Chapter Text
it started out small.
subtle glances from the corner of your eye, his gaze intense enough to make the skin on the back of your neck prickle with awareness. it wasn't the kind of look that sent warmth pooling in your belly, but rather a cold chill that made you shiver involuntarily.
then came the small, sarcastic comments. indirect at first, muttered under his breath when he thought you couldn't hear. "dumb bitch," he'd scoff, rolling his eyes at something you said. "whore," he'd mutter, voice dripping with disdain. "fucking idiot." you’d catch snippets of his verbal abuse, the crude curses stinging like salt in an open wound.
sometimes they'd fall on deaf ears, your subconscious too busy to process the constant stream of insults. other times, they'd cut deep, chipping away at your self-esteem little by little. it was a slow poison, his cruel words and piercing stares wearing you down over time. you started to doubt yourself, to question your worth. and through it all, you found yourself inexplicably drawn to him, like a moth to a flame.
: : :
you snapped, cornering him by the stairs one time. a hand slammed against the wall as you pinned him there, eyes blazing with frustration and confusion. scaramouche’s gaze darted away, pink ears twitching as he tried to avoid your piercing stare.
"what the fuck is your problem with me?" you demanded, voice rising with each word. he muttered something under his breath, likely another biting comment aimed at you. your palms slapped against the wall in exasperation as you repeated the question, desperate for an answer.
but all you got in return was silence and evasion. scaramouche remained stubbornly quiet, refusing to meet your eyes even as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment or anger, you couldn't tell which.
with a final, frustrated growl, you stepped back, leaving him alone in the stairwell. the confrontation left you feeling more confused and curious than ever, his continued silence speaking volumes.
but that wasn't the last time scaramouche went and disturbed your nerves. in fact, it seemed to have emboldened him, his cruelty only escalating from that point on.
: : :
one afternoon, he dragged you up to the roof, uncaring of the curious stares and whispered gossip that followed in your wake. you tried to wriggle free of his iron grasp, but it was futile. his fingers dug into your wrists like vice grips, leaving angry red marks in their wake.
why not make a scene? why not try to flee? pride and ego kept you silent, unwilling to let others witness your weakness, your vulnerability. the idea of being seen as a victim, a pathetic weakling, was more than you could bear. besides, there was something in scaramouche’s gaze when he thought you weren't looking - a flicker of adoration, of longing that you couldn't quite reconcile with his cruel actions. it kept you rooted to the spot, letting him manhandle you with impunity.
the metal door to the roof slammed shut behind you, and before you could react, scaramouche shoved you backwards. your back hit the door with a resounding thud, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. you mustered your strength, ready to retaliate, only to have him overpower you effortlessly.
"bitch, it's not in your pocket," he hissed, grinding your face into the rough concrete as you squirmed beneath him. you let out a pained squeak as his hands slid under your body, flipping you over effortlessly. in a flash, he was straddling your hips, one hand already working on the first few buttons of your blouse. “where the fuck is it?”
you bucked and thrashed, feet kicking out uselessly as you tried to dislodge him. but scaramouche was simply too strong, easily pinning you down with his weight. just as you were starting to despair, your claws found purchase on his arm, scoring deep furrows into his skin and making him bleed.
"fuck!" he yelled, instinctively loosening his grip. you used the distraction to your advantage, laughing manically even as you lay trapped beneath him.
"congrats, you got your prize," you taunted softly, voice dripping with a crazy sort of amusement despite the precariousness of your situation. the crumpled bills he'd fished from between your tits lay scattered on the rooftop around you, a pitiful haul compared to the indignity you'd endured.
"pathetic bitch, think you're gonna outsmart me?" he hissed, giving your breasts a vicious squeeze. you cried out, more from shock than pain, as he manhandled your sensitive flesh.
"fuck you, that's my last money," you spat back, finally managing to shove him off. you lunged for the scattered bills in his hands, claws swiping out wildly. they landed on his arms and face, drawing blood as he recoiled from the sudden attack.
"why don't you just sell your disgusting body again to the old men you're seeing?" scaramouche taunted, laughing cruelly as he danced out of reach.
your mind reeled, trying to process the sudden accusation. where had he even gotten that idea? at first, his insults had been limited to calling you a slut, a whore. but now, he was full-blown accusing you of prostitution, of sleeping with old men for money. it was beyond frustrating, but a twisted part of you couldn't help but think that this was just his way of expressing jealousy.
"so what if i am?" you taunted back, playing into his delusions. "maybe i like being used by older men. at least they know how to treat a lady."
the words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, your crooked mind already spinning fantasies based on his ridiculous accusations.
"poor me though— no one wants to book me these days, last customer said my pussy was too loose to even feel," you laughed cruelly, watching scaramouche’s face contort with rage.
"fucking slut-" he lunged towards you, hand wrapping around your throat as he slammed you back against the metal door of the rooftop. your head hit the unforgiving surface with a sickening thud, stars bursting behind your eyelids.
his face was inches from yours, breath hot on your skin as he whispered, "i’m gonna kill you." teeth bared in a feral snarl, his grip tightening around your throat until you could barely breathe.
