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Chapter Text

 The Balladeer was a proud man, a man of wealth and power. He would never stoop so low as to give into human emotions. Or at least that’s what he tells himself, despite the hand currently running over his lenght.

Scaramouche has been stationed in Mondstadt for about a month now, an entire month of overseeing some bullshit business he doesn’t even give a single damn about. He hates the region of Freedom, hates how cheerful the citizens are, how they always ask if he needs help, despite knowing damn well who he is. And most of all? The harbinger absolutely despises their drunkard god, that lazy good-for-nothing, who dresses up human enough to fit in.

He can feel a stirring in his groin as his mind lingers on that bastard, and he hates it. And his hand begins to gently slide up his cock, feeling it stiffen under the gentle touch.

A frustrated groan threatens to leave his lips, his mind now flooded with images of Mondstadt’s deity. Because despite Venti’s carefully-picked outfit, Scaramouche finds himself almost hoping that his more revealing statues actually do him some justice.

His hand starts moving up and down his lenght, the stirring in his groin forcing a heavy breath out as he gets more comfortable.

The harbinger leans against the frame of his bed, the same bed he scolded an agent for arranging for him in the first place. After all, he’s not some weakling human, he doesn’t need to sleep. Well, at least it’s somewhat comfortable to sit on, if noting else.

“Barbatos…”

He breathes out almost mindlessly, before angrily spitting down on his dick. He can almost see the smug smile on the bard’s face, hear that annoying voice ringing in his ears, as his thumb glides over the head of his cock to spread the saliva around. Yet, his mind betrays him, wondering how it would feel if the god were here with him.

Scaramouche’s free hand slides down his thigh, imagining warmth spreading in each spot he touches, instead of the usual coldness of his body. If he had a heart, it would probably be trying to rip through his chest right now.

His mind is a mess, a mess of hatred for the divine, and the wish to feel the Wind god’s warm hand stroking him in place of his own. He feels pathetic, really.

Another groan rips from his throat, causing him to slap a hand over his mouth in embarrassment, while he tightens his grip on his lenght momentairly.

“Barbatos…”

  He chokes on his own words, feeling his hips begin to buckle, each stroke, each tug sending that addicting feeling through his entire body. And for a moment, he swears he can smell a faint scent of apples inside his own chambers.

The harbinger bites at his fingers, trying to stifle any moans threatening to spill out, the image of the bard giving him the usual smug smile only egging him on further. Would he be the encouraging type? “Go on, don’t stop…” The same melodic voice makes his ears buzz.

Truth is, Scaramouche is too far gone, his eyes roll back, and he swears he can almost feel unnatural warmth on his hands, on his dick, fanning against his cheeks.

“V-uh… Venti…”

His voice breaks with the final moan into his hand, legs almost trembling as he reaches the sudden high. The harbinger’s eyelids flutter, and hand finally drops from his mouth to let himself breathe. Yet, the warmth seems to linger, making his head spin. 

A long sigh echoes through the large room once his brain finally allows some room for actual thoughts, indigo gaze scanning the mess he’s left behind. Great, now he has to clean up.

He moves almost sluggishly out of the large bed, knees feeling uncharacteristically weak as a few distant thoughts about the God of Freedom linger in his mind, but he decides to push them away, because, in all honesty, Scaramouche doesn’t want to admit to himself that he’s just jerked off to someone, let alone to Barbatos. Even if he can’t deny how strangely natural the name sounded coming from his lips.

And when the sound of running water fills in for the previous silence, an quiet jingle escapes Scaramouche’s notice. But what makes him pause as soon as he gets into the bathtub, is a small breeze. A small breeze that shouldn’t appear inside a closed room, taking the scent of apples with it… 

Chapter Text

“Apologies, the Cathedral is closed to the public after 6pm.”

These annoying words ring in Scaramouche’s ears. It wasn’t so much that he was already having a terrible day; no, it was the fact that this perceived hiccup had made his day much worse. Naturally, one wouldn’t come to conduct a secret meeting during the open hours. But one also wouldn’t expect to be caught right by the entrance doors. But Scaramouche can’t really afford getting into a fistfight with a nun of all people, and so, he puts on his best charming smile before tapping his large hat with two fingers. “Ah, you must forgive me, sister. I suppose time really flies when you’re exploring the city.”

