Chapter Text
Ah, Mondstadt.
A nation with a reputation for being as charming and carefree as the Archon they devoted their every prayer to. The city of freedom and free-flowing wine was as revered for its spoken word as it was for its signature libation. Those poetic verses surpassed far beyond the tip of a Bard's tongue, as clever lyricism adorned the signage of every business that dotted the bustling cobblestones. Good Hunter served up the skilled archers of Springvale's latest kill as a weekly specialty, With Wind Comes Glory sold a variety of bits and baubles to satisfy any adventurer's shopping list, and The Cat's Tail offered unique cocktails, thrilling matches of Genius Invocation TCG, and well, more felines than you could ever snuggle in a single visit.
But not every business in Mondstadt turned out to be a cheeky play on words that offered perceptible hints to the nature of their dealings. There was one in particular that, while its name appeared simple and innocuous, was rarely uttered in polite conversation.
Sweet Valberries gave off the impression of being the kind of shop where you could indulge in satisfying your sweet tooth, not your sex drive. Its exterior boasted very little, certainly not the most cheerful or inviting of atmospheres. Aside from the small sandwich board featuring a daintily handwritten script to inform passersby of its hours of operation—which happened to be 4 pm to 3 am—you wouldn't know it existed, tucked away on a quiet side street adjacent to Angel's Share.
An obscure figure lingered at a cautious distance from its entrance, clinging to the aged stone wall of the alleyway like a silhouette of ill intent. Beneath the moonlight's silvery glow, the only people found mingling the streets at this hour were the inebriated patrons of the tavern, trickling out from its warmth as they began their perilous stumble home.
The keen eyes observing their wobbly retreats, however, were stone-cold sober. Slowly stepping into the dim light of an oil-burning streetlamp, the pleasant click of shoes carved from the finest Aralia wood echoed as the incoherent chatter from the tavern carried off into the cool evening air. For this particular errand, the Harbinger left his conspicuous wide-brimmed hat back at the inn. His manner of dress already brought him more attention than he cared to invite, and the last thing he needed was curious eyes drawn to the rhythmic jingle-jangle of its bells.
While the expression he wore was one of cool indifference, on the inside, his nerves were sparking like a steel to flint. Not once in all his years had The Balladeer, The Tsaritsa's sixth Harbinger, ever set foot in a place like this, but that night, he'd hit a point of desperation he had never experienced before.
More than a month's time had passed since his assignment in the Anemo Archon's nation had begun, and he had quickly outgrown his contentment. Normally, in a situation such as this, he would take out his frustrations—interpersonal and sexual— on his subordinates, as though the task he demanded they perform without question were a requirement under his servitude. But after countless years of dealing with a revolving door of faces and names, he had grown weary. Even someone as brutal as Scaramouche can come to find himself bored with slapping people around.
At first, he didn't seem to mind the company of his own hand. Turns out, it was far less difficult for his imagination to run rampant when he didn't have a conscious human beneath him to fracture the illusion. This way, he could more easily envision the mouthwatering flesh of her hips and ass spilling over the gaps between each of his strong fingers, or her high-pitched cries of pleasure reverberating off the thin, time-worn walls of his quarters, shrill enough to wake the whole inn.
Unfortunately for Scaramouche, there was one thing his hand could never imitate, and it was the most crucial element of all: the desperation. The slick, velvety warmth of her wet cunt milking his cock of every priceless drop as though she would die without it.
For a time, he managed just fine, but as the weeks crawled by, he found himself wanting more. No, needed more. Craving it beyond his own comprehension. And that is how he found himself at the threshold of this indecent little business at two thirty in the morning.
He let out a subdued, irritated groan as the scent of burning incense wafted directly into his face, and a delightful brass bell above the door chimed to signal his arrival to the shop clerk. So much for inconspicuousness. The shop was certainly quaint: richly stained cedar beams lit by the soft light of a single chandelier in the middle of the low drop ceiling, and a plethora of candles burning atop the glass-encased counter made for poor visibility, but he supposed that was the inherent nature of any unsavory business.
Once his vision adjusted, he took notice of how the cramped space appeared more reminiscent of a witch's metaphysical apothecary than what he had expected, to the point that there was even a fat, lazy tabby curled up near the register, twitching its tail as a single reflective eye followed his every step. It wouldn't surprise him if the shopkeeper tried to peddle sage and wormwood infused lubricant to complete his purchase. Nevertheless, he carried on, stepping further into the depths of the shop and glancing around with a scarlet scowl of mounting embarrassment.
The shelves were lined with all the expected wares, stocked to the brim with various means of pleasure: realistic—and not so realistic—dildos, anal beads of various lengths, leather floggers and whips, even the most technologically advanced mechanical toys straight from Fontaine. Scaramouche lightly ran the tips of his fingers along the smoothly polished oak shelf as his eyes scanned in search of what he so desired, but not a single one of these choices quite fit the bill.
