#the balladeer

[pruwinkle]

commission

[agodthatcantpayhistab]

[phosbogey]

what a kind and reliable group

[ookaryi]

Don't let go

[bedrottingdoll]

✃꒷꒦ Make me Bleed

pairing . sadist!scaramouche x masochist!reader

sypnosis ♡ you tell your Harbinger boyfriend that you're a masochist, and from that day on, everything changed.

warnings (cw) .︎ explicit sexual content :: slapping :: hitting :: descriptions of violence :: punches to stomach :: you get kicked :: blood :: knifeplay :: reader grinds on scara's boot :: spitting :: oral :: aftercare ofc :: porn with plot (?) :: S & M

word count ♡ 8.5k (pls send help i actually don't know what came over me...)

authors note .︎ this is a little different than how I wrote my other oneshots, like more dark, so I wouldn't recommend reading this without reading my warnings thoroughly. This isn't CNC or anything, it's purely consensual, just dark kinks. I hope the blood lace thing doesn’t look weird bcuz I edited it myself, and im not that good at editing. one more thing, i recommend reading this in dark mode because throughout the text, some parts are in color that might look invisible in other color pallets on here. cross posted onto ao3

LINKS ₊˚⊹♡ ˚✎𓂃 masterlist | home | ao3 | kofi | discord server

You told your boyfriend, Scaramouche, three weeks ago that you were a masochist.

I mean, how could you not be one when you chose to date Scaramouche?

You were so nervous, your hands were shaking, and you almost thought about just cutting your words off and telling him that it was nothing, but you couldn’t because of his stare, the way he dropped everything to listen to what it was you were going to say that seemed just so important.

You rehearsed it again and again in your head, trying to find the right words to explain the thing inside you that craved what most people would run from.

I like pain. I need it. I want you to hurt me, really hurt me, not just the slaps and the hair pulling, but the kind of hurt that leaves marks for weeks. I want to bleed for you.

He didn’t speak for a long time after the words left your mouth; his face was just… unreadable, and you thought that maybe you just crossed the line, went way too far. 

That he’d probably leave you after finding out how fucked up you are.

Then, finally, his face changed, his mouth curved up, and the look in his eyes that day had made your stomach plummet down into the floor.

"Finally, you admit it," he'd said.

He was holding back before; he definitely isn’t now.

And from that day forward, your boyfriend just got meaner now that he had permission to do so.

You don’t wear underwear anymore.

It’s not a request or a suggestion made by him.

It’s a rule, a hard one to abide by, but he doesn’t care. Underwear gets in the way, it’s useless, underwear prevents him from bending you over whenever he feels like it.

So: no underwear. Ever.

Just wait till you get your period…

He started to hit you, too, just like you asked. He’d put you over his lap, spank you over and over, and they weren’t just cute little hits that made the skin turn pink; they were hard, brutal ones that made you bleed, made it almost impossible to feel normal when you sat down. And your discomfort made it so much more fun for him.

They’re bruises on the back of your thighs leading up to your ass. It’s a deep purple color that reminds you just of him, and there’s little… yellow.

It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen... apart from you.

Which makes him create more the minute he sees one fade without his approval, his permission.

Because screw healing.

He doesn’t just give you bruises on your butt; he goes for the stomach, too.

He punched you hard two nights ago, not hard enough to make you vomit on the ground, but hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs. Hard enough to leave marks that you can trace in the mirror, a map of everywhere he's touched you.

Love bruises, you call them. Even one of the bruises on your stomach forms into the tiniest heart.

He laughed when you said that, laughed even harder when you showed him the heart-shaped bruise. “You’re sick,” he said, fingers at your jaw, tilting your face to meet his gaze.

“I know,” you said with the stupidest, most adoring smile on your face, “Only for you, Scara.”

"Good." His thumb pressed against your lower lip, dragging it down. "Don't forget it."

The biggest change in the relationship was him starting to take you to the Fatui headquarters, where he worked.

Normally, he’d leave you at home to do nothing all day, just wait for him and crave his presence, but now he allows you to join him.

He makes you into his perfect little doll, short skirt that’s pink, of course, a babydoll top that’s sheer under the bust, that does absolutely nothing to the imagination. 

Free-use doll.

That's what he calls you now. You’re his toy, his pathetic, cock-hungry, pain-addicted little thing.

You love it.

You feel exposed every day walking through the headquarters, today included. The agents and soldiers always turn to look at you and stare, then quickly glance away when Scaramouche sends them death glares.

He doesn’t let you hide yourself with your coat when you walk in either.

Why? Because he commands fear here, respect. Agents are terrified of him and they know if they even try doing anything to you, or with you, that it’s worse than a death wish.

So you don’t need to worry about covering yourself when everyone here knows to not touch what’s his.

You aren’t afraid of Scara, ever, if anything, you trust him deeply with anything he says.

Maybe that's why he kept you.

His office has a dark wood design, velvet curtains to go with the decor. And that chair, that ridiculous stupid chair that only he is allowed to sit in (not even you, the only person he tolerates) practically looks like a throne.

His desk is massive, with a convenient, solid backing that hides anything underneath from view.

And guess where you’re staying, sitting for the rest of the day in his office.

No, not in one of the chairs in front of his desk meant for the occasion of someone staying too long in his office for something.

No, not the large couch in the corner of his office with a bookcase full of novels next to it that’ll help time pass by quicker here.

