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The experiment was sickening. Scaramouche couldn’t believe he actually fucking agreed to it.
The premise was simple — the ancient art that created his body would seek to mimic a living human in every way. That was why he had things like blood, tears, and most of all: functioning sex organs. It wasn’t like the Electro Archon had purposefully created these things for him, it was just the way his body functioned as it created itself.
When he ate food, his stomach created a facsimile of the digestion process. When he spoke, his throat copied the sensation of vibrating vocal chords. When the Doctor provided sexual stimuli, his organs would lubricate and shiver with arousal. Every test of his humanity was matched with an appropriate response, all in service of creating a perfect copy of a human that no one could ever find flaw in.
All of the tests thus far to Scaramouche’s sexual capabilities had been performed alone, with the aid of machinery and technology. For all that Dottore was a sick person, he seemed uninterested in actually engaging in sex with his subject himself. Not that Scaramouche hadn’t seen him touching himself while he watched. It seemed that the bastard was more of a voyeur than an active participant.
Scaramouche’s body had artificial copies of all organs you would find in a human, which included a womb. What would happen if said womb were to be inseminated? For all the sexual encounters he had in his life, that had yet to happen. Would his body react in kind, producing all of the other components needed for impregnation? What sort of constitution would a child born of a divine vessel have?
Dottore figured that artificial insemination wouldn’t do the trick. Scaramouche’s body needed the proper stimuli to prompt ovulation, after all. Besides, there was data to be collected about how his body responded to sexual contact with another person. That was something they hadn’t experimented on yet. So, Dottore asked him to choose someone to be his partner, and he would find a way to make it happen.
Scaramouche was still in awe at himself that he actually agreed. He had no idea why. The sexual experiments from Dottore were always his least favorite. It also wasn’t like he wanted someone to come in here and knock him up.
…Or did he?
Really, his feelings were just all confused and backwards. He honestly doubted anything would happen, anyways. His body’s responses to various stimuli were always fake. Just surface-level responses put on purely for show. He would moan and tremble and cum, but that was it. He was more like a sex doll than an incubator or broodmare.
Still. He agreed.
He doesn’t know why.
But he did.
He’s strapped down to the examination chair, stripped completely of his clothing. In preparation for the ordeal, Dottore had filled him with a special blend of stimulant. Apparently, it would simulate an experience in his body like an animal going into heat. This experiment was already going to be enough of a pain — why on earth had he agreed to that part? He should’ve just declined and let the situation play out normally.
But it was too late now. He was alone in the examination room, though he knew that just on the other side of the one-way mirror that he was being watched by one of Dottore’s segments. His skin was hot and sensitive to the touch, and all he could do was squirm helplessly as the hole between his legs ached with want and need for something to fill it. All he wanted to do was touch himself for some kind of relief, but while his lower half was still free to move, his hands were tied behind the chair. The only thing he could do was press his thighs together and helplessly try and generate enough friction to feel satisfied.
After an entirely too long wait, the door finally opened, and his chosen ‘partner’ entered. Tartaglia stepped inside the exam room and opened his mouth to greet the lone occupant, but whatever he was going to say died in his throat. “A-Am I—“ He stammered, trying (and failing) to tear his eyes away from Scaramouche’s trembling, naked form. “Am I interrupting something?”
Oh gods. Dottore didn’t even fucking tell him what ‘experiment’ he was going to be helping with.
Scaramouche’s face was hot with shame on top of the stimulants. “No, you’re not — Dottore didn’t tell you, did he?”
“He just said you asked for me to help you with an experiment.” He kept a hand on the doorknob, as if prepared to flee. He better not. He better fucking not. If he leaves me here like this, I’ll kill him.
“And that’s what we’re doing,” Scaramouche snapped, just wanting to skip the preamble and get to it already. “Get over here.”
Scaramouche had chosen Tartaglia for a reason. The two of them sparred often (though the latter had yet to win a single match) and afterwards, it was not uncommon for them to ‘blow off steam’ together. Their bouts together had never gone further than pleasing each other with their hands and their mouths, but at least this was someone Scaramouche was willing to allow to touch his body. Besides, who else was he supposed to ask? A random recruit? Pantalone? Dottore himself? No thanks. He’d rather fuck himself on a rusty spear.
