into a heart around my dick." He says it slowly, like he's trying to make the sentence make sense in his own mouth, and it won't, because it doesn't, because what you've done is genuinely beyond the scope of normal human behavior. "When did you even take this? This is the locker room from yesterday? Are you fucking kidding me? You were in the locker room while I was-"
He stops himself, his jaw working, his eyes not locked on you, but your screen. He doesn't look amused or turned on… he looks genuinely disturbed.
"Give it back," You whisper, voice cracking, and you feel your waterworks starting again. He's going to leave… He's going to pull out of you and put his clothes back on and walk out of your bedroom and never look at you again.
He doesn't answer. You whisper out again, voice just as weak, pleading, "Scaramouche, please-"
"Why." He's not asking, he's demanding, and his grip on your wrist tightens until you feel like your bone just might snap in half. "Why is my cock on your wallpaper? Why did you take pictures of me naked? Oh, you know what, let's go take a look at your camera roll and see just how much your derganged ass took."
You squeeze your eyes shut because you know this is where it ends. Whatever fragile, impossible thing that was forming between you and him was just destroyed by your own insanity.
He ruts into you. One thrust, deep, so deep you can feel him in your stomach, and so all of a sudden. Hard enough that your eyes fly back open and a choked sound punches out of your chest. He's still holding your phone with one hand, but his eyes are still on your screen.
You don't understand. He was just looking at you like you're the most disturbing person he's ever met, like he's about to call the police, like he's genuinely reconsidering every choice that led him to your bed, and now he's fucking into you?
"Answer me." His voice is different this time, less full of disgust… just something you can't name anymore. His hips pull back and he slams foward again, you cry out in response. "I- hah- I did it beca- b-because I wanted you close to me-"
"Close to you." Another thrust. "How the fuck does that even correlate. My dick, on your phone, that's… 'close to you'."
You realize how dumb you sound, and as you try to answer to back up your claim, it's hard to make out the words because he keeps thrusting into you while you're trying to talk. "Every- hah- Everytime I u-unlocked my phone… I could see you, and it made me feel like- mmm- like you were mine even when you weren't-"
He's still thrusting into you, he's not doing it fast, just deep, really deep, slow thrusts. He's not even paying attention to what you're saying; he's just scrolling through your camera roll.
All forty-seven photos.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, and you feel him twitch inside you. You feel him get harder, thicker, his cock swelling against your walls in a way that's impossible to miss. "Scroll." He shoves the phone into your hand, forcing your fingers around it. "Scroll through them."
"Scara-"
"Now." He punctuates with a thrust that makes your back arch off the bed. You start scrolling, flipping through the photos with shaky hands as he fucks into you hard enough that the images feel like they're jumping on the screen.
"Which one's your favorite?" He rolls his hips and grinds into you, slow and deep, and the pressure on your cervix makes you whimper.
You don't lie. "The- the third one, the one where you're turning-"
Why." He doesn't even let you finish.
"Your face looks relaxed, and you don't know I'm- ngh, fuck- you don't know I'm watching-"
"What did you do with them?" He thrusts harder into you. "After you took them. What did you do?
"I looked at them," you gasp, scrolling past image after image of him, your own camera roll a testament to how far gone you are. "I set one as my wallpaper, I- I was going to print them, put them in my closet, I was going to-"
He leans down to you, close, his chest pressing against yours, and his mouth finds your ear. His voice drops to something barely above a whisper. "Did you take my boxers?"
Your thumb freezes on the screen, everything in your body freezing except for your rapid heartbeat, hammering so fast you'd think he could feel it.
He leans back, slightly, and you meet his eyes, mouth slightly agape as you nod, tiny, in response.
He laughs, low, "I was so fucking pissed off about that." His hips start moving again, lazy, almost like he wants a conversation mid-sex. "I came back from the sink, and they were just… gone. I had to put my gross, wet jeans back on with nothing underneath, and I sat through 3 more dreading periods with denim on my bare dick because some psycho stole my underwear when I wasn't looking."
"I'm sorry-"
"Was it worth it?" His stare is more intense this time, his eyes searching through yours. "Seriously, was it worth it? What'd you even do with them, sniff them like a freak?"
You stop looking at him, glancing to the side, and you feel his hand come to your jaw, gripping, forcing eye contact. "Was that the point? Steal my boxers so you can smell them while I sit in class, uncomfortable for the rest of the day? You're the reason I couldn't sit still in fourth period. You know that, right? You did that to me."
You try to apologize, again, in a small voice. "I'm sorry, I just-"
"You'll pay for that."
His hands grab your hips, and he spins you onto your stomach so fast that your phone goes flying. It feels like the room just went upside down and then back to normal. Your face presses into your Hello Kitty Squishmallow, your ass up.
He slams into you from behind, and the angle is so much different, deeper, that you scream into the plushie, your fingers fisting into the soft fabric as he bottoms out. He sets a pace that's punishing, brutal, so loud that you can only process the sound of his hips slamming into your ass with every thrust.
