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Scaramouche is not swayed easily. He doesn’t not care for the whims of mortal men, or of finnicky human emotions. He doesn’t care about justice or injustice, life or death.
And perhaps, in part, this is all because he is empty. Puppets often are, and with his strings effectively severed - he is nowhere to be found except in the corners. Beneath shadows, and under leaves.
It’s important to know that Scaramouche doesn’t sway easily, and that he desires little. It’s even more important that it’s understood of him, that this is not something that has fallen upon him easily. This… feeling he harbors towards you - did not happen easily. It wasn’t born suddenly. It wasn’t like a beating thrum of hearts that perfectly molded into some sickly fairytale.
In fact, implying as much is insulting. Nothing about this affair feels like those pointless love stories people love to drone about.
Scaramouche wasn’t swayed by you easily. If he had to make any comparison, it would be like bracing the storms in Snezhnaya. Frostbitten with ice filling his lashes, withstanding a force greater than nature.
He doesn’t understand it himself.
Since he’s become the Wanderer, he’s had a chance to observe life as it moves. The people who come and go he never too gets close to. Every now and again, Nahida will come and keep eye on him.
He isn’t lonely. He couldn’t be.
But meeting you has proved that he is capable of yearning for something, unfortunately. A meeting of pure chance, of a wanderer and a mercenary. Neither of you committed to any single place, crossing paths to his detriment.
Over and over, like a cruel twist of fate - Scaramouche finds himself in your company. If you’re not aiding him in battle, you’re cradling his wounds. Pouring salve over them with a bandage between your teeth and a coy look in your eyes.
Sometimes, you kiss the bruises on his knees. And instead of pushing you, he finds himself crumpling under the weight of your touch. It’s shameful. Displeasing.
But despite it, his body seems to hone in on your absence. He thought he’d abandoned such things ages ago. His sensitivities.
And yet, he’s like this. Tipping his chin up when you call his name, resisting the feeling when your fingers trace his jaw. He can always feel the lingering heat of you, a sharp line from the bottom of his ears to the point of his chin. You relish holding his gaze, sadistically refusing him when he tries to look somewhere else.
Scaramouche tries to resist it. He pushes and shoves and fleets. He loathes it after all. You always pull away if he asks, but that only frustrates him more.
Sometimes, he dreams about you being more forceful. He can’t admit it to even himself, waking up in a fit of shame. A hot flash under his skin as his sleep conjures up images of it.
Scaramouche has been nothing but adamant to forget about you.
But again and again and again - your hands linger on him. Brief touches that awaken every nerve in his body.
Scaramouche isn’t swayed easily, but when you come to his quarters in the late evening - he doesn’t turn you away. He steps aside to let you, and complains when you close the door.
You’re together again for a mission. Or rather, the end of a mission - a successful run of intel gathering on the beloathed Doctor has set you in a far-off inn on the edges of Sumeru.
You’d gotten separate rooms per his insistence, but you’ve come by anyway. Typical, really.
“What are doing here?” He says, voice flat. You chuckle softly as you come in, steel-toed boots noisy with your steps. You sit on this bed with ease, leaning back on your palms as he joins you in the room. He crosses his arms his chest.
“I was bored.”
“If you’re bored you can sleep instead of pestering me,”
You give him a small smile, making him deepen his frown.
“My energy is up from all the fighting, I’m afraid. ” You reply nonchalantly. He scowls.
“And what exactly am I supposed to assist you with? Stop being a nuisance and get out.”
“So cold aren’t you, Wanderer,” You say, nonplussed “Couldn’t you be a bit more kind to your dear friend?”
“You’ve finally lost it, haven’t you?”
“No, not yet. You seem like you’d benefit from some release, too. We could always help each other out. Just like always,”
There’s something in your suggestion that makes his skin feel like it’ll singe if it’s touched. He scoffs, turning his head away from you.
“What are you implying?”
You shrug.
“It doesn’t suit you to play clueless,” You say, half-way between sarcasm and sincerity “Are you sure you don’t have any idea?”
The pressure in the room gets more intense as each second passes. He chokes out his next words, lodged in his throat.
“O-of course not. Don’t be ridiculous,”
When you stand up, he feels his stomach tense. His whole body feels strange at the sound of your voice. If he has no heart, what’s this tension? This pulse so clearly emanating in your body as you stand to your feet?
It’s hard for him to be intimidated, but you walk towards him and he feels himself shrink. A slow walk-back until he’s stopped. You place your hand on the wall behind him, next to his head as you smile. Your teeth almost glint when you do.