The nun merely smiles in return, choosing to simply “May the Wind be your guide” her way out of the conversation as she locks the door back up. Great, this is just fantastic. The harbinger can feel the breeze caress his hair, causing the veils on his hat to sway along. Well, fuck the wind, because Scaramouche is getting in one way or another, or so he’s decided.

And while it may have been a bigger struggle than he would ever admit out loud, he isn’t the Sixth of the Fatui Harbingers for nothing, because just as the Cathedral’s bell rings out to signal that it’s 11pm, Scaramouche drops in from one of the large, ornate windows. His indigo gaze pierces through the silent room, taking in the empty pews as well as the display of statues.

“Now where is that shameless drunkard?” Scaramouche whispers more to himself than anything, and to his credit, there is a good reason as to why most of Barbatos’ depictions are censored by his own people. He shakes his head, choosing to walk towards the front, his steps echoing softly throughout the holy place. After all, he’s not here to oggle, well, at least the statues, that is. His steps continue behind the altar, where a staircase should lead right into… the basement, bingo.

“Looking for something? Or maybe… gasp! Someone?”

Scaramouche freezes, immediately recognising that melodic, almost cheerful tone of voice. His head snaps in the direction it came from, his brows shooting up as he spots the figure sitting in the shadows just above the staircase. Though, in all honesty, it’s not hard to make out the figure’s identity, considering that bastard’s braids are practically glowing like a shitty kid’s toy. That thought makes the corners of the harbinger’s mouth twitch upwards a little.

“Who knew shit talking was the key to making you appear? At least get your dogs to stop locking the doors in my face.” The harbinger grumbles before crossing his arms in mock offence at being found out. But the truth is, they both know why they’re here. It’s not like this is their first time meeting up in the Cathedral, or the first time Scaramouche has been locked out by one of the nuns, nor the last time, for that matter. But Venti only chuckles, promptly jumping down from his high spot. The god’s arms wrap around Scaramouche’s waist, resting his chin on the puppet’s shoulder with a low hum. “You just can’t get enough, can ya?”

And before he knows it, the harbinger’s back hits the wall, making him gasp as his hat hits the floor. Venti leans in, his lips pressing against Scaramouche’s in a passionate kiss. His hands slide up the puppet’s thighs before settling on his stomach. And once the god pulls back from the kiss, he sticks his tongue out playfully, causing his lover to shakily breathe out a “Missed you, moron.” Naturally, Venti missed him too, but he doesn't respond, no. Instead, his lips focus on making Scaramouche squirm, travelling down his jaw and throat.

Yet, despite the clear bulge in the harbinger’s pants that’s currently pressing against the god’s leg, Scaramouche places his hands against Venti’s chest, which makes him pause.

“Everything okay?” The bard whispers, eyes carefully trying to gauge his lover’s mood. His warm hand gently reaching Scaramouche’s cheek, opening his mouth to speak again, only to be interrupted.

“I want to… I want to suck you off this time.”

...

Oh.

Venti blinks, momentarily stunned by the murmured request, before his lips curl up into a teasing smile. Scaramouche is a selfish lover; he never requests things like these. And who is Venti to deny them both an opportunity like this? So, he slowly switches their positions, leaning against the wall in Scaramouche’s place. “Go on then.” Venti purrs while undoing a few buttons of his blouse. “On your knees.”

And the harbinger complies, his throat bobbing when he swallows. He cracks his fingers, much to the god’s amusement, before reaching out to pull his lover’s shorts and pantyhose down. A long breath leaves his lips, signalling his growing nerves, but he pushes through anyway, choosing to press his lips against the god’s inner thigh. In return, Venti runs his fingers through Scaramouche’s hair, hoping to reassure and encourage him, a shiver running up his spine when the puppet continues peppering kisses up his thigh. It’s a strangely pleasurable feeling, his lover’s lips feeling cold against his warm skin.

“That’s it, you’re doing good.” Venti breathes out, feeling his lover’s hand experimentally cupping his dick through his underwear. This makes the harbinger’s worries melt away slightly; after all, praise goes a long way, and he wants to hear more. Without hesitation, his hand starts rubbing the bard’s length through the soft fabric, before pressing a kiss to it. Scaramouche’s indigo eyes narrow in focus while he tries to gauge the god’s reaction, every quick breath, every hum egging him on. Without a warning, he pulls Venti’s underwear down as well, giving freedom to his stiffening length. He finds himself almost mimicking the way his lover always pleasures him, hoping to elicit the same moans, as well as more praise for his good work.

