Work Text:
Tartaglia is there when Scaramouche returns from Inazuma. He stands off to the side, arms crossed, watching as Scaramouche kneels on the cold floor of Zapolyarny Palace, head bowed low so that his hat shields all emotion on his face, and presents his report to the Tsaritsa. The Vision Hunt Decree is over, he tells her, but it is a small price to pay for finally having acquired the Electro Archon’s Gnosis. He holds the Gnosis in his outstretched hand— such a small, deceptively fragile container for a vessel of utmost power— and her ice-cold fingers brush against the flesh of his palm as she picks it up, daintily, curling her long nails around it.
“Good work, Scaramouche,” she says, with no inflection in her voice. He wonders if she can intuit how, only days prior, he had attempted to keep the Gnosis for himself.
Afterwards, Tartaglia accompanies him as they exit the Tsaritsa’s personal chambers and head to the main square.
“Just so you know,” Tartaglia boasts, “if it were me I would’ve done a better job.”
Scaramouche whips his head around so that the tassels of his hat assault Tartaglia in the face. Tartaglia narrowly dodges, very much used to the gesture. “What,” Scaramouche mutters, “you think you could’ve convinced the Shogun to continue enforcing the Vision Hunt Decree?”
“No, but I’d have brought back the Gnosis and the Traveller. He and I are great friends.”
“You don’t have friends.”
“You don’t have friends. I have plenty, thank you very much.”
Scaramouche ignores the obvious lie. If he had friends, he wouldn’t be tailing Scaramouche like a stray dog looking for an owner. Anyway, there’s a sour taste in Scaramouche’s mouth that can only be washed away by copious amounts of sake.
The Tsaritsa may consider the mission a success. They could always sell Delusions elsewhere. But Scaramouche knows the truth. Knows how blatantly his body rejected the Gnosis when he tried to insert it into the cavity in his chest. The violent, jarring repulsion of the Gnosis from his chest that sent it flying, clattering pathetically as it rolled along the floor of the Delusion factory. Even though he was created by an Archon. Even though he was, by all measures, more powerful than the puppet that currently ruled Inazuma. What obnoxious folly.
Scaramouche turns a sharp corner. Tartaglia follows. “Where are you going?”
“For a drink. Don’t come with me.”
Tartaglia comes with him.
There’s an underground bar in a dark, quiet alley on the outskirts of Snezhnaya City that Scaramouche frequents. There are few people, and the ones that are there usually clear the area as soon as Scaramouche steps in. No one can relax with a Harbinger in the vicinity. The owner keeps an ample stock of junmai sake, and Scaramouche pays a hefty price.
Tartaglia sidles up into the stool next to him. The owner brings Scaramouche his bottle of sake, and Scaramouche looks to Tartaglia, who stares back at him, blank-faced.
“The younger person pours the drinks,” says Scaramouche. “It’s Inazuman tradition.”
Spoiled brat, Tartaglia mouths silently. He rolls his eyes, but pours the drinks anyway, that precise brand of bratty obedience that tells Scaramouche exactly what Tartaglia is after. They tip their cups back and drink.
“Ah—!” Tartaglia makes an exaggerated sound of satisfaction, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nice and warm. I still prefer fire-water, though— guess I’m Snezhnayan through and through.”
Scaramouche looks over at Tartaglia. “So, what do you want?”
“What?” Blue eyes widen with a look of faux innocence. It’s unbecoming on him.
“You haven’t let me out of your sight since I got back. Like an annoying flea in the heat of summer.”
“Maybe I just missed you,” Tartaglia tosses back. “Ever thought about that?”
Scaramouche stares him down, unruffled.
Tartaglia sets down his cup with a deflated sigh. “I went to Liyue again.”
Scaramouche lets out a snort. “A decision that clearly worked out for you,” he says scathingly, “seeing as you came back empty-handed.”
Scaramouche has no sympathy for Tartaglia’s situation. Chasing after someone who will never return your feelings is a fool’s errand. In fact, if he had the capacity to, Scaramouche might pity Zhongli. He knows how irritating Tartaglia’s constant presence is, like an itch you cannot scratch.
“I didn’t come to you so you could bully me,” Tartaglia complains.
Scaramouche pours his own drink this time, and downs it in a single gulp. He sets the cup down on the counter with finality, a glint in his eyes as he turns to stare at Tartaglia.
“Why else would you ever come to me?”
