lemonue

Layla frowns and she shakes her head. “Her parents will warm her up first.”

“As long as they tell us they got in though…it’s been a while—”

*DING*

The phone lit up and the awaited message popped up. The blue-haired Kamisato grabbed her phone fast and opened it up for all 8 pairs of eyes to see.

“They’re in!!”

☔️☔️☔️☔️☔️☔️☔️☔️☔️

The door creaked open afraid to startle the resident and make a mess of the situation.

That was proved to be unnecessary as the pair peered past the dark and dimly lit studio. She wouldn’t have noticed at all. Only two large white eyes stared up at the intruders, its tail swishing as it sat over the resident like a gargoyle.

The woman’s lips frowned and eyebrows furrowed in apprehension and anguish. She waves her hand and the man gets her message.

The flutter of thick curtains draws open loudly, the room now getting beat with the rays of moonlight and the twinkling of the city underneath the building's height.

The noise couldn’t even wake the slumbering resident. Too drawled out in her vicious unhealthy cycle of mourning from an act of betrayal.

“Honey….” The woman’s voice was laced with worried concern for the view of her daughter sprawled across the carpeted floor.

But now that light is in the large studio did they see what lay beneath her was actually a canvas she scrawled all over in dark purple.

illumi darted away as her mother approached her body. Father looked at the cat and dug through his pocket, bending down he poured the cat treats into a bowl on the ground.

“Courtesy from your owner.” He smiled as he watched the cat eat happily and he scratched her head before joining his wife beside their main concern.

Father picked y/n up and the three of them headed to the bedroom upstairs. The only place that seemed untouched by her crazed despair.

Concern grew as they saw how rigid her body was in his arms. “She’s much lighter than her average weight…”

“...I saw convenience store snacks in the kitchen. Oh, my baby…” He lays his daughter down on the bed as the couple sits beside her next to each other.

Mother touched Y/n’s forehead and sighed in relief. “No fever at least. I’m betting on large migraines instead.”

“How should we wake our little darling artist?” Father grunts out as he watches y/n furrow her face restlessly.

Mother smiles nostalgically, Father gets the memo and they both place their palm on either of y/n’s cheeks stroking her face, she bristles and her face relaxes.

Deep bagged eyes blearily open in a daze. Her night terrors had dissolved from a familiar warmth as she took moments to recover her awakening.

“Our go-to way of waking you up when a nightmare consumes you. Better than getting terrified awake.” Mother giggles as she softens her voice and eyes. Leaning in she kisses her forehead which astonishingly melts the throbbing migraine, somewhat.

“Mom…dad…’m so tired. And numb…” Y/n struggled to sit up as her parents helped her up.

“Darling, you have no energy at all. Drink this, hot rejuvenating soup. 100% mother-made and she had the whole pot put in containers for you to save for later on.”

Father passes a thermos while the three get comfy and close to hold each other. Y/n sat in the middle.

Mother watched her gulp down the warm soup and waited till she was halfway done. Make sure she has enough nutrients for the heavy topic.

“Now…y/n. Why are you destroying yourself… Are you tryingg to have a more rough love story than ours?” She lightly teased to try and pry a smile from your sunken lips.

Having no energy to move a muscle and only lying on their shoulders, her lips mumble.

“I don’t...love him. He’s my enemy. Stole from me…my life’s passion. Didn’t consent to a.i feeding…Falsified his affection and…broke my heart.”

“Darling, have you ever gotten his viewpoint–“ Father got smacked on the head lightly as mother cut him off.

“We’ve chatted with the boy, albeit over text buutt, I can see him trying desperately to get you back. This is no story like ours, but I do think it’s time to return and face him once again.” Her words provided an unfounded warmth.

“You don’t have to accept any apologies, answer him, or force him to conform, just listen to his story. How else would you be able to debate with him?” Mother gives her a secure pat to go forth and face it.

“If I knew from the beginning I would've asked Papa to sue him...making a mess of art’s history…” Y/n whimpers and keeps her head down, he eyes puffy from lack of sleep and the sinking spirals of despair.

Mother quirks an eyebrow, curious and suspecting the real motive of all this. “My little artist…do you think you have to hold up the grandiose history of the art world I had a part in? All alone?”

Father's eyes understood but y/n scrunched up her face and body. She thought about it too much subconsciously that it was her job to parade around history like it was her legacy to maintain.

The berating thought of sheltering the traditional art from the wrongful social norms, she took it on herself. Building herself around a castle she wanted to protect, her walls having a gaping hole from a purple wrecking ball caused a collapse.

The wall feels lacking in her way of protection and slowly rebuilds. Her art castle is her only safe space and requires all her attention. The cracking walls tremble in another collapse, begging to open up the castle.

“And the walls have chipped y/n…I never asked you to uphold my reputation in history, nor will I ever carry such a weight. Sure I was important, but it’s the past now, oh my sweet color child.”

Tears welled up in y/n’s eyes. She couldn't let it go. Her mother was her idol, her inspiration. To let others mindlessly trample her past work was horrifying.

“Fear of A.I art covering up traces of the beautiful art I’ve founded, your fear drives hatred, dear. You’ve let it consume you. And you’ve let it destroy you.” Mother pulled your trembling body close and sighed lightly as she latched onto her.

“Do you hate how he tempted you, what he used against you, or the sinking feeling that he’s left the morals you silently pleaded him to follow?” She placed a kiss on her head while holding father’s hand behind her as she bawls.

Father ruffled her hair and followed mother to kiss her head as well.

“Let me tell you my view of our story. When your mother went off the radar, I was restless and worried. I didn’t dare ask one of her friends the whereabouts of her. I cared and soon enough my mind raced so often with missing her. Then I thought of a possibility of me driving her away permanently because of my ignorant bickering and debating. I didn’t want to be her cause of giving up and destroying her foundation.”

Father’s mouth curls bitterly following with a softer voice.

He feared he was the problem, that his stubborn rebuttals caused her to get tired of him. He hated how he was like that. But he couldn't help it. It was in his nature.

Is that what Scara’s feeling…?

“So when I saw her again, all shining in that much deserved spotlight and passion, I knew I loved her creative spark with each time I've ever thought about her in the 3 years she's been gone.”

He didn't want to leave that spotlight where she was the star. She shone to him in a way he knows he’ll never get to experience again if he lets her go.