Under his fucking desk.

The second you both walk in and he pulls out his chair, he points down at the floor, in front of it, and you knew that’s where he wanted you.

You don’t even complain, or protest though, you just sit down on the ground, scoot under the desk to give him more leg room.

You aren’t even allowed on your own boyfriend’s lap.

"You'll grind on me the second you get the chance," he'd said, not even looking at you, getting into his chair. "And I have actual work to do, unlike you."

You've been kneeling under his desk for what feels like hours.

He’s working, actually working, like he says he is. Reviewing reposts… signing documents… doing whatever Harbinger shit he has to do here. 

He’s ignored you completely.

You're so bored you’re on the verge of ripping out your own hair and screaming.

All you can see are his legs and his boots from the angle you’re sitting at under his desk, and there’s literally nothing you can do but just stare at them, his legs.

You’ve studied every single inch of him from this angle. The way his legs slightly spread from time to time, relaxed. The way he slouches back sometimes, sighing at some annoying paper work he has to get done.

The way you want to just sink your teeth into the soft skin of his thigh.

But you can’t touch.

Not without permission.

And he’s busy.

It’s uncomfortable, being under a desk, especially without underwear, especially with the bruises on your thighs that you can feel when you shift even a little in the slightly cramped space.

Your mind drifts down here. Wanders. You think about dinner later tonight, about what he might cook, about whether he’d fuck you after or not, about the way that if he did fuck you, what his eyes might look like when he’s about to cum-

"Bored?"

His voice comes from above you, a voice you haven't heard in probably hours. You look up, peek out just a tiny bit to see his face under the desk, and he isn’t looking at you, his eyes are just glued to his boring work.

"A little," you admit, with a tiny nervous giggle.

You don't even see it coming.

His boot connects with your cunt, hard, the leather hitting against your bare flesh, and you let out an involuntary yelp. Your whole body curls on itself instinctively.

He keeps his foot pressed against you.

"Poor thing," His voice comes up from above, completely and so obviously soaked with condescension. He's still not looking at you, and you wonder how he got sick a perfect hit without even sparing a glance. "Life must be so hard, sitting there doing nothing while I actually work."

You grab his calf to ground yourself properly, because it’s the only thing within reach apart from the desk walls to find a grip or something on. And his skin… so annoyingly soft for someone so cruel who barely even lets their girlfriend touch it,

"Scara..."

"Did I say you could touch me?" He finally glances down at you, and his stare, well, no, glare is harsh.

His foot presses harder against your cunt, and you let out a whimper, your own hips moving forward, wanting, aching for more.

"N-no."

"Then why are your hands on my leg?"

You don't have a good answer or any answer, honestly. All you can think about is the pressure of his boot between your legs, and the way you can feel your cunt getting wet.

"Please," you whisper, not letting go of his leg. "Please, I just..."

"You just what?" He shifts his foot, angling it so the front of his boot catches your clit just right. "Want to hump my leg like a bitch in heat? Is that what you're trying to say?"

This shouldn’t feel this good, it should clock to you how degrading, how painful this is, how you’re nothing but furniture to him right now, like a foot rest.

And yet…

You don’t stop rolling your hips, shamelessly, unable to feel shame when Scara’s giving crumbs of anything you could ever want.

You whimper out a desperate, “Yes,” your grip on his leg tightening.

He just laughs at your pathetic display, how he’s barely even doing anything, how he isn’t even moving his boot that much, how you’re getting off on something he walks on the ground with.

"Go on, then,” he says, his own work forgotten at this point. This is why kings used to have jesters, right? "Grind on my boot like the desperate animal you are. Show me how pathetic you can be."

You grab his leg with both hands this time, and you roll your hips against the leather.

Even with the wet from your arousal, making his boot slick, the texture still feels too rough, a little uncomfortable. But you still grind against his boot with a desperation that should embarrass you. 

"Harder," he commands. "If you're going to do it, commit."

You grind even harder, your clit drags against the leather, swollen and oversensitive, and you let out the cutest whimpers and gasps when your clit hits it right, again, and again.

He reaches down and grabs your chin, forcing your face up.

The slap comes fast and brutal.

Your head snaps to the side from the force of it alone, your cheek stings almost immediately, and before you can recover or even have a reaction, he's gripping your face again, watching the way your eyes water.

Watching the way that you still grind against his boot without faltering, despite just getting slapped.

Your cunt clenches around nothing, dripping onto his boot.

"Look at me."

You look up at him, and you can barely even see through the tears, but you look because he told you to, and refusing him has never been an option.

"Open your mouth."

You open obediently, tongue out.

He spits directly onto your tongue.

His saliva feels wet and warm, and you swallow without being told because you know that's what he wanted.

"Good," he says, slapping you again, and you moan.

Your hips get more and more desperate after the second slap.

"Look at you," he coos, watching your face with something that might be fascination if he were capable of such a soft emotion. "Crying already… And you're still grinding on my boot like you can't help yourself. Can you? Can you help yourself?"

"No," you admit, shaking your head, whimpers spilling out, looking and sounding like the perfect image of what being pathetic is.

"No," he repeats, with a stupid, mocking smile plastered across his mouth. "Of course not, and you want to know why? Because you're not a person. You're a thing, my thing. A toy that exists for my amusement and nothing else."

