RenXD

chronically online 18+ degenerate who makes fun of sagau or anything else cuz i have no life; usually on hiatus!

[magica-ren]

yo does anyone know what could’ve happened to @cybersp4c3?? his account just disappeared off the face of the earth and i dunno if he got banned or whatever… dude was so goated too 🥀💔 we miss you bro i could never hope to even begin to match your freak

[blackhearteddoll]

.⋆♱⃓ monopoly over your mind

1.7k words || yandere!kidnapper x gn!reader; tw: emotional abuse; kidnapping; crying; reading your diary

it’s another slow dinner. it’s the fourth time he's baked garlic bread this week, and it’s only thursday.

regret fills you as you chew your loaf slowly. shouldn’t have complimented his baking on monday. never thought you could get sick of garlic bread.

“i was reading through your diary,” he says.

your eyes shoot up, but he hasn’t looked up from his ravioli.

"you don’t write about me at all. i don’t know what i expected.” he pauses and waits, probably for you to say something. “i don’t know. i guess i thought you’d at least write about how much you hate me.”

"what?” your voice is so quiet that he doesn’t even hear you. he continues rambling.

"i just… i feel so sick. i don’t know what i was expecting, but i thought i was important enough for you to so much as mention once. is it… is it delusional of me to wish that you were going through some kind of moral dilemma? maybe you do hate me, for bringing you here, but all the while you find yourself… inexplicably, er, attracted to me. there isn’t so much as a sentence in your diary about how you find me handsome.”

he pauses to sip wine from his glass. he clears his throat uncomfortably.

“i… i put in so much effort for you, you see. i feel unappreciated. i don’t know.”

he says that a lot, “i don’t know;” it annoys you tremendously. you hadn’t been planning on crying, but sometimes some things annoy you so badly that you burst into tears. this is one of those moments.

you look down, moving your pasta around with your fork. if you thought you had no appetite before, you definitely don’t have one now.

"i… i workout for you, don’t i?” he continues, “you like men who read. i force myself to sit through book after book to impress you. i cut my hair the way you like it. i-i dress up all the time just to look presentable to you. i thought you’d acknowledge these things in your diary.”

he pauses between every sentence to take a deep breath in. you can't tell if he's so mad he can barely speak, or if he's also on the verge of crying. “it’s like you don’t— you don’t really care about me, not really.”

what is he even talking about anymore? why does he do this, the whole pretending-you’re-here-consensually shtick? he acts like you really are in a loving, committed relationship, and your refusal to act the part distresses him.

he’s always so distressed.

“i don’t care about you,” you burst out exasperatedly. you drop your fork. the sound makes a clamor. his eyes widen, and you can see the wheels turning in his head.

he feels torn; he wants to get up and pick up the fork — he dislikes when things are out of place; he’s an awful neat freak — but at the same time, he can see the tears glisten in your eyes.

how to comfort you?

he knows how he likes to be comforted, which is quite often; he likes when you wrap your arms around him and let him mumble and cry into your shoulders; he likes when you sigh and tell him everything will be okay; he likes when you let him kiss you on the cheeks.

you hate these things, of course, so he does not know what to do when you cry. you rarely cry. you hate showing emotions around him. on the one hand, he's pleased to see you a mess, but on the other...

he wrungs his hands and watches you.

and you hate being watched, gawked, stared at. “i’m sorry,” you gasp, finally becoming aware of the stream running down your face. “it's just... try to understand! you read my diary. that’s such a huge invasion of my privacy."

"privacy?” his tone makes it sound like he doesn’t know what that word means. “privacy? what could you possibly need privacy for?”

he makes his way around the table and kneels in front of you. in one swift motion he picks up the fork and places it back on the table. he takes your hands in his. “stop crying, please,” he pleads.

well, it’s not really pleading. he never does that. perhaps it’s a part of his manipulative nature; he only pleads when he wants to appear cute or attractive to you. he says it plainly, if a little forceful. “i hate it when you cry.”

"i'm sorry,” you apologize. you wish you didn’t keep apologizing, but once you start, it’s impossible to stop. “i’m sorry. i just can’t take it. you read my diary. that was the only freedom i had in this wretched place, and you took even that away from me. you’ve possessed me physically, isn’t that enough for you? when will you stop?”

"when will i stop?” he asks, bewildered. “what do you mean, ‘when will I stop?’ it’s not fair, can’t you see that? not even a guillotine could get you out of my mind, and you… you… you don’t think i’m important enough to mention in your diary?

"you spent pages describing the way the sunlight filters through the curtains — i ought to get rid of the curtains, oh yes! i bought them especially for you because you like lace, but — you care more about the curtains than you care about me! not a single sentence about your kidnapper!”

aha! there it is! you want to stand up and clap your hands! “my kidnapper!” you sob, mainly from the joy that you’ve caught him in this Freudian slip. “that’s all you are to me! why would I write about you at all when all you are to me is a prison guard?”

he purses his lips and clenches his fists. his jaw tightens. he looks quite scary when he’s angry, and usually you try to appease him, keep him from getting angry, but not today, no.

"i’m sorry for crying! really, i am! you deserve to be laughed at!”

oh… is this a psychotic break? have you finally lost your mind? your crying descends into laughter — his face is just so laughable, he’s still kneeling at your feet, you can tell that he feels ridiculous, pathetic, angry, angry little man, disgusting, disturbing, perverted man, a joke, a shame, a disgrace — ha, ha, ha. you pause for a moment and wonder if he’ll hurt you.

even if he does, what do you have to lose anymore?

[magica-ren]

when you’re getting plenty of new official merch and content of your favorite character but their tumblr fic tags are getting cobwebs…

scaramouche my handsome boy… i’ll publish some fics to keep your tag from becoming empty…

[cherriette]

scara/kabu as yanderes

࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ᅟ࿚ׁ࿙𝜗℘࿚ׁ࿙ᅟ࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝

♯ ˶ featuring ; kabukimono & kunikuzushi (wanderer's ver)

♯ ˶ notes ⦂ i'm still trying to understand scara's character(s), forgive me for any inaccuracies! it's a bit hard trying to think of what to do for him when i pressure myself into being a perf- ectionist writing him. :(( no wan because i can't think for him and i stressed too hard trying.

♯ ˶ notes ⦂ stalking, yandere content obvs, manipulation, uhh idk toxicity... i didn't go all-out with this, this is for future yan fanfics i make...!

excuse typos

♯ cherry~cherie

𝜗℘ | kabukimono is already so new to the ways of human life and their existence. he's still learning how to understand and process his own feelings, so i don't think he'd initially realise his feelings for you.

𝜗℘ | by which i mean, he wouldn't register it as obsession at first. he loves your presence, that much he's sure of. every breath of yours, every tiny detail of your mannerisms and face, just being with you. a part of him, deep down, wants it forever. he doesn't like being separated from you, wondering what you're doing when you're away, if you think about him as much, if you'll come back one day. you're constantly on his mind and fill him with such overwhelming feelings, but nothing that makes him want to run away from you.

𝜗℘ | quite the opposite, even. maybe too much for his own good.

𝜗℘ | i feel like the fandom dumbs kabukimono down into being this baby. he's still learning, yes he's gentle-tempered and 'innocent', but he's not stupid. he's very capable of doing things and actually a fast learner, he just has to learn things over time. so i do think he'd manage himself to an extent with his obsession, just not to the same degree i imagine from wanderer or kunikuzushi --- especially as it's very obvious he never got the chance to manage his emotions or understand them healthily in canon. his appears more harmless before it gradually spirals daker before he even realises.

𝜗℘ | i actually do think he worsens. like not a wolf in sheep's clothing necessarily, but he's harmless with the potential for that to switch entirely. actually yeah something of a wolf in sheep's clothing. he tries not to, he really tries to stretch his patience with you. but if you or anyone pushes him enough...

𝜗℘ | he doesn't like others having your attention, that's what he's most definitely sure of. every time someone tries stealing you away, even if to borrow you for a minute, he'll be holding you by the wrist trying to pull you away. you're his 'friend', anyways; why would you want to spend time with anyone else if you have him? you came around just for him only, anyways, right? right?

𝜗℘ | might have to worry about him lashing out on others or pulling you away demanding (begging) you say you only want to be with him, you don't like anyone more than him, etc. on a worse day. not like, as a whole scene, but you can definitely tell he's upset and defensive.

𝜗℘ | the possessiveness might only seem like he's just clingy at first, but you might find that at times it's...worse, maybe? with different triggers that is, and also as his obsession with you deepens! he's not violent, kabukimono could never bring himself to do that (for now) but letting you go is also something he isn't willing to do. it's like an unconscious fear of you slipping away, right out of his grasp. something of a fear of abandonment, surely. he wants you around constantly because unconsciously, you're pure security to him and maybe his favourite person. i feel he'd feel his obsession and interpret it as wanting you more than he can handle/express, so closeness is his most efficient way of indulging that.

𝜗℘ | expects confirmation and reassurance from you that you'll never leave him, it's only him, there's no-one else, no-one stands a chance. i feel he'd unconsciously push you to revolve around him just as much. narrow the world down to just you two, because who else could possibly matter if it's only you?

𝜗℘ | would he stalk you? yes, definitely. in kabuki's mind, he's not sure why he feels like he always needs to know what you're up to, and always wants to be around you. although he's not the sneakiest with it, he still tries. sometimes you'll just glance over your shoulder and find him standing there. kind of creepy, but it's not something that'd scare you or push you away. i don't imagine him to be the best stalker in the beginning, and might just look around inwardly accepting defeat whenever he loses track of you. which happens fairly often. other time his eyes are just piercing through you. you can never really tell where he is, what he's doing, but you'll feel it. if you're lucky enough you'll see a blur of movement if you look around in time. i feel he'd get creative with his stalking, too? sometimes he'll be stalking you and just walk right up to you to finally approach you. i guess it'd make sense to also say his stalking involves inserting himself into your life? because he'd be entirely in your space.

𝜗℘ | but he definitely watches you sleep. admiring your pretty face, thinking you're just so perfect and all his.

𝜗℘ | loves collecting your things. hair, trinkets you left behind or dropped, gifts from you. anything for you he gets ahold of, he'll likely keep around. again closeness is important to him, he wants you close. any way he can do that, he will. i imagine he also has things with your scent to breathe in ~ might fall asleep holding something with your scent on it, too.

𝜗℘ | sub-traits

𝜗℘ | isolation! obvious. he wants you to himself but doesn't know how else to go about it. if he can just cling onto you and make sure you don't stray away from him, he'll be at peace.

𝜗℘ | would he isolate you or threats? i feel he'd isolate you. it's more convenient to keep you away from people than to find ways to keep people away from you. it's too much work doing the latter, anyways. the most he'd do to remove a threat is if push came to shove and they become such a hindrance for the two of you. if they can't take the hint to leave you alone, how else will he have to show it plainly?!! :(

𝜗℘ | misunderstanding! this one's more of a guess. misunderstanding types delusionally misunderstand cues and behaviour as reciprocation, even if they're rejected to their face. i just imagine that, not yet grasping romance or attraction, he'd at some point start overanalysing your behaviour as such!! more-so out of hopeful thinking, needing your feelings reciprocated. he misunderstands it out of hope he has a chance, or that it's possible. he'd bounce back from anything disproving that because "it just doesn't make any sense, this other time they ____!"