Realization dawned in Tartaglia’s expression. “Oh.” He swallowed. “Oh, so Dottore does do weird sex experiments in here. I knew it. Do you think he fucks his clones too?” If it weren’t for the walls in-between the exam room and the observation room, they probably would’ve heard a gasp of offense.
Scaramouche’s patience grew thinner. “Shut up — are you going to help me or not!?”
Tartaglia sauntered over, a smug grin spreading annoyingly across his features. “He said you asked for me specifically. How sweet! I didn’t know you liked me that much.” He reached down and ran a gloved hand over Scaramouche’s waist. “And you’re already hot and bothered. Did you get like that just from waiting for me?”
Rage and humiliation bubbled in his chest. “Shut up, don’t flatter yourself. It’s just — it’s just some stimulant he gave me, got it?”
“Mhm, sure. So you wouldn’t mind if I go and pass the baton to someone else? I do have some training drills I’d like to run…”
Scaramouche’s chest clenched. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
It should’ve been impossible for Tartaglia’s stupid little grin to get any more smug, but somehow, he managed it. “That’s what I thought.” He paused, pulling away his hand in order to peel off his gloves. “He’s watching, isn’t he? Ah, not the most romantic way to do this, but I don’t mind putting on a show.”
“As if there’s anything romantic about us—ah!” His barbs were cut off as two fingers were plunged into his wet cunt, with a thumb pressing into his clit. He couldn’t stop the pathetic mewling that tore itself from his throat. “Nghh, hahh—“
Tartaglia casually massaged his clit from both ends as if he were doing something as mundane as reading the newspaper. “Oh, wow, you really are sensitive. Usually I have to do a lot more than that in order to get those kinds of sounds from you. I kinda like you when you’re easy, though. Kinda cute.”
“Hahh, shut up,” he wheezed out between gasps. He closed his eyes tight to try and steady himself, not wanting to give Tartaglia the satisfaction of having him fall to pieces just yet. When he opened them, however, it was like his whole world stopped moving. Tartaglia loomed over him, bracing himself with one arm against the back of the chair, completely eclipsing the laboratory lights overhead. His stomach dropped. He felt like a rabbit being cornered by a wolf — utterly outmatched and about to be devoured. Except he was about to get bred like an animal, fucked senselessly by the stupid, bullheaded Eleventh Harbinger who was so far beneath him, he had no right to claim his body.
But he will, anyways. And Scaramouche will allow him. In fact, the idea of it alone, the idea of someone so unworthy completely dominating him and treating him as just a hole to cum in had arousal bubbling in the pit of his stomach uncontrollably.
“That’s a good look on you,” Tartaglia purred, leaning in to plant a soft, messy kiss on the side of his neck. Scaramouche had no idea what kind of face he had been making, but whatever it was, it humiliated him that it brought the other man so much satisfaction. “You know, since it seems like you like me so much, maybe we can do this more often. Just with a bit more privacy next time, yeah?”
“Fuck you,” he moaned breathlessly, struggling to breathe as he continued to press his fingers deeper into his soft, sensitive hole. “You — You disgust me.”
“What if I make you dinner, first? I’m a pretty good cook.”
Ridiculous. Is Tartaglia really trying to date him right now? As if he had any interest in spending time with that idiot outside of training and fucking. He could barely stand to be around his stupid, adorable, handsome grin as it was—
If this experiment goes to plan, he’s going to be the father of your child.
The thought springs into his mind unbidden and he can’t stamp it out fast enough. Fuck, why didn’t he hate that idea? Why wasn’t he disgusted by being tied to a moron who’s only good for sex? Sure, Tartaglia was attractive, funny, charming, and—
No, fucking absolutely not, I’m not catching feelings for my co-worker while he’s finger blasting me in Dottore’s lab.
It was the stimulants messing with his brain, surely. Some wires must’ve gotten crossed and now he’s confusing different types of want. Tartaglia would only ever be good to blow off steam, whether that be in the training arena or the bedroom depending on what kind of release he needed. That was all there was to it—
“Looks like you’ve got something on your mind.” Tartaglia punctuated his gentle words with a not-so-gentle thrust of his fingers that made Scaramouche whimper. “C’mon, you can tell me.”