He slaps you again, and you moan again, looking up at him with the sweetest smile ever, though your tears.

You rut against him like a dog, like the animal he keeps calling you, face pressed into his knee, and your cunt sliding against wet leather. 

You’re close… so fucking close, your thighs are shaking, and you’re going to come on his boot like the most depraved thing that’s ever existed.

"Ask permission."

"Please," you gasp against his knee, fingers tightening their grip on his leg as you look up at him. "Please, Scara, please let me cum, I need it, I need..."

"You need?" He grinds his foot harder against your cunt. "What you need is to learn your place. What you need is to beg prettier than that, you know this already."

"Please, please… p-please, master, lord, anything, I'll do anything… please let your pathetic little doll come on your boot, I worship you, I belong to you, please..."

"Come."

It's stupid how you cum immediately after his permission.

The orgasm rips through you; you can feel your cunt pulsing around nothing, each pulse pulling a broken sound from your throat that you can't control.

When it finally fades, you slump against his leg, breathing hard, trembling.

His foot lifts away, and you whimper at the loss.

Then he kicks you.

He doesn’t kick hard enough to actually hurt you, just enough to push you back, to send you sprawling on the back of the table wall, dazed and still so disoriented from your orgasm.

"Look at this." He starts, you crane your neck to see him, and he's pushed his chair back, looking down at you with an expression of utter disgust. "You've ruined my boot."

You look down at his boots, at the mess you made on them, and just pout, letting out a tiny, "I'm sorry..."

"You're sorry." He stands, and suddenly he's towering over you. He feels more dangerous like this, you kneeling, him standing. He could break you so easily in this position. "Sorry, isn't going to clean my boot, is it?"

"No..." It comes out automatically, tiny.

"Then what are you going to do about it?"

You swallow, voice shaky, looking down at the mess you made again. "I... I could get a cloth... maybe?"

His clean boot presses down onto your back, forcing you to kneel even closer to the ground, looking like some vengeful god about to pass judgment. You let him, because you can’t really fight back. You have to crane your neck a certain way now just to look up at him.

“Try again,” he says, foot pressing just a little harder, and you wince, “You made a mess, and someone needs to clean it up.”

Your stomach drops.

He can't be serious.

"Scara, that's... that’s so fucking gross, your boot touched the ground. It's dirty."

It’s quiet for too long, until…

"Dirty," he repeats. "You just grinded your bare cunt against it until you came, and you're worried about a little dirt?"

When he puts it like that...

"But..."

"You made the mess." He shifts his boot from your back to your throat, pressing down just enough to make it hurt, and make it impossible to look at anything that isn’t the ground or your own slick arousal on his other boot. "You're going to clean it up. With your tongue. And you're going to thank me for letting you."

He brings the ‘dirty’ boot closer to you, close enough that you can smell yourself on it, the salt and muskiness of it all.

"Open your mouth."

You do.

"Wider."

You stretch your jaw as far as it'll go, and he presses the toe of his boot against your tongue. You can taste yourself, you can fully taste your own slick smeared across his shoe.

"Lick."

You drag your tongue across the leather, cleaning it inch by inch while his other boot presses against the back of your neck. You can barely breathe, can barely think, but you keep licking, keep cleaning, because he told you to, and you'd do anything he told you to.

"Good girl." He says, watching your every move. "You're finally learning your place."

You lick until the leather is clean. Until all you can taste is polish and your own saliva.

Only then does he lift his boot from your neck.

"Sit up."

You push yourself into a sitting position, still trembling, trying to wipe your own tears.

He crouches down in front of you, and one hand comes up to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"You enjoyed that," he says, not a question.

"Yes," you whisper, nodding.

"You wanted me to hurt you."

"Yes.”

"You want me to hurt you more."

Your breath catches as the tiniest smile appears on your face, "Yes."

His grip tightens on your jaw as he says, "Say it."

"Hurt me." Your voice breaks on the words; you sound so desperate it’s stupid. "Please, Scara... make me bleed… I need it. I need you to..."

His hand moves from your jaw to your cheek.

And then he slaps you.

Hard.

Your head snaps to the side, and you gasp, tears springing to your eyes despite crying just minutes ago. But before you can recover, he's grabbing your chin again, forcing you to look at him.

"Eyes on me," he snarls. "I didn't say you could look away."

His eyes… archons, his eyes, deep indigo and so intense that you feel like he’s looking right through you, seeing every broken, desperate part of you laid bare for only his eyes to see.

"I'm sorry," you breathe, pouting.

He slaps you again with the same force, the other cheek this time.

"For what?" He says, gripping your face yet again.

You sniff, trying not to escape his gaze even with blinking for just a second, "For... for looking away."

"And?" He tilts his head.

"And for making a mess on your boot."

"And?"

You don't know what else he wants you to apologize for, but it doesn't matter. You'd apologize for existing if he asked you to.

"And for being pathetic," you whisper. "And desperate. And needy. And..."

"Enough." His grip on your chin tightens. "Open your mouth."

You open it for him, tongue already out for him.

He spits on it.

"Swallow."

You swallow, and something in your core clenches with want, with wanting more than he’s already giving.

"Good." He releases your chin and straightens up. "Now get back under the desk, and stay quiet this time. I have work to do."

You crawl back to your spot, trembling, cheeks still stinging from his slaps, face still wet with tears and spit and other things you'd rather not think about. Your cunt throbs, already aching for more, but you don't touch yourself.