“What was it you always say about truth and honesty?” You lean in and you’re far too close. Your voice drops, a whisper in the night.
“W-what does this have to do with that?”
“Everything, of course.” You hum. Scaramouche wants to shove you away when your hand cups his face. It’s disgusting. He should shove you away.
His knees feel weak.
“Scaramouche,” You repeat, face inches away from his “Won’t you admit it to me?”
“Admit what.”
“That you wish to be adored?” You say with the lightest laugh he’s ever heard in his lie “That you want me to adore you?”
He doesn’t know what to say. He scoffs.
“You must have some sort of death wish.”
You click your teeth at him.
“Nothing like that. I have a very simple wish, Scaramouche. Would you care to hear it?”
He avoids your eyes
“As if I have a choice.”
“I want to know what face you make when I’ve pleasured you.”
Everything comes to a halt. His eyes nearly pop from how wide he opens them, mouth open in shock. A noise of indignance leaves him, ready to push back. Only to settle his gaze upon the seriousness in your face. The… hunger so distinct in your eyes that he can’t.
“Watch your mouth if you wish to live.” He spits.
“I phrased it as pleasantly as I can, so don’t shy away from me, yes?” You say, soft and careful, returned to that sunlight he’s used to “Have you felt it before? Pleasure? Desire?”
“Be quiet.”
“What does pleasure look like on that delicate face of yours? Those sweet little features you hide with a scowl? You’ve told me your story in such detail, Wanderer,” You cup his face, forcing his expression forward once more. Smiling, you rub your thumb on his lip “That you’re a puppet. Yet, you’re fashioned prettily like some sort of porcelain doll.”
“You—you, how dare you—”
“I know what your wandering heart longs for. Aside from revenge, from acceptance - you so desperately wish for adoration. That’s what you sought for. From godliness, you wished for worship.”
To this, he can’t say anything. He curses and spits, but he can’t form words to counter you. You’ve seen through him in this way, and while he cannot face his defeat - he can’t counter the truth.
Adoration is such an unfamiliar word.
But memories of the beginning of his life come up, push through him like a thorn in his side. Scaramouche thinks of the moments, brief as they were, when he was cherished.
And something washes over him that he wishes to erase.
“You’re flushed. Have you realized it? I can give you your every desire, if only you permit it,” You tell him, no longer masking the disgusting sincerity in your voice “But I am not so lawless to force you.”
“You’re twisted.”
“Would you have liked me if I wasn’t?”
“Who says I can do anything more than tolerate you?”
“The fact you haven’t pushed me far, far away.”
For a long time, he’s silent. Your stare isn’t intimidating. You’re not intending to intimidate. The storm of conflict ripping through him, the turmoil—it’s his own affliction. He can only shift a handful of the blame on you. He will pretend it’s all your fault.
But he’s wavering in front of you. Why hasn’t he pushed you far away? Why doesn’t he want to?
He can’t question it. But he can’t say it explicitly, either. So he tells you a half-way truth.
“…Do as you please.”
The way you brighten up angers him.
“Do you mean it?”
“Don’t make repeat myself.”
Your smile makes him…upset. Not angry, but not happy. He tsks as you lean into him again.
“Have you ever done it before?”
“So what if I haven’t.”
“Don’t be so defensive. I’m wondering where we should start if that’s the case. Have you kissed before?”
He shakes his head and you nod, processing the information.
“Open your mouth a little, and close your eyes.”
He frowns, but does as you ask. He closes his eyes and waits for you. Your hands are slightly calloused, likely from wielding a sword. But they’re distinctly warm. You wrap around the nape of his neck. He can feel you bend down, inching to him. Time feels like it’s slowed down.
“Relax, Scara,” You whisper against his lips “Let go.”
Before he understands what’s happening, he can feel your lips on his. At first, he wants to open his eyes. At the same time he doesn’t. It’s a simple press of lips to start.
But then you open your mouth. And out of instinct, he does the same. It feels like something then, the deep cradling his lips to yours. Your lips are smooth and soft, and your hand is careful.
He can’t keep track once you’ve begun. He can feel his legs wobble, - hands fisted at his side because he doesn’t know what to do with them. As if reading his mind, you take his arm until it’s around your shoulders.
“Hold on to me, sweetflower.”
“Don’t call me that,” He huffs, out of breath. How is he supposed to breath?
