To Be A Harbinger

To Be A Harbinger, pt. 7

The vibrator was fitted snuggly between Lucille's legs, and she fell in and out of consciousness with the pulsing waves it sent off. She could barely hold herself together. It was electro charged, of course, set as high as it could go, and Scaramouche showed no signs of letting her go-and he wasn't exactly in a position to anyway.

"Not so high and mighty now, huh Scara?" Tartaglia laughed as he pumped his dick in and out of the older harbinger's ass. Scaramouche was aching for a release, but Tartaglia held his hands away from his dick.

Scaramouche had never been more annoyed in his life. This night was nothing like it should have been. He relished in the way the dick filled him up, but it was wrong. He shouldn't be here. Scaramouche belonged on top, in control. He hated the way he moaned and clenched around Tartaglia's dick-of all people.

Tartaglia however, had never been happier. This bratty bitch was finally getting his asshole ripped apart by his dick. For the first time in years, the older harbinger wasn't making some snarky comments about him or his ideals. Instead, the only sounds coming out of his mouth were dirty, cute moans. He tried to bite them back, but he couldn't stop them all. His eyes were tightly shut, but the blood on his lips gave him away.

Tartaglia leaned in. As he kissed him, he passed his wrists both into one hand and moved the other one to his neck. Scaramouche silently cursed him when his tongue entered his mouth. Why would he ever agree to this? His stomach churned when he remembered it was his idea. He felt sick when he thought about Lucille. She was next to them, but she was currently passed out.

Scaramouche's fingers sparked up, catching Tartaglia off guard. His grip loosened, and Scaramouche slipped a hand down to quickly shut off the vibrator. His hand barely stopped before he reached for his dick. His movements where smooth, and Tartaglia was too annoyed at his disobedience to notice the lack of buzzing beside them. He grabbed his wrist again, pulling it away.

"You're not backing out of this one, Scaramouche." Tartaglia warned, his face close to Scaramouche's.

"I said I would let you fuck me, I never said I'd rely on your awful lay." Scaramouche snapped. He tore his wrist free, going back to his dick. He wasn't a big fan of the part he was playing, but if it distracted Tartaglia from his small mercy towards Lucille, he'd deal with it. He had a bigger part after all, that of the Balladeer. The Balladeer didn't show mercy, not to anyone. No one mattered enough.

He froze when he realized Lucille did. Whatever, he only wanted to win. Sex torture clearly wasn't going to make her fall in love, but maybe showing off a few cracks in his mask might.

Still, she was asleep, and the only person to bear witness to this particular fracture was Tartaglia. Scaramouche's chest tightened with anger. He didn't know why. Why did he always end up like this, in situations he hated? What did he gain from this? He bit his lip as Tartaglia pulled his hands together above his head and used his scarf to tie them up.

Just as he had resigned himself to suck it up and take it, even if just for the sake of his pride, Tartaglia rolled back, using the scarf as leverage to pull Scaramouche up with him. His dick never left his ass, and Scaramouche winced as it rammed into his ass deeper.

"Well, if you think I'm so bad at it, you can do it. Although," he pulled the older man in and kissed him. He pulled back and laughed. "Your blood betrays you."

"Shut up." Scaramouche snapped.

"I think you enjoy this. Getting your pretty little brains fucked out by someone you think is inferior." Tartaglia smiled. Scaramouche rolled his eyes, wondering if the dumb ginger had even realized he insulted himself.

"Maybe you're just so clumsy, it's more painful than pleasurable." Scaramouche glared at him. He hadn't moved yet. He couldn't decide what to do. Getting fucked was different than actively fucking yourself. He could diminish it down to the younger man's strength. How could he have done anything but take it?

But now, he was trying to postpone the inevitable. Sooner or later, Tartaglia would force him to fuck himself silly on his cock, or he'd notice Lucille wasn't shaking anymore. Tartaglia slapped his ass, and Scaramouche winced, earning a laugh. "Get to it, brat."

Scaramouche choked back his pride and picked up his hips. Tartaglia slapped his ass again. "Faster."

His face turned red as he dropped back down. He took a deep breath before repeating the process, letting the younger harbinger laugh at him as he humiliated himself. But what was worse, being seen as a cockhungry whore, or letting this annoying kid think he had a heart?

He moved faster. Tartaglia quickly realized how much he loved the way Scaramouche reacted to getting spanked, and the hits became harder and more frequent. Scaramouche refused to open his eyes, to look at the cheery man in front of him.

"I wonder, what would you do if I transformed?"

Scaramouche was shocked into complete stillness, half off the dick in his ass. "Don't you dare, Tartaglia."

"Why? Scared to get your insides rearranged?" Tartaglia laughed like it was a joke, but Scaramouche knew it was a completely possible consequence. If the rest of him doubled in size in his Foul Legacy form, Scaramouche shuddered to think what happened to his dick. It was already pushing his limits, even if Scaramouche would never admit it. Foul Legacy would ruin him.

"I don't have a death wish, dumbass." Scaramouche said as he fell back into Tartaglia's dick, playing it off like no big deal.

"Hm, I'm not so sure about that." Tartaglia grabbed his ass, squeezing as he began meeting Scaramouche's movements with his own thrusts. "Besides, I want to see you cry on my dick."

"Then maybe figure out how to fuck me properly instead of threatening to kill me." Scaramouche scoffed, struggling to keep his voice level. He knew Tartaglia kept him talking to listen to the tremors in his voice, but he couldn't be silent either. He lost either way. Still, he hasn't noticed his act of kindness yet, so there was still a sliver of hope.

"You know, I'm surprised by your stamina. I didn't think such a small guy could last so long." Tartaglia sneered, and Scaramouche would have slapped him if he could. He was well aware his dick wasn't as impressive as Tartaglia's, but it wasn't anything to be ashamed of either. He could still make Tartaglia beg him for it.

"You say that like I haven't fucked your pretty little brains out." Scaramouche shot back, using his own words against him.

Tartaglia had the audacity to laugh. "I don't care. I like taking it up the ass as much as I like giving it. Right now, all that matters is forcing you to admit how much you like it too, even while your girlfriend is laying right there asleep."

"Is she? Must have had too much fun without us." Scaramouche laughed, pretending to glance over and inspect her.

"Oh, shut up. I know you turned it off. I'm not stupid." Tartaglia laughed at the expression on Scaramouche's face. "What? Afraid to admit you like her for more than sex? I've seen the way you look at her when you think no one's watching."

Scaramouche felt his plan, his pride, and his temper crumbling all at once. Tartaglia took advantage of this by thrusting up into him. Scaramouche choked back everything, but he couldn't stop himself from letting out a broken moan.

Tartaglia laughed, slipping a hand around the older harbjnger's throat. "You thought I didn't notice?"

How could he have let this happen? He should never have turned off the vibrator. He should've let Lucille lay there and deal with the consequences. To hell with this game. He should have never offered to let Tartaglia fuck him, no matter what he wanted to do to Lucille.

And now, here he was, the Balladeer, the Sixth Fatui Harbinger, crying his pretty eyes out, while number eleven fucked him in the ass. Scaramouche decided then he had never hated himself more, not even when he accidentally killed his family. They had it coming. Now, he had no excuses to cover up the blame. After all, the only person who could ever really hurt him was himself.