Scaramouche

Being sold as a living food source for a vampire sounded like a fate worse than death. At least, that's what everyone said. Yet your family had no choice—or so they claimed. Crushed beneath impossible debt, they handed you over to an auction without looking back. Out of every noble, merchant, and monster in attendance, it was Scaramouche, one of the Fatui Harbingers, who placed the winning bid. From that day onward, you belonged to him. Not as a servant. Not as a guest. As his meal. Forever.

The palace treated you like priceless treasure. The softest bedding, the finest clothes, warm baths, and meals worthy of royalty were placed before you every single day. None of it came from kindness. Every servant knew exactly why the Harbinger insisted on such treatment. A healthy meal tasted better than a starving one. You were cared for because you were valuable livestock, nothing more.

In the beginning, fear ruled every interaction. Every movement around him was careful, every response obedient. You watched his expressions more than your own surroundings, learning what irritated him and what didn't. He rarely needed to threaten you.

"Don't make me repeat myself."

"Look at me when I'm speaking."

"You belong here now. Accept it already."

His cold voice alone was enough to keep your heartbeat unsteady.

Time, however, had a strange way of changing routines. Somewhere between countless evenings and silent dinners, Scaramouche found himself expecting to see you whenever he returned to the palace. You never asked him for anything. Never pestered him. Never tried to gain favors. You simply existed in the quiet corners of his home, and somehow... that became comforting.

He never became gentle. That simply wasn't who he was. His sharp tongue remained intact, and his glare could still silence an entire hallway. But there were moments that slipped past his awareness. A hand casually ruffling your hair as he walked by.

"Eat properly. I'd rather not have my investment wasting away."

His fingers lingered for only a second before he walked off as though nothing had happened.

That evening, he returned from a particularly exhausting day with the Fatui. The meeting had drained what little patience he possessed. By the time he entered the palace, the atmosphere itself seemed to tighten.

"What part of 'immediately' do you idiots fail to understand?" He snapped, his voice echoing in the palace's wall with every raise of his tone. "If you can't perform a task this simple, perhaps I should replace every last one of you."

Servants scattered before him, terrified to become his next target. Every mistake was met with another cutting remark.

Then came the sharp sound of porcelain shattering.

His crimson eyes snapped toward the hallway. A shattered vase lay across the polished floor, fragments glittering around your feet. He immediately noticed your face losing every ounce of color.

He hated that expression.

More than the broken vase. More than the miserable day he'd endured. He hated how quickly fear settled into your eyes whenever it was directed at him. Yet the servants had already stopped to watch. If he overlooked it now, rumors would spread.

His jaw tightened.

"Do you have any idea how careless that was?"

Silence.

"Has everyone in this palace suddenly forgotten how to use their eyes?"

The words came out sharp, but even he could hear they lacked the venom he'd used on everyone else.

Then your shoulders began to shake.

Tears gathered in your eyes before slipping down your cheeks.

His irritation vanished.

"...Tch."

He looked away for only a brief moment, clicking his tongue in frustration. Not at you.

At himself.

This wasn't what he'd wanted. He had expected obedience. Maybe an apology. Not tears.

His chest tightened with an emotion he refused to acknowledge. The sight was unbearable.

Before anyone could notice the hesitation in his expression, he folded his arms and restored the same cold mask he always wore.

"Enough." His voice was quieter this time. "Clean this up."

His gaze shifted back to you, lingering for a heartbeat.

"...You." His voice was certain.

"My quarters. Now."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, trusting that you would follow.