Tempting Fate. Yan Scaramouche x F Reader [SMUT]
Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, unhealthy power dynamics, not SFW, implied past dubcon/noncon and verbal humiliation.
Word count: 4.7k.
A single frayed thread can unravel even the grandest of tapestries.
You’d like to delude yourself into thinking you’re ready. That those weeks of mental preparation, practicing mannerisms and pretty smiles in the mirror would bear fruit. Is it foolish to hope and yield a bountiful harvest from what you’ve sown when the soil is barren?
Dallying in your thoughts won’t do any good. However, what else is there for you to do? You’ve paced back and forth in your quarters until your heels ached, fussed over your appearance, the shade of rouge on your lips, and washed away the incriminating ink on the skin of your wrist. That experience could be compared to a trivial trial for what was to come.
You thought your heart would overwork itself to death with how it pounded away, like a war drum before a decisive battle.
The opportunity to quell your family’s worries was one you desired for months. Your daydream stayed consistent as the view from your window didn’t. It didn’t matter if you were in a suite, overlooking the steam-covered streets of Fontaine, or if you were occupying an estate, with sakura trees swaying in the breeze of Inazuma.
You’d tell them that you were alive. You’re certain they must have many questions — your whereabouts, why you disappeared over a year ago, what exactly happened — but you were hesitant to indulge more than necessary. The thought of your correspondence putting them in danger made you ill.
The letter you scribbled into existence with shaky hands stuck with the basics. You didn’t have more than a few minutes to get your words down, and even then, there was so much more you longed to say as it was shoved into a disguised Fatui member’s pocket. No complaints were voiced at the harsh treatment of your letter; you simply winced at the sound of crinkling paper and held your tongue. They were risking their life more than you were.
You weren’t sure who they were, which is for the best. What you did know is that they were planning a jailbreak tonight. Not for you, no, such a feat is a death wish; but for their imprisoned comrades. A local militia that was brave enough to oppose the Fatui’s reign of terror.
The clock in your room reads 6:44 PM. According to the plan, which was exchanged through hushed tones and urgent whispers, now is the time for you to act.
“I wish to see Scaramouche.”
Keening your ears, you hear the guards stationed outside shuffle. Had it not been for the masks they’re forced to wear, you could picture the comically surprised expressions. Raised eyebrows and slackened jaws, glancing at each other to confirm if they’d actually heard you correctly or not.
“Lord Scaramouche is busy this evening,” a voice replies.
Undeterred, you press on. “I need to see him. Or would you prefer that I later inform him that I was told I couldn’t? I’ll be sure to include who didn’t allow me.”
You’re met with uneasy silence as they weigh their options. There were more arguments ready on the top of your tongue, but those embers extinguish as the guards open the door. You don’t know the full extent of their orders in regards to you, though, from their hesitance to interact, it must not be advisable.
“We’ll take you directly to his office.”
At his strained statement, you nod.
The walk is silent, save for your geta clicking against the stone floors. Snezhnaya might be one of your least favorite nations Scaramouche has brought you to. The number of Fatui crawling like rats from the sewers increases, not to mention the bitter cold, which seeps through your garments. Your clothes were meant for mild Inazuma temperatures, not an everlasting winter. What you want doesn't matter. Scaramouche said he prefers you in this, and as the man who rules over every detail of your life, there wasn’t room to complain.
His office isn’t far from your shared master bedroom, so your journey ends as soon as it began.
“Thank you,” you walk a few paces ahead of the guards, keeping your back straight and head held high. “I should be good from here on out.”
You send them a bored look from over your shoulder and he bites his tongue.
“Very well. Please tell our lord that we’re a few hallways over, should he need us.”
With that out of the way, your bravado flickers. Dealing with skittish guards is one thing. They’re forced to hold you in high regard due to your affiliation with a Harbinger. Scaramouche, on the other hand, is an entirely different problem. He doesn’t take kindly to anything you say that sounds like an order. Thus, you’re mindful of your tone, syntax, and possible connotations that could be misconstrued when in his presence. But would that be enough to accomplish what you set out to do?
You raise your knuckles to his door, hesitating inches from the wood.
“All you need to do is keep the Balladeer occupied for as long as you can. The longer, the better, and the more our chances of success will rise. That isn’t to say this is a one-sided deal. For your assistance, can you think of anything you’d want in return?”
This is what you were posed with one night many moons ago.
You knock your fist against the door, inhaling sharply for what will come soon after.