You smile.
“No promises,”
Before he can protest again, you’re kissing again. Deep like before, but it feels different. You pull away more and without control over it, he chases the feeling. He can feel the rigid line of your teeth in his lower lip as you tug on it - just before pushing your tongue in his mouth.
At first, he doesn’t welcome it but once he adjusts - he finds himself opening his mouth deeper. He keeps repeating in his head. That he’ll stop you. Himself.
But every time he works up the false courage, he’s melting. It all becomes noise. He wants to know what your tongue feels like again. Why it’s so hot and so wet and why he doesn’t like when you pull away.
He wants to know what face you’re making so he opens his eyes, just slightly. Lidded, to look at you. And you look… well not bad.
Even without having done this, he knows you’re experienced. He can feel how easy it comes to you, and in some way it annoys him.
“Cute,” You say as you pull away. He huffs out “You’re cute, Wanderer.”
“Don’t. Why’d you—”
Before he can finish the thought, he can feel your arms underneath his thighs - hoisting him up. A sound leaves his mouth as you look up at him. He wants to be angry, but he’s flush at how easily you did it. How strong you are. He wraps his legs around, worried he’s going to fall.
“Are you insane?”
“We should do this proper in bed.”
He feels you set him down on the mattress, his body indenting in the weight before joining him. The weight of you is… odd. The contact is alien. Scaramouche hasn’t experienced it, in any capacity, in so long. But never like this. The brief moments are from you but they’re so fleeting in comparison.
He’s so aware of all of it. Every sensation, the thick tension in the air as you slot your legs between his. He can feel you everywhere, your arms resting on either side of his head. You touch his hair on the occasion, twirling it between your fingers.
All you do is kiss him and you do so awfully slowly. Deeply in a way where you’re exploring his mouth and he feels the fight in him curbing. He can feel something stir in his stomach, blood flowing somewhere he wishes he wouldn’t. He convinces himself it’s just a physical response. Of course he would react like that, he was fashioned as a human so of course—
Your knee presses to his cock and he stiffens. Eyes blown open as you kiss him like nothing happened. He pushes you off a little, eyes widened and you look at him confused.
“You alright?”
“Your—you touched me…”
“Oh, you mean how I pushed my thigh up? Are you sensitive?”
“Don’t push it,” He hisses, before frowning “It was…well I don’t know. It was weird.”
“Weird? That the best you can come up with? You can say it felt nice.”
“As if I’d say that.”
“You sure? That it doesn’t feel nice, I mean?”
You do the same gesture as before. The angle puts gentle pressure on him. Half hard through silky fabrics leaves him biting his tongue, an insult he’d prepared—effectively lodged in his throat.
“Your body is more honest than you are,” You say, words laced with amusement “You look overwhelmed.”
“You must be daydreaming,” He snaps. You grin.
“Having you beneath me sure feels like it” You reply, standing on your knees “I want to see more of you.”
He sits up with you, unsure of what else to do. You’re gentle in your movements. He detests it. He tells himself that as he sits up, eyes steady on your form. You undress him, first undoing all the intricate ties and knots.
Then your hands creep underneath the white robe that’s come loose, Rough skin, filled with heat, that he can feel on his waist. He holds his breath.
“Quite the delicate thing aren’t you,” You whisper, voice coarse with desire “If I hadn’t seen you fight, I wouldn’t have believed it.”
“Shut up.”
It’s the best he can do. Because the visual and the sensation is all too much. Your hands square on his sides, eyes looking up at him with familiar mischief is too much and he just wants you to shut up. He covers his face with the back of his arm as your thumb dips underneath his shirt.
You pull the bottom of his turtleneck up slowly, revealing his abdomen. Your gaze is fixed on him, keen in taking in every detail.
“Stop looking so much. You're—.”
“You’re beautiful,” You say, rushed in a sharp breath. You look at him between your lashes and the sarcasm he had prepared dies on his lips. Everything comes apart “Without even trying, you’ve reached divinity,”
What is he supposed to say to that? He flushes, heat rushing to his face all at once. You tilt your head to one side as you lay him down slowly. His clothes are all splayed, pants low on his hips - shirt pulled just over his chest. Humiliating.
“You like being adored don’t you?” You’re hardly saying it to him. It’s mostly to yourself, in between pressing kisses along his stomach - slowly till you’re up to his chest “You always react to it nicely.”
“What are you doing?”
“Foreplay,” You state smoothly “Normally, I’d get right to it but I don’t feel like it with you.”