Truth be told, Scaramouche has been curious about his lover’s taste, taking a moment to remember Venti’s usual routine. He sticks his tongue out, before gripping the god’s bare thighs tightly as his tongue traces up his cock. It tastes… warm and fleshy, the puppet decides, so he keeps going. With a low hum, the god’s hardening length disappears in his lover’s mouth, making Venti shiver at the sudden coldness. The god’s grip on Scaramouche’s hair tightens, gasping in surprise. “W-woah-“

But instead of slowing down, the harbinger swallows around his cock, swirling his tongue around to get used to the feeling. And gods, do his lover’s groans go straight to his own dick. Moreover, he finds himself wanting to hear more. Venti blinks, finding himself being held tightly against the wall, his mind suddenly going blank as his lover begins suckling with surprising fervour. As gently as he can manage, the god tugs at the puppet’s hair, hoping to guide him into following his lead.

“Yes… just like that… you’re doing good.” Venti groans out, causing Scaramouche’s own arousal to spike. The blowjob is sloppy, growing messier with each moan and praise directed at the harbinger, but that’s the magic in exploring new things. But while sucking Venti off, Scaramouche feels a stirring in his lower regions, rubbing his thighs together. He can’t help it, the newfound pleasure is making his own dick hard. A low groan bubbles up in his throat, growing greedier and sloppier, the warm sensations clouding his mind.

Soon, the usually silent Cathedral fills with wet slurping sounds and muffled moans, the secret lovers’ symphony ending on a high note from the patron of music himself, making the harbinger’s eyes roll back.

That day, Scaramouche learns that Venti’s semen carries a mild taste of dandelion wine, and that he really, really enjoys giving head, instead of always receiving. But when the high eventually starts to wear off, and the puppet finally lets his lover’s cock go with a wet pop, the sticky feeling in his own shorts brings him back to reality. He wipes a few remaining cum drops from the corner of his mouth, blinking as he stares at the dark stain in shock. Even the bard crouches down beside him, ruffling his hair affectionately, before whispering in his ear in a low tone.

“Oh my, looks like someone was really having fun.” The god chuckles quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to Scaramouche’s temple. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Chapter Text

Today was the last day of the week, meaning Master Diluc wouldn’t be bartending in the Angel’s Share tavern. It was also Venti’s favourite day, because he had the perfect opportunity to sneak the Fatui Harbinger in without causing an unwanted ruckus, while simultaneously securing a warm bed to sleep in for the night. And when he feels a hand tightly wrapping around his wrist to stop him from getting out of the bed, he knows he’s made the right choice. 

“Don’t leave me!”

Venti knows that tone very well, the almost anxious grip on his wrist, the way Scaramouche tries to pull him back in. The god lets out a quiet sigh, his expression softening immediately as he reaches out to caress the puppet’s hand in hopes of calming him down. The mattress dips lightly under his weight when he sits down next to his lover; after all, they did go a bit further than usual tonight. “Hey, hey, I’m here.” Venti decides to settle for reassurance instead of arguing his case. There’s no reasoning with the bundle of nerves, who’s currently trying to melt their hands together with his mind, no matter how much the pair could use a shower right now. But that’s okay. The bard gently pries the harbinger’s hand off of his wrist before pressing his lips against his lover’s knuckles. In all honesty, even in this disheveled and hypersensitive state, Venti finds his lover beautiful. The way his messy hair is sticking to his forehead, the way his eyelids flutter, and every breath that makes his chest rise and fall are absolutely beautiful. “How about we shower together then? Would you like that?” The god’s voice comes out softly, trying to coax the puppet out of the bed. And to his delight, Scaramouche complies, sluggishly climbing out before allowing himself to be led into the en suite bathroom.

The muffled noises of the patrons downstairs fade into the background while they both climb into the bathtub, the water running with one move of the handle. It’s moments like these when Scaramouche is at his quietest, no protests, no snappy remarks, only staring off into space… But that’s okay, because Venti has learned a thing or two about his lover’s needs over time. He begins to hum a familiar tune to fill in for the lack of words, running a soapy hand in long strokes over the puppet’s body to wash off the drying semen, before washing it off with the lukewarm water. “You know, I like it when we get to stay together the whole night.” The god murmurs while washing himself off as well, finally catching Scaramouche’s gaze. He’s carefully picking his words, knowing his partner can be very sensitive to any mentions of parting ways after sex, and that seems to be the key to making some of the tension leave the puppet’s body.

