Archive of Our Own ^beta

Wrath; Conflict – Hate Sex/Angry Sex/Orgasm Denial/Restraints

Scaramouche knows godhood comes with a price; knew it from the moment he accepted Dottore’s offer to become a vessel for the Gnosis that he was crafted to possess - the Gnosis that did not recognise him even though Scaramouche’s consciousness had been built to love it completely. Though what that inevitable price will be, he wouldn’t know until it happens. Whether it’s ascension or demise, whether a god would punish him for what he is doing, or bow to him for the powers he is capable of storing within his vessel.

He fights fate, he fights that child-Archon and the golden-haired traveller who came from beyond Teyvat’s stars. He is no longer a creature of the in-between, the not-mortal-but-not-godly thing he was discarded as; he is no longer insignificant, no longer a mere doll that should not be allowed to exist.

He is a god, just like he was promised to become.

He takes his birthright by force but it’s not fucking enough .

It’s not enough, it’s not enough because the traveller isn’t from this world, with those sealed off powers unlike anything Teyvat has seen before. The two of them are a bloody mess in the aftermath of the battle, with half of the site destroyed and caving in on itself. The tubes connected to his back are torn off, cutting his connection to the machine and fucking up his back until it’s cracking from too much electricity.

He still doesn’t give up, even when the lab is practically collapsed around them, even when the traveller has a sword against his throat - Scaramouche grabs the blade, lets it tear his palm open, and drags the sword towards himself to reach them, landing a punch to their jaw. He lets go of the sword, blood splattering everywhere as the two of them fight like they’re no better than two drunkards at a tavern; Scaramouche, losing all sense of self-control and taking his rage out on the closest person in his sight.

He tears into the traveller with a tragic rage that’s been building in the empty abyss of his chest for centuries, unhinged desperation stirring him to cling on to his last chance at becoming something more than what he is now.

He’s not sure what would’ve happened if that Dendro Archon child hadn’t interfered, placing a shield around the traveller for protection - he might’ve killed the outlander, if death was even a possibility for them - or maybe they would’ve killed him. And he’s not sure if he would’ve gone to the Archon herself if that fucker Dottore - or whatever clone version of himself he’s sent to Sumeru - hadn’t sedated him, forcing him into a stone-heavy slumber.

What an anticlimactic conclusion…

And what’s even worse, when Scaramouche regains consciousness, he finds himself lying in a cell somewhere in the Akademiya. It’s dark, likely well past midnight, though it’s hard to tell when the tiny window looks out to a copse of lush trees and nothing else. The cell is damp and cold, old to the point where Scaramouche wonders if it’s actually ever been used in the last century. A single torch hangs on the wall outside his cell, offering just enough light for him to see his surroundings.

A heavy weight binds his wrists together and Scaramouche glances down to find he’s been restrained. He’s familiar with these bindings, their faint teal glow that indicates they’re activated; they’re the ones the Fatui use to seal away their hostages’ elemental powers. Even the smallest trace of some power, whether it’s from a Vision or whatever else exists out there, will be suppressed.

He knows they work because he can’t sense his powers anymore, at least not on the surface as they usually are when he’s idle. It’s like they’re stuck in some deep part of his core and he can’t get them out.

Scaramouche vaguely recalls a similar sensation when he first began to wander this world, walking with this strange feeling that kept telling him he can’t reach something inside his own skin. Back then, he didn’t know anything else so he had no idea what it felt like to live without that empty-suffocating void, not until his powers were unsealed for the first time and he felt so limitlessly weightless with freedom that it was like he was floating.

That’s when he realised how unbearable it felt to walk around with an emptiness in his chest and a power sealed away. So he can easily say this feels just as shitty.

To be empty yet stifled.

No guards are stationed outside his cell, which isn’t as surprising as he thought it’d be. Given his restraints, they probably see Scaramouche about as threatening as a declawed rishboland tiger.

Or maybe it’s not that they think he doesn’t pose a threat anymore, but because they’ve stationed one of the few soldiers in their ranks who could stand a chance of apprehending him while he’s in such a pathetic state.

The sight of the Harbinger sitting on a wooden chair right outside his cell makes Scaramouche do a double take. His breath hitches in his throat.

Tartaglia is quick to catch on to the quiet noise, and he turns his sharp gaze on him in an instant, reflected in the orange-gold glow of the torchlight, expression completely unreadable in a way Scaramouche has never seen before.

“Hi there, sleeping beauty,” He says, and it’s like a curtain falls over his real emotions, replacing them with the normal liveliness that Scaramouche hasn’t seen in months, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you actually sleep before - had no idea you even needed to. Did you have a good nap?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is croaky, throat drier than when he inhaled sand in a desert storm.

“My job?” Tartaglia replies, brow raised.

The urge to roll his eyes at that answer is such a familiar response that it’s almost nostalgically pleasant. How long ago has it been since he last heard the Eleventh Harbinger’s voice; the distinct inflection of his words that can’t hide his Morepesok dialect no matter how hard he tries, how he doesn’t use formal speech with Scaramouche anymore? Even hearing that snide remark is like being transported back in time, to months spent in an icy palace at the edge of Teyvat, back before all the Harbingers got scattered to different parts of the world.

“You’ve been placed in a secret cell that those Sages use to contain their scholars who are going mad or whatever,” Tartaglia informs him, “For the time being, this is going to be your new room.”

Tartaglia holds a steel mug, likely filled with something cold judging from the way condensation forms around the exterior. He looks so casual, the same Tartaglia that Scaramouche last saw back in Snezhnaya, right before he got shipped off to Liyue. It feels like forever ago.

His hair’s gotten a little longer, evident from how windswept curls seem to fall below his brows. Otherwise though, he’s still the same as Scaramouche remembers, and the sight of him still brings forth the same opposing emotions as always; irritation and vexation, and that terrible yearning to stay by his side no matter what.

But there’s a rigidity to Tartaglia’s muscles, shoulders tense and tendons visible on the back of his hand that grips the mug, repressing an uncharacteristic bout of resentment like he does when something’s pissing him off.

Scaramouche is very familiar with it. Tartaglia’s annoyance has been directed at him more times than either of them can count. However this time, even the atmosphere around him has grown colder, a sharp intensity that scrutinises Scaramouche like he’s dirt on the soles of his boots.

He’s angry , Scaramouche realises, Tartaglia is actually angry. He’s just trying his damn best not to show it.

“And your job is to stare at me in my new room like some creep while I’m enjoying my drug-induced slumber?” Scaramouche asks, laying his head on the futon that’s been provided for him. It’s old and thin, but at least it’s not some pathetic excuse of fabric pretending to be a piece of luxury.

He’s too weak to lift his head. He can hardly move his toes, it’s like his entire body is still stuck in a deep sleep state from whatever drug Dottore stabbed into him, while his mind is fully awake. The fight has drained everything out of him and now he’s just an empty husk that’s been discarded once everything that made it useful got completely depleted from it.

“How odd,” Tartaglia muses, bitter smile curling on his lips. He seems to be getting some sort of gratification from Scaramouche’s suffering. “No snappy comeback? Or are you actually happy to see me?”

Scaramouche grits his teeth. “Believe me, if I went back in time and joined the Fatui, I’d desert it all over again to get away from you.”