You don't suspect it coming when his hand comes down. He spanks your ass, the sound ringing through your bedroom, loud like a gunshot. Pain blooms across your ass, sharp and hot, and before you can even process it, his hand comes down again, harder.
"What did you do with my boxers?" His hand contacts your skin again when you don't answer immediately, turning your flesh red. "Tell me, I know you're not mute."
"Nothing!" You manage out, muffled by the squishmallow, "I didn't-"
Another slap, and it feels as if your ass is burning. Your tears are soaking into the squishmallow.
"Fucking liar." Slap. "Tell me." Another slap. "What?" Another slap harder than the last. "You." Slap, and you let out a moan that's between pain and pleasure as his cock hits that one spot inside of you. "Did."
"I wore them!" you sob, finally, your resistance crumbling because you can't take it anymore, the spanking and the fucking and the interrogation all at once. "I put them on in the girls' bathroom at school, and I wore them for the rest of the day under my skirt!"
You don't feel his hand slapping you again, so you assume his hand paused at your confession. "And then- hah- and then when I got home I kept them on and I-" You let out a whine, embarrassed, your voice muffled against the plushie. "I came in them. I touched myself in your boxers, and I came, looking at the pictures I took of you."
He stops entirely and flips you back over. Withdrawing from your cunt, and you clench around nothing, trying to keep him inside even though you know that's not how it works.
He stands up from your bed, completely naked, completely unashamed, and the sight of him like this… surrounded by Sanrio plushies and everything pink will never stop being surreal. Well, it might be because this time, you really, truly think he's going to leave.
"Get up." He stands in front of where you're still lying on the bed, looking down at you, and he doesn't look like he's suggesting anything. "Show me where you put them."
"Put… what?" You whisper, voice tiny.
"My boxers. The ones you stole and got off in." He cocks his head, impatient. "Where are they."
Your legs feel like jelly, you're leaking his cum from the past rounds with every shift, but you force yourself up from the bed anyway, wobbling on unsteady feet. He watches you struggle to stand with a satisfied look on his face.
"Closet." You manage, walking towards it on shaky legs, feeling his eyes on your back, and his cum trailing down your inner thighs.
You open the closet door and reach for his boxers, which you folded carefully on the top shelf. You pull them out and hold them, not offering them to him, just holding them against your chest like a child caught with a stolen toy.
He takes them from you, holds them up, examining them, his expression hard to read.
You look up at him, arms holding yourself in a soothing way as you whisper, nervously, "Am I still yours?" Your voice breaks on the question because you're terrified of what his response would be.
His eyes cut to you, still holding up the jeans, and he looks at you like you're the dumbest person alive. "You're more mine now than you were five minutes ago." He says, like it's obvious, like the question was an insult. "Fucking idiot."
You smile, soft and tiny, and he just rolls his eyes back in response, holding his stolen boxers out to you. "Put them on."
Your brows knit, but you obey, taking them back from him, and stepping into them, pulling them up your legs, over the cuts on your thighs, careful not to make it sting. They settle on your hips the same way they did last afternoon.
His eyes move over you slowly, looking at you standing in his boxers and nothing else. Marked with hickeys, from him, his cum still dripping between your legs and soaking into the fabric that used to be his, and the cut he made on your skin.
He grabs you by the hips, pulling you in close, tipping your chin up, and kissing you. It's slow, deliberate. He bites at your lower lip until you whimper, then he soothes it with his tongue. His hands tighten on your hips, his fingers digging into the waistband of his own boxers on your body.
"Comfortable?" he murmurs against your mouth.
You nod, and he yanks you back onto the bed, practically throwing you back onto it. You scramble back into a sitting position, confused, and watch as he steps over to pick up your phone from the floor and brings it up to your face to unlock it.
He swipes through something, then turns the phone screen toward you and opens the camera roll app.
"These," he says, scrolling through them slowly, letting each one linger on the screen, "are a crime. Like, an actual crime. A 'the school counselor calls the police, and they show up at your classroom door' crime."
Your stomach drops, because… he wouldn't, right?
"Voyeurism." He keeps scrolling, the screen still pointed towards you. "Invasion of privacy, distribution of intimate images, if I wanted to push it, which I could, because they're on your phone and technically accessible." Still scrolling, and you took so many that he could scroll forever. "Breaking and entering the boys' locker room. Theft, because you stole my property."
You open your mouth, ready to say something in defense, but he shoots you back down with a glare. "I did take pictures of your thighs, and you can't use that against me, because it's not illegal… It's just… disturbing. But this?" He flips the phone back toward him, swiping through some, and zooming in on his frame, flipping it back toward you. "This could get you expelled. Arrested… Registered."
It doesn't make sense how he could be threatening you with this, not after everything, not after he kissed your scars and carved his initial into your thigh and fucked you as you mattered.
But… his face is unreadable as ever.
"Scara, please don't. I'll do anything, I swear, please-"
"I know you will." He sets your phone down on the nightstand. "So, show me."
You knit your brows, still frozen in the place he threw you onto the bed.