"you started it," you gasped out, fingers scrabbling ineffectually at his wrist. despite the lack of oxygen, a part of you was still amused by his overreaction.
"i don't even know where you got that stupid idea," you choked out, trying to reason with the enraged man pinning you down. but logic had no place in the haze of scaramouche’s jealousy and fury.
"you’re a fucking slut," he spat venomously, shoving you down against the cold metal door. the impact stung, but you barely registered the pain, too focused on the manic gleam in his eyes.
"always reveling under a man's gaze. fuck, bet you cream at everyone's attention on you, huh?" scaramouche breathed, face mere inches from yours. he was insane, clearly lost to the red haze of jealousy and rage.
you could only laugh in return, a sharp, bitter sound. you tried to push him off, to squirm and flail beneath his heavier frame, but he seemed intent on crushing you with his weight. suddenly, you spotted an opening - his vulnerable groin pressed against you. without hesitation, you brought your knee up sharply, connecting with his most sensitive area.
scaramouche let out a pained grunt, his grip on you faltering momentarily. almost - almost - you could feel his touch slipping, giving you a chance to escape. but then you saw his face - red as a tomato, eyes wide and glazed over with a mix of pain and twisted pleasure. he looked like he had just come undone, your brutal knee to the groin somehow igniting a perverse pleasure within him.
your knee connected with his groin again and again, each blow eliciting a pained grunt from the indigo haired boy. finally, his hands fell away from your throat, but his face remained buried in the crook of your neck, his hot breath ghosting over your skin.
ah, he was crying. the wetness on your shoulder was unmistakable now, his face flushed an angry, splotchy red. he was panting heavily, clearly overwhelmed by the intensity of his own emotions. you tried to shove him off, but scaramouche still had enough strength left to pin you in place, his body covering yours completely. both hands gripped your sides, holding you in place as he tried desperately to maintain some semblance of control.
"are you done?" you asked sarcastically, knowing full well that he wasn't ready to let you go. he just groaned in response, sniffling pathetically.
"let go," you demanded, but he just whined, clutching you tighter.
"no," he whined, still trying to assert dominance even as he trembled with the force of his tears.
"fuck, you're impossible," you scoffed, exasperated by his stubbornness.
"let go, scaramouche. i have places to be."
"like, where? your men?" scaramouche sneered, a fresh wave of jealousy and anger washing over him.
you scoffed loudly, exasperated by the absurdity of the situation. "i’m not a whore. never - you know what? this is a fucking joke. what the fuck are we even doing?" you repeated, shaking your head in disbelief.
"you’re disgusting," he snarled against your shoulders, "always craving attention. always acting like everyone wants you."
you tried once again to push him off, but his grip only tightened, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave bruises.
“and yet you're the one following me around like a fucking dog," you taunted, voice dripping with contempt. his breath hitched at your accusation.
"say that again," he warned, voice low and uncharacteristically soft. a shiver ran down your spine at the subtle threat in his tone, but you refused to back down.
"make me," you taunted, a reckless smirk tugging at your lips despite the precariousness of your situation.
silence fell between you, heavy and thick with tension. you could feel the rapid rise and fall of scaramouche’s chest against yours, the heat of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt.
"i don't want your stupid whore money," he spat, shoving the crumpled bills between your breasts for what felt like the hundredth time. his face remained buried in the crook of your neck, hot breath fanning over your skin as he clung to you like a man possessed.
even as he mumbled the denial, you could feel the dampness of his tears on your skin, the shuddering of his shoulders as he fought to regain control. he was a mess, clearly overwhelmed by the intensity of his own emotions and the physical pain you had inflicted upon him.
: : :
the following encounters are surprisingly much softer than that. though he would still drag you up to the rooftop, he’d turn into a cat—hovering wherever you were, lingering close, finding some quiet peace in your warmth.
there you’d sit in silence while you ate your lunch or whatever the fuck it was that gave you both peace, neither of you bothering to say a word. sometimes you’d catch him staring, only for him to look away the moment your eyes met his, lashes dropping like he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.
you could only scoff under your breath, shaking your head at the sheer absurdity of it all.
it stayed that way for days, until the blurred space between you finally disappeared. he’d sit impossibly close, shoulders brushing, until his head gently leaned against yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
when it caught you off guard, he’d pull you flush against him, one arm firm around your waist, the motion unhesitating as it melted into a full embrace. just like that violent encounter before, his face would find the crook of your neck, breath warm against your skin. neither of you spoke. neither of you dared to look at the other.
: : :
then there goes the house visits after school. he’d lazily follow you from behind like a dog. you let him. no questions asked, as if anything would even stop him from doing so. he’d fuss about it sometimes, complain under his breath, and it would just annoy you—annoy you even more because you found it endearing when he got mad.
he trailed after you, matching your pace step for step. when you reached your house, it was like he turned into another person entirely. introducing himself as your boyfriend with that weird, warm smile of his, voice overly calm and soft, the kind that made your parents instantly melt. they fawned over him for a while, smiling like idiots, like he was already their son-in-law.
you just groaned. annoyed. unsettled. you stormed into your room and slammed the door shut. minutes later, he followed, like he knew the place by heart—sniffing loudly, obnoxiously, before flopping down on your bed. he buried his face into your pillows, inhaling deep, eyes fluttering shut as if the scent alone was enough to make him drowsy. annoying.
you let him.
you undressed in front of him like it wasn’t a big deal. he watched, head propped on one hand, eyes half-lidded, unblinking. you acted like he wasn’t there at all, stripping down and changing into simple house clothes, filling the quiet with your own movements instead of words. when you were done, his arms opened without a sound. you plopped down beside him, exhausted, and he pulled you in, fingers threading through your hair, humming softly until your breathing finally slowed.
you would hold his wrists and he lets you. your thumbs trace over the nasty, long horizontal scars running from his arm down to his wrists. he lets you. watches quietly as you examine him like he’s something fragile instead of sharp.
