FLUSTERED, ANGEL?

FLUSTERED, ANGEL?

— things they do that make you flustered.

characters: kaedehara kazuha, xiao, scaramouche / wanderer, albedo, tighnari, cyno, shikanoin heizou, kamisato ayaka, mona megistus, beidou, shenhe, yae miko, gn! reader.

tags: sfw / suggestive, some female leaning pet-names (princess, etc.), mentions of blood and injury (mild), mentions of alcohol and being tipsy.

author’s note: first time attempting to write for some of the girls! i hope you guys enjoy! these are just some short headcanons, the idea came to me and i thought i’d give it a try. thank you @bunny-rambles for suggesting beidou and for being the first one to read these! <3 tagging @alatusprinz as well, since many of your favorites are featured here, akina, and you wanted to read it 💞

KAZUHA.

when he recites poems to you.

his voice is gentle and melodic, akin to a honeyed early autumn breeze. his bandaged hand finds yours, holding it delicately, his thumb tracing patterns over the back of it.

to kazuha, you are beyond ethereal, his muse, his love, who inspires the majority of his poetry. silvery lashes fluter closed when his lips brush against the back of your hand. you’re frozen in place, gaze wide, cheeks rivaling the warmth of the setting sun.

“i adore you, my dove.” kazuha utters, millimeters away from your parted lips, before leaning in, stealing the breath caught in the back of your throat, held there since he started his ministrations, his verses enchanting you as much as his presence and loving gestures.

and when his kisses move from the corner of your lips to your jawline and your neck? kazuha is aware of the effect he has on you, how you tense up at first, to let out pleasured sighs afterwards, your hands tugging slightly at the platinum roots of his long silky hair.

XIAO.

when he scolds you for being reckless / not taking proper care of yourself.

you know your yaksha vowed to protect you, and truth be told, you always tried your best to be extra careful when going out on missions. sometimes, though, injuries and bruises can’t be avoided.

“why didn’t you call my name?” xiao asks you, his tone harsher than he intended. his own scarred hands keep at work bandaging the gash on your arm.

“i didn’t want to bother, xiao.” you point out, nonchalantly. crossing your legs over the bed you’re sat at, head resting on the wall behind you, you add: “it wasn’t that much of a tough fight, and i know you have other, more important, matters to attend to.”

the slam on the wall right beside your head is something you had not expected.

“more important? do you honestly think i could have anything more important to attend to than your safety?” xiao’s golden eyes are intense, almost glowing, brow furrowed in-between concern and frustration, his tattooed arm caging you between him and the wall.

and as you shake your head and stutter a “n-no?” all you can think about is the way the adeptus’ lean muscles are tensed up and how close he is to you right now.

SCARAMOUCHE.

when he asks you to give him your hand.

you swear the wanderer has put a spell on you. his eyes, an all too hypnotic shade of intense violet; his voice, softening when he addresses you. scaramouche extends his hand to you, slender fingers slightly folded when he asks you to take it.

for an instant, you find yourself lost in thought, as if in a trance by the wondrous man that he is. the warm breeze of sumeru’s night ruffles his locks of midnight hair. his free hand comes up to catch the brim of his hat, the veins and tendons prominent when he flexes his fingers.

“well? what are you exactly waiting for?” scaramouche chuckles, an amused and proud glint flitting across his eyes of iris petals. you start, pulled out of your little reverie by his baritone.

you inhale, breath hitching under the wanderer’s inscrutable yet softened gaze. you take his hand. he squeezes it, firmly but gently. together, you take off into the night.

ALBEDO.

when he asks you to model for him.

it’s the nonchalance in his tone and his calm visage that cause your cheeks to warm up. it’s the way he carries himself, elegant, regal, the picture perfect image of a golden prince.

“my love,” the alchemist, now in the role of a painter, begins. “would you do me the honor of being my model?” albedo inquires, thumb tracing your lower lip.

you swallow, the icy air of dragonspine not enough to cool down the heat rising to your face. albedo’s teal eyes regard you, curious, attentive, as if trying to commit to memory every detail, every eyelash and line of your face.

you nod, not trusting your words to not tremble. and when your lover pulls down your sweater, baring your shoulders, the gentlest of kisses landing there, and tells you to keep still, that he will begin to paint you, your heartbeat is loud on your ears.

TIGHNARI.

when he gets sassy, especially when his intention is to tease you, just a little.

your boyfriend is very pretty, undeniably so, his hazel turquoise eyes focused on his task; dark silky hair gently swaying in the rainforest’s soft breeze; his long ears twitching every now and then, velvety tail following suit, swishing from side to side.

there are moments like this, in which you get completely entranced and captured by tighnari’s beauty, by him, your gaze unapologetically focused on his form, and unaware that, you are, in fact, staring.

“love, your eyes are going to get dry if you don’t blink.” tighnari’s voice pulls you out of your daze, your gaze even more wide, if that was possible, at your boyfriend’s teasing tone.

you start, scrambling for words that would die in your throat.

“i- uh… i…” you can feel your heart rate increasing, tighnari’s amused grin making it impossible for your thoughts to clear.

he chuckles, then:

“it’s okay, darling.” tighnari’s lips brush against the corner of yours, you can feel his smile. “i know just the way to make you close your eyes.” he whispers, before leaning in to properly kiss you on the lips.

