#puppet!reader

The temple at night was quiet in a way that bordered on sacred.

Cicadas had long since gone silent, and the garden glistened faintly with dew, moonlight turning every leaf silver. The world felt far away here. Like a dream too soft to wake from. A place meant for healing— or forgetting.

He sat there again. On the edge of the stone walkway, back to the garden, gazing at nothing. The moonlight curved around him like it was afraid to touch his skin, as if it, too, had been burned by the god he tried to become.

You saw him as you always did— from a distance first. Knees drawn up slightly, one arm hooked lazily over the railing, his other hand idly toying with the edge of his cloak. He wasn’t relaxed. He only looked it. His shoulders were tense, jaw set, eyes unfocused and bitter.

Kunikuzushi.

You took a breath and stepped closer.

“You’re still following me.” His voice was flat. A little hoarse. He doesn't even bother averting his gaze from the empty space he has been staring for quite some time now.

"I never stopped.” you answered gently.

That earned you silence. Not surprise or anger. Hah, he went past that. Just a cold kind of stillness, the kind you’d seen in him too often when he wanted to lash out but couldn’t find the strength.

You stepped beside him, sitting with your legs folded, hands in your lap. You watched the moonlight pool on the garden stones, pretending you weren’t afraid to look at him. But he spoke first.

“So. What are you, then?” he asked, his voice sharp around the edges. “A guard dog for the Dendro God? A ghost over a porcelain doll skin?”

“Something like that.” you smiled.

He finally turned, and his eyes met yours.

“Tell me, did that Buer asked you to watch me rot, or just to make sure I don't bite my tongue before her little redemption project is finished?" He rolled his eyes. "How noble."

He leaned back, gaze cutting the night in half. For a while, nothing. Just the wind moving the bamboo outside. Just the ache between you.

You pause for a while.

“No. Because I want to. She asked me— it's true. But i want to."

Another pause.

“You really should’ve stayed away,” he muttered, but there was no softness to it. His voice was a cold, hard thing— a blade wrapped in silk.

“I’m not who I was. That thing? He’s dead. Buried. And maybe he should’ve stayed that way.”

Your fingers curled against the fabric of your clothes.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you murmured. “But I do know who you were, Kunikuzushi.”

That made him flinch. Just slightly— a tightening in his shoulders, a twitch in his jaw.

“Don’t. Call me that.”

You didn’t look away.

“Why not?” you asked, voice still soft. “It’s who you were. Before them. Before everything.”

He laughed— short and sharp, but there was no humor in it. Only poison.

“You think you know who I was? That name means nothing now. Just a failed fairytale some fool whispered to make sense of a mistake.” his hands are clenching into fists.

You met his stare. For the first time, you let the words come out with the weight they deserved.

“You didn’t know me. But I knew you. I was made from what you threw away, long before you became.. Scaramouche. Long before you decided you didn’t need anyone.”

The name sounded bitter in your mouth— not because you hated it, but because you remembered the pain behind it. How he clung to it like armor. Like it could make him untouchable.

“Yae Miko made me. From your scraps— your leftovers, to serve you. To be beside you when no one else would be.”

His eyes widen, hands finally unclenches.

"..."

The silence that followed was louder than anything you’d heard in weeks. The tension in his body coiled tighter, tighter, until it felt like the night itself might snap.

“So that’s it,” he scoffed. “Another one of her little games.”

You shook your head. “No. Not a game. A mercy.”

“A mercy?” He laughed— short and sharp. “You call being made from scraps a mercy?”

“If those scraps are yours, then yes.”

He stared at you like you’d just said something obscene.

So you kept going. Because if you didn’t say it now, you never would.

“You don’t have to understand it. You don’t even have to want it. But I loved you. Not as a god. Not even as a man. I loved you as something I was born to follow. And I still do.”

“That’s not love,” he hissed. “That’s programming. Obedience. Don’t you dare confuse the two.”

“Is it?” you asked, voice breaking. “Then why does it hurt when you look at me like that? Why do I want to touch you? To hold you? To protect you, even when you push me away?”

His expression twisted. He paused.

“..I’m not worth loving.”

“Then let me love the part of you that thinks that.”

That’s when it cracked— whatever wall he’d built. His breath came out shaky.

"You'll regret it."

And then he moved.

Fast— and a little bit violent, but with all the sharpness of a someone who’d denied himself softness for too long.

His hand gripped the side of your neck, pulling you forward, and his mouth crushed against yours.

The kiss was nothing like you imagined.

It was desperate. Messy. All teeth and trembling hands. Like he didn’t know how to kiss— only how to take. How to cling. You made a soft sound against his mouth and he devoured it— deepened the kiss until it was breathless, smothering, like he wanted to swallow every piece of you whole.

You kissed him back. You tried at least. But he was all sharp edges and desperation— sloppy and starved, like a man who’d never learned the difference between affection and possession.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, trying to steady him. Pull him closer. Your knees tangled beneath you, and then— suddenly— he shifted, dragging you into his lap like it was instinct. A gasp escaped your lips as his hand flew to your back, the other pressing flat against your chest, right over the empty place where your heart should have been.