“F-Fuck off, I’m not—“ His fingers abruptly curled to stab hard into his g-spot, tearing an abhorrent moan from his lips. “H-Haahhhh— shut up.”
Tartaglia shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He glanced down at Scaramouche’s leaking cunt, which his hand is still buried knuckle-deep into. “…you know, I could make you cum like this, but I have a better idea.”
He pulled his fingers out, causing Scaramouche to whine pathetically. He was so close, he could feel the pressure building in his stomach. “Y-You — don’t you dare mess with me, got it?”
Tartaglia whistled innocently as he unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off and tossing it haphazardly aside. “I’ve made you cum with my hands and my mouth so many times. I kinda want to try something new, y’know?”
The worst part about Tartaglia was that his annoying personality was accompanied by a stupid perfect body. He was tall, muscular, rugged with scars, and so unabashedly human in every way that Scaramouche just couldn’t help but want him. Even worse than that, he thought to himself as Tartaglia undid his belt, is that his dick is bigger than it has any damn right to be.
He was already hard when he discarded his pants. “This time, I wanna know what it feels like for you to cum on my cock. Can you do that for me?” He placed the tip of his cock against Scaramouche’s wet folds, but didn’t move to push himself inside.
Scaramouche couldn’t help but squirm, so aroused and needy that he could barely string thoughts together. “Y-You damn pervert, of course you would—“
“Really? I’m honestly quite the gentleman. I won’t do a single thing unless you ask me to.” His smiling face was disgustingly self-satisfied and Scaramouche wanted to hit him. Sure, he wasn’t doing anything without permission, but he was also clearly intending to make him beg.
“H-Haaah, fuck you, you disgusting pig, I-I can’t believe I’ve let you — hhhrrkk!” He rubbed the head of his cock against Scaramouche’s engorged clit, teasing him without even getting near to entering him.
“If you want me to fuck you, then you’ll have to ask me to.” He cupped Scaramouche’s face with his free hand. “Come on, use your words. Tell me you want me to fuck you. Tell me you want my cock inside of you.”
Scaramouche’s resolve was crumbling as he felt Tartaglia’s hot, throbbing cock so close to being inside of him. His skin felt like it was on fire, and he was so dangerously close to cumming that he knew that just the slightest bit more stimulation was going to send him over the edge. If this kept up, he was going to cum loudly and disgustingly all over Tartaglia without him even penetrating him. Humiliating. Mortifying.
So, he caves and gives Tartaglia exactly what he wants. “Haaah, please, please, j-just fuck me, just fuck me I need you to fuck me I need—“ His words fell to pieces as he felt him line himself up with his needy hole. “Please please please please—“
Tartaglia pushed inside of him fully, sheathing his thick cock inside of Scaramouche’s pliant cunt. He felt so full, and could just barely see the bulge in his skin where he was being fucked. Tartaglia let out a quiet, satisfied moan, but Scaramouche could barely hear it. A desperate cry erupted from him as he felt himself boil over, fluid gushing around the base of Tartaglia’s dick.
“Gods,” Tartaglia’s tone was so disgustingly satisfied, and he had a hazy half-lidded expression. “One thrust, that’s all it took? All I did was get inside of you and you’re already cumming so hard you’re squirting. I didn’t even know you could do that.”
Scaramouche screwed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. “S-Shut up, shut up—“
“C’mon, baby. Nothing to be embarrassed about.” He leaned in, planting kisses along Scaramouche’s neck, his teeth gently scraping the skin as if in a gentle threat to mark him. “You’re feeling good. I want you to feel good.”
He suppressed a shudder. “A-And I — I want you to start moving before I f-fucking explode…!”
“Again?”
“S-Shut up!”
With a breathy chuckle, he did as he was told. He pushed himself in and out of Scaramouche’s cunt. Each thrust dragged the head of his cock along his sensitive walls, like he was scratching an itch that kept building and getting worse.
Tartaglia was being far too careful. Scaramouche felt like a horny, disgusting animal, so he needed to be fucked like one. He arched his back, pressing his hips into each thrust, trying to take Tartaglia’s length harder and deeper.