Anyone who’s ever heard the name Tartaglia can conjure the vivid image of a hardened warrior, sadistic in his love of battle, reckless in his destruction of anything that stands in his way. But poke and prod even a little bit beyond that, and you’d know that what he truly thrives on is the thrill of finding someone who can match him or more. Someone who can rough him up a little, or a lot, or even send him hurtling straight to the precipice of death. That’s what he craves, and that’s the button Scaramouche likes to press.
A few more drinks in and he’s hauling Tartaglia home, back to the Harbingers’ shared quarters. They each have private rooms, with Scaramouche’s conveniently across the hall from Tartaglia’s. His own place is probably dusty with the amount of time he’s been away in Inazuma, so he pulls them into Tartaglia’s bedroom and throws him down on the bed.
Kissing is a waste of time, swapping spit with merely the promise of more instead of cutting to the chase. But it gets Tartaglia hard, so Scaramouche indulges him. Tartaglia is so responsive it’s almost embarrassing. He licks into Tartaglia’s mouth and Tartaglia moans like he’s sucking cock. The pads of Scaramouche’s thumbs press against his inner thighs, hooking under that useless, slutty little thigh strap he likes to wear, and Tartaglia starts to squirm, already hard.
Morax would have a hell of a time with him.
When Scaramouche has had enough of humoring him, he ditches his own shirt, and begins to unbutton Tartaglia’s. Tartaglia runs his hands over the planes of Scaramouche’s chest, and pauses there, his appreciative look turning strangely contemplative.
Tartaglia brushes the pads of his fingers over the wound, the gnarled and nasty burn left there when his body rejected the Gnosis of his creator. “What happened here? I can’t imagine that anyone would be good enough to land a hit on you like this, dead center.”
“You’re smart enough to figure it out.” Scaramouche wasn’t going to take the time to explain his failure. It wasn’t a lie to say that he never wanted a heart. A heart was human, and humans were weak. He wanted a Gnosis. Dottore had made alterations to his physical body, made him stronger. But clearly he still had to make some improvements. There were four Gnoses left, four more opportunities to try.
“I could understand someone going for your heart during a fight,” says Tartaglia. “It’s too bad that you don’t have one. It’s kinda weird, you know, being with someone who doesn’t have a heartbeat. It’s like fucking a dead body.”
“This dead body is all you get,” Scaramouche responds, popping the last button of Tartaglia’s shirt and pushing it so it slides off his shoulders. He pulls the sleeves off and throws it aside carelessly. “Tell me, how is it that you keep running back to Liyue, lusting after someone who will never return your feelings?”
“What would you know about feelings?” Tartaglia snaps. “You’re nothing but a puppet, an empty husk, cast aside by your own creator. You don’t even have a heart.”
Scaramouche digs his nails into the flesh of Tartaglia’s chest, hard enough to draw blood. “If I wanted one,” he says, teeth grazing against Tartaglia’s exposed neck, “I would have ripped yours out long ago.”
A half-moan bubbles up in the root of Tartaglia’s throat. Scaramouche grins. The only thing that gets Tartaglia hotter than the threat of violence is the act of it. At his core, he just wants to be beat, to be subdued. That’s why he’s so desperate for somebody like Morax. But— and Scaramouche knows this well— there are others capable of doing the job of an Archon.
Scaramouche grabs him by the wrists and locks them behind his back. With a burst of Electro, he cuffs them together. He drags his nails across Tartaglia’s chest, summoning the barest hint of Electro to cauterize the wound as it appears. Tartaglia jolts, letting out a breathy gasp as he arches his chest into the touch.
“So predictable,” Scaramouche clicks his tongue. “What do you want? Say it.”
Tartaglia swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips, cock straining against the fabric of his pants. “Fuck me,” he says.
“I’m doing you a favor,” Scaramouche sneers. “The least you could do is say please.”
Tartaglia holds his jaw taut. Scaramouche shrugs, pushing a bent knee forward so that the ball of his foot is resting on Tartaglia’s erection. “Or you could rub yourself off on my foot like some pathetic animal. Your choice.”
Tartaglia pants and moans, shifting his hips up, rutting against Scaramouche’s foot. “Nngh,” he groans. Scaramouche can see the frustration on his face, clear as day. This kind of friction isn’t nearly enough. “F-fuck me,” he stammers, uncharacteristically quiet. “Please.”
“Can’t hear you.” Scaramouche presses his foot down, harder. “Speak up.”
“Ahn— please!”
“There we go. Was that so hard?”
Tartaglia shakes, his face a deep red, biting obstinately down on his bottom lip.
“On your knees.”
