Scara X Reader - Blog Posts

⠀𐔌 . ⋮ raisin rage .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

ʚ motorcyclist! scaramouche x fem! reader ɞ

synopsis: a creamy medium brick-berry lipstick stain with an undertone of warm brown is what’s painted on scaramouche’s helmet and fuck, all can he remember is that very same shade painted on your pretty lips.

genres: romance (implied mutual attraction, but it's mainly kuni being down bad LMAO), modern au + smau.

word count: 745.

author's note: part of the same universe as my xiao smau fic, the chase! i just had to get this fic out of my system haha. thank you to my bf for helping me with the scenes mwah but please ignore the time stamps! 🥺 this'll have a part two so stay tuned :>

‎‧₊ ─ masterlist .ᐟ ༘

You were late, atrociously late to the dinner at Xinyue Kiosk.

Clinicals had run late and when you had gotten home you were forced to throw your soiled scrubs into the wash before scrubbing down your skin raw in fears of any bodily fluids landing on your skin unnoticed.

But just as you saw the restaurant in your sights, your phone in your hands vibrates profusely and you belatedly realized that you had missed your lipstick.

Wincing at the memory of Hutao and Lumine clowning you last time for missing your infamous ‘boy killer lipstick,’ you’re about to curse as you realize you’ve forgotten your compact mirror.

But you eyes catch onto a bike helmet sitting atop a motorcycle with a shiny, reflective visor and desperation has you quickly striding towards it.

Back bowing lowly to match the height if the visor, like a clockwork, you quickly and effortlessly line your lips before popping your lipstick cap.

The bullet of the warm brick-red lipstick glides smoothly on your bottom lip but before you’re able to move onto your upper lip, the helmet is suddenly lifted from your view.

Eyes fluttering up, you meet unamused pools of indigo lined by red eyeliner that seems to make the unknown man's eyes pop. 

And despite his flat expression, you note the man as cute and incredibly attractive.

“You need some help?” He mockingly mutters as your back immediately straightens before he sits himself on what you presume to be his bike.

But before you’re able to respond, he slips his helmet on and flips the visor back up. “Go find another mirror to apply your scarlet red lipstick, doll.” His words are nonchalant yet so infuriating.

You repress the urge to roll your eyes before a sweet smile adorns your face, completely missing the way the man’s eyes widen slightly.

“Actually, love, it’s a warm brick-red shade.” You murmur, honeyed words dripping with a false sweetness.

┊ ੈ✩‧₊*°࿐ྂ。

Before Scaramouche is able to retort to your smart ass comment, you move closer, borderline invading his space before you flick his visor down.

He’s surprised by your audacity yet he’s also taken off guard with how pretty you looked when you had smiled earlier.

Even if he knew it was to mask your annoyance from his previous jab, the memory seems to persist in his mind, bright and incredibly clear.

You push closer, your face mere inches from his helmet clad face as a teasing glint sparkles in your eyes. 

He finds himself entranced with the entirety of you, your pretty looks, dreamy smile, and how you swapped blows with him so easily.

“To answer your first question, yes, I do need help. Now sit still and let me apply my lipstick, pretty boy.” You hum lowly—mockingly—and Scaramouche is grateful you’ve flicked his visor down as he knows his heated ears are flushed red.

In all of the years Scaramouche has been alive, he’s never really found himself speechless, always having a retort ready. But as his eyes trace the bullet of your lipstick painting your lips oh so prettily, he swallows down his harsh remarks.

“So,” He coughs slightly and he revels in how your eyes flicker to his eyes behind the visor, eyes defiant and ready to fight. “Mind telling me the shade so I can get it right next time?”

You smile, eyes crinkling and smile lines showing, and Scaramouche feels his chest tighten slightly. 

Fuck, you’re stunning.

“Rum raisin.” Your laugh is sweet, soothing and absolutely alluring that it had him floundering.

If sirens were real, Scaramouche would vehemently say that you were one, an enchanting voice accompanied with bewitching looks personified.