“What I want…” you trailed off then, the question almost mocking. When was the last time someone considered what you wanted? Your mind was blank, yet you didn’t have time to think, it was risky enough for them to approach you in the dead of night.
Footsteps followed by the telling chime of bells put you on high alert. Every muscle in your body goes taut — how could such a pleasant sound become grating to your ears? You no longer associate it with dancing windchimes, or the wondrous entering of a shop for the first time. Bells to you know meant danger. The promise of peril, distress, and tension.
The door groans open.
“I want my family to know I still exist in this world.”
Scaramouche stands before you, his arms crossed over his chest, and his indigo eyes appraising. You wonder if he ever finds it tiring to frown all the time. Not that the other expressions he makes are an improvement. Everything you intended to say falls through the cracks at his imposing presence. It didn’t matter that he didn’t tower over you — the aura of power and confidence he exudes more than makes up for it.
“Well? Did you disturb my work just to gape at me like a patient after a botched lobotomy?”
He has such a charming way with words. His admittedly regal appearance never matched up with his sharp, unyielding tongue; the juxtaposition always gave you whiplash.
“Ah, well,” you fold your hands and clear your throat. “I’m sure you must be very busy, so I’m sorry to bother you. I just… well, I’ve been feeling a bit lonely.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Lonely?”
This is the story you decided to roll with. The agent told you it didn’t matter what you did, so long as Scaramouche was delayed in escorting the prisoners. Whatever remnants of your pride you managed to cling to would be thrown away through tonight’s exchange. You planned everything in advance. From no longer being disagreeable with Scaramouche, to even showing him glimpses of kindness; you smoothed out the path to prevent arousing suspicion. It would stand out if you went from belligerent to throwing yourself at his feet within hours.
Still, that didn’t mean you were in the clear. Overdoing your act might clue him in to something being wrong. The best lies are half-truths. So you’ll play up the believable elements of your story and see where it takes you from there. If talking doesn’t serve as a solid distraction, then there are other methods for you to fall back on, methods you’d prefer to avoid.
He steps aside and motions for you to come in with a tilt of his head.
You do as he bids, entering the room while he closes the door. Aside from being spacious, it’s nothing special; he told you that your stay in Snezhnaya would be a short stint. There’s a long desk with a leather chair behind it, a couch to your right, and bookshelves to your left. Directly behind his desk is a large window overlooking the nearby evergreen forest. Powdery snow clings to the trees, with no sunlight reflecting off of it as the sky is overcast today.
Crimson will soon blight the snow-white ground if everything goes like you were told.
“I suppose I can spare a few minutes to entertain you.”
The reality that you waltzed into begins to settle in. You were sneaking behind Scaramouche’s back. Plotting against him, betraying what little trust he put in you to begin with. Any punishment you received for insolent behavior before would pale in comparison should he find out. It was terrifying, yet at the same time, the adrenaline pumping through your veins promised excitement. Deceiving your captor who brought you misery in abundance felt too good to be true.
You take a seat on the couch, not trusting your legs to remain stable. “I’m looking forward to returning to Inazuma.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, the weather is far more agreeable,” you try to make your body language appear relaxed. “I miss taking walks through the gardens together.”
Scaramouche, who was walking in slow strides around the room, pauses when the word ‘together’ leaves your lips. You internally wince at what must’ve been a poor choice of words. Would he call you out on your behavior? If you lost his trust so early on, then the rest of the plan is useless.
Much to your relief, he doesn’t say anything just yet. Instead, he walks over, sitting down next to you on the couch. You need to keep burning time like this.
“I must say,” he starts, tilting his head, “I like this side of you. Why couldn’t you have behaved like this sooner? I’m sure it would’ve saved you a lot of heartaches.”
He says that like he doesn’t take pleasure in punishing your mistakes. You know him well enough to sense his underlying intentions here — he loves getting reactions out of you — poking and prodding until you squirm or crack beneath him. You push down biting words like bile in your throat and refocus on your objective.
You respond in kind, “I had a lot to get used to, that’s all.”
He smiles thinly and you know that promises nothing good.
“You mean me, don’t you?”
This bastard isn’t making the already strenuous job of being cordial easy. His indigo eyes read your every movement, from the twitch of your lips to the tightening of your jaw. You shift in your seat, mulling over his words and contemplating the best response. While you worry yourself over this minute detail, Scaramouche sighs, resting an arm behind you on the couch.