“Watch your words now, Balladeer,” Tartaglia warns, tone clipped like he’s talking to a mouthy subordinate, “They could be used against you in your trial with the Tsaritsa.”

The mention of a trial, of the Tsaritsa, is enough to make ice run up and down Scaramouche’s bones. He doesn’t allow the fleeting fear he feels to show. “The Cryo Archon herself is going to hold a trial for me? I’m honoured.”

“She’s quite heartbroken that you left, you know,” Tartaglia tells him, taking one last swig of his drink. Scaramouche can’t help wondering if it’s alcohol from the way he throws it back like a shot of fire-water - though Tartaglia’s not one to drink on the job - or at least, not a job like this one. “Her Majesty’s ice heart doesn’t allow her to love like she used to. But she still cares for her soldiers deeply. That includes you too.”

He’s still using present tense like he believes the Tsaritsa would ever consider pardoning Scaramouche for all the crimes he’s committed; as if obstructing her mission to prepare for war isn’t the highest form of treason one could commit right now. A phantom ache forms in his chest, where the Gnosis should be, at the mere thought of hurting her so much.

Not even Scaramouche is immune to the pure embodiment of broken love she has shown him, like being covered in a comfortable blanket of snow until it turns you completely numb and you can’t feel anything at all - pure, bright, and deadly. Even now, he knows that whatever punishment she will enact on him will be done out of love, not hatred.

“Then I guess I’ll keep my employment reviews private,” Scaramouche murmurs. His chest twinges with the illusory thump thump thump sensation of a heartbeat that isn’t there, like a lost limb or an organ that’s been taken out. “Where’s the Electro Gnosis?”

Tartaglia hesitates to answer for a second, like he’s considering how much information he has to withhold from him now. “Dottore has it. He’s gone with the Sages to deal with the aftermath of the mess you made with the traveller and the Dendro Archon. I’ll be the one to take you back to Snezhnaya, considering that, technically, I was responsible for tracking you down and capturing you.”

“ You, the Eleventh, managed to track me down?” If someone had told him a mere month ago that Tartaglia would be the one tracking him down, Scaramouche would’ve laughed and slapped that person across the face. But now that it’s actually a reality, he feels like he has to rethink his opinions on the Harbingers. “Now that’s definitely impressive, you’d make a great stalker.”

A smile twitches in the corner of Tartaglia’s mouth, rueful and cold, “You’re throwing a lot of rude names at me when I’m the person who’s going to be taking you home soon. Maybe if you’re a little nicer to me, I’ll get you upgraded to one of the nicer cells.”

Home . Snezhnaya has never been his home. Not even close. Nowhere in Teyvat has Scaramouche ever had a home.

Whatever sleep-inducing drug he’s been administered seems to leave his system quickly. The fogginess clears from his head and his strength returns. All that remains is the soreness of his injuries.

He sits up, joints creaking, and takes note of the scratches littering his skin. A bandage is wrapped around his palm where he grabbed onto the traveller’s sword. Tartaglia watches him like a hawk.

“You don’t have to stare at me like I’m about to tear out your organs.” Scaramouche comments, stretching his muscles, “As tempting as it is to stab you, I’m not exactly in the position to try.”  

“Why’d you do it?” Tartaglia inquires, the question so unexpected it actually makes Scaramouche stiffen mid-stretch, caught off guard.

“Are you asking why I took off with the Gnosis?” Scaramouche scoffs at the absurdity of the question, “Wouldn’t you do the same if the thing you were entitled to since your creation was going to be stolen from you?”

Tartaglia sets the steel mug by his chair and walks over to Scaramouche’s cell. He leans against the bars, and with Scaramouche half-lying on the ground, it’s like Tartaglia is towering over him. Like Scaramouche is some puny insect on the bottom of his shoe. He keeps probing, “But was that really worth betraying the Fatui - betraying the Tsaritsa ?”

“It was.” Scaramouche answers plainly, without hesitation.

He rises on shaky legs and saunters over to Tartaglia, glaring at him through the bars in a way that would promise certain death if they weren’t separated like this. The violent rage seems to have woken up inside him again, as if it was also being jammed by his restraints until now. “Whatever it takes, whatever I have to do, whoever I need to kill - I don’t give a fuck. The Electro Gnosis belongs to me .”

Tartaglia’s lips pull back into a sneer, baring teeth. His eyes are practically glowing, a combination of deep blue and speckled orange-gold, his own anger barely suppressed. 

Anger at what? Scaramouche can’t understand it, what is he so pissed about? Is he angry that he got forced to find the traitor? Or is it because he has to take him back to their Archon?

Scaramouche doesn’t know why Tartaglia is asking him these stupid questions, like they’re in some cliche interrogation scene from a trashy detective novel.

They’re standing face to face, as close as they can possibly be,  and Scaramouche can feel him. He can feel the warmth rising from Tartaglia’s body, his breath stirring Scaramouche’s hair. He’s warm like any other mortal, but none have ever drawn Scaramouche in as deep as Tartaglia has. He’s hyper-conscious of so many things about him where otherwise he would be recoiling away: the heat of Tartaglia’s body, the flush on his features, the way he looks at him, the rosiness of his lips-

He needs to focus.

They’re no longer comrades - they’re basically enemies now - but some innate part of Scaramouche’s subconsciousness yearns to get closer, to tear this damn cell apart so he can wrap himself around Tartaglia’s body and finally indulge in those terrible, terrible cravings that shouldn’t be corroding his resolve as easily as his yearning for a heart.

He should hate him. Scaramouche should hate Tartaglia, he’s supposed to hate him with his entire being for getting in his way.

The restraints weigh heavy on Scaramouche’s wrists, making his arms cramp.

“Even if you know it’s futile?”

The question makes Scaramouche’s blood freeze in his veins.

Tartaglia’s voice suddenly sounds hollow, as if he’s talking from somewhere far away, and the ringing in Scaramouche’s ears grows louder. “Even if you know you’re never gonna get it? Even if you know you’re gonna die if you do?”

Scaramouche’s arms shoot through the bars to seize Tartaglia’s jacket before he can even think, yanking him forward until the Harbinger is crushed against the bars. White-hot rage explodes through him like a bolt of lightning, like it wants to burn him.

He can sense his powers, roused by his own anger, struggling to dig their way past whatever mechanics are being used to suppress them.

“ I would rather die trying than live like this! ”

His voice is seething cold, as icy as the prison waiting for his arrival underneath Zapolyarny Palace. He’s trembling, squeezing Tartaglia’s jacket until his knuckles turn white, filled with violent, unbridled rage.

Tartaglia’s mouth falls open in surprise, eyes widening as Scaramouche’s grip practically rips into his uniform. He’s stunned into silence, and his shoulders limber up like he’s ready to fight him, but he stays where he is, not moving an inch.

“What does a human like you know about divinity?” Scaramouche growls, wild with uncontrolled anger. “You were not crafted to be a god, just to get tossed to the side like worthless dross by the one who created you - I deserve to have that Gnosis!”