𝜗℘ | worship! not entirely...i think. it stems from idealisation of you. he tries to express himself by devoting himself to you. i feel he'd do basically anything you'd ask as long as it means you'll stay. he already revolves himself around you after all! he feels things deeply and expresses them accordingly.

𝜗℘ | how he's like snapping this is what i mean about wolf in sheep's clothing. i feel he'd avoid having to kidnap you 'till he sees there's a threat. he really wants to keep you free and not be too selfish about things being only the two of you. but that doesn't mean he'll be too nice to you, either. it's this total switch, he'll have that sweet undertone but it's so overshadowed by this new dark side of him.

𝜗℘ | he'll monitor you so closely, clamp down on you and be more in your space than he previously was. if it's bad enough he'll lash out on you for causing him to go into a frenzy. not to hurt you, though. he could never forgive himself!!! D: it's mostly verbalised desperations mixed in with pleas and 'demands'.

𝜗℘ | how can you expect dear kabu to keep composed knowing all these burning feelings you fill him with, all while you exist just fine as if his world isn't build around you and your attention!! he bases his mood off of you without even realising. of course he'll go crazy over it, make you see and feel exactly how it is.

𝜗℘ | plus you're clearly not feeling the right things if you're not as desperate for him. he wants to fix that.

𝜗℘ | capacity to kill? probably. actually, no, he would. but that'd be a last resort. physical force in general --- at least, at first. i imagine once he starts, he'll gradually get more used to it. processing that, all he's doing is for you and if it's come to this, then is just will be that way. he'll do anything to keep you as his.

𝜗℘ | tl;dr he does get crazier over time if pushed to.

࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ᅟ࿚ׁ࿙𝜗℘࿚ׁ࿙ᅟ࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝

𝜗℘ | kunikuzushi would undoubtedly be more straightforward about his. he's not stupid, he knows what love is and what borders on obsession. after being abandoned so much, swearing he'd never feel again (ironically as he feels a lot, still), he wouldn't be so lenient for someone he loves enough to become obsessive over. this one can't leave like the others did, and if he has to lock them up away from the world then so be it.

𝜗℘ | sub-traits!!

𝜗℘ | projection a bit of a reach, but i feel that in a relationship, he'd hold this standard of you as his new obsession, being both BPD-coded and also used to abandonment and his trauma!! you personally would have to fit into his mould he's created for you in his head to avoid triggering him. and obviously, you're a person with a life and such outside of him. that's not going to go 100% as he wants even if you're so much of a glazer, you'll do anything to be perfect for him.

𝜗℘ | that "mould" being someone who kisses his ass and bends to his every will every single time without complaint. he wants someone who won't give him the impression there's even the tiniest window of possibility they'll leave or slip away from him. an impossibly tight security in the fact he can keep you, and i imagine he'd be willing to break you into that mould if he has to. force you to fit. anything to keep you in his cage hands.

𝜗℘ | as such i don't think he'd respond well to any implication of defiance. nor will he respond well to inconsistency, shifts in behaviour and tone--- kunikuzushi is sharp and observant, so of course he analyses everything about you. body language, the tones you use in what cases and the mannerisms that accompany it, how you speak to him vs others, how you are with every mood, even your whereabouts and miscellaneous habits. everything. you can say he watches you like a hawk. oh, and don't get him started on distance and not living up to your words, even if missing them by the tiniest diversion...

𝜗℘ | codependent though he won't admit it. some part of him craves and needs you more than he'd like to admit, and sometimes it disgusts him. because of this, i imagine it manifests more-so through his control over you and how he subtly uses the security you provide to him for his mental stability. the thought process being like, "i need you so much that i'll break you down until you need me more, that way you'll be more scared of losing me than i am of losing you."

𝜗℘ | and if he's not doing that, he's still keeping you for himself. you should love him back, why would you have a problem being his only and forever? it's not "forcing" if it's reciprocated and you love each other.

𝜗℘ | i don't know how it would start off. i think if it's one-sided/non-relationship at first, he wouldn't be so obvious about it. but his behaviour still would exist, namely the stalking and maybe - just maybe - he'd be a little frustrated with himself for ever feeling this way for someone. and overtime he'd gradually get more of a hold on you until you're properly his.

𝜗℘ | he'd be a control freak with you, how else would he make sure you stay? i feel that he wouldn't make it obvious how closely he monitors you. he definitely stalks you heavily, maybe even ordering his subordinates to be lowkey about it if we're thinking about OG genshin's plot?/non-modern au. who you hang around with is something he especially watches. he doesn't want you interacting with who he disapproves of, nor does he want you around anyone he suspects has any interest in you. you don't see him entertaining someone after they try getting close with him. fucking disgusting, he only wants you so why the hell should they matter?

𝜗℘ | funnily, you can't pull the same on him. anyways---

𝜗℘ | monopoly all my previous points, but yeah monopolising you. he wants you good and obedient for him, and only him. he can't stand the thought that you're not his.

𝜗℘ | training coupled in with "projection". i think this goes well with the fact canonically, he used to brainwash people. unless it was only in DLT and someone lied to me. but i swear it was canon..? correct me if i'm wrong lol. but yeah! i see where he'd do that at some point, though maybe only if he feels it's needed - maybe if you're too resistant to his advances at first, then he has to go through the burden of breaking you into better heabits. otherwise, he'd also be subtly manipulative towards you by using conditioning to get you how he wants. his training methods mix with punishment and reward systems, each punishment worse than the other depending on what pushes him to have to discipline you. is it not a tactic to condition someone into associating their presence with safety? i feel he'd go for that as well, conditioning you to only feel genuine love from him and only him, nobody can love you the way he does. just making sure you don't think to leave him, is that so wrong?

𝜗℘ | i don't think he'd see much fault in his actions, or any. first reason being if you feel the same it shouldn't MATTER what he does to you. if you love him, why wouldn't you let him? second being he doesn't care because he wants you, you'll want him back and that's final. i wonder how he'd actually react in a hypothetical situation where you try resist or confront him? deflect maybe? or would he belittle you and deflect until you take it all back and see it as how much he loves you. would he manipulate with accusations of ingratitude? yes, probably - because how could you possibly try betray him after seeing how he put his heart out for you? he's not going to just take it either, you'll definitely end up back with one of my aforementioned points. and maybe isolated with no attention as punishment until you learn to act right.

𝜗℘ | i don't think he'd border into the delusional type? i'm not sure, it seems possible.

𝜗℘ | removal/isolation except unlike kabukimono, he's focused on both threats and you. he'd have anybody killed or withdrawn from you if it ever means getting them out of the way. he'd make you push them away yourself even if to make them hate you to stop talking to you, if he had to. anything that isolates you to be his. if he can't make you do it, then he'll do it himself. i feel he separates it into being a threat you entertain, and a threat you don't have any involvement in. i don't know the right words. think of some rando showing interest vs someone getting too close that you talk to. and celestia bless whoever gets on his last nerve for either of the two. he was nice enough to give them a chance or two to fuck off, anyways.

𝜗℘ | capacity to kill? already answered but he really would. wouldn't bat an eye or feel bad. in fact he'd find them pathetic. most times he'll probably have fatui or anyone else do the dirty work for him, not even wanting to involve himself with such filth. he'd instead busy himself dealing with you.

𝜗℘ | he's so serious about making sure you only stay as his, he drives even himself insane. you're all he wants, all he can think of. i don't know if he'd revolve his mood around you but gods, do you affect him so much. you're his own stability and yet make him so unstable from how much he needs you. he's so scared of who he'll turn into if he loses you.

𝜗℘ | how he's like snapping certified crashout let's be honest. since snapping tends to come from a mental spiral, he'd be way worse than usual. most times you'd serve as the outlet for that, whether that involves him locking you away from everyone, marking you so everyone sees you're his, or even breaking you. it's much easier to trigger him in these states, too. if in a normal state of mind, you're walking on eggshells, this would be like walking on heated metal balls in a fire pit. or maybe molten metal with very tiny, spiky platforms to walk on. i'm not sure how splitting episodes work for others, or how it'd even work for him, but i feel it would also play a part? in his behaviour.

𝜗℘ | i think he'd be really scary when he snaps, actually, like-

𝜗℘ | for you AND anyone you're involved with.

𝜗℘ | i feel you'd need to be in his sight and/or where he can find you at all times because god knows what he'll do if you deviate even slightly from his expectations when he's like this.

𝜗℘ | probably just moves on when he's calm. everything's suddenly back to normal, save for your unconscious knowing that next time won't be as nice, i assume.

𝜗℘ | oh, and everything is your fault. yes, YOURS. you're the cause of his feelings, therefore every reaction he has due to them is your responsibility. he sees it as your consequence to bear and expects you to handle it properly, really.

𝜗℘ | i'm not so sure about collecting keepsakes, but who is he to get rid of or say no to anything from you? he silently enjoys everything about you, it just tends to be when he's on his lonesome where he can at least let some of those feelings surface without being shoved down.

࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ᅟ࿚ׁ࿙𝜗℘࿚ׁ࿙ᅟ࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝ ࿙፝࿚࿙፝࿚፝

guaaahhhh!!!!!!!!!! (′д｀) i literally feel like i'm mischaracterising him so bad. i'm so sorry everyone!! i hope it's still like..enjoyable, despite that. and i also hope my writing doesn't sound like chatgpt, i tend to be straightforward with my wording because i really don't know how to do these and my usual writing style doesn't...fit, i guess? it feels weird when i try.

[lyzisbitchingagain]

i miss ACTUALLY good fanfic, like something with depth and a real story with real emotions. now it’s just all scenarios and smut🥀

[magica-ren]

genuinely though cuz' ALL i've been finding recently in terms of fic content on tumblr is smut and scenarios and smaus (not to bash on my smau gang but there's wayy too many now) and i don't remember the last time i saw a x reader fic that was MORE THAN JUST ANY OF THE 3 ABOVE from after 2025. and all the fics that aren't like those i have to dig deep into the trenches to find and look for it's insane.

also personal thing but it's also kinda draining to see stuff like that that is CONSTANTLY getting popular and tons of traction while all the longer shit is getting 50 likes max. like lowkirkenuinely it makes me not wanna upload or update my long term fics

[scaraling]

Hey hey!!

Can I pretty please request for bimbo,shy!reader x tutoring scaramouche (make him abit more respectful like like kabukimono typa respectful??) and the rest is up to you like go wild ‼️💯💯

Reward

AFAB! Shy! Bimbo! Reader x Tutoring! Scaramouche

CW: smut, mention of virginity loss, Scara is called Kuni

He sees you for you, unlike everyone else.

A/N: I feel like I didn't manage to make the bimbo aspect clear... Also this is more Scara but Kabuki sprinkled in 🫠 idk how to write Kabuki yet

Not proofread

The current school year has been kicking your ass fully, you've been failing almost every class, leaving you in desperate need of tutoring.

Never raising your hand in class to participate, always distracted by something else had a harsh impact on your grades.

You've always been a bit of an airhead.

Seated in the far back you're too shy to even make conversation with your seatmate, much less ask them for help, you'd rather die.

But it's hard to learn when all the tutors you've had all treat you the same, like some stupid girl who won't get it anyways.

They barely explain anything to you, watching you struggle and ultimately get the questions wrong only to then make fun of you for not understanding the material, calling you a dimwitted bimbo.

You're attractive and that seems to make them think they're justified in their behavior, justified in treating you like someone who only got looks and no brain.