You don't dare.

As tempting as it is, he'd notice, and he wouldn't be happy about it.

He goes back to his paperwork like nothing happened.

Like you're furniture again. 

Like you don't exist.

You both get company twenty minutes later.

You hear the knock, you hear Scaramouche’s irritated, “Enter,” and then the door swings open. Heavy footsteps approach the desk, fatui agent, you assume, and he speaks in a nervous voice.

"Lord Scaramouche, I have the reports you requested regarding the Liyue operation..."

You go very still, careful not to make a single sound.

Scaramouche shifts in his chair, and you watch as his legs spread wider, settling into a posture of casual dominance.

How badly you want to just crawl up and lick him through his shorts when he does that.

"Leave them on the desk."

"They're also some other matters that require your immediate attention, my lord. The situation in Mondstadt has..."

"I'm aware."

"Yes, of course, but the Tsaritsa has requested a detailed briefing on..."

He keeps talking…. and talking… and talking.

You can see Scaramouche’s patience wearing thin; even under his desk you can, you wonder how that agent still hasn’t gotten the hint to just shut up already.

"I said I'm aware." His tone drops to something colder, a silent, tiny warning. "Did you think I needed you to explain my own mission to me?"

"No, my lord, I only meant..."

"What you meant was to waste my time with information I already have." He sounds bored now, but it's the kind of bored that comes right before someone dies. He leans back against his chair, arms crossed. "Is there anything actually useful you'd like to contribute, or should I save us both the trouble?"

The agent stammers something, but you're not listening anymore.

You're looking at Scaramouche's crotch.

It's right there, just inches from your face. The fabric of his shorts is stretched over the bulge of him, soft now, obviously, but still present…. still so fucking tempting.

You know it’s a shitty idea, that one of the biggest rules from him to you is that you aren’t allowed to touch him at work, or even without his permission. And he doesn’t even need to say it, you know you aren’t allowed to do anything that might embarrass him in front of his subordinates.

But the agent is still talking, droning on about supply lines or troop movements or something equally boring, and Scaramouche sounds one sentence away from murdering him.

And you're already leaning forward.

Your tongue traces the outline of him through the fabric.

The effect of your actions comes quickly. His entire body goes rigid, his thighs clench, and you look up to see his face go completely blank.

He cuts himself off mid-sentence.

"My lord?" The agent sounds confused… so innocent. "Is everything alright?"

"Continue." His voice is strained in a way that, surprisingly, the agent doesn’t seem to pick up on.

You’re brave to lick him again, very brave, and you do it slower this time, dragging your tongue up the length of him, feeling him twitch beneath the fabric.

His hand comes down to grip your hair, and you think for a second he might just push you off, yank you off of him, or even just pull you closer.

He does neither, just grips.

"The supply route through Liyue Harbor has been compromised," the agent is saying. "We've lost three shipments in the past week alone, and..."

You unbutton his shorts, the sound of the zipper seems impossibly loud, but the agent doesn't stop talking, doesn't seem to notice anything amiss still.

Scaramouche's cock is half-hard when you pull it free, from your attention, of course. You admire it for a full second, how pale and pretty it is, with the head flushed pink, a bead of precum already forming at the tip. You can’t help but lick it off, slow and savoring, and you feel his whole body go more taut than it was before. You stroke him, once, twice, feeling his cock stiffen in your grip, and then you take him in your mouth.

"...recommend redirecting through Fontaine, but that would add significant delays to the..."

You suck, slow, careful not to make any sound, trying to take him as deep as possible. He’s fully hard now, filling your mouth, and you can feel the way his whole body is fighting to stay still.

You feel his boot connecting with your thigh, hard.

You don't stop.

He kicks you again, harder this time, trying to dislodge you without making it obvious what he’s doing. But you don’t let him, you hold onto his thighs, fingers digging, keeping him fully in place.

"...alternative would be to establish a new route through the desert, but the costs..."

You spread his legs wider to make more room, and he lets you, but it isn’t because he voluntarily wants to; it’s because he doesn’t have a choice. Because fighting you any harder would be obvious.

You look up at him through your lashes.

His face is still carefully blank, but there's something deep in his eyes, something that promises retribution... towards you.

You just hollow your cheeks and suck harder.

Enough." His voice cuts through the agent's rambling. "Get out."

"But my lord, the Tsaritsa specifically requested..."

"I said get out." There's no room for argument in his tone. "Tell whoever sent you that I'll have the report when I have it. Now leave before I decide you're more useful as an example."

Footsteps move quickly, retreating, the heavy door opens, then closes.

Silence.

His hand that was fisting in your hair grips tighter, and for a moment, you think he's going to pull you closer, let you finish what you started.

Then he kicks you.

His boot connects with your ribs, so hard that it sends you sprawling out from under his desk, ending up on the side of it, by a cabinet. Your head hits the wooden floor, hard, pain exploding behind your eyes.

You land on your back, stunned, rubbing your temple, staring up at the ceiling.

When you push yourself up onto your elbows, he's standing over you.

And he's furious.

Not the cold, but seemingly controlled anger you're used to. Not the theatrical cruelty he puts on when he's playing with you.

This is real.

He already pulled his shorts back up, zipped them, probably while you were recovering, and his hands are clenched at his sides, staring at you with a look so intense that it makes you want to crawl into a hole and disappear.