His steady perusal came to a pause when he heard the sound of a parting beaded curtain's sway in his peripheral. One would think the sun itself had entered the room when he caught a glimpse of the woman who greeted him with a cordial offer of assistance. Cat-like golden eyes reflected in the dancing orange glow of flames behind the glass of stylish, round, fuchsia frames, and beneath her feminine pink and dusty rose colored Mage's hat, wild waves of yellow hair cascaded over her shoulders, resting softly atop what could only be described as an ample gift to all mankind. Ahem.
Great. A Mage…I should have known, Scaramouche thought to himself as her polite smile met a tight line of severity surrounded by a furious blush. Typically, this would be his cue to wave off any assistance, but he had come this far, and he was not about to leave empty-handed.
"I'm here on a colleague's behalf," he began, the obvious lie slipping from his tongue with ease. Triphena Zauberin had been in the business long enough to have heard every man's excuse for having found his way into her shop, but she held her warm smile and passed no judgment as he continued. "The word around town is that you sell some… interesting items, and rather than make the trip himself, he sent me out on this ridiculous errand to find out if the rumors were true."
"I see. You must be quite bold, considering it takes a certain type of man, one comfortable in his own masculinity, to make the arduous journey past that threshold." Those cunning eyes appraised him, and it was in that moment that Scaramouche bitterly accepted that there wasn't a single facade this mage's intuition couldn't pierce. "To answer your question, we certainly are a one-of-a-kind establishment in Mondstadt. You're welcome to take a look around and see for yourself that what we have to offer is unlike anything you'd seen before. Not in these parts, at least."
He recognized the look she was giving him. Triphena was sizing him up, and she had already managed to sniff out his rank and status like a bloodhound. Not even the dull light could hide the Fatui symbol stitched to the smocking that rested across his hip, and his lack of the standard mask proved he was no rank-and-file, disposable agent. This was someone who wouldn't accept any run-of-the-mill novelty used by the average couple looking to spice up a dismal marriage.
Leaning her elbows against the counter, her corset struggled to keep her breasts from making a well-timed appearance, and she gave him a knowing smirk as his eyes couldn't help but linger against his will. "You look like a young man who has traveled near and far, only to be greeted with dissatisfaction and leave with empty hands."
Still, despite putting herself on display like that, he maintained his no-nonsense gaze and offered an honest answer. "After everything I've heard about this… unique… establishment, I regret to say that yes, I did not find what I was looking for. It seems to me that your reputation is not as well earned as I'd imagined."
Triphena merely raised a brow at his audacity. "This is certainly embarrassing." She tutted in self-disapproval. "Well, well. What's a girl to do when she can't even impress a high-ranking Fatuus?" She stood back up, straightening her shoulders and tapping a finger to her chin in faux bemusement. "Wait right here a second. I knew from the moment you walked in that you were looking for something special. Something more… intimate? And I have just the thing."
That word caught him a bit off guard, and he cleared his throat as she disappeared behind the curtain. Scaramouche was starting to think he had bitten off more than he could chew with this tricky witch. A few moments later, she returned, holding an ornately carved wooden box in her hands, which she settled down onto the counter with care.
"This particular collection is my specialty, sold only to my most exclusive and loyal patrons. But for you, bold young man, I am willing to make an exception."
As she lifted the lid and placed it aside, Scaramouche couldn't hide how his eyes visibly widened at the sight of it. Inside the box lay five distinctly detailed tubes, nestled in deep red velvet fabric. Each one seemed to have a specific theme and color scheme, but they all had one glaring similarity: the soft pink lips of a lifelike pussy at the opening of the tube, pleading to be taken from the shuttered loneliness of their crate and given a proper cock to serve. This was exactly what Scaramouche had been hoping for, but one in particular stood out amongst the rest.
"That one." The words sped from his lips in a cadence that made it sound more like a sharp, unintelligible noise, before once again clearing the desperation from his throat. "That one will suit him, I believe."
The mage happily clapped her hands together with an eye crinkling smile. "Excellent! I knew this would be a perfect fit for you—I mean—your colleague's needs." Carefully, she lifted the pleasure sleeve from the box and searched beneath the counter for a silk drawstring bag to conceal it in. "Do you need any instructions on how it works?"
Scaramouche pretended like he didn't almost drop his Mora bag as he fished it from his pocket. "No. As moronic as my colleague may be, it seems pretty self-explanatory. Even an imbecile like him can figure it out. How much?" he asked, gesturing to the bag, keeping his eyes downcast and his voice flat as he fingered around the shimmering coins inside.
"One million mora, please."
This time, the bag did manage to slip from his grasp.
"Excuse me?" he snapped, "You've got a lot of nerve if you think you can try and rip me off."
But the mage didn't flinch; her positive demeanor stood as firm as the towering city walls. "It's just as I explained. These particular novelties are quite exclusive, not to mention rare. I think you will find it to be worth every last mora."
Begrudgingly, he tossed the entire bag onto the counter, mumbling disdainfully about women who take advantage of men at their lowest and most vulnerable depths. But Triphena took it all in stride, as this was not the first, nor the last time she would have this conversation with a customer.
"I will leave it at this. I have been here for many, many years, and not once have I ever had a single unsatisfied customer," she proclaimed as she gingerly handed over the bag, smirking when he swiftly concealed it from sight.
"Is that so? Then I suggest you take some time to pray to that booze hound God of yours that I won't be the first."