“Thank you, pretty.” He mumbles and he feels a swell of pride when he sees you flush slightly.

But Scaramouche swears his heart nearly fucking stops when you lean in, placing a candied kiss on his visor.

Fuck fuck fuck-

“A gesture of thanks!” You sing softly yet so teasingly and in his dazed state, Scaramouche doesn’t realize that you’ve disappeared behind the doors of Xinyue Kiosk.

A few minutes pass and Scaramouche hastily pulls his helmet off, feeling the cool air against his heated skin. 

“Holy shit-“ He finds himself muttering as he gazes at his helmet visor longingly, drowning in thoughts of you.

Scaramouche recalls of how the warm brick-red lipstick beautifully colored your lips and how you charmingly said Rum Raisin-

“Fuck.” He swears, feeling his skin heat up again.

© 2025 𝐌𝐘𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆-𝐈𝐕. do not copy, repost, share, or translate any of my works to tiktok, instagram, and/or any other websites/platforms.

Melody of the Forgotten

The grand opera house of Sumeru City was the jewel of the nation’s artistic world, a towering edifice of stone and glass, alive with music and drama. Its stage had seen performances that transcended the mortal plane, and its corridors echoed with the whispers of stories long forgotten. You had been drawn to it from a young age, captivated by the splendor of the performances, the allure of the music, and the dream of one day performing on that hallowed stage yourself.

And now, that dream was within reach. You had been accepted into the opera’s prestigious company, your voice singled out as one with great potential, a rising star in the world of song. The opera house had become your second home, its backstage corridors a maze of opportunity and challenge.

But there was another presence in the opera house, one that the performers rarely spoke of—at least, not aloud. There were stories, rumors whispered among the stagehands and the older performers, of a phantom who haunted the opera house. He was said to be a master of disguise, a shadowy figure who could slip between worlds unseen. His moods were as tempestuous as the sea, his emotions unpredictable as the wind. He was both feared and revered, his influence felt in every corner of the grand theater.

No one had ever seen his face. And those who claimed to know more often spoke in cryptic tones, as if afraid to say too much. Some said he wore a mask, hiding some hideous deformity, while others claimed that he was a spirit—an echo of an ancient, forgotten soul who could never rest.

You had dismissed these stories at first, focusing instead on your training. But soon, you began to notice strange things—small, unsettling signs that you were not as alone as you once thought. At times, you would catch a fleeting glimpse of a figure in the wings, watching your rehearsals. Doors that had been locked would mysteriously open, and you would hear faint whispers in the corridors when you were sure you were alone. Most unnervingly, though, you began to find letters—perfectly folded pieces of parchment, slipped under your dressing room door.

The first letter had been a simple compliment: “Your voice is like the first breath of dawn—pure, yet aching with potential. Do not waste it.” It was unsigned, written in an elegant hand, but you had a suspicion it was from the phantom.

From that point on, the letters became more frequent, sometimes offering advice on your performances, other times cryptic messages that left you pondering their meaning for hours. And slowly, you began to realize that the phantom, whoever he was, had taken an interest in you—an obsession, even.

One evening, after a particularly demanding rehearsal, you lingered on the stage, watching as the candles in the chandelier flickered, casting long shadows across the empty seats. The house was quiet now, the other performers having retired for the night. You stood alone in the vast, echoing space, your heart still pounding from the intensity of your singing. You could feel eyes on you, though you saw no one.

"Why do you hide in the shadows?" you called out, your voice barely above a whisper, yet confident.

There was no immediate response, but you could sense something shifting in the air. Then, from the darkness of the wings, a figure stepped into the dim light—tall, with a slender frame and an air of theatricality about him. His face was obscured by a half-mask, covering the right side of his face, leaving only his left eye visible, cold and calculating.

It was him. The Phantom.

Or rather, Scaramouche.

He was known by many names—the Balladeer, the Wanderer, the Sixth Harbinger—but here, in the shadows of the opera house, he was the phantom. His movements were precise, his posture one of practiced elegance, as though every step was part of an unseen performance. His dark hair framed his mask, and though his lips were hidden in shadow, you could feel the weight of his gaze on you.

