liuaneee

[liuaneee]

— out of this world (and into another) : genshin impact

premise: you could've sworn the transmigration curse didn't have an effect on you... so what exactly are you doing here?! (alternatively, you tumble straight into your favorite video game; and you're kinda fucked)

...or, a genshin manhwa otome game inspired au.

act i: scaramouche, alhaitham, wriothesley.

↳ act ii: lyney, neuvilette, kazuha, kaeya. (next)

warnings. fem!reader but can be imagined as genderless if u'd like hehe, a shit ton of manhwa tropes in one, this is a hot mess aka not proofread all that much, half clunky half decent writing

a/n: as promised via the poll heh,, while i do plan to make this an actual au, im not that sure ^^; just the tip of the iceberg here tho!!

MAIN MASTERLIST | AU MASTERLIST (coming soon)

YOU — unsuspecting civilian turnt transmigrator

you've always been too attached to fictional characters for your own good.

yes, even the ones that are remarkably irredeemable (the power of a backstory is very formidable) and complex (complexity is a virtue!)

villains have always been destined to die, be cursed, or destined to curse others. it was heartbreaking, really. you've wished for a chance to rewrite their fates for them to find even a sliver of happiness, even when the fate of their plot says otherwise.

which is why when you find yourself awake into the game of your dreams, “Teyvat's Seven Stars”, like any lover of cliche novel and manhwa tropes, this is the time you think that maybe life wasn't so shitty on you.

....there's only one tiny, teensy, itty bitty problem here, actually.

you're not the protagonist. you're not even one of the protagonist's faithful friends and underlings that light protagonist's road to conquering the world and its men (and as of the 4.0 update, it's women); no, you're none of those.

you're a no name extra, and not to mention, a character involved with the game's main villain characters who are coincidentally the love interests of the game's black route!

[ unlock transmigration package: ultimate transmigrator's route ( ????? MODE ) ]

[ no ] [ yes ]

( 国崩 ) SCARAMOUCHE — the tyrant

“as of today, you will be engaged to crown prince kunikuzushi, who is her grace the shogun's rightful heir to the throne.”

when given approval to stare at your so-called soon to be husband, you expect the worst, mostly. the multitudes of character dialogue you've played through detailing his rather discourteous personality (which basically meant he was a huge asshole) don't exactly paint a pretty picture.

however...

who was this tender hearted looking scaramouche that ‘obliterated armies in the blink of an eye?’ the t in tyrant stands for tyrannical, not timid!

eyes like lighting framed by the longest eyelashes you've ever seen and an unfairly pretty face, comparable to a fair lotus. after fawning over his otherworldly countenance, a sinking realization of dread pools in your stomach.

oh, you are so screwed.

essentially tied to the indigo-haired ticking time bomb of a future tyrant due to the strong standing of your family for a period of until the main story starts, you're destined to never get crown prince scaramouche's affection, being his fiancée who scaramouche is arranged to for political means only.

not to mention, you're in an even more deadly position; of all the characters you switched souls with, it's the one that essentially dies by their own fiancé's hand because they were horrible to him! what atrocious luck!

frantic, you wrack up about three ways to survive.

plan a) win over the shogun's favor by being an appropriate partner unlike the original flavor of this body, who resorted to bullying the innocent prince and unknowingly digging their own grave or b) be a guiding friend to scaramouche as he learns the ways of the world and c) make sure you don't end up giving the protagonist a bad ending via his twisted personality.

weighing all these options, you decide to do all three in hopes to cement a life instead of a deathflag. prevention is better than the cure (aka: the protagonist) after all!

(you may also just want to spend time with your favorite character. having a time limit and a sign that says ‘i'll die in the future!’ should at least warrant you extra time to show some affection to scaramouche, at least.)

so, you do what anyone in your position would do: give affection! lots of it.

admittedly, it wasn't all flowers and rainbows. scaramouche—ahem, kunikuzushi—was very shy and reserved indeed, with his mother ei even worse off! (besides, who trains and studies all day and has to stop crying every time they were injured?! that was just too much!)

it was rather hard at first, the frigid atmosphere of the usually silent Tenshukaku Palace almost impossible to permeate. but with your amazing charm (read: deathflag radar) and social skills, you manage to let the members of the Royal family open up to you.

speaking words of praise in ei's cooking (a very difficult feat to accomplish), spending afternoons with your fiancé and teaching him ‘how to be a shoujo worthy male lead, name-version’ (very confusing to explain), and the cherry on top, driving away that vile teacher of his—the Doctor—once word got out that he'd been taking advantage of scaramouche as a political puppet king in the future. trauma enabler destroyed! look at your immeasurable powers!

(“you're not a failure.” clasping kunikuzushi's hands in yours as he reels back from you. damn that doctor.

his tears shot a wave of heartache through you. you can't bear to see your favorite in such suffering. “whatever happens in the future, i won't abandon you.

no matter what, i'll always be on your side, okay?”

kunikuzushi looks at you with something in his eyes—something like adoration. “do you promise that?”

“yeah.” you say without hesitation, the glow of the sunlight hitting your face so dazzlingly that kunikuzushi's eyes widen that his mouth hangs agape in awe. “i promise, kuni.”)

to your greatest delight, your efforts worked in your favor.

ei now spends time with her son, and though it's almost always just a tad bit awkward, you and the guuji yae miko get the two to strike up conversation, and overtime, kunikuzushi becomes more open to you.

(“[name], what kind of man is your type?”

“huh? well...” you think for a while. this was a great opportunity to say it, right? that life changing protagonist quote!

“to me, the only person i'll ever like the most is you, kunikuzushi.”

“do you really, really mean that?” and oh, he looks so cute—flustered and red from your words. worth it.

“yup! now, i made some shimi chazuke, try some—”)

(admittedly, lots of favoritism is involved.)

—and while you reap the fruits of your hard work, you spend warm, sunlit afternoons with ei at tea, even learning about other nations from scaramouche's aunt nahida and even befriended a few of his future affiliates—childe (though for some reason, kunikuzushi always pulls you away from him whenever he spots the two of you together), signora (she tolerates you, you think) and etcetera.

(“then, if i do well, can you kiss me on the cheek, [name]?”

you agree, much to his delight. scaramouche avoids the gaze of a certain pink haired fox eyeing him questionably. unbeknownst to you, he glares at the woman's scrutiny.)

unprecedented things unrelated to the plot happen too; like how your family, which basically only saw you as a political bargaining chip and an unwanted child they could get rid of easily—no longer sent you any demeaning letters demanding money once scaramouche found out....

(“they've been leeching off of you for how long?” so scary... is this was kunikuzushi is like when he's worried?)

(“...kunikuzushi, how long will you keep up that weak-hearted facade of yours? if they find out how.... dishonest you are....”

“i don't need the reminders of a foxy old hag that doesn't know her place. this is fine as it is.”)

(you don't need to know.)

but, you're nothing compared to the inevitable flow of the plot. inazuma is wracked with war, and it just so happened that you'd been unceremoniously kidnapped by a certain resistance leader's trusted general, used as a hostage bargain for approximately the majority of your life. in the worst moments in your dreary cell, there's only one thought in your mind.

....kunikuzushi's face, devastated when he tries to reach for you, before slipping away from him like sand— face morphing into an unbridled state of rage that's too natural, too familiar. when did he learn to make a face like that?

(they say the kingdom was wracked with thunderstorms all night that day.)

afterwards, fate doesn't make it kind for you.

years go by in the blink of an eye, with your capture fervently forgotten in the midst of the growing animosity of the two conflicting forces.

although you did hear that yae sent out a search party for you while at the resistance's base, the shogun's forces never reached you.

eventually, you got released secretly by sympathy of kokomi, the leader of the resistance, who felt pity for you getting caught in the crossfire. letting you go under the condition that you'd likely never meet any of the precious characters you've gotten to know and change was a heavy price to pay, but you didn't have any choice.

indeed, no matter how much you tried to divert the plot, your duty as an extra has ended, and you were even lucky to even be alive. you could only hope that your fiancé—ex-fiancé—took note of your lessons well, bidding farewell to inazuma as you hop on the boat to mondsdat.

by now, you at least hoped that scaramouche and the protagonist met, his true chance at happiness starting now that you were basically dead.

(even if your heart felt like breaking into a million pieces.)

....is what you thought would happen, but why is it that after three years from your supposed capture, inazuma was still at war?

“that crazy prince... he's still working to find his former fiancée... and he's razing almost every village apart looking for them!”

“—didn't the shogunate say that whoever finds her would receive almost 3 million mora?”

“the entire lot of them are lunatics, i tell you. all because of a missing person, too!”

what's more, why was it still going because of you?!

( 艾尔海森 ) AL-HAITHAM: the information guild master

to be fair, normal people don't really run into one of their favorite characters often after transmigrating.

but to be fair, again, you certainly didn't think you'd actually be in your favorite video game franchise caged in bed with essentially one of its main love interests.

eyes wide and unceremoniously looking—definitely not ogling— at the toned body that's currently enveloping you in its arms, the soft tuft of ashy gray hair caressing the crook of your neck, murmuring incoherent mumbles of—is that another language?

???????

you blink, looking down at the bare body currently embracing you. oh. oh.

you're an extra.

you're just an extra, but why are you in bed, currently being served breakfast by the most gorgeous man you've ever laid your eyes on, with a pretty view of the rainforests' canopy?

“you should lie down. if i recall, sufficient sleep is required in order for the human body to perform its basic bodily functions. although our partnership is temporary, to let you fall to harm is a situation i'd like to avoid as much as possible.”

“....what?”

“...?”

the guild master, al-haitham, is a character in Teyvat's Seven Stars that is heavily debated on whether he's technically a villain or not. in the game, he's the right hand of sumeru's leader, nahida, working as the overseer of the AKASHA, a guild that gathers information to the nation's leader. he's a pretty shady character—always working behind the scenes and very unfalteringly blunt—and a ‘villain’ for crown prince scaramouche's route, helping the protagonist escape his clutches.

he's often the subject of comedic ire, his banters with a certain broke architect always the highlight of any bonafide al-haitham fan.

“we're expected to work together by lord kusanali's decree in the duration of investigating the hivemind project the lord suspects the baron siraj is partaking in.”

right, that one scene in the game where al-haitham needed to go undercover to infiltrate a coup de etat staged by one of the factions against nahida... right... what.

you were that extra! the one that fell in love with him and pined for his affection!

(“well, i get that part, but does sleeping together really have to play a part in this...?”

al-haitham gives you a mere quirk of the lip, tilting his head. “we do have to play the part of a married couple in dire straights, do we not? this cover is more efficient.

...besides, i don't have anything to complain about. you're certainly better company than kaveh.” )

in truth, al-haitham wasn't bad company. far from it. aside from the internal giggling and fangirling (you) and the incredible stack of books (alhaitham) that you have to see more than the grey haired man on a daily basis, the two of you work out a rapport that stems from memories of the body you transmigrated in.

he's nice to be around, surprisingly considerate when he wants to be—he tells you about the books he always reads....

(who even reads ‘20 Tongues Language Memorization Guidebook: A Basic Overview of Vocabulary and Terms’ for enjoyment?

the content makes your head run in circles because of how complicated it is; but who wouldn't like to listen to an extremely attractive man overexplain to you with a calm and pretty voice?)

...is generous enough to provide meals and cook dinners that have you crying tears of gratitude because you know how awful yours compares (it was either too bland or too seasoned; al-haitham is surprisingly picky when he wants to be)

(you assigned al-haitham the title of “absolute s-tier husband material”— his capabilities are out of this world!)

by chance, you once gave al-haitham a little tidbit of information that proved to be valuable later in the investigation—courtesy of your avid game knowledge—when you two had been lost to the psychological illusion magic cast by siraj when you two finally broke in his estate.

(“whatever happens, if siraj messes with your mind, just make sure to think of me instead of anything else.” al-haitham lets his hand find yours.

“you once asked me if i trusted you, [name].”

“....” you're treated to one of al-haitham's rare smiles, one that warms you up from within. “i do. so don't let yourself get hurt.”)

however, your temporary partner had faltered for once, flinching when siraj took the form of his old grandmother who'd passed to exploit al-haitham's mind, hesitating and frozen in place while siraj inched ever closer to finding out his weakness.

and you couldn't stand it, the character you cared for—the al-haitham that always had a plan, always knew how to stay calm, had looked so unsure and hopeless.

(“wake up, al-haitham!”

with you cradling his face, al-haitham stares back at the only constant in the memories of his grief, eyes meeting yours. “you don't have to do it all alone. i'm right here, aren't i? believe in me.”)

your (fake) husband snaps back to reality, finally allowing enough time to apprehend siraj and put a stop to his malicious project.

(“thank you.” al-haitham tells you solemnly. it hits you that this may be the last time you may ever see him. “i'm grateful that you brought me back to y— to my senses.”

there's a sincerity in your voice that rings from your heart. “anytime, al-haitham.”)

you thought that was the end of it.

defeating siraj meant you two no longer had to associate with each other, but somehow, to your great surprise, al-haitham doesn't stick to the plot at all. you were sure you didn't interfere with the game, though?

for some reason, al-haitham doesn't erase himself from your life, unlike the original route's flow.

in fact, he's become... easy to run into, a constant in your otherwise mundane life. he takes you out to lambad's tavern for an occasional drink, says he's lending you his headphones when you find yourself overwhelmed by the city (you were never good with noises) and even helps you out as you vent your problems to him.

(the day after, said problem conveniently disappears. how strange....)

and most of all, allowing you to enter his personal space... leaving kaveh's jaw dropping when he accuses al-haitham of having a lover.

“you're always going who knows where with them! what else is there to figure out?”

“...we are merely friends.”

“a friend that you let into your personal library? do they know that you still keep the ‘fake’ ring in a box inside the closet?” kaveh laughs. “nice try, al-haitham.”

(after all, kaveh could never unsee the way al-haitham's eyes softened at the feeling of the head on his shoulder lean onto him, with you no doubt asleep. he even took his headphones off! kaveh has never seen him actually take them off in order to keep the person who's sleeping on his shoulder as undisturbed as possible.

in fact, kaveh doesn't think he's ever seen al-haitham be this touchy or considerate with anyone this much before.

.....and most importantly, kaveh would never forget the way al-haitham, a man who found no merit in politeness and preferred bluntness, a man who preferred solitude rather than company—deliberately getting close to someone—pressing a fleeting kiss on the crown of your head.

kaveh blinks. it seems even the throes of love can reach even the most unconquerable of peaks....)

( 莱欧斯利 ) WRIOTHESLEY — the monster duke of the north

“—i need you to gather information on duke wriothesley. serve him undercover as one of the prisoners of the fortress.”

the duke of meropide—a man swamped with terrible rumors. they say he was exiled from the nation due to murdering his entire family. they say he possessed a face worthy of the title of a beast— grotesque, littered in scars. they say that any who end up in his estate, the iron prison of the north, meropide, never saw the light of day again.

(“only criminals of the worst kind are fated to be sentenced there. nobody returns, so we've stopped questioning it...” )

so to say you're not fearing for your life that bad right now is a massive understatement.

“now, mind telling me how you were able to sneak into the most impenetrable prison in all the land, miss prisoner?”

how did it end up like this?

so you wake up and find yourself in jail. lovely.

seriously, of all the places you can transmigrate into, why did it have to be fontaine?! Teyvat's Seven Stars chapter 4's main starting point, the nation of justice is littered with dark themes and high difficulty capture targets.