Y/n listened, just like all the times she’d pay clear attention to their stories.

This time was no different, no matter how the tale was meant to free her, she wanted to be guided by her parents she loved so dearly.

So she opened her heart and head to these experiences; a gateway to guide her own turmoil.

But… How does he feel? Was I like a shining light to him…?

That thought made your heart wrench.

“She came back, with much more vigor than the last time I saw her. And it filled my soul. It meant I didn’t crush her spirit, and she thanked me for pushing her past her limits.”

“I was her revelation.”

“Her reason to start again."

“You are your mother’s daughter Y/n, pursue that soulful feeling again."

Now… did I have a right to go back to him after anguishing him as he did to my unwarranted goal.

Would he still. . . Pursue me with this obstacle i made. . .

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Synopsis{3}-> Scara decided to stop his a.i art creations when he realized that you are really his fav artist—as long as you were the one to teach him how to paint and draw. Facing multitudes of slip of the tongue from your friends; you figured out that he was your mortal nemesis; hatred brewed and twisted your view on him.

Lmaoo, i write Scaramouche’s name so much it autocorrected

Yayyy done, now to the fun part😚

Male POV🤤🤤

//Taglist//

He cursed to himself between sharp, ragged intakes, his needy violet eyes reflecting the luminescence of the moon, raking over your curves with a carnal glint. Looking back, he had all the opportunities in the world to stop that nagging desire churning within his chest.

But Wanderer was selfish. Once he got a taste of your affection, consider him a starved man.

His thoughts about you would twist and tangle his emotions until it utterly choked him of any sensibility. Love and lust are more than just a slippery slope. The puppet was free-falling in the abyss of your pheromones. The best part is you were completely clueless to these intimate escapades of his.

Could you blame such a depraved, touch-starved puppet?

The nights all seemed to blend together like this. Waiting patiently for you to snore gently before he let his fingers ghost your figure, assuring him that you wouldn’t wake up anytime soon. One hand would devote itself to exploring every bit of skin you had to offer while the other palmed the growing bulge in his shorts.

Like a moth to a flame, he became utterly entranced with the glow of your skin beneath the moon. You are like a goddess laying beautifully upon your altar of silken bedsheets, awaiting the devout worship of his soft prayers and saccharine lips.

His fingers grazed your shoulder, trailing down your arm and leaving tiny goosebumps in its wake. He let his hand mesh carefully into the dip of your waist, imperceptibly squeezing it just enough to fan the flames of his imagination. He was in another dimension entirely, wishing for the day you’d beg for his touch.

Wanderer takes his lower lip between his teeth harshly, dipping his hand beneath his shorts to tug the tip of his thick cock with growing fervor. Precum had already wet the slit of his tip, lubricating each teasing thrust of his hand over his dick. Meanwhile, he continued his journey down the round, plump curve of your hips.

Hips that were meant for childbearing.

He takes a fistful of your nightgown momentarily as his cock aches in his hand, yearning for release so soon. For fuck’s sake, why is the image of you bred full with his seed so goddamn hot?

His movements came to an abrupt halt at the lacy end of your little nightgown. He had to know what you were wearing beneath that silky dress. The idea of making a mess all over your cute panties, covering them generously in his cum, only edged him further. Or, even better, he’d love to fuck his creamy load all over your drenched folds before sliding back in for another round.

Wanderer had to make a concerted effort to reel in his filthy daydreams, struggling to keep his hands from trembling on you. He managed to slip the nightgown higher and higher up your smooth thighs, a lump quickly forming in the puppet’s throat.

He’s not sure if he could handle seeing you so vulnerable without ripping your clothes off and fucking you to his heart’s content right then and there. No, no, no... After all this endless waiting and pining for many torturous months, he couldn’t ruin this with a fleeting moment of insatiable want. He pauses, collecting himself for a brief moment.

The puppet’s pupils dilated into pools of audacious desire upon seeing the dainty black undergarments hugging your plush hip. It was lacy with a beautiful floral design, enrapturing his gaze all the way down to your cunt. Wanderer couldn’t help himself, reaching out subconsciously to brush his thumb against your clit through your panties.

“I wanna fuck you so bad… so bad,” he whispers, his voice just an octave higher with desperation as he continues to fist his throbbing cock. The friction of his hand isn’t enough. It couldn’t come close to the immaculate sensation of your slick pussy enveloping his cock, dragging the tip slowly from your clit to your fluttering, empty hole. But that would be insane, he couldn’t.

You didn’t seem to move a muscle in response to his touch. Meanwhile, Wanderer is struggling like a fool to restrain himself, it is almost comical. He could feel his impending orgasm, forcing his hand to slow down with longer, more intermittent strokes to stop from practically bursting at the seams.

Eventually, he found the courage to nudge the cloth of your black panties aside, revealing your pretty little pussy lips glistening with need. The puppet’s violet irises swirl with power, nearly drunk on the mere thought of pleasuring you in secret like this. Why else would you wear such a sexy little garment for him?

A dull, burning sensation coated his lungs as his thumb nestled into your bare clit, resolving himself to carefully lean down and relieve his parched throat with a kitten lick of your folds. It was a miracle that you hadn’t stirred in your sleep too much, yet the part of him reckless with lust wanted you to wake up while he was tongue-deep in your cunt. He dived between your labia again with his mouth, exhaling a soft, guttural moan into your hole after another good lick.

“Mm, so fucking good… I know you fucking like this, baby,” Wanderer mumbles, wrapping his arms around your hips to secure you in place as he freely drags his tongue across your folds and clit skillfully, placing an occasional kiss here and there. Your thighs subconsciously tense with pleasure.

Had he known you would taste so divine, he would’ve devoured your pussy a long time ago. Shifting slightly so that he could lay completely on his stomach, Wanderer eagerly laps at your cunt and fucks his leaking cock into the mattress. Shit, it is too easy for him to lose sight of himself and tug at your hips possessively, not hesitating to fuck you messily with his tongue.

It’s when he got a little too hasty slurping on your pussy with a particularly lascivious moan that you grumble in your sleep. Wanderer freezes, peering over your pelvis like a predator defending his prize with a piercing violet glare.

