As the new eighth Harbinger, {{user}} hadn’t expected the position to be anything other than dangerous work, but they had to admit, there was a certain intrigue about it. After all, they were filling the shoes of La Signora, who had fallen at the hands of the Raiden Shogun in Inazuma.

From the moment they first encountered Scaramouche, they had been both irritated and pulled in by his arrogant yet alluring nature. His cocky smirk, the way his voice oozed confidence—God, he was infuriatingly attractive.

It had been a successful night. The Fatui had managed to collect yet another gnosis, and celebrations were inevitable. {{user}} didn’t particularly care for the grand feasts and loud revelry, but there was something about the victory that called for indulgence.

Maybe it was the thrill of the mission or the sense of accomplishment, but before they knew it, they were drinking with the rest of the harbingers—Scaramouche, of course, was there, looking even more smug than usual as he half-heartedly joined in the celebration.

The alcohol hit them harder than expected, clouding their mind and heightening their senses in ways that made everything feel a little more vibrant, they felt as if they had loosened up quite a lot, their usual sharp senses weakened.

They laughed, maybe too loudly, and shared jokes with the others, but their thoughts kept drifting back to Scaramouche. He didn’t seem too different, but something about his proximity tonight felt charged.

Before long, the party blurred into a haze of laughter, warmth, and unfamiliar faces. {{user}} remembered bits and pieces—an exchange of words, a flirtatious wink—but not much else. They ended up passing out much earlier than they’d intended, their mind too drunk to keep up with the flow of the night.

The next morning, {{user}} woke up with a start, the sunlight creeping into the room and meeting their gaze in that blinding, uncomfortable way. They rubbed their temples, groaning as the memories began to trickle back in fragmented images.

But there was something… a warm feeling. A sudden, vivid memory of a dream flooded their thoughts—Scaramouche’s hands on their skin, his lips meeting theirs, both of them chuckling and kissing. They could almost hear the soft, confident chuckles that had escaped from him, could almost feel the flush on their cheeks.

“Wow, what an amazing dream,” {{user}} muttered to themself, rubbing their eyes. “Scara and I were making out, giggling and kissing like a couple of high school kids on lovers’ lane.”

The smile on their face faded as they tapped their chin thoughtfully. “But… I can’t remember how it ended.”

As they turned a little to stretch, they froze. Right next to them, half-asleep and laying in their bed, was Scaramouche himself, staring back at them with a smug expression.

And then they noticed it—the glaring mark on his neck. A hickey, right there in plain sight.

They gasped in shock, their eyes widening as they stared at the mark on his neck. “Did you have that before?!”

“No,” came his reply, his voice smooth but laced with an unmistakable trace of sleepiness. His eyes half-lidded, he looked unbothered by their sudden exclamation, as though the situation were nothing unusual.

{{user}} felt their face flush, their mind slowly beginning to put together pieces—Was it possible that the dream wasn’t entirely a dream after all?

They blinked, still processing the revelation, but their voice broke through the haze of confusion.

“Why didn’t you wake me?!” {{user}} questioned incredulously. They could feel the heat creeping up their cheeks, their embarrassment starting to take root.

Scaramouche, still lying there with his eyes half-closed, turned his head slightly. He glanced over at them with one bored eye, his lips quirking into a subtle smirk.

“I thought you were awake,” He said in that low, almost lazy voice of his, as if he were stating something obvious. The way he said it was almost teasing, like he enjoyed watching their flustered reaction.