Once they’re both cleaned up, Venti helps the harbinger out of the tub, handling him like he’s a precious piece of glass that could break at any moment, as he grabs a towel and begins to dry them both off. Without hesitation, the bard reaches for Scaramouche’s hand, guiding him back into their shared room with a small smile on his face. Closeness and intimacy are both things the harbinger craves so desperately, yet can feel terrified of… But such is the effect of trauma on one’s psyche. Scaramouche’s grip on his lover’s hand suddenly tightens, making Venti pause in his tracks and turn his head with an immediate question on his lips. But it’s the puppet who speaks first, his voice uncertain despite the familiar question. “Can we cuddle?” And Venti’s heart melts, squeezing his hand in return, before leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his partner’s forehead. “Of course, Scara. Always.”

And when the pair finally climbs under the covers, the god wraps his arm around Scaramouche, guiding his head to rest on his chest. He coos quietly, one hand running through Scaramouche’s hair to help him relax, to feel close. He doesn’t mind the natural coolness of the puppet’s body; he welcomes it. “You did really well today, my songbird.” The harbinger’s anxieties melt away, hearing the rumbling in the god’s chest as he speaks, hearing his heartbeat… It all calms his troubled mind, at least for the night. Minutes begin to pass, and Venti’s eyelids start growing heavy. Yet unexpectedly, Scaramouche lifts his head, leaning in with a small breath to press his lips against the corner of Venti’s mouth, making the god smile sleepily. “… Love you.” The puppet whispers, too embarrassed to say these two words too loudly, but they make the god’s heart beat faster anyway. “Love you too.” He matches the secretive volume of his lover’s voice, watching him settle comfortably on his chest once more. His hand continues its gentle caresses of the puppet’s head, his mind peacefully drifting off despite the indigo gaze trained firmly on his face. Scaramouche’s body may not require sleep, but it’s watching his lover throughout the night that makes him feel warm on the inside.

Because once a week, when the winery owner isn’t bartending, the couple can enjoy their little safe space in peace. Once a week, they’re not a god in disguise and a banned Fatui Harbinger; no, they’re merely two lovers getting to spend the night in each other’s arms.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, the sheer lack of brains the Fatui agents seem to be struggling with is enough to rile Scaramouche up to an extreme. Like today, for example, when one of his goons decided to completely twist his orders right to his face. A sharp breath leaves his lips as the soft grass crunches under his feet. He needs to calm down, and what better way to calm his rage than taking a stroll through the countryside?

Scaramouche’s hands are balled into fists while he walks, trying to focus on anything else, like the stupid trees in his path or the gentle glow of the small lamp grass flowers illuminating their surroundings. Yet none of these seem to really be helping. He decides to go for the bushes instead, until reaching a small clearing by the local lake.

Though, what makes him pause in his tracks isn’t the fact that his eyes almost immediately spotted his paramour, Venti, but the fact that said bard’s massive wings were surprisingly on full display. The harbinger’s anger suddenly seems more like an afterthought than anything important to deal with, and he makes himself comfortable in the bushes. It’s very rare for Venti to go all out with his archon form for no reason, so who is he to interrupt whatever the god’s planning? From his spot, he can ogle in peace. 

To be fair, Scaramouche was fully expecting some important archon business, maybe even getting a good angle of seeing his lover finally battling some Abyss creatures for a change, but his breath catches when neither of those happen…

Well, he does get a good angle alright, a good angle of the god dropping his already revealing crop top and booty shorts into the grass before skinny dipping in the moonlit lake. Venti’s wings flutter contentedly, droplets glistening on his skin while he carelessly splashes in the water… The sight makes the harbinger’s hands tighten on the fabric of his own shorts, because fuck, that holy moron sure can make even something so simple like skinny dipping look absolutely ethereal. The thought of leaving the bushes does cross the harbinger’s mind, but he decides to shake it off; after all, he can do that later. For now, he’s completely content with just watching his paramour enjoying the water.