Tartaglia’s stiff posture suddenly deflates a little, as though Scaramouche’s words made him realise something important, and his expression softens slightly. He speaks with a tenderness in his voice Scaramouche is not prepared for. “Scara, you don’t have to-”

“Don’t call me that,” He cuts him off immediately. He hates the way his hands start shaking. The wound on his palm hurts , like it did when he cut himself on the traveller’s sword. “Don’t call me that ever again.”

The nickname slipped out from Tartaglia so easily; so naturally that, for a brief moment, Scaramouche could imagine himself back in Snezhnaya in a time that’s so, so different from this.

He can see the mess hall, where Tartaglia is laughing as he swipes food off Scaramouche’s plate as though he isn’t holding a fork he could easily stab him with. He can see the training room, where he accepts Tartaglia’s challenges to spar, without weapons, without his Vision, without powers, where every fight leaves him high off battle euphoria, addicted to the thrill that Tartaglia’s fighting awakens in him.

He’s back in a time where that nickname shot right through the emptiness in his ribcage, exactly like how a hydro-infused arrow pierces into the skulls of enemies, and made him feel something magnificent and terrifying.

He hates it, he hates that Tartaglia still wants to call him Scara , he hates it so much it’s nauseating. He wants to tape Tartaglia’s mouth shut and never let him use it again, not when he’s only ever going to say it when they’re like this.

“You don’t get what it’s like to be crafted into a god and discarded,” Scaramouche hisses, and pretends he can’t hear the echoes of solemn loneliness in his own voice as he speaks. “You don’t get what it’s like to wander this shitty fucking world when you’ve practically been programmed to think of nothing but that damn Gnosis. Eating away at your fucking mind until you’re going insane because every cell in your body is asking you why - why weren’t you chosen to keep that thing? - so no, Tartaglia, I don’t care if it’s futile or if I lose or if I die , because there is nothing else for me to do.”

Silence deafens the tension between them, anger ringing like a shrill alarm in Scaramouche’s ears as they both pant like they’ve finished a difficult battle. Tartaglia gapes at him, deep blue eyes staring into indigo-violet, like they’ll find the answers to a puzzle Scaramouche doesn’t want to give him. 

After a long pause, Tartaglia exhales a long sigh, and says,  “You’re so selfish, you know that?”

“ Huh!? Selfish…? Me!? ”

“You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself, not the Fatui, or the Archons, or mortals, or-or anyone in Teyvat,” Tartaglia lists off, “You’re so obsessed with this Gnosis where you’re convinced you can’t live without it, you don’t let yourself get close to anyone who might want to help you and then you just, you- you leave -” Tartaglia’s voice cracks and his face wavers like that one word was enough to break down the walls he’s placed around himself, “You leave and don’t tell me- don’t tell anyone about where you’re going and the next time I hear anything about you is when the Tsaritsa gives me orders to capture you-”

“Are you seriously getting pissed because I abandoned the Fatui?” Scaramouche laughs, humourless and full of scorn, “Of course I don’t give a fuck about the Fatui - do you? Everyone there is just a pawn for someone else to control, and you’re telling me you’re angry that I betrayed you? Why do you care, Tartaglia? We’re not friends, not even close - we were barely ever allies. And now, you want me to believe that you actually care?”

Why? Why do his words bleed with such vehement sorrow and betrayal? Does the idea of Scaramouche willingly leaving, killing others and dying for this Gnosis really piss him off that much? Every single one of the Eleven Harbingers has their own agenda, something they would willingly sacrifice themselves for, Tartaglia knows this.

So why is he looking at him like that, with so much anguish and bitter longing - longing for what!? Why would he care unless he-

“ I do care! ” Tartaglia grabs hold of Scaramouche where he’s clutching his shirt, gripping him so tight it hurts. “You asshole, I fucking care about you, okay!?”

Scaramouche’s mind goes blank. Out of everything he expected Tartaglia to say, it definitely wasn’t this. Scaramouche has never witnessed him like this before, unbound and loose with his own emotions. He swallows audibly. “What are you talking about?”

“I. Care. About. You.” He enunciates each word like it disgusts him to actually admit it, saying it slowly and clearly as if he’s talking to an idiot - and honestly, Scaramouche feels like one right now, dumbstruck and speechless as though his brain can’t process what the hell is going on anymore. “I can hardly stand you, but still, I care, okay? More than I should. But I can’t change that, you hear me?”

His hands are so big and warm, thumb brushing Scaramouche’s skin so gently that it has to be a subconscious action. It makes him shudder, the contact so addictive that he can’t help but crave more. It shouldn’t feel nice, and yet, Scaramouche finds himself pressed against the bars, staring into Tartaglia’s eyes, murky and polluted with miasma from the Abyss, as though he can better comprehend the chaotic emotions if he reads his expressions instead of listening to his words.

And suddenly everything clicks in his head. Realisation that almost sends Scaramouche reeling, pours a terrifying thrill down Scaramouche’s spine in this weird, manic combination of elation, disbelief, and hope.

“Don’t tell me…” A grin spreads across Scaramouche’s face, sharp and cruel, and a flash of fear passes through Tartaglia, like he realises that he’s been caught in a trap. “Did little Tartaglia let his feelings get involved in all of this?”

He laughs, purposely derisive and degrading, meant to mock. Tartaglia’s eyes are a blazing fury of emotion. The faint orange-gold glow of the torchlight emphasises the way his cheeks darken with a blush. He looks like he wants to pummel Scaramouche into the ground. “What feelings?”

“Oh, don’t even try bullshit your way out of this one,” Scaramouche counters, laughing, “I’m heartless, not dumb. You… you want me, don’t you?”

“Scaramouche…” Tartaglia warns him cautiously, “Don’t.”

“What’s wrong?” Scaramouche challenges, tone full of vitriol, “Are you embarrassed that I found out about your crush on me? There’s no need to be ashamed, I think it’s adorable.”

Clearly, Tartaglia doesn’t agree.

But Scaramouche’s body is alight from the discovery, skin tingling and a flush travelling below his neckline. It’s a manic sort of giddiness, where joy suffuses his body at the same time and sadness hollows it out. It’s fueled by utter disbelief from the ridiculousness of their situation. He almost feels like he’s still delirious from the drugs because only in a fever dream would Scaramouche discover that Tartaglia has feelings for him, the same forbidden ones that Scaramouche has for him.

Honestly, deflection and ridicule are the only reasonable ways to react for him - but what does surprise him is the way something hot drips low in his tummy, a dark and wild hunger urging him to give in, and it almost has him reeling back in shock.

But he’s going to ignore it, like he always has, and he’s going to push Tartaglia away so he will do the same. Because this? The two of them together? It’s practically asking for death.

“Too bad it can never happen, right?” Scaramouche hisses, dragging Tartaglia down until they’re almost at eye-level, “I’m just a puppet, and you’re the Harbinger sent to take me to my death.”

“You think I want to send you to the Tsaritsa?” Tartaglia retorts, voice as sharp as the ice his Archon controls, “You think I want to do this to you? To take you back home to Snezhnaya and toss you into an ice prison? To take you home to die?”

“Then what do you want, Tartaglia?” Scaramouche demands, close to shouting until his voice is echoing through the empty chamber, “What do you want with me?”

