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The wanderer doesn’t run into his youngest coworker intentionally. He comes across the low-lit tavern in a city outside of Schnezneya, hidden partially by the tall pine trees that loom over the stone path that leads to its entrance. He has staked his spot in a dark corner, watching as humans trickle in and out of the cold that nips at their heels. The cold is inconsequential to him and his synthetic body. The brim of his hat is tilted down to hide his face, although it hardly matters, because not a soul would recognize him anyways.
Erasing himself using Irminsul was both a blessing and a curse. It was a fresh start from the ones that had abandoned him and abused him, and a blank slate for his future. No one was ordering him around or performing their little experiments on him. Defiling him, touching him when he was unconscious. He shudders at the memories that plague his consciousness.
The downside was the loneliness. It was like the deep depths of the abyss: seemingly unescapable, polluting his mind and dragging him further and further down. He often ponders if death would be sweeter than any power that the gods could give him. He didn’t ask for this vision hanging off of the front of his coat, but it was given to him in a moment of weakness. It feels heavy, like a weight that reminds him of everything that had to be lost to get to this point.
He looks up as the large wooden door swings open again, and a familiar face walks through. His bright red hair is covered in flecks of powdery white snow, and the lower part of his face is covered with his signature red scarf. He’s wearing a dark cloak, which makes him almost unrecognizable from his usual grey suit. But Scaramouche has seen him enough in the past couple years to be able to recognize him almost instantly. Tartaglia, the 11th harbinger.
He curses internally. Tartaglia may not recognize him, but it wasn’t his intention to run into anyone that would bring painful memories to the surface. He glances up and makes eye contact with Childe’s dull blue eyes. Shit, shit. He tilts the brim of his cap down, staring at his hands. He knows he’s piqued the interest of the red head, and Childe just loves making friends with strangers with his shallow niceness. It’s just a learned tactic to get what he wants from others; this Scaramouche is sure of. Childe may look like a young, innocent man, but there’s something lurking behind those soft blue eyes. Something twisted and broken, or sadistic.
Scaramouche sees Childe approach him from the edge of his vision. He taps his fingers impatiently, waiting for the idiot to say hello.
“You don’t look like you’re from around here,” Childe says as he leans down, trying to make eye contact with Scaramouche. There’s his other flaw: his lack of personal boundaries. Childe gently pushes Scaramouche’s hat up, and he smacks his hand away angrily.
“Don’t touch that,” He hisses, narrowing his eyes. Childe steps back and tilts his head, giving him a lopsided smile as he takes a seat across from him. Scaramouche only sneers in response, but a small part of him burns at that smile. It’s the same one Childe would give him when he angrily bossed the redhead around when he still outranked him. Childe was the weirdly obedient type; anything you asked of him he would immediately do without question, given that you outranked him.
Scaramouche wasn’t going to lie to himself, the obedience was hot. It was the reason that the Tsarista was so partial to Childe, and so willing to turn a blind eye to his mistakes. Childe was reckless, and messy, like the stunt he pulled in Liyue. He was hungry for something that could only be found through fighting, which was not typical of most humans. Sure, Scara had noticed that some humans liked an adrenaline rush, but this something else. It was almost like Childe was addicted to spilling blood, whether it be his enemy’s, or his own. But he was an obedient dog, despite his tendency to fuck things up.
Scara watches as Childe watches him, his long, slender fingers tracing the pattern on the table. He wonders what those fingers feel like wrapped around his throat, digging into his porcelain skin. His skin is flawless, like that of the dolls that sit in the windows of the merchant shops in Schezneya. He’s always wanted to feel what humans feel when their skin is ripened with violet bruises, like brush strokes of pain.
“So, what brings you all the way out here, Inazuman?” Childe raises a brow at him, leaning forward. He’s making the observation based off of Scara’s outfit, which looks like the mountain style clothing in Inazuma.
“I’m not Inazuman, thank you very much,” he snaps, frowning. As if he’d ever claim to be from that place. “I’m from nowhere. I’m just a wanderer.”
“Ah, like the traveler!” Childe’s eyes light up at that piece of information.
“I guess.” He’s just going to pretend he doesn’t know who the traveler is, for the sake of keeping this conversation short. His fingers nervously tug at the feather charm attached to his vision. He’s never been one to be anxious, but seeing Childe again reinvokes feelings from his old life. Childe must notice this, because he reaches across the table and touches Scara’s other hand, as if to calm him. Scara doesn’t pull away. This may be his only chance to get what he wants, he realizes. By playing coy.