All of them stare at you the same way, leering at your body like you're some kind of display piece.

Nobody seems to care about the fact that you don't want their gaze on you, that you'd rather hide away than have your classmates ogle you like a piece of meat.

It makes you feel like crying.

Today you're meeting a new tutor, one last desperate shot at improving your knowledge before an exam.

You promise yourself that if this person is an asshole as well you'll give up.

Sitting in the school library you're already fidgeting with your hands under the table as you wait for them to arrive, already feeling nervous.

Only to almost faint when a beautiful indigo haired guy takes his seat across from you.

Immediately your cheeks flush warm, you suddenly find the wooden table so much more interesting but he pays it no mind as he sets his bag down, introducing himself as Kuni.

"Anything specific you struggle with?" His voice is soft, something you didn't expect considering his sharp eyes, focused on your face instead of your curves.

Caught off guard you blink once, twice. Nobody before him has bothered to ask that question, to find the root of your troubles.

For a moment you find it hard to speak, throat dry until you finally pull yourself together again.

"Well... I kinda struggle with everything..." Fingers twist into the fabric on your thighs, a habit you've developed.

"But I suck at math the most..."

He doesn't laugh at you, doesn't look at you like you're beneath him, like you just told him something ridiculous. No, he just nods, fishing out his textbook.

"Let's start with math then."

Taking his time he actually explains the formula that's been causing you the most issues in detail, letting you take notes and teaching you simplified ways to reach the conclusion you're looking for whenever you look confused.

It's a lot to take in but you manage until you have to solve a question on your own as practice.

Shame burns in your face as you stare at the wrong result, afraid he's going to judge your poor skills like the rest, that he'll call you stupid.

Instead, his eyebrows just furrow a little, scanning the page until his eyes land on a specific place.

"You mixed the numbers up." He gently states, handing the sheet back to you, leaning over a little and pointing at where you went wrong.

"Right here. It's an easy fix." Adjusting his reading glasses he gives you some tips and examples.

Relief floods your entire being, feeling more comfortable in his presence now that you know he's not immediately going to insult you.

Getting treated like an actual human being has you motivated to study, to pass.

Every day after school the two of you meet, location shifting from the library to your home.

Never does he treat you like you're just a pretty face to look at, he treats you as someone who genuinely just needs a little push, praising you when you do great.

The feared day of your math exam comes, you're afraid of failing yet again but what you're scared of the most is disappointing Kuni. It would be downright humiliating, having spend all this time with him just to fail again.

Shaking your head you try to hype yourself up, to go into this with newfound confidence and strategies.

To your honesty surprise you have a much easier time than usual, you finish the entire thing in the given time.

Waiting for the results is a special kind of torture but when you finally get them you feel like your soul has just left your being.

You passed. And not just barely.

Once classes are over you happily rush home, excited to show your tutor your hard earned grade.

Basically vibrating with excitement you show him when he arrives, immediately holding the piece of paper in his sight.

"Well done." A smile on his lips is all it takes to have your legs almost buckle beneath you.

"Though I never doubted you for a second." Ruffling your hair he watches as your cheeks heat up, your eyes shifting away to avoid his.

"Oh?" Tilting his head he grabs your chin, forcing your face back into his direction.

"Don't look away from me." He sounds more needy than commanding, wanting your attention on him. "Please."

His fingers find their way from your chin to your cheek, gently caressing it with a careful touch.

Leaning into it subconsciously you chew on your lower lip.

"Are you proud?" The question leaves your mouth before you can think it over.

Nodding he can't help himself but shift closer until he's pressing you against the wall of your bedroom, caging you in.

"Of course I am."

His shoulders are tense, he's obviously keeping himself in check from just pouncing on you at this point.

Always looking so innocent, always looking so happy when you get something right while studying with him. And always looking so pleased whenever he praises you.

Every time you fidgeted, everytime you picked at your lip nervously only doomed him further, he can't deny that he fell for you. Hard. Not for your appearance but for you.

Within seconds he captures you in a soft kiss, he can't hold himself back anymore.

Shock runs through you, pupils blown wide before you melt right into him, how could you not?

He's treated you with respect the moment he met you, paying attention to what makes you the person you are.

What started as an innocent little peck soon turns heated, his palms resting against your hips while your arms snake around his neck.

Guiding you towards the bed he lets you both fall onto it, never breaking apart with you now trapped below him.

Hands sneak under your shirt, caressing your sides that you've tried so hard to hide from other students.

Arching against him you eventually remove yourself from his lips to suck in some needed oxygen as his fingers find their way to your chest, pinching at your nipples.

Leaving hickeys all over your neck he grinds his cock against you, making sure you feel him.

"Relax... You deserve it after working so hard." He knows exactly how to turn you into putty right in his grip.

Slowly he removes your bottoms and panties, making sure to take his sweet time.

Dragging his digits through your folds he doesn't miss the way you shiver, biting your tongue in an attempt to silence yourself.

"Let me hear you..." Plunging his ring and middle finger into your heat without warning has you squirming on your sheets, moans ripping from your throat as you try to adjust to the sudden intrusion.

Knowing this is your first he wants to prepare you as thoroughly as possible, kneading at your tits in an attempt to get you to relax.

Scissoring your walls apart, his pace slow he only pulls them out when he feels you sink into the pillows, becoming boneless for him to manhandle.

Eager to finally fill you with what he knows you crave he kicks off his own pants, lining himself up with your quivering hole.

Taking one of your hands into his he intertwines them together before thrusting into you carefully.

Clinging onto him you wrap your free limbs around him, holding him impossibly close.

Rocking against you again and again he speeds up bit my bit, making sure it's not too much for you to handle until he bottoms out completely.

Over and over he pounds into you, listening to your panting right by his ear.

Rubbing your poor aching clit has you whimpering right under his touch, a sweet melody you're singing only for him.

It feels way too good, pleasure bursting across your vision, you don't care who hears you at this point.

Loosing himself in bliss his movements get rougher, deeper, faster until he feels you're at your limit, walls clenching around him, fluttering.

Just a few taps against your sensitive bundle of nerves has you crying out as you gush hard on his cock, stilling as waves of ecstasy run through you.

"There you go...take it easy."

Following soon after you his entire weight collapses into you, nose nuzzling into your shoulder.

"Keep doing so well on your exams and you'll keep getting little treats like this."

Oh now you're definitely going to make sure you're not failing a single subject.

[magica-ren]

ITS PEAK!!!

[ajaxless]

Doctor Harper being like...The "grown up" version of Kylar. Got sent to the psych ward for being a little too silly (went yandere) and hypnotized everyone into letting him out. Could you fucking imagine how scary that would be to be his (former?) Darling?

Harper as your dweeb classmate. Always has his nose tucked in a book, usually shows up to school with bruises, you can't tell if it's from his home life or from the bullies. You end up taking pity on the poor guy and get into the habit of taking him to the nurse at school to get him ice packs and bandaids. Over time Harper comes out of that quiet and polite facade and brags to anyone that will listen that the two of you are lovers. Except, no, you're not, you never would have agreed to such a thing. Sure, it's sweet that he walks you to each and every class you have and insists on carrying your books, but you never saw him in that light. You were just being kind! He got the wrong idea.

So, when Harper makes you lunch after you forgot yours at home, you don't think twice about it, typical Harper! Harper babbles on about how he's been studying how to become a doctor. That way, you two won't have to rely on the school nurse anymore. Maybe you could be his nurse? You could stay by his side all day while he works and dote on him as his lovely assistant!

Unfortunately for you, you don't get to correct him because the drugs he slipped in knocked you out before he could finish. Harper mumbles something about skipping the chapter on sedatives in his textbook and drags you home. Nobody thinks twice to stop him, most people don't even notice him.

Cue basement scene similar to Kylar's, except Harper is less paranoid and panicked. I think he'd just be delusional and convinced that the two of you are together. Defiant! Darling could resist him and snap him out of the delusional state, only to send him into a fit of anger. Submissive / compliant! Darling goes along with it out of pity / fear.

Here are some things I imagine when being abducted by Harper

He never yells and constantly refers to you by a pet name and never your actual name. In his eyes, your name is like...The main piece of your identity. By stripping it from you, he's stripping you from who you are as a person in order to brainwash you into thinking your entire life revolves him. You are his darling. Nothing more, nothing less.

When you deny him, he probably just ignores it or smiles at you while pretending you said something else. Creepy bastard will respond out loud to an imaginary conversation he had with you. Example: Harper tries to feed you, and you spit food in his face, only for him to grin and say that he thinks the food tastes good too, then thanks you for sharing. Says things like "I love you too" even when you didn't actually say anything. If you point out that you didn't say anything, he just gives you a funny look like you're the crazy one here. I live with the idea of PC spitting in his face and Harper responding by taking two fingers, gathering the spit on them, then sucking the spit off and groaning.

Harper doesn't think other people are going to hurt you / take you away and he doesn't want to keep you safe. I think he'd hurt you on purpose just so he can take care of you like you used to take care of him at school. That and out of revenge for being rejected. He doesn't feel threatened by other people because he's delusional and convinced it wouldn't be possible for you to like anyone else. Never ever takes his jealousy out on you. You're just too dumb for your own good, silly little thing.

Harper absolutely tries gaslighting you so he can be the "sane" boyfriend that takes care of you. You're just crazy, ahaha, your memory is soooo terrible. Thats not how it happened. Harper never said that. Have you been taking your medicine?

That Kylar event where they pull a knife to your throat, but this time it's just Harper showing off a new needle that may or may not contain an aphrodisiac. He might just have to "test" to see what's in the syringe. I mean, unless you can convince him not to inject you by having sex with him. Either way, You're going to get fucked. With or without the aphrodisiac is up to you.

Harper's cooking is actually good. Made specifically to be healthy and have all the vitamins and nutrients you need. Only downside is he sometimes spits in the food :( might even do it right in front of you and then laughs it off. Says it's like indirectly kissing you and it's no big deal, he always does this and has been since you let him make you lunches at school. Hearing this is ++stress

Harper doesn't write you songs, instead he makes poetry. You can't read the poems, his handwriting is terrible. (Haha, get it? Cus he's a doctor?)

Forced cuddle sessions, I can feel it. Also a messy kisser. Drools everywhere and giggles the entire time. I think Harper is a humper, cums in his pants all the time

There are two ways to escape:

Resist Harper enough until he gets frustrated and tries to get manipulate you into behaving by guilt tripping you. Harper injures himself in a minor way and insists you take care of him like you used to at school, telling you to go upstairs and get ice from his freezer...Only for you to bolt out the front door instead

Or by screaming until the neighbors hear and the cops come to investigate. Screaming only works at night, and you have to do it five times in a row when given the ability to do it. This sucks because it makes you lose a turn, and you can't resist Harper whichs lead to a noncon encounter

Either way, by the end of it Harper gets arrested. He abducted you and had a lab that made stimulants / pepper spray / sedatives and kept stealing ingredients from the pharmacy downtown. Either he gets arrested for his stash of illegal drugs / weapons or he gets arrested for a ducting you. They determine he's insane or he goes to court and pleads not guilty by insanity.

You go a few years without seeing or hearing from him, believing he'll rot in jail forever and move on with your life. Then you find out your doctor retired and have to head to the hospital to fill out paperwork to change who your primary doctor should be, and wouldn't you know it? Harper's name is one of the options. Obviously, you don't want him to be your new doctor, but either way, he just forges the paperwork and makes you his patient.

