round and round they go.  one step,  two step,  three step,  four.  to the maddeningly consistent rhythm of the drums,  dancing between thunderclaps and emptiness.  they know nothing.  they know everything.  tartaglia—childe—ajax—knows the lightning flash in violet eyes and only pulls harder. 

hunters.  hunting.  what better prey than someone who knows every way there is to be found.  to not be found.  but scaramouche is clumsy in his anger,  like childe is clumsy in his bloodlust.  this is his third time catching up.  his first time getting his hands on him. 

" i finally got you,  myshka.  you don't think i'm going to let you just get away with a cheap trick and cheesy insult?  "

(    he will let him go for less.  kiss  /  kill  /   scaramouche is getting away alive and they both know it.     )

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐓  𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓  𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐄,    scaramouche  had  always  thought    –    even  far,    far  back,    to  the  first  time  they  had  met    –    was  that  he  was  smart.    just  smart  enough  to  get  himself  into  trouble,    to  dip  his  hands  into  places  they  shouldn’t  be,    into  the  secrets    &    vulnerabilities  that  made  the  harbingers  tick.    they  were  a  bunch  prone  to  murderous  intent  on  the  best  of  days,    let  alone  when  someone  had  the  audacity  to  rifle  their  hands  around  their  innards,    recontextualize  their  fleshy  beating  hearts  into  something  that  made  sense.    stupid,    foolish  idiot.

he  won’t  survive  the  week,    he  had  thought.    and  then  he  had,    which  was  his  first  mistake.

a  bad  attempted  at  averted  course,    his  hands  flying  up  a  moment  to  late  to  catch  at  the  ginger’s  wrist,    black  nails  biting  down  until  the  skin  turns  bone  white  beneath  his  grip.    a  low,    extended  hiss  of  annoyance,    as  if  he  is  a  cat  flaring  for  effect    (    he  may  as  well  be;    his  irritation  holds  the  same  warning    ).    he  considers  a  host  of  options    --    a  well  delivered  kick  to  his  shin,    maybe,    or  a  couple  hundred  volts  straight  to  his  nervous  system    --    and  thinks  how  upset  pierro  would  be  with  him  if  he  did  that.

not  that  he  cares,    but  he’s  sick  of  the  talks.    all  anyone  around  here  wants  to  do  is  talk.    he’s  sick  of  talking.    his  fangs  ache.

“    get  your  hands  off  me,    dog.    “    deceptively  delicate  hands,    palming  a  chin  to  force  him  to  look  down,    the  opposite  hand  curled  in  the  collar  of  his  shirt.    it’d  be  so  nice  if  he  could  just  tug  and  tug  until    --    shlick    --    it  cut  through  the  meat  and  bone,    just  like  that.    unfortunately,    he  has  his  doubts  on  the  integrity  of  cloth  for  a  task  like  that.

(    dottore  would  be  so  fucking  proud    ).

“    get  on  your  knees  and  apologize,    now.    “    he  shoves  backwards,    teetering  the  eleventh  back  onto  the  balls  of  his  feet.    “    unless  you’d  rather  fry?    “

          his initial reaction, regrettably, is to tip his head and let the beast at his throat, crimson hues blinking slowly. it's an eerily comforting gesture, he finds that he wants childe close to him without the immediate need to burn him to ashes, and he would almost say that it's pleasant-

          until he bites, and diluc hisses an annoyed sound through his teeth. fingers lift over his shoulder and tangle in a tight fistful of ginger hair, yanking mercilessly to wrench his head back.

@deilusn​​  :   ❛  you  are  …  extraordinary .  ❜       ↳  i  hope  you  dance  /  accepting  .

      𝙾𝙷  ,  𝙷𝙾𝚆  ...  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚈𝙰𝙺𝚂𝙷𝙰  𝚆𝙰𝚂  𝚄𝙽𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙴  𝙾𝙽  𝙷𝙾𝚆  𝚃𝙾      react  ,  even  when  the  grip  around  battleaxe  tightens  &  legs  bend  —  crouching  low  .  amber  eye  holds  it  in  its  gaze  ,  not  once  leaving  ,  even  when  their  surroundings  played  into  their  opponent’s  hands  .  one  might  say  they  relish  a  challenge  —  however  the  odds  were  stacked  against  them  .  [  a  war  -  weapon  enjoying  a  good  fight  ?  how  outlandish  —  sarcasm  intended  .  ]  they  leapt  &  bound  at  childe  without  hesitation  ,  swinging  axe  behind  &  then  forward  :  angling  its  arch  down  towards  its  shoulder  .  qiáng  can  go  on  for  hours  ,  &  they  know  this  one  was  capable  of  keeping  up  —  &  more  .  but  they  ,  veins  overflowing  with  adrenaline  ,  attempt  to  goad  it  the  second  they  begin  another  attack  .

xx.

❝  you're beautiful, ❞ he says instead. reaches out, cups freckled cheeks in blood-stained hands. his smile is as cold as the seas he commands, eyes finally alight. fear looks good on him, when it finally settles into diluc's features.

thumb sweeps across a dark circle, a terrified eyeline. spreads carnage across the violet skin as childe leans closer, brushes their noses together, stares into wavering red and sees him.

❝ it's a shame you don't scream, too.  ❞

( it's wrong. this is all wrong. he's wrong. he's been wrong since he fell, since he was born. )

          when was the last time he felt fear? not just the fear that lingers in the shadows at the back of his mind, stoking the fires of self-doubt and begging the questions he doesn't want the answers to (who am i? can i ever heal? when will i move on?), but something much more primal--this is sheer terror, the animal instinct to survive, the cold, sick feeling that kicks in when flight wins out over fight. he's only been this close to death once before, and he's dizzy with the realization that once again, he's put himself at the mercy of a harbinger.

          you're so stupid, you never learn, he's tearing you to pieces and you're obsessed with the pain. do you even want to escape?

          "you're sick," there's some bite to his tone, but it's feeble and betrayed by the way his voice shakes; his skin crawls when he hears just how weak he is, frozen in riptide's grasp. he's so weak.