Chapter Text
Sucrose Fuchs is a fucking enigma .
It's only been a year since she was taken from Mondstadt, he had been the one to personally witness their deal. Her future, in exchange for the life of her teacher and lover. The alchemist was cut off from her home, her friends, her family— with no allowance for contact outside of Zapolyarny Palace. Any letters with her name on them had been sent straight to the compound’s incinerator. He knows as much. Stalking her down the hallways as she wept bitter homesick tears had been a hobby of his, until the wailing coming from her quarters late at night had quieted down to a manageable silence.
So why wasn't she more angry about it?
Scaramouche had tried in vain to find which of her buttons to press, but the girl was a blank slate. A scientist through and through, unfazed by whatever he could think to throw at her.
And so, he did his best to make her life miserable.
Dead animals in her bedsheets? Nothing, even though that trick would send recruits running to the bathroom to vomit up their rations. Just another specimen to dunk in formaldehyde and add to her rapidly growing collection of preservation jars.
An electric shock snuck into a handshake? A laugh, and a "you got me!", even though her hair was standing on end. Hell, she would even run off to find a static gauge to measure how many volts he had dished out to her body.
Every day, she would descend into the horrors of Il Dottore's lab, and every night, she would emerge, looking happier than she had been going in.
It's only when he brushes too close to her past, that this sweet flower finally wilts.
They're in the mountains of Snezhnaya, trudging up some godforsaken rock trying to find a specific ore Sucrose just had to recommend for the bearings of Dottore's newest automaton. It would have been easier to let the bitch go by herself, such a menial task hardly required even an Agent’s supervision. But Dottore has grown to be fiercely protective of his new pet, and he had requested Scaramouche to protect Sucrose with his life.
Surely, the doctor needed his medications rebalanced. Sucrose was far more than capable of protecting herself from danger— Scaramouche had faced her windy wrath firsthand when he had been forced to give her back her Vision all those months ago. He still remembers that eerie look on her face as she had lifelessly blown his hat right off his head, sending it flying straight through a painting of the Sumeru desert. He wanted to stop her heart with a bolt of Electro, back then. The thought of Dottore extracting his revenge was the only thing that had stopped him. No doubt the good doctor had added a surrogate father complex to his already superiorly deluded ego.
"Don't you get cold?" Scaramouche snaps. He's fine, but he knows she is unfortunately of flesh and blood. Her layers look far too light for her to be comfortable. They’ve been trudging up this hill for at least an hour now. That meant an hour long walk back to the nice, heated cart that had transported them here in the first place. Then another two of sitting in silence and glaring at each other—
"No." Sucrose pauses, rubbing one gloved hand over some glittering rock that had piqued her interest. It looks the same as the last two dozen she’s picked up, and Scaramouche’s nose crinkles as he watches her raise a chunk of ore to her lips, her small pink tongue darting out to give it a kittenish lick. Freak. "I'm used to Dragonspine’s freezing temperatures. Besides, Albedo wouldn't...."
Her voice isn't done trailing off before Scaramouche leans in, the brim of his hat darkening the look he gives her. He's close, too close, and Sucrose can see the white of the snow reflecting off his odd, glowing pupils.
"He’s not here. Don’t say his name in front of me."
She stares back at him, breathless for only a second before her brows furrow and she turns back to her work.
Later, Scaramouche would ponder over what exactly made him say that. To this day, he still doesn’t know.
The puppet and the alchemist have come to an impasse. Sucrose’s quest for workplace camaraderie had succeeded somewhat, if only for Scaramouche’s eventual apathy towards ruining her days.
He learns that Mondstadt’s ‘Harmless Sweetie’, under Il Dottore's tutelage, has become a force to be reckoned with.
"What do you even do in there, anyway? If it's anything with him involved, it's gotta be some fucked up shit."
It’s after working hours, and Sucrose had plopped herself down on a balcony overlooking one of the many war rooms in the North Wing of the Palace. The place is hauntingly quiet without the usual bustle of agents arguing over foreign policy and diplomatic stratagems. Scaramouche had nothing better to do, so he was content to follow her around as she scraped off bits of the walls with a scalpel, plinking them down in test tubes for later compound analysis. According to her, it was to source the stone used in the event that the Tsaritsa wanted to construct an additional wing or two.
It wasn’t one of her more morbid activities, but a freak show was at least still a show to watch.
"Are you referring to the vivisections I do in the lower laboratories?" She almost smiles. "Why, do I not look the part to bear the sight of them? I get that comment often, for some reason, but...science involves sacrifice. It's part of the process. I am no stranger to death in the pursuit of knowledge."
Scaramouche scoffs. "Sure. Next thing you know, you'll be his new lab rat. That position is currently taken by yours truly, and I'm in quite a rush to give it up."
"Perhaps. Or I'll be the one studying you, instead."
The honey-eyed stare she gives him should be sweet, Scaramouche thinks. But amber is all-preserving, and he can't help but believe that she would give anything to be the one to trap him in it next.
One afternoon, Sucrose descends into Dottore's lab, too tired from yesterday’s studies to notice the “Experiment in Progress” sign on the doctor's personal operating theater. The metal door swung open, only for Sucrose to find her master in the middle of what she would later consider to be art in its highest form.
The Balladeer is flayed open, skin pulled apart by ropes and pulleys that have been sewn to his flesh. Outstretched are his upper limbs, fists curled up and away, giving the good doctor complete control over his body. His chest cavity is completely hollow, and Dottore has a whole hand inside, digging about somewhere near his shoulder. Both of them are bored and irritable, her master too focused on his task to heed Sucrose’s intrusion. Still, she looks on, paralyzed in wonder, taking in how Scaramouche is not filled with sinew and bone— rather, his insides are the prettiest purple Sucrose had ever seen.