CYNO.

when he tells you he’ll keep you safe.

cyno is aware you can hold your own in a fight and emerge as the victor. but his instincts and protective nature always urge him to keep you safe and guarded.

the way cyno’s hand wraps softly but firmly around your wrist should be familiar by now and yet, this simple action of his always manages to cause for your breath to hitch.

perhaps it is because it comes with no previous warning; maybe it’s the way his voice drops an octave when he gets close to you and assures you: “you’ll be safe with me.”; and of course, it could also be the caress of his hair on your skin when he leans close to whisper reassuring words, and the intensity of his scarlet gaze.

more than once, he has wondered if you were feeling alright, if there was some danger that he had not sensed yet. it’s endearing, you think, how your boyfriend has no idea of the effect he has on you.

HEIZOU.

when he uses pet names, his green eyes crinkling up with every smile.

the young detective knows very well the effect his compliments and lingering touches have on you. not one to be shy or bashful, heizou uses his flirtatious ways to make your heart skip some beats.

sometimes, he takes you completely by surprise, his arms wrapping around you from behind when you’re preparing breakfast. for a few seconds, he just stays there, the sweetness of your scent making him feel as if his nightly dreams haven’t ended yet. then, out of nowhere, he leans close to your ear, messy strands of his maroon hair tickling you when he whispers:

“good morning, my princess. you look beautiful as ever.”

the pan and spatula you were holding almost clutter to the counter, at the same time an electrifying sensation runs all the way down your spine.

when heizou chuckles, however, nuzzling further into your shoulder, you can help but smile and regard him fondly. what a charmer he can be, but he is your charmer, and that makes you happy, he makes you happy.

AYAKA.

when she is in battle, assisting or protecting you.

the shirasagi himegimi cuts through the battlefield in a rapid dance of frost and steel. her movements are precise, elegant and effective, cutting down opponent after opponent with her blade.

her clear sky gaze is serious, focused, not leaving any room for hesitation, as if she was able to predict every movement from the enemy.

perhaps it is ayaka’s enchanting presence that makes you lose focus, your own weapon knocked out of your grasp before you realize exactly how and when it happened.

“you’re finished!” the kairagi spats, only for the blow to never come.

a clash of metal, then, your girlfriend’s voice, uncharacteristically cold, as the snow and frost she commands.

“i don’t think so!” she announces, knocking the enemy unconscious with a masterful flick of her katana, a rain of frosted sakura petals in her wake.

MONA.

when she teaches you astrology and hydromancy.

mona was always passionate about her craft, that was a known fact to the people of mondstadt, including you. what you had never expected when you first met the mighty astrologist, was that she would end up teaching you some techniques.

mona sits crossed legged across from you, a huge leather-bound book with shiny dark blue covers and golden lettering embossed on them in her hands. her dark bangs fall over her clear teal eyes, flitting from one side of the page to the other. meanwhile, you are trying to learn how to draw star and natal charts. the process is clearly not as easy as your lover makes it seem, multiple calculations and accurate line-art required.

unaware, you let out a huff of frustration, which catches the attention of your partner.

“alright, let me see what you’ve got.” she tells you, a hand on her hip, the other glossing over your papers. “not bad at all.” she muses. “let me see… here.” she says, taking ahold of your hand and guiding your pencil in the right direction. “try like this instead. it will be easier!”

you’re not sure your now distracted and flustered state is going to make the task at hand any less complicated, but for mona, you’ll try. after all, the spark in her eyes, and the excitement she tries to downplay are a cute sight on her.

BEIDOU.

when she’s tipsy and gets more physically affectionate with you in public.

party nights at the alcor were not something uncommon, what with everyone in the crew and the captain’s good mood and love for tasty meals and quality drink, the atmosphere was usually quite suitable for celebration.

the issue, sometimes, was that captain beidou definitely had a high alcohol tolerance, while some of the crew members did not, which resulted in a very drunk and very diverse bunch at the end of the night.

as much as beidou can hold her alcohol, though, it was oftentimes that she drank enough to be tipsy, which resulted in the affections you two kept in her private cabin to be somewhat exposed (to the few members of the crux that weren’t completely inebriated, anyway).

“babe, come here.” beidou smiles, widely, wrapping her strong arms around your middle. it catches you off guard, the way she rests her chin on your shoulder and tightens his hold a little tighter around you so in public.

and perhaps it’s everyone’s chatter and laughter, or the marine breeze lit by the moon, or the knowing look a certain ronin gives you, smiling and walking away to give you and beidou more privacy, but, even though you can’t help being a little shy, you suppose it’s okay to indulge too.

SHENHE.

when she picks you up in her arms.

no matter if it’s exhaustion or a sprained ankle, your girlfriend really doesn’t hesitate to hoist you up and carry you in her arms. gradually, you’re getting used to it, and you have to admit it feels nice, to rest in her plump chest, her heartbeat a relaxing constant as you cross through liyue’s landscapes.

however, the first few times it always took you completely off-guard. you are not sure if it was shenhe’s calm expression or the ease with which she picked you up, as if you weighted nothing, but you remember how you mentioned you were tired once, and next thing you knew you were being carried around.

thinking back on it, it was kind of cute, how shenhe didn’t really understand why you got so shy. you ended up chuckling, pecking her lips softly, a “thank you, dearest.” leaving your lips as you hugged her close under jueyun karst’s moonlight.

what you don’t quite know, however, is that that simple action of yours caused for color to raise to your beloved’s cheeks.

YAE MIKO.

when she wipes traces of food from the corners of your lips.

delicate petals in various shades of soft pink and rose flutter in the early spring breeze at narukami shrine. the sky is clear and cloudless, the last remnants of winter’s snow having melted away weeks ago.

you and lady yae, the guuji of narukami shrine and also your lover, find yourselves enjoying some dango milk, the new sweet drink that’s become so popular in inazuma lately.

yae miko is telling you stories about her past, being a youkai having lived for hundreds of years, her tales are always fantastical and full of magic. her hair, matching the cherry blossoms above, sways delicately with every one of her movements. you can’t help but be in awe at the elegance and presence she carries herself with.