You get called in for an appointment per usual, expecting a new doctor and Harper walks in with that stupid smile while clutching a clipboard with your medical history on it. You try to resist, but a bunch of nurses come in and restrain you and tie you to the table with leather straps that were hidden under the mattress. The entire time Harper just watches with a smile.

I think Harper would immediately confess that he's not a real doctor. He never went to school or graduated. He would've, but you got him arrested. He starts bragging about how he hypnotized your old doctor and took his place to escape, then realized he had a lot of authority and began doing whatever he wanted. Shortly after, he discovered that you still lived in town and jumped on the opportunity to get you back.

There's no harm in telling you this. Because who would believe you? You're crazy.

"Scream as much as you like, my love. The neighbors won't hear you this time."

[gaa-ga]

[vintimage]

Kiran the Void/Harper The Chew Toy Doctor

Aftermath after 2 weeks of this:

Brainrotting so bad about Demon Kiran made a whole spread of her torturing Harper lmao

They match each other’s freak but his body is just not able to keep up with her LMAO

She probably uses her powers on him so often he was able to stop taking his aphrodisiacs because her effects are like 100 times stronger than any shit he is able to shoot up lmao

I also like to imagine that the other members of Auriga cult are HIGHKEY HAPPY THAT HE IS TAKING ONE FOR THE TEAM WITH PROVIDING HER WITH ENRICHMENT 😭

Remy for the first time in his life feeling grateful because he isnt the one who is getting his ballsack absolutely vaporized by her LMAO

[liramayro]

PCs when…

[vansshuu]

I had a nightmare about Harper, I have nothing more to explain, that man has me traumatized AHKAJS

The original image

Bro, I just fell asleep for a while in the lab (all bad) and I dreamed about him, he dragged me into the DoL universe and we stayed doing weird things HSKASJ It was so surreal that I'm still in a state of suspicion lmao

[heykaya]

Wojak Love Interests

Degrees of Lewdity - Masterpost

[selramonz]

[faetouchedfool]

i am so hard right now actually

[akaiki399]

The owl plushie watches you, judging you from the gloom. | + + + Jealousy

[pvrepure]

Babydoll 1/2

zombie reader x scara

warnings: porn with plot / depression / erotic photography / oral sex / rough sex / Dacryphilia / loss of virginity / creampie / orgasm edging / posessive behavior / happy ending / heavy angst / tooth rotting fluff

summary : In a world ruined by a zombie apocalypse, where rot and decay fill the air, he finds you again.

You stand before him with empty eyes, changed into something broken, something undead. Though you no longer remember him, he can’t let you go. Losing you once was enough. Now, even if you’re just a hollow version of who you used to be, he keeps you,

because in a world destroyed by ruin, you’ve become both his curse and his reason to keep going.

Part 2 (sadly i had to break it into 2 parts cuz it was too long/ the erotic photography is in the second part)

The apocalypse had long destroyed the world, and the air reeked of rust and rot.

It clung to the back of his throat with every breath, thick enough to taste, as if the world itself had started decaying long before the bodies did. The street ahead was choked with abandoned cars, their doors left open like they had been discarded mid-thought, and the buildings loomed overhead with hollow, broken windows that reflected nothing back. Wind dragged loose paper and ash across the streets, whispering through the silence in a way that made it feel like something was always just about to move.

"Positions," someone hissed.

The group shifted almost instantly, the quiet kind of coordination that only came from doing this too many times. Boots scraped softly against gravel, metal clicked into place. 

Safety was pushed off with a small, decisive sound that carried farther than it should have. Everyone knew better than to be loud, but nerves had a way of slipping through even the most practiced hands.

Scaramouche didn't move right away.

He stood near the back, fingers loosely curled around the strap of his bag, gaze unfocused as it drifted past the barricade of cars and into the open street beyond. His weapon hung at his side, forgotten for the moment, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to care whether he used it or not. 

The others had long stopped expecting urgency from him. He followed when he was told, stayed where he was needed, and did what had to be done, but there was always something missing in the way he moved, like he was operating on a delay the rest of them couldn't see.

"Hey," one of them snapped under their breath, glancing back at him. "Pay attention. They're coming."

And that was enough to drag him back.

A low, uneven sound had started to rise from the far end of the street, faint at first, then growing - wet footsteps dragging against pavement, a chorus of broken breathing and hollow throats forcing out something that almost resembled noise. 

Shapes began to emerge between the cars, slow and disjointed, bodies limping like they couldn't understand proper movement.

Zombies.

Too many to ignore, not enough to avoid. A clean sweep would be quicker than trying to slip around them, and quicker meant safer.

"On my mark," the leader murmured, holding their weapon tighter.

Scaramouche lifted his weapon, the motion automatic. His grip settled into place, steady despite the dull exhaustion that lingered in his bones. He didn't bother counting how many there were. It didn't matter. They all ended the same way.

The first shot rang out.

It shattered the fragile quiet, sharp and deafening, and everything after that fell into motion. Gunfire cracked through the air in uneven bursts, echoing off the buildings. The smell of smoke and blood layered itself over the already suffocating stench. Bodies jerked and dropped, collapsing in unnatural ways as the group advanced carefully, each step measured, each movement practiced.

Scaramouche only fired when something came too close.

One. Two. Three.

He didn't watch them fall. There was no point. His eyes slid past them as if they were already gone, scanning without really seeing, waiting for the moment it would be over so they could move on again, and again, and again-

And then he stilled.

It wasn't the sound that caught him. Not the gunfire, not the shuffling, not the sharp command being thrown from somewhere to his left. It was something quieter than that, something that didn't belong to the chaos unraveling around him.

A figure stood just beyond the line of fallen bodies.

Not rushing forward like the others. Not lunging, not clawing, not driven by that same mindless hunger that twisted every movement into something grotesque. It stood there, almost.... still, as if it had paused mid-step and forgotten what came next.

For a second, he thought it was just another one that hadn't registered them yet.

Then it lifted its head.

And everything inside him dropped.

His grip loosened, the next shot never came.

There was dirt smeared along your skin, and something dark staining the edge of your sleeve. Your clothes hung wrong on your frame, worn and weathered in a way that spoke of too many days spent wandering without purpose. Your hair was tangled, catching the light in uneven strands, and your expression - empty, distant, unfocused - should have made you indistinguishable from the rest.

It should have.

But it didn't.

Because even like this, even with the world reduced to ruin and decay, even with your eyes no longer holding what they used to,

He knew you.

The realization didn't come slowly. It slammed into him all at once, violent and suffocating, ripping the breath from his lungs before he could even begin to process it. His vision blurred at the edges, the noise around him collapsing into something distant and distorted, like he had been submerged underwater without warning.

No.

That wasn't-

It couldn't be.

You were-

His mind refused to finish the thought.

"Scara-!"

Someone grabbed his shoulder, hard enough to jolt him, but he barely felt it. His attention was locked, unmoving, dragged entirely toward the figure standing just out of reach. Toward you.

You didn't react to the gunfire the way the others did. You didn't lunge when someone moved too quickly or flinch when a body dropped at your feet. You just... stood there, head tilted slightly, gaze unfixed as it drifted in his direction without urgency.

Like you were looking at him.

Like you were seeing him.

His heart stuttered, then slammed painfully against his ribs.

"Don't just stand there!" the voice snapped again, sharper this time. "What are you doing? Shoot it!"

Shoot.

The word echoed, hollow and wrong.

His fingers tightened instinctively around the weapon, but the motion felt disconnected, like it belonged to someone else. The distance between you wasn't far. He could close it in seconds. He could end it in less.

He didn't move.

The world pressed in on him, loud and suffocating, but all he could hear was the uneven rhythm of his own breathing as it spiraled out of control. His chest ached, something sharp and unbearable building beneath his ribs, threatening to split him open from the inside.

You took a step forward.

And although the movement wasn't rushed or aggressive, it actually looked painfully normal; someone still swore under their breath. Another gun lifted, the barrel angling in your direction.

That was enough.

"Don't," he said, the word tore out of him before he could stop it, rough and strained in a way that didn't sound like him at all.

The others froze.

"What?"

He didn't look at them.

He couldn't.

His gaze stayed fixed on you, unblinking, desperate, as if looking away for even a second would make you disappear all over again.

"Don't touch her."

Confusion rippled through the group. Someone let out a short, disbelieving laugh, "Are you serious right now? It's a zombie-"

"I said don't," he repeated, his voice dropped, quieter this time, but it carried something heavier, something final. "Don't kill her."

A beat of silence followed, before someone muttered, "You've actually fucking lost it."

Maybe he had long ago.

But he didn't care.

Because you were still there.

Not gone. Not a memory. Not something buried and rotting in the past.

There.

A few steps away.

Close enough that he could see it, the faint rise and fall of your chest. Close enough to make out details he shouldn't have remembered so clearly.

Or maybe he hadn't remembered them at all.

Maybe his body had.

Maybe it had just been waiting.

His weapon slipped from his grasp.

The metallic clatter rang out, sharp and jarring, but he didn't react to it, didn't even seem to hear it. Someone swore, reaching for him, but he wrenched out of their grip before they could make contact.

The movement was abrupt and unsteady.

Like something inside him had just.. given way.

He stepped forward.

Then again.

Every instinct he had ever learned clawed at him to stop. Every rule, every sharpened survival habit, every cold, logical thought that had kept him alive this long-

None of it mattered.

Not anymore.

The distance between you collapsed before he even realized he'd crossed it.

Up close,

It hit worse.

Or better.

He couldn't tell.

Your face, it was wrong.

Not completely. Not enough to deny it. But enough that it hurt to look at. There were marks he didn't recognize, shadows where there shouldn't have been, something hollowed out beneath your skin that made his chest tighten so sharply it almost knocked the breath out of him.

And still-

It was you.

It was still you.

His hands came up without permission.

They hovered there for a second, shaking, unsteady, just inches from your face. Like he was afraid.

Not of you.

Of what would happen if he touched you and you weren't real.

His breath hitched, sharp, broken-

Then he closed the distance.

His hands cupped your face, sudden and desperate, fingers trembling against your skin as if he thought you might disappear if he didn't hold on tight enough. His thumbs dragged across your cheeks, uneven, frantic at first - then slower, tracing, memorizing.

Relearning.

His shoulders shook.

A breath left him, but it wasn't steady. It broke halfway through, collapsing into something that sounded dangerously close to a sob.

"...No..." he muttered, the word barely made it out and it wasn't denial, it was pure disbelief

His forehead dropped against yours.

The contact was immediate. Firm and grounding, like he needed something solid to keep himself from falling apart completely. His eyes squeezed shut for a second, his breath stuttering against you, uneven and wet as he tried and miserably failed to steady it.

God.

You were warm.

You were here.

His fingers tightened slightly at your jaw, not enough to hurt, just enough to reassure himself you wouldn't slip away. And when he pulled back, it wasn't far, it was just to create enough distance to really look at you.

Really look.

His eyes dragged over every inch of your face like he was trying to carve it into himself - every detail, every change, every familiar line he thought he'd lost. His vision blurred, tears spilling faster than he could stop them, and he swiped at them impatiently with the back of his wrist,

Only for more to take their place.

"...Babydoll," he mumbled, the nickname cracked in half on the way out, something soft and fragile, like something he hadn't said in a long time, and wasn't sure he was allowed to anymore.