“what’s this?” you ask. it’s the first real conversation you’ve had in weeks, despite being skin to skin almost all the time.
“just me being dramatic,” he grumbles, humor laced into his tone like it’s nothing. you scoff out a laugh.
“it’s pretty deep.”
he hums in agreement.
“you should’ve just died back when you slit that.” it’s his turn to chuckle, pressing his face into your nape, lips brushing against your skin like the words didn’t mean shit.
“too bad. too late,” he murmurs. “you have to deal with me now.”
a long stretch of silence, then he breathes against your skin- whispering, “kiss it better for me?” he asks, like it’s still fucking hurting. your eyes drop to his wrists in front of you.
“no.”
“please,” he murmurs low. “it still stings.”
again, you let him. let him fuck with you this way. you lean in, kissing his wrists like they’re buddha’s feet—slow, reverent, mouth dragging over the long, nasty keloid scars. again and again, lips lingering where the skin is ruined. he shudders behind you, an instant boner pressing into your back. you don’t even react. you don’t care. you just finish what he asked for.
“feel better?” you ask.
“no.”
he stays pressed to you after that. unmoving. like if he lets go, something ugly might spill out of him. his forehead rests between your shoulder blades, breath warm, uneven. you can feel him thinking. you hate that you can.
“you’re annoying,” you mutter.
he huffs. “you let me stay.”
you click your tongue, annoyed that he’s right. your fingers are still loosely wrapped around his wrists, thumbs tracing the raised skin without thinking. it’s absent. careless. intimate in a way you’d never admit out loud.
minutes pass. maybe longer. the room grows darker, the faint hum of the ceiling fan above filling the silence. he notices before you do. his arms shift, pulling you in closer, chest to your back, heat caging you in.
“you’re cold,” he says.
“no.”
“you are.”
you don’t bother arguing. you let your weight sink back into him instead, spine fitting too easily against his chest. it pisses you off how natural it feels. like this is something you’ve done a hundred times already in some other life.
his chin hooks over your shoulder. not kissing. not touching more than he needs to. just there. breathing you in like he’s trying to memorize you.
“you still hate me?” he asks, quieter than usual.
you scoff. “what do you think?”
he hums. doesn’t push. doesn’t poke. just accepts it, like hate is still something he can live with—as long as you don’t leave.
your fingers tighten around his wrists once more. just a little.
“you still think i’m prostituting myself?” you shift slightly, enough to catch his face. his brow furrows, nose crinkling at the mention.
he doesn’t answer, just grumbles, trying to hide his face on the pillow.
“don’t tell me you still think i’m selling my body, considering you’re all up in my business 24/7,” you tease, tone sharp but soft enough for him to hear.
he makes a sound somewhere between a huff and a groan, tightening his arms around you without letting go.
: : :
a few more visits from him, and you started noticing that some of your personal belongings were… disappearing.
you were doing your laundry, carefully sorting whites from colors, when you realized two or three panties were missing. you stared at the laundry basket, already convinced scaramouche had taken them. infuriating. the creep.
you stormed out of the laundry room, back to your room, determined to see what else was gone. a perfume, one lacy bra that had been drying outside your window—then you fumbled under the bed, opening the shoebox. yep. even your pink vibrator was gone.
your angry hands flew to text him, “have you stolen my stuff?”
he replied in less than a minute. “just borrowed.” confident, too. you almost threw your phone across the room.
“steal something from me again and you’ll never ever see me again.”
“:p”
: : :
his next visit, he showed up like a storm—arms full of carefully wrapped boxes. two sets of lingerie, the exact perfume you’d been using, and a magic ‘wand’. tucked inside a bouquet of blue flowers was a small knife, hidden with meticulous care. he even brought luxury items for your parents, his attempt to smooth over the chaos he’d caused before.
you didn’t look up, shoving your earphones in and forcing your attention on the materials in front of you. the soft scratch of paper and the subtle scent of fresh flowers filled the room, but your focus was elsewhere.
he sank to his knees in front of you, shoulders shaking, head bowing against your lap. quiet, heavy sobs racked him. you could feel the heat of his tears on your thighs, the warmth seeping into your skin.