There is no way you could possibly wake up. Not now. Not when he’s so close. He deduces that the twitch in your sleep must be from that little aphrodisiac he slipped in your evening tea with him. The puppet had made a nice concoction of tasteless drugs to keep you both asleep and all sensitive just for him.

Wanderer is confident that his potion had its intended effect, but just in case—with a flick of his wrist, he ties your hands together on the headboard with a cool, pressurized ring of Anemo energy. He towers over you, a giddy smirk spreading across his lips seeing you so helpless to his desires.

He had read that cute pocket diary of yours gushing over him like he’s your high school sweetheart, don’t worry. You both know these feelings are mutual. But let’s be honest, he’d much rather you gush on his cock over and over until your pussy can’t take it anymore. And you’ve been dreaming about it too, he’s seen it with his own eyes.

Positioning himself between your legs, the puppet slaps his thick cock on your stomach, measuring it up to your belly button where his pink tip mushrooms. There’s no question that his dick would bottom out inside your walls, maybe if he’s lucky he could see his thrusts bulge in your lower stomach. He’d love to pound you deep enough to truly bury his cum inside you, plugging it with his pulsing cock until he’s sure you’re nice and bred.

No, no, he reminds himself again. He has to savor his time with you—make love to you like you rightfully deserve. There will be plenty of opportunities to fuck you senseless later, despite how badly he wants it now.

The tip of his cock trails down to your folds, tucking his length under your panties. Using one hand to guide his cock against your soaking core, the other rests on your inner thigh as he grinds against you slowly. Wanderer grits his teeth at the feeling, sucking in a sharp breath and brushing his thumb lovingly against your sensitive inner thigh. It’s everything he’s ever imagined and more.

He’s forced to bite his knuckles, nearly choking on his own pathetic whines of pleasure. His thrusts grow faster, using your lingerie to keep his cock pressed firmly between your folds.

His words are a ravenous, hoarse whisper, begging you in your sleep. “Shit, shit, shit, you’re gonna make me cum…! Can I put it in? C-Can I please put it in?”

Wanderer knows what your answer will be, grinding sloppily on your drenched cunt while he grabs your breast. He wishes he could hear you say it. But he can feel the way your sweet little hole clenches around nothing every time his tip rubs your clit just right, and that’s enough for him.

It takes no effort to snap the thin straps of your lacy panties in haste, quickly tossing the garment aside indiscriminately. It’s too much, fuck, you look too perfect. Before he knows it, Wanderer pushes his tip inside your sopping entrance, gazing with wonder at how you suck him in like a good slut. Such a good fucking slut, hugging the first inch of his hard cock like you never wanted to let go.

Your spongy walls subconsciously react to his every motion, tightening around the puppet’s cock with unprecedented strength. He hisses, materializing a blue chained choker around your neck with his Anemo abilities and yanking you forward. His girth splits you apart, sliding inside your throbbing cunt inch by every tantalizing inch, until he can meet you halfway and kiss your whimpering, tender lips.

“Goddamn you,” Wanderer growls into the kiss, harshly biting onto your lip. He doesn’t draw blood, but tends to your bruised skin thereafter with a gentler, half-apologetic kiss. “You feel so fucking good, take me so fucking good… mm…”

His hips draw back, your walls noticeably empty in his absence. Snapping forward, his huge cock plunges into your depths with a delightfully lewd smack, causing him to chuckle under his breath. The puppet carefully lays you back on the pillow, planting his arms on either side of your head so that his vision is filled with only your beautiful face.

Once Wanderer begins to establish a rhythm, there’s no stopping him. Every drag of his veiny cock against your sensitive walls is utterly addicting, he had to come back for more and more. He moans and whines your name into your delicate little neck, taking the flesh into his mouth to suck and mark you as his own.

He is panting over you like an animal in heat. “I can feel you squeezing me, angel. I know you love it. ‘M gonna use that pretty little pussy of yours.”

Your body twitches beneath him as his lips leave no crevice untouched by his kisses or hickeys, a smattering of small red and purple blotches dotting your skin from your neck to your breasts. All the while, the puppet had to throttle his pace again, almost giving in to the ecstasy. You were definitely getting close too, he could feel it in the way you clenched around him greedily.

Swirling his tongue around your cute nipple, Wanderer suckles it briefly with a pop of his mouth, admiring his work on the canvas of your gorgeous body. He leaned back, hooking his hands under your calves to press your knees to your chest. If only he had a Kamera to capture the mesmerizing image of your legs spread so good for him with a perfect shot of your cunt wrapped around his tip.

He could tell this position had your walls enveloping his length even tighter than before, angling his cock deep towards that special spot inside you that would have your toes curling. “God, (Y/N), you look so fucking sexy like this.”

It is killing him—the sensation of your hole desperately clinging to the inch of his cock sheathed within you. The puppet keeps your legs pushed back and snakes a hand down to your clit once more, which had obviously been aching for attention. He’s lost in the contours of your folds all splayed out for him, so much so that he lets a globule of his spit drip over your clit to mix with your juices.

You are squirming slightly in your sleep from all the stimulation, but he doesn’t care. The euphoric feeling of teetering on the edge of an incredible orgasm has Wanderer stripped of any sense of reason. He nudges his cock halfway inside you at a delectably slow pace, reveling in your body’s subtle reactions to his teasing.

“Yeah, baby? You wanna fucking cum?” Wanderer whispers hotly over you, circling your clit faster. There’s already a delicious ring of your essence gathering at the base of his cock.

“Cum…” you mumble in a daze, your eyelashes fluttering open slowly. Your expression is contorted into a helpless plea, licking and biting your bottom lip as you sleepily notice his cock nestled between your thighs.

Wanderer’s eyes snap to yours in disbelief. You’re lucid, but asking for more. He begins to chuckle lowly, and reaches to caress your cheek. “You want it, hm? Speak up.”

He continues to fuck you at an excruciatingly slow pace, waiting patiently for you to beg for his seed. He wanted you in tears, squirting all over him like a good girl. Your moans encourage him to go deeper.

“Please, Wanderer,” you struggle to curl your fingers in his indigo locks under the effects of the drugs. “K-keep going, feels too good. Fill me up, please…”

“Like this?” The puppet smirks, forcefully thrusting his huge cock to the brim inside of you. He relishes in your lovely cries of pleasure and pain, swallowing them in a passionate kiss as he fucks you with reckless abandon.