“With me?”
“When you’ve coveted something, you savor it more when it’s finally yours.”
You push him up towards the headboard before joining him. Undressing him fully, white robe discarded with the shirt too. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s lived a long time. It’s not like he doesn’t know what happens here. At least in theory he does.
But it’s different in practice. He’s floundering, watching you as you slot yourself between his legs. Stood on your knees, you mimic his state of undress. He’s never seen you like that before. There’s scars on your body he’s never thought of.
He can see your breasts. The shape and softness and swell hidden behind something that pushes them flat. And you take that off too, without thinking twice about it. He’s so conscious of it, he can’t look away. Your whole body is there. Shoulders and stomach and chest and back and Scaramouche is… taken by it. Desire doesn’t come gently.
“You can touch them,” You say, noticing his fascination with a laugh. He swallows, pushing himself up with his arm, using his free hand to hold one. He can’t fathom the feeling until they’re in his hands.
Fascinated, he wants to retract at the intensity. Yet, he wants to know more about it, cursing himself for hundreds of years of disinterest.
“Your intrigue with my body is surprising,” You say, looking down at him “I thought this was more one-sided,”
“Not that you’ve ever been bright, but surely getting this far is enough of an indication of where we stand. Use your brain for more than swordfighting, will you?”
Your grin is so bright it’s blinding and he can’t stop himself from letting the corners of his mouth twitch up. He pulls his hand away, laying back in attempt to cover his expression up.
“"Since when have you coveted me?” He asks.
“Since the beginning.” You reply
He doesn’t get a chance to ask about it more. You lay on top of him again, hovering slightly as you kiss more. It shuts him up effectively, quietly huffing as you pull away. You go quiet, no longer mouthing off at him, your plane your palms over his sides.
You kiss the corners of his mouth as you hold him - tracing his jaw with feather light kisses. He rests his arms over your shoulders like before, resisting all the sounds that threaten to leave his lips. There’s a tear in his cheek from all the biting.
Slowly, slowly like water trickling through a creek - Scaramouche feels your mouth. Your tongue feels like it’ll burn him as it trails down his neck. Teeth sharpened on every inch of him. You do it languidly, each part of him attended to carefully. He can feel your lips on his chest, and he stiffens,
But you’re not concerned. He stares at you as you fondle his chest, thumb brushing over his nipples and waiting for his reaction. You must be pleased with whatever you see because you start to go in circles, slow and precise rolls of the hardened bud between your fingers.
His body has always been like this. He’s gotten used to enduring pain in order to fight, but the sensitivity is familiar. He bruises easily and he used to hate cuts.
But it’s different like this. Being so attentive to everything, like the soft fat of your chest pressing against his ribs. Your hands on his back, dipping into his waist band, your mouth and his cock that’s twitching so desperately between his legs the longer this goes on.
You slowly tug his shorts from down his waist, until it’s just his undergarments left. His cock is hard now. The tip is leaking just enough that it’s making a damp circle where it’s restrained. Your hand cups the outline, thumb pressed over the slit.
And Scaramouche whines. Never in his life has he felt it. He couldn’t picture it if he tried, but he feels it and he whines.
You grin against his skin, a smile on your lips as you touch him tenderly.
“Was it weird this time too?”
“S-shut up, just sh-shut up.”
You lay in his side, taking all of it off till he’s all bare. His cock is hard, stood to attention. Without a warning, you wrap your hand around the base, craning your neck to kiss his pulse. Your teeth tug on his ear lobe as you stroke his shaft, go agonizingly slow.
And Scaramouche is twitching in your hand. He’s so hard and his head feels like there’s vines wrapped around his whole body. His hips move without his permission, rutting into your palms.
“Have you touched yourself before?”
“Of course I have, but it's—it’s n-not—Archons,”
“It’s not like this, right?”
“Hnnn.”
Like a body that’s never felt pleasure before. Scaramouche forgot momentarily, that he never has done anything in this body. Not pleasure nor pain, like a brand-new weapon. Sharp. Untouched. He has this realization as you fist his cock without any mercy and every fiber in his being is working to stop himself from making a mess in your hands.
He doesn’t want it to be over too soon, but you’re relentless. He’s gasping for air by the time he feels it. Eyes blown open in something akin to fear.
“S-slow down, slow, I - please, slower.”