The wind blows softly through the puppet’s hair, and for a moment, he could almost swear that his cover has been blown when the curious emerald eyes shift in his direction. But as quickly as they find his hiding spot, they leave, causing Scaramouche to let out a sigh of relief. Though, that relief eventually shifts into a different kind of tension when the god, with water up to his waist, begins to run his soft hands across his chest, wings stretching and puffing up. The puppet’s hands begin to twitch, almost feeling the warmth of Venti’s skin under his own fingertips as he watches the show.

Venti’s hands continue their sensual caress, drawing small circles around his nipples, while he twirls in the water. It’s a sensual dance, like a siren luring Scaramouche, teasing him into acting. But he stays planted to his spot, biting at his lower lip with wide eyes. He doesn’t let out a single peep, knowing that even the slightest sound could alarm his lover. 

But the god’s boldness only grows, his lips parting with an exhale while his hands slide down his stomach before reaching under the water. And Scaramouche’s mind nearly short-circuits, jaw dropping. He can’t believe his eyes; he can’t believe that Venti is actually jerking off so shamelessly. The heat suddenly rises in the harbinger’s lower regions, forcing him to grab at his shorts to try and keep his dick from rising up. Yet despite everything, Scaramouche’s eyes stay glued on his lover, the sounds of the splashing water doing nothing to calm the spike of arousal. 

“Scara…” Venti continues to pump his length in the cool water, each moan testing the harbinger’s self-control, while he actively tries to bite at his fingers to keep his own groan from escaping his throat. 

And by the time the archon finally reaches his orgasm, his wings are fully fluffed up, the moonlight illuminating his face, making the drops of sweat on his forehead and cheeks look like stars. But in contrast to his lover’s pleasurable release, Scaramouche’s body feels like it’s on fire, his breathing shallow, eyes dark with need. He shuts his eyes tightly, trying to focus on anything else, but honestly, if he had a heart, he’s sure it would be loud enough for the god to hear from all the way within the lake.

The soft flutter of Venti’s wings finally gets his eyes to open slowly, only to be met with the mischievous emerald orbs, making his jaw drop, speechless.

“Wow, and I was so sure moaning your name would lure my dearest songbird out. Are you planning to just ogle all night?”

That bastard.

Chapter Text

“Ah, fuck!”

Were the words spilling from Scaramouche’s mouth as soon as he saw the cork shooting up into the tree above. But what followed only made it worse. The champagne began pouring all over his hands, nearly causing him to drop the bottle, his temper rising. How was he supposed to know that would happen? He doesn’t even drink alcohol. 

Though, the amused chuckle from the bard beside him quickly snaps him back to reality. Seeing as the harbinger was fully prepared to wage war with something as insignificant as a glass bottle, Venti’s hands move quickly to take it from him. “Hey now, it’s fine.” The god manages to say while pouring the remaining liquid. “We still have enough for two glasses; no need for that stormy face now, is there?” But Scaramouche rolls his eyes. He’s only decided to try the drink on his lover’s insistence about its ‘great taste!’ but now his favourite gloves are ruined. 

“To our anniversary!” The soft clink of their glasses echoes through the meadow, one brow raising on Scaramouche’s face as he watches the bard gulp the alcohol down like there’s no tomorrow. The champagne is too sweet on his tongue, but so are some relationship customs, he muses silently. Two immortals celebrating something as simple as a few months of a relationship feels somewhat meaningless considering their respective ages, but Scaramouche digresses. It makes his lover happy, so that’s all that matters. The harbinger places the now empty glass onto their picnic blanket before attempting to remove his sticky gloves to get rid of that uncomfortable wet feeling, only to be stopped midway by his lover. “Let me help; it’s only fair.” So, Scaramouche relents, despite knowing that the mischievous smile on his lover’s face spells trouble. 

And when Venti brings the puppet’s hand to his face, Scaramouche’s brow raises again, his suspicions only confirmed when the god’s teeth make contact with the fabric of his glove. The harbinger watches intently, the glove sliding off his hand while Venti’s thumbs brush up his arm. The way the bard holds the glove proudly between his teeth reminds Scaramouche of a cute puppy, but he doesn’t voice his comment, merely a hum. “You know, you shouldn’t hide these.” The voice comes out muffled by the glove before Venti finally drops it in his lap, unbothered by the stain it’ll leave on his clothes. And before Scaramouche can retort, Venti’s lips are already placing a gentle kiss on the visible puppet joint on his wrist. 