He had to get in at least one good jab to make up for how transparent she'd made him feel. Scaramouche couldn't get out of there fast enough.
She tried in vain to stifle a few girlish, amused giggles when his shoulders visibly tensed at the chiming bell upon his prompt exit.
"He'll be back, and it certainly won't be for a refund," she laughed, petting the head of her sleepy feline familiar. With a flick of her wrist, the door locked behind him, and the candles instantly snuffed out, for it was now three in the morning in the City of Mondstadt.
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
The creak of aged mattress springs beneath The Balladeer's weight seemed to groan louder than usual. Maybe it was the late hour that made everything feel more still around him, or perhaps it was all in his head. Nothing amplifies the senses like a case of overworked, shot nerves.
Already having stripped away his cumbersome attire, the silk drawstring bag rolled against his thigh as he sat down. One would think the small sack was filled with searing hot coals by the way he flinched at its soft touch to his chilled skin. Shaking his head to gather his wits, he then stared contemplatively at the cloaked object.
How foolish he had already felt, spending an absurd amount of mora on such a frivolous—not to mention pitiful—purchase. Looking back, he realized how easily he had fallen victim to his impulses. Using sex as a tool for control and manipulation was one thing, but ever since he'd left Snezhnaya, he had become a mindless slave to its escape. And Scaramouche couldn't loathe himself more for it. For consciously choosing to indulge in what he considered humanity's greatest weakness when he should be doing his damndest to squash every last one of these pointless distractions.
He was supposed to be a God. He was supposed to be better than this. The primal urges that accompanied mortality only served to hinder him from reaching his goals or to cloud his judgment. So why did he still reach for that sinful little bag?
Creasing his brow, delicate fingers busied themselves with untying the knot, and with apprehensive skepticism, he peered inside. Velvety and plump, the replica stared back, and a shoulder-slumping sigh emitted from his lips as he tipped the bag and held the sleeve in his hand for the very first time. It was lighter than he expected, turning it in his hand and feeling its weight, like a competition judge scrutinizing a vegetable for a blue ribbon. A tentative finger grazed the flesh, and Scaramouche was taken aback by its realistic softness. Its warmth.
"Impressive…" he muttered, accompanied by a quirked brow. As an artificial being himself, he was quite familiar with the inhuman density and differing qualities of imitation skin. There was an expectation, and it had been shattered instantly by that one simple touch. He was drawn to continue with a more… thorough examination.
Circling its opening, his curiosity piqued. More warmth, accompanied by wetness. Was this pleasure sleeve pre-lubricated? Or did that crafty mage somehow invent a self-lubricating toy? His finger furthered its journey, slipping inside its inviting heat. This only brought on more fascination. Tight walls snugly gripped the digit, but in a way that could almost be mistaken for resistance. As though it forbade him to advance any further.
Scaramouche's eyes glistened with intrigue. For a moment, his finger stilled, all focus turning to the impossible as lavicious thoughts swirled about in his mind. Exciting scenarios that sent his cock hardening between his legs. Twitching. Begging for his attention. Though his hand remained frozen, the pussy surrounding his finger clenched back.
It reacted. Responded. It was alive.
"Clever girl…" he breathed, gently sliding his finger out and examining its slickness. Pressing his thumb and forefinger together, the sticky fluid stretched when pulled apart. Just like the real thing. Raising it to his nose, the scent hit him without so much as a sniff. Slightly metallic, but nonetheless organic, carnal, and human. Before he could even think his next thought, the alluring flavor filled his mouth, a moan of savory indulgence curling helplessly around the digit along with his wanting tongue.
Those earlier doubts and hesitations had long since departed. Scaramouche moved himself further up the bed, positioning his back against the pillows propped along the headboard. By now, his cock stood at full attention, and a shining bead of pre-cum rolled lazily from its swollen head to journey down its straining shaft. Bringing the pussy to his lips, his tongue instinctively flicked against its petite folds, and the warm breath of his quiet laughter tickled the plump skin, delighted by its trembling reply. A few more cursory licks were all he needed. Having that sweet taste dancing on his tongue would only further push his fantasies to their limit.
"Mine. Finally, you're all mine. Mmm…"
Gripped by his left hand, Scaramouche steadied his impatient cock, while his right hovered that needy pussy just above its tip. Slowly, he smeared his precum along the entrance with teasing anticipation, mesmerized by the sight of its clit engorging before his very eyes. "You want this, don't you? Of course you do. You've been wanting this… and I'm going to make sure you never forget me."
Scaramouche's head snapped back against the headboard with a thud. A gasp. A groan leapt from his throat, and his core clenched. A tight, overwhelming heat enveloped his cock when, in one fell swoop, he jerked his hips and impaled the toy as far as it would take him.
"Wet as a whore, but tight as a fucking saint," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Fuck!"
Scaramouche had stolen the virginity from more low-level Fatui agents than he could count. He knew precisely what it felt like, and every single time, his mind flooded with chemical triumph. This… was no different. His arm worked with vigor, stroking the toy over his cock like a marked man trying to outrun the reaper. The fire inside churned, white hot and rapidly approaching, faster than he ever could have predicted.
