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Life was unfair. Scaramouche thought about this daily—usually while watching other people toss around magic like it was no big deal.
Technically, he did have magic like everyone else. But his? Yeah... kinda inconvenient. Teleportation? Nope. Bending gravity to his will? Ha, he wished. Instead, he got stuck with the ability to erase himself from people's minds. This sounded cool as fuck, right? Well, Scaramouche didn’t agree, not one bit.
Okay, sure, it had its perks. Screw up? No problem—just hit ‘delete’ and move on. The downside? Uh, turns out it’s a bit... permanent. And not just for one person, either. Scaramouche had, somehow, managed to erase himself from the collective consciousness.
Even when people met him, they had no idea who he was! Talk about frustrating.
He wanted to fuck around with his powers and show off too!
As he was ranting to himself for the nth time, Scaramouche briefly remembered something.
Oh, right–the book he'd found at the library the other day!
Every good witch knew that just their natural powers were never enough. As such, most people rented or bought spell books to further their brilliance. Scara had followed what others did, even if he was a newly awakened witch with barely any control, and went to the library. He thought his witch intuition would lead him to the solution of his “little” problem. Though, being forgotten so quickly had its pros as well. He could steal any book that caught his fancy and no one could hold him responsible. Take that, suckers!
He went over to his nightstand and picked up the old, dusty book. It hadn’t been on any of the shelves in actuality. He found it dropped between one shelf and the wall, left there to catch dust and rot away. Now that he was actually looking at it, yeah–this thing was sketchy as hell. Burnt corners, ominous vibes... totally blasphemous. Perfect.
Scara flipped it open and started reading. Easier cleaning… Washing the dishes with no water… Dusting with the wave of a hand? Was there nothing useful? He scoffed. No wonder it had been abandoned in that corner. Just as he thought that, the book fell from his hands.
He looked down and saw it open on a slightly different page, appearance-wise. Its pages looked pristine, untouched even! Intrigued, he looked over.
[Make yourself useful]
What kind of spell title was that?? Despite his reservations he still read on.
[How to summon an alternate version of yourself to help with chores]
The fuck? Who was desperate enough to summon a second version of themselves just for chores!? What a waste. There were so many better things you could do with a copy of yourself–so many.
And then it hit him.
Oh. My. God.
There were so many things he could do.
He thought it over. Maybe his alternate self would have better control over their powers. Maybe he could even teach him! This was a goldmine and nobody appreciated it.
Scaramouche was enthusiastic and quickly got to absorbing all of the rules. He needed candles, a full moon, something personal and sentimental, a drop of blood and an incantation. It seemed simple enough. The full moon was just three days away and he had plenty of candles. But what was deemed personal and sentimental for him? He wasn’t a sentimental person.
He swiped eyes over the room, scanning each and every item he could spot. Maybe, just maybe… He took out a feather ornament—the only thing his mother had ever given him before disowning him. He knew she no longer remembered him, that he could no longer go home and finally prove his worth as a witch.
So why the hell did he still keep it?
Maybe because, just like him, it was useless.
Whatever. It would do.
And so, he sat down and concentrated on perfecting the pronunciation of the spell. This had to go well. Seeking help from himself was the best case scenario.
Three days went by in the blink of an eye.
Now Scaramouche sat cross-legged on the floor in his living room. Around him were the dancing flames of the 13 or so candles he had lit priorly. His feather ornament sat in the middle, right in front of him. The moon was out and shining silver light through the open window. It was time.
He closed his eyes and started chanting slowly with a slight tremble in his voice. He couldn’t afford to screw this up—otherwise, he’d be stuck waiting another month.
As he was focusing on his task, one by one his candles started flickering. The first candle went out. Then followed the second. Gradually all of them were no longer lighting up the room, leaving him completely basking in the moonlight. His feather floated up in the air, emitting a soft golden glow. It started spinning rapidly while Scaramouche felt short of breath. The words caught in his throat, each syllable harder to force out, but he pushed through. As soon as the last part of the incantation was said, the feather expanded and shined as brightly as the sun. Scaramouche could feel its burning light through his closed eyelids and didn’t dare open his eyes.
