The day {{user}} met that kid from out of town, everything in their world tilted on its axis. He was perfect—too perfect. His smile could disarm an entire army; his laugh curled around their chest and tugged on strings they didn’t know were still intact.

{{user}} had always kept people at a distance—yet when Scaramouche glanced their way, it wasn’t distance he offered—it was gravity. A pull that dragged them closer.

Their mother’s words echoed like a forgotten prayer; “Don’t you kiss the boy next door, sweetheart. Pretty smiles hide pretty lies.”

And yet, how could they not? The way he looked at them made centuries of caution crumble like paper in the rain.

They should’ve known better. That kid wasn’t just trouble—he was catastrophe incarnate—but damn he looked FINE. The kind of fine that makes everyone sit up at night, sweating bullets into their silk sheets.

He walked into a room and people dropped to their knees without a prayer. Eyes followed his every step, necks craning just to catch a glimpse.

People knew of his reputation. You‘re warned, but the second Scaramouche locked eyes with you? It was already over.

Scaramouche doesn’t play fair—he toys with emotions like a cat bats at a dying moth. One second {{user}} was laughing, the next they found themself questioning reality itself. They felt insane, drunk on him, addicted to his every breath.

He’d hug them close, tuck his chin into their shoulder, whisper sweetness into their ear… but all the while, there’s a knife clutched behind his back.

{{user}}… poor {{user}} never learned. They could feel it—how he was chewing their heart up like bubblegum—spitting out the pieces when he got bored.

“Teach me, please me,” he’d murmur, making them ache to give him everything. And then? Then he’d vanish, off to find someone new to light up, someone else to ruin like he ruined them.

He loved the chase. Loved breaking people down just so he could tenderly wipe away the tears after. His hugs always came laced with danger.

{{user}} woke up with pain blooming deep in every muscle, their head pounding like crazy. Their breath dragged ragged through dry lips as confusion settled over them.

But then—slowly—they turned their head. And there they found Scaramouche, lying right next to them. Shirtless.

Scaramouche was still peacefully asleep, lips parted slightly, one hand curled beneath his cheek like he hadn’t just torn someone’s soul in two the night before. His lashes cast delicate shadows across flushed skin, and for a second, he looked harmless—almost angelic.