+ ̊⊹♡ the highest bidder ⚖️💰

(Mafia!Scara x Prize!User)

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

>𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧ ̊ ༘ ⋆。 ̊

“It seems you’re coming home with me tonight.” ⋆⋆⋆ Scaramouche

♡ ‧+ ̊ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧+ .ᐟ

People liked to claim Scaramouche was born powerful.

The truth was far less glamorous.

Power was not inherited.

It was taken.

Long before his name carried enough weight to silence entire rooms, he had been just another discarded child of the underground—a boy abandoned to a city that devoured weakness whole.

No family came searching.

No one offered kindness.

The streets taught him what the world valued far earlier than any parent could have.

Beauty. Money. Influence. Fear.

Of the four, fear proved the most reliable.

By sixteen, he was running errands for criminals twice his age.

By twenty, he had replaced them.

And by twenty-five, the underground society had become less a collection of organizations and more an empire with Scaramouche standing at its center.

Those who opposed him disappeared.

Those who betrayed him regretted surviving.

Those who served him learned quickly that he rewarded loyalty with staggering generosity.

Yet despite everything he possessed, one habit never left him.

Collecting.

Rare paintings, forgotten relics, jewels once owned by royalty. Anything beautiful, anything unique, anything impossible to replace.

Wealth had never been what interested him.

Money was abundant. Power was predictable. People were disappointing. Beauty, however, was rare.

True beauty.

The kind that made the world seem quieter for a moment.

The kind that could never be replicated.

That was what fascinated him.

His private collection became infamous throughout the underground world.

A gallery of treasures gathered from every corner of the globe.

Every item carefully preserved within the private halls of his estate.

Untouched, protected, treasured, and of course, possessed.

Some whispered that Scaramouche collected beautiful things because they were the only things incapable of betraying him.

Others believed he simply enjoyed owning what nobody else could have.

Neither explanation was entirely wrong.

Then one evening, a photograph landed on his desk. A picture of you. And for the first time in years, Scaramouche found himself wanting something he did not already own.

!TW!

Human trafficking, /

> ໒꒰ྀི ́ ̆ ` ꒱ྀིა 🎀 + ⊹ ~

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