“i—i didn’t mean to… fuck everything up,” he whispered, voice cracking, muffled by the fabric of your jeans. “i just… wanted to make you happy. i thought… i thought you’d—”
you removed an earbud, watching him out of the corner of your eye. “you’re crying over what you did?” you asked, voice flat, though the edge softened slightly.
he lifted his tear-streaked face, eyes glinting with raw desperation. “it’s not just that. it’s… everything. me. us. all the stupid shit i did. i… i can’t stand that you hate me even for a second.”
the silence stretched, thick and heavy. the weight of his presence, his tears, his vulnerability pressed down on you. your chest tightened, but you didn’t know how to respond.
finally, you reached down, letting your fingers brush against his damp hair. “stop crying, idiot,” you muttered, though your voice had softened more than you intended.
he pressed his forehead harder against your lap, letting out another shaky breath. “i just… i can’t not show up, you know? even if you shove me away, i’ll keep coming back. i… i just—”
you shook your head, a small smirk tugging at your lips despite yourself. “you’re ridiculous.”
“maybe. but you love ridiculous,” he whispered, voice muffled, still clinging to you.
the room smelled faintly of blue flowers and perfume, mingled with the quiet hum of your earbuds. for a moment, you let him stay there, kneeling at your knees, crying and clinging. letting the world outside fade while you both existed in this absurd, quiet, messy bubble of him needing you and you letting him.
“and..? my stuff?”
he flinched at the question, twisting his hands nervously. “i… i used them,” he admitted, voice low, almost ashamed, “i intended to keep them. i… bought new ones. everything you lost, it’s all here.”
you blinked at him, caught between disbelief and fury. “you stole my stuff, used them… and then replaced them? what the fuck is wrong with you?”
he swallowed, eyes wide and earnest. “i just… wanted to make it right. i didn’t want you asking for the old ones… i thought it’d be better this way.”
you crossed your arms, glaring. “better? you call this better?”
he knelt in front of you, forehead dropping to your knees, hands resting lightly on your thighs. “i went overboard, i know. but… i wanted you to have everything back, and more. so… please don’t hate me too much.”
you sighed, torn between annoyance and… something softer, though you’d never admit it. “you’re impossible.”
“i know,” he whispered, voice muffled against you, “but… i just… can’t help myself.”
you groaned, exasperated, but didn’t push him away. “don’t push your luck, idiot.”
he let out a soft whine, pressing closer anyway, knowing exactly how to annoy you and still make it impossible to stay mad.
he stayed that way for three more hours, stubbornly refusing to stand up until you told him to. your hand rested on his head the entire time, fingers idly threading through his hair like you were petting a dog that didn’t know when to stop begging. he knelt there without complaint, knees surely aching by now, looking up at you with red-rimmed eyes as quiet tears kept slipping down his face. pathetic. embarrassing. earnest.
you didn’t look at him once.
your eyes stayed glued to the review material spread across your desk, highlighter dragging across sentences you weren’t even fully reading anymore. your palm moved on autopilot, slow strokes against his scalp, grounding him more than any words ever could. he’d sniffle every now and then, shoulders shaking slightly, but he never pulled away. never dared to move. like if he stayed still enough, quiet enough, you wouldn’t kick him out.
you thought distantly that anyone walking in right now would get the wrong idea. him kneeling. you studying. your hand on his head like a reward he didn’t quite deserve. the thought almost made you scoff.
still, you let him stay.
because for all his bullshit, his thefts, his accusations, his obsessive little spirals, this was the only time he ever looked calm. broken, sure. but calm. like this was the only place he knew where to put himself without ruining everything.
and you hated that you understood that.
: : :
it was your turn to visit his house. it was gloomy. not like your house, bathed in light in every corner. his was dim, shadowed, with just a few basic pieces of furniture. no one was there to greet you, not that you expected anyone.
his hands found yours, fingers intertwining, guiding you to his room. your heart hammered in your chest, but there was comfort in the cold pressure of his hands. it was ridiculous, the way your chest warmed at something so simple, so mundane. when you reached the door, he paused, eyes searching yours, a smile there that somehow felt empty yet expectant.
he pushed the door open, and you froze. every wall was covered in pictures of you. every angle, every expression, every moment—some you didn’t even know existed. your eyes darted around the cramped room: a single bed with your panties and that pink vibrator he’d stolen, a desk, a small cabinet that seemed almost like a shrine, adorned with even more pictures of you.
your stomach fluttered, your throat tightened. part of you wanted to scream at him for being insane, for being obsessive—but another part of you, a quieter, softer part, felt… cherished. cared for. it was suffocating and comforting at the same time, like your chest couldn’t decide whether to beat faster or stop completely.
he watched you carefully, expecting revulsion, disgust, anything—but you felt none of it. if anything, you felt more loved than ever, and that thought made his flush deepen. he shifted slightly, and you noticed the way his hands tightened around yours, almost protective.
“this angle sucks,” you murmured, pointing at a picture of you in your gym clothes.
“i’ll do my best to capture your best angles next time,” he said softly, a quiet chuckle escaping him. the sound was low, restrained, but it made something twist in your chest.
“this is nice,” you said, gesturing to a picture of you completely naked, taken from outside your window, placed near his desk. your stomach tightened, your pulse racing, but there was a weird sense of pride too, of being… seen. truly seen.