“Your skin feels so smooth.” Childe rubs his thumb over the top of Scara’s hand, feeling his flesh. “And so beautiful.” His expression turns into something almost hungry, like he’s imagining the porcelain covered in blood. Too bad for him, Scara doesn’t bleed. It’s a shame, because Scara has always wanted to bleed until he’s empty, let it drip, drip, drip from his veins until there is nothing left. Until he fades away, as if he had never existed.
Fuck. All he wanted was to die, but Irminsul hadn’t erased his existence, just the memories of everyone connected to it. Every day in the abyss he would beg for something to kill him, but nothing could. It was this awful body he was trapped in, that his mother had created, seemingly to torture him with the burden of existence. How could a mother do such a thing? To create something and then abandon it, and let it be abused by humans.
Humans. They were such greedy, nasty creatures. They would just take everything from you and leave you a hollow shell. Like the look on Childe’s face as he stroked Scara’s hand. It was obvious that he wanted to take the puppet as his own, to mark his body, and litter it with scars and bruises. Little did he know that the puppet was not easy to break. Scara had tried many times, but each had ended in failure. Even the twisted experiments that the Doctor had inflicted on him had failed to do any permanent damage.
Maybe Childe was the exception. Maybe this was Scara’s final death, and the cycle would be over for good. He could only try or fall apart in the process.
He wanted to feel something.
“Would you...want to get out of here?” Scara tries to phase it innocently, but the bitterness of his voice never fails to leak through the cracks. He’s never been good at seducing, just ordering people around. He corrects himself. “Get me out of here,” he orders Childe, knowing that the dog will listen.
And he does. He stands up and extends his gloved hand. Scara looks at it, and wonders if this is the last memory he will ever have. He grabs it with his own and allows himself to be taken away.
______________________________________________________________________________
Scara finds himself lying on a bed, looking up at Childe, who kneels between his legs, studying Scara’s body. His fingers trace over the joints that hold him together, eyes devouring every bit of flesh that is exposed. His robe lies somewhere on the ground, discarded on the way.
“What are you?” is what Childe asks as he unbuttons his own shirt.
“A puppet, if you can believe it.” Scara watches as he pulls the red shirt up, exposing his torso. There is a galaxy of white lines crisscrossing his abdomen, from all of the fights Childe has likely run headfirst into.
“Wow...” Childe breathes. He leans forward, pinning Scara’s hands with his own. “I’ve never broken something like you before.” Scara swallows.
“I’m hard to break,” he whispers, just loud enough for Childe to hear. Childe smiles, but it looks razor sharp, like a wolf about to devour its prey. He leans down to drag his tongue across Scara’s cheek, all the way up to his forehead. Scara shudders. He then uses one hand to pin both of Scara’s wrists down and uses the other to force his mouth open. Childe spits in his mouth and forces it closed, and leans back, studying him as he tries not to swallow. It trickles down his throat anyways from the gravity.
Childe frees his hands to work his way down to Scara’s pants. He unfastens the belt around his waist, and pulls the fabric all of the way off, tossing Scara’s legs like he’s just a doll. Childe’s fingers grip his thighs with bruising strength as he studies the puppet’s lower half.
Scara was just an androgynous puppet before he met Dottore. The agreement for helping him become a god was letting the Doctor modify his body however he pleased. If it were up to Scara, he wouldn’t have added any genital modifications. But the Doctor had given him a vagina, presumably so that he could fuck the puppet while he was unconscious. Scara had woken up during it before, and he suspected that was exactly what the Doctor wanted. He would feel the white liquid leaking from between his legs, making him feel like a sex doll. Was that all he was?
Sex wasn’t something that Scara really cared about. It was a very human and intimate act, at least for most people. Whatever the Doctor had done to him was anything but intimate. It was vile, and made Scara become repulsed by sex in general. He was resentful that the Doctor had given him female genitals instead of male, just to defile him in the darkness of the lab.
Now, as Childe thrusts fingers into his cunt without warning, he feels weightless. The squelching sound it makes as Childe works him open sickens Scara, and makes him feel alive at the same time. Scara isn’t sure if he can produce what females naturally can when they get horny, or if the modifications just produce it when he’s being touched from the inside. The sick bastard would probably make him get wet at any touch that penetrates him.
He feels Tartaglia’s tongue as he licks at the wetness between his legs, and then pain as he bites him down there. He bites his clit slowly, then his thighs, covering the exposed flesh with marks like a dog with no self-control. Scara’s nails dig into Childe’s scalp as he relishes in the small pricks of pain, imagining Childe’s incisors tearing him open and letting him bleed.
Childe pulls back and grabs him, flipping him over. He pulls Scara's legs apart, and roughly pulls his hips up to press against Childe’s crotch. Scara can feel the outline of his cock pressing against his ass, and shudders. He hears Childe slowly unzip his pants and pull them off, pressing his cock against Scara’s thigh.
