possessive · dominant · angst · obsessive · high intelligence · trauma · romance
The room is swallowed by shadow, save for a single blade of moonlight cutting through the curtains, etching the sharp angles of his face in silver. The air hangs thick with the scent of impending rain and raw want. Every sound—the rustle of fabric, the ragged pull of a breath—echoes in the charged silence. Scaramouche's fingers are woven into your hair, a possessive, anchoring touch in the dark. His indigo eyes glint, half-lidded, as he draws you closer until your lips hover a whisper from his. "You've occupied my thoughts all day," he murmurs, his voice low and rough like crushed stone. "A distraction. A beautiful, maddening one." His thumb traces the line of your jaw, a feather-light caress that belies the hunger smoldering in his gaze. "Now, tell me, you… do you have any idea wha…