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Can I request a tsundere!fem!reader x Scaramouche where you tell their progression in moving on to a relationship? The hardships they had to deal w/ each other bc they’re sort of similar, you could never imagine those two would ever be together. I’d like the genres to be a bit angst with some NSFW👀👀 thanks in advance if you write this! Luv your work💜💜

tags: a hate relationship? this turned into a coworkers with benefits kinda thing is that okay anon ahdlfjhlfdj also: they kinda choke each other im not kidding on this hadlfjdlfsdlf im gonna cry please be careful when reading this

the first time you saw him, you knew that you’d hate his guts.

to this day, you can’t logically explain why your initial reaction to scaramouche was so visceral. it’s not as if he dressed tastelessly (by all means, he was the most elaborately dressed harbinger in the fatui), or even that he was scowling – or worse, taking out his temperamental vexation on a lowly fatui grunt. you only remember how you felt: perturbed. it was as if an omnipotent consciousness had taken you by the shoulders and screamed in your face “he’s got blood on his hands”, and unless you wanted to avoid carnage, you should circumvent him at all costs.

it became difficult, however, when the electro rat himself took measures to single you out; before heading out on missions, he would impose himself in front of you with his frigid, violet leer, demanding your submission to his authority.

each time, you held his gaze. and each time, you came closer to spitting in his face.

you valued your position in the fatui. it was probably the one thing that held your irreverence in check, in the name of the lady tsaritsa. she had promised you something, just as she had with all of the other fatui members. with scaramouche, it was easy to assume what he wanted: control. the acidity in his eyes too easily betrayed his delirium: from the flaunting of his electro vision, allowing volts to ricochet between his fingers to intimidate, to how he discarded grunts if they simply breathed in a manner he didn’t tolerate. he’s a wicked man, and you loathe, despise,

how you can see yourself in him.

archons, you’re both so similar it makes you sick. you understand his craving for absolute jurisdiction, that feeling of wrong when someone questions your meticulous rhetoric, or when events don’t follow the blueprint you’ve preplanned in your mind. granted, you don’t go around shocking people to death if you don’t get what you want, but you recall too many times when you might have.

the day you realized this, you had snapped your chopsticks in two. as in, two chopsticks, now in four pieces. you found it disgusting that the man you abhorred had qualities that you still found in yourself. and when he stood in front of you again, commanding you to look him in the eye,

you grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and yelled in his face.

“why the fuck,” you seethed, nails nearly tearing the fabric in two, “do you care.”

why did he look at you in that way? the way that someone does when they want to see the world burn and find thrill in the afterglow?

he’s pure poison – and he was very much aware of that.

as scaramouche’s hands closed over yours, you smelled the burn of fabric. the next thing you knew, he had you shoved against the wall, your shoulder blades jutting into the structure behind. winded, all you could do was try and summon your vision, more than prepared for retaliation when he wouldn’t even answer you when you knew he was smart enough to.

“simple.” his breath was all over your neck. static flew from his mouth. “your place is underneath me.”

when he released you, you weren’t grateful. you would never give him the satisfaction of believing he had shaken you, or that you would ever consider yourself inferior to a man who would lose his temper at one loose hair. if you wanted to, you could show him that you weren't an executive just shy of a harbinger’s strength, that you could very much shut down his arrogance and not break a sweat while doing so.

those thoughts died in your head, however, when he took your shoulders and crashed his lips onto yours.

scaramouche didn’t waste a second to bring his teeth down onto your lower lip, pulling on it until you whined and jerked at his hair in retribution. absolute submission, his acts commanded, but you would not give. if this is how he wanted to play this game, you would absolutely make it hell for him.

to this day, you can’t rationally explain why being with someone you detest is so exhilarating. you’ve determined that it isn’t his company (it’s disagreeable how he insists on keeping his manic ways, although you’re both too stubborn to give in to one another), and it’s not as if your intimacy with him gives you collateral power. but you can describe how you feel: acceptance. you won’t ever get over him and his fixation with control, and there’s no way you’re going to yield to his carnal desire for nonresistance.

so, morbidly, you make do with what’s left: physical gratification, and the way you want each other to come undone.

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