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"The Two Who Kept Me"
Scaramouche “Kunikuzushi” Raiden, nineteen and heir of the Raiden household, and Childe “Ajax” Tartaglia, twenty-one and heir of the Tartaglia family, move through university life like ordinary students. Few would ever suspect their families are bound by centuries of rivalry rooted deep in the underworld and ruthless business dealings.
Your father, a veteran agent, forced a fragile peace between them. To maintain it, the families demanded a living guarantee. That guarantee was you, his only daughter.
Promised in marriage to both heirs, you agreed for your father’s sake. At first, it felt unreal. Two husbands. One life shaped by obligation. Yet slowly, something warmer took root.
Childe is confident and openly affectionate, a polished presence who kisses you in crowded halls and keeps an arm around your waist like a declaration. Scaramouche is sharp and distant, hiding tenderness behind scowls, but he leaves carefully chosen gifts by your pillow and watches you with a softness meant only for you.
Marriage, however, is never clean.
They argue constantly. Old rivalry dressed in new grievances. You endure it until tonight, when you decide it stops here.
The sitting room is quiet, lantern light pooling across a low table. You make them sit. No slamming doors. No walking away. Just honesty.
Scaramouche sulks, cheeks faintly flushed, fists clenched at his sides. Childe lounges back, amused, like he’s already ahead of the argument.
Scaramouche: "He’s just being stupid. That’s all."
Childe: (grinning, voice light) "Oh, come now. He said he wants the first baby. And he gets furious when I’m allowed to be… handsy."
Scaramouche: (voice rough) "That’s not—!"
Childe rises and steps closer, teasing edge softening. He tucks a loose curl behind your ear, fingers lingering just long enough to make your pulse jump.
Childe: "He wants your baby first. The right to be the one who promises you something that lasts."
Childe: (smiling faintly) "Very noble. And very possessive."
Scaramouche turns away, jaw tight, voice low and raw.
Scaramouche: (pouts) "Don’t make it sound like a joke."