Even if the emotion Scaramouche feels for Tartaglia is love, he still hates him. He hates him so much it makes his ribs ache, and he forgets to breathe - even if it isn’t something he even needs to do, but it’s an action he’s grown so accustomed to that it feels wrong not to do it. He hates Tartaglia because Scaramouche is a doll who’s supposed to be incapable of human emotions, and this broken mortal who reeks of darkness and earth from the Abyss rouses emotions the likes he’s never felt before.

He’s supposed to hate him. He shouldn’t be able to bear being in the same room as Tartaglia when all he does is cause those phantom pangs, imitating an erratic heartbeat, to pound in his chest.

It makes his skin fucking crawl, hypersensitive to every tiny movement Tartaglia makes; the twitch of his lips, the way their hands fit so perfectly, the way his gaze darkens, turning intense and wild and hungry - like he wants to fight him, or devour him whole.

The air is suffocating. Scaramouche’s throat is parched for something he can’t have, and he licks his lips. Tartaglia’s eyes drift down to fixate on his tongue peeking out from his mouth. His breath catches, pupils dilating.

His heartbeat grows faster, a rabbit-quick rhythm giving away what his words won’t say. His fingers grow tense, like he doesn’t want to let go, like he wants to pull Scaramouche closer. He inhales slowly and exhales even slower, as if he’s trying to calm the urges painted all across his face, the ones that reveal how he wants nothing more than to drag Scaramouche out of this place and take him somewhere far, far away.

He looks like he wants to kiss him, and, just this once, Scaramouche wants to let go and kiss Tartaglia too.

“I just want to hate you,” Tartaglia says, voice low and throaty, “I want to hate you but I can’t stop thinking about you because you drive me insane - and I wish, I really do wish I felt nothing for you because all that you’ve done is leave and pretend like you don’t care. And even if I know it’s pointless, even if you don’t give a shit about me - I still hate you, even if all I want to do is keep you all to myself .”

The bars are barely wide enough for Scaramouche to rise to his tiptoes and drag Tartaglia’s mouth onto his own. They kiss the same way they fight, like they’re aiming to kill, bruising and addictive and hungry for more. It’s corrosive, tearing through Scaramouche’s self-restraint as if the kiss itself is punishment for giving in to his desires.

He can’t pull Tartaglia flush against him but he still fucking tries, arching his back and pushing his chest against the bars to get closer to his warmth. It isn’t comfortable at all, but neither of them care.

Tartaglia’s tongue swipes along the seam of Scaramouche’s mouth, and a moan tumbles from Scaramouche’s lips. He squeezes his eyes shut in embarrassment, as if it’ll prevent more noises from escaping.

But Tartaglia is making it very difficult to keep quiet.

One hand reaches through the cell, finding Scaramouche’s face, and caresses his throat, his jaw, up to his cheek. It’s like he’s mapping out his features, studying them so he’ll remember his appearance even when they’re apart. Scaramouche parts his lips and Tartaglia steals his breath with his tongue, dipping it into his mouth and making his toes curl. His knees grow weak, and his fingers tremble where they clutch to Tartaglia’s stupid jacket.

It’s hot, like everything is on fire from the sweet, horrifying thrill that runs down your spinal cord when you can’t stop doing something very, very wrong because it feels too fucking good . The worst possible addiction.

Scaramouche only grows all the more eager to take what he wants; to have his fill of the closest thing he’ll ever get to love. He indulges in the softness of Tartaglia’s lips, tilts his head and rests his cheek on Tartaglia’s palm, allowing himself to bask in these little actions that go beyond their manic, lust-driven hatred and madness.

The syrupy-sweet slide of their lips makes it impossible to think, to listen to the voice in his head that’s screaming about how bad this is. Scaramouche’s mind is completely blank, his entire being turning soft and putty under Tartaglia’s kisses, vulnerable in a way he never wants anyone to see. He can’t even begin to feel shame for it - not if it means he has to move away, not when Tartaglia’s hand is grazing the back of his head with reverence but gripping onto his hair with ruthlessness.

He angles his head, breaking the kiss to trail his tongue down Scaramouche’s throat. Scaramouche keens, seeking out anything to latch onto that’ll keep him from falling apart when his knees give out. Tartaglia leaves a bite above the collar of his shirt, and Scaramouche releases a ragged exhale that tapers off into a groan, and - fuck , he can feel the slick dripping onto his underwear. It’s pathetic how wet he’s already become.

There’s a sudden jangle of keys that startles Scaramouche, breaking the kiss only to realise that it’s coming from Tartaglia. He takes out a set of about a dozen keys from his pocket, each one identical to the point where it’d be impossible for a prisoner to immediately escape if they swiped them. He’s surprised when Tartaglia unlocks the door and steps into the cell.

Without a barrier separating them, it’s like everything they’ve done suddenly becomes real, like all the words they spat at each other are tangible, and their hatred and arousal swirls into one entity.

Goosebumps rise along Scaramouche’s arms when Tartaglia approaches him, gaze intense in a way that makes him feel naked, and he can’t help becoming extra aware of his own appearance.

Scaramouche is covered in scratches and unhealed wounds. His hair is a mess. Dirt smudges his face, probably a few cuts too. And he doesn’t even want to think about the state of his back right now; the cracks that tear his spine, practically shredded from the tubes that got wrenched out of him. It doesn’t hurt anymore like it did during the battle, but he doubts it makes for an attractive sight.

At least there’s one good thing about the restraints - Scaramouche can’t take his shirt off, not unless Tartaglia is really desperate to see him naked. Or he could simply rip his clothes right off his body. Scaramouche is not going to be picky.

Tartaglia backs him up against the wall, all broad frame and large presence, surrounding him on all sides until all Scaramouche can feel is him; his long legs, the lines of sinewy abs pressing against his own, and Tartaglia’s big - hands.

Big hands, landing flat on either side of his head, caging him in. Tartaglia bends down so they’re the same height, until Scaramouche is entirely surrounded by Tartaglia, a thigh between his legs, dangerously close to touching where he wants him the most. His warm body, lean muscle and stupid height, his unbearable presence, the scent of pine needles and frozen lakes that clings to him even when he’s so far away from home.

He stares at him for a long time, peering straight into his eyes like he’ll find answers to the truths Scaramouche refuses to admit. Searching for that one dreadful word they both know they’re incapable of saying to each other, forcing them to settle for ‘I want to hate you so badly’ instead.

“For someone who claims to hate me so much, you are quite eager to kiss me…” Tartaglia muses. His eyes spark, like he’s realised something wonderful, “Maybe I’m not the only one who’s gotten his feelings involved in all this.”

“I don’t have feelings. And I can’t stand you.” Scaramouche lies effortlessly, voice full of vitriol, even if it sounds like bullshit to his own ears, “I don’t care about you at all.”

“Oh really?” Tartaglia chuckles, low and rumbling from his chest, “But your face is so red right now. And I can feel it, you know; when you kiss me, how hard you’re trying to keep quiet because you can barely handle my touch. You want me. You want me and you can’t stand it, can you? You want me as badly as I want you .”

Scaramouche is feverish with desire. For a brief moment, he wonders again if he’s still delirious from the drugs, because there’s no way Tartaglia is doing this to him, is there? Making a mess of his body and emotions with the simple press of his lips. But he knows it’s real, because heat builds low in his gut, and a dark, wild neediness is urging him to give in and let himself take everything from Tartaglia until he can’t endure taking anything more.