You could barely hiccup a response, sloppily kissing back as Wanderer abuses your tight hole. He has you pinned against the creaky mattress, holding your face with his thumb on your chin to keep your mouth open. Every noise of ecstasy is his to claim and taste on your tongue.

“Mine, baby, all mine. Say it for me,” Wanderer moans, adoring the cock-drunk glimmer in your clouded eyes.

Squeezing your eyes shut suddenly, your eyebrows furrowed together as you suddenly felt your orgasm build at a rapid speed. You whined against the Anemo cuffs restraining your wrists above your head. “Yours! Oh my god, I’m yours. I’m gonna fucking cum, please, please give it me…!”

“Mhmm, yeah c’mon baby, lemme see you cum for me, so good for me, yeah?” he praises, kissing you roughly as he snaps his hips into you. It’s impossible to deny his insatiable need for you any longer, painting your walls white with spurts of his hot seed in a series of profanity-laden grunts.

Your eyes nearly roll back as your orgasm washes over you, legs trembling around him. The continuous twitch of his cock has you arching your back, taking every last drop of his cum until your cunt can’t hold any more. It leaks out, creaming your folds and his cock nicely.

Once you both catch your breath and lock eyes, you feel your cunt ache to be filled once more. Noticing how you trap him with your legs around his hips, Wanderer realizes the aphrodisiac must have been stronger than he anticipated.

You smile sweetly. “M-maybe one more?”

How he was once an eccentric named Kabukimono who wandered from Shakkei Pavilion and made friends with the blade smiths of Tatarasuna. His first taste of human life was amid a blazing furnace and the clamoring of a hammer onto hot metal, learning what it meant to labor and create. He had grown to love the little village as his own, playing with the children and sipping on the bitter taste of tea leaves with his comrades.

The puppet who had called himself Kabukimono was painfully ignorant to the cruelty of fate.

He could have never fathomed the day he would hold the future of his village in his trembling, pale hands as the toxic Tatarigami fumes envelope him in chemicals. There he climbed deep inside the Mikage Furnace, the unique resilience of his artificial body left unharmed by the inhospitable temperatures glowing hot against his divine skin. Any normal human would’ve perished a thousand times over.

Inside the foreign device that promised to save his home lay the bloody, withering heart cut fresh from his closest companion’s chest.

“You are a human, Kabukimono,” Niwa had insisted with a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, a comforting hand resting on the eccentric’s shoulder. “You just don’t have a heart.”

Yet there the puppet stood, his voice robbed from his aching throat, cradling the very essence of his friend’s humanity in his palm.

It was his fault. What a foolish creature he was to ever involve himself with humans, whom he could only bring suffering. His tears were evaporated instantly as the grotesque realization dawned on the distraught young Kabukimono. He would later discover that he had been betrayed by a man who introduced himself as Escher but was known among the Fatui as The Doctor.

The dirty pads of his bare feet had thumped through the rocky village path and down the dirt roads leading to the outskirts of the rural Inazuman wilderness. Crows rustled in the trees and flapped their feathers into the sky, jeering at the desolate and abandoned settlement.

The village should have been evacuated. All who could have been saved were rushed as far away as possible from the poisonous Tatarigami. Rows upon rows of homes and businesses were eerily vacant. Kabukimono, in his watery hysterics, had not paid any mind to his surroundings, leaving behind the only home he ever had for good.

That is, until he stumbled across a young boy who lived under an old sakura tree. Kabukimono immediately felt the void in his chest wrench with visceral guilt upon learning that the child’s parents were crafts-people. The house was utterly empty except for the lonely little boy.

For as much as the puppet wanted nothing more than to rid himself of human companionship, he felt responsible for the loss of the boy’s parents. He had an obligation to see that he was taken care of and safe from the Tatarigami. If he could not have saved his friends, perhaps he could atone for his sins in raising the orphaned child—who reminded him too much of himself.

“Promise me,” Kabukimono spoke up with a bit of a hoarse tone, his voice cracking with emotion, extending a shaky hand to the young boy. “That we can be family. I will watch over you.”

“Like a big brother?” asked the innocent boy with a hopeful smile. He wouldn’t have to be alone anymore, taking the eccentric’s hand in his own. “I’ve always wanted one… I promise, we will be family.”

For a short while, the puppet had learned to push the turmoil plaguing his conscience to the back of his mind. His focus had shifted entirely to ensuring the boy’s safety and happiness, trying to scavenge food for him and exchanging stories under the moonlight. Although, Kabukimono flinched with each cough from the boy that shattered the silence between them as they went to sleep.

He hated that he recognized the symptoms. The residue of the Tatarigami had somehow infected the child, no doubt. A dreadful thought occurred to him—perhaps he had given the sickness to the orphaned child after what happened at the Mikage Furnace. The idea was enough to eat him alive with worry. Kabukimono had secretly prayed that the boy would endure the illness.

The puppet had worked tirelessly to give him the best he possibly could. If his coughs were dry, he would fetch him water. If his stomach rumbled, he would prepare some Lavender Melons. If he needed a friend, Kabukimono would be there to hold his hand as he slept like a guardian angel.

The day the elderly sakura tree shed its pretty pink blossoms was the day the boy was found unresponsive.

Kabukimono, too, found himself hollow and devoid. What did it mean to be family? What did it mean to love? What was the point of having such worthless emotions?

A blazing inferno consumed the darkness of the night sky. Crackling embers swirled and smoke bellowed in the rural countryside as a rickety house succumbed to a hellish fate. No one was there to witness the flaming spectacle. No one to help, or save the vacant violet eyes of a nameless puppet who clutched a small doll in his lap.

It was laughable, truly, how sick and twisted the world could be. The puppet couldn’t fulfill his creator’s wishes, nor could he befriend humanity, or have a heart of his own. Oh, to perish in a fiery death would be far too simple for Celestia’s liking, wouldn’t it?

For five hundred years, Kabukimono, Kunikuzushi, Scaramouche—no matter who he became—the feeling of inadequacy remained.

His divinely-created body was an immortal prison, shackling him to his sins. As a Fatui Harbinger, no needle, blade, or poison of the Doctor could kill him. No enemy or magic of the Abyss could ultimately break him. The puppet was built to withstand the likes of the Cataclysm that had taken his creator’s sister, yet the scars of these experiments litter his fair skin are a reminder that he is indeed alive.