There's a hole where his heart should be.
Sucrose feels her mouth salivate.
That night, she dreams of golden blood and amethyst entrails. Treasures, all for her.
Two months later, Dottore grants Sucrose permission to perform the Balladeer’s ‘status update’ as he had dubbed it, all by herself. While yes, Sucrose had intruded upon something higher than her clearance level, the doctor understood her stubborn form of inquisitiveness. He’s walked her through the motions of the procedure he had performed every month, and Sucrose is more than capable.
Dottore had been more concerned about Sucrose’s lack of surprise when he informed her that yes, Scaramouche was an artificial being. When pressed on the topic, Sucrose replied that she had some experience with similar subjects.
Now she stands before the Sixth Harbinger alongside the Third, in a surgical garment and rubber gloves that ride over her elbows.
"My assistant will be performing your check-in today. So, behave, or I will personally skin you alive."
Scaramouche's eye twitches.
Sucrose meets the Balladeer's thousand-yard stare, with a smug look that looks strangely familiar.
After weeks of patient waiting, finally, he's open for her. The glorious, glittering insides are territory for her gloved hands to roam, fingers stroking every curve and bump of his hollow frame. Sucrose performs well, completing every task Dottore had written down for her.
If Scaramouche had bothered to think about it, he would consider her touch to be almost loving.
Charts are filled. Data is recorded. Measurements are taken. All trivial tasks that Sucrose would do for any experiment.
Now, it's time to indulge her own curiosities.
"Do you need to breathe?"
"Obviously not, do you see any lungs in there?"
"Then why does your chest rise and fall?"
"Taught myself to. So I looked human."
She pens a note next to that particular box.
"Can you procreate?"
"What the fuck kind of question is that?"
Sucrose's expression does not change. "It's a scientific one. Now, please answer so I have accurate data for my records."
From where Scaramouche's hands are bound up and out of the way, his fists clench. He's positively seething when he replies, spitting the words through gritted teeth.
"I don't know. Not like I ever tried."
Her eyebrows raise.
"Curious." Another note. "And from my understanding, you do ejaculate, yes?"
Scaramouche's eyes roll. " Fuck me . How many of that brainy shitstain's files did you read?"
"All of them. So, do y—"
"I do, okay? Not often. Now get on with it so I can get the hell out of here."
There's a tap of Sucrose's pen against her clipboard. "Unlikely."
" What ?"
"Unlikely. The esteemed doctor informed me that I have, quote, 'as much time with you as I damn well please'."
His scream of frustration could be heard a dozen levels aboveground.
The seasons turn. Scaramouche is placed in her hands once more, much to his dismay.
Sucrose had always considered herself to be quite the scholar. She learns everything she seeks out if she puts her mind to it. An intellectual gift for her, and a downright curse for the puppet.
The Balladeer’s insides have become her latest and only obsession. As established, his body is without a heart or lungs, with that odd chess piece-shaped slot surrounded by corded muscle where his cardiac system should be. The slot is now occupied by a substance called ‘crystal marrow’, a sort of gemstone imported from Inazuma that Dottore whittles down into shape. The exact information about the properties of crystal marrow is one of the few things still kept classified from Sucrose— for now, she scribbles down the words “ highly volatile (?) ” next to that particular section in her notes.
Even more fascinating are his remaining organs. He has some sort of intestinal tract, as if someone only possessed half of a small intestine and a gall-bladder sized stomach. When asked if he needs to eat, Scaramouche bitterly explains that he tastes only for pleasure, not for nutrients. Instead, all of his energy comes from that piece of crystal that sparks against Sucrose’s gloves when she gets near. When she first saw the Balladeer flayed open, that is what her master was doing— exchanging the old piece out for a new one, a surgery that takes place approximately once a year. Like a battery being replaced , Sucrose thinks.
And then, there’s his blood. Well, once Sucrose took a sample, and the chemical analysis was more akin to ink than something that should be running through veins. It’s viscous, slippery— and Sucrose has several vials of it stashed away for her own purposes.
Scaramouche is a beautiful creation. Across his body are indents that mark out spaces, segments akin to those of a porcelain ball-jointed doll. Klee had been gifted such a toy, years ago, but Sucrose recalls Albedo lamenting about how he had to place the damned thing high up on a shelf so Klee didn’t accidentally break it. It was expensive, after all, handmade by an artisan from the Feiyun Commerce Guild, and for all she knew it was still sitting there. Perched on a ledge, sitting pretty, and gathering dust. Scaramouche is pretty, Sucrose admits. Dark hair, pale skin free of any imperfections, and indigo eyes that never seem to stop glowing.
Unfortunately, Scaramouche is incapable of sitting as pretty as that doll. He hates being still, always squirming and protesting under her touch, bitching on and on about how he has better things to do than be dissected by a trainee .
Sucrose makes a mental note to tell Il Dottore of that exact phrasing. She’s sure her master will have a bone or two to pick with him.
(The figure of speech is realized. Sucrose is rewarded for her transparency with a small jar of shavings scraped from the Balladeer’s twelfth thoracic vertebra.)
A few months later, Sucrose's favorite patient is strapped to Dottore’s best vivisection table. As per every procedure, his arms are strung up and out of the way via two winches, giving the alchemist easy access to the doors of his chest. Scaramouche’s ‘inspections’ had been increasing in regularity at an exponential rate. Dottore’s workload given from the Tsaritsa had been proving difficult for even the genius to manage, so it was only logical that he handed over the Sixth Harbinger’s check-ups to Sucrose entirely.
Was Scaramouche happy about the situation? No. Did Sucrose care? No.