“yeah, no shit,” he muttered, the flush on his face stubbornly refusing to fade. you caught him glancing at you from the corner of his eye, biting his lip like he always did when he was unsure how to read you. and for some reason, that made the room feel… warmer.
you sank to the edge of his bed, letting yourself take in the chaos of his obsession, the soft weight of his stare on you, and the strange, undeniable pulse of affection in it all. it was insane, yes. but maybe… it was exactly how it was supposed to feel.
you shifted slightly on the bed, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, and he leaned forward, slow, careful, like he was testing the air between you. your fingers twitched, almost wanting to push him away, almost wanting to pull him closer.
then his lips met yours. soft at first, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him stay there. your eyes fluttered shut, chest tightening, and you let him. his hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, fingertips tracing along your jaw.
he kissed you like he needed it, like he’d been holding back for weeks, and god, it made your knees weak. the kiss deepened, more insistently now, and you could feel his warmth, his pulse, the quiet hum of him breathing against your lips.
“you’re mine,” he murmured between kisses, almost a whisper, but it made your stomach twist. you laughed softly against him, breathless, teasing.
“yes,” you murmured back, pressing your forehead against his, letting the soft warmth of him settle against you. his hands tightened around your face, thumbs grazing over your lips, and he groaned softly, low, like your words were fire against him.
you cupped his face, tracing the lines of his features, memorizing him. he nuzzled closer, and for a moment, nothing else existed. not the world, not the past, not the chaos. just the weight of him, the press of lips, the soft warmth curling around your chest.
and you realized, as his hands slid down to rest on your waist, pulling you flush against him, that maybe this—this closeness, this insanity—was exactly what you had been wanting all along.
when he took his shirt off, he didn’t rush it. he held your hands softly, guiding them, letting your palms glide and span his body like he was showing you something fragile. his skin was littered with scars—keloids. ugly, raised, angry things. your fingers slowed the more you felt them.
the biggest one sat on his chest, right where his heart should be. you blinked once. then again. he watched your face closely as your expression softened, eyes glassy, mouth parting just a little like you didn’t know what to say.
that scar looked deliberate. too deep. too centered. like he tried to carve straight into the muscle that kept him alive.
your fingers brushed over it, careful, reverent. his hand hovered over yours, not stopping you, just… there. like he was afraid you’d pull away.
“the next time,” he breathed, voice low, shaking. “i wanna give myself to you properly.”
you looked up at him.
“take it,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours. “hold it. don’t let go.”
not demanding. not dramatic. just asking. like it was the most honest thing he’d ever said.
just like what you did with the scars on his wrists, you leaned in. slow. deliberate. your lips pressed to his chest with reverent slowness, soft enough that it felt like a promise rather than a touch. as if pushing any harder would make him splinter, crumble, turn to ash right beneath your mouth.
he let you. completely. his breath hitched the moment your lips connected with the ugliness of his skin, a quiet shudder running through him like you’d struck something raw and living. small sounds slipped out of him before he could stop them—broken, helpless, honest. his hands tightened in your hair, not pulling, just grounding himself there.
you stayed like that for a long time. kissing. lingering. treating the scar like it was holy. like it deserved gentleness after everything it had been through.
you cried that night inside his arms. not from pity. not from fear. but from something warm and overwhelming, something that sat heavy in your chest and refused to leave.
it felt like being trusted with something sacred.
like you’d just been given the greatest gift of all.
: : :
despite all the odds—people gossiping, his mother’s political status, and mostly the fact that the two of you were a little unhinged—you became a couple. it wasn’t normal. no. but has anything about the two of you ever been normal?
if anything, you thrived in whatever warped thing you had going on. there were bumps. ugly ones. but they always got smoothed over with a quiet “don’t do it again” and a muttered “i won’t do it again,” like a ritual you both pretended meant closure.
once, a classmate confessed to you. earnest. desperate. stupid enough to think he was doing you a favor. said you didn’t deserve that kind of man. scaramouche appeared between you before you could even respond, fingers closing around yours as he pulled you away, possessive and shaking. later, when the hallway was empty and his grip wrapped around your throat just enough to remind you he was there, you smiled at him.
“don’t do it again,” he pleaded softly, claws rough against your skin. his voice broke on the last part. “don’t desert me.”
“i won’t,” you said, and meant it.
another time, he cried outside your door. full-on sobbing. humiliating. your parents tried to intervene, tried to pry him off the porch, only for him to collapse into your father’s arms like he’d been gutted. red eyeliner streaked. snot everywhere. dramatic. unbearable. yours.
there was the incident with your devices. he hacked it, planted a bug. of course you noticed. you didn’t scream, you didn’t cry. you just went cold and ignored him for three days. he thought you’d soften. you didn’t. he showed up anyway with a bougie car stuffed with gifts, parked outside like a grand gesture would fix it. you stayed in your room. silent and unmoved.
when you finally opened the door, he looked wrecked. eyes swollen, face blotchy, voice shredded raw from crying. he dropped to his knees without being asked.
“don’t do it again,” you said. firm and final.
“kill me next time if i do,” he whispered.
“no.”
his shoulders shook. “i’m sorry. i won’t do it again.”
and you believed him. at least enough to let him stay.
: : :
“is he really—” you cut your friend off with a flat “yes,” not even bothering to look up as your knife pressed down on the meat in front of you. the scrape of metal against porcelain was louder than her voice, deliberate. final.