.... such is the case with the man in front of you. unlike what the rumors of him say, duke wriothesley paints a rugged yet dashing picture of a nobleman, even if he was —if you recall— one of the hardest capture targets to conquer in the game.

a villain character who you played once during one game route, acting as the driving force during one of the love events of one of the protagonist's other love interest, lyney. duke wriothesley almost assassinates lyney's younger brother, freminent, leading lyney to rally up a certain group to bring the nobleman down.... a typical side character villain, who's existence was added as late as 3 patches away from lyney's.

(even inazuma would be better than this! at least the tyrant route could be avoided, and let's not mention the easy sumeru route as well...)

“well, miss prisoner, cat got your tongue?”

in summary: fortunately for you, the body you transmigrated is in the position to spy on the current affairs of the fortress of meropide, with courtesy and with permission of one of Fontaine's leaders, neuvillette. unfortunately for you, it seems our dear monsieur wasn't able to inform wriothesley beforehand, leading to the current situation.

aka, you're pressed dangerously close to wriothesley's chest, with a knife at his throat and his hands pinning you against the wall, noses almost touching. you're not sure if this is even the kind of tension that two people who are trying to kill each other are supposed to have...

(“i'm an ally!” you sputter out. wriothesley raises an eyebrow at you. “monsieur neuvillette sent me.”

“how am i supposed to trust you after i saw you slinking around here, knife at my throat?” he replies, eyes narrowing. “i know that i'm labelled as a beast, but i don't really know what came over that pretty little head of yours when trying to sneak into my chambers.”

what does he take you for?! “...are you accusing me of something indecent?!”

“just saying — i've met lots of prisoners with your excuse, my lady.”

“i'm prepared to use this knife, you know.”

“hah.” wriothesley grins. “how aggressive. more aggressive than most. do you want me that bad?”

“stop twisting my words!”)

in any case, you hate wriothesley. you know he's one of the characters in Teyvat's Seven Stars and is a villain for one of the easy love interest routes in the game, but his personality is... a real piece of work.

you'd rather the protective and kind kazuha, or even the charming and elusive lyney! why did it have to be him?

not only did he not believe you, he even told you to prove your authenticity! you're just glad that his assistant sigewinne had been there to vouch for you — you're not sure if you'd even be on your two feet right now if she didn't.

so now you're stuck constantly on your feet, running to and fro — helping the dark-haired man record new prisoners, establishing trading routes to the main city of Fontaine, and treating other prisoners of the fortress with sigewinne.

your biggest surprise by far, though, is just how... different the duke is from the rumors. his scars were merely battle scars of honor (to which sigewinne rolls her eyes, “your grace, please stop trying to look cool”) he got from various succession fights, not scars to show how he was cursed to turn into a beast. he has a love for tea, but always seems to have a cup of your favorite blend with him when you feel tired after a long day of working (laboring) for him and the estate.

(“your daily report of new convicts, your grace.”

“-this is the tea you like, your grace. i've prepared it in advance.”

“you're very adamant on proving yourself. aren't you sick of such tasks by now, miss prisoner?”

“no.” wriothesley's expression screams 'why not?' on it. “ it's because of my own misjudgement of you.”

“...elaborate.”

“i may have had unnecessary prejudices on your conduct thus far. but you're... not like what the rumors paint you out to be.” you say sincerely. “you're more amazing and incredible than anyone else. i truly do admire you.”

wriothesley's expression; you couldn't decipher it. “i see.”)

he's battered, but caring. sigewinne makes you watch (in horror) as she doodles cartoonish looking characters on his face when he's asleep — wriothesley never fusses, only an exasperated sigh to his assistant. he's harsh with his tasks and duties, but is the first to rush you into sigewinne's infirmary to tend to you after you pass out from overwork.

(“don't worry, [name]. the duke may not look it, but he's very gentle!” sigewinne giggles. humoring the little girl who was the first to show you actual decency in this place, you try to nod. sigewinne doesn't seem convinced.

“i'm serious! after all, compared to other people who've snuck into the fortress, you're the first he's treated this way.” she says cheerily.

“what does that mean?” you can't help but scoff at that. “so he just works someone to the bone from the get go?” you shudder. damn production zone...

sigewinne blinks. “ oh no, not like that. it's just that he's never been so lenient before. in fact, when you fainted, he even gave me the order to prioritize treating you over anything else.”)

well, this wasn't exactly what you thought you would be doing when you transmigrated into your favorite game, but you suppose you can take it.

besides, you'd miss a certain duke otherwise. life truly is full of strange twists....

a/n: thank you for making it this far! if anyone asks why wriothesley's was short, listen, this was completely impulsive and i was out of inspiration LOL, but i do hope you enjoy! look forward to new parts though hehe :3

@ ICEUNHIE: do not repost translate or plagiarize my works.

[liuaneee]

In the Hollow of His Hand

summary: On the day the illustrious hero celebrates her birth, the ever-despondent you and the strangely complaisant he were not supposed to meet.

cw: female reader, possibly unrequited love, self-hatred, insecurity, ambiguous ending.

wc: 2.2k.

“Give me your hand. Heh, there’s no need to be nervous. I’m just taking you to a vantage point.”

You inspect your hand and see nothing unusual.

It is a perfectly normal hand. A hand that never held any weapon, a hand that never suffered from exhausting work and was never stained with blood; a hand of an ordinary woman living out her unremarkable life. Slightly bigger than his younger-looking one, yes. Unsurprisingly inferior to his puppet one and not as skilled to do so many things his one excels at, yes. But still, it is your hand. It is the hand of a silly mortal he vowed to tolerate, a hand of an insignificant being he chose to keep at his side forever. And yet…

This hand has never known his touch. This very hand that aches to be caressed by his own, that always reaches out to grasp his intricate clothes and make him stay for a little longer, this very hand that yearns for his hold… In the end, it receives nothing.

Why is he avoiding its warmth every time it draws near? Why does he refuse to endorse its intent? Why does he neglect its sincere wish?

Is it too unattractive to his taste? Too intrusive? Too pitiful in its begging? Is the status of its owner too humble to ask for recognition of its desperate movement?

Those carelessly spilled words made you question your limb. How ridiculous you are; how crazy and preposterous you are to assume anything about him or judge his preferences… But your pain is certainly not unjustified.

It is solitary, pathetic, and unnoticed. Why would he notice it, anyway? You were not supposed to hear that phrase and feel your tender heart squeezed by the invisible, cruel force. You were not supposed to eavesdrop on them and decide to follow them only to be strolling behind like a timorous mutt, like a mere human you are.

You are not supposed to be here. But here you are, remaining in the shadow, too weak to climb up the hill and witness the splendor of the view he offered to show her. Here you are, standing silently, having killed the urge to call out his name – the name that was bestowed upon him by her, of all people – and hope to get his attention. In vain. In a meaningless pursuit of the wind itself. In a shallow effort to replace the shining light with mortal dullness.

You should not be that upset, really. You have long since become aware of how special she seems to be. To him. To your motherland’s folk. To everyone in this colorful, vivacious yet deceptive world. Even as someone plain as you can sense the greatness of her character, the sheer nobleness of her spirit. The novelty she brings is met with praise and adoration; the peace of mind she casts on those she clashes swords with is rumored to be omnipotent in its healing capacity.

It is only natural for him to be drawn to her magnificence and kindness; to her uniqueness, her ability to turn the impossible into possible and grant second chance to the broken ones out of limitless compassion. Nothing is shocking in his wish to thank her – better yet, to spoil her with his willingness to touch the person who gifted him something so important as that particular set of letters he is now identified by.

It is a rarity. A whim of his temper. But it is predictable. There is no reason for you to envy her or nurture an ugly resentment. Who are you to even dream of possessing her traits? To dream of stealing that treat she is now being fed? To please your self-esteem in the same way he pleases hers right now?

You cannot compete with her. You cannot interrupt that idyll, let alone fight and conquer. You can only look from afar, unseen to their clueless selves, contemplating the tiniest bit of that beautiful landscape they are currently observing.

It must be nice. As cold as that breeze can occasionally be, there is always a hidden hint of gentleness in it – in him. What a flawless description of a flawed individual, you think.

How exactly are they enjoying the wonderful sight? You cannot tell if they are smiling and teasing each other; cannot tell if they are enveloped in a quiet atmosphere instead, not daring to disrupt the soothing symphony of his element, for you are too far from them to find out, after all. But what you can tell – with a plausible degree of certainty – is that despite her occupation, her hand is not that different from yours.

Because she did help you once. Because you held that hand of hers for a moment – shyly, utterly embarrassed by your sudden fall but still dignified enough to accept the assistance; because you discovered neither the roughness of her skin nor strength of a thousand men her frame is famously known for subduing. That hand was undoubtedly feminine, unsullied by the burden of survival; a hand that was simultaneously similar to yours in its pristineness yet nothing like yours at all – a sobering strike to your established vision of the heroine of legendary feats and a reminder.

 “Deeds as golden as her hair…”

Ah, so that is what this is all about. It was never about the prettiness of any part of your body; it is about what and whom his fastidiousness favors most. He is a tricky lad to get along with – you understand this well – but there was never enough venom in him to poison the ever-vibrant firefly. No matter how apathetic he claims himself to be, his chest nests a passion for benevolence; in a way, he is a fire that burns for anything not considered boring and primitive by his standards; a fire that, ironically, will never swallow the strong-willed insect but will gladly swallow any moth attracted. He may not harbor the kind of love you have for him, but it is still the sentiment of a sensuous quality.

There is nothing wrong with him chasing after the promise of entertainment only she can provide and seeking the company of an equally wandering and adventurous bearer of many blessings. How could the pawn of fate ignore its inherent attachment to someone as independent of the laws of Teyvat as she? How could he hold the hand of a being lesser than him, a woman so boring and devoid of interesting bits when the more tempting presence is here to take the prize she deserves?

You are just unfortunate. Unlucky. The same brand of plaything the celestials are fond of toying with – a slave to your poor standing, an existence born to lose and settle for less; a wingless entity with no means to reach to the skies and catch that one distant star, one among the myriad of those sacrificed to sate the egos of gods.

Truly, what could be more disheartening than this?

“What are you doing here?”

I am leaving, you want to say, oblivious to the question. You cannot spend the whole day here, wallowing in self-hatred and coddling undue anger, right? What if they descend from the above and encounter your stupidly paralyzed self?

What if he sees you?

What if he—

“Admiring the scenery.”

The nature of this answer was the opposite of that which you originally intended to give. The inquirer hums in return – a sound so familiar, so typical of the certain mean-spirited youth to produce; a sound so dear despite its obvious notes of mockery, snapping you out of your half-dazed state only to have you enslaved to the illusion of him your fear must have vilely created.

“From the worst spot imaginable?”

The apparition chuckles. It is a melody of amusement too genuine to mimic; the consequent “You do delight in inventing the dumbest of challenges” remark of precision too sharp to replicate. The rare disbelief that slightly laces his tone is too convincing to be deemed fake, for you know his voice – his velvety, oh-so-pleasant voice you are never tired of listening to – well enough to discern its true master even in the crowd of loudest look-alikes.

“But let’s pretend I’m convinced you’re not just snooping around.”

Your eyes are locked on the ground. The oversaturated green is a much more convenient thing to stare at – so much safer than diving into those pools of mesmerizing indigo, for they will drive the final nail in the coffin of your flimsy lie.

“Well? Don’t you want to get a better look?”

But he is relentless, and so is his power over your rationality. His odd choice of words entices you and prompts you to raise your head and meet his gaze, for you cannot ever defy his influence and stay indifferent to the tricky luster of violet. Akin to the entrapped rabbit, you watch the color waste its intensity with each breath taken; the inscrutable anticipation on his boyish features evaporating with the speed of your crumbling defenses – ah, what a strange manner of conveying his innate irritation indeed.

“Huh?”

The unresponsive awkwardness is prolonged no more. You react at last, satisfying his brilliant attempt at confusing the hell out of someone not worth the trouble. Unbearably slowly, infinitely unblinking, you realize that his hand – that small and so deceitfully unreliable hand – is extended toward you, waiting for validation, and you wonder why would he ever do something as unbecoming as this.

“I present you the opportunity you would not want to miss,” his sigh does a terrible job of masking his growing impatience. “So hurry up and take my hand before I change my mind.”

An invitation. To the one who overstayed her welcome; to the one who is, at best, an afterthought. A self-indulgent reverie, you think bitterly, yet too real in his quirk of tilting his hat over his eyes in embarrassment to be merely a fruit of your selfish delusion. He is here. He is authentic; the sarcastic phantasm brought from death to propose to you in his new incarnation.

What a shame it is that a miserable woman such as you has nothing to repay him with for this elusive happiness. It is not even the implied prospect of touching the sky that brings you the utmost joy. Just holding his hand, presumably as frigid as he declares his sympathy to be, would be enough for you – for your own unsightly, undistinguished one – and you would not dare to pray for more.

But he persists. He stays, as if frozen in time, as if embraced by eternity; with the barely visible red painting his porcelain cheeks. He waits for a step to be taken, for the fool you are to act upon your lonely desires, and no matter how excruciatingly long these seconds of tense expectation must feel to him, his arm never surrenders. Even winds themselves – seemingly enforced by the authority of the jeweled amulet on his chest – come to his aid, compelling the locks of your hair to dance to its fierce tune and the accessories on his hat to chime to complement the song. They push you nastily, unceremoniously, and they stop not until you are close enough for him to complain about the violation of his personal space.

Yet he says nothing, as do you. Nothing – not even the golden maiden who definitely plagues his thoughts often – exists now but your decision; the decision to either give up on your sickeningly sweet fantasies or lick away the alluring mead on those childish, stubborn lips. The unbelievable theory became the believable event and the vagrant predator shapeshifted into the obedient feline pet in search of your approval on this very day, void of hunger for the ideal morsel in white dress.

Your fingers twitch and your teeth graze your lower lip. You struggle, you battle yourself – you laugh at yourself deep in your consciousness, deriding your fear of intimacy you so coveted before. You ponder and wonder: is he still here, waiting for you to finally seal the deal? Or is he – which is most likely – disappointed and now ready for the retreat?

You need only to take his hand. You need only to say “yes” and fall for the brooding boy in front of you even more. It is not a showdown with a monster populating this land but a war between your ardor and insecurities – a conflict much bloodier than that in which you would have ended up ripped apart by creatures of dark arts. It is almost comical how long it takes for you to simply accept or reject the generously prepared meal; you wonder yet again if you are alive and not made of paper, being the tragic heroine of those cheap Inazuman love novels consumed so eagerly by your peers nowadays.

Regardless of whether such a failed “tragic heroine” as you gets to earn her page of depicted happy ending or not, one of two possible options does win at last. The agonizing “what should I do” has met the ultimate solution. You glance at your cursed, unwanted, too perfectly normal hand, and you —

How exactly are you going to respond to the offer of the man once spurned by the divine?

[liuaneee]

scaramouche x male! reader

Part 3: lost in conversation.

masterlist previous next

tw: mentions of dysphoria and cursing (tell me if I missed anything!

(Y/N) sighed, checking his watch again for the 5th time in the last 7 minutes. (Y/N) knew that he was 15 minutes early but as he told his friends, he didn't want to stay home for longer. He wiped his hands on the skirt, forced to wear it but honestly the dysphoric thoughts weren't too loud once he had actually put it on. He heard the door of the little cafe chime and looked up to see Scaramouche.

(Y/N) shot his hand up, waving it in a manner which could be considered crazy. He put it down when Scaramouche nodded at him, nervously straightening his skirt more and more. His eyes followed Scaramouche as he came to the booth near the window and sat down.