“wait a second, my little one.” she says, inching closer to you, violet eyes focused on your lips. using the back of her index finger, she traces your cupid’s bow, cleaning up the pink sugary residue of the beverage. “there.” she nods, her hand still not separating from your face, which you are sure your lover has realized how hot it has become at her touch.

bounty - vash/f!reader/wolfwood (trigun stampede) 1.4k, poly!au, wild west!au even tho it's hard to tell in a fic this short lol, bounty hunters, this is an equilateral triangle of a relationship, fluff but suggestive, wolfwood calls reader 'kid' as a petname, i may expand on this but rly who's to say

the mattress dips beside you, rousing you from sleep.

you don’t open your eyes, nor do you feel any panic. instead, you find yourself reaching out towards the form that’s curled up into your side; familiar and warm to the touch.

“welcome home,” you whisper quietly, slumber still clinging to your throat and making your words rasp a little more than usual. “good morning.”

“it’s not morning yet,” vash whispers in reply with a laugh creeping into his voice. he presses a kiss against your temple, nosing into your hair. “you should go back to sleep.”

he sounds tired as he clings to you tightly, and you open your eyes to meet his sleepy gaze. he smiles, even through his exhaustion, and you watch fondly as his eyes crinkle at the corners in the dim light of the oil lamp at your bedside. 

you shift a little closer to him in your bed, craning up to press a kiss to the little mark below his eye. he sighs contently as your lips brush against his skin, his body slackening into yours as though he's finally allowing his weariness to catch up to him. finally allowing himself to rest.

you pull away, brushing a few strands of blonde hair back from his face.

he has a bruise at the edge of his jaw, and dark rings of shadow that are deepest at the inner corner of his eyes. his skin looks sallow, and his lips dry.

you wonder how rough these past few weeks have been.

“where’s nico?” you ask gently, cradling his face in your hands. the question has been at the back of your mind since your bed dipped only on one side.

vash averts his eyes from yours guiltily.

“vash?” you press, a sudden knot of anxiety winding in the pit of your stomach. you sit up in bed, your quilt pooling in your lap as it slips from your body and reveals the cotton of your gauzy nightdress.

“he’s outside,” the man beside you murmurs, pink blooming high across his cheeks as his head rests against his pillow. he pouts a little, finally peeking back up at you through his lashes with a wounded gaze. “he’s mad at me.”

“oh?” you ask, fighting back a laugh at how sheepish and petulant the man below you looks. “and why is that?” 

vash purses his lips even further.

“the guy we were after…” 

“the wanted man whose bounty you were hunting,” you correct vash lightly, a lilt of playfulness in your tone.

“yeah, him,” vash nods, and then grimaces, “he sort of… got away.”

you let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“vash, that’s…”

“the third one in a row, i know. i know.” vash wraps his arms around your waist and pulls his head into your lap. you card your fingers through his hair as he nuzzles into you for comfort.

“did you let this one get away again?” you ask quietly, but not in an accusatory way.

vash says nothing, but that’s an admission in and of itself.

you sigh, your fingers stilling as they trace through the strands of blonde, the locks curling around your knuckles. you shift towards the edge of the bed, and vash tries to keep you where you are by tightening his hold around your waist.

“i’m just gonna go check on him,” you assure him when he looks up at you with wide eyes. you dip down and press a kiss to his lips—the ones you’ve been missing so much for the fortnight he and nicholas had been away. he whines as you pull away, and you smile against his mouth. you kiss him again, more chaste this time. “i’ll be back.”

nicholas is on the front porch, staring out into the sea of sand that surrounds the little ranch you call home. his beloved boots have been kicked off beside the door, and his shirt is unbuttoned to reveal the undershirt he wears beneath. the tails of the shirt are still tucked into his trousers but he’s unfastened their button at his waist too, and his suspenders are the only thing keeping them on as he reclines back onto his elbows against the wooden slats of the porch deck.

you know he hears the screen door open to let you out, and you're even more certain that he hears the sound of it shutting behind you once you've stepped outside. the smell of tobacco clings to the edge of the night wind. it’s familiar, comforting. reminds you that he’s home. you draw in a long breath to savour it.

“you should be in bed, kid,” nicholas rasps, tapping the ash off the end of his sad, vaguely mangled cigarette. 

“i’m not allowed to come and welcome you home?” you kneel behind him, wrapping your arms around his neck. it feels nice to have him in your arms again. feels right.

“not when you’ve got a crybaby to coddle in there,” he grunts, but you still feel him lean back into your embrace. you hide your pleased smile against the crown of his head.

“he’s probably already asleep,” you murmur into the top nicholas’s hair, swaying him gently. “he feels bad. he thinks you’re mad at him.”

“i am mad at him,” nicholas snaps, but you see through the sharpness of his tone. he’s tired, probably hungry, but not sincerely angry. “he fucked up another job for us.” 

“guess that’s what you get taking in a fugitive as a partner, mister bounty hunter,” you tease him, pressing a kiss to his throat. his skin tastes of salt and desert sand, like days spent in the sun and labour. you feel how he shivers at the gentle brush of your mouth against his pulse. "and a bleeding hearted one at that."