"You're brave," he said, his voice smooth and velvety, with a hint of danger lurking beneath. "Most would flee at the mere mention of me. But not you."

Your breath caught in your throat, but you refused to look away. "You’ve been watching me."

He tilted his head slightly, a slow, deliberate gesture that sent a shiver down your spine. "Yes," he admitted, with no hint of apology. "Your voice—it is unlike anything I’ve heard in years. Pure, yet raw. It needs... guidance."

His words hung in the air, and you felt a strange mixture of fear and fascination. Scaramouche was as much a part of the opera house as the stone pillars and velvet curtains, and now he stood before you, a living mystery wrapped in enigma and shadow.

"I don’t need your guidance," you said, though your voice trembled just slightly. "I’ve made it this far on my own."

He chuckled, the sound low and mocking. "Is that what you think? Do you believe you’ve come this far through sheer talent alone? No... you’ve had help—whether you knew it or not."

His words sent a chill through you. "What do you mean?"

Scaramouche’s visible eye gleamed with amusement, and he took a slow step closer. "I’ve been behind the scenes, pulling the strings. I have arranged for you to be noticed by the company, whispered in the ears of those in power. Without me, you would still be singing for an empty hall. You owe me... everything."

Your mind raced, trying to comprehend what he was saying. Had he been manipulating your career from the start? The realization struck you like a cold wave of fear and anger.

"I didn’t ask for your help," you said, your voice firmer now, though your heart was pounding.

He laughed again, this time with more cruelty. "No. But I gave it nonetheless. And now..." His eye darkened, his tone shifting to something far more possessive. "Now you belong to me."

The finality in his voice left no room for argument, and for the first time, you felt the weight of his obsession settle over you. You had always thought of him as a distant figure, a myth that haunted the opera house, but now, here he was—real, tangible, and far more dangerous than you had imagined.

"What do you want from me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Scaramouche’s gaze lingered on you, his eye narrowing slightly as if assessing your every thought. Then, in a swift motion, he moved closer, his gloved hand reaching out to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I want your voice," he said softly, but there was a dark hunger in his tone. "I want it to sing only for me. I want to shape it, control it, make it perfect."

You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, his fingers cold against your skin. "You don’t understand," he continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, almost tender. "I have waited so long for something... someone... who could complete my music. I’ve seen mediocrity, incompetence, but you... you are different."

His obsession was suffocating, the intensity of his words sinking into your bones. You could feel the weight of his desire pressing down on you, and for the first time, you understood the full extent of his control.

"I’m not your puppet," you said, your voice shaking with fear and defiance.

Scaramouche’s lips curled into a cruel smile beneath his mask. "No... you’re not. You’re something far more precious. But make no mistake—you are mine."

The candlelight flickered as his words echoed in the empty opera house, and you felt the walls closing in around you. You were trapped in his web, caught between fear and fascination, between a desire to run and an inexplicable pull that kept you rooted in place.

"I can make you a star," he said, his voice turning soft, seductive. "I can give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Fame, fortune... all of it. All you have to do is sing for me."

You hesitated, the temptation of his offer gnawing at the edges of your resolve. There was something irresistible about his words, something that made you want to believe him, to trust him.

But deep down, you knew the truth. Scaramouche was no savior. He was a phantom, a manipulator, a creature of shadows who sought to control you for his own ends.

"You don’t control me," you said firmly, stepping back from him.

For a moment, Scaramouche’s smile faltered, his eye flashing with anger. But then, just as quickly, the mask of calm returned.

"Perhaps not yet," he said softly, though his tone carried an unmistakable threat. "But in the end, you will sing for me. Because there is no one else who understands you like I do. No one else who can bring out the true potential in your voice."

He stepped back, his form blending into the shadows once more, his presence as ghostly as ever.

"You will sing for me," he repeated, his voice lingering in the air as he disappeared into the darkness. "Sooner or later... you will."