“Can you give me a minute? I need to text Nahida that I reached here safely. She worries for no reason.” Scaramouche mumbled, his fingers already typing furiously on the screen.

(Y/N) watched as Scaramouche took off his mask and felt his heart skip a beat. Honestly, after learning that they were meeting, (Y/N) had stalked him a bit. But beauty isn't shown properly through a phone screen. Scaramouche was the kind of person that (Y/N) wanted to be and also wanted to be with. He had an air of confidence surrounding him that made (Y/N)’s head spin.

(Y/N) broke out of his trance when he heard fingers snapping in front of him. His eyes refocused to look at Scaramouche's long sleek fingers waving in front of his face. Red bloomed across his face, once he realized he was accidentally staring at the purple haired boy in front of him.

“Take a picture, it'll last longer.” Scaramouche said, a smirk playing on his lips.

(Y/N) became more red and cleared his throat, hoping to get rid of the redness he was sure was starting to show.

“Right… my flash drive?” (Y/N) said, his leg bouncing up and down. The flash drive held his most kept secret. If anyone who knew him saw the character he had created, they'd instantly know that it was him. Silas was everything (Y/N) wanted to be.

“Oh! Right. Here.” Scaramouche said, digging into his bag and taking out the drive.

“Honestly speaking, I did see a few things because I tried to see who you were and I have to say… My god, if Silas isn't the best character I've ever read.” Scaramouche says, turning the flash drive over and over in his hands.

(Y/N)’s head snapped, his eyes and ears not believing what he was hearing. Someone had read and actually liked his character? Without poking holes in it? Scaramouche had to be joking.

“Are you just playing with me? Because like that's shitty to do. You may not like the character but don't just mock me about it.” (Y/N) mumbled, snatching the drive from Scaramouche's hand and hastily putting it in his pocket. He got up to leave, being done with the work that he was here for and was quite mad about what Scaramouche had done.

“Wait no! I didn't mean to sound like I was mocking you. I was being truthful! I didn't mean it in a mean way. I genuinely like the characters you've made. If I didn't I wouldn't be here. Please sit down.” Scaramouche rushed to speak, eyes wide once he saw that (Y/N) was going to leave. He sighed in relief when (Y/N) sat down, eyeing the purple haired boy suspiciously.

“Do you really like them? The characters, I mean.” Scaramouche nodded, his eyes earnest. (Y/N)’s eyes lit up, finally having someone to talk to about his characters. His friends didn’t know yet because he was afraid of them judging him and leaving him like his previous friends. Aether knew about Raj and Alex (or also known as ‘They who should not be named.’) and knew about the trust issues and other troubles that (Y/N) had after they had left.

“Are you going to write a story based on Silas?” Scaramouche asked. (Y/N)) bit his lip in thought. He had wanted to but he was procrastinating a lot. It also didn't help when he had started to question himself once more.

(Y/N) shook his head. “I haven’t really thought about it. I mean, I've written like headcanons about Silas and future love interest but nothing in writing.”

Scaramouche nodded thoughtfully, “Would you consider ever writing? I could be your beta of sorts. If you want, of course.”

(Y/N) snickered when he heard the word beta leave Scaramouche's mouth. He knew what Scaramouche meant but the word has had so many implications in the past 2 years that (Y/N) had to laugh.

He shook his head when he saw the offended look on Scaramouche’s face.

“NO! I didn't mean to laugh but you have to know how that sounds. I mean, I personally think I’m an alpha but you do you, I guess.” (Y/N) said, a teasing smile on his face as he notices recognition seeping into Scaramouche’s face. He laughed, covering his face with his hand as the disgust took over Scaramouche’s face.

“Please. I have personal vendetta over the entire omegaverse shit. Like people can like whatever they like of course but for an entire fucking year, Childe went around saying what alphas should do and how i was a “sigma male” because i have coloured hair and pronouns. Which is so hypocritical because he himself has coloured hair and a fucking boyfriend. Like make sense.” Scaramouche said exasperatedly. He smiled at (Y/N) when his entire spiel had made him laugh, a sound that he found quite ethereal.

“Childe sounds so much like my friend Kaeya. They would get together and that would cause so much chaos. Kaeya once told my dad on his face that if i was his child, i would’ve flourished so much but then looked at my mom and made a disgusted face and said that he would not want to be my father because then that would mean that he would have to fuck my mom and he would rather fuck a cactus.” (Y/N) said, recalling the memory and his father’s face. It was very hilarious and it was only intensified with his mother's scandalized gasp.

Neither Scaramouche nor (Y/N) realized how much time had passed. Enjoying their little conversation, staying inside their own bubble and being lost in conversation.

[liuaneee]

You look around for scara fics... everything is sex.... scaranation desires deek....

Guys pls i need like scara fics where the main focus ISNT smut i read almost everything on this app and everything on ao3😭

[liuaneee]

── 𖥻 you and xiao ft. your classmates

( this is a filo smau!! my other filo smau [number neighbor] might take a while so . . . here's a new one to make up for it HAHA. naisip ko lang to kagabi so di ko alam kung papatok to pero bahala na si batman 🤣 saka nakakatuwa rin kasi ang daming pipino here 😭 )

↺ MASTERLIST

[liuaneee]

scaramouche as your bbf (spoiler: turned bf)

filo smau + hcs

note: the brainrots were too hard to resist, i'm sorry 💔 i felt so single putangina??

scara as your boy bestfriend hcs

nagpapalusot sa teacher for you 'pag late ka

lagi kang sinasayaw for parties like acquaintance parties, etc.

'pag sabay kayong mag-commute libre niya pamasahe mo lagi !!

he would willingly do late night study sessions with you 💓

laging may dalang hair tie even if he doesn't need it just so he can provide you one if ever kailanganin mo

if you play online games, you'd play games together!

he'd always protect you even if that meant losing the 'mvp' title

mamatay na lahat kahit siya, 'wag lang ikaw 💔

would take good pics of you (candid or not)

will always always always listen to your song recs (he even made a playlist of them)

sends you tiktoks or ig reels he knows you'd like

'yung matching keychains niyo na nakuha niyo from somewhere (arcade, shopee, idk, bahala ka) nakasabit sa bag niya; it doesn't matter if 'di match sa aesthetic or vibes niya.

there was this one time na naulan and naiwanan mo 'yung payong mo

so he shared his umbrella with you.

siya 'yung may-ari pero siya pa 'yung mas nabasa </3

nakain kayo and the crew messed your order up?

he'll tell them for you ❤️

will always be proud of your achievements as if they are his own.

will listen to your rants, it doesn't matter if it's long or mababaw or random or anything.

he'll always listen.

scara as your boyfriend hcs

same as what he does when he was just your bbf pero syempre may nadagdag !!

always the first to greet you 'good morning'

will send you playlists that he made

hour-long calls !!

will always request to video call with you kapag super miss ka na niya (kailan ba hindi)

always asks for your parents' permission din whenever you guys go on a date

botong-boto sa kaniya parents mo to the point na parang mas anak na trato sa kaniya kesa sa'yo </3

if you like flowers, almost every week ka niyang binibigyan

parang subscription lang gano'n haha

if you don't, edi wala.

his love language, first and foremost, is physical touch.

second ay acts of service ❤️

if he sees someone eyeing you or being interested in you, he would be clingy af.

he does this to show na taken ka na.

but mostly,

he does this because he likes to reassure himself that you're his.

and that's the universal truth, the unchangeable fact.

[liuaneee]

scara as your soulmate that you hate so much [ part one ]

tags: contains swearing, soulmate!au, modern!au, crack, y/n hates scara sm HAHA, enemies to lovers (ofc what do you expect lol)

this was supposed to be a written work but i thought it's easier to write this au as a smau HAHA

anyway hope you liked it lol

still writing the part 2 so it might take a week before i post it hehe

likes and reblogs are highly appreciated!! ^^

[liuaneee]

(ex) lovers under arrest !

pairing: scaramouche x reader (smau + written)

genre: exes to lovers, fluff, filo

wc: 1.1k

notes: this was supposed to be a valentines special while also serving as a teaser for an upcoming smau im working on but uhm this didnt really fit into the smau's plotline. think of it as me testing the waters. although this isnt included in the new smau's plot, all the characters here are the same characters on that smau too. i didnt proofread this btw sawry..

the door opened which caught both of your attention. the door revealed tighnari and the rest of the student council. you knew what they were here for and you dreaded it.

tighnari quickly explained what was happening although you both already knew why you were here.

'bwisit talaga toh sila!! kapag ako makapaghinganti—' you thought as the council students put the handcuffs between you two. the indigo-haired boy groaned completely annoyed at the situation.

"ugh, i cant believe im wasting my time being handcuffed to someone like them..." scaramouche complained, making you annoyed. "grabe ka makapagsalita ha, akala mo kung sino ka?? ano ka ba, gold?" you retorted

"how noisy... di ka marunong mag shut up?" he complained again making you even more agitated than before. 'porket na pogi ka ganyanin mo ako?!?—' you wanted to say but kept it in your mind as to save your pride.

"remember, wag kayo makipag away. pwede nyo ipatanggal ang handcuffs pag lumipas na ang isang oras unless kung nagpaextend yung bumayad sa inyo." the stuco president— tighnari, reminded.

"sana pinahandcuff nyo naman ako sa lalaking maganda ang ugali" you insulted as he groaned "you talk a lot for someone whos much more unbearable" he surely didnt fail to irritate you. "i swear, kung malaman ko kung sino yung nagpahandcuff..." he mumbled something undearneath his breath but you didnt bother listening in. you were too preoccupied with your internal panicking.

the both of you left the booth and stood infront of the entrance for a while. you didnt know where to go since you'd have to basically drag the boy handcuffed to you to be able to enjoy the next hour.

after standing there like two idiots, scaramouche dragged you to walk around. "hoy! saan ka papunta?? nakalimutan mo ba na andito pa ako? sabihin mo muna san ka pupunta before you drag me around!"

scaramouche ignored your constant screaming as the people around gave you weird looks while some of them were awwing about how you two were handcuffed.

"yieee!!! may crush ka na pala scara?" you hear a ginger-haired boy shout in the background which you assumed to be scaramouche's friend. he ignored the ginger haired boy as the both of you walked towards a more secluded area.

he took you to the library (technically dragging you) as he opened the doors and stepped in. "i wanted to go to the library since its more quiet here" he seemed a lot more calm now unlike how he was earlier when he was constantly complaining. "i hope you dont mind me dragging you here. it was too loud for me out there" his change in attitude startled you. was this really the same scaramouche that yelled and complained earlier? perhaps he was just overwhelmed?

he walked over to the shelves to find a book to read which caused you to stumble since again, you were still handcuffed. he searches for a book that interests him until he finally picks up a book. he looked at you for a moment. "...baka gusto mo rin bumasa? it'd be awkward if you just stood there while i read.."

"no its fine... tutulog nalang ako dito" you said as he sat down on the floor leaning against the shelved, which caused you to stumble amd get dragged down on the floor.

"...bat ka umuupo dyan, eh may lamesa at upuan naman doon" you pointed at the tables and chairs lined up. "you said you wanted to sleep and it'd be uncomfortable for you to sleep if you sat down there" his gaze never leaving the book. "as if mas comfortable pa dito..." you mumbled as you sat down properly to make yourself more comfortable.

he gazed at the handcuffs as he grabbed your wrist to pull you closer to him which caused you to flinch. the close proximity startled you, painting your face and ears a bright red. you didnt know what to say, and as much as you try to deny you didnt want to move away either so you just sat there, with your head on his chest.

"..sorry" he finally spoke up. "i know how much you dont wanna talk about the past... but i just want you to know that i still love you" his sudden confession made you even redder than you are now.

"tumahimik ka nga.. ang corny mo" you tried to look anywhere but his gaze. he chuckled at your response. somethings just never change. "besides, antagal na noon. mas mabuti pa kung kalimutan nalang natin—"

"what if ayaw kita kalimutan?"

curse scaramouche and his way with words!! "tama na please baka mahuhulog ulit ako sayo" you said nonchalantly, which made him chuckle. "what if i wanted that?"

"i know you have a lot of questions and im willing to answer them" he let go of the book he was holding as he held your hand. "im sorry for leaving without saying anything or giving you a reason. i felt like you deserved someone better than me." he spoke as you listened intently

"i noticed how much you prioritized me over yourself. i realized how much time you wasted on me instead of pursuing whats best for you. i realized how much i didnt deserve you"

he kissed the top of your head which sent butterflies on your stomach. you were supposed to be mad at him damn it! not fall in love!

"i miss you, y/n. please give me another chance." his voice was soft. you could tell he was being genuine. and who are you to deny someone like him? after all, you arent exactly the strongest person out there.

'god, alam nyo naman hindi ako malakas, marupok lang ako'

"namiss talaga kita kuni." you started after a bit of silence from your side as his heart beat when you said his name. "sino ba naman ako para sumabi ng hindi. marupok lang naman ako"

he chuckles as he kissed the top of your head.

"alam mo ba? mahal talaga kita" he said as you groaned "yuck ang corny mo talaga... i love you too.." you mumbled the last part but it was loud enough for scaramouche to hear.

the both of you stayed in that position for a while until your one hour was finally over. if this was you one hour ago you might have been relieved to be finally be free from this pure evil named scaramouche but now, you cant help but want to extend it as to not let him go again.

you both walked back to the booth as tighnari and the others removed the handcuffs. your wrist felt a bit sore as you rubbed it.

"congrats on surviving an hour" tighnari joked as scaramouche simply glared at him. "pwede nyo rin mapahandcuff ang friends nyo"

"we dont really need—" scaramouche was cut off by you.

"actually meron ako gusto ipahandcuff" you said while mentally laughing about what might be thoma's reaction.

[liuaneee]

You look around for scara fics... everything is sex.... scaranation desires deek....

Guys pls i need like scara fics where the main focus ISNT smut i read almost everything on this app and everything on ao3😭

[liuaneee]

OH GOSHHH

Anyone here who's been around tiktok for... Idk, since the slideshow x yn stuff? If any of you know abt that one creator who draws aus and stuff

I can remember them making an albedo x yn that goes like, albedo is a vampire in hiding while yn's a princess? And both klee and durin are also in the story, and it had multiple parts

Anddd a scara x yn x xiao fic where yn is a famous idol/actress(?) and, she got scara as her bodyguard, and xiao as a co-actor who courts(?) her? One particular part I remember is when she gets kidnapped and scara accidentally(?) kills one of the men involved in her kidnapping.

I've squeezed both of my tiktok accounts' favorites and liked videos to find it but I got nothing😭 I've also checked half of my followed accounts;-;

If anyone knows them, please lmk and get their account pls😭 (Oh and forbid if they've deleted their content😭😭😭)

Once again, I apologize for excessive tags(and/or clogging up your feed) I AM DESPERATE

(Oh and if anyone there knows a General!Kunikuzushi x yn that also happens to be a slideshow au?)

[liuaneee]

another simple favour

scaramouche x reader

you and scara are in a long-term relationship, only a couple weeks away from your wedding. to protect your privacy, your agency works hard to keep your personal life out of the media, but while blessed with tremendous acting skills that the entire world praises, outside the set, you can’t lie to save your life, so you avoid scara in public in order to not cause dating allegations. as a result, your fans misunderstand and think you guys hate each other.

established relationship, secret relationship, actors au, one shot, fast pace

warnings: kys jokes, mentions of alcohol, suggestive content

scara, lumine, aether are actors. venti’s a singer and producer. yn’s in both industry and childe is childe!

image 15 references hot ones, written portion after image 20 (the call image), small timeskip after image 27

probably ooc sawry i havent played genshin in saur long

ignore timestamps or die

✎ᝰ.