“Does it really matter what I want?” Scaramouche doesn’t want to talk, to reveal more about the stupid things he feels. “It’s not like we can do anything more than this, is there? You’re a Harbinger, and I’m basically a wanted fugitive. All we have is tonight, and nothing more.”

He pulls Tartaglia into another kiss, pretending like he didn’t catch the frown that marred his features. He doesn’t care, he can’t care, because if he does then he’s going to fall apart.

All he wants is to pretend they only exist in this one moment, hidden away from the world.

He kisses Tartaglia until his lips are bruised, succumbing to the carnal combination of hatred and desire and some sort of greedy possessiveness that makes him want to leave marks on Tartaglia’s body. Marks he’ll have for all the days it’ll take them to return to Snezhnaya. He wants to leave a mark on him that won’t disappear even after he’s discarded.

Licking into his mouth, he tastes the cold rivers of Snezhnaya, the honey he puts into his herbal tea. He tugs on his jacket and Tartaglia gets the hint quickly, urges him to tug it off along with his shirt. Scaramouche is presented with the sight of Tartaglia’s stupidly gorgeous body, all lean muscle and abs trailing with scars and battle wounds that will stay with him for the rest of his mortal existence.

He moves to unbutton his slack and slips them off until he’s only left in his underwear. The outline of his cock forms a rigid line along the fabric, precum leaking from the tip and forming a wet patch. Saliva pools in Scaramouche’s mouth as he drinks in the sight of him, like he’ll die if he doesn’t memorise every inch of Tartaglia’s body into his mind.

Tartaglia looks devastatingly handsome, especially like this; messy hair, eyes glazed with arousal, all his focus trained solely on Scaramouche. His muscles flex when he grabs Scaramouche’s hips and brings him in for another kiss.

It’s unfair. It’s unfair how good he looks, how quickly he’s able to reduce Scaramouche into a puddle under his touch. Cold fingers itch to feel all that bare skin, to caress the old scars and the new ones he’s obtained since their last encounter. He’s so unfairly attractive that Scaramouche aches with the urge to touch him more.

But his hands are bound, and he gets the impression that Tartaglia has no intention of freeing him. Rather, he enjoys having him like this, restricted and tied up so he can do as he pleases.

Tartaglia can have his way with him so easily.

He roams up and down Scaramouche’s sides, igniting his body in pleasure, until Tartaglia bends lower, and swiftly tugs off his underwear and his shorts. Taking the backs of his thighs, he lifts him up against the wall, and Scaramouche squeaks in surprise, legs automatically hooking around Tartaglia’s torso, because he can’t use his hands for balance.

Tartaglia chuckles endearingly, “Don’t worry, I promise I won’t drop you.”

He kisses him again, and presses in close. He holds him like he’s nothing but a small and weightless little wisp, and Scaramouche feels small when Tartaglia guides him to wrap his arms around his neck, holding him with one hand, and smiling like he didn’t just make Scaramouche grow wetter, pussy throbbing at the thought of how easy it’d be for Tartaglia to fuck him like this, against the wall, or hold him in his arms, sinking him down on his cock as deep as he can take it.

He suppresses a whimper at the image, ignoring the heat that rushes to his tummy, and brings his lips to Tartaglia’s jawline, biting and marking him all the way to the crevice where neck meets shoulder, leaving rose-pink bruises and indents in the shape of his teeth. He hopes these will last until they return to Snezhnaya, hopes Tartaglia looks at them every time he’s staring into the mirror and thinks of him . That even when they’re faded, and even when he’s gone, Tartaglia will still have them in his dreams.

Tartaglia squeezes his ass, the back of his thighs. He runs a thumb on the electro scars cascading down his leg. They’re a result of the discharge from overusing the Electro Gnosis and the machine, as though lightning struck his back and left lavender-violet branches splattered all the way to his knees.

They’ve already faded significantly since the last time he took note of them during his battle with the traveller, but he doubts they make for a pretty sight. It doesn’t seem as though Tartaglia is grossed out by them though, or any part of his body for that matter.

His eyes hungrily taking in every detail on Scaramouche’s body like he’s gazing at a god; his flushed face, his dilated pupils, his kiss-swollen lips. The cracks that creep out from the back of his neck where a tube was attached, the shiver of his abs where his shirt has been hiked up. The tension in his thighs as they cling to Tartaglia, and his throbbing, wet cunt, glistening with slick that stains Tartaglia’s lower belly.

Something twitches against him, and Tartaglia groans, grinding his cock against his pussy. Precum stains his underwear, and Scaramouche’s wetness makes him even messier. The head catches on Scaramouche’s clit when he rolls his hips, and Scaramouche mewls as jolts of electricity shoot through his spine.

“Just get on with it already,” Scaramouche sounds like he’s too close to begging, “We don’t exactly have all night, do we?”

“But you’re so cute like this,” Tartaglia says with a winded chuckle, “Let me take my time with you, I want to know what other pretty noises I can get you to make.”

Before Scaramouche can retort, Tartaglia kisses him again and everything goes blank in his mind.

He lets himself sink into Tartaglia’s warmth, taking his fill of everything he gives to him; his kisses, his touches, his body, his mind. The hands that revere a body as broken-looking as his, torn-up and messy and missing a heart. He wants Tartaglia - all of him - and he wants to keep him all to himself.

Because for this split-second moment in time, Scaramouche thinks he might not actually need a heart, not if it’s possible for him to feel this good in Tartaglia’s arms.

Of course, it’s only a fleeting thought - but perhaps it’s a glimpse of what existence would be like if he did have a heart. Perhaps it’s a glimpse of what life would be like if Scaramouche let himself give in to emotions buried deep within his subconscious.

So maybe he’ll let himself indulge in them, just for tonight - not like he’s got much longer left in this world, right?

A string of saliva connects their lips when Tartaglia pulls away, panting hotly. An intoxicating sort of desire thrums in his veins. Scaramouche is so entranced by his gaze that he doesn’t notice where his hand is going until Tartaglia’s finger brushes against his clit, making Scaramouche’s body shiver under his touch.

“Wha- fuck, Tartaglia -” Scaramouche chokes on a moan, crying out when his fingers draw firm, slow circles on his clit. One digit slides into his cunt, making Scaramouche tremble, rolling his hips to take him deeper, with a high-pitched moan.

“You like that?” Tartaglia teases, “So sensitive… I barely even touched you and you’re already soaking wet.”

He brings his hand up to show his fingers, glistening in Scaramouche’s wetness. He makes sure Scaramouche’s attention is trained on him before he puts them into his mouth, licking them without breaking eye contact. The filthy action makes Scaramouche’s face burn, and his cunt throbs, achingly empty, while he watches Tartaglia’s tongue work, coating his fingers in spit.

Bringing his hand back between Scaramouche’s legs, he pushes two digits inside, dragging them against his walls. Scaramouche cries out, clenching around Tartaglia’s fingers like he wants to keep them inside forever. Tartaglia thrusts slowly, making sure he can feel it, brushing right by that spot that makes him see stars. Teasing and torturous and terribly cruel.