“Mmmh, you feel so good,” Tartaglia whispered, face buried in his neck. “A perfect fit… you sure you weren’t made for this?
Scaramouche was too busy moaning breathlessly to even spare him a retort. “S-Stop going so slow,” was all he could string together. “I need… I need you to fuck me like you mean it.”
“Are you sure? Seems like you’re…. ah, feeling pretty sensitive.”
“Don’t mock me,” he hissed.”Y-You should, hahhh, you should feel honored, t-that I wanted to… ahh… that I wanted to fuck you, of all people…”
Tartaglia hummed softly. “…one chance to back out,” he murmured, “before I use you until you can’t walk.”
Scaramouche shuddered. “I-I’d like to see you try and break me.”
Tartaglia pulled his face back, and Scaramouche inhaled sharply at the look in his eyes. He had the same defiant look he had when he first challenged him to a fight as a new recruit, that violent, cruel determination to absolutely ruin him.
Scaramouche screamed as Tartaglia slammed back into him, pounding the head of his cock against the depths of his cunt. Each thrust hurt, and yet each one had him seeing stars. Drool spilled down his chin as he howled in pain and pleasure. He shoved his hips forward with each thrust, craving more and more and more — he felt utterly insatiable.
He fucked his divine body against someone so utterly human that it was sickening. Everything holy about him was being defiled, inch-by-inch, as he was fucked harder and deeper. He could feel precum coating his insides, mixing in with his own fluids, but it wasn’t enough. He needed his orgasm to be an act of blasphemy. He needed to be dragged down from the heavens and bred like a dog in heat, toiling in the mud alongside the worms of humanity.
How does it feel? He wishes he could say. You, a mere beast, claiming the body of a god as your own breeding stock.
Because to him, it felt euphoric.
Tears and drool soaked his face as the chair creaked beneath the force of each thrust. He couldn’t even feel ashamed for crying during sex anymore, maintaining his image was the last thing on his mind. As he was, he’d be willing to debase and humiliate himself in any way Tartaglia wanted if it just meant he wouldn’t stop. Who cares that Dottore is watching; he’d be willing to be fucked like this in front of everyone. Every recruit that once feared and respected him, the other Harbingers, the Tsaritsa herself — in the fucked-out ecstasy he was feeling right now, he would let anyone see him be utterly used and dominated by this stupid animal.
Tartaglia’s thrusts became more and more erratic, and Scaramouche could feel the muscles in his abdomen start to tense up. It’s coming. Alarm bells sounded in his head, but he ignored them. He wanted this, he needed this, he didn’t care about the consequences if this little ‘experiment’ succeeded. In fact, the closer he got to the moment where he would be well and truly bred full made his non-existent heart race with excitement.
“Hahh, Scara,” Tartaglia moaned. “Scara, I’m gonna — I’m gonna cum in you, can I? Can I?”
Scaramouche wrapped his legs around Tartaglia’s waist. “D-Do it, just do it —“ His breath hitched. “Breed me, knock me up, just do it, I need you to—“
He felt warm fluid spill inside of him, filling him until he felt like he was going to burst. Tartaglia moaned desperately as he came, his pace slowing into a few uneven, staggered thrusts as his cock pumped seed into Scaramouche’s cunt. His eyes rolled back into his head as the sensation sent him into another orgasm, his lips tightening around the cock as if trying to squeeze every last drop out of him.
Scaramouche’s head lolled to the side as he gasped for air. Tartaglia was in a similarly breathless state, burying his face into Scaramouche’s neck and bracing himself against the chair to stay upright. He took his time before pulling out, remaining sheathed inside of his quivering cunt for a few moments. Scaramouche could feel it twitch as a few last spurts of cum filled him.
He slid out after he caught his breath, running his fingers through his hair and standing upright. “…Scara,” his voice was a low purr and his face was a hazy, half-lidded grin, “we need to do that more often.”
All Scaramouche could manage was a senseless mumble. He felt like his tongue had turned to a wad of cotton. Tartaglia had well and truly fucked him stupid. He still felt like the world was spinning. In lieu of a proper response, all he could do was dumbly nod.