The harbinger can feel heat rising in his face, mostly out of embarrassment than anything. At first, he tries to pull his hand back but stops himself. Well, it’s not like Venti hasn’t seen these before, but getting used to having someone actually appraising one of his insecurities instead of bashing them is still something he finds hard getting used to. “You’re so corny.” Scaramouche grumbles, eliciting a small laugh from his lover. “Tastes like champagne too!” Of course it fucking does; the majority of the bottle’s contents ended up on his hand. A shiver suddenly runs down Scaramouche’s spine when the god’s tongue makes contact with his wrist, his eyes widening in shock. It’s not an unpleasant feeling per se, but it does make him double-check that they’re alone. “What are you-“ The harbinger manages to stutter out, the surprise evident on his face. “Want me to stop?” The curious, yet careful, tilt of Venti’s head makes him pause for a moment. Does he? 

“… No.” Cue another soft chuckle ringing in Scaramouche’s ears. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel things. “Just don’t slobber all over my hand.” He grumbles while getting comfortable against the tree trunk. Harsh words, yet a relaxed and open body language. And so, Venti gets back to work, slowly sliding his tongue up the puppet’s wrist. 

Sometimes, Venti’s performance skills alone are enough to impress his lover, like the way his lips are curled up into a smirk while his tongue leaves a trail on Scaramouche’s palm, or the way he sighs as he takes his fingers into his mouth like they’re the best dessert on the menu. The hum coming out of the god’s mouth can be felt all throughout the puppet’s body, making him shiver. 

At this point, Scaramouche only blinks in disbelief, the warmth of Venti’s mouth making his throat tighten. The usually bright emerald eyes stare right into his, with the slowly dilating pupils making them appear darker. And Venti doesn’t hold back at all, his free hand sliding up the harbinger’s thigh when he begins shamelessly sucking at each finger. 

A wet pop echoes through the meadow when Venti releases the harbinger’s fingers, before blowing on them to send another wave of shivers down his lover’s spine. Scaramouche opens his mouth to speak, but quickly closes it again due to his mind coming up blank on any retorts. With a lick of his lips, the bard wastes no time to take Scaramouche’s hand in once more. Except this time, he swirls his tongue around his fingers to tease him. Another hum soon leads to a groan, which travels straight to the harbinger’s crotch this time, and he finally pulls his hand back when he feels his fingers hit the back of the god’s throat. “You fucking tease.” 

The hand on Scaramouche’s thigh slides up to his hip, the god leaning in to rest their foreheads against each other. “Wanna go further?” Venti’s voice comes out a mere whisper, despite his own growing want. Well, this is not how Scaramouche thought today’s celebration would go down, but who is he to complain? A nod is all it takes for the god to press a kiss to his lover’s cheek, before untying his shorts. “Happy anniversary.” 

Maybe not all human traditions are so bad.

Chapter Text

The couple’s evening routine was supposed to be simple - after a long day, Scaramouche would pick Venti up from whichever spot he was playing at that day. But of course, the bard is known for being easily distracted when the crowd offers wine as a form of payment. 

With a small grunt, Scaramouche leans against the archon’s statue in the centre of the city’s plaza, watching his lover stumble around the crowd with that shit-eating grin on his face. The big wave he gives makes the crowd turn their heads and whisper amongst each other, much to the harbinger’s dismay. Scaramouche didn’t want to deal with people today, but then again, does he ever? Seeing as the bard doesn’t seem to budge, the harbinger finally gives in, walking forward with long, purposeful steps. 

“Oooh, Venti, seems like your bodyguard arrived.” The amused whispers grow in volume, souring Scaramouche’s mood. With a firm grip on Venti’s arm, the puppet begins to drag him away. And surprisingly, Venti lets him without much protest. “You should tone it down with the drinking.” A pout forms on the bard’s face at that, wrapping his arms around Scaramouche’s to complain. “But… but the crowd pays me in drinks!” 

Silence follows, the harbinger only rolling his eyes in return. It’s not that he hates it because the bard is a rowdy, hard-to-keep-track-of drunk; Venti’s the opposite actually - bubbly, albeit energetic. “I just think you’re overdoing it sometimes.” Scaramouche continues to grumble while dragging the god through the empty streets of Mondstadt. 

They were supposed to make just a single stop on the way, one stop to buy some snacks. And while Scaramouche can’t really wrap his head around how quickly things have escalated, Venti’s back was against a wall of some residential building that the harbinger honestly doesn’t really care about. What he did care about, however, were the warm arms wrapped around his neck, as well as the tongue currently brushing against his. Venti is being bold, but the strong taste of alcohol his tongue leaves in Scaramouche’s mouth finally gets the puppet to pause and pull back. 