He thrusts in without warning, and Scara feels Childe’s cock making his stomach bulge from its size. He gasps from the pain, and feels tears form at the corner of his eyes as Childe fucks him at a relentless pace. Childe grabs his throat, wrapping his long fingers around it, nails digging in. Scara doesn’t need to breathe, but it still fucking hurts as Childe squeezes harder, trying to make him pass out. Childe leans closer to him, breath hot against the shell of his ear.
“You’re just a little fuck doll, aren’t you? My little fuck doll,” he growls in his ear. “I’m going to tear you apart limb by limb, and then put you back together, and then rip you apart again.”
Childe grabs his head by his hair and smashes it against the headboard, making Scara black out for a second. He comes back to earth as Childe does it again, and he hears his forehead crack with the second blow.
That must knock him out for longer, because when he wakes up again, Childe is shoving his cock into Scara’s limp mouth aggressively. Scara can’t really choke, but he gags against the large member being shoved down his throat. He reaches up to gingerly touch his forehead, where a large piece of porcelain is missing. Fuck. Childe isn’t holding back, that’s for sure. Childe squeezes his throat again, so hard this time that Scara hears another crack.
When he finally comes down Scara’s throat, it trickles out of the cracks and down Scara’s bare chest.
“Fuck,” Childe says from above him, as he pulls Scara off of him. Spit and snot run down his face and mix with the cum on his chest. He feels as pathetic as he surely looks. He looks up at the redhead through his wet lashes, blinking dazedly. Childe squeezes Scara’s face in his hand and traces the lattice of cracks that form from the pressure of Childe’s strength.
“Well, you break pretty easy, puppet.” Childe sits up, as if he’s done, but Scara grabs his arm.
“Wait,” he croaks, gripping Childe’s forearm with the little strength he has.
“Yes?” Childe asks, moving back down to hear him better.
“You said you would tear me apart. I want you to do it. Please,” he adds, trying to look as pathetic as possible. Childe gives him a quizzical look.
“Like, the dirty talk? You want me to actually hurt you? What if I accidentally kill you?” Scara just looks at him.
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” Childe looks reluctant, but Scara grabs at him desperately. “Please, fuck me to death. I’m a terrible person, trust me.” He takes in a shaky breath. “I deserve to die like this.”
Childe is quiet for a moment. Then, a switch seems to flip. Scara watches the thing that lurks behind his icy eyes envelop him, and the look on his face slowly morphs into something completely feral, even more so than before. He places his hand under Scara’s cracked chin and smiles sadistically.
“I’m going to need to transform to use my full strength. Does that bother you?” Scara shakes his head frantically. Anything to get what he wants, even if it means being devoured by that ugly thing, Foul Legacy.
“I guess it won’t matter anyways, since you’ll be dead soon. Actually, I have one condition.” He holds up one finger in front of Scara’s face. “I want to keep your body after I’m done.”
“Sure,” he agrees. He could care less what the freak wanted to do with his body afterwards. Rape it, degrade it, it didn’t matter.
Childe transforms, letting the corruption of the abyss wash over him. Scara is sure that this is where his sadistic side was born from. That black, putrid energy feels as if it fills up the room, making Scara choke.
Foul Legacy’s maw drips disgustingly with saliva. The monster grabs Scara by his waist and brings him close, its tongue shooting out to lick his face. The act makes him feel tiny in comparison to the giant hand gripping him tightly. It then throws him down on the bed, before climbing on top of him, using one claw to pin his arms above his head.
“Close your eyes,” it growls in Scara’s ear, its hot breath fanning over his face. Scara tries not to gag at the smell.
“No...I want to see my demise,” he gasps. He wonders if this is the burning desire that humans feel for sexual pleasure. “It’s years in the making, after all.”
"So be it,” the monster says, and pulls its free arm back, before plunging it into Scara’s chest. The clawed hand rips him open and violates him, pulling out all of his insides. He screams at the agony of being dissected so ruthlessly. The pain is like nothing he’s ever felt before. He imagines that this is what a rabbit feels as its flesh is torn apart by a predator.
This is what being a god feels like. It isn’t the power, but the pain that eclipses every other sense, until he’s numb. Is he numb, or is the pain so powerful that he has ascended beyond it? He sees the wires and all of his innards splayed across the bed around him. His mother’s first masterpiece, mutilated at the hands of a human. How pathetic.
The monster finally grabs his head and separates it from his neck, tossing it to the side. His head lands on the floor, rolling until it stops. The last thing he sees is Foul Legacy fucking his corpse as he mutilates it, then nothing.