"Oh, don't act like you don't know what I mean. Isn't it obvious?" He gestures toward the pillows with a flick of his chin. "Same position as last night. Head on the pillows, legs spread. Recreate it for me, or I walk into the counselor's office first thing tomorrow morning with forty-seven reasons to ruin your life."
You know he might actually do it, as much as you want to argue and remind him that he carved his initial into your thigh with your own blade and that his record isn't clean either… You actually want to do this.
You've wanted to be seen by him, perceived by him, consumed by him. And now he's asking you to show him the most private, pathetic, desperate version of yourself.
You move to the pillows, your head settling against them, and you sink into the softness.
"Legs apart."
You let your knees fall open, slowly, your thighs separating. He climbs onto the bed, kneels between your feet, and you notice his phone is in his hand again. He grabs your knee when you instinctively try to close up.
"Keep them open."
His hand pushes your thigh back down, spreading you wider, and you watch as he takes pictures, his thumb moving against the screen.
You let it happen, just lying there, spread open while he documents you.
"Boring." He says suddenly, looking up from his phone and at you, rolling his eyes. "It's boring with the boxers in the way, you can't even see anything." He sets his phone down, reaching for the waistband, and he slides them off you.
"Use them. Rub them on yourself," he picks his phone back up, thumb finding the camera. "Against your pussy, like you did last night."
Your hand finds the fabric on your stomach. You gather it in your fist, bringing it between your legs. The second the fabric presses against your clit, you moan.
You can't help it, you're so worked up, still so sensitive from everything he's done to you that even light pressure from cotton against swollen skin sent a jolt through you. Your eyes flutter shut, and your hips roll up into your own hand, chasing the friction, and the sound that comes out of you is embarrassingly needy.
"Hah... oh god..."
"Already?" He sounds amused. He adjusts his angle, slanting his phone to the side, and open your eyes to realize that he's not just taking photos anymore, he's filming. "Keep going. And look at the camera."
You stare into it while your hand works between your legs, the fabric of his boxers sliding against your clit in slow, wet circles. It feels wrong to look at the camera instead of him, clinical, like you're performing for an audience that isn't in the room, and your eyes keep wanting to drift to his face just behind the phone.
"Camera," he corrects. "Not me."
You force your gaze back to the lens.
"Now tell me what you think about." His voice is calm behind the phone he's using to record you masturbating. "When you do this alone. Tell me your fantasies, and I want details."
"I think about... hah... about you."
"Obviously… I want specifics."
"I think about... making a cast of your cock." The words sound insane out loud, but your hand presses harder, rubbing in tight circles, shamelessly at this point as you talk. "Like a silicone mold. I'd tie you down and make one and then I'd... hah... I'd use it. Every night. I'd attach it to my mirror and practice on it."
"Oh? You think you'd even be able to do that?" He laughs, tilting his head and adjusting the camera to a better angle. "Tell me how you'd use it if I let you tie me up."
"I'd practice sucking on it… Taking it in my throat." Your hips are rolling now, grinding into the fabric, and your voice keeps breaking around moans. "I'd want it to be p-perfect for when I... ah... when I got the real thing."
"How cute... But, you already have the real thing." He sits back infront of you, spreading his legs just slightly, you stare at his cock between his legs and start rubbing faster, eyes locked on it, "But, I won't let you touch. You've already gotten more than you should, especially in the locker room… So tell me, what else?"
"I draw your…" Your free hand fists in the sheets next to your hip, and you have to force yourself to stop looking at his dick. "I've been learning to draw your… your cock from memory. And sometimes when the sketch is done I…" You stop, face burning, because even this is too much for you to admit.
"No, you don't get to stop. Finish what you were going to say."
You stare at him, deeply at him, fingers still rubbing at your clit with the boxers as you say, "I lick the page… of your dick."
It's quiet for exactly 3 seconds, until a slow smirk appears on his face. "You sit at your desk… and you lick a pencil drawing of my cock on notebook paper." He laughs, phone shaking in his grip. "That's genuinely the most insane thing you've said tonight, and the bar was already in hell."
You don't even care if he's mocking you, making fun of you, whatever, because the next thing you say, whisper out is, "I love you." Your eyes are on him, still, not the camera. "Scara… I love you, I love you so much-"
"Camera." He says, locking in, no longer laughing.
"But I don't want to look at the camera, I want to look at you-"
"And I want you to look at the camera while you tell it what a deranged little freak you are. We don't always get what we want."
You glance down instead of up at the camera, and you did notice it before, but now, he's hard. Before was just half-soft-half-hard; now… he's painfully hard. Cock flushed and straining, like he's been trying to ignore it this entire time. Like he's been trying to maintain the detached, controlling performance of someone who isn't affected by the naked girl moaning his name into his boxers. But it's so obvious, and his body is betraying him.
You glance back up before he could tell you to look at the camera again, still rubbing the soaked fabric against yourself, whispering "I love you" between every other breath, your eyes bouncing between the camera and his face, because you can't help but look at him.
And the sight of him, hard and struggling to maintain composure while filming you, is doing things to you that his cock already did.