Your phone emits a soft light, brightening up the dim room. Surprised by the sudden call, your phone vibrates in your hands with Scara’s name flashing on the screen.

“Aren’t you busy?”

“No, don’t worry,” he replies, but the distant crowd you hear from the other side of the screen fuels your doubt. Nevertheless, you feel warmth spread throughout your body, knowing he’d drop everything to keep you company—even on days like this.

You recount your day to him and tell him about your experience on the Hot Ones set, how you basically downed an entire gallon of milk after they shut off the cameras because you could still feel the heat burning your throat. He makes fun of you, of course, laughs when you get mad, and then he starts to tell you about his day.

Eventually, your responses dwindle into soft hums of acknowledgment, content to let him lead the conversation. He tells you about Childe raiding his interview in the morning and somehow making it all about him, Lumine and Aether visiting him on set and bringing the entire crew something to eat, and Venti sending him a demo of his new song.

Soon enough, your eyes start to feel heavy, lulled by the sweet sound of your lover’s voice. Your thoughts drift, and Scara’s voice grows distant until you eventually succumb to sleep.

The other end of the line grows quiet, perfectly in tune with you even when separated by a screen.

Scara smiles to himself before whispering sweet nothings into the steady breathing on the other end of the line—words he would’ve had trouble saying in his younger years, back when he first started dating you.

“Goodnight,” he quietly adds before ending the call, bracing himself to open the door back to the people he’d previously barked at to take a break—waiting for him.

✐ᝰ.

SOOO did yall like pls tell me if u did, this was in my drafts for days cus i was tew scared to post (and i couldnt come up w a title lmao)

inspired by the anna kendrick and blake lively drama but i havent even watched their movies yet

i wanted to add the profiles but i used up the 30 image limit accidentally rip. also ik the ending’s rushed nawt my fault i swear, i probably shouldve made this a two shot cus i had more planned for it but we yolo

idk how the film industry works forgive me if this is innacurate its js for funsies BUT IF U DO HMU cus i have another idea but i think theyll be actors again…

yall see the drama in kpoptwt lately krazy

also i think i made this gn reader i didnt even mean to i js got used to referring to yn as they/them lol

[liuaneee]

How They Defend / Protect You

Feat. Albedo, Scaramouche

Albedo

The sunset is already about to start while you hurry through the streets of Mondstadt, trying to avoid any of the Knights of Favonius in case you get talked off by them.

You’re supposed to meet up with Albedo in front of the city to watch the sunset at the cliff – or rather, Albedo wanted to paint and had invited you to keep him company. Only, your work has held you up longer than expected and now you fear Albedo has either gone without you or, poor guy has been waiting all alone by the bridge.

“By Barbatos! Are you completely-“ You come to a shrieking halt at the same moment a middle-aged man stumbles a few steps backwards, clutching his chest in shock.

Swallowing back a curse you hastily squat down to reach for the firewood he dropped in his distress. “I’m so sorry, Simon. Are you alright?”

“Am I-?”

When you glance back up, you’re surprised by how red his face has turned. Perhaps ‘alright’ wouldn’t be a suited term indeed.

“Say, are you out of your mind! How dare you startle me that immensely?”

Slowly, you rise back up, the woods now secure in your arms.

“Have you got not manner – You should be ashamed of yourself!”

While Simon keeps insulting you, you are admittedly a bit taken aback by his sudden outburst. Of course, it’s not nice to be startled out of now where but – no need to act so harsh, right?

But when he keeps raising his voice and is now basically screaming straight into your face, you get back on track and steady yourself, because how dare he just treat you like that?

“Sir, there is no need to shout” you interfere his triage of rage, feeling your own anger rising, “I can hear you quite well. Besides, no huge enough damage has been done to justify losing one’s civil tongue.”

Simon's eyes flash in fury at your words. “Civil tongue? Have you lost the last of your senses? You should be begging for forgiveness for me not to report the incident to the Knights of Favonius.”

Before your frustration gets the chance to slip through your lips in a way less than civilised response, you feel the gentle touch hand on your shoulder.

“Excuse me. Is something the matter here?”

It’s only when you turn and see Albedo at your side, do you also notice some bystanders who have stopped at the commotion and are now exchanging curious glances.

Great. This is gonna be the talk of town tomorrow.

But despite the situation, Albedo’s presence has its usual calm effect upon you, and you feel your anger settle. A bit at least.

Even Simon seems to paddle back and settle down in his current outburst.

Albedo’s eyes find yours, searching for answers he probably already concluded himself. “Are you alright?”

You nod slowly. “I’m alright.”

His eyes sweep over you once more, before he turns to Simon. “Sir, has there any harm come to you or any of your goods?”

Simon huffs, crossing his arms defiantly. “As far as I can tell, the woods are fine.” Only then does he seem to realise you’re still holding said woods in your arms and his eyes dart to you, narrowing. 

As if sensing another upcoming dispute, Albedo subtly steps in front of you, before declaring in his own appeasing and soft-spoken manner, “While I understand your discomposure, Sir,” he states and you notice his voice also contains a certain firmness, “it is not right to treat your opponent with such approach. It will fuel only more ire, and the outcome won’t serve any of the parties.”

You keep your eyes on Simon, watching the different emotions swirl through his face. Anger, frustration, confusion, and then something akin to disappointment. He nods slowly, but also a bit taken aback by Albedo’s calm demeanour, not knowing where to disseminate his emotions now.

Simons huffs again, almost unsure how to react, so he grabs the wood out of your arms, while deliberately avoiding looking at you and grumbles. “Alright, well, uh, I might’ve just lost my nerves there.”

 “I apologise for startling you," you respond to which he nods once, still avoiding your gaze. His eyes dart to Albedo before clutching his wood and stomping off.

Albedo, who notices the bystanders starting to whisper to each other, gently takes your wrist and guides you past the gates, to the outskirts of town.

The sun is already setting as you stroll quietly along the bridge. You feel his hand on the small of your back, gently leading you forwards.

After a while Albedo breaks the silence. “I apologize if I overstepped by interfering in the dispute. But I did not appreciate the way Simon talked to you, let alone reacted to the incident.”

“I think you handled it fairly eloquent.” A smile tugs at the corner of your lips as you glance at him from the side. “The People of Mondstadt are all prone to temper their anger at your demeanour. You’re quite liked among them.”

Albedo gives a soft, amused huff, meeting your eyes. “My dear, I believe you are merely biased in that matter.”

Scaramouche

“With all due respect, Ma’am, but I’ve already been assigned a different role for this mission.”

Your superior Nomura regards you with a sharp look – not even your averted eyes could alleviate the goosebumps crawling down your skin.

“We’ve established this change of plan to be the best strategy, Agent. Are you refusing your duty?”

“No, Ma’am.” You cross your arms formally behind your back, trying to keep your frustration at bay. It’s not unusual for you to be subjected to whatever hell she offers, but normally she at least knows to inform you in an appropriate timing about something as important as that.

“However, I would require time to assess the new circumstances and gather the needed information.”

Nomura tightens her lips as if she’s annoyed by your presence alone. “That won’t be necessary. We do not have the time, and I believe your skills to be sufficient to assess the situation when it arises. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Again, you keep your voice neutral and expression unbothered while you watch her return to the rest of the divisions, which are waiting by the river.

Archons, why couldn’t Nomura inform you earlier? But alas. At least she has trust in your skills.

You huff quietly to yourself as you head to your new division, however Scaramouche’s sudden presence next to you holds you back. How can this man be so fast all the time?

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Even though Scaramouche outranks your Superior – and following that logic you as well – by a long shot, you feel your posture loosen up almost immediately. A familiar calm settling down your bones.

“I am off to act as a scout at the front. To make certain, the area is clear.”

Scaramouche’s eyebrow arch at that “You’re tasked with reconnaissance?”

“Not quite,” you explain, trying to overplay your irritation, but failing miserably. “I’m to remain there until the rest of the division arrives.”

Almost instantly his expression hardens, knowing the dangers and risks of that position. “Who distributed these roles? And more importantly - why have I not been informed?”

You cross your arms in front of you, suddenly feeling like you have to defend yourself in some sort. “It was a last-minute change. I was also informed just now.”

“Are they truly that incapable of decent strategizing? How utterly predictable.”

He lets out a slow, disdainful sigh before he flicks his gaze over to you. “And just so you get this straight, you will certainly not go.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf?” He scoffs and adjusts his collar, feigning nonchalance. “I will not risk my agent for some stupid reconnaissance task. You will remain at my side at the front, as it was originally planned and where your skills are suited best.”

The tone of his voice makes clear there’s no room for discussion left and yet you take a deliberate step closer to him.

“Scara,” you say, wanting to make sure no misconception remains, “this mission needs scouts to clear the area. I can manage that by myself if needed.”

“We’ll manage without scouts.” Scaramouche lets his gaze linger a moment too long, then his eyes narrow. “Or are you questioning my leadership?”

You huff. “This is ridiculous. My role isn’t that important to risk an entire mission for.”

The hardness in his eyes melts away and then he turns to the side, as if suddenly bored of the conversation.

“It is to me.”

Scaramouche keeps his gaze focused on the forest. His voice devoid of any emotion, merely an irritated frown has settled between his browns. “And now shut it, we’re heading off. I’ll handle your superior.”

[liuaneee]

:D oooh, I love those things where Scara isolates the reader so that she becomes reliant on his ass. So basically, psychological torture, please?

Your body is chained, but your mind? Still free. Or is it?

❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped in a mind game where love is a weapon and escape is impossible, you’ll learn that survival means surrendering to his twisted obsession. But as his control tightens, you’ll wonder: Are you his prisoner, or his willing prey?

♡ Book. World Ablaze (WA): For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Scaramouche x Fem. Reader

♡ Oneshot. #1 - Lover or Captor?

♡ Word Count. 10,821

♡ TW. dom + top yandere, non-con, psychological torture, manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, threats, BDSM, psychological torture, Stockholm Syndrome, force feeding, uncomfortable food descriptions, control over food and water, implied kidnapping

♡ A/N. No problem. I genuinely enjoy writing all forms of torture. I’d say this is soft Scaramouche to be honest. But that’s just me. Since manipulation of circumstances pre-kidnapping is a classic (but also a traditional cliche at times), I decided to make some small fun facts on how psychological torture works in general. Also, do note that this has a different writing (especially formatting and plot progression) style from my usual works, but that’s the point… And, low-key got sick of editing this haha. But that’s nothing new. Either way, hope you guys enjoy :))

He watches you with an intensity that burns hotter than the static hum of the electro mist surrounding the enclosed space he calls home—your prison. His eyes, sharp like the edge of a newly forged blade, track every movement you make, every twitch of your fingers, every shallow breath you take. There is no escaping his scrutiny, no moment where his gaze isn’t a weight you carry as if he’s carved himself into your very existence.

“You’re trembling again,” he murmurs, his voice a lilt of mockery wrapped in silk, carrying an undercurrent of something darker. He’s closer now, the faintest scent of ozone and metal clinging to his presence. He’s always so near, yet somehow never close enough for you to strike—not that you have the strength anymore. His manipulation has bled you dry, turned your once vibrant spirit into a pale echo of itself.

“Have I scared you that much?” he continues, his tone like an echo of thunder in a storm, half-amused and wholly cruel. He kneels before you, tilting his head as if studying a particularly interesting experiment, and you wish, not for the first time, that he would lose interest in his obsession. But you know better than to hope; hope is a fragile thing here, something he’s crushed beneath his heel more times than you can count.

Your legs are bound, wrists tethered together with some unbreakable material that bites into your skin when you move too much. Not that movement helps. He’s seen to that too. The chains are just as much a part of his games as the room itself: walls painted in endless monotones, no windows, only a single dim light that flickers faintly, threatening to plunge you into complete darkness at any moment. He’s told you before that he’d like to see what the dark does to you—what he could do to you while you’re blind and helpless.

“Tell me,” he says now, his hand reaching forward to brush against your cheek. His touch is deceptively gentle, a lover’s caress that belies the brutality hiding beneath the surface. “Have you learned to appreciate me yet?”

You flinch but don’t answer. Words are a dangerous currency here. Silence earns punishment; speech earns worse. You’ve been caught in his web long enough to know the rules of his game are meant to ensure one thing: total control. But your defiance—the last ember of it—makes you cling to the belief that your silence is an act of rebellion, however small.

He chuckles lowly, the sound reverberating through the empty room. “Still so stubborn,” he muses, fingers now tracing the line of your jaw. “I admire that about you, you know. That fight in your eyes. But it’s exhausting for you, isn’t it? Fighting me? Fighting this?” He leans in, so close that you feel the ghost of his breath against your ear. “Do you think anyone’s coming for you? That they even remember you?”

Your stomach twists, a sick knot of despair and anger. His words are poison, injected carefully and methodically into your psyche.

“I erased you,” he whispers, his voice soft but cold enough to freeze your blood. “From their memories, from their lives. Your friends? Gone. Your family? They don’t even remember your face. Isn’t that a kindness, though? Sparing them the grief of losing you?”

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, searching for the cracks he’s so meticulously created. “Do you hate me for it?”

You do. You hate him with a depth that frightens you. But you say nothing, your lips trembling as you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing it aloud. His expression shifts, a flicker of annoyance crossing his otherwise perfect features, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came.

“Hate me all you want,” he says, his tone growing harder, sharper. “But you will love me. In the end, you always will.”

He stands, his shadow towering over you as he looks down, his smirk returning like a blade pressed to your throat. “I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he says, turning and heading toward the door. “But don’t take too long. I’m not a patient man.”

The door closes with a deafening finality, and you’re left alone in the dim, flickering light. Alone with your thoughts, your fear, and the suffocating realization that he’s right. He’s always right. The world has forgotten you, and all you have left is him.

And isn’t that the cruelest truth of all?

────────────

The room is a void—a cage designed not to hold your body, but to unspool your mind held by fragile thread. The walls are stark and featureless, smooth metal panels that offer no hint of escape. There are no windows, no visible doors, just the cold hum of fluorescent lights that seem to dim and brighten at random intervals, casting shadows that twist and crawl.

The air is heavy, oppressive, suffused with his presence even though he’s nowhere to be seen. You can feel him, though—lurking in the corners of your mind, a phantom stitched into your every thought. His voice crackles through the static-filled speakers embedded in the walls, sharp and invasive, like glass scraping against your skull.

“Lonely yet?”

You flinch at the sound, your knees drawing tighter to your chest. His voice is smooth and mocking, curling around your mind like barbed wire.

“I told you this is for your own good,” he continues, each word laced with a venomous sweetness. “Out there, the world would devour you. I’m saving you, little fool. But gratitude? That’s too much to ask, isn’t it?”

You press your hands over your ears, as if that could block him out. But his voice doesn’t come from the speakers anymore. It comes from everywhere. From nowhere. It vibrates in your bones, coils in your gut, whispers in the back of your skull until you’re certain it’s your own thoughts betraying you.

The silence that follows is worse. It’s his silence—calculated, suffocating, a predator’s patience as it watches its prey wear itself down. Hours stretch into days, or maybe longer. Time is meaningless here. The lack of human contact gnaws at your sanity, leaving only the relentless pounding of your heartbeat to fill the void.