You'd pushed and pushed because you thought he'd find it hot, thought he'd punish you in the fun way, the way you both enjoyed.

But the look on his face right now wasn't fun.

It was scary. Actually, genuinely scary.

"Scara," you start, and your voice comes out small, scared.

"What," he says, very quietly, "the fuck did you just do?"

You look up at him with wet eyes and swollen lips and the most innocent expression you can manage. "Saving you from having to clean blood out of your office carpet?"

He kicks you, again.

Hard, and in this position, his boot connects with your stomach, right where the bruises are, and you cry out and fold in half. The pain is blinding, nauseating, and your tears stream down even harder as you gasp for air.

"You don't touch me without permission." Another kick, this one to your thigh. "You don't touch me at work." His boot lands on your hip, shoving you onto your back. "And you certainly don't touch me in front of my subordinates."

He stands over you, backlit and terrible, looking less like a man and more like a natural disaster about to start chaos.

"What the fuck were you even trying to do?" He takes a step closer, and you flinch back instinctively. "Just trying to humiliate me in front of my subordinate? Just trying to undermine my authority? Just trying to prove that you have some kind of control over me?"

"No." You shake your head. Your head and stomach are both still throbbing in pain when you try to rephrase, fix what you said before, "No, I wasn't trying to... I just wanted to help. You seemed angry, and I thought if I..."

"You thought." He laughs, and there's no humor to be found. "You thought. You don't get to think. You don't get to make decisions. You're a toy, a doll. Something I use when I feel like it and put away when I don't."

The words hit you like a kick to the stomach, even though he just did that to you mere seconds ago.

You've always known that's what you are to him, what you practically told him to call you. But that’s the difference in this, he says it because you’d get off to it, and it’s all theatrics, but hearing him say it like this, with that cold fury in his voice… 

It doesn’t sound like an act.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, sniffing. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... I just..."

"You just couldn't control yourself." He crouches down in front of you, and his hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. "You saw an opportunity to make me lose composure, and you took it. Without thinking about the consequences. Without caring what it might cost me."

"That's not..." your throat feels sore, so exhausted. 

"Don't lie to me." His grip tightens until it hurts. "I can always tell when you're lying."

You stare up at him through blurry eyes, and your bottom lip trembles.

"Are you going to punish me?" you ask, voice small.

"Yes," he says finally. "I am... But not here, not now."

He releases your chin and stands.

"You wanted me to make you bleed." His voice is soft now, but not sweet at all. "Congratulations… You're about to get your wish."

You look up at him, crying, hurting, and you smile.

"Promise?"

The walk home is silent.

All you can hear is the crunch of snow under your feet and his. You don’t dare touch him, or even walk next to him; you just walk a step behind.

He doesn’t look at you once.

He can hear your footsteps in the snow; he knows you aren’t running, but he doesn’t acknowledge your existence at all.

The silence is worse than what it sounds like when he yells.

You don’t even try speaking; you know better.

Or maybe you don’t know better at all, because the moment you step inside, the moment you’re shrugging off your coat and hanging it on the hook by the door, his hands are on you.

He picks you up and throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. Your coat falls onto the floor, forgotten.

"Scara-"

"Shut up."

He carries you up the stairs, down the hall, into your bedroom. The pink walls and plushies look almost absurd with the tension in the air.

A child's room about to become something else entirely.

He throws you onto the bed.

You bounce, the mattress thankfully absorbing most of the impact, and as you scramble upright on your elbows, you see him, standing at the foot of your bed, arms crossed, his expression is blank, but you can see that he's on the brink of going haywire if you try anything stupid.

And you giggle.

You don’t know why, you didn’t even mean to, nerves maybe? Or the absurdity of the situation. Or the fact that some sick part of you is excited despite the danger written all over his face.

But obviously so completely inappropriate.

His eyes narrow.

"Something funny?"

"No," you manage, but you're still giggling, and you can see the way his jaw tightens. "I just... You look so serious..."

"Strip."

The word shuts up your laughter completely. You hiccup, trailing off, but there's still a smile tugging at your lips as you reach for the hem of your top.

"Make me."

Stupid.

So fucking stupid.

You know better than to push him when he’s like this, but you want to see how far he’ll go, find the bottom and worst part of his cruelty, because why not? You’re getting punished either way.

He doesn't react, doesn’t fall for the ragebait. He just stands there, watching you with those unblinking indigo eyes.

Then he reaches behind his back.

And pulls out a knife.

A knife.

Your smile drops.

It's beautiful, in a horrible way. It looks expensive, well-maintained, and recently sharpened from the look of it. 

Probably sharpened just for this.

"Strip," he says again. "Or I'll cut the clothes off you. And I won't be careful about it."

Your hands shake as you obey, pulling your top over your head and shimmying out of your skirt. He watches with detached interest and doesn't say a word until you're fully naked.

"Good." He walks to your vanity, picks up a whetstone you didn't even know you owned… When the fuck did he even put that there? 

"Legs open. Keep them that way." He points with his knife.

You spread your thighs, baring yourself to him. The air is cold against your exposed cunt, and you shiver, but you don't close your legs. You don't dare.

He starts to sharpen the knife.

The sound is worse than anything you've ever imagined. Metal against stone, over and over, a rhythmic slice slice slice that makes your thighs want to close. He walks in slow circles around your room, eyes trailing your belongings.