“you’re the one who took him in like a stray,” nicholas complains, “i’m only putting up with him for your sake.”

it’s a lie, and he knows it as well as you do. he’s just as attached to the blonde presently curled up in your bed, the one too big for just him, as you are. it's the reason nicholas wears a thin gold band that he takes impossibly good care of, just like the two of you do, on his left ring finger.

nicholas tips his head back so he can finally look at you, his cigarette still dangling from his lips. the corner of his mouth quirks slightly as he draws a breath in, the cherry burning red in the night. you pluck the cigarette from his lips as he lets the smoke slip out on his exhale, his dark eyes still fixed to your face as he appraises you.

you observe him similarly, scanning over him as though taking inventory of the state he's fallen into since he's been away. he’s in the same shape as vash, from what you can tell. you spot some bruises mottling his skin, some rough stubble coming in at the edge of his jaw. there’s a blood stain on the collar of his shirt, and you aren’t sure if it’s his own or someone else’s, but you know it will be a pain to wash out. 

but that’s a problem for tomorrow.

“if he’s a stray, what does that make you?” you ask him with a little laugh, his cigarette still pinched between your thumb and forefinger.

he quirks a brow. “if i say ‘the luckiest guy in the world’ are you gonna think i’m just trying to take you to bed?” 

you snort, stamping the stub of the cigarette out onto the wooden porch and then flicking the butt away into the sand. you dip down until you’re nose to nose with him.

“of course I am,” you reply to him, your lips brushing against his as you speak the words. you can taste the tobacco that clings to his mouth from this close, but you don't mind it when it tastes like home. “and it’s our bed, nicholas. so take me to it whenever you’d like.”

(read part 2 here!)

[ TO LOVE ] SCARAMOUCHE.

to love is to betray—at least that’s how scaramouche has always seen it.

and then he meets you.

“this is my bath,” you tease him lightly, and even despite the shooing motion of your hand, even despite the soft glare sent your way, you still make room for him to settle between your legs.

“well, it’s also mine now too,” he huffs.

he leans his back against your chest, let’s his body melt in against yours, let’s the soft trace of your hands fill the empty cracks with something he’s lacked for long time.

scaramouche is almost certain you realize he’s in love with you before he comes close to knowing himself. and it’s funny—even though you fall first, he falls harder.

maybe it’s just the world being cruel once again, just as it always has been with him. it’s cruel, downright evil, really, that something about you makes him forget so easily who he is, who he’s supposed to be. love has always written itself as betrayal—but you make it seem so promising, luring out the softest parts of him, the naive ones that hope and hope…just to crumble in the end, like always.

but then you wash his hair, lathering shampoo into your hands and working through his hair softly, slowly, delicately like he’s fragile.

“admit it. you just like it when i wash your hair, huh?” and you’re still teasing, still using that slightly amused tone when you speak to him. he should be insulted, he thinks, but there’s a smile on his face.

for a moment, he notes that he’s lucky his back is facing you and the smile stretched across his lips is hidden—otherwise you’d have the satisfaction of knowing you’re right. because he does love when you wash his hair, he loves the closeness and the safety and the feeling of being wanted. of being cherished. of being something to someone without having to earn it first.

but he can’t bring himself to admit it, so instead, he scoffs, leaning more weight onto you as he quirks a brow.

“well, why wash it myself if you’re around?”

it’s his way of giving himself the upper hand—his way of convincing himself that love is not the reason why he so desperately chases the tenderness of your fingers against his scalp. no, instead, he convinces himself that mortals such as you were made to serve him like this. to treat him like he’s holy and divine, like he’s the god you’re meant to worship as you kiss his shoulder with a giggle.

“that’s true,” you hum, “why would you do it when i can take care of you?”

but you’re different—and it scares him a little. you don’t worship him like he’s a deity, like he’s all mighty and the answer to your prayers. instead, you simply love him, like it’s a choice, like it’s something you want.

you cover his eyes as you rinse out the suds. love. you cup his cheek and admire him. love. you lean down and press a kiss to the tip of his nose, teasingly grazing over his lips before pulling away. love.

everything about you is completely in love—but to love is to betray, and he knows the inevitable will be soon to come.

so he denies the urge to pull you back in, ignores the almost painful need to feel your lips press against his, turns away every part of him that screams to let i love you spill from his lips.

because every time he loves, every time he so graciously gives every piece of himself—like the heart he doesn’t have, even offering the parts that don’t exist and giving them up anyway—love always tastes like a bitter sip of betrayal.

i love you, he wants to say. but he knows as soon as the words slip, so will you from his fingers. just like the last time—just like the first.

“you don’t need to take care of me,” he grunts, “i’m fine on my own.”

“on your own,” you hum in thought, as if you’re carefully taking in his words. “isn’t that lonely?” you ask softly. by now, your hand has resigned to rubbing slow circles into his chest, pulling him in closer, almost as if proving a point.

i’m right here. you’re not alone.

“no,” he says stubbornly, “i’m above needing—”

“cause sometimes i’m lonely,” you admit, cutting him off. there’s no shame in your voice, not even a trace of hurt or sadness or even hatred. instead, you smile, pressing another kiss to his shoulder, and then the crook of his neck as you murmur, “but i guess not so much when i’m with you.”

“me?”

“yeah,” you nod, resting your chin on his shoulder, cheek pressed against his, “you. cause i love you, you know?”

and once again, scaramouche realizes he’s in love. he’s been so painfully in love for so long—and he thinks you’ve known it for even longer.

and to love is to betray, he thinks—but you’re still here, still holding him tight in your arms as you smile into his skin. so he finds a little hope, a little relief, as he closes his eyes and listens to your heartbeat against his back.

after a moment, with a tight grip on your thigh and wobbly lips, he quietly whispers, “i think i love you too.”