Then, finally, his voice returns, and despite the fear it brings, a twisted part of you clings to it like a lifeline.

“Look at you,” he purrs, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “So fragile. So desperate. Do you see now? No one else will come for you. Only me.”

The words settle over you like ash, suffocating and final.

And then he’s there.

The walls don’t open. He doesn’t step through a door. He’s just there, as if he’s always been there, a seamless extension of the room’s nightmarish design. The dim, artificial light casts a sickly glow over his features, making him look less human and more like a living doll—perfectly crafted, flawlessly sculpted, and utterly devoid of warmth. His smile is delicate, a razor-thin line that glints with malice beneath its veneer of sweetness.

“You’re quiet today,” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety hum that sends shivers racing down your spine.

He moves closer, his boots clicking sharply against the metallic floor. The sound is deliberate, each step a calculated reminder of his control, his dominion over this place, over you. His presence fills the room, overwhelming, suffocating.

“I wonder,” he continues, stopping just short of where you sit, “is it silence out of submission? Or defiance?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his gaze.

He crouches before you, his movements slow, fluid, and predatory. His violet eyes gleam in the half-light, shimmering with something dark and unreadable. They lock onto yours, pinning you in place, and the room seems to shrink further, the walls pressing closer until there’s nothing but him.

“Look at me,” he commands softly, his voice a velvet glove hiding an iron fist.

Your head moves of its own accord, your body betraying you as your eyes meet his. The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the sight of it is both intoxicating and nauseating.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, his gloved hand reaching out to cup your face. His touch is achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of tenderness, but his grip tightens just enough to remind you of his strength. Of your helplessness.

“You’ve been imagining things again, haven’t you?” he whispers, his tone almost pitying. “Seeing shadows where there are none. Hearing whispers in the dark. Poor little thing.”

He tilts his head, studying you like a scientist dissecting a specimen. The artificial light casts eerie reflections in his eyes, making them glint like shards of broken glass.

“Do you know what isolation does to the human brain?” he asks, his tone conversational, almost curious. “Deprive it of stimuli long enough, and it starts to turn on itself. Hallucinations. Paranoia. A complete collapse of the psyche.”

He leans closer, his breath brushing against your lips, his eyes boring into yours.

“But you’re not imagining me,” he says softly, his smile widening into something sharp, something cruel. “I’m as real as the blood under your nails, the bruises on your wrists.”

Your breath catches as his thumb brushes over your temple, the motion deceptively soothing. But then his fingers tighten, his nails digging into your skin.

“And do you know what the best part is?” he whispers, his voice dropping to a chilling hush. “You’ll beg for more. For me. Because I’m all you have left.”

The walls seem to close in entirely, the air growing colder, heavier, until it feels like you’re drowning in his presence. And through it all, his smile remains, a grotesque mockery of kindness, as he whispers again,

“Lonely yet?”

────────────

The camera in the corner of the room stares at you, its red light pulsing steadily like a heartbeat—like his heartbeat, if he had one. You can feel it watching, a cold, unblinking eye that absorbs every movement, every shallow breath. It’s not just the camera, though. The walls themselves seem to hum with an unseen energy, a constant reminder of the wires and devices hidden just beneath the surface, all tuned to you.

“You’ve always had a penchant for dramatics,” his voice crackles through the speaker embedded high above, sudden and sharp. You flinch, instinctively shrinking against the edge of the bed, the metal frame digging into your spine. “But let’s not make this more unpleasant than it needs to be. You know I’m only doing this for your own good.”

The static lingers, like the ghost of his presence, before dissolving into the oppressive silence that dominates your world.

———

Later, you find it—a book, an old one, its spine cracked and worn. A piece of the life you once had. The familiar weight of it in your hands brings a flicker of warmth to your chest. You don’t know how it got here or why he would allow you something so small yet so meaningful, but you don’t question it. You simply clutch it to your chest, savoring the moment.

But then, he arrives.

He stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his silhouette framed by the dim, flickering light. His eyes—those violet pools of cruelty and calculation—narrow as they land on the book in your hands.

“Where did you get that?” he asks, his voice calm, but there’s a cold edge to it, like a blade hidden in velvet.

“I—I found it,” you stammer, clutching the book tighter as if it might shield you from the inevitable.

He doesn’t move, but the air around him seems to shift, thickening with something unspoken. “Interesting,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his footsteps deliberate and measured. “You’re quite resourceful, aren’t you? Always finding ways to entertain yourself.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

When he reaches you, he kneels, his movements fluid and precise, like a predator cornering its prey. He plucks the book from your hands with deceptive gentleness, his slender fingers brushing against yours for a moment too long.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, turning the book over in his hands as though it were an artifact of immeasurable value. “A relic. A fragment of something that doesn’t exist anymore. Like you.”

His words sting, but before you can process them, he tightens his grip on the book. With a sudden, violent motion, he tears it in half, the brittle pages scattering like ash across the floor.

“Nothing from before matters,” he says, his tone cool, almost clinical, as he rises to his feet. “You don’t need distractions. You need me.”

———

That night, you try to sleep, but the room refuses to let you. The lights flicker intermittently, each burst of brightness searing your eyes through closed lids. A low, grating hum emanates from somewhere in the walls, setting your teeth on edge.

And then, the noise.

It starts as a soft, rhythmic tapping, like the distant sound of rain against glass. But it grows louder, more insistent, until it feels like it’s coming from inside your skull. You bolt upright, your breath ragged, your body drenched in cold sweat.

“You’re restless,” his voice coos from the speaker, smooth and mocking. “Didn’t I tell you to rest? Or are you defying me again?”

“I—stop it,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Stop what?” he replies, feigning innocence. “You’re imagining things again. Poor thing. You really should trust me more. I can help you.”

The noise stops abruptly, leaving an aching silence in its wake. You collapse back onto the bed, your body too exhausted to fight anymore.

———

The next morning, you stumble into the small, sterile kitchenette, your limbs heavy with fatigue. The stove is on—flames licking at the edges of a pan you don’t remember lighting. The smell of something burning fills the air, acrid and choking.

“Careless,” he says, leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed. “You could’ve burned the whole place down.”

“I didn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off with a wave of his hand.

“No excuses,” he snaps, his voice sharp as a whip. “You’re lucky I caught it in time. Do you see now why you can’t be trusted? Why you need me?”

You want to argue, to scream that it wasn’t you, that he must have done it himself. But the words die in your throat as his gaze pierces through you, cold and unrelenting.

────────────

The silence stretches into infinity, interrupted only by your own ragged breaths and the phantom echoes of his voice that claw at your psyche. You don’t know when he’ll speak again or if he’s watching, but the not knowing is part of the torment.

When his voice finally breaks the silence, it’s so sudden and sharp it feels like the snap of a guillotine.

“Still holding onto hope, are you?” His voice is soft, almost tender, a cruel mockery of comfort. “I admire your persistence. It’s… quaint.”

His tone is calm, calculated, each word chosen with the precision of a scalpel. It cuts through the fog in your mind, forcing you to confront the reality he’s woven around you.

“You think someone’s coming for you?” he continues, his voice dripping with incredulity. “How adorably naïve. Do you even remember what it’s like out there? The noise, the chaos, the endless parade of fools clawing at one another for scraps of meaning. I’ve spared you from that, haven’t I?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The lump in your throat feels like it’s suffocating you, and the weight of his words presses down on your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.

“Nothing to say?” he muses. “That’s fine. I prefer you this way—quiet. It suits you.”

———

You didn’t hear a door open. Didn’t hear the telltale click of boots against the floor. One moment you’re alone, and the next he’s standing there, a figure carved from shadow and disdain. The dim light paints him in stark relief, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the cold glint in his violet eyes.

“I’ve been generous with you,” he says, his voice low and steady, like the distant rumble of thunder. He steps closer, each movement precise, deliberate, as though he’s stalking prey. “I’ve given you time to adjust, to see the truth. But you…” His lips curl into a faint smirk, though there’s no humor in it. “…You insist on clinging to those foolish little scraps of defiance.”

You flinch as he crouches before you, his gaze leveling with yours. His expression is unreadable, a mask of icy detachment that barely conceals the storm simmering beneath.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “What exactly are you holding onto? A memory? A promise? Hope?”

He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he studies you with an intensity that feels like it could peel back your skin, exposing every raw nerve beneath.

“You don’t even know, do you?” he says, almost pitying. “You’re just… grasping. Blind and desperate. It’s pathetic, really.”

His hand reaches out, and you flinch again, but he doesn’t touch you. Instead, his fingers hover just above your face, as though he’s considering it, savoring the moment.

“You’re so fragile,” he breathes, his tone a mix of fascination and contempt. “It wouldn’t take much to break you, you know. A little pressure here…” His hand shifts, his fingers ghosting over your temple. “…And here.”

His other hand moves to hover over your throat, and your breath catches.

“But where’s the fun in that?” he muses, withdrawing his hands with a slow, deliberate grace. “Breaking you would be easy. No. I want you to understand.”

He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your ear, his voice dropping to a dark, intimate whisper.

“I want you to know that every moment you spend here is a gift. My gift. And when you finally shatter, when you finally look at me with nothing but submission in those eyes…” He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his smirk sharpening into something vicious. “…That’s when you’ll understand. That’s when you’ll thank me.”

The air feels thicker, heavier, suffused with his presence. The room spins around you, the walls closing in, the ground tilting beneath you. And through it all, his voice lingers, wrapping around your thoughts like a noose.

“No one else will come for you,” he says, standing to his full height, towering over you. “No one else can. It’s just you and me now. Forever.”

He turns to leave—or does he? The edges of your vision blur, the lines between reality and nightmare dissolving as his voice echoes through the void one last time.

“Stop fighting it, little fool. Stop fighting me.”

────────────

The first thing you notice when you wake is the cold. It bites into your skin, gnaws at your bones, wrapping itself around you like a second, crueler layer of flesh. The thin, threadbare shift you wear does nothing to shield you from it, the fabric clinging to your body with a dampness that reeks of mildew and despair.

The blankets are gone again. He always takes them when you displease him.

Your stomach churns with the memory of his last visit—the quiet menace in his voice, the way he tilted his head as he watched you scramble to piece together what was left of your broken dignity.

“You want comfort?” he had said, his tone laced with derision. “Earn it.”

You had begged—how could you not?—but he only smiled, a thin, sharp curve of his lips that cut deeper than any blade. And then he was gone, taking with him not only the blankets but the small, chipped bowl you had been using to collect water from the condensation that dripped sporadically from the ceiling.

Now, the thirst claws at your throat, dry and insistent. You press your lips together, trying to ignore it, but it’s impossible. Every breath feels like sandpaper scraping against raw flesh.

———

When he finally returns, it’s without fanfare. The door—a seamless part of the wall when shut—slides open with a faint hiss, and he steps inside, his violet eyes sharp and calculating. He’s carrying something this time: a bundle of what looks like clothing, though you’ve learned not to trust appearances.

“You look worse than usual,” he remarks, his gaze sweeping over you like a scientist observing a failed experiment. “Pathetic.”

You flinch at the word, but you don’t respond. Experience has taught you that anything you say will only feed his twisted sense of superiority.

He crouches before you, placing the bundle on the floor between you. It’s not clothing, you realize, but a single, thick blanket. It looks warm, inviting—an impossible luxury in this place.

“Do you want it?” he asks, his voice soft, almost coaxing.

You hesitate, your body aching for the warmth it promises. But you know better than to trust him.

“What do you want me to do?” you whisper, your voice hoarse from disuse.

His smile sharpens, a flash of white against the shadows of his face. “You’re learning,” he murmurs. “Good.”

He stands, taking a step back and gesturing to the far corner of the room. There, you see it: a tray of food, simple but sufficient—bread, water, a small portion of fruit. Your stomach growls at the sight, a humiliating reminder of your hunger.

“Eat,” he says, his tone light, as if he’s offering you a gift.

You don’t move. It’s too easy. There’s always a catch.

He chuckles, a low, mirthless sound. “Ah, still suspicious. How charming.”

He walks to the tray and picks up the cup of water, holding it up to the dim light as if inspecting it. Then, without warning, he tilts it, letting the liquid spill onto the floor.

“No!” The word escapes you before you can stop it, a raw, desperate plea.

He turns to you, his expression unreadable. “Prove to me,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that you deserve it. That you can follow simple instructions.”

“What do you want?” you ask again, your voice trembling.

His gaze narrows, and he steps closer, the soles of his boots crushing the bread beneath them as he walks. He crouches before you again, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away.

“Crawl,” he says simply.

The word hangs in the air, a command and a taunt all at once.

Your body stiffens, shame warring with desperation.

“Crawl,” he repeats, his voice harder this time, the veneer of gentleness cracking to reveal the steel beneath.

You hesitate, and his smile returns, cruel and mocking. “Or don’t,” he says, standing and turning away. “But don’t think I’ll be so generous again.”

———

The air in your prison grows colder with each passing day. The concrete floor seems to suck the warmth from your body, leaving you shivering in the thin, threadbare clothing he’s allotted you. Blankets are a luxury, one he dangles before you like bait on a hook. Hygiene products—soap, a toothbrush, even clean water—are rationed out like rare treasures, rewards for obedience that always seem just out of reach.

He watches you from the shadows, a silent predator waiting for the moment your spirit cracks. The sound of his voice is worse than the silence. It’s a scalpel, peeling away layers of your resistance with surgical precision.

“You look uncomfortable,” he remarks one day, his voice lilting with mock concern. He steps into the dim light, his figure framed by the cold, sterile glow. “How long has it been since you last had a proper shower? Days? Weeks?” He smiles, the expression brittle and sharp. “I could help with that, you know. All you have to do is ask.”

You say nothing, your eyes fixed on the floor, but he sees the flicker of humiliation in your expression, and it feeds him.

“No?” He tilts his head, feigning curiosity. “Still so proud, even now. Admirable, really. But pride won’t keep you warm. Or clean. Or alive.”

────────────

When the door finally hisses open, the sound sharp and invasive, you don’t lift your head. But you feel his presence immediately, a dark, oppressive weight that fills the room. His footsteps are soft but deliberate, each one echoing like the tolling of a bell. And then he speaks, his voice low and smooth, a dark current beneath deceptively calm waters.

“You’re looking pale again,” he remarks, his tone laced with mockery that twists your stomach. You don’t answer, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor, but he doesn’t need your response to continue. He never does. “Have you been refusing to eat? Or is it the water? You’ve always been so ungrateful, haven’t you?”

A shadow falls over you as he comes closer, and the sharp scent of ozone and something faintly chemical hits your nostrils. You flinch when his hand, cold and unyielding, grips your chin, forcing your face upward. His violet eyes gleam with a sick kind of amusement as he tilts his head, studying you like a specimen under glass.

“Thirsty?” he asks softly, almost gently, though there’s no mistaking the sadistic edge beneath his words. He reaches into the folds of his dark, flowing attire and retrieves a small, glass vial. It gleams in the dim light, the liquid inside as clear as crystal but no less threatening for its purity. “I brought you something special today.”

He crouches before you, setting the vial down on the floor with a deliberate clink. Then, with an almost theatrical flourish, he places a tall glass beside it, already half-filled with water. “Drink,” he says, his voice a command wrapped in velvet. “Go on. You must be parched.”

You hesitate, your body trembling as you glance at the glass. It feels like a trap—no, you know it’s a trap—but your throat burns with the dry, relentless ache of dehydration. It’s been days since he last offered you anything, the air in the room deliberately kept too dry, leeching the moisture from your body like some cruel experiment.