To the puppet’s surprise, she stops him from sliding his right wrist through the cuffs of the machine.
“Special experiment today,” she provides, prepping his arm with a wipe of alcohol and a cocktail of other disinfectants. The smell is harsh, and Scaramouche’s nose crinkles involuntarily.
“What has your maniacal brain devised for me today?” As per usual, his voice is mocking.
Sucrose, forever unfazed, offers him a tight-lipped grin. “You’ll see. Can you drop the glamour, please?”
“ Can I ?”
Her smile falls. “Just cooperate.”
With a roll of his eyes, Scaramouche complies.
Cracks of Electro light up across his skin, concentrated in the areas where his joints were. The arm she holds between her gloves glows a violent purple, lines glowing like the afterglow of a lightning’s strike. It was a beautiful pattern, really, one that his maker never intended to give him, but it quickly fades as Scaramouche’s true form is revealed.
The once-smooth skin has taken on a more matte texture, with his joints now the spitting image of a porcelain doll. It was intriguing, really, watching his limbs swivel and twist over the round junctures. There’s a few discolored patches from where Il Dottore has patched up hairline fractures over the years. Sucrose is rather fond of these spots— moments of fragility scattered across Scaramouche’s strict perfection.
The alchemist continues her preparations, sliding the cloth across the puppet’s smooth, bare chest. Any muscle definition he has is slight, only a few indents suggesting the form of breasts and an abdomen. The surface of his pectorals is rougher than the rest of his body, she read in the reports that her master ground down “excess material” about a decade ago. Sucrose has her own thoughts about this, though the reduction to Scaramouche’s frame had been cited as a necessary procedure to ensure that his internal cavity could be easily accessed. The fabric of the wipe catches on the scratches in the material, an irregularity that Sucrose finds fascinating. His lack of nipples brings to mind the first time she saw Albedo without a shirt, and the resemblance makes her bite her tongue to distract herself from the memory.
The alcohol evaporates after a few seconds, leaving its potent smell in the air. Sucrose tosses the wipe in the medical refuse bin before checking over the waiting equipment for today’s trials. Once her scrutiny is complete, she busies herself with knocking twice on Scaramouche’s chest. A hollow sound rings true.
“Open.”
“What’s the magic word, witch?”
Sucrose grits her teeth. “Open, please . Before I unseal you myself.”
With a shrug of his shoulders, Scaramouche exhales, the glow of Electro shining once more in a hexagonal pattern that spans across his whole torso. There’s a click , and the Balladeer’s doors manifest, swinging open at his command.
“Good boy.”
"Watch your claws. I bite.” He demonstrates this with a snap of his jaws, which Sucrose only scoffs at in mild amusement.
Continuing with her inspection, she examines the state of his internal cavity. The last battery change had been fairly recent. The glow is still strong, and she jabs an amperage meter between two of his flesh-like tendons to take a reading. Scaramouche doesn’t respond, he’s used to this treatment by now. The alchemist scribbles on her clipboard for a few minutes, filling out data sheets while the artificial hum of Scaramouche’s ‘heart’ permeates the air.
Sucrose sets down her pen and papers. “Alright. Time to get to the fun part.”
Scaramouche rolls his eyes.
A stool is dragged over to him, which Sucrose promptly sits on, wedged between his legs. Any intimacy the pair’s position had was lost in the medical sterility of the situation. She pokes and prods, using a few steel instruments to hold the supporting cords of muscle out of the way so she can have an unrestricted path to his spinal cords.
“Scaramouche, you’re aware of your strings, correct?”
He huffs. “‘Course.”
“Mm. That’s my focus today.”
The Balladeer tilts his head down, tapping the fingers of his free hand against the examination table in a bored fashion.
“Careful with those. I don’t feel like being reassembled from scratch today. Last time Dottore messed with them, it took him—”
“— ten hours to put you back together. I’m familiar with that particular incident. You trust me, don’t you?” Her eyes flick up to where he’s staring down at her.
“Not in the slightest.”
Sucrose beams.
A motherfucking basket case.
“I’ll be unstringing you, just not entirely,” she prattles on, motioning towards his untethered hand. “The plan is to safely detach your right hand at your elbow joint. After that, I’ll be running a series of tests to determine your range of remote function.”
Scaramouche’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Remote function?”
Sucrose perks up, her ears flicking upwards in interest. Great, now he’s going to be on the receiving end of on of her spiels full of scientific jargon—
“Your body runs entirely on Electro energy. However, pure Electro is harmful to your body’s composition, so this—” she taps the carved piece of crystal marrow, an arc of electricity snapping to the tip of her claw. “—converts the Electro produced to safer levels of amperage. The electricity is then fed through your two main strings, intersecting at this point here .” Another poke, this time on his neck.
“This, in theory, should create an electrical field powerful enough to sustain movement, even if the limb has been severed. I hypothesize that the material you were cast from is uniquely tied to this system, so that even without a string running through the limb, you would still retain some function in the detached limb. The sigils on your body are what led me to this. From what I’ve researched, they’re only found in natural manifestations of Electro energy in Inazuma.”
The puppet stretches his free arm in a fake yawn, interrupted by Sucrose grabbing his wrist. They lock eyes, with Sucrose pulling a pair of pliers from her apron with a smile.
“If the topic bores you, then I’m sure you’ll behave.”
He answers with a noncommittal grunt.
“Allow me to go on. I suspect that in an emergency situation, such a capture, this proposed function could very well be a matter of life and death.” The pliers click against a metal rod that Sucrose has prepared on the counter, and she holds it up to a spotlight, inspecting it one final time. “It would be beneficial for you to read my notes on the subject after this trial.”