There’s something terrifying about being so close. It’s the come down. It’s the inevitable drop that’s going to follow. And even if he’d rather eat glass than admit aloud to anything vulnerable, he is so starved of touch and it’s only taken him up until now to know. You feel so good and Scaramouche is so late about it that all he can do is beg you to slow down.
But of course, it’s not that easy. Why would it be?
“Why should I?” You taunt, and you’re expecting an answer. He can hear that you are and he wants to kill you for a minute.
“I'll—It’s going come out, if you just—”
“You can cum, Scaramouche.” You say, voice all breezy “I told you I’d give you anything you desire. You want me to keep going, don’t you? Even after you cum?”
And then, relenting a little, he shudders.
“Don’t stop. D-dont stop, ngh.”
“Cum for me, Scaramouche. Show me what face you make.”
He can hardly bear the shame as he cums. Like the body of an arrow, pulled so taut - Scaramouche feels all the tension in his body release at once. He shudders, hard, covering his face with the back of his hand and trying to muffle his voice.
Humiliated, he pulls his hand back and huffs. He can’t imagine the expression on his face, confirmed by the satisfaction on yours when you look at him. With your free hand, you tilt his face towards you - kissing him one more time until he’s chasing your lips.
“Did it feel good, Scara?”
He’s in too deep. Far too deep. He feels like he’s being held captive by some force.
“…It was fine.”
You grin.
“Good boy.”
“Shut up,” He says, half-hearted and increasingly desperate “Just—”
“Just kiss you?” You tease, as he makes effort to climb over you “Is that at all?”
“You love asking idiotic questions.” He says with no real bite. Fed up with being under you, he scowls. The humiliating mess he’s made in your hands in covering your palms and he goes to wipe it away
But before you can, you prop yourself up on your elbow and lick your hand clean without even flinching. If he wasn’t so embarrassingly turned out, he would’ve used his vision to blow you into the next room. He pulls your hand away from your mouth, expression dusted pink.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning? You taste nice, Scaramouche,” And with the most annoying self-satisfaction, you stick your tongue out “Wanna try?”
He doesn’t have a chance to ask because you’re pulling him ontop of you again, hair tugging on the roots of his hair and kissing him. He can taste himself, and he winces. It’s bitter and salty, but the way you’re moaning into his mouth is tricking his body because he can feel something stir in his stomach again.
He pulls away, nose scrunched.
“That was awful. How’d you do that without flinching? What’s wrong with you?”
“I’ve tasted worse. Yours really is pleasant.” You say with a grin. He wants to shove you away. He wants to kiss you again.
You take a minute to get comfortable. Pillows placed under you, you lay on your side - gesturing for Scraramouche to join you. He does, of course he does. And he stares at you, frustration and desire and want all culminating to make something awful.
“Do you want to stop here?”
“I don’t like owing people favors,” He says flush. You give a deep, belly-laugh that makes him want to suffocate you.
“What a bad habit you have with honesty, Wanderer. What do you want to do? Do you wanna try touching me while you get it up again?”
He nods, not even bothering to counter your crass words. Your face softens. And everything has taken a shift from hard and fast, to noticeably intimate. Scaramouche can feel the tension in the air, clinging to his rib cage as you reach for his wrists. You open his hands up, shaping them - before you pull them towards.
It’s not brief like last time. It’s a full touch, his whole palm squishing the fat between his fingers. He looks up and your eyes are lidded, like you’re enjoying. He’s trying to remember how you touched him, how to mimic it.
So he gets ontop of you, determined to accomplish something. Just like you minute ago, bodies pressed together. He gropes them both and looks up at you - aware of the differences between you. Of height and of stature. He rolls his thumb over your nipples and you make a sharp noise.
And with a little more confidence, he ducks his head down. Drags his tongue from your clavicle, down the valley of your breasts - teeth scraping the skin lightly. He can’t bring it himself to kiss you, but he can bite. He’s always been good at biting.
So he bites, gently, running his tongue on your hard nipples. Sucking gently. Watching as your expression changes, the way you swallow around spit the more he does it. Scaramouche may doesn’t like losing.
“There you go,” You all but coo, and his resolve wavers “That feels good.”
His chest aches at the approval.
“Do you want to try touching me? Like, actually touching me?”
He feels something that he wants to bat away. A rush. It sweeps past him all at once. He’s never really thought about such things before. About…another persons body. He always thought it wasn’t programmed in him. It was another thing that added to his inhumanity. That’s how he thought of it.