When you don’t move, his smirk widens, and he leans in, close enough that you can feel the chill of his breath against your skin. “Do you think I’d poison you?” he whispers, his tone almost tender, though the words slice into you like broken glass. “That I’d let you go so easily? Oh, no, little doll. If I wanted to destroy you, I’d make it far slower. Far more… personal.”

The implication chills you to your core, but the thirst gnaws at you with an intensity that borders on madness. You reach for the glass, your fingers trembling so violently you nearly knock it over. He watches with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving your face as you lift it to your lips.

The water is cold, colder than it has any right to be, and it slides down your throat like liquid ice. But then, the taste hits—metallic, sharp, and tinged with something acrid that makes your stomach churn. You gag, dropping the glass with a shattering crash, but it’s too late. The liquid burns as it courses through you, a searing pain that spreads from your throat to your chest, your stomach, your limbs.

He doesn’t flinch at the sound of the breaking glass. If anything, his expression grows darker, more triumphant, as he leans back on his heels, folding his arms across his chest. “How does it feel?” he asks, his tone almost conversational, as though he’s asking about the weather. “The sensation of your body rejecting what it so desperately craves? Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Your vision blurs with tears as you clutch your stomach, the pain radiating outward in waves. You want to scream, to beg, to curse him, but your voice catches in your throat, choked off by the bile rising within you. He watches it all with the calm detachment of a scientist observing a particularly interesting reaction, his head tilted slightly, his lips curved in a faint smile.

“Ah, but don’t worry,” he says after a moment, his voice softening in a way that’s even more sinister. “It won’t kill you. I wouldn’t waste such a useful tool on something as permanent as death.” He reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch cold and clinical despite the faux tenderness in his movements. “No, little doll, this is simply a reminder. A lesson.”

He leans in closer, so close you can feel the oppressive weight of his presence pressing down on you. “You don’t survive without me. Do you understand that now? Every breath you take, every drop of water you drink, every bite of food that passes your lips—it all comes from me. And it can all be taken away just as easily.”

The pain begins to subside, leaving you weak, trembling, and utterly broken. He stands, brushing off his knees as though he’s finished with some menial task. “Rest, if you can,” he says, his voice light and mocking once more as he turns toward the door. “You’ll need your strength for the next lesson.”

The door closes behind him with a resounding clang, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence of the room. Alone with the lingering burn in your throat, the taste of poison on your tongue, and the sick, suffocating knowledge that he’s right.

You don’t survive without him.

────────────

The silence he left behind had weight—a crushing, suffocating thing that pressed against your chest until your breaths came in shallow, wheezing gasps. Days stretched into nights, and nights into something darker still, where time seemed to lose its grip and your mind unraveled thread by fragile thread.

But then came the voice.

At first, it was a whisper—a delicate breeze brushing against the edges of your consciousness. Soft, insidious, and almost gentle.

“Did you miss me, little doll?”

Your heart stopped, then hammered violently against your ribs. You spun toward the sound, eyes darting across the empty room. Shadows stretched unnaturally, pooling in corners like ink spilled across parchment.

There was no one there.

But the voice persisted, lilting and melodic, curling around your thoughts like smoke. “Poor thing,” it cooed. “You look so lost. So lonely. Didn’t I promise I’d always come back for you?”

“No,” you rasped, clutching your head, fingers digging into your scalp as though you could claw him out of your mind. “You’re not here. You’re not real.”

The laughter that followed was low, rich, and agonizingly familiar. It reverberated through the empty space, vibrating against your skull like a tuning fork.

“Not real?” he repeated, his tone dripping with mockery. “Oh, my little doll, you wound me. But perhaps I’ve been too kind. Let me remind you.”

The world around you shifted—imperceptibly at first, like the faint sensation of vertigo. Then it hit. The walls groaned and shuddered, the fluorescent light overhead flickering wildly. The air grew heavy, thick with the metallic tang of blood. You stumbled, your knees buckling as the ground seemed to ripple beneath your feet.

When the flickering stopped, he was there. Or was he?

His face hovered just out of reach, a phantom etched in shadow and smoke, his violet eyes glinting like shards of broken glass. He was leaning in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath unnaturally cold.

“Tell me, doll,” he murmured, his voice velvet and venom, “do you still think I’m not real?”

You screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the silence. You clawed at the walls, at your face, your nails scraping skin as you tried to banish him from your senses. But the voice only grew louder, more insistent, wrapping itself around you like a shroud.

When he finally stepped into the light, the sight of him sent your stomach plummeting. His coat trailed behind him like the wings of some unholy predator, his silhouette framed in a distorted, sickly glow. He tilted his head, a parody of curiosity, and smiled.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, gesturing to the marks on the walls, the bloodied crescents under your nails. “What is it you’re trying to escape from, hmm?”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, your chest heaving. “You weren’t here,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I heard you, but you weren’t here. You were—”

“Everywhere,” he finished for you, his smile widening. “And nowhere. Isn’t it delightful? How fragile your mind has become?”

He took a step closer, his boots clicking against the floor in a deliberate, measured rhythm. Each sound drove a spike of dread deeper into your chest.

“But don’t worry,” he continued, his tone softening into something almost tender. “I’m here now. Let’s forget all about those nasty little thoughts, shall we?”

His hand reached out, brushing a blood-matted strand of hair from your face. The gesture was achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of affection. His touch left a burning, icy trail against your skin.

“You look so distressed,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mock concern. “Have you been imagining things again? Seeing shadows where there are none? Hearing whispers in the dark?”

You wanted to scream, to lash out, but your body betrayed you, rooted in place as his fingers ghosted over your cheek.

“No need to answer,” he said with a sigh, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. “Your silence speaks volumes.”

And then the illusion shattered.

His hand wasn’t on your face—it was inside your skull. You felt the sharp, electric jolt of something foreign scraping against your brain, an icy tendril of invasive thought slithering into the deepest recesses of your mind. Memories warped and twisted under his touch, familiar faces dissolving into grotesque, melting horrors.

“You see,” he whispered, his voice echoing within you now, “there’s no escape from me. Not in the silence, not in the noise. I’m in every breath you take, every blink, every beat of that fragile little heart.”

You sobbed, the sound choking in your throat as the room dissolved into a kaleidoscope of distorted images. Blood seeped from the walls, viscous and dark, pooling at your feet. You felt it creeping up your legs, cold and sentient, wrapping around you like chains.

And still, he smiled.

“Did you miss me?” he asked again, his voice slicing through the chaos. This time, there was no room for denial. He leaned in close, his breath brushing against your lips as he whispered, “I missed you, little doll. And I’ll never leave you again.”

────────────

The tray lands on the table with a resounding clang, a sound that reverberates through the suffocating silence of the room. The metallic echo seems to burrow into your skull, as if the very air conspires to mock your helplessness. He stands above you, a silhouette of unyielding authority, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement.

"You should be grateful," he murmurs, his voice smooth and calculated, like a scalpel slicing through flesh. The faint trace of a smirk curls his lips, his tone dripping with condescension. "I went to such great lengths to prepare this. Just for you."

Your gaze falls to the tray, and the bile rises instantly in your throat. The abomination before you masquerades as food, a grotesque parody of sustenance that seems alive in the most horrifying ways. The slabs of meat glisten unnaturally, their surfaces marred by oozing black lesions that seep a thick, tar-like substance. A faint stench rises from them, sharp and putrid, a rancid blend of decay and chemicals.

Nestled beside the meat is a mound of gray paste, its texture like wet cement, flecked with jagged shards of something white—bone? Teeth? You can’t tell, and you don’t want to. The greens are no better: wilted, slimy, and crawling with tiny, wriggling creatures. The bugs move lazily, their segmented bodies glistening under the harsh fluorescent light, their sluggish movements taunting your growing horror.

“You’re staring,” he says, his tone lilting, almost playful. He leans in closer, his sharp features framed by the dim, artificial glow. "What’s the matter? Not to your liking? It’s safe, you know. Perfectly edible. Nutrient-dense, even."

You swallow hard, your stomach twisting itself into knots. Every fiber of your being screams at you to run, to scream, to do something, but you can’t. His presence roots you to the chair, your limbs heavy with the weight of his control.

“Don’t think I’ll let you starve, little doll.” His voice drops, the endearment laced with venom. He picks up the fork, prodding at the meat. The action elicits a sickening squelch as the black liquid pools beneath it, the viscous substance clinging to the metal tines like molasses. “Go on,” he urges, his tone soft but edged with malice. “Eat.”

Your shaking hands reach for the fork, but your grip falters. The metal feels impossibly cold, a physical manifestation of your dread. You stab at the meat, and its rubbery texture fights back, resisting your every attempt to cut it. When you finally manage to tear off a piece, the smell intensifies, a cloying wave of rot and iron that makes your vision blur with nausea.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. He steps closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “You will eat every bite. I won’t tolerate waste.”

Your lips part reluctantly, and the moment the meat touches your tongue, the taste assaults you. It’s rancid, the flavor an overwhelming mix of decay and metallic bitterness. You gag instinctively, your body convulsing as you try to spit it out, but he’s faster. His hand clamps over your mouth, his grip iron-tight.

"Swallow," he hisses, his breath cold against your ear. The word is sharp, absolute. Tears stream down your face as you force the foul lump down, your throat convulsing violently around it. The moment it settles in your stomach, a heavy, alien weight, he releases you with a cruel smile.

“Good,” he purrs, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “But we’re not done yet.”

He picks up the gray paste next, scooping a heaping forkful. The gritty, slimy mass clings to the metal like glue, its acrid stench burning your nostrils. Without warning, he presses it against your lips, smearing the substance across your skin when you try to turn away.

“Open,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument. His other hand grips your jaw, forcing your mouth open, and he shoves the paste inside. It coats your tongue, the texture gritty and uneven, punctuated by the horrifying crunch of the shards within. You don’t want to think about what they might be. You retch, but his unyielding gaze pins you in place.

“Chew,” he orders, his voice devoid of patience now. When you hesitate, his grip on your jaw tightens, the pain sharp and immediate. “Chew.”

You obey, the shards cutting into your gums as the paste coats your mouth in an unholy mix of textures and tastes. When you finally swallow, it feels like swallowing broken glass, the jagged edges scraping their way down.

“Such a good little doll,” he croons mockingly, his fingers stroking your cheek in a grotesque parody of affection. His eyes glint with dark satisfaction as he gestures to the greens. “Finish it.”

The slimy leaves glisten under the light, their surfaces writhing with life. The tiny creatures embedded within them squirm and twitch, their segmented bodies pulsing faintly. He picks up a forkful and holds it before you, the bugs wriggling and falling off the edges, their tiny legs scrambling for purchase.

“No,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and trembling. It’s the first word you’ve dared to speak, but it’s a mistake.

His expression hardens instantly, his smile vanishing. He grips your hair, yanking your head back with brutal force, and presses the fork against your lips. “You don’t get to say no,” he snarls. “You will eat. Every. Last. Bite.”

The greens and their crawling passengers are shoved into your mouth, the slime coating your tongue and the bugs wriggling against your teeth. You chew reluctantly, each bite filling you with a fresh wave of nausea as the creatures burst, their insides bitter and sickly. Some continue to move, their twitching bodies sliding down your throat even as you swallow.

By the time the tray is empty, you’re shaking violently, tears streaming down your face as your stomach churns with the unholy concoction. He watches with satisfaction, his smirk returning as he steps back.

“Well done,” he says, his tone almost congratulatory. He sets the tray aside and crouches before you, his fingers brushing against your tear-streaked cheek. “See? You can do as you’re told.”

You stare at him, hollow and broken, the taste of his twisted meal lingering on your tongue. When he finally leaves, the door slamming shut behind him, the oppressive silence returns, and you crumble, your body wracked with dry sobs.

The food sits heavy in your stomach, a grotesque reminder of your helplessness. You know he’ll return tomorrow with something worse. He always does.

────────────

The sterile air of the room feels heavier today, pressing against your chest like invisible hands. You can’t shake the unease, the gnawing sensation that something is wrong, even more so than usual. It’s in the silence that stretches just a beat too long, in the flicker of the overhead light that seems timed to your uneven breaths.

Then, the door opens, and he steps inside with the quiet elegance of someone who knows he doesn’t need to announce his presence. Scaramouche. His name alone sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

He looks the same as always—poised, meticulous, as if every strand of hair and every fold of his outfit had been arranged with precision. But today, there’s something different in his eyes, something colder, more calculating.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, his tone almost conversational, as if you’re old friends catching up. His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

You don’t answer. You’ve learned by now that anything you say can and will be twisted, reshaped into a weapon aimed at you.

He sighs, a sound filled with exaggerated disappointment, and steps closer. The room feels smaller with each measured step he takes, until he’s standing just a breath away, towering over you like a shadow.

“I’ve been thinking,” he begins, tilting his head slightly, the motion almost childlike but laced with menace. “You haven’t been entirely honest with me, have you?”

Your heart stutters. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I saw the way you looked at me yesterday. The resentment, the defiance. After everything I’ve done for you.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupts, his voice softer now but no less dangerous. “And it hurt me. It hurt us.”

His words sink into your chest like daggers, each one meticulously placed to draw the maximum amount of guilt and confusion. You know he’s lying—there was no resentment, no defiance—but the certainty in his voice, the way he says it as though it’s an undeniable truth, makes you doubt yourself.

“Do you know how hard I work to keep you safe?” he continues, crouching down so his face is level with yours. “Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for you? And this is how you repay me? With distrust? With hatred?”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Don’t you?” His smile widens, cruel and mocking. “Then why do you keep trying to hurt me? Why do you keep betraying me?”

Your mind races, desperately trying to piece together what he’s accusing you of, but there’s nothing to grasp onto, no crime to confess.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice trembling.

His eyes darken, and he leans in closer, so close you can feel the chill radiating off him. “No?” he whispers, his tone dripping with venom. “Then why do I feel like you’re lying?”

────────────

The first time you see him again, it’s through a haze of adrenaline and fear, your limbs trembling as you push yourself upright. The sound of boots pounding on the concrete echoes like gunshots in the cavernous space. Everything smells like oil and blood and something metallic you can’t quite place.

He bursts through the shattered doorway, his dark silhouette haloed by the dying embers of light spilling from the outside. His eyes, sharp as a blade’s edge, scan the room until they lock onto you, crumpled in the corner, battered and bleeding.

“I told you not to wander off,” he says, his tone more exasperated than angry. But there’s something underneath it—an undercurrent of urgency, of barely contained panic.

Before you can respond, he’s kneeling in front of you, his gloved hands moving with precision as he checks for injuries. His touch is cold, clinical, but his gaze burns with something raw and unspoken.

“You could’ve died,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Do you have any idea what they would’ve done to you if I hadn’t gotten here in time?”

The words hit you like a blow. You remember the men who dragged you here, their faces masked but their intentions clear. You remember their laughter, the way they circled you like predators, and the sickening certainty that no one was coming to save you.

And yet, here he is.

“Why…?” Your voice cracks, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “How did you find me?”

He pauses, his hands stilling as he meets your gaze. “Because I always find you,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Because you’re mine to protect. No one else cares enough to keep you safe, to pull you back from the brink every time you stumble into danger.”

You should feel grateful—relieved, even—but his words don’t sit right. They coil around your mind like a serpent, squeezing tighter with each repetition.

———

Days later, after he’s taken you back to the sterile confinement of your “safe place,” the cracks in the story begin to show.

You wake up screaming, your dreams plagued by shadowy figures and muffled threats. The first thing you see is him, sitting in the corner of the room, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

“Still having nightmares?” he asks, his tone calm but laced with faint condescension.