Not even a minute later the light went out all at once, even the moon hid behind the clouds, leaving the young witch in complete darkness. A thud sounded and then a pained groan.
Scaramouche startled, eyes flying open. It worked! There was someone else in the room with him. He wasn’t completely useless, after all!
He got up, ignoring the needles in legs after sitting in that position for so long, and moved to help the other person up.
“Fuck..” his other self muttered before swaying slightly as he was helped on his feet.
“Holy fuck, it really worked…” Scaramouche exclaimed softly under his breath. Before him was himself. At first glance, they were identical—same face, same build, even the same voice. But then Scaramouche noticed the clothes. He always dressed in greens and blues after being disowned. Purple was his mother’s colour. This version of himself, however? He was draped in purples and reds all over. He’d never realized just how much he looked like her up until this moment. His heart ached at the thought. Whatever. He would soon no longer be worthless. Not even in her eyes.
“Where the hell is this?” His other self steadied himself, scanning the unfamiliar room—then freezing when he saw a face that was eerily familiar. “No way.”
“Ah, yeah. Forgot to introduce myself, I’m Scaramouche and I summoned you here. Welcome, I guess.”
“Are you for real?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I was just about to kill that annoying ginger bastard,” the other Scaramouche expressed his frustration, groaning.
“A ginger? Don’t know about that, just wanted some help here,” the witch Scaramouche mumbled. Somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to formulate proper sentences. Had he always looked this…cool? Perhaps his other self had things more figured out than he did.
“Don’t you know Tartaglia? Man, he talks too much.”
“Oh, uh, no, I don’t know any Tartaglias,” he answered briefly before musing, “So, that's what they meant by alternate version. You’re me but not really. In terms of experiences, I mean.”
“Alternate version? You can do that here? Fascinating.” This caught the other Scaramouche’s attention. “Say, do you have visions here?”
“Hmm, no. We have powers, though. I’m a witch, and you?”
“Vision holder, an electro user.” His other self paused for a minute. “My name is the same. Hmm.”
“I’m used to being called Scara, what about you?”
“Just Scaramouche. Nobody would dare disrespect me by shortening my name,” Scaramouche(?) scoffed before turning his gaze towards the ritual getup on the floor. “Somehow I imagined summoning my divine presence more… grand.” Disapprovement laced his voice.
“Yes, well, I just followed the spell book. Nothing personal. And I really doubt you’re really divine- Wait, are you?” Scara was left gaping. He could have been a god in another universe? And he was stuck as a struggling young witch here? So unfair!!
“I was created by a god,” Scaramouched explained, clipped. He didn't sound eager to talk about his circumstances, it seemed like.
“Anyway, onto the reason why I summoned you here. I thought an alternate version of myself would know how to fix a problem of mine.” A little ashamed, Scara looked away from his cool self. The demanding, intimidating aura he commanded was a bit too much in the face of his personal failures.
“Go on.” Concise and straight to the point. Scaramouche looked used to bossing around others.
“I can erase any memories of myself in other people’s consciousness… Unfortunately, I recently awakened and don't have much control over it yet. And caused everyone to forget about me. Any time I interact with others they forget about me as soon as I get out of their sight.”
“Wow,” Scaramouche said with an unimpressed roll of his eyes. “I can’t really help. I use a medium for my electro, it’s not innate and I got the hang of it from the get go.”
“Oh,” Scara deflated in seconds. So much for his ticket out of this misery.
“Pathetic. Get a grip.” His other self’s displeased eyes stared right into his own, piercing his soul. “Giving up is for the losers. And I always come on top. Get up.”
“Do you have any ideas?” Hopeful, Scara beamed at him.
“You’ll work your ass off until we see results. I can’t stand seeing myself looking like a drenched cat.”
“Oh.”
He had wanted a quick fix. What he got was a sadistic teacher who stood for no failure.
In the first month of Scaramouche’s arrival, the training could be described as nothing short of hellish. Every day he forced Scara to get up at 6 AM and kicked him out to “manipulate the worms” into remembering him. No progress, no breakthroughs—just the sheer humiliation of staring at strangers and hoping his powers would “flow naturally.” This was a scam. A full-blown, cosmic-level scam. And worst of all? He got scammed by himself.