Wanderer vividly remembers his dark fascination with testing his limits in the depths of his dissociation. Anything to serve as penance for the irreversible destruction he had inflicted upon his friends, his family, and his home. If he was lucky, perhaps the Doctor would find a way to end his misery or the maddening darkness of the Abyss would swallow him whole once and for all.

Even forsaking his autonomy and identity as Scaramouche to ascend to godhood would be a fitting death for the puppet. After all, the Everlasting Lord of Arcane Wisdom would never bow to his emotions like a weakling. Losing himself to infinite knowledge and truth would be a good ending, despite the insanity that would befall him.

All that mattered is he would cease to exist.

But it was you who defeated him, in all his might and glory as a fake Archon pumped full of divine wisdom and the sludgy remains of dead gods. It was you who found him after he tried to erase every part of his worthless being from Irminsul, and helped him pick up the pieces of himself in the aftermath.

The reality that lies within Irminsul had given him a new perspective as the Wanderer. Though he retained the poignant memories of his sins, Wanderer made sure to carve a special space in the void of his artificial body just for you. His savior.

Not a single one of those instances—absolutely fucking none of them—could ever compare to the morbid and desperate pit of despair that ravages Wanderer at the sight of your fragile body curled up in a white hospital gown. You are hooked up to a myriad of monitors and machines, wires and tubes tangling your frame like chains. The distant beep of the electrocardiogram is burned into Wanderer’s mind.

It’s your heartbeat, and the very reason for his continued existence. You had been reduced to small blip on a computer screen.

The hospital room was otherwise silent. The windows had the blinds slightly drawn, a cool ray of moonlight washing over Wanderer’s disheveled indigo hair from behind. Even if you were unconscious, Wanderer had wanted to tuck you in for the night, but he was terrified of hurting you. The fluorescent white light above your bed was off, bathing you both in warm darkness.

In the late hours, all Wanderer could do was stare at you with eyes reddened from crying, his crimson eyeliner smudged at the edge of lashes. He would occasionally lick his dry lips, which were chapped and peeling. The sting of the dead skin on his lips being tugged between his teeth was a momentary release from the overwhelming anxiety dwelling within.

His thin fingers are intertwined with yours on the hospital bed, one of the few ways the puppet can keep himself grounded in this moment. Every once in awhile, he’ll give your hand a gentle squeeze followed by a few broken wishes for you to open your eyes again. To see the life in you and hear your sweet voice again.

Sometimes it would get to be too much. Wanderer would raise your hand and kiss your knuckles with hot, salty tears pricking at his eyes. The stinging sensation would force his eyelids closed, sorrow streaming down his stained cheeks. He was sure that this was a result of his own shortcomings.

Your arms are wrapped in bandages with a few stitches here and there lying underneath. A deathly pale color flushed your beautiful face. And oh, Archons, those eyes of yours he had always adored endlessly were sunken darkly into your face, hidden in your slumber. His gaze drifted to your lips, still full and pink, perhaps his last vestige of hope as they parted for your sacred breaths.

To imagine you’re suffering as much as he had in his past is utterly unthinkable to Wanderer.

The only difference is your fragile mortality. He knows your pain now, he can see it carved onto your wrists in what must have been a frenzied meltdown.

Some cuts are lighter and faded, meaning this certainly isn’t the first time you hurt yourself. Other gashes in your arm are deeper and swollen, each one weighs on the puppet’s heart greater than the last. He couldn’t count how many times you must have taken that razor to your wrist. Wanderer silently curses himself for letting this happen to you.

“How stupid could I be? Letting her away from me,” he quietly lamented with his head in hands, fingers curling around his indigo locks tightly. “I had just one good thing.”

Rocking himself gently in the chair next to you, Wanderer continuously tugs at his hair to an almost extreme degree, unable to handle the anger, betrayal, and sadness overcoming him. He was practically attached to you at the hip, he should’ve noticed when your voice faltered or when your eyes betrayed your words. He should’ve seen the signs of you slipping through his fingers.

Even if every day wasn’t perfect, even if sometimes you both said hurtful things to each other, neither of you never truly meant it. Wanderer couldn’t bear to imagine not waking up next to you, the morning sunlight kissing your silhouette like an angel. He never thought that he’d find his purpose in you, in the most mundane moments that he cherished so deeply.

He knew you had a history of mental health struggles. So did he. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give you his everything—fingers entwined and sweat glistening on your bodies as he made you his for the umpteenth time.

The echo of the puppet’s soft sobs dissipates into the emptiness of the hospital room. His whole body is shaking with emotional agony. It’s the first time in centuries that he has allowed himself to feel vulnerable like this. How could he not when the love of his life—the meaning of his existence—had tried to take themselves out of it?

Wanderer finally releases his hair, taking your left hand again and passionately pressing his lips to your bare ring finger as an unspoken promise. You both had worked so hard to love better and be better. He wasn’t about to give you up.

There would never be another you in eternity.

He couldn’t bear the heavy burden on his heart anymore. Carefully, he pulled the thin blanket back and climbed into the hospital bed next to you. His fingers trembled at the contact, feeling your faint warmth. Wanderer gently pulled you close so that your head was safely tucked into his chest and he could rest his chin on your soft hair. He sighed, covering you both in the blanket once more.

Sobs tugged at his chest and his grip on you momentarily tightened. Though tears glistened at the corner of his broken violet eyes, Wanderer blinked them back with a shaky breath. You were in his arms and his world was made whole again.

“I love you, (Y/N),” his voice is gravely and barely audible. “I love you so fucking much… don’t you dare think otherwise.”

The puppet nuzzles his nose into your scalp, breathing in your familiarity like it’s home. He begins to play with your hair gently, combing and caressing your soft strands with his fingertips painted in black.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know…” Wanderer kisses your hair, closing his eyelids for a long moment to memorialize the feeling of your skin on his lips. “But I’m gonna get you out of here, baby. I’m gonna get you help, okay?”

His toned arms keep your body pressed to his, wanting to feel every part of your being entangled with him as it should be. The tickling sensation of your little breaths on his neck brought a small smile to his face because it meant you were sleeping comfortably and most importantly, alive. You were the missing piece in his puzzle, fitting perfectly into place with him.