With tightly shut eyes, blackness morphed to light. To her. Cheeks reddened as she panted out breathy whines between harsh words, foul and contemptuous. Her body glistening with a sheen of sweat, the tiny droplets racing one another as they rolled down her heaving breasts, clinging helplessly to the tips of protruding nipples before dripping onto his stomach. His free hand gripping that thick ass as it slammed against his hips, leaving them both bruised in a way that only sent his lust-fueled thoughts into overdrive.
He didn't know whether he wanted to cherish or destroy her. Would it be cruel and contradictory of him to desire both?
"This cock feels big now, but you're going to learn to take it," he grunted sharply between breaths. There was no holding back now; expletives tumbled from his lips in a cry of ecstasy. He had unraveled completely as rope after rope of his release filled her, and his hands flung to his sides as Scaramouche let that sweet, intoxicating heat drain him to the very end. As the fog of his fantasies began to dissipate, he had one final message for the absolute mess of a woman he'd concocted above him.
"And you're a fast learner, aren't you?" he purred smugly, reaching up to run his thumb along her clenched, defiant jawline, while a slick grin curled his lip. Sitting himself up, he pulled off the sleeve, a relieving moan escaping as he withdrew his sensitive flesh. An immensely sinister sense of pride and contentment overtook the hollow space in his chest as the evidence of his orgasm gushed from the spent, fluttering hole.
"...Mona Megistus."
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
"You've been in good spirits, my Lord. I must say, it's quite pleasant."
"No, you may not say. I don't recall permitting you to speak to me unnecessarily."
The foolish Fatuus was quick to apologize for his insolence. Scaramouche believed his name to be Dimitri, or maybe it was Daniil. In all honesty, he couldn't care less and referred to him by neither. The three agents assigned to his retinue stiffened as they trailed behind him. He hadn't realized this recent change in demeanor, and now that it was brought to his attention, his wrath needed to be cranked up to compensate. Celestia forbid his subordinates grew too comfortable in his presence.
Today, the troop was on the move. They barely had time to rub the sleep from their eyes when their Lord Harbinger's fist came banging against their doors. "All of you should have been awake hours ago. I expect to see every one of your worthless faces downstairs in ten minutes, unless you'd prefer I sent you packing with a dishonorable discharge."
This is what they considered Scaramouche in "good spirits."
Truth was, it had been two weeks since that life-altering purchase, and in that time, The Balladeer had suspiciously kept his hands off his agents. He withheld his sharp hand, favoring words that stung harsher than any slap to the face could. Unbeknownst to them, he had an outlet now—an outlet he used and abused, sometimes multiple times a day.
Including while out on their field missions.
It was too easy. Scaramouche would simply send them on fool's errands, wild goose chases. Anything to get them out of his hair when he needed to release his frustrations. While his three stooges were tending to the all-important mission of capturing and analyzing Anemo crystal flies, Scaramouche would be perched in the branches of a tree, concealed behind boulders, or on more than one occasion, sprawled along the eaves of a cottage like a homeless cat. All he needed was a few minutes alone to stroke himself into a stupor, and then he could focus again. All the while, his agents would be none the wiser.
Early rising business owners along the main thoroughfare were busy setting up for yet another festival, which, for the group, meant taking an alternate route in order to reach the front gate. Did the citizens of Mondstadt know how to do anything other than waste their time with senseless parties and superfluous celebrations? Alas, a side street in the shadow of gargantuan windmills was the chosen path.
Scaramouche's sandal had barely tapped the cobblestone at the bottom of the staircase when his ears perked. A whine. Followed by the aggravating groan of a woman at her wits' end.
Something so common would not typically bring his dignified saunter to a pause, but for a second, he stopped, and the three in tow nearly tripped over their own feet at the sudden halt. But it did not last long, and Scaramouche soon resumed his walk without a word. Thankfully, no one seemed to catch his pleased grin. A smile, one that only the unexpected sight of a bright blue mage's hat out of the corner of his eye could bring.
"Change of plan," his voice abruptly sliced through the air at the very moment the troop reached the bridge. "You are to meet me back here at six o'clock, sharp. And if you don't have everything on that list completed, don't bother returning."
The agents knew better than to ask a single question, simply bowing in affirmation of their given duties. Though by the time they rose to face him, Scaramouche had already turned on his heel and vanished.
Collectively, the trio exhaled, as if the oppressive boot crushing their windpipes had finally relented. Sometimes, the threat of dishonorable discharge was almost tempting.
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
A certain great astrologist's morning was already off to a wretched start.
"Why of all the… Ugh! That ungrateful little man!" Mona huffed, crumpling the late notice into a ball. "He shouldn't even be charging me rent to begin with!" Stuffing the paper into her bag, she then jammed her key in the lock, yanked open the door, and disappeared beyond its threshold with a sharp slam. She didn't even bother taking the time to carefully hang her bag and hat on the hook, opting instead to use them as a means to release her frustration by lobbing them furiously against her sofa.