The opera house was silent once more, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a curse. And as you stood alone on the stage, you knew that your fate was now intertwined with his, bound by the melody of his obsession.

body painting with flowers man

only with you.

angst & comfort. gn!reader × wanderer. wc 1.7k

summary. non-sexual nudity & intimacy; body painting with flowers; recollection of past events (wanderer).

sumeru is a dualistic region. where knowledge and reincarnation richly seep through every concept there is, it would still not exist without any ignorance, nor destruction. one needs another to thrive. 

wanderer himself is a dual man—a human being without an organic heart yet a puppet with feelings. somebody, who had multiple names throughout. somebody, who once had a mother; friends. somebody, who was given a midway place in this world across his journey. as a wanderer, he is said to have no name, kin, or destination.

maybe there is a definite reason for him to spend the majority of his time in sumeru after all. as he originated from inazuma, a land of isolated eternity, spent years at the claws of the notorious nation of snezhnaya and—seeking his ascension to godhood, eventual prosperity, and validation at last—was forced into flimsy redemption in sumeru.

wanderer self-destructed his ignorance to reincarnate it as full of knowledge; to shape his existence anew. all of this for him to question himself and suffer the same.

the sacred tree of the world—irminsul—answered the questions he always sought and yet, he was betrayed once again. wisdom is a heavy burden with a great cost; it could be one’s demise. ignorance to him was, indeed, a bliss. as well as oblivion, which he was stripped of in a little of a while. 

since the day he had to relive his entire lifetime in a minute and earned an anemo vision in the process, the world around him changed. in fact, he met you, who made a significant change to his demeanor. wanderer may not be the best companion there is, however, you both always seek each other in a crowd. even if there is none of it.

the sunset is pretty today, you think as you immerse yourself up to the chin into the lukewarm water underneath the waterfall of gandharva ville. wanderer remained apart from you for a while. he was hesitant. he may have a synthetic body of a puppet, but being stark naked in front of you felt way too vulnerable by his nature. it felt like cutting himself open and letting himself go free.

he was never free to begin with. freedom to each is a different concept. the day the god of eternity sealed his power and hid him like a failure of hers, followed by letting him roam free, he chained his mind to different intentions of ei’s. he felt neglected and deprived of who he was meant to be—not knowing he was a mere prototype, never designed to hold and wield the electro gnosis; whose existence was about to be terminated right before they saw him cry in his sleep—rather than free.

he had no given name nor a home to get back to at the end of the day. so, naturally, when fatui took him under their wings, he felt that being the sixth seat was his rightful place. 

there were many kind people in his early ordinary days of learning how to be human between the time he was discarded and given the title of the balladeer. your way of carrying oneself immensely reminds him of them all. sometimes it can be agonizing to wanderer, but lovely just the same. he reacts to your eyes, inviting him to join you bathing in the stream while the sun slowly sets. 

erstwhile clear water, due to the reflection of the sky, is dyeing itself in colors of yellow, orange, violet, and pink. the river takes its appearance like the flower field around you at once. 

as wanderer takes his clothes off, he is quickly submerging himself into and under the water. it is shallow, so you can swiftly reach his side. you have qualms about whether he would let you come closer, despite that, you carefully stretch your hands towards his shoulders. you sit him up. he has a lot on his mind lately, thus, he lets you take care of him without thinking much. to tell the truth, he trusts you to a great extent, knowing you would catch him if he fell—literally and figuratively. 

you pluck a lone flower from the floral field. it is greenish blue, or rather turquoise, in color. one would rarely see it blossom. the color reminds you of wanderer’s tattoos’ when they glow with power.

you slowly trace them with luminous petals, so it leaves dye markings; barely visible, but you both know it’s there nevertheless. it is a silly activity yet remarkably intimate for either. he does not feel skin contact the same as everyone else, regardless, he gets chills from your delicate brushes.

somehow you do not care about him being born unhuman at all. maybe because in your mind he is the most human one could be—cruel and all the things beautiful at the same time; imperfect. 

you offer him another flower of your favorite color, for him to paint on your bare body as well. he is skeptical, however, it takes only a moment to engage in the act. you shiver every time he tries touching you softly. neither of you talk. 