“It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay,” the puppet whispers to you, hoping you could hear and feel his love in every way, shape, and form possible. His words also served as an assurance to himself because in this moment he felt so helpless, seeing the wounds on your precious skin.

“I won’t let anything hurt you anymore,” Wanderer solemnly vows, his voice slowly but surely trailing off as he succumbs to his exhaustion with you held close to his heart.

“Goodnight, my love.”

It had been weeks since the meeting with your father. Miyo had been sent off to marry Kiyoko Kudou, and Kaya was to marry Kouji; you've been hidden from most people because your father was ashamed to have two giftless children, unknown to your father. You had a gift; you had been keeping it hidden to protect you, lovely twin sister, from being alone through the abuse. When she was sent off to marry, you were lost, no one to talk to you, no one there to comfort you when you were denied your requests to leave the Saimori home. One day, your father called you to a room for a meeting, and something inside you felt excited and scared.

Reaching the door, you gently knock on the shoji. "Father, it's me, Y/n." Your voice is soft and quiet, your father responds, allowing you to enter. You sit on the floor, your ankles tucked underneath you as you use your left hand to open the door; you bow gently before standing up and stepping over the edge of the tatami while turning to close the door before waiting on instruction. "Y/n, do not just stand there. Sit." You jump a little before gently pulling out a pillow to sit on, sitting the way you were when you opened the door. When you have the chance, you look at your surroundings. You see an unfamiliar woman with soft purple hair in a thick braid cascading down her back, her purple kimono nicely complimenting her hair and sparkling lavender eyes.

"Y/n, this is Raiden Ei. You will leave to meet your fiance, her son, in three days." Your soft eyes widen; you are leaving this awful place. It was still a form of freedom even if you were marrying someone you had never met. You nod politely at Ei before excusing yourself to pack your things. Outside your room, you can hear Kaya and her mother celebrating that the second useless child would now be gone; luckily, you were celebrating that you could finally use your gift freely and have it documented for the first time. You never once used your powers in the Saimori home, didn't want to be separated from your sister, and didn't want to be married off because of your abilities. As you finish packing, you open the floorboard and place a beautiful pink braided cord with sakura flowers your mother had woven for you before she passed. You then place your belongings to the side, ready to go to bed, before a servant comes and hands you a lovely purple kimono lined with gold, telling you to wear it the day you leave.

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Sitting in the back of a car, you watch the trees pass by you. You had never been this far away from the saimori house, and you hoped that your new fiance liked you because you had nowhere else to go if you were rejected, but your father and his mother had already signed a betrothal agreement. Like he did for your sister, your father gifted you a fresh kimono suited for meeting your new fiance without putting the saimori household in a bad light. You smile softly at the trees and farmland you pass, knowing that even if you were kicked out, you would be happy to work. Anything would be better than the abuse from your stepmother and half-sister.

The car slowly pulls to a halt, and you are greeted with a gorgeous home, with large cherry blossom trees everywhere, touching your heart as it reminds you of your sister and mother. A young woman dressed in a servant's kimono helped me get out of the car and offered to carry the small luggage. You politely declined and asked to be shown to your new room for the afternoon before meeting your future husband. You place your stuff in a drawer and explore your new home. Stumbling across a small kitchen, you smile softly, reminded of how much time you spent with your twin learning to cook.

You and Miyo spent much time together, but she focused more on surviving. You honed your homemaking skills just in case you were to be married off to be a housewife; like your sister, you knew how to cook and sew, but you also spent time learning flower arrangements, caretaking, and calligraphy. You wanted to be prepared to have a middle-class housewife's responsibilities instead of a noblewoman's. You were lucky that your father even agreed to marry you, especially with how well hidden from the public eye and other people you were. When the saimori house had visitors, you would stay in the kitchen or your room. You assume that Lady Ei was there for Kaya under the presumption that Kaya had not yet been engaged, but when you got summoned by your father, you knew you were bound for freedom.

You familiarized yourself with the household, your new maid following you quietly. You had already gotten acquainted, and she was kind enough to ensure you wouldn't get lost while exploring your new home. You've heard from some of the staff whispering that your Fiancé is blunt, with a heart of ice, but my maid, Aki, Reassured you that he was kind at heart, much like Miyo's fiancé Lord Kudo. As you venture around the house, you hear soft but upset footsteps from a hall just ahead. Not paying any attention, you pause with Aki behind you to look at the cherry trees that lined the property.

You begin to venture back to your room, but your path is blocked by a simple, pale purple kimono with a white haori resting atop it. You gasp softly and bow your head, apologizing profusely for not paying attention before the taller male huffs. "Do not apologize. You have done nothing wrong; I was the one who blocked the path." You keep your head down but stop apologizing as ordered, scared you will be punished by the man in front of you; his attitude and how he carries himself are intimidating. You slowly lift your head, observing the male before you; he has jellyfish-cut indigo hair and sharp violet eyes. You could tell he got his looks from his mother, but you couldn't say about his personality.

The male grabs your chin and inspects your face before letting go and huffing, "So your Y/n Saimori?" Your eyes widen in shock as you bow gently, being briefed by Aki on how to greet your new fiancé. "It's a pleasure to meet you, lord Scaramouche; please treat me well." Scaramouch rolled his eyes, pulling you out of your bow and making direct eye contact. "You are to call me only Scaramouche, understand? None of that Lord crap." You nod softly as he releases you and starts walking. "It's almost time for dinner. Are you joining me or not?" His tone was stern, but you could hear the curiosity and concern. You follow him quietly, dismissing Aki to the kitchen.

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Months had gone by; you and Scaramouche had gotten married before the incident with Miyo and your father, and you had learned of your Usaba bloodline through your now husband after the incident with the Saimori's. It was interesting being Lady Raiden Y/n, especially with how long it takes for you to even sit next to your husband when having tea. You had grown relatively close to him after your wedding. You had spent a lot of time together. Over time, you had learned how to control your telekinesis, and you had even informed Scaramouche of it, but something seemed off lately; it was becoming irritated when you called his name.