And what was Scaramouche doing while he was suffering from the sheer embarrassment of it all? Sitting on the sidelines, sipping some bitter-ass tea, and not-so-subtly mocking him. Oh, and looking unfairly hot while doing it. Absolute bastard.
At some point, Scara started to question everything. Was he always this narcissistic? Had he secretly wanted to worship himself all along? No, no way. This was corruption. He was clearly being corrupted. Fuck, Scaramouche felt like an entirely different species. He was confident, ruthless, arrogant—everything Scara wasn’t. Would he have been like that, too, if he’d awakened his powers sooner? If he hadn’t lost whatever sliver of respect his mother had for him?
Just thinking about the what-ifs left him foaming. Summoning himself turned out to be a big mistake. It led to nothing but more insecurity and excruciating training with no results.
Laying like a salted fish in his bed, he was contemplating his life decisions. Maybe he deserved to be called useless, nothing he did ended up right.
Scaramouche strolled in without a care for personal space, unbothered and unwelcome. So much for sulking in peace.
“What are you moping around for, little witch?” Even his voice sounded condescending—every syllable crafted for maximum irritation. No mercy, even for himself. Fucker.
“This isn’t working,” Scara retorted with a hopeless sigh. He decided to give up. Who gave a shit about him anyway? He could live as an invisible to society entity as long as he didn’t get kicked out of the apartment.
“Giving up so easily? Tsk.” Scaramouche stalked toward him, radiating menace. Then again, everything he did felt menacing, but that was beside the point. “Are you going to get up or shall I make you?” He raised an eyebrow and waited for a response. When no answer came, Scaramouche’s hand shot out, closing around Scara’s throat with terrifying precision.
Scara's breath hitched. “W-what?”
The vision holder stared at him unblinkingly. “I said, will you get up or shall. I. Make. You?”
“I’ll get up, I’m getting up! Let go of my throat,” the witch said in panic with great effort. His windpipe burned with the effort it took him to spit out these few sentences. His alternate self was too hardcore. More importantly—why was this… doing things to him? Had he been a pervert all along, or was this his second awakening?!
“That’s what I thought,” Scaramouche just smirked at him, clearly enjoying seeing him struggle under him. Fuck, was he a pervert in both worlds??
Scara decided to not provoke Scaramouche for the time being. He couldn’t handle the stimulation.
Was there some kind of arcane refund policy for alternate selves? Because Scara was done. Take him back. Defective product.
Three months. Three entire months of what could only be described as torture—oh, sorry, intense tutoring. If Scaramouche wasn’t gone soon, Scara was going to open a portal to another universe and jump in himself.
Sure, under the pressure of his constant staring, he’d managed to make someone remember him—for a grand total of two minutes. But at what cost? Because with each passing day, his main concern was shifting from "nobody remembers me" to "why am I getting turned on by my own arrogance?" This wasn’t normal. Being mocked daily shouldn’t have made him all hot and bothered! By himself at that! Well, technically by a more self-assured and dominant(?) version of himself, but whatever! He could stand it no longer. This wasn’t how he imagined discovering his submissive tendencies. Then again, he’d never imagined discovering any in the first place—but here he was, apparently.
This was pure torture. And by the smug, all-knowing gleam in his eyes, Scaramouche knew exactly what he was doing—and enjoyed every second of it. Refund! Where was his refund? He didn’t sign up for this!
This gruelling “training”, leaving mentally drained (depressed and disappointed) and then being toyed with like a mouse by a cat wasn’t on his bingo list.
After another failed attempt, Scara was laying listlessly on the grass beneath the big tree of Sumeru City. He knew That Asshole would soon come and nag him. He couldn’t give any less of a shit. He was so done. He really wasn’t meant to be a good, powerful witch, huh? Maybe his mother was right to leave him. He sighed.
Measured footsteps neared his location. Scramouche was coming.
Scara slowly opened eyes and glanced in that direction. Sure enough, he could see the devil coming closer and closer. With yet another sigh, he sat up against the bark and braced himself for the incoming scolding. “I know what you’re gonna say, spare me the lecture.”
“Well, someone is looking a little down in the dumps,” he heard Scaramouce say in barely disguised amusement. Great, he was glad he could entertain the Great Scaramouche.