"I'd memorize the shape of it," you gasp, your hips stuttering against your hand. "I already have… I know every vein, every ridge, I could draw it with my eyes closed now, I could-"
"Okay, shut up about my dick for two seconds-"
"I can't… I think about it all the time, in class, at lunch, especially when I was cutting your name into my-"
"Fuck."
He drops his phone onto the mattress, still recording, but he doesn't care about that anymore. His hand wraps around his cock and strokes it once before he seems to catch himself, pulling his hand away like he touched a stove top.
"This is your fault," he says, accusingly. "You and your fucking... everything."
He's been staring at your flushed face, and your parted lips, and the way you're looking at him like he's the only thing in the universe, and it's been driving him absolutely insane.
"Fine." He grabs your free hand, the one fitting the sheets, and he pulls it toward him, wrapping your fingers around his cock, and the heat of him against your palm makes him let out a sigh, and you, a whimper. "Since you're so obsessed with it, make yourself useful. Jerk me off while you masturbate."
You multitask, rubbing in desperate sloppy circles with the boxers pressed against your clit, and your other hand on his shaft, stroking him, focusing more on making him feel good than your own arousal because even now you want to impress him.
It's hard at first, but you find a rhythm that sticks, your left hand circling, your right hand stroking, and Scaramouche's head tips back, and his eyes close for just a second before he forces them back open because he wants to watch.
"F-fuck… your hand is too soft." He mutters, and it sounds the same as someone complaining that their lobster is too buttery. His hips push into your grip, contradicting his complaint entirely. "Tighter… and twist at the- yeah… like that."
"I want to-" You moan, your thumb pressing harder against your clit through the fabric, and your hand stutters on him. "I want to worship it every day, I want to wake you up with my mouth on it, I want to-"
"You're going to make me cum if you keep talking like that, and I'm trying to-" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, and you feel him throb in your hand, heavy and pulsing. He grabs the phone from the mattress with his free hand, points it back at you, camera angled to capture your face and his cock in your fist and the soaked boxers between your legs, and his voice comes out strained. "Look at the camera. Say what you are."
"I'm… I'm yours."
"More specific."
"I'm your obsessive, fucked up, devoted little-" Your orgasm hits you mid-sentence. Your back arches, your hand clenches on his cock, your thighs snap together around the bunched fabric, and you cry out his name, your whole body locking up.
"Shit- don't stop your hand, don't you dare- keep stroking-"
Your brain is white noise, and your muscles are spasming, but you keep your hand moving, jerking him off through your own orgasm, sloppy and arrhythmic, and he groans, a sound ripped from somewhere deep, and you feel him pulse in your grip.
He cums on the boxers. Hot and thick, ropes of it striping across the black fabric bunched between your legs, across your fingers, dripping down your knuckles. He shudders through it, his hips stuttering into your fist, and the phone nearly drops from his hand again, but he holds on, recording the aftermath, the mess of his cum on his own boxers pressed against your cunt.
Your hand is coated in his cum, and you bring your fingers to your mouth without being told.
You lick them clean, one by one, slow, tasting him, your tongue curling around each finger while you look directly at the camera because you know he's still recording and you want him to have this. You want him to watch this at 3 AM when he can't sleep and think about you.
Then the boxers are next to 'clean'. They're just a complete biohazard of devotion. You bring the fabric to your mouth and drag your tongue across it. Licking his cum off the cotton.
You glance up from the fabric, and he's staring at you. The phone is still recording, but his hand has gone slack at his side, the camera pointed at the ceiling. His lips are parted. His eyes are wide, wider than you've seen them all night, and there's something on his face that looks almost like awe.
It lasts half a second. Then his jaw tightens, and his expression slides back into bored control like a mask being tugged into place, but you saw it. You saw it before he could hide it, and you store it away in the same place you keep every stolen scrap of him: the mental vault that no amount of therapy will ever empty.
He stops recording, locks his phone, and tosses it aside without breaking eye contact with you.
"You're disgusting," he says.
You smile weakly, almost tired, even though you don't want to be with his cum still on your tongue. "Thank you."
He scoots closer to you, leaning in to press his lips against yours. It's soft, especially when his hand comes up to cup your face. You relax into it, lying back against the pillows. He kisses you like he's saying thank you, open-mouthed, but not messy, just gentle. "You tired?" He murmurs as he breaks away from the kiss, his lips still close to yours.
"Mmm… a little." You murmur back, with a tiny nod, and he takes that as a full answer as he presses on, his last kiss onto your lips before pulling back, climbing off the bed. You don't look up to watch him move around, you know he won't leave, that he isn't going to yet, and you're just too exhausted to lean up anyway.
When he comes back to the head of your bed, he's wearing boxers, not the ones you stole, obviously, the ones he came in. He's holding a warm washcloth, antiseptic, gauze, and bandage tape.
Your eyes go wide, realizing, connecting what all those things imply to the very person you never thought would be capable of aftercare.