You nod, your throat too dry to speak.

He stands, walking over to you with measured steps. “I warned you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “The world out there is cruel, unrelenting. They don’t care about you like I do. That’s why you need to stay here, where I can protect you.”

“But—” you start, the words dying in your throat as his gaze sharpens.

“But nothing,” he snaps, though his voice never rises. “Do you remember what happened? What they said they’d do to you? Or are you already twisting it in your head to make me the villain again?”

You flinch, the accusation stinging even though you know it isn’t fair. “I didn’t say that,” you whisper.

He leans closer, his presence suffocating. “But you thought it,” he murmurs. “Don’t lie to me. I can see it all over your face.”

The conversation leaves you shaken, his words gnawing at the edges of your mind. Had you misunderstood him? Was he right?

———

The next day, you notice something strange. The small, cracked mirror on the wall—the one you’ve stared into countless times, trying to find traces of the person you used to be—looks different. The crack is gone, the glass pristine, almost too pristine.

You press your fingers against it, your reflection wavering slightly. “Was this always here?” you mutter to yourself.

“It was,” his voice answers from behind you, making you jump.

You turn to find him leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed and an infuriating smirk on his face. “Are you doubting your memory now?”

“I…” You hesitate, the weight of his gaze making it impossible to think clearly.

“Maybe it’s the stress,” he continues, pushing off the wall and walking toward you. “Trauma does funny things to the mind. Makes you see things that aren’t there, remember things that didn’t happen.”

He stops just inches away, his hand brushing against your cheek in a gesture that feels both comforting and imprisoning. “But don’t worry,” he says softly. “That’s why I’m here—to keep you grounded, to make sure you don’t lose yourself completely.”

———

Over time, the little inconsistencies pile up: a drawer that seems to shift its contents overnight, a diary you swore you wrote in that now sits blank, the faint smell of antiseptic that lingers on your skin despite not remembering any wounds.

“You’re imagining things,” he says whenever you bring it up. “Do you want me to get the doctor again? You remember what he said last time—about your delusions?”

The mention of the doctor shuts you down. You remember the cold metal of the examination table, the too-bright lights, the clinical detachment in the doctor’s voice as he listed off your supposed symptoms.

“You’re not well,” he had said, his tone devoid of compassion. “But with time, and the right care, you can recover.”

And who had been there to hold your hand through it all? Who had whispered reassurances in your ear, promising that he’d never let anyone hurt you?

Him.

Always him.

———

One day, he takes you outside—or what he claims is outside. The sky is gray, the air heavy with the acrid smell of smoke. There’s no one around, just endless stretches of concrete and metal, like the remnants of a city that never finished being built.

“This is what’s left,” he says, gesturing to the desolation around you. “You wanted freedom? Here it is. Go ahead. See how far you get.”

You take a hesitant step forward, then another, the silence pressing in on you like a physical weight. But the farther you walk, the more it feels wrong. The same twisted tree looms in the distance no matter which direction you turn.

“It’s a loop,” you whisper, realization dawning like a shard of glass slicing through your thoughts.

He steps up behind you, his breath warm against your ear. “It’s safety,” he corrects. “And the sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.”

You sink to your knees, the weight of his words crushing you.

Because deep down, you know he’s right. There’s no way out.

────────────

The “gifts” arrive in silence, placed delicately where you can’t ignore them. They are always wrong in ways that make your stomach churn—a photograph from a vacation you can almost remember, the faces distorted into grotesque smears as if melted under the heat of his touch. A trinket you once cherished, now fractured or tarnished beyond recognition, its edges sharp enough to cut. A letter written in your own handwriting, the words rearranged into senseless patterns, like a code you’re too far gone to crack.

You don’t want to touch them, but you do, every time. They feel like a thread tying you to the world you left behind, even as the thread frays in your trembling hands.

Today, it’s a letter. A crumpled piece of paper, brittle and yellowed at the edges, that wasn’t there when you closed your eyes to the oppressive dimness hours—or was it days?—ago. The words shift as you read, the ink bleeding into itself until sentences collapse into meaningless blotches.

“It’s all gone, you know,” his voice cuts through the silence, a dagger laced with mockery.

You whip around, the paper crinkling in your grip as you face him. He’s standing in the doorway—or at least, where a doorway would be if this room obeyed the laws of reason. His silhouette is backlit by a faint, sterile glow that gives him an otherworldly edge, making him seem more phantom than man.

His smirk widens as he steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, his boots echoing against the cold floor. “Everything you had. Everyone you loved.” He pauses, tilting his head as if savoring your reaction. “I made sure of it.”

His words pierce through you, sharp and unrelenting, a scalpel carving away at your hope. Your hands shake, the letter slipping from your grasp and fluttering to the ground.

“I don’t believe you,” you manage to whisper, though your voice wavers under the weight of his presence.

“Oh?” His tone drips with amusement as he crouches before you, his violet eyes glinting with something dark and twisted. He picks up the letter, smoothing it out with a precision that feels mocking, before holding it out to you again. “Then tell me—what does it say?”

You stare at the paper, the lines of ink writhing like living things under his gaze. The harder you look, the more the words evade you, slipping through the cracks of your comprehension like grains of sand.

“Nothing?” he presses, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “How tragic. And here I thought this might bring you comfort.”

He straightens, looming over you as his smirk softens into something almost tender—almost. “But you don’t need those relics, do you? Memories are just burdens, after all. And I…” He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch so light it feels like a mockery of affection. “…am here to unburden you.”

You recoil, pressing yourself against the wall, but there’s nowhere to go. His hand lingers in the air for a moment before he withdraws it, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

“You have me now,” he says, his voice calm, measured, but with an undercurrent of something that makes your skin crawl. “And isn’t that enough?”

———

You don’t answer. The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, until he chuckles—a low, mirthless sound that vibrates through the room.

“No?” He turns his back to you, pacing with the languid grace of someone who knows they’ve already won. “Ungrateful to the end, I see. Typical.”

He stops near the far wall, his hand trailing across its surface as if feeling for a seam. The room responds to him, a soft click reverberating through the air as a hidden compartment slides open. From within, he pulls another “gift”—a locket this time, small and tarnished, the metal warped as though crushed under immense pressure.

He holds it up, letting it dangle from his fingers as he turns back to you. “Do you recognize this?”

Your heart clenches at the sight of it, the faint glint of its once-polished surface sparking a memory so vivid it feels like a slap. You don’t answer, but he sees the recognition in your eyes, and his smile sharpens into something predatory.

“You kept this with you always, didn’t you?” he muses, his voice soft, almost reverent. “So sentimental. So human.”

He steps closer, dangling the locket just out of reach. “And yet, it couldn’t save you, could it?” His smile falters for a split second, a flicker of something bitter crossing his features before his mask of cold amusement snaps back into place.

He drops the locket at your feet, the sound of metal striking the floor echoing in the silence. “Take it,” he commands, his voice suddenly hard, sharp enough to cut.

You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for it. The moment your fingers close around the cold, misshapen metal, his boot comes down next to your hand, so close you can feel the air shift.

“But remember,” he says, his voice low and venomous, “everything you touch, everything you remember—it’s mine now. Just like you.”

His words sink into your mind like hooks, tearing at your resolve as he turns and disappears into the void he came from, leaving you alone with the locket and the crushing weight of his truth.

———

You want to say no. You want to scream it, to hurl the word at him with every ounce of strength you have left. But the word sticks in your throat, a jagged shard of glass you can’t swallow or spit out.

He doesn’t wait for your answer. He doesn’t need to. The smirk that plays at the corners of his lips tells you he already knows.

“You’ll see,” he murmurs, his tone almost reverent now, as though speaking of a truth so profound it defies comprehension. “In time, you’ll come to understand. I’m all you have. All you’ll ever need.”

He steps back, his boots clicking against the floor in a rhythm that echoes like a heartbeat—your heartbeat, weak and faltering.

“Do try to appreciate my generosity,” he says over his shoulder as he moves toward the shadows. “These little gifts of mine… they’re not just for you, you know. They’re for me, too. A reminder of how far you’ve come.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the letter, the photograph, the watch. Alone with the fragmented remains of a life you can no longer remember.

The lights flicker again, plunging the room into darkness.

His voice lingers, though, soft and venomous, a ghost that refuses to leave.

“Gratitude, little fool. That’s all I ask.”

────────────

The room you’ve been confined to has changed again. Not in any tangible way—no new walls, no new objects—but in the oppressive way it seems to warp around you, making even its empty expanse feel too small. It’s as though the walls breathe, inhaling your will and exhaling despair. The only constant is him. Scaramouche, who looms like a god in a world of his own creation.

He stands before you now, framed by the stark artificial light, his expression unreadable. Every movement, every glance he spares is a study in calculated perfection, as though he’s rehearsed this scene in his mind countless times before bringing it to life.

“You’ve made progress,” he begins, his tone soft, almost kind. “I can see it in the way you’ve stopped resisting.” He kneels to your level, his hands clasped neatly on his bent knee. “But we still have work to do.”

You flinch as he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your wrist. His touch is light, fleeting, yet it feels like chains being wrapped around your bones.

“Tell me,” he says, his voice dipping into something more intimate, more poisonous. “What’s your name?”

You hesitate, your lips parting but refusing to form the words. The question isn’t innocent; you know that by now. It’s a trap.

Scaramouche’s smile deepens, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your stomach churn. “I see,” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. “You’re still clinging to it. That identity. That name. That life.” His gaze sharpens, cutting through you like glass. “How selfish.”

“I’m not selfish,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling.

“Aren’t you?” he counters, rising to his feet. He begins to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his every step deliberate and echoing in the oppressive silence. “You insist on holding onto a version of yourself that no longer exists. Do you know how exhausting that is for me? Watching you struggle, knowing you’ll never succeed?”

His words are a scalpel, precise and cutting. “Let me simplify things for you,” he continues, his tone lightening as though he’s offering a gift. “You don’t need a name. Names are for people who belong to the world, and you…” He pauses, turning to face you fully, his violet eyes glowing with an unearthly intensity. “You belong to me.”

The words hang heavy in the air, suffocating you in their finality. He kneels again, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “Say it,” he commands, his voice velvet and steel. “Say you’re mine.”

You shake your head, tears pooling in your eyes. “I—I’m not—”

His grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you of his power. “Say it,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

When you don’t respond, he sighs, releasing you and rising once more. “You still don’t understand,” he says, his voice tinged with disappointment. “But that’s alright. I’ll help you. I always help you, don’t I?”

———

The next morning, you wake to find everything in the room gone—your blanket, the single chair you’d been allowed to sit on, even the thin mattress you’d been sleeping on. The floor beneath you is cold, unyielding, and utterly barren.

When Scaramouche arrives, his expression is one of practiced pity. He crouches down, inspecting you like a scientist observing a fragile experiment. “It’s painful, isn’t it?” he says softly. “To have everything stripped away. But it’s necessary. You have to learn that those things were only weighing you down.”

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, your voice breaking.

“Because I care,” he replies without hesitation. “Because I want you to be free.” He tilts his head, his gaze softening in a way that feels like mockery. “Don’t you see? I’m saving you from the prison of your own mind. The sooner you let go of who you were, the sooner you’ll find peace.”

You don’t respond, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He rises to his full height, towering over you like a judge delivering a sentence. “I’ll leave you to think,” he says, his tone light but his words laced with menace. “But remember: the only way out of this is through me.”

———

Days pass—or maybe weeks; it’s impossible to tell. The walls seem to close in more each day, their featureless expanse a blank canvas for the chaos in your mind. You begin to question everything: your memories, your sense of self, even your sanity.

One day, Scaramouche returns with a new “gift.” It’s a mirror, small and oval, its edges gilded in a way that feels almost mocking. He sets it before you with a flourish, his smile unreadable.

“Look,” he says simply.

You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for the mirror. When you finally raise it to your face, you barely recognize the person staring back. Your skin is pale, your eyes hollow, your hair disheveled. You look…empty.

“Do you see now?” he murmurs, crouching beside you. “This is who you are. Who you’ve always been. The world out there didn’t care about you. It chewed you up and spat you out. But I…” He pauses, his gaze locking onto yours in the reflection. “I’m the one who picked up the pieces. I’m the one who’s here for you.”

Tears stream down your face, and you don’t even know why. His words are poison, but they seep into the cracks of your mind, filling the void with something dark and insidious.

“You’ll thank me someday,” he says, his voice soft and almost tender. “When you finally see the truth. When you finally understand that I’m your savior.”

He takes the mirror from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels both possessive and gentle. “But until then,” he says, rising to his feet, “you’ll stay here, where you belong. With me.”

────────────

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[liuaneee]

pretty

Forgot to post this one here

[liuaneee]

[liuaneee]

❇️ anon: Could you do an NSFW post of making love to Kabukimono for the first time? Like a sweet, consensual experience that is both super pleasurable for him and also helps his bond with the reader grow closer?? Where he’s being an absolute darling and is a little nervous, and reader soothes him and ends up fucking him into pure euphoria while whispering sweet nothings in his ear??? Idk I just really love him and I think some fluffy NSFW with him would be perfect! <3

“ 𝐊𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐨’𝐬 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 ”

✦ characters: sub!Kabukimono x gn!reader

✦ cw: virgin + small dick kabu, gentle sex, loooots of foreplay, praise, fingering (giving), frotting, coming untouched, cock/strap penetration

✦ word count: 3.476k

✦ notes: I didn’t want to rush anything for Kabukimono’s first time so there’s lots of foreplay here. <3

sfw ver | ✦ nsfw ver

It’s late into the night. Everyone’s laid and snuggled up into their futons, just like you and Kabukimono—tangled in each other’s limbs yet not asleep. Your lips are locked in with each other, the action feeling both gentle and desperate for the inexperienced puppet.

Initially, Kabukimono was nervous to ask for your help. These weird sensations in his stomach when you’re close—it was starting to bother him, and your solution to this was to indulge it. Once after getting a taste of your passionate affection, Kabukimono was soon lost in the moment, his inexperience shining through his clumsy yet eager kisses.

The puppet seemed to have forgotten that you’re still human however, still needing air in between each kiss. Slowly, you pull away and softly gasp for air. Kabukimono’s eyes fluttered open, confusion pasting in his face, “Why’d you stop? Did I do it wrong?”

You chucked at his innocent questions. The way he was confused yet concerned at the same time was inexplicably endearing. “No, darling,” You shook your head, “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just needed to breathe.”

“Oh,” Kabukimono replies, his face feeling warm despite his lack of ability to blush like a human. “I’m sorry,” He added in a hushed tone as he got closer to your face once more, “I’ll be more mindful.” His lips hovered yours, silently asking permission to kiss you.

You reciprocate his action, foreheads pressing against each other. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” you reassured him with a small, comforting smile before leaning back in, picking up right where you had left off. “You’re so eager—it’s adorable,” you teased softly, parting your lips to meet the eager movements of his tongue again.

Kabukimono felt more giddy than he already was, his arms wrapped around your neck, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Something about your reassurances, your praises.. It keeps him going. Keeps him wanting more—needing more. You love indulging him, and tonight, you might as well see how far this would go.

Your hands roamed around his kimono, slowly tugging on the ribbons and robes to slide it off his body with care. Kisses trailed down to his chin, his half-lidded eyes fluttering as it follows your head until it’s buried to his neck.