Scaramouche groans. The last time Sucrose had given him some “light reading”, she had hounded him for days, shoving wrapped manuscripts far too thick to be read by anyone under his door.
“If you have no objections, I’d like to begin.”
“I object on account of you being a massive pain in my ass.”
“Splendid.”
With deft hands, Sucrose places Scaramouche’s free arm on a supporting pedestal, and she goes to work. The Balladeer doesn’t really pay attention, because he never really does, but he makes a point to comment on her lack of upper body strength as she uses a winch to separate the ball joint of his elbow from his forearm. The gap widens gradually, and sure enough, the glow from his string shines bright from within Scaramouche’s hollow body. The faint crackle of Electro can be heard. The metal rod Sucrose had been pouring over is slid in between the newly created space, and with a twist of a hooked tool shoved through his wrist joint, the looped string snaps back, catching on the rod.
Sucrose snorts as she dislodges Scaramouche’s forearm, holding it up in pride. “See. Told you you weren’t getting unstringed today.”
The Balladeer only rolls his eyes in response.
“How are you feeling? Any sensation?”
He shifts in his seat, crossing one bare foot over the other. “There was a tingle, I guess. When you touched the string.” Unbeknownst to Scaramouche, something catches Sucrose’s attention, and she twists out of view to wipe her mouth with the back of her glove.
“Ah. Are you aware your hand is still moving right now?”
“What— oh .”
Sure enough, his fingers were still passively twitching, even though Sucrose was holding the severed limb about a foot away. Scaramouche’s eyes darted toward the hand— his hand, then back to his jointed stump, then back to her.
A look of morbid curiosity dawns on his face. “That. Is. Unholy .”
“Considering it’s part of you, I’d have to agree.” One of his legs aims a kick at her, but Sucrose just side-steps out of the way. “Hey! Behave.” She points the hand at him, and Scaramouche wills it to stick out its middle finger. Only its middle finger.
Sucrose sighs. “Keep this up, and I won’t reattach your hand when we’re done.”
He scowls at her, but his flipped bird curls down anyway.
“ Thank you. Now, I’m going to start the trial. Just do as I ask, answer my questions— honestly — and you can get out of here sooner. Be a dear and seal yourself back up for me, too.”
“I’ll have you know Dottore doesn’t treat me like a lab rat,” he growls, still cooperating. The walls of his chest re-materialize, and his glowing insides disappear from view.
She gives him a tight-lipped smile. “We both know that’s a lie.”
With that, the alchemist turns on her heel, mentally counting out her steps until she's breathing distance from where Scaramouche is.
“Alright. Detachment trial one. Distance from host—”
“ Host ? It’s my hand, not a fucking parasite —”
“—distance from subjec t, then,” she hisses back. “One meter.”
The puppet scowls, but the jointed limb Sucrose is holding taps its thumb and pointer finger together with a clack clack clack .
“Perfect.” The alchemist means it, but her words come from behind gritted teeth. “ And? ”
“I still feel my fingers,” he spits.
“Good.” She takes another few steps back, gripping the ball of the wrist joint with renewed force. “Two meters.”
Clack clack clack . “No change.”
Three more steps. “Three meters.” Clack clack…clack .
Sucrose quirks an eyebrow. “Is your sense of sensation reduced, by any chance?”
The puppet’s face is scrunched up in frustration, he’s clearly confused. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s weird, it’s like…fuzzy.”
The alchemist forces some air out of her nostrils in an amused huff. “You mean to tell me you’ve never felt numb before? In your entire five hundred-odd years of living?”
Scaramouche’s expression darkens, if only for a few seconds. “No. I haven’t. The mad doctor should’ve told you at least a dozen times by now that I don’t have proper pain receptors, you creepy little— why are you writing that down .”
“No reason. Four meters, if you please.”
The fingers on the detached hand make no sound. Curious, Sucrose holds it closer to her face, as if to inspect it for faulty wiring—
And there's a crack as the pointer finger juts out to snap across the bridge of her nose.
Immediately, Scaramouche breaks out into peals of malicious laughter as Sucrose yelps in pain, her hands flying up to her fresh injury. The severed hand falls, trying to catch onto the front of her lab coat, but ultimately fails and skitters across the floor tiles.
Her ears twitch as Sucrose stumbles, grabbing a towel from a nearby rack to hold up to her nostrils. Panting, she dabs at it, and as soon as Scaramouche sees the red blood staining the white terrycloth— he freezes.
He hadn’t meant to go that far.
Sucrose exhales, low and deep, as those honeyed orbs lock on to his petite frame. He’s still strung up on the operating table. Down two limbs, and suddenly feeling extremely vulnerable.
A drop of blood slides over her top lip. Her tongue darts out to catch it.
Freak .
“That was a mistake, Balladeer.”
“Was it?” Best to keep bluffing.
The beast draws closer. “You’ll pay for that.”
“ Will I? ”
There’s no sugar in her eyes anymore. Whatever spark they held when he stared at Sucrose from across the hallways, from behind a pillar as she sat for her lunches with her master— that light had winked out and died.
The gloved hand on his neck is not a surprise.
A claw reaches around to the base of his nape, rubbing circles on the Electro insignia he knows is there. It’s a practiced motion to her. The alchemist is stroking the mark of his maker, it’s inevitable that the access panel on his chest slides open. The click of his walls popping outward are followed by a heavy sigh from her lips. One corner of her mouth quirks, a flash of one vulpine fang visible in the shadow of the overhead spotlight.
“You know…I noticed something, earlier.”