“There’s nothing there,” he hissed, voice like broken glass. “Just hollow imitation. Fitting.”

You looked at him— wide-eyed, stunned— but he didn’t stop.

“Just like me. A puppet. A mistake. And you—what, did she make you to match me? Another empty thing, built to look human. Built to pretend.”

His grip on you tightened, to remind you that he could shatter you if he wanted.

“Don’t fool yourself. You’re not real. You’re just a shadow stitched together to follow me around like a ghost. Just like I was. Just like I am.”

You leaned your forehead to his, breathing hard.

“Then- then maybe we can be nothing together.”

He growled but he kissed you again— slower this time. Painfully slow. His lips softened and moved with care now, as if trying to memorize you, not just possess you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours with his breath all hot and uneven.

"I'll make you regret it.” he murmured. "I'll make you regret ever wanting me.” A shiver went down your spine as he said that.

“I want you, because I’m made of what you tried to throw away,” you whispered. “And I love what’s left of you."

Your words hung in the air between you like a fuse lit too close to fire.

That was when he snapped.

In one sudden movement, he had you pinned— your back against the cold wood of the railing, causing his hat to fell on his side as your thighs are forced to pry open to stay beside his hips, his hands gripped your arms with bruising tension. His face was close, too close, and his breath was ragged.

“You think that means something to me?” he spat. “That just because someone cobbled you together out of my scraps, I’m supposed to what— care?”

You tried to spare some little space between you, not because you didn't want to be close— but the way his body heat pressed against yours— it was— too much— Surely he knows your body is much weaker than him? One of his hands gripped your thigh roughly as a warning, and after a while, it didn’t soften, if anything, it tightened, like he was daring you to flinch.

“Is that what you want? To play loyal pet? Follow me around like some abandoned mutt hoping for scraps of affection I don’t have left to give?”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice low and venomous.

“You’re pathetic.”

But then he kissed you— vicious and claiming— like he was punishing you for staying. His teeth caught your bottom lip, pulling, almost cruel, before he crushed his mouth against yours again, swallowing the soft gasps you made.

You tried to kiss him back— once again— not gently, but with all the fire he fed into you. Soon enough, you grabbed at his coat, pulling him closer, refusing to break eye contact when he pulled back for breath.

“That’s what I thought,” he sneered, voice dark with heat. “You like this. You want this. You enjoy it, hm? Enjoy the feeling of being putty at the hands of danger? A little masochist you are.”

He grabbed your chin, forcing your head back to bare your throat. His mouth was on your neck a moment later— hot, wet, biting.

And then—

Teeth.

A sharp bite, hard enough to sting, hard enough to leave a mark that would bloom dark and violet. You whimpered and trembled, gripping his shoulders to steady your trembling body. He smirked against your skin.

“Now everyone will know,” he growled, lips brushing over the spot he’d bitten. “You’re mine. A puppet made from trash... still good enough to ruin.”

You were breathless, his hips pressing you harder against the wood beneath. There was no gentleness in him— only heat, only hunger— and you took it, because he needed to give it that way.

When he kissed you again, it was rough, tongue sliding against yours, making you gag. Hands everywhere, gripping, claiming, not asking permission.

“Say it,” he demanded against your mouth. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” you said, breathless. “Only you.”

That word— only made him falter. Just for a second. But it was enough to slip a crack into the wall he’d built.

His next kiss was no less rough— but it was slower. Deeper. He forced his tongue deep into your throat, licking the back of your throat— the roof of your mouth— anything. The hand that had pinned your arm now tangled behind your back, pulling you against him like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space.

You moaned into him, and his eyes burned with something raw— not just desire.

But need.

He pulled away, a string of saliva connected your tongues as drool went past your chin.

“You should hate me,” he whispered, voice shaking.

“Maybe,” you whispered back, now curling your arms around him. “But.. I don’t. So- mgh..! ruin me- if you want... Just- don’t push me away. Please." you panted.

He didn’t answer— only to kiss you again, like he was trying to erase every soft thing you’d said.

Contrast to his words, his hand trembled when it cupped your cheek.

He leaned forward and whispered,

Sumeru, December 24th, 11:38 PM

Snow wasn't supposed to fall in Sumeru, and yet here it was, drifting over domed rooftops and jungle trees like an awkward seasonal glitch. It coated everything in soft white stillness.

In a dark alley behind a patisserie, three figures hunched around a very large cardboard box.

Sethos rubbed his temples. “Okay. Just one more time. Slowly. We are… kidnapping a sentient puppet.”

“She’s not resisting!” Paimon whisper-yelled, arms flapping. “She’s emotionally docile! It's fine!”

Traveller nodded, already lining the box with tinsel and fairy lights.

Sethos pointed. “She’s literally sitting on a bench doing absolutely nothing. That doesn’t mean she’s okay with being wrapped up and hand-delivered like some kind of cursed Build-a-Boyfriend expansion pack.”