The door to the lab opened, and Dottore entered. Tartaglia yelped in surprise, stumbling as he was trying to pull his pants back on. “Fuck! Learn how to knock, will you?”
Dottore shrugged innocently. “I was already watching, I feel like privacy is no longer an option here.”
Tartaglia’s face flushed, as if he only just fully realized what he had done in front of his superior. In his groggy, dazed state, all Scaramouche could think was how he was pretty cute when he got flustered. “Still, give a guy a warning before you barge in, yeah?”
Dottore waved him off with a hand. “Never mind that. I believe the experiment was a success.”
…a success?
“As I theorized, Scaramouche’s body had a unique reaction to such overtly sexual stimulus. I can’t be sure if that reaction was akin to ovulation or not, but I believe it could’ve been.” He read from a clipboard. “However, as with human subjects… repeated insemination increases the chances of success. If you two would like to continue this experiment on your own time, feel free to do so.”
“Wait, what?” Tartaglia seemed shocked. “This ‘experiment’ — did I just get my coworker pregnant?"
“Potentially.” Dottore shrugged. “But for now, you should take the Sixth back to his quarters to rest. It seems the stimulant I used may have worn him out completely.”
Scaramouche finally managed to pick his head up. He was still shaking with exhaustion, but at least he wasn’t a limp, fucked-out doll anymore. “…d-don’t talk about me as if I’m not here.” He wiggled weakly against his restraints. “Just… untie me already.”
“You heard him,” Dottore noted, gesturing at Tartaglia with his pen. “Now then, I’ll be getting back to my work.”
Dottore left the room, leaving Tartaglia to just sigh and move over to the chair, undoing Scaramouche’s bindings and draping a cloth hospital gown over his trembling form. Once he was dressed, Tartaglia lifted Scaramouche up like he weighed no more than a feather.
“Geez,” he murmured, “I wish you’d told me that was the point of the experiment. I really would’ve taken you on a date first.”
Scaramouche’s head was leaned against Tartaglia’s chest, his cheek brushed against the fabric of his coat. “Oops,” he mumbled with a touch of sarcasm, “must’ve slipped my mind.”
Tartaglia brought him out of the lab and through the palace hallways. Now with the sobriety of the stimulants leaving his system, Scaramouche was grateful for the lack of witnesses. He wasn’t as eager to be seen in this state as he was just a few moments ago.
The silence was a bit awkward. “…it’s just an experiment,” Scaramouche mumbled, “I doubt it’s actually going to work, and if it did… I’m not going to chase you down and force you to…” be a father, remained unspoken. “Dottore just wanted to see if it was possible. He might not even let me keep it.”
Tartaglia’s arms tensed around Scaramouche’s body. “…he wouldn’t let you?”
Scaramouche felt a bit of shame wash over him. “It’s — it’s his experiment, so he’s the one in charge.”
“Doesn’t he take your opinions into account?”
Scaramouche tried to bite his tongue, but his mouth still felt looser than usual. “…sometimes. Listen, it’s… it’s not a big deal. I just asked you because we’ve… fooled around before. That’s it. I’m not gonna ask any more of you.”
Tartaglia was quiet until they reached the Sixth Harbinger’s chambers. He laid Scaramouche down onto his bed, but instead of leaving, he sat down on the end of it and glanced at him.
“What do you want to do?” He asked after a few moments of silence. “Ignoring Dottore’s experiments — hell, don’t even take me into account, what do you want to do?”
“What do I…” Scaramouche let out a breath. “…I want…” He swallowed. “…I’ve always… kind of wanted a family.” He confession was so vulnerable, it made him want to crawl into a hole and hide. “Don’t tell anyone that. If you do, I’ll break all of your fingers.”
He spared a cautious glance at Tartaglia, and was startled to find that he was grinning like a delighted idiot. “Really?” He sounded so excited it made Scaramouche’s stomach do a flip.
“W-What’s that look for?” He sat up, pulling his knees to his chest defensively. “Don’t tell me you’re happy to randomly start a family with me of all people.”
“Scara,” he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “I’ve been into you for years, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Yeah, physically, but—“
He shook his head and cut him off. “No, not just that… I like you.”