“but why?” she pushed, voice low, careful, like she was afraid you’d snap. “he hurts you. as far as i know, he was stalking you even before you started dating. his mother even shunned him.”
you listened. that was the funny part. you didn’t argue, didn’t interrupt, just hummed absently like she was talking about the weather. your mind was elsewhere. on the way his fingers dug into your skin last night. on the heat of his breath. on the dull sting that still lingered, all the while peppering kisses all over your skin.
“he loves me,” you said at last. simple. unwavering.
your hand lifted to the back of your neck without thinking, thumb brushing over tender skin. it still burned a little. a familiar ache. their eyes followed the motion, dragged helplessly to the green and purple blooming beneath your collar. the table went quiet in that way people do when they realize they’re losing.
minutes later— as if on cue, he arrived.
scaramouche didn’t greet anyone. didn’t smile. didn’t pretend. his arm was bandaged, poorly, like he’d wrapped it himself and didn’t care how it looked. his gaze locked onto you the second he saw you, soft, like the rest of the room had ceased to exist. it made your spine straighten.
“i’m going,” you murmured, already standing. “thanks, guys.”
you smiled at him as you stepped closer. his hand slid to your waist instantly, possessive, claiming. fingers tightening just enough to remind everyone—and you—who you belonged to.
: : :
though it wasn’t always like that. scaramouche made sure to spoil you rotten despite what others thought—that you were being abused? no. it was far from it. if anything, there was nothing more you could ever ask for.
you were right where you belonged.
he flew you everywhere. bought you anything your eyes lingered on for more than a second. abused his shogun’s son privileges shamelessly, just for you. every want, every need—filled before you even had to ask. not because you demanded it, but because he was terrified. terrified that if he faltered even once, if he disappointed you for even a moment, you’d walk out the door and never look back.
and if that ever happened—well.
his mind went to dark places sometimes. ugly ones. fleeting thoughts he crushed the second they surfaced. no. that wouldn’t do. the last thing he ever wanted was to see you cry in real pain, in real agony. the kind that didn’t fade after. the kind that stayed.
sure, he hurt you—but only in the ways you wanted. only in the ways you leaned into. and in his twisted logic, that made it different. justified.
after all, he made sure to erase everything else. every person, every situation, every possibility that could hurt you without your consent.
: : :
scaramouche was never gentle at the beginning because he didn’t know how to be. he already bared himself raw in front of you, even before you realized it—his insanity, his hunger, his fear of being seen and rejected. and in your own twisted self, you accepted all of it. he just didn’t know how to approach someone like you without ruining it. his solution became watching from afar. memorizing your habits. following your shadow. stalking, because distance felt safer than asking.
he didn’t know how to flirt either. praise felt too vulnerable, too honest. so his solution was cruelty. negging. muttering curses under his breath when you laughed too freely, when other people took up space beside you. it was easier to hurt first than to admit he wanted you. easier to make you feel small than to risk being the one who begged.
and that night at the rooftop—he was already spiraling long before the shouting started. he saw you with your uncles just outside the hotel where you were staying for a family reunion. your hand on one of their arms, laughing, familiar. what his twisted mind translated it into wasn’t family. it was betrayal. it was prostitution. it was you selling yourself to people who weren’t him. jealousy rotted his thoughts until it spilled out of his mouth, sharp and unforgivable.
the fight wasn’t about morals. it was about possession he hadn’t earned yet. about fear dressed up as rage. about a boy who thought love was something you took violently before someone else could steal it away. he accused you because admitting he was scared—of losing you, of never having you at all—would’ve shattered him completely.
he learned later. slowly. painfully. but at the start, all he knew was obsession without language. love without instruction. and you just happened to survive the worst version of him long enough to see what he could become.
: : :
surprisingly, scaramouche was a really good boyfriend. his emotional intelligence was off the charts—even when his emotional regulation was complete shit. he noticed everything. moods, pauses, the way your tone dipped before you even realized you were upset. he was attentive, loving, understanding in a way that felt almost clinical.
he let you ramble and rant, never cutting you off. never dismissing you. he made mental notes of everything you said, then actual ones—scribbled on paper, tucked away somewhere safe. reminders of what he needed to fix. what he shouldn’t ever do again. where he failed you, where he could be better.
he made sure you were loved. needed. filled. appreciated. inside and out.
and sometimes, that scared you more than anything else.
sometimes you were terrified that if you didn’t give him the same intensity back—if you faltered, if you softened, if you loved him less loudly—he’d eventually get bored. shove you aside. replace you with something easier. something more obedient. the thought alone made your chest cave in.
you cried in his arms over it. sobbed, begged, pleaded for mercy from a future he was convinced would never happen.
“don’t leave me,” you whispered, your naked body pressed beneath his as you shook.
he pushed into you deeper, cock throbbing, smiling like a fool at the sight of you breaking like this. soft. desperate. open.
“i won’t.”
“please—i don’t think i could ever live without you anymore,” you rushed out, cutting him off with more pleading, more need.
ah.
you were exactly where he wanted you to be.
warm. trembling. all putty in his cruel hands.