"Come with me. Forget this for a minute—we need to deal with your other… issue." With that cryptic statement he turned around and headed to their apartment. Left with no chance to refuse, Scara resigned to his fate and followed behind with uncertain gait.
Back in their living room, both of them stood a bit in complete silence. Scaramouche was staring at Scara with an undecipherable glint in his eyes. Scara, on the other hand, was shifting from one leg to the other, wondering if he had a way out of this. Windows? No. Door? Blocked. Faking his own death? Too dramatic. He didn’t even think about what the other meant, just contemplating his escape.
“Come,” Scaramouche called him like a dog, waiting for him to complete the command. And so he did. Scara got closer and stopped right in front of the electro user.
"However unwilling you were, you completed all my tasks. And good boys," Scaramouche purred, "deserve a reward." Struck by the sudden development, the witch froze up, eyes as wide as saucers. No thoughts, head empty.
“What, don’t tell me you never fantasised about this?” His mocking laugh broke through the shock. Scara’s entire life flashed before his eyes. He felt like he had transcended and gone to Nirvana. Was this real? Was he even real??
“Don’t stand like a piece of wood.” With that, Scaramouche suddenly grabbed the astounded Scara and promptly dragged him to the couch. Wordlessly, the witch followed, still going through an out-of-body experience.
By the time he found himself lying beneath Scaramouche on the couch, reality hit him like a lightning. He could only watch as Scaramouche’s face got impossibly closer to his. He could only focus on his plump moist lips. Shit.
For a brief moment the world stopped. Scara stopped breathing, his entire focus onto Scaramouche, his whole mind bombarded by those kissable lips.
In a heartbeat, those exact lips crashed against his, warm and insistent. God, they were indeed divine. A shiver ran down Scara’s spine, his body betraying him as heat pooled in his gut. He could drown in Scaramouche, his possessive touch on his waist, his lips dancing against his own. A firm hand cupped his jaw, praying it open for a kiss deeper than anything he had ever imagined. It caressed every nook and cranny of Scara’s mouth, leaving no territory uncharted. It was as if Scaramouche wanted to possess him as a whole, make every inch of him his.
A hand sneakily snuck itself under his shirt, fingertips tracing over sensitive skin. Then they dug harshly into him, seeking to leave a mark, a brand. The burning touch sent sparks up his spine, forcing a small whine from his lips—one that Scaramouche swallowed greedily. The sheer intensity of it was unexpected—overwhelming, even—but deep down, wasn’t this exactly what he had been craving all along? The devotion, the unyielding way of Scaramouche left him weak in the knees, completely at his mercy.
Scaramouche, seeing no resistance in his prey, took it further by completely removing the obstructive clothing. He needed to see that meek body naked and flushed by his ministrations, and his ministrations alone. He knew only he could cause such a beautiful sight—bruised and used, all completely his. The silky skin beneath his fingertips further ignited his desire to wreck his unlucky version. Such a pathetic person deserved to be shown what a superior self could do.
Scara felt on cloud nine, unable to process anything but the purposeful movements of Scaramouche’s hands. The moment those lips travelled further down to his neck, he knew he was done for. He could never resist such temptation. As teeth sunk into his collarbone, he moaned loudly. Startled, he quickly sought to put his hand on his mouth to muffle such embarrassing sounds. Scaramouche, however, had another idea. He gripped his hand and redirected it above the witch’s head.
With one hand above him and one left gripping at the dominant version’s shirt, as if holding onto it for dear life, Scara felt surreal.
“That’s it, let me hear you sing,” Scaramouche rasped against his ear. This type of stimulation was unknown waters, Scara was more turned on than ever before. He had never thought his own voice would make his panties so wet. With no restrain left, he followed the command and moaned as wantonly as he could allow himself to.
“S-Scar– Ah!” He could barely make out his name before his attempt was halted by a sneaky hand finding its way down his pants. He regretted not wearing his only set of lingerie today.
A pause followed as soon the hand reached its destination. Scaramouche stopped his assault on his poor neck and instead turned to look at his face, a glimpse of hesitation appeared on his usually unfaltering smug face. “Huh. You have a pussy?” His brows lifted in genuine intrigue. This didn't deter him. If anything, he seemed even more pleased with this turn of events.