you warily touch his face then. the pink rose in your frail grip is kissing his cheeks, and nose, consciously avoiding his pursed lips as well as eyes, which are dyed burgundy anyways. the color was indeed deliberately chosen to imitate a blush of sorts. you thought it was cute. 

he is feeling your skin alongside, attentively selecting parts of your body you would be fine with; giving your consent to. it does vary how you react.

you reach for his chest subsequently, holding a flower of opaque red. you are faltering while drawing something. at that moment, he stops his own tracery and retracts his arm further from you; stays still. you painted a little heart on his chest. likewise, you keep looking at it in silence, smiling. 

it was a heart he was able to call his own. 

he remembers. puppet he is, abandoned by the almighty shogun for being overly human, but used as a tool by fatui ever since. in no way they saw a human—whereas he could not die and had an empty space of a heart. how can one be a human being without a heart? his existence contradicted itself in that sense.

as a harbinger, did he become more human then? when a tainted heart he got from the doctor saved him, it was offered to him in the form of the ashes to have in that empty shell of a place. at first, he did not know it was niwa's; that same withered one he discarded after condemning the entire incident as his second betrayal of cruel human nature. a human heart he yearns for is not worth the pain of another person’s death. 

afterward, he sought a gnosis to take that place instead. his luck was one of a kind really. the contentment he became so familiar with, was short-lived in the end. it was not a real heart anyhow. can the anemo vision he recently acquired serve as his vital core replacement?

each time he came into possession of a fill-in for a heart, someone else had to suffer. merely this time, he actually felt you blessed him with a heart he could be endowed with without any anguish. he put his singular hand up to his chest and held it pressed. he was fond of his ephemeral heart. 

you slowly but surely grasp his fingers. the puppet joints over the years looked almost seamless. it evidently looked human-like. you cautiously brush your lips against his knuckles, meeting his violet-blue eyes. do they twinkle—was it mirroring the stirring water on second thought? 

promptly, the serene moment of yours is interfered. you turn your head to unfamiliar hushed tones and humming. there pop up a few heads of plant-like forest spirits. you notice wanderer is gifted to see them as well. 

aranaras are critters, only to be seen by trustworthy dreamers of pure and kind hearts. it is a mystery really—wanderer’s ability to spot them. is he, not a doll without a heart; can he be regarded as good-natured; is he to be trusted… he is not a child either (but acting like one every once in a while). 

thereafter, wanderer stretches his hand toward a bright blue-colored creature, holding a yellow poppy. flowers make aranaras remember their friends whenever they meet. besides, they gain power from memories. do the spirits of sumeru forests lay hold of dreadful recollections as well? wanderer is brimful of them. 

after a while, wanderer looks in your direction. he is deep in thought at the moment, pondering who exactly he is. he does understand the concept of being human pretty well, yet he does have uncertainties about whether he can call himself one, partially at least. he did give up trying to be human in the distant past, though, he had experienced pieces of being human underway—having emotions, enduring pain, having a heart of some form, a place to live, a region to serve, people he called family, and a name. 

truthfully, he had a myriad of names; words he was called by others. he never deemed them his names frankly. nonetheless, he loved himself as kabukimono—the dolly wandering eccentric, perceived as naive and peculiar. deep inside he knows he did not stray far from his roots, it was simply eclipsed by the wounds of his past. 

he did name himself kunikuzushi, the world-destroyer once. alongside was given titles of the balladeer and scaramouche. it should be mentioned that whilst no man on teyvat recalls it being him—he was formerly known as the everlasting lord of arcane wisdom; shouki no kami, the prodigal, too. 

attempting erasure of himself, including rectifying past events that his existence, and rage-driven deeds caused, wanderer reincarnated into someone as curious as the young kabukimono. he opted for calling himself a wanderer. was he an eccentric one this time on top of that? at the end of the day, it all comes full circle. 

at present, he does go by a freshly given name, restraining himself with a new psyche all while making an effort to atone for his sins. he accepted his birth, not to mention, the entirety of his past. 

he looks all around his own porcelain-like skin, currently dyed with multiple colors. it tugs at his heartstrings. he does glance at your body then, admiring the art, positioned in front—meaning you, not the mindless drawings of flowers’ pigments on your figure. 

hence, he finally feels like he has reached the promised divinity. only whenever he is with you.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ NSFW ALPHABET꒱ ˎˊ˗ balladeer

wanna find out what your loved one likes within the framework of.. not exactly childish topics ?