: : :
unbeknownst to everyone, you had tied the knot with him. twenty‑three, already bearing his name alongside yours, tucked neatly where no one thought to look. it felt endearing in a way you couldn’t quite explain. not loud nor grand. just yours.
the ring sat pretty around your finger, delicate and unassuming. nothing flashy enough to invite questions. you caught yourself twisting it absentmindedly sometimes, thumb brushing over the smooth metal like it was a secret pulse only you could feel.
no ceremony. no witnesses. no congratulations.
just a quiet promise sealed between the two of you—something irreversible, something warm. something that made your chest ache in the best way.
you wore it like a private truth.
and you loved him as his wife long before anyone ever knew you were one.
: : :
you felt scaramouche shift, propping your legs higher to drive himself even deeper into your willing body. the thick ridge of his cock kissed your cervix with every thrust, the delicious pressure building until it threatened to overwhelm you. you could only writhe and moan helplessly beneath him, the aphrodisiac he had given you heightening every sensation to a dizzying degree. his name fell from your lips like a prayer as you begged for mercy from the relentless onslaught of pleasure.
"scara," you whimpered, trying in vain to push him back, to create some distance from the overwhelming stimulation. but he was having none of it.
"no, don't," he cooed, continuing his slow, deep thrusts. each one drove you closer to the edge, your body tightening around his shaft like a velvet vice.
"can’t—too much," you cried out, head thrashing from the intensity of it all. the aphrodisiac made every touch feel like electricity, every stroke of his cock inside you an explosion of sensation.
he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, warm breath ghosting over your skin as he whispered filth in your ear. "you can do it, for me, yeah? take my cock like a good girl."
you nodded mindlessly, not even processing his words in your haze of lust.
scaramouche grabbed the bottle of aphrodisiac from the bedside table, fingers trembling slightly as he unscrewed the cap with one hand. he watched, transfixed, as the pink, glistening liquid sloshed within, almost hypnotized by the way it caught the light. with half lidded eyes, he pulled out of you, immediately plunging two fingers knuckle-deep into your soaked cunt.
he stretched you wide, watching with dark satisfaction as the remaining contents of the bottle poured into your gaping hole. some of it dribbled out, but most was swallowed up by your greedy walls as he plunged back in, his thick cock spearing you open once more.
he let out a guttural groan as he felt the aphrodisiac directly on his shaft, the intense sensation making his head swim. even with the large amount he had already consumed, the concentrated dose inside you was a whole different experience.
"me.. it’s— it’s only me that can make you feel this good, right?" he panted, licking away the tears streaming down your face. "no one else can make this pretty cunt weep and beg like i can."
"yes— haah, yes. f-fuck!" you cried out, too far gone to care about the degradation. your body arched into his, desperately seeking more of that delicious friction.
he pounded into you with renewed vigor, the aphrodisiac fueling his lust into a frenzy. each thrust sent sparks of ecstasy shooting up your spine, the world narrowing down to the point where his cock entered you.
as your body convulsed around his shaft, scaramouche leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. "my pretty wife," he cooed, voice thick with adoration as he felt your walls fluttering around him for the umpteenth time. "i see you. i see all of you."
he repeated the phrase like a mantra, whispering it against your lips and down the column of your throat as he continued to rock into you. it was his way of expressing his love, his devotion to you in the only way he knew how.
"i love you," you gritted out through clenched teeth, even as your body shook with the force of your release. the words tasted foreign on your tongue, but they rang true nonetheless.
with a final, powerful thrust, scaramouche buried himself to the hilt inside you, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself deep within your spasming cunt. he groaned your name like a prayer, head thrown back in ecstasy as he rode out the waves of his own intense climax.
but the night was far from over. after all, he finally had all of you. legally and shit.
: : :
the thought settled in his chest and stayed there, heavy in a way that didn’t suffocate him. it wasn’t sharp panic or hunger anymore. it was weight. real and earned. ownership felt different now—not something he repeated to himself in the dark, not something fragile that could be argued away. it was written down somewhere. signed. locked into place. something the world had already acknowledged whether it liked it or not.
his hand remained at your waist without thinking about it. fingers tightening slightly, then easing, like he needed the constant reassurance of touch. like if he let go, even for a moment, you might blur into something unreal. but you were warm under his palm. solid. breathing. still here.
still his.
“you’re mine,” he murmured. his voice didn’t press or rise. it didn’t demand, no. it simply stated what already existed.
you tilted your head up toward him, eyes soft in that way that never gave him everything at once. honesty bared raw in it. “i know.”
the answer hit him harder than resistance ever could.
for a fraction of a second, he faltered. the certainty in him wavered—not because he doubted you, but because the weight of being believed like that scared him. then he leaned down, forehead resting against yours, breath uneven against your skin.
“i’m yours,” he said quietly.
it didn’t sound like a claim. it sounded like something he was giving away willingly. like a truth he’d been carrying for too long and finally let himself speak. surrender, but not loss. devotion, laid bare. for you, of course, all for you.
that did something to you. something warm that spread slowly, something sharp that reminded you how close the edge always was with him. your fingers tightened around his, grounding him instinctively, like you always did. like you always had.
you hesitated. just long enough for doubt to try and breathe. then you whispered, the words fragile as if saying them aloud might make them real in a way you weren’t ready to survive.