“Yes? You don’t?” This was unprecedented. Maybe they had both underestimated how different their alternate version would be from themself.
“Well, that lube seems unnecessary in this case,” the vision holder remarked before throwing an object across the room. “Do you have condoms?”
“No. I never planned on getting laid,” Scara answered honestly.
“No matter, let’s continue.” As soon as he said that he removed Scara’s pants in one go, leaving the man gasping in surprise. There was no time to waste, in Scaramouche’s opinion, as he had been edged by those shy, naughty glances for three months straight. He then glanced down to enjoy the feast.
“So cute,” he commented, fingers teasing over the slick heat between Scara’s thighs. “Dripping for me already. Are you so greedy for my cock?” As always, he quickly defaulted to his cocky self. Scara didn’t even have time to complain before he felt two fingers exploring him from his clit down to his needy hole. A single flick made him forget even his own name.
“Yes!” he moaned rather shamelessly when he felt one of them playing with his sensitive clit. It was unlike any time he had masturbated by himself. (Technically this could also be said to be playing with himself but it sure did leave a different sensation.)
“You’ve been practically begging for this for so long, haven’t you?” Scaramouche mocked him. “Don’t think I didn’t see those heated glances. Heh, I won’t deny you if you wish to worship me.” He then backed off, leaning on the heels of his feet. “Do you want it?” His thumb continued its movements onto the clit while his other two went to the wet hole below, just shy of entering.
“Yes, yes, please!” There was no place for shame when Scara could instead be fingered by himself. He was burning up with desire to be touched, revered. Not longer after, he felt them enter him. Sparks flew across his vision. “Oh–”
“Look at you, taking them so easily, as if made for me.”
“Yes!” Scara’s vocabulary had long left him, leaving the option of one-word answers.
While two fingers worked him open, Scaramouche used his other hand, no longer holding Scara's above his head, to feel him up—his scars, protruding ribs and bony hips. He was a bit skinnier than desired, but he had no problem fattening him up, for him to have supple flesh to squeeze and knead.
Two fingers became three, then four. He wanted the other to wreathe and beg before he proceeded to the next step. It was difficult to hold himself back from just ramming it in already, but the teary face ignited a sadistic side of him that triumphed over anything else.
“Please, please. More,” Scara was on the verge of bursting, barely stopping himself from climaxing. He desperately wanted to cum with Scaramouche inside of him.
Seeing that, the electro user conceded to the witch, deeming it enough playing around for this round, and mercifully granted his wish. Removing his fingers, he quickly swapped them for his pulsing cock. He had been holding back for far too long.
Feeling the hot tip sinking into him, Scara was left breathless. The sensation was wholly different from the fingers. No matter how much he had been stretched beforehand, he still felt unprepared from what came next. The distance between them shortened as much as physically possible. In this fiery dance of push and pull they became truly like one entity. They didn't know where one started and where the other ended. Both drowning in thus far unexplored pleasures, lost themselves to the feeling of the other against their skin and soul.
A particularly harsh thrust caused ignited sparks across Scaramouche’s skin, teasing Scara inside and out. It was too much to bear for the inexperienced witch as he almost immediately gave out a moan and came. The tight cunt, squeezing him like never wanting to let him go, tipped off Scaramouche to follow not much after. Scara felt the hot cum inside, leaving him dazed at the bizarre feeling.
“Holy shit…” Scara finally breathed, his body still trembling from the aftershock. He felt spent, thoroughly wrecked.
“I’ve been wanting to fuck you into any surface available for at least a month. It was worth it.” Self-important, Scaramouche decided to share a bit breathless.
“You know, there are a whole lot of places to fuck my brains out here.” Scara had a burst of courage. He didn’t want all of this to be a one-time thing.
A large grin spread on Scaramouche’s face.
Maybe summoning an alternate self was not such a bad idea.
Although the outcome was not what Scara envisioned, it was not too bad. Or so he thought, until he found out about the bun baking in his oven.
He was going to have a talk with that fucker. “No matter,” he had said. He called bullshit.
He wanted a refund!!