© hanmas do not plagiarize, repost, translate to other sites, or recommend on platforms outside tumblr such as tik tok

ngl if you were to write the unspeakable things you wanted to do to that little twink I’d read it 10 times over lmao /lh

wanderlust (ruins in the wind) | scaramouche (wanderer) x reader

✦ tags ; afab + gn reader, described to be taller and stronger than scaramouche, submissive!scaramouche (not proper d/s but he's definitely submissive), virginity loss, handjobs, fingering (f!recieving), creampies, cum-swapping, fingersucking, praise, faux sympathy + mocking, overstimulation, reader carries scaramouche to bed and to a bath, aftercare, love confessions but scaramouche is scaramouche, reader is a mercenary and sword user, scaramouche is demisexual coded a lil bit, petnames (reader calls scaramouche sweetflower + brat. scara calls reader bonehead lol)

✦ mild spoilers for the archon quest and interlude + fic is written in scaramouches perspective

✦ wc ; 7.3k (im about to throw up rn)

✦ a/n ; dear god in heaven a stupid twink with so many problems has captivated me. im insane. i want to fuck this emotionally stunted idiot so bad. also scaramouche is in love with reader he is just fucked up i prommy

✦ synopsis ; scaramouche has never really cared for intimacy or romance. he likes the way you lick his wounds.

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."

—𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 | 𝐚𝐥-𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦

summary: he hasn’t dreamed in a long time, but when al-haitham dreamed for the first time after the akademiya coup, he dreamed of you.

WARNINGS: archon quest akasha pulses, the kalpa flame rises spoilers! soulmate au if you squint, swearing, mentions of violence, death, injury, minor self-loathing, plot AND lore heavy, angst, fluff, not poly, happy ending!  pairing: al-haitham x fem!reader, minor kaveh x fem!reader word count: 18.1k grind

a/n: written for the lovely @zhongrin​ and her elemental supercharge collab! it was super fun to work on and really inspired me to love writing again because it was just a breath of fresh air. my entry: dendro + dendro + cryo = permafrost 

here are some important notes for this fic to help with understanding it:

tsaritsa is the former goddess of love. the goddess of flowers was a seelie. king deshret reborn was al-haitham. possibly ooc al-haitham (he’s also deaf!) i made shit up about teleport waypoints and about pretty much all the lore surrounding the three god-kings besides what i glimpsed through some books/theories/etc. i was just like fuck it we ball. 

inspo songs: who is she? - i monster, about you - the 1975, awake from a nightmare - hoyo-mix (i recommend you listen to this one especially during kaveh - chat: craftsmanship)

now on ao3 x

Keep reading

And I know it's hard enough to love me (But I woke up in a safe house)

pairing: vash the stampede x fem!reader warnings/tags: babygirl vash, Depressing Pillow Talk, slighty nsfw towards the end, sharing one bed trope, title taken from let's get married (MITSKI VERS) word count: ~4.2k

“My husband and I would like a room,” you say with a smile as you wrap your arms around Vash’s and lean into him. You feel his body startle at your touch, his gaze on top of your head as you play the part of the excited bride. You think he might pass out on you if you don’t get him to room, and fast. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

“In this shithole of a town?” The innkeeper asks with a raised eyebrow, looking from you to Vash, who only lets out a sheepish chuckle as he scratches the back of his head. Despite his sluggish breaths, his slow blinking gaze, and the red slowly staining his shirt.

You shrug, trying hard not to be impatient. “There are worse places.”

There are. You’ve survived them. Compared to the slums of December or September, this shabby, worn inn is paradise.

“Yer right ‘bout that,” he laughs, acquiescing, as he tosses a ring of keys into your hand and takes your pouch of money. Vash is slumped into you now, and you can tell he’s trying his hardest not to place the full weight of his body on you. To anyone else, it would look as if he was clinging to you, the picture of a loving couple.

“Cheers to the happy couple!” the man calls out, tipping his hat down as the two of you move to the stairs in front of you. 

Vash grins brightly, and manages a cheery, polite, “Thank you!” as the two of you pass.

You can’t resist the huff of a laugh that escapes your lips as you make your way up the stairs, and then into the small, modest dust lined room.

Vash collapses on the bed with a sharp exhale, and you immediately move to take off his shirt but his hand stops you by the wrist before you can.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, eyelashes fluttering. His fingers tightens, just imperceptibly, (even on the brink of sleep, he’s overly conscious about his strength, you think). In a way, it feels like he’s wordlessly imploring you to stay. “Jus’ need sleep. Not gonn’ take long.”

You blink. His fingers loosen, and in a few seconds his breathing has evened out into steady breaths. You’re relieved. He’s already stopped bleeding. From the months you’ve traveled with him, known him, he’s healed quickly enough that any other person wouldn’t understand. You still don’t. Not fully. But you’ve never asked questions. And as long as he never asked you any questions, that was fine with you. 

You stay on the bed, by his side for a few minutes, watching him. You take off his sunglasses and put them on the nightstand after wiping the blood off them. He’s an unusually pretty man. Too pretty for No Man’s Land. You trace his face with your eyes. The beauty mark right under his right eye to his parted pink lips. Then down to the rise and fall of his chest to the plates of the cybernetic prosthesis of his left arm. 

Lost technology. Not many people had access to that kind of technology. Or the knowledge to build that arm, let alone repair it.  

Standing, you give him one last glance, reload your revolver and tuck it into the holster at your side, before you leave in search of medical supplies to patch him up when he wakes. You scope out the town while at it. It’s small; a handful of residents armed to the teeth with guns, and even less children. There are pipes that run through the town that you assume are fed fresh water by a nearby plant. You locate a medical shop at the center of town. 

You buy antiseptic, gauze, and a few other things, before making your way back to the inn. The innkeeper gives you a wink.

When you open the door to the room, Vash is awake.