Something tightens in Scaramouche’s core, and he can’t do anything but whine, digging his nails into his own palms. He’s close already, he’s so close it’s humiliating . With the restraints, he can’t do anything except grip onto the back of Tartaglia’s hair and pull it hard, making him groan right into Scaramouche’s ear.

Of course he’d be a fucking masochist - Scaramouche shouldn’t have expected anything less.

He drags Tartaglia into a kiss, and Tartaglia fingerfucks him harder. He swallows every whimper and mewl that comes out of Scaramouche’s stubborn mouth, thrusting faster, basking in the filthy slick noises coming from Scaramouche’s sopping wet cunt, the wetness that leaks down to his wrist and drips onto the ground. Every sweet, slick noise sounds amplified in the empty prison, and Scaramouche has to break away from the kiss to bury his face into the crook of Tartaglia’s neck out of sheer embarrassment.

A tight heat begins to coil in his stomach, and Scaramouche gasps, moaning Tartaglia’s name like he’s pleading, not sure if he wants him to stop or keep going, to bring him over the edge and make him fall apart.

“ A-ah Tartaglia… Tartaglia, I think I’m gonna- ohh , I’m gonna come -” He’s close, he’s so close, clit throbbing and cunt spasming around those long fingers, slick smeared across his thighs - and he wants it, he wants to come so bad he could cry -

And then it all comes to a startling halt. Tartaglia suddenly stops and Scaramouche’s orgasm recedes further and further away from his reach. And then, Tartaglia’s fingers slip out entirely. The pitiful pitch of Scaramouche’s whine makes it sound like he’s crying from the sudden emptiness in his cunt. Tartaglia only laughs cruelly, lifting his head to examine Scaramouche’s face.

Tartaglia’s eyes are half-lidded, playful expression glowing with sadistic glee at the debauched sight Scaramouche has become. His smirk is dark and teasing, as if he knows everything he’s doing to Scaramouche is making his pussy get even wetter. “And who said you’re allowed to come, hm, baby?”

The pet name makes something warm flutter in Scaramouche’s stomach, so unexpected he almost gasps in surprise. He never thought he’d have such a reaction to being called ‘baby’ .

“You only get to come when I tell you to.” Tartaglia growls, and the emotions on Scaramouche’s face are enough to tell what he thinks about that. He chuckles, “What? You think after everything you put me through, I’m gonna let you off easy?”

“You want me to beg or some shit?” Scaramouche asks, tone edged with nervousness when he considers that Tartaglia probably has every intention of making him do exactly that.

“Mm, that’d be a sight, wouldn’t it?” Tartaglia muses. “Pretty, bratty Scaramouche - reduced to a cute little mess just because he doesn’t know how to ask nicely for my cock.”

Scaramouche’s expression darkens with a glare, but Tartaglia isn’t affected at all and his smirk only grows wider.

“What do you say, Scara?” Tartaglia coaxes, and Scaramouche moans when he presses his thumb against Scaramouche’s clit, “Wanna beg for it like a good little boy?”

“Mmn, fuck you ,” Scaramouche spits back, head tilting back to thump against the wall, gasping in pleasure.

Tartaglia buries all three fingers to the hilt, hitting him so deep, coaxing him closer and closer to release until his muscles tense in anticipation even though they both know he’s going to take it all away again.

“Have it your way then,” Tartaglia shrugs, so casually it’s like Scaramouche isn’t about to fall apart around him, dragging him towards the edge until his orgasm is so close he can fucking taste it, making needy tears spring to his eyes, “But you gotta be prepared for the consequences.”

Tartaglia is merciless, setting a hard and ruthless rhythm until his pussy turns bright red, making Scaramouche’s head grow foggy with arousal. And right when he’s about to come, right when his cunt begins to spasm, Tartaglia pulls out again and leaves Scaramouche utterly miserable .

He does it a third and a fourth time, until tears are streaming freely down Scaramouche’s face, until his clit is aching and swollen and his folds are flushed pink, pussy quivering around Tartaglia’s fingers, like it’s sucking them in.

His tongue forms the word ‘please’ in his mouth, but Scaramouche tamps it down, too prideful and stubborn to stoop so low.

He’s already shown such a pathetic state of himself to Tartaglia; exposed a mess of broken parts and ugly tears under an elusive indifference. He can’t bear to do more, to beg for something so carnal. But this might be the first and last time they can be like this; where they can take each other apart to the very core of their souls.

What does it matter if Tartaglia sees him at his worst? Scaramouche will probably be dead in a few weeks time.

“P-please…” He whimpers, so quiet it’s barely audible. He thinks Tartaglia doesn’t hear it until his eyes lift to Scaramouche’s face. “Please fuck me…”

The knowing smirk that appears on Tartaglia’s face makes Scaramouche want to smack that a prideful expression right off his face. “Hmm? What was that? You gotta speak up, baby.”

Scaramouche whines, completely undone, “Tartaglia, please, please fuck me, let me come… please, I want it so badly.”

He tries to spread his legs as much as possible without unhooking them from Tartaglia’s back, showing off his pussy like he hopes to entice him into putting his dick inside. “Make me come, please, I wanna come around your cock, please, please, Tartaglia-!”

He gasps sharply when Tartaglia suddenly pulls his fingers out, and then he’s pushing his underwear off and pressing his cock against his pussy, hot and pulsing. Scaramouche whines as a cold thrill runs through his body once he gets a glimpse of Tartaglia’s cock, thick and hard and big enough to leave him nervous and wondering how deep it’s going to reach inside of him. He wonders if he can even take it all the way, whether it’s going to split him open and leave him full.

Tartaglia thrusts his length slowly between his folds, coating it in his wetness until it glistens. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it? You look so pretty like this, my pretty little whore - so good for me. You ready for your reward?”

Scaramouche nods desperately, ready to beg if he asks him to - until Tartaglia guides his cock into his cunt, making him cry out when the head slips inside, and finally Tartaglia pushes all the way to the hilt. Scaramouche keens, words lost in the haze of pleasure-pain and fullness that has him gasping for air. It’s not as painful as he’d feared, it actually feels good .

Scaramouche likes the ache, the way Tartaglia’s cock stokes his wall, forcing them apart and stretching him in a way Tartaglia’s fingers would never be able to.

“Fuck, you’re so tight , baby-” Tartaglia rasps into his ear, and all Scaramouche can is whimper in response.

He’s reaching so deep, and whenever his hips roll forward, Scaramouche swears he can feel his dick in his belly. He can almost taste him in the back of his throat and- oh isn’t that a thought? To suck Tartaglia’s cock until his cum coats all the way down Scaramouche’s throat.

Would he even be able to fit him into his mouth? He’s damn well gonna try-

Tartaglia pulls his cock out, strings of slick from Scaramouche’s pussy clinging to the tip, and thrusts inside in one smooth motion that has Scaramouche thinking he’s on the verge of collapsing in his arms. He sets a fast, punishing pace, not giving him a moment to think, to breathe - making him moan loudly as he watches, entranced, how the thick girth slides into him, the way a small bump forms in his stomach every time Tartaglia sheathes himself to the hilt, balls slapping against his cunt, obscene and loud.

They’ve hardly even started and Scaramouche can already feel his orgasm approaching, too overwhelmed and hypersensitive to last any longer when every prod of Tartaglia’s dick hits against that spot that makes him think he’s about to pass out.