"This is the very last thing I needed right now. Doesn't that old fossil realize I am in the middle of significant work?" It was as though the fate of the stars themselves hung in the balance. Everything she did had the added force of her temper, from the way she yanked the faucet handle to fill her tea kettle, to the white knuckle grip clenching the handle of her mug as she poured the steaming liquid, all the while continuing to air out her troubles to no one. "He'll get his mora, alright. Here I am, on the cusp of a breakthrough, and he has the gall to muddle my mind with worries of overdue rent? The nerve of some people."
Slowly, as Mona sipped her tea, the tense scrunching in her forehead and crinkle in her nose softened. Warmth enveloped her, and the calming effects of the herbal remedy took hold. Sighing in relief, she retreated to her study. But not before backtracking a little and taking the time to hang up her bag and hat with an air of embarrassment over her little outburst, going as far as to mumble a meek "I'm sorry" to her crumpled mage's hat as she dusted it off and hung it in its rightful place.
On to more important matters. Mona may have slouched into her desk chair, but her tired eyes were drawn to the inviting comfort of her bed. Another all-nighter of star gazing was in the metaphorical books, but now she had to hit the physical ones. Normally, she was used to this night owl lifestyle, content in her routine of resting while the world around her bustled and awakening to begin her day when the streetlamps blazed.
But lately? Mona was exhausted.
Still, being a creature of routine and habit, the astrologist took another sip from her teacup and readied her parchment. She wasn't about to let a little fatigue get in the way of her work, and besides, she would be finished before she knew it, drawing her curtains to a close and snuggling up into those cozy sheets for a much-deserved respite. She was only a few lines down the page before pausing.
"Wait a moment. I know I've seen this before…" she thought aloud, tapping the end of her fountain pen to her lips. Ah, yes. She recalled a similar theory in a book she had read cover to cover last spring, titled "Weaving the Fabric of Time and Space." Being able to possibly dispel a theory by one of her contemporaries perked her, and her chair scraped back against the floor before eagerly bounding over to the bookshelf.
"Hmm…" Her eyes scanned the various volumes of scientific literature and journals that packed the shelves, but then she spotted it. Way at the top. No worries, that's what ladders were for. Mona kicked off her heels and balanced steadily on the rungs. With the book in hand, she took a second to glance at its cover, smirking as if she'd just achieved some small victory. But that smile was wiped off her face just as quickly as the book had loosened from her grip. Mona let out a terrified yelp, now clinging to the ladder for stability.
Knees buckled. Thighs clenched.
Oh, no, no, no. Not again. Not now.
By what could only have been a betrayal from the stars themselves, Mona was unaware of the pair of ravenous eyes that lingered on her from beyond her vision. Scaramouche had abandoned his Fatui mission for a reconnaissance of his own interests. He failed to see the pathetic nature of his current position, which happened to be straddling a sturdy, curling limb in the large oak outside Mona's bedroom window. They offered him sufficient coverage while also giving him a front row seat to the woman who had spent so many days and nights occupying his insatiable thoughts.
Now, he knew where she lived. Now, he didn't need to pretend. She was there, right before his very eyes, and he observed her every move with great interest. Stress seemed to radiate right through the window pane when he saw her haplessly slump down into her desk chair. Poor mage. The weight of the cosmos must have been pressing heavily against her aching muscles. It certainly showed on her face.
So, naturally, Scaramouche began to think of all the ways he might help her… relax.
Would Mona even be receptive to his advances? Or would she allow her pride and principles to stand in the way of her own needs? Scaramouche spent many years perfecting the art of manipulation, but someone like her? The thought of the challenge alone was enough to ignite his fire. Or maybe, in the throes of her exhaustion, she would come to him easily.
Leaning back against the tree branch, he gently palmed himself through his shorts, the tension in his muscles easing as his cock hardened by his touch. Mona may have been at her desk preparing her parchment, but in his mind, he saw himself draped over her back, lips fluttering up and down her neck, occasionally stopping at the pulse point to suck a gasp from her. Her body would instinctively lean into it against her will and become so limp under his touch that her hand would loosen its grip on her pen. Scaramouche would chuckle against her skin when it rolled across the desk, onto the floor, and out of her thoughts.
In the real world, Mona had stood up and approached her bookshelf with purpose. At the same moment, Scaramouche was wriggling his erection free from the confines of his hakama. With one hand, he gave himself a few preparatory strokes while the other impatiently dug through his knapsack for that necessary fuck sleeve. His excitement only grew when he took one look at it, then at her. It was comical, really, how obvious it was that this sex toy had been based on her. It was even topped with a miniature version of her ridiculous mage's hat. He never in a million eons would have dreamed of finding something in that shop that was so obscure and personified to a particular individual, let alone the very woman who had captured his mind for months at a time. He couldn't help but laugh to himself.
Now she was climbing the ladder against her bookshelf, and this gave Scaramouche an excellent view of Mona's most tempting asset. What he wouldn't give to be standing beneath her, hooking a finger around the crotch of that pesky bodysuit and tearing a hole through her nylons. He wasn't about to let something as banal as clothing get in the way of tasting what lay beyond the fabric. That was all he needed, the thought of his tongue buried in her ass while she quivered and gripped the ladder. He was ready.