✧ warnings — MDNI !! smut , fem ! reader, a bit of demisexual scara ? choking kink, electric sex, light humiliation, ✧ incomplete alphabet !!! ✧ a/n —This work is somewhat of an experiment, I welcome your participation in its development. Write to my inbox and write what character you want next. "Сhar name" + "for nsfw-alphabet", and then your application will be considered when writing. ✧ minors do not interact. !!

AYZHA NYREE x NO GUIDANCE REMIX 

✧ A: aftercare(after sex)

The night enveloped the room like a heavy curtain, absorbing sounds and light, but still there was a quiet rustle of your breathing. He sat on the edge of the bed, a puppet deprived of its thread, but he felt the one that was stretched between the two of you stronger than ever. His gaze, full of madness and devotion, riveted his attention to the sleeping you, who seemed invulnerable, immersed in a world of dreams and tranquility. The corners of his lips lifted when the sight of you a couple of minutes ago crashed into his head, so cute, so vulnerable, loudly moaning his name with shamelessly spread legs..

He could not even imagine how lucky he was to have you. After all his betrayals, after everything he had been through, you could not just leave him, he would not allow it. No.. If you leave him like everyone else - the whole teyvat will go to hell!

✧ B: bodypart(favorite body part)

Your shoulders and eyes.

Puppet approaches from behind when she notices you, not doing anything particularly serious. No one is going to attack you, scare you. And then gentle touches and strokes remain on your shoulders, as if Scaramouche is trying to warm you up, rub you. He likes to touch these places, outline each protruding bone with his finger, note your tension, see how your body is covered in goosebumps from his touch.

He leans forward, studying your shoulders with his lips a couple of times. And then you turn your head in a mixture of false displeasure, wanting to look into his indigo eyes, but notice a strange light in his gaze.

Eyes. He loves eye contact. He can just stare into them for hours… Seriously, he will do so if you give him the opportunity. He loves the way they sparkle and light up when you're happy. He loves the way they fill with tears when you're sad. He loves the fear in your eyes, the love, the excitement, everything. He can perceive all of you as art, reverent before this sight.

✧ G: goofy (how he perceives it)

Serious and slightly embarrassed. But over time, this changes. At first, he is surprisingly reserved and even more embarrassed, blushing and awkwardly switching to certain topics. This does not mean that he will not take you, but at first he will be cold and distant, almost nothing will be said, too embarrassed to call you dirty nicknames or humiliate you.

And his thirst for touch is partly a need. You are warm. The feel of your skin is soothing. He will not say that it is partly unrelated to sex, but sometimes, without realizing it, he puts his head on your shoulder when you sit on his lap.

Scaramouche was created to serve. To be a bearer of gnosis.. There is no sense of sexual arousal in his body, but "attraction" manifests itself on an emotional, psychological level, he wants you, but he does not want to "fuck" you into unconsciousness pressing you into bed, and say dirty things in your ear. He wants you differently, he wants to know that you desire him as much as he desires you, and an effective way to find out is to succumb to human lust for you. Scaramouche needs to know that he is not alone in this.

He is in a strange state during your bustiness, he takes the initiative, then he can become rough in touching and very tactile, but if sex becomes a topic of conversation, when this does not happen, then he worries about it, especially if you yourself bring it up.

But if it is not you, then an absolute "no." He is one of those who experience external disgust at the slightest mention of vanilla and sexual things. Even a puppet feels sick when he sees the manifestation of romance and love, when he hears it from his other subordinates, and he tells them to shut up or get out of his sight. But when he sees other people's looks and attention to your person, he can't help but show you that you should love only him.