The sound of his harsh breathing fills the air. His metal hand fisted into the sheets so tightly you think it might tear. You meet his frantic gaze, and almost immediately, he slumps in relief, eyes dropping to his lap. 

You quietly shut the door. “Nightmare?”

Sometimes, in his sleep, you hear him call out for a woman named Rem.

He lets out a loud laugh. You pretend not to notice the shaky undertone of it. “I slept for longer than I thought!” His metallic hand curls and unfurls, catching on the dull light of the room. “I thought you…” he trails off, suddenly embarrassed. He looks away. 

“I brought supplies.” You place the bag on the table, next to Vash’s nickel revolver. You turn back to him: “Strip.”

His arms immediately make a cross on his chest, as if he’s already stripped, face bright red.

“I can do it myself—!”

Vash the Stampede. The humanoid Typhoon. The Sixty Billion Double Dollar Man. The man you originally only followed after to collect the criminals who swarmed to him, like flies to corpses. The man who leaves a trail of calamity and disaster in his wake. The man who continuously, everyday, without fail, begged you to leave the criminals you captured alive. A constant enigma and a headache. A walking contradiction. 

“I’ll leave the room,” you say. “Don’t take too long.”

You leave the room, leaning against the wall, and wait two minutes.

You open the door, and Vash jumps with a yelp, stripped to the waist, arms covering whatever he can manage.

Scars cover his entire torso, running all the way down his flesh arm to his hand. Deep scars, shallow scars, scars that have never entirely healed, leaving the skin dark pink and the flesh caved in. There are more scars than there is unblemished skin, missing chunks of skin replaced with metal plates and seams.

It's not a pretty sight, but you’ve never much cared for pretty. 

His face is flushed. “I thought—”

“I lied.”

“!?”

You shut the door with your heel, and then grab the gauze and antiseptic. “Turn around.”

Wordlessly, he turns, ears reddening. You direct him to sit on the bed, and then you begin to apply the antiseptic. The two of you sit in silence. You, disinfecting his fresh wounds and wrapping his back, while you also ignore the way his body tenses at your touch, his pointedly straight gaze, the constant bob of his throat, as if he’s looking for the right words to say.

He reluctantly speaks up. “You’re…not hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine,” you reply. Just a few scrapes and a bruised arm from where you had landed wrong after trying to dodge multiple rounds of bullets from the latest batch of criminals that had schemed to capture the humanoid typhoon. After hauling them to the police, Vash hiding away, you had gained yourself a hefty paycheck before being run out of the city, a bleeding Vash in tow.

You’re nearly done. The wounds aren’t nearly as severe as they had been only a couple of hours ago. The skin has healed enough that it’s already forming a scar. You don’t know much about Vash the Stampede, but you know enough to understand that he isn’t human. Not completely.

But he smiles. He laughs. He detests the very violence that nurtured you. He likes pizza and donuts. He’s moved to tears almost as easily as he seems to get hurt. He’s good with children. They trust him. Children love him in a way they don’t you: pulling him down to their height, climbing him, leading him and all his long limbs along. The way he takes their words seriously, nodding with all the gravity of a legal proceeding as they talk about the weather, their favorite foods, the silly argument they got into with a sibling. He smiles, and when he turns that smile onto you, it makes you think of everything warm and how you had forgotten what it meant to be happy.

He may not be human, but he is. Everything good about humanity that had been lost and forsaken when mankind crashed onto this unforgiving, harsh planet. 

You pull away, resisting the urge to press your fingers down on his skin, to trace the map of his scars and feel him shudder underneath you. He’s as warm as a furnace. The heat of his body stays with you. “How do you feel?”

He beams at you, one hand on his upper arm as he swings his arm around. “Perfect!”

You sigh. “Don’t push yourself now. Let me finish wrapping you.”

He retreats back to his original position, still smiling, all reservations about his partial nudity forgotten as he waits for you to finish.

Vash speaks. “You didn’t kill them.”

You glance up. You can only partially see his expression from your position behind him, but the pull of his lips is unmistakable. He’s smiling. And you don’t need to look at him to see it. That sweet smile of his that pulls at his eyes and softens his entire face. 

Your hands still. You hadn’t killed them. The Archie Brothers, the two brothers infamous for targeting banks and other commercial properties, who had gotten wind of Vash being in the city and emptied hundreds of rounds into the bar the two of you had momentarily settled in for a quick drink. It’s not as if you could’ve killed them in the first place. Vash was nothing if not easygoing, but keeping the criminals you turned in for a paycheck alive was the one thing he firmly enforced. Going as far to shield their bodies with his own.

He’s so troublesome sometimes.

You want to ask if he would’ve let you in the first place. If you had a choice. 

You force yourself to wind the bandage over his arm. “You must be rubbing off on me.”

Vash turns, faster than you anticipate, eyes wide. You can see the pale irises of his eyes. He’s delighted. “Really!?”

You blink, staring at him in silence. He goes red, jerking back, scuttling backwards with his hands like a crab until he reaches the end of the bed and then air. He falls back first, legs raised up in the air. 

He sits up with a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his head. “I…I guess I got a little ahead of myself…”

“...pffft.”

He straightens just as you dissolve into full blown laughter. And when your laughter dies down he’s looking at you, eyes wide, like he’s seeing you for the first time. You clear your throat and look away, embarrassed. You don’t think you’ve ever laughed in front of him.

“...Something on my face?”

He jumps, frantically waving. “No, no. I just thought,” he hesitates. “You should laugh more.”