But then, something happened, and Scaramouche froze. He had barely begun to slide his cock into the sleeve when Mona let out a shriek so alarming that for a moment, he felt the fleeting urge to leap from the tree and come barging into her home to rescue her from whatever caused the fright. But the thought was just that: fleeting, for in his pause, he was snapped from his fantasy and quickly took notice of her body language.
Mona's legs were clenched together, and her torso crumpled inward. Neither of them moved an inch, that was, until Scaramouche's hand decided to push the sleeve further down his cock. Seeing her like this, frightened, alone, and vulnerable? It was an enormous turn on, and he'd be a fool not to proceed with business as usual.
But then there it was again: another gasp, except this one sent her flying. Luckily for Mona, the distance from the ladder to the floor was minimal, and surely her ego throbbed more than her rear end did. Scaramouche snickered to himself. What a clumsy mage. Curiously, Mona made no effort to try getting up from the floor. In fact, she was sort of wiggling around, and he could swear he heard muffled groans through the window. At first, he considered she may have actually hurt herself, but how could she from such a pitifully short fall? Regardless, it didn't seem to stop him from slowly stroking himself.
And then things got a little more curious. Interesting, even.
Mona gradually clawed her way up into her bed, which sat only a meter away from her bookshelf. Eventually, she pulled herself up onto the mattress, rolling onto her back. The groans only seemed to get louder, and her body writhed more intensely with every stroke. Then, by some absolute miracle, her hands gripped around the top of her bodysuit. Scaramouche's eyes nearly popped out of his skull.
Mona was undressing. Mona Megistus, his Mona Megistus was about to be fully nude, and he was there to witness it. Scaramouche swallowed so thickly he thought he might choke on it, fall from the tree, and break his goddamn neck.
What in the world was going on? Why did she go from groaning in pain to disrobing? Was she trying to assess the damage from the fall? Whatever the reason, Scaramouche didn't actually care. He couldn't see all too much from this angle, aside from the curve of her left breast, then her stomach… hips… oh god.
He couldn't stop now. No way. Not when Mona had shimmied her bodysuit all the way down to her knees and, for some unknown reason, had started to pull back the folds of her pussy, as though she were trying to remove some invisible object. The louder she moaned, the faster he fucked "her." The faster he fucked "her," the louder she moaned. He was past the point of trying to understand what was happening. It didn't matter. All that mattered was this bizarrely erotic turn of events.
The sleeve tugged and squeezed him, pushing and pulling. Taking and rejecting. It was as though it couldn't decide whether it wanted him there or not, and all it did was encourage him to take control. Gripping it with both hands, the sleeve came down on him with force, all the way to the base, and his pace only became more desperate, feverish.
Mona's hands had given up. They came to her sides, back arching and fingers twisting and bunching the sheets as she cried out. All of a sudden, the pussy changed. It was clenching and pulsing Scaramouche's cock, and that acceptance, that telltale sign of orgasm, sent him straight over the edge. Spilling inside, Scaramouche had to bite his tongue to keep from audibly groaning in relief as his release overcame him. It hit him so fast, so hard, that his vision blackened around the edges and he had to grip his legs around the tree branch to keep steady.
"What was that?" he asked himself in a huff of caught breaths. He blinked and peered back toward the window, only to see Mona sprawled out on the bed, chest heaving.
Along with an impressive wet spot staining the sheets between her legs.
There was no way. Absolutely no fucking way. Yet at the same time, he believed it, as though he knew it from the very first time his cock breached that plush opening. Scaramouche slipped the sleeve off himself to examine it. He knew he came a lot; there was no denying that. But when he peered inside, confusion hit. Yes, the evidence was there, but it was hardly the load he'd expected.
"Hm," he pondered, and reached for the canteen at his hip. Uncapping it, he tipped it, but as the cool water washed away his sins, his eyes remained on Mona's window. Another gasp was heard before he saw her leap from the bed. The soiled sheets were even more noticeable now; a dark, spreading stain marred the middle. In a fit of frustration, Mona jumped to her feet, snatched the sheets up into her fists, and balled them into her arms.
As he watched her stomp from view, twintails trailing behind her, and heard the door audibly slam, Scaramouche leaned back against the tree trunk. Nothing about this moment was expected. He was supposed to be out in the wilds of Mondstadt, collecting pointless data for the Fatui, but instead, he found himself not only peeping on his adversary but also discovering just how out of the ordinary this toy truly was.
Now, he found himself questioning its very existence. Why would the shopkeeper create something so violating? Was this the result of some sort of personal vendetta between her and Mona? Then he remembered that this was not the only model. Just how many women did this lady have scores to settle with? He could only shake his head and grin to himself. None of that genuinely mattered to him; it wasn't any of his business. This was his personal possession now, and Scaramouche was free to use it as he pleased.
And use it, he would.
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
"Ten, twenty, twenty five…"
A small, shimmering stack of coins balanced precariously on the countertop of Good Hunter as Mona dug through her change purse. Sarah noted how surprised she was to see her this early in the day, as it wasn't even close to lunchtime, and Mona was quick with her excuses. The fatigue in her voice made it obvious that she was fighting sleep, but she "had a breakthrough in her research," and while there was no time to slow down now, she could no longer ignore the intense rumble of hunger pangs. It was a lot less embarrassing than the truth—she couldn't sleep while her bedsheets were being laundered—and after what she went through, a meal sounded like the perfect pick-me-up.