✧ K: kink

Slight humiliation (not public!) / Possession / Marks

Humiliation..

He will shame you with words, making you blush and get angry, but you can't do anything about it.

"Stupid girl! How can you not understand? Have you seen their shameless, vicious looks at you? H-hah, don't tell me that you like it, tell me, honey, do you like it when I please you here?"

"Surely a naughty girl like you needed it.."

He lightly strokes your protruding ribs with his finger.

"She must have missed my fingers.."

He slowly whispers to himself, lowering your underwear, not taking his eyes off your clouded eyes.

"Missed my lips"

He kisses your neck softly and passionately, leaving an electric trace on your skin.

"Missed all of me, huh?"

Your eyes widen..

Possession..

He has always owned and owns you simply by being near you, without the need to tie you up and tie you to a leash. He kisses you passionately, harshly, desperately.. Touches you so that you tremble and press yourself closer to him for another portion of kisses that he joyfully gives you. His cold hands caress you gently, contrasting with your flushed skin, and these hands, stained with the blood of many people, grab and squeeze you like a vice, owning you.

And you will enjoy these hands? Yes, you will.

Marks..

The method doesn't matter. Anything will do. This is discovered by accident, after he unintentionally leaves behind a few bruises and scratches from digging his fingers too hard into your thighs. After that, he looks down at where you lie and sees the crescents of his nails… and then bruises appear there. It probably shouldn't be arousing… But it does, and he feels it again, hard to watch.

Over time, he realizes that this applies to other things too. To any visual signs that indicate his ownership of you. Because of them, he feels a comforting, but selfish feeling.

✧ O: oral

when he found out about this matter, he considered it as shameful as it was embarrassing, but when during your intimacy, you slightly embarrassedly asked him to caress you below, he did not understand at first, arching an eyebrow, mockingly looking at you. But after your explanation, he embarrassedly cleared his throat into his fist, and with a sigh went down, took off his hat, which was in the way, placing it on the wooden nightstand, he slightly spread your legs, exposing the view of your wet folds to his gaze.

Listening to your impatient sighs and exhalations and watching your swaying hips, he quickly threw out all thoughts about how humiliating it was for him.. How could he refuse his cute little kitten?

He couldn't stop, the sight of you gasping from his caresses and trying to move away from his grip on your hips… Delightful! Delightful your taste on his tongue, caressing your clitoris with increasing experience and intensity, your eyes rolling up and your moans.. All this is delightful!..

"Do you like it, my dear? Do you want more?.."

✧ H: hair

He often strokes the top of your head, fiddling with strands of your hair, watching with strange pleasure how you fear that he might suddenly tug you or squeeze your hair sharply from behind.

He does.

Listening to your moans, he brings his other, unoccupied hand to your hair, squeezing it, burying himself deep, making you squeal. But he will not hurt you too much. Why would he do that?

✧ D:(dirty secret)

He found himself thinking how often, in fragile moments of loneliness, he had imagined his hands closing softly but firmly around your throat, filtering the flow of air and life that made you so vulnerable and attractive. There was something radiant and terrible in these fantasies - a writhing, attractive light, but also a darkness full of despair and obsession.

He sighed, and in that moment, his mind was filled with images: how you looked at him in bewilderment, how your shining eyes were full of confusion and fear, how you tried to free yourself… It was a sweetness he felt in every moment of youre togetherness wit hnim. He adored you not only for your innocence, but also for the strength he felt when he dreamed of you broken, dependent, and, in the end, his. Wasn't that true love? How he dreamed of getting you, making you his own, learning what it was like to own not only a body, but also a soul… Although he had already soiled your soul long ago.

"Scream for me, my Persephone. Show the world how much I please you"

✧ N: no(what he won't do)

He doesn't want to hurt you too much during his "impulses" of love and possession, because his main goal is to show his beloved how he can "love". But he can't help but deny how much he likes using electro, he likes to see you choke and twitch from the prickles of electricity on your skin.

