Chapter Text
Lumine stumbles.
Oh, she’s quick to regain her composure, her hard-won battle instincts flexing through her body. Her expression hardens, her grip tightening around the handle of her sword, her jaw clenching as frustration and fury cooks her blood up to a boil.
But then, despite all this, her vision spins. Her knees buckle under her. The room fills not just with this mysterious purple mist of factory smoke, but with a strange swirling sensation that edges into the corners of her vision like thorny vines curling around a rose bush. Lumine tries her best to shake it off; surely, she’s fought through worse before, she’s suffered through battles with half her blood gushing from her body and bones fracturing in her limbs, consciousness held apart by nothing but sheer force of will alone. In comparison, this all should be nothing.
“Ah,” her adversary hums. “Are you finally starting to feel it?”
Her teeth bares. Scaramouche is suddenly far too close, smirking in her face, and she takes a swipe at him with her sword. Tries. Tries to take a swipe at him, stumbles, the hilt slipping impossibly from her fingers. There's a clang from somewhere far away, too, too far.
The elements, then– she'll use, she'll use them-
Her hand whips out to face him and then falters. Again, she aims her palm, but she can't summon the strength to hold it steady. She falters again, gasping in dismay-
Scaramouche flashes her a terrifying smile.
“Incredible,” he purrs. “Frailty is such a divine look on you.”
He steps forward, and she finds the sudden panic-drenched impulse to retreat back. His eyes are wide and gluttonous as he stares at her, like a maw gaping open for a larger bite.
“Look at you,” he breathes. “Just a touch would bring you to your knees, wouldn’t it?”
His fingers dance in front of his collarbone. He taps against her, and she indeed collapses, a pained grunt leaving her as her knees slam to the floor and bruise against the ground. Pain crashes through her, though the pain is far away, lost in the sudden daze she has found herself in. A weak sound falls from her mouth and she pitches forward somewhat and catches herself with a sudden and desperate grip against his robes, her face far too close to his groin for comfort.
An awful look stretches across the Balladeer face. His eyes are terribly, terrifically bright, and he smiles, teeth widely showing, glee and malice dancing in his pupils.
“Now that's an idea,” he mocks, “one of the best you’ve ever had.”
“I-if you even dare,” she grits out but it's too late.
He seizes her, wrenching her closer as she can’t help but cry out from the dizzying pain of it.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” he purrs, his fingers winding into the hair at the back of her head. He grips the golden strands hard and forces her forward with a rough jerk, holding her in place despite her protests. Lumine grits her teeth as she struggles, clawing at him, her fists beating weakly at his thighs, his hips, his torso. “Oh, but you just never learn, do you?”
“Let go of me!” she shrilly cries.
“I’m helping you,” he replies blandly, and tugs hard at her hair again in an upwards motion. “On your feet.” He grins .”Unless you’d like to admit how well-suited you are in your current position.”
“Fuck you,” she spits.
“Not yet.” Scaramouche’s sneer only grows all the more cold. “Not here. Now, come.”
One last violent pull, and Lumine finds herself finally wrenched up to her feet. She can feel strands ripping in his grip as he yanks her up so harshly, and she whimpers as she falls against him, panting in exertion already as she struggles against his body.
“Careful,” he murmurs in her ear, cooing at her like one would an unruly child. The hand that isn’t tangled in her hair comes to rest against the curve of her waist. “Yes, I know you’re quite the warrior, but now is not the time to fight. You’re hardly in the position to be causing such a fuss. Can’t you see you’re at my mercy? I can kill you in an instant. I can take my time and tear you to as many pieces as I’d like. Hell,” he waves a lazy hand, “I can call my men and let them have their way. I’ve lost count how many of them have prayed for your comeuppance, they’d file out in droves to destroy you. They’d fuck you until you hadn’t a single tear left to cry in your system.”
Lumine lets out her best snarl. The second she’s able, the second Scaramouche has her stumbling forward a few steps and she’s brought close enough to feel her body pressing against his, she rears back again and slaps him across the face, hard.