Not that the man crouched up on the wooden crates behind the general goods shop cared. Not one bit. To say that Scaramouche had a lot of time to kill was an understatement. He wasn't due to meet back with his troops until later that evening, and what better way to pass the time than to play with his new toy? He had a perfect view of her from across the way, far enough to remain inconspicuous, but still within earshot and able to catch fragments of conversation. Earlier, he purchased himself a bottle of wine, but after not even a few steps from the stall, the booze was handed off to a thankful passerby. The mora spent was of no consequence, as he had more than plenty to spare. All he really wanted, after all, was the brown paper bag it had been sold in.
None would be the wiser. He'd seemingly blend in with the average day drinking denizen when raising the bag to his lips, flicking his tongue against "Mona's" unsuspecting cunt hidden within. The anticipation was torturous, but patience would be rewarded.
In her moment of triumph, Mona's hands came to rest at her hips. Her little coin tower was complete, and finally, she could order her breakfast: a single serving of Fisherman's Toast. But before Sarah's hand could swipe the mora into the register drawer, the pile tumbled with a crash, coins clattering over the counter and rolling to the ground in every direction.
"Miss Mona, are you alright?" Sarah gasped with concern. With eyes blown wide and a white-knuckled grip clenching the counter's edge, Mona found it hard to concern herself with the fact that the very mora needed to pay for her meal was now bouncing down the cobblestones. She had to pull it together, gather up another excuse, and quickly.
"I-I'm fine, just a sudden stomach cramp," she wrenched out, clamoring to snatch whatever coins were within reach. A pair of eager children who had been sitting with their mother at a nearby table leapt to their feet to chase after the few rogue mora that were bounding down the main thoroughfare, most likely with hopes of tossing the coins into the nearby fountain and having their wishes granted.
If it were Mona, she would wish to turn back time and decide against leaving her house today. Or better yet, for this bizarre ordeal to come to an end.
"Don't worry about the mora today, alright? Please, just take care of yourself," Sarah insisted, wearing a fraught look of concern as she offered her the freshly plated toast. But Mona couldn't even reach out to take it; another "cramp" had hit her like a freight train.
"O-ohh…" she moaned, long, deep, almost guttural. Her neck slacked, and sweat began forming at her brow. Mona could not remember a time when she had been more humiliated than this; people were beginning to stop and stare, their eyes setting her skin aflame. "I'm s-sorry, I'm so sorry! Forget it. I…I can't!" her voice quivered. Once more, her knees buckled, but despite the wobbly quiver of her thighs, Mona managed to put one foot in front of the other, using the wall as leverage in a mortifying retreat.
In the distance, the Harbinger could hardly contain himself, though he'd managed to hide his amused grin behind the cover of the paper bag. Only he was privy to the true nature of her sudden onset of "cramps," and that knowledge only added to his growing arousal. He took one last taste of her, running his tongue along the edge of her folds to lap up her juices. A breath ghosted across her skin, a small sigh of pleasure that sent a quiver through her. This was just a little tease, something to keep the edge off.
With a quiet sigh, his head came to rest against the wall. Scaramouche's eyes slipped shut, and the bag now rested against his chest. To the casual onlooker, he was simply enjoying a little morning nip of wine and relaxation. But inside, a plan was being formulated. There was so much more to this little gift, and Scaramouche fully intended to exploit it in any way he could. Surely Mona would do just about anything for this nightmare to come to an end, and the Harbinger couldn't wait to find out where her limits lie.
Licking the satisfying taste of her slick from his lips, he expanded on that thought. Never mind about her limits; he was far more interested in finding out just how tightly he could stretch them.
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
Everything in Mona's orbit had been turned on its head. This must be how a snowman in a globe felt after being violently shaken up, with its weighty lower half now teetering heavily upon its head. Her waking hours had been disrupted so often in the last week that now she found herself catching sleep whenever—and wherever—she could. Sometimes that included passing out on the tip of Starsnatch Cliff, smack dab in the middle of her work.
She was beginning to wonder if this was the old hag's petty revenge for that ridiculous diary mishap. While she wouldn't put it past Barbeloth to force Mona through the trials of sexual deviance, such invasive violations of her autonomy were not exactly her style. The woman still had her principles.
Whatever this invisible force was, its manipulation of her body had been relentless, and Mona couldn't foresee an end to it all. Not even her trusted intuition could seem to anticipate its arrival. The astrologist was no stranger to the drained feeling of frazzled nerves, but this? Not only was she constantly on edge to the point of exhaustion, but paranoia had also begun to wrap its suffocating hands around her. After that humiliating experience at Good Hunter, her already infrequent appearances outside of her home became even more rare, aside from slipping out under the cover of nightfall to attend to her stargazing. At least when… it… hit her out in the wilderness, nary a soul was within earshot to witness the undignified echoes of those unforeseen ravishings.
So then why, as she lay on her mattress and stared with unfocused eyes at the ceiling, did her hand find itself traveling beneath the hem of her nightgown? This day in particular had been eerily uneventful; there hadn't been a single tickle or unwelcome probe since the night before. Mona should have seen that as a huge relief, but she had already spent the majority of her day in nerve-wracking anticipation. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Wondering just when she would find herself seizing before submitting to the inevitable. This was certainly a new, brutal form of torment.
What was she doing? What was she thinking? No, that's exactly it: she wasn't. For once in her life, Mona was tired of thinking. Any attempt to wrangle control of the uncontrollable had sufficiently worn her to bits, and now she'd been withered to a state of mind that she wouldn't dare confront. A state of mindless compulsion, where her fingers crept below the band of her undergarments in search of something they were barely acquainted with.
Acts of self-care, let alone self-pleasure, were not high on Mona's list of priorities. In fact, such distractions were practically sacrilege, an activity made only to separate her further from the reach of the stars and closer to the dregs of society. Closer to those who had long since lost their way on the path to seek truths, and who now only sought pleasurable escapes from reality. All the more reason why she was having trouble reconciling with the fact that, despite the constant interruption to her routine, these frequent bouts of sexual gratification were not hindering her findings, nor clouding her perception.
Now, she had to face the horrifying truth: that every last one of those orgasms forced through her core had given her something she desperately needed but would rarely allow. Relief. Indulgence. Even if it was only temporary. Maybe those spontaneous orgasms were simply her body begging for attention, for a release. Maybe, if she took control and brought herself to climax, it would all go away on its own. Yes, this would all sort itself out. It had to be worth a try, at the very least.
When the pad of her finger found its way to her clit, she let out a small whine. Not of pleasure, but of sheer unease at how awkward this all felt. Was she really going to go through with this? Hadn't she had enough already? How utterly ridiculous. Maybe she should forget about the whole thing and seize the opportunity to try and get some rest instead. Or what if her hypothesis was wrong, and while in the middle of pleasuring herself, the phantom intrusion struck her? Well, she supposed if that was the case, it would be over sooner than later if she were already in the middle of it all…
With her newfound determination and eyes squeezed tight, Mona's fingers carried on with their timid exploration. A held breath released, a conscious attempt to further relax her muscles and allow her thighs to fall open against the mattress. Slick folds parted, already warm to the touch and engorged with need. At first, she tried for gentle strokes against her slit, but this only made her shoulders tense. No, she would pay no mind to that part of her this time, the part that was regularly being used, and left sore and achy for hours at a time. So she trailed back up to her clit, and with very little pressure, slowly began to trace a circle with her fingertip.
As if she wasn't already feeling foolish enough, the added thought of fantasizing would only make it worse. She didn't even know where to start. Every time she tried to imagine a lover between her legs, her mind wandered off, meandering its way back to her studies and to-do list. This sent her nose scrunching up in frustration. She owed herself more than this! Maybe it would grow easier the closer she got, the further she fell.
She shifted her back, as though to scratch an itch between her shoulder blades against the sheets. She wanted to imagine somebody, but not someone. A generic, faceless gentleman with kind hands and soft lips. The tender push of palms against her inner thighs, holding her open while a plush, wet tongue lapped her juices and heaped praises. And not just ones about how sweet she tasted or how tightly she clenched him, but of how undeniably desirable she was.
How badly he needed her and her alone.
"Ohh…mmm…" she softly moaned, and the back of her hand came to rest against her forehead as she let out a sigh of relaxation. Those feelings of awkward foolishness slowly began to fade with every caress, every shuddering sensation of bliss. Mona's finger slipped down to gather up more of her wetness, quickly returning to her swollen clit and rubbing feverishly. Her imaginary suitor closed his lips around her, letting out a groan that sent a shiver bolting down her legs and made her toes curl.
Mona was closing in, the finish line within her sight. The steady building pressure in her core worked in tune with the salacious thoughts jumbling about in her mind. "Yes, yes! Keep going!" she cried, her legs squirming and rustling the sheets with every labored breath.
That's when her eyes met a heavy-lidded gaze—a striking flash of violet. Like a spark to gunpowder, Mona's orgasm rippled through her, forcing her strangled breath to the surface in a cry of ecstasy. Waves of sensation rolled up her spine and down her thighs, pinning her head to the pillow and reducing her muscles to little more than a quaking jelly.
As for that illusion conjured between her thighs, he dissipated like fine mist in the heat, evaporating as rapidly as every lewd thought in her mind. For a moment, she felt paralyzed, not even able to twitch a toe, but much to her relief, it did not last. Everything seemed to return to exactly as it was, and her thoughts were already working their way back to tomorrow's errands and projects.
Even so, as she adjusted her underwear, tightened the elastic on her twintails, and rolled onto her side, there was one disturbing afterthought she could not seem to shake. A thought that churned Mona's stomach and chilled her skin. This is precisely why she should never allow her mind to slip like this, to forsake all discipline and indulge in fantasies that break the lock on every repressed thought. And since punching it from her consciousness was not an option, instead, Mona's fist connected with the warm side of her goosefeather pillow.
Why him? Why did it have to be him?