Scaramouche felt like his brain just shut off. “…what? But I — we—“ He stuttered. “All we do is argue, fight, and get handsy when nobody’s looking. How could you…?”
“I like you. I like sparring with you — even though I always lose, eheh.” Another unfairly adorable blush crept up his cheeks. “And I like your sharp tongue. It’s fun to talk to you, even when we’re bickering and throwing insults at each other.”
“Fun?” Scaramouche’s mouth hung open. How could that be fun? However, the more he thought about it… he had fun too, didn’t he? His face warmed with embarrassment and he looked away. “You’re so…”
Tartaglia laid back on Scaramouche’s bed, turning to look at him and giving him the dumbest, goofiest grin in the world. “Hey, don’t stress it. I have about… nine months and some change to make you fall utterly in love with me!”
Scaramouche’s face grew red-hot. “Wh—“
“Well, Dottore did say we should ‘continue the experiment', so depending on how long that takes, maybe it’ll be more like ten months and some change… Hey, what kind of food do you like?”
“W-What are you talking about?”
He look he gave Scaramouche was so utterly smitten that he could almost feel his non-existent heart flutter. “So I can cook for you. I told you earlier, right? That I’m a good cook?” He winked. “Besides, if you really are gonna carry my child, you’ve gotta be well-fed.”
Scaramouche spluttered in embarrassment. “Y-You know that's not how my body works—“
“Still!” He propped his head up with an arm. “I wasn’t raised by wolves. If I knock you up, I’ve gotta take care of you during the whole process, right?” He paused, before leaning forward slightly. “Anything you need right now?”
“How can you just—“ He swallowed, deciding to just go with it. “…fine. I just…” He let out a deep breath. “I just want to sleep.”
“Oh, should I—“
“Stay,” he commanded, the word spoken sharp and quick so he can’t take them back. “And… j-just hold me.”
Tartaglia’s expression softened. “…I can do that. Do you wanna change out of that first?”
The cloth gown wasn’t terribly comfortable, but Scaramouche’s limbs felt like lead. He didn’t want to change. “No. I’ve slept in worse.”
“Where are your clothes?” Tartaglia sat up, looking around the room. “If you’re tired, I’ll help you change.”
“No, just…” He sighed. “…help me take it off. I’ll just wrap myself in a blanket.”
“You want to sleep naked?”
He glared at Tartaglia. “Stop needling me and do as you’re told. I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I didn’t want you to.”
Tartaglia chuckled fondly, standing up and grabbing a blanket out of the wardrobe. He brought it back over and helped pull the gown off of Scaramouche’s body, replacing it with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
Scaramouche swaddled himself in the soft fabric and laid down, letting out an exhausted sigh. Tartaglia joined him, wrapping his arms around his body and pulling him in close. A warm feeling grew inside of his chest, one he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
“…thanks, Tartaglia—“
“Ajax,” he corrected softly. “That’s… my name. Ajax.”
Scaramouche blinked in surprise. Harbingers weren’t forbidden from sharing their real names, but they definitely weren’t encouraged to. Tartaglia—Ajax in particular was always cagey about his real identity. He heard the rumors that it was because he was determined to keep his family out of harm’s way.
A family that might end up including me.
He settled in, nestling into Ajax’s embrace. “…Ajax. Thank you,” he murmured, letting a beat of silence pass. “…Kunikuzushi.”
“Huh?”
“That’s — that’s the closest thing I have to a name, really.” Was it his ‘real’ name? He wasn’t sure. It never felt exactly right, but — it was the first and only name he gave himself. Not assigned by the long-dead denizens of Tatarasuna or by the Tsaritsa, it was a name he chose for himself. “You can call me that. In private — not in front of the others, got it?”
Ajax hummed thoughtfully. “…Kuni.” His voice was gentle and soft, as If he was cradling the name in his mouth. “Alright, Kuni.” He kissed the top of his head. “Get some sleep. I wore you out, heh.”
“Shut up, idiot.”
As he dozed off, a realization dawned on him with a pang of dread. Fuck. I caught feelings for my coworker after he finger-blasted me in Dottore’s lab.