Behind him, someone shifted, someone whispered, low and disbelieving, "...Why the hell is he-"

"Move."

The command cut through, sharp, controlled, but fraying at the edges, betraying their nervousness. "Scaramouche. Move away from it."

It.

His expression twisted.

His grip on you tightened, protective now.

"She's not-" His voice broke, the words catching in his throat. He swallowed hard, forcing them out between uneven breaths. "She's not like the others."

"They're all the same."

"No." he snapped back immediately. Tone sharper, almost angry now, even through the tears pooling down his face, "She's not."

"Look at her, no -  it."

"I am."

He hadn't stopped.

He couldn't.

"Look at her and tell me that's still a fucking person, Scaramouche, get it together, move back before it bites you, we'll leave you behind if that happens."

That made something in him falter, just for a second, because he couldn't answer them, not in the way they wanted, not in any way that would make this easier. 

His thumbs slowed against your cheeks, the motion turning absent, almost unconscious, like even that small anchor was slipping from his grasp. Your eyes stayed on him, empty - no recognition, no warmth, nothing reaching back, just something distant, like he wasn't there at all - and that hurt more than anything else.

His breathing broke again, hitching into something uneven, fragile, "...No," he whispered, quieter now. Not arguing with them anymore.

Trying to fix something that had already shattered.

"Step back," someone else urged, quieter this time, but no less urgent. "Please. Before it-"

"It won't." His voice dropped, steadier now, but there was something else under it, something stubborn, something unshakable. "She won't."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"How?" The question snapped out, sharp with frustration. "How the hell would you know that?"

His jaw tightened.

Because he didn't have an answer that would make sense to them.

He only had this... this overwhelming, suffocating, irrational and immovable certainty that settled deep in his chest, telling him that you wouldn't hurt him. That you couldn't. That even like this, even stripped down to something unrecognizable, there was still something in you that wouldn't cross that line.

It didn't matter how impossible that sounded.

It didn't matter how wrong it was.

He believed it.

Slowly, like he was afraid the movement itself might change something, he tilted his head just enough to meet your gaze more directly.

His grip shifted slightly, one hand sliding just enough to cradle your jaw more securely while the other brushed stray strands of hair away from your face. The motion was careful, almost reverent, like he was handling something delicate instead of something that should have terrified him.

"...It's you," he said, softer now, like the words were meant only for you. "It's-"

His voice broke, and for a second, he couldn't finish it. Couldn't say your name, because saying it would make it real.

And if this was real, then everything else had to be too.

The café, the waiting, the empty chair across from him that never got filled, the way the world kept moving like nothing had happened.

His fingers trembled.

"You're-" He swallowed hard, forcing the word out even though it scraped painfully against his throat. "You're here."

Something in his chest twisted sharply at the thought, relief and grief tangling together so tightly he couldn't separate them anymore.

Behind him, the tension snapped.

"This is insane," someone muttered. "We don't have time for this-"

A gun lifted.

He saw it in the corner of his vision, the slight shift, the way the barrel angled forward just enough to-

"Don't." It came out harsher this time, louder, cutting through the air with a force that made a few of them flinch.

He didn't look back, didn't move away, if anything, he stepped closer, putting himself more firmly between you and them without even realizing it.

"Lower it," he added, quieter now, but the edge didn't leave his voice. "I'm not asking again."

"Scaramouche-"

"I said lower it."

A pause passed, then, reluctantly, the weapon dipped.

The brief relief barely registered before his focus snapped back to you, still unmoving, unaffected by the rising tension, your distant gaze fixed on him as if trying to understand something just out of reach. Holding his breath, he cautiously loosened one hand from your face, keeping it close, ready to react, but you didn't move, didn't lash out, didn't respond at all, and that only made the realization settle deeper.

"She won't hurt me," he said again, quieter now, more to himself than anyone else. "She wouldn't."

The words felt like a promise.

Or maybe a plea.

His gaze softened, just slightly, the sharp edge of panic dulling into something more fragile, more uncertain, "...You won't, right?" he murmured, barely above a whisper.

There was no answer.

Of course there wasn't.

And yet,

He stayed.

Hands still trembling, eyes still searching, like if he looked long enough, hard enough, he might find you somewhere behind that empty stare.

Like he could bring you back just by remembering you well enough.

─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ───

The world had been quiet that day.

Not the hollow, abandoned kind of quiet he had grown used to now, but something softer, something alive. The kind of quiet that carried warmth in it, threaded with distant laughter and the low hum of passing conversations.

Rain tapped steadily against the café windows, soft at first, almost gentle. Droplets gathered along the glass in uneven trails, catching the light as they slid downward, blurring the street outside into something hazy and distant.

It had been a good day.

He remembered that much.

Scaramouche sat by the window, one leg crossed over the other, fingers tapping idly against the side of his cup. The drink in front of him had long since cooled, untouched beyond the first absent sip he'd taken when it arrived. rain droplets had gathered along the outside window, sliding down in slow, uneven trails.

His gaze flicked toward the door again.

Then back to his phone.

No new messages.

A small exhale slipped past his lips, quiet but edged with something faintly impatient. His thumb hovered over your contact for a moment before he locked the screen instead, setting it down with a soft tap against the table.

You were late.

Not by much. Not enough to mean anything yet. You'd done it before, showing up a few minutes behind with some half-excuse and that same easy smile that made it impossible for him to stay annoyed for long.

Still.

His fingers resumed their tapping, slightly faster this time.

Around him, the café carried on as usual. Cups clinked softly against saucers. A barista called out an order from behind the counter. Someone laughed a little too loudly from a table nearby, the sound cutting through the rest of the noise just enough to draw brief glances before fading back into the background.

Everything felt normal.

That was what made it so easy to ignore the way the minutes stretched a little too long.

He checked the time again.

You should have been here by now.

A faint crease formed between his brows, his attention drifting back toward the window beside him.

From where he sat, the street outside was visible through the rain-streaked glass. People passed by in steady intervals with their umbrellas up, figures moving in and out of view without much thought, their faces blending together into something indistinct.

He watched them without really seeing them.

Waiting.

Another minute passed.

Then another.

The irritation came first.

It settled in quietly, a small, familiar thing, easy to brush off. He leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaling through his nose as he reached for his phone again, unlocking it this time.

Still nothing.

"You better have a good excuse," he muttered under his breath, though there was no real bite to it.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

Paused, then lowered again.

You'd show up.

You always did.

The thought should have been reassuring. Instead, something about it felt... off. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.

The café door chimed softly as someone new walked in. His gaze flicked up automatically, expectation rising for a split second-

Then falling just as quickly.

Not you.

He looked away.

Outside, a car passed a little too fast, tires scraping sharply against the road as it turned. The sound lingered, faint but noticeable, before fading into the usual rhythm of the street. Somewhere in the distance, something clattered, metal against concrete, drawing a few curious glances from passersby before they continued on like nothing had happened.

Scaramouche's fingers stilled.

The unease crept in slowly.

Subtle at first. Easy to ignore.

He shifted slightly in his seat, his gaze drifting back toward the window without fully meaning to. The rain still poured in the same way, cold and steady, but something about the street felt different now. The flow of people had thinned, just slightly, leaving small gaps where there hadn't been any before.

A figure passed by quickly, head down, steps hurried.

Another followed.

His brows furrowed.

Weird.

He leaned forward just a bit, attention sharpening, eyes scanning the sidewalk more carefully this time. There was nothing obviously wrong. No clear sign that anything had changed.

And yet-

His phone buzzed.

The sudden vibration made him flinch slightly, his attention snapping down immediately. For a split second, relief flickered.

Finally.

But the name on the screen wasn't yours.

He stared at it. Let it ring once, twice, then declined it. It didn't matter. He was waiting for you.

Another minute passed.

The unease settled deeper.

His gaze lifted again, drawn back to the window like something unseen was pulling at him. The street stretched out in front of him, rainy and ordinary, but now there was a strange tension threaded through it, something just beneath the surface that he couldn't quite grasp. A flicker of movement caught his eye.

He looked up fully this time.

And for a moment,

There was something.

A figure, just beyond the edge of the window, half-obscured by the condensation of rain pouring down the windows. It lingered there, indistinct, close enough that he should have been able to make out more, but the angle made everything blur together into a vague silhouette.

He frowned slightly.

Leaning forward and squinting his eyes just a bit more.

Trying to see.

But then someone passed between, blocking the view for a second, and when they moved, it was gone.

He blinked and then sat back again, "...Huh."

The feeling lingered, faint but insistent, like he'd almost grasped something important and let it slip away. His fingers curled against the edge of the table as the thought settled heavier this time; you were still late, but the usual irritation never came with it, replaced by something he didn't want to name.

He reached for his phone, hesitated, then stood. The chair scraped softly as he pushed it back, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on the door a moment longer. You'd probably text later, some excuse, some apology, and he'd act annoyed before letting it go like always.

Except the thought felt distant. Hollow.

And as he turned and walked out, it didn't convince him at all.

His apartment felt wrong the moment he stepped inside, too quiet, the kind that settled into the walls and stayed there.

He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and moved through the space on autopilot, the unease following him in like something that had been waiting. His phone stayed silent. He didn't check it this time. Didn't want to.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair as he headed for the bathroom. A shower would help. It always did. Clear his head, wash off whatever this feeling was supposed to be.

The television flickered on behind him.

He paused.

Brows knitting slightly, he glanced back toward the living room. Low volume, just noise, really, background chatter from a news report. 

"...earlier today-" "...attack reported-" "...one death-"

His gaze lingered for half a second longer before he clicked his tongue under his breath and turned away.

Didn't care.

Didn't want to.

The water drowned it out anyway.

By the time he stepped back out, the world felt duller, quieter in a different way. Steam clung faintly to his skin, his hair still damp, a towel draped loosely around his neck as he rubbed at it absently. The unease hadn't left. If anything, it had settled deeper, heavier, like it had been waiting for him.

The television was still on, he didn't remember leaving it that way but he shurgged it off and kept rubbing his hair, trying to damp off the wetness before-

"...identity of the victim has now been confirmed-"

He stilled his movments because something about the tone made him glance up.

The footage had changed. No longer distant shots of a street, now it was clearer, steadier. A still image beginning to form on the screen.

A name appeared first.

His stomach dropped before his mind could catch up.

Then the photo.

Your face.

Everything stopped.

Not the room, not the sound. Him.

It was like something inside him had been ripped clean out, leaving behind nothing but a hollow, ringing silence that swallowed everything else whole. The towel slipped from his hand, forgotten, hitting the floor without him noticing.

No.

No, that- no.

"..was pronounced dead at the scene following the attack-"

His breath hitched, sharp and broken, like his body didn't know how to do it properly anymore.

That wasn't you.

It couldn't be.

The image didn't change. Your face stayed there, still, lifeless in a way that made something deep in his chest twist violently. His eyes dragged over it, searching - wrong angle, bad lighting, anything - anything that would make it not you.

But it was.

It was you.

His vision blurred.

"...investigation ongoing...authorities advise...-"

The words meant nothing, because you hadn't told him, you hadn't said anything, no warning, no goodbye, nothing. 

His knees felt weak, but he didn't move, didn't sit; he just stood there, staring at the screen like looking away would make it real in a way he couldn't undo. 

The report kept playing, words blurring together until one detail cut through "...the alley in front of Pushpa Café..." and something in him lurched violently as it clicked, sharp and immediate. 