Down her gloved claws slide, the sensation made peculiar by the treated rubber. They creep over the delicately carved curve of his Adam's apple, skirting the tops of his sculpted collarbone. If he had the ability to get goosebumps, every hair on Scaramouche’s body would be raised.
“And what would that be, Miss Fuchs ?”
The formality seems to strike a chord in her. One green ear flicks to the side in annoyance.
Sucrose juts her thumb through the crack that runs down the doors of his chest, more forceful in their touches now. Another few taps on his bare chest, and the divine seals that keep his unbeating excuse for a heart locked away from the rest of the world are finally open.
The woman has opened his doors so many times, but every time, it was sterile. Cold. Sucrose is a person of science, her boundaries with him had always been professional. Her touch was gentle. Curious. Exploratory. But now, as she skims the inside of his faux-porcelain shell, there’s an anger in the pressure she pushes against his skin.
“You know I can see when you have an erection, right?” The question is whispered against the shell of his ear, Sucrose’s soft, buttery voice coming out slow and loaded.
Scaramouche responds with silence. It’s true, the odd tingles from his earlier limb removal had gotten a rise out of him. The small black undergarment that Dottore has allowed him to wear over the years, to preserve the little that was left of his dignity, was unfortunately skintight. As for why his body had responded in such a way, he had no idea.
The alchemist exhales a disappointed sigh. “Thought so.” The breath brushes past his ear, tickling the blunt chop of his hair. The sensation that spreads across his synthetic frame is not unlike the one he felt when she detached his forearm earlier.
“Allow me to reiterate. Balladeer , do you have something to share with me?”
“No,” he spits. At this, Sucrose pulls away, settling on the table with her thighs surrounding one of his. The contact makes things worse as she continues her assault on his insides, her fingers pushing through each gap in his pearly ribcage.
“Why, pray tell, would the Archon of Electro create a puppet that can experience sexual desire?”
“She didn’t.”
“Then…”
“Dottore did. The rat bastard asked if I wanted to feel everything the mortal world had to offer.”
Sucrose’s mouth quirks up in a half-amused smile. “That does sound like something my master would do.”
“He also gave me most of the organs you’ve been studying. Including…genitalia.” The statement comes out forced.
A spark of something lights behind Sucrose’s eyes. “Oh?”
Right, the deranged bitch had asked if he could procreate a few months ago. Suddenly, the touch of her body against his seems suffocating, and he tries to pull away. Sucrose’s amused expression shifts back to her previous cold one in an instant. She’s gripping the muscular cords near his spine now, and he’s rapidly losing feeling in his toes.
“He gave you a fucking cock.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Is it so wrong that I’m intrigued to find out its capacity?”
Scaramouche freezes, staring at her in disbelief. “You’re joking.”
Sucrose shrugs, not meeting his gaze, as she continues her palpitation of whatever bunch of tendons had piqued her interest. “The thought of you as smooth down there is quite hilarious, by the way.”
“ Fuck you. ”
“I believe you don’t have a choice in that matter.”
With that foreboding sentence, Sucrose’s hand shifts down. She clenches around an organ she has yet to name, and the effect on Scaramouche is immediate. His vision goes white, throwing his head back as he reels from the sensation. When he’s back to consciousness a few seconds later, Scaramouche is abruptly aware of a tightness in his underwear.
“Ah. Seems that hypothesis was correct.”
The Balladeer wants to scream more curses at her, to tell her to stop, but words are hard to form in his mouth. “What— what the ever-loving fuck do you think you’re doi—”
Of course she had to do it again.
The feeling is twice as intense now. His hips even cant up in some depraved humping motion as he bites back a groan.
“I think we can knock out multiple tests today. What’s the phrase, with the birds and the stones…”
The alchemist prattles on about metaphors as Scaramouche struggles against the ropes holding him in place, the prickling, fuzzy sensations of whatever she was doing to him only getting worse.
And then— sweet release. She pulls away for a second, and his body goes limp in relief. Sucrose slips off the table, observing her subject with a thoughtful cross of her arms.
“I think I can combine this with the detachment trial. You know, since you ever so kindly ruined that line of testing for me. The least you can do is help me make up for lost experiment time.”
His vision now hazy, all he can do is blink up at her, his neck hanging low.
Scaramouche makes eye contact with a hand— his hand— hanging limply in hers. He doesn’t remember the alchemist ever retrieving it from where it fell.
Shit.
Sucrose is standing away from the table, half leaning on a stool. A distance of about five meters, right when he stopped being able to feel his separated limb.
Shit .
“Usually, sexual arousal stems from external stimuli. Your case is interesting, since I’ve only observed your reaction to internal stimuli. External stimuli are tactile, auditory, and even…visual.”
Sucrose’s amber eyes are sickly sweet.
“I’m only helping. Your compliance is encouraged, but not mandatory.”
“ No —”
Her plush lips part, revealing her tiny set of fangs. Scaramouche watches in silent horror as she brings his detached hand up to her mouth and licks .
The puppet can feel it, barely. Though the sensation is static, it’s the wetness of her mouth, like a distorted transmission that shoots right to the stump of his limb. He recoils, trying to push himself backwards on the table. Dottore’s bindings hold strong, they’ve done so for decades.
More fingers go into Sucrose’s gaping maw— and she had the audacity to look at him . She wasn’t even just looking at him, no, the woman had to bat her eyelashes slowly like some kind of whore. If Scaramouche had been anyone else, he would have assumed this to be some kind of twisted attempt at seduction.
“For the sake of scientific progress, I advise that you suck it up and deal with it.”
“You…you fucking bitch , I’ll tell Dottore. He’ll have your head on a platter.”
With a wet pop , Sucrose slides his thumb out of her mouth. The sight alone is enough to make him shudder in disgust.