A feeling of constant risk sits in you, because you understand the level of closeness with someone who throws lightning and can easily kill you with a couple of magical manifestations. Sometimes eye contact with light indigo eyes makes you shudder, and you can't do anything about it.

✧ Y: yearning(libido)

Low, 4.5/10 which is not surprising, knowing his nature. But his physical attraction flows out of mutual emotional commitment or a desire to show love to you.

ITS BAD ASF..

@anantaru @hitomisuzuya @lavandulawrites @himasgod @neuvigroove @quimichi @rsventhesecondd @anemoswirlsmyheart @nil4everheartz @kujiba @genshingorlsrevengeance @shyentsfoundherink @lavandulawrites @ashyashylee @bl0odyd0kuro @himasgod @shyentsmissingink @crimsoncandy04 @ariiadnes @hitomisuzuya

˗ˏˋ ꒰ YOU ARE A LIGHT OF EYES OF MINE꒱ ˎˊ˗ ballader / wanderer

you are a ray of light in his impenetrable darkness..

✧ warnings — mention of angst, fem ! reader, doomed relationship, mention of organs. ✧ a/n — sorry for the absence, i was busy writing part 3 of the fic with yandere scara) but for now enjoy a little angst ( BRUUH I will delete this shii tomorrow 💀)

must listen with .. A Little Death – The Neighbourhood

Scaramouche had been stabbed in the back three times, but only after the third time had he finally learned not to expose her to the blow, but to strike first. It was easy to hate people - easier than he had initially thought. Vicious, petty, deceitful and infinitely selfless in their desire to prolong life at any cost, even when it was devoid of the slightest sense… They worshiped the Gods with the most sincere faces, and then sinned with selfless rapture. They smiled kindly, showered pleasantries as if they were gold coins, but each time they began to swear as soon as they realized that there was no longer any need for pretense.

And that made it even more disgusting to realize that some part of his non-existent puppet soul continued to stubbornly strive to acquire this very notorious "humanity". The emptiness where the ribs should have been itched and burned - and he hoped to fill this hole with someone else's blood, pain and suffering.

Killing people is also simple - simpler than he initially thought. They have fragile bones, soft skin and hot hearts that beat in his palms in the last dying fit with quivering clots of bloody flesh.

But the Balladeer did not see beauty in human hearts - slippery, disgusting to the touch and foul-smelling. Disgusting even from an aesthetic point of view. He sincerely tried to discern something in them that would arouse at least a bit of interest in him, but stubbornly did not find it. Or he simply desperately did not want to notice anything, in order to finally convince himself that imitation of people is a waste of time, effort, not worth its cost.

The Electro Archon puppet is created to be the perfect vessel for the Deity. He is above people by right of his birth, by any other right that exists. Electro Gnosis alone will be more than enough to replace some pathetic piece of flesh that drives blood through the veins.

The divine doll Electro Archon was hardly interested in the human body in such a… vicious and obscene aspect.

If he had no need for food, water, or banal rest, then for bed games - and even more so! And did Raiden think about such functions of the puppet organism, creating it…

But when he found such an innocent and bright creature as you, somehow managed to change his opinion about the human race. Hah.. In all his 500 years, he could not even imagine that a creature like him would so tenderly embrace, so passionately kiss and speak such sickeningly sweet words to some human maiden…; he always considered human feelings so alien and forgotten for him, Its uch an unearthly and alien feeling for him… so wrong, but so pleasant… It's as if you're dispelling his bitterness with your sweet taste.

He had no idea how he allowed some girl like you to cross the dangerous line and get so close to him.. Although he does not regret anything. But sometimes he thinks that it was better to kill you then than to break your fragile, like crystal soul into a thousand pieces… He initially understood that your attachment to him was a mistake. A terrible mistake.

@anantaru @hitomisuzuya @lavandulawrites @himasgod @neuvigroove @quimichi @rsventhesecondd @anemoswirlsmyheart @nil4everheartz @kujiba @genshingorlsrevengeance @shyentsfoundherink @lavandulawrites @ashyashylee