But this is the first time he’s ever felt anything like this towards someone, and the gravity of it makes him weak. He hates that he’s weak. He hates how bad he wants to touch you, after all.
He nods, and you grin. He moves so you can take your pants off, and watches as the material rolls down your thighs with a deep breath.
He sits back, between your legs. Helps you take the rest off until you’re naked, and watches as you spread your legs. It’s not like he doesn’t know. That he’s never seen or read, but it’s so different.
He must look hesitant, because he hears you chuckle form above him, making his expression twist. You snake your hand down, fingers pulling yourself apart. He can see inside. It’s all wet, and all soft. There’s heat coming off it and Scaramouche doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“You can touch right here, my clit. Slowly, like this.”
His hands are trembling as he reaches out. His hand resting on your navel, he drags his thumb on your clit in the same way he did before. You shudder, pushing your hips up. He does it again, in slow circles. Thoughtfully, watchin as your body pulses under him. He’s so intrigued by it. Nervous to make a mistake and careful to keep the momentum.
You groan and Scaramouche almost pulls away.
“Haah, there you go. You think you can go a little farther than that?”
“Farther?”
“Get me ready so you can put it in,” You say with missing a beat. He gasps “If you want to, still.”
“H-how do I..?”
“With your fingers. You don’t have to go too slow, but don’t push it in at once. You’ll feel a little resistance but it should be alright.”
Reading his face, you laugh before showing him. He watches you, intent. Your hands pushing into your sex, one finger first. It’s a well practiced movement. Your brows are drawn together tight as you pump them in and out - stretching yourself out in front of him.
He can hear you take your fingers out, and you gesture him. You spread your legs for him as he comes up to kiss you. He can only assume that’s why, but before you can reach - he’s feeling your fingers slip between his lips.
“Open up, sweetflower,” You pull his lip down with your thumb, pushing thick fingers into his mouth “Thought it was only fair.”
“Mmph,” When it registers what he’s tasting, sweet and slight in comparison to before, his eyes flutter. He’s transfixed by it, and suddenly feels his hips nearly rutting for friction. You taste good, by comparison.
He doesn’t know whats happening to his head, but he doesn’t stop you when you start to move. Fucking his mouth open with your rough hands that he’s starting to long for.
“Messy little brat,” Your voice is full of adoration, breathy. It’s effecting you at least half as much as it’s effecting him “You love making messes, don’t you?”
He huffs and frowns but he does. He hates to admit it but he’s enjoying the coaxing. The petnames, the empty-headed responses. Whatever his body is experiencing is out of his control. Even when it’s frightening - when its awful, he wants more of it.
“Look at you drooling all over me,” You say, a little meaner. It’s that sickly taunting. He’s heard you do it tens of times. In interrogations and in arrests “Maybe if you’re nice, I’ll let you taste me, really. That’d be nice right?”
He blinks up at you, unsure of what else to do. He hears you groan.
“Sometimes, you make me angry enough that I want to be cruel to you,” You admit, pushing your fingers out until his mouth is stretching “But other times, like this, you looks so desperate to be loved that I want to give you the world. What should I do?”
His cock twitches hard.
“Your innocence is intact. Cock untouched and needy, it’s cute. Would you consider kindness or discipline if I ruined it your purity?”
He pulls aways with a huff. He’s desperate.
“Mercy,” His voice is hoarse. It’s the only time, he’ll ever be able to say it clearly “It’d be mercy.”
You smile at him.
“Good answer. Come here.”
Scaramouche nods. He has to get the angles right. Even after watching you do it, the task feels impossible. He shakes the nerves out of him and watches you instead, focusing on something else.
He’s never been to keen on appearances. On bodies and of what makes someone attractive and what doesn’t.
Maybe, it’s the knowing you. Knowing what you look like half-asleep, and knowing that you’re a rowdy drunk and know that you’ve kissed some of the other people in your platoon and maybe it’s because he knows you well enough. But he is reacting, intensely, to the sight of you with your legs spread.
And he thinks that he’d take you in whatever way you asked of him, no matter the fact he’d prefer to die than admit it.
He starts with his middle finger, slow. It’s what you describe, there’s resistance. But he wasn’t prepared for how warm you were. Hot inside and so wet that he hardly has to try to go further in. You moan above him and it’s nauseating how much he wants you to do it again.
When he’s down to his knuckles, he pulls out and pushes back in. A repetitive motion until there’s no longer any resistance. And he repeats the action, stretching you out until it doesn’t feel too tight. He feels around, instinctually, committing it to memory because he has no idea where things go after things end.