Something in your chest gives. You can’t stand it. Not when he looks at you like that. Eyes shining, lips curved softly, face animated like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

People like him aren’t supposed to survive No Man’s Land. They aren’t built to. But you’ve seen with your own eyes how capable Vash is. It didn’t take much to kill a man in these lawless lands, but you had never seen him miss his target. Your didn't need to take pride in your aim to know it was excellent. You just didn’t have the same consideration for criminals Vash did. A life or two wasn’t something you lost sleep over. Casualties happened. And if it was a criminal, then it was simply divine judgment.

You stand from the bed and walk towards the desk. You take a doughnut out of a brown paper bag and throw it to him.

“For me?” He exclaims, easily catching it, even though you had thrown it to him.

You don’t respond. He enthusiastically tears it in half, and offers you the bigger piece.

You shake your head, the quirk of your lips, fond. “I don’t like sweet things.”

“I see…” he says thoughtfully, as if he’s digesting the information. “That makes sense. You don’t normally eat…”

It strikes you that this is the most you’ve ever talked about yourself. You’re unusually talkative today, and he notices. You find that you don’t mind. It’s alarmingly easy to talk to him now.

In the handful of months you’ve been traveling together, you’ve learned that all the crimes attributed to him had been the work of his twin, a man called Million Knives. A man you had managed to steal a glimpse of only once before Vash had locked you in a closet before rushing away. You were still sore over that. Even though he retrieved you soon after, apologizing profusely, accepting your cold shoulder with grace. Until you couldn’t bear the way he trailed after you with a pathetically sad expression on his face, and told him to stop. 

You never asked him for details. Of why his brother was terrorizing towns and cities, stealing plants and lives along the way. You’ve never pushed. You weren’t following the man to learn his life story. You were in it for the money.

Until one day, you realized he knew your exact bar order by heart. The kinds of alcohol you’d drink, and the kinds you wouldn’t touch. It was a small thing. But he looked so pleased when he placed the glass down, as he waited for you to drink it.

You knew his fear of you becoming potential collateral damage, but somewhere along the way you think you had grown on him. Somewhere along the nights listening to him cry out in his sleep for a woman named Rem, somewhere along watching the sliver of light heralding sunrise on the horizon together, somewhere in the silence in the dark of nights shared. 

You think he’s grown on you too.

“Have you eaten?” He asks. 

“Not hungry,” you reply, glancing out the window. Pitch black other than the glow of a single lone street lamp nearly a block down. “I’m going to sleep.” It wasn’t often you got to sleep on a bed, and you planned to make full use of it.

You go to the bathroom to wash up. When you walk out, Vash enters the room with a load of blankets. You look at him curiously.

“I asked the innkeeper for some blankets.” He laughs, recalling the conversation. “I said that my…” he trails off. “My…ah…wife…” Red paints his cheeks, and he looks away, raising the mound in his arms a bit higher to cover his face.

“...”

“...”

You watch as he makes his way to the other side of the room, keeping his gaze pointedly straight, and places the pile down. 

“You’re sleeping on the floor?”

“That’s right!” Vash pats the floor a little too vigorously for your liking. “Just like usual!”

You look at the bed. It’s big enough for the two of you so you had assumed you’d be sharing it… You’ve never shared a bed together before, but you had no problems with it, not with Vash.

He darts into the bathroom quickly enough that you don’t have time to say anything else. You hear the water run, turn off the lights, and get underneath the covers.

Then you wait.

When he leaves the bathroom, he gingerly folds his red jacket and sets it down on the chair. You wait until he passes the bed to strike, grabbing him by the shirt, and hauling him down onto the bed.

He yelps, a surprised, high pitched, noise that tears out of his throat. 

“We can share,” you say to him, his face inches apart from you. You can see his wide eyes, the bob of his throat working, pink lips parted as he stares at you, but your gaze is resolute.

And that’s that.

You figure that it might be easier for him to sleep if you aren’t facing him, so you turn to face the wall. You stare at the wall for ten minutes, waiting for him to settle into his side of the bed. Not even a faint rustle of the sheets. You wait a little longer. You can’t even hear him breathing.

You turn back around to face him and immediately he draws back even farther from his original position, on the tip of the bed where he’s precariously close to falling off.

A nervous chuckle. “I…”

“Sleep. I won’t say it again.” You study him, his slightly panicked expression, the grip of his metal hand fisted into the sheets. Oh. “Is it me?”

“N-nothing like that—!” He inches forward, just a little bit (still keeping his distance), puts his hand underneath the pillow, and squeezes his eyes tight. You watch him for a few seconds longer, specifically at the bead of sweat forming on the side of his temples. Your gaze drifts down, from the delicate slope of his nose to his lips.

You turn back around. 

Silence settles in the room like a muffled blanket. You still can’t tell if he’s breathing or not, and for some reason, sleep doesn’t come to you as easily as it usually does. The bed is too soft. 

You don’t know why you say it. Maybe it’s because you’re awake. Maybe it’s because you know Vash isn’t asleep. 

“When I was a child, a plant saved me.”

A few heartbeats pass.

Vash’s voice is softly hesitant. It feels like something gentle and your stomach coils tight, as if in preparation for the inevitable recoil that always follows. “Were you sick?” 

“I was.” The darkness reveals patterns in the wall, and your eyes go blurry with them. “The entire town was sick. Children were dying.” Religious fervor had taken ahold. Daily ritual acts of praying and calling out for salvation.

Taking you to your town’s plant when you were on the brink of death had been your mother’s first and final act of love. Afterwards, your mother often recounted in a drunken stupor that she was sure you were going to die. That it may have even been a mercy if you had. The plant cured you. Your mother was sure of it, the plant worshiping denizens of the town were sure of it. Nobody knew how. Nothing except for the fact that shortly after—

“The plant died the day after. I’ve never forgotten it.” You killed it. It was the first life you took.