Tartaglia obeys, maneuvering himself rather skillfully given that his hands are restrained behind his back. Scaramouche strips him of his pants, circles his finger around the light scarring where his thigh strap has rubbed against his flesh. Leans in and presses a self-indulgent bite there, making Tartaglia whimper in surprise. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just that Scaramouche much prefers seeing marks on Tartaglia’s body that he himself left there.
The rest is routine by now. He holds out his hand, and Tartaglia summons a dollop of Hydro, then drops it into Scaramouche’s palm. Scaramouche coats his finger with it before sliding it inside of Tartaglia’s hole. Tartaglia gasps, head turning so that the sound is muffled into the pillow. Scaramouche pushes it in to the knuckle, watching Tartaglia tighten around it, barely giving him time to adjust before pushing in a second. Tartaglia groans with the stretch, legs trembling slightly with exertion.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Scaramouche mutters. “Has it really been that long? Were you saving yourself for him? Or for me, knowing no one else would deign to fuck you?”
“Go to hell,” Tartaglia grits out.
Scaramouche smiles wide, all teeth. He slips in a third, curling them so that he brushes right up against his prostate. Tartaglia cries out, body seizing up with pleasure, pushing back onto Scaramouche’s fingers, demanding. “More, right there, oh fuck—”
Scaramouche pulls his fingers out. Tartaglia whines, shooting a teary-eyed glare over his shoulder. When he sees Scaramouche undoing his own pants, his mood shifts into one of eager anticipation. Ah, how naive, wearing his expressions so openly on his face like that. It makes Scaramouche want to utterly ruin him. It’s a good thing he has free rein to.
He waves a hand and the Electro cuffs around Tartaglia’s wrists dissipate. There are burn marks around them, which he’s pleased to see. When Tartaglia shoots him a questioning look, he jerks his chin to the headboard. “Grab on,” he says, giving him a second to do so, before he lines himself up against Tartaglia’s entrance and enters with one quick thrust.
Tartaglia gasps brokenly, tight and perfect around him. A drop of sweat slides down his jaw and falls onto the pillow. Scaramouche adjusts to the feeling, letting out a low sigh. Then he picks up the pace, hasty and unceremonious. It’s not just Tartaglia who’s waited a long time for this.
He reaches forward to tilt Tartaglia’s jaw towards him, and leaves a bite just above the collar, where anyone can see it.
“Hey,” Tartaglia complains weakly with no bite.
As Scaramouche removes his hand from his jaw, though, Tartaglia grabs it. Stares at the burn wound in the center of his palm that matches the one on the chest. In the vague, chess-like shape of a Gnosis.
A look of shock settles onto his face. He barks out a laugh. “Wow. Wow. You really tried to keep it for yourself? You know that’s heresy, right? You could be executed for that.”
“I won’t,” Scaramouche growls into the shell of his ear. “Because you won’t tell her.”
Tartaglia shudders. “How do you know?”
“I’ll tell her that you’ve been gagging for Morax’s cock ever since she sent you to Liyue,” Scaramouche drawls. “That you’d ditch your job at the drop of a hat if he so much as breathed in your direction.”
“Fuck you,” Tartaglia snaps. “I wouldn’t do that, and you know it.”
“No,” Scaramouche simpers, “not with me around to keep a filthy whore like you in check.”
Scaramouche pistons his hips forward. Tartaglia makes a muffled sound against the back of his fist, crammed hastily into his mouth.
“See? Listen to yourself. Look how loud you are, how shameless. These walls are so thin, anybody could hear you.”
Tartaglia’s cock gives a telltale twitch. “Ah— f-fuck, I’m—”
“Close already? Pathetic. We’re only just getting started.”
Scaramouche likes Tartaglia for how easy he is to control. How fallible he is to the most basic of human desires. Scaramouche may have been a puppet, but Tartaglia is his puppet. He could do anything he wanted with him.
A twist of the wrist and Tartaglia arches predictably into his touch. Hands spreading him apart, pressing bruises against his thighs, and he lets out a telltale moan. A bite on his neck and he squirms into the pillow, a slap on his ass and he keens like it’s all he ever wanted.
It’s a kind of control Scaramouche seldom finds elsewhere, more satisfying than leading an army, and a fuck you to the archon who created him. He might as well have been created for this, he thinks, fucking into Tartaglia with reckless abandon. Having lived as one for so long, maybe he’s become more human than he lets on.