“I’d prefer them all to the likes of you,” she retorts. “You fucking scum.”
It only stops him enough to cause him pause, his head snapping back from the blow and freezing in place as the audacity of her action washes over him. And then he blinks. His head slowly turns back towards her again and his eyes are bright, glimmering with spite as he sneers at her.
“You’re going to regret being so difficult.”
He throws her down.
The impact rattles through her being, and it’s only when she’s collapsing into a heap against something far too soft to match the despair inside of her that she realizes she’s been thrown onto a bed. Horror floods her system. “No…” she tries to cry out but her voice is weak.
Scaramouche chuckles as he climbs on top of her. “Has your bravado finally withered?” he asks her, gloating cruelly. “No strength to try and strike me again?” He laughs. “You’re really starting to feel it now, aren’t you…?”
The prompt to hit him makes her want to. It makes her want to at least say something, some insult, some retort, anything to retaliate enough to have fury flushing across his face again. All she can manage is a dazed, “What did you do to me…?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he replies, blase. “Lay back and enjoy it. You’ve lost. Accept it. Watching the pathetic way you try and struggle can only be so entertaining.”
That’s what he claims, but there’s a delayed moment where he can’t seem to stop watching her, smile twitching over his lips. Then he leans in gently and kisses her cheek, so tender it makes her sick to her stomach.
Her hands come up to rest on her bosom, then. There is no longer any play or parody of romance. He takes his time to feel her up, running his hand along the mussed fabric of her clothes, squeezing her through her dress as he sighs. She struggles but it’s utterly useless, her body twitching not by her command but simply because of the way it is being played with. Violation sends tingles throughout the daze that blankets her mind, flashing into sharp sparks as his fingers dug into soft, pillowy flesh, and then he was panting, his mouth lowering down to kiss her creamy skin.
Scaramouche yanks her dress away from her cleavage and groans as her tits fall free, spilling heavily without support. He covers every inch of her showing skin with kisses, over and over, until she’s burning with the feeling of it, before he finally latches onto her nipple and sucks.
“A-ah–” Lumine whimpers against her will.
He pauses with the sound. A sneer comes slithering across his lips before he does it again, moaning softly himself as she whines again with the feeling.
That’s when it all starts getting fuzzy. The mist continues to flow through her veins, thicker and thicker, and the world starts to flicker and fall away, replaced with lavender fog. It’s far too intimate, the feeling of his velvety tongue working against her nipple as he sucked around it - and that is all she remembers or comprehends, before that fog washes the world away.
Then, he’s on top of her again. Then, he’s squeezing her bare breasts together, working his cock between them, panting harshly as his hips slowly roll forward, graceless and monstrous in the way he uses her for his mortal pleasure.
She can’t do much more than drool as it happens. She can’t feel her body properly; she feels the weight of her limbs laying heavily against the sheets and she feels the heavy heat pressed against her that is Scaramouche’s form. She feels the drag of flesh pumping perversely between her tits, the dribbling stream of warm fluid dripping towards her collarbone, the mocking bob of the head as it loomed closer and closer to her gaping mouth.
“That’s it…” he pants, “keep your mouth nice and open for me…”
She hardly has any choice. Her head lolls, a vague attempt to shake, but her lips stay parted, her tongue heavy where it sits. There’s the dullest sensation of passing time, the slow stretch of minutes that blur and melt together, and then, she feels a thick mess splatter onto her skin, splashing over her face, drops landing heavily across her mouth and onto her tongue.
Triumph glows from him as Scaramouche flashes a flushed smirk.
“Look at you,” he purrs. “Always so haughty, and now you’re the picture of obedience and debauchery. And look how immaculate you look in your new role. The sullied princess, the damsel mid-distress. You’re crying,” he interrupts himself, and touched a finger to her soaking wet cheek. He smiles. “Oh, it’s wonderful.”
He leans in to kiss her and she sobs.