“Ahmngh..!” Whimpers start to escape from Kabukimono’s lips, his head instinctively tilting up to give you more access. The soft kisses on his untainted neck sends pleasant shivers down his spine, desperate to receive more.

The remnants of his kimono and his undergarments cling to his frame, the last barriers between you. You lift yourself slightly, taking a moment to drink in the sight of him beneath you. His face is a deep shade of red, cheeks flushed from the intensity of your actions, even though all you’ve done so far is kiss him.

“I’m going to try something,” you murmured, crawling on top of him with deliberate slowness. Your knees pressed into the bedding on either side of his waist, and the way his violet eyes widened, pupils dilating ever so slightly, betrayed his inexperience and the nervous excitement he couldn’t hide.

The puppet’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t need to breathe, but somehow, the sensation of you angled above him was enough to make his non-existent pulse race. Something raw and unfamiliar stirred in him, leaving him vulnerable yet captivated.

“What are you gonna do?” Kabukimono asked, his voice filled with genuine curiosity as his gaze followed the motion of your hands. They traced along the lines of his stomach over the fabric, ghosting over his ribs before traveling upward toward his chest.

His body trembled under your touch, an unfiltered reaction he couldn’t control—couldn’t even begin to understand. Slowly, your fingers brush the outline of his nipples, the contact sparking unintentional jolts through his body.

“A-Ah!” Kabukimono gasped, his back slightly arching from surprise before falling back down just as immediately. The sensation caused him to stare at you for a moment, both surprised and confused by his own reaction.

You paused as well, fingers stilling on his chest. “How was that?” You asked in a tender tone, watching for any negative reaction or movement he would show.

The puppet didn’t know what to answer at first, his brain still digesting the earlier contact. “It’s different, but not bad..” His hands, previously clutching the sheets beneath you two, now find its way to your wrist, a silent permission for you to continue.

Not needing to be told twice, your fingers continued its ministrations. His nipples hardened from just a slight brush, poking underneath the fabric of his kimono. You rolled the pebbled peaks in between your index and thumb, gently twisting and pinching them to Kabukimono’s preference.

“Hnn..♡ feels nice..” Kabukimono whimpered, back arching closer to your fingers. He hasn’t felt anything this good—besides literally any other affection you’ve given him—and he loves it. It’s confusing, a little overwhelming, but knowing these feelings are inflicted by you.. it allows him to enjoy the intimacy he sees behind it.

You didn’t even need to hear any verbal reaction from him; the way his hands clung tightly to your wrists was a telltale sign of just how much he was enjoying this—perhaps even more than expected.

Leaning down, you captured his lips in another kiss, and he eagerly complied, his trembling body pressing further beneath you. You swallowed every sound he made, each muffled noise vibrating against your lips. It tasted like the unrestrained innocence of someone experiencing this kind of intimacy for the first time.

It was undeniably arousing, however, you knew this is about Kabukimono. You’d put your own needs aside if it meant showing him the depths of pleasure just waiting underneath his fingertips.

You pull away again, gasping for air, and you see him do the same. Was he imitating you or was the puppet actually feeling breathless in his own way? Nevermind that, the sight was enough to spark excitement in your eyes.

“Let me take these off for you,” You say, finally discarding the last layer of his robes. Kabukimono lifts himself to assist you in removing the fabric, his delicate figure finally getting a breather. The pleasure was so good that his own clothes felt too tight around his body.

As soon as you got him naked, you spoiled his chest with kisses, each one a testament of your love and desire for him. Your eyes glanced up to find his own, meeting his glassy gaze in an instant.

Your tongue darts out of your mouth, tracing it to the side before reaching his erect nipples. As you latch on one of them, Kabukimono mewled in a high pitched tone.

“ngHAAh..?!! ♡” Once again, Kabukimono's back arched to your mouth, allowing you to suck on his nipples more. It feels so good, but it looks like he’s trying to move away as well. The confusing mix of ‘wanting more’ and ‘can’t take any more’ seems to be messing with his program.

“T-Too much.. hah.. too good..! ♡” His head thrashed to the side, his indigo hair fanning out on his face and pillow. His hands scrambled to your head, tangling around your hair strands as he anchored himself. “Mmngh.. is it supposed to–hmn!–feel this g-good..?”

You chucked as your tongue swirled around the hard nubs, sending a delightful vibration across his chest before you pulled away. “It is, but if it gets too much, you know the word..” You spoke, pressing gentle kisses on his collarbone, letting him calm down from the high of his pleasure.

“Dearest, please..”

“Hm? Go on, I’m listening.”

“Please.. take off your clothes.. I wanna feel you more.”

His request reminded you that he was the only one bare in bed. You chuckled after sensing both his embarrassment and need. You discarded the top of your clothes, and Kabukimono was quick to feel it with his uncalloused hands. The ball joints of his knuckles felt good to the human skin, like it was massaging you even without the intention.

The puppet pulled you closer, face buried in the crook of your neck as his lips started to imitate the kisses you’ve given him earlier. “Don’t stop yet, please.. the feeling in my stomach hasn’t gone away,” He murmured against your skin, goosebumps forming on your nape from just the vibration of his voice.

You turn your head to look at his legs, it’s shaking slightly and there’s already a noticeable bulge on his underwear. “Don’t worry. We’re not done until you’re satisfied, darling,” You reassured. One of your legs settled in between his, making them spread apart.

You hold him by the waist, fingers pressing into the soft curve as your free hand trails down to his thigh, tracing idle shapes against his supple skin. “Look at me, Kabu,” you whisper, your voice low and laced with affection. His wide, indigo eyes snap to yours without hesitation, filled with trust and an overwhelming vulnerability.

Not a moment is wasted before your lips find his again, the kiss deep and consuming. It almost distracted him from your hand that’s inching closer and closer to his intimate area, settling on his inner thigh. Your thumb then brushes on a damp spot of his garment, receiving an involuntary snap from his hip.

Kabukimono gasped out of the kiss, watching your hand that already pulled away the very last thing that kept him covered. His cock springs free, the length not any bigger than your palm. It’s honestly adorable, making you pause for a moment

“D-Dearest, you shouldn’t– I mean–.. don’t stare so much..” Kabukimono voiced out, quickly covering his small dick with his palm. “I don’t think you should be looking at it..” He adds softly, shying away from your gaze.

His embarrassment only served to tempt you further, drawing you in like a magnet. Maybe it isn’t fair for him to show such an intimate thing while you’re just here, watching over him.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” you said softly, cupping one side of his face and brushing your thumb over his cheek. “Here, why don’t I show you it’s nothing to be shy about?”

Kabukimono watches as you offer yourself the same tenderness. His wide eyes follow your fingers, hooking on your lower garments, discarding it the same way you did with his. As your own cock has been exposed out of its confinements, Kabukimono gulped. It’s certainly bigger than his, intimidating yet he doesn’t shy away from it, unlike with his own.

You lower your hips to his, erect cocks touching each other. You start to grind in a gentle manner, frotting against him. Kabukimono moaned at the feeling of being so close to you, his own hips imitating your actions without much thought.

“Nhah–more.. please, more..” Kabukimono whined, his fingers clawing on your shoulders as he tried to ground himself from the overwhelming pleasure of direct contact with your dick. Now how could you deny that cute whine? If anything, it’s turning you on even more.

You reached for his cock, stroking yours with it. “uwAH–!♡ hanggh..~♡♡” Kabukimono jolted from your movement, unsure whether he should chase the friction or run away from it. His eyes rolled back, mouth hanging open as unadulterated moans streamed out.

Kabukimono’s cock starts to leak precum, messing up your palm, wet squelches echoing in the room. You gather the lube, coating your fingers with it before tracing down to his ass. You continue to grind, wanting to keep him suspended in that euphoric state, savoring every moment of his bliss before gently introducing him to another uncharted sensation.

Soon enough, the puppet’s attention falters as he feels one of your fingers circling his rim. He looks at you with a nervous gaze, “Wait, that’s dirty..!” He whispered, despite his comment, he gently rocks back to your fingertips.

You laugh softly, “Relax, darling. I’ll make sure you’ll feel good.” Your index starts to probe inside his untouched hole, the tight muscle fluttering around your digit. Kabukimono’s back arched for the umpteenth time, nails digging further to your skin.

“Feels–weird..hah..” He closed his eyes shut, fighting the discomfort of having something inside his hole for the very first time. You press your lips to his ear, whispering ever so softly for him to relax, that he got this, that he’s being a very good boy for you. He moaned at the praises, the pressure of your finger progressively getting pleasurable as seconds went by.

Once you notice him beginning to relax, the tension in his muscles slowly melting away, you take the silent cue to pump your fingers in and out at a steady pace. You let him get lost in the moment before your middle finger joined in, slowly but surely stretching him.

“Aannnh– that feels.. good..♡” His head falls back, his mouth opening as his moans increase in volume. “D-Don’t stop.. hngh–!♡” His hips rocks back to your fingers, meeting your gentle thrusts. His cock, still pressed against yours, is leaking more than ever.

As you scissor him open, you take the lubricant gel you’ve prepared from the start. You open it with your free hand and smear it on both your and Kabukimono’s cock. He whimpered at the jelly feeling, his small dick throbbing involuntarily.

He looks down and sees you applying it on his ass as well, your fingers gliding more easily now. “That feels–HAmnhh?!♡” You curled your fingers just as soon as he talked, words interrupted by a loud whine. You feel the tip of your fingers rub on something spongy.

“Found it.” You murmured to his ear, watching him writhe as you continuously rubbed his prostate.

His twitching legs wrapped around yours, toes curling from the overwhelming ecstasy your fingers provide. You’re close to the finale and you can’t help but imagine how Kabukimono would react once you’re finally inside him.

Slowly, you pull your fingers out, grabbing his legs to wrap it on your waist. “Mhn.. what are you..?” Kabukimono’s eyes flutter open, following the way you align yourself in between him. “W-Wait! Are you going to.. put it in?” His eyes widened, anticipation and nervousness shining through his pupils.

You scoop him to a soft embrace, placing a peck on his lips. “It’s okay, I’ll be gentle,” You reassured, pressing your forehead against his. “I’ll put it in slowly, tell me to stop if you need a moment.”

The head of your cock traces the rim of his hole, his precum and the lubricant mixing together. Once you feel him ease up, you slowly slide your way inside. Inch by inch, the puppet crumbled underneath you, eyes shut tightly as his tight muscle got stretched by your shaft.

He didn’t speak, too focused on the burning sensation of you pushing inside. You stopped half way through, not wanting to push beyond his limits. “Are you okay? Do you want me to pull out?” You asked in a soft tone, carding your fingers through his indigo locks to comfort him.

Kabukimono stayed still for a moment but shook his head, “I-I’m fine.. hah.. you’re just–mmn–big.” Whimpers start to escape his lips, even with how he’s biting it so hard.

“If you can’t handle it, we don’t have to push it–”

“No! I mean.. no, please.. you’re not all the way in yet, are you? I can take it.. I think.”

The way his eagerness mixed with trepidation had a certain charm to it. He’s always like this—never letting his fears or the unknown sway him. With a soft sigh, you start to thrust yourself in further. “Alright then, relax yourself, darling. You’re doing so good.”

Soon enough, you fully bottomed out inside him, his inner walls clinging to your entire length. "Tell me when you’re ready," you continued, your fingers brushing tenderly against his cheek, tracing the delicate curve of his jawline, “We’ll go at your pace.” His lips parted slightly, a shaky sound escaping as he adjusted to the moment.

Kabukimono nodded, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second before meeting yours again. "I... I think I'm ready," he said, his voice a mix of hesitation and trust.

You smiled gently, leaning in to press a reassuring kiss to his forehead. "Tell me if it’s too much, okay?" With that, you began to move, mindful of his every reaction, ensuring that he felt safe and cherished.

You start out slow, letting him savor the intimate atmosphere the both of you created. His legs hung loosely around your waist, his body rocking back and forth with every gentle thrust you give. If Kabukimono were to tell the truth, he was waiting for you to hit that perfect spot inside him again—the same one your fingers touched earlier.

He gasped everytime your cock slid back in, even with how deliberate your pace is, it’s enough to break his composure. “M-More..♡ ngh.. don’t stop..♡♡” He’d tell you every now and then, coaxing you to speed up and finally strike that one chord that’s waiting for you.

With his timid voice breaking through the stillness, you paused for a moment, searching his gaze for any hesitation. Finding none, you offered a soft smile, leaning close to murmur against his ear, "As you wish."

Responding to his request, you picked up the pace, your movements steady yet attentive to his every reaction. His fingers clung to you tighter, his breath hitching in rhythm with each motion. “You're doing a good job, sweetheart.” you praised, pressing a kiss to his temple, his soft whimpering a melody you couldn’t get enough of.

Sounds of skin to skin slapping against each other echoes in the room, as well as Kabukimono’s increasing moans. “Ah–ah–ah! Mnhgh feels shoooHNGAHh!♡♡” Finally, your cock has found his prostate once more.

“R-Riggnht theree..!!♡♡” He babbled incoherently, no longer in the right state of mind to tell you how good he’s feeling. You didn’t mind, just the way his inner walls were clenching around you was enough as it is.

The puppet soon becomes a writhing mess underneath you, clinging to your neck with his arms and his legs to your waist, locking and pulling you closer. His eyes have rilled to the back of his head, wanton moans unable to be suppressed.

Your movements quickened, but your care for Kabukimono didn’t waver. His cock bounced in between your stomach and his; every sound he made, every quiver of his body, only encouraged you to shower him with more reassurance.

“You’re incredible,” you whispered, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “So beautiful, so perfect for me.” His hands tightened their grip on your shoulders, his wide eyes filled with both vulnerability and a spark of exhilaration.

“Good boy, taking me so well,” you affirmed without hesitation, kissing the corner of his lips before continuing. “I love you, darling. Always.”

His chest rose and fell rapidly, his body responding instinctively to your touch and your words. “Lov– angh♡♡ yes.. I love you–nnmore, ah!♡” he replied shakily, his voice barely audible.

Kabukimono’s body trembled with every touch, his breathing shallow and erratic as if he were teetering on the edge of something overwhelming. You kept your pace steady, giving him the space he needed while still encouraging him to let go. “You’re almost there, I can feel it,” you murmured, your words a blend of encouragement and affection.

Kabukimono’s head tilted back as he let out a breathless sound, and his hands tightened around you. “I—ah—I feel somethinggh..!” he stuttered, his voice almost breaking under the pressure of the moment.

“Good,” you replied, your own voice tinged with excitement, not just for the pleasure of it, but for the emotional connection of this moment. “That’s it. Let go with me, Kabu.”

With that, Kabukimono’s body tightened around you, his small cock coming untouched. Strings of warm cum spurting out of the slit, landing to his stomach. You followed suit, your movements slowing as you both rode out the euphoric high, clinging to one another as you basked in the aftermath.

The room was silent save for the soft sounds of your heavy breathing, the tension in the atmosphere soon easing down.

After a few moments of silence, you leaned down to kiss him gently on the forehead, brushing a lock of his indigo hair away from his face. “You did so well, sweetheart. I’m proud of you.”

He looked up at you, his indigo eyes soft and dazed, the lingering shyness and vulnerability still there. “‘m tired.. but good..” he whispered, his voice barely audible but full of emotion.

You chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Then let’s rest for now. We’ll clean up when you’re feeling better,” You spoke softly, caressing his scalp as his eyelids flutter close.

“Thank you.. I love you.”

“I love you.”

[liuaneee]

THROWBACK TO MY ENTRY TO THAT CURSED SHIPS TREND (I unpublished it from my tiktok)