That evening, you couldn't seem to sleep and were staring out at the cherry blossom trees and their falling leaves as the fall season grew close. You feel a pair of arms wrap around you, and you melt softly; all those rumors you had initially heard before meeting him had disappeared quite a bit ago, shortly after your marriage. "Scara-" "Its Kunikuzushi, I just go by Scaramouche. I should have told you sooner. I've been annoyed that my wife wasn't calling me by my actual name, but god knows why my mother named me Country Destroyer." You try to hold in your giggles, but they spill through. Kuni looked at you with a strange look before you turned and kissed his cheek. "Better late than never, I guess." You both smile softly.

You both walk back to Kuni's room; tonight, he invites you in, and you spend the rest of the night enjoying each other presence and company, and you talk until you both doze off in each other's arms.

For a moment, you do not move.

Then your hand drifts toward your bag, guided more by habit than intention. Inside, the sewing kit waits—small, unremarkable, dependable in the way only quiet things are. It would be simple enough.

A few careful stitches, a brief pause in the day. You could fix it. You have fixed worse.

But your fingers hesitate.

What if they are in a hurry? What if stopping them—kneeling there with thread and needle—becomes an inconvenience disguised as kindness? The thought unsettles you. Help, when mistimed, can feel like an obstruction.

And the strap… it is already so worn. Even mended, it might fail again. Soon. Perhaps sooner than either of you would like to admit.

Your hand withdraws, only to find the fabric of your tote bag instead.

This would be easier.

You feel the shape of the decision forming before you can fully examine it. The tote is intact, untested, light in a way that suggests promise. You could give it to them—no delay, no fumbling with thread, no risk of doing too little. A clean solution. A kinder one.

But then—your backpack.

Five years of use, seams softening, edges worn into familiarity. Not strong, no—but still holding. Still enough. You have made do with it. Continue to. The quiet arithmetic begins to take shape: This is enough for me. More than enough, compared to what they have. The logic is swift, persuasive in its simplicity. I can give this bag to this child—

But— something in you resists the neatness of it

Because this is not really about the bag.

Your gaze returns to the child’s hand, still gripping that failing strap with a determination too deliberate to ignore. Not asking nor expecting. Only enduring. The gesture settles somewhere deeper than reason, in a place that does not weigh options so much as reject their necessity.

Fix it. Replace it. Do something.

The thoughts begin to overlap, less like choices and more like pressure—one insistence layered atop another, until hesitation itself feels like the only wrong answer.

Your grip tightens around the tote, where you could hand it over now. End it cleanly.

Or kneel, thread the needle, and offer something slower—something that requires them to stay, to trust, even briefly.

Neither is perfect. Both are imperfect in different ways. But standing here, doing nothing—that, suddenly, feels impossible.

Your hand begins to lift—and stops.

“Really, (y/n)?”

The voice cuts in, soft but precise, carrying a familiarity that makes it no less unwelcome. There is no urgency in it, no sharp rise in tone, and yet it lands with quiet certainty, as though the moment has already been judged.

You turn swiftly to the familiar voice.

Scaramouche—or, as he now calls himself, Mr. Hat Guy—stands there, watching you with the faint, incurable air of someone who has already drawn his conclusion and finds yours tedious by comparison.

“In the middle of the road,” he remarks flatly, as though your timing is just another minor inconvenience the world has forced upon him. “Of course you would pick now. Subtlety really isn’t one of your strengths.”

You glance past him, and only then does the world sharpen—the distant rattle resolving into an approaching carriage, its presence no longer abstract but imminent, bearing down with the indifferent certainty of something that will not slow simply because you have hesitated.

You open your mouth—whether to argue or explain, you’re not sure—but he has already moved.

One hand closes around the child’s, gently, but not unkindly either; the other finds your wrist with an unceremonious precision that leaves no room for refusal. You are pulled forward—not rushed, exactly, but decided for. The crossing happens in a brief, disorienting sweep, as though hesitation itself were an indulgence he has no patience for.

Only once you reach the other side does he let go.

“You make things unnecessarily complicated,” he says, voice flat with impatience, his attention not on you but on the failing strap—as if the object itself has offended him by existing in such a pathetic state.

“I was trying to help,” you reply, though it comes out softer than intended, the certainty in it fraying at the edges.

“I’m aware,” he answers at once, with the kind of dryness that suggests he finds the fact unimpressive rather than commendable.

He crouches in front of the child without ceremony, movements precise, economical. There is no gentleness in the way he assesses the broken strap—only evaluation, as though it were a problem already deemed simple and beneath discussion.

His fingers lift it, turn it slightly, and in that brief inspection it feels less like concern and more like judgment delivered to an inanimate object for wasting his time.

“And you,” he spoke to the child with a tone almost bored, “are about to lose this entirely if you keep relying on it.”

Before you can react—before the protest even forms properly in your throat—he is already reaching into your bag. The sewing kit comes out like it was always meant to be there, as if its location was obvious and your ownership incidental.

“That’s—” you start.

“If you’re going to interfere,” he cuts in without looking up, already threading the needle with effortless precision, “then at least have the sense to be useful about it.”

Each movement is exact, economical: thread drawn cleanly through the eye of the needle, fabric aligned with a brief, assessing touch, the torn strap eased into position between steady fingers that never hesitate twice.

And yet—contrary to the sharpness of his words—his handling of the bag is not careless. He does not tug or force the material into submission. Instead, there is a quiet control to it, a practiced restraint, as though he understands precisely how far fabric can be pushed before it gives up entirely.

When the strap shifts under tension, he adjusts without fuss, loosening just enough pressure with two fingers, guiding it back into place with an absent precision that suggests memory rather than thought.

“You’ve been using this as it is,” he says to the child without looking up, voice level, almost conversational. “It was going to fail sooner or later.”

The child nods faintly, watching him more than answering.

“Hm,” he continues, threading the needle through the torn edge with a smooth, unbroken motion. “So it chose a convenient time. That’s something, I suppose.”

It is not comfort he offers, nor reassurance—just observation delivered with the bluntness of someone who sees no reason to soften reality. Still, his tone remains even, and strangely steady, as if the act of speaking while working is as natural to him as breathing.

The needle passes through the fabric again. Then again. His fingers guide it with an ease that is not showy, but unmistakably practiced—the kind of competence that comes from repetition, from having done this enough times that the motions no longer require attention. The stitches form clean and consistent, drawn tight with controlled pressure, never distorting the strap, never wasting motion.