He hits a particularly spot, different from the rest. Spongier and noticeable, and you choke on air.
“It feels good there,” You say, laughing through it “But I’m getting impatient. We can get into another time.”
The promise of another time rings in his head loudly as he pulls his hands way. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He watches you sit up, and your expression is flushed and panting. And you’re smiling, because you’re always doing that.
But for the first time, Scaramouche is relieved and not entirely agitated. He can’t believe the state he’s in, but the shock can only come later because right now he’s vulnerable and dependent on you. For clarity and guidance and reassurance and everything else.
So he’s relieved when you’re sitting across from each other and you kiss him so innocently. It’s terribly tender. When you pull away, you kiss the corners of his mouth. And his eyelids and the place where his ears meet his jaw.
“What are you doing?”
“Kissing you.”
“Why.”
“What do you want to hear? The truth or something to appease you?”
“The truth.” He insists.
“Because I like you.”
He hates how how that makes him feel.
“What was the other answer?”
“To embarrass you.”
Being seen through like that is worse embarrassment than being effectively confessed to.
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I like you? Isn’t that what people usually do here?”
“Would you answer me?”
“Obviously not. As if I would.”
You laugh again and kiss his lips. You’re so welcoming it’s gross. So inviting. So sweet. He resents your generosity.
“Then why would I? Silly question, no?”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Are you concerned about me?” You say, voice shrill with delight. He scoffs.
“No. But it’d be uncomfortable to see you act pitifully about it.”
“I dare not ask for your heart, Wanderer.”
“I don’t have one, remember?”
“Wherever you hide your longing is your heart. You have one somewhere, deep down. This much, I’m sure of.”
“Hearing you wax poetic makes me shiver, you bonehead.” He says, failing to put any sarcasm in his voice. You merely laugh again, more soft this time.
“You’ll have to forgive me.” You say, another kiss but this time to his shoulder and Scaramouche breathes out “Lay down, sweetflower.”
The saccharine sweet petname makes him feel a little sick. He lays down, unsure of what to do with himself. From what he knows, it’s supposed to be the other way around.
The bed creaks under your movements. Scaramouche watches you closely, as you climb over him. Your knees end up on either side of him, effectively sitting on him. It dawns on him all at once what you’re doing. His eyes widen as you place a hand on his chest, your feet over his thighs.
Reality sets in when Scaramouche watches you above him. Like the whole world has come to some kind of halt. Pride, anger, retaliation. All of the parts of himself he’s sworn to honor when this is over, burn away to nothingness as he watches you. Your breasts hovering over him, and your palms pressed to his chest and your eyes.
Scaramouche has so much ire for you. He complains about your recklessness and bad habits often to anyone who will spare him time. How you’re airheaded and that all you know how to do is wield a sword and drink poor liquor in poor taste.
There’d be nothing more embarassing that falling for someone as stupid as you are.
Scaramouche watches you sink down on his cock. You’re deliberate about it, your hand around the base as you guide the tip to you’re entrance. He can’t even describe the sensation in it’s entirety. His whole body gives out the minute he feels you stretch around him.
You’re hot inside. So hot it feels like his whole body is melting. Tight enough that he can’t imagine the whole thing going in despite the fact he’s watching it happen. You lower yourself slowly, inch by inch and Scaramouche doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He grabs your hips out of instinct. Gritting his teeth overwhelmed, he groans as he bottoms out.
“Oh, fuck.” Scaramouche tosses his head back, groaning. It’s guttural and deep, his cock throbbing. A dull heat settles in the base of his stomach.
Every muscle in his body is working over-time trying to keep himself from cumming. He opens his eyes to look at you, the expression on your face twisted in pleasure and the task becomes so much harder.
“You feel so good,” You mumble, leaning forward “Haah—Scaramouche, you feel good. Can I move?”
“Ngh, y-yes.”
You nod. Scaramouche is transfixed by the sight of you. He hates to admit it, reluctant to submit himself to such a reality. But he’s not in any position to deny such an obvious sight. Your always-charismatic, always-charming face is pinched with focus. The arch of your body, the weight of your thighs and the shape of you lit well under the low lights. You are beautiful to the point it’s agonizing and Scaramouche can’t deny himself the pleasure of looking. Not that he deserves it. Not that he feels he’s allowed, but that he can’t stop himself from trying to etch it into his mind.