“For someone who claims to be lonely, you’re not talking much,” he points out, sounding almost bored. “Speak what’s on your mind already or tell me about it later. I’ve got things to do.”
The questions you prepared suddenly feel ages away. Mere small talk won’t be enough to hold his waning interest for long, he’ll dismiss you and have you sent back to your room like a child who refused to eat their dinner.
At your further hesitation, he sighs, then moves to get up.
Panic spurs you into action. Without considering the possible ramifications, you spring forward, latching your arms around his waist and bringing him back down to the couch. Gracelessly, the two of you come tumbling down. He lets out a grunt and you tighten your grip to keep him in place. You figure if you’re going to get in trouble, you might as well fully commit. Your cheek rests against his chest, the rest of your limbs mixed together in an awkward collision.
“What… what are you…?” His voice is airy and he coughs to remedy this, then tries again, “What are you doing?”
“Please don’t leave.”
You’re grateful that your face is too squished against his chest for him to see your grimace. This is going to leave a permanent stain on your pride if you have any more to your name. Now that you’re thinking about it, with your heart pounding away and your stomach churning in disgust at this close proximity, you haven’t touched him of your own volition before. He prefers to handle you roughly, but you have no idea how he’d want to be handled. It’s not something you ever wanted to consider.
“What has gotten into you?” He puts his hands to your shoulder and tries to pry you off, though not using the full strength you know he possesses. “I can satisfy your… raging hormones tonight.”
You’re going to thoroughly scrub your tongue with soap later. Not just your tongue, every inch of your body will need to be cleansed with rich incense and sage. Your face feels like it’s on fire, and you’ve barely done anything. The hand you used to pen your letter early clenches the cloth of his shirt. You risked so much to get to this point. Secret meetings at ungodly times in the morning, notes under the door that then burned in your fireplace, a handshake to seal your verbal agreement into existence.
Licking your lips, your hand travels downward, and you palm him through his trousers. He exhales through his nose at the unexpected contact.
“How needy are you, woman?”
You gather your courage and pull back, allowing yourself a glimpse of Scaramouche’s face. In contrast to his irate words, his visage is relaxed, dark eyes following your every movement with noticeable curiosity. A shade of red that’s similar to his eyeliner dusts across his cheeks, growing darker as you apply more pressure with your hand. Scaramouche scrunches his eyebrows together. He's fighting off the carnal urges he’s no doubt harboring, if his fastly hardening length is to be any indicator.
“Kuni,” you make good use of his favorite nickname, noting how his dick twitches at the whine in your voice. “It isn’t easy, you know? I’m left by myself all day… every single day… no one to talk to for hours on end… it’s mean of you.”
He considers your words, then sighs. “I have been negligent of you lately. Though, I never would’ve thought it’d make you this insatiable.”
You wish, you think.
Leaning in closer, you press your chest against him, his dick now fully hardened from your ministrations.
“Does that mean I can borrow you for just a bit?” You give your most convincing smile, batting your eyelashes for extra effect. It works like a charm.
He cups your face with one hand and begins groping your chest with the other, greedily kneading the soft flesh. Then huffs, “Kiss me before I change my mind.”
You loathe it when he tells you to do that. It’s more humiliating than when he uses your body, in a way; the closeness feels like an invasion of privacy. A kiss between lovers should be a sacred connection, a bond that signifies love and passion. Scaramouche knows little of those two words. All he knows is how to take, helping himself to everything you do and don’t give.
Ignoring your tumultuous thoughts, you press your lips to his. The hand on your cheek goes to the back of your head, holding you in place, trapping you against him. He doesn’t waste time prying your lips open with his tongue. His grip tightens at your hesitation to allow entrance, a silent warning to not get in the way of what he wants. In the past, you made the mistake of biting down on his tongue, the taste of iron haunting you to this day. That was when you learned things the hard way.
While his tongue ravages your mouth, he grabs a hold of your hips, pulling you right onto his lap without warning. You part at the sudden contact, a trail of saliva still connecting your mouth to his. Gross. The urge to wipe it off with your sleeve is difficult to fight off.
Scaramouche maintains smoldering eye contact with you and lifts the bottom of your outfit.
Assuming his intentions, you reach to bring his trousers down, only to earn a light zap to your hand. Blinking, you pull back, giving what must be a priceless expression as he laughs at your confusion. His length presses against your clothed core, which has been exposed after he lifted your skirt up.