"You know what I can't decide?" His voice has that conversational tone, almost pleasant. "Whether you did what you did because you're genuinely that stupid, or because you wanted this."

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

"I think it's both, actually. I think you're stupid, and I think you wanted me to hurt you, and I think you're so desperate for my attention that you'd risk my reputation just to get it."

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

"You think because I fuck you, because I let you sleep in my bed, live at my home with your own room, that because I haven't killed you yet," He laughs, and it’s fully empty of humor just like before. "You think that means you're safe. That I won't hurt you.... Really hurt you."

Slice. slice. slice.

"You thought wrong."

He sets down the whetstone and stops at the foot of your bed again, holding the knife up to the light. Testing the edge with his thumb. A thin line of blood wells up, then disappears, the wound healing before your eyes.

"The difference between us," he says, watching his skin knit itself back together, "is that I heal. You don't."

Your thighs twitch, wanting to close. You force them to stay open.

"Scara..."

"Every mark I leave on you stays." He climbs onto the bed, kneeling between your spread legs. "Every scar, every bruise, every cut. They don't disappear… They don't even regenerate. They become part of you."

The flat of the blade presses against your stomach, cold. You gasp, muscles clenching involuntarily.

"And do you know what that means?" He leans closer, his face inches from yours. "It means I can do whatever I want to you. I can ruin you completely, mark you so thoroughly that anyone who ever sees you naked will know exactly who you belong to. And there's nothing you can do about it."

"I don't want to do anything about it," you whisper.

His brows shoot up in sarcasm, faking being shocked.

"We'll see about that." He sits back, knife still resting against your skin. "Choose."

"What?"

"Choose where you want the first cut to go."

You stare at him, confused, not fully taking him seriously. You're at a mix of confusion and fear, you heart pounding so fast and hard that you can hear it in your ears.

Your brows knit, and a tiny, nervous smile appears on your lips. "You're... you're not serious."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" He replies immediately.

He doesn't; he looks deadly serious. He looks like someone who's about to do exactly what he says he's going to do.

"I thought..." You swallow, smile faltering. "I thought you'd just, I don't know. Drag the dull side of the blade across my skin. Scare me a little… You wouldn't actually..."

"Wouldn't actually what?" His lip curls as he tilts his head. "Cut you? Is that what you thought?"

You don't know what you thought, so you don't answer.

"How foolish." He sounds almost disappointed. "How absurdly, pathetically naive. After everything we've done, you still think I'm going to hold back? You still think there's a line I won't cross?"

The blade traces a lazy pattern across your stomach, the sharp side, not the dull side. But he doesn’t cut, not yet, just reminding you it’s there, letting you feel just how sharp it is. 

"Do you not know me at all? There is no line," he says. "There's only you and me, and how much I decide to take."

"Scara, please..."

"Please, what? Please don't?" He smiles, mocking. "Is that what you want? For me to stop?"

You have a safeword, obviously. It’s something easy, pink, one word, and this all ends. One word and he stops, backs off, becomes gentle.

You don't say it.

"I don't want to be blindfolded," you whisper instead.

"No?" He says, still dragging the blade down, and you don’t look at it, you only watch him.

"No... I want to see. I want to watch you do it."

His smile just gets wider because you handed him something he hasn’t even thought about yet. 

"I could blindfold you," he says thoughtfully. "Make it so you never know when the blade is coming… Never know where. You'd just have to lie there and wait and wonder," He draws the word out, savoring it. "Is this going to hurt? Is he going to cut me now? Now? Now?"

Your hands start to shake.

"But I have to admit, I'd miss your eyes." He says, eyes looking deep into yours. "I like watching you watch me. I love seeing the exact moment your fear becomes… something else."

“Don’t blindfold me,” you whisper. “Please, Scara… I want to- I want to see.”

"Then behave," he says, words final. "Keep your pretty eyes open. Keep your legs spread. Don't try to stop me. And you can watch every single second."

You nod, trembling.

"Good girl."

There's no warning.

No buildup, no hesitation, no slow drag of anticipation. One second, the knife is resting against your stomach, and the next, it's cutting, slicing through skin like it's nothing.

You scream.

You didn’t choose, so he chose for you.

Pain explodes across your abdomen, you stupidly glance down and see the major cut he made on your stomach, it’s deep, so deep that blood is already soaking up, not pricking, soaking, and spilling down your stomach. 

"SCARA-"

Your body tries to curl in on itself, tries to protect itself, but his free hand presses down on your hip, pinning you in place.

"Shh. That's one. Stay still, or the next one goes deeper."

"It hurts," you sob, your hands fighting the instinct to cover the wound, to push him away. "Scara, it hurts, please..."

"I know it hurts." He says like it’s obvious, squinting at you a little, like he’s checking if you’re actually serious or incredibly dense. "That's the point."

You try to kick him instinctively, out of panic, just some desperate attempt to get away, but it's like kicking a wall. 

He doesn't even flinch.

"Really?" He sounds amused now, smiling too, enjoying just how more and more screwed you’re becoming. "You want to make this worse for yourself?"

"I can't... I can't just..."

"You can, actually." His grip on your hip tightens. "You will. Because if you try to run, if you try to fight me, I'm going to tie you down and blindfold you and take my time. It’ll be so much worse for you, and more fun for me. Is that what you want?"