That was the one he'd been sitting in. Waiting. The details looped after that, cruel and inescapable - the place, the time, the attack - and with them came the realization that you had been there, right outside, close enough that if he had just looked, if he had just paid attention, if he had just noticed-

The memory snapped into place, the figure by the window, the one he hadn't really seen, the one he hadn't cared enough to understand. 

His breath broke completely this time, something strangled forcing its way out before he could stop it, his hand coming up to press hard against his mouth as if that could hold everything together, force it back down, but it was too late. You had been there, waiting, and he hadn't seen you. 

He hadn't seen you. 

And now... now he never would.

─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ───

They didn't argue with him out there.

Not really.

Maybe it was the way he had said it. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn't hesitated, hadn't even looked back when he put himself between you and the raised gun. Or maybe it was something simpler, something quieter, like the way you hadn't moved at all. The way you didnt snap your teeth, didnt lunge or showed any signs of aggression.

It was enough to stall them.

Not enough to convince them.

The walk back was tense in a way that pressed against the skin.

No one spoke unless they had to. The usual low chatter that filled the spaces between steps had disappeared entirely, replaced with something sharp and watchful. Boots crunched against debris, weapons stayed drawn, and every so often, someone would glance over their shoulder,

At you.

Scaramouche noticed every single time.

You walked a step behind him.

Your movements were slow, slightly uneven, like your body wasn't entirely used to itself anymore, but there was no aggression in it. No sudden shifts. No signs that you were about to turn.

Still, the tension didn't ease.

He could feel it building with every passing minute, thickening the air around them. The others kept their distance, forming a loose half-circle without quite realizing it, always angled just enough to keep you in their line of sight.

Like they were waiting.

For a mistake, for proof, for him to be wrong.

His jaw tightened.

"She's fine," he said at one point, the words cutting through the silence without him meaning to speak.

No one responded.

But the looks didn't stop.

One of them let out a quiet scoff under their breath, not loud enough to start anything, but just enough to let their distaste be known.

Scaramouche didn't push it further.

He just kept walking.

The hotel came into view not long after. It loomed over the street, tall and worn, its once-polished exterior dulled by time and neglect. Several windows were shattered, others boarded up unevenly, and the front entrance had been reinforced with whatever materials they could find - metal sheets, wood, scraps of furniture shoved into place to make something resembling a barrier.

It wasn't safe.

Nothing was.

But it was theirs.

The doors were pried open just enough to let them slip inside one by one, the group moving quickly, efficiently. The moment they crossed the threshold, the outside world seemed to fall away, replaced by dim lighting and the faint smell of dust and old fabric.

The doors shut behind them with a heavy thud, and the locks slid into place.

For a second, no one moved.

Then-

"What the hell is that." one of the group members who stayed behind spoke with a snappy vioce, and all eyes turned on you

If the tension outside had been tight, this was worse.

There was nowhere to look away here. No distractions, no distance to soften the reality of what he had brought back with him.

A zombie.

Inside.

The other member who stayed behind stepped forward, weapon already in hand, the barrel lifting slightly as their expression twisted into something caught between disbelief and anger, "Tell me you didn't actually bring that thing in here."

Scaramouche didn't answer right away.

He stepped in front of you instead. The movement was subtle but intentional enough to get the point across. A line drawn without needing to be said out loud.

"She stays."

Silence followed before a sharp, humorless laugh cut through it.

"You've got to be kidding."

"It didn't attack him," someone else added, more cautious, but no less uneasy. "We all saw that."

"And? That doesn't mean anything," the first one snapped back. "It's still one of them."

Their grip tightened on the weapon, their eyes narrowing in annoyance, "So fucking move out of the way Scaramouche."

He didn't.

"Move," they repeated, more force this time, stepping closer. "Before it decides it's hungry, and turns braindead and eats all of us."

Behind him, you didn't react. No shift in posture. No sign that you even understood what was happening. You just stood there, quiet, still, watching. Something in his chest twisted at that. He didn't look back at you. Couldn't. If he did, he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep his voice steady.

"She's not going to hurt anyone," he said instead, each word measured, controlled in a way that barely held.

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"You don't," the other shot back immediately. "You're just- what, projecting something onto it? It's not her, move on."

That-

That made something snap.

His head turned sharply, eyes narrowing in a way that hadn't shown up once since they left the street. "Don't." The word came out low, dangerously quiet.

The room stilled.

"Don't say that like you know anything about her."

A pause passed before the tension shifted.

"What is wrong with you?" someone muttered, disbelief bleeding through every syllable. "It's a corpse. It's not-"

"I said don't."

This time, there was no mistaking it. The edge in his voice cut clean through the room, sharp enough to make the words that followed die before they could be spoken.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then, some stepped forward. The weapon lifted again, "Move, or I'll push you myself."

Scaramouche didn't even hesitate, "No," he said in one simple and final statement. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. The refusal settled heavy in the space between them, immovable.

The other's expression hardened. "You're really choosing that over-"

"Over what?" he cut in, sharper now. "Over you?"

The words landed harder than he expected. A flicker of something crossed their face, anger, maybe, or something close to it, but he didn't care enough to figure it out.

"Back off," he added, quieter this time, but no less firm.

For a second, it looked like they might push it further. Like this was the point where everything tipped.

Then someone else spoke.

"Wait."

The voice came from the side, more level, more cautious.

"We don't need to rush this."

A few heads turned.

"It's not acting like the others," they continued, glancing briefly at you before looking back at Scaramouche. "We can... watch it. For now."

"It's not an it," he said immediately.

A beat passed.

"...Fine," they amended, clearly not wanting to argue semantics right now. "Her. Whatever. We keep an eye on her. If anything changes-"

"She wouldn't."

"You don't get to decide that alone," they snapped, though the edge had dulled slightly.

Another pause. Then, slowly, the weapon lowered, not completely, but enough.

"Fine," the first one muttered, stepping back with obvious reluctance. "But if this goes wrong-"

"It won't," he groaned, he didn't give them the chance to finish. Didn't want to hear it.

The tension didn't disappear. It lingered, thick and suffocating, settling into the walls of the hotel like something that wasn't going to leave anytime soon. Eyes still followed you as people moved, quieter now, more distant, but no less wary.

Scaramouche exhaled slowly.

Only then did he turn back to you.

Up close, nothing had changed. You stood where he had left you, exactly as you were, gaze drifting slightly before settling back on him without recognition.

For a second, something flickered across his expression. Something softer, more fragile. His hand lifted again without thinking. This time slower, more careful, unlike the desperate and teary one before, now that he knows you aren't another fragment of his imagination

His fingers brushed against your cheek, light enough that it almost wasn't there, like he was testing whether you'd react differently now.

You didn't.

You didn't lean into it, didn't pull away, you just let him, while looking up at him with a doe look, and the contact lingered, wrong.

It should have felt wrong. Everything about this should have been.

But the way your face fit in his hand, the way he could still trace the same familiar lines beneath his fingertips, it wasn't.

"..See?" he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, his voice barely carrying in the quiet room. "She's fine."

Behind him, someone shifted, a few muttered under their breaths something about how crazy he is, some are clearly nervous and uneasy, like they're bracing for something to happen soon. 

He ignored it.

His thumb moved slightly against your skin, a slow, absent motion, like he was still trying to memorize something he was terrified of losing again.

"You're not going to hurt anyone," he added under his breath, softer now.

A statement. A hope. A promise he wasn't sure you could keep.

But one he believed anyway.

─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ───

The lecture hall had always felt too full.

Not in the sense that there weren't enough seats, there were plenty, but in the way people filled the space with noise, with glances, with quiet judgments that lingered longer than they should have.

Conversations overlapped in low murmurs before class started, bags dropped onto desks, chairs scraping as students settled in groups that formed easily, naturally.

Scaramouche sat alone.

He always did.

Near the middle, not close enough to the front to draw attention, not far enough in the back to seem like he was hiding. Just... there. Present, but not inviting.

His bag rested on the seat beside him, a silent barrier that no one questioned. People didn't usually try.

They looked, sometimes.

He was used to that.

The way their eyes lingered a second too long, flicking over his clothes, his posture, the way he carried himself. The quiet whispers that followed, never loud enough to confront, always just enough to exist.

He didn't care.

Or at least, that's what he told himself.

The professor hadn't arrived yet. The room buzzed with idle chatter, the kind that faded into the background if you ignored it long enough. He leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand loosely holding his pen while the other rested against his temple, gaze fixed somewhere ahead without really focusing on anything.

Footsteps approached.

He didn't look up.

"Hey."

He ignored it.

It wasn't the first time someone had tried.

A dare, usually. Or a joke. Something to laugh about later when they walked away. He'd learned quickly that engaging only made it worse.

"Hi."

Closer this time. Still light, still casual, still easy to dismiss.

He flipped a page in his notebook, the sound soft but deliberate, a quiet signal that he wasn't interested.

A pause followed, before speech broke it,  "Is this seat taken?"

That finally made him glance up, just for a second.

You stood there, one hand loosely gripping the strap of your bag, the other gesturing faintly toward the seat beside him, the one his bag occupied. Your expression was open, easy, not forced in the way he had come to expect from people who approached him.

Still.

That didn't mean anything.

"...Yeah," he said flatly, not even bothering to move his bag. "It is."

You blinked.

Looked at the seat. Then back at him, before you spoke again "Oh. Okay."

No attitude, no awkward laugh, no lingering. You just nodded and walked past him, slipping into an empty seat a few rows down like it hadn't mattered at all.

He watched you for a second longer than he meant to, enough to notice the layered babydoll dress you were wearing.

Then looked away.

The next day, you approached him again. Same time, same place.

"Hi."

He didn't respond.

"Is this seat taken?"

"...Yeah."

"Okay." you replied and left.

No reaction, no teasing, no subtle side eye or eyes narrowing in distaste, no whispering to someone nearby, nothing that lingered after you were gone,  and it should have ended there. 

But it didn't, because you came back the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Always the same, always simple, always easy to ignore. Except it started getting harder to.

At first, he told himself it was just persistence, some strange attempt at a joke that hadn't landed yet. He expected you to get bored eventually, to lose interest the way people always did when they didn't get what they wanted. But you didn't. You never pushed, never stayed longer than necessary, you just showed up, smiled, asked, and left. 

Somewhere along the line, it stopped feeling like a joke. It felt genuine, and that was the problem. It pressed into something he hadn't realized was there until it started to give.

By the time he noticed, it was already too late.

"Hey."

He looked up before he could stop himself. You were there again, exactly where you always were, like this had quietly become part of your routine.

"Is this seat taken?"

The question hung between you, familiar and unchanged, but this time he hesitated. His gaze flicked to the seat beside him, to his bag, then back to your face before he spoke.

"Why do you keep asking that?"

The words came out sharper than he intended, and it caught you off guard. Your eyes widened slightly before you let out a small, awkward laugh.

"I didn't think you'd actually answer me."

He frowned. "That doesn't answer my question."

You tilted your head, considering him for a moment before answering simply, "Because you always sit alone."

The lack of hesitation threw him off. There was no hidden meaning in it, nothing complicated.

"So?" he replied, the edge in his voice slipping back in out of habit.

You shrugged lightly. "I thought maybe you didn't want to."

"That's not your problem."

"Maybe not." You smiled, easy and unforced. "But it still feels a little unfair."