You were always meant to be another alliance of need. Scaramouche needed brawn. Just like he needed allyship in that foolish traveler and archon.
So he can’t wrap his head around how he’s landed here precisely. How he finds himself underneath you and fucking you, and feeling pleasure from you. It escapes him. It fills his head. He understands it now, why he all the other Harbingers seemed so obsessed with screwing their subordinates.
You bring your hand down between your legs as you find a rhythm steadily. Your fingers rub your clit in hard fast motions, and you’re trembling. You bounce on his cock easily, and each time he pulls out - he can hear how wet you are when he pushes back in.
He moans brokenly, throat hoarse and scratchy as he holds onto you for dear life. Struggling to catch his breath. To think anything other than this feels good. Scaramouche wants to cum again, already. He can feel that knot in his stomach, like a rope pulled on two ends and he wants to make a mess.
“You can cum again, sweetflower,” You say, noticing the strain in his movement “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop.”
His eyes widen as you grin at him.
“I’ll stop when I get to finish. Make sense?”
Scaramouche knows he couldn’t hold it if he tried. He curses at you but the words come out slurred.
“Hngh, ’m it's—I’m gonna—”
Scaramouche cums a second time, harder and faster. It feels like something is crashing into his ribs, whole body seizing tight before he thrashes. His cock is sensitive, releasing inside of you. Thinner than before, he opens his mouth letting out a groan.
Just like promised, you don’t stop. You don’t even slow down keeping the same steady pace. He’s still half-hard but he’s so achy. He can’t keep up with it, eyes feeling watery from the sensation. He’s humiliated and angry that he’s about to cry, but he can’t form the words to express it.
“What a crybaby you are, Wanderer,” You say, voice filled to the brim with affection “Do you want me to stop?”
It’s a genuine question, a way out. It kills his remaining pride to shake his head no, but he does. You chuckle above him, so airy like you’re not fucking him like this.
“Say it,” You repeat, slowing down which makes his heart sink “Say you like it.” ’
“Fuck you, f-fuck you,” And then he shivers as you stop. It comes out as a cry “I like it, fuck you,”
You’re so delighted by his response that you bend down to kiss him. You’re limp, likely at your limit so your bodies are pressed together and your arm inbetween them. You’re touching yourself, using him really - all while kissing him and it’s all messy. All of it is unclean and impure and so messy and Scaramouche sticks his tongue out in hopes you’ll make it messier.
“Gonna cum,” You say, between breaths “Gonna cum soon,”
And Scaramouche can’t do anything but brace himself as you do. His whole body is begging for mercy but the feeling you tightening around him is addictive. It’s terrible. It’s so terrible and lecherous and Scaramouche wants to kiss you again. You moan the loudest you have all night and he shudders as you fuck yourself through it.
When you finally, finally stop - Scaramouche is all but broken from the experience.
“We should shower before bed,” You tell him, somehow cognizant “But give me a minute.”
“Hn.”
__
It’s at this point Scaramouche has effectively given up on protesting whatever is happening here. After trying to stand and having his legs give up - you promptly carried him into the bathroom and set him on the counter like some sort of delicate houseplant.
Other than seeming a little tired, you seem unaffected by the whole thing. Meanwhile, Scaramouche feels like he just braced the worst storm of his life and can’t find it in himself to recover fast enough.
So he lets you do as you please. Lets you help him into the bath - knees pulled to his chest and face in his knees contemplating killing you just so he can pretend this didn’t happen.
But when you join him, humming that same tune from Mondstadt that your mother taught you, he can’t find it himself to actually kill you. Maybe this new body has caused him to go soft. Whatever he is, he hates it.
“Sweetflower,” You hum, behind him and pouring some scented soap over his back “Lift your head a bit,”
Maybe it’s the exhaustion, but he find himself pushing is head back onto your shoulder. Frowning. Pouting. You seem surprised by it.
“Hi there,”
“What’s your problem?” He questions, voice full of frustration. You giggle.
“Not sure.”
He hates everything. He hates himself for turning around, pushing himself further into you until he’s half in your lap - his face in your shoulders.
“If I catch you kissing another one of those idiots you call comrades, I’ll have their head.”
You freeze before your shoulders shake with laughter. He feels your lips on the top of his head, arms around his shoulders as he comes closer.
“Who should I kiss instead, then?”
“Shut up. Stop asking stupid questions.” He says, looking up at you. You laugh a little, pressing your mouth against his.
“Yeah,” You agree easily “Stupid question.”