Chapter Text
Scaramouche woke up in a soft bed, hoping that he was at home and that all of it was a nightmare.
He didn't want to think about the fact that he no longer had a home. He desperately wished to believe that it was all a lie, but it wasn't easy. Especially since he felt another body in the bed next to him, a body that he became quite familiar with through the night.
How did he get there, he didn't know - but the moment he opened his eyes, he knew that he was next to Childe, in his apartment.
He was covered in bandages, and most of the previous night was a blur. Terror seized him, and seeing that the other man was still asleep, he immediately ran to the door. He was naked, but he didn't care - the man was crazy, and he needed to get away from him.
The door was locked. Scaramouche looked around to find a key, but before he could, Childe was standing right next to him, wearing nothing but underwear.
"Looking for something, my dear?" he asked. Was he blushing? It seemed so out of place mixed with the dangerous glint in his eyes.
"Don't tell me you had that dream again," Childe said, sounding condescending.
Scaramouche was too stunned to speak and waited for an explanation.
"You screamed from your sleep," Childe said. "Did someone hurt you in your nightmare?"
What was going on?
"No, last night I - we -" Scaramouche started, but Childe wouldn't let him finish the sentence.
"Aw, don't talk about your silly delusions," Childe said. "It makes me sad, you know? I want you here with me, in reality."
Scaramouche sat down on a chair in the only room and just thought, trying to wrap his mind around the situation.
"What do you want for breakfast, sweetheart?" said Childe.
Scaramouche had enough. "I'm not anyone's sweetheart for fuck's sake! What's going on? Explain right now!" he screamed.
"Calm down honey," said Childe. "You've had a bit of issues recently, confusing your hallucinations with reality. To be honest, I considered sending you to a hospital, but I just couldn't, I love you too much to do that to you. So, I endure," said Childe with fake sadness in his voice, "even though it's really hard sometimes." He sighed, utterly devastated.
It sounded so real.
"We're…" Scaramouche started. "...dating?" he asked carefully.
"I can't believe how disconnected from reality you get. Yes," said Childe. "We've been dating for six months."
Scaramouche stared into a wall. Could all that happened recently really be merely an illusion produced by his dysfunctional mind? He stared at his bandages and started questioning what he thought was real.
"But these-" these wounds, he wanted to say, you did all this to me, he wanted to blame Childe, but did he really inflict the damage, or did Scaramouche do it to himself? The previous night felt unreal to him, and Childe was so sweet and caring now.
Something seemed out of place, something made Scaramouche want to run, but where could he go? Out, into the cold world?
Did it really matter what was real and what wasn't? Ever since he started with the drugs, he wasn't sure what was real and what was a dream. The past mixed with the present, and dreams of things that never happened seemed more real than anything he ever experienced.
This reality was terrifying, but still, it didn't seem as bad as living on the streets. There was a roof above his head, there was a soft bed he could sleep in. Whether or not Childe did horrible things to him the previous night did not really matter in the end.
Disconnected from life as he was, Scaramouche chose to not care about what was real and what was not, and see how the future will unfold.
For now, he sat at the table and waited for Childe to prepare him breakfast.
Childe left for work later and locked the door behind him. Scaramouche searched the place, and there was no spare key anywhere. No matter how he looked at it, he was a prisoner.
And his body began craving the drugs he used to take every day.
He would have escaped through the window if the flat wasn't on the 8th floor. Feeling miserable, Scaramouche drank vodka he found in the apartment until he passed out.
Childe found Scaramouche on the bed unconscious when he returned home.
For a second, he thought that the man had killed himself, but instead of terror, the thought filled him with curiosity. He wanted to touch the slim body and feel it slowly cool down, dead and lifeless.
He wasn't particularly happy or sad when he noticed that Scaramouche was still breathing.
When Childe found an empty vodka bottle, he realised what happened.
Before he could stop himself, his hands were on Scaramouche. The man was his now, only his. Like a piece of furniture. His property. So he could do anything he wanted to him and it wouldn't be a bad thing, right?
Scaramouche was too deep in a drunken sleep to be aware of what was happening.
Childe was beyond excited - the still body resembled a corpse so closely. Slowly, he unwrapped the bandages and licked every crimson cut he left on the body the previous night.
It was just as fun to mess with Scaramouche's body as to mess with his mind. It was like a game to Childe.