He narrowed his eyes slightly. "What does?"

"The way people look at you," you said, like it wasn't something heavy. "Like they've already decided something before they even talk to you."

His expression hardened. "You don't even know me."

"Exactly."

The answer came so easily it left him with nothing to say.

You glanced at the seat beside him again, then back at him. "Can I sit here?"

The same question, but now it carried weight.

He should have said no.

"...Do whatever you want," he muttered instead, pulling his bag off the seat without meeting your eyes.

It wasn't an invitation, but it was enough.

"Thanks," you beamed before sitting down without hesitation, settling in like it was the most natural thing in the world. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the lecture hall continuing around you as if nothing had changed.

"You know," you said after a beat, glancing at him, "I heard someone call your outfit weird earlier."

He didn't react.

"They weren't wrong," he replied flatly.

"I think they are."

That made him look at you. "Why?"

You met his gaze without hesitation. "Because tearing people down just for liking different things doesn't change the fact that your preferences aren't universal, they are just opinions. Besides," you nudge at him with a grin, "Look at me, I've also gotten those looks before because of how I dress, and you never said it was wrong then."

The words were simple, but they lingered. He didn't have anything ready to deflect them, no joke or deflection to brush it off like usual. It wasn't something to dismiss.

"...That's stupid, and just because I didn't say anything doesn't mean I haven't thought about it. You look like a walking candy store with all those shades of pink and frills," he said finally, though there was less bite to it now.

Your expression twisted into a bright smile. "Awwww, you think so?! That's one of the best compliments I've gotten !!"

".. It wasn't a compliment.." he muttered under his breath.

"huh what did you say?" you asked, you genuinely didn't hear him

He huffed quietly dissmissing you before looking away, but the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly.

The professor walked in not long after, and the room settled as the lecture began, voices fading into silence.

After that, the seat beside him stayed empty. Not because no one tried, but because he started moving his bag before anyone else could ask, saving it without thinking too much about why. He told himself it was convenience, routine, nothing more.

But when you walked in a little late like you usually did, scanning the room before your gaze landed on him,

And you smiled,

Something in his chest shifted.

And this time, he didn't ignore it.

─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ───

The first few days were the worst.

Not because of you.

Because of them.

The hotel had never felt particularly welcoming, but now there was something sharper woven into it, something that followed him from room to room like a shadow that refused to settle. Conversations dipped when he walked in. Eyes lingered longer than they should have. Movements shifted, subtle, but noticeable, always just enough to keep distance between you and everyone else.

No one said anything outright, not again. But he could feel it. Waiting, watching, counting the seconds until you proved them right.

You didn't.

You stayed where he told you to stay. Followed when he moved, stopped when he stopped.

There was no resistance in you, no unpredictability beyond the slow, uneven rhythm of your steps. If anything, you were... quiet. Not in the way the others were - tense, controlled, ready to react - but something softer. Emptier.

It should have unsettled him.

It didn't.

He found a room on the second floor. It wasn't anything special. Most of the furniture had been pushed aside or repurposed long ago, the mattress thin and slightly uneven where it rested against the wall. The curtains hung crooked, half-torn over a window that looked out onto the street below, but it was quieter than the rest of the building. That was enough.

"You can stay here." he muttered.

You stepped inside slowly, eyes drifting across the room as if trying to take it all in without quite understanding it. For a moment, you didn't move. Then, gradually, you came closer. He watched you, shoulders tense, waiting for something - anything - to signal a change. 

There wasn't one. You stopped near the wall, expression distant, like you had run out of places to go.

A quiet exhale escaped him. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath, "...Right."

He turned away, running a hand through his hair as he crouched near the corner to rummage through his bag. Supplies weren't plentiful, but enough, enough for both of you, at least. 

For you, his hand stilled. The thought didn't need words. He grabbed a bottle of water and set it on the small table beside the mattress before straightening.

"You won't..." He paused, frowning slightly. "...need it."

The sentence sounded off the moment it left him, so he let it drop. You hadn't moved. Still standing, still watching, or maybe not. It was impossible to tell.

He stepped closer, cautious, slow, careful not to break the fragile balance. "Sit."

You didn't respond. He felt irritation flicker, brief and automatic, but it faded. "...Here," he added quietly, gesturing toward the mattress.

Slowly, you moved. Step by step, uneven, until you reached the edge of the mattress and lowered yourself down with a motion that made something in his chest tighten.

You stayed there. Still. Obedient. 

Wrong word. 

He looked away. "...Good."

The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was just... there. He lingered a moment, then leaned against the opposite wall, eyes drifting toward the window and the shifting shadows outside.

Time passed. The hotel's noise settled into rhythm again. The tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly. When he looked back, you were exactly where he had left you, hands resting loosely at your sides, gaze unfocused.

"...You're quiet," he muttered, almost to himself.

The words felt unnecessary, but he said them anyway. You didn't answer. Of course you didn't. Still, it felt stupid how much he missed your annoying voice yapping to him about everything, from a cat on the side of the street, from a new dress you liked, from a new dessert in the cafe- he stopped his thoughts with a frown and stepped forward again. 

Closer this time. His hand lifted, hesitating for a second before settling lightly against your shoulder.

No reaction.

A slow breath left him, chest loosening just enough for something quieter to enter.

"...Stay," he murmured under his breath. The words felt less like a command and more like a desperate request.

You didn't need to say anything. You leaned closer, just enough that your gaze found his, and in that moment, the ache of missing you hit him like a physical weight. He couldn't hold back. 

He leaned in, lips finding yours before he even thought, soft at first, hesitant, tasting the familiarity he hadn't realized he'd been craving.

Then it deepened. Urgent. Messy in the way that only pure longing could make it, your hands brushing against his shoulders, his fingers threading into the nape of your neck as if trying to anchor you to him. Small, stifled noises slipped past him, but there was no pause, no hesitation, only the need to close the distance he had spent far too long ignoring.

You melted into it. Tilted closer. The mattress shifted beneath you both as he pressed against you, desperate to memorize the feel of you, the warmth, the subtle rise and fall of your chest beneath his hands. Each movement was frantic, unthinking, because he had waited too long to hold you like this.

He pulled back slightly, only to lean in again, lips chasing yours, breaths mingling, hearts beating too fast to count. The world outside the room - the hotel, the others, even the street beyond the window - faded completely. 

There was only you. Only him. Only the ache of being so close after so long, letting it spill out in every desperate press of lips and hold of hands.

When he finally drew back, just slightly, foreheads resting together, he could feel it: the tremor in your shoulders, the softness in your eyes, the echo of your breath against his. He didn't speak. Didn't need to. The kiss had said everything he'd been too late to say before, and yet, somehow, it wasn't enough.

He needed more.

He pushed your back against the mattress fully now, crawling over his hands are on either side of your head as he looks down at you with longing and something darker now, like hes holding back.

"fuck.. i- i know i shouldn't do this" he mutters, voice cracking with restraint around the edges before he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, warm breath against your ear.

His hand reached back to hold your face now. He looks up at you, you're still unresponsive, but fuck - archons know how much he missed you, how much he missed this.

He knows this is wrong - completely wrong, you're barely responding to normal touches and going this far would be a violation even if he's your boyfriend, but Scaramouche was never a patient man, he was ugly inside in every way possible, and you cooed and embraced every ugly and gruesome part of him, so let him have you this one time.

He adjusts himself between your thighs, letting his hands wander to explore every nook and inch of your body, although his touches weren't only lust-driven, they held something deeper, something more raw, as if he's trying to memorise your body now, the one he previously lost.

He knows this isn't the time nor place for this, so as much as he wanted to take his time to make love, he's still the same selfish, possessive man he was, and he doesn't need anyone walking in on you mid act, so he gathered the fabric of your dress at your thighs and hastily lifting it, letting it rest just under your collarbone, having the swell of your breasts hold it up.

His lips met your cleavage, letting soft and lingering kisses all over the soft flesh, which felt almost reverent, that slowly turned into open-mouth kisses and nibbles against the swell.

One hand reaches downwards to the waistband of his baggy jeans and pulls out his semi- hardened length, while the other slips between your thighs and pulls them further apart. Pulling back his mouth with a wet pop to admire the work hes done, your previously smooth flesh had multiple small marks all over them now, glistening a wet shimmer of his spit under the dim light.

He took an exhale before sliding off your panties to the side, not fully removing them but just enough to give him access.

He guided his tip to you, letting the head of his cock meet folds and rest there for a second as he let out another shaky breath at the contact, slowly rolling his cock, letting the wetness of his precum drag against you, it was his way of fast prep.

After a few slow rolls, he finally pushed in, not stopping to relax. He pushed himself all the way in, letting your delicious warm walls envelope him, and you let out a gasp. His eyes widened and he looked up to glance at you. This was the first thing he had heard you say since you've reunited.

Your expression was one that wasn't short of lewd, lips parted like you were mid gasp, nose scrunched in a way that looked between pain and pleasure, pupils blown, gaze hazy, and something in his snapped. 

He pulls out almost all the way out before snapping right back in, making sure to angle his hips to that one gummy spot he memorised and knows makes your head usually swim.

You let out another soft gasp, followed by a high-pitched whimper.

And when he looked back he couldn't handle it, the look on your face reminded him of the past, the guilt consumed him so much that he pulled out and flipped you over, letting your face be hidden by the pillows underneath, and your hips yanked up in the air before he pushed back in with one brutal thrust.

This time, you let out a cry, muffled by the pillows. 

His pace is harsh now, unlike the soft, reverent worshiping movements of before; his hand holds your hip hard enough that it could almost bruise, so he could use it as leverage.

Pounding his hips into yours, the room gets filled with the harsh sounds of skin slapping before he starts blabbering, "I—I.. I love you. I lo-love you so much.... please, don't go.." he sniffs and pants between every word, not even realizing his tears until they dropped to your back.

Stopping mid-motion, he froze as his gaze fell on your now-wet back. His hand rose to swipe at his own cheek, the dampness of his tears lingering on his skin. Slowly, almost reverently, he lowered it, letting his fingers brush against the spots where his tears had landed on you. He held the moisture there for a moment, staring at it as if trying to memorize it, the reality of what he'd done pressing down on him with every heartbeat.

He couldn't handle this too, he's not used to this. What he is used to is your tear-streaked face and him smothering you in filthy words, this felt too vulnerable for him, so he drowned himself the haze of lust. His now damped hand slithered under and reached to your clit, letting his thumb rub harsh circles on it. 

After that, everything became a blur, only a mixture of the occasional gasps you let out and his blabbering words, repeating your name and the phrases "I missed you so much" and "I love you" over and over like a mantra.

His thrust eventually becomes erratic, slamming in one last time, buried to the hilt, he lets out one guttural groan as he spills deep inside of you.

For a few moments after that, none of you move, his cock still pushed deep inside of you, softening slowly before he pulls out, his hand smoothing out your panties back into place to not let any of his cum seep out.

Wouldn't you grant this one self-indulgent wish of his, after leaving him for so long?

Before he could let the guilt bloom again, he immediately pulled you close after fixing his clothes and yours. Collapsing into the bed, he pulls your face onto his chest now, letting your hair sprawl on him.

And then, before his consciousness slipped into sleep, he held you closer, tighter, muttering "..... Don't leave me again..." with tears rolling down his cheek.

After that, it became routine. He didn't need to ask. You followed him everywhere. Down the stairs, through dim hallways, past others who went quiet the moment you appeared.