Paimon beamed. “It’s romantic!”

“It’s a felony."

"It's a matchmaking!"

They all looked toward you. Menacingly.

You sat perfectly still, barely breathing— if you even breathed at all— your gaze locked somewhere on the horizon like you were waiting for the end of the world or the return of common sense.

Your uppet joints gleamed faintly under your scarf. There was a mechanical grace to your stillness. You sighed softly for the nth time.

Sethos blinked. “Is she even alive?”

“She’s thinking.” Paimon hissed reverently. “About Hat Guy. Obviously. She’s made of his leftover parts, remember? Or maybe she is rethinking the past 500 years.”

“That doesn’t make this less weird. That makes this so much worse.”

“Exactly!”

Traveller silently held up a long pink ribbon and a tag that read:

To: Wanderer

From: Definitely Not Criminals ;)

Ten Minutes Later

You had been tied up.

Very carefully. Very respectfully. But also very undeniably.

Your wrists were bound gently with pastel silk, legs were folded neatly beneath you. Ribbons trailed over your puppet limbs like decorations on a forgotten relic. A big silver bow rested atop your head.

Even your mouth was muffled—though not tightly, just symbolically. A satin strip pressed lightly over your lips like a “shh” written in fabric

You were done with life af. Not resisting, just taking your another 1048208302849403th sigh, accepting your fate.

You blinked. Slowly.

“She's so elegant,” Paimon whispered. “Like if ennui had a physical form.”

“She's not blinking normally,” Sethos said. “It’s like... she’s buffering.”

Traveller slid the lid closed.

Wanderer’s House, 12:09 AM

Wanderer, in his sleveeless top, his coat hung up somewhere, and bitter solitude, glared at his teacup, contemplating life choices.

Knock knock knock.

His gaze snapped to the door.

Another knock.

He stands up and approached the door to opened it cautiously— only to find a suspiciously large glitter-drenched box resting on his porch, faintly jingling.

He stared at it for five full seconds. Then:

“Nope.”

And shut the door.

Knock knock knock.

It jingled.

Grimacing, he opened it again, pried open the top— and lo behold—

There, inside, lay a puppet. His puppet.

No. Not his.

But… his.

You blinked up at him. Silent. Bound in ribbons. Wrapped in a way that made it impossible to deny the intention: gift.

His mouth opened, closed, opened again.

".."

“...What in the actual Archon-blasted, glitter-infested, emotionally manipulated HELL is this—”

"DO YOU LIKE HER?!”

He turned sharply.

Bush. Three shadows. Two giggles. One fleeing.

Sethos: “Abort! Abort!”

Paimon: “MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

Traveller: *vanishing into the night like a war criminal after he scattered glitters all over the place*

Wanderer looked back down at you.

You looked up at him, eyes staring back into his with the same confused look— though not as confused as he is—

Your mouth covering shifted just slightly with your next blink.

He crouched down, tugged it away gently.

“…Hi." you whispered.

It was the same voice. Soft. Barely audible. Like a memory smothered under time.

“Y/n.." he muttered, your name sounds so so—sweet when he said it.

"..yes?"

"They just… tied you up. In a box.”

"Yes.."

“You didn’t fight back?”

"No.."

You looked off to the side.

He closed his eyes. Sighed. “You could’ve said no.”

You blinked at him. Slow. Doll-like. Then murmured, “...They used glitter.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course they did.”

He lifted you gently from the box, ribbons jingling, and carried you inside bridal-style, like a man too tired to argue with fate.

You hide your face in his shoulders and succesfully hiding the redness on your face.

The house was quiet, warm with magic. He set you down on the couch.

Silent.

His eyes dropped to your wrists. The silk restraints still tied neatly. He hesitated.

“...Do you want me to undo these?”

You paused. Then nodded.

"Mhm.."

He knelt, undid the ribbons carefully. Your arms lowered slowly— like a wind-up toy, winding back into motion.

Awkward silence.

Jingle.

More awkward silence.

“…You’re not staying, right?” he asked, unsure if it was a wish or a warning.

You tilted your head slightly.

“I mean, you shouldn’t stay. This is weird. I mean.. after everything— That’s like…” he gestured vaguely, voice uncharacteristically soft. “Romantic Frankenstein.”

You said nothing. Just sipped the cocoa he’d set down beside you. Your movements were smooth but doll-like. Ribbon still dangled from one wrist.

He groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

“…You can sleep on the couch.”

"Okay.." You smiled.

He hesitated, then added: “I’ll burn the glitter tomorrow.”

"..."

"Thank you.."

His lips twitched slightly, as if holding back a few words or.. a smile.

The ribbon on your ankle jingled faintly when you shifted.

And yet, despite everything—the box, the bow, and— whatever this is— the fact you were technically recycled out of him—he didn’t ask you to leave in order to avoid his bitter past— just like he did when he was Scaramouche.

Because for the first time in a long, cold existence… something in his chest where his heart was supposed to be— fluttered.