"Don't look at me like that." He sits on the edge of the bed, setting everything on the nightstand, and his voice is flat, but his hands are careful as he positions himself next to your thigh. "You can't just leave open cuts unattended. That's how shit gets infected."
The cuts he made. S + your initial, carved into your thigh, the blood long since dried into dark lines against your skin. The area around it is red, irritated, angry looking. He hurt you, and now he's...
He's cleaning it.
He presses a few kisses to the skin around the cuts first. Soft, barely-there presses of his lips, his mouth tracing the edge of the S he carved, the + sign, your initial. Like he's admiring his own handwriting before tending to it.
"This is going to sting," he says, and he doesn't wait for you to prepare yourself before pressing the antiseptic-soaked gauze to the wound.
You hiss, your thigh jerking, but his free hand holds your leg still with a firm grip on your knee. The sting is sharp, and he works methodically, cleaning each letter, each line, dabbing away dried blood.
He didn't need to do this.
He could have pulled out, gotten dressed, walked out, come back tomorrow when he wanted to fuck again, and never once thought about whether the cuts on your thigh were healing clean.
"There." He sits back, examines his work, and seems satisfied. "Change it in the morning. And stop putting random shit on open wounds, your aftercare setup is embarrassing."
"I have antiseptic-"
"You have cheap, shitty antiseptics and cotton balls. That's not aftercare, that's a cry for help." He gathers the supplies and sets them on your nightstand in a neat row. "I'll buy you real shit tomorrow."
Tomorrow. He said tomorrow, which means he's planning on a tomorrow, which means-
He grabs his shirt from the floor. The black band tee, the one he peeled off hours ago when your world was still making sense. He balls it up and throws it at your face.
"Put that on."
It hits you in the nose. You pull it down, look at it, look at him. "You want me to wear your shirt?"
"You wore my boxers all day without asking. At least this time I'm giving you permission."
You pull it over your head so fast you nearly rip the collar. It's huge on you, falling past your thighs, the hem brushing the fresh bandage on your left leg. It smells like him. Everything smells like him now: your sheets, your pillows, your skin, and you press your nose into the fabric at the shoulder and inhale until your lungs ache.
He watches you do it without comment.
"Are you staying?" you ask, and your voice is small, but not the scared kind of small from earlier. The kind of small that comes from wanting something so badly you're afraid to want it at full volume.
He looks at you like you're an idiot, just like last time. "Do you want me to?"
You nod so fast your neck hurts, smiling stupidly, and he doesn't smile back at you, but something in his jaw… relaxes. He climbs into your bed, settles against the pillows, one arm behind his head, and waits.
You go to him without prompting, tucking yourself against his chest like you were made to fit there, your cheek pressed into his collarbone. His arm comes down from behind his head and drapes across your back, and you can feel his heartbeat under your ear. It's faster than it should be for someone lying still.
"I can't believe this is real," you murmur against his skin.
"It's real."
"I can't believe you're in my bed."
"I'm in your bed."
"I can't believe you-"
"Go to sleep." He says like a quiet directive as his fingers trace an absent pattern on your spine through the fabric of his shirt.
You lie there in the silence, wrapped in his clothes and his cologne and the reality that you are lying in your pink bedroom with Scaramouche's heartbeat under your ear and his cum still sticky between your thighs and his initials carved into your skin next to the ones you carved yourself.
ft. tamsy, enjin, zanka x reader | 1.3k words. (each varies in length) | masterlist.
no pronouns used. fluff. kisses. eating food. petnames were used (only a mention or two, darling/babe). enjin chokes (sorry, he’s an idiot).
TAMSY CAINES ˎˊ˗
you were at a small and modest cafe with tamsy, taking a break from the travel on the way to your job today.
you sat in front of him, munching on your own slice of strawberry cake, while he calmly drinks his tea.
tamsy held a newspaper in one hand, and a teacup in the other, he drank while reading, seemingly immersed in the news written on it. the tea glosses his lips, and he licks the corner of his lips with his tongue.
how could he have such pretty pink and plump lips?
you pouted while chewing, puffing your cheeks a bit. who wouldn’t be jealous of such pretty lips?
tamsy brought the newspaper down and pinned his gaze on you with one eyebrow raised, and an amused smile.
“yes, darling?”
you averted your gaze from him, feeling the blood rush to the tips of your ears.
“nothing,” you mumbled, and took another bite from your strawberry cake.
you heard tamsy shuffle from his seat, and the next thing you know, he was sitting beside you with a teasing look on his face.
tamsy leans on the table with an elbow propped up, as you look at him, flustered and clueless.
“w-what?” you stuttered.
“you’re so adorable, have i told you that?” tamsy teased, the smile never leaving his face.
the words were lost in your mouth. tamsy, the ever so elegant and beautiful giver in all of the cleaners hq—heck, in all of the people in the ground, even—, with his gorgeous glowing eyes and lips, just called you ‘adorable,’ and you have no fucking idea how to respond to his all-knowing but seemingly innocent smile.
“stop looking at me like that,” you looked away from him and his eyes.
tamsy chuckled. “you have something on your lips.”