You shake your head, tears streaming down your face.

"Then stay still."

You force yourself to stop moving, to lie there and take it, to keep your legs open and arms at your sides, even though every instinct in you is screaming to run.

"There we go." He releases your hip, reaching up to brush the tears from your cheek. "See? You can be good when you try."

Then, something soft presses against your eyes. 

Fabric.

The blindfold.

It's red, too.

"No," you gasp. "You said..."

"I said you could watch if you behaved." He ties it tight behind your head, plunging you into darkness. "You kicked me. That's not behaving…"

"Please, I'm sorry, I won't..."

"I know you are." His voice comes from somewhere to your left now… or right. You can't track him, can't see where he's moved. "You'll be even sorrier by the time I'm done."

Silence.

You lie there in the dark, chest heaving, waiting. You can't see anything, can't predict anything. All you can do is feel.

Then…

A finger presses into the cut on your stomach.

You cry out, fresh pain radiating from the wound. He drags his finger through the blood, down your abdomen, lower and lower until he's touching your cunt, just lightly. Just enough to make you whimper.

"You're wet," he observes. "Even now. Even bleeding and crying and scared out of your mind, while soaking my fingers."

You don't know what to say. You don't know how to explain that the fear and the pain and the pleasure are all tangled up together, that you can't separate them anymore, that maybe you never could.

"So fucked up," he murmurs, almost to himself. "My perfect, broken little doll."

The flat of the blade drags across your chest, not cutting… just touching. Tracing the curve of your breast, circling your nipple, dipping down to your ribs.

"Keep your arms at your sides," Scaramouche warns, tone almost calm. "And your legs open. If I see you try to cover yourself even once, I'm tying you down."

You nod frantically, fingers curling into the sheets.

The blade keeps moving. Down your stomach, carefully avoiding the existing cut. Over your hips. Down your thigh, then back up to your stomach-

Pain.

The cut is thin and stinging. A slice across your stomach that stings worse than the deep one, somehow. You cry out, tears soaking into the blindfold.

"That's better," he says. "I like these… the thin ones. They hurt more, don't they?"

You nod, unable to speak.

"And they scar so pretty." Another thin cut, parallel to the first. "Like little lines on a page. Like I'm writing something on your skin."

The blade drags lower.

He wouldn't… not there. Surely he wouldn't-

The flat of the blade presses against your cunt.

You freeze completely, terrified to even breathe now.

"Not here," he says. "Never here. This part of you is mine to use, not to damage. Even I have some limits."

You let out a shaky breath of relief.

"You're dripping," he observes. "Is it blood or arousal? Let me check."

The blade withdraws, and then his tongue replaces it.

A long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit, and you moan brokenly, hips trying to chase the sensation.

"Both," he reports. "Disgusting. I love it."

He kisses your cunt once, then pulls back.

You feel him bring back the blade to your skin again, moving it to your inner thigh, pressing flat against the soft skin there. 

"What are you..."

He cuts you off. "Do you know what I've wanted to do since the moment you told me you were a masochist?"

You shake your head.

"I've wanted to mark you." His voice is soft, almost reverent. "But not just bruises, that’s boring. Not just scratches either. Something… permanent. Something that says, beyond any doubt, that you belong to me."

The first letter cuts into your thigh.

You scream, hands fisting in the sheets, back arching off the bed. But he doesn't even hesitate to keep going, precise movement, carving something into your skin.

"S," he says. "That's one."

"Scara..."

"C."

Another cut, you choke on a sob.

"A."

He's writing his name… carving it into your skin.

"Please..."

"Please, what? Stop? Keep going? Make it bigger?"

He leans down and licks a long stripe up your cunt, tongue flat and warm, and you moan despite the agony in your thigh.

"R,” he continues, punctuating the letter with another kiss to your clit.

Tears are streaming down your face, more than before, soaking the blindfold, dripping onto the sheets under your head.

You still don't use the safeword.

"A."

You whimper, trying not to close your legs, even though now, it’s even harder not to.

"M."

You're crying so hard you can barely breathe, but you're also so turned on you can feel yourself dripping onto the sheets.

"O."

He kisses your cunt again, like he’s rewarding you for taking the pain. Sucks on your clit for just a second before pulling away.

"U."

"Please," you sob. "Please, Scara, I can't..."

"You can." He cuts deeper, and you feel blood trickling down your thigh. "You will."

"C."

"H."

"E."

Each letter is followed by a kiss, a lick, a moment of pleasure to balance the pain, over and over. He's taking his time, being careful, turning your thigh into a canvas.

When he finishes the last letter, he's quiet for a long moment.

"There," he says finally. "Scaramouche. Right where everyone can see it."

You're shaking, your whole body is trembling, caught between agony and arousal.

“Scara-”

"One more thing."

The blade presses against your skin again, just below the letters. You brace yourself, but this cut feels different… curved?

"A heart," he says. "Right under my name. So there's no confusion about what this means."

He finishes, and then his mouth is on you again, but not on your cunt this time, on the wound he made.

You can feel his tongue tracing the letters, following the shape of the heart, tasting you.

"Perfect," he murmurs against your skin, giving a tiny kiss here and there. "Absolutely beautiful."

The pain is mixed with something that shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

Then, he pulls back, and his fingers slide inside you.

You gasp, clenching around him, and he laughs softly.