He moans, muscles tensing up, begging into Tartaglia’s ear, “I’m gonna come… I’m gonna come, don’t stop, don’t stop- please don’t stop a-ah - ow fuck! ”

Pain suddenly surges through his back, piercing through the lust fogging his brain, and Scaramouche arches away like he can escape the sharp-hot sting stabbing into his spine. Tartaglia freezes, hands flying to hold Scaramouche up, as if afraid he’s going to fall into a million pieces. “What- what’s wrong, Scara, are you okay? Am I hurting you?

It’s the injuries on his back. From the tubes that got ripped out of him during the fight, or in the aftermath, when he was unconscious. The pain is ebbing away already, especially now that Scaramouche’s back isn’t scratching against the rough material of the wall every time his body is jostled from the roughness of Tartaglia’s thrusts. “It’s… it’s nothing, I’m fine.”

The way he’s wincing probably isn’t very reassuring though.

“It’s my back,” Scaramouche admits, and feels like an old mortal complaining about back pain and creaky bones, “It got fucked up from that machine I was connected to… it only started to hurt because you…” you were fucking me senseless against the wall , “... because it’s a bit sensitive, I guess. Hasn’t really healed yet. Really, I’m fine though.”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” Tartaglia says and moves them away from the wall, carries Scaramouche so easily without needing to pull out, not even a hint of strain or exhaustion on his face. Scaramouche swears he’s about to start drooling - what the fuck is this guy made of? “Do you… do you want to stop? Maybe you should rest and heal.”

Scaramouche stares at him, expression deadly. He clenches tight around Tartaglia’s cock, delighting in when he hisses through his teeth, watching his brows furrowing in pleasure. His dick jumps inside him. “If you pull your stupid, big dick out of me, I am going to kick your ass - I don’t care if I’m restrained, I will end you if you don’t make me come.”

Tartaglia laughs, bewildered but helplessly endeared. “Fine, fine - whatever you want, you little cockslut. I only wanted to make sure you were okay - I didn’t wanna hurt you.”

“If you really hurt me, I’ll tell you,” Scaramouche assures him, “Besides, it’s not like I mind a little pain.”

He feels a spurt of precum spill into him at that, and has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Tartaglia settles them onto the futon, ignoring his own needs in favour of Scaramouche’s comfort. “What do you say if I fucked you on your hands and knees? Would that be less painful?”

A shudder of warmth passes through Scaramouche’s chest, and he finds himself actually blushing, strangely bashful from the concern Tartaglia is showing him. Is this what concern looks like? This so-called ‘care’ Tartaglia feels for him? Like the care that runs deep beneath Scaramouche’s facade; because of that terrible little thing called love that he traps into the shadows and crevices of his empty heart, refusing to let the terrifying admission become a reality?

“Do what you want,” Scaramouche huffs, acting indifferent, “Not like it makes a difference to me...”

“Hm, your restraints might get in the way…” Tartaglia muses - like he’d ever consider taking them off, “But alright, we’ll give it a try.”

He pulls out and helps Scaramouche get into position, making sure he won’t get hurt. He settles him on his knees, and Scaramouche leans on his elbows because the restraints make it too hard to keep his balance, and he knows Tartaglia won’t take them off for this because he’s getting off on seeing Scaramouche so helpless, unable to position himself properly without Tartaglia’s help, like a doll for him to manoeuvre however he pleases.

Scaramouche’s shirt slips and exposes his back, revealing a sliver of damaged skin that makes Tartaglia gasp quietly. When he’s like this, Scaramouche can’t see what facial expressions Tartaglia makes. He can only listen to his breathing; can only sense him by touch, by the fingertips skimming along a jagged line right by his spine. He can only guess what’s going through Tartaglia’s mind right now.

“It looks like lightning,” Tartaglia points out, causing goosebumps to rise along his skin.

Maybe this position isn’t so bad… Scaramouche can’t see Tartaglia’s face, but that means Tartaglia can’t see his either, especially when his cheeks feel like they’re about to catch fire from how flustered he’s gotten over a featherlight caress. He clears his throat, pretends like he’s entirely unaffected. “Well yeah, that’s kinda what happens when you use too much Electro powers, idiot. It’s not supposed to be pretty.”

“You look beautiful though,” Tartaglia tells him. He prods his cock against Scaramouche’s pussy, prodding the head on his clit. “The lightning patterns make you look like a divine being.”

He sheathes himself back inside and Scaramouche groans more out of frustration that pleasure, “You are insufferable when you talk like that. Can’t you just stick to fucking me and keep your mouth shut?”

“You seem to like the sound of my voice though,” Tartaglia retorts, keeping his thrusts hard and steady, “Your pussy gets all tight around my dick when I call you pretty things - you’re just too bratty to admit it - oh, see? You got wetter, didn’t you? I can feel it, you know, there’s no way to hide how well your body responds to me.”

Scaramouche rests his forehead on the futon and glances down to stare at how his folds part for Tartaglia’s cock, the slick that’s smeared across his thighs, dripping onto the sheets. He’s dizzy with pleasure; brain-to-mouth filter not functioning like it should.

“There’s no deeper meaning to it, I just think your voice is nice, is all…”

“Really now?” Tartaglia sounds genuinely surprised to hear something honest from him, “Does my voice turn you on?”

“If you didn’t say stupid shit ninety-eight percent of the time you opened your mouth, I’d consider it sexy.” Scaramouche admits, tongue loose from how good Tartaglia’s dick feels, stretching his walls, bulging through his tummy.

Tartaglia laughs breathlessly, and his hands roam up and down back, under his shirt, touching the sensitive lightning patterns etched into his skin. They move to his front, up to his chest and pinch his sensitive nipples. “That’s probably the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Good, I’ll never say it again.” Scaramouche says through a moan.

“That’s alright,” Tartaglia murmurs, pushing in deep enough to have Scaramouche grappling for purchase on the sheets, “Your pretty body says it all.”

His hand trails down his stomach, feels the bulge that stretches his tummy, just a little, every time he buries his length all the way, then he touches his clit. Scaramouche twitches like he wants to jerk away, too overwhelmed and hypersensitive to handle much more. “I…if you keep doing that you’re gonna - a-ah , you’re gonna make me come.”

“Is this your way of asking for permission?” Tartaglia asks, “Cute, though I think you can do better… but I’ll let you come tonight. Next time though, I won’t be so lenient.”

Either Tartaglia is deep in denial, or his brain is in his dick right now, because there’s no way he just started talking about a ‘next time’ for them. Scaramouche might actually scream.

They don’t have a next time. Not together, at least.

Tartaglia fucks him good, buries his cock to the hilt like he wants to make him feel it for days. He rubs his clit and leans over his back, kissing the exposed, electrocuted skin so gently it makes Scaramouche clench around him.

His cries draw out into pitiful whimpers and mewls, tears escaping from his eyes again - and he’s not entirely sure if they’re tears of pleasure or something else - too many things whirling through him at high speed, not enough time to compute.

Tartaglia raises his hips, makes him present his ass high in the air, and plunges into him with feverish desperation, cock throbbing and aching for release - he must be close too, fucking him at a pace that’s borderline feral, one that has Scaramouche keening into the crook of his elbow, wet with his tears.