“what? where?”
“here.”
tamsy held your cheek, and leaned close to your face. his lips lightly touched the corner of your own.
“all gone,” he said with a smile.
you felt your brain short-circuits, your face heating up from his touch, the feeling of his lips lingered on yours.
tamsy caines, the devil of a tease you are.
ENJIN ˎˊ˗
enjin sat next to you in the dining room of the cleaners hq and wolfed down the lunch food you were given.
“slow the fuck down, enjin,” you reprimanded him.
“i chan’t! thiz ish way two goodfh!” he talked with his mouth full.
you cringed, and rolled your eyes at him.
why do i like this man?
still, you can’t deny enjin’s words. after a long day of work, all you want to do is eat everything in sight to quiet down the rumbling in your stomach.
you rapidly ate your food as well, but slow enough to not choke on it.
speaking of,
enjin let out a hard choking sound, and tapped your shoulder aggressively, but not too harsh.
“what?” you glared at him, just to let him relish in the consequences of his actions, despite knowing what he needed at that point.
“w-wha…te…r.” he pointed at the row of glasses and the pitcher of water in front of you, coughing and choking on his food.
you hurriedly poured him a glass of water, which he took from you with shaking hands. you watched him chug the water down to satisfaction.
enjin slammed the glass on the table and heaved a sigh of relief.
“whew, that was a nice lunch.”
“you almost died,” you said, as a matter of fact.
enjin grinned at you foolishly. “that’s not enough to kill me, babe.”
“yeah? you’ve got sauce on your cheek.” you pointed at his right cheek.
“ha? where?” he made unfruitful attempts to wipe it off, unaware of where it was.
you sighed. “right here.”
you took a napkin and wiped the sauce off his face.
“it’s gone.”
enjin looked at you with innocent eyes. “you have sauce as well, on your lips.”
“i don’t—?!”
enjin leaned in, placed his hand on your neck and kissed you on the lips, just a quick kiss but enough to leave you flustered (but you are not going to show it to him, no!)
“what the freak, enjin?” you frantically looked around to see if anyone saw what he did. luckily, everyone seemed to be focused on their own food and groups of people.
“oops, my bad. i thought it was ketchup, turns out it was just your lipstick.” enjin smirked.
“wipe that smirk off your face, you jerk!” you hissed at him, careful not to shout out loud.
“don’t hit me! i know you love me, babe!”
enjin, you are going to be the DEATH of me.
ZANKA NIJIKU ˎˊ˗
you were at the common room, watching rudo and riyo bicker while playing cards.
it was your day off. or rather, team akuta just decided that today was team akuta’s day off (enjin’s nowhere to be seen right now).
you sat in the corner on a couch beside zanka, with a pack of biscuit on your lap. more snacks and two cans of fruit juice were on the small table in front of you.
“this goes on top of this one, rudo,” riyo corrected the spherite boy.
rudo scratched the back of his head. “i don’t understand this game at all…”
you giggled at their interaction, it was nice to see them getting along so well. with rudo joining the cleaners, going on jobs just became more interesting than before.
you looked at zanka, and saw his brows furrowed as always.
zanka ate the chips in his hand while staring at nothing. his mind seemed to be elsewhere. after the fight with the raiders, jabber specifically, when rudo almost got kidnapped, you knew he wanted to train as hard as he could, to prepare in case the raiders attack again. but you told him to take it easy today, to rest just a little.
you know zanka is strong, but of course, telling him that is not enough. he always wants to strive even harder, and you love him for that. you just hope he doesn’t strain himself too much.
“what?”
zanka’s voice pulled you out from your pool of thoughts.
you responded, stammering, “what?”
“you were starin’ at me,” zanka said.
you shook your head and waved your hands in front of your face, while holding a biscuit in your right hand. “what? no, i wasn’t.”
“stop lyin’. what is it?”
“nothing. it’s just that— oh, you have something on your lips.” you pointed out to him.
you were going to tell him he needs to rest his mind too, not just his body, but you were distracted by the crumbs of chips on the side of his lips.
“hm? where?” he tried brushing them off.
you reached your hand out, and wiped them off yourself. your finger lingered a little more on his lips.
brushing your finger again on his lips, you leaned in to him. closing the gap, you kissed him on the lips.
zanka sat there, dumbfounded, with no idea what to do or what happens next.
you giggled a little. “you messy eater.”
“y-you…” zanka fumbled over his words, his face was flushed red, and he could feel the loud beat of his heart against his chest. “i’m not a messy eater,” he mumbled.
you chuckled and poke his chest teasingly. “sure, sure.”
“get yer finger off me…!”
you laughed at how red his ears were.
“that finger is clean, excuse you!”
“ah, rudo, get used to it,” you heard riyo say, she had a smirk on her face.
oh. you completely forgot you weren’t alone with zanka.
rudo stared at you both with big, open red eyes. surprised? yes. shocked? yeah. shy? yep, why didn’t he realize before that you and zanka were a couple?
zanka was still flustered and speechless. his eyes darted back and forth at you and at riyo and rudo.
zanka nijiku, you’re so cute when you’re flustered.