It changed you. On a fundamental level. Something had happened to you on that day you can’t even remember. But that’s something you don’t think you can share. How sometimes, you don’t even need to dodge bullets.

That plant died, and now you are here, sharing a bed with a self proclaimed pacifist who refused to kill under any circumstances. A man who defied all logic and reasoning. A good man anyone would call misguided. A fool. An idealist.

In the end, lives would always demand sacrifice. It was either you, or them. It was kill, or be killed.

You don’t know what face he’s making behind you. Is he horrified to know that your life had ended before it started? That you were responsible for taking away the source of life for hundreds of people? That your existence was predicated on sacrifice and death before you even learned how to walk? You were at inherent odds with the idealism of pacifism. With him. Not out of choice, but because of circumstances out of your control.

Maybe a part of you wants him to hate you. Maybe a part of you is looking to be understood. But you thought that part of you had died long ago.

You shut your eyes, prepared to go to sleep.

Vash exhales. “I don’t…”

You open your eyes.

There’s a conviction in his voice you don’t understand. “You didn’t kill it.” You wonder how he can be so confident. “The plant saved you.” I know it did. 

You face him once more. He’s closer than he was before, close enough to easily touch. “Sometimes,” you start, hating the way he’s smiling at you in a way that touches his eyes, framed in the pale moonlight. “You really make me mad.”

His jaw comically drops open. You watch as panic instantly overtakes his face until he realizes the lack of heat in your words. His lips push back together to form a pout. He says your name.

“Why is your brother stealing plants?”

Money. Power. Recognition. Those would seem to be the most likely answers, but you’ve seen the wreckage that Million Knives leaves in the wake of his destruction. It’s cruelty. It’s too calculated to be careless. It’s pure hatred. You can’t fathom a man like as Vash's brother. Twin brother. 

But then that voice inside you speaks. Are you really any different?

Vash blinks, and then his face falls, gaze downcast. It feels odd to see him like this. You rarely catch him without a big, sheepish smile on his face nowadays, especially when he catches you looking at him, but you had seen him with a forlorn expression, shoulders slumped, in your early days of traveling together. When there were no children to demand a ride on his back, when the two of you momentarily passed an overcast shadow, in the darkness of the night when he thought nobody was looking.

You almost regret asking him in the first place. But he’s so close you can count his pale eyelashes, and you lose your train of thought.

“You could say it’s…” his mouth twists, “revenge.”

Revenge.

He’s not the first misanthrope in these lands. You think the occasional mass murderous thought, and you resist acting on it more often than you didn’t, the days before you met a blonde pacifist gunman. There’s only so much a human being can take.

You think of the kaleidoscope of scars that line his body. You only saw the ones on his upper body, but you don’t doubt the existence of countless others everywhere else.

It must’ve hurt. It must’ve been other people. People intent on capturing him. People who wanted to hurt him. You hate them all. Every single person that has permanently marked him a way that wasn’t theirs to do in the first place. You hate whoever severed his arm, whoever had repaid his kindness with violence.

Desire strikes you, hot and sudden. You want to count them all, trail your fingers over the heat of his body, the uneven layers of skin, and feel his breaths underneath you. You look at him, as his gaze lifts, remeeting your eyes, pleading for your understanding. Ball and chain to his brother. Shouldering the sins of family. You don’t understand it. Why he’s looking to you for acceptance, as if it’d even make a difference.

He is the only good thing in this harsh world, and you’ve found him.

“Maybe,” you tell him, as he hangs onto your every word. “We deserve it.”

You see the split second sadness weighing in his eyes, at your words, right before you curl your fingers into his shirt and pull him to your lips.

His eyes go wide, and something that sounds like a mixture of an exhale and gasp leaves his lips. You separate, your lips a hairbreadth away from his, as he stares at you.

“Is this okay?” You ask. If it wasn’t, you’d go back to sleep, and forget it ever happened in the first place. You made your move. It wasn’t reciprocated.

But then he nods, so vigorously that his blonde hair flops into his eyes.

You smile, and Vash lights up.

You kiss him again, drawing his face closer with your hand on his cheek. He complies with his entire body, closing the distance immediately, like if he can’t help himself. His lips are clumsy against yours, too eager, too desperate, wet and messy, as he pants into your mouth. Heat pools in your stomach, and you want more. You run your tongue over the seam of his lips, and he lets out a sigh of something that sounds reverently like your name against your mouth.

Then your tongue is in his mouth, and his flesh hand jumps. There’s a breathless, throaty whimper, the entire weight of his body pressing tight against you. So you can feel every part of him. How he’s willing to give you everything in the name of desire, of love. And when you pull away, his lips follow yours, spit slicked and swollen.

You easily lay him flat on his back as you move to straddle him. You kiss him again briefly, tenderly. Then you sit up and pull up his shirt, just enough to expose his torso. His metal fingers fist into the sheets when your finger goes to a scar of pink skin right about his hips, lightly following it to right below his chest.

He chokes with a shudder that wracks his body. You can feel him, heavy and hard pressing against you. The slight jump of his hips, barely restraining himself from rutting into you.

“It’s not…” Vash struggles with the words with heaving breaths, face bright red, embarrassment splayed out. He looks to the side. “A pretty sight.”

You think of heated irons and blistering pain. Thousands of blades slicing you open, needles penetrating flesh, blind white heat enveloping your body, and the mindless oblivion that would follow.

You realize you’ve been silent a beat too long when Vash looks like he’s preparing for your inevitable rejection.

“I’ve got scars too,” you say, finally. Quietly. You take his mechanical hand in yours and slowly slide him up underneath your shirt. “You want to see?”