“You’re drunk, we need to calm down.” The harbinger reasons, making the bard stick his tongue out at him. “I’m fine, I can think straight.” Venti’s hand slides to his lover’s cheek, pressing their foreheads together as he purrs. “I just need a little help is all…” And the puppet understands quickly when the god brushes his crotch against his leg.

Scaramouche stays silent for a while, his indigo eyes carefully studying the bard, but all he sees is the same flushed cheeks and smile he’s gotten so used to by now. So, he glances around to make sure they have some privacy before pressing his lips to Venti’s, murmuring between small kisses. “Fine.” His free hand moves slowly down the god’s side, focusing on the task at hand. The harbinger isn’t used to leading when it comes to sex, but he wants to try anyways, even if just for a quickie. 

Venti parts his lips, inviting his lover to deepen the kiss while the puppet’s hands play with the hem of his shorts. For a supposed quickie, Scaramouche is being careful, which the bard finds both amusing and cute, considering how many times they’ve ended in a similar situation, with only their positions switched. But when he feels his hardness being massaged through his shorts, a groan threatens to leave the god’s lips, which gets swiftly muffled by keeping the kiss going.

Warmth spreads through Venti’s body, his eyelids fluttering as he holds his lover close. He doesn’t care about being out in the city; no, all his intoxicated mind can focus on is Scaramouche… and the gloved hand that’s palming his erection. 

Despite pulling away for some air, Venti feels eager for more. And when Scaramouche finally slips his fingers inside the bard’s shorts, he’s quick to lean in again. The sensations make Venti’s head spin, readily leaking precum after just a few strokes, a few touches. For a being of great power, the harbinger’s hands can be… surprisingly gentle, especially when rubbing his thumb around the head of his lover’s cock. Too gentle, or maybe that’s just the alcohol speaking. “Scara… I’m not that fragile.” The puppet’s eyes widen momentarily before a breath fans against Venti’s cheek in a sigh. He gives the god’s length an experimental squeeze, deciding to focus on a few rougher strokes. 

The sight of Scaramouche sticking his tongue out in focus gives Venti an amused pause, before he leans in to capture him in another deep kiss. The god decides to help out, thrusting into his paramour’s hand. Soft hums rumble in Venti’s chest, his cheeks flushed from more than just the alcohol in his system. He squirms slightly, but when the harbinger uses his free hand to hold him firmly against the cold brick wall, the god nearly giggles into the kiss. Scaramouche isn’t one to make demands when it comes to their physical intimacy, but Venti finds this small newfound spark of dominance incredibly hot. Truth is, Scaramouche really wants to get Venti off quickly.

He works his fingers along the shaft, breaking the kiss to bite at the god’s neck, much to Venti’s surprise. It’s not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to assault his lover’s dulled senses, because Scaramouche is no idiot; he’s well aware of the effects of alcohol on one’s ability to orgasm… And as much as he enjoys the more adventurous side of their sex life sometimes, he sure as hell doesn’t want to risk getting walked in on by a patrolling knight. At least Venti is clear-headed enough to quickly slap a hand over his own mouth to muffle the moan ripping out of his throat, luckily enough. 

It feels like hours, but when the god’s knees start buckling, the harbinger knows his gamble is paying off. His tongue traces the few fresh bite marks, pumping his lover’s dick with almost aggressive fervor. “Almost there… you can do it.” He tries encouragement, which makes Venti melt on the inside. And that’s when his release comes in full force, spilling his essence all over Scaramouche’s hand. With an almost relieved sigh, the harbinger presses a kiss to his cheek before wiping the now messy hand on his own shorts.

Scaramouche doesn’t waste any time, however, swiftly pulling the god’s shorts back up and picking him up bridal-style. Venti can only blink in shock but keeps his mouth shut, choosing to keep the usually witty remarks for some other time. Because right now, Scaramouche is more than eager to get back to their room as quickly as possible. “Everything okay?” The hatbinger whispers, making the smile return to his lover’s face. The bard is now contentedly relaxed as they move through the city in quick strides. “Mm-hm.” A simple hum, but enough to silence any paranoia the harbinger might feel.

They didn't get caught, and that's all that matters.