“Such a demanding girl you are,” he chides, his grip on your hips tightening and holding you firmly against his crotch. You gulp, knowing that dark expression of his all too well. “Hm… I personally don’t think you deserve to be fucked by me yet. It would be a poor precedent to let you get away with doing whatever you want.”
Flustered, you retort, “But I—”
He sends a weak shock to your skin, then tilts his head playfully.
“Ah, ah, ah. No complaining. I’m already being gracious enough by allowing time for you in my busy schedule,” Scaramouche leans over, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear, then lowers his voice. “I’ll allow you to get yourself off against me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Oh, my poor girl… going neglected by her master for so long.”
Testing the waters, you grind your pussy against his crotch, gasping at the sensation while he exhales shakily.
He clicks his tongue when you stop, your embarrassment unmatched. “I didn’t tell you to stop, did I? Get to it.”
You flutter your eyelids shut and squeeze your lips together to keep any more sounds from sneaking out. Shakily, you repeat the motion, pushing yourself down against him once again. Your clit brushes against the fabric of your panties and sends pleasure through your already sensitive body. The motion is repeated again and again, each time slightly sloppier than the last. Scaramouche, who must be in a considerate mood, helps you along by lifting your hips in tandem with your movements.
A soft moan leaves your lips at having your clit continuously stimulated, even if it’s by a reprehensible .
“Maybe I should have you visit my office more often,” Scaramouche grins, his fingers digging against your skin. “Had I known you would hump against me like a bitch in heat, I would’ve been far more amiable.”
Not wanting to pay attention to his taunting words, you duck your head into his neck to hide your face. He’s not having your shyness, however, and roughly pulls the ends of your hair to get you to look at him again. Then he continues his verbal assault, delighting in how it makes your face twist in both humiliation and pleasure.
“So you can be a good girl when you choose. I’ll have to remember that.”
Your movements grow more frantic as your high approaches, your body aching for any form of release after weeks of stress and constantly being on edge. How nice it would be to just let go. Forgetting about the rest of the world, your obligations, the suffering you’ve endured up until this point. It feels so wonderful to let your mind go blank. You don’t want to consider giving into him — no, you’d never do that — but you’re not against using him to get what you want. And what you want now is to feel good.
“Just like that,” he encourages, his voice sickeningly sweet. “Mm, I adore that expression of yours… feeling conflicted, are we? Wondering if this is wrong? Coming in here, seducing the man who you claimed to hate mere months ago… where did that sentiment go, hm?”
You shake your head, unable to defend your honor, focused solely on achieving your high. This wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d kept that damned mouth of his shut. In a matter of seconds, you’re able to get what you want, your body tensing. Releasing a high-pitched whine, you reach your climax, your face feeling like it’s on fire from the unabashed noises you let out. Scaramouche goes silent as he drinks in your debauched visage, his cock straining painfully against his pants.
“Hah, what a nice show you put on for me.”
Then, without warning, he begins to push you to the floor while you’re still recovering from your orgasm. “On your hands and knees. I’m sure you must want to thank me after my generosity, don’t you?”
Your head feels light but the rest of your body is heavy. In a daze, you situate yourself on the floor as he told you, semi-aware of what he wants next. Your frenzied thoughts are confirmed at the telltale sound of his buckle coming undone. He releases himself from the confines of his underwear, which is noticeably stained with precum, likely a consequence of your prior actions. His cock springs out, flushed and mere inches away from your perspiring face.
He doesn’t need to tell you what to do next, you know the movements by heart.
Your shaky hands reach out to grasp his base. Giving yourself a few seconds to calm your breathing, you bend your head down, pressing a kiss to the tip of his dick just as he taught you to before sucking him off. He told you that he deserves your worship once. That philosophy was drilled into your head through many long nights until you performed up to his expectations, lofty as they are. So long as he feels you’re treating him highly, like a god, then he’s content.
Next, you lick down a prominent vein, gazing up at him through your eyelashes. He stares at you unblinkingly, savoring your obedience. You shudder at the salty taste of precum against your tongue but know better than to stop. Scaramouche might love to tease you, edging you for hours on end on his worst days, but he doesn’t want it to go the other way around. You live to serve him. Well, that’s what he wants to believe, you think. In truth, you live for yourself and no one else.
Your lips part and you take the tip of him into your mouth. His hand, which was patting your hair in a rather degrading fashion, flies to the side of your head. He hisses as you sink down further on him and throws his head back, the bells of his ensemble chiming softly. Under normal conditions, you wouldn't draw things out like this; but you need to buy as much time as possible for the plan to succeed.