🚯 i need sleep and tamsy. enjin’s an idiot and i love him for it. flustered zanka is my meal day and night. #girlbreakfast #girllunch #girldinner
and yay finally i posted a masterlist for my works... brah
after finishing a long and grueling expedition in the forbidden lands, the last thing you wanted to do is help someone with another nonsensical task. from giving rudo advice on improving his smile to finding enjin’s favorite lighter (it was lodged between two couch cushions), you were completely fed up.
the three day mission turned out to be a week-long journey through the desert. it would have been a lot easier had your support kept their choker on. when they lost it on the way to the site and went missing, it became a wild goose chase. it didn’t help that when your group finally found them, they did not apologize or acknowledge your team’s efforts.
before you made it to your room, zanka spotted you from down the hall. smiling, he quickly jogs over to your side. he had just finished polishing his lovely assistaff and instead of meeting with rudo for his afternoon training, he wanted to see you.
“how was cleaning?”
“… fine.”
massaging the sides of your temple, you ease your growing headache. normally, being around zanka was the least amount of tiring. he’s usually pretty quiet if you need him to be. however, after such a long expedition, your legs were killing you, and you were practically begging to be put out of your misery. it was just unfortunate that zanka was caught in the crossfire of your annoyance.
it wouldn’t kill somebody to get five minutes to yourself. unable to meet his eyes, you slam the door shut behind you, leaving him standing by the entrance. he is left shell-shocked by your harsh reaction.
his first immediate thought was: did i do something wrong?
he lowers his head to the ground. your shoulders were tensed up like a bristled cat. you had deep, sunken eye bags. every time you breathe, there was a sharp huff to it. all signs of fatigue and frustration. he’s never seen you this upset before.
even when you were annoyed with him in the past (mainly for small petty things that were easily solved by kisses) it never started with you slamming the door on him. did he upset you when he asked about your mission? were you sick and tired of him?
the only thing he knew from semiu was that your team got lost on the way to the site, causing you to stay an extra four days in the desert. so maybe this was it?
it was better to ask than assume. after all, he would rather die than go a night without your hugs. closing his eyes, he takes in one deep inhale. this can go two ways: a, you let him talk things out with you. or b, you stab him with your jinki. he did not want it to be the second option. once he has exhaled, he softly knocks on the door.
a few minutes pass before he heard a very loud, but muffled scream. carefully cracking open the door, he peers into your room. seeing you lying flat on your bed, face pressed into the pillow, he assumed you mentally exploded. realizing that you were most likely overstimulated, he eases over to your side.
without saying a word, he wraps his arms around you, squeezing as tight as he can to release as much stress out of your body. your lungs felt crushed by the strength of his arms and it took everything within you not to burst.
“eugh… zanka!” you mumble, trying to push him away. your reaction causes him to chuckle. the sound is sweet to your ears.
“what are you doing?”
“taking out all the stress from your body,” he plainly replies. giving light kisses to your shoulder, he hums. he rubs your arms up and down, squeezing to loosen up your tensed muscles. “you looked like you were gonna kill me.”
pouting, you pinch his index finger that was drawing circles on your stomach. “‘m sorry. i just didn’t want to talk to anybody…”
“then, do you want me to leave?”
of course not. this was the last thing you wanted actually.
“... no, don’t leave yet.”
you turn around, wrapping your legs around him like a koala, you latch onto his body. burying your face in his chest, you squeeze him equally as tight, causing him to wheeze at the lack of air. he’s like a giant stress ball to you right now, and holding him like this was helping ease the tension in your muscles.
he was incredibly warm. built like your own personal heater, he melted away all your worries. he rubs the curvature of your spine with the tips of your fingers. he presses down lightly, pushing small pressure points to further ease your body into relaxing. his heart beat followed a steady rhythm.
bum… bum … bum… the sound makes you calmer.
“what’s got you all worked up?”
there was so much to say. maybe you should start from the very beginning: you didn’t even want to go on this expedition. it was completely out of the way and you were stuck having to babysit a lot of unfit supporters. second, you spent so much time looking for the missing person that you ended up starving yourself. you ended up giving the lunch zanka packed for you to another one of your team members. it hurt your soul to see his hard work in anyone else’s stomach, but it was for the better.
there was very little time for you to stop and rest as the search became desperate. third, the lack of an apology or acknowledgement of your team’s effort was a big slap in the face. you reported this incident to semiu but that didn’t quell the anger brewing in your stomach.
it didn’t help that once you came home, rudo needed help fixing up his smile. he could have asked anyone else other than you. as much as you love rudo and all of his shenanigans, this was possibly the worst time to ask for help. if he was truly that desperate, riyo was there eating in the mess hall and enjin was walking through the halls. hell, he could have asked gris or follo to help him. enjin’s misplacement of his lighter was just the cherry on top of everything—so overall, the day was awful.