“Your case belongs to me now. And frankly, he doesn’t give a shit what I do to you.” She massages the palm of his hand with her gloves with a satisfied little croon. “As long as I don’t inflict, ah, permanent damage.”
Scaramouche stills.
“He sees me as a daughter, you know. Is your hatred of me because he never saw you as a son?”
She didn’t just—
“ I’ll kill you, ” he seethes.
His rage is back in full force, and he writhes, kicking his dangling legs as he attempts to squirm free of his bindings. The hand still in its restraining cuff shakes, fingers spasming as Scaramouche tries to summon his power, to send a bolt of Electro straight through her heart and stop its beating in a second—
But the electricity does not come. Not even a spark manifests in his twitching palm.
Sucrose’s eyebrows raise in a bored fashion. “Unmanaged parental issues aside, did you really think I didn’t place my own safeguards? For five hundred years on this planet, you seem to lack a sense of foresight.”
“I know more about this world than your puny brain can even fathom, vixen .”
His hair has puffed up, Sucrose notices. Like an angry kitten.
“Well, did you know I did this ?”
“Wh—”
He barely has time to register the twitch of Sucrose’s free hand, or the small device that's clutched between her thumb and index finger before his body is shot clean through with a bullet of pure lust .
Scaramouche’s body twists in a wholly unnatural way, his spine bending so far backwards that he actually lifts off the table for a few seconds. His legs shoot out before slamming back into the table. There’s no time to register the pain, though, as the deafening feeling of arousal shoots through the cords that bind his inner structure together, racing through his artificial nervous system with the speed of a thousand winds.
There’s a click and the sensation stops, and Scaramouche can finally come back to his senses. His cock is rock solid, because of course it is. It’s stretching his undergarment tight, heavy against his body and throbbing painfully. As the pounding sensation in his ears fades and his vision clears, he doubles over, panting. His line of sight meets his tormentor, and he’s too exhausted to strain against his bonds to flip her off with his remaining hand.
“H—…. how .” His voice sounds incredibly pathetic and small. He’s ashamed.
Sucrose brightens up, a dangerously sugary smile on her face. “Remote-controlled magnetic stirrer in a test tube, placed right next to the prostate gland that Master gave you. I’m glad we’ve concluded it's an effective stimulant.”
Happy. Of course this made the insane bitch happy .
“Someone is going to hear about this,” he manages to pant out. To his disgust, Scaramouche realizes his mouth had been salivating, and he feels a thread of drool trail down his chin.
“I’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.” She steps closer, emboldened by their new imbalance of power. The severed hand she still grips is licked once more.
The Sixth of the Fatui Harbingers, reduced to nothing more than a slobbering whore at the hands of a laboratory assistant. A fitting scenario for the court of fools, perhaps.
“Or…” Sucrose stares at his hand, slotting her own fingers between his own lifeless ones. “How about you don’t tell anyone. Ever.”
“And why the fuck should I take orders from you?” he spits.
Another bat of her thick lashes. “Because then I won’t tell the Tsaritsa you’ve been plotting to steal a gnosis for yourself.”
There’s no way. Freezing cold dread trickles up Scaramouche’s neck, his voice dying in his throat. There’s no way she could possibly know about those plans.
“I knew you were completely off your rocker, but this? You’re completely mad, woman.”
The silence before his response was just a beat too long.
Sucrose knows. He can see it in her eyes.
“ Ikigai .”
The thrum of his artificial heart wavers.
“Your ‘reason to live’…what a poetic code name for your plans. Though you really shouldn’t leave them in your clothes. I go through them sometimes. It’s cute that you thought I wouldn’t invest my time in translating Inazuman script.” She pauses to tilt her head at him. “I’ve always been told I’m a fast learner.”
Nothing but dead air passes through Scaramouche’s lips.
“I’ll be transparent: I could only decipher a little bit of what you plan to do. I know you’re plotting to run off somewhere as soon as you get what you want. So, here is what I propose. You stay with the Fatui, and let me indulge myself. I won’t vivisect you too often, just every now and then as I see fit. In exchange, you receive my confidentiality.”
“I hate you,” he croaks.
Sucrose’s ears twitch.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I hate you so fucking much .”
Of all the specimens Sucrose has pinned in her career as an alchemist, the Sixth Harbinger is by far her favorite.
Roused by her power, the vulpine woman mounts the table Scaramouche is bound upon, trapping one of his bare knees between the tights that contain her supple thighs. Scaramouche reels away, pulling on the winches that contain him with such force that his shoulder joints threaten to pop out of their sockets.
“You’ll be good for me, won’t you?” Sucrose coos, low and soft.
It wouldn't have mattered if Scaramouche had bothered to answer. The she-devil would have just taken whatever she wanted anyway.
Motivated by his silence, Sucrose plunges her claws back into his open chest, the wetness of his organs squelching horribly as she caresses every fold of his tissues, every fiber of his false muscular structure. Her closeness is suffocating. Scaramouche tries to tilt his head up and away from where Sucrose pants out shallow breaths, but of course she notices. Fingers grip the curve of his jaw, forcing his stare back down to meet the honeyed pits of Sucrose’s own.
“Eyes on me, puppet.”
He obeys.
The silence is mortifying, broken only by Sucrose’s own pleased noises as the hand inside him creeps closer to that cursed gland. All he can do is sit and watch as Sucrose violates his insides to her heart’s content. As long as she didn’t press that remote again, maybe he’d be—
Click .
Finally the Balladeer makes a sound, and it’s a cry— pathetic and warbling, as the device tucked between his guts and prostate vibrates with a shock that penetrates every crafted nerve ending in his body. He’s so aroused it hurts, the softened cock between his thighs growing to its full length in a matter of seconds.