“Keep going,” he hisses out through clenched teeth. You oblige, taking as much as his dick into your mouth as you can. It’s hot and unpleasant, even more so when your gag reflex threatens to trigger. You do your best to keep yourself from choking on him, though he doesn’t make the process easier for you, his hand urging you to keep down. He only stops pushing your head when tears are in the corner of your eyes and you’re almost sputtering against his pelvis.
You squeeze your eyes shut and he grimaces.
“Look at me,” Scaramouche orders, and being the obedient thing you are, you acquiesce. He gives a crooked smile, wiping the corners of your glassy eyes with his thumb. “You are a pretty thing, aren’t you? My most prized belonging.”
Then, without warning, he lifts your head up and shoves it back down.
The rough treatment is nothing new. Scaramouche loves to use you, dominating your mind and soul, flaunting the wide gap in power that separates you both. He thrusts his hips up in unison, shuddering at the wet tightness of your mouth wrapped around him. Wet sounds fill his office as he fucks your face, full of ardor and pent-up frustration. Unlike you, he does a better job of keeping his volume down, aside from some low grunts and murmurs of your name.
“You— ah, know this is your purpose, don’t you?”
His fingernails dig painfully into your scalp and you whine.
“To please me is all you live for, hn,” he pants, his pace increasing. “So forget about everything else… and just be mine…!”
He cums without warning, his load filling your mouth and coating your throat. His hips stutter while he releases himself inside you, a choked groan accompanying his thrusting. As you’ve grown accustomed, he doesn’t take you off his dick just yet. He lets himself soften in your mouth while he tries to regain his composure. After a few seconds, he pulls you back, shuddering at the sight of some of his cum dripping down your chin.
You do just that, your throat bobbing, and you swear his eyes glow purple.
Scaramouche tucks himself back into his pants. You continue to kneel on the floor, wishing that there was a clock within your peripherals to gauge how much time you went through. It should’ve been a sizable amount, right? After you allowed yourself to be humiliated in such a prolonged fashion, those Fatui rebels better have broken every prison from Snezhnaya out. Well, whatever ends up occurring, you don’t care so long as your letter makes it to the intended destination. You worked hard enough to earn that privilege.
“Come here,” Scaramouche opens his arms to accompany his soft request. You smooth out the bottom of your outfit, then sit by his side. He embraces you against his chest. Curling up against him, your eyelids start to droop, and you wonder if falling asleep on him would buy more time. Or if he’d just shove you off and tell you that he’s not a bed. You never know with the Harbinger, he’s a finicky one.
“... You can come to visit me whenever, I guess. Just be less of a distraction next time.”
There won’t be any reason for me to after today, you think. Nevertheless, you nod your head, knowing that’s what he would want. You’re good at judging that, a skill you wish to someday forgo.
The tranquil (or as tranquil as you can get with Scaramouche present) atmosphere dissipates when a Fatui soldier bursts through his door, unannounced. The man is panting, his chest heaving like he just ran a marathon. You try not to make your interest in what he has to say obvious while Scaramouche scowls, the atmosphere in the room thick and heavy.
The soldier realizes his error at seeing you and rushes to justify himself, “M-my lord! I am so terribly sorry, I— the prisoners, they— uh, attacked, and, I mean, they were attacked in transport. And—”
If looks could kill, this poor sap would be ash on the floor. He might just be if he doesn’t stop staring at you with wide eyes.
“Out,” Scaramouche seethes.
He wastes no time in scrambling off. Scaramouche relinquishes his grip on you, and while he gets up, you do your best to act none the wiser to the unfolding problem. The irritation radiating off the Balladeer is palpable. It’s not directed toward you, but the bone chilling aura makes your heart skip a beat. You pray that those rebels are long gone before Scaramouche shows up and decimates them. Your letter isn’t made out of rubber, after all.
Scaramouche glances at you one last time, an unidentifiable gleam in his eyes. He parts his lips, like he’s testing an unsaid word on his tongue, but must have decided against it.
With that, he exits his office, barking orders to the nearby Fatui and storming down the hallway.
You slump against the couch and smile, containing a giddy laugh after having succeeded. You duped a Fatui Harbinger. How amazing it would be if he gets in trouble for not being present on time! Maybe you’d be blamed for it, but so long as he doesn’t connect the dots, it wouldn’t be entirely your fault.
Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.
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