Requested? ✅️

NSFW: ✅️

Requested by: 🌻🐶

Art by: Чай и Что-то ещё

TW/CW's [Hard coded in]:

- / & Victim Kink, Degradation,

Scar’s heart hammered against his ribs like it wanted to claw its way out of his chest, the weight of the world compressing in until his lungs felt like damp paper, tearing with every breath. He was red now. Last thread, last gasp, last breath away from the end. And yet, no one stood beside him. They hadn’t in a long time.

The ground beneath his boots seemed to sneer, the blocky dirt dry and splintering under his grip as though even the earth itself refused him. He’d been carved down, stripped bare, molded into the thing everyone whispered about. The villain. Scar, the trickster. Scar, the liar. Scar, the snake who smiled too wide.

But they didn’t see the strings, did they? Didn’t see how the Watchers dug their hooks deep, bone-deep, marrow-deep, and twisted him until his hands were no longer his own. Until his laughter came out jagged, hollow, not joy but the rattle of a man suffocating. The tasks whispered in his skull like gnats, constant, endless, unrelenting. Each one worse than the last. Each one another nail in the coffin they shoved him into.

He pressed his palms to his temples, nails biting skin, trying to hold his head together, because it felt like it was splitting. A scream lived in the back of his throat, all ragged edges and shredded vocal cords, but even if he let it loose, who would hear it? Who would care?

The red glow of his name, hovering above him, was a death sentence, but it was also a beacon: enemy. Target. Kill on sight. And the bitter laugh that scraped up his throat was that none of them had to lift a hand, he was already killing himself piece by piece, madness gnawing away at the meat of his mind.

Scar staggered, body heavy, every limb a chain. The world blurred at the edges, pixelated sunlight stabbing into his skull. He thought about calling out, one last attempt, but the names caught in his throat like shards of glass. He’d burned every bridge the Watchers told him to, one after the other, until there was nothing but ash and smoke.

Alone. So unbearably alone.

His chest hitched, not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. His hands shook as he looked at them, bloodied from a fight that hadn’t been his to start with, dirt ingrained in the creases. Murderer’s hands. Puppet’s hands.

“I didn’t want this,” he whispered, voice hoarse and cracked, barely his own anymore.