with all of these overwhelming thoughts flooding your mind, you are speechless. instead of opening your mouth to recite your story, you start to tear up and sob. you were physically and mentally exhausted. everything from your soul to your muscles were hurting. the only thing you wanted to do right now is roll up in a little blanket ball and cry your heart out.
you felt so alone out there. you couldn’t talk about your frustrations openly in front of your group. you just kept smiling and saying ‘its okay’ when you were on the verge of breaking down. with you having to shoulder all of these burdens, trying not to let out a single peep of weakness on the fields, it was eating you alive.
however, you aren’t alone anymore. zanka is lying right beside you, patting your back as you cry. you didn’t need to say anything. he doesn’t ask you to. he doesn’t even blame you for feeling exhausted either. whatever happened on that expedition must have been awful—if it was him in your shoes, having to tack on four extra days in the desert, he would have beaten everyone with his stick and make sure they were buried six feet under.
regardless of everything, you were here now. safe and sound. breathing and curled up in his arms. he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, tickling your skin with his pointed nose. he tries to restrain himself from completely peppering you with kisses.
so for now, he will hold you until your inner storm dies.
⤷ medic! reader spending a little time with her (not-so) secret boyfriend.
“your eyes look so tired, zanka,” you mumble. brushing across the bottom of his eyelid, you see the etchings of dark circles. sitting on his lap, his breath hitches when you lean closer, nose brushing up against his. “have you been getting enough sleep?”
as of right now, the main lobby was practically empty. semiu went on break. enjin was on a short trip. riyo was probably cutting her own hair in her room. rudo was likely sneaking into the dessert pantry and starting fights with team child. this meant you had the lobby to yourselves. just you and zanka doing absolutely nothing (but flirt) on your break time.
he rolls his eyes, “not since that new guy joined.”
rudo was a lot more troublesome than he thought. when enjin requested for his help in teaching him how to use his vital instrument, he would have expected someone more tame. being around the rudo was the complete opposite.
zanka tilts his head backwards, glancing up at the ceiling. well, the more he thinks about it, enjin’s choice in people have always been weird, himself included.
“ah, rudo?”
he tucks his fingers behind your neck, lacing them between your hair.
“don’t even say his name, your voice is too pretty for that.”
zanka sucks in a deep breath. wrapping his one arm around your hip, he presses his forehead against your shoulder. your eyes widen for a millisecond before you copied him. arms around his neck, you allow him to breathe in your scent. his nose twitches upwards—the familiar smell of vanilla, something he’s grown used to, has changed. it’s more floral. a touch more feminine.
“did you change your shampoo?”
“you noticed?” you pull away from him, causing a soft, puppy-like whine to escape his lips. your chuckle echos in the empty air. “i ran out last night. decided to go back to the usual store—but they pretty much sold out of everything. this the best they got.”
“mhmm…”
“you sound like you hate it.”
he doesn’t let you leave his lap. if anything, his hold over you becomes tighter, more desperate. almost chasing after you like he’s starved. and to be fair, he might have been. considering how long he stayed outside, hunting trash beasts after trash beasts, in between training rudo and dealing with enjin’s last-minute tasks, it felt like he hadn’t seen you in years.
though, this was a mere exaggeration as you guys previously met up for breakfast.
“nah, it smells better than your old one.”
reaching forward, you press a kiss against his earlobe, sending shivers through his body. “we could always share if you want.”
“you think it’ll fit me?” zanka laughs, patting your back and pressing his thumb against your spine. the tips of his fingertips are hot against the fabric of your clothes. “people are goin’ to get the wrong idea of us.”
“and what idea is that?”
“a-are you guys…” a sudden voice stops zanka from answering. the two of you snap your heads in the direction of the voice. your eyes widen in shock as you see rudo standing there with his fingers pointed at you. his face is redder than tomatoes.
rudo had his suspicions but he would have never thought you and zanka… he furiously shakes his head. there is absolutely no way.
he refuses to believe that you, out of all people, would be dating someone as pompous as zanka—the same guy who beat him up on the spot just for looking at him funny. you, the same sweet and kind medic, whose hands always opened up to a stash of candy, was dating zanka?
this was possibly the worst thing that happened to him (if he disregards slipping on a puddle of what he hopes to be water in the bathroom).
you quickly jump off of zanka’s lap. brushing through your hair and clothes, you smile innocently at rudo. zanka rolls his eyes, biting back his tongue. this 180 personality change gave rudo whiplash.
“hello rudo!”
“what were the two of you doing?” rudo stutters over his words, still trying to wrap his head around the scene he just witnessed. the two of you, overly cuddly and sickeningly in love. he’s never seen that look in zanka’s eyes before!
speaking of which, he has never seen zanka this angry either! yelping, he throws his hands up in the air, right when zanka pulls out his vital instrument. the vibrant blue glow radiates in the air, its corners sharper than usual. threatening him with those terrifying eyes, rudo swears on his life he wouldn’t tell a single soul.
that is… until enjin forces the information out of him, and zanka is sat down to talk about the importance of private rooms (luckily, you get off scott free because it wasn’t your idea!)