"Still so wet. Still so desperate for me, even after everything I've done to you..." He curls his fingers, finding that spot that he memorized ages ago that makes your toes curl. "What does that say about you, I wonder?"

"That I'm yours," you whisper. "That I've always been yours."

"Yes." He withdraws his fingers, and you hear the rustle of fabric, feel him shift on the bed, and he pushes his cock into you in one smooth thrust. "You are."

He fucks you.

There's no other word for it. He fucks you, hard and deep and relentless, and you feel every bruise, every cut, every mark he's left on you. The pain and pleasure blur together until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

He's using your blood as lube.

The thought should disgust you.

It doesn't.

"Take off the blindfold," you beg. "Please, I want to see you, I want..."

"Not yet." He doesn't slow down. "You don't get to see yet."

"Please..."

"Oh, beg prettier than that."

"Please, Scara, please, I need to see your face, I need to see you, I'll do anything, please please please..."

His pace falters, just for a second.

He leans down, one hand sliding behind your head to untie the blindfold. His mouth finds yours, tongue pushing past your lips, and you kiss him desperately, hungrily, tasting copper on his lips.

The blindfold falls away.

You can't see anything at first. Just his face, when you peek just a tiny bit during the kiss. His face is close to yours, his eyes closed as he kisses you. But then he pulls back, and you finally, finally get to look at him.

He's beautiful.

Your blood is smeared across his lips, his cheeks, his chin. His dark hair is falling into his eyes, and he's looking at you like you're the most precious thing he's ever seen.

You try to look down, to see what he's done to you.

His hand catches your chin, forcing your eyes back to his.

"No," he says. "Look at me."

"But I want to..."

"Later." His hips snap forward, and you cry out. "Right now, you look at me. Only me."

You stare into his eyes, those endless indigo depths, and let him take you apart. He doesn't blink, doesn't look away. Just watches you fall apart beneath him, watches the pleasure and pain play across your face.

Then he leans down and kisses you, again.

He shoves his tongue into your mouth without preamble, still tasting like copper, and he doesn’t pull back when the kiss drags on for too long; he doesn’t need air. He could kiss you forever if he wanted to, until you were dizzy, and desperate, and gasping-

You push at his chest, and he pulls back just enough to let you breathe.

"Weak," he murmurs against your lips, but there's slight fondness underneath the mockery.

His hips never stop moving, his pace doesn’t change once, just those deep, punishing thrusts that hit something inside you that makes your moans become involuntary.

You're mine," he says, eyes boring into yours. "Say it."

"I'm yours," you agree. "Always."

"You'll never leave me." Not a question, not even a statement, just a threat mid sex. "No one else will ever have you. No one else will ever see you like this. If you even think about it-"

"I won't." You reach up, cup his face, smear the blood on his cheek beneath your palm. "I won't ever, Scara. I'm yours... Only yours. Forever."

Something almost soft shows on his face.

Then it's gone, replaced by that standard, everyday cruelty he wears as he fucks you harder, faster, chasing something you can't name.

"Good," he says. "Because I'd kill you before I let you go. Kill you and whoever you tried to replace me with, slow too. And I’ll make sure you suffer the most from it."

It doesn’t scare you in the slightest.

It just makes you clench around him tighter.

"I'm close," you gasp.

"Then cum." He reaches down, thumb finding your clit, pressing hard. "Cum with my name carved into your thigh and my cock inside you. Cum knowing exactly who you belong to."

Your orgasm tears through you almost immediately after his words. You clench around him, crying out his name. He follows a moment later, burying himself deep and spilling inside you.

Neither of you moves for a moment; you're just trying to recover, and he's just watching you.

Then he pulls out, and you whimper at the loss.

"Stay there," he says. "Don't move."

You couldn't move if you wanted to. Your entire body feels like it’s been ripped apart and refilled with something heavy. 

You’re going to be sore for days.

He disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running, hear him moving around, but you don't have the energy to wonder what he's doing.

When he comes back, he's carrying a warm cloth.

"This is going to sting," he warns.

And it definitely does.

The cloth presses against your cuts, cleaning away the blood, and you hiss through your teeth. But he's gentle, more gentle than he's been all night, and his free hand strokes your hair while he works.

"You did well," he says quietly, dabbing up the blood. "Better than I expected."

"Really?" You can't help but smile just a little.

"Don't let it go to your head." There's something soft in the way he says it, something almost like affection.

He finishes cleaning you, then applies bandages to the deeper cuts. The one on your stomach, the letters on your thigh.

"You're going to have scars," he says, tracing the edge of a bandage.

"I know."

"You're okay with that?"

You reach down and lace your fingers through his.

"I asked you to make me bleed," you remind him. "This is exactly what I wanted."

He's quiet for a moment, then he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

"Get some sleep," he says. "I'll be here by your side when you wake up, always."

You move up and settle into the covers, and you close your eyes. You’re not scared. Not anxious, not worried about what comes next.

You're just... happy.

Fucked up and bleeding and covered in scars, but happy.

He lies down beside you, pulling you into his arms, and you fall asleep to the sound of his nonexistent heartbeat.

(im working on my requests dw. i have so much more coming soon!!)

master list

[yzl-kk]

canon? what's that? look, they're all alive and well and happy!

[pawnyouoff]

jack always loves playing these dead sons. hes kinda serving "i was good, i was really good" with that crown