Seeking a better angle, he sits back and hauls Tartaglia back onto his lap. He grips his fingers tight on Tartaglia’s hips and thrusts up, hard and deep, drawing a startled cry from Tartaglia, whose head falls back in pleasure. Despite their overall size difference, Scaramouche isn’t lacking in this department. When he reaches forward, he can feel the barest hint of the tip of his cock bulging against Tartaglia’s belly as he fucks into him like a glorified fleshlight. And Tartaglia loves it, too— when Scaramouche grabs Tartaglia’s wrist and presses his hand there, Tartaglia whines, tears budding at the corners of his eyes.
“Fuck, h-holy shit, I’m gonna—”
“Come,” Scaramouche commands, low in his ear.
That’s all it takes for Tartaglia to come apart in his arms, crying out and spurting onto his own chest. Scaramouche gives him no time to catch his breath, not bothering to slow down before shoving him down onto his belly again, taking him from behind at a reckless pace.
“Wait, wait, slow down,” Tartaglia protests, but Scaramouche pays him no mind, only letting the high-pitched moans and Tartaglia’s pliant body drive him further into the depths of his own pleasure. He feels it, the heavy heat in the pit of his stomach building to a peak, coursing through his body. Cursing under his breath, he moves to flip Tartaglia around.
He starts to pull out, intending to jerk himself to completion and come all over his face. But Tartaglia tightens around him and whimpers, his tear-streaked and reddened face looking unfairly, impossibly tantalizing. “Come inside me,” he pleads, “please, I need it.”
Tartaglia might be his puppet, but sometimes, on occasion, he lets Tartaglia pull his strings.
He comes hard with a groan, emptying his load inside of Tartaglia’s tight warmth. There’s a moment of blank white that cuts through his thoughts, an inimitable, euphoric euthymia. All he knows is the primal pleasure of a physical form he was never meant to be in tune with, but ended up succumbing to anyway.
He pulls out, surrenders to gravity and falls on his side, rolling over to let Tartaglia breathe. He can hear the pitter-patter of Tartaglia’s heart, racing from the adrenaline. Can see the rise and fall of his chest, with all the come smeared on it. It should be disgusting, but it isn’t. Far from it.
When Tartaglia comes to again, Scaramouche jerks his thumb toward the bathroom door. “Clean yourself off if you have to.”
“...This is my room.”
“Touche.”
“Aren’t you going to go?”
“No.” Scaramouche stretches out on the bed. He has no intention of leaving. He’s done enough for Tartaglia today. He can stand to let him use the bed when Scaramouche’s own is certainly dusty with cobwebs.
Tartaglia snorts. “Like I said, spoiled brat.”
He doesn’t get up to use the bathroom, instead cleaning himself off lazily with Hydro. Scaramouche wipes himself off with the corner of Tartaglia’s sheets, which earns him a hearty shove that nearly sends him off the edge of the bed.
They lie there in silence. Tartaglia clears his throat, determined to make it awkward. Scaramouche ignores him.
“Did you know Teucer had a twin?”
Scaramouche turns to look at him. “Teucer?”
“Wow,” Tartaglia rolls his eyes. “You can memorize every transport route in and out of Snezhnaya, but you can’t remember the name of my kid brother? No wonder no one likes you.”
“What’s your point?”
“As I was saying, Teucer had a twin, but he was stillborn. Apparently, it was a rare condition— they shared a heart in the womb, and it could only pump enough blood for one of them to survive.” Tartaglia tilts his head to look out the window through the blinds. “Maybe that’s why I spoil him so much. Like I’m compensating for something. Even though it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
Scaramouche falls quiet, for he has nothing to say. He wonders what Ei’s thought process was when she let him survive.
“All this to say, even humans can be born without a heart. But they can’t survive without one, and you can. It’s proof that you’re strong. You’ve got nothing to be jealous of.”
He understands that Tartaglia is extending an olive branch. He doesn’t take it, because he doesn’t need it. “I’m not jealous.”
“Uh-huh.” Tartaglia yawns loudly, stretching out his limbs like a cat before flopping back onto the bed. “G’night.”
Scaramouche stays quiet, pondering the statement as Tartaglia closes his eyes. When Tartaglia finally begins to snore, Scaramouche allows himself to inch closer. He lets his hand wander over Tartaglia’s chest, just skin and flesh and ribs, such a fallible cage, barely protecting the heart that beats inside. Humans truly are pathetic. He traces a slow line over Tartaglia’s skin. Feels out his heartbeat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The emotion that encloses over his own ribcage is not quite jealousy, as Tartaglia had suggested. Instead, it is some rare emotion not borne of malice. Warm, like junmai sake. He doesn’t recognize it. Doesn’t care to.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He lets the sound lull him to sleep.