“ Shhhh .”
He can’t. He can’t stop the noises he’s making, as the arousal warms his inky blood to its boiling point, sending heat burning down his veins. Everything is too hot, too much. Scaramouche’s skin is crying out for touch, for relief— but Sucrose is a cruel mistress, and does not oblige as tears threaten to prick his eyes. His strained erection is left unattended as the alchemist reaches inside him to grip his sex organ, squeezing it with all five fingers.
It’s not enough to hurt, but Scaramouche hurts anyway. A moan breaks past his lips, a meager, pitiful sound that he thought he didn’t have the capacity to make.
“You’re doing so well for me,” she croons, palpating his approximation of a prostate from the inside. Her strokes gradually increase in pressure and speed, and it's nauseating .
“ Die ,” he manages to rasp out, his bottom lip trembling as he chokes back another moan.
“Always so hateful,” she murmurs in his ear, her soft voice heady with lust. “If you start trying to enjoy this, it’ll be over faster.”
If Scaramouche could go any paler, he would have. His lack of glamour has dulled his skin of any rosy indicators of arousal, leaving him in his true doll form. Perhaps he is a doll to Sucrose, a petite plaything for her to disassemble and put together as she pleases.
In one of the seldom moments in his life when he has felt the emotion of fear, Scaramouche wonders if one day Sucrose, too, will cast him aside when she gets bored.
To prevent this, it would be a tactical solution to indulge the alchemist.
Right?
Finally, a sound escapes, and it’s pitifully wet and desperate.
“Ah…. ah —” A tiny shred of him is grateful that the vibrator rattles so loud, so he can hide his shameful pleasure in its artificial hum.
“That’s it. What an obedient test subject.”
He hates this. He hates Sucrose. He hates—
The vulpine woman curls her claws deep inside him, and a horrific squelching noise rings out across the room. That’s a new spot, and the surge of heat that results go straight to his cock.
Scaramouche’s sex throbs, and it’s only downhill from there.
His neck tosses his head back, his perfect strands of indigo-black hair shaking as his pants out more noises of pleasure. Sucrose’s expression remains neutral, save for a flicker of sick amusement behind her eyes.
“Like shaking a poet out of a beast. I never would have thought you could make such beautiful noises,” she admits.
Scaramouche shoots her a deathly glare the best he can, ignoring how the praise had only made the bloom of warmth in his gut worse. The drool that hangs out of his open mouth drips down to hit her viscera-covered glove. Sucrose ignores it.
His peak is nearing, he can feel it in the way his remaining hand clenches and unclenches against nothing. The sound of his knees knocking against the table rings out every few seconds. Scaramouche is losing control. He never loses control. Every time he tries to look away, or close his eyes so he won’t have to meet her poisonous stare, she only squeezed his sex organ tighter, with such force that his vision went white.
So he stares through heavy lids, breathing out in whimpers as Sucrose continued her assault. Scaramouche is completely debauched, the precum from his cock soaking through his undergarment and smearing on the table. His body does not sweat in this form, so he is gratefully not as soiled as he could have been, but the inky slick that coats his false organs paints dark stripes across his thighs. Sucrose’s gloves are already starting to dye purple. The stain will never be able to be scrubbed away.
The sensitivity is bearing on pain now. Sucrose has started to toy with him— every time he thinks he’s finally at the point of sweet release, she moves her hand away, stroking her fingers on the ceramic of his ribcage, or fisting his entire spine in her hand. The vibrating test tube moves and knocks against his prostate with every time he squirms, and whatever is powering it shows no signs of stopping. The cords that serve as his muscle are strained and sore. If she keeps it up, surely, he’ll pass out—
“Sucrose, please—” he cries, far too softly.
The alchemist freezes, as an expression that can only be described as manic glee spreads across her face.
“You said my name.”
“Y—yeah, I did— ah, fuck — why does that—”
“You never do that.”
“Fuck off , don’t bring th—that up now, please, just let me damn cum —” His hips spring up feebly, trying desperately to rut his cock against her thigh, but Sucrose pays it no mind, scrutinizing his face.
Sucrose darts out her tongue past tiny fangs to moisten her lips, and dives her head directly into the cavity of his chest to lick a stripe up his sad excuse for a breastbone.
He screams .
It’s an act so disgustingly visceral he forgets his body for a second, his mind shooting straight through to the back of his head.
When he comes to a few seconds later, Sucrose has both hands inside him, gripping and pulling on the skinnier part of his small intestine. With one determined yank of her fist, it dislodges partially, and she loops it through her fingers, cooing in delight.
Her eyes had never left his face. There’s traces of his interior fluid running down her chin, pale violet shining on her creamy skin. Sucrose ducks her back back down and— no, she can’t possibly —
The woman puckers her lips and kisses his entrails.
Scaramouche is screaming again, thrashing with every ounce of energy he had left in him, but Sucrose pushes against him with her full weight, pinning him to the table. All but his chained arm crashes against the metal surface as he cries for her to stop.
His pleas fall on deaf ears. The lower half of Sucrose’s face is coated in his body’s slick, the swirls of purple mixing with her own saliva. And no, she does not stop. Rather, she keeps kissing his bowels with the reverence of a priest, her tongue sliding out to lap up more of his blood. Her own mewls of macabre pleasure join his wails of distress.
With careful fingers, she partially stuffs the loop of intestine in her mouth, giving it a hard suck. A surge of tension hits his body, and the Balladeer finally comes undone.