At one point, the thread catches slightly.

He pauses—a simple correction—tilting the strap fabric minutely, adjusting the angle of the needle before continuing as though the interruption had never occurred.

The child watches, hesitant but curious now, as the rhythm resumes.

“You don’t have to pull so hard,” he says abruptly, as if continuing a thought already in motion. “It’s not about force. It’s about holding it in place.”

Only then does he glance at them—briefly, almost lazily, but with a clarity that suggests he has already taken in more than he lets on. There is no indulgence in his expression, but neither is there dismissal; just instruction, given as fact rather than advice.

His hands return to the strap. Another stitch. Then another.

From this distance, it is easier to notice what is not said: the steadiness of his grip, the lack of wasted motion, the unbroken coordination between eye and hand. He handles the needle like something long familiar, not precious, not fragile—simply understood.

Even the way he supports the fabric feels deliberate, thumb bracing one side while fingers guide the other, maintaining tension with quiet control, so the repair does not warp under his own work.

It does not look like performance.

It looks like experience.

You watch in silence, the kind that feels fuller after motion has finally settled.

“There,” he says at last, tying off the thread with a final, precise knot. The movement is small, almost unremarkable, yet it carries a sense of completion that does not invite argument. “That will hold.”

The child hesitates before testing it—first cautiously, almost as if expecting betrayal from the very act of hope. The strap bears the weight without complaint. They test it again, this time with a little more certainty. Then once more, just to be sure.

In their expression shifts, though it does not bloom into joy. It softens instead, cautiously, like a guarded door opening only a fraction. Relief, for them, is not immediate—it is negotiated, approached carefully, as though it might withdraw if treated too freely.

“Thank you,” they say.

It is simple. Earned, somehow, in a way words usually are not.

This time, when you offer the tote bag, they take it without hesitation.

But it is not the same acceptance as before.

Earlier, it would have felt like convenience or substitution—an easy replacement for something broken. Now it feels different. Deliberate. Considered. Their fingers close around it not as if it is a solution imposed upon them, but as something given with intent, received with understanding rather than uncertainty.

There is gratitude in it, but not the fragile kind that bends under implication; more grounded, as though the exchange has been properly acknowledged on both sides.

The child adjust the strap over their shoulder, testing its weight. It sits differently now—not fixed, not perfect, but workable in a way that no longer demands apology.

“Bye, bye!!!” said the child as they move back into the street’s current, slipping easily into its motion. Still small. It's still carrying more than they should. But no longer fighting the act of carrying itself.

Strangely, the space they leave behind does not feel empty.

It feels… resolved.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The street resumes its indifferent rhythm around you—voices passing through one another, footsteps dissolving into the larger current of motion—but between you, there is a stillness that feels oddly deliberate. 

“I was only trying to help,” you say again, softer now. This time the words don’t land as argument. They linger uncertainly at the edge of meaning, as though you’re testing whether they still hold.

“I know.” His reply is immediate.

Then, quietly—without raising his voice, without even shifting his stance—he says, “That’s exactly the problem.”

Your brows draw together at once. A subtle tightening in your expression, the kind that precedes resistance. “You keep saying that like it explains anything.”

Scara exhales through his nose, like restrained impatience. His shoulders remain relaxed, but there is a faint stillness in the way he holds himself now—attention gathered, focused, as though he has decided this is worth less effort than frustration.

“It does,” he answered snarkly.

You tilt your head slightly. “Helping someone is the problem?”

“No.” His answer is sharper, immediate. The faintest shift in his eyes tells you he is correcting something he finds unnecessarily misframed. “You are.”

That makes you pause.

His gaze stays on you now. Unblinking as if he has no intention of letting the thought slip past unnoticed.

“You don’t hesitate,” he continues “You don’t evaluate. You see a problem and immediately start subtracting yourself from the equation.”

Your mouth parts slightly, then closes again.

Scara notices anyway.

The corner of his mouth tightens—not quite a frown, but something restrained, as if he finds the pattern predictable.

“That’s what I mean by unnecessary complication,” he says. His head tilts a fraction, eyes narrowing just enough to emphasize the point. “You turned a broken strap into an excuse to give away something that wasn’t even the issue.”

Your fingers flex faintly at your side, as though you’re only now aware of how tightly you had been holding them earlier.

“I was trying to fix it,” you say, quieter.

“And you did,” he replies at once.

That stops you.

His gaze flicks briefly toward where the child disappeared into the crowd. Not lingering—just acknowledging. Then it returns to you.

“Without sacrificing anything,” he adds, almost offhandedly, as though the conclusion should have been obvious from the start.

You look at him for a moment longer, uncertain.

“That’s what you’re not understanding,” he continues, and now there is a faint, almost imperceptible shift in his posture—one shoulder angled slightly, weight redistributed as if he’s grown tired of repeating something he considers self-evident. “Helping doesn’t require depletion.”

Your expression tightens. “It felt like the right thing to do.”

“I’m sure it did.” The reply is immediate, but not mocking—just flatly analytical. “That doesn’t make it accurate.”

His fingers adjust once at his side—a small, precise movement, like he is punctuating the thought rather than fidgeting.

“You keep treating generosity like it has to be absolute,” he says more quietly. “As if anything less than total surrender doesn’t count.”

“And what?” you ask, voice steadier now but still searching. “You think I should just do less?”

His eyes narrow slightly—not in irritation, but in correction.

“No. I’m telling you to stop disappearing inside it.” He holds your gaze as he says it. Still. Unflinching.

“You saw something broken,” he continues, “and your first instinct was not to fix it—but to erase yourself as the cost of fixing it.”

His attention shifts briefly again—down, to where the child had been. Then back to you.

“You don’t solve imbalance by becoming the imbalance yourself, (y/n)"

Scara's expression remains unchanged, but the edge in it has softened into something more precise than judgment—closer to instruction than criticism.

“Fix what’s in front of you,” he concludes, “and stay present enough to remain useful after it’s done.”

a/n 🍨: this is based on a real experience of mine two weeks ago...it still lingering in my mind now. I didn’t manage to sew the child’s bag strap because we were crossing a busy road and there wasn’t time or space to stop safely. So I gave them my tote bag instead, which was still new. I hope the child is okay and that they’re able to get a proper replacement bag soon, especially since they were carrying heavy school books.