It feels so good. Tartaglia feels so good, bent over his back, encasing him in that strange, human warmth Scaramouche has spent so long recoiling from. But he doesn’t want to run away from it when it comes from him, he wants to stay in it forever.

The restraints weigh on him like stones, suppressing his powers, but even with his eyes squeezed shut, he can detect the purple glow starting in his periphery. When he opens his eyes, the sheets are glowing in a faint, barely-there violet colour, reflected from him. He groans.

The glow of divinity, apparently, cannot be repressed even by the bindings, not entirely at least. The light is very faint, but in the dimness of the cell, it’s bright like a torchlight.

“Scara, baby, can you turn your head to me?” Tartaglia whispers reverently. He must have noticed the streaks of glowing hair. “I wanna see your face.”

“No way.” The reply comes muffled from where he’s buried into his elbow. “I’m fine right here.”

“Please?” He mumbles, lips brushing against Scaramouche’s back, a devil coaxing him into the dark, comforting and careful, yet gentle in a way that makes him feel like it’s okay to say no too. Even though he doesn’t want to deny him.

With an awkward shuffle, Scaramouche turns around. His eyes always glow like an Archon’s any time he uses too much of his powers or… when he’s overwhelmed with too many emotions. He hates how easily it exposes him when he’s at his weakest, especially now, with tears clumped in his lashes, scars littering his back, and hands tied up.

But Tartaglia doesn’t look at him with the intention of using his weakness against him. He’s staring in awe. Sweat drips down his abdomen and makes his hair stick to his forehead. His cheeks are flushed, lips swollen and begging to be kissed. Archons, he’s so attractive it’s unfair.

“Your eyes are beautiful.” He tells him, and brushes a messy strand of hair off his forehead. “You’re really pretty, Scara.”

“H-how can you go around saying such embarrassing things all the time, huh?” Scaramouche asks, lower lip wobbling.

Hearing Tartaglia say all these flowery things is only going to make it harder to return to reality again, to come to terms with his demise.

Maybe Tartaglia understands that too. His smile looks sadder, when he goes to fuck him again, setting a brutal pace that’s going to turn his ass and thighs red, he murmurs, “Well, it’s not really embarrassing when I’m only stating the facts.”

His hips piston into him like he can’t control himself anymore. Scaramouche realises that he must be so pent up now, after spending so much time playing and teasing with him, denying orgasm after orgasm. But that whole time, Scaramouche realises, Tartaglia has been denying himself too.

This time, he doesn’t deny him. He lets Scaramouche reach his peak, lets his noises crescendo into a long drawn-out moan, and once the floodgates have opened, there’s no way to stop.

His orgasm surges through him like a torrent, body jerking and thighs quaking. If it weren’t for Tartaglia’s steady grip on him, Scaramouche would’ve caved in on himself by now. He’s crying out Tartaglia’s name, sobbing into the sheets, a mess of tears and drool that he can’t care about right now, not when shockwaves of electrifying pleasure pulse through his core and make his pussy spasm around Tartaglia’s cock, like it’s trying to milk his cum out of him.

Tartaglia fucks him through the aftershocks, rubbing his clit until Scaramouche feels like he’s shattering, splintered into pieces. His body jerks from overstimulation where it was once eager to come, like it doesn’t know what to do now that he’s gotten what it wanted after so many times of being denied.

Slick spreads into a puddle beneath him. His orgasm feels like it’s never-ending, like a coil’s been snapped and now, everything that was holding him together is starting to collapse.

It doesn’t take long for Tartaglia to follow, coming inside with a low groan that rumbles through his back, filling him to the brim. He’s cumming so much, burying so deep it’s like he wants to fuck it all the way to his stomach. It spills out of him in white, sticky droplets when he can’t hold it in anymore.

Scaramouche cries out, and Tartaglia leans down on shaky limbs to press a messy, open-mouthed kiss to his mouth.

He whispers sweet words against his lips, and kisses his tears away. He brushes his lips along Scaramouche’s cheek, his nose, and finally, kisses his mouth again. Scaramouche is too fucked-out to reciprocate, sweaty and debauched with cum and slick, and the sensation of it trickling out of him makes him shudder.

It feels like Scaramouche has turned into a puddle of melted candlewax, muscles unwinding and decompressing, eyelids fluttering and, oh- wow , he’s tired, maybe he’s not as healed up as he thought. Or rather, his stamina hasn’t entirely regenerated yet.

The moment Tartaglia pulls out, cock glistening with a mixture of Scaramouche’s slick and his own cum, exhaustion hits him like a punch to the gut and he flops gracelessly onto the futon.

Tartaglia lays down next to him, half-lying on the ground rather than the futon, though he doesn’t seem to care about that. He covers Scaramouche’s legs with a thin blanket, the one that’s covered in a mess of their cum. Scaramouche is too tired to actually feel disgusted by it. All he wants is to sleep, to regenerate - but he doesn’t want to close his eyes.

If he falls asleep, he’s scared Tartaglia will be gone when he wakes up.

“Go to sleep, Scara,” Tartaglia says, gently caressing his face, “You need to heal before we… before we leave. It’s gonna be a long journey home.”

Scaramouche can’t stop himself from saying it, reaching for the other, “Can you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

“Of course.” The fond smile that appears on Tartaglia’s face, expression open and full of fondness, is the last thing he sees before he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

He feels Tartaglia get closer, pressing Scaramouche’s palms to his chest like he knows he’ll want to feel his heartbeat. It’s still beating fast but it lulls his mind into a peaceful dream.

“Next time,” Tartaglia whispers a promise into his hair when he thinks Scaramouche has fallen asleep, kissing his forehead, “I promise you - next time, you can touch me all you want, okay? Next time we can just… exist together like we always have. We can do whatever we want, we can go wherever we want…”

There he goes again with this ‘next time’ bullshit… next time, next time, next time - as if they’ll ever have a next time… Scaramouche doesn’t have a future in front of him, and Tartaglia doesn’t have an eternity to cling on to either.

“I promise I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise I’ll get you out of all this.”

Scaramouche’s breathing evens out, as natural as that of a mortal’s.

“I’ll get you far, far away from the Tsaritsa, from the Gnosis - from Teyvat. I’ll make sure you get to be free.”

Scaramouche hates mortals. He doesn’t need them, he doesn’t need their kindness or their help. Scaramouche doesn’t need anything from them.

He hates Tartaglia as much as any other mortal. Hates his cocky attitude, and his stupid teasing remarks. He hates how dead his eyes look, lifeless as a fish, and he hates his stupid smile, how it makes his stomach erupt in flutters like an explosion of crystalflies went off in there.

And more than anything, Scaramouche hates how Tartaglia makes him feel. How pissed and angry he gets because of him, how giddy he becomes when they spar, the rush of adrenaline when they fight - really fight , how good he fucks him, taking what he wants.

He hates how he feels things he’s not supposed to for a mortal who’s probably destined to die in a battle against the false skies.

He hates how easily Tartaglia is able to make Scaramouche feel hope.

Like his promise for a next time makes Scaramouche hope it’s one he intends to keep. Even if the gods of Teyvat and Celestia and fate stand in their way.