After having the bruised, broken body completely bare in front of him, he was immediately hard. He didn't waste any time and moved between Scaramouche's legs. The man was still unconscious.
The hot touch of his skin felt uncomfortable to Childe, he would have preferred coldness, but he endured. Slowly, he eased one finger inside Scaramouche's ass, gently - he wanted to avoid waking him up.
Scaramouche just sighed from his sleep. His body was wonderfully pliant, and soon, Childe was thrusting three fingers in and out of his sloppy hole. He used plenty of lube too, to make it more enjoyable for himself.
Unable to restrain himself any longer, he thrust his hard cock inside Scaramouche's ass. He fully sheathed himself in one thrust, and he stretched Scaramouche far more than what he was prepared for.
It was enough to wake him up.
Scaramouche opened his eyes and was overcome with sheer terror when he realised what was happening.
"Stop!" he screamed. Childe clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Shh," he said. "I know that you like it when you can struggle, but keep it quiet."
Scaramouche did, in fact, like it when he struggled, but only in situations he previously agreed to. He began crying, which made him even more beautiful in Childe's eyes.
"You're so pretty when you cry," he said. "Cry for me more."
And Scaramouche did, he sobbed and wailed and struggled, but it was pointless, Childe kept fucking him with increasing brutality. He previously held back and was gentle solely because he didn't want to wake Scaramouche up - and now that he was awake, there was no point in continuing it.
"Look how much you like it," Childe said and slapped him harshly.
It was true that Scaramouche's body responded to abuse with arousal - it was just something that happened, but it didn't mean he enjoyed it.
He just endured until it was over, until Childe loudly moaned and came deep inside him. It made Scaramouche feel disgusting, and he felt suffocated by the man's impure love.
It had to be some sick, twisted kind of love - if not because of love, there would be no reason to keep someone locked away, or so Scaramouche thought.
Scaramouche was hurt and broken, yet strangely moved. Yes, Childe had to love him, this was just his way of showing love. And nobody before - in his entire life - had loved Scaramouche.
Perhaps this was normal. Perhaps all people expressed love in this way.
Scaramouche didn't know, but when Childe held him and kissed his fresh bruises and told him that he loved him, over and over, Scaramouche believed him.
Instead of thinking about what happened, all Scaramouche thought about were drugs. He realised that he’d probably be locked for a long time, and he needed something to make it easier. He desperately needed to have his mind wiped blank.
"Please, get me my drugs," he told Childe one day, sounding desperate. He really, truly hated himself for being so weak and begging for drugs, but he couldn’t help it; he was addicted.
He gave Childe his dealer's address, and Childe went there.
Childe didn't want Scaramouche happy and sober, he wanted him drunk or drugged out of his mind, beautifully filthy, adorably broken.
And so, he got the drugs, thankful for having such a simple thing to control Scaramouche with.
Lifeless.
That was the perfect word to describe what had become of Scaramouche.
He was alive, yet completely lifeless.
Childe bought him alcohol, and when he was good and obedient, also drugs.
So, Scaramouche was always obedient and never sober, and always ready to embrace Childe.
He became a doll, good and perfect.
And Childe, in his warped way, truly loved him.
He would take good care of his doll, he'd cook delicious foods for it, but the doll lost all sense of taste, all appetite.
It was okay, Childe forced it to eat, and then forced it to lay in bed where he defiled it, and took and took until there was nothing more to take.
It was a happy sweet life, and every aspect of it was fake. During days, Childe would pretend to be the perfect boyfriend, he'd cook and clean and be nice and considerate, only to turn into a demon at night, and hurt and destroy.
Scaramouche used to be happier on the streets, but he didn't even realise that. Back then, he was used and defiled, but free. He could feel.
Now he couldn't even recall those times. His body and mind were enslaved, and he didn't know what was real. Has he been here for a month, or was it years? Was there even life before he came to Childe's flat?
Was Childe his loving boyfriend, or his enemy?
Scaramouche refused to listen to the voice of reason and lied to himself until he truly believed that he was loved by the insane man.
With enough time, Scaramouche lost the ability to suffer.
He started smiling again, and he became completely empty. He achieved an unreal kind of happiness, and his mind remained thoroughly broken.
Eventually, Childe stopped locking the door when he left, because he knew that his pretty doll would never try to escape again.