Eyes tracked you both, hands never far from weapons, but he ignored it.

Mostly. A step too near, a glance too long, and he'd simply look up. That was enough. They backed off, not because they trusted you, but because they didn't want to deal with him.

Outside, the air was heavier, thick with the decay that never faded no matter how far they traveled. Supply runs were quick, precise, without risk. Except now there was you.

The first time they went out after bringing you back, no one said it, but everyone felt it. Tension doubled, tripled. Movements sharper, controlled, waiting for something to go wrong.

Scaramouche walked ahead. You stayed close behind, steps uneven but steady, matching his pace without needing to be told.

The street stretched empty before them. Then, movement. A figure turned the corner, dragging one foot behind the other, head tilted unnaturally. Another followed. Then another.

The group froze. Weapons lifted.

"Get ready," someone murmured.

His grip tightened, gaze narrowing as he tracked the approaching figures. You didn't react, not to them, not to the shift in the air. You stayed close, just enough that his hand brushed yours if he reached back.

The first one approached. Too close. Its head jerked slightly, attention locking on the group as a low, broken sound escaped its throat. It should have lunged. 

It didn't. 

It slowed, glanced past him - to you. 

A pause passed, then it moved around, not toward, not through, like you weren't something to attack. Like you were nothing.

The others noticed. Subtle ripples of confusion passed through them, weapons faltering just enough to break the rhythm. "What the-"

Another approached. The same thing happened. A glance, a pause, then veered off, dragging itself elsewhere. No one spoke, not yet. Saying it out loud would have them have to accept you.

Scaramouche didn't look back, but his chest tightened, something sharp and uncertain curling into something else he couldn't name. "..Keep moving," he said finally, voice low and controlled.

No one argued, but he could keep their eyes on you harder now, like they were trying to figure out if the sudden change of the zombies was because of you otr not. Then they moved. And you followed, just like before.

─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ───

It started small.

Not as a hobby, not even as a real interest.

Just a moment, he stubbornly didn't want to lose.

You had been sitting across from him, sunlight spilling through the window behind you, catching on the soft layers of your outfit in a way that made everything look.. lighter.

The babydoll dress shifted every time you moved, soft and full, the pale pinks and delicate details almost glowing under the warmth of the afternoon. You were talking about something - he couldn't remember what now - but you were smiling, hands moving as you spoke, completely unaware of the way the light framed you like something out of place in an ordinary world.

It irritated him.

Not you.

The fact that it would end.

That the moment would pass, that he'd blink and it would be gone, reduced to something vague and unreliable in his memory like everything else.

"...What?" you asked with a raised brow, catching him staring.

He looked away, "Nothing."

But it wasn't nothing.

Because later that day, on impulse, he bought an instant camera.

He chose that one because it was the kind that didn't wait. The kind that clicked and gave you something real immediately, a small square of proof, a Polaroid, showing that a moment had existed exactly the way it had been.

You laughed when you saw it.

"You're just gonna carry that around now?"

"It's not a big deal." he replied with a scowl. 

"It kind of issss~."

"It's really not."

You grinned, leaning a little closer, the soft layers of your sleeves brushing against his arm. "Are you going to take a picture of me or just pretend you didn't buy it for that?"

He rolled his eyes at your words but lifted the camera anyway.

The first photo came out slightly crooked.

You were mid-laugh, not even looking at the lens, your expression caught somewhere between surprised and amused. The light hit your face unevenly, washing out part of the image while leaving the rest in soft shadow.

It wasn't perfect.

He kept it anyway.

After that, it became... normal.

He didn't ask most of the time.

Didn't need to.

You'd notice the camera in his hand and straighten slightly, or lean into the frame with an exaggerated pose, sometimes teasing, sometimes soft, sometimes completely unaware of the way he was watching you more than the shot itself.

He took pictures of everything.

You sitting beside him in lectures, head tilted slightly as you listened. You walking ahead of him, the fabric of your outfit swaying with each step, ribbons shifting with the movement. You resting your chin in your hand, half-focused on something he wasn't paying attention to at all.

Moments that didn't seem important. Moments that didn't need to be saved.

He saved them anyway.

Because they were yours. Because they were his. Because they existed, and that was enough.

Over time, the photos started to pile up.

Tucked into notebooks. Slipped into drawers. Left scattered across his desk in uneven stacks that he never quite organized but never lost track of either.

You became... constant.

Not just in his life.

But in the way he saw it.

Everything felt different through that lens. Sharper, more deliberate. Like he was learning how to look at the world properly for the first time, and it just so happened that you were always at the center of it.

"You're kind of obsessed," you teased once, flipping through a small stack of photos you had oh so innocently stolen from his desk.

He didn't deny it.

"Give those back."

"Not until you admit it."

"Admit what?" he groaned

"That I'm your favorite subject~" you teased, tone a little high-pitched at the end to emphasize it

He reached for them and you pulled them away, laughing.

"Cmon scara....Say it."

"...You're annoying."

"That's not what I asked."

He clicked his tongue, irritation flickering briefly before settling into something quieter.

Then, after a second, "...Fine."

You blinked, and he looked away, his eyes looking down to the side, "...I am," he muttered. The words came out low, almost reluctant.

But they were real.

Your expression softened, just slightly, "Seeeee~? That wasn't so hard, wasn't it?" You giggled, poking a playful finger to his cheek.

He didn't respond, just grumbled something under his breath and took the photos back, a little more carefully than necessary.

When everything started, he didn't understand it at first. 

No one did.

He had been in class like any other day, the hum of conversation, the shuffle of papers, the distant laughter of students filling the hallways. Everything was normal, ordinary, until it wasn't. At first, the sirens, the alarms, the distant noise, he didn't understand what was happening. 

It was just background, confusing, easy to ignore. Until it became impossible. The shift was sudden and violent, leaving no time to process before everything changed. Streets emptied in minutes, sirens screamed overhead, and the familiar world twisted into something dangerous and unrecognizable.

He didn't think, letting his body act first.

He grabbed what he could carry, leaving behind what he couldn't. Survival came first. It had to. 

The streets were chaos, people running, sirens screaming, emergency guides herding those who were still moving toward safe zones. The hours bled together, a constant rhythm of noise, fear, and motion. 

But even in the midst of it all, he hadn't stopped, hadn't allowed himself to think about what he might have left behind. Not until he reached the edge of the safe zone, where guides ushered the shaken and the injured into temporary shelters.

It hit him then. Sharp. Sudden. 

The photos. 

His steps slowed and then stopped. "...Wait." he muttered, standing amidst the chaos. "They're gone," he continued, 

Someone noticed and glanced back at him to speak. "Whatever you left, it's not worth it man," they said with a hand landing briefly on his shoulder in a comforting gesture.

It was worth it, he thought, but he didn't say a word. He didn't need to. He was already turning back toward the building, every step fueled by a single, burning need.

Someone noticed and glanced back at him, raising a hand as if to stop him. "It's dangerous! You shouldn't-"

He shoved the hand aside without hesitation, moving past them. The guide stumbled slightly, eyes wide, but he didn't slow down, already leaving the safe zone to the outside part.

Smoke twisted into the sky in thick, dark plumes, the heat and acrid tang of ash pressing down even from a distance. The fire had already consumed everything, devouring the structure with a slow, relentless hunger that made it groan and shudder. It should have stopped him.

But it didn't.

He pushed forward anyway, boots crunching on burning debris as he skirted fallen beams and collapsed walls, the heat hitting him in waves, suffocating and sharp. Smoke coiled thickly around him, stinging his eyes and throat, shadows flickering across scorched walls as flames licked along every edge.

When he reached the elevator, the doors were blackened and jammed. He cursed under his breath, throat raw, and slammed a fist against the metal. Nothing. The fire had already claimed it.

"Of course," he muttered, voice rough with smoke and frustration.

He turned toward the stairwell, inhaling a lungful of choking air before coughing violently. 

Each step was deliberate, harsh stomps echoing through the building as he climbed, boots striking the scorched concrete, each floor a new obstacle of falling debris, hot metal, and smoke that clawed at his lungs. His chest burned, eyes watering, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.

Every flight brought him closer, yet the danger only grew. Flames roared up from lower floors, embers swirling like angry fireflies. The heat seared through his clothes, ash dusted his indigo hair, and the building groaned under its own weight, but still he pushed, each stomp a desperate rhythm that carried him forward.

He moved faster than was safe, faster than he should have, driven by a single need: his room. 

When he reached his room, the front door was half burned, jamming the door under its own weight, but he forced it open. 

Passing the living room and going straight to his bedroom. Inside, everything was wrong. The desk was charred, edges blackened and crumbling. Papers lay in ash, fragile and broken. The air pressed down heavy, thick with heat. 

And there, on the floor, scattered among the ruin, were the photos.

His breath caught. 

He dropped to his knees without thinking, hands trembling as he grabbed whatever he could reach. Some were completely gone, reduced to ash. Others survived, burned at the edges, curled inward from the heat, but the images were still there - barely but still there. 

He picked one up. He could make out the shapes, the clothes, the soft layers, the details he knew so well, but where your face should have been, there was nothing. Just a jagged, empty hole where the image had burned through completely. 

And for a second, everything else disappeared: the fire, the heat, the noise.

He couldn't remember. He stared at the photo, at the void where your face had been, and no matter how hard he tried, the memory refused to form. 

His grip shook as he reached for another. Same thing. Another. Another. All of them showed your body, your clothes, the familiar folds and textures, but your face was gone. 

His breathing grew shallow and uneven, panicked. He knew you. He knew every detail of you. So why couldn't he remember your face? The thought refused to settle because if it did, if he let it become real, it would break something he couldn't repair.

A beam creaked overhead. The fire spread. He didn't stop. He gathered what he could, shoving the surviving photos into his bag, hands shaking. He didn't look at them again. He couldn't. If he let himself focus on what was missing, if he looked too long, he might realize just how much he had already lost. 

Only once he stepped out toward the chaos of the safe zone - the guides, the injured, the survivors - did he understand the scale of what he had missed. 

The world had moved on. Everyone had been pulled to safety. And he had left behind the pieces of you that mattered most.

After that, the photos never left him, not even when it didn't make sense to keep them anymore. 

He looked at them constantly, one by one, over and over, as if repetition might bring something back, as if staring hard enough at the empty spaces would fill them in. 

It didn't. 

It never did. 

The hole where your face should have been stayed empty, mocking, unchanging, unforgiving.

At some point, he stopped trying to ignore it. He stopped pretending it didn't matter. Instead, he tried to fix it.

The first time was accidental. A small cluster of Forget-Me-Nots, pale pink and soft as petals, caught his eye by the side of the road. 

Tiny, delicate, and layered like the frills of the dresses you always wore - the ones so full, so fluffy, all shades of pink he could never forget. 

They reminded him of you. 

Without thinking, he pressed them over the empty space on the photo, covering the jagged hole. 

And for a moment, it worked, not fully, but enough. The shape was there again, filled, whole. His fingers lingered against the flowers, pressing gently as if careful hands could make the memory stay.

After that, he kept doing it. Different clusters of Forget-Me-Nots, always soft, always small, always arranged like the skirts you wore, draping over what was missing. 

No matter how many times he looked, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember your face. And that - that was the part that destroyed him.

─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ───

[magica-ren]

ITS PEAK.

[masokko]

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