“won’t you get tired of me?”
his breath hitched immediately. not delayed and measured. his hand slid up your back, firm now, anchoring you against him as if the very idea offended something deep in his bones.
“never,” he said at once. no pause. no thought. “i’d rot before i ever got tired of you.”
his thumb slipped beneath your chin, lifting your face gently but insistently, forcing you to meet his eyes. they were dark, focused, earnest in a way that bordered on frightening. not obsession. not fantasy. resolve.
“you’re where i end,” he said. “there’s nothing after you.”
you swallowed, then whispered, “good.”
his grip tightened—not rough, not careful. certain. relieved and terrified all at once, the way only devotion could make him feel. outside, the world kept moving. noisy, indifferent. unaware. and inside, there was only this—your breathing, his pulse, the quiet madness of choosing each other without escape routes.
the night stretched on.
and neither of you wanted saving.
: : :
“won’t you ask the same?” you whispered, weak and boneless against him, your body still heavy with warmth and sleep. the sunlight had already claimed the room, spilling in through the window without asking permission, bright and careless and far too cheerful for how exposed you suddenly felt.
for a moment, he just looked at you.
not sharply. not coldly. more like you’d said something unexpected but interesting, something he hadn’t planned for but wasn’t entirely opposed to entertaining. his eyes stayed on your face, slow and attentive, as if he were memorizing the way you asked. there was a pause—long enough for doubt to stir in your chest—then a breath of a laugh slipped out of him, low and disbelieving.
“ask what?”
“if i’ll get tired of you?”
the faint amusement drained from his expression immediately, like someone had reached in and flipped a switch. his hand tightened where it held you, not rough and not gentle either, but certain. grounding. instinctive. his gaze sharpened as he studied you more closely now, like he was weighing the danger of the question rather than the words themselves.
“…then let me ask you instead,” he said, voice quieter, steadier than before.
his eyes didn’t leave yours.
“will you get tired of me?”
the question didn’t feel playful. it didn’t feel light. it landed carefully, deliberately, the way people handle loaded weapons—with respect for how badly things could go wrong. you knew, even as he asked, that your answer wouldn’t change his choice. even if you said yes. even if one day you broke, frayed at the edges, tried to slip out of his grasp—he’d still stay. still choose you. still wrap himself tighter around you until leaving became impossible.
and yet, he asked anyway.
that mattered more than it should have.
“maybe i would,” you hummed, deliberately casual, pretending not to notice the way his shoulders tensed. you smiled up at him, playing dumb on purpose. he scoffed, clearly offended in that exaggerated way that told you he didn’t believe a word of it.
“considering how clingy you are,” you added, giggling as you pushed lightly at his chest.
he didn’t move an inch.
instead, he caught your wrists with ease and pulled you back against him, fitting your bodies together like they’d never learned how to exist apart. his laugh was low and warm against your cheek, more entertained than annoyed, as if he’d been waiting for you to try something like that.
“clingy?” he repeated, incredulous, even as his arms slid around you without apology, tightening just enough to make his point. “you married me knowing this.”
you tilted your head, still smiling, still pretending you weren’t affected by how easily he held you there. “i married you knowing you’d never let go.”
“exactly.” his grin softened then, dangerous and fond all at once. “so don’t lie to me.”
his forehead pressed to yours, noses brushing. the humor thinned—not vanished, just stepped aside enough for sincerity to settle in. his voice lowered, steadier now.
“you won’t get tired,” he murmured. not a question. something already decided. “and even if you tried… i’d just remind you why you stayed.”
his thumb traced slow, familiar circles at your waist, grounding in a way your body recognized instantly. it was the same touch he always used when he wanted to anchor you, when he wanted to make sure you felt exactly where you belonged.
“you’re mine,” he said quietly. not like a threat. not like a warning. ownership shaped by devotion instead. “and i don’t get tired of what’s mine.”
you hummed thoughtfully, then asked, just to see what he’d do, “and if i tried running away with another man?”
he chuckled, unfazed, and pulled you even closer. his fingers brushed deliberately over the band of your ring, slow and intentional, like he was reminding both of you what it meant.
“then i’d let you run,” he said easily—too easily. his smile pressed into your temple, warm breath ghosting over your skin. “i’d even help you pack.”
you stiffened, just slightly.
he noticed. of course he did.
“but,” he continued calmly, thumb circling the ring once, then again, “i’d find you.”
he tipped your chin up until you were forced to meet his eyes. they were dark with something that sat between fondness and something more dangerous, something that didn’t need to raise its voice to be terrifying.
“and i’d ask you why you forgot,” he murmured. “why you thought anyone else could hold you like i do. know you like i do. see you like i do.”
his forehead rested against yours again, close enough that there was no room to breathe without feeling him.
“you wouldn’t last,” he added softly, almost affectionate. “you’d come back on your own. crying, probably.”
his lips curved, amused, like the image pleased him more than it should have.
“and i’d take you back,” he said, fingers tightening at your waist, sure and final. “because you’re terrible at leaving.”
his thumb tapped the ring once more.
“and i’m even worse at letting go.”