It’s a loud orgasm, by his own standards, mostly because his eyes are straining from the tears he physically can’t shed and it hurts . Everything hurts, Scaramouche realizes, as his hips stutter up to meet her belly and his eyes roll up to Celestia. His semen spurts out of the tip of his clothed cock in small bursts. It seeps through the fabric of his underwear, violet fluid soiling the surface of the table— along with the leg of the alchemist’s jumpsuit.
He had just came, cock untouched, at the hands of Sucrose fucking Fuchs.
Sucrose opens her mouth, letting his intestine plap back down in his chest cavity. Silently, she pushes it back into its rightful place, wiping Scaramouche’s fluids from her face with the back of her hand. Digging around a bit more, she retrieves the vibrating test tube, and plucks it out with a violent squelch . A free hand slips in her pocket to click the remote to turn it off, and finally the vivisection room falls silent, save for the sound of Scaramouche’s labored breathing. He stares at her wordlessly and mouth agape, stock-still in a mixture of shock and disgust.
“My hypothesis was correct, it seems.”
“That’s…that’s it?” His white pupils have shrunk to tiny dots as he regards the woman on top of him with every ounce of loathing he can summon. “That’s all you have to fucking say?”
“And there’s the personality I remember,” Sucrose says with a defeated sigh, shoving off of him to stand properly. “It’s just science. I ran a trial, and got a result.”
“A better damn outcome would be a trial resulting in your death.”
She smirks. “Aw, look at you using big words. I’m going to take a sample now.” With that, she unceremoniously yanks down his underwear, revealing his softening cock. The scent of ozone fills the air, and he catches her ears flicking up in interest.
“Hey— this wasn’t part of the fucking deal, you can’t just—”
Sucrose silences him with a threatening wave of the remote. “My science, my rules. I already have your blood and saliva samples. This isn’t really any different. And if you don’t let me collect it before it dries up, then…”
“Fine. Get on with it,” he spits, fuming.
With a little hum, Sucrose darts across the room to grab a sample jar and curette, and promptly uses the metal tool to scrape his semen over the tip of cock. The cold instrument stings, and he hisses in displeasure. The viscous substance drips down the side of the jar, pooling at the bottom. This seems to satisfy the alchemist, and she tucks the sample away into a pocket, before pulling out the test tube with vibrator in it. It’s still coated in his body’s lubrication, and she swirls it around a couple times, watching the little device rattle around.
She pouts. “I thought I’d have to wait longer to use this. Now I’ll have to develop a stronger one.”
“Do that, and I’ll scalp you.”
Sucrose raises a curious eyebrow at him. “Oh? So I should run up to the Tsaritsa’s throne right now, then—”
“No— no. Fine. Do your sick little shit. You won’t tell,” he pants.
“I won’t tell.” The test tube between her fingers is released, hitting the concrete floor and shattering into a million pieces. The pill-shaped device that had caused his torment skitters across the tile floor, rolling to one of the fluid drains and slipping through the grate. Down it falls. A small piece of evidence, destroyed.
Sucrose, despite her surgical demeanor, cleans up her subject in a manner that could almost be considered soft. With a few clicks of her tools, the strings that hold Scaramouche’s body together are pulled taut, with the alchemist sliding out the rod through his elbow joint and hooking his forearm back on. More alcohol is poured on his porcelain frame, with Sucrose wiping down any evidence of either of their bodily fluids. She dances her gloves, now changed for clean ones, around the outside of his chest cavity, sealing away his heart. His glamour fades into view as his walls snap shut. The ball joints are replaced by their illusion of flesh and blood, and Sucrose finally sets him free of the winches holding up his arms.
The tenderness she treats him with as her sterile mask falls should have been touching.
Scaramouche is filled with a sensation he has rarely felt in his lifetime— exhaustion. His hands fall to the table, the clattering noise they make betraying his true composition to any would-be onlooker. He is soft. Pliant. Putty in Sucrose’s claws as she silently dresses him in his uniform, every button and clasp long committed to memory.
She’s done. The alchemist steps back from him a few paces, wary and stiff. Sucrose is a smart girl, she knows he could just strike her down here and now. Her body would crumple to the floor in seconds, her clothes would sizzle from the heat of his Electro blast, and whatever blood that trickled from her mouth would circle the drain, painting the shards of glass from broken equipment red. It would be an easy corpse to clean up after. Hell, the bone saw is hanging from a rack on the opposite wall. He could have ensured that not even Il Dottore could find her dismembered limbs.
And yet, he doesn’t. Scaramouche pulls himself to the lip of the table, closing the distance from his feet to the floor. His toes clench across the hard material of his sandals, wobbling for a few seconds before he regains his natural poise.
He turns to leave. His movements are robotic as he steps toward the door, one arm extended to push away the heavy slab of steel. Scaramouche wants to leave, to start forgetting the events of this afternoon, but Sucrose’s words stop him.
“You can’t give me back what you’ve taken.” Her shaky voice is a stark contrast to the cold, confidant tone she usually uses on him.
It is not like Scaramouche to feel guilt. That emotion was removed from his wiring, plucked out along with the pieces his ‘mother’ cursed him with all those years ago.
Yet, some tiny part of him feels that whatever just happened was deserved. His lips press together, his voice persisting in its muteness.
“I thought you broke me, you know. A-and despite it all, I’m stronger now. Stay with me. Help fix things. Please . Y— This is all I have left.”
Though Sucrose has gained some form of power in this depraved place she calls sanctuary, she is still as she was when she first arrived at the Palace— a girl in a gilded cage. She was dragged into the world of Fatui kicking and screaming, and if today’s incident was any proof, there is still some fight left in her.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned .
He does not stay.
The back of his head leaving through the laboratory door is the last time Sucrose sees the Balladeer as autumn’s bounty withers away, and winter arrives in a flurry of ice and loneliness.