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Scaramouche had picked up an... unfortunate habit.
He didn't mean to, really. He couldn't have known it would feel so damn good. He couldn't possibly have predicted he'd get addicted to something so strange. A few poor decisions, that was all it was. He could stop any time he wanted.
Just... not right then.
It all started when Scaramouche found himself in possession of a particularly short and thin blade. It was for shaving, decidedly, but the Balladeer did not grow body hair. He'd found it in his bedroom, which was an affectionate name for the basement of a Fatui headquarters building that he was in charge of. The blade sat inconspicuously among an assortment of others, small knives the Balladeer had a bit of a collection of.
But... why was it there? Did he buy it and forget? That didn't seem likely.
Scaramouche was sitting on the floor, twirling the blade between his fingers, admiring how it glimmered under the dim bedroom light.
This blade is pretty thin. I'd bet it cuts through flesh like paper.
And, despite himself, Scaramouche became morbidly curious.
He'd been cut before in battle. Of course he had. But he was always too focused or too hyped up on adrenaline (or the puppet equivalent) to really feel the wound. Which only made him wonder: what would it feel like if the cut was deliberate? Slow?
No one would know if he tried. He didn't have to tell anyone.
But where would he do it? His neck was out of the question. His arms were no good, either, someone would definitely notice. His torso... the wound would rub against his clothes and be uncomfortable. His legs were usually exposed, but his thighs... concealed only loosely by his shorts...
That was the spot.
Scaramouche stood up and walked the short distance to his bedroom door. He slowly pushed it shut, locking it with a soft click before returning to sit on his bed. He turned the blade over in his hand a few times, suddenly feeling a knot tie itself in his abdomen.
Am I... nervous..?
The Balladeer finally gripped the blade by its handle. His palm felt a little slick against the heavy metallic handle.
Why am I nervous? This is just a little experiment, Scaramouche rationalized in his head as he slid the leg of his shorts up his thigh, exposing the soft, milky flesh beneath. When he pressed his knees together, there was a considerable gap between his thighs, which Scaramouche couldn't decide if he liked.
He wrapped his hand around one thin thigh and, with the other, lowered the blade's tip to press lightly against his skin.
"Ghk-!" Scaramouche sucked air in through his teeth as he slowly slid the point across his thigh. In its wake was a long split in his flesh, revealing a white layer. Small droplets of blood began filling the cut, merging as they met one another and pooling in the fresh wound.
Scaramouche's abdomen felt yet tighter, his breaths slow and his grip on the blade tight.
After a little while of admiring the cut, he lowered the blade again, using the length this time.
"Haa..." Scaramouche let out a soft sigh as the blade slowly split his skin and another cut opened in his thigh, this one deeper than the last.
Scaramouche felt a deep sense of satisfaction in his guts, which made him squirm with pleasure. By the third or fourth cut, the Balladeer was painfully aware of just how much he liked it.
"Hk- gha..." He began to palm himself through his shorts as he set the blade on the sheets beside him. His hand returned to his thigh to slide his fingertip along his skin just above a particularly deep cut. He pressed his finger down into the wound, feeling beads of fat squish, slick with blood. Scaramouche bit back a moan while he moved his finger and slipped his hand under the waistband of his shorts and undergarments to wrap around his aching cock.
"Hnnfg..." He clenched his teeth, scooting back further onto his bed to lean his back against the wall, slipping out of his shorts to have better access to his dick. "Ha- aahn..."
Scaramouche pushed his fingers into wound at the same pace as his hand pumping his now leaking cock, finding a steady rhythm. He was close, tantalizingly so.
"Hng..!" Scaramouche spilled onto his hand when his finger pushed its deepest into his bleeding flesh. He fell limp against the wall, hands falling to his sides and thighs quivering. His breaths came in erratic gasps as he came back to his senses.
He cleaned his hands off in the tiny bathroom sink before turning his attention to his bleeding thigh. He wet a washcloth and gently cleaned himself up.
After some tactful bandaging, he'd stopped the bleeding completely.
Scaramouche pulled his clothes back on and sat on his bed.
Did I seriously just do that